Читать книгу A Ceo In Her Stocking - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 9

One

Clara had never traveled north of Knoxville, Tennessee. Everything she knew about New York City she’d learned from television and movies, none of which had prepared her for the reality of buildings dissolving into the sky and streets crammed with people and taxis. Even so, as the big town car carrying her, Hank and Gus—as August Fiver had instructed her to call him—turned onto Park Avenue, Clara was beginning to get an inkling about why New York was a town so nice they named it twice.

Ultimately, it had taken four days to leave Tybee Island. Packing for a toddler took a day in itself, and Clara had orders that weekend for a birthday party, a baby shower, a bunco night and a wedding cake. Then there were all the arrangements she needed to make with Hank’s preschool and covering shifts at Bread & Buttercream. Thank goodness the week after Thanksgiving was slow enough, barely, to manage that before the Christmas season lurched into gear.

Looking out the window now, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The city was just...awesome. She hated to use such a trite word for such a spectacular place, but she couldn’t think of anything more fitting.

“Mama, this is awesome!”

Clara smiled at her son. Okay, maybe that was why she couldn’t think of another word for it. Because awesome was about the only adjective you heard when you had a three-year-old.

Hank strained against the belt of the car seat fastened between her and Gus, struggling to get a glimpse at the passing urban landscape, his fascination as rabid as Clara’s. That was where much of their alikeness ended, however. Although he had her black curls and green eyes, too, his face was a copy of Brent’s. His disposition was also like his father’s. He was easygoing and quick to laugh, endlessly curious about everything and rarely serious.

But Clara was glad Hank was different from her in that respect. She’d been a serious little girl. Things like fun and play had been largely absent from her childhood, and she’d learned early on to never ask questions, because it would only annoy the grown-ups. Such was life for a ward of the state of Georgia, who was shuttled from foster home to children’s home to group home and back again. It was why she was determined that her son’s life would be as free from turbulence as she could make it, and why he would be well-rooted in one place. She just hoped this inheritance from Brent didn’t mess with either of those things.

The car rolled to a halt before a building of a dozen stories whose stone exterior was festooned with gold wreaths for the holidays. Topiaries sparkling with white lights dotted the front walkway leading to beveled lattice windows and French doors, and a red-liveried doorman stood sentry at the front door. It was exactly the kind of place where people would live when they were the owners of an industrial empire that had been in their family for two centuries. The Dunbartons could trace their roots all the way back to England, Gus had told her, where they were distantly related to a duke. Meaning that Hank could potentially become king, if the Black Death returned and took out the several thousand people standing between him and the throne.

The building’s lobby was as sumptuous as its exterior, all polished marble and gleaming mahogany bedecked with evergreen boughs and swaths of red velvet ribbon. And when they took the elevator to the top floor, the doors unfolded on more of the same, since the penthouse foyer was decorated with enough poinsettias to germinate a banana republic. Clara curled her arm around Hank’s shoulders to hug him close, and Gus seemed to sense her anxiety. He smiled reassuringly as he rang the bell. She glanced at Hank to make sure he was presentable, and, inescapably, had to stoop to tie his sneaker.

“Mr. Fiver,” she heard someone greet Gus in a crisp, formal voice.

Butler, she decided as she looped Hank’s laces into a serviceable bow. And wow, was the man good at butlering. He totally sounded like someone who was being paid good money to be cool and detached.

“Mr. Dunbarton,” Gus replied.

Oh. Okay. Not the butler. Brent’s brother. She couldn’t remember what Brent’s voice had sounded like, but she was sure it hadn’t been anywhere near as solemn.

Laces tied, Clara stood to greet their host, and... And took a small step backward, her breath catching in her chest. Because Hank’s father had risen from the grave, looking as somber as death itself.

Or maybe not. On closer consideration, Clara saw little of Brent in his brother’s blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair. Brent’s eyes had laughed with merriment, and his hair had been long enough to dance in the ocean breeze. The salient cheekbones, trenchant jaw and elegant nose were the same, but none were burnished by the caress of salt and sun. And the mouth... Oh, the mouth. Brent’s mouth had been perpetually curled into an irreverent smile, full and beautiful, the kind of mouth that incited a woman to commit mayhem. This version was flat and uncompromising, clearly not prone to smiles. And where Brent had worn nothing but T-shirts and baggy shorts, this man was dressed in charcoal trousers, a crisp white Oxford shirt, maroon necktie and black vest.

