Читать книгу Wicked & Willing - Leslie Kelly - Страница 7

“WHAT WOULD YOU SAY if I told you it’s possible you’re the long-lost granddaughter of a millionaire?”

Venus Messina snorted as she twisted the cap off a bottle of Bud, then flipped it into the trash with her thumb. She didn’t even look over her shoulder at the uptight old windbag whom she’d dubbed Mr. Collins—Tom Collins—since that was his drink of choice. He sat at the end of the bar and had been trying to engage her in conversation since the moment he arrived.

Granddaughter of a millionaire. Right.

Lemme guess…my Granny is Miss Manners. Cause everyone can see I’m just like her. She chuckled under her breath.

The man persisted. “…and his direct heir?”

Though his voice grated shrilly over the noisy chatter in the crowded room, nobody even glanced over in curiosity. It was late into Happy Hour on a hot Friday night in June, and everyone knew Friday nights in an Irish pub were as good a place for outrageous stories and high drama as any movie theater.

Tonight was the third time this week the man had parked himself here at Flanagan’s, her foster uncle’s bar, where she’d been working until she could find a full-time job. The first night, the man had been so quiet she almost hadn’t heard his drink order. He’d looked as out of his element as a nun in a strip club. Not so much in the way he dressed, though. After all, Flanagan’s catered to a lot of ambitious, wealthy businesspeople who spent their days bowing down to the almighty dollar in one of the many huge office buildings in downtown Baltimore.

No, he didn’t look out of place because of his pricey dark suit, which even Venus could tell probably cost more than she made in a month—or more than she had made in a month when she’d actually been employed full-time. Instead, it was his stiffness, the upturned tilt of his pointy chin, the way his nose flared in that irritating way when somebody stepped too close. The way he combed one long strand of graying hair over the top of his head to hide a bald spot, because, after all, rich people were much too refined to ever wear something as gaudy as a toupee.

Nope, she couldn’t say she liked Mr. Collins, even if he was a damn good tipper.

“Are you even going to answer me, young lady?”

The imperious tone said he’d given up on easy friendliness, something he’d tried last night and failed at miserably. Mr. Collins’s face looked like it was going to crack from his smile—obviously he didn’t use it very often.

Tonight he’d skipped friendly and gone for nosy. He’d been trying to engage her in conversation and had been asking way too many personal questions—none of which she’d answered, of course. After she’d spent the past hour ignoring everything he said that wasn’t prefaced by the standard, “Bartender, get me a…,” he’d finally blurted out his ridiculous millionaire comment.

“Well?” he prompted, impatiently tapping his perfectly manicured fingers on the top of the pitted, sticky bar.

Sliding the bottle of Bud and a Fuzzy Navel—a disaster of a drink if ever there was one—to the yuppie couple seated at the bar, she muttered, “I’d say somewhere a village is seriously missing its idiot.”

Yuppie man grinned. His date, with the pisspoor taste in drinks, gave Venus a quick frown, warning her away from spoken-for territory. As if, lady. Guys in ties were definitely not Venus’s bag these days. As a matter of fact, she’d lately sworn off all men in general. Her last relationship had burned her—badly—leaving her not only brokenhearted, but jobless to boot.

Besides which, Venus had decided thirty was too old to keep playing the field. She looked forward to her thirtieth birthday the way a condemned prisoner looked forward to the executioner.

Thirty. Less than a year away. Now, doesn’t that suck?

Venus didn’t so much mind the number. She did mind not being where she’d thought she’d be by age thirty—in a great job, a stable relationship, a house, maybe even with a couple of rugrats running around. Her upbringing had made her desire The Brady Bunch life as an adult.

At the rate she was going, she’d be lucky with The Os-bournes.

“It would behoove you to take a brief break and speak with me,” Mr. Tom Collins said, still red in the face from her previous comment.

“Behoove?” She paused to finish pulling a draught of Guinness, complete with the requisite “G” swirl of foam on top. She pushed it toward the waitress, and grinned as Janie rolled her eyes behind the annoying man’s back. “It would also behoove me to earn my paycheck, don’tcha think, Janie?”

The woman snorted. “You call what that cheapskate Joe pays us a paycheck?” Venus took no offense. Janie was Joe’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. This week they were off-again.

