Stay the Night (3 page)

That was enough to make her ask. “Gigi said I should ask you for help contacting someone I’m interested in doing a photo essay on.”

“Gigi was right,” Bea said, reaching to pick up the mobile on the table in front of her. “Who is it?”

Before she could say, Summer walked in with a glass in her hand. She went directly to Titania and held it out. “I thought you could use this.”

“Poison?” she asked. Taking it, she sniffed the contents, frowning when she smelled the tequila fumes.

“Gigi would never forgive me if I killed you,” Summer said, her hands in her pockets.

Maybe Reginald’s bastard wasn’t so bad. Her frown deepened at the thought. Getting evicted had apparently really thrown her for a loop.

Summer rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“Both of you, sit.” Jacqueline waved her hand. “Titania is telling us who her next project is.”

She sat down, only because she was exhausted and hungry. She kept her camera bag on the chair next to her. She felt more secure that way. “I need the contact info for Ian MacNiven.”

“The midfielder for the London Assault?”

“Former midfielder,” Summer corrected as she brought a chair closer and sat. “He’s on leave because of the car accident he had.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Bea nodded, her fingers flying over her phone.

“I met him once,” Jacqueline said, lifting a glass to her lips.

“Was he as delectable in person as he was in those TAG Heuer ads?” Summer asked.

“More so.” Her mother’s smile was surprisingly feline.

Titania was torn between toppling over in shock and taking her camera out to document it.

Jacqueline faced her. “Titania, he’s your next subject?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say Jacqueline didn’t need to bother feigning interest. It wasn’t as though her mother had ever cared about her photography. But something hopeful in her mother’s gaze made her bite her tongue and just nod.

Summer shifted her legs. “Bea’s phone is like a magic oracle. If anyone can unearth Ian MacNiven’s contact information, it’s her. She and her phone have a symbiotic relationship.”

Much like her and Psyche. Titania frowned, not sure if their uncanny similarities were odd or charming.

“I’m going to ask Luca,” her oldest sister said.

“The Italian?” Titania asked. “He’s a Formula One driver, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he has an impressive list of connections. For some reason people think he’s charming.” Bea shook her head as though she couldn’t fathom.

Summer and Jacqueline exchanged a look.

Titania watched them, not sure if she was curious or jealous that Jacqueline had more of a relationship with her husband’s bastard than her own daughter.

“Where has Luca been?” Summer asked the seemingly offhand question. “He hasn’t been around in ages.”

“Out of town,” Bea said curtly. “He’s had a couple races. Canada and Austria, I think.”

“When does he come back?” Jacqueline asked.

Bea speared her mother a pointed look. “At the end of the month, and that’s all I want to say about that.”

Summer and Jacqueline gave each other that look again.

Shaking her head, Bea faced Titania. “I sent him a text. I’ll have some information for you in a day, two at the most, unless he’s busy flirting with his groupies.”

Two days. She shot back more of the tequila, shuddering at the bite.

But she always stayed with the subjects she photographed—the better to learn who they were by observing them—so as soon as she convinced MacNiven to let her do a photo essay on him she could move in with him. And then she’d have money to find another apartment.

In the meantime, she needed someplace to stay, so she swallowed her pride and faced her mother. The words stalled on her tongue, but she heard Gigi tell her it was okay, like she used to when then children. “Can I stay?” she blurted.

Her mother blinked. “Where?”

Somehow Titania resisted the urge to roll her eyes and say,
In the cupboard
. “Here. In your house.”

“It’s your house, too, Titania,” her mother said, looking confused.

“What happened to your apartment?” Bea asked.

She shifted her weight, gripping her camera bag like a lifeline. “What makes you think something happened?”

“Darling, your apartment is your castle, and if you had to choose between prison or this house, we all know it’d be prison.”

She pursed her lips, glancing at Jacqueline. The last thing she wanted to do was prove to her mother that she was incompetent.

Jacqueline shook her head. “I’m not leaving. Whatever you say to Beatrice, you can say to me.”

“There’s a situation with my place,” she said, her jaw tight. “I’ve got everything under control. I just need a place to stay tonight.”

