This Perfect Kiss (27 page)

Caidwater’s first-floor rooms, cleared of clothing thanks to Jilly, were also ready for visitors. The caterers, Jilly’s friends, had arrived first thing in the morning. The delicious smells emanating from the kitchen assured him that at least the food was going to be disaster-free.

Rory rubbed the back of his neck. He had a small, legitimate concern about the catering staff, however. Paul and Tran’s business, until now, hadn’t needed any additional servers. So to meet the demands of this emergency job, they’d been forced to recruit a good number of FreeWesters to pass the food and drink.

Rory rubbed the back of his neck again, uneasy about mixing the staunch Blue Party supporters with the kind of people he’d met at the FreeWest gallery opening a few weeks before. He could only hope that Paul and Tran had drafted the least loony of the bunch.

There was no more time for second-guessing, though. He’d done everything he could to ensure that the evening went smoothly. Remembering previous Caidwater bacchanalian revels—resulting in drunken brawls and ménages à trois that had made morning headlines—he’d hired a phalanx of security guards to prevent any possible scandals.

That had been the worst part of being twelve, sixteen, twenty-two. His gut still clenched when he thought of those headlines. They were sleazy, they were titillating—God, the Kincaid men were
sleazy and titillating—and he’d looked so much like them that everyone had expected more of the same. For so many years it had brought him both unwelcome attention and undeserved censure.

But tonight wouldn’t be like those other parties. Thank God he’d convinced Jilly to be in attendance. As predicted, within hours those damn condom-shop photos had hit the Net and the tabloid TV programs, but had quickly been eclipsed by another brouhaha involving the male lead in Greg’s last movie and his horse. With Jilly on Rory’s arm, the entire rhinestoned episode would be quickly forgotten. Nothing would mar the long-awaited events of this evening.

On that thought, Iris strolled through the connecting door. At the sight of what she was wearing, Rory’s jaw dropped. “No,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows in an imperious manner that uncomfortably reminded him of himself. “Yes,” she answered.

Mrs. Mack had bought the little girl a blue-on-blue, velvet-and-ribbon two-piece outfit for the party. Iris had claimed she could dress herself, which left Mrs. Mack free for the thousand other details she needed to attend to. But looking at the child, Rory had to accept that either Iris was not capable of dressing herself, or she was intent on sending him to a padded room.

She had donned the prescribed clothes, all right, but donned them all wrong. The elastic-waisted skirt had been drawn up under her arms like a tube top. The shirt was buttoned around her waist. And the matching blue tights had been pulled over her blond hair, the legs wrapped
around her head like some kind of turban. She had her black patent leather shoes on the wrong feet.

Rory closed his eyes, struggling for control. She was testing him, of course. There was a book on his nightstand,
The 4-Year-Old’s Fearsome Mind
, and it predicted battles just like this one. He tried to remember its advice, but when none of it came quickly to mind, he opened his eyes and pointed toward the bedroom. “Go fix it.” Then he belatedly added, “Please.”

“No.”

Rory shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and squeezed his speech into a ball. “Yes. Right now. We don’t have time to fool around. Guests will be arriving for the party any minute.”

“I don’t want to go to the party.”

“I don’t care what you want. Tonight’s important and you need to be there,” he said loudly. Then he softened his voice. “Just for a little while. I have a baby-sitter coming a bit later.”

“No
baby
-sitter.”

“Four-year-old sitter, then. Now go get dressed properly.” He cleared his throat, trying to find the words to persuade her. “C’mon, Iris. I want to show you off as my little girl.”

“I won’t.” Her blue eyes glittered and her voice rose with each word. “I won’t. I won’t go to the party, I won’t live with you, and I’ll never be your little girl!”

Rory struggled for calm. “Iris—”

“Is there a problem?” Greg said from the playroom doorway.

Rory spun toward him. “Hel—heck, yes,
there’s a problem. You wore her out on your Vegas jaunt and now she refuses to go to the party.” He narrowed his gaze, taking in his brother’s jeans and cowboy boots. “And where the hell is your dinner jacket?”

“I don’t want to go to the party either,” Greg said. He looked down at Iris, who had rushed over to his side, and tweaked the tights-turban. “A
Blue Hat, Green Hat
moment, huh, bug?”