So it wasn’t Zombie Brent. It was Brent’s very much alive brother. Brent’s very much alive twin brother. The mirror image of a man who had, one summer, filled Clara with a happiness unlike any she had ever known, and left her with the gift of a son who would ensure that happiness stayed with her forever.

A mirror image of that man who resembled him not at all.

* * *

She wasn’t what he’d expected.

Then again, Grant Dunbarton wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected the mother of Brent’s son to be. His brother had been completely indiscriminate when it came to women. Brent had been indiscriminate about everything. Women, cars, clothes. Friends, family, society. Promises, obligations, responsibilities. You name it, it had held Brent’s attention for as long as it interested him—which was rarely more than a few days. Then he’d moved on to something else. He’d been the poster child for Peter Pan Syndrome, no matter how old he was.

Actually, Grant reconsidered, there had been one way his brother discriminated when it came to women. All of them had been jaw-droppingly beautiful. Clara Easton was no exception. Her hair was a riot of black curls, her mouth was as plump and red as a ripe pepper and her eyes were a green so pale and so clear they seemed to go on forever. She was tall, too, probably pushing six feet in her spike-heeled boots.

She might have looked imperious, but she had her arm roped protectively around her son in a way that indicated she was clearly uncomfortable. Grant supposed that shouldn’t be surprising. It wasn’t every day that a woman who’d been spawned by felons and raised in a string of sketchy environments discovered she’d given birth to the equivalent of American royalty.

Because the Dunbartons of Park Avenue—formerly the Dunbartons of Rittenhouse Square and, before that, the Dunbartons of Beacon Hill—were a family whose name had, since Revolutionary times, been mentioned in the same breath with the Hancocks, Astors, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. Still, Grant admired her effort to make herself look invulnerable. It was actually kind of cute.

And then there was the boy. He was going to be a problem. Except for his hair and eye color—both a contribution from his mother—he was a replica of his father at that age. Grant hoped his own mother didn’t fall apart again when she saw Henry Easton. She’d been a mess since hearing the news of Brent’s drowning off the coast of Sri Lanka in the spring. It had only been last month that she’d finally pulled herself together enough to go through his things. Then, when she came across the will none of them knew he’d made and discovered he had a child none of them knew he’d fathered, she’d broken down again.

This time, though, there had been joy tempering the grief. There was a remnant of Brent out there in the world somewhere. In Georgia, of all places. Grant had been worried they’d need a paternity test to ensure Henry Easton really was a Dunbarton before they risked dashing his mother’s hopes. But the boy’s undeniable resemblance to Brent—and to Grant, for that matter—made that unnecessary.

“Ms. Easton,” he said as warmly as he could—though, admittedly, warmth wasn’t his strong suit. Brent had pretty much sucked up all the affability genes in the Dunbarton DNA while they were still in the womb. Which was fine, because it left Grant with all the efficiency genes, and those carried a person a lot further in life. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You, too,” he told Henry.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Dunbarton,” Clara said, her voice low and husky and as bewitching as the rest of her.

A Southern drawl tinted her words, something Grant would have thought he’d find disagreeable, but instead found...well, kind of hot.

She nudged her son lightly. “Right, Hank? Say hello to Mr. Dunbarton.”

“Hello, Mr. Dunbarton,” the boy echoed dutifully.

Grant did his best to smile. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Dunbarton. You can call me...”

He started to say Uncle Grant, but the words got stuck in his throat. Uncle wasn’t a word that sat well with him. Uncles were affable, easygoing guys who told terrible jokes and pulled nickels from people’s ears. Uncles wore argyle sweaters and brought six-packs to Thanksgiving dinner. Uncles taught their nephews the things fathers wouldn’t, like where to hide their Playboys and how to get fake IDs. No way was Grant suited to the role of uncle.

So he said, “Call me Grant.” When he looked at Clara Easton again, he added, “You, too.”

“Thank you...Grant,” she said. Awkwardly. In her Southern accent. That was kind of hot.

She glanced at her son. But Henry remained silent, only gazing at Grant with his mother’s startlingly green eyes.

“Come in,” he said to all of them.

August Fiver did, but Clara hesitated, clearly not confident of their reception, her arm still draped around her son’s shoulder.

“Please,” Grant tried again, extending his hand toward the interior. “You are welcome here.”

