“Hardly. Why haven’t you answered my four previous messages, you twat?” Jules had a delightful way with words, much to their father’s chagrin. And despite the fact that his baby sister—half sister, if one wanted to be technical—had lived in America for the last eight years, her British accent was as strong as ever.
“I’ve been busy,” he said around a yawn.
“With whom? And don’t tell me some slag is more important than me, or I’ll kick your ass.”
Slag? Just the opposite, in fact. Monica was more prudish than anything.
“Daddy’s thrown a wobbler.”
Cal rubbed his gritty eyes. “What’s got his knickers in a twist now?” His father didn’t have the cheeriest disposition to begin with, so really anything might set the old man off. “Is he still cross about school?” As a financial wizard and maths genius, his father had very specific ideas about what his daughter should be doing with her life. Ideas that included studying something other than the latest copy of Vogue. Jules, on the other hand, had her own plans, like dancing all night, sleeping until noon, and giving her credit card a good workout.
“Not exactly. But I think he may wash his hands of me for good this time.”
Cal fell onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The ivory-and-brushed-silver pendant light fixtures hung about the room like stalactites. “If you want my advice, shape up for a few weeks and you’ll wiggle your way back into his graces without too much fuss.”
“No.” Jules’s voice was quiet, serious. “This is different.”
Alert, Cal sat back up. “What happened? What did you do?”
“I wasn’t even driving. Not really. I barely tapped the car in front of me as I pulled out of a parking space. Since when does that count as a DUI?”
“You were drink-driving? Tell me you’re not serious.” He gripped the phone so hard he thought it might crack. Cal had worked on cars his whole life. He knew exactly how much damage one could do to a human being. And his sister, one of the few people he had left in the world, had climbed behind the wheel while drunk. “Are you fucking kidding me, Juliette? You’re brighter than that, or at least I thought you were.”
“Hello, this is L.A. Everyone has a DUI. It’s like a rite of passage.”
“You little idiot,” he bit out. “You could have killed someone. You could have been killed yourself. Don’t you ever stop to think?” He ran a hand through his hair, so thoroughly angry, every muscle in his body locked down.
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “You sound just like him.”
He refused to take the bait. If one thing pissed him off, it was being compared to his stuffy, judgmental father. “You’re not even the legal drinking age.”
“I’m twenty.”
“Again, not legal.” Cal stood and paced to the window, parting the curtain with one hand. He gazed out at the private garden. The pool glistened blue in the early morning sun, but Cal was too brassed off to appreciate it. “I’m so disappointed in you, Jules. You could have called a cab or hired a driver for the evening.”
“You’re disappointed in me?” she yelled. “You’ve been a crap big brother. You’re never here, I don’t hear from you for weeks at a time. Every time I need you, you’re off in Zimbabwe or Taiwan or Australia. You don’t get to be disappointed, okay? That’s my job.”
That was fair. Cal hadn’t been there for her, not when it really counted. Phone calls and presents weren’t the same.
Cal fought the urge to yell at her some more, lecture her, berate her. But under all that anger was fear. He’d be absolutely gutted if anything happened to Jules. “Please promise me you’ll never do anything so stupid again. I adore you, you know that.”
She sniffed a couple of times. “I know it was stupid, and yes, I promise. It was mortifying, being driven away in a police car. I had to be fingerprinted and everything. Daddy was so angry he didn’t speak to me for two whole days. Then he started with the screaming. I can’t take it from you too.”
Cal didn’t understand why Jules expected anyone to be sympathetic. But he kept his mouth shut. She needed someone to listen right now, and pointing out the obvious wouldn’t be useful.
“My car’s been impounded, and I’m not meant to drive anywhere until we go to court. It’s a bloody nuisance.”
Again, Cal refrained from speaking. It was tremendously difficult, but he managed.
“Daddy made me give up my apartment, and I’ve been staying at their pool house, like I’m a gardener or something. It’s dreadful.”
