THIS PERFECT KISS

by Christie Ridgway

  But tonight wouldn't be like those other parties. Thank God he'd convinced Jilly to be in attendance. As predicted, within hours those damn condom-shop photos had hit the Net and the tabloid TV programs, but had quickly been eclipsed by another brouhaha involving the male lead in Greg's last movie and his horse. With Jilly on Rory's arm, the entire rhinestoned episode would be quickly forgotten. Nothing would mar the long-awaited events of this evening.

  On that thought, Iris strolled through the connecting door. At the sight of what she was wearing, Rory's jaw dropped. "No," he said.

  She raised her eyebrows in an imperious manner that uncomfortably reminded him of himself. "Yes," she answered.

  Mrs. Mack had bought the little girl a blue-on-blue, velvet-and-ribbon two-piece outfit for the party. Iris had claimed she could dress herself, which left Mrs. Mack free for the thousand other details she needed to attend to. But looking at the child, Rory had to accept that either Iris was not capable of dressing herself, or she was intent on sending him to a padded room.

  She had donned the prescribed clothes, all right, but donned them all wrong. The elastic-waisted skirt had been drawn up under her arms like a tube top. The shirt was buttoned around her waist. And the matching blue tights had been pulled over her blond hair, the legs wrapped around her head like some kind of turban. She had her black patent leather shoes on the wrong feet.

  Rory closed his eyes, struggling for control. She was testing him, of course. There was a book on his nightstand, The 4-Year-Old's Fearsome Mind, and it predicted battles just like this one. He tried to remember its advice, but when none of it came quickly to mind, he opened his eyes and pointed toward the bedroom. "Go fix it." Then he belatedly added, "Please."

  "No."

  Rory shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and squeezed his speech into a ball. "Yes. Right now. We don't have time to fool around. Guests will be arriving for the party any minute."

  "I don't want to go to the party."

  "I don't care what you want. Tonight's important and you need to be there," he said loudly. Then he softened his voice. "Just for a little while. I have a baby-sitter coming a bit later."

  "No baby-sitter."

  "Four-year-old sitter, then. Now go get dressed properly." He cleared his throat, trying to find the words to persuade her. "C'mon, Iris. I want to show you off as my little girl."

  "I won't." Her blue eyes glittered and her voice rose with each word. "I won't. I won't go to the party, I won't live with you, and I'll never be your little girl!"

  Rory struggled for calm. "Iris—"

  "Is there a problem?" Greg said from the playroom doorway.

  Rory spun toward him. "Hel—heck, yes, there's a problem. You wore her out on your Vegas jaunt and now she refuses to go to the party." He narrowed his gaze, taking in his brother's jeans and cowboy boots. "And where the hell is your dinner jacket?"

  "I don't want to go to the party either," Greg said. He looked down at Iris, who had rushed over to his side, and tweaked the tights-turban. "A Blue Hat, Green Hat moment, huh, bug?"

  Rory frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  Greg shot Rory a look. "I'm talking about Iris's favorite book, Blue Hat, Green Hat. It's about animals who dress themselves, and the turkey who always gets it wrong."

  Rory shuffled his feet. Okay, so he didn't know the kid's favorite book.

  Looking down at the little girl, Greg shook his head. "You know, this makes you the turkey, Iris."

  She pouted. "I'm not a turkey."

  "You are, dressed like that." He pushed her gently toward her bedroom. "Now go fix yourself up while I talk to Rory."

  She gave Greg a half-pleading, half-pouting look, but he ignored her, and after a moment she walked toward her bedroom. "I still hate you," she hissed in Rory's direction, then slammed the bedroom door shut.

  "Sorry about that," Greg said. "I'll talk to her about not using the word 'hate'."

  Rory shook his head. "You're not responsible for her."

  An odd expression crossed Greg's face. He squared his shoulders. "Yes, in a way I am. Day before yesterday I married Iris's mother in Vegas."

  Rory stared. "What?"

  "I'm married."

  Rory tried grinning. "I don't believe it." This had to be some kind of joke.

  But Greg didn't grin back. "I married Kim Sullivan, who is Iris's mother."

  "What?"