Clara still didn’t look convinced, but the intrepid Henry took an experimental step forward, his gaze never leaving Grant’s. Then he took a second, slightly larger, step. Then a third, something that pulled him free of his mother’s grasp. She looked as if she wanted to yank him back, but remained rooted where she stood.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting you,” Grant said, hoping the mention of another woman might make her feel better. But mention of his mother only made her look more panicked.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Easton?”

By now, Henry had followed Fiver through the door, so the three of them looked expectantly at Clara. She glanced first at her son, then at Grant. For a moment, he honestly thought she would grab her son and bolt. Then, finally, she strode forward. Again, Grant was impressed by her attempt to seem more confident than she was. This time, though, it didn’t seem cute. This time, it seemed kind of...

Hmm. That was weird. For a minute there, he felt toward Clara the way she must have felt when she roped her arm protectively around her son. But why would he feel the need to protect Clara Easton? From what he’d learned about her, she was more than capable of taking care of herself. Not to mention that he barely knew her. And he wouldn’t be getting to know her any better than he had to after this first encounter.

Sure, it was inevitable that their paths would cross in the future, since his mother would want to see as much of Henry as possible, and Clara would be included in that. But Grant didn’t have the time or inclination to be Uncle Grant, even without the Uncle part. He and Brent might have been identical in looks, but they’d been totally different in every other way. Brent was always the charming, cheerful twin, while Grant was the sober, silent one. Brent made friends with abandon. Grant’s few friends barely knew him. Brent treated life like a party. Grant knew it was a chore. Brent loved everyone he ever met. Grant never—

Clara Easton walked past him, leaving in her wake a faint aroma of something spicy and sweet. Cinnamon, he realized. And ginger. She smelled like Christmas morning. Except not the Christmas mornings he knew now, which were only notable because they were a day off from work. She smelled like the Christmas mornings of his childhood, before his father died, when the Dunbartons were happy.

Wow. He hadn’t thought about those Christmas mornings for a long time. Because thinking about mornings like that reminded him of a time and place—reminded him of a person—he would never know again. A time when Grant had been staggeringly contented, and when his future had been filled with the promise of—

Of lots of things that never happened. He didn’t usually like being reminded of mornings like that. For some reason, though, he didn’t mind having Clara Easton and her cinnamon bun–gingerbread scent remind him today. He just wished he was the kind of person who could reciprocate. The kind of person who could be charming and cheerful and made friends with abandon. The kind who treated life like a party and loved everyone he met.

The kind who could draw the eye of a woman like Clara Easton in a way that didn’t make her respond with fear and anxiety.

* * *

As Clara followed Grant Dunbarton deeper into the penthouse, she told herself she was silly to feel so intimidated. It was just an apartment. Just a really big, really sumptuous apartment. On one of the most expensive streets in the world. Filled with art and antiques with a value that probably exceeded the gross national product of some sovereign nations. She knew nothing of dates or styles when it came to antiques, but she was going to go out on a limb and say the decor here was Early Conspicuous Consumption.

Inescapably, she compared it to her two-bedroom, one-bath apartment above the bakery. Her furniture was old, too, but her Midcentury Salvage wasn’t nearly as chic, and her original artwork had been executed by a preschooler. Add to that the general chaos that came with having said preschooler underfoot—and also rocks, puzzle pieces and Cheerios underfoot—and it was pretty clear who had the better living space. She just hoped Hank didn’t notice that, too. But judging by the way he walked with his eyes wide, his neck craned and his mouth open, she was pretty sure he did.

“So...how long have y’all lived here?” she asked Grant. Mostly because no one had said a word since she and Hank and Gus entered, and she was beginning to think none of them would ever speak again.

Grant slowed until she pulled alongside him, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the upside, she could see his face. On the downside, she could see his face. And all she could do was be struck again by how much he resembled Brent. Well, that and also worry about how the resemblance set off little explosions in her midsection that warmed places inside her that really shouldn’t be warming in mixed company.

“Brent and I grew up here,” he said. “The place has been in the family for three generations.”

“Wow,” Clara said. Talk about having deep roots somewhere. “I grew up in Macon. But I’ve been living on Tybee Island since I graduated from college.”

“Yes, I know,” he told her. “You graduated from Carson High School with a near-perfect GPA and have a business administration degree from the College of Coastal Georgia that you earned in three years. Not bad. Especially considering how you worked three jobs the entire time.”

Clara told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Families like the Dunbartons didn’t open their door to just anyone. “You had me checked out, I see.”