Besides, Janie was right. The pay was pretty abysmal. It was the tips that had kept her clothed and fed for several months. For some reason, the regulars at Flanagan’s seemed to like Venus’s caustic wit and in-your-face attitude. Plus, she made a damn fine Bloody Mary, if she did say so herself.

But bartending wasn’t exactly her dream job. Up until eight months ago, Venus had had the job she’d always hoped for, complete with the kind of salary that had enabled her to actually open a savings account. Starting out in the typing pool of a financial company right out of high school, she’d worked her way up for ten years. She’d scraped and studied, taken college night courses when she could. She’d put in long hours and kept the right attitude, including keeping her mouth shut when the occasion warranted it. Eventually she’d ended up in management in the HR department.

Then she’d been stupid enough to let down her guard, to get involved with Dale, one of the executives in the company. She’d fallen in…well, not love, but at least infatuation. He’d fallen in lust. Unfortunately, she’d gotten over the infatuation a little sooner than he’d gotten over the lust. When she’d broken it off, he hadn’t been pleased.

In fact, he’d been so displeased, Dale had made sure Venus ended up on the unemployment line three months later.

Hence, her dislike for guys in ties.

Without a college degree to go with her experience, Venus had simply been unable to find a new job—unless she wanted to start all over again at the bottom of the ladder.

She might reach that point. If she hadn’t had this job at Joe’s place to fall back on, plus the remainder of that nearly empty savings account, she probably already would have. But holding out for a better-paying job wasn’t just about taking care of herself. She needed to make enough to get back to helping Ma. Her foster mother had insisted she was doing fine, but Venus knew more than most the way Maureen struggled. Until her layoff, Venus had managed to send enough back to Trenton to make a real difference for the four kids currently living in her old home.

She wanted to be able to do so again. Soon.

“Imagine not having to worry about a paycheck,” the man said, sounding almost desperate. “Please, Ms. Messina, give me a few minutes of your time.” The word “please,” and the urgency in his voice, made her pause and really look at the man.

“Go ahead, V,” she heard from behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the sardonic look on her uncle Joe’s craggy red face. “And if you’re a millionaire heiress, don’t forget who taught you to ride a bike.”

“That woulda been Tony Cabrini, the boy in 6A,” she replied with a saucy grin.

Joe wagged his index finger at her. “And who taught you how to deal with Tony Cabrini and boys like him when he got fresh on your fourteenth birthday?”

Venus fisted a hand and put it on her hip. “Ma did.”

“Well, who do ya think taught her that knee trick, hmm?”

Laughing helplessly, she said, “Okay, okay. Thanks for teaching her the knee trick, Uncle Joe.”

Not that she’d ever used it on Tony Cabrini. The last time she’d seen him, her knee definitely was not the body part she’d reacted with when he “got fresh.” She’d lost her virginity to Tony in the laundry room of their building when she was sixteen.

Venus still had a real fondness for the spin cycle.

“Now, take a break,” Joe said. “You can use my office.” He turned toward the stranger. “Don’t try nothing funny. You try to run a con on her and I’ll make sure you have to drink your vodka through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Venus gave Joe a quick hug, noting his start of surprise. Though not a real blood relation, he was as close as any uncle one could want. His sister, Maureen, had been Venus’s foster mother since age eight. She remembered looking forward to Joe’s visits to Jersey the way she’d look forward to Santa in December—even if Santa had usually brought only sensible clothes and donated secondhand toys, rather than the Barbie stuff and play makeup Venus had asked for.

Heck, when she thought about it, Joe’s visits were probably more entertaining than Santa’s anyway. Joe had taught her to play poker when she was ten. He’d taught her to spit like a boy when she was twelve. He’d taught her how to fake a fever to avoid a big exam when she was fourteen.

He’d also taught her that being poor was nothing to be ashamed of, and used himself as an example of how you could get what you want if you were willing to work for it.

She’d never forgotten the lesson.

Joe had also been the one who helped Venus when she’d come to Baltimore looking for a job right out of high school. And he’d been her closest family member ever since.

“Okay,” she said over her shoulder to her impatient customer. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Leading him through a swinging door, Venus walked into the cement-floored storage room, piled high with boxes and crates, broken bar stools and lined with shelves full of premium liquor. At the back of the room was the desk Joe referred to as his office. Sitting in Joe’s well-worn chair, Venus leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest, and watched as the stranger sat in the metal folding chair opposite her. “Now why don’t you tell me who you are and what the hell it is you want?”

