Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"
Автор книги: Terri L. Austin
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Cal had been momentarily dazed by the sight of her, but suddenly, he was impatient. He jerked the blouse farther apart and shucked it off her completely, until she stood before him, looking seductive and angelic at the same time. “Lovely.”
Giving him a coy glance, Monica ran one finger along her breast, where the lace met her flesh. “Do you think so?”
He palmed those luscious tits, squeezing them tightly, raising them a little higher. The textured lace felt stiff against his fingertips. “No, I take it back. Not just lovely—gorgeous.” Monica Campbell was heady. Exciting. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her right here, against the door. Make her come with hundreds of people sitting out in the dining room, eating their steaks.
With his thumbs, he tugged at the bra cups and freed those stunning tits from their confines. They were full and heavy in his hands. He couldn’t stop staring, and her nipples budded beneath his gaze.
Cal was actually touching Monica Campbell. Finally, after all these years. And she felt even better than he’d imagined. Her skin felt so fucking supple, like the softest chamois. Her trim waist was a pale contrast against the black trousers.
She allowed him to stroke her like this—intimately. The fact that she arched her back and licked her lips said how much she liked it. When he brushed his thumbs along the underside of her breasts, then flicked her nipples, she moaned low in her throat. That sound, along with her short, breathy gasps, made Cal’s cock so hard it almost hurt.
Monica reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He kissed her roughly. He wanted her to remember this moment, to come to terms with her passionate side. This woman, the one kissing him back, slipping her tongue into his mouth, biting his lip—this was the sensuous, untamed nature she tried so hard to suppress. This was the Monica from his fantasies.
Her lips were swollen and tasted faintly of mint from her lipstick. For the first time in months, Cal ached from something other than grief. He ached for release. Monica could give it to him. He needed to be inside her, feel her pussy, hot and wet and slick. He wanted to lose himself in her, forget the past and live in this moment. With her.
He’d never forgotten Monica Campbell, or the way she tasted. But this time was different somehow, better than he remembered. He didn’t analyze it, but simply enjoyed the delicate flavor of her skin, the feel of her breasts in his hands.
He thrust his hips against her, torqued them slowly. The friction was almost too much for his sensitive cock.
“Cal,” she whispered. “That feels really good. Do it again.”
He obliged and roughly kneaded her tits at the same time. This was only meant to be a good-night snog—one that had gotten completely out of hand. Back at the table, when she’d drawn the low card, Monica hadn’t been able to mask her troubled expression. Cal knew she’d fret about it all through dinner, so he’d acted on instinct. So glad he had, because kissing her, fondling her, grinding his prick against her was bloody brilliant.
Keeping one hand on her, Cal pulled back slightly.
“What?” Monica asked, her voice thready.
“I want to touch the rest of you.” He wrangled with her trousers, unfastening them and lowering the zipper. Incapable of finesse at this point, Cal thrust his hand into her knickers. Slow down. The thought was short-lived, because Cal couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop his hand’s path. He wanted inside of her, and if it couldn’t be his cock, his finger would have to do. A thin strip of downy hair covered the top of her mound. The rest of her was bare and soft, like velvet. Cal’s finger traced lower. Her pussy was wet, ready for him.
His heartbeat sounded so loud, he was sure Monica could hear it as well. His middle finger grazed across her slick entrance. As it did, Monica grabbed her other breast and pulled her own nipple. Cal’s cock jerked at the sight of her touching herself.
Before he could slide that finger inside her, someone pounded on the door.
“Hello? This is the manager. I know you’re in there. Come out right now.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Oh my God,” Monica hissed and let go of her breast. Then she yanked on his wrist until he pulled it from her trousers. “Perfect,” she whispered and zipped them up. “If we get dragged out of here by security, I will never live this down.” Although she kept her head lowered, Cal noticed her pale cheeks as she shoved herself back into the bra.
“Just calm down.” When she didn’t look at him, he took her chin in his hand and forced her head up. “Trust me.”
Cal stepped away, but kept his gaze on her. Monica’s eyes were wide and worried, her lips cherry red. She was beautiful—a combination of strong and fragile at the same time. He wanted to protect her from this asshole pounding on the door, keep her from being humiliated.
He dug out his mobile. Unlocking the door, he stuck his head out. “Do you mind, mate?” he whispered. “I’m about to close on the biggest deal of my life. What, is my girl complaining that I’ve been in here too long?” Behind him, Monica silently buttoned her blouse.
