Can't Buy Me Love (4 page)

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Tara said, resigned to her fate and the too-soft bed of her guest room. Eli nodded, and silently left, all but disappearing into the still and soft Texas darkness.

Ninja
, she thought, longing for the skill,
totally ninja
.

“Tara?” A soft voice, and a not-so-soft poke, startled Tara out of a deep sleep and she lifted her head from its nest of pillows.

“Ruby?” she asked, glancing toward the still dark window. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. “What’s wrong?” She snapped upright, pushing her hair out of her face. “Lyle?”

“He’s fine.”

“Is it his oxygen?” she asked, tossing aside the blankets. “I told him the doctors—”

Ruby Fernandez put a hand on her shoulder and Tara realized the housekeeper was standing over her bed wearing a black silk robe that fell from her shoulders like a cape and a sleep mask she’d pushed up onto her forehead, displacing graying brown hair up around her head.

Tara didn’t have that much experience with housekeepers, but she was pretty sure they didn’t usually look like a Hispanic female version of Batman.

“They’re here,” Ruby said. “I put them in the den, I didn’t know—”

Tara blinked, the tumbler inside her brain clicking around, searching for home, realization dawning.
Them
. They’d come after all.

“That’s good, Ruby. Perfect.”

“I didn’t think they’d come.”

“None of us did.”

“They wanted to see him, but I told them no.”

“Good.”

“Imagine showing up the middle of the night, demanding to see a dying man. No shame.” Ruby swore in Spanish, and Tara tended to agree with most of her assessment of the sorts of people who would do such a thing.

“Go on back to bed. I’ll … ah … I’ll handle them.”

Ruby left, her black robe sweeping out behind her. She left the door ajar and a slice of light fell over Tara’s bed, across her hands.

Whose hands are these?
she thought, not quite recognizing them, the bones and veins, the long nails with French tips. But then she clenched them into ivory fists, and those she recognized.

It’s just one more fight, Tara Jean
, she told herself.

Here we go
.

She pulled herself out of bed and unbuttoned the one button that still clung to the old flannel shirt she slept in. Since phase one of the engagement plan had gone into effect, she’d moved some things into the dresser in the guest room. She yanked open the first cabinet and three small piles of silk and lace stared up at her. Red, white, and black, the royal colors of seduction. Of wickedness.

She thought of what Eli had said about the kids—Luc and the girl. What was her name, Nicki? Mean and spoiled.

Ten years since the girl had been home or talked to her father. Five since Luc had broken his father’s heart and sent him into the hospital with a stroke, twenty years since he’d been back to the ranch.

Ten years. Five years. The math of an old man’s heartbreak.

She chose the red.

This was going to be fun.

Luc wanted to tear his skin off. He wanted to rip out his gritty, tired eyes, change his day-old clothes, and pretend that he wasn’t here. In this place. Again.

His father’s goddamned den.

Like he was a ten-year-old guilty of some minor crime, waiting, hands shaking, stomach in knots, for his old man to show up to dole out the punishment.

He wrapped calm around himself as best he could, hiding the chinks in his armor that the anger revealed.

It’s just a room
, he told himself.

But it didn’t work. He hated who he was here. Hated what he became surrounded by these walls.

His father’s son.

“Take Jacob into one of the guest rooms,” Luc said to Victoria.

“He’s fine.” Over his shoulder he saw her sitting on
one of the deep wood and black leather couches, with the antlers carved out of the armrests and the serape thrown over the back.

Jacob’s head was cradled in her lap, his face flushed with sleep.

The sight, the flash of her pale fingers in Jacob’s dark curls, filled him with a killing anger. That his father’s games, his schemes would drag them here. His sister so close to a nervous breakdown he could see the cracks. His nephew …

“Well, hello y’all,” a voice purred from the door and his vision went red. And redder still when he turned to look at her. Tara Jean Sweet stood there, posed in the doorway. One hand on the door frame, the other on her hip, like she’d made just such an entrance a thousand times.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Victoria muttered, but he barely heard her.

Bimbo Barbie wore red silk that ran, slick and smooth like a crimson oil spill, over a whole host of impressive curves and valleys. There was a big pile of blond hair on top of her head, with long curls sweeping her cheeks and the tops of her shoulders.

He gritted his teeth, anger popping in his head like popcorn.

He knew this woman. Never met her, but knew exactly who she was, down to her bare feet. She might lie about her name, change it a thousand times, but she couldn’t change who she was.

A glorified puck bunny.

The kind of woman who hung out at the arenas, throwing herself at the guys just so she could say she’d screwed a professional hockey player.

A mercenary. A whore. That’s all she was.

Preparing for a fight, he shrugged out of his spring
jacket, tossing it over the club chair so hard he nearly knocked it over.

“I’m Tara Jean,” the woman said, stepping into the room like she already owned it all. But her name, according to Gary Thiele, the private investigator, was actually plain old Jane Simmons. Born poor in Arkansas and looking to change that.

There were no reporters here. No game at stake. With an internal sigh of delight, Luc slipped the leash off his anger and felt it course through his body.

“Where the hell is my father?” he barked.

The blonde blinked empty blue headlight eyes at him as if she didn’t quite get it, but then she smiled, soft full lips slowly exposing white teeth. The move was so practiced he practically heard the orchestra music.

“Well, now.” Her fingers petted a curl that dangled over her breast. “Lyle’s a bit tuckered out.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Victoria hissed from the couch. Tara Jean turned slightly and the negligee slid over her breasts and hips, and something dark and wicked twisted inside of him.

He used to screw those puck bunnies. Once upon a time he’d used them the way they wanted to be used.

