“Paul wanted her gone, huh? Christine never approved of him.” Bree squeezed her sister’s hand. “No one could blame him for not wanting his mother-in-law in his face for God knows how long.”
“No, no, no. It was me who didn’t want her to stay. Paul insisted she could, said Christine was whānau and he’d hope that if it were his parents who needed a place to stay…We ended up having a massive fight about me and Carter coming last on his list of priorities. I told him I was taking Carter away for a few days, and do you know what he said?” A hiccupping snort flew from Amy’s lips, and she clamped a palm over her mouth for a moment before she went on. “That some time apart from each other might be good. He probably wants a divorce.”
“I really don’t think that’s the case.” Amy must be both blind and deaf not to realize how much her husband adored her and Carter. In fact, Paul Tahere had been the tipping factor in the decision that a terrified, grieving nineteen-year-old Bree had to make when she discovered she was pregnant shortly after Harley had left the country.
Amy’s eyes filled. “I’ve screwed up everything by coming here. I just couldn’t back down since Paul practically insisted I leave, so I called a taxi to take us to the airport and tried not to think further than staying with my little sis.” She turned her tear-streaked face toward Bree. “But Harley guessed. I saw it on his face the moment he spotted Carter. What are we going do, Bee-bee? He’ll take Carter away from m-m-me.” She dissolved into more heart-wrenching whimpers.
Bree slid her arm around Amy’s shoulders. “Nobody’s going to take your son”—And God, some days it still hurt like a bastard to say the word—“away from you and Paul.”
“You told me.” Amy sniffed. “You told me when you found out you were pregnant that the father was out of the picture. He didn’t love you, and he definitely wouldn’t want this baby.”
Bones filled with lead, Bree dropped her arm from her sister and laced her fingers tightly in her lap. “It was true then, and it’s still true now.”
“Well, the way Harley looked at Carter scared me,” Amy whispered. “Because I think he was looking at you in the same way—possessively.”
Bree patted her sister’s hand and stood. “That’s where you’re mistaken; trust me. Harley will be furious at me for keeping Carter a secret, but as for Carter…”
Bree’s voice trailed away, remembering the furrows on her son’s brow as he’d eyed up Harley. Four years ago, when Carter had turned five, the three adults had told him in a matter-of-fact way that while Auntie Bree had given birth to him, he’d been whangai—informally adopted in the Maori tradition—and Amy and Paul were his mum and dad. Carter, the most amazing kid ever, had only shrugged and said, “Okay. But can I still call you Auntie Bree? Otherwise, my brain will forget.”
So much easier for him than for Bree.
“Harley won’t tell him, will he? We haven’t told Carter his father’s name yet, only that he was an artist like you.” Amy stood, too, dropping her sunglasses over her puffy eyes.
“I don’t think so. The one thing Komeke men are good at is keeping their mouths shut. But we’d better go inside.”
Bree looped her arm through Amy’s and led her into the hall.
The two tables piled with food were surrounded with women filling plates and chattering. The noise level dropped once Mrs. Taylor and her posse of elderly gossips noted their entrance, but Bree angled her chin and strolled across the floor to Carter, who stood sandwiched between Harley and Ford. Harley held a half-filled plate while the boy added another little savoury mince pie onto it.
The sight of both of them, heads close together, her son and the man she’d once had silly, girlish dreams of loving forever, made Bree’s heart pound hard enough to burst from her chest. Amy called Carter’s name, and the boy looked over his shoulder, the action mirrored by Harley.
“Mum, they said I could eat as much as I want.” Then, before Amy could reply, Carter’s gaze flicked to Bree. “Harley’s an artist like you—I asked when I saw the paint under his fingernails.”
Bree pasted on a smile, suddenly conscious that the room had fallen silent.
“He’s gonna look at my Manga drawings.”
Her mouth parchment dry, Bree swallowed carefully. “That’s great.”
