Sea Glass Sunrise

by Donna Kauffman

  “I’m not married, no,” he said, then surprised himself when he added, “though I’m not exactly eligible, either.” His thoughts went to Hannah, and he smiled to himself, thinking she probably wouldn’t appreciate him slotting her in the spoken-for category alongside himself.

  Cami’s gaze narrowed as she took in his smile. “Fortunate woman,” she murmured, then glanced up as her tea service tray was delivered. “Don’t dither, set it down,” she instructed the young man with snappish impatience.

  Calder felt he should apologize to the young steward, given her animosity was likely directed at him and not the hired help, but he was too busy trying to interpret why Winstock’s married daughter was hitting on him in the first place. Right under her father’s roof.

  “Do you often have breakfast with your father?” he asked, as his quiche was quickly set in front of him, along with the assorted appropriate flatware. “I’m sure he must enjoy that. You’re the only child, right?” He flashed her a grin. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished I was an only.”

  “How many brothers did you say you have?” she asked, steeping her tea strainer in a dainty china cup with a pattern matching that of the single-serving-size teapot that had been delivered with it.

  “I have three. All younger.”

  Her perfectly penciled eyebrows lifted. “And all of them married? However did you escape the noose?”

  “Two of them. The youngest is still in college. And I didn’t,” he said. “Escape the noose, I mean.”

  Interest sparked right back to life in those soulless depths, but was quickly hidden behind a moue of sympathy. She had quite a mouth on her, he’d already noted, the kind of full, bowed lips a man would go to great lengths to get pressed to various parts of his anatomy. A man other than himself. He thought of the banged-up and bruised set of lips that had consumed his every waking thought for the past four days. Well, the woman they belonged to had, anyway.

  “Divorced then,” she said. “That can be such a difficult thing.”

  Some shred of another emotion in her voice had him looking up from his quiche. “It was,” he said, curious now. Then added, “Very,” to see if that encouraged her to open up.

  “How long ago?”

  “Two years,” he said. “Longer, I guess, if you add in the separation.”

  She nodded, still looking at him, though her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. She mindlessly added sugar to her tea, and though he didn’t know her, he thought it wasn’t in character for her to not be paying attention to every tiny detail, even how much sugar she added to her tea.

  So he pressed on. “She was close to my father. My ex,” he clarified. “He very much approved of our relationship, so that didn’t help matters any.”

  She looked at him now. “So I take it you were the one to end it? Does your father blame you?”

  “It was more a . . . mutual decision,” he said, intentionally making it sound anything but. “But yes, my father absolutely holds it against me. He’s always expected a lot from me, not the least of which was a long successful marriage and at least a few grandkids.” He smiled ruefully. “Seems my brothers are going to be far more adept at that than I am.”

  “No children then?” she queried. “And your father disapproved?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, but sighed as she took the strainer from her teacup and let it clatter to the silver service tray. “I know a little something about that myself,” she said, sounding frustrated and annoyed. She took a sip of her tea, and regarded him over the rim of the fragile cup as she lowered it again. “What is it about men and their legacies? Their inherent, obsessive need to create offspring—male offspring, mind you—as if it’s the be all and end all of achieving success?”

  He smiled. “I’m probably not the one to ask.”

  “And yet you decided not to follow that path.” Her gaze narrowed and he thought he’d really hate to be on the receiving end of her temper. “Or is that why the marriage ended? She couldn’t pop out a litter of pups for you?”

  His eyes widened at the sudden impolite turn of conversation. He wondered what she’d say if he told her that Owen Hartley had used that exact same expression—litter—only regarding her own motivations, not his. He thought it best for Owen’s longevity not to go there. “No, our marriage ended for other reasons, but we did have a difference of opinion on having a family of our own.”

  Her annoyance shifted to interest once more, and again, the hairs on his arms lifted. “You don’t want children? How . . . refreshing.”

  As it happened, it was the reverse of that, but his feelings about children had nothing to do with creating heirs or leaving legacies. Telling her would also end any chance he had of uncovering more of the situation between her and her husband. With Winstock in the crosshairs of the arson investigation, the more he learned about the inner workings of the man’s family, the better. “I’m more concerned with living my life as I want to live it rather than worrying about what I’ll be leaving behind when I’m gone, or that there will be someone to leave it to.”

  Her eyes sparkled as a smile curved her perfectly plumped lips. “Exactly! Why is it that people have such a hard time understanding that? I wasn’t put here to be a broodmare; I was put here to have a life, same as any man. I have my own goals, and it just so happens, marshaling a herd of rug rats isn’t one of them. Is that so wrong of me?”

  He shook his head. He honestly felt no one should be forced by family or society to marry, procreate, or, for that matter, take over a family business, if it wasn’t what they wanted to do. “Not at all. Seems to me that only brings suffering to more folks.” He laid his fork down, his lobster quiche still untouched. “Do you have an interest in taking over your father’s business concerns? Is he not . . . receptive to that idea? Because you’re not a son?”

  “Daddy has somewhat antiquated ideas about such things, it’s true. But I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, and let a grin lift the corners of his mouth, making it seem as though his interest—which was sincere—was perhaps inspired by something less than polite. “I’m beginning to see that,” he said.

