Stay (Dunham series #2) (10 page)

Not Laura’s
modus operandi
.

“If it’s the truth, it should be spoken. If it’s not
the truth, may I rot in hell. Pops, really. Let me take you home
with me. I have a good setup. Fresh air, good food, pretty land.
You can have your own little cottage or live in the main house,
whatever you want. I can find things for you to do—one of my
tenants is going to be a fly-tying shop and there’s a sharecropper
on the back of my property who’d like to chew the fat with someone
his age. I have a big lake with bass and channel cats and bluegill,
and a clear stream with plenty of trout. You could fish all day
long if you wanted.”

He looked at her, his face ancient, his turquoise
eyes cloudy and bloodshot. He was only fifty-two, but he wouldn’t
live much longer. Vanessa sighed and tried to hold back unexpected
tears.

“I won’t leave your mother, Vanessa,” he murmured, a
note of reproof in his voice. She didn’t know when he’d divorced
himself from reality, but she couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t
stood by her mother.

She didn’t know if that was admirable or
pathetic.

“And I don’t like the way you’re talking about
her.”

A wave of resentment hit her when, in a flash, she
remembered all the times he could have rescued her from her
mother’s cruelty but had turned a blind eye, always leaving it for
someone else to do. Granted, he had attempted to assuage the pain
once LaVon had finished with her, to kiss her and hug her and sing
to her, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t stand up to LaVon.

“Okay, Pops,” she said quietly, before she said
something she’d regret to this kind but weak man. “I’m leaving now.
Here’s my number—” She wrote her number on the back of an old to-do
list she found in her purse, and tucked it inside his shirt pocket.
“Call me if you need anything.”

He caught her hand. “I watch you on the television,
Nessie,” he whispered, surprising her. “The boy, too. I’m proud of
you.”

She stared at him in wonder. “You— But Ma—”

“She don’t know about
Vittles
, about
Whittaker House. It’s my own little secret,” he confided. “You an’
me. I can . . . pretend . . . I had a hand in raisin’ you, but I
know who really raised you an’ I’m ashamed o’ that. I wouldn’t take
your charity now ’cause I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t deserve to be abused the rest of your
life, either.”

“Won’t be much longer,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’m just waitin’ to find out if heaven’s as purty as that place
you got. Just to know you—my little girl—
built
that. It’s
all I need to die happy, Nessie.”

She found herself walking around the town square at
midnight because she couldn’t sleep with her father’s fatalism
echoing around her head, and she couldn’t get the cigarette smoke
out of her expensive clothes.
How
had she forgotten that
little detail?

Sunday. She’d leave Sunday. She would’ve left the
next day and been home in time for dinner if she hadn’t promised
Nephew—dammit, what
was
that kid’s name, anyway?—she’d go to
his program. None of the rest of his family would be there.

Her attention was caught by the glint of glass panes
reflecting the street lamps when the courthouse doors opened. A
tall man with short black hair, in black pants and a loose black
kimono-type jacket locked the door behind him. He rolled his head
one way, then another. He rolled his shoulders over and under, then
cracked his neck. He seemed to have some sort of black strap slung
around his neck. He turned and walked slowly, rather bowleggedly,
across the lawn—away from her.

Again.

And she wouldn’t go begging for . . . what? Exactly?
A “thank you”?

Kinda makes you wonder why you’re sitting here
pining over a small-time prosecutor when you could be sleeping with
a funny, handsome man who happens to be a country star, huh?

With a choked sigh and a shake of her head, she went
back to her motel room and stripped off her smoke-saturated
clothes, stuffed them into a plastic bag, wondered if her
housekeeping staff could get out the stink—the same stink that
wafted from her hair. She got under a stream of hot water as fast
as she could and scrubbed her zebra hair until her scalp was
raw.

Her hand swept down her chest, over her breast, and
stopped, her thumb playing with her hard nipple and she closed her
eyes, caught her breath, wondering how and why she had let so many
years pass before taking a second lover.

