by Maggie Wells
Laney had the good grace to grimace when she was caught ogling her millionaire. “I won’t.” She tore herself from whatever crazy eye sex mojo Harley was using on her and turned back to the task at hand. Clearing her throat, she gave the bodice of her dress a surreptitious tug. “Brian Dalton. Did I mention wanting to be his barnacle?”
It was Brooke’s turn to grin. “Liar.”
Cradling her drink in both hands, Laney darted one last wistful glance at the bar area. “Okay, fine. But I’m telling you, if Mr. Cade so much as blinks you’ll be scraping me off Brian’s…hull.”
“I’m starting to think you might be hooked on Harley.” Raising her glass in a mocking toast, she smiled sweetly. “But if it makes you feel better, I still think you’re a hussy.”
Laney grinned. “Thank you.”
At that moment, Brian turned his head and their gazes locked. Her breath snagged when he took a step in her direction, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. Taking a casual sip of her drink, she rolled her shoulders back, edged one foot in front of the other, and arched her back ever-so-slightly. A trick that her mother, like any former Miss Alabama worth her salt, passed along to her daughter the moment she left the cradle.
Brooke learned the power of the pose long before she’d had any assets to display. By the time she finished puberty, she’d honed it to sharp perfection. It never failed to rile Emmaline Hastings’s that her daughter chose to wield the power of the written word rather than the ceremonial sash. Wearing a smile to cover the uncertainty that twanged her nerves, she surveyed the room with studied nonchalance.
It seemed she’d been doing this her whole life. Measuring, testing, and gauging. Checking herself against the competition. From her first Little Miss Mobile crown to the Pulitzer Prize nomination she’d garnered at the tender age of twenty-six. To her mother and the world outside the microcosm of print journalism, she was a wunderkind, a prodigy, a savant. But those on the inside knew the glow of that nomination faded the second someone used her story to line their parrot cage. And one of those people was her boss.
Despite the critical acclaim her series garnered in the aftermath of the Gulf Oil Spill crisis, The Courier, like many other print news outlets, was suffering an acute case of declining circulation. The sinking numbers put a lot of pressure on the paper’s management and reporting staff. Her boss wasn’t only the news editor, he was the publisher’s son and heir apparent.
She needed a big story and she needed one bad. And to that end, she also needed Brian Dalton, but not in the way that Laney or Emmaline might hope.
Her pulse beat a frantic strobe when she saw her mother snare Brian’s arm and pull him into the slipknot of people eddying at the edge of the dance floor. Blond and beautiful as the day she was crowned thirty-three years before, people naturally gravitated to her mama. Brooke’s father liked to say Emmaline was a force of nature. One that left the people in her wake reeling and off-kilter. Like the hurricanes that battered the coast with disheartening regularity, Brooke had learned long ago that the best course of action when caught in her eye was to hunker down and wait it out.
Laney sighed as she watched Emmaline work her magic. “I swear she made a deal with the devil.”
“Don’t kid yourself. My mother is the devil.”
Joking or not, it was a plausible explanation. Emmaline looked obscenely good for a woman who’d hit the half-century mark and barreled right past it. The dress she wore clung to curves disciplined by hours on the elliptical and skimmed the long, lean legs that nabbed first place in every swimsuit competition she’d ever entered. If Brooke didn’t love her mother so damn much, she wouldn’t have bothered hating her. She would have gone straight to putting glue in her shampoo bottle.
Lifting her glass, she tossed back the remainder of her drink then plopped the empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter. She fought the urge to stomp her stiletto-clad foot as she watched her mother bathe Brian in the spotlight of her attentions. Then he blinked and gave his head a bewildered shake. Emmaline’s eyes narrowed a millimeter, and the side-to-side wag morphed into a weak nod.
Her mother out-sparkled the chandelier above their heads. Familial pride rippled through Brooke. A woman wearing a blue and green plaid kilt pressed a glass of stout into Brian’s limp hand. Emmaline patted his arm, marking the end of negotiations. The man’s befuddled expression confirmed a direct hit.
