by Nora Roberts
She shrugged. “I don’t know you well enough for you to hurt my feelings. I know you just well enough to have you annoy me.”
“Then I’m sorry for that. I was joking. I like hearing you laugh. I like seeing it.”
“Unapproachable.” She heard herself mutter it before she could bite down on the urge. Just as her head jerked around before she could pull back the temper. “Did you think I was so damned unapproachable when you grabbed me and kissed me?”
“I’d say the act speaks for itself. Look. A lot of times when a guy sees a woman—a beautiful one he’s attracted to—he gets clumsy. It’s easier to figure she’s out of reach than to analyze his own clumsiness. Women . . .”
If furious was what he was going to get out of her, then he’d capture fury in pastels. “They’re a mystery to us. We want them. We can’t help it. That doesn’t mean you don’t scare the hell out of us, one way or the other, more than half the time.”
She would have sniffed if he wouldn’t have made such a predictable response. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you’re afraid of women?”
“Well, I had some advantage, with all those sisters.” He was working now, but she’d forgotten he was working. Sometimes, that was only better. So he continued to talk while she frowned at him. “But the first girl I was ever serious about? It took me two weeks to get up the nerve to call her on the phone. Your kind doesn’t know what my kind go through.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. Marilyn Pomeroy, a giddy little brunette.”
“And how long were you serious about Marilyn?”
“About as long as it took me to work up the nerve to call her. Two weeks, give or take. What can I say? Men are no damn good.”
Her lips twitched and curved. “That goes without saying. I was serious about a boy when I was fifteen. Wilson Bufferton Lawrence. The Fourth. Buff to his friends.”
“Jesus, where do you guys come up with these names? What do you do with somebody named Buff? Play polo or squash?”
He’d leveled her temper, she realized. It was something else he was good at. Since he didn’t appear to mind her being mad, it often seemed a waste of time to be mad.
“Tennis, actually. On what you’d call our first official date, we played tennis at the club. I beat him in straight sets, and that was the end of our tender romance.”
“You’d have to expect someone who answers to Buff to be an asshole.”
“I was crushed, then I was mad. I liked being mad better.”
“Me too. What became of Buff?”
“Hmmm. As I was informed by my mother over the weekend, he’s going to be married for the second time this fall. His first marriage lasted slightly longer than our long-ago tennis match.”
“Better luck next time.”
“Naturally,” she said, very soberly, “he’s in finance, as is expected of a fourth-generation Lawrence, and the happy couple is house hunting for their little fifty-room love nest as we speak.”
“It’s nice to know you’re not still bitter.”
“I was reminded, a total of five times, I believe, that I’ve yet to afford my parents the pleasure of spending lavish amounts of money on a wedding that would show the Lawrences, among others, a thing or two.”
“So . . . you and your mother had a nice visit on Mother’s Day.” Though her expression now all but radiated irritation, he kept working. “Careful, you could spill blood with that sneer.”
She took a deep breath, angled her head properly again. “My visits with my mother can rarely be defined as ‘nice.’ I suspect you spent this past Sunday going to see each one of your mothers—sisters.”
“It’s hard to pin down just what they are. Yeah, I spent some time with each of them. Took them their presents. And since each one of them cried, I figure they were a big hit.”
“What did you get them?”
“I did small family portraits. Anna and Cam and the boys, and so on, for each one.”
“That’s nice. That’s lovely,” she said softly. “I got my mother a Baccarat vase and a dozen red roses. She was very pleased.”
He set down his pastels, dusted his hands on his jeans as he crossed to her. And took her face in his hands. “Then why do you look so sad?”
“I’m not sad.”
In response, he simply pressed his lips to her forehead, keeping them there as he felt her tense, then relax.
She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation like this with anyone before. And she couldn’t fathom why it seemed perfectly natural to have it with him. “It would be difficult for you to understand a conflicted family when yours is so united.”
“We have plenty of conflicts,” he corrected.
“No. Not at the core, you don’t. I need to get downstairs.”
“I still have some time left,” he said, holding her in place when she started to slide off the stool.
“You’ve stopped working.”
“I still have some time left,” he repeated, and gestured to her timer. “If there’s one thing I know about, it’s family conflict, and what it does to you inside. I spent the first third of my life in a constant state of conflict.”
“You’re speaking of before you came to live with your grandfather? I’ve read stories about you, but you don’t discuss that aspect,” she said when his head came up.
“Yeah.” He waited for the constriction in his chest to ease. “Before. When I lived with my biological mother.”
“I see.”
“No, sugar, you don’t. She was a whore and a drunk and a junkie, and she made the first few years of my life a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry.” He was right, she supposed, it was something she couldn’t see clearly. But she touched his hand, then took his hand, in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “It must have been horrible for you. Still, it’s obvious she’s nothing to you.”
“That’s what you got out of one statement from me and a handful of articles?”
“No. That’s what I got after eating crab and potato salad with you and your family. Now you look sad,” she murmured, and shook her head. “I don’t know why we’re talking about these things.”