A tall man wearing a moderately priced dark suit stared at him from the hallway. “Sir, this is not the place—”
Cal held up his finger and spoke into the phone. “Yes, that sounds great. No, it’s never too late to call, sir. I’ll send over the proposal in the morning.” He smiled at the tall man and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Sorry I commandeered your storage closet. I know it’s not appropriate, but I had to take that call. You’re an important man, surely you understand business.” Cal pulled out his wallet and shoved a few bills into the man’s hand. “I’m sure that will cover any inconvenience and the meal, eh? We’re all friends here.”
The man stared at the money. “Yes, sir. But you need to leave. Now.”
“Just one more call? I’ll be out in two shakes.” With a wink, he shut the door in the manager’s face.
When Cal turned back to Monica, anger burned in her eyes. “You’re so full of shit. You think you can weasel out of every tight spot using charm or money?” She kept her voice pitched low.
“Quite. What’s wrong with that? It’s called problem solving.”
“Not everything’s for sale.” She moved around him and opened the door. The manager had left, and the hallway was empty.
With his hands in his pockets, Cal lagged behind, watching as Monica charged into the dining room and grabbed her bag. Hastening his steps, he followed her out of the restaurant. When Cal caught up with her, he placed his hand beneath Monica’s elbow, but she jerked away.
Drawing to a stop in the middle of the bustling corridor, with its shiny marble floors and gilded accents, she craned her neck to look up at him. “Leave me alone, Cal. I’m going home.”
“You’re my ride.”
“This town is full of cabs. If you’re not smart enough to find one, walk.”
She moved to storm away, but Cal gently snagged her sleeve and held her in place. “Enough of this.” Her attitude was starting to wear on his nerves. “You may pretend that what happened back there didn’t involve you, but it did. You were right there with me, loving it. You wanted me every bit as much as I wanted you.” He softened his voice and lowered his lips to her ear. “Your pussy was aching for me. So stop acting like a fucking bystander in your own life. Now, I’m going to walk you to your car, and then you can slink home and make believe I’m the big, bad wolf. But you and I both know the truth. You’ve become a coward, Monica Campbell.”
This time he stormed away, leaving her to scramble after him. That priggish bullshit might go down with her family, but Cal had had enough. He wasn’t the villain here, and she wasn’t a virgin at the stake. She could lie to herself all she wanted, but he was getting goddamned tired of her lying to him.
Chapter 6
“Pick your poison.” Evan stood on Monica’s porch holding a bottle of tequila in one hand and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s in the other. His tousled, dark brown mane gave every indication that he’d just rolled out of bed, but Monica knew otherwise. He spent an inordinate amount of time making it appear disheveled. Evan was a peacock and a label whore with a closet full of fugly designer clothes to prove it. The combinations he put together usually made her eyes water, and tonight’s microprint lavender shirt and skinny-legged green pants were no exception.
“Chocolate Fudge Brownie.” She grabbed the ice cream and headed to the kitchen. “I think I’ve made enough bad decisions tonight. You know what tequila does to me.”
Evan trailed behind her and slouched elegantly against the dated laminate countertop. Setting down the bottle of Patrón, he lifted one brow. “Does this bad decision have a name?”
Monica pulled a plastic spoon from the drawer. “Calum Hughes.” For four years she’d been on the right path, only dating men who fit at least eighty-five percent of her strict criteria. One night with Cal, and she’d almost thrown it all away. For what? A quickie?
The worst part had been her level of enjoyment. Monica hadn’t just liked kissing Cal and letting him feel her up, she’d reveled in it. Her breasts still tingled like he’d branded her with his touch. If that restaurant manager hadn’t shown up when he had, Monica would have fucked Cal right there in the supply closet. Old Monica, rearing her ugly head.
What the hell had she been thinking? Well, obviously she hadn’t been thinking. She’d been feeling—feeling his big hands wander all over her. And even now, still angry at her lapse in judgment, she felt keyed up and anxious. Monica’s body longed for the sexual release that had almost been hers. Cal’s finger had been close, so damn close to slipping inside her. With a sigh, she shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her face.
“That name sounds familiar.” Evan grabbed a red Solo cup from the cupboard and poured himself a shot of tequila.
“Trevor’s cousin, Cal? In the garden, after my dad’s wedding?”
“Right. Tall British guy. You almost boinked him that night.” It took a minute for his brain to put the puzzle together, then his jaw fell open. “Oh my God. Did Monnie get her groove back?”
“Almost. I’m slipping backward, Ev. I almost nailed him in a restaurant.”