Though he stiffened, she didn’t apologize. He was on her dime. And if he didn’t like her attitude, that was too damn bad. To Venus, attitude was everything.

“My name is Leo Gallagher,” he finally said. “And, to confirm, you are Venus Messina, born in Trenton, and your parents are Trina O’Reilly and Matt Messina?”

“So they tell me, not that I know for sure since I never laid eyes on my father,” she said. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Any particular reason you’ve been checking up on me?”

He ignored her question and mumbled, “The hair is a surprise. But the eyes, that deep green…”

Venus watched as he looked her over again, knowing what he saw—a tall redhead with a big mouth and the kind of figure that could turn horny men into drooling idiots and jealous women into shrews. Venus had long since stopped feeling self-conscious about her height or her very curvy figure. But she began to fidget as the man continued to study her.

“Your parents weren’t married.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Nope. Shocking, huh? My mother used to joke about how awful her name would have been, Trina Messina.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “You never knew your father, and lost your mother to cancer when you were eight.”

Venus clenched her back teeth, fighting the impulse to stand up and walk out of here. “What do you want?” she bit out.

He seemed to sense her patience was nearing its end. “Ms. Messina, I believe your father, who called himself Matt Messina, may actually have been my cousin, Maxwell Longotti, Jr.”

Her heart beat a little faster, but Venus took a deep breath, ignoring it. “Why?”

“My cousin left my uncle’s estate in Atlanta thirty years ago, determined to make it as a stand-up comedian. He stayed in New York for a while, using a stage name—Matt Messina.”

Her heart quickened even more. “My mother met my father in New York, but she never mentioned a stage name.” However, she did say he’d made her laugh like no one else she ever knew.

“She might not have even been aware of it. I don’t believe they could have known each other very long. He was in New York City for only a few weeks, and then he went out to California.”

Unable to help it, she asked, “Where is he now?”

“He was killed in a car accident less than a year later.”

Venus closed her eyes, angry with herself for allowing a tiny spark of hope to burn for the briefest moment. “Oh.”

“He planned to return to New York, but was going to stop in Atlanta first to try to make amends with Uncle Max. They’d parted rather bitterly, you see. He phoned, said he wanted to mend fences. Something amazing had happened, he said. Something that made him reevaluate the importance of family.”

Like finding out he had a baby with a woman he’d had a fling with back in New York? She thrust the thought away.

“The next day we heard Max had been killed. When his father went out west to settle things, he found a card in Max’s apartment. It simply said, ‘Congratulations, Daddy.’ Inside was a photo of a baby with the name Violet written on the back.”

“My name’s Venus,” she immediately countered.

The man shrugged, as if unconcerned. “Possibly a nickname? Perhaps your mother changed her mind?”

“No way would my mother name me Violet. Besides, I think I would know my own name.”

Leo glanced away, not meeting her eye. “Are you certain of the name on your birth certificate?”

“I’ve never seen it. There was a robbery at my foster mother’s place back when I was in high school and a bunch of papers got stolen.”

He raised a brow.

“But,” she insisted, “my driver’s license, social security card and school records all say Venus. I think by now somebody woulda figured it out if I’d been using an illegal name.”

“Perhaps. But no matter.” The man—who thought he could be her what…uncle? Second cousin?—smiled thinly. “The point is, there is enough circumstantial evidence to think it is possible you are my cousin’s illegitimate daughter.”

She remained silent, absorbing his claim. Her heart no longer raced, and she didn’t tremble with excitement. If she hadn’t just been told Max Longotti Jr. had died nearly thirty years ago, perhaps she could have allowed herself a moment of hope…a moment of that familiar longing to find out who her people were. Now, she felt only anguish. Whether the man spoke the truth or not, she was no closer to having a real father now than she’d ever been.

Deep down, she prayed he was wrong, this so-called relative. She’d long imagined her real father living a great life, being the great guy she liked to think he was. She’d pictured his happiness when he’d learned about the existence of his daughter, who he must never have known about since he hadn’t come for her when her mother died. Her mother told her she’d tried to contact him about Venus’s birth, and she’d never stopped believing he’d return to them.

But what if he hadn’t gotten the news? Messages got lost. Phone numbers changed. Postmen went postal and didn’t deliver the mail. Her father could very well be out there somewhere, living his life, as wonderful as her mother had said he was.

No. Venus didn’t want to imagine him dead. Not now. Not ever.