  She glowed at the praise. “I married a man with political aspirations, who had much the same mind-set as myself.” She leaned forward, tapping her uniformly tapered and painted nails on the pale yellow linen tablecloth. “Teddy and I have always had an understanding.”

  He let his suggestively raised eyebrows ask the question for him.

  The speculative gleam that entered her eyes made him shift slightly in his seat, but not because the fit of his pants had suddenly grown uncomfortable. If anything, his pants had just become distinctly looser-fitting. But she didn’t have to know that.

  “Teddy’s family is well off enough, but they aren’t otherwise connected. He had a good enough pedigree though, and good schools, but he needs my background, my connections here in the Cove, to reach his own goals.”

  “And you needed him for . . . ?”

  “For his Y chromosome. Not to have children, though my father was quite hopeful about that. But he could help me groom Teddy for political greatness, and that would allow me to add to Daddy’s legacy and be seen as an asset to him.”

  Wow, Calder thought. Her father would only see her as an asset if she either produced more Winstocks, or added to the family legacy with a mayoral spouse, perhaps a senator, or greater? How sad. And yet, wasn’t he in much the same place with his own family? “Did you ever consider running for office yourself? I mean, you’re bright, sharp, attractive. You could have achieved that without—”

  “Kind of you to say,” she said, all but preening at his words of praise and not the least bit humble about accepting them. “But, as I said, my father has rather antiquated ideas about a woman’s role in society. We are the icing, the cake topper, the arm candy. We throw perfect parties, keep an immaculate, well-appointed home, have the perfect progeny, connect with the masses via our charitable work.” She looked h
im dead in the eye, and the fury he saw behind the bright gleam actually alarmed him. “We do not become our own successes, or further our own causes. Certainly not at the expense of our spouse, or our father. Just ask my mother.”

  “I—” He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  “She left when I was a little girl, with a man who apparently thought she had more to offer than whether or not pleated chiffon drapes looked good as a backdrop when paired with Meissen china.”

  So there’s a minefield you wandered into. Nice. He stalled with a sip of coffee, then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I take it you and your mother aren’t close, then?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from her since the day she left.”

  He was sure he looked as shocked as he felt. “That’s— harsh. I’m sorry, it’s not my place to say,” he added. “I don’t know the circumstances, but if you were young—”

  “I was three. I don’t remember her. And don’t hold it against my mother. I thought for years she simply didn’t want us, me or my father. I found out later that she’d been paid rather handsomely in the divorce to leave me with my father.” Her smile could best be described as acid. “Part of the property settlement, no doubt.” She set her teacup down, very carefully, and just as carefully schooled her features back to something softer . . . or as soft as she was capable of. She even added that little hair-lifting laugh. “I shouldn’t speak so ill of the man. After all, he was just trying to do right by me. Any woman who would run off like that—how was he to trust her with his only child?”

  Calder suspected she was reciting Brooks’s exact explanation, word for word. “That was some time ago. Your father never remarried?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t handle failure well.” She waved a hand. “Not in business, of course, because one can always turn failure there into a success elsewhere, not that he has many failures. But when it comes to life outside of business, it’s not so easily controlled, or manipulated.”

  I don’t know about that, Calder thought. Brooks Winstock seemed to be pretty damn good at doing just that. Both with men like Calder, whom he’d been jerking around like a puppet on a string, and with his own daughter, whose life he’d seemingly gone out of his way to control and neatly map out as well.

  “He doesn’t like it when life doesn’t go according to plan,” Cami went on.

  I bet he doesn’t, Calder thought, and wondered what that might mean in regard to the boathouse burning. Winstock’s life had taken an unexpected turn when Ted hadn’t won the mayoral race, and had lost his council seat as well. Was that why he’d made the desperate attempt to harm Jonah in the only way that could benefit Winstock’s future plans? Was he tired of waiting, afraid of something else unraveling his carefully made plans, and taking illegal shortcuts now?

  “Ted’s loss must have hit him hard then,” he said, trying not to show his own avid interest in her response.

  “You could say that,” she said, mildly. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here this morning. To discuss . . . options.”

  “I’m sure it’s very frustrating. What will Ted do now? What does he want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, then took another sip as a contemplative look crossed her face. But that look was quickly usurped by a slow smile. A smile that was completely at odds with the hard glint in her eyes as she looked at him and said, “It’s not my problem. I’ve informed him I’ll be seeking a divorce.”

  Calder’s eyes widened at that. “I’m—sorry to hear that. As you said, it’s never an easy thing.”

  “No,” she said, quite matter-of-factly. “No, it’s not. But, as I’ve long known, life isn’t fair. Sometimes you’re dealt a raw hand, and tough choices need to be made.” She blotted the corners of her perfectly painted lips with the linen napkin that had been spread in her lap, and dropped it unceremoniously on the tea service tray. Calder couldn’t help but think it appeared she was discarding her husband with the same careless indifference.

  “True, I suppose,” he said. “I am sorry, though.” Then another thought struck him, and suddenly, things began to make a lot more sense. “How long has he known?”

