A Bad Boy for Christmas (4 page)

“Fish and chips and lots of lemon. See you there in five. I want to admire Beryl’s designs first.” See if the older woman would let her take a closer look at the ink on her skin.

He smiled a little grimly and the sound of bells accompanied him on his way out.

“Does that boy know how to hold his own?” Beryl asked bluntly.

“Yes.” Mia looked straight at this woman with the seashells and the surfboards and the eyes that had seen her share of hard road. “Jackson Nash—because that’s the name his mother gave him—can more than hold his own when need be.”

“Jackson, is it? Jackson Nash?” Beryl huffed out a breath and stared after him. “Jesus.”

“He’s not here to cause trouble,” Mia offered defensively. “That’s not his intent.”

“Little girl, with that face in this town he won’t need to look for trouble. Trouble’s going to find him.”

F
or a Tuesday
night in a small seaside town, the pub sure did good business. The brasserie area could have comfortably sat three hundred and was three-quarters full. The front bar was smaller, but more crowded still. The pool tables out the back had a three game wait on them and the half-dozen poker machines were all being played. The brasserie where Mia sat boasted a wall of huge French doors that opened into the night, allowing customers to spill onto the open deck the better to see the bay.

After having been mistaken for Cutter one too many times while sitting minding his own business, Nash had headed for the water. Mia had snagged a corner table for three and was busy taking full advantage of the pub’s free wi-fi when a shadow crossed her laptop and caused the screen to dim.

A sixth sense told her who she would see, even before she looked up and confirmed it. “Well, if it isn’t the mysterious elder Jackson whose name escapes me. Possibly because you never mentioned it.”

“Mind if I take a seat?”

“Not at all. Maybe I’ll call you Bob. Or Jerry.”

“If you want me to answer, you’d best call me Cutter.”

Bingo.

“Where’s your brother?” he asked next.

“He went for a swim.” She scanned the brasserie. “Where are yours?”

“Not here. I’m taking point on this one.” His gaze landed on her square and the heat was still there. “Are we blood?”

Oh, yeah. That. What on earth had possessed her? Because there was no way.

No way in this world she would wish that on them.

“No.” Silently, she tracked his relief. “We’re not related by blood and I’m sorry I gave you that impression earlier. I didn’t like the way you were coming down on Nash. Figured you could use a diversion.”

“You call pretending to be my sister a
diversion
?”

“It worked, didn’t it? Feel free to celebrate your loss.”

He ignored her smart mouth, even if his gaze did skate across it. “Are you
his
blood?”

“No.”

He took a seat opposite her at the table and she did her best to ignore his breadth of shoulder and the power-packed chest beneath his chambray shirt. “Then what are you to him?”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve had that discussion today.”

“Humor me and have it one more time.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, considering. “I met Nash in the foster care system when I was eight. Sometimes you create loved ones out of sticky tape and circumstance and then you hold fast because they’re the best thing that ever happened to you. Nash is that kind of family. You want to know how much that’s worth on the street?”

“So he’s loyal.”

“You’re reducing almost twenty years of friendship, care and protection down to one word. Don’t do that.”

“Guess I’m not the only one with a protective streak.”

“Bet your ass.”

Cutter’s fierce gaze raked over her and a little shiver of anticipation followed in its wake.

“You know, you look just like him,” she murmured. “You’d think I’d be used to all the pretty by now, but you? You heat it up a notch. Why is that?”

“Don’t do that.” He slung her words right back at her.

“Do what?”

“Drop bait. You might not like what you catch.”

She smiled, slow and languorous. “Well, I can always throw it back.”

His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous. “This your idea of being conciliatory?”

Probably not. “Where’s the grandfather you promised? Someone with some answers?”

“Probably trying to get my grandmother to calm down and get out of the car. Seems she remembers the name Nash and another name to go with it: Liza. Ring a bell?”

