All the Pretty Poses (3 page)

“She thought she’d snag her one of the big
fish. According to her, she had a ‘run-in’ with the owner of the
club, out in the men’s room. She found out the hard way, though,
that guys like that
are
the way
they are
for a
reason.”

I frown. “The owner?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t come here very often. I’ve
only seen him one other time. But when he does come, he always
makes a stir. Of course, a guy like that makes a stir
wherever
he goes. I mean, he
is
hot as Georgia in
July, but men like him don’t change. Ever. For anyone.”

“She’s better off. He sounds like a beast. I
mean, the bathroom for god’s sake?” I shake my head in disgust.

Karmen grins. “Oh, she wasn’t complaining
about that part. She was just hoping for more. A guy like that
makes
all the girls
hope.”

“Surely she’s making that up. I just don’t
understand how something like that even happens. I mean, she was
working!
”

She shrugs one delicate shoulder. “Pandora
takes ‘serving’ the VIP section to a whole new level.” Karmen
laughs at her cleverness.

I sit up a little straighter in my chair, a
terrible sinking sensation invading the pit of my stomach. “VIP
section? Which table was this guy at?”

There’s only one man I know—only one man I’ve
ever
known—who can command this kind of attention. He
commanded mine fourteen years ago. And he commanded it again
tonight, even after nearly ruining my life.

“Two. You didn’t see him?”

Table two. The section where Reese was
sitting. Although I’d like to think Karmen is talking about someone
else, I know in my gut that she’s not.

“Yeah, I think I did.”

I close my eyes. I refuse—
refuse—
to
give Reese Spencer one more ounce of heartache, one more
millisecond of pain, one more drop of tears. I gave him enough
fourteen years ago.

CHAPTER FIVE- Reese

I’m grouchy as hell. Even
less
in the
mood for my uncle’s funeral than I was last night.

I woke up with a raging hard-on. The same one
I went to bed with. The one that I got from seeing Kennedy up on
that stage. The one that the hot waitress who could suck a golf
ball through a garden hose couldn’t get rid of last night in the
bathroom.
That
hard-on.

Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to
seeing my father. He’ll be attending, partially out of respect but
mostly because of public perception.
I’ll
be attending
because I loved my uncle. Probably more than I love my father,
which is sad. Sad, but true.

The funeral is being held at Bellano, the
home of my ancestors that lies in the outskirts of Chicago. It’s
one of the few remaining undisturbed tracts of land. It’s worth a
bloody fortune, but it will never be sold. As the eldest, my uncle
inherited it and, today, we will learn who will be responsible for
keeping it in the family through the next generation. I’m guessing
it will be my father since Malcolm had no children.

I notice that the sparse trees that line the
road leading to Bellano begin to thicken. It’s the first indication
that the estate is close. Few trees turn into several, and several
into many, until the road is nothing more than a thin line of
asphalt cut into dense forest.

Up ahead, I see the gap in the vegetation and
I press the brake to slow the car. I make a right turn and ease up
to the wide wrought iron gates. The two halves that form an
intricate S in the middle when closed now stand open, welcoming
mourners to the site of Malcolm Spencer’s funeral.

I drive slowly along the winding path that
leads to the main house. I spent many a summer here. Happy summers.
Some of the best times of my life. Until my father put an end to it
by sending me to college at Oxford.

As I begin up a slight incline, the main
house comes into view. To most it looks imposing, what with its
gray stone exterior and multiple turrets, but to me, it’s warm and
inviting. Because my uncle lived here. And he was always good to
me.

I park in the spot I used during my summer
visits—to the left of the five-car garage, in the grassy space
between it and the side entrance to the kitchen. When I cut the
engine, I sit in the quiet for a few minutes, remembering all the
times I pulled up in just such a way. I glance up at the kitchen
window, half expecting Tanny, my uncle’s housekeeper, to be there
watching for me, just like she always was. Today, however, the
kitchen window is empty. My uncle is dead. And I’m sure Tanny got
tired of waiting for me to come back.