“Okay, Mr. Gallagher,” she said as she stood and squared her shoulders. “You’ve said what you wanted to say. It’s a nice fairy tale, but I don’t believe it. My name is not Violet. Matt Messina is not exactly an unusual name. New York’s a big city. And I think it’s time for you to leave.”

His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Obviously he’d expected her to fall at his feet in gratitude. Right now she wished she’d never laid eyes on him.

“B-but, you have to admit it’s possible,” he sputtered.

“Why? What difference does it make if the man is dead?”

“Well,” he said, “because I want you to come to Atlanta to meet your grandfather.”

She began to shake her head. Accepting this Longotti character as her grandfather would mean accepting that her real father had died decades ago. It would mean accepting she really had no parents and the father she’d fantasized about all her life had been in his grave before she took her first steps.

No thank you.

“And I will pay you a great deal of money to do so.”

Venus paused. Then she slowly lowered herself to her chair.

TROY LANGTREE sat in his new office at Longotti Lines, nodding with satisfaction at the tasteful decor and the magnificent view of downtown Atlanta off the balcony. His office at his family-owned department store in south Florida had been just as nicely appointed, but its view had been of swaying palm trees and bikini-clad beach goers.

“Well, that had its benefits, too,” he murmured with a wry smile. Still, he found himself appreciating the look of Atlanta. The skyline spoke of big-city energy and excitement. In the week he’d lived here, he’d found himself growing energetic and excited, too.

He still couldn’t quite believe he was here. His move to Atlanta had been rather a shock, even to him. If someone had asked Troy a year ago where he saw himself on the day of his retirement, he would have firmly replied that he’d still be heading up the Langtree store chain in Florida. He’d never pictured himself doing anything else.

After his father had retired six years ago, he’d worked with his twin brother, Trent, until they both realized Troy liked the store and Trent hated it. When Trent struck out on his own to start a landscaping business, Troy had moved into the executive position with ease. He’d enjoyed his job, and if he sometimes felt bored, closed-in, well, he’d had other outlets to pursue in his off-hours. Mainly outlets of the female variety. As a wealthy, and, to be honest, attractive bachelor, he had never lacked for female company.

But about a year ago, his well-laid plans began to wrinkle. His brother’s marriage had been a surprise, though a pleasant one. Watching Trent go crazy over his wife, Chloe, Troy had wondered, for the first time in his life, if he might ever meet a woman who could turn him into a complete idiot, like his brother had become.

“Doubtful.”

His sister-in-law’s subsequent pregnancy had thrilled the entire family, Troy included. It was, probably, why he’d been foolish enough to get briefly involved with someone not at all his usual type. By dating a friendly, personable young woman who reminded him a little of his brother’s wife, had he been subconsciously trying to follow Trent’s lead?

Maybe.

Whatever the reason, it had ended in disaster. Because, for once, Troy had gone out with a woman who hadn’t played the dating game. She’d fallen and fallen hard. Troy hadn’t.

Oh, sure, he’d liked her. She’d been nice and attractive.

And she’d bored him beyond belief.

Their breakup had devastated her, and she’d definitely let him know about it. Troy had never meant to hurt her. He’d certainly never made any promises and they’d only gone out a few times. Hell, they’d never even slept together—which should have been his first indication something was wrong.

Looking back, he couldn’t even fathom why he’d thought he could be interested in someone who didn’t make him crazy with lust from the first time they met. Love might be the greatest thing since the invention of the wheel, but if it wasn’t accompanied by a serious case of the hots, Troy didn’t think it would ever be for him. Any woman with whom he fell in love would have to inspire some immediate thoughts of hot, sweaty bodies and long, erotic nights before she could ever inspire images of diamond rings or whispered promises.

“It will never happen,” he’d often told himself, especially after that last dating disaster.

In any case, the damage had been done. For the first time in his life, he’d hurt someone who hadn’t deserved it.

Lots of women had called him a heel over the years, but this was the first time he’d ever actually felt like one.

Worst of all, the situation had made him cautious about his relationships with women. He hadn’t so much as wanted to kiss one in a good three months! That was pretty long for a man who hadn’t gone without sex for three months since losing his virginity at fourteen to his grandmother’s housemaid.

His twin said occasional breaks from sex could be good for a man. Frankly, Troy thought he’d rather lose an arm than his sex drive. “You can teach yourself to write with your other hand,” he mused. But you couldn’t teach other body parts to have orgasms.