“Good for you.” He toasted her and took a sip.
She glared at him. “What about my face says this is a good thing? You’re here to talk me down, to set me straight, not raise a glass to my stupidity.”
“Getting laid isn’t stupid, it’s human. You and Ryan have been apart for months now. You need to loosen up—otherwise, you’re going to dry up.” He pointed at her crotch. “Down there, I mean.”
“I’m out of control. Next thing you know, I’ll be lying on a bar with a shot glass wedged between my boobs. Or waking up with a guy whose last name I don’t know.” Monica grabbed the ice cream and stalked to the living room. “Cal said that I was afraid of life. I’m not afraid, I’m cautious. You know why I’m cautious, Ev.”
He fell onto the sofa. “Yep. You’ve told me. Several hundred times. And while I get it, I miss the old Monnie. Remember when you used to be fun? I do.” He finished off his shot. “We used to dance on tables, kid. We’ve gotten thrown out of places that wouldn’t pass for a dive.”
Monica swallowed a cold lump of chocolate so fast, she got an ice cream headache. “Ow. I’m still fun. I’m tons of fun. I’m just more mature now.” Rubbing her forehead, she sat down next to him. “He accused me of that too. Of being prissy and prim. I run a cancer foundation, for crying out loud. It’s serious work. Am I supposed to go to the office dressed in a halter top and Daisy Dukes?”
Evan sighed. “Why do you go to these extremes? There’s a lovely place called Happy Medium. Find it. Live it. You’ll like it there.”
Monica had never been good at finding middle ground. She tended to be an all-or-nothing type of person. She came out of the factory that way.
“Mon, listen to me, okay?” Evan patted her knee. “I’m about to give you a dose of reality. Number one, because I love you. Number two, my girlfriend’s getting jealous. If she hadn’t been working tonight, I may not have been able to answer your distress call.”
Monica frowned around the plastic spoon and pulled it from her mouth. “What’s there to be jealous about? We’re like sibs. I’d never touch you. The mere thought is repulsive. No offense.” She’d met Evan on her first day at UNLV. He’d been impossible to ignore in a pair of rust-colored slacks and an argyle sweater. The other girls on campus had thought he was harmless—sweet, caring Evan and his silly sweater vests. He’d totally used that to his advantage, but Monica had figured out his game from the start. When she’d asked if he and his grandmother shared clothes, Evan had schooled her on American casualwear, then informed Monica that if her skirt were any shorter, he’d be able to see her uterus. They went out for a beer using fake IDs, became each other’s wingmen, and never looked back.
“None taken,” he said. “I feel the same way about you. But Heather’s a little insecure. It brings out these jealous rages. Last week, she thought I was flirting with a waitress and threw all my hair product into the trash compactor. Anyway, since tomorrow is our anniversary, you’re lucky this crisis happened tonight. The point is this—”
“Anniversary? You two have been dating for a red-hot minute.” Monica hadn’t met Heather yet, but she had no doubt Evan’s new girlfriend fit his exacting standards. Long dark hair, unnaturally orange skin, boobs so big they could poke someone’s eye out, and an IQ barely hovering above a cactus’s. A typical Vegas party girl.
“She likes milestones.”
“Did she bronze the used condom after your first time together too?”
He threw back his head, laughed, then sobered just as quickly. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we talk about your love life for a change? Oh, that’s right, you don’t have one. Which brings me back to my point. Get a love life!”
“I need to avoid him, not fuck him. Cal is…” She slammed the melting carton on the coffee table. “He’s everything that’s wrong for me.” And yet he was everything she craved. Handsome in an unconventional way, sexy, funny, smart. “And I am afraid. There, I admit it. I’m terrified I’ll wind up in the same situation.” Rock bottom. In a deep, dark hole she’d have to claw her way out of. Monica had no intention of finding herself there again.
Evan wrapped his arm around her, pressing her head into his shoulder. “You won’t,” he said against her hair. “You’re stronger now, smarter. You need to have a little faith in yourself.”
Follow your heart. That’s what Monica’s mom had told her before she died. But Monica’s heart was as fucked up and defective as she was. “I can’t. When I’m with him, I feel like the old me—reckless and out of control. It’s scary.”
“That’s a good thing. At least you’re feeling again.”
“What are you talking about? I feel things. I have emotions. You make me sound like a robot. Don’t you remember what a total mess I was back then?” She covered her eyes with one hand. “Ryan is the perfect guy for me. Why did I screw that up?”
