'Tis the Season (2 page)

Thomas's eyes flickered up at his father, then down to his game again.

Before Charles could say a word, Lisette moved in behind the boy and whispered something in his ear, taking the tablet out of his hands as she did. Thomas gave a rebellious whine of annoyance, but pushed back from the table and got up. He hugged his father, quickly and with no warmth. “Happy Birthday.” Then he went back to Lisette. “Can I have my tablet back now?”

“In the car,” she said, her voice firm and quiet.

She was a magician; Charles was sure of it. She handled the kids, especially Thomas, with skills he simply didn't possess. Patience, warmth, understanding, yet firm with discipline when necessary . . . God, he was grateful for her. The three nannies he'd gone through before her combined hadn't connected with his kids like she had. Lisette was a jewel. She was wonderful with his children, and they responded to her better than they did to him. That was the truth.

She turned to the kids and said, “Come on, team. Time to go home.”

“But I wanna say good-bye to Uncle Pierce and Abby,” Myles protested.

At that, Thomas perked up. “Yeah, me too.”

“And Aunt Tess,” Ava added. “And Uncle Dane and Aunt Julia.”

Charles stuffed his hands in his pockets. He'd had to all but beg for good-byes, but the kids adored his siblings. Yeah, that stung too. “Go ahead. Lisette and I will wait for you here. But come back in five minutes, no more than that.”

The kids all ran off to find their uncles and aunts.

Watching them, he sighed and murmured, “They hate me, don't they?”

Lisette turned to him, wide-eyed. “Of course not!”

He arched a brow and stared her down. “Thomas?”

She couldn't hide the look in her eyes or the way she shifted how she stood. “He doesn't hate you.”

“He doesn't like me, either.”

She obviously didn't know what to say; her gaze fell to the floor. “He's got . . . a lot of unresolved anger,” she said quietly. “That's all.”

“That's all?” Charles snorted. “I'd say it's a little more than that.”

Lisette said nothing, suddenly fascinated with smoothing out her dress.

Charles looked up again to see Pierce lift Thomas into his arms for a big hug. Ava and Myles had been surrounded by Abby, Dane, Julia, and Tess. Big smiles and warm good-byes were being exchanged all around. “Thomas likes his uncles more than his own father.”

“Lots of kids are like that,” Lisette said weakly.

“Yeah. In their teens. He's seven. Seven-year-old boys usually worship their fathers.”

“Did you?” she asked.

“Sure. My father was larger than life.” Charles shrugged. “When I was seven, I didn't realize what a hard-ass he was. He always treated me like gold. I thought I'd done the same for my kids, but . . .”

Lisette was quiet for a long moment, then said cautiously, “Have you considered that Thomas might benefit from therapy?”

It was as if she'd punched him in the stomach. He gaped at her. “Therapy? He's only seven years old!”

“So?” Lisette's eyes held his. “If he's this angry all the time, maybe he needs help.”

God, she was right. Why did his nanny have to tell him how to handle his own child? Feeling foolish and uncomfortable, Charles ran a hand over the back of his neck and looked back out to the crowd. But he always admitted if he was in the wrong. Always. “I'll think about it,” he said quietly.

The kids threaded their way through the crowd, back to where he and Lisette stood. “We're ready to go home now,” Myles said with a smile, then yawned.

As Lisette went to retrieve the tablets from the tabletop, Charles leaned down to kiss each of his kids on the cheek. “I love you all,” he said to the three of them. “See you in the morning.”

“You don't have to go to work?” Myles asked.

“No, silly,” Ava said to him. “Tomorrow's Sunday.”

“So?” Thomas retorted. “Dad's at work
all
the time. Doesn't matter if it's a weekend. He goes in anyway.”

Charles looked down at his middle child and said firmly, “I'll be home. I'm not going to work. Okay?”

Thomas shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jesus, Charles thought. This is worse than I thought. “How about we all do something fun tomorrow?” he said. “It's October, we can go apple picking.”

“Apple picking was September,” Thomas snapped. “We did that with Uncle Pierce and Abby. You were away on a business trip.”

Charles winced inside, but schooled his features into neutrality. “My mistake. How about pumpkin picking, then? Today's October twentieth. There's got to be a few left out there. We can drive out east, make a day of it. Do some fun fall stuff.”

“Yes!” Myles bounced on his feet, his eyes lit up like stars. “Could we, Daddy?”

“Lisette was going to take us,” Ava said.