Had she been that busy? That focused?

Let’s just call it the fish that got away.

Or had she simply been pining?

It was easy to say that her first lover had spoiled
her for other men, because it was true; no one else had approached
his level of sheer sensuality. Unfortunately, the kinds of men who
attracted her were intimidated by the fact that she had been a
famous artist’s model—with the nude proof hanging in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was easy to refuse those who
couldn’t match Sebastian and even easier to ignore those who let
their intimidation get the better of them.

It was easy to claim that she was busy and she was
young yet, because it was true. Knox had set her up for early
success and financial independence for a reason. Sebastian had
calculated his grand unveiling of
Wild, Wild West
to
coincide with her last four months of culinary school to make
Vanessa a hot commodity the minute she graduated. Still, she hadn’t
yet reached that point in the process where she could just let go
for a while. She had a grand vision for Whittaker House and not
only was she far from attaining that, she’d just gone into a heap
of debt to effect the next phase in her plan. If all went well,
she’d have to go to the bank next summer for the final phase and it
would take her years to climb out of that hole.

It was easy to fall back on years of religious
training, both Catholic and Mormon, catechism class and Young
Women’s. Giselle—the closest thing Vanessa had ever had to a real
mother—had lectured her endlessly on the pragmatism of being, if
not chaste, then savvy and discriminating. She’d warned Vanessa
about strangers, about the emotional tricks men used, about getting
drunk to lose her inhibitions, about disease and abuse and coercion
and rape and drugs designed to enable rape. Giselle had taken
Vanessa to the doctor to get her on birth control. Vanessa had had
time to observe and learn without undue pressure, and years of
watching her roommates at Notre Dame succumb to one or more of
those had only reinforced Giselle’s opinions as truth.

Frat boys are pigs. Just don’t be stupid. If you
want to have sex, wait and be very careful about who you choose. Do
it sober, while you have your head on straight. Whatever you do,
don’t have sex without a condom and don’t forget to take your pill.
Ever. Remember this: Men use love to get sex and women use sex to
get love. Don’t
ever
mistake sex for love because that’s
when girls start getting stupid. And whatever else you do, don’t
lie about your age. That should be enough to put most men off until
you’re eighteen, and it’s not like you don’t know what happens to
men who fuck underage girls, right?

With Giselle’s warnings in Vanessa’s ears and a ton
of bad examples in front of her eyes that validated every word, it
was easy to refuse. Without the temperament or taste for hookups,
without a man as fascinating as Sebastian to tempt her into an
affair, with a cornucopia of ideas crowding her head and a
constantly rotating laundry list of things to do, it had been easy
to refuse—until a well-disguised country star on the run from his
management, his fans, and his career had shown up at Whittaker
House alone.

When
Mister Thompson
had imperiously informed
her upon check-in that he expected her to bring his dinner to his
suite
personally
at
precisely
ten p.m., she had done
so as a matter of course. Personal service by the celebrity chef
owner was one of her gimmicks, and though she had not expected to
become the entrée, he’d made her eager enough to serve herself
up.

Now, two years into a discreet, comfortable,
monogamous affair with another famous man, Vanessa knew she was
spoiled: Her dream had blossomed under her and Knox’s careful
nurturing, and it continued to gain momentum. She also had an
intelligent, low-maintenance, and fabulous lover to scratch her
itch with no expectations on either side.

. . . ting married to that bitch Annie Franklin.

But still . . . possibly . . . pining.

For a
thank you
?!

“Screw that,” she muttered, furious with herself and
making a mental note to call a therapist when she got home.
“Small-time prosecutor. Bite me.”

* * * * *

11: web of Knowledge

This could work.

Eric and Dirk sat on the floor putting Giselle
Kenard through her paces, watching her, refreshing her memory,
teaching her, updating her.

“I warn you,” she said, “I haven’t had a lesson or
class since I left Utah, and I know Mill is constantly refining his
curriculum. It’s probably changed several times since then.”