“You swore you’d never step foot in this house, and now you’re asking to stay here?” Bea lifted her brow. “Yes, it’s obvious you have everything under control.”

She rubbed her forehead. Who knew when she stepped off the flight from Rome that life would get so complicated? “I may have hit a tiny blip, but I know how to fix it. Everything will be fine.”

“Of course it will, Titania,” Jacqueline said.

She tried to detect sarcasm in her mother’s voice, but she only heard certainty. Was the woman trying reverse psychology on her?

Bea shook her head. “I won’t be as easily appeased as Mother. I want to know why you need to stay here.”

Titania crossed her arms. “I don’t see as it’s any of your business. Maybe I just need a change of scenery.”

“This family is my business, and you’re part of the family.”

She tried not to fidget under Bea’s steady stare. Her sister’s power radiated from her. She could have been in a boardroom as commanding as she looked.

“You’re so bossy.” She waited for Bea to respond, but her sister just kept watching her with that implacable gaze. Titania finally sighed. “You’re not going to let me off, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“I seem to have been evicted from my apartment.”

“What?” Bea sat up, her gaze sharp. “What for?”

“I may have bounced the last three months of rent checks.” She made a face, remembering the conversation with her landlord and her own stupidity. “Due to a clerical error, I seemed to have drained my checking account.”

“How could you have drained your account?” Bea asked, sitting up. “You make a fabulous living, especially for an artist.”

“Like I said, it was a clerical error.” She looked her sister in the eye. “But I’ll be well-compensated for the MacNiven project.”

“It could take weeks for that to come through,” her oldest sister pointed out.

She downed the rest of the tequila, wincing. That wasn’t something she needed to be reminded of.

“It won’t take weeks,” Summer said, shaking her head. “The one thing I’ve learned about Summerhill women is that they make what they want happen. Titania’s photos are brilliant. Ian MacNiven will want to be part of the project.”

Suspicious. Was the usurper trying to score points, or was she being genuine? Titania couldn’t tell.

“And then there’s Titania’s charm,” Bea said in a deadpan voice. “He won’t be able to resist.”

She glared at her sister.

“Why don’t I show you to your room?” Jacqueline slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “You can get settled in and comfortable.”

She got up reluctantly, not wanting to spend time with her mother. They hadn’t spoken in years. Gigi had tried to make them come together in the past few weeks, but Titania had managed to avoid her.

If only she hadn’t been kicked out of her apartment.

And, really, she could find a room on her own. Sighing, she clutched her camera to her chest and followed Jacqueline.

They walked in silence. Titania was just starting to relax when her mother glanced over her shoulder and said, “You did right coming to us. You always have a place here.”

She never had when she was a child—she didn’t see how that could have changed. But she pressed her lips shut to keep from answering. She knew better than to antagonize her host.

“And when you’re ready to talk about what’s really going on, I’m here for you,” her mother said as she continued up the stairs.

She frowned, hurrying after Jacqueline. “What do you mean, what’s really going on?”

“You aren’t telling the entire story.” Jacqueline smiled. “It’s all right, Titania. You were always a private person.”

“I’m telling the entire story.” Mostly.

Jacqueline raised her brow. “I’m your mother. I know better.”

“I don’t understand why you’re taking that role now, after all this time,” she murmured.

The moment she said it, she regretted it, even if it was the truth.

Jacqueline’s face pinched with hurt and regret. “I haven’t been the best mother, have I? But I’m working on making amends.” She opened a door and looked at Titania as though she were waiting for something—wanting something from her.

But she had no idea what that was or, frankly, if she wanted to give it. “What if it’s too late?” she asked almost against her will.

“It’s only too late when you’re in the grave, isn’t it?” Regally, she walked away, leaving her at the door.

Titania stared after her mother. Had she just been cursed or warned? Either way, it didn’t bode well.

Chapter Three

His life was over.

Ian lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. Even in his worst nightmares, he hadn’t thought he’d be done at thirty.

Blindsided—both by the kid who’d run into him and God, because Ian was sure He was sitting on His cloud, laughing at him.

Bloody hell his knee hurt.

He drank more, willing the alcohol to numb the ache. His da’s whiskey was better than any of the painkillers the doctor had given him.

