by Rhodan, Rhea
“I can’t figure out if he’s referring to your mother or actual bad news. Wait, he’s been inside for at least five minutes. How would he even know?” Clint had, apparently, gotten over the part where he didn’t believe Nevermore knew what he was saying. She doubted whether he’d ever make the next leap.
“Nevermore job.” Her familiar tilted his beak up and ruffled his feathers in endearing indignation.
Another round of buzzing assaulted her ears.
“The super must have finally fixed the front door. Muriel won’t be able to get in.” She hoped.
The third buzz was long. Nevermore shook all of his feathers and said, “Nasty bzzzzzzz.” He flew through his door in the window.
A few minutes later, he returned. “Quiet good. Monkey suit back in car.”
“Is he driving a shiny dark blue car with Bad News sitting in the rear?”
Nevermore nodded vigorously. “Was shiny. Bad news shriek. Monkey suit shake fist. Note in door.”
“Would you fetch it for me, please? Having to speak to her isn’t a risk I’m willing to take this morning.”
After Nevermore flew off, she asked Clint, “Do I even want to understand what he meant by the rest of that?”
He snorted. “Oh, I can guess. Take key words like: was shiny, shriek, shake fist, and combine them with raspberries and Nevermore.”
The crow pushed an envelope through the door flap, tossed it on the table, and settled on his perch.
“Thank you.” Her concern for what the embossed ivory envelope might contain distracted her from whatever Clint had been implying. She stared at the envelope. “This can’t be good.”
“Nevermore not like Bad News. Visit friends.” Then he was gone.
“Want me to open it for you?” Clint asked.
“That’s sweet, but no. Whatever she wants, and you can be absolutely certain she wants something, I’ll have to deal with it eventually. May as well find out what it is now.”
Cayden tore it open and read the flowery handwriting. She replaced the card in the envelope and let it drop onto the table.
“What is it? Anything about your grandmother?”
“No, although it’s supposed to be about her. At least Muriel claims that’s why she wants to see me.”
Clint took her hand. “Cayden, honey, have you considered she might miss you? That she just wants to see you?”
“She hasn’t missed me for the last two years, not that she paid much attention to me before. Why would she start now?” Cayden shrugged off the prick of pain the bald statement elicited. Clint tightened his hand on hers. Regardless, the unanswered question was the one that bothered her.
“Maybe it’s like my mom said, tragedy can bring families closer.”
“Not my family. I don’t expect you to understand. Your parents are wonderful. Your mother’s one of the kindest woman I’ve ever met. For me, there is no family outside of Gran. My father is all about my mother. After that, it’s fencing and sailing. Whatever minuscule piece of my mother that isn’t about herself is about my father.”
“You know that’s not true. It can’t be.”
“You obviously don’t know, because it is.” She stood up, pulled her hand free of his, grabbed the note, and left the kitchen.
“Cayden—”
She tossed the envelope in the cold fireplace, wishing it would burn. She was so lost in thought, she wouldn’t have noticed it had done exactly that if Clint hadn’t followed her, and the sudden intake of his breath hadn’t hissed above her left ear. “That is some trick.”
She ignored his comment. She’d done the same thing with candles on their first night, so the small fire didn’t reveal much as to how the Joining might have affected her magic. And nothing about why her mother was so keen on her coming for a visit.
His arms circling her from behind, Clint said, “When I come over tonight, I’m bringing a jar of instant coffee. And beer. And maybe something stronger.”
She wasn’t going to respond to that, either. She frowned at the puff of smoke. “The note said she won’t leave until I give her an answer. Muriel wants me to come for dinner next Sunday. I’d rather face a dozen thugs in the park.” She turned into him.
“God. Please don’t remind me,” he muttered, tightening his arms around her. “I think you should go. If it would help, I’ll come with you.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. We had dinner with my parents yesterday,” he said, as though it were a fair trade.
“I may not know what’s going on, but I can tell you it will be farther from spending time with your parents than the dark side of the moon.” She pulled away from him. “I couldn’t ask you to endure it.”
“You didn’t ask. I offered. So why don’t you write up a nice reply saying we’ll be there, and I’ll give it to her on my way out.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m already running late.”
“It’s still early enough that if you give it to her, she’ll assume you spent the night.”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
His tone and expression reminded her how she’d felt when he hadn’t wanted to introduce her to his parents.
“No. My concern is for you, oh gallant knight. Hope you’re armor’s buttoned tight.”
“Just write the note, smart-ass. Need a pen?”
The Mont Blanc he removed from his briefcase instantly repulsed her. “I…no thank you. It’s only one sentence.” She hoped her smile covered her unease.
She didn’t include Clint’s name or the precise nature of their relationship in the note. Her mother couldn’t be trusted not to use the information against either her or Clint. She was grateful he kept his truck parked around the corner. If Muriel saw the company name, or even the plates, she might pass them on to a private investigator.
Cayden passed the note to Clint. He gave her a long burning kiss goodbye, not all of which was their incredible chemistry. She patted her chin gingerly. “Could you bring some razors along with your beverages?”