“I’m sure it’s not the best situation, but I’ve seen dreadful. You’re the furthest thing from it.” He tried to be gentle with her, but Jules was so terribly spoiled, she had no idea about life outside her little bubble. During his travels, Cal had witnessed deplorable living conditions. The slums of Brazil, the polluted Ganges River, poverty in the streets of Belarus. Staying in a comfortable pool house on a Beverly Hills estate wasn’t a hardship. But in Jules’s eyes, she faced a true crisis. “What are your plans?”
“I don’t know. I’m bored silly right now.”
“Why don’t you find something constructive to do? Maybe you should enroll in school. Make the old man happy.”
“God, you’re such a bloody hypocrite,” she lashed out, causing Cal to flinch. “You never went to school. Why should I?”
“First of all, Pix’s father left me a trust fund that you don’t have. You’re still completely dependent on your parents. Secondly, I’m not clever like you.” And the old man never missed an opportunity to rub Cal’s nose in it. “You can do whatever you want, Jules—be whoever you want. If not school, then find something you’re good at.”
“I’m not good at anything.”
“You are the most persistent pain in the ass I know. You’re bright and funny, and you can do whatever you put your mind to.” A vision of Monica came to mind. Perhaps Jules should take a page from Miss Prim’s book. “What about charity work? Helping those less fortunate? And let’s be honest, that’s almost everyone.”
“Don’t start. Mummy’s trying to get me to help her save blackbirds, or something equally stupid.”
“You’ll figure it out. I believe in you, Jules.” The irony that Cal was trying to get Monica to unwind while encouraging his sister to straighten up wasn’t lost on him.
“Oh God,” she said. “You sound so keen right now, I need to hurl. Good-bye. Twat.” And she hung up.
Cal stared out at the garden a moment longer before his phone buzzed again. This time, his mum. Cal didn’t want to talk right now, but if he put it off, she’d hound him relentlessly. She was good at that.
“Morning,” he said.
“Darling, where have you been? I’ve been calling for days. I thought you came to Vegas to spend some time with me, and I’ve barely seen you.”
Rubbing his ear, Cal thought about all the responses he could make, but decided to remain civil instead. “I came to Vegas because you lied about your anniversary.”
“Yes, but how else could I get quality time with my only son, eh?”
“You could have come to Cairns, but I suppose that would have cut into your very busy schedule. I know your boy-toy husband keeps you terribly occupied.” Well, that wasn’t civil at all. Despite Cal’s best efforts, his vitriol leaked through. He had his reasons. After all, poor Babcock had spent her final days staring at his stupid face when she’d really needed Pix. Babs had to have felt betrayed. The woman had spent her entire adult life trailing after his mum, and Pix hadn’t even bothered to make an appearance when it mattered most.
“Calum, please don’t be angry with me, I can’t stand it. I’d have given anything to be with Babs at the end. It simply wasn’t possible.”
Pixie had given a string of excuses about conflicting events and unspecified aches that made a long flight to Australia out of the question. For seven months? No, Cal wasn’t buying it—he knew his mother far too well. Pixie simply hadn’t wanted to be inconvenienced by taking care of
Babcock.
Honestly, what was the point of arguing? It would simply wind him up with no resolution. “Right. Was there something you needed, then?”
“Come over for brekky. Your Aunt Mags is desperate to see you. I’ll pop a bottle.”
When she hung up, Cal stared at the phone. He could rail at Pix until he ran out of breath, but it wouldn’t do a bit of good. There was no changing her. But now Cal knew when the chips were down, he couldn’t count on his mum to be there. Fair enough. Cal had spent most of his life alone. Not so bad, really, depending on oneself—less disappointment that way.
He hadn’t been awake fifteen minutes, and already Cal had wrangled with Jules, been put on the spot by Pix, and he had another problem—Monica Campbell. Cal owed her an apology, although she probably wouldn’t accept it. Still, he needed to make amends, but how? What would appeal to her?
He stretched his neck from side to side and spent the next half hour planning a campaign to win over Monica Campbell. What he finally settled on was iffy, but he couldn’t think up anything better.
