What he couldn’t do was stand here with Franklin Bishop and watch the dawning horror spread over his face. He took a step, but Bishop’s hand lashed out, gripping him by the forearm, stopping him.
“Joshua,” he said, his voice deepened with age and hoarse with emotion, but otherwise the same as Dawson remembered it.
Dawson snatched free, snarling as he brushed past. “Joshua’s dead.”
“No.” Bishop tried to keep pace, his voice rising with desperation. “Son,” he called, “please.”
Dawson paused, the years of accumulated ugliness twisting his lips into a sneer. “You don’t have a son. And I sure as hell don’t have a father.”
Where did he go?
Arianna slumped in the wingback chair nearest the open French doors overlooking the pool, nursed her hot chocolate and hated life. She hated the stupid, bright sunshiny day outside, and she hated the happy little roses in the garden, with their velvety pink-and-yellow petals and heavy fragrance. Her hot chocolate was too sweet, and she hated that. Over on the far wall above the mantel, a portrait of Uncle Reynolds glared down at her, and she wished she could toss her hot chocolate in his haughty face. She also hated herself for (a) wasting the final hours of last night’s party desperately searching for a man who’d walked out on her without a word, (b) feeling devastated about it and (c) losing sleep over it.
Most of all, she hated Dawson. For doing this to her.
Although, to be fair, had he really done anything to her? Other than making her foolish heart flutter and screwing her senseless, that is?
No. He hadn’t.
She finished the last sip of her hot chocolate and stared moodily at the dark dregs at the bottom, accepting the brutal truth about herself and what she’d done last night. It wasn’t pretty.
Why was she making him the bad guy? He hadn’t done anything other than accept her oh-so-enthusiastic offer of no-holds-barred, no-questions-asked sex. What man wouldn’t? Should she blame him for that? No. He hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t flirted with her. Hell, he’d even tried to leave without learning her name.
How much clearer could he have been?
I’m not interested, dummy. That’s what he’d been saying. And here she was, so unspeakably dumb that she’d not only not gotten the message, but she’d gleefully had sex in a greenhouse with a man whose last name she didn’t even know.
Brilliant.
Dummy.
Slamming the cup down on the side table—Aunt Arnetta would throw a fit later because what if, God forbid, a moisture ring turned up on her precious mahogany?— Arianna heaved herself up and went to stare out at the pool, seeing nothing in particular. Some stupid family meeting would be starting soon, but for now she had a few good minutes left to sulk, and she planned to make the most of the time.
The thing was, why hadn’t Dawson just told her the truth? That’s why she was so upset right now, the real reason she’d cried last night and felt like she’d been backed over by an eighteen-wheeler with snow chains on the tires. She’d asked him whether they were just having a one-time thing, and he’d said no. Why’d he lie? He’d had her by then; she’d been so desperate by that point to feel him moving inside her that she wouldn’t have minded if he’d confessed to being a brain-chomping zombie.
But what did she expect? That was a man for you: wall-to-wall empty promises. He’d looked her straight in the face and made up some pretty nonsense about being a part of her life for a while.
Huh. Maybe that was the problem. She should have asked him to define “a while.” He could have told her that to him it only meant long enough to ejaculate, and then she’d’ve known exactly what she was getting.
Oh, come on. Who was she fooling? She had known. Please. When in the history of life had any sort of worthwhile relationship evolved from a sexual encounter within an hour of meeting someone? Never, that’s when. Dawson had only done what he apparently thought, in his twisted, stupid little male mind, was the right thing—may he die a thousand excruciating deaths and his black soul burn in the hottest fires of hell forever—and let her down easy.
“Arianna?”
Not that she’d thought they’d get married and live happily ever after, or anything ridiculous like that—
“Arianna?”
But she had expected to share a bowl of pasta or something with him. Maybe get to know each other a little better and see what happened. Was that too much to hope?
“Arianna!”
Arianna jumped, unwillingly blasted out of her thoughts by her aunt’s insistent voice. “What?” she said ungraciously.