“Yes,” he admitted without apology. “I’m sure you understand.”

Actually, she did. When it came to family—even if that family only numbered two, like her and Hank—you did what you had to do to protect it. Had August Fiver not already had a ton of info to give her about the Dunbartons, Clara would have had them checked out, too, before allowing them access to her son.

“Well, the AP classes in high school helped a lot with that three-years thing,” she told him.

“So did perseverance and hard work.”

Well, okay, there was that, too.

Grant led them to a small study that was executed in pale yellow and paler turquoise and furnished with overstuffed moiré chairs, a frilly desk and paintings of gorgeous landscapes. The room reeked of Marie Antoinette—the Versailles version, not the Bastille version—so Clara was pretty sure this wasn’t a sanctuary for him.

As if cued by the thought, a woman entered from a door on the other side of the room. This had to be Grant’s mother, Francesca. She looked to be in her midfifties, with short, dark hair liberally streaked with silver and eyes as rich a blue as her sons’. She was nearly as tall as Clara, but slimmer, dressed in flowing palazzo pants and tunic the color of a twilit sky. Diamond studs winked in each earlobe, and both wrists were wrapped in silver bracelets. She halted when she saw her guests, her gaze and smile alighting for only a second on Clara before falling to Hank...whereupon her eyes filled with tears.

But her smile brightened as she hurried forward, arms outstretched in the universal body language for Gimme a big ol’ hug. She halted midstride, however, when Hank stepped backward, pressing himself into Clara with enough force to make her stumble backward herself. Until Grant halted her, wrapping sure fingers around her upper arms. For the scantest of moments, her brain tricked her into thinking it was Brent catching her, and she came this close to spinning around to plant a grateful kiss on Grant’s mouth, so instinctive was her response.

Was it going to be like this the whole time she was here? Was the younger version of herself that still obviously lived inside her going to keep thinking it was Brent, not Grant, she was interacting with? If so, it was going to be a long week.

“Thanks,” she murmured over her shoulder, hoping he didn’t hear her breathlessness.

When he didn’t release her immediately, she turned around to look at him, an action that caused him to release one shoulder, but not the other. For a moment, they only gazed at each other, and Clara was again overcome by how much he resembled Brent, and how that resemblance roused all kinds of feelings in her she really didn’t need to be feeling. Then, suddenly, Grant smiled. But damned if his smile wasn’t just like Brent’s, too.

“Where are my manners?” he asked, his hand still curved over her arm. “I should have taken your coat the minute you walked in.”

Automatically, Clara began to unbutton her coat...then suddenly halted. Because it didn’t feel as if she was unbuttoning her coat for a man who had politely asked for it. It felt as if she was unbuttoning her shirt—or dress or skirt or pants or whatever else she might have on—so she could make love with Brent.

Wow. It really was going to be a long week. Maybe she and Hank should just head home tomorrow. Or even before dinner. Or lunch.

She went back to her buttons before her hesitation seemed weird—though, judging by Grant’s expression, he already thought it was weird. Beneath her coat, she wore a short black dress and red-and-black polka dot tights that had felt whimsical and Christmassy when she put them on but felt out of place now amid the elegance of the Dunbarton home.

She and Hank should definitely leave before lunch.

Her plan was dashed, however, when Francesca, who had stopped a slight distance from Hank but still looked like the happiest woman in the world, said, “It is so lovely to have you both here. I am so glad we found you. Thank you so much for staying with us. I’ve asked Timmerman to bring up your bags.” Obviously not wanting to overwhelm her grandson, she focused on Clara when she spoke again. “You must be Clara,” she said as she extended her right hand.

Clara accepted it automatically. “I’m so sorry about Brent, Mrs. Dunbarton. He was a wonderful person.”

Francesca’s smile dimmed some, but didn’t go away. “Yes, he was. And please, call me Francesca.” She clasped her hands together when she looked at Hank, as if still not trusting herself to not reach for him. “And you, of course, must be Henry. Hello there, young man.”

Hank said nothing for a moment, only continued to lean against Clara as he gave his grandmother wary consideration. Finally, politely, he said, “Hello. My name is Henry. But everybody calls me Hank.”

Francesca positively beamed. “Well, then I will, too. And what should we have you call me, Hank?”

