One Wicked Week Page 13

  Not that she didn’t enjoy watching him squirm but there’d been a strange vibe in that room. Then again, considering her family dynamics before Sasha’s death and after, who was she to criticise?

  When they exited the room, Brock slumped against the nearest wall in obvious relief. ‘That was...’ He shook his head, a deep frown slashing his brows. ‘Thank God we’re in a hospital because I need a mega dose of painkillers to cope with that.’

  She laughed. ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  He scowled and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It was worse.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on them.’ She touched his arm. ‘They obviously adore you and want you to be happy.’

  ‘Adore me?’ He snorted, the flare of pain in his eyes making her inhale sharply before he blinked and she wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘My parents have bestowed many things on me over the years, adoration isn’t one of them.’

  ‘You don’t get along?’

  The moment the question slipped from her lips she knew she’d asked the wrong thing. He visibly shut down in front of her eyes: his expression hardened until he appeared stony-faced, his eyes darkened with sadness and a faint flush stained his cheeks.

  ‘We get along fine.’ His short, clipped response brooked no argument and right now, with the rest of their evening stretching interminably before her, she didn’t want to argue.

  She’d had high hopes for this evening: him in a suit, her looking her best, a band, champagne and hopefully a little relaxation. Throwing herself into work and organising this function hadn’t been enough of a distraction the last week and come four-thirty she’d gladly shut down her computer and headed off for her hair and make-up appointment. She’d wanted to look good tonight. Heck, she’d wanted to look fantastic because projecting a confident exterior would fuel her courage to confront Brock.

  ‘You’re a fraud, just like me.’

  She hadn’t been able to forget his comment last week. He might have glossed over it quickly and she’d let him but the more she pondered it, the more she wanted to know what he’d meant by it.

  Sure, she was a fraud. She pretended every single day: that she didn’t mind being overweight; that she didn’t let her parents’ betrayal bother her; that she didn’t mind being second best in their eyes no matter what she did. But she rarely let her insecurities show.

  So Brock’s comment begged the question: what was he hiding?

  ‘We should go now or we’ll be late.’ He offered her his hand and she took it, content to leave things for now. He looked frazzled and there’d be time enough when he took her home to confront the simmering undercurrents between them; as long as the S-E-X didn’t distract her.

  It would be inevitable. Brock in casual clothes was delectable. Brock in a designer suit: absolutely scrumptious. The crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasted perfectly with his tan and mop of unruly brown curls. Her fingers itched with the urge to run through them as a vivid image of her hands tangling in his hair as he had his head between her legs sprang to mind.

  Heat swamped her body, pooling in her cheeks. She must’ve made some kind of embarrassing sound because he shot her a sideways glance.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Just peachy.’ She flashed a smile for good measure.

  ‘You’re awfully flushed.’

  ‘The hospital’s overheated.’

  His gaze locked with hers and when his eyes widened imperceptibly she knew he could see all her horny thoughts reflected there.

  ‘You know, we could always skip this stupid awards event?’

  She could’ve almost said yes if not for the weird family dynamics she’d witnessed earlier. ‘We could, but your dad’s counting on you to represent him at this thing, isn’t he?’

  A scowl curled his upper lip. ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘So you don’t want to let him down.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Besides, it’ll be over by eleven.’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  Even with her four-inch stilettos she had to lean in and stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. ‘And after that, we have all night.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BROCK STEPPED INTO the function room and stared, his mind officially blown. He’d expected the warehouse venue in Melbourne’s trendy Docklands to be sparse, even a little garish, and nothing like this lavish winter wonderland. The white and silver theme, from the napkins to the candles in the pale pink posy rose centrepieces to the silk chair bows, glittered beneath stunning chandeliers, casting crystallised shadows against the stark steel walls.

  At least thirty tables of ten filled the room, with people in semi-formal gear mingling or topping up drinks from the silver buckets placed strategically next to the tables. The loud din made his ears ache, the excited chatter of people he’d rather avoid.

  All the beautiful decorations in the world couldn’t detract from where he was as he struggled not to run a finger beneath his collar and itch until he bled. He’d never had hives but if the uncomfortable sensation prickling his neck was any indication he might be suffering his first case. He knew the cause. He was allergic to bullshit and setting foot inside a function filled with used-car salesmen was one giant BS fest waiting to happen.

  ‘Table twenty-eight is over there.’ Jayda tugged on his hand and pointed to the front of the room with the other. ‘Near the stage.’

  Great. Not only would his ears suffer from the crap spouted by a bunch of practised liars, he’d be deafened by the band too.

  ‘Hey, lose the frown.’ She bumped him with her hip and he glanced down at her, something he’d been trying not to do too often since she’d strutted into his office an hour ago.

  She’d pushed open the glass door to his office and it had taken every ounce of willpower not to hang up on important clients and sweep his desk clean so he could spreadeagle her on it and not resurface for a week.

  She looked phenomenal in a slinky black satin dress that skimmed her thighs and swished around her calves. The halter style did incredible things to her tits and he’d wanted to bury his face in them. The fancy up-do, a twisty thing of curls on top of her head, showed off her pretty neck that he yearned to nibble on, and her make-up played up her deep blue eyes and lush mouth.