“But we can
all
go tomorrow instead,” Lisette replied.

“Tomorrow's your day off,” Charles reminded her.

“I don't mind making an exception for a day of pumpkin picking,” she said.

He gazed at her with appreciation. She was trying to help him bond with his kids, and he knew it.

Myles grasped his father's hand, looking up at him with excitement. “And you can come too? Really, Daddy?”

Charles nodded. “Of course. Tomorrow afternoon, all right?”

Ava smiled widely. Myles clapped with glee. Thomas stared at the floor.

“It'll be fun.” Lisette placed the three tablets into her oversized tote bag and pulled out her ticket for the valet. “Okay. We're all set. Let's go, guys.” She shot a quick smile at Charles. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her, hoping she could sense his genuine gratitude, then ran his hand over the shiny length of his daughter's dark hair. Ava gave him another hug, which he savored and returned. “Good night, all of you. Sleep well.”

He watched Lisette usher the kids out of the ballroom. Something twinged in his chest, the same unhappy twinge he'd felt a lot recently. Then he caught sight of his father, a sour look on his face as he spoke to Tess. She was the only one of his siblings who still talked to the old man. Dane, Julia, Pierce, and Abby had moved clear to the other side of the room. Since the disaster at the family party last year, where Charles II had gotten vicious and verbally attacked Pierce and Abby, Dane barely spoke to him, and Pierce not at all. Yes, Pierce had moved back to Long Island, but the rift was as wide as it had ever been. The truth was, Charles had been so disgusted, he wished he didn't have to speak to his father regularly either. But working with him meant that just wasn't realistic.

His kids weren't as wild as they'd been before he'd hired Lisette, but there were still issues there. His siblings and his father were quietly at war. Charles felt like a benign peacekeeper at times . . . but it hadn't really done much good, had it?

The Harrison family was a lot messier than the public knew.

With a sigh, he headed to the bar. If there was any time he could break his one-drink rule, it was on his own birthday, dammit.

Chapter Two

The house was dark and silent when Charles entered it at one in the morning. The party had been nice, but way too long. And of course, as guest of honor, he'd had to stay until the end. Dropping his keys into the crystal bowl on the nearby table, he walked down the long main hall until he reached his study.

This was both his office and his haven. Spacious and elegant, warmed by lots of dark wood and different shades of brown, it had a large bay window that looked out onto the wide backyard and the Long Island Sound beyond. Not bothering to close the door behind him, Charles went right to the top shelf that held a few bottles of brandy and scotch. He reached for the Glenmorangie Signet, which he'd been saving for a special occasion. He thought his fortieth birthday qualified. He opened the bottle in the darkness, savoring the quiet.

Forty years old
. As he poured himself half a glass, he thought about turning forty. He'd never really cared about birthdays, or numbers, or any of it. But this one bothered him, and had for months. Tonight, at the party, he'd finally realized precisely why.

There was a lot that wasn't right with his life. After months of mental inventory, he'd come up short. He was dissatisfied . . . and lonely.

With a long, slow exhale, he sank into the leather chair behind his impressive mahogany desk. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the room in a silvery blue. A full moon. Hell, maybe that was affecting his mood too. He took a sip of the scotch, savoring the taste. He took another swallow, feeling the burn of it down his throat. Too much was swirling in his head, and he needed to quiet it down somewhat.

“You're never off the clock,”
his father had said. And after fifteen years of it—hell, a lifetime, really—Charles was tired of it. Annoyed. Even . . . resentful.

He sipped some more as he stared absently out the window, alone in the dark. He'd been doing everything he was supposed to do to uphold the Harrison name since he was a toddler. He'd gone to the schools his father had wanted him to: the fancy private schools, then Harvard for both undergrad and business school. His father's choices, not really his. But Charles had just gone along with them. Like everything else in his life.

Feeling a buzz at last, he knocked back the rest of his glass and refilled it.

He was a powerful man, accustomed to getting what he wanted. But he'd never abused his power or thought it made him better than anyone else. It was just his nature. He tried to be decent, fair, and honorable in all things. But the one time he'd strayed off the straight and narrow Harrison path, the
one
time, he'd fallen for Vanessa Conti. Beautiful, fiery, exciting Vanessa, a model and a socialite. They'd met at a party on Martha's Vineyard. The affair had been quick and hot; he'd proposed; they'd married . . . and it had been a fucking disaster.