I’m a little surprised at the pang of guilt I
feel at the notion. I’ve spent the last dozen or so years
perfecting the art of never being wrong and never feeling guilty.
In a way, both of those are as much a mindset as they are a fact.
At least to Spencer men they are. And Spencer men are never wrong.
Which means we never have to feel guilty.

Until today. When I’m making my first trip
back to Bellano in over a decade. I never came back. Because my
father raised the perfect replica of a perfect bastard.

Me.

Swallowing the heavy feeling that something
is lodged in my throat, I get out and make my way to the front
door. I button my jacket as I walk through the foyer, noting that
it smells exactly as it had the last time I was here—like pipe
smoke. My uncle loved his pipe. And somehow, it suited him. Even
the tobacco he favored suited him. It was a rich, warm scent.
Homey. Welcoming. Much like him.

He was nothing like my father. Thank God.

Two ushers, dressed in black suits and crisp
white shirts, are manning the door leading into the library, my
uncle’s favorite room. It’s fitting that he’d want the service held
here where mourners could visit him for the last time in the place
he loved most.

As soon as I enter the room, my eyes fall on
my father where he stands near the door, his arms crossed
disapprovingly over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I keep my eyes riveted to his, a habit I
formed long ago. No matter what else is going on, always maintain
eye contact. With a man like Henslow Spencer, looking away is a
sign of weakness. And you never want to let him think you’re weak.
Or that you’re backing down.

“Have you forgotten how much time I used to
spend here with Uncle Malcolm?”

The disgusted curl of my father’s upper lip
is reflected in the cold glint of his steely blue eyes. “No, I
haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten how you used to run here
like a little coward and how he used to indulge your silly
fantasies. No, I haven’t forgotten how much time you spent with my
brother. But I
had
thought that maybe you’d learned better
judgment since you were that foolish boy.”

“Better judgment?” I ask, biting my tongue
and keeping to myself all the other things I’d like to say. I would
never disrespect my uncle by making a scene at his viewing.

“Yes, than to come back
here,”
he
sneers, his disdain for Bellano clear. He stopped thinking of it as
his home place the day Malcolm moved back in.

“Not all of us hated it here,” I tell him,
forcing my lips into a tight smile so that no one else can see the
strain between us.

“Not all of us were ignorant children.”

With great effort, I hold my smile in place,
nodding formally to him before I give him my polite response. “If
you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go pay my respects.”

I don’t give him a chance to answer. I simply
continue on my way as though he never stopped me.

I make my way to the front of the room, to
the coffin. I feel a pang of regret that there’s no one standing in
a receiving line in front of it. My uncle was a widower with no
children. It was just him and Tanny. And me. Until I left him all
those years ago.

As always when I think of it, bitterness
burns in my gut. Bitterness toward my controlling father who took
advantage of the impressionable boy he could push around. I only
wish I’d grown my iron backbone a few years sooner. Maybe my uncle
wouldn’t have died alone.

A vase full of roses sits on a small, round
table at the end of the coffin stand. I take one and walk to my
uncle’s side, laying the rose upon his chest alongside the few
others. He loved roses. For years after his wife, my aunt Mary,
died, he kept up her rose garden, made sure that it flourished when
nothing else did. I’m sure the roses here came from that garden.
He’d have wanted nothing less.

As I withdraw my hand, my fingers brush his.
They’re cold and stiff. Lifeless. Like my uncle is now. I glance up
at his still face, the angles and planes of it so familiar to me,
so much like my father’s. Only softer. Less rigid. Much like
Malcolm. He was the “human” Spencer brother. My father…wasn’t.

Still isn’t.

I feel a gentle hand in the center of my
back. I see a slight woman with short, light brown hair appear at
my left. It’s Mrs. Tannenbaum, my uncle’s housekeeper and his only
real companion since Mary died. She raises watery, soft blue eyes
to mine and does her best to smile. As it is, it’s not much more
than a shaky spread of the alabaster skin around her mouth.

