“What?” I’m so focused on the tableau, I’ve lost track of our conversation.
“Mitchell. He’s not content as a bachelor.”
The subject of our discussion is staring at the group with a scowl on his face. What the hell does he know? “Could have fooled me. He’s never married, and he’s nearly fifty.”
She scrutinizes Mitch over her glass of punch. “Maybe the woman he loved married someone else.”
Well, that grabs my attention, and I turn toward her. “You know something.” Although he’d never mentioned a woman, I always suspected there had been someone in his life. Every now and then he’d get this faraway look on his face, usually when he spotted a dark-haired female.
She laughs it off. “No. Just being fanciful.”
She knows something. I can feel it. But before I can challenge her, Dick Slayton stumbles up to us. Whatever’s in the glass he’s clutching spills over the side.
“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” His slurred voice tells me he’s already had a few.
I remind myself to be civil. Last thing I want is a scene. “Slayton.” I nod.
“Who let in the riffraff?” he bellows, and a couple standing a few feet away turn in our direction.
“For God’s sake, Dick,” Joss hisses under her breath. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why? He doesn’t belong here. He’s got no money, no class.” He waves his glass in the air and belts out a laugh while the nearby couple stare at us, dumbfounded.
God damn it. I clench my jaw as I debate exactly where to strike the bastard.
“Trenton, don’t you dare,” Joss warns me before clutching Slayton’s arm. “Come on. You’re going inside to cool off.”
“No, I’m not.”
Stepping forward, I go toe-to-toe with him. “If you don’t do as Joss says, I’ll punch you so hard, you’ll eat through a straw for a week.”
He straightens to his full height and spits out, “You wouldn’t hit a partner.”
“Oh, yeah?” Fisting my hands, I bare my teeth. “Try me, you son of a bitch.”
Slayton’s face pales as the fight bleeds out of him.
“Come on, Dick,” Joss says out loud. “You need to get inside. Too much sun.” Ever the politician. That’s the story she’ll probably spin.
I nod to the couple who witnessed the drama. The woman works in accounting, a hotbed of gossip on its best day. There isn’t a chance in hell she’ll keep her mouth shut. Christ. What a mess. I go searching for something to drink that is neither pink nor fizzy and find it at the bar set up by the pool. After grabbing a cold Corona, I wander around, not stopping long enough to engage in a conversation. In the mood I’m in, I’m bound to snap someone’s head off.
As I sip the beer, the family tableau in the gazebo regains my attention. And suddenly the day turns dark for me. The twentysomething man circles Madrigal’s waist and drops a kiss on her cheek. When she tries to step out of his reach, he pulls her right back to his side. All under the smiling gaze of her grandfather. The man who bears a close resemblance to the bastard pawing Madrigal pats Holden on the back and shakes hands with him.
What the hell’s going on? All signs point to the ex-boyfriend from college. If I’m not mistaken, Holden has just given his blessing to whatever the overfamiliar son of a bitch has in mind.
I’m so focused on Madrigal, I miss Mitchell Brooks stepping up to me. “Stop staring at Madrigal like you own her.”
“What?”
“You’ve already caused a scene with Slayton. And you’re eyeballing her like she’s more than an intern to you. Keep that up and people will notice. Rumors will fly, which will hurt not only you but also her. You need to mingle, act like nothing’s wrong.”
Like hell there isn’t. I nod toward the group. “Who’s the vermin pawing Madrigal?”
Mitch grinds his teeth. “Bradford Holcomb III, the son of—”
“Bradford Holcomb II. That’s who it is.”
“You’ve met him?”
“No. I don’t run in his circle.” Just like Holden, his family is part and parcel of that upper class that dots the Virginia countryside. For decades he lived off his fortune. But with his family’s profligate spending, the kitty was about to run dry. So he’d gambled on one disastrous investment. “He’s teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.”
“How do you know?”
“A year ago something popped up on my radar, an overseas conglomerate touted as a sure thing. After investigating the company, I warned off my investment team. Their financials didn’t add up. Bradford Holcomb II jumped in with both feet, mortgaging all his property. Sure enough, the company filed for bankruptcy six months ago, and he lost his shirt. He’s a couple of missed payments away from losing everything he owns, which explains why he’s encouraging a match between Madrigal and his son. They probably want to get their hands on her trust fund.”
He narrows his eyes at me, nostrils flaring. “How do you know about her trust?”
“She told me.”
His cheeks flush with heat. “What is she to you?”
He might be my mentor, but my personal life is my business. I’m not about to share how I feel about Madrigal with him. “An employee.”
“I think she’s more than that.” He squints as he scrutinizes me. “Tell me you didn’t seduce her.”
I won’t confirm his presumption, but I won’t deny it either, so my only recourse is to keep silent.
“You son of a bitch. She’s innocent.”
I gaze toward the gazebo where Holden and the parents are apparently saying their good-byes, leaving Madrigal and Junior alone. It hurts to look at them. They’re so perfect together—one blonde, one dark-haired—the fruit of centuries of refinement. I bet Junior’s father did not scar him for life. Unlike mine. “I know how wrong I am for her.”
