A Family Kind of Guy (25 page)

“I've got Oscar.” At the sound of his name, the dog gave out a yip and wagged his tail, but his head was still craned upward as he focused on the squirrel.

“And Mason, if you want him.”

Bliss stiffened. “Give me a break.”

“Don't tell me he's not interested.” Katie closed the hood with a loud clunk. “I may not have ever been married, but Mom's walked down the aisle enough for the two of us. I've seen love and maybe even been there once myself. You, Bliss, have got it bad, and so does Mason.”

“You don't know—”

“Sure, I do. I've known Mason a long time. So have my brothers. He's in love with you, Bliss, whether you want to know it or not. Well, speak of the devil.” A satisfied smile stole over her face.

Oscar gave a quick little bark as Mason's truck rolled into the drive.

Katie laughed as she walked toward the driver's side of her car and Bliss's pulse, though she was loath to admit it, skyrocketed. “Someone just proved my point.”

Mason waved to Katie as she climbed into her rattletrap of a convertible and twisted on the ignition. The engine coughed twice before catching. Then Katie gunned it, and in a plume of blue smoke, the old car lumbered down the drive.

Bliss stood her ground and wished she knew what to say to this man who could turn her world upside down with one long, slow, life-altering kiss.

* * *

Mason felt a tightening in his gut at the sight of her. Dear Lord, Bliss Cawthorne was beautiful and seductive and sexy without even trying to be. As he braked, she smiled slightly, the wind catching in her sun-streaked hair. His heart stopped for a second that was destined to change his life forever. He didn't have a reason to be here, but all day long he'd thought of last evening and making love to her. The image of her blue eyes, dusky with desire, her lush lips and rosy-tipped white breasts had filtered through his mind time and time again.

“Well, Mr. Lafferty. I didn't expect to see you so soon.”

“No?” Was she kidding? “I thought we needed to talk.”

“I suppose,” she agreed, though her eyes were bright with suspicions. She rolled one palm toward the heavens. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” he repeated as he stared at her.
You. I want you, Bliss Cawthorne, and I always have. I wish things were different between us, and God, I wish I never had hurt you.
He crossed the span of the driveway and stood so close to her he saw the slight trembling of her lip and caught the light scent of her perfume. “There are lots of things, Bliss.”

“Such as?”

“I wanted to see you again.” He searched her eyes.

She swallowed hard and some of her false bravado slipped away. “Look, just because we made love doesn't mean you have some kind of responsibility, a duty to—”

“Is that what you think?”

“To tell you the truth, Mason, I don't know what to think.”

He believed her. She'd never looked more confused in her life. Well, he intended to set one thing straight. Before she could back up a step, he gathered her into his arms and lowered his lips to meet hers. Her mouth was soft and supple and yielding, her body warm and inviting. With a groan, he held her fast, hands splaying over her back, his blood pumping through his veins.

Lifting his head, he stared into eyes that reflected his own passion. “Now that we've settled my sense of ‘duty,'” he said, running a thumb over her lower lip, “let's talk about us.”

He felt her stiffen. “I thought I told you goodbye last night.”

“You didn't mean it.”

She lifted a teasing eyebrow. “Didn't I?”

It was all he could take. “No way, lady,” he said and heard her gasp as he lifted her deftly off her feet and carried her into the house.

“Mason, stop! Let me down!” she cried as he marched determinedly down the short hallway to the bedroom where he'd first carried her bags years ago.

He dropped her onto the old double bed and, as she landed, fell onto the sagging mattress with her.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

“Making love to you.”

“What? No—” He cut off her protests with a kiss that started in his lips but touched him so deeply that his groin tightened and his erection, already at half-mast, stiffened in anticipation.

Her arms wound around his neck and she sighed contentedly into his mouth. “Why is it I can never say no to you?” she asked as she opened the buttons of his shirt.

“Because I'm so damned irresistible.”

She laughed. “Oh, that's it,” she said.