“Nash’s mother. Elizabeth. Liza. Lizzie. Liz.”

“Got to warn you, Mia. She’s not remembering the name with a whole lot of fondness.”

“Yeah, well. Find me someone who does.” Mia let out a sigh. “I think Nash is hoping that the people here remember a better, more innocent version of the mother he buried. No one’s betting on it though. He’s looking for a miracle.”

“And what are you looking for?”

“Nothing. I’m here to pick up the pieces when Nash’s last hope for one good memory of his mother is laid to rest, and his shiny upstanding new family can’t see past the taint of him.”

“You underestimate us.”

“I underestimate everybody, it saves disappointment.” Mia shut her laptop with a snap and emptied her cola, shaking the ice around the glass to make sure she got the last of it.

“You want another?” he asked.

Why not? “Scotch and cola, if you don’t mind. Got to toast the arrival of your grandparents.” She glanced towards the elderly couple framed by French doors. “I’m guessing that’s them?”

Cutter turned. “Yep.”

“I’ll go get Nash.”

“Wait,” he ordered gruffly.

“Why?” she asked, surprised by the faint trace of pleading she heard in his voice.

“Meet them first.”

“You mean to divide and conquer?”

“I mean that the two of you are a lot to take in at once, trust me on this. My grandparents are walking over here thinking you might be a Nash too, possibly even a
Jackson
, thanks in part to what you said to us earlier today and what I’ve told them. You had your fun at our expense. Now fix it.”

He was right, dammit. She looked at the strained faces of the elderly couple headed her way and cursed herself for not thinking beyond being a burr under this man’s skin.

“I like herb bread. Do you like herb bread?” she asked brightly, with a smile that might just pass for friendly if he squinted. “And order some of those sweet potato wedges too, with the pink sea salt, the hot chili and the mayonnaise. Put it on room 2B.” With that she stood, widened her smile and turned her attention to the approaching couple. “Hi, I’m Mia. We’re not related. Let’s just get that out of the way first.”

The woman’s step faltered and the man’s hand went to the small of her back in a protective gesture Mia thought was kind of sweet.

“My grandmother, Mary, and my grandfather, Frank,” Cutter said.

Mia shook hands with them, unaccountably nervous. They looked like nice people. Nice, shell-shocked people.

“Mia’s not a Nash either,” Cutter said next. “I had it wrong.”

Why was he taking the blame for her deliberate deceit? Was it a protective older brother thing?

“I wouldn’t say you had it wrong. I misled you on purpose,” she countered before turning to the older couple. “But he’s right—I’m not a Nash. I’m a Blake and I know exactly who my parents are. Calling Nash my brother earlier today was more fantasy on my part than fact. I met him in foster care when I was eight and I held on to him, you know? You probably don’t know.” She was babbling. Cutter had headed for the bar, hopefully to order drinks and food, something, to help this meeting go more smoothly. “Anyway, Nash is swimming out there somewhere.” Mia gestured towards the ocean glittering brightly in the late afternoon sun. “He shouldn’t be long.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” The woman smiled a little. “You put a Jackson in the water there’s no telling how long he’ll be.”

“You’re mighty accepting of him as a Jackson for someone who hasn’t met him yet.” Mia couldn’t help the snap in her words.

“Shouldn’t I be?” The woman with the keen blue eyes gave as good as she got.

Lovely thing, manners. Mia often wished she had more of them.

“I’m sorry,” she offered. “You’re going to love Nash. Good guy. Best brother I never had.”

Cutter had returned with her drink, which he handed to her. Praise be. She wondered if it would be okay to down it whole.

“You’re nervous again,” he said.

Damn right she was. “Aren’t you a master of understatement?”

Frank coughed and Cutter promptly handed him the beer in his other hand and turned back towards the bar where another beer and a glass of wine stood waiting. He didn’t walk like Nash, Mia thought as she studied him. More swagger, less wariness. And then there was that face she thought she knew so well, only not on this man …

“It’s very disconcerting how alike they are,” she said to Mary. “Only
not
.”

