Crazy Love Page 8

To her amazement, Olivia ignored the bulk of what she’d said and focused on her earlier words.

  “You didn’t hit it off at first. Does that mean things improved as the evening wore on?”

  O-kay. This was getting freakier by the minute. Why should Olivia care how they’d got on? Marc was here with the sole intention of disrupting her nuptials and Olivia was more interested in how buddy-buddy she’d been with the guy?

  “Marc and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues so it made for a stimulating evening.”

  In more ways than one.

  Olivia beamed. “He can be abrasive but once you get to know him, he’s wonderful.”

  Spoken like a biased mother, though Sierra had to agree. Despite his brashness she’d seen a softer side too, the combination of fire and ice strangely enticing.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’ll both be part of this wedding and I want everyone to get along.”

  A faint blush tinged Olivia’s cheeks and combined with a quick look-away alerted Sierra to the fact her uncle’s sweet fiancée wasn’t telling her everything.

  Before she could call her bluff a loud pounding on the door, punctuated by a melodious tooting of a car horn that sounded suspiciously like Flo, interrupted them.

  “That’ll probably be Marc now.”

  For a woman about to encounter a hostile son, Olivia’s feet flew across the kitchen as she ran to the door.

  Sierra took a deep breath, torn between wanting to stay and lend a supporting hand to Olivia or bolt as far away as she could get from those all-seeing chocolate eyes.

  “Perhaps I should go?”

  She pushed her chair back from the table as Olivia reached the front door.

  “No.” Olivia shouted before lowering her voice. “You’re practically family, dear. I’d like you to stay.”

  Willing to lend a hand—and maybe get to rile City Boy a little—she nodded. “If you want me to, I’ll stay.”

  “Good girl.” Olivia opened the door and her arms to her son. “Darling, lovely to see you.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Marc stooped to hug Olivia, his concerned expression bringing a lump to Sierra’s throat. He hadn’t caught sight of her yet and the raw emotion she glimpsed before he straightened showed exactly how much his mother meant to him.

  In all fairness she’d be concerned if her mom upped and left a city she’d lived in forever for a man she’d met via the Internet.

  Actually, it wouldn’t surprise her if her mom did something like that. Dolores had done worse by following some bogus guru to Nepal. However, Sierra understood the sentiment and she’d be as protective of Dolores. Though she’d have the decency to give her mom a chance to explain before barging in with some preconceived idea about her new partner, exactly what was about to happen here.

  She watched him glance around the living room, surprise flickering across his face. What had he expected, a log cabin with crates for furniture and Hank witling in the corner?

  Ever since her first visit to the farm as a ten year old she’d loved this place, its warmth drawing her in like the Pacific Ocean at San Diego on a summer’s day. Hank’s first wife Hannah had decorated each room with a loving care that showed, from the earth-toned hand-woven rugs to the plump tasseled cushions scattered on comfy armchairs.

  She’d spent hours as a child curled up in her favorite chair, a worn candy-striped armchair situated by the far window which caught the late afternoon sun, caught up in the fairytale books Hank bought for her. It was the one concession to being a girl back then, when she’d preferred to rough it with the boys on the sports field than dabble in clothes and makeup like other girls her age.

  Ironic, as she now thrived on keeping up with the latest fashions, collecting labels with careful selection based on a keen eye for what suited her. Belle said she had a gift and had entered the wrong business. Personally, she loved the freedom to create her own look that she wouldn’t have if it were an occupation.

  Besides, she loved playing Cupid too much. And it was much safer being behind the bow shooting the arrows than in the path of one of those stray suckers that could cause havoc.

  “What are you doing here, Mom? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Marc, I—”

  “You should get your things and we can talk on the way back to LA.”

  Olivia reeled as if he’d slapped her. “I’m not going anywhere. And I was about to tell you we have company.”

  Feeling like an intruder and wishing she’d fled when she had the chance, Sierra stood and moved into his line of vision.

  Marc’s wild-eyed glare bordered on crazy and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he started foaming at the mouth. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Marc, manners.” Olivia shook her head and closed the door behind him, the Fairley frown reappearing.

