Seeing Red (6 page)

Finally, the waitress shuffled away, and Stephen continued, “Hell, I don’t know who invited me. Carla? Sharon, maybe? It was smart of them, don’t you think? For you to have me be in the know so I know all the right lies to tell Mom and Dad?”

“Oh, shit.” Seth closed his eyes and ground them with his fists. Her parents didn’t know. Of course they wouldn’t. Well, they would soon enough, depending on how fast the gossip mill churned.

“Hey, big guy, it’ll be fine,” Stephen said. “I think this time she actually married up.”

When Seth opened his eyes, he found Meg staring at her empty plate and chewing on her bottom lip.

Toby chose that exact moment to bounce from Erica’s lap to Meg’s, giving his mother a loud raspberry on her jaw before resuming his game play.

She grinned, and maybe only Seth saw it, but her eyes were a bit too wet and cheeks too red. Unlike Toby, she hadn’t had any sun that morning. Her coloring had come about from other things.

A brown-skinned woman with braided hair pulled back in a stylish bun, wearing the pleated white skirt and navy jacket uniform of the resort, appeared at the table clutching a leather portfolio to her chest. She nodded at them all. “I didn’t get to congratulate you yesterday, Mr. and Mrs. Raj-cough,” she said with an obsequious bow. “I heard the ceremony was lovely.”

“It was, thank you,” Seth said, feeling somewhat duplicitous for expressing pride about such a thing. “However, the name is pronounced roash-cof.”

Her pretty face scrunched and she closed one eye as if she were trying to picture the spelling. “Roash-cof?”

“There you go. That sounds so much sweeter.”

“Roash-cof,” Meg whispered against Toby’s back.

Had she not known how to pronounce it, either?

“If I had a do-over, I would have picked a different spelling for my US documents,” he explained to the concierge. “Or…a different surname.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Rozhkov. Or Sergei, for that matter,” Meg said, but she didn’t look at him. Her attention was on Erica’s phone and Toby’s manipulation of it.

“Are you enjoying your honeymoon so far?” the concierge asked.

Seth paused, allowing Meg the platform to use as she saw fit, but she said nothing. He responded in her stead, “I couldn’t have imagined a more memorable honeymoon.”

“Fantastic. Sorry it’s such a short one. You’re all flying out tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yes, I know, it’s awful,” Stephen said. He’d pushed his sunglasses up like a headband to hold his hair out of his eyes, and gave the woman a grin that could have given Curt a run for his money.

Curt must have noticed it, too, because he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and his cheeks twitched as he stifled a laugh.

“Dr. Roash-cof down there has rocket parts or something to put together first thing Monday morning, and I, well, you know. I’ve got some legal stuff I need to consult on in time for trials next week. I just made partner.” He sighed and shook his head. “Busy, busy.”

“Lame ass,” Meg muttered.

Seth couldn’t help his grin, but he damn sure had it wiped off his face by the time Meg looked up.

The concierge did that little bow again. “Of course, Mr. Scott. I do hope you’ll visit us again.”

“Here we go,” Meg mumbled.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Stephen said, still grinning. “Hey, you got a card with your direct extension? Maybe I can give you ring when I get home and have my secretary pull my schedule. Maybe you can let me know which dates are best, what events are happening. When’s the best time. That kinda thing.” He tipped his chair onto its back legs, awaiting her response.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, I’ll have that sent to your bungalow along with some festival brochures. Many of our American visitors do enjoy fishing so.” With a nod, she turned on the heel of her smart, navy-blue pump, and strode toward the interior.

When she was out of earshot, Meg asked, “Could you be more obvious?”

Stephen guffawed. “What do I have to lose? If she tells me to go eff myself, it’s not like I’m ever going to see her again. Carpe diem and stuff.”

Toby turned in his mother’s lap and tilted his face toward hers. “What does that mean, eff?”

Meg didn’t respond. She stared at Stephen.

Stephen beamed at her.

Seth chuckled.

Meg glowered at him.

Yikes. Scary wifey.

And was it perverse that he found that kind of hot?

Erica giggled. “Listen, this is far more entertaining than you guys know, but we’ve got a livery van out there waiting to take us on a historical-site tour. Might even get this guy into a pair of Bermuda shorts and loafers before the weekend’s over.” She tipped her head toward Curt.

He pushed his chair back and stood, mumbling, “Don’t hold your breath, darlin’.”

“Hey, Meg?” Erica prompted. When Curt pulled her chair back, she stood and accepted the phone Toby thrust at her. “You want us to take Toby with us? If there’s any paparazzi milling around, they probably won’t follow us. They’re looking for adults with red hair, and we can put a hat on Toby.”

Meg opened her mouth to refuse, probably, but Curt put his hands up, palms out, and said, “Hey, we don’t mind, and you know after what I went through with my mum that I have no particular love for the press.”

She’d already forgotten about the debacle Curt’s family endured last year, and that gave her a pinprick of hope regarding her own notoriety. His mother had become a person of interest in the Irish press after serving time in prison for a crime his father pinned on her. Curt had been the one to unravel the mess.

“I know you want to lie low, but there’s no good reason for Toby to stay cooped up here all day,” Curt said. He wrapped his right arm around his wife’s waist and made a come-on gesture with his left hand.

“Children like him for some reason,” Seth said with a shrug when Meg looked at him. “I don’t try to understand it.”

“Hey, can I invite myself?” Stephen tossed his napkin onto the table and pushed his chair back. “Maybe I can find someplace for later. I have plans to dance the night away and inebriate my lonely heart.”

Erica laughed and clasped her hand around Toby’s when he offered it. “Come on. I’d offer to hook you up with my sister, but I like you too much.”

The four loped toward the main resort building, Toby chattering a mile a minute in their midst.

