Hot & Bothered (10 page)

“I
DON'T LIKE THIS
,” V
ICTORIA
said under her breath the next afternoon as the church began to fill up for her father's memorial. “We should have waited until Jared was home and could attend.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” John said firmly. “How many people have started calling or dropping by to ask when it would be?” He gave her shoulder a consoling pat. “You fought the good fight, darlin', but once the coroner's office released your father's body, you could only put it off so long.”

“And once again dinked up the only thing Jared's mother ever requested of me.”

He stared at her. “She asked you to put off Ford's memorial?”

“Don't be absurd. She asked me to look after Jared.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Fat lot of good it ever did him.”

His dark brows puckered. “When did she ask you to do that?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“Well, Christ, that's a lousy burden to dump on a teenage girl. Why the hell didn't she look after him herself?”

Victoria turned on him. “She would have if she could,” she said hotly for all that she kept her voice low. “But she'd contracted Lou Gehrig's disease and knew she was dying.”

“Then I apologize for the crack.” John also kept his volume barely above audible as he shifted to face her. “But I still think her request bites. Tell me where she figured into the lineup of your father's wives.”

“Elizabeth was his third. My mom was his first and the one after her was Joan.” She glanced around, then indicated with the slightest lift of her little finger a woman seated in the back of the church. “That's her in the red dress. She hated kids. I was a clumsy child and her snapping all the time only served to make me klutzier. I always seemed to be toppling things around her. After I broke both her bottle of thousand-dollar-an-ounce perfume and her favorite piece of art glass in the same day, she talked Ford into shipping me off to boarding school.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, staring with hard eyes at the woman in question. “What a couple of sweethearts. How old were you?”

“Nine.” She shrugged as if it didn't matter, but she could still remember how frightening it had been to lose her mother, gain Cinderella's stepmother's wicked twin sister in exchange and be exiled from the only home she'd ever known, all within the space of eighteen months. But she brightened at the thought of Ford's third wife. “Elizabeth brought me home again.”

“Jared's mom.”

“Yes. She married Ford when I was thirteen. When she learned he had a daughter who was virtually living year-round at school, she threw a fit that made even Father back down, and I got to come home. I loved her.” Which made the guilt of her failure to keep her promise bite even deeper. Acid began to churn in her stomach and she twisted around to face the front again, staring straight ahead.

As if reading her mind, John said brusquely, “Quit
beating yourself up about it—it's pointless. You were sixteen, for crissake, and Jared was—what?—three?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite,” he repeated flatly. “So what the hell were you supposed to do? What kind of power does
any
teenager have at that age, particularly if you're talking about arguing with a baby's legal guardian over the way his kid should be raised?”

Victoria opened her mouth to say she should have done something—
anything
—even if she couldn't define exactly what, but Rocket changed the subject.

“What about wife number four? Point her out to me.”

“She isn't here. That marriage lasted less than six months and Cynthia moved away after the divorce. As far as I know, no one in Father's crowd has seen her since.”

“Then coming back to Ford's memorial, you have to admit DeeDee had a point when she insisted it was growing too awkward to put it off any longer.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured in Victoria's ear, laying his arm along the back of her chair and raising his chin slightly toward the side door. “There she is now. Interesting duds.”

She glanced toward the chapel door. “Oh, for heaven's sake.”

Her father's fifth wife wore black from the tip of her dramatic wide-brimmed, veiled hat to her sheer, patterned stockings and satin, needle-toed Jimmy Choo sling-backs. She leaned heavily on the arm of a handsome young man.

Victoria shook her head. “Would it kill her to resist being the center of attention for the length of her husband's memorial?” Feeling John's gaze slide over her own restrained black sheath and the long string of knotted
pearls she'd inherited from her mother, she raised her chin and turned her head to meet his eyes. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? I didn't say anything.”

“You think I look like a schoolmarm in comparison, though, right?”

He laughed. “Honey, if I'd ever had a teacher who looked anything like you, I probably would've done a whole lot better in school. I was actually thinking you seem to have a knack for knowing exactly the right thing to wear for every occasion.”

“Oh.” She would not squirm with pleasure as if she were Esme's age; she
wouldn't.
But neither would she try to convince herself his compliment didn't make her feel warm and flushed all over. “Thank you. That's a very nice thing to say.”

He shrugged and she examined his own impeccably tailored suit, snow-white shirt and subtly-patterned tie. “You're a very snappy dresser yourself. I remember that from before—how everyone else ran around the beach in ragged cutoffs, but you always wore nice shorts and tanks and tees that were mostly silk.” Promptly regretting bringing up a time she was desperately trying to forget, she sat straighter. “Come to think of it, you've worn quite a selection of nice clothing since you arrived on my doorstep. What do you do, keep a suitcase in your car in case you get an invitation to stay somewhere a while?” The question led to unfortunate thoughts of how easily she'd allowed him to move in on her six years ago, which led to thoughts of other women, which didn't serve to improve her mood.

He merely gave her a crooked smile, however. “You must have me confused with the Boy Scouts—I've never been that prepared. I ran up to Denver the other day to
touch base with some of my contacts, is all—and while I was there I gathered up everything I thought I might need for a prolonged stay.”

His attention suddenly shifted beyond her. “Who's that guy over there?” Nodding toward one of the pews, he added dryly, “The one who looks like he's running for office.”

