Читать книгу Mixed-Up Matrimony - Diana Mars - Страница 6

The shock passed from children to parents.

Tamara and Bronson swung toward each other as if suspended by the same puppeteer.

“You’re—”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Sabrina and Christopher exchanged puzzled, and relieved, glances. As long as attention was diverted from them, they welcomed the respite.

Bronson was shaking his head, as if dazed. “That’s Sabrina Hayward?”

The condemnation in Bronson Kensington’s tone elevated all of Tamara’s motherly hackles.

“I told you she was good!”

“Yes, for a girl,” Bronson said, his expression stormy. It was obvious he was undecided as to whom to tear into first: his wayward son, the troublesome girl who had led him astray, or the mother of the player who had been giving his son fits on the court.

After Meghan’s revelation, Tamara had ample reason to distrust the Kensingtons. Bronson’s less-than-diplomatic words did not smooth the waters.

“Sabrina is good. Period. It’s obvious from your chauvinistic, superior attitude where Christopher got his bad judgment. I guess his irresponsible behavior toward my daughter is not entirely his fault, considering the example you set.”

“My example!” Bronson exploded. He regarded Tamara Hayward with intense dislike. He had obviously underestimated the opposition. If Sabrina was anywhere near as whip-smart and determined as her mother, Christopher did not stand a chance. Alone, that is.

But then, Christopher would never have to face anything alone, not as long as there was a breath left in Bronson’s body.

Belatedly noticing some college kids and alumni watching their heated debate with interest, Bronson said stiffly, “Do you think we could carry on this conversation somewhere more private?”

Tamara blushed, mortified. She had always considered herself a cool customer, and was seldom flustered under even the most adverse circumstances.

Her daughter’s well-being and future, however, could not begin to compare to any financial transaction or career consideration. She’d just have to assume the same objectivity and astuteness when dealing with Bronson Kensington as she did with any business adversary. More important, it would behoove her to make Bronson an ally, rather than an enemy—or at least, a bigger enemy than he already was.

Trying for an even tone, Tamara said, “All right. Should we continue our discussion at a restaurant after these two young people get a chance to clean up?”

Though at first ready to debate her suggestion, Bronson Kensington seemed to reconsider his tactics. Both parents had a lot to gain by teaming up.

The teenagers were already presenting a united front.

Turning to his son, Bronson said authoritatively, “Christopher, we’ll wait for you outside. Be there—pronto.”

“Dad,” Christopher said, his handsome, broad face acquiring a stubborn set, “I’m eighteen. You don’t have any right to order me around.”

“I’m paying for your training, car, living expenses—as long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say.”

“That can be changed, Dad. I can always get a job during the day and study for a GED at night.”

Sensing dangerous undercurrents, Tamara quickly intervened. “Perhaps we could all discuss this like adults, without any threats or ultimatums? Have you chil—aces had lunch yet?”

Sabrina spoke for the first time. “No, we haven’t, Mother.” Tamara winced at the sudden change of Mom to Mother. “But I also don’t appreciate your having followed me here. I am seventeen, after all.”

Tamara refrained from reminding her that Christopher could be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor and some other ugly charges. She did not want to issue any ultimatums, because she knew how strong-minded Sabrina was. Daughter took after mother in many ways, and strength of character was one of the characteristics they shared. Tamara shuddered to think that if she or Bronson pushed too hard, Christopher and Sabrina might not agree to talk to them at all, and might very well carry out their original plan.

A deathly chill went through Tamara. She wanted her daughter to be an independent, mature young adult.

She did not want to lose her only child simply because she and Bronson were not able to control their tempers—even if their anger and sense of betrayal were completely justified.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sabrina, but you know with everything that goes on nowadays, I worry about your safety constantly.”

“You knew I was safe, Mother,” Sabrina challenged, her posture defiant, her green eyes cool. “I was with Christopher.”

At this, Bronson stirred, and his gaze locked with Tamara’s. It was obvious that, in this, they were on the same wavelength. But still, his son did not stand to lose as much as her daughter. Boys, or men, never did. Women were in higher jeopardy in every department.

Resisting the urge to tell Sabrina that Christopher, at the moment, represented her main worry, Tamara merely said, “I would like to discuss some things with you, if you don’t mind. I think you’ll agree I’m entitled, after I drove almost three hours when I found out you skipped school today and didn’t tell me where you were headed.”

Tamara held her breath, awaiting her daughter’s response. Sabrina had always had a strong sense of fair play, and Tamara hoped her appeal to her daughter’s fairness would succeed where threats would not. When Sabrina said nastily, “Obviously, someone snitched, or you wouldn’t be here,” Tamara thought she had failed.

But then Sabrina’s stance softened slightly, and she added, “Okay, Mother, we’ll meet you. But at our South Bend motel room.”