“Stop it. He’s not perfect. Although he’s a nice guy and all, he’s the most boring person I’ve ever met. You’re so worried about past mistakes, but marrying Ryan would have been the biggest one you’ve ever made. Brynn and I made a pact that if you agreed to marry him, we’d do everything we could to talk you out of it. And if that didn’t work, we planned sabotage.”
She pushed out of his hold and scooted away. “You and Brynnie were conspiring against me?”
“Yes, and by any means necessary. Look, you’re young, and you’re reasonably attractive. There’s no reason for you to be alone. This Cal guy fires you up. I haven’t seen you this animated in years. Years. Treat him like a vaccine. Give yourself a little dose of the wrong kind of guy, but stay in control this time.”
Monica lightly punched Evan’s arm. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, and that’s the list you come up with? Young and reasonably attractive?”
“It’s time to get back on the horse, Mon.”
It wasn’t time to get back on the horse. She couldn’t be trusted in the saddle. It was safer to make a date with a glass of wine and her vibrator.
She hunkered in the corner of the sofa and came very close to sulking. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Of course you don’t. You never want to talk about anything that really matters. You’re so predictable, it’s sad.”
Monica’s gaze fluttered to his. She’d never heard that exasperated, disgusted tone in his voice before. Evan was disappointed in her. That hurt more than she cared to admit. He’d been her touchstone all these years. He knew everything about her and loved her anyway. “Any more grenades you want to lob my way tonight?” Her voice cracked a bit, so she swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Because I don’t feel shitty enough right now.”
He sighed and rested a hand on her calf. “I don’t mean to make you feel that way. But I think I’ve been coddling you too long. And I can’t do it anymore.”
Now anger crowded out the hurt she’d felt moments ago. Monica sat up and planted her feet on the floor. “Excuse me? You coddle me? I’m there for every nasty breakup you have. I’m a great friend to you. Who talked you down from buying those patent-leather Gucci tennis shoes last week?”
A long silence ensued.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You bought them, didn’t you? They have Velcro straps, Evan.”
“They were on sale,” he defended. “And you’re trying to change the subject. Again. This conversation is not about me, or my shoes, or my crazy girlfriends. This is about you.” He drew a circle in the air near her head. “You’re not twenty-one anymore. You’re not going to get stranded in Mexico, alone, penniless, and pregnant. You’re too smart to let that happen again.”
Shocked, Monica jerked her head back. Pain and humiliation shot through her, as if the wounds were brand new. The powerful emotions took over her body, expanded in her chest, made it hard to suck in air.
Monica jumped from the sofa and walked to the corner of the room, wrapping her arms around her torso as if she could ward off the past. She’d woken up that morning alone in Mexico—frightened and ashamed. She was used to being alone, even in a crowd, but that morning, as the sun shone through dusty motel windows, showing dark stains on the ancient green carpet, Monica had never felt so desolate. Now, closing her eyes, she pushed the pain down, shoved it away until she could breathe again. “We promised we’d never talk about that. Never.”
Dropping her arms, she lowered her eyes as she walked back to the coffee table. She shoved the lid on the carton and picked it up, along with the spoon. “It’s getting late, Evan. You should probably go.”
“Monica.”
She didn’t acknowledge him, but shuffled to the kitchen, numb and detached, like her own body didn’t belong to her. He followed and watched as she threw her spoon in the trash and stuck the carton in the freezer.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just tired of seeing you so miserable.”
Her head shot up. “What are you talking about? I’m not miserable.” Sure, her job wasn’t everything she’d hoped for, and since ending things with Ryan, she’d been a little depressed. But she wasn’t unhappy. Monica felt Evan’s warm brown eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “My life is structured. I’m in a healthy place.”
Evan remained silent. The pause drew out, became awkward. “Just think about what I said, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He stepped forward and picked up her hand. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Just like that, the anger drained out of her. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for the ice cream.”
He bent down and kissed the top of her head before leaving.
* * *
The next morning, Cal experienced a sense of disorientation when a buzzing sound woke him. At first, he thought he’d overslept. Panic ripped through him as he threw back the covers and leaped out of bed.
Babcock.
He stood naked in the middle of a dim room. Sunlight filtered through a crack in the drawn heavy, red curtains. Cal gazed at the bed—king-size, Egyptian cotton sheets. Not a rollaway cot with a lumpy mattress.
Vegas. Not Cairns.