His smile was tempered with chagrin when he rubbed his hand over his stubble. “I’m sorry. Does that mean I can come over tonight? I wasn’t sure you heard me.”
“I’m on leave from HandiMart until I notify them otherwise, so I’ll be around.” She smiled warmly, but shrugged, hoping it came off as an indifference she didn’t truly feel, and closed the door behind him.
Clint trotted down the stairs from Cayden’s apartment with a spring in his step, his briefcase in one hand, the envelope in the other. He slowed once he stepped outside and got an eyeful of the limo. Its state didn’t surprise him in light of what Nevermore had said. It was that, even smeared with bird shit, the Rolls was stunning. He marveled at the pink streaks marking what he assumed was the passenger window. How had Nevermore succeeded in bombing it so effectively at that angle?
He went to the driver’s window, because if Muriel Sinclair were to lower her window in its current condition, the entire door would have to be taken apart in order to clean it. After how she’d treated Cayden yesterday morning, she deserved the trouble. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be the one who would suffer for it. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted her first impression to be of him waving proof he’d spent the night with her daughter.
The driver lowered his window when Clint tapped on it. “This is for Mrs. Sinclair.”
The uniformed man clasped it in his white-gloved fingers.
“There’s a car wash a half-mile up Sumner that can handle this kind of mess.”
The driver’s grizzled mustache might have twitched, but all he said was, “Very good, sir. Thank you,” and raised the window. The rear windshield was tinted, but Clint felt the weight of Muriel Sinclair’s scrutiny as the limo drove away.
He was relishing someone
else’s vehicle being the brunt of Nevermore’s wrath for a change when he rounded the corner and spotted his truck. Granted, the bird bomb was small, but it was perfectly positioned on the driver’s side of the windshield and bore Nevermore’s raspberry-pink signature. Clint started when a large dark blur caught his eye, braked abruptly, and perched on his side-view mirror.
The damn bird sat there looking smug, then croaked, “Hey, old buddy.” His blue-black head dipped, his iridescent feathers ruffled, and a cackling caw that sounded remarkably like laughter followed.
“Can’t you cut me some slack here? I mean, great job on Muriel Sinclair’s limo, but was it really necessary to save some for my truck?”
“Bad news bad. Clint MacAllen clueless keeper bastard.”
“Hey, I’m not—”
“Are. Much clueless.”
Chapter Thirteen
It had been a great week.
Thrown by Monday morning’s events, Clint had made that crack about returning later with instant coffee and alcohol. He’d been kidding, trying to lighten Cayden’s gloom. Her taking him at his word had made it painless to show up at her door that night without having to examine his feelings too closely.
He’d been there every night since. She was always happy to see him, always wearing something that made him wish like hell he didn’t have to shower off the sweat and grime of the construction site before he got his hands on her. Some evenings, he didn’t.
He loved making love with Cayden. He loved sleeping with her. He loved waking up with her.
No more insomnia or nightmares. His headaches and the nagging feeling something wasn’t right dissolved the minute he walked in the door of her apartment. If she’d had any trouble adjusting to his schedule, he couldn’t tell. She didn’t seem in a hurry to start back to work at HandiMart, either, nor did he want her to.
Thursday morning, he’d found himself on the phone with his agent asking how he might put a woman on his health insurance if they weren’t related or married. Because, if he could get her to quit that shitty job, she’d need it. Especially if she was pregnant. He hadn’t found a good way to raise the subject. She made it easier to avoid by not mentioning it herself and distracting the hell out of him whenever she was within touching distance. But sometimes, when his hand rested on her round little belly late at night or early in the morning, he couldn’t not think about it.
It was already late Sunday morning. They’d slept in. Well, not slept. He grinned at the thought of what they had been doing. The grin faded when he remembered what they would be doing.
Cayden had left him sitting at the authentic early-twentieth-century French café table in the kitchen to get dressed. If the sound of hangers screeching back and forth over the theatrical metal clothes rack on the other side of the curtain for the last ten minutes was any indication, she was having trouble making a decision.
Impatience for Cayden’s hot body had kept him from over-thinking his clothing options when he’d stopped at his house Friday night. A pair of linen pants and a blue-green silk polo shirt Darcy had picked out for him on one of their miserable shopping trips had fit the bill, mostly because they were clean and pressed. Which was mostly because they hadn’t been worn since he’d stopped dating her.
He’d shaved before breakfast, had been dressed for the last quarter of an hour. He drained the nasty cup of instant coffee, wishing he actually had brought some booze to put in it, and rose to check on Cayden. If he was lucky, she might still be in some state of undress.
The curtain opened to reveal an exquisite antique full-length swivel mirror. The image in the mirror, though, was what froze him in place. His eyes followed a sinful expanse of fishnet-covered thighs, lengthened more by the extreme brevity of the black leather skirt than the impossibly high-heeled boots. The sight of Cayden’s lush marble-white breasts barely contained by a black leather corset caused sweat to break out on his forehead. Her hands were on her hips, both wrists bearing wide leather cuffs with gold studs and a matching collar around her neck. She looked terrifying, and hotter than hell.