“Then why?”
I tangle a hand through my hair. “It just . . . happened on that trip to North Carolina. She was . . . scared of the storm, of a Peeping Tom at the bathroom window. I wanted to comfort her.”
“By having sex with her?”
I swig down the brew by way of response.
“How far has it gone?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“You son of a bitch. You hurt her, and I’ll—”
What’s going on in the gazebo suddenly gets our attention. Not content to fondle Madrigal, the slime has moved to kissing her. Except she’s not having any. She struggles, but the bastard clamps down on her arms and grinds his mouth on hers.
My blood boils and I see red. “Fuck.” I pound feet for the gazebo with Mitch right behind me.
I intend to pry him off Madrigal and give him the beatdown of his life. But when I get there, he’s writhing on the ground. She’s kneed him in the nuts. Good for her. But I’m not satisfied. Hoisting him by his preppy shirt, I haul back my fist.
“Don’t!” Madrigal screams.
Mitch grabs my arm. “You don’t want to do this, Trenton.”
“The fuck I don’t.” I wrestle Mitch for my hand and punch Pretty Boy right in the stomach. He doubles over in pain and drops to the ground.
“Why did you do that?” Madrigal yells.
“He was touching you, kissing you.”
“I had it under control.”
“I was proposing to her,” Pretty Boy wheezes out.
I clench my fist and go for him again.
Cursing, Mitch peels my hand off his shirt. “Careful,” he cautions. “We have an audience.”
About twenty or so people have gathered around the gazebo. They’ve seen plenty, and God only knows how much they heard.
“Oh, God,” Madrigal says. “Uncle Mitch?”
Uncle Mitch? What the hell?
I don’t miss the plea in her glance. She expe
cts him to fix the situation.
Mitch whispers to the three of us, “Follow my lead.”
Displaying a broad smile, he turns around and addresses the crowd. “Did you enjoy the show?”
The “audience” appears appropriately confused.
“Just a little entertainment, folks. Ha-ha. Mr. Holcomb, Mr. Steele, and Ms. Berkeley were re-creating an event from her family’s history. Before the Civil War, two suitors battled over one of her female ancestors. They held a duel right here on this spot. We thought dueling pistols would be a bit much. So we opted for fists.”
Someone in the audience pipes up, “They should have worn costumes.”
Mitch nods. “You’re absolutely right. But then it would have given it away, wouldn’t it? This way you were all surprised.”
A head bobs up and down. “Yep, sure was.”
Although a couple of people still look skeptical, no one accuses Mitch of spouting off a pack of lies.
“How about giving our players a hand for their fine performance?” When the audience applauds, he whispers to us, “Take a bow.”
Madrigal dips a graceful curtsy. Brad gives it his best shot and bends. In a fake show of support, I throw my arm around his shoulder and squeeze. “Hope I didn’t hit you too hard, old boy.”
Brad grimaces. I hope it hurt like hell.
“That concludes our show, folks. Thank you for coming,” Mitch says, like they knew about the “performance” ahead of time.
“You gonna do it again?” a kid asks, biting into a cherry-colored Popsicle.
“No, I’m afraid it was a onetime performance.”
Once the audience wanders off, Pretty Boy glances at Madrigal. “Sorry for the kiss. I thought you’d be okay with it.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues. “Please think about the proposal. It would be a good thing for us both.”
I glare at him. “She’s not marrying you.”
“Let’s not start this again,” Mitch says. “Brad, let’s find your parents. I’m sure they’re anxious to hear how the proposal went.”
“What the hell, Mitch?” He can’t possibly support this marriage.
He shoots me a warning glance. “You don’t want Holden hearing what happened secondhand. I’ll need to explain things to him.”
He’s right about that. “What are you going to tell him?”
“A version of the truth. You misconstrued Brad’s intentions and charged in to ‘rescue’ Madrigal.”
Don’t know if the old coot will believe that sorry tale. But if he wants to keep up appearances, he’ll act like he does. At least in public.
“Brad, my boy, why don’t we go into the house where you can catch your breath. Remember to smile on your way back. We don’t want a scandal.”
“Yes, sir.” With Mitch’s help, he stumbles in the direction of the manor house. Good riddance, I say.
“He wants to marry you for your money,” I tell Madrigal, who’s gazing after them.
“Why? His family has plenty.”
“No, they don’t. His father is almost bankrupt.”
Her chin jerks up. “How do you know?”
“Trust me. I do. I can provide proof if you want.”
She drops into the plush gazebo seat. No wonder. After all the drama, she must want to get off her feet. “Don’t worry. I’m not marrying him. But—” Glancing down, she picks at her nail polish. By now I know that’s a nervous habit of hers.
Squatting in front of her, I clasp her restless hands. “But what?”
“Gramps wants me to get engaged to Brad. His health is frail. I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t agree to the engagement.”
I grit my teeth. “You would consider marriage to that . . . ass to avoid a confrontation with your grandfather?”
“Of course not. But I would consider a temporary engagement until I get my hands on my trust in September. Problem is Brad’s insistent on a quick wedding. Before the end of summer.” She explains this offhandedly, like it’s no big deal.