His mobile fell silent. Cal ran a hand down his chest, covered his racing heart. It all came flooding back. Why he’d left Australia—the emptiness, the loss. Then last night and his snog with Monica. More than a snog, you idiot—practically a full-bodied knee trembler. He’d spent most of the night drinking scotch and giving himself hell for letting things with Monica go too far too fast.
Cal had made a tactical error, sneaking off with her to the supply closet and yelling at her afterward. Not the way to win her trust, snapping at her like he had.
The phone started ringing again. Blowing out a deep breath, Cal strode to the bedside table and glanced at the screen. “It’s eight o’clock, brat,” he answered. “Why’re you ringing me so early? Are you just staggering home?”
“Hardly. Why haven’t you answered my four previous messages, you twat?” Jules had a delightful way with words, much to their father’s chagrin. And despite the fact that his baby sister—half sister, if one wanted to be technical—had lived in America for the last eight years, her British accent was as strong as ever.
“I’ve been busy,” he said around a yawn.
“With whom? And don’t tell me some slag is more important than me, or I’ll kick your ass.”
Slag? Just the opposite, in fact. Monica was more prudish than anything.
“Daddy’s thrown a wobbler.”
Cal rubbed his gritty eyes. “What’s got his knickers in a twist now?” His father didn’t have the cheeriest disposition to begin with, so really anything might set the old man off. “Is he still cross about school?” As a financial wizard and maths genius, his father had very specific ideas about what his daughter should be doing with her life. Ideas that included studying something other than the latest copy of Vogue. Jules, on the other hand, had her own plans, like dancing all night, sleeping until noon, and giving her credit card a good workout.
“Not exactly. But I think he may wash his hands of me for good this time.”
Cal fell onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The ivory-and-brushed-silver pendant light fixtures hung about the room like stalactites. “If you want my advice, shape up for a few weeks and you’ll wiggle your way back into his graces without too much fuss.”
“No.” Jules’s voice was quiet, serious. “This is different.”
Alert, Cal sat back up. “What happened? What did you do?”
“I wasn’t even driving. Not really. I barely tapped the car in front of me as I pulled out of a parking space. Since when does that count as a DUI?”
“You were drink-driving? Tell me you’re not serious.” He gripped the phone so hard he thought it might crack. Cal had worked on cars his whole life. He knew exactly how much damage one could do to a human being. And his sister, one of the few people he had left in the world, had climbed behind the wheel while drunk. “Are you fucking kidding me, Juliette? You’re brighter than that, or at least I thought you were.”
“Hello, this is L.A. Everyone has a DUI. It’s like a rite of passage.”
“You little idiot,” he bit out. “You could have killed someone. You could have been killed yourself. Don’t you ever stop to think?” He ran a hand through his hair, so thoroughly angry, every muscle in his body locked down.
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “You sound just like him.”
He refused to take the bait. If one thing pissed him off, it was being compared to his stuffy, judgmental father. “You’re not even the legal drinking age.”
“I’m twenty.”
“Again, not legal.” Cal stood and paced to the window, parting the curtain with one hand. He gazed out at the private garden. The pool glistened blue in the early morning sun, but Cal was too brassed off to appreciate it. “I’m so disappointed in you, Jules. You could have called a cab or hired a driver for the evening.”
“You’re disappointed in me?” she yelled. “You’ve been a crap big brother. You’re never here, I don’t hear from you for weeks at a time. Every time I need you, you’re off in Zimbabwe or Taiwan or Australia. You don’t get to be disappointed, okay? That’s my job.”
That was fair. Cal hadn’t been there for her, not when it really counted. Phone calls and presents weren’t the same.
Cal fought the urge to yell at her some more, lecture her, berate her. But under all that anger was fear. He’d be absolutely gutted if anything happened to Jules. “Please promise me you’ll never do anything so stupid again. I adore you, you know that.”
She sniffed a couple of times. “I know it was stupid, and yes, I promise. It was mortifying, being driven away in a police car. I had to be fingerprinted and everything. Daddy was so angry he didn’t speak to me for two whole days. Then he started with the screaming. I can’t take it from you too.”
Cal didn’t understand why Jules expected anyone to be sympathetic. But he kept his mouth shut. She needed someone to listen right now, and pointing out the obvious wouldn’t be useful.
“My car’s been impounded, and I’m not meant to drive anywhere until we go to court. It’s a bloody nuisance.”
Again, Cal refrained from speaking. It was tremendously difficult, but he managed.
“Daddy made me give up my apartment, and I’ve been staying at their pool house, like I’m a gardener or something. It’s dreadful.”
