Artistic License (16 page)

“Um…” There didn’t seem any politic way to express her wholehearted agreement.

Caroline merely laughed and touched them both again with a gentle hand before she excused herself to get another glass of wine. Sophy watched her elegant frame weave through the crowd. She was very lean in build, still fit and muscular in middle age, and her shoes were fabulous, last season’s Louboutins.

At least Mick had
someone
in his family, was all she could think.

“She seems nice,” she said, close to his ear, and he nodded, his face still softer than she had yet seen.

“She’s a lifesaver.” His arm was still warm around her waist and his breath smelled faintly and not unpleasantly of pinot noir. “Finished your book?” he asked teasingly, and she held up his phone.

“We need to talk about your tastes in literature at some point,” she said loudly, as the bass beat from the band increased in volume. “But no, I was interrupted in my perusal of the
Vintners’ Yearbook
by an under-secretary from the Ministry of Health. A very tipsy under-secretary. Know anything about infant welfare? Because I still don’t.”

“Do you want to go back to the table and continue the conversation over the meal?” Mick asked.

She really did not.

“Or we could walk the long way back to your hotel, via the waterfront. I may be able to run to an ice cream cone.”

“Sold.”

Sophy was half-afraid that they would be accosted by one or another of his unpleasant relatives on the way out of the building, but they managed a clear escape. Outside, they each took and released a long breath. A portion of tension visibly eased from Mick’s shoulders. His eyes met hers and she scrunched up her nose, carefully weighing her words.

“I really liked the table linens,” she said at last, hopefully. “And the cheese selection was pretty decent.”

Mick’s lips twitched.

“Hmm,” he said as they started to walk. It was still light out, the sun just starting to set and the low light casting shimmers across the harbour. “The wine wasn’t bad either.”

The spindly point of her heel wobbled down a crack in the sidewalk and he reached to tuck her arm through his without looking at her. They wandered quietly along the Viaduct, blending in with the Saturday night crowds moving between bars and restaurants. Mick stopped at the old-fashioned ice cream truck by the waterfront and bought two cups of vanilla bean. They managed to find a deserted bench on one of the piers and sat looking out at the water, thoughtfully eating their ice cream dinner. Sophy kicked off her shoes and tucked one foot beneath her, leaning her chin against the other upraised knee. It was so peaceful and beautiful and…
untainted
that she was almost sorry when Mick returned to the subject of his family, although it was rare enough for him to make voluntary confidences that she didn’t protest.

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and she pulled her plastic spoon from her mouth, frowning at it.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” she told the spoon. All she could give him at the moment was privacy. “It’s not your fault that your family is… Well. That they are what they are.”

She could have elaborated on exactly what they were, in short and pithy detail, but she was a firm believer that a person could take pot shots at their own flesh and blood without necessarily appreciating it when well-meaning friends took up the cudgels.

“Has it always been like that?” she asked carefully.

A blinding ray of the retiring sun struck the harbour and skipped across its surface into the horizon, fragmenting the water into shards of rippling light like a heavenly hand had skimmed a huge stone.

Mick got up to throw his empty cup in the nearby rubbish bin. He took up a position at her side, his hands deep in his pockets, one hip propped against a heavy support beam.

“You mean was there a great traumatic event that led to such discord and ostracism?” he asked ironically. “No. This weekend was a continuing blip in a long history of unpleasant dinners and open warfare.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about it,” said Sophy bluntly. If she had fielded a battery of sly digs and brutal insults her entire life, particularly from those who ought to stand most staunchly at her back, she would have the vitality of a deflated balloon by now. At the very least, she would have boxes full of nasty caricatures.

Mick rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t think “calm” is quite the right word,” he said. “Resigned, perhaps. Angry, if I dwell on it. The older I get, the less power they have to affect me.” It was more of a lip twist than a smile. “Which only serves to annoy my father and Marcus further. Vicious cycle.” He shrugged. “My father has always had very set ideas of what he wants for his life. He expected his children to fit the blueprint of those goals. He managed a carbon copy in Marcus and a socially acceptable daughter in Hayley. I was a bit of a changeling child. More backstreet boxer than bourbon and politics at the club. I got in the occasional fight at school, which only served to reinforce my family’s belief that I think purely with my fists. Marcus was a little more subtle with his transgressions.”

Translation: Marcus was the sort of slimy little tick who snuck around, spied and probably toyed with blackmail and extortion from the cradle, Sophy thought grimly. While she could imagine Mick wading in without hesitation in defence of himself or someone else. She could also see, with no difficulty at all, that Michael Hollister would have reacted badly when faced with a young son whom he was physically unable to dominate. He would undoubtedly have lashed out and attempted to subdue Mick emotionally.

“I was an embarrassment to them,” Mick continued coolly. “Walking evidence of a failure on my father’s part.” His eyes flickered. “A fifty percent success rate was unacceptable.”

Sophy frowned.