Arnetta Warner, her aunt on her mother’s side, gave Arianna the Look, which was a genteel Southern frown that consisted of slightly lowered brows and pursed lips. “My goodness,” she drawled. “I’ve never seen such a collection of sourpusses. Is there something in the water today? What’s gotten into all of you?”
Arianna was about to ask for an explanation, because surely no one else in the house could feel as bad as she currently did, but then she saw Bishop and did a triple take.
He trailed along in Aunt Arnetta’s wake, pushing the breakfast cart, which was weighed down with coffee-and teapots, pastries and who knew what else. He was starched and pressed as usual, with his white dress shirt and dark slacks as dapper as ever, but his shoulders and eyes drooped, and she wondered whether the cart was the only thing holding him up.
“Bishop?” Worry crept over Arianna’s skin. Bishop, she already knew from her brief time here at Heather Hill, was the rock, the touchstone of sanity, in a house full of oversized personalities and fragile egos. If something was wrong with Bishop, then something was seriously wrong. “You okay?”
“’Course I’m okay.” Steering the cart next to the coffee table, he smiled, winked and put some more spring in his step. “Just a little tired after the big party. You want some more hot chocolate?”
This was not convincing, especially now that he was close enough for her to see the grayish tinge to his brown skin, as though he’d soon be regurgitating whatever he’d eaten this morning. She was about to press the issue, but he waited, smiling with such an air of determined avoidance that she couldn’t say one more word. Instead, she passed him her empty cup.
“Thanks.” She and Aunt Arnetta exchanged discreet sidelong looks, silently agreeing that they were concerned about him and would discuss the matter later. “That’d be great.”
Bishop poured the steaming hot chocolate with all the serenity of Gandhi during his daily meditation and handed it back to her. “You enjoy the party?”
“Yep,” Arianna said.
The false note in her voice flipped the switch on in Bishop’s eagle eye, and he stopped arranging plates and napkins long enough to swing his sharpened gaze back around to her. “You sure? Your eyes look a little bleary to me.”
“That’s what I thought,” Aunt Arnetta chimed in.
Uh-oh. She sooo did not need an interrogation from these two this early in the morning. Mirroring Bishop’s forced smile right back at him, she crinkled her brows, trying to look bewildered by the topic.
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Aunt Arnetta sat on the sofa, arranged a napkin over her tailored gray slacks and accepted a cup of tea from Bishop. “And where did you go last night? I wanted to introduce you to a young man from a nice family. He’s a second-year student at Yale Law, and he’d be just perfect for—”
“Oh, Lord.” Not this again.
Aunt Arnetta blinked with all the innocence of a puppy opening its eyes to the world for the first time. Like they’d never discussed this topic before. Like she had no idea about Arianna’s stance on things like marriage and nice young men.
“Is there a problem, dear? And do stand up straight. You’re slouching.”
Arianna, who had in fact been slouching against the tall back of a chair, sipping her hot chocolate, took this opportunity to drive a couple of points home and kill two birds with one stone. Straigh
tening with the deportment of a debutante in training with a book on her head, she swept around to the front of the chair, making sure to swish the skirt of her sundress like a Southern belle, perched on the edge and crossed her legs at the ankle.
Aunt Arnetta smiled with approval.
Then Arianna slouched back into the chair and propped her feet on the ottoman.
Aunt Arnetta froze, her arm suspended halfway to the platter of bran muffins.
Bishop choked back a snort of laughter.
“The thing you need to understand about me, Aunt Arnetta,” Arianna said, “is that I’m really independent. I don’t need to be told how to sit or stand or walk, and I definitely don’t need to be told about nice young men from good families. I can find my own boyfriends, thank you very much.”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Arnetta selected a muffin. “Left to your own devices, you’d probably turn up with a boy with a motorcycle and a—” she shuddered at the mere thought, her thin shoulders shifting inside her blue-and-white plaid Chanel jacket “—tattoo.”
