by Nora Roberts
“No.” Still Parker held up a finger. “So, let me see if I understand. You don’t want him to lump you in the pile, so to speak, but you don’t want him to offer to pay you for your work, because that’s insulting.”
“You had to be there.”
“Can we forget he’s my brother for a minute?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let’s give it a shot.” To keep it casual, Parker leaned back against the counter. “You’re attracted.You’re both interesting, unattached, attractive people. Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Because it’s Del.”
“What’s wrong with Del?”
“Nothing. See, this is weird.” She grabbed her bottle of water, then set it down again without drinking. “It’s not logical, Parker, and not something you can work out for me. We’re going to be fine—Del and me, I mean. I’m already over it, and I doubt he gave it a minute’s thought after the fact. Now, go away, so I can concentrate on this baklava.”
“All right. But you’ll tell me if there’s anything to tell.”
“Don’t I always?”
Up till now, Parker thought, but left it at that.
CHAPTER FIVE
GROWING UP IN A FEMALE-DOMINATED HOUSEHOLD PROVIDED DEL with certain basics to live by One, which he thought applied at the moment, decreed if a man didn’t understand what was going on, and the lack of understanding meant trouble, a certain distance was recommended.
The same rule, he felt, applied in more ... personal male/female relationships—which was also oddly apt under the circumstances.
He’d kept his distance from Laurel, and while it hadn’t led him to a brainstorm of understanding, he could only hope the space had given her room to simmer down.
He didn’t mind a fight. They kept things lively, for one thing, and often cleared the air, for another. But he liked to know the rules of the bout. In this case, he didn’t have a clue.
He was used to her temper, what he thought of as her quicksilver moods. And having her take a few swipes at him was nothing new.
Kissing him brainless? Brand-spanking-new. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and thinking about it hadn’t helped him reach any conclusions.
Which just pissed him off.
Conclusions, solutions, alternatives, compromises—they served as his stock-in-trade. And with this very personal puzzle, he just couldn’t find the key pieces.
Regardless, he could hardly stay away indefinitely. He not only liked dropping in when he had the time, but the steady stream of business flowing between him and Parker and their business demanded attention.
A week was long enough for space and cooling off, he determined. They’d just have to deal with each other. One way or another. Which they would, of course. It was no big deal. No deal at all, he told himself as he turned into the long drive on the estate. They’d just had an argument—with unusual elements. She’d been trying to prove a point. On some level, he got the point. He tended to think of her—of all of them—as his responsibility, and it annoyed her.
She’d have to be annoyed because they damn well were his responsibility. He was Parker’s brother, he was their lawyer. And through circumstances none of them could control or change, he was head of the family.
But he could try to be more subtle about shouldering responsibility.
Although it wasn’t like he pushed his nose in her business every five minutes.
Still ... Still, he told himself, he could try to back off a little. He couldn’t argue the fact she’d made her point. She wasn’t his sister. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t part of his family, and damn it, he had every right to ...
Stop, he ordered himself. They’d get nowhere if he approached her already spoiling for trouble. Best to gauge the ground and let her take the lead.
Then he could haul her back where they belonged. Subtlety, he reminded himself.
Where the hell had all these cars come from? he wondered. It was Tuesday night, and he couldn’t remember anything on Vows’ slate. He swung off to park by Mac’s studio, got out, frowned at the house. No question an event was in progress. He could see Emma’s handiwork in lavish displays around the portico, and hear—even from the distance—the clatter and voices of a party going on.
For a moment, he simply stood where he was, watching. Lights glowed in the windows, turning the house into a welcoming celebration. Hospitality, with an elegant flair. It had always been. His parents had loved to entertain—small intimate gatherings, big flashy parties. He supposed Parker came by her skills there naturally. Yet when he came home unexpectedly—and it was still home—he’d feel that quick tug, that poignant sorrow for what he’d lost. For what they’d all lost.
He took the path, wound his way home, choosing the side door with its easy access to the family kitchen.
He’d hoped to find Mrs. Grady there, fussing at the stove, but a single light burned in the empty kitchen. He wandered to the window, watched some of the guests who’d gathered on the terrace, strolled the gardens.
Relaxed, at home, impressed, he judged. Infusing an event with those qualities was another Parker skill, or the blend the Quartet combined.
He caught sight of Emma and a few of the catering staff he recognized carrying linens, flowers. A last-minute adjustment, he assumed, then watched as they set up a table. Quick, efficient, he noted, with Emma chatting with some of the guests. All smiles and warmth—that was Emma. No one would know her mind was scrambling toward the next duty.
Emma and Jack, he mused. Now that was a last-minute adjustment for him. His closest friend and one of his girls. Even as he considered it, Jack came out carrying a tray of tea lights. Pitching in, Del thought, as they all pitched in from time to time. But it was different, he thought. And it occurred to him that this was the first time since Emma and Jack became ‘Emma and Jack’ that he’d observed them when they weren’t aware of him.