Using the house phone, Cal dialed Mr. Lawson, ordering a car and driver. The villa came with around-the-clock butler service, which was most convenient. While Cal lectured Jules about helping those less fortunate, here he was sprawled across the lap of luxury. She accused him of being a hypocritical twat, and maybe that was true, but honestly, though this place was lovely, Cal felt equally at home in a tent with nothing but a bedroll and a sturdy pair of boots.
After dressing, Cal gave careful instructions to Mr. Lawson and dashed off a note on thick ivory stationery before heading to Pixie’s house. During the drive, Cal thought about Monica. He’d been close to making her come last night, his finger mere centimeters away from slipping inside her. And she’d been so ready for it.
Monica may act uptight, but every movement she made was graceful and lithe—sexual in a natural way. After he’d stripped the blouse from her body, she’d stood before him, unashamed. He’d been spellbound by those lovely breasts. She liked his touch, grew breathless when he kissed her. It was bloody obvious Monica liked sex, so why couldn’t she just admit it? The way she behaved afterward, as if they’d done something wrong or disgusting…well, it not only took him by surprise, it had bruised his pride.
Cal still didn’t have any answers, and he needed to focus on something other than his cock right now. Thinking about Monica Campbell and her soft, full tits did him in.
They drove through aged wooden gates studded with wrought-iron hinges. It gave the faux palazzo a look of authenticity. In the circular drive, the car drew to a stop. Cal shoved a few bills in the driver’s hand and didn’t wait for him to open the door. “Pick me up in an hour, mate, and I’ll double that.”
As the car drove away, Cal stared up at the colossal house. He’d stayed in Venetian palazzos many times, and while this house bore the markings—white stucco and arched, narrow windows surrounded by delicate traceries—it lacked the aged patina of real plaster. And mold. Authentic palazzos always had mold.
He strode to the front door and used the ornate knocker. A moment later, the maid answered. Why his mother insisted on putting the woman in a black uniform was anyone’s guess. Babcock would have wadded up the dress and told Pix to stuff it up her bum. Babs’s wardrobe revolved around track suits and bright white trainers. How else am I supposed to chase after you? Never in one place for long, the pair of you. She’d said that often, usually while packing.
Cal followed the maid through the house and out the back door, to a multileveled terrace that overlooked rolling green hills. Brown mountains were a hazy mirage in the distance, far beyond Pixie’s vast estate.
Tipping his head to the maid, Cal jogged down the winding stairs. Pix and Paolo, his aunt Mags, and her ex-husband, Nigel, sat at a rectangular table overlooking the pool.
Upon seeing him, Pixie rose and strutted toward him. Her silky purple dressing gown flowed outward to reveal matching pajamas. Her heeled slippers were purple as well, and encrusted with crystals. “Look who’s here, everyone.” With shoulder-length dark waves and carefully applied makeup, she appeared a decade younger than her sixty-plus years. “My darling boy, how are you?”
Cal bent down and kissed both of her cheeks. “How are you, Mum?”
“Better now that you’re here. Come, sit.”
Before grabbing a chair, Cal kissed his aunt. Where Pixie was petite, her sister, Mags, was taller, more voluptuous, and a few years older. Trevor had inherited his mother’s gray eyes and too little of her charm.
“My dearest, how handsome you look, and so very tan,” she said. “All that sun in Australia must have been lovely.”
Cal wouldn’t describe anything about his time in Cairns as lovely. He said nothing as he shook hands with Nigel. An older version of Trevor with his dark-turning-to-gray hair and a stubborn chin, Nigel didn’t bear the same attitude of cool superiority his son had perfected. Instead, he possessed a ready smile, and though he’d gathered a few more wrinkles since the last time Cal had seen him, the older man wore them well.
“How are you, my boy?” Nigel asked. “Up for a game of golf while you’re in town?”
Cal fell into his seat. “I don’t really play.”
Nigel looked momentarily dumbfounded. “Why ever not?”
“Hello, Calum,” Paolo said. Dressed in a pink knit shirt that strained at his biceps, and a light green sweater tied at his neck, he cradled a yappy white-haired dog.
When Pixie had first announced her engagement to Paolo, a man decades her junior, Cal had been concerned. He figured the waiter his mum had met while on vacation was a gold digger. But they’d been married ten years. Quite happily, by all accounts.