Arianna scowled and tried too late to hide the scowl behind a big bite of a hastily snatched spice scone. Dawson No-Last-Name appeared in her mind’s eye again, commandeering her thoughts. Because he had a tattoo—she’d seen the edges of it on his neck above his tailored shirt last night, and she’d meant to ask him what it was. If it hadn’t been so dark in the greenhouse last night, she’d’ve seen it.
Now she never would.
Nor would she ever see his bare chest in all its considerable glory, or his toned belly, or his…well, she wouldn’t go lower than that. The bottom line was that he’d captured her imagination, turned her body out and then evaporated like a vampire into the mist.
Goodbye and good riddance.
“I like tattoos,” she said sullenly.
“That’s the problem, dear,” Aunt Arnetta said.
“What’s the problem?” asked a new voice.
Andrew Warner strode into the room, with Eric Warner close on his heels. Suddenly things were looking up, and Arianna had to smile. Where those two went mischief followed, the way day follows night.
As Aunt Arnetta’s grandchildren (sort of), Andrew and Eric were Arianna’s cousins (she supposed). Here at Heather Hill, it was always best not to examine the family tree in minute detail because you never knew what you’d turn up. Bottom line? Though they were older than she was, closer to her brother Sandro’s age, they’d all spent summers together at Arianna’s parents’ home in the Hamptons, and she loved them like crazy, even when they teased her mercilessly.
The two men were exactly alike and yet totally different. Both were tall and sexy and brought an overload of testosterone with them wherever they went. Both were really smart corporate-tycoon types, and both thought they were in charge of the world. The only thing on earth more alpha than these two was the lead wolf in a pack, or maybe a silverback gorilla. Until it came to the females in their lives, which was the interesting part. Each man was wildly in love with his wife and had a heart bigger than the Alaskan tundra when it came to his family.
On the other hand, Andrew was fair skinned, blue-eyed and stern, while Eric was dark, bright-eyed and easy to smile.
The funny thing was, they ribbed each other relentlessly and acted like they barely tolerated each other. Meanwhile, whenever they got together—which wasn’t that often because Eric lived here in Columbus, which was the headquarters of the family business, WarnerBrands International, while Andrew headed his own company in New York City—they were glued at the hip.
Like now.
One after the other, they shook hands with Bishop, kissed Aunt Arnetta, then Arianna, and then sprawled on the nearest sofa together, their long legs stretching out and taking up way too much space.
“What’d we miss?” Eric grabbed a plate and eyed the treats.
Without a word, Andrew took Eric’s plate and commandeered it for his own by putting a croissant on it. “Yeah,” he said, piling on the food. “Sounded interesting.”
“Help yourself,” Eric muttered, then grabbed another plate.
“Aunt Arnetta was just saying I should find a nice man from a good family.” Arianna, now at the end of her scone, eyed the muffins. Would one of those be too much? Yeah. She’d better not. “She wants to hook me up with someone like you two, I suppose.”
Both Andrew and Eric snorted.
It was a well-known bit of family lore that, before those two met their wives, they’d run through the ladies the way Wile E. Coyote runs through dynamite. Fun was had; women were enjoyed; female hearts were broken. Now, though, they both had kids, which no doubt gave them a different perspective on the dating scene.
“Ah…” Andrew began.
“I don’t think you want anyone like us,” Eric told Arianna. “Why don’t you play the field for a while?”
“That’s my point.” Arianna eyeballed Aunt Arnetta to make sure she was getting the message, but the older woman looked smug and undeterred. “I just got out of a relationship and I’m not looking for another one. And being from a—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—good family is no guarantee that a man is worthwhile. Look at these two clowns.”
Andrew and Eric, both chewing now, exchanged a look.
“She talking about us?” Andrew questioned, brows lifting.
“Couldn’t be,” Eric replied.
Enough with the comedy routine. “Where are the womenfolk, Abbott and Costello?” Arianna asked.
