A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2 (9 page)

“I can do that, too,” Arnold said, guzzling water from his plastic bottle, then arcing it past Harry’s landing.

“Me, too.” Elizabeth attempted to send an arc of water and ended up spraying Harry’s shirt. “Ooops.” She covered her mouth, looked at her mother, and tried not to giggle.

Harry shook his head and let Greta help him to his feet. “I’m driving,” she said as she guided him to the car with Elizabeth and Arnold close behind.

Hmmph. He looked like shit, felt like shit, and smelled like puke, and nobody cared. He reached in his pocket, dug out his keys, and handed them to Greta. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Harry kept the window down and his eyes closed while Greta maneuvered the Jag toward her house. The car hadn’t been handled so delicately since he drove it off the lot. One day he’d explain what a performance vehicle meant and how it should be handled like a woman: with intensity and attention. She’d think it was a line of bullshit, and she’d be right. He just wanted to get home and crawl into bed for the next fourteen hours, but first they had to stop at Greta’s, so Arnold and Elizabeth could hand over their “get better” gizmos.
Whatever. He couldn’t think past the next curve. He dozed a bit and when he woke, Elizabeth stood on the other side of the car with a brown teddy bear peeking at him from the window.

“This is Mr. Squiggly,” she said, “
he’ll make you feel all better. Here.” She pushed the stuffed animal through the window. “Now, Mr. Squiggly, take care of Mr. Harry. He has a sick tummy.” She leaned on tiptoe and kissed Harry’s cheek. “Bye.”

“Bye, kiddo.” Harry plopped the teddy bear in his lap and worked up a smile for Elizabeth.

Arnold stepped in front of his sister and stuffed the pillow through the window. “This will help.” The kid almost smiled, but he couldn’t quite get those lips to work in the right direction.

“Thanks, Arnold.”

Greta kissed them both on the forehead and darted to the driver’s side. “I must take Mr. Harry home now and get him settled. Listen to Grandma and brush your teeth.” She got into the car, buckled up, and blew them a kiss. “Prayers, too.”

Harry closed his eyes again with Arnold’s pillow and Mr. Squiggly on his lap. Who would have thought he could feel like crud and be okay with it?
Or almost okay? He gave Greta directions to his condo and listened to her soft voice as she chatted on about the day and how much the kids enjoyed themselves. She said she did, too. Was this what couples called “bonding”? Hell if he knew, but it had a peacefulness about it that he kind of liked. It sure beat listening to Bridgett going on and on about her cardio workout and laser surgeries.

“This is where you live?”

He inched an eye open. Luxury condos, gated and secure. Lots of flowers and landscape. “Yup. This is it.” Harry pointed to a parking spot in the first row. “Park there.” He hoped she thought it was a random spot and not his, but one look at her pinched brows told him she knew. If she thought the parking space was overdone, wait until she met the doorman decked out in full uniform. Harry grabbed the pillow and the teddy bear and hefted his weary body from the car. Greta hurried to his side and guided him along the sidewalk to the ornate entrance and yes, the uniformed doorman. “Stevens, how are you?”

The older man nodded and opened the door with a flourish and a bow.
“Very fine, sir. Ma’am?”

“Thank you,” Greta murmured, smiling at him as she passed.

“Lecher,” Harry said under his breath. “He’s after all the young skirts. Ignore him.”

She shot him a look.
“Hmm. He probably says the same thing about you.”

Harry’s lips twitched.
“Probably.”

“And I’m not that young anyway.” She tilted her head and studied him. “He’s probably wondering what happened to your twenty-something sex partner.”

And there it was, slapped right back in his face, like a boy caught with his hand in the candy jar. Greta probably thought about him and Bridgett that way, with Bridgett being the candy jar and Harry’s, ahem, “hand”, being somewhere it didn’t belong. The woman might come across all soft and demure, but she wasn’t to be messed with, that was becoming quite clear. He bet if needed, she could wield a meat cleaver and not on a cut of meat. Harry jabbed at the elevator button and waited for the ding. He’d done a few things in this elevator that might cause Greta to sharpen her meat cleaver.