Rory frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Greg shot Rory a look. “I’m talking about Iris’s favorite book,
Blue Hat, Green Hat
. It’s about animals who dress themselves, and the turkey who always gets it wrong.”

Rory shuffled his feet. Okay, so he didn’t know the kid’s favorite book.

Looking down at the little girl, Greg shook his head. “You know, this makes
you
the turkey, Iris.”

She pouted. “I’m not a turkey.”

“You are, dressed like that.” He pushed her gently toward her bedroom. “Now go fix yourself up while I talk to Rory.”

She gave Greg a half-pleading, half-pouting look, but he ignored her, and after a moment she walked toward her bedroom. “I still hate you,” she hissed in Rory’s direction, then slammed the bedroom door shut.

“Sorry about that,” Greg said. “I’ll talk to her about not using the word ‘hate.’”

Rory shook his head. “You’re not responsible for her.”

An odd expression crossed Greg’s face. He squared his shoulders. “Yes, in a way I am. Day
before yesterday I married Iris’s mother in Vegas.”

Rory stared. “What?”

“I’m married.”

Rory tried grinning. “I don’t believe it.” This had to be some kind of joke.

But Greg didn’t grin back. “I married Kim Sullivan, who is Iris’s mother.”

“What?”

“We all lived here together before Iris was born. Roderick, Kim, and I. I fell in love with her then.”

Something cold and slimy slithered down Rory’s spine. “Are you telling me you’re Iris’s fath—”

“No!” Greg took a quick step forward, then halted, drawing in a deep breath. “I want to kill you for thinking that about Kim, about me, but we’re going to have to get used to it. Iris is absolutely Roderick and Kim’s child. When they were married, I never touched Kim. She wouldn’t even let me tell her how I felt.”

Rory slowly shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” Greg looked him directly in the eye. “But more than four years ago I fell in love, without considering the consequences or the complications. Hell, I’m not sure I had time to consider them.” His mouth briefly turned up in a rueful smile. “And to be honest, I wasn’t very good at hiding my feelings. I’m certain that’s why Roderick threw Kim out. He hated the idea we were in competition.”

Rory made an impatient gesture. “The old man
married an eighteen-year-old girl. He finally woke up to the truth. She was out for his money or his influence. Something. That’s why he threw her out.”

At his sides, Greg’s hands fisted. “And I’d like to hit you for that, too. But Kim wouldn’t thank me for it. She’ll tell you herself that she made a bargain with Roderick that she regrets. She was young and desperate, but she won’t use that as an excuse either. Five years later, however, she’s built up a business and built up herself.”

Rory still couldn’t take it in. “Jesus Christ, Greg,” he said slowly. “Do you hear what you’re saying? You married our grandfather’s ex-wife. The mother of his child. Even our father never went
that
far.”

Greg nodded. “It’s true. And we want you to give us custody of Iris.”

Rory’s jaw dropped again. “You’ve got to be kidding! Roderick gave custody of her to me!”

“But I’ve lived with her for her entire life. I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a father, and I want to
be
a father to her.” Greg’s eyes went steely. “Roderick choosing
you
was his revenge on me. Not the best choice for Iris.”

“Yeah, right. You’re an actor, Greg. As flaky and irresponsible as Daniel and Roderick.”

There was a long pause, and then Greg’s face settled into cold, implacable lines. “
Damn you
, Rory.” His voice was full of quiet fury. “Damn you for not looking beyond the Kincaid last name and seeing the man I am.”

Rory tensed, just as furious. “Not looking beyond the Kincaid last name? Damn you back,
Greg, because I’ve been trying to
get
beyond the Kincaid last name my entire life. I want it to stand for—”

“Something different,” Greg finished for him. “Well, I’m not ashamed of who I am or of my career, Rory. And I’m not our father, who only looks after his own selfish needs, or our grandfather, who manipulated people to feed his power. If you want to know the truth, that sounds more like you.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

A muscle jumped in Greg’s jaw. “Just think about what you’ve done lately in the name of the so-honorable Blue Party. There’s your so-called engagement. And then there’s Iris. If you
really
want to make the Kincaid name stand for something different, maybe you should think about what she needs and stop using her like our grandfather or father would.”

