Even so, the last thing Rafe wanted to do was go to a party for Nickolai Glazov and Noel Verden. Not that he had anything against them. They were nice people, but he was in no mood to party—not that he ever was. That was more Gabe’s thing. But he was afraid if he declined, Abby would make him babysit since, as a bridesmaid, she was definitely going to the party. He still hadn’t made up his mind if he was going to Louisville for the wedding this weekend.
On the one hand, it was something to do; on the other, it was too much to do.
After much handwringing and debating, Abby had caved to Emory and Gwen’s insistence that the kids be left behind with sitters for the weekend. A three-hour drive that would likely turn into four if the kids were with them would be a disaster and go down from there.
They had hired some woman from Nashville, whom Dirk had thoroughly vetted, plus a college student who sat for Dirk and Gwen from time to time, and the two high school girls who were watching the kids tonight. That was almost one adult per child. They wouldn’t notice if Rafe was around or not.
But at least he didn’t have to go far for this party, since it was being held downstairs in the original formal rooms of the house. Now if he could just sneak past the nursery …
“Daddy!” That would be Bella.
Damn it all to hell. Why had he agreed to pay to have that Dutch door installed? He actually knew the answer to that question. Abby had wanted it, and when she’d asked, her breasts had looked particularly alluring, so he’d agreed and made a quick exit. Yesterday, when he and Gabe had come upon her rolling around on the ground with those babies, he’d wanted to push the kids aside and join in.
But that could never happen. Condom or not, sex led to babies, and he couldn’t ever do that again. What he was going to do about sex was something he’d figure out later. Maybe a blow-up doll, but with his luck, nine months later balloons would appear—twin balloons that needed food, clothes, and impossible to assemble cribs.
“Daddy!” Bella repeated.
She had spied him just like she did every single time he walked by, because the top part of that nursery Dutch door stayed open all the time. What had the Dutch given the world, anyway, besides complicated doors? Tulips. Dutch ovens. Dutch apple pie. He didn’t need any of that.
“Daddy!” Alice joined in.
Now, they were banging on the bottom part of the door and squealing like they were happy to see him. Which they were. Giving out cookies had made them like him, when he’d only thought they would helped him escape.
He peeped over the top of the door.
“Hello, girls,” said. “I’m your uncle Gabe.”
Bella shook her head. “No, no, no, no. Daddy!”
Couldn’t fool her, or Alice either, any more than he could ever fool Camille.
The other three kids—Phillip, and Gwen and Dirk’s two, Julie and Carter, were across the room playing with the two high school girls who were watching them.
Alice held up her arms to be picked up. He patted her head.
She stood on her toes and stretched her arms. “Up.” And she smiled. Exactly like Camille.
He had to bend over farther to pick Alice up than he’d had to bend for Camille. She’d died before he and Gabe had their growth spurts, though they had been taller than other boys their age at the time.
Alice even smelled like Camille had. Was that some kind of universal baby smell, or was it the powder and soap?
She pulled at his nose.
I wish I were free to love you.
Where had that come from?
“Should I take her?” The girl—Hannah was her name—held out her arms for Alice. “So you can get to the party?”
“Uh … yes.” He handed Alice back over the open door.
“No!!! Daddy!” she whimpered.
Cookie time. He reached into his pocket and brought out the Ziploc bag. The others must have picked up the scent, because suddenly there were four little hands reaching toward him and clamoring for cookies. Good thing he’d refilled the bag.
Only Julie, who’d just had her fourth birthday, stood a little apart with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.
“They’re not ’posed to have that,” she said.
Yep. Dirk’s kid, all right. The sitters weren’t willing to call him on it, but Julie was. Come to think of it, she’d probably gotten that from Gwen.
“No? What about you? Are you supposed to have it?”
She frowned more. “What kind?”
“Chocolate chip.”
He could see the Dirk and the Gwen in Julie fight it out for the decision. Dirk won because, at the end of the day, he did what he wanted. She held out her hand.
Would the Tawny in Bella and Alice have to fight it out with the Rafe in them? Either way, it wasn’t good. They’d either be riding bulls or chasing bull riders. He felt a little sick.
While the children were distracted, he made a break for it and headed somewhere else he didn’t want to be.
• • •
“Do you mind replenishing this?” Emory held out a chafing dish insert of hot, black-eyed pea dip to Abby. “I told Gwen I would, but I feel a little sick.”
She looked positively green. Abby hurried to take the dish and pointed Emory toward the open French doors. “Go out on the terrace. I’ll be right behind you with some water.” Though no one had told her and she certainly wasn’t going to ask, Abby suspected Emory was pregnant.
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later, Abby pressed a crystal double old fashion glass into Emory’s hand. There were a few people milling around watching Jackson’s crew set up his equipment. Everyone was excited that he was going to sing. They had debated whether to have him perform out here or up in the ballroom, and Abby was glad they had opted for the terrace. It was a beautiful fall night with a breathtaking harvest moon—the kind of night that could almost make you believe in love, second chances, and happily ever after. But only almost.
“It’s sparkling water.” That had helped when she was pregnant with Phillip.
Emory sipped. “That is better.”