“Fifty percent?” she repeated, and remembered his father’s scathing words from the night before:
“Between you and your sister…”

“Your sister,” she said slowly. “Hayley? No…”

“No, not Hayley.” He stared out at the water. “My older sister, Samantha.”

She waited, anticipating his next words with a sense of profound sadness and sympathy.

“She died when I was eighteen.” Mick shook his head. “She was only twenty-three. Her…boyfriend,” he paused, and his voice was thick with disgust, “was absolutely wasted on coke. Threw a scene at her work. Insisted on driving her home. Sped right through the barriers at a railway crossing and collided with a freight train at half past five in the afternoon. He was fine.” He took a deep breath that shuddered through his large frame. “She was almost decapitated.”

Sophy brought up her other leg, wrapped both arms around her knees. She felt a bit sick.

“My parents,” he said, stopped, went on: “My parents were
outraged
that it ended up in the papers. Cokehead races train; kills girlfriend. How very sordid.”

Jesus.

“Samantha was… She made some…questionable choices where men were concerned.” Mick snorted harshly. “Obviously. She was a little too fond of a drink. Stuck her finger up at my father whenever possible.” His knuckles were white around the railing of the dock fence. “She had this dog. This ridiculous black poodle that she treated like it was a kid. And she had this laugh. She would tell these God-awful jokes and just laugh and laugh.”

Tears stung Sophy’s eyes.

“I was away,” Mick said. “I’d just finished high school and bunked off to Oz for a month with Sean.” He swallowed. “They didn’t tell me. By the time I got home, she was safely buried and the scandal was dying down.”

Sophy got up on slightly unsteady legs, went to him and reached for his hand. Halfway through the motion, she changed her mind and wrapped both arms around him, leaning her full weight against his side. He didn’t return the embrace, but accepted it, relaxed just a fraction.

“I was so – Rage doesn’t even describe it.” Mick closed his eyes for a moment. “The bastard was out on bail. I wanted blood.” His short laugh wasn’t even on the same scale as amusement. “All my mother’s fears confirmed. Her unpredictable raging bull of a son. I think she thought I would actually kill him. I’m not sure if she was worried for me at all or if she was thinking what it would do to her standing at the club.”

Sophy could take a reasonable guess.

“Someone beat me to it,” he said grimly. “He was behind with his payments. His supplier wailed into him with a sledgehammer. I was picked up for questioning, held for an hour or two. Not a great day for my parents.”

Looking at his expression, she could imagine the scene that had ensued.

“I came out of a “discussion about my future” in my father’s office and cut off my nose to spite my face. I’d been planning to apply to uni, study commerce. In their eyes, I was nothing but brute force, a liability to the family image. I thought, “Fuck them, then. I’ll go after a physical, active career, and I’ll make a success of it.” I signed up for the Army the next day.” He jerked his chin, twisted slightly away from her in a short, instinctive movement. “Sean’s idea. I was prepared to do anything from mercenary work to illegal cage fighting. In hindsight, I left that room feeling like the thug my father branded me.”

And he’d gone on to get the degree he’d wanted, to build a life for himself.

He was an amazing man. And she loved him.

And she wasn’t ready for any of this.

“Your mother…” she said softly, pressing the bridge of her nose into the hard muscle of his bicep.

“Basically shivers in terror if I look at her.”

Her fingers curled tighter around his waist.

“I’m sorry that they can’t see you.”

He was absolutely still and silent for a long time. Finally, his chest moved in a convulsive shudder. The confession came out grimly, bleakly.

“If I’d got there first, I wouldn’t have held back.”

Sophy grabbed his bristled chin, pulled his reluctant face down to hers, saw torment there. Shame.

“Good,” she said firmly, and at last his arm came around to hold her.

Night had fallen by the time they reached her hotel and Mick had walked her up to her room. She stood leaning against the door in the empty corridor, watching him. He looked tired and a bit pensive, but he managed to smile.

“And you thought the courthouse would be the fun part of the weekend,” he said lightly.

“I don’t think “fun” is quite the right word for this weekend,” Sophy replied, taking and twisting his earlier phrase. “But I’m glad that I came.”

He touched his thumb lightly to the point of her chin and borrowed her own response.

“Good,” he said.

He flicked his sleeve back and checked his watch.

“I should get going. I have a meeting with Ryland’s local business manager first thing in the morning and you have an early flight. What time do you have to be at the airport?”

“My flight boards at ten to nine. I have a ride booked for quarter to eight and my most mind-numbingly annoying alarm tone programmed for seven.”

“Send me a text to let me know you got back all right,” Mick instructed, back to the bossy, as he straightened away from the door.

She rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh like a put-upon teen.

“Whatever.”

She caught the brief flash of his dimples before his smile closed over hers. The kiss was light, easy, affectionate. His hand came up and caught in her hair, traced the line of her ear, curved around her jaw. She slid her hands up his chest, enjoying the expensive silk feel of his dress shirt, played with his tie, wrapped her arms around his neck.