“Why else?” His breath fanned her ear and she couldn't think. His hand caressed her breast and she moaned. From that moment onward, she was lost.

* * *

He spent the night and it seemed natural to wake with his arms around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. How many years had she dreamed of opening her eyes to see the sunlight caress the contours of his face? His beard had grown overnight and his eyelashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. In slumber there were no lines of worry disturbing the skin of his forehead, no creases of suspicion pulling at the corners of his mouth.

I love you,
she thought, but didn't dare utter the words. This was an affair, nothing more—the culmination of years of old dreams. They weren't kids any longer but adults with their own sets of problems, their own lives. He ran several ranches and a corporation or two; she was working on becoming a partner in the firm where she worked in Seattle. He had an ex-wife and a daughter; she had Oscar, who, by the sounds of the whining at the bedroom door, needed to go outside.

She threw on a robe, padded down the hallway and let Oscar out the front door. Delores, the cook and housemaid, had the week off, but a few of the ranch hands had already parked their trucks near the barn.

Out of habit she started the coffee and was unloading the dishwasher when she heard the shuffle of bare feet on the floor. She turned and found Mason, dressed only in his worn jeans, rubbing his jaw and glancing out the window. His hair, mussed and falling over his forehead, made him seem younger than his years and his broad shoulders were tanned. But she couldn't ignore the scar that ran around his upper arm, a reminder that his arm had nearly been torn from its socket as he'd tried to save her all those years ago.

“Good morning,” she said as the coffeepot gurgled to life.

“It is, isn't it?” One side of his mouth lifted in a playful smile that she found absolutely endearing. She'd miss that smile as well as his lips upon her skin when she returned to Seattle.

“The best. Coffee'll be done in a second.”

“Good.”

“How about breakfast?”

“You get dressed and I'll buy.”

“No reason,” she countered. “I can cook.”

“What d'ya know? Three languages, ballet, a BA in architecture
and
she can cook.”

“That's a master's in architecture,” she reminded him as he walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck.

“My kind of woman.”

She laughed and felt him fiddle with the belt of her robe. “Hey, wait a minute—”

“Breakfast can wait,” he growled against her ear as the robe parted and he lifted her from her feet.

As it was, breakfast was forgotten.

* * *

The fax machine whirred to life and Bliss waited, pushing aside the drawing she'd been working on. It had been four days since her father had been released from the hospital, and each night she'd spent with Mason. They'd talked of everything and nothing but never once broached the subject that seemed forbidden to them. The future was off-limits. He was worried about his sister and his daughter; she was concerned about her father and the marriage that was once again “on.” By the end of next week, Brynnie would officially be her stepmother.

And then what?
Pack up Oscar and return to her life in Seattle?

Twiddling her pencil, she walked to the fax machine and read the memo from the office—another bid and a friendly note from one of the partners asking her when she planned to return.

“Never,” she thought aloud, then caught herself. Because she wanted to stay here in this tiny town to be near her father? Or Mason? Or both?

Disgusted by the turn of her thoughts, she decided to drive over to Brynnie's to see John, but she'd barely made it out the front door when a brown station wagon pulled into the drive and parked between two of the pickups used by the hired hands.

Tiffany Santini climbed out of the car, glanced at a couple of the workers who were unloading hay into the barn and hurried to the front porch.

“Oh—did I come at a bad time?” she asked, seeing the car keys swinging from Bliss's fingers.

“No, come on in. I was going to visit Dad, but it can wait.”

“He's not here? I thought he was released from the hospital.”

“He was, but he's staying at Brynnie's for a little while. Come in.” Bliss was glad for the distraction and the truth of the matter was that she was intrigued by her slightly uptight older half sister. She didn't expect they'd become friends overnight, but at least they could get to know each other.

On the front porch, Tiffany said, “Look, I want to be honest with you. I heard that he was rushed to the hospital, that they thought it was his heart but it turned out that he'd gotten too much sun or something—and I didn't know what to do.”

“It's hard.”