Still, even his suddenly barren love life couldn’t compare with the upheaval in his career. The job in which he’d felt so secure had suddenly disappeared.

I think you’re crazy, Dad.

After six years of retirement, his father had decided he wanted his job back. He had to hand it to his old man. Most fifty-eight-year-olds who’d had a minor heart “episode” would take it as a sign to slow down. His father had decided his early retirement was going to kill him, and that he’d been much healthier when working. So back to Florida he and Troy’s mother had come. Back to the store. Right into Troy’s job.

His father certainly hadn’t pushed him out. They’d be partners, he’d insisted. But when Troy had thought it over, he’d realized he was being given a chance to do something he never thought he would—go outside the store, maybe move somewhere else altogether, try another line of work.

Freedom from Langtree’s had been shocking—but also intoxicating. He’d finally understood some of the choices his twin had made. Though, God knew, he’d never fathom Trent’s delight in planting bushes or mucking around in fertilizer.

Fate had stepped in to make his decision a simple one. Max Longotti, an old friend of his late grandfather, had told Troy’s grandmother he was thinking of selling his nationally known catalog company. He wanted the Langtrees to consider buying it. To that end, he asked Troy to come work with him at his Atlanta headquarters for a few months, so the board could get to know him before Max asked them to vote on the sale.

Troy had leapt at the chance. He’d closed up his beachfront condo and driven to Georgia. Max Longotti, a crotchety old soul who reminded Troy of his grandfather, had welcomed Troy into his own home until he could find another place. He’d be moving into a furnished apartment in a few days. Until then, the Longotti estate was quite comfortable—if large and rather deserted.

One thing Troy had learned so far during his brief stay in Atlanta…Max Longotti was a lonely man. A rich, lonely man who seemed surrounded by scavengers just waiting for him to kick the bucket so they could sink their claws into his money. Troy shook his head in disgust.

Remembering Max had mentioned he’d be in late in the afternoon due to a doctor’s appointment, Troy glanced at his watch, noting it was nearly four. He should have just enough time to read over the marketing projections for the latest sales circular before meeting with Max at the end of the day.

He reached for it, but froze when something else—a bright flash of red outside—caught his eye.

A woman. “Who the devil…” He stood, walking toward the sliding glass door which lead out to the small balcony. A nice touch, the balcony. Troy had become accustomed to sitting outdoors when he had reading to do or reports to peruse.

Obviously no one had come through his office, so the intruder had to have come out the other door, which exited off Max’s. Knowing Max hadn’t yet arrived, he wondered why the older man’s efficient secretary had left the woman alone. And, more importantly, why was she here to begin with? Watching her out the glass, he doubted she was here on business.

The woman had to be tall. She sat in one of the two tasteful, wrought-iron chairs, her long legs crossed and her feet resting on the waist-high balcony railing. She seemed completely unconcerned about losing her slip-on sandal, as she tapped her toe against the air in some unheard rhythm. The heel of the shoe swung against her bare foot as it dangled ten stories above Peachtree Street.

Troy followed every swing of her foot, nearly spotlighted in the sunlight. Her open sandals revealed bright red-polished toenails and a splotch of color—a tattoo—just above her right ankle. Definitely not here on business.

He continued to stare. Her legs, completely bare, went on forever. And ever. Troy swallowed hard as he studied the smooth skin of her calf, the slimness of her pale thighs. Her tiny jean shorts interrupted his visual assessment of her legs. His gaze skimmed past them to the clingy white tank top she wore, which hugged a generously curved chest.

His heart skipped a beat.

Then he saw her face, complete with full lips and a pert nose. Long lashes rested on her cheeks since her eyes were closed. And her thick mass of auburn hair caught the sunlight and shone like red-hot flames.

Seeing her lips move, and her head nodding in rhythm with her tapping foot, he leaned closer to the door. Even through the glass, he could make out the words she was singing.

“B-b-b-b-ba-ad. I’m bad to the bone.”

The sudden rush of familiar heat as his libido returned in full force brought a smile to Troy’s lips. Reaching for the handle of the door, he nearly sighed in relief. He hadn’t felt this good for a long time. Three months, to be exact.

“Thank you, God,” he whispered.

Now it was time to meet the woman who’d so effortlessly awakened him from his long, sexless sleep.