He wasn’t sure why he’d brought up Gloria himself. Maybe it was as simple as speaking out loud to chase away ghosts. Or as complex as needing Dru to know who he was, all the way through.
“That’s what people do, people who are interested in each other. They talk about who they are and where they’ve come from.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, you don’t want to be interested. But you are.” He traced a finger over her hair, from the short, spiky bangs to the tender nape. “And since we’ve been dating for several weeks—”
“We haven’t dated at all.”
He leaned down and caught her up in a kiss as hot as it was brief. “See?” Before she could comment, his mouth took hers again. Softer now, slower, deeper, with those wonderful hands skimming over her face, along her throat and shoulders.
Every muscle in her body went loose. Every vow she’d made about men and relationships crumbled.
When he eased back, she took a careful breath. And changed her line in the sand. “I may end up sleeping with you, but I’m not dating you.”
“So, I’m good enough to have sex with, but I don’t get a candlelit dinner? I feel so cheap.”
Damn it. Damn it. She liked him. “Dating’s a circular, often tortuous route to sex. I choose to skip it. But I said I might sleep with you, not that I would.”
“Maybe we should play tennis first.”
“Okay. You’re funny. That’s appealing. I admire your work, and I like your family. All completely superfluous to a physical relationship, but a nice bonus all in all. I’ll think about it.”
Saved by the bell, she thought when the timer buzzed. She got off the stool, then wandered to the easel. She saw her face a half dozen times. Different angles, different expressions. “I don’t understand this.”
“What?” He joined her at the easel. “Bella donna,” he murmured, and surprised a shiver out of her.
“I thought you were doing a study of me sitting on the stool. You started it, but you’ve got all these other sketches scattered around it.”
“You weren’t in the mood to pose today. You had things on your mind. They showed. So I worked with them. It gives me some insight, and some ideas about what I want in a more formal portrait.”
He watched her brow knit. “You said I could have four hours on Sunday,” he reminded her. “I’d like to work outside, weather permitting. I’ve been by your house. It’s terrific. Any objection to working there?”
“At my house?”
“It’s a great spot. You know that or you wouldn’t be there. You’re too particular to settle. Besides, it’ll be simpler for you. Ten o’clock okay?”
“I suppose.”
“Oh, and about the foxgloves? How many more sittings can I get if I frame it for you?”
“I don’t—”
“If you bring it back to me, I’ll frame it, then you can decide what it’s worth in trade. Fair enough?”
“It’s down in the shop. I was going to take it to a framer this week.”
“I’ll stop down and get it before I leave today.” He walked his fingers up her arm. “I guess there’s no point in asking you to have dinner with me tonight.”
“None at all.”
“I could just stop by your place later for some quick, cheap sex.”
“That’s awfully tempting, but I don’t think so.” She strolled to the door, then glanced back at him. “If and when we go there, Seth, I can promise it won’t be cheap. And it won’t be quick.”
When the door closed, he rubbed his belly that had tightened at that last provocative look she’d sent him.
He glanced back at the canvas. She was, he decided, quite a number of women rolled up in one fascinating package. Every single one of them appealed to him.
“SOMETHING’S troubling him.” Anna boxed Cam into the bathroom—one place almost guaranteed to provide space for an uninterrupted conversation in her personal madhouse. She paced the confined area and talked to his silhouette on the shower curtain.
“He’s okay. He’s just getting his rhythm back.”
“He’s not sleeping well. I can tell. And I swear I heard him talking to himself the other night.”
“You do plenty of solo babbling when you’re pissed off,” Cam mumbled.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
With an expression between smug and grim—because she’d heard him perfectly—Anna flushed the toilet. Then smiled in cool satisfaction as he cursed at the sudden blast of hot water. “Goddamn it, why do you do that?”
“Because it irritates you and gets your attention. Now about Seth—”
“He’s painting,” Cam said in exasperation. “He’s working at the boatyard, he’s catching up with the family. Give him some time, Anna.”
“Have you noticed what he’s not doing? He’s not going out with his friends. He’s not dating Dru, or anyone else. Though it’s clear from the way he looks at her there isn’t going to be anyone else for the time being.”
Or ever, she concluded.
“He’s downstairs playing video games with Jake,” she continued. “On a Friday night. Aubrey told me he’s only hung out with her once since he got back home. How many weekends did you hang around the house when you were his age?”
“This is Saint Chris, not Monte Carlo. All right, all right,” he said quickly, before she flushed on him again. The woman could be vicious. He loved that about her. “So he’s preoccupied, I’m not blind. I got pretty preoccupied myself when I got tangled up with you.”
“If I thought it was infatuation, or interest or just healthy lust where Dru’s considered, I wouldn’t be worried. And I am worried. I can’t put my finger on it, but when I’m worried about one of my men, there’s a reason.”
“Fine. So go hound him.”
“No. I want you to go hound him.”
“Me?” Cam whisked back the curtain enough to stare at her. “Why me?”
“Because. Mmm, you sure are cute when you’re wet and annoyed.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“Maybe I should come in there and wash your back,” she said and began to unbutton her blouse.
“Okay, that’s going to work.”