The look that passed between them, yes, that was different. The way Jack brushed a hand down her arm, casual and intimate, the way a man did when he simply needed to touch what he loved.
A good thing, he decided, what was between them. And he’d get used to it—eventually.
Meanwhile, he was here, there was a party. He might as well head up to the Ballroom and pitch in, too.
SHE’D BAKED LIKE A MANIAC, LAUREL THOUGHT, AND THERE WAS little more satisfying than seeing that work devoured. Now that the cake had been cut, dessert plates arranged, she left the serving to the caterers and took a minute to catch her breath. Music rolled, and those not swarming the dessert tables took advantage. Dozens more gathered at tables, most still tossing back ouzo.
Opa!
Happy, happy, she thought, everything under control. And the perfect time to slip away for five minutes and take off her shoes. She scanned for any potential problems as she moved to the door.
“Ms. McBane?”
Just this close, she thought, but turned and put on her professional smile. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Nick Pelacinos.” He offered a hand. “Cousin of the bride-to-be.”
And fairly gorgeous, she thought, shaking his hand. All bronzed Greek godlike with molten amber eyes and cleft chin. “It’s nice to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I’d be a fool not to.You throw a hell of a party. I know you must be busy, but my grandmother would like a word with you. She’s holding court over there.”
He gestured to the head table, crowded with people, drinks, food, flowers—and unquestionably ruled over by the steel-haired, laser-eyed matriarch. The grandmother, Laurel thought.
“Sure.” She walked with him, wondering if she should signal Parker for backup.
“She and my grandfather only come to the States every year or two normally,” Nick told her. “Usually we’re required to go to them, so this trip is a major event for the family.”
“So I understand.”
“And I understand you and your partners managed to put all this togethe
r in under a week. Kudos—seriously. I help manage the family restaurants in New York, so I have a good idea what went into this.”
She flipped back mentally to Parker’s rundown of the family. “Papa’s. I’ve eaten at the one on the West Side.”
“You’ll have to come in again, and let me know. Dinner’s on me.Yaya, I’ve brought you Ms. McBane.”
The woman inclined her head with the slightest of regal tilts. “I see.”
“Ms. McBane, my grandmother, Maria Pelacinos.”
“Stephanos.” Maria tapped her hand on the arm of the man seated beside her. “Let the girl sit.”
“Please, don’t trouble—” Laurel began.
“Up, up.” She waved the man away, pointed to the chair. “Here, by me.”
Never argue with a client, Laurel reminded herself, and took the vacated seat.
“Ouzo,” the woman demanded, and almost instantly a glass was put in her hand. She set it down in front of Laurel.
“We toast to your baklava.” Lifting her own glass, she arched an imperial eyebrow at Laurel. With little choice, Laurel took up her own glass, braced herself, and drank. Then, knowing the routine, slapped the glass down again. “Opa.”
She got a round of applause and an approving nod from Maria. “You have a gift. It takes more than hands and ingredients to make food that matters. It takes a good head, and an open heart. Your family is Greek?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ah.” She flicked that away. “Everyone’s family is Greek. I’m going to give you my own recipe for lathopita, and you’ll make it for my granddaughter’s wedding.”
“I’d love to have it, thank you.”
“I think you’re a good girl. So, dance with my grandson. Nick, dance with the girl.”
“Actually, I need to—”
“It’s a party. Dance! This is a good boy, handsome. He has a good job and no wife.”
“Well, in that case,” Laurel said and made Maria laugh.
“Dance, dance. Life is shorter than you think.”
“She won’t take no.” Nick held out a hand again.
One dance, Laurel thought. Her aching feet could handle one dance. And she really wanted that recipe.
She let Nick lead her to the dance floor as the band switched to slow and smooth.
“It may not seem like it,” he began as he took her into his arms, “but my grandmother paid you a very high compliment. She sampled a bit of everything you made, and she’s convinced you’re Greek. You couldn’t have made traditional Greek desserts with such skill otherwise. And ...” He twirled her stylishly. “You and your partners have saved the family an enormous argument. Getting her approval for this venue wasn’t easy.”
“And if Yaya isn’t happy ...”
“Exactly. Do you get into New York often?”
“Now and then ...” Her heels lifted her to nearly his height. A nice balance for dancing, she decided. “The business keeps us pretty close to home. It must be the same for you. I worked restaurants while I was studying, and before we got the business off the ground. It’s a demanding field.”
“Crises followed by drama followed by chaos. Still,Yaya’s right. Life’s shorter than you think. If I called you sometime, maybe we could both get away from the job.”
Dating moratorium, she reminded herself. But ... It might be a good idea to end it so she’d stop obsessing about Del. “Maybe we could.”
The dance ended, and with fanfare and cheers, the band moved into the traditional Greek circle dance. Laurel started to back away, but Nick kept her hand in his.
“You can’t miss this.”
“I really shouldn’t. Plus I’ve only watched it at events, never done it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through.”