He had to work to get enough spit in his mouth to say, “You do remember where we’re going today, right?”
She offered him a cold, wicked smile. “As if I could forget.” She shook her head and laughed, revealing shiny graduated gold hoops, a half-dozen in each ear. “I wore this outfit the time Muriel manipulated me into meeting her for lunch at Chez Louis. It wasn’t as snug then, though.” She tugged at it, plumping those tantalizing tits. Snug was good.
Cayden in Chez Louis. Dressed like that. The very idea would give any mother heart palpitations. The woman who’d been in Cayden’s apartment a week ago? Nothing short of a stroke. He let out a slow breath. “O-kay. First-aid kit’s in the truck. I gotta warn you, though, I’m not all that good at CPR, and your dad’s gonna have a coronary.“
“He won’t even notice.”
“That’s hard to believe.” No daughter of his, dressed even remotely similarly, would ever been seen by anyone.
“You find lots of things hard to believe. Doesn’t make them any less real.” Her gaze swept over him. “That’s what you’re wearing? Looks like something Barbie would dress you in.”
He gave her a weak smile, knowing better than to answer. Cayden was armed, and her mom wasn’t the only one she was ready to do battle with. Clearly, he was going to have to be the voice of calm reason. In an effort to gather said faculty, he pulled his gaze from her simmering reflection in the mirror. It landed on her round leather-wrapped ass.
Restraining himself around her was never easy. Today, it was going to be unadulterated torture.
Cayden wondered how the houses and lawns in Wellesley could be so varied in color, shape, and style, yet retain a mind-dulling sameness. She directed Clint to take the final left that brought them to the iron gate marking the long, winding, stone driveway.
He’d slowed to a crawl, but when the house came into view, he hit the brakes hard enough for the seatbelt to punch the breath out of her.
“Holy shit, it’s a palace. I was expecting, you know, a mansion. After Trip-the-Drip, and Muriel with her chauffeured Rolls, and this being Wellesley, I knew you’d grown up with money. This though, this is…”
“Just Muriel and Todd’s house. I’d give anything to have grown up in yours.”
“Only rich people say shit like that. You have no idea what it’s like to grow up with nothing.”
“And you can’t imagine what it was like growing up here with these people”—she stared at the house looming in front of them—“under the immense pressure of imperious expectations and the hollow emptiness of disdainful disappointment. That is, when anyone bothered with me at all.”
“Ouch. You’re right, I have no idea. I used to wish my parents would pay less attention to me. They were proud of me, though. And when I made mistakes, I knew they had my back.” He put the truck in gear. “On the other hand, you can’t know how it felt to watch your parents sweat for every penny, to sacrifice everything just to give you opportunities.”
“Fortunately not, since mine wouldn’t dream of it. Why don’t we compare notes later, after you’ve come face to face with Muriel and Todd in their lair? Then you can tell me where you would rather have grown up.”
“Sounds like a deal.” She didn’t hold out any genuine hope of changing his mind. He was already far too impressed. They followed the roundabout to the front of the house.
“Where should I park?”
“Here. The chauffeur will take care of it.”
He arched his brows, but left the keys, walked around to the passenger side, and lifted her to the ground. The door to the house opened.
Clint whispered, “You didn’t tell me your grandfather lives here too.”
“He’s not my grandfather.” She patted Clint’s well-muscled arm and regarded t
he butler. “Hello, Robert.”
Robert scanned her, and for a second, that shocked-and-appalled expression—the formation of which had been one of the few pleasures of her adolescence—flashed across his face. It returned to its usual thin-lipped bland by the time he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. Would you care for a wrap? There’s a bit of a chill…”
“Just a bit?” She allowed herself a snort. “You’ll be wanting a parka before the salad’s served. So where can I find Muriel and Todd?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are seated on the patio. May I bring you and the young man some refreshments?”
“I’ll have water, no ice. Thank you.” She turned to Clint to find him paralyzed at her side, staring at the grand staircase to the left of the foyer. “Clint, what would you like? I wouldn’t hold it against you if you went straight for the scotch. In fact, I’d advise it.”
He gave her the cutest dazed look of hopeful desperation, but remained silent.
“A glass of Todd’s oldest Macallan for my hapless escort, please, Robert.” She wasn’t going to give the snitch Clint’s name or divulge their relationship. She’d save that for her parents.
“Will the sixty-year do, sir, or would you prefer…?”
Before Cayden could make Robert go down to the cellar for Todd’s stash, Clint said, “Sixty? Wow. That would be great. Thank you.”
Oh well, maybe she’d come up with something fun for Robert later. She gripped Clint’s arm and guided him through the hallways toward the back of the house. She halted at the cozy family room her parents had rarely visited. It was her favorite space in the house, including the bedroom she was never allowed to make her own. She needed a moment to put her finger on what had changed. She pointed. “These built-in cabinets are new, even if they are so beautifully blended it’s difficult to tell. I bet your dad made them.” She stepped into the room and stroked the wood, opened the doors to check the craftsmanship. “They’re gorgeous.”