Carter studied her for a moment longer, and then his gaze slipped sideways, dancing over the bulk of the man beside him, his nose scrunching as if he’d had a sudden, mystical revelation. “You said my birth father is an artist…”
Bree wanted the ground to open up and devour her whole. Not because she was embarrassed by the question she guessed was coming, but because she’d rather die than see him broken hearted by Harley’s rejection.
But her son, her beautiful, brave son, who she only had the right now to call nephew, wouldn’t have his curiosity denied.
“Auntie Bree?” Carter asked. “Is he my dad?”
Chapter 4
You could hear a pin drop.
Quieter than a morgue.
As silent as the grave.
All clichés. All true.
Every single person around the table stopped talking. Some pretended to select food for their plates while casting surreptitious glances at her, Carter, and Harley. Others, like Mrs. Taylor, who would miss a front-row seat to juicy gossip over her dead body, made no pretence of their impatience, waiting to hear Bree’s reply.
Bree’s feet were spot-welded to the floor, and as if her shoe soles were still red hot from the welding, heat swept up her body. The bitchy alter-ego residing within her—the one other’s called Queen Bee—gave a magnificent eye roll. No need to call a public meeting to air her dirty laundry; it’d be all over Oban by sunset.
“Carter, we’ll talk about this later.” Amy’s reedy voice spiralled into I’m about to have a meltdown territory.
Harley set down the plate he’d been holding and faced Bree, arms folded across his chest, mouth a hard slash. His gaze whiplashed into her, razing her to ashes one moment, freezing her to brittle shards of ice the next.
“I’d also like to know the answer.”
Movement to his right and Denise, Harley’s mum, laid a hand on his rigid biceps. “This is neither the time nor place.”
Harley shook off his mother’s hand and stepped forward. “It’s a simple question, Bree. Answer it. Yes or no.” Barbed-wire wove around the words, but they were delivered in measured tones.
Bree’s heart-rate tripled. While both Komeke brothers were over six feet tall and outweighed Denise by thirty kilos of pure muscle, the respect and adoration they showed their adopted mother was legendary. Harley brushing off Denise demonstrated how close he was balanced on the razor’s edge.
“Yes, Harley is your birth father.” She directed her words to Carter, because this wasn’t about her being embarrassed or about Harley being shocked and pissed off. This moment was about protecting her son. “He’s an artist, and he moved to New York before I found out I was pregnant.” And hopefully he’ll return there very soon. “He didn’t know about you.”
Suck on that, gossip-girls.
But she’d rather own a tarnished reputation than have Carter think his birth father had abandoned him. Or didn’t even want him to be born.
Carter scrunched his face in an adult stuff, so boring expression. “Oh. Okay. Mum”—he switched immediately to puppy-dog-eyes—“can I have a glass of Coke? Pleeeease?”
“One glass.” Amy loosened her death-grip on her handbag straps. “Bring your plate over to a table and sit down. I’ll get you one.”
“I want to sit with Ford.”
“Sure thing, mate. C’mon.” Harley’s twin flung Bree an inscrutable look before he picked up Carter’s plate and guided the boy to an empty table to eat.
Harley crowded into Bree’s personal space, his hand closing around her bare upper arm. The touch of his roughened fingertips sent ribbons of sensation dancing over her skin, through her very bones, sizzling hot and ready to melt. Those torturous ribb
ons tightened her stomach and pebbled her nipples, reminding her just how good the man’s hands felt on other parts of her body. Probably the most inappropriately timed thought in the history of inappropriate thoughts, but her body didn’t give a damn.
“Outside,” he said.
She jutted out her chin. People resumed dishing up food, but the low murmurs of conversation buzzed around them. She’d have to get used to that over the next few weeks until the scandal of Bree and Harley’s secret son died down.
“Can’t it wait until the baby shower is finished?”
“No. It fucking can’t.” Somehow, he managed to spit out the words with a rigidly locked jaw.