“I thought the decent thing to do was to stop and see him and yet I didn't think he'd ever really done the decent thing by me or Mom, so…I waited. Anyway, here I am and I'm wondering what in the world I should say to you or to him.” She rolled her large eyes.

“Well, come on in.” Bliss held open the screen door. “I've got coffee or iced tea or—”

“This really isn't a social call,” Tiffany snapped, then caught herself. A small line formed between her eyebrows. “I—I don't know what it is.”

“Neither do I, but if we don't talk, we'll never find out, will we?” Bliss was wary of this woman and yet she was curious. There was, after all, the same Cawthorne blood running through their veins.

Tiffany hesitated for a second, then must have decided that leaving would look cowardly, because she nodded stiffly and followed Bliss inside. Her dark brows rose as she entered the ranch house for the first time, Bliss guessed. “It's not as if he was—or is—a big part of my life.”

Bliss let that little jab slide by as they walked into the living room and, for the first time, Tiffany's eyes took in the watercolors of Indians and cowboys, the river-rock fireplace, the scatter rugs and marred wooden floor.

“So, now that you've been in town a few of weeks and met your stepmother-to-be, how do you feel about John's marriage to Brynnie Perez?” Tiffany asked suddenly.

Dropping her keys into her purse, Bliss stopped at the fireplace and decided to tell the truth. No reason to pussyfoot. She and these newfound sisters had a lot of ground to cover if they were to ever get along. That, she decided, staring into Tiffany's eyes, was a mighty big if. “Of course I resented Brynnie when I first found out about her. How could my father—my
father
—have carried on an affair for so many years? I knew he was no knight in shining armor—”

Tiffany snorted her agreement.

“But I thought he had more morals than a tomcat.” She shoved a shank of hair around her ear. “I was all set to hate Brynnie on sight. This was the woman who had defiled my mother's reputation, had been the ‘love of my father's life,' who had been married a zillion times and had let another man claim Katie as his when she was really Dad's. It was crazy, like I'd just walked through the looking glass or entered the Twilight Zone.”

“But you accept it?”

“I don't have much of a choice, do I? I mean, I can't tell my father what to do, and anyway, as far as I was concerned, the damage was already done.”

“To your mother.”

“Yes, and to my idea of what my family was.” Bliss sighed. “So I fought it for a while, decided I couldn't do anything and then, of course, I met Brynnie.”

Tiffany walked to the window and stared through the panes to the front porch. “And let me guess how this little fairy tale ends—you fell in love with her, too, and now we're supposed to all be one big happy family.”

“Wrong. I thought I'd hate my father's mistress on sight. And I decided I could live with that. You know, be outwardly civil while inwardly cold. But—and I wouldn't want my mother, if she were alive, to hear this—Brynnie's a hard person to hate.”

Tiffany didn't respond, just ran a finger along the windowpane as she stared outside.

“So-o-o, I'm trying to put all my prejudices away if I can. I'm trying to convince myself that it's time to look forward, not backward. But if you want to know the truth, I'm having a rough time with all of it, okay? It's not easy, but there it is.” She lifted a palm.

“There are always choices,” Tiffany argued, though she didn't elaborate and Bliss guessed that she was talking about her own private problems.

“Dad didn't give you many.”

Tiffany paled, then said, “No, he didn't. And you probably want to know how I felt about it. Well, I felt rotten. Once Mom came clean and told me the truth, I was sick to think that he didn't love me enough to claim me.”

Bliss was horrified. “That's not what it was like. Tiffany, you've got to understand that—”

“What?” Tiffany said hotly, then appeared to bite back another sarcastic remark and sighed audibly. “Look, it's not your fault, but I blamed you. When I finally wanted to know more about my ‘dad'—if that's what you could call him—I asked around about John. It turns out my grandmother had a wealth of information and was more than happy to let me know every intimate detail of my father's life. That's when I found out about you and discovered that you had this privileged life up in Seattle—that you had Dad—so I made the mistake of calling you ‘the princess' in front of my son.”