Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn
Tags: #Contemporary Women, #Harlequin Superromance, #Contemporary, #Romance, #Contemporary Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Series
The Good Father (35 page)
Kane followed C.J.’s gaze and shrugged. “Oakes is a big boy. He can handle himself. He’ll give Carrie a gentle brush-off, something that will save her from being embarrassed.”
Kane’s way of dealing with problems was to avoid them until they went away on their own. Or someone else took care of them. Oakes’s was to be patient, to pick and choose his words and actions carefully and hope for the best.
“She’s humiliating Dad,” C.J. said. “And getting more than her fair share of attention for it. You need to go over there and tell her to back off.”
“Not my job. Being in charge of everyone and everything, being a huge pain in the ass, is your thing.”
C.J.’s fingers tightened on his hat. Kane could give lessons in being a pain in the ass. “I take charge,” he said, “because no one else ever steps up.”
“Why don’t you just beat the crap out of each other and get it over with?” the waitress asked. Why was she still there? “That’s what my brothers do when they’re mad at each other. Then, while the blood is drying, they’re suddenly best friends again.”
“We’re not friends,” C.J. assured her, not taking his eyes off Kane.
But at one point they had been. Less than two years apart in age, they’d spent every moment together. Had been playmates. Confidantes. And as close as two brothers could be.
Those days were long gone. No sense wishing them back.
Or regretting the distance between them now.
“Guys are so weird,” the waitress murmured while C.J. and Kane continued to glare at each other. “This is what’s wrong with the world, by the way. Too much testosterone. Especially in leadership positions. I’m seriously considering forming a society consisting solely of women. Sort of like the Amazons but not as bloodthirsty. I wonder how much my own island would cost?” she asked in a thoughtful tone as she walked away.
“I’d buy her an island,” C.J. muttered, “if we could convince Estelle to live there with her.”
“A society with no hormonal teenage boys?” Kane asked. “Or horny adult drummers? I’d pitch in for that.”
They shared a grin. Too bad their moment of brotherly bonding was interrupted by another of their mother’s enthusiastic “whoop-whoops,” this one accompanied by a fist pump.
“That’s your cue, Junior,” Kane said, his grin turning into a knowing smirk. “Go save the day.”
C.J. wished the waitress hadn’t taken off. He could use more food. And a drink. A strong one.
He’d need one to deal with his mother.
With nowhere to leave his hat, he stuck it back on his head, then crossed the dance floor, weaving his way through the jostling bodies. “Excuse me,” he said, tapping Gwen’s date on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
“C.J.!” Gwen trilled, her voice somehow carrying over the blaring guitar riff, the pounding bass. Tottering on her four-inch heels, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re late.”
C.J. wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist so she didn’t do a face-plant on the floor. Looked like someone had had a few too many dirty martinis. “So I’ve been told.”
Linking her hands behind his neck, she leaned back, studying him with none-too-clear eyes. “Darling, you look absolutely horrid.”
C.J.’s left eye twitched. He’d come to save her from herself and all he got was grief. No good deed went unpunished. Not in his life anyway.
He took in her black leather minidress and matching thigh-high boots. “You look...”
Like you’re trying way too hard. Desperate. Needy.
“...beautiful as ever.”
She smiled and patted his cheek. “Such a charmer. Just like your father.”
“Not quite the same.”
His father had spent his entire life making promises to women. Vows of love and fidelity that he’d broken, over and over again, without a second thought.
C.J. didn’t make promises he couldn’t—or in his father’s case, wouldn’t—keep.
“Oh, you have to meet Javier,” Gwen said, craning her head to seek out her date with such determination, C.J. was surprised she didn’t twist it clean off. “Javier.” She held out her hand. “Darling, come here. C.J.,” she continued when her date joined them, “this is my dear, dear friend Javier Ramirez. Javier, my eldest son, Clinton Jr.”
Tucking Gwen to his side, Javier flipped his hair from his eyes. “Dude,” he said, offering C.J. a fist bump.
C.J. stared at Javier’s hand until he slowly lowered it. “My mother needs some coffee,” he told the younger man. His mother was dating a man younger than her own sons. Then again, his father’s last two wives had also been younger than him. Maybe he could fix Javier up with Carrie. Get them both of out his hair. “Black. And plenty of it.”
Before Javier could respond, C.J. gently tugged his mother away from him and escorted her to a table in the corner. Helped her into a chair.
She frowned at him the best she could with a forehead full of Botox. “Are we done dancing?”
“We’re taking a break,” he told his mother, sitting next to her. “Your
dear, dear friend
is going to get us some coffee.”
She patted his knee. “Javier is such a sweetheart. He’s an aspiring model, you know. Though his true love is the theater.”
A model. That explained the thick neck, gelled hair and blindingly white teeth. “I hadn’t realized you were seeing anyone,” C.J. said casually. “Or that you’d be bringing a date.”
“Javier and I met weeks ago at a yoga class,” she said with a wave of her hand, her red, talon-like nails almost taking out C.J.’s eye. “I enjoy spending time with him. He’s attractive and attentive. I hadn’t realized how advantageous it was for a man to be so limber until we made love in the backseat of the Bentley. Of course I’m referring to his limbs being flexible,” she said, leaning forward and patting C.J.’s hand reassuringly, “not his penis, which is quite straight, thank goodness.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though, just between us, it could use another inch or two.”
C.J. sat frozen, his mouth hanging open, a strange buzzing in his head. Forget the forks in his eyes. He’d much rather use them to dig his mother’s words from his ears.
She was often thoughtless with her words, careless with her deeds, but the alcohol had obviously washed away any and all filters between her brain and her mouth.
No doubt about it. He really was in hell.
“Please,” he managed to choke out, holding up his hand as if that would stop her from talking, “I’d like to keep up the illusion that you don’t have a sex life, and that would be easier to do if you didn’t share details.”
He made a mental note never to ride in her car again.
She laughed and slapped his arm. “Don’t be silly. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends, as well. And friends tell each other such things.”
“I will never tell you such things,” he promised solemnly. “Ever.”
“Well, just know that you can. But I do hope you won’t divulge anything I’ve said to your father.”
Her voice had been casual, her expression clear. If C.J. hadn’t looked carefully, he would have missed the calculation in her eyes, the small, satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth. As if all she needed for her evil plans to come to fruition was for C.J. to regale his disabled father with stories of her sexual escapades, causing Senior to become insanely jealous, toss aside his latest bimbo and finally come crawling back to Gwen.
C.J. had an entire lifetime of experience when it came to Gwen and her manipulations. As a kid, he’d fallen for her act too many times to count. Had run to his father every time Gwen had a date, had told Senior about the days she’d spent locked in her room, crying over him. But no matter how hard C.J. had tried, no matter how much he’d begged, his father had never come back.
Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.
C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.
He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.
Trouble
.
That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.
Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.
His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.
Definitely trouble.
The very best kind.
“Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”
The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a
bless your heart
at the end of his sentences.
She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”
He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.
The instant connection.
He frowned. No. Not
connection
. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.
He wanted her.
And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.
Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.
Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.
He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.
“Gotcha.”
Copyright © 2015 by Beth Burgoon
ISBN-13: 9781460383087
The Good Father
Copyright © 2015 by Tara Taylor Quinn
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