Sympathy for the Devil (International Bad Boys Book 4) (5 page)

Her father snorted. “No one?”

“Hence the need for someone to photograph her work. Anyway, Cutter said he’d put in a good word for me if I wanted the job. It was nice of him to offer.”

“Nothing to do with you being good at what you do,” her father said dryly. “You still sweet on him?”

“No. Cutter’s not for me. It’s just . . . that whole family is kind of magnetic, you know? They draw people in. Liven things up.”

Her father put his coffee down and his feet up as he settled into his chair. “Your mother found a stack of old photos up in the attic a while back. Photos of the Jackson boys.”

There was only one old stack of photos he could be talking about. Bree felt her breath hitch and quietly willed herself to relax. “They were the ones I used to get into art school. Some of them, at any rate. Where are they now?”

“I think your mother put them back. That middle boy, Caleb. That the way he looked at you back then?”

Her father always had seen too much. “It was a
long
time ago. I’m all for looking forward.”

“So am I. You haven’t found anyone?”

“No.” She plucked at the wicker of the armchair. “No grandkids for you yet. Sorry about that. I want a family, I do. I just need to find the right man first. A good man. A kind man.”

“Are there not enough of those about?”

“And he has to make my pulse race.”

“Ah.” Her father nodded solemnly. “If you found someone here would you stay in the Bay? Could you base your work here?”

“I—don’t know. Sydney’s a good place for a photographer. Lots of flights in and out. Plenty of work.”

“There’s an airport twenty minutes down the road.”

“With crippling regional flight prices.”

“I have money. And pretty soon it’s going to be your mother’s money, and some of it’s going to be yours.” Her father glanced away. “Guess I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen to your mother after I’m gone. I like the idea of you being here for her. I like the notion of her having grandkids to fuss over.”

Bree blinked hard in an attempt to shut down a sudden onslaught of tears. “Dad—you are not dead yet. Prostate cancer is treatable. You know it is.”

“I know.”

But they both knew that his current treatment wasn’t going well.

“I’m getting maudlin,” he offered gruffly. “But it’s a pretty picture, this one in my head. Two girls and a boy. And a good man who makes your pulse race. I hear you ran into Caleb this morning.”

“You are not subtle.”

“What did he think about you taking the Jackson job?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Well—” Bree stopped. There was nowhere for this conversation to go.

“Is it because you dated one brother and wanted the other?”

Bree sipped her coffee not entirely sure that she wanted to look her father in the eye. “Why would you say that?”

“It was the photos. They exposed him completely. And they exposed you.”

She should have burned them. Instead she’d hidden them away, tiny treasures fixed in time. To this day, they were some of the most powerful portrait pictures she’d ever taken. “Leaving when I did kind of sorted all that mess out,” she offered quietly. “No one got hurt. And if I stay away from the lot of them, no one’s
going
to get hurt.”

“He still make your pulse race?”

“Cutter?”

Her father just looked at her.

“Okay, so, Caleb.” She looked down so that she wouldn’t have to see the knowledge in her father’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he could make anyone’s pulse race.”

“That is the general opinion. Fair warning, Breanna. He does have a reputation in this town and he’s earned it the old-fashioned way.”

“Got it.”

“Although . . . ” said her father, and then paused.

“Although what?”

Her father smiled. “I’m thinking maybe I should now praise the boy, especially seeing as your mother’s just finished warning you away from him. Just to balance things out a little. Slip him back into neutral space where you’re concerned.”

“I think you’ve both gone mad,” Bree said.

“So you don’t want me to tell you why I like him?”

Bree waited all of two seconds before admitting that her father was playing her like a fiddle. “Okay, why do you like him?”

“I’ve seen him bring a fisherman into the surgery with a suspected heart attack and then stay and arrange for transport for the man. I’ve seen him pace my waiting room with his younger brother when his brother’s new wife came in for a health check. And I’ve seen him stand with his older brother, shoulder to shoulder, in a dispute that wasn’t of his making.”

“We’ve all seen that last one,” her mother injected as she came out onto the verandah. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t enjoy it.”

Her father snorted. “Could be that your mother’s right . . . and the boy doesn’t mind a little roughhousing. Crooks his finger and the women come running. Could be that the boy has his own reasons for letting people believe that he hooks up with married women. Sometimes a woman married to someone unstable needs help in order to get free of abuse.”

“Who?” asked her mother.

“Patient confidentiality. But Caleb Jackson didn’t hinder, he helped, and I think better of him because of it.”

Her mother pressed a swift kiss into her husband’s thinning grey hair. “Sneaky old goat. Okay, I stand corrected. Caleb Jackson is a white knight with his very own horse. He’s still too pretty for his own good.”

“Amen,” said Bree. “May we
please
change the subject?”

Of course,” said her father. “Anyone for chess?”

O
nce a month,
the Brunswick Bay Surf Lifesaving Club held a trivia night at their clubhouse by the beach. Caleb had been a member since forever. Nippers, boats, iron-man, surf lifesaving and more—he and his brothers had rolled through every one of them with unswerving enthusiasm and sometimes outright glee.

But he did not, would not, emphatically
refused
to frequent the clubhouse on trivia nights, ballroom dancing nights or any time he heard the words
Art Exhibition
or
Crafterama by the Sea
.

Of course, that was before he had a sister-in-law named Zoey.

Tonight’s excuse to get him down to the trivia circus was that she’d misplaced Eli’s car keys, possibly in Eli’s car. Caleb knew full well that his brother could get into that vehicle with his eyes closed, keys or no keys. And still Zoey wanted him to drop by with the spare set.

The clubhouse was situated back from the beach, on the edge of the park. It was a long, low building with a second-story verandah, nautical décor and tables enough to seat a couple of hundred people.

