by Nicola Marsh
“He died from liver cancer. First showed up when he was traveling around India, spread quickly, so by the time he reached Nepal he was too far gone.”
It took a second for her mom’s explanation to sink in, another second before the impact detonated, shards of realization peppering her, hurting more than she could’ve possibly imagined.
“You were with him?”
Dolores burst into tears, loud, ugly sobs that had Sierra holding the phone an inch away from her ear until they subsided.
“I wanted to tell you but he made me promise not to. He arrived out of the blue, wanted to make peace with me but didn’t want you to see him like that, not after all this time. It was his dying wish so I—”
“Screw him and his bloody death wish.”
Out of nowhere, tears of rage and helplessness and soul-deep sadness filled her eyes, gushed out and plopped onto the table as Marc hugged her tighter, smoothed her hair with his free hand.
“Please understand, munchkin. He said he’d hurt you enough, he didn’t want you to go through this too.”
Sierra couldn’t talk, couldn’t squeeze air passed the giant aching lump clogging her throat with regret. Regret for not having the opportunity to see her dad before he died, regret for not saying all the things she’d wanted to say over the years but most of all, regret she’d never had a father and now never would.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. So sorry.”
“Me too, Mom.”
The words came out on a hiccup and she rummaged through her handbag for a tissue, making a frantic swipe at her nose before she added to her humiliation.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Sierra took several deep breaths, grateful Marc hadn’t released his hold.
“I’ll write to you soon, explain it all in the letter, okay?”
Dolores’ answer to everything: put it in a sonnet.
“Sure. And thanks for telling me.”
“I love you, munchkin.”
“Right back at you, Mom.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear for a few seconds before she lowered the phone, raised her eyes to Marc, dreading his expression. Revulsion? Shock? Pity?
She needn’t have worried. The tenderness and compassion in those melted chocolate eyes snatched her breath away.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m fine—”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
She clamped her lips together and meekly fell into step beside him, leaning into him, secure in his solace. There were times to assert her kick-ass independence. This wasn’t one of them.
In a daze she let him lead her outside, away from the diner and through the town square to the gazebo on the outskirts of the park where he gently eased her onto the bench and sat beside her, his thigh wedged against hers, his arm a support around her waist.
“If you want to talk, I’m here. If you don’t, take a moment to catch your breath and I’ll drive you home.”
His tenderness had the tears welling all over again. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
They lapsed into silence, a comfortable silence punctuated by the nocturnal shuffle of a squirrel nearby and the occasional owl hoot as the warmth from his body cocooned her, seeped into the icy recesses of her heart and thawed some of her resentment and pain.
“My dad died. I barely knew him. He walked out on us and I hated him for that. Hated him all my life really. Now he’s dead and I’m supposed to feel sad but all I feel is furious and my mom was there but he didn’t want me to know and—”
“Hey, it’s okay.”
The tears started again, a sad trickle rather than the angry gush in the diner and this time she let them fall, let him cradle her close, not caring she drenched his expensive shirt, not caring about anything other than releasing years of pent-up frustration. Frustration at not having a dad, not having any contact, and not giving a damn.
When the waterworks subsided, she pulled away. “Bet you think I’m a sad case.”
“I think you’re amazing.”
His mouth slammed hers, shockingly impulsive, gratifyingly obliterating the last fifteen minutes.
Her emotions had see-sawed between fury and sadness, pain and regret but all that vanished the second his lips demanded a response she was all too willing to give, his tongue coaxing entry into her mouth.
She needed this and as she clung to him, kissing him with a ferocity that defied description, she knew that whatever happened from here she wouldn’t second-guess it.
Life was short. She intended to play hard.
Marc broke the kiss, his hair mussed, his eyes wild. “Hell, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that.”
To emphasize the point she wrapped her hands around his neck, tugged his head toward her and kissed him, slower this time, a soft, sensual, sexy melding of mouths and lips and tongues that lingered long after they eased apart.
What had started out as a chivalrous guy offering comfort in an hour of need had turned into so much more and it terrified her.
He knew her too well: knew she wouldn’t have liked trite platitudes or a rehash of her dysfunctional childhood or a bunch of psychoanalytic bull.
He’d known what she needed to wipe her mind clean, known on some instinctual level that a blistering kiss would comfort her better than a box of tissues and a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
“Families aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be.”
She nodded. “You said it.”
“Especially fathers.”
He spat the words, laced with contempt, registering an instant hit on her voracious curiosity meter.
“Is that why you’re so protective of your mom?” She touched his hand, hating the bleakness in his eyes, the angry lines around his mouth. “Because of something he did?”
She only just heard his muttered, “What didn’t he do,” as he averted his head and focused on the sliver of crescent moon in the inky sky.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Sorry.”
She cringed as the trite apology spilled from her lips, wishing she could do better, wishing she could give him half the comfort he’d given her.
“Don’t be. He isn’t worth it.”