They were completely wrong for each other. While she loved the money, the settled married life was not for her. She was bored. She hated company functions and family expectations. Then the unexpected pregnancy, a honeymoon baby on the way. Vanessa hated being pregnant; she'd felt fat and her hormones had been out of whack . . . They had argued all the time. But she had Ava, then Thomas. By the third pregnancy, sex was all they had left, since they barely spoke. Myles wasn't even a year old when Vanessa had said she'd had enough. By the time Myles was eighteen months old, she'd taken her hefty settlement and moved across the country to California, leaving Charles alone with three tiny children and a severe case of wounded pride. Disaster.

Tonight, at the party, he'd seen Dane with Julia, laughing together and enjoying themselves. They seemed to always be laughing, always touching, and always having fun. Dane had already been that way, lighthearted and loving life, but since finding Julia, his glow had only magnified. Charles often thought that Dane was like the sun—a huge radiant presence, pulling whoever was near into his orbit of warmth and light. And his wife was a force to be reckoned with on her own. Combined, they were incredible. Loving Julia, and being loved by her, had only enriched Dane's already charmed, full life, and made him happier than Charles had ever seen him. Charles was glad for him . . . and secretly envied that just a little. Hell, more than a little.

Charles toasted his brother, lifting his glass before taking another sip.

And Pierce. The churlish black sheep of the family had returned home over a year ago to lick his wounds. The youngest had screwed up his life enough to force him to quit a successful soccer career in England. But his siblings had brought him back into the fold, trying to help him, make him feel supported. All their relationships with him had improved. However, it was Abby who'd made the biggest difference. The small-town, straight-talking teacher saw through his fronts, didn't put up with his bullshit, and adored him beyond measure. Pierce, in turn, was totally devoted to her. They were so different, but so right together. Charles wouldn't be surprised if they were engaged soon.

He'd even overheard Pierce just that night telling Tess how he wanted a bunch of kids who would all take after their smart, gorgeous mother, something Charles had never thought he'd hear from the formerly notorious womanizer. Pierce had bought into a New York professional soccer franchise, and coached local kids simply because he wanted to. It was heartening to see how Pierce had completely turned his life around, buoyed by the love of a good woman.

Charles raised another toast to another brother, then drank deeply.

Tess, his sister, was the best woman he'd ever known. And, sadly, was as alone as he was, also by choice. Burned by love, she'd pretty much sworn off men and buried herself in her work and her painting. Charles didn't even have a hobby like painting, no outlet for the steam he swallowed all the time. He supposed that was why he went to the gym and took boxing classes. Hitting the bag, and sparring with his coach, felt good. It let off some steam . . . but not nearly enough. Definitely not on nights like this.

Charles's head was a little woozy; he suspected if he stood, he might wobble. Who cared? He hadn't gone on a bender in a very long time. He was feeling lonesome, feeling sorry for himself, feeling angry, feeling . . . Dammit, he didn't want to feel anything. If he did, if he let himself indulge in all the things he choked back and repressed every day, it might all come to the surface and swallow him whole. His life had become a careful tightrope routine: doing what was needed for Harrison Enterprises, fulfilling the family's heavy expectations, raising three children whose mother visited them once a year, not dating because he didn't have the time or inclination to be burned again . . .

Jesus Christ, he was turning into his father.

When Charles was younger, that had been an admirable goal, maybe even what he thought he wanted. Now, it filled him with icy dread. Charles Harrison II was a cold, stern man who had always put the family legacy and company first. He'd ignored his beautiful young wife, driving her to have affairs before they had one of the ugliest divorces in history. Embittered from that, he'd been alone for over twenty years. The lack of love in his life and his drive to keep the company thriving had sucked any warmth or light out of him. In the past year, he'd all but alienated his grown children. He had all the power and money in the world . . . but very little love, and no joy.

Charles shuddered. So much in common . . . History repeating itself . . . Was that how he was going to turn out too?

He stared out at the full moon for a long time.
Happy fucking birthday.

* * *

A loud crash woke Lisette from her sleep with a start. Her heart pounding, she sat up. What the hell was that noise?

She realized she was in the den; it was dark—she'd fallen asleep reading. Often, after the kids were asleep, she went there to curl into the oversized, plush loveseat by the window and read for a while. Charles would work late at the end of the long hall, in his study, and she'd read until she started to doze off. They rarely interacted; he was a busy man, no matter what time of day or night it was, so she kept her distance.