Eli made his way upstairs and entered the long room, his gaze automatically drawn to the table where Eli and Zoey were sitting, along with his mother, father, grandparents, and several other trivia artists extraordinaire. Not content to rope just Eli into service, Zoey had shanghaied the Jackson elders as well. He glanced over the rest of the room and saw all the usual suspects, along with a few people he hadn’t expected to see. Squaring his shoulders he headed towards his family.

“Your wife is a menace,” he told Eli as he dumped the keys down in front of her.

“Yeah, but you love me,” said Zoey. “We’re family. What’s Tonto’s horse’s name?”

“Scout.”

“Thanking you kindly. Which team has had the most State of Origin wins?”

“Queensland. But you’re not allowed to say it.”

“And what year was the inaugural State of Origin game played?”

“1980.”

“Okay, same question only this time for the Women’s State of Origin series?”

“What?”

“You were our last hope,” said Eli dryly.

“Hey, I got the horse.”

“And I need an introduction to the lovely slender blonde sitting in the corner,” said Zoey. Cutter’s not here. Eli won’t do it. I’m counting on you.”

He didn’t have to look to see who she meant. He’d seen her the minute he walked in. She was sitting at a corner table with her parents, her honey-brown hair caught in a careless knot at the nape of her neck. Coltish was still the word he’d use to describe her—all long lines and natural born elegance. Tonight she looked like a dancer in her downtime, every slender curve captivating. “I wouldn’t call her blonde,” he said by way of a reply. “Her hair’s brown.”

“Introduce me.”

“She’s not going to take pictures for you, Zoey. I’ve already asked.”

“When?” asked Eli.

“I caught up with her down the beach this morning.”

Eli just looked at him, Caleb stared back, daring his brother to make something of it. He hadn’t planned the meeting, even if he had taken advantage of it. Eli could think what he liked.

“Word has it that Theodore Tucker’s dying,” said his grandfather and Caleb turned to eye the older man sharply.

“Who told you that?”

“Reba.”

Reba was the club bartender, a woman of indeterminate age who could banter with the best of them and fill a tray full of drinks in approximately the same amount of time it took another bartender to find a glass. If Reba said old Doc Tucker was dying, then there was a good chance he was.

Damn.

Bree had shut him down hard this morning. She hadn’t been reassured by the words of welcome he’d mustered. She hadn’t wanted a damn thing to do with him or any other Jackson in the bay and had told him plain that she intended to stay far, far away.

She’d been wary of him this morning. Cautious. Apologetic, even, although why she thought that one appropriate was anyone’s guess.

Her call.

She always had been inclined to call the shots.

At eighteen, he’d let her. Didn’t have to be that way today.

“All right,” he said to Zoey. “You’ll get your introduction.”

Caleb headed in the Tuckers’ direction and watched as Bree registered his approach. He knew when he had a woman’s attention and although she tried to hide it he sure as hell had hers.

Maybe she had a thing for battered leather jackets.

Maybe it was the biker boots.

“Hey Doc, Mrs. Tucker, Bree. You’re not playing trivia?”

“The intention was there,” Bree’s mother, Marguerite, offered smoothly. “But it looks as if it could take a while. We’re just on our way out.” The trivia sheets on their table hadn’t been filled in. The remains of three meals sat in front of them, Doc Tucker’s barely touched.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about women’s football?”

“1998,” said Marguerite. “But don’t ask me which state wins all the games. It gets ugly.”

“You need to go and sit at
that
table,” he said, with a nod to where his family sat. “They need you.”

It was more of a throwaway comment than not, but when the doc eyed the Jackson table speculatively, Caleb followed up. “You’d be more than welcome there—even if only for a round or two. People come and go at that table all night. You wouldn’t be locked in.”

The Doc looked at his wife somewhat hopefully. Marguerite shrugged. “We could.”

“Did you hear about the diver who got taken at Coffs Harbor this afternoon?” the doc asked.

“Yeah, they’re saying it was a Great White shark. It’s a risk you take.”

“You don’t believe in culling?” Marguerite asked.

“No, ma’am. It’s their ocean.”

“And still your favorite place to be,” offered Bree.

“Cutter’s got the fishing boats, Eli’s got the design floor and I’ve got everything under the sea.”

“Smug.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Maybe,” she offered with a tiny grin.

It was hardly encouragement. Or maybe it was. “You want to meet Zoey? Eli’s wife. Give her the names of some photographers—get it over and done with?”

“She’s really that desperate?”

“She’s really that friendly. Word of warning, if she starts petting you it’s nothing personal. It’s a touch thing.”

“We could drop by on our way out,” said the doc. “Stay for a round?”

Breanna and her mother shared a glance. Her mother glanced at her watch.

“Someone’s got to call in at the late-night chemist before it closes,” Marguerite said. “We have fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll get it,” said Bree. “I’ll swing back and collect you afterwards.”

Caleb smiled at the opening spread out before him. “Or I can take Bree to the pharmacy and get her home afterwards. I’m on my way out.”

Nothing like a little privacy for what he had in mind. And less trivia.

Two minutes later the doc and Marguerite were sitting between Caleb’s father and grandfather, and Bree looked more than a little uneasy as she stood back from the people now crowded around the table.

Until Zoey got hold of her. “Hi, I’m Zoey Jackson. And you’re Bree of Images Photography.”

“Yes.” Bree didn’t stutter, but she did repeat herself. “Yes, I’m Bree. If you’d like to give me your contact details I can put you on to some photographers who might be able to help you.”

“Lovely.” Zoey scribbled something on the back of a bar coaster and held it out with a smile. “My email. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Are you staying? Pull up a seat.”

“No, I have a couple of things to do. But it was nice meeting you.”