“Well, hi there,” Tara said, and then her eyes went wide with surprise. “Who is that?” She pointed at Jacob as if he were a raccoon who’d put on pants and walked indoors.

“Where the hell is my father?” Luc nearly shouted, not wanting that woman to even look at Jacob.

It took a second, but Bimbo Barbie pulled her limited focus from Jacob.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” Tara said, her Southern drawl as thick as Spanish moss. “I must admit you’ve caught us a bit unaware. Clearly, we did not receive your travel plans.” Her tone was sharp, and he realized she was scolding him.
Scolding him
.

Bull. Shit
.

He strode out of the room, leaving her breasts and protests in the den. He did not for one second give himself the chance to recognize the hallways and the pictures. The rooms, the smell of countless hickory fires in the big fireplace in the living room. The fear that crawled up his neck, as if he were a small boy about to be beaten for some minor crime. He banked on the fact that the old man was still in the master suite, and he made quick work of the double staircase that split the big old foyer in two. He turned left at the top of the steps and headed back into the east wing.

“Luc.” She was behind him, running to keep up. “It’s the middle of the night. He’s sleeping—”

He stopped in front of the master suite doors and the blonde caught up with him. She was flushed, her breasts heaving under the red silk and lace of that ridiculous negligee.

She was sex—up for grabs, and he suddenly wanted to be the one grabbing.

Yep, those puck bunnies had been fun
.

“Don’t,” she said. “Truly, Luc—”

He looked right into her baby blues and pushed open the door. The smell of sickness—sour and chemical—wafted from the room, accompanied by the occasional beep and the rhythmic suction of medical machinery. He stepped into the room, around the door, and felt again that Gilcot hit. The world falling away beneath his feet.

A man slept slightly reclined in an elevated hospital bed. But that … skeleton in the bed wasn’t Lyle Baker. Not even close. The big man with the barrel chest and the hazel eyes that could see a boy’s crimes before he even committed them—was gone. Wasted.

A corpse lay in his place. His thick black hair had fallen out and his coloring matched the white sheets beneath his head. A breathing mask led to a respirator. A
heart rate monitor attached by unseen wires beeped beside him.

The old man twitched in his sleep, his fingers scratching against the sheets as if pushing away nightmares.

Luc wanted to be glad, delighted even, that karma had come back to kick the old man’s ass, but he was shell-shocked. Gutted.

“Satisfied?” the blonde asked, like some kind of watchdog.

Luc stepped back, the door blocking the sight of the ghost on the bed. He took a quick breath, getting his head back in the game.

Apparently, Bimbo Barbie had a secret steel edge to her, because her eyes were sharp, stabbing him right in the chest.

Good
, the competitor in him snarled.
Let her test that edge against me and see where it gets her
.

“My nephew is tired,” he said. “Find him a room.”

She blinked, no doubt pissed off by his tone. No one liked being treated as though they were a servant, especially women who skated the edges of that role. But she lifted her chin, throwing back all that blond hair.

“The west wing is ready for you. I’m sure you remember—”

“My old room. Of course.”

Rattled, Luc left the woman standing there, racing away as fast as he could, from all that sickness and all that beauty.

“
You don’t have
to do this right now,” Tara said the next morning as she helped Lyle shrug into his thick navy robe so he could greet his family in something other than his pajamas. He leaned forward, his meager trembling weight against her arm as she pulled the sleeves up to his shoulders, wishing the velour were armor.

“Course I do.” Despite his frailty, his voice was stronger than it had been in days. She knew it was temporary—the excitement of having his children here—but when that excitement wore off, he’d be wasted with fatigue.

They’re going to kill him
, she thought.
He’s so excited, and they’re going to walk in here and just destroy him
.

She patted his thin chest. She couldn’t feel the bones of his ribs under the velour of the robe, but they were there, morbid mile markers to the end.

“They’re angry, Lyle. Luc—”

“His God-given name is Wayne. His middle name is Luc.”

“Not to him, honey. And he and Victoria are coming in loaded for bear.”

His eyes focused on her and she saw the fever under his skin. “They got a right.” His thin lips lifted in a smile. “But they’re here, ain’t they? Here to fight. My plan worked.”

“You’re so weak,” she whispered.

“I’m dying, Tara Jean. Now stop being a damn wet nurse and bring me my children.”

There was no arguing with him, considering the amount of energy he’d put into orchestrating this very moment.

She stood up from the thin slice of bed she’d been sitting on and walked over to the mirror. Big hair, lots of makeup, a grass-green silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the girls’ best sides. She leaned over slightly and arranged things to optimum advantage, her fingers cold on her skin. Impersonal. Considering how disconnected she felt from her body, she might as well be arranging fruit. But her jeans were tight and her heels were high.

As man-eater costumes went, it was flawless.

And the man she wanted to eat was Luc, just so she could spit out his bones.

She walked down the dark quiet hallways to the den where she’d told Ruby to situate them. It gave her a huge amount of glee to think of Luc Baker being managed, led around, and patrolled. The memory of his eyes on her last night, as if he knew every terrible thing about her, was an uncomfortable one. And no doubt today would only be worse.

She paused in the doorway to the den, watching her opponent pace in front of the big desk, all that anger and suppressed energy simmering just under what she had to admit was a gorgeous surface.

His black hair was thick and had a surprising curl to it, softening the sharp planes of his face—the high cheekbones and strong chin. She knew he was a hockey player, but you’d never guess by his face. It was perfect. Elegant.

Luc Baker was a big man, tall and thick through the shoulders and chest but lean through the waist. He fit his thousand-dollar, gray pin-striped suit with sublime
perfection. His fuchsia tie was a bright and stylish pop of color. Not knowing any hockey players, she’d expected jeans and a beer-stained T-shirt.