“Do you want an egg?” Paolo asked in Italian-flavored English, which had much improved in the last few years.
“No, thanks.”
“Darling,” Pix said, “what have you been doing with yourself? I’ve only seen you once since you’ve come to Vegas.”
“I wonder why.” Cal wasn’t over his irritation at being summoned to the States. When he’d arrived on his mum’s doorstep with a bottle of champagne, only to find there was no party and he’d been duped, Cal had been furious. “You lied to me? You dragged me halfway around the world for nothing?”
In the face of his anger, she merely shrugged. “I had to get you here some way. I’ve been so worried about you. You’re becoming a hermit.”
She wasn’t wrong. After Babcock’s death, Cal had been apathetic, listless. He sat on the beach, staring at the water all day, and nursed a beer on the veranda every night. He’d gotten himself into a rut, and he couldn’t seem to shake the grief that had left him numb.
Now Pixie stabbed a blueberry with her fork. “I’ve apologized for lying, Calum, but I’d do it all over again.”
Cal narrowed his eyes against the sun. “Oh, I know you would. Whatever’s most convenient, that’s your route.”
Mags’s glance darted between the two of them. “Trevor says you’ve been using his garage, dearest, which I hope means you’re staying in town for a while?”
“I have no idea.” Why the hell did everyone keep asking about his plans? Damned annoying of them. When Cal figured it out, he’d send them all a group text.
“Come along, Nigel,” Mags said, “we should go. Cal, I hope to see you again very soon.”
Nigel glanced down at his plate. “I haven’t finished my kippers. What’s the hurry?”
Mags stood and tugged at her tight blue dress. Then she whisked Nigel’s plate from the table. “It’s kippers on the go this morning. Spit spot. Ciao, Paolo.”
Nigel pushed back his chair. “All right, woman. I’m coming.” He turned to Cal. “Good to see you. If you change your mind about a round or two, do let me know.” He trailed Mags up to the house.
Pix pursed her lips and angled her head toward the tennis court. “That was rather rude of you.”
When the little dog began to whine, Paolo stood and swept
it under his arm, then he leaned down to kiss Pixie’s cheek. “Play nice.” He shot Cal one last glance before taking the sunglasses from the top of his head and slipping them on. With a swagger, Paolo walked with the tiny dog past the pool and down the hill.
“He’s a man of few words.”
Pixie smiled. “He says all he needs to with his body.”
“Oh God. Spare me the details.” Cal’s eyes wandered to Pixie’s throat, lined with fine wrinkles. It betrayed her true age. Silence stretched between them until Cal said, “She asked for you, at the end.”
Pix straightened her shoulders. She remained quiet for a few minutes, then she turned to look at him. “I miss her every day, darling.”
“Do you?”
Clearing her throat, she shook her head. “Don’t do this to me, Cal. Please.”
He slouched back in his chair, draping his hands over the armrests. Cal could continue to pick at her, but he’d only feel worse, and it wouldn’t change anything. Searching for some topic to fill the space, Cal said, “Jules called this morning.”
Pixie’s face brightened as she grabbed onto the subject like a conversational life jacket. “Oh, lovely Juliette! How is she? She must be what, fourteen by now?”
“She’ll be twenty-one in a few months. And she was just arrested for drink-driving.”
“I can’t believe she’s that old. Where has the time gone?”
“That’s what you’re fixated on—her age—and not the fact that she was snockered and trying to drive?”
Pixie threw her hands into the air. “I can’t say anything without you jumping down my throat. Honestly, Calum.”
“Sorry.” Sitting up, he leaned his elbows on the table. “Why didn’t you leave me with him—after the divorce, I mean?”
“Who?” Pixie’s dark green eyes widened. “Your father? What does it matter?”
“I don’t know.” Since he’d first learned of Babcock’s illness, Cal had become introspective and out of sorts. The only time he’d felt himself in months was with Monica Campbell. Which was ludicrous, because she was quite obviously going through her own identity crisis. “It just does.”
His Kind of Trouble Page 9