When he fit the key in the door and eased it open, he waited for Greta’s response. His place had been decorated with two things in mind: relaxation and sex. Leather couch, chairs, geometrical area rugs, stainless steel accents, and white.
Lots of white.

“My.” Greta stood in the middle of the living room. “This could be in a magazine.”

“Yeah, well, it’s okay.” He wouldn’t tell her it had been, that once upon a time he’d bedded an interior designer who decorated his house and won a spot in a magazine with it. What did it matter? It was beautiful and impersonal; no photos or expression of personal tastes, nothing but a designer’s opinion of what his house should look like. How sad was that? Sadder still he’d only just acknowledged it? Maybe the barfing had drained rational thought from his brain and left him half delirious and too damn vulnerable. He’d go with that because, dammit, he was not turning into a weak-kneed baby looking for the meaning of life.

“Would you like some tea?” She’d worked her way to the kitchen, her gaze darting from cabinet to stove, to refrigerator, as if assessing where he might keep tea if he were to have it in the house.

“Top cupboard, to the right of the stove.” He leaned on the marble island as she reached for the box, her top lifting to expose a scrap of skin. Had any of his other women ever cooked him a meal in this kitchen? Oh, they’d talked about it, but had they done it? Even a piece of toast? Of course, he didn’t even own a damn toaster, but if he did, would they have offered? No, they were not like Greta, but then that wasn’t what he’d wanted them for, was it? And exactly what did he plan to do with Greta? Oh, yes, he remembered. Attempt to have a “relationship” with her. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck and forehead, drizzled along his temples.

“Harry?” She fussed over him, blotting his forehead with a wet paper towel. “Are you going to be sick again?”

“I’m fine.” He moved out of reach. “I need a shower; I stink.”

She smiled. “I’ll fix your tea. Should I bring it to the bedroom?”

Sure, Greta, bring it to the bedroom and set it on the nightstand…then, slide out of those shorts and that top…
“No, I’ll sit at the table.”

“I’ll have it ready for you.”

The warm shower and mint soap relaxed him, but it was the toothpaste and toothbrush that made him feel like a human being again. He pulled on a pair of silk pajama bottoms and a T-shirt and glanced in the mirror. The pathetic-looking bastard staring back at him didn’t look like the suave and charismatic man who could talk a woman out of her panties in ten sentences or less. This guy looked worn and used up, a sad commentary to a life of excess and abuse. Harry grabbed a comb, ran it through his hair, and turned off the light. He made it as far as the bed before his body gave out and he fell onto the bed.

He had no idea how long he slept, but when he woke, Greta was curled beside him, her breath soft and even against his chest, her arm thrust around his waist. His little warrior woman, come to protect him against himself. A surge of something he could only guess might be contentment spread through him, landed on his weary soul. So this was what couples did, shared time and a bed that had nothing to do with sex? And he, Harry
Blacksworth, avoider of relationships with women who wanted more than sex and money, was actually lying next to a woman in his bed, with his clothes on. Hers, too. He closed his eyes, breathed in her scent, and smiled.

Miriam sliced a cucumber and tossed it into the wooden salad bowl. “Why would your mother venture all this way and not try to see you?”

That was the question that had no answer. Not quite true. Christine knew there was an answer buried deep in her mother’s actions, but what? Why would Gloria duck in and out as though her sole purpose was to see Nate? The cruel words, the harsh accusations, and demeaning comments were all signature Gloria Blacksworth. She liked having the upper hand, but to travel this distance and ignore Christine when she’d been calling, writing, and practically begging to see her? “She’s up to something. I can feel it.”

“Christine, I know you’re still upset with your mother, but at some point, you’re going to have to let it go.”