She followed the direction of his gaze to a silver-haired man nodding and shaking hands as he made his way down a pew past averted knees.

“I hate to say it, but he doesn't look especially broken up by your father's passing.”

Victoria gave a little shrug. “I told you before, Father didn't have a lot of friends.” She thought about it for a moment, then admitted, “I'm not certain he had any, in fact. He had literally dozens of acquaintances, but I can't think of a single person with whom he was especially close.” And wasn't that the saddest commentary of all?

“So why is everyone here then?”

“Probably to make sure he's truly dead.” Guilt over her flippancy immediately stabbed her, but at the same time she had to admit it likely wasn't all that far from the truth.

Brushing a discreet thumb down her jawline, he favored her with another one-sided smile. “I'd tell you to play nice, except my own old man was a lot like yours.”

“Was he?” She turned to him, her interest sparked. They hadn't talked about their families when they'd known each other before, and having just spilled her guts about some of her own background, she'd enjoy nothing better than to learn something of his. “He didn't have any friends, either?”

“No. Still doesn't, as far as I know.”

“Except you, huh?”

He laughed harshly. “Least of all me.” He hesitated a
moment, then said with patent reluctance, “He's a drunk. A mean drunk.”

She wondered exactly what being a mean drunk entailed, but before she could ask, John, in a none-too-subtle bid to change the subject, nodded his head toward the man he'd previously indicated and said, “So, who did you say he is?”

“I didn't.” She'd forgotten about this. But Rocket had been the same way in Pensacola—let the conversation grow even the slightest bit personal and he found a way to divert it in another direction. Only the method had changed, although that was something she'd rather not think about too closely. Unfortunately, it was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room and she squirmed a little recalling the physicality he'd used then.

Dammit, it wasn't fair. He shouldn't be all ears taking in her history when he clearly had no intention of sharing his own. Irritated, she nonetheless glanced once again at the subject of his inquiry, and essayed the slightest of shrugs. “I think that might be Jim McMurphy.”

He sat a fraction taller. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“I believe I mentioned him as the CEO of the company Father recently acquired in a hostile takeover.”

“One of the people who was at your house the night your dad died?”

She nodded.

“Introduce us at the reception.”

“Sure.”

The memorial started a few moments later, but Victoria quickly found her mind floating away from the eulogy. It was delivered by a minister who'd never known Ford Evans Hamilton and she wondered if anyone ever truly
had, a question that seemed validated when the pastor invited the congregation to come to the podium to share a memory of her father and not a soul stirred.

Then DeeDee rose from the front pew and made her way to the lectern with mincing steps hampered by the slimness of her skirt and the height of her heels. Upon arrival, she grasped the minister's hand, dabbed a lace handkerchief beneath her veil with her free hand, then turned and simply stood for a moment, looking out over the gathering. Finally she sighed, a tremulous little exhalation that the built-in microphone picked up and projected to the farthermost pew.

“This is such an overwhelming day,” she said sadly and patted a beautifully manicured hand against the cleavage exposed by her V-neckline. Lights sparkled off the five-carat diamond of her wedding set. “I simply can't thank all of you enough for coming.”

Victoria felt guilty about her urge to roll her eyes at the melodramatic tragedy queen pose.

“Ford could be a difficult man and he wasn't always easily understood.” Another sigh trembled out of DeeDee's throat. “But I like to think that was because of his passion for the corporate world. He was such an intense visionary that he didn't always take time for the niceties with his family, friends and business associates.”

Tori straightened. That was very…insightful—much more so than she ever would have given DeeDee credit for. She'd always assumed the other woman was as bubble-headed and shallow as they came. Perhaps, however, that was an unfair assessment that had more to do with her own hatred of the mindless, social maneuvering DeeDee thrived on than—

“But, he gave such marvelous presents, and no one
threw a better party. And behind closed doors…well, let me just say that there were a
few
things he took time for. And,
oh,
I'm going to miss him!”

Good grief.
Okay, the shallowness was real. Still, DeeDee was the only one to have stood up for Ford today. Perhaps she truly had cared for him in her own limited way.

Following the service, a convoy of cars followed them out to the house. This was yet another battle Victoria had lost. She'd argued in favor of the reception being held elsewhere. The venerable old Broadmoor Hotel or the country club would have been perfectly appropriate, but DeeDee had insisted it must be held at the house. It didn't take more than ten minutes of dealing with the crush of people milling about the walnut-floored parlor and spilling out onto the terrace for Victoria to wish she'd stuck to her guns. Since she hadn't, however, she organized the servers, instigated a few simple changes to help make the traffic flow more smoothly and thought longingly all the while of her quiet suite of rooms upstairs.

But escaping to them was not to be and unluckily that was far from the worst of it. DeeDee corralled her moments later for the receiving line.
That
was a blast to the past not designed with Victoria's comfort in mind. Just like way back when, minutes took on dog years when they were spent hosting an interminable line while standing in the shadow of a more outgoing personality. Ten minutes into it and the line hadn't progressed beyond the crowd bunched around the widow.

“My God,” Victoria murmured to herself. “It's my teenage years all over again.”

“What's that?” John tugged at his tie. “How the hell did I end up as part of this line anyway?” Then he rolled his
wide shoulders in a
forget-that
gesture and bent his head to hers. “Sorry. What's your teen years all over again?”