She’d never seen this side of him, controlled anger buttoned up tight and while it should scare her it only served to make her want to know more, want to know everything about him, want to peel back every intriguing layer until she reached his heart.
She reached out and cupped his chin, turned him to face her, reluctant to interfere but needing to say this.
With her wary gaze locked on his she leaned forward, brushed a soft kiss across his lips, across his jaw, savoring the rasp of stubble prickling the tender skin of her cheek.
“Hank isn’t your dad.”
He stiffened, pulled away but she met his judgmental stare head on, unflinching, daring him to disagree.
After what seemed like an eternity, his mouth softened, his eyes crinkled and his shoulders relaxed as he swept her into his arms and hugged her tight, his breath a feather-light caress against her ear as he said, “I know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cupid’s Dating Tips for the Enlightened Male
No means no. Unless it involves a second helping of chocolate cake.
William Jamieson had been born to serve. His father had been a butler on the QE2 for twenty years, his mother an assistant to the Royal family. He’d never figured out how they’d managed to get together to conceive him; then again, he’d rather not know.
Regardless of his dubious conception he always knew he wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps. He’d grown up around the world’s elite, watching how they walked and talked from an early age, eager to join their inner circle but knowing he’d never have the pedigree to do so. Unlike many young men who would’ve been bitter he’d entered their ra
nks the only way possible, in a subservient role.
Once he’d made his decision, not a day went by he didn’t enjoy his calling. He’d worked with the best in England, Switzerland and Italy before coming to the US under the employ of a media mogul. That hadn’t panned out when his employer had died, yet in a strange twist of fate he’d met Marc Fairley at the funeral.
The young man had a steady head on his shoulders and a respect for others most men his age didn’t possess. Marc had recognized his displacement at the funeral, of a man he’d known less than an hour, and had done his best to put him at ease.
They’d got to chatting and before he knew it Marc had offered him a job as his PA-cum-butler-cum-right hand man and he’d relished the job ever since. Next week marked their sixth anniversary and as much as the US culture stunned his refined tastes, he wouldn’t trade this job for the world.
Now, when he thought he knew everything there was to know about his employer, the young man he’d grown to care for as a son had shocked him.
In six years he’d seen women of all shapes and sizes throw themselves at the good-looking, wealthy tycoon. Marc had dated them, been photographed in the newspapers with them, taken a few on lavish working holidays. But in all the years he’d never seen his young employer bring any of them home.
Until today.
What a way to set a precedent. William had always thought admiring women was like appreciating fine art; if that were true Sierra Kent would be a masterpiece. Exquisite, priceless, a work of genius.
He’d covered his surprise well, as he’d been trained to do by the best at the Swiss butler school he’d attended all those years ago, though Marc had been onto him all the same. In another first, his employer, who seemed to have a perpetual frown etched on his forehead, had actually winked on his way out.
William had been struggling to avert his gaze from the beautiful redhead’s long legs and Marc had shaken his hand, thanked him for organizing his belongings, smiled and winked. He’d smiled back before covering his faux pas with a discreet clearing of his throat behind his hand.
In hindsight, he had to admit young Marc’s uncharacteristic behavior must’ve rattled him more than he thought for he’d slipped up. Badly. Usually a stickler for the smallest detail he’d failed to notice Marc had left behind a file on his desk and by the thickness of it, it had to be important.
Shaking his head and wondering what the world was coming to when an old man lost his mind over a beautiful young woman, he reached for the phone. He’d inform Marc of the file and have it couriered to him in the morning.
As he shifted the file a document slid out and fluttered to the floor. Ten pages had been faxed through an hour ago and he’d slotted the lot into the file. Picking it up, he couldn’t help but notice the photo staring at him in living color. After all, he’d met the woman an hour ago and she’d left a lasting impression.
It wasn’t the photo that caused him to change his plans but the plethora of information typed underneath it and the letterhead above it. Finders-Keepers were the best PIs in the business and Marc used them on a regular basis in his business dealings.
Far be it for him to question his employer’s ethics but he could’ve sworn the vibes between the young couple were that of two people contemplating more than business. Better yet, he’d assumed young Marc had visited Love to see his mother and repair some poorly mended fences.
Now, staring at the information he held in his hand, he wasn’t so sure.
Young Marc was playing with fire if he was toying with the redhead whose intelligence shone clearly from her blue eyes and though it was none of his business and he should leave well enough alone, he made a lightning quick decision.
The information he’d stumbled across needed personal delivery. With a few well-chosen words of advice if his boss would listen.
Marc strode into Café Rodeo and scanned the tables for Sierra. The place was jam-packed with tourists as most eateries on Rodeo Drive were and he usually avoided them.
However, Sierra had wanted to do some shopping while he stopped by the office and living up to her reputation of constantly surprising him she’d asked him to drop her off at the Drive. He’d picked her for a Melrose type of girl by the funky stuff she wore; then again the woman had eclectic tastes and could quite easily carry off a mixture of Gucci, Prada and Second Hand Rose.