Bree shot a sideways glance over at her son, who sat digging into his plate of food, grinning at something Ford said. Bree thought at times over the years that Carter took after his uncle. Quieter, sweeter in personality somehow. But in the last year, Carter had changed. He’d had a growth spurt, and his gangly limbs had filled out. After spotting doodle-covered exercise books, his teacher had encouraged him to pursue his love of Manga-style art, and the boy had developed a new obsession, cricket—something Paul was delighted about. He’d grown in confidence, developing a little ‘tude, a little swagger, and Amy reported he had quite a fan club of girls following him around the school playground.
More like his father, after all.
A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed fiercely and shoved it down. This screwed-up revelation was all on her, but she’d own the decision she made nine years ago. Own it and defend it.
“Let’s go.” Yanking her arm out of Harley’s grasp, Bree walked away.
Harley followed Bree out of the hall, his nape prickling as two dozen pairs of eyes zeroed in on their dramatic exit. Well, it felt dramatic to him.
An exit that warranted tossing a couple of plastic chairs in his wake or throwing a punch at the plasterboard wall. His lungs sealed tight, suffocating from the conflicting smells in the hall of food and multiple cloying perfumes.
The entranceway was empty, the doors wide open to let in fresh air and normal spring sounds—people mowing lawns, chattering birds returning to roost for the oncoming evening, distant squeals and shouts from the beach as kids romped in the shallows.
Bree didn’t slow, power-walking outside.
For a heart-stopping moment, he thought she’d bolt—run for the safety of her gallery like a hermit crab ducking into its shell when threatened. He caught up in a few strides, grabbing her upper arm again. One second of appreciating the smooth, firm skin beneath his fingertips before she reared away, swatting at his hand for good measure.
“Get your hands off me.”
Not what she’d said five weeks ago when he’d been buried cock-deep inside her. Or ten years ago.
Harley released her and clenched his back teeth, trapping between them the asshole-ish words he wanted to throw in her face. Considering the circumstances—finding out Bree had lied to him for the past nine-and-something-plus-years—he could justify some asshole-ish behavior.
Bree’s gaze went Bambi wide. “Please, Harley. We can talk about this like rational adults.”
“Maybe you can be calm, since you’ve had plenty of time to come to grips with the kid’s existence. But me? I’m not feeling fucking rational.”
He stalked away before any pity slipped under his guard at the slight tremble of her chin as she lifted it defiantly. Turning to lean against the veranda’s railing, Harley kept his gaze locked on the floorboards. No way in hell could he look at her beautiful, lying face and hold any sort of rational conversation, let alone control his blood boiling to the evaporation point.
He had a son. A mini-me, as yet unspoiled by the fuck-up of DNA Harley had contributed to the kid’s genes.
“Tell me,” he said. “From the beginning.”
Bree moved to the opposite wall, the tendons in her slender ankles flexing as she almost tip-toed past him on the veranda. As if she were worried about triggering him into a rage by an unexpected floorboard creak. His gut twisted. Considering who he was and where he’d come from, he didn’t blame her. Harley shook his head and tried to force his blood pressure down to a level where his eardrums didn’t throb in a constant thundering.
He hissed out a sigh. “Please.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
She positioned her feet close together, lining up the toes of her pink flip-flops so perfectly you could place a ruler along them and they’d prove even. That was Bree—even, calm…perfect. Always had and always would be out of his league.
He white-knuckled the railing. Even thinking along those lines when he’d a much bigger problem to chew over proved his head was completely screwed up. “Start with you finding out you were pregnant.”
“It was after you’d left for New York.”
“That’s the party line you used with the masses inside.”
“It’s the truth. My period was late—weeks late—but that wasn’t unusual. I’ve never been regular.” A mottled pink blush crept over her cheeks. “By the time I started to suspect, you were long gone.”
Hardness coated her last few words in a glossy, impenetrable shell, but a sliver of hurt managed to slip through. He shook it off. Bottom line—
“You should’ve called.”
“I did. Many times. But I always hung up before you answered, because I knew your views on relationships and fatherhood. You spelled them out quite clearly.”