The front door beeped and then he heard someone fumbling with the doorknob.

Strange, he thought as he took another swallow. No one knew where he lived except his manager. His ex-manager, Ian supposed, because Guy had disappeared right after he snuck Ian out of the hospital and moved him in here. No career, no manager needed.

The door slammed shut and there was a curse as whoever was breaking in ran into something.

Ian hoped it wasn’t another girl wanting to help him recuperate. Damn women and their Florence Nightingale complexes. It was why he moved—to be incognito. The nurses at the hospital had been bad enough.

“Dude, you in here?”

He recognized that voice. Shielding his eyes, he sat up as the lights went on. “Turn the bloody lights off, Rowdy.”

His supposed friend dropped a bag next to the couch and stood frowning at him, hands on his hips. “Why does your voice sound like that? Are you sick?”

He hadn’t talked to anyone in—well, since he had that last doctor’s appointment. “Bugger off.”

“Sorry, dude.” Grinning, Rowdy held his hands out. “I’ve come to stay.”

He’d met Rowdy years before. They were both in South Africa. Ian for football and Rowdy for rugby. They’d met over a pint and told tall tales all night. Quoting Shakespeare, Rowdy had said, “For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother,” and that’d been the start of their long friendship.

Rowdy was large and powerful, the same as he’d always been. In his mid-thirties, he still had a full head of hair, the tone and speed he had ten years earlier, and the irrepressible urge to cause havoc.

Then what Rowdy had said registered. Ian shook his head to clear the whiskey’s fog. “What do you mean you came to stay? How did you find out where I lived?”

“I called your dad.” Rowdy jerked out of his jacket and tossed it on his bag before sprawling on a chair. “Not that it’s a secret, because there was some kid out front trying to get a hold of you. I figured you weren’t in.”

Kid? Ian frowned. “Did he have sandy hair that flopped in his eyes and freckles?”

“Yeah. You have a child out of wedlock?” Rowdy raised his eyebrows. “You’d have to have had this one when you were like fourteen.”

“Not my kid,” he said, hoarse. “He’s the one who ran into me.”

“Ah.” Rowdy nodded. “You talk to him?”

“No.” And he wasn’t going to. He crossed his arms, trying not to hate the kid for making a mistake. Anyone could have crashed into his car. It was just dumb luck that this kid did and it had ended his career.

“The kid seemed sincere,” Rowdy continued. “You need to forgive him.”

He didn’t need to do anything. He glared at his so-called friend and willed him to spontaneously combust.

“You also need to call your folks. They’re worried about you.”

“You know what I
don’t
need?”

Rowdy frowned in confusion. “What?”

“For you to tell me how to deal with my life, and I don’t want you to stay.”

“Tough, buddy, on both counts.” He looked around the apartment. “Swanky. Looks a little like a hotel, doesn’t it?”

Like he cared. It came furnished, so he hadn’t had to unpack any of the items his manager had brought from his last place. He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey.

“I’ll take that.” Rowdy snatched the bottle from his hand and looked at it as he sat down. “Your dad’s whiskey?”

He grunted.

Rowdy tipped the bottle to his mouth and hummed as he took a swallow. “
Nice
. Your dad should sell this stuff.”

His dad made whiskey as a hobby. It was an expensive, encompassing hobby, but it was a passion nonetheless. Ian held his hand out. “Give it back.”

“No.” Rowdy shook his head. “You’re done with this.”

“I’m plain done.” Ian sat up and glared at the other man. “Give it back.”

“No.” Suddenly frowning, Rowdy lunged forward and grabbed the book from the table. “Crikey, dude, I had no idea you were this far gone, or I’d have come sooner.”

Ian looked dispassionately at the romance novel in his friend’s hand. “I’m reading that.”

“
Tempted by Fate
?” Rowdy turned it around, as though it’d be different in the back. “Did you have head trauma in the accident, too?”

“Bugger off.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

He leaned forward enough to grab the book back before he collapsed back on the couch. He’d started reading romance novels in the hospital; one of the nicer nurses gave them to him. At first, he’d scoffed, but she began to read one to him and he’d gotten hooked. They were full of hope, and his life had looked especially hopeless from the hospital bed.