  She looked stunning. Then again, he’d seen her with bloodshot puffy eyes and streaked mascara on graduation night and he’d found her beautiful then. He knew that a woman like Jayda glowed from within. She was kind-hearted, sweet and loveable. No surprise that his folks had fallen for her so quickly. If he wasn’t careful he was in danger of doing the same.

  Having to introduce Jayda to his parents had sent him into a tailspin. He’d mentally cursed for a full five minutes when he’d realised he’d have to ask her to accompany him from his office to the awards night, which had meant she’d be along for the ride when he swung past the hospital to pick up the tickets and he couldn’t be rude and ask her to wait in the car.

  As if the introductions hadn’t been bad enough, his folks had appeared genuinely happy. They’d swapped banter and actually laughed. At his expense but he’d been too shocked to care. Combined with his initial visit to his dad, when he’d definitely seen signs of change, he wondered if things had improved between them and he hadn’t noticed. Considering he rarely spent time with them, it was entirely possible. Maybe his dad had hit his head when he fell along with breaking a hip? Or maybe spending time with Jayda was seriously messing with his head and making him see positivity where there was none?

  He’d thought she could be a good influence on him, get him to lighten up a little. But when he’d started noticing small things like the fond glances his folks exchanged, he had to wonder if embracing her optimism was a good thing.

  Thankfully, Jayda had been a good sport about his parents’ ribbing but he couldn’t get their overt matchmaking attempts out of his head. Since when did they take an
active interest in his life anyway?

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ Jayda shook his arm and he glanced down at where their hands were joined, jolted out of his reverie.

  ‘Sorry. Mulling a work problem.’

  Both her eyebrows arched. She didn’t buy his bullshit. Who knew, he’d fit right in here.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said, dropping a quick kiss in apology on her lips before they wound their way through the tables.

  ‘The staff did a great job,’ Jayda said, pointing to the table decorations. ‘They already had everything under control. All I had to do was look over the colour scheme, check in with the caterers and ensure the band could play a good mix of songs across several decades.’

  Brock would bet she’d done a lot more than that. He hated how she downplayed her assets when she’d obviously done a stellar job considering the modern, luxe vibe in this place.

  ‘I think you did a great job,’ he said, brushing a kiss across the nape of her neck as he pulled out her chair. ‘Though these covers make me nervous.’

  She laughed and ran a hand over the white silk covering the chair, tied in a giant shimmery silver bow on the back. ‘Entrée is smoked salmon soufflé, main is eye fillet steak with sautéed veggies and dessert is white chocolate mousse, so you should be safe without a tomato in sight.’

  He pulled a funny face and pointed at the bottles of pinot noir and Shiraz. ‘But there’s red wine, a recipe for disaster.’

  She patted his cheek with affection and he struggled not to turn his head and nibble her palm. ‘I’m pretty sure the laundry bill is covered in the function fee, so knock yourself out.’

  ‘The tables do look amazing,’ he said as he guided her into the chair. ‘You’ve got real talent for this kind of thing.’

  He couldn’t fathom the strange expression that flitted across her face as she sat and semi-turned away from him. He sat and touched her thigh. ‘You okay?’

  She turned back to face him and nodded, but he saw a hint of sadness in her eyes. ‘As it turned out all I ever was to my folks was a glorified party planner. They didn’t trust me with...’ she swallowed and covered his hand with hers ‘...the truth.’

  Brock wanted to know more. She hadn’t shared much of her home life with him. Then again, when they were together they didn’t do a lot of talking. Sex and work dominated their time and he liked it that way, but seeing the darkness in her eyes made him want to slay dragons for her.

  However, before he could delve, a man sat next to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You must be George’s kid?’ The beefy guy in his fifties held out his hand. ‘Pat McFitz. Pleased to meet you.’

  Annoyed at the interruption, Brock forced a polite smile. ‘Hey, Pat, I’m Brock and this lovely lady on my right is Jayda.’

  Pat clapped him on the back again before holding out his hand to her. ‘Lovely is right. You look exquisite, Jayda.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled, a completely genuine smile that made his chest ache. She didn’t have to fake it as he did. She didn’t judge Pat for his too tight navy suit or his belly straining at the sole jacket button or his florid face that hinted he’d already had more than a few beers. She accepted the man on face value and not many people in his world would do that.

  Brock moved in moneyed circles these days, always on the lookout for new clients who ran mega companies who could benefit from his software. He schmoozed and pretended to like people when in fact he didn’t tolerate many people at all. It was why he’d dreaded tonight because in their own way this crowd did what he did. They bluffed and guffawed on cue and faked reactions to get what they wanted: sell crappy used cars, while he strove to sell his software.

  In that moment, a revelation so startling crashed over him and his throat tightened.

  Maybe he was like his father after all?

  This was the second time he’d drawn the comparison, first with his possessiveness over Jayda at the bar over a week ago and now this. Hell. He dragged a deep breath in, willing his throat to relax, while Pat and Jayda chatted over his head, oblivious to the ramifications of his realisation.

  He couldn’t be anything like George.

  He’d never treat a woman how his father treated his mother.