Muscles pinged like snapped piano wires across his shoulders. Yeah, he’d told her what he told every woman he’d gotten involved with. No, he wouldn’t meet their folks. No, sparkly rings of any kind were out. And no, not wanting kids wasn’t a nineteen-year-old male’s phase-that’ll-pass.
None of the other women he’d hooked up with had a problem with his short-term, no-intimacy-bullshit rules. But Bree had slipped past his boundaries when he hadn’t been paying attention. He was man enough to admit it now. She’d scared the shit outta him.
“My views haven’t changed,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m the kind of asshole who would’ve left you without support.”
A sharp, hissed inhale. “What kind of support would you have offered? Paying for the child’s maintenance? Or money for a quick abortion?”
A flash of heat triggered by her words seared through him. He thrust away from the railing and slapped his palms against the wall either side of her shoulders. Bree jumped, but she didn’t shrink away.
“Don’t claim to know what I would’ve done when you didn’t even give me the option of involvement.” Harley dipped his head to counteract the height difference.
A flash of temper filled her eyes. “My body, my decision, my baby—a baby you damn well know you wouldn’t have wanted me to keep.”
His gut churned around the couple of sausages he’d sneaked off the barbecue while cooking. What if Bree had called him when he’d first gotten to New York? Would he really have given her any kind of support? Or was she right about his knee-jerk reaction?
And what if she had kept their son?
“You gave him away.” His kid—and he couldn’t get used to the label—handed over to another man to raise without Harley’s permission. “You didn’t want him, either.”
Her hands flew to his chest and shoved—hard. Even though he outweighed her, even though she was all long, slender limbs and recently looked like a strong wind could knock her over, she rocked him back on his heels.
“Fuck you, Harley Komeke.”
Bree pushed past him then spun around, blonde hair whipping around her face. She stabbed a finger at him, opening her mouth to let him have it. Then she closed it again, her eyes shiny with unshed tears as she brushed the hair off her cheeks and smoothed it down. Returning to her chilled composure.
“Amy and Paul are wonderful parents. They love Carter, and he’s happy. You’ve every right to be furious at me”—her lower lip caught between her teeth for a moment—“but don’t take this out on her. You want to und
erstand. You want to demand answers from my sister—it’s written all over you. Take some time to think things through first. Please.”
His fingers curled into fists so he slid them into his shorts’ pockets. Bloody hated it when Bree was right. Hated it more that he was so transparent—not that he had any intention of grilling Amy in front of an audience. An audience containing his son…
He looked over to a house across the street from the community hall, where two little kids bounced on a trampoline in the front yard, squealing with excitement.
“Go inside,” he said. “I’m done here.”
Harley jogged down the steps to the sidewalk. He had to get the fuck away from all of this—think things through as Bree suggested. Because he had a bad habit of acting on impulse.
Yeah. That was how they’d gotten into this mess in the first place.
***
The difference between a Ford-brood and a Harley-brood was location, location, location.
Harley lay stretched out on the rough wooden platform of the tree fort, surrounded by nothing but rustling leaves and the sky above. His brother, who, as a deep—read, over—thinker, gravitated more toward brooding than Harley. When Ford needed a good man-sulk, he headed indoors. Shut himself away in his and their dad, Rob’s, garage to work on some vehicular maintenance for hours alone.
Not Harley. Hell, no. He required space and only a short amount of time to do his brooding—and then he needed his people.
Locked up alone in a room, separated from his twin for hours—thanks to a mother more concerned with getting high than getting a mother-of-the-year award—had seen to that. It made no difference that the punishment was dealt out nearly twenty-six years ago when he and Ford were skinny four-year-olds. Parents could and did carve scars into innocent souls. Either inadvertently or with more deliberation.
Guess in some ways he should be thankful Bree had spared him from fucking up Carter’s life.
The planks under him flexed, and his brother’s head popped over the tree fort’s edge. “Yo. There you are.”
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 5