Tonight, after the party, she'd been too wired to go to bed right away and had done her usual routine of reading for hours in the dark, with only the light of her e-reader . . . Now she grasped that she'd dozed off somewhere around midnight. She turned her dormant e-reader back on to check the time; it was past two in the morning. The house was quiet now, but that noise had woken her. It
had
happened.

Straining to listen, her breath held, she heard a
thump-thump,
then another thud, soft but audible, along with a loudly hissed curse. That was Charles's voice.

Rising from the loveseat, she tightened her long midnight-blue silk robe around her knee-length nightgown and slid her feet into her slippers before venturing out to the hallway.

The spectacular mansion had long hallways and spacious rooms. Charles had gutted the older mansion a decade before and remade it into something just for him and his new bride. All the bedrooms were on the second floor. There were the children's three rooms on one wing, the fourth bedroom that had been converted into a playroom for them, and a bathroom for them to share. Just around the corner, there were two large suites, bedrooms that had sitting rooms. One stayed empty for guests, and Lisette had been given the other. Along the third hall, there were three more guest rooms and another bathroom. The fourth corridor contained only one master suite, and that was Charles's bedroom.

With a mix of determination and unease, she made her way through the long main corridor of the ground floor. Until she was sure everything was fine, she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.

Again a male voice uttered a curse somewhere down the hall, and she gathered it had definitely come from Charles's study. She went to the door of the study and tiptoed inside. It was dark, but she felt someone's presence there. “Hello?”

“Who's there?” Charles's voice came from the darkness. “Lisette, is that you?”

“Yes.” Apprehension hummed through her whole body, making her heart rate take off. “Charles? Are you all right?”

“Before you come in,” he said, “are you wearing shoes?”

What?
Moonlight shone through the large windows, but her eyes hadn't fully adjusted to the darkness yet, and she couldn't see him. His voice had come from the far side of the spacious room. She peered harder and asked, “Excuse me?”

“Get shoes,” he repeated. “There's broken glass on the floor. You'll cut yourself.”

“I have slippers on; I'll be fine. Are you all right?” she asked again, more demanding this time.

“I'm fine too,” he said. “Just a little drunk.”

Lisette stopped in her tracks. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough, and she could see him now. He was sitting on the wide leather couch, his arms crossed over his chest. Gesturing toward the floor by his desk with his chin, he explained, “I dropped the glass when I stood up.”

“I heard it. It woke me up.”

“You heard it upstairs?” he asked, confused.

“No, I fell asleep in the den. So . . .” She twisted the ends of her sash around her fingers, stalling, trying to process the scene. How drunk was he? “I'll get a broom.”

“No. You're off the clock.” He moved, sat, and patted the cushion beside him. “Come keep me company. Talk to me.”

Lisette couldn't help but stare. What the hell was going on?

“Luckily, the glass was empty when I dropped it,” he said jauntily. “No scotch lost. Just crystal.” He patted the cushion again and slanted a grin at her. “Come on, sit down. We never really talk.”

Apparently, her boss was a friendly drunk. But she didn't answer until she was sitting on the sofa, the leather creaking as she settled. “Should we turn on a light?”

“Nah. This darkness suits my mood.”

Oh, boy. She turned to him, pulling her sash a little tighter, and asked, “Did you come home from the party drunk?”

“Nope,” Charles said, shaking his head. “But I'm working on it.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

He grinned, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You're always so polite.”

“Good manners were very important to my father,” she found herself saying. “Army and all. So he drummed them into me early on.”

Charles gave an approving nod. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

She merely quirked a return grin and folded her hands in her lap. This whole scene was unusual, to say the least, and she wasn't sure what to say or do just yet. So she let him lead, let him go on talking. Her father's words echoed in her mind:
Remember, honey. He who speaks first, loses. Always wait it out.

Charles scrubbed his hands over his face as his eyes wandered around the room. “I can't be anything less than perfect, ya know. Perrrrrfect. Since I was a little boy. What a drag.”

That gave her pause. He always held himself so carefully in check. Sympathy pinged through her, but concern flooded her. Something serious had to be going on. And the secret she swallowed every day—the feelings for him that were inappropriate for an employee to have for her boss—surfaced and took over. Because he was obviously not himself, and she cared about him. “Charles? What's bothering you? Are you okay?”

He peered at her from beneath his lashes, his gaze holding hers in the moonlight. “Not really,” he murmured. “I . . . well . . . Can I confide in you, Lisette?”

“Of course,” she said, her heart rate rising with a curious thrill.