By the time Cutter returned and he’d found another chair, Mia had renewed her vow to make this meeting easier for everyone, rather than harder. She looked at them all and they looked at her and she wondered what sort of questions she might be able to answer before Nash arrived.

“So, Nash’s mother overdosed on crack a few weeks ago and died.” No judgment, just facts. “She was living in Darwin at the time. One of her johns found her.” More facts. “Nash hadn’t seen her for a while. They weren’t close. He was a ward of the state by the time he was four. His mother tried to sell him for heroin.”

Mary made a distressed noise and Mia pinned her with a level gaze. “I agree. Not the kind of thing that promotes closeness.”

“Go on,” said the man called Frank.

“Nash is clean. No drugs. No drink. No crime. No kids. Women on occasion—he’s a sucker for strays, but once they’re on their feet he moves them along.”

“Except for you,” Cutter murmured silkily.

“Except for me.” Mia picked up her drink and drained it. She wouldn’t be made to feel redundant here. Not by him. “I’ll have another drink, please.”

“It’ll happen. Eventually.”

“How righteous of you.” She wouldn’t have picked him for the type. “Guess you have more in common with your big brother than you realize. Must be in the genes.”

He didn’t like that. And Mia still wanted that drink. She stood, picked up her glass, and tussled silently with him as he too stood and held out his hand for the glass. He took it from her with a muttered curse and headed for the bar again.

“You can leave out the scotch this time if it offends you,” she called after him, and sat back down, smiling at his over-the-shoulder glare.

“Did you want my grandson gone for any particular reason?” asked Mary, and Mia made a note not to underestimate the Jackson family matriarch.

“Look, it’s like this. I’m worried about your boy Cutter and Nash meeting up again.” Mia talked with one eye on Cutter as she tracked his path to the bar. It involved him being greeted by two smiling beach babes and being served immediately thereafter by a flirty brunette. “Cutter’s got a temper—no offence meant, just observation. Hell, I have one too. His brothers helped him keep a lid on it earlier but they’re not here.” She turned back towards Frank and Mary. “Nash is a peacemaker, right up until he’s cornered and then he’s not. He’ll fight until he’s the last one standing, and he is
always
the last one standing. Things being somewhat heated at the moment, I’m all for the two of them
not
squaring up against each other physically. Can you help with that?”

“Everything’s in hand,” Frank Jackson said, and Mia almost believed him.

“Cutter told you how alike they look, right?”

They nodded.

“I don’t think you quite appreciate the impact of that. It’s confronting,” she finished, and waited as Cutter walked up and put another drink down in front of her. “So, anything more you want to know about Nash before he gets here? At which point you may as well ask him.”

“What does he do for a living?” asked Mary.

“Nash started working on old cars at fourteen, maybe fifteen. He paid a pittance for one and started scrounging for parts, and then fixed it, sold it, and started all over again. These days he owns a garage in Melbourne that specializes in restoring classic cars.”

“Where does he live?” asked Mary.

“Above the garage. Kind of like a warehouse apartment, except bigger and rougher round the edges.”

“Eli,” said Frank.

“Where?” Mia looked around.

“He means that Eli did a similar thing with the space above the boatshed,” Cutter told her.

“Oh. Maybe they’ll become besties.”

“Where do
you
live?” asked Cutter.

“I live in a share house in Brunswick, half a city away from Nash. I’m a tattoo artist by trade. I’ll paint anything, mind, if you give me a canvas. Even boats.” She fluttered her lashes at Cutter. “Dandelions, fairies, rainbows … no?”

“No,” Cutter said firmly.

“What about Jonah and the Whale? The Old Man and the Sea? Go big.”

“No.” This time Frank answered.

“Cats!” Undoubtedly useful on a fishing vessel. “Everybody
loves
cats.”