“Can I get you anything else?” Abby asked.
“No. I think I’m just a little overheated. But I’m not sure I can help replenish the food tonight.”
Gwen had made the food, and Emory had hired plenty of help, but Abby, along with Christian and Neyland, were also hostesses tonight.
“You planned the whole thing,” Abby said. “I think the rest of us can keep an eye on the buffet.”
“Those hockey players sure can eat.” Emory laughed. “I’m not sure Noel’s mother knows what happens when you invite an entire NHL team for a meal. I wonder if we ought to warn her to double the reception food.”
“And there’s also Gabe,” Abby said. Gabe’s appetite was legend everywhere he went. Rafe, on the other hand, didn’t seem to eat much. Was that situational or the norm?
“What about me?” Gabe stepped up with a plate loaded with food.
Abby took it from him and handed it off to a waiter.
“Hey!”
“You can’t have that here. Emory is nauseated, and looking at food makes it worse.”
“You okay?” Gabe wrinkled his forehead.
Emory nodded. “I just got too hot.”
Gabe sighed. “As much as I love Gwen’s pea dip, it wasn’t real food anyway. Whatever happened to sitting down at a table with a chunk of cow at parties? I swear snack food buffets were designed to starve a man to death.”
“Because, clearly, everything is about you and your stomach,” Emory said, but she was smiling.
“If only you could impart that to the world.” Gabe turned to Abby. “Where’s my brother?”
“Which one?”
“The one who isn’t getting ready to sing,” Gabe asked.
That was a good question. “I wasn’t aware it was my turn to watch him.”
“Yeah? I thought I sent out the schedule.”
“Bossing people ar
ound again?” Neyland stepped up and looped her arm through Gabe’s.
“Trying, but with little success. And they took my black-eyed pea dip from me.”
The two of them looked at each other like they were seeing deep into each other’s souls and discovering new secrets of the universe. What would it be like to have that?
“Poor baby.” Neyland patted Gabe’s cheek. “I hope you don’t faint.”
“You would pick me up.” When Gabe said this, the usual light banter was gone from his tone and replaced with deep, tender conviction. Abby felt as if she were spying on something special and private.
Gabe and Neyland must have felt that, too, because they shook their heads a little and laughed.
“You look wonderful, Abby,” Neyland said.
“Like some kind of flapper girl,” Gabe joined in.
Abby smoothed her hands over the blush champagne silk slip of a dress. It was old. She’d bought it to wear to the symphony during the Great Gatsby craze a few years ago. She’d only worn it once, because with its thin straps and hemline that ended four inches above her knees, the dress showed more of her than her usual style.
“I love the jewelry,” Neyland said.
Abby fingered the rhinestone headband and ropes of faux pearls. “Can’t be ‘some kind of flapper girl’ without the trappings,” she said lightly. Gregory hadn’t liked this outfit, hadn’t liked the excessive jewelry, even if it wasn’t real. He’d thought she’d looked like she was dressed for a costume party. Was that the real reason she hadn’t worn the dress again?
“You’re beautiful,” Emory said. “I couldn’t wear that. It was meant for you.”
You couldn’t wear it, because you actually have breasts. Abby would have said it out loud if Gabe hadn’t been present. Instead she smiled—until the smile froze on her face.
She felt him before she saw him. Rafe Beauford could fill a space and suck the air out of the universe the way Gabe never could—Jackson either, superstar that he was. Why didn’t the rest of the world see that?
He stepped into their little circle and looked her up and down.
“Speak of the devil,” Gabe said. “And you’re wearing my clothes.”
“I’m not the devil. That’s you. I’m only a minor demon. And, yes, I am wearing your clothes.” Still, he didn’t take his eyes off Abby, though he did pull at his tie as if it were choking him.
“We were beginning to wonder if you were coming,” Emory said.
“Yeah?” His eyes shifted to Emory for a brief second and then landed, again, Abby could have sworn, on her nonexistent breasts. Then he raised his huge, beautiful eyes to hers. Surely Gabe’s eyes weren’t that blue or his lashes so long and thick. They couldn’t be. There wasn’t that much eye beauty in the world to go around. Her stomach took a nosedive. “I stopped by the nursery,” he said proudly.
That brought Abby back to earth.
“Really? Did you actually go inside? Or did you just hang over the door and give them cookies?”
“I … uh …” His face went scarlet.
Abby needed to walk away from Rafe and his eyes while she still could. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to check on the food.”
• • •
Damn it all to hell. Where had Abby gotten those pearls? They looped around her neck about ten times and landed in as many places from her collarbones to her hips. They were long enough to tie her to a bed.
Not that he was into that kind of thing.
Rafe watched her walk away from him. Another man would have been watching her hips sway or the hem of that little nothing dress brush against her long legs. And that was worth watching to be sure, but it was the sight of those pearls that made him want to follow her and run his tongue up the back of her neck. The pearls were almost hidden by wisps of white blond hair, but not quite.
Not quite would do a man in every time.
What was wrong with him, anyway? For crying out loud. Pearls? Had he developed some kind of sick fetish? To test the theory, he quickly turned to look at Neyland, but she wasn’t wearing pearls—just some kind of a blue necklace with big stones. He cut his eyes at Emory.