I bend to hug her delicate frame. The feel of
her arms coming around me is immediately comforting. Just like it
always was, all those years ago. “Tanny.”

“Harrison,” she replies warmly, squeezing me.
When she leans back, she reaches up to cup my cheek and pat it
gently. “I’m so glad you came.” Tears fill her eyes and I feel
another pang of guilt.

“Of course I came.” Her smile says she wasn’t
so sure I would, which makes me feel even worse. I clear my throat.
“How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I say, examining her face. While
she’s an attractive older woman with her perfectly coiffed hair and
cornflower blue eyes, she seems to have aged a hundred years since
last I saw her. I knew Malcolm’s death would be hard for her.

“It’s been so long. And it’s so good to see
you,” she declares, her expression flooded with sincerity. “Malcolm
and I missed you so much around here. How have you been? Have you
put on weight?” she asks, backing up to assess me.

I can’t help but grin. “Since I was nineteen?
I’m sure I’ve gained a pound or two.”

“You needed to. You were so thin back
then.”

“I wasn’t
that
thin, Tanny. I was just
active.”

“Well, you look healthy and hale now. I’m
glad to see you’re eating well. And still so handsome. Have you
married yet?”

“No, still not married.”

She rubs my arm and winks as if to reassure
me. “Don’t you worry about that, my sweet. The right girl is out
there somewhere. Don’t rush it. Just wait for her.”

“Oh, I’m not rushing anything,” I tell her
honestly.

“Good.
Some
mistakes can haunt you for
the rest of your life.”

Something in her eyes tells me she has some
personal experience with ghosts, but I have no idea what they might
be. It occurs to me that, as well as I know Tanny, I don’t really
know her at all. I make a silent resolution right here and now to
visit her more often. Provided that she still has a job when all is
said and done.

The thought of my father firing her when he
takes over the house makes my insides roil with rage. But, for
Tanny, I hide my anger behind a pleasant smile.

“I do my best not to make mistakes.”

Tanny’s expression falls into one of mild
disapproval. “That sounds like something your father would
say.”

I don’t have a chance to respond before Tanny
sees someone over my shoulder and her face lights up again.

“Oh, it’s my beautiful girl,” she says,
moving past me, arms spread in preparation for another hug.

I turn, ready with a pleasant smile, but it’s
wiped from my face the instant I see who Tanny is hugging.

It’s Kennedy.

Today, she looks more like what I remember,
like what I would’ve expected to see, even after all these years.
Her chestnut hair hangs in a smooth, gleaming sheet to the middle
of her back, her face is bare of makeup because she really doesn’t
need it, and her slender body is concealed beneath a plain black
dress that falls to just below the knee.

But none of that can rid my mind of the way
she looked last night.

A series of emotions flood me, desire first
and foremost. Now I have memories of her seductive dance to add to
those from my youth, ones of tasting her sweet skin on a bed of
soft grass in the forest no more than a few hundred yards from
where I’m standing. The other emotions are secondary, but no less
potent.

Frustration because, still, I would like
nothing more than to sink between those long, long legs and lose
myself for at least a day. Anger because she is far too innocent to
be dancing at one of
my
clubs the way she was. More
frustration because I loved it. And more anger because other men
got to see it.

It’s that anger that propels me forward.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the tiny dancer.” My tone is cold
and bitter even to my own ears. Just like my father’s.

Kennedy straightens from Tanny’s arms, her
expression stung, her cheeks pink. She tucks her chin and glances
left and right, as though she’s checking to see if anyone else is
listening. Finally, she returns her attention to me. Her smile is
tight, but polite.

“Reese, it’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has. Seems like a lot has changed
since I left.”

Her smile falters. “That happens when people
leave without a word and don’t come back for almost two decades,”
she grinds out from between her gritted teeth.

I deserved that, but I’m not in the habit of
being derailed by something as simple as guilt. That’s one reason I
decided to stop feeling it. It’s a weak feeling for weak
people.