Stay (Dunham series #2) (19 page)

Oh. You saw that.

Get her dried out and cleaned up, buy her some
manners and some modest clothes, and then maybe we can try this
again. I am not going to be seen with some Paris Hilton wannabe,
much less marry one—especially when the governor made a point to
make sure I knew he was pissed.

Well, now, son, you don’t have any room to get
prissy. Your history’s not spotless.

Yet I know which fork to use for which course, what
liquor to drink when and where and how much, what to say and not to
say at a cocktail party, and how to waltz. That’s more than I can
say for your trust-fund brat.

Aw, son, okay. I don’t blame you, really, but the
offer’s always open. I’ll work on her. Keep in touch.

Eric figured he’d only succeeded in making himself
appear more respectable—
prissy
—by laying it out straight,
but he refused to spend any more time in Stacy Afton’s company.

There was really only one woman he was interested in
anyway and he’d blown that to smithereens. He simply didn’t know
what to do now. Thinking about Vanessa, wanting to make things
right with her,
obsessing
over her—it was getting him
nowhere, yet he couldn’t leave it alone.

He went to Vanessa’s website twice a week when it
was updated, and scoured the Food Network listings to catch
episodes of her show. He’d bought Vanessa’s issues of
Maxim
and
Esquire
on eBay, but then trashed them without opening
the envelopes, loath to make her a masturbatory fantasy when the
real thing was relatively close. He just didn’t know how to
approach her.

Eric had hoped that by sending her the email about
her father’s death, he could open some door or even crack open a
window, but she hadn’t replied.

“You’re a fool,” Dirk muttered when he saw Eric
dressed in Armani as he dropped by the dojo at six, on his way to
the wake.

“Yes,” Eric returned absently while he perused the
mail. “Yes, I am. I need to get this over with and put behind
me.”

Dirk’s eyebrow rose. “Little late for ‘thank you’
now, don’t you think?”

Eric’s brow wrinkled and he looked up at the wall
painted with the Kenpo crest. “Is it ever too late?”

Dirk grunted. “If it’ll open more wounds than it’ll
heal, yes.” He pursed his lips as if to decide whether to say what
was on his mind, but Dirk had never been shy about voicing his
opinions and Eric had already seen how protective he was with
regard to Vanessa. “You know where she lives. You know her website
and her email and her phone number. You’ve had a year to call her
or email her. You have a full staff of attorneys and assistants and
karate teachers, so you could’ve gone to see her, but you didn’t.
Now it’s just one of those things where you should let sleeping
dogs lie.”

“Now wait a minute. You weren’t there. You didn’t
see how it all went down. She wants nothing to do with me, and it’s
taken me a year to figure out how to get close enough to get it
done. This is about as good a chance as I’m going to get. She can’t
run. She won’t make a scene. I can thank her, apologize, leave. Go
on with my life.”

“No. Find another way.”

“Run interference for me, since you’re all
chummy.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to be in between you two any
more than Knox does.”

“Then give me a better idea or quit lecturing
me.”

“You know how LaVon and Company will react to you
showing up.”

“I’ll slip in, speak my piece, and get out before
anybody sees me.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna work . . . ” Dirk
intoned as went to start class.

It didn’t.

Eric’s appearance at Vanessa’s father’s wake caused
a bit of a stir as he wound his way through the crowd, but he
ignored the whispers as he always had, and looked for her.

There.

Standing at the side of the room—not with the
family—speaking graciously with a mourner who seemed to need more
comfort than Vanessa herself. She looked like she’d rather be any
place but in the midst of these people.

The blond kid at Vanessa’s left drew his attention
and Eric’s eyebrow rose. Crisp white linen shirt, loose yet tidy.
Leather 19th century commander’s jacket with pewter buttons.
Knee-high black-and-green argyle socks and black shoes. A
black-and-green tartan kilt.

A
kilt
.

He blinked and blinked again. The boy had grown.
Eric knew he was only thirteen, but he topped Vanessa by a good
inch or two and his bearing—feet wide, arms crossed over his chest,
with a somber, patient expression on his face—was that of a man’s:
confident, courageous, and clever. This was not a kid who’d been
dressed by the mother figure in his life. Well. Vanessa Whittaker
certainly must know how to raise children.