  "We all lived here together before Iris was born. Roderick, Kim, and I. I fell in love with her then."

  Something cold and slimy slithered down Rory's spine. "Are you telling me you're Iris's fath—"

  "No!" Greg took a quick step forward, then halted, drawing in a deep breath. "I want to kill you for thinking that about Kim, about me, but we're going to have to get used to it. Iris is absolutely Roderick and Kim's child. When they were married, I never touched Kim. She wouldn't even let me tell her how I felt."

  Rory slowly shook his head. "I don't understand."

  "I know you don't." Greg looked him directly in the eye. "But more than four years ago I fell in love, without considering the consequences or the complications. Hell, I'm not sure I had time to consider them." His mouth briefly turned up in a rueful smile. "And to be honest, I wasn't very good at hiding my feelings. I'm certain that's why Roderick threw Kim out. He hated the idea we were in competition."

  Rory made an impatient gesture. "The old man married an eighteen-year-old girl. He finally woke up to the truth. She was out for his money or his influence. Something. That's why he threw her out."

  At his sides, Greg's hands fisted. "And I'd like to hit you for that, too. But Kim wouldn't thank me for it. She'll tell you herself that she made a bargain with Roderick that she regrets. She was young and desperate, but she won't use that as an excuse either. Five years later, however, she's built up a business and built up herself."

  Rory still couldn't take it in. "Jesus Christ, Greg," he said slowly. "Do you hear what you're saying? You married our grandfather's ex-wife. The mother of his child. Even our father never went that far."

  Greg nodded. "It's true. And we want you to give us custody of Iris."

  Rory's jaw dropped again. "You've got to be kidding! Roderick gave custody of her to me!"

  "But I've lived with her for her entire life. I'm the closest thing she's ever had to a father, and I want to be a father to her." Greg's eyes went steely. "Roderick choosing you was his revenge on me. Not the best choice for Iris."

  "Yeah, right. You're an actor, Greg. As flaky and irresponsible as Daniel and Roderick."

  There was a long pause, and then Greg's face settled into cold, implacable lines. "Damn you, Rory." His voice was full of quiet fury. "Damn you for not looking beyond the Kincaid last name and seeing the man I am."

  Rory tensed, just as furious. "Not looking beyond the Kincaid last name? Damn you back, Greg, because I've been trying to get beyond the Kincaid last name my entire life. I want it to stand for—"

  "Something different," Greg finished for him. "Well, I'm not ashamed of who I am or of my career, Rory. And I'm not our father, who only looks after his own selfish needs, or our grandfather, who manipulated people to feed his power. If you want to know the truth, that sounds more like you."

  "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  A muscle jumped in Greg's jaw. "Just think about what you've done lately in the name of the so-honorable Blue Party. There's your so-called engagement. And then there's Iris. If you really want to make the Kincaid name stand for something different, maybe you should think about what she needs and stop using her like our grandfather or father would."

  Anger poured into Rory's blood. His brother was lecturing him. His Hollyweird-based little brother was trying to tell him what was right and wrong. His little brother who wouldn't have known the difference between the two if it weren't for Rory. "I—"

  "Mr. Rory!" Mrs. Mack's voice called from the hallway. "Guests are arriving!"

  Rory closed his eyes. Shit. The party. He'
d completely forgotten about it. Heavy with thunderclaps, his doom-cloud descended, weighing heavily against his shoulders.

  "Mr. Rory!" Mrs. Mack called again.

  He opened his eyes. "I'm coming!" Then he pointed his finger at his brother. "You I'll talk to later."

  "I won't give in, Rory." Greg folded his arms over his chest. "Not this time, and not about Iris."

  Ignoring the remark, Rory quickly brushed past his brother. He hurried down the staircase to discover that his first guest, standing uncertainly in the foyer, was Jilly.

  His immediate, flooding sense of pleasure at the sight of her set his hackles rising once more. He scowled at her. "You're late." He had no idea what the hour was. He had never told her a particular time to arrive.

  Her chin shot up and her pretty green eyes narrowed. "You didn't tell me what time to come."