Anger poured into Rory’s blood. His brother was lecturing him. His Hollyweird-based little brother was trying to tell him what was right and wrong. His little brother who wouldn’t have known the difference between the two if it weren’t for Rory. “I—”

“Mr. Rory!” Mrs. Mack’s voice called from the hallway. “Guests are arriving!”

Rory closed his eyes. Shit. The party. He’d completely forgotten about it. Heavy with thunderclaps, his doom-cloud descended, weighing heavily against his shoulders.

“Mr. Rory!” Mrs. Mack called again.

He opened his eyes. “I’m coming!” Then he
pointed his finger at his brother. “You I’ll talk to later.”

“I won’t give in, Rory.” Greg folded his arms over his chest. “Not this time, and not about Iris.”

Ignoring the remark, Rory quickly brushed past his brother. He hurried down the staircase to discover that his first guest, standing uncertainly in the foyer, was Jilly.

His immediate, flooding sense of pleasure at the sight of her set his hackles rising once more. He scowled at her. “You’re late.” He had no idea what the hour was. He had never told her a particular time to arrive.

Her chin shot up and her pretty green eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell me what time to come.”

She was always smarter than she looked. And she looked—God, she looked like a Valentine fairy. A bosomy fairy, but a fairy all the same. Her long skirt was a soft pink, and a filmy fabric lay over a stiffer one, so that it belled out gently. A tiny, cap-sleeved fuzzy sweater in the same pink covered her from modest cleavage to her waist. Her mouth was painted a deeper shade of pink and her dark hair hung in semi-tamed ringlets to her shoulders. And there were jewels in her hair.

He blinked, dazzled by them. Dozens of tiny rubies appeared to be sprinkled through her curls, like mini-kisses. Without thinking, he reached toward them. She stepped back, and the movement exposed a small slice of her stomach between the navel-grazing band of her skirt and the hem of her sweater.

A dime-sized ruby nestled in her belly button.

Lust, like a hot fist, sucker-punched him. Another emotion, unnameable but undeniable, also hit him. Hit him someplace else, someplace deeper. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Then he found his voice. “Jilly—”

“Oh, Rory, there you are! Where should we go?”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in front of him. “What?” he asked absently, not even registering who had spoken. His senses were completely tuned to Jilly. He could smell her perfume and, even from here, feel that telltale heat of her skin.

He wanted to lick her. He wanted to kiss her, consume her, take her into him and drive himself into her, as he’d done the last morning they’d been together. He wanted them so close that nothing would untangle them.

A hand prodded his arm. “We’re looking for Paul and Tran.”

Rory glanced toward the voice, looked back to Jilly, then did a double take. It was Aura. Aura and Dr. John, and a gaggle of others, all wearing matching red vests over their own idiosyncratic get-ups. He swallowed. “What—” He swallowed again. “Why are you here?”

“We’re here to help Paul and Tran, of course,” Aura replied, smiling. Her blue-covered book was tucked beneath her arm. “What do you think of our vests? I dragged out my sewing machine and made them myself. French seams. They’re completely lined, yet I think dry cleaning won’t be necessary. Just the gentle cycle and a cool iron.”

Rory gaped at her. Not only was Aura a ringer
for Martha Stewart in the looks department, but apparently she could talk like the domestic doyenne at times too. “The vests are fine,” he said faintly.

She smiled. “Now, where are Paul and Tran? We’re here, all of us, to help this evening.”

As he ran his gaze over the entire group of oddballs, Rory’s momentary pleasure in Jilly fizzled out in a cold wash of dismay. Knowing the FreeWesters would be helping tonight, he should have been more prepared for this. But instead, he’d chosen to delude himself that he’d already paid and paid and paid in the what-could-go-wrong-next department.

The light from the foyer’s massive ironwork-and-stained-glass chandelier gleamed off the bald pate of the equally massive Dr. John. The light also caught the several hoops the big man was wearing in multiple locations for the occasion. Someone—Rory thought he recognized the gender-unspecific salesclerk from the condom shop—smiled sunnily from behind the big man’s shoulder.

Rory stared. The salesclerk’s two front teeth were each decorated with a faithfully rendered American flag. Rory didn’t want to think about the sort of process that kind of result required. Behind the salesclerk stood several others, all but the last sporting a startling hairstyle, hair color, tattoo, or all three.