This time Hank looked up at Clara, and she could see he had no idea how to respond. They had talked before coming to New York about his father’s death and his newly discovered grandmother and uncle, but conveying all the ins and outs of those things to a three-year-old hadn’t been easy, and she still wasn’t sure how much Hank understood. But when he’d asked if this meant he and Clara would be spending holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas with his new family, and whether they could come to Tybee Island for his birthday parties, it had finally struck Clara just how big a life change this was going to be for her son.

And for her, too. It had been just the two of them for more than three years. She’d figured it would stay just the two of them for a couple of decades, at least, until Hank found a partner and started a family—and a life—of his own. Clara hadn’t expected to have to share him so soon. Or to have to share him with strangers.

Who wouldn’t be strangers for long, since they were family—Hank’s family, anyway. But that was something else Clara had been forced to accept. Now her son had a family other than her. But she still just had—and would always just have—him.

She tried not to stumble over the words when she said, “Hank, sweetie, this is your grandmother. You two need to figure out what y’all want to call her.”

Francesca looked at Hank again, her hands still clasped before her, still giving him the space he needed. Clara was grateful the older woman realized that a child his age needed longer to get used to a situation like this than an adult did. Clara understood well the enormity and exuberance of a mother’s love. It was the only kind of love she did understand. It was the only kind she’d ever known. She knew how difficult it was to rein it in. She appreciated Francesca’s doing so for her grandson.

“Do you know what your father and Uncle Grant called their grandmother?” Francesca asked Hank.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. What?”

Francesca smiled at the No, ma’am. Clara supposed it wasn’t something a lot of children said anymore. But she had been brought up to say no, ma’am and no, sir when speaking to adults—it was still the Southern way in a lot of places—so it was only natural to teach Hank to say it, too. One small step for courtesy. One giant step for the human race.

“They called her Grammy,” Francesca told Hank. “What do you think about calling me Grammy?”

Clara felt Hank relax. “I guess I could call you Grammy, if you think it’s okay.”

Francesca’s eyes went damp again, and she smiled. “I think it would be awesome.”

Now Clara smiled, too. The woman had clearly done her homework and remembered how to talk to a child. A grandmother’s love must be as enormous and exuberant as a mother’s love. Hank could do a lot worse than Francesca Dunbarton for a grandmother.

“Now, then,” Francesca said. “Would you like to see your father’s old room? It looks just like it did when he wasn’t much older than you.”

Hank looked at Clara for approval.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” she told him. “I’d like to see your dad’s room, too.” To Francesca, she added, “If you don’t mind me tagging along.”

“Of course not. Maybe your uncle Grant will come with us. You can, too, Mr. Fiver, if you want to.”

Clara turned to the two men, expecting them to excuse themselves due to other obligations, and was surprised to find Grant looking not at his mother, but at her, intently enough that she got the impression he’d been looking at her for some time. A ball of heat somersaulted through her midsection a few times and came to rest in a place just below her heart. Because the way he was looking at her was the same way Brent had looked at her, whenever he was thinking about...well... Whenever he was feeling frisky. And, wow, suddenly, out of nowhere, Clara started feeling a little frisky, too.

He isn’t Brent, she reminded herself firmly. He might look like Brent and sound like Brent and move like Brent, but Grant Dunbarton wasn’t the sexy charmer who had taught her to laugh and play and frolic one summer, then given her the greatest gift she would ever receive, in the form of his son. As nice as Grant was trying to be, he would never, could never, be his brother. Of that, Clara was certain. That didn’t make him bad. It just made him someone else. Someone who should not—would not, could not, she told herself sternly—make her feel frisky. Even a little.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunbarton,” Gus said, pulling her thoughts back to the matter at hand—and not a moment too soon. “But I should get back to the office. Unless Clara needs me for anything else.”

She shook her head. He’d only come this morning to be a buffer between her and the Dunbartons, should one be necessary. But Francesca was being so warm and welcoming, and Grant was trying to be warm and welcoming, so... No, Grant was warm and welcoming, she told herself. He just wasn’t quite as good at it as his mother was. As his brother had been, once upon a time.

“Go ahead, Gus, it’s fine,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. We appreciate it.”

He said his goodbyes and told the Dunbartons he could find his own way out. Clara waited for Grant to leave, too, but he only continued to gaze at her in that heated way, looking as if he didn’t intend to go anywhere. Not unless she was going with him.

He’s not Brent, she told herself again. He’s not.

Now if only she could convince herself he wouldn’t be the temptation his brother had been, too.