  She was always smarter than she looked. And she looked—God, she looked like a Valentine fairy. A bosomy fairy, but a fairy all the same. Her long skirt was a soft pink, and a filmy fabric lay over a stiffer one, so that it belied out gently. A tiny, cap-sleeved fuzzy sweater in the same pink covered her from modest cleavage to her waist. Her mouth was painted a deeper shade of pink and her dark hair hung in semi-tamed ringlets to her shoulders. And there were jewels in her hair.

  He blinked, dazzled by them. Dozens of tiny rubies appeared to be sprinkled through her curls, like mini-kisses. Without thinking, he reached toward them. She stepped back, and the movement exposed a small slice of her stomach between the navel-grazing band of her skirt and the hem of her sweater.

  A dime-sized ruby nestled in her belly button.

  Lust, like a hot fist, sucker-punched him. Another emotion, unnameable but undeniable, also hit him. Hit him someplace else, someplace deeper. For a moment he couldn't breathe. Then he found his voice. "Jilly—"

  "Oh, Rory, there you are! Where should we go?"

  He couldn't take his eyes off the woman in front of him. "What?" he asked absently, not even registering who had spoken. His senses were completely tuned to Jilly. He could smell her perfume and, even from here, feel that telltale heat of her skin.

  He wanted to lick her. He wanted to kiss her, consume her, take her into him and drive himself into her, as he'd done the last morning they'd been together. He wanted them so close that nothing would untangle them.

  A hand prodded his arm. "We're looking for Paul and Tran."

  Rory glanced toward the voice, looked back to Jilly, then did a double take. It was Aura. Aura and Dr. John, and a gaggle of others, all wearing matching red vests over their own idiosyncratic get-ups. He swallowed. "What—" He swallowed again. "Why are you here?"

  "We're here to help Paul and Tran, of course," Aura replied, smiling. Her blue-covered book was tucked beneath her arm. "What do you think of our vests? I dragged out my sewing machine and made them myself. French seams. They're completely lined, yet I think dry cleaning won't be necessary. Just the gentle cycle and a cool iron."

  Rory gaped at her. Not only was Aura a ringer for Martha Stewart in the looks department, but apparently she could talk like the domestic doyenne at times too. "The vests are fine," he said faintly.

  She smiled. "Now, where are Paul and Tran? We're here, all of us, to help this evening."

  As he ran his gaze over the entire group of oddballs, Rory's momentary pleasure in Jilly fizzled out in a cold wash of dismay. Knowing the FreeWesters would be helping tonight, he should have been more prepared for this. But instead, he'd chosen to delude himself that he'd already paid and paid and paid in the what-could-go-wrong-next department.

  The light from the foyer's massive ironwork-and-stained-glass chandelier gleamed off the bald pate of the equally massive Dr. John. The light also caught the several hoops the big man was wearing in multiple locations for the occasion. Someone—Rory thought he recognized the gender-unspecific salesclerk from the condom shop—smiled sunnily from behind the big man's shoulder.

  Rory stared. The salesclerk's two front teeth were each decorated with a faithfully rendered American flag. Rory didn't want to think about the sort of process that kind of result required. Behind the salesclerk stood several others, all but the last sporting a startling hairstyle, hair color, tattoo, or all three.

  Dragging his gaze off the sight, Rory rubbed his temple. "Paul and Tran are in the kitchen. That way." He pointed in the general direction, then watched as the group turned and shuffled off in a ragtag line. That calf-bleat he'd recently found himself capable of slid past his lips when he noticed that the last FreeWester—the only one who'd appeared seminormal from the front—wore his hair in waist-length dreadlocks.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Rory couldn't even think of a swear word strong enough to cover this situation. And the hell of it was, there was nothing he could do about it. Any moment, guests were expected to arrive. Little did they know it was for a "Come as Rory's Worst Nightmare" party.

  Once the FreeWesters disappeared from sight, he swung back toward Jilly, a red-and-pink target for all his frustration and foreboding. "This is your fault," he said.

  "Oh, no." She shook her head. The jewels in her hair flashed. "You're not going to pin your problems on me."

  Oh, yes, he was. Because she'd descended on Caidwater like a plague, upsetting, tormenting, turning upside down and sideways every plan he'd made. "I wouldn't be in this fix if it wasn't for you."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Which fix would that be?"