  Haven’t you already?

  He shot a glance at Jayda, who caught his eye and winked. It made his throat tighten further.

  She’d been nothing but honest and willing since they’d hooked up. She’d welcomed him into her life for however long, intent on having fun. And what had he done? Pushed her away every single time they moved beyond sex. Any sign of deeper conversation or hard questions and he’d shut down or left. He’d done it more than once too.

  Wasn’t that the kind of behaviour he’d witnessed from his dad repeatedly? When his mum presented him with a meal he didn’t like, or expressed an opinion opposite to his, or didn’t acquiesce to his every demand? He’d watched his father repeatedly snap at his mum, or mutter put-downs, or argue, or withdraw. He’d seen it time and time again, and he’d hated him for it.

  At the same time he’d seen the hurt in his mum’s eyes, the compressing of her lips so she wouldn’t say something more to set George off, the emotional shutdown when she’d carefully keep her expression neutral, the careful choice of words.

  Did he make Jayda feel like that?

  ‘Wine?’ Pat held up a bottle of Shiraz and Brock nodded by rote, too stunned and sick to his stomach to say anything.

  He needed to get out of here, now.

  Pushing back his chair so fast it almost upended, he glimpsed Jayda’s startled expression.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, fleeing the table without a backward glance, desperate to get outside and clear his head.

  His gut churned with dread as he rushed past the incoming crowd and burst out of a side door, almost running into a guy in his sixties wearing a cowboy hat and a purple tux. Brock blinked when the guy grinned at him as if they were old buddies.

  ‘You must be George’s son?’ The cowboy stuck out his hand. ‘Duke Lingham. I own the yard a few kilometres down the road from your dad.’

  Rattled that a second guy in as many minutes had pegged him for George’s son when he thought they looked nothing alike, Brock shook his hand.

  ‘Your dad says you’re into computers?’

  If Brock had been surprised a few seconds ago at being recognised, shock rendered him speechless at the thought of his father discussing him with his cronies.

  When Duke stared at him expectantly, Brock gathered his wits to reply, ‘Yeah, I’m in software design.’

  ‘Sounds fancy.’ Duke nodded, as if he understood what that entailed. ‘George is proud of you. Always drops your name into conversation.’

  Duke studied him through slightly narrowed eyes, as if sizing him up. ‘All the car-yard owners in the Western suburbs get together monthly at a pub in Melbourne. Swap stories. Tell tall tales. You know how it is.’

  Yeah, he did. He travelled the country, occasionally overseas, doing the same thing at computer conferences.

  Not particularly perturbed by Brock’s ongoing silence, Duke continued. ‘Of course, we all know George’s secret to success.’ Duke winked and nudged him with a bony elbow. ‘Bette is amazing, especially sticking with your dad through the tough times.’

  The twinkle faded from Duke’s eyes. ‘I guess I don’t have to tell you their marriage hasn’t been smooth sailing because your dad can be a cantankerous bastard, but not only has Bette dealt with his crap, she’s smoothed his rough edges and made him mellow in his forties.’

  Agog, Brock listened intently as Duke continued. ‘Not many wives stick by their men in this industry, too much BS, but Bette is a cracker. Always supportive no matter how much George tries to bully her. Not that she puts up with much of his crap these days and good for her. I
guess weathering the tough stuff makes them a good team and I envy that.’

  Duke held up his bare ring finger. ‘My missus shot through twenty years ago and no woman will put up with me since.’

  Brock didn’t offer a trite apology. Besides, he was trying to assimilate the news about people admiring his parents’ marriage. Even more startling, it sounded as if Duke knew what went on behind the closed doors of his folks’ marriage and was implying they’d got past their problems. And if that was true...had he been so hung up on the past, so narrow-minded, so damn judgemental that he hadn’t noticed?

  The possibility sat like a rock on his chest, making him crave air. He’d deliberately shunned contact with his folks for years. Yet in doing so had he missed out on witnessing the changes Duke mentioned?

  If what the old guy said was true, and he had no reason to lie, Brock needed to re-evaluate how he treated his parents. He needed to let go of his residual anger towards his dad and his ongoing disbelief that his mum would put up with a selfish, pushy husband, and reconnect with the only family he had.

  He’d witnessed the subtle changes for himself lately and, combined with Duke’s rousing endorsement, Brock realised he needed to broach the yawning gap between him and his folks.

  ‘We argued like all couples do but my missus was nasty. Your mum isn’t like that.’ Duke grinned. ‘I’ve seen her and your dad have a few doozy arguments but they forget it and move on.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s the way to deal with conflict. Pity my missus didn’t stick around to find out.’

  Lost for words and reeling from learning he might have misjudged his folks for years, Brock eyed the nearby door. At least Duke had served to take his mind off the realisation he was more like his father than he wanted to be. But now he wanted to escape back inside, far from startling revelations that made him view his parents as a flawed, resilient couple that had endured a rocky marriage to stay together.

  ‘Anyway, say hi to George for me, okay?’ Duke tipped his hat like he’d watched too many Western reruns on cable. ‘I rang him the other day and he sounded in good spirits. At least, he was when your mum arrived for a visit.’