I clench my fingers around hers. In her circle, an engagement is as good as a wedding. I’m not going to lose her, not now. “You’re not marrying him!”
Smiling as if nothing’s wrong, she whispers, “Of course I’m not, and stop yelling. I just need to come up with a plan.”
How did things go so wrong so fast? “His family’s financial situation must be worse than I thought. Doesn’t the bastard have a job?”
“Not a job, job. He volunteers with a conservative political action committee. He says it’s good for his political career.” She glances off into the distance. “He wants to run for a county council seat next year.”
“So he’s counting on your money to bankroll his campaign?”
She bites down on her lip. “I guess.”
“Do you know the terms of your trust?”
“All the money comes to me when I turn twenty-five, but if I marry before then, the money is divided equally between my husband and me. That means he would get twenty-five million dollars as long as we marry before September tenth.”
No wonder Pretty Boy is in such a hurry. “You won’t marry him before your twenty-fifth birthday. I’ll marry you myself before I allow that to happen.”
Those amazing pansy eyes of hers frost over, and the anger she’s been suppressing comes to the fore. “You son of a bitch. Last thing I want is to marry. You or Brad or anyone else. I’m fine on my own. Excuse me.” She stands.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to think things through.” She pokes me in the chest. “And don’t you dare follow me.” With that she trips down the steps and hurries toward the manor.
Out of nowhere, a waiter appears carrying a tray of Lil’ Smokies with toothpicks skewered through them. Having had nothing to eat since breakfast, I grab two, wolf them down. After he leaves, I pace back and forth, weighing my options. The wise thing to do is leave. Between the altercation with Dick Slayton and the fight with Pretty Boy, I’m bound to be the main topic of conversation. Thing is, I can’t. Not without making things right with Madrigal.
Having made that decision, I head in the direction she took. Halfway there, Mitchell blocks my way. “Where are you going?” He smiles when he asks the question. Anyone witnessing our exchange would think we’re having a friendly chat.
Keeping up the facade, I grin in return. “I need to talk to Madrigal.”
Tossing an arm over my shoulder, he throws back his head and laughs as if I’ve just made a joke. But then he grinds out, “No. You don’t. I found Holden and explained things to him. I think he believed me. So get the hell out of here before he decides to come looking for you.”
He’s right. I should leave. But at the moment I don’t give a fuck about what’s right.
CHAPTER 23
Madrigal
After leaving Steele, I make a beeline to my room. The only place in the house where I can be alone, have privacy. I pace back and forth while I weigh my options.
If Brad’s family is having money troubles as Steele claims—and why would he lie about something easily proved—that explains Brad’s need to marry me before my birthday. Brad would get his hands on half of my trust fund to deal with his family’s finances. That’s not my problem, though. No matter how much Gramps wants me to marry Brad, I’m not doing it. I’m not ready for marriage. To him or anyone else. But I can’t turn down Brad’s proposal either. Given the frail state of Gramps’s health, he might suffer a second heart attack if I refuse the engagement. God, what am I going to do?
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Steele! What is he doing outside my room? I fly to the door and swing it open. “You shouldn’t be here. Anyone could see.” I stick my head out and gaze up and down the hall. Thankfully no one is near. The s
taff is too busy catering to our guests.
He props his hands on the doorframe, and the female in me goes on alert. How does he make me ache for his touch when I’m so mad at him? “Let me in. We need to talk.”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I can’t leave him out there either. So I grab him by the shirt and pull him inside. “How did you know this was my room?”
He points to the window. “I saw you pacing.”
Aaargh. I pull the curtains, shutting us in, and turn back to him. Inviting Trenton into my bedroom is a bad idea. A really bad idea. If Gramps were to take it into his head to check on me, what a disaster that would be.
“You shouldn’t have come up here.”
“I didn’t want to leave with you angry at me.”
As big and masculine as he is, he fills up the space. And it occurs to me that I’ve never had a man in my room. Not in college, not in law school. And definitely not here. His sheer masculinity combined with that yummy scent of his makes me want to lick him from head to toe.
He’s glancing around the room, taking in every inch of my space. From the frilly cover on the bed and the girlie curtains on the window to the white desk only an adolescent could lay claim to, the whole thing clearly marks me as the teenager I once was. The only thing that doesn’t is the vintage mirror that sits in a corner of the room, the one I inherited from my mother.
“It’s nice.”
“No, it isn’t. It screams teen spirit, doesn’t it? The only thing missing is the poster on the wall from my favorite boy group.”
He’s fighting hard not to laugh. “Which boy band?”
“NSYNC, of course.”
His gaze bounces around the room, probably trying to picture just where I would have put that poster.
“Over the bed, okay?”
“Of course. Where else?” His lips finally give up the battle and curve in a smile.
And I’m right back to amusing him. After the headway I made, I thought it would stop. Guess not. “I was a loner. Focused on my studies and dealing with the pain of my mother’s death. I needed an escape.” Why am I defending myself?
“Of course you did, sweetheart.”
Shattered Virtue Page 15