Yes. She was wearing pearls—a triple strand. He remembered now. Jackson had bought them to go with her wedding dress. But they hadn’t done anything for him then, and they didn’t do anything for him now. So it must not be a fetish. Or maybe it was because Emory was family. He let his eyes dart around. The light was dim out here, but there was a good-looking girl across the way wearing pearls. He didn’t know who she was—probably the girlfriend of one those hockey players. Definitely not family, and yet neither she nor her pearls did anything to inspire any kind of sexual fantasy.
“What are you looking for?” Gabe asked.
“Food,” Rafe said. Wasn’t that where Abby said she was going? To check on the food?
“From what I understand,” Neyland said, “there’re cookies in your pocket.”
“Cookies? In your pocket?” Emory wrinkled her forehead.
“What kind?” Gabe asked.
Shut up, Gabe.
“Okay!” Gabe said, but Rafe was already walking away. One set of doors led to the dining room and the other to the rose parlor. The buffet was set up in the dining room, but no Abby. Not in the green parlor across the hall, either, or the library. Ah, there she was in the corner of the rose parlor.
And she wasn’t alone—not alone and not frowning. Smiling in fact. Something he seldom got. And exactly who was that asshole whom she seemed to approve of so heartily?
Wouldn’t you know he’d have to be dark headed and buff? And why was it that women were so taken with dark-headed men? Why were they so special? He was signaling to one of the waiters and taking glasses of wine from his tray.
Hey, Mr. Dark Hair, what makes you think she wants to hang around long enough to drink wine with you?
She was taking the wine. Hmm. They were standing in the corner. If he doubled back and went down the back service hallway that led to the kitchen and Emory’s office, he could stand outside the door and hear what they were saying.
Just as Rafe was headed out, Nickolai appeared in front of him. Great.
“Hello, Gabe.”
“It’s Rafe.”
“Ahh.” The big Russian shook his head. “I cannot even tell my best man from his brother. You two should wear name tags.”
“We should. We’ll take that up right away.” He almost hurried away, but something occurred to him. Nickolai could be of some use. “Hey, Nickolai? Who is that guy talking to Abby?”
Nickolai looked through the crowd, his eyes searching.
“That is Emile Giroux, my teammate. He is a goaltender on my team.”
Wouldn’t you know it? “Goalie, huh? And he plays? Doesn’t just sit the bench?”
Nickolai looked puzzled. “No. Emile is the Sound’s best goaltender, but strange. All goalies are strange.”
“Strange in what way?” All the more reason to get Abby away from him. “Like does he have a fetish or tie people up?” This was taking time, but information was power.
Nickolai frowned and shook his head. “What are you talking about, Rafe Beauford? And how would I know that? No. He won’t talk between periods. You can’t touch his helmet. And he tapes his stick between every period, but he always leaves a bit of the last tape on—if it was a good period. About an inch. If we are behind, he spits on it and flushes it down the toilet.”
“Then he’s no stranger than you.” They all knew about Nickolai’s before-game rituals, including having Noel text him exactly one hour and seven minutes before puck drop to wish him luck.
“Is not true,” Nickolai said. “Goaltender strange is strange on a whole different level—as I am beginning to think is true of bull riders as well.”
“Could be.” He took a step away.
“Wait. My Noel says you have not yet decided if you are going to our wedding. I think it is respectful to my Noel to come and see her married. Don’t you
agree?”
Rafe looked back at Abby and this Emile person. “Is he coming?”
Nickolai looked surprised, then nodded with understanding. “You must know, Rafe, that Emile Giroux is strange, but he is not a homosexual. However, I do have a friend I could introduce you to. I think you would like him.”
What in the ever-loving hell?
“I am not gay. Now, is this Giroux going to the wedding or not?”
“Da.” Nickolai nodded. “My whole team will be there. I am now team captain. They understand the importance of showing respect to my Noel. But Emile will be a groomsman.”
“I’ll definitely be there.”
As he walked away, Rafe heard Nickolai say something about bull riders and goalies, then launch into Russian.
Finally, Rafe reached his hideout place. The wait staff was coming and going. A few of them gave him odd looks, but apart from capturing a beer from a passing tray, he ignored them.
“Voulez-vous un peu de nourriture?” the strange goalie asked.
“Non, merci. Je n’ai pas faim. Mais vous devriez avoir quelque chose,” Abby said.
Damn it. They were speaking in French! He should have taken French in high school instead of German. Of course, he couldn’t speak German either.
“Il suffit de se régaler de vous.”
And they were laughing in French, too. What next? Dutch?
“So, Abby, you have been to see the Sound play? You saw me play?” Apparently this Emile had decided English was good enough after all.
“I have. I was at the playoff game between the Sound and the Bruins last spring. Unfortunately, it didn’t go my way.”
“What? But we won that game. And, later, the Stanley Cup, I might add.”
Abby laughed. “As I said, it didn’t go my way. But I have great hope for my Bruins this year.”
“Bruins! You cannot mean that.”
Redeeming Rafe Page 6