Neither of them had ever taught a black belt before,
and it was as challenging for them as it was for her, especially
considering she’d had a C-section four months ago.

“I’m still kind of stiff and sore,” she apologized,
as if she had anything to apologize for.

Giselle’s husband Bryce had come, curious, he said,
because he’d only seen her do this once. It was a very, very brief
once, a twenty-year-old memory that had made his expression flash
with pain and regret. “But then she converted to the gospel of
Glock,” he muttered wryly.

Their son was a cute little devil, squiggly, jolly,
inching and rolling his way here and there, a mop of bright orange
curls bobbing around.

After two hours, Eric called a stop. He and Dirk
could have watched more because her old training intrigued them,
but—

“Annie and I have a date with six ten-year-old
girls,” he pronounced, and the Kenards laughed. “Is this something
you think you’d like to do, Giselle?”

“Oh, I would
love
to. Thank you.”

The four of them gathered in a huddle on the floor,
the baby gleefully rolling over crossed knees from one adult to
another like a glass pop bottle. Once Giselle snuggled up against
her husband and he draped his arm around her shoulders, Eric got
down to business.

“Would you rather teach adults or children?”

“Where do you need the most help?”

“The problem,” Dirk interrupted, casting a glare at
Eric, who rolled his eyes, “is that people pay for Eric to teach
them. It’s his name, his brand.”

“What we need help with is the six-thirty to
nine-thirty time slots on the weekdays,” Eric said finally, tired
of this, tired of being reminded of his life of relative leisure
before he became the Chouteau County prosecutor. “I began building
this dojo when I came home from Utah. When Dirk figured out he
couldn’t make a living in Provo and he came back, it was a perfect
setup for both of us, but—”

“But now Dirk’s trapped by your brand,” she
finished. “And because you have to be here so he won’t take the
hit, you don’t have time to start on the next step in your
career.”

“Right and I have the same problem with the
prosecutor’s office. Not enough lawyers and my new one needs to be
trained. I have a couple of temporary secretaries coming Monday,
but since we’ve never had any, I’ll have to start training them
from scratch.”

Eric could feel the chaos and fatigue settling over
all of them at once, because lately, he spread exhaustion like a
disease everywhere he went.

“Eric,” Bryce rumbled. “You know most of my
attorneys are from your office, right? Would you like me to see if
one or two of them would be willing to come back up here for a
while to help you out until you can get some more attorneys
hired?”

Eric felt hope surge through him. “Are you kidding
me? Absolutely!”

Bryce shrugged. “Now, it’s up to them. I pay them
four times what they made here—and I won’t pay them if they’re not
working for me—so I can’t promise anything. But they may like to
get back in the game since, well . . . ”

“Nobody in that firm goes to court anymore,” Giselle
muttered with a smirk. Bryce chuckled and tugged gently at her
braid.

Eric blinked. Stared.

The way Bryce Kenard looked at his wife was . . .
unreal.

And Giselle returned his look with a shy smile,
communing with her husband in a way that suddenly made Eric wonder
if he were missing something.

He’d never had a reason to look at a woman that
way—and he knew for a fact Annie didn’t look at him like that:
love, lust, trust, and respect all rolled up into one lingering
glance.

Six years navigating the dating waters and religious
culture of BYU had convinced Eric that “soul mate” was a myth, that
there was no such thing as fate. He’d learned that a marriage based
on shared goals, intellectual and sexual attraction, and a
commitment to working on the partnership—not “romantic” love—was
far more desirable than bashing one’s head over finding The
One.

Eric didn’t fear marriage. He never had. He’d left
BYU without a wife, although he’d dated seriously and twice nearly
popped the question. Then he’d come home to find a grown-up Annie,
who had a grand plan. Being his wife would get her where she wanted
to go, and with more prestige than she could get on her own. And
Eric—well, he couldn’t ask for a better partner to walk his career
path with him. Ambitious and pragmatic to her core, brilliant and
street savvy, beautiful and good in bed, Annie also shared his
politics, more or less, if she deigned to think about it.