And Vanessa! The oddity of Junior’s dress had
overshadowed her, but now he studied her. Her dark pink—not
traditional black—wraparound skirt clung to her every generous
curve, and her knee peeped out between the layers every time she
moved. The deep V neckline of her textured white silk blouse showed
a hint of cleavage. He looked closer and saw the faint outline of a
corset under that expensive silk.

Her chestnut-and-blonde-streaked hair was arranged
in a mass of large curls pinned to the top of her head. She wore a
dark pink choker with woven beads of some sort hanging from its
edge. High-heeled sandals that matched her skirt made her legs look
the same as they had last year—deliciously right for wrapping
around his hips.

Oh, how he’d love to slowly take off every stitch of
those clothes and bury his nose in her throat, then between her
breasts, then slowly kiss and lick his way down, spread her legs,
taste her . . .

Eric screwed up his courage and started toward her,
the gathered mourners watching him warily, whispering, clearing a
path for him. At that moment, Junior caught his approach and
elbowed Vanessa, who turned to watch him as he took step after step
toward his doom.

He knew that look in her eyes: contempt, anger, and
wariness mixed with the remnants of a little girl’s crush; she
couldn’t hide that no matter how hard she tried, but . . .

No trace of desire.

Had he imagined it?

“Vanessa,” he said quietly.

“Eric.” Her voice was cool.

He looked at Junior. “I’m impressed,” he said.
“You’ve turned into a man.”

Surprise and shock flitted across the kid’s face and
he felt, rather than saw, the surprise emanating from Vanessa.

The kid extended his hand then. “Vachel Whittaker,”
he said clearly, deeply. Eric took his hand with alacrity and the
boy’s grip was firm. A man’s grip. A man’s voice.

“Privileged to meet you, Vachel,” Eric said,
resisting the temptation to ask where the hell he’d come up with a
name like that.

The boy blinked. “Um, yeah. Uh . . . You, too.”

Eric turned to Vanessa then and tried not to look
down her blouse or get high on her perfume. “Thank you,” he said
with all the sincerity in his soul, making sure to look straight
into her fascinating turquoise eyes. “I never said thank you, and
I’ve always regretted that. And—” He gulped. “I’m sorry for walking
away from you that day. I was ashamed and embarrassed, and I didn’t
know what to do, what to say to you. I also— Ah, I also didn’t want
to risk talking to an underage girl, but I could have sent a note,
flowers, something. And I didn’t. I’ve let years go by without
talking to you, telling you how much I appreciate what you did for
me because I was embarrassed, and then I thought it was too late,
and I’m— I’m still embarrassed. I wasn’t honorable last year when I
. . . was mean to you. And then asked you out. I haven’t been
honorable about it at all since, and I’m very sorry. Please forgive
me, Vanessa.”

More shock. More surprise.

Her beautiful, rose-kissed mouth was open, then she
bit the inside of her cheek. She said nothing, but he searched her
eyes for some sign of . . . something. She held his gaze.

“Accepted,” she said finally, softly, “and you’re
welcome.” He saw her eyes soften, the contempt and anger seeping
away, but the wariness remaining. Moisture began to gather in her
lower eyelids. He pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to
her.

She laughed through her tears, again surprised. “I
didn’t know men under ninety carried handkerchiefs.”

He shrugged. “Comes with being trained by a man who
grew up rich and refined.”

Vanessa smiled in wistful amusement. “Knox
Hilliard.”

“Indeed. I hear he grubstaked you?”

“Yes and I’m pretty sure you didn’t get to college
on your own, either.”

“True.”

“Well, I guess it all turned out for the best for
both of us, didn’t it?”

“Yes. So why are we still bitter?”

She laughed outright at that. “I have no idea.” Eric
felt his gut tighten. They were communicating. Talking.
Laughing.

Together.

As adults—a man and a woman.

Who had shown up with her thirteen-year-old nephew,
but no husband, no lover.

He couldn’t not ask. Her more-than-gracious response
to his presence had thus far been better than he had hoped.
Promising, even. “Vanessa,” he began hesitantly. “Would you and
Vachel have dinner with me this evening? Please?”