“I’m sure it’s not the best situation, but I’ve seen dreadful. You’re the furthest thing from it.” He tried to be gentle with her, but Jules was so terribly spoiled, she had no idea about life outside her little bubble. During his travels, Cal had witnessed deplorable living conditions. The slums of Brazil, the polluted Ganges River, poverty in the streets of Belarus. Staying in a comfortable pool house on a Beverly Hills estate wasn’t a hardship. But in Jules’s eyes, she faced a true crisis. “What are your plans?”
“I don’t know. I’m bored silly right now.”
“Why don’t you find something constructive to do? Maybe you should enroll in school. Make the old man happy.”
“God, you’re such a bloody hypocrite,” she lashed out, causing Cal to flinch. “You never went to school. Why should I?”
“First of all, Pix’s father left me a trust fund that you don’t have. You’re still completely dependent on your parents. Secondly, I’m not clever like you.” And the old man never missed an opportunity to rub Cal’s nose in it. “You can do whatever you want, Jules—be whoever you want. If not school, then find something you’re good at.”
“I’m not good at anything.”
“You are the most persistent pain in the ass I know. You’re bright and funny, and you can do whatever you put your mind to.” A vision of Monica came to mind. Perhaps Jules should take a page from Miss Prim’s book. “What about charity work? Helping those less fortunate? And let’s be honest, that’s almost everyone.”
“Don’t start. Mummy’s trying to get me to help her save blackbirds, or something equally stupid.”
“You’ll figure it out. I believe in you, Jules.” The irony that Cal was trying to get Monica to unwind while encouraging his sister to straighten up wasn’t lost on him.
“Oh God,” she said. “You sound so keen right now, I need to hurl. Good-bye. Twat.” And she hung up.
Cal stared out at the garden a moment longer before his phone buzzed again. This time, his mum. Cal didn’t want to talk right now, but if he put it off, she’d hound him relentlessly. She was good at that.
“Morning,” he said.
“Darling, where have you been? I’ve been calling for days. I thought you came to Vegas to spend some time with me, and I’ve barely seen you.”
Rubbing his ear, Cal thought about all the responses he could make, but decided to remain civil instead. “I came to Vegas because you lied about your anniversary.”
“Yes, but how else could I get quality time with my only son, eh?”
“You could have come to Cairns, but I suppose that would have cut into your very busy schedule. I know your boy-toy husband keeps you terribly occupied.” Well, that wasn’t civil at all. Despite Cal’s best efforts, his vitriol leaked through. He had his reasons. After all, poor Babcock had spent her final days staring at his stupid face when she’d really needed Pix. Babs had to have felt betrayed. The woman had spent her entire adult life trailing after his mum, and Pix hadn’t even bothered to make an appearance when it mattered most.
“Calum, please don’t be angry with me, I can’t stand it. I’d have given anything to be with Babs at the end. It simply wasn’t possible.”
Pixie had given a string of excuses about conflicting events and unspecified aches that made a long flight to Australia out of the question. For seven months? No, Cal wasn’t buying it—he knew his mother far too well. Pixie simply hadn’t wanted to be inconvenienced by taking care of Babcock.
Honestly, what was the point of arguing? It would simply wind him up with no resolution. “Right. Was there something you needed, then?”
“Come over for brekky. Your Aunt Mags is desperate to see you. I’ll pop a bottle.”
When she hung up, Cal stared at the phone. He could rail at Pix until he ran out of breath, but it wouldn’t do a bit of good. There was no changing her. But now Cal knew when the chips were down, he couldn’t count on his mum to be there. Fair enough. Cal had spent most of his life alone. Not so bad, really, depending on oneself—less disappointment that way.
He hadn’t been awake fifteen minutes, and already Cal had wrangled with Jules, been put on the spot by Pix, and he had another problem—Monica Campbell. Cal owed her an apology, although she probably wouldn’t accept it. Still, he needed to make amends, but how? What would appeal to her?
He stretched his neck from side to side and spent the next half hour planning a campaign to win over Monica Campbell. What he finally settled on was iffy, but he couldn’t think up anything better.
Using the house phone, Cal dialed Mr. Lawson, ordering a car and driver. The villa came with around-the-clock butler service, which was most convenient. While Cal lectured Jules about helping those less fortunate, here he was sprawled across the lap of luxury. She accused him of being a hypocritical twat, and maybe that was true, but honestly, though this place was lovely, Cal felt equally at home in a tent with nothing but a bedroll and a sturdy pair of boots.