Would Miriam feel the same way if Christine told her the truth she’d been carrying around for months?
Oh, by the way, I might not be my father’s daughter. No, what I mean is I might have a different father; the one I thought was my uncle. How did that happen? The usual way. You see, my mother, the illustrious Gloria Blacksworth, slept with my uncle and he might be my father
. It was too messed up to think about, so Christine blocked it out and pretended her mother was dead.

“Christine? Are you ever going to forgive her?”

“Probably not.”

Her mother had made her choices and chosen her path, a path that did not include her daughter. Christine had Nate, Lily, Miriam, and Uncle Harry. They were her family, and soon they’d add another
Desantro. She had the new addition to the family on her mind the next morning as she and Nate lay in bed. “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight.”

“Oh?” Nate ran a hand down her naked back, his fingers settling on her hip. “You got Pop to convince his cronies to support you?”

“No, that’s not it, but Pop does think we’re close.” Christine sighed and snuggled next to her husband. She cherished this post-lovemaking closeness almost as much as making love: simple touches that were more caring than sexual, words that soothed rather than ignited, love that spread through her in a quiet, steady flame. Who would have thought she and Nate would be so perfect together, despite their differences, background, and rocky beginning? They belonged together, and tonight she’d show him just how much.

“Are you going to give me a clue?”

“Uh-uh.” She made tiny circles on his chest. “If you guess, it won’t be a surprise.”

“Hmm. Good point.” He pulled her close and whispered. “I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

Christine lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “For me? What?”

His dark eyes sparkled with humor and a bit of mischief. “If I tell you, it’s not a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and be patient.” His lips twitched, and his voice dipped. “And we both know patience is not your specialty.”

She inched up and kissed him on the mouth, slipping her tongue inside. When he groaned and tried to lift her on top of him, she pulled away and said, “What was that about patience?”

He laughed and flipped her onto her back, entering her in one swift thrust. His strokes eased, tormenting her with their calculated slowness. Nate knew how to please her, how to drive her wild, and make her moan with pleasure. She knew how to do that to him, too. Christine grabbed his shoulders and thrust her hips to meet his, harder, faster, coaxing him deeper inside. He could never resist that temptation.

“Screw patience,” Nate muttered as he pumped into her, full and deep, again and again, until Christine moaned her release. Seconds later, he followed with a groan and spilled himself inside her. After, she held him close, arms clasped around his back, pressing him against her. Nate was her solid ground, her soul, her husband. And tonight, she would tell him he was going to be a father.

***

Just because Greta had witnessed him puking his guts out and just because she had spent a few hours in his bed—clothes on and not having sex—did not mean she had a direct path into his screwed-up head or his equally screwed-up life. But she sure thought she did, oh hell yes. Here they were, two days later and she’d called him up and informed him she planned to fix him dinner—at his place. He’d asked if Arnold and Elizabeth would be coming, too, but she hadn’t even pretended hesitation when she said “no”. Didn’t she understand he couldn’t be trusted alone with her in his home, that he was being chivalrous because he knew what could happen if she came alone? Hell, he knew what would happen. Even if he locked the bedroom door, that wouldn’t stop him from switching into hunting mode and talking her into sex on any one of the several other, if not slightly less comfortable, choices: there was the couch, the two chairs, the table, even the damn rug. Any one of them would suffice in a pinch.

Greta hadn’t been interested in the first seven excuses why she shouldn’t come to his place without her pint-sized bodyguards. She’d merely laughed and said she was a big girl who did not need protecting. She had no idea. He only agreed because he couldn’t resist her lasagna and she’d promised to make a double portion. Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to see her and if this hare
-brained idea of hers was the only way to spend a few extra hours with her, then he’d strap a damn chastity belt on her if he had to, but sex was out of the question. Maybe soon, just not yet, and he was not going to psychoanalyze his hesitancy. End of story.