Immediately, the anger and contempt flashed back and
her eyes dried miraculously. “I don’t think so,” she murmured, her
voice scalpel sharp.

“Oh,” he breathed, shocked. “Um, okay. I’m . . .
sorry.”

Her eyebrow rose as if to ask him why he was still
standing in front of her wasting her time and he swallowed, turning
to go.

“Oh, an’ ain’t this special?”

Eric sighed when he heard that particularly annoying
scratch he heard at least once a week. He closed his eyes and let
his head fall back on his shoulders.

“Ma,” Vanessa said, her voice still hard. “Grow up.
You’ve been after him for the last fifteen years and he’s succeeded
in spite of you. Don’t you think it’s time to lay it to rest?”

She was
defending
him? He opened his eyes
then and looked down at LaVon Whittaker, who stared up at him with
that hatred he’d come to know very well. He couldn’t even muster up
any anger anymore. It was more like the tiniest pebble in his shoe
he just couldn’t get out no matter how hard he shook it or dug at
it.

Just part of his life.

She turned back to look at Vanessa. “You do got a
thing for prosecutors, don’tcha? What, Hilliard dumped you when he
started banging that barely legal redheaded whore of his? An’
you’re doin’ the ones down south? An’ now you move on to Mr. Rapist
here?”

The sound of Vanessa’s hand connecting with LaVon’s
cheek resounded throughout the funeral home.

Eric gaped. He didn’t know which shocked him more:
LaVon’s accusations or Vanessa’s sudden violence. Everyone else was
as stunned as he. Nobody moved; nobody spoke. He didn’t dare look
at Vanessa.

The nice, pretty lady he’d met at Chouteau
Elementary last year had vanished.

“You want to embarrass me and Eric so you can have
something to chaw on with your groupies tomorrow morning?” Vanessa
said loudly and clearly, for everyone to hear. “Fine. We can do
that. Simone was a manipulative, lying bitch who got mad because
Eric wouldn’t have anything to do with a minor and made sure all
his friends knew how he felt about that. She nearly ruined a man’s
life because he snubbed her and cut her off from the rest of her
fun.

“And
you
! Instead of
protecting
her
from all the men who took advantage of a thirteen-year-old girl—
That you went after the one man who wouldn’t— What
you
did—
Getting her wrapped up in that and then letting her take the whole
rap for that is
far
more despicable than what she did. She
was a
minor
, LaVon! A little girl! She had a baby when she
wasn’t even fifteen yet. What is
wrong
with you?”

Eric did look at Vachel then, whose eyes blazed as
he looked at his grandmother. The boy-man’s fists clenched at his
sides and his mouth was tight. Eric realized that his eagerness to
go home with an aunt he didn’t know had been a last-ditch effort to
salvage something of himself—a gamble that had paid off.

The tension pressed in on Eric; he was as
embarrassed now as he had been with Stacy, but this time it was his
fault. Foolishness, just as Dirk had said, to think he could come
here and talk to Vanessa, then leave without incident, and she was
bearing the brunt of it.

He turned with a growl. “Vanessa,” he murmured and
took her by the arm; she could be pissed at him later. “Let’s go.
You don’t deserve this. You never did.”

“That’s right. And I don’t deserve to be
propositioned by a married man, either.”

He stopped, aghast, and looked down at her.
“What?”

“Annie Franklin? Your wife?”

“No . . . ” he said carefully. “We broke up last
year.”

Her mouth formed a silent
Oh!
She blinked.
“I’m
so
sorry,” she whispered. “I— I didn’t know.”

And now
she
was apologizing to
him
.

“I’m leaving. Would you care to come with me?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Vanessa!” her mother hissed when they again began
to walk toward the door. “Don’t you dare go with him!”

Vanessa stopped suddenly and looked over her
shoulder. Eric would have never thought her capable of hatred so
deep it radiated from her, hatred that Vachel’s expression
mirrored.

“I chose Eric over you when I was twelve years old,”
she snarled, and her mother pulled away from her as if stung. “And
while we’re at it, let’s clarify one thing about Knox Hilliard. He
was never my lover. He’s my
dad
.”

Her mother’s mouth worked without a sound coming
out. “Wha— What do you mean your dad? Your dad’s over there in that
casket.”