  He made a wild gesture with his hand. "Scandals, oddballs, freaks, flakes! Just when I'm getting my life in order, you surf in and curse it with your do-gooder schemes and your dopey friends."

  "Friends so dopey they gave up their evening to help you out of a jam. You needed them, remember?"

  He hated that she had a point. "If I'd been thinking clearly, I would have put tuna salad on Saltine crackers and served it myself instead of letting those loons into the house. What the hell are the guests going to think?"

  Jilly shrugged. "Maybe they'll surprise you and look below the surface to see the good people they are. You could stand to do a little of that yourself, you know."

  He clenched his teeth. "A little of what?"

  "Looking deeper." Color rose up her throat and cheeks. "I bet you haven't spent two seconds in the last ten years scratching beneath the surface. Why don't you devote a couple of minutes to self-improvement and try to see inside my friends, me, yourself even."

  His blood was starting to heat. "What's your point?"

  "My point is that if you look beneath the surface, Rory you might find something surprising."

  He said the first thing that came into his head. "The only thing that's surprised me lately is finding a woman who turned away from a whole aspect of life—from sex—because she was afraid one old lady's prediction would come true. You let that fear control you for years. How's that for scratching the surface?"

  She sucked in a sharp breath and then looked away. "Forget it. Don't even bother looking inward, Rory. I'm suddenly certain there's nothing inside you. Not flesh, not blood, not heart. Nothing."

  That he thought he might have hurt her made him even madder. His blood heated another few degrees. "Oh, you can dish it out, darling, but you just can't take it, can you? I've looked inside you, my sweet, and see a woman so trapped in the past and so caught up in proving something to someone else that she doesn't have a clue what she wants for herself."

  Her gaze instantly snapped back to him. "And I can say the same thing of you," she retorted. "Do you really want to hold public office? Is all this concern over propriety and perfection something you really care about? Or do you just want people to think 'senator' instead of 'scandal' when they hear the Kincaid name?"

  His blood boiled over. "I'm sick of that question, dammit. All that I care about is supposed to come true tonight. The name Kincaid, for once, is supposed to be associated with something honorable and worthwhile. But I see it slipping through my fingers, thanks to you."

  She flinched
, and all the starch left her spine. Her hand pressed against her stomach—right over that crazy, distracting ruby. "Fine," she said, her voice now quiet and suddenly devoid of emotion. "If it's really what you want, Rory then you can have it. That's what I've heard, anyway. Just close your fingers. Hold on tight and don't let go."

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  Trying to ignore the new bruises on her broken heart, Jilly watched Rory's mouth open. But before he could get out another word, Uncle Fitz and his Blue Party entourage surged through the front door. Rory was forced to move forward to greet them and Jilly used his distraction to slip away.

  Unsure of what to do next, she escaped in the direction of the soft, calming strains of a violin. She found herself on the back terrace, where white fairy lights were wound around the stone balustrades. The gardens below were lit as well, turning the Caidwater grounds into a magical, romantic kingdom.

  A champagne glass was placed in her palm, cold liquid sloshing a little to drip on her fingers. "Congratulate me," Kim said.

  Jilly turned. "You're back. And—" The twinkling lights caught in the fire of the diamond on Kim's left hand. "You did it. You're married." Despite how sick she felt inside, Jilly smiled.

  Kim touched the edge of her glass to Jilly's. Clink. "Yes." She grinned. "We actually did it. I can't believe how happy I am."

  "That's wonderful," Jilly whispered, emotion tightening her throat. "That's so, so wonderful."

  With twin movements, they both took big gulps of the champagne. Kim laughed almost giddily and Jilly blinked, startled by the lighthearted sound. Kim's brown eyes sparkled and her face was flushed. She looked … she looked alive.

  "Greg must be good for you," Jilly said.

  Kim nodded. "And I'm going to be good to him. Iris, too." She hesitated. "We haven't told her I'm her mother … we're talking about how best to do that, but she's going to know the truth. I promise that. No more secrets."

  Jilly frowned. "Has Greg talked to Rory—"

  "Don't worry." Kim put her hand on Jilly's arm. "It's our problem now. I should never have let you go into my battles for me. I see that. But we'll handle it from here."