“Harry, would you mind setting the table?”

Setting the table, as in fork to the left, knife and spoon to the right? Hell yes, he minded. That was domestic crap that a guy did to help out. If he started doing stuff like this now, what would she ask next?
Can you carve the turkey?

“Harry? Thank you.” She smiled at him and he forgot all the reasons he should deny her. He smiled back like a lovesick idiot and headed toward the silverware drawer. They were going to have a talk about the rules and boundaries in this “relationship”, as in he was in charge and she was second
-string. But not until after dinner.

Harry’s vow to set Greta straight didn’t last past the first bite of lasagna. Throwing a few pieces of silverware and a plate or two on the table wasn’t such a big deal, was it? Not when one of the place settings belonged to Greta. Hell, he’d even helped with dishes, something he hadn’t done since freshman year in college, and then only for two weeks until he hired a sophomore named Lisa to take care of his dishes and take care of him, too.

“This is great cobbler,” he said around a mouthful of peach. “Make sure you take some home for the kids.”

She dabbed her lips and said in a soft voice, “Thank you, I will.”

“And I picked up some of that yogurt Elizabeth likes. Take that, too.” She nodded. “I don’t want Arnold to feel slighted, but I had no idea what to get the kid. He could be a poker player for as much expression as he shows about anything.”

“I know.” Her shoulders drooped a bit
; her expression turned sad. “It’s all inside and he can’t get it out. He feels it, though, Harry, maybe more than the rest of us.”

He knew all about feelings that were locked up with no way out. In the
Blacksworth family, if you couldn’t express yourself with style, eloquence, and substance, you were ignored. That had been Harry’s life, while Charles had possessed the ability to say and do the right things, even if they weren’t “right” for him, even if he sacrificed his own happiness.

“I worry about him,” she went on, “worry he will never learn to have a relationship with someone, and he will end up alone.”

“Ah, hell,” Harry said, trying to lighten her spirits and also to blot out words that sounded too much like him. “Arnold’s a great kid; he just needs to find something he’s good at so he doesn’t think about doing everything right or wrong.” He paused, rubbed his chin. “And he needs a different name. Arnold is a tough name for a kid to carry around. What’s his middle name?”

“James. Why do you ask?”

“A.J.,” he murmured. “I like that. Ask him what he thinks about that.” Yeah, he liked the sound of that name. Cool. Hip. Not Arnold.

Greta reached across the table and clasped his hand. “Thank you, Harry. Thank you for being so kind.”

Right. Kind. “I think you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else. Take a closer look; nothing kind about me.” He frowned, tried for a fierce expression, but she didn’t buy it. She smiled, pushed back her chair, and ran a hand along his cheek. He caught her hand, eased it away. “What are you doing?” That look on her face told him exactly what she was thinking and what she thought she was going to do: seduction. Good grief, Greta in seduction mode?  How the hell was he supposed to fight that? “Stop looking at me like that.”

She moved closer, laid a hand on the back of his neck. “How am I looking at you, Harry?”

Damn that soft voice and those eyes that sparkled bluer than the Caribbean. “This is not funny. Now go sit over there and drink your coffee.”

Those full lips curved into a smile. “I’m not interested in coffee.” She slid her fingers through his hair.
“Maybe later.”

“Greta.” How was he supposed to resist that voice, those
eyes, that scent? “You need to stop. Now.” He cleared his throat, looked away so he wasn’t eye level with those breasts.

“No, Harry. I don’t think so.” She leaned in close, her breath fanning his neck. “We’re going to go in the bedroom and I’m going to undress you.” Her lips brushed a spot behind his right ear. “And then do you know what I’m going to do?”

Hadn’t he imagined Greta playing seductress hundreds, no, thousands of times? But only in his mind, surely never flesh-and-blood real life. And yet, wasn’t that what she was offering? Well, wasn’t it? Harry opened his mouth and managed, “I have no idea.”