“They took the kids to the zoo.” Andrew checked his watch. “And our mysterious investor should be here any minute. I want to get this show on the road. I told Viveca I’d try to meet them for lunch.”
Aunt Arnetta patted her mouth with a napkin. “I’m still not sure what this meeting is about.”
“I’m not quite sure, either,” Andrew told her. “All I know is, this real estate developer wanted to speak with us about an opportunity he said we wouldn’t want to miss—”
“Oh, please.” Aunt Arnetta looked exasperated. “Did he send over a prospectus or anything? Why all the mystery? And why couldn’t we do this at the office?”
Andrew shrugged. “His people said he’s an old friend of Grandfather’s.” Even though they’d discovered a couple of years ago that Reynolds Warner, Arnetta’s late husband, was actually Andrew’s father due to an affair he’d had with Andrew’s mother, Andrew still referred to him as “Grandfather.” This was probably the easiest thing, given the complex relationships at Heather Hill, which seemed at times like a hotbed of lust and infidelity. “I didn’t feel like I should tell him no. And he’s got a good reputation, so this could be worthwhile.”
“Let’s hope so,” Aunt Arnetta said.
Bishop topped off Eric’s coffee cup, rearranged a couple of things on the cart to his liking and straightened to go. “If everything looks okay,” he said to the room at large, “I’ll leave you folks to your meeting.”
This was the perfect time to slip out. She could hardly spend the day licking her wounds in a roomful of people, could she? Arianna got to her feet and put her plate down. “I’ll come with you. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“What are your plans for the day, dear?” Aunt Arnetta called after her.
A long morning of sulking, followed by reliving every delicious moment of last night’s interlude with Dawson the Unknown, punctuated by frequent binges of alcohol and chocolate to ease the pain.
“Nothing in particular. See you.” Arianna took Bishop’s arm and walked toward the hall door.
Bishop, whose skin color was still a little off, patted her hand and gave her a fond smile. They liked each other, she and Bishop; they were united in their love for Aunt Arnetta and their mutual refusal to let her rule their lives like a communist dictator. Bishop was the kind of fine old gentleman they didn’t make anymore, and she really hoped nothing was wrong with him.
“You sure you’re okay?” she whispered.
He cocked one grizzled brow at her. “You
sure you’re okay?”
They were both lying about their okay-ness, and they both knew it. That being the case, there was nothing to do but laugh. They were still chuckling when one of the maids bustled into the library and spoke to Aunt Arnetta.
“Mr. Reynolds is here to see you, ma’am.”
With that she stepped aside, and someone else walked in, a man, and— Oh, my God.
He was tall and broad shouldered, impeccably dressed in a fine dark suit with red tie, a conservative businessman to the core as long as you looked at him from the torso down. The mocking expression in his midnight eyes, however, was a nice, loud “screw you” to the establishment, especially this establishment, and his short dreadlocks and tattooed neck only intensified the effect.
He was the perfect combination of the buttoned-down corporate type and the unmitigated bad boy, the perfect addition to the potent masculinity already filling the room, and he stopped Arianna’s heartbeat cold.
She froze; Bishop froze; they all froze.
It couldn’t be.
But…as the implacable dark gaze behind the rimless glasses swept the room and settled on her, Arianna realized with a room-swaying burst of clarity that her eyes weren’t playing nasty tricks on her overwhelmed imagination. This really was Dawson, the man whose hot touch had driven her wild last night.
Only, he hadn’t come back for her. Worse. He wasn’t happy to see her.
This bitter dose of reality stripped the residual smile off her face.
She wasn’t the only one having a tough time right now.
Beside her, Bishop gripped her arm for support, his disbelieving gaze riveted on Dawson as though he’d just seen a long-dead loved one climb from his grave and say hello. His breath turned to a disturbing wheeze. “Joshua?”
Joshua? What? Why was he calling Dawson by the wrong name?
A disbelieving second passed, and then the awful truth hit her: she didn’t know one thing about the man she’d made love to last night.
Redemption's Touch (Kimani Romance) Page 4