SEVEN
CAM JOGGED DOWNSTAIRS. There was nothing like a spin in the shower with Anna to brighten his mood. He poked a head in the den where his youngest son and Seth were waged in deadly, bloody battle. There were curses, grunts, shouts.
Some of them were from the animation on-screen.
As usual, Cam found himself drawn into the war. Axes swung, blood flew, swords clashed. And he lost track of reality until Jake let out a triumphant cry.
“I kicked your ass.”
“Shit, you got lucky.”
Jake pumped his joystick in the air. “I rule, baby. Bow to the king of Mortal Kombat.”
“In your dreams. Let’s go again.”
“Bow to the king,” Jake repeated joyously. “Worship me, lesser mortal.”
“I’ll worship you.”
Seth made his grab. Cam watched them wrestle for a moment. More grunts, impossible threats, a young boy’s dopey giggles. Seth and Jake, he thought, weren’t so different in age than he and Seth.
But Jake had an innocence Seth had never been allowed. Jake had never had to question who he was, or if the hands reaching for him meant him harm.
Thank God for it.
Cam leaned lazily against the doorjamb and yelled, “Come on, Anna, they’re just fooling around.”
At the mention of her name, Seth and Jake rolled apart and shot twin looks of panic and guilt toward the doorway.
“Got you,” Cam barked with amusement.
“That was cold, Dad.”
“That’s how to win a battle without a single blow. You.” He pointed at Seth. “Let’s go.”
“Where ya going?” Jake demanded, scrambling up. “Can I go?”
“Have you cleaned your room, done your homework, found the cure for cancer and changed the oil in my car?”
“Come on, Dad,” Jake whined.
“Seth, grab some beer and head outside. I’ll be right along.”
“Sure. Later, kid”—Seth tapped a fist in his palm—“I’m taking you out.”
“You couldn’t take me out if you brought me flowers and a box of chocolate.”
“Good one,” Cam commented as Seth snorted out a laugh and left the room.
“I’ve been saving it,” Jake told him. “How come I can’t go with you guys?”
“I need to talk to Seth.”
“Are you mad at him?”
“Do I look mad at him?”
“No,” Jake said after a careful study of his father’s face. “But you can be sneaky about that stuff.”
“I just need to talk to him.”
Jake jerked a shoulder, but Cam saw the disappointment in his eyes—Anna’s Italian eyes—before he plopped back on the floor and reached for his joystick.
Cam squatted. “Jake.” He caught the scent of bubble gum and youthful sweat. There were grass stains on the knees of Jake’s jeans. His shoes were untied.
It struck him unexpectedly, as it often did, that staggering slap of emotion that was love and pride and puzzlement rolled into one strong fist against his heart.
“Jake,” he said again and ran his hand over his son’s hair. “I love you.”
“Jeez.” Jake hunched his shoulders and, with his chin tucked, shifted his gaze up to meet his father’s. “I know, and stuff.”
“I love you,” Cam repeated. “But when I get back, there’s going to be a bloody coup, and a new king in Quinn-land. And believe what I’m saying, you will bow to me.”
“You wish.”
Cam rose, pleased with the cocky expression on Jake
’s face. “Your days of rule are numbered. Start praying, pal.”
“I’ll pray that you don’t slobber on me when you’re begging for mercy.”
He had to admit, Cam decided as he walked toward the back door, he’d raised a bunch of wiseasses. It did a man proud.
“What’s up?” Seth asked, tossing Cam a beer as he swung out the back door.
“Gonna take a little sail.”
“Now?” Automatically, Seth looked up at the sky. “It’ll be dark in an hour.”
“Afraid of the dark, Mary?” Cam sauntered to the dock, stepped nimbly into the day sailer. He set the beer aside while Seth cast off.
As he had countless times in the past, Seth lifted the oar to push away from the dock. He hoisted the main, and the sound of the canvas rising was sweet as music. Cam manned the rudder, finessing the wind so they glided, smooth and nearly silent, away from shore.
The sun was low, its beams striking the water, sheening the marsh grass, dying in the narrow channels where the shadows went deep and the water went dark and secret.
They motored through, maneuvering between markers, down the river, through the sound. And into the Bay. Balanced to the sway, Seth hoisted the jib, trimmed the sails.
And Cam caught the wind.
They flew in the wooden boat with its bright work glinting and its sails white as dove’s wings. There was salt in the air, and the thrilling roll, that rise and fall of waves as deeply blue as the sky.
The speed, the freedom, the absolute joy of skating over the water while the sun went soft toward twilight drained every worry, every doubt, every sorrow from Seth’s heart.
“Coming about,” Cam called out, setting to tack to steal more wind, steal more speed.
For the next fifteen minutes, they barely spoke.
When they slowed, Cam stretched out his legs and popped the top on his beer. “So, what’s going on with you?”
“Going on?”
“Anna’s radar tells her something’s up with you, and she nagged me into finding out what it is.”
Seth bought some time by opening his own beer, taking the first cold sip. “I’ve just been back a couple weeks, so I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all. Figuring things out, settling in, that kind of thing. She doesn’t have to worry.”