  Her gaze narrowed very briefly at the question. He thought he might have overplayed his hand, but she seemed to shrug off her suspicion and lifted a casual shoulder. “Several days ago. He’s experienced a number of losses of late, so I knew he wouldn’t take it well.”

  Calder wondered if that was the reason, or one of them, that Winstock had continually postponed their meeting. Ted apparently didn’t work for Brooks, and Cami didn’t seem overly emotional about the situation, or at all emotional, actually, but a divorce still had to be something that father and daughter would have to discuss at length. If for no other reason than it would be big news once the word got out. Naturally they’d want to control the timing and manner the news was disseminated.

  “I haven’t been in town long,” Calder said, “but I’m from a town only a little bigger than this one, and I know how challenging it is to keep that kind of news quiet.”

  “Actually, other than Ted you’re the only person I’ve told.” She smiled then, and a bit of that predatory spark came back into her eyes. “I’m not sure why.” She leaned forward slightly, lips curving again, reminding him of a jungle cat circling its prey. “You’re very easy to talk to. And, of course, we share this painful life event.”

  She tried to imbue the word “painful” with something he supposed was intended to look like discomfort, but it didn’t play exactly true, with the gleam still there in her eyes. She reached out a hand and curled those talons of hers around his wrist. “Perhaps you and I can share a drink, or dinner, before you head back to your river. Although, I suppose if you’re building Daddy’s little club, you’ll be spending a fair amount of time here.” She let his wrist go and leaned back in her chair, taking care to slowly cross her legs in a manner that wasn’t even trying not to be suggestive. He was only surprised she didn’t run a pointed toe up the side of his calf.

  “I appreciate the invite,” he said, but that’s as far as he got.

  The hallway doors opened and in strode a tall man with a well-groomed mane of silver hair, wearing a golf shirt and slacks that on anyone else might have been casual attire, but managed to make Brooks Winstock look as if he’d just stepped out of his personal tailor’s shop. In Milan.

  “Daddy,” Cami said, instantly all smiles. She unfolded her legs and rose gracefully, in one sweeping motion that, given the snug fit of her skirt, Calder thought almost defied physics. She leaned in for a hug as her father paused at her end of the table.

  He kissed the top of her hair, careful not to muss it, Calder noted, then stepped back. “Look at you,” he said, his lips curving, but his gaze more considering and observant than filled with fatherly affection. “Lovely as always. Fresh as a garden flower.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. You look good too. Hope the game went well this morning?”

  Game. So Brooks had put Calder off . . . for a golf game? Calder had stood at the same time as Cami, tossing his linen napkin over the uneaten quiche. He silently hoped the steward and the chef didn’t come under some kind of reprimand for his lack of appetite.

  “Mr. Winstock,” he said, extending his hand across the table as the older gentleman came to stand behind the chair opposite his, a polite smile on his face. “A pleasure to finally meet.”

  Winstock took his hand in a quick, firm handshake, but there was no corresponding smile on his face now. Once he’d looked away from his daughter, he’d become the consummate businessman once again, golf attire or no. “My apologies for dragging this out so long.” He noticed the linen on Calder’s plate with a quick flick of his gaze. “If you’re done, why don’t we head to my office. Here,” he qualified, “in the house. Just across the hallway.”

  “I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your business,” Cami said, then looked at her father. “I’ll be up in my rooms. We’ll talk when you’re through?”<
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  “Absolutely. I’ll send up for you. I’m glad you’ve taken my advice and plan to stay here. It’s really for the best.” He stepped around the table and leaned in for another hug. “It’s good to have you home again, kitten.”

  Her smile didn’t falter so much as a whisper, but Calder hadn’t missed the oh-so-slight mist that had sheened her eyes as she propped her chin on his shoulder during the brief hug. It was gone by the time Winstock straightened, but Calder knew what he’d seen. Maybe she wasn’t completely cold and calculating after all. At least where her father was concerned.

  She turned to Calder and held out her hand again. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blue.” Her lips curved more deeply. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

  She’d extended her hand, fingertips curled downward, and once again he was left to consider just what she intended. He took her fingertips in a gentle grip, but didn’t nod this time. “The pleasure was mine. Good luck with . . . your future plans.”

  She smiled then and it was at odds with the poor little girl look that had been on her face when her father had hugged her a moment ago, not to mention completely inappropriate given said father was standing just behind him, in clear view of what could only be described as a . . . hungry expression.

  “Perhaps we can discuss exactly that,” she said, then curled her hand to run the side of her thumb up the center of his palm. “Dinner and drinks, then. I look forward to it.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Calder to tamp down his body’s instant response to her unexpected little caress. Even if his body was one step ahead of his brain, her touch shouldn’t have had that effect on him. He turned to find Winstock looking at him with a decidedly calculating expression on his face.

  The man missed nothing, and Calder was left grappling for the appropriate thing to say, knowing such a thing really didn’t exist.

  “You’ll have to forgive Camille,” Winstock said, taking pity on him, if the half smile now curving the corner of his mouth was any indication.