Quiet stretched between Seth and Meg for a few moments, with Meg staring at the ocean over the patio’s half wall, and Seth alternating his gaze between her and the wrinkled napkin on his lap.

When they spoke again, they spoke at once.

Seth said, “I imagine they’ll deliver your breakfast to the bungalow.”

Meg said, “So, I guess I’ll see you later?”

Seth grunted in agreement.

Meg nodded, gathered up the beach gear Toby had left behind, and made a brisk escape toward the path.

Blowing out a ragged breath, Seth drew his tepid coffee closer and rotated the cup between his hands.

Now he was pretty certain it’d happened again.

He’d always been that guy women liked to keep in their speed dial—the one women were so sweet to, but only on a friendly level—just in case they needed something from him later. A ride home after a late night at the bar. A rescue if they blew out a tire on the highway. A last-minute date for a wedding reception at which they promptly ditched him as soon as their friends filed in.

The only difference between all those times and this one was that he and Meg had a little certificate proclaiming that they were legally bound…and there were the vows.

Maybe those words hadn’t meant anything to Meg, but when he’d said them, he’d meant them and wished that for-as-long-as-we-both-shall-live bit would come true.

Now, he wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. From where he stood, he seemed to have been boxed into the friend zone yet again. This time by his own wife.

Chapter 5

When Meg had opened her eyes that morning, disoriented and tangled in the sheets, for a moment she’d panicked. Why was she naked? Had she drank that much? And where was Toby? Toby usually woke her one minute before the sun came up.

Then the cobwebs in her skull cleared, and with one clench of her feminine muscles, the soreness registered, and she remembered every lurid detail.

She’d gone to breakfast wearing her usual practiced stoicism, but on the inside, she felt humiliated. Had she really seduced that man like some brazen hussy who spread her legs for the most convenient warm body nearby? And what must Seth have been thinking?

It was hard to tell. At breakfast, he’d worn his usual friendly expression and seemed cordial almost to a fault.

But, what had she expected? That he’d pick a fight? For what?

She blew out a breath and dropped a sugar cube into her steaming hot coffee. As she stirred the sweetener inside the little china cup, she paced. Sipped, and paced. Sipped, and paced.

“Maybe I should apologize,” she said to her reflection in the cheval mirror she’d paused in front of. “That’s the least I can do. He was so kind to Toby….”

She resumed her pacing and made a few more passes in front of the bed the housekeeper had made up during breakfast. Someone, the concierge, perhaps, had delivered a basket filled with indulgent toiletries and chocolates. Meg had only skimmed the little card attached to the handle, but what she gleaned was that the gift was for the newlyweds and they invited her and Seth to avail themselves of the spa facility at no extra charge.

Wasn’t gonna happen. Meg didn’t like strangers touching her. Seemed ironic, considering last night.

She set the cup into its matching saucer and turned, intending to squeeze into her bathing suit and enjoy a couple of hours in the surf, but paused at a muffled beeping sound.

She turned her ear toward the noise, trying to hone in on the specific location. Kneeling low, she discovered her cell phone stuffed into the pockets of the shorts she’d discarded the night before.

Several missed calls and one all-caps text message. That, she skimmed after rolling her eyes at the sender name.

SAW UR WEDDING PICS ONLINE. HOW MUCH U SELL THEM 4? THAT TOBYS REAL DAD? WOULD EXPLAIN SUM THINGS, HUH?

Why the hell did he care, anyway? The paltry sum he paid in child support was a drop in the bucket compared to his overall income. The jackass had a good lawyer. He’d argued that since Spike’s pay was unpredictable due to erratic royalty income, putting a finite figure on his monthly intake was difficult. Meg’s lawyer hadn’t known how to argue with that, unfortunately, and so she was getting just enough to keep the kid fed and clothed with a bit left over to cover utilities. Her alimony had been somewhat more generous, but she suspected that was because the judge had taken pity on her. Poor Meg.

Early in the marriage, wired funds from her parents kept the lights on and fridge filled. While Spike was out touring and the band was spending more on promotion than they were earning from album sales, the Scotts footed the bills.

And when the band took off, Spike took control of everything. She’d stopped calling her parents for aid, and Spike didn’t want her to work. He wanted her accessible at the drop of a hat so she could tour with him. Really, he’d just wanted a warm, wet hole to roll over into after grinding on stage all night. She’d figured that out right around the time she got pregnant with Toby. And that’s when she’d starting working behind Spike’s back. When he was away, she went into the office and wrote manuals for a local tech company. When he was home, she worked in the wee hours of the morning on her laptop on the floor in Toby’s nursery.

She was glad she had those contacts now, and that she had a job to go home to.

She counted to five, slowly, to temper her response.

Still, what appeared on her phone screen at her own hands was
F.O.A.D
.

She clicked Send before she could talk herself out of it, caring very little that he’d probably use it as fodder in his lawyer’s next court filing.

What would it be? Contempt of court?

F.O.A.D.
had been the title of one of Spike’s songs a few years back. The meaning, and subtitle, had been “
Fuck Off and Die.”
It was a breakup song.

She powered the phone off altogether and zipped it into the front pouch of her suitcase. As soon as she got home, she was changing her numbers and even her address if she could manage it. She wasn’t going to be “Poor Meg” anymore. She was no one’s pity case, and she was going to prove it.

Minutes later, she had at least three photographers grabbing shots at a respectful distance as she strode, head high and shoulders back, onto the beach in a tiny purple bikini and a sheer caftan. A matching wide-brimmed straw hat covered her head, but enough of her red hair hung loose to give any bystanders a clear hint of her identity. She’d added dark sunglasses and a straw tote to her ensemble, hoping to transmit the impression she was going to spend some quality time on her ginger-girl sunburn.

Nah. She had other ideas, but she’d need a costar for this little scheme.