He glanced over the room again, trying to spot the mane of red hair that had him itching to run his fingers through it most of the time while envisioning it draped across his torso the rest.
For a guy who prided himself on being in control, especially where women were concerned, he’d slipped a few notches since meeting the statuesque redhead. He barely gave his dates more than the customary drinks and dinner, and despite what the gossip columnists spouted he didn’t bed them all.
In fact, the older he got the choosier he’d become, not that anyone believed him. His reputation as a player was legendary in business circles and even his mom put in her two cents whenever she waved the latest tabloid snippet under his nose.
“Can I help you?”
A teenybopper version of Sarah Jessica Parker bounced up to him, twirling one of her dirty-blonde curls around her finger as her greedy gaze gobbled him up.
“I’m meeting someone…” he trailed off as he finally caught sight of Sierra, deep in conversation with the last person he expected to see in a place like this.
“Frigging great,” he muttered, making a beeline for the table, waving away Sarah Jessica as she looked set to bound behind him.
Little wonder he hadn’t been able to spot Sierra earlier. She had her head bent so damn close to hear what his father was saying the two could’ve shared headphones and been comfortable.
“Hey.”
She looked up and smiled as he neared the table, her genuine enthusiasm at seeing him sending a weird sensation rippling through him. He could’ve easily named it lust but he’d be lying. He’d known this woman for forty-eight bizarre hours: they’d argued, made out, and had a date. He’d consoled her, opened up to her, was more vulnerable to her than any other woman he’d ever met. So seeing her in a cozy tête-à-tête with the man he despised drove a stake through his heart.
“Marc?” His father’s head snapped up and surprise didn’t come close to describing the look on his face.
“You two know each other?” Sierra shook her head. “I thought Love was a close-knit community.”
“You could say that.” George tore his gaze from Sierra’s cleavage long enough to answer the question and rather than planting a fist in his father’s face, his first instinct, Marc gritted his teeth.
“We’re related.”
“Really?” Her head swiveled between the two of them as if trying to see the family resemblance.
“George is my father,” he said begrudgingly, all too aware that while biologically true, the old man didn’t know the meaning of the word.
Her eyes widened and to his utter amazement, she turned to George. “You don’t look old enough to have a son Marc’s age.”
Typically, his father preened like a proud peacock showing off his fancy feathers. He’d seen him react like this many times before, whenever a beautiful woman flattered him.
Not that he didn’t deserve it. At sixty one George Fairley didn’t a look a day over fifty, a young fifty at that. A few gray hairs peppered his thick, black hair while the lines fanning from the corners of his brown eyes merely added character to his tanned face. Combined with the perfectly capped smile and the fortune he made no effort to hide with his exquisitely tailored suits, personalized cufflinks and solid gold Rolex, and most women were bowled over.
He’d never have picked the savvy redhead to be one of them. So why was she practically simpering and how the hell did the two know each other?
As if reading his mind, she said, “I dropped my purse and George was kind enough to help me pick everything up.”
“That’s dear old dad, a regular Sir Galahad.”
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He scored a direct hit with his sarcasm, his bitterness audible, as George’s eyes narrowed to angry slits.
George had spent a lifetime impressing other people with his generosity and magnanimous gestures. Pity it hadn’t extended to his family. At home he’d been downright miserly with anything, including his affection. Little wonder his mom had run into the arms of the first guy who’d opened them in her direction.
Confusion clouded Sierra’s eyes at the animosity emanating from him like a toxic cloud.
“Yeah, it’s rare to find a gentleman in this day and age,” she said, with a pointed glare in his direction.
Like he was the one who needed taking down. Why were women oblivious to the contrived manipulative charm of his father? Or was it the age thing, where a younger guy would be labeled as a sleazy slime ball while his older counterpart was witty and charming? Charming as a ravenous shark cruising the Pacific off Malibu.
“Thanks, Sierra. You’re a smart woman. Tell me. Why hang around my son then?”
With a smug grin George relaxed and slid his arm across the back of the booth, perilously close to touching Sierra.
White-hot anger slashed Marc’s gut and he clenched his fists, ramming them into his pockets to prevent from slamming them into George’s arrogant face.
The old guy was baiting him. Too bad Marc had had a gutful of his pitiful games growing up.
Before Sierra could respond, Marc leaned in, towering over George, enjoying the slight flicker of unease in his predatory eyes.
“That’s lame even for you. Surely you can do better than that?”
George’s perturbed gaze shifted, darted away. Typical. He never could look anyone in the eye, especially when faced with the truth.
“Sierra and I were about to have a drink—”
“Why don’t you leave?”
Sierra opened her mouth to interject and Marc shot her a warning glance.
“You really want to do this? Here? Now?” Marc slid his hands from his pockets and braced on the back of a chair, looming over George. “Nothing to say? That’d be a first. Back then, Mom and I couldn’t stop you. All those put-downs and lies and—”