Pinning Christopher with a laser look, Bronson roared, “Your motel room?”

“You’ve always emphasized the value of a dollar, Dad,” Christopher said, the mixture of defiance and defensiveness in his posture revealing his extreme youth. “And you have to admit, one room is cheaper than two.”

Instinctively placing a hand on Bronson’s arm, which felt like corded steel under her cold fingers, Tamara jumped in verbally before Bronson could jump his son physically. “Wouldn’t it be better if we ate first?”

Noticing that Bronson’s words had further unified and alienated the kids, she suggested two of Sabrina’s favorite foods, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice. “How about getting some pizza, or maybe a steak with fries?”

“You know I don’t eat that greasy food anymore, Mother. Besides clogging the arteries, it’s bad for my quickness on court. We’ll meet you at the Knight’s Inn—or not at all.”

Tamara looked at Bronson, and would have laughed if she had not felt so much like crying. Apparently not a man used to remaining quiet, he looked as if he were about to suffer from apoplexy. His strong features were red and strained, and his blue-gray eyes shot off silver sparks. But there was deep pain behind them, which he was trying very hard to keep from his son.

Tamara felt a huge lump in her throat, and had to blink back a burning moisture from her own eyes. She and Bronson had more in common than she’d thought at first. They would really have to get on the same page if they were to divert disaster.

“Is that okay with you, Mr. Kensington?” she asked softly.

Bronson looked at her with a distant expression, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Shaking his head, he told her, “Please call me Bronson. And no, it’s not okay with me—”

Seeing Tamara’s warning look, he smiled wearily at her, and added, “But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The children grinned at each other, acting as if they had won a major victory.

Tamara’s throat closed again. How young and naive they were. They could win as many battles as they wanted, as long as she and Bronson won the war.

Putting his arm protectively around Sabrina’s shoulder, Christopher told her gently, “Come on, Bree. I’ll walk you to the locker room.” Over his shoulder, he tossed at his father, “We’ll see you two outside when Bree is done.”

Not only did Bronson’s large fists clench, but his whole body seemed to tense. Tamara feared again that father would attack son, and teach him a thing or two about manners.

Thankfully, Bronson was able to maintain control. She noticed the painfully visible way he forced his body to relax.

As the kids headed toward the locker rooms, Bronson muttered, “How touching.”

Tamara swallowed, unable to speak. Turning to her and correctly interpreting her look of fear, Bronson gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to kill my son. Yet.”

Tamara nodded. “Good. My daughter would never forgive you.” Carefully keeping her expression and tone neutral, she asked, “Do you think we could speak for a moment? Outside?”

“Going to beat me up? Go ahead. Take your best shot. You’re right—I am at fault, if my son can act like such an ass.”

“Let’s refrain from violence and assigning blame just yet, shall we?” Tamara suggested, warming to Bronson Kensington despite herself. Although she wanted to be on his good side and seek his support for the matter at hand, she did not want to like him too much. All they had in common was the children—whom they were obviously both crazy about—and they needed a temporary alliance in order to separate them. Anything beyond putting aside their common distrust and uniting for the matter at hand was out of the question.

Although she resisted generalizing, in her own experience—which had culminated in her marriage to Robert—good-looking men were too attached to their own refletions. What made Bronson even more dangerous was that he seemed quite different from her ex-husband. And that was a problem: he was already causing curls of awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could she deal properly with this crisis if she behaved in the same adolescent manner as Brina?

Putting on the car coat she had taken off when she’d entered the tennis lobby, Tamara took a quick look at the framed pictures of the Notre Dame tennis teams, men’s and women’s.

“How can they think of throwing all this away?” Tamara murmured, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Maybe because they’ve both been so spoiled they don’t know what life is really like,” Bronson answered softly, his eyes taking in the smiling faces of the women’s tennis team as they posed around the NCAA Championship sign.

About to protest, Tamara desisted. Maybe there was some truth in what he’d said. It would certainly be food for thought, when she had a free minute to dwell on it.

Right now they had to make sure they would be able to leave this campus with their respective children in tow.

And for that they would have to utilize all of their combined wiles and experience.

As they turned away from the pictures, Bronson touched Tamara’s shoulder gently with his hand, and she found she liked its strength and assurance. Fighting against the pleasing sense of companionship his contact aroused, Tamara once again reminded herself of why she’d rushed over to Notre Dame.

And she reminded herself that Bronson was Christopher’s father. Right now, he represented the enemy camp. If he happened to have more substance than Robert, well, she’d have to deal with it. He was fighting for his kid; she was fighting for hers.

His next words addressed her own sudden craving for some space and oxygen.

“Let’s go outside, shall we? I really need some fresh air.”