Her gaze zeroed in on his, held it,
forced him to remain in his chair, waiting for her next words. She fingered the first button of her blouse, undid it, moved to the second. Harry tried to speak but the words froze in his brain. Greta’s blouse fell open, revealing a pink lace bra and lush flesh. He swallowed, caught between desperation and desire. “I’m no good for you, Greta. You know that.”

She smiled, slid her blouse from her shoulders. “You’re perfect for me.”

He’d always wondered what her breasts would feel like in his hands, how they would taste on his tongue. “I’ll screw this up. I’m a screw-up, you know that.” Dammit, she wasn’t listening. If she were, she’d button up that blouse and fly out of here. Now.

“
It’s okay, Harry.” She kicked off her shoes, fingered the opening of his shirt. “I trust you.”

He caught her hand, torn between begging her to continue and forcing her to leave. “You shouldn’t trust me. I’ll only end up hurting you.”

Her smile slipped, her hand stilled. “I think you’re the one who is afraid of being hurt. I won’t hurt you. Trust me, Harry. Can you do that?”

Trust?
In his limited and deranged experience, when people started throwing that word around, it usually meant “open up, tell me everything, and I will own you and your weaknesses.” And yet, Greta wasn’t like that, or she didn’t seem to be. But then, how would he know unless he trusted her? He blew out a long breath and eased from the chair. “You ask a lot, Greta Servensen.”

She rested her hands on his chest and looked up at him. “I ask no more than I’m willing to give, Harry
Blacksworth.”

His lips twitched. “Okay.
Trust. We’ll give it a whirl. What now?” He darted a glance at the bedroom. After a year of fantasizing about Greta, was he really this close to making it all come true? A tiny swirl of panic seized him, worked its way down his belly, and landed on the one place he could not afford for it to land. Oh, hell no, not now. He was a stallion in bed, had been since he was a teenager, and now, minutes before the most important sexual experience of his life, his equipment was going to fail?

“Harry? What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” This could not be happening. “Nothing. I think I’d like another glass of iced tea.”

“Sure.” She clasped his hand and led him away from the kitchen toward the bedroom. “Later.”

Harry slowed his steps. “What are you doing?” What was she doing? Taking him to bed? Trying to seduce him? Greta? His Greta?

“I’m doing what you’re too much a gentleman to do.” She paused, wet her lips
, and murmured, “Taking you to bed.”

Her words meshed with her actions, pulsed through him, exploded in his brain as the reality of her intent took shape. Greta wanted him and she intended to have him.

“Come, Harry.” His seductress stroked his cheek, ran a finger along his lips. “Let me make love to you. Let me do this just for you.”

What man could say no to that offer? No woman had ever invited him to experience pleasure without expecting something in return, whether in the form of a touch, or a tangible good, such as jewelry, clothing, or money. Not Greta. She really wanted him just for his miserable self. He was through fighting her, through denying what they both obviously wanted, and though he should be honorable and send her away, right now honor had nothing to do with it. Desire and need were what they were both after, and dammit, they were not leaving that bed until both had been satisfied.
Several times.

“You’re beautiful, Harry.” Greta eased the shirt from his
shoulders, let it slip to the floor, her mouth on his neck, his chest, his belly. This was heaven and hell wrapped into one, a pleasure-pain that started and ended with her touch. She unfastened his belt, stroked his legs, unzipped his pants. It was too fast, too slow, too much. Harry sipped in tiny bits of air, fearful he’d explode before they got started. When he tried to touch her, she shook that luscious blonde head and murmured, “Not yet. Just enjoy.” Off came the slacks and boxers, and still she stroked him with those exquisite fingers, ran her tongue along his belly. Low, lower. That damnable appendage jerked and jumped, all signs of its earlier indecision gone. When she touched him there, he groaned with such intense pleasure, he thought he would explode, but then her breathy laughter spilled over him, made him harder.