Before she could come up with another excuse, someone else gripped her free hand, and she was linked in the circle.
What the hell, she decided. It was a party.
Del came in during the slow dance, and automatically looked around for Parker. Or so he told himself. Almost instantly he saw Laurel.
Dancing. Who was she dancing with? She wasn’t supposed to be dancing with some guy he didn’t know ... She was supposed to be working.
Had she brought a date? They looked as if they knew each other when he considered how they moved together—and the way she smiled at whoever the hell he was.
“Del, I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Parker strode over, kissed his cheek.
“I just dropped by to ...Who is that?”
“Who?”
“With Laurel. Dancing.”
Bemused, Parker glanced over, picked Laurel out of the crowd. “I’m not sure.”
“She didn’t bring him?”
“No. He’s one of the guests. We’re doing a kind of after-engagement, prewedding reception. Long story.”
“Since when do you dance at your events?”
“It depends on the circumstances.” She slid her eyes toward Del, said, “Hmm,” quietly under the sway of music and chattering voices. “They look good together.”
He only shrugged, slipped his hands into his pockets. “It’s not smart for you to encourage guests to hit on you.”
“Encourage is a debatable word. In any case, Laurel can handle herself. Oh, I love when they do the traditional dance,” she added when the music changed. “It’s so happy. Look at Laurel! She’s got it.”
“She’s always been good on her feet,” Del muttered.
She was laughing, and apparently having no problem with the footwork or rhythm. She looked different, he thought. How he couldn’t exactly say. No, that wasn’t it; he was looking at her differently. He was looking at her through that kiss. It changed things—and the change made him uneasy.
“I should do another walk-through.”
“What?”
“I need to do another walk-through,” Parker repeated, tilting her head to study him closely.
His brows drew together. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing.You can mix and mingle if you want. Nobody in this crowd will care. Or if you want something to eat besides dessert, you can go down to the kitchen.”
He started to say he didn’t want anything, but realized it wasn’t quite true. He didn’t know what he wanted. “Maybe. I just dropped by. I didn’t know you were all working tonight. Or most of you,” he corrected as Laurel circled by.
“Last-minute thing. We’ve got about another hour. You can go to the parlor if you want, and wait for me.”
“I’ll probably head on.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll see you later.”
He decided he wanted a beer, and if he wanted one without the obligation of helping out, he’d need to get one out of the family kitchen rather than one of the event bars.
He should just go home and have a beer, he told himself as he started downstairs. But he didn’t want to go home, not when he was thinking about Laurel dancing as if she’d been born on Corfu. He’d just get a beer, then find Jack, hang out for an hour. Carter was bound to be around somewhere, too. He’d have a beer and find both of them, have some hang-out time with friends.
Men.
The best way to take your mind off women was to sit down and have a beer with men.
He backtracked to the family kitchen, and found a cold Sam Adams in the fridge. Just what the doctor ordered, he decided. After opening it, he looked out the window again to see if he could spot either of his friends. But on the terrace, lit by candles and colored lights now, strangers gathered.
He sipped the beer and brooded. Why the hell was he so restless? There were a dozen things he could be doing other than standing here in an empty kitchen, drinking a beer and looking out the window at strangers.
He should go home, catch up on some work. Or screw the work and watch some ESPN. He’d left it too late to call anyone for a date, for dinner or drinks—and the damn thing was, he just didn’t feel like being alone.
Carrying her shoes, her tired feet soundless, Laurel walked into the kitchen. Alone was exactly what she was after. Instead, she saw Del, standing at the window looking, to her mind, like the loneliest man in the world.
Which didn’t fit, she knew. She never thought of Del as lonely He knew everyone, and had a life so full of people she often wondered why he didn’t run off somewhere just for a breath of solitude.
But now, he seemed entirely alone, completely separate, and quietly sad.
Part of her wanted to go to him, put her arms around him, and comfort away whatever put that look on his face. Instead, she went into survival mode and started to back out of the room.
He turned, saw her.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were here. Do you need Parker?”
“No. I saw Parker upstairs.” He lifted his eyebrows at her bare feet. “I guess all that dancing’s hard on the feet.”
“Hmm? Oh ... Not that much dancing, but when it comes at the end of a day like this, it’s cumulative.” Since he was here, and so was she, Laurel decided to get it over with and apologize. “I’ve only got a few, but since you’re here I want to say I was over the line the other night. I shouldn’t have jumped all over you like that.”
Bad choice of words, she thought. “I understand you feel a certain sense of ... duty,” she decided, though the word wanted to stick in her throat. “I wish you wouldn’t, and I can’t help being irritated by it any more than you can help feeling it. So it’s pointless to fight about it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If that’s the best you can do, I’m just going to consider it bygones.”
He lifted a finger as he took another sip of beer. And watched her. “Not quite. I’m wondering why your irritation took the particular form it did.”
“Look, you were being you, and it got under my skin, so I said some things I shouldn’t have said. The way people do when they’re irritated.”