“Damn, she’s good,” a deep voice drawled.
Blatant admiration dripped from each word. Brooke didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know her father was standing behind her. “The best.”
Henry Hastings pressed a kiss to his daughter’s cheek, an indulgent smile creasing his time-worn, but still handsome, face. Seizing the chance for escape, Laney murmured her excuses and headed straight for the bar and Harley Cade.
A speculative gleam lit her father’s forest green eyes. “How much do you think she got him for?”
Brooke let a shoulder rise and fall before she returned her father’s conspiratorial grin. “Five?”
Her father snorted and rocked back on his heels as he wet his lips with what was surely very good bourbon. “Chump change. She got at least ten large out of that boy.”
She couldn’t help but smile when her daddy smacked his lips, clearly savoring the splash of eau de banned booze that lingered there. Emmaline only allowed him one drink a night these days. Henry made certain it was exceptional and nursed it through the entirety of whatever social event he was forced to endure that week. Her father would have happily ponied up ten grand to get out of the room, but after three decades of marriage he knew better than to try.
Her parents had what genteel society might call an understanding. He was allowed to shoot, stuff and mount as many woodland creatures as he desired as long as the trophies remained in his garage or the hunting cabin his granddaddy built. She could buy as many pretty party dresses and accept as many invitations as she pleased, but her husband would serve as an accessory no more than once a week.
Her father was far more approachable. Affable and indulgent, he masked his sharp intellect with a smooth Southern gentleman veneer. As dark as her mother was light, the two of them were a striking and formidable pair. The tartan plaid of his tie might have been a concession to the occasion, but the effect played up the roguish features of his Scots-Irish heritage.
Brooke chuckled. “What was I thinking? Of course she got ten.”
Her reward was a kiss on the cheek and a one-armed squeeze. “You look awful pretty, pumpkin.”
The familiar scent of her daddy’s aftershave was all she needed to reinforce the steel in her backbone. Henry Hastings was her biggest fan and staunchest defender. They were a unit, a team, a mutual admiration society made for two.
Lifting the glass of rationed mash, he toasted her. “Thank you for comin’. You made your mama very happy, and you saved me from utter and complete boredom.”
“It’s the least I could do. After all, you allowed me to get a top notch education without having to resort to smearing Preparation H under my eyes.”
“Now, now. Don’t mock your mama’s scholarship programs,” he warned, a smile quirking his lips.
Knowing they’d arrived at an impasse, she reached for two of her most effective weapons—distraction and deflection. “What’s this I hear about you buying a new boat?”
His answering huff confirmed a direct hit. Her parents’ latest struggle for marital control revolved around a news magazine article on funding retirement and what her mother considered an excess of unnecessary discretionary spending. His.
“It’s a johnboat, for Christ’s sake, not a cabin cruiser.”
Squeezing her father’s arm, Brooke darted a glance around the room, checking to be certain none of St. Pat’s few remaining nuns stood nearby to hear her father blaspheme. “Hush, Daddy. I was teasing you.”
Henry took a hasty gulp of his beloved bourbon. “It’s not funny. I tell you it’s a crying shame when a man who works as hard as I do wants to buy himself one little toy and he ends up getting nothing but a bellyful of guff.”
“Damn straight.”
The words were soft-spoken but heartfelt enough to break into the conversation. Brooke jumped and whirled, but the butterflies in the pit of her stomach identified the owner a heartbeat before their gazes met.
A smug smile played at the corners of Brian’s mouth. The same one he wore when she missed the Advanced Chemistry review due to an impacted wisdom tooth. He’d refused to lend her his notes, the bastard. For months after that graduation day kiss she stewed and simmered, wondering if whatever precious data he captured in his Mead three-subject spiral cost her the chance of giving the Valedictory address.
“Hello, Brooke.”
Meet the Author
Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her
slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed. For more please visit www.maggie-wells.com.