  In deference to Olivia, Sierra could’ve ignored his rudeness. But where was the fun in that?

  “How nice of you to join us, Slick. Your mom was just telling me what a delightful little boy you were growing up. Though she did omit one salient point, the fact you haven’t quite got there yet.”

  She heard Olivia’s sharp intake of breath and briefly wondered if any woman had ever stood up to her son.

  “I’m not the one dressed like a teeny bopper.” His gaze flicked the length of her, setting her body alight in the process.

  So much for staying cool.

  “Glad you like it.”

  She put a hand on one hip and thrust the opposite out in a pose designed to provoke. By the glint in his eyes, she succeeded.

  “You look okay.”

  The corners of his mouth softened at the begrudging compliment and she clamped the urge to laugh. She had City Boy’s measure whether he admitted it or not. He enjoyed sparring though was gracious enough to acknowledge when his prickles needed retracting.

  She held a hand up to her forehead in a mock swoon. “Your compliments overwhelm me. Be still my beating heart.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “As much as I’m enjoying your theatrics, do you mind leaving Mom and I alone?”

  She glanced at Olivia, who watched their interaction, spellbound.

  “Go ahead, dear. Perhaps you can give us a few minutes then come back in with your uncle?”

  “Her uncle?”

  Marc stared at her as if she’d just sprouted horns.

  “Hank is Olivia’s uncle. We’re going to be one big happy family.”

  By the look of sheer outrage on his face, Sierra seriously doubted it.

  She wiggled her fingers in a taunting wave. “I’ll be in the barn. Holler when you’re finished.”

  As she headed for the back door, Marc’s disbelieving, “Family? Over my dead body,” followed her out.

  Marc watched Sierra stroll from the room as if she owned the place, which wasn’t far off the mark considering the bombshell his mom had dropped.

  Her uncle was his mom’s fix up? Discounting his initial shock, he wasn’t surprised. She’d been evasive last night and any wonder. Not only had she played a role in getting his mom to this hellhole, she was probably a major player in this scam her uncle was perpetuating.

  Before he could voice his opinion his mother laid a hand on his arm.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, Son, get it out of your head this instant.”

  He longed to grab her hand and make a run for it, hauling back to LA and all that was familiar. Instead, he settled for giving her a reassuring squeeze.

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking. And if you did, you wouldn’t be so calm.”

  “There’s no use getting worked up. Why don’t you take a seat, I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and we can discuss this like two adults.”

  A nice cup of tea. How many times had he heard that over the years, his mother’s simple solution to complicated problems? It hadn’t worked in the past, like the time his father had thrown one of his classic tantrums and smashed a priceles
s vase or the first time his father hadn’t come home all night or when he’d squared up to George and told him about his marriage to Annie. That occasion and the ensuing explosion had warranted a bottomless pot of his mom’s brew.

  He followed her into a pristine modern kitchen. What he’d seen of the farm surprised him. He’d expected a rundown, dilapidated shack; the modest-sized brick building had a homely feel missing from most houses these days.

  “Want to kick off the discussion, Mom?” He pulled out a wooden chair and sat, his gaze drawn to several bridal magazines scattered on the table. “How about we start with these?”

  He picked up a copy of The Mature Bride and it took every ounce of self-control not to fling it across the room. Though her email had been explicit enough, seeing hard evidence of his mom’s foolhardy decision to traipse up the aisle with a man she hardly knew made his blood boil.

  “Good idea.”

  She set two porcelain cups and a plate of delicious smelling cookies in front of them. “Try one, I made them myself.”

  His mom had lost it. Since when did she bake? Hoping to appease her before he enunciated his misgivings, he took one of the misshapen cookies and bit into, surprised at the melt-in-the-mouth burst of flavor.

  “Good, aren’t they?”

  She laughed at his sheepish grin and bit into one herself. “I’ve learned a few things lately.”

  “I noticed.”

  He wished all her newly acquired skills were as harmless as baking. “You’ve also learned the joys of IT by that illuminating email you sent me.”

  “Clever for an old gal who used to think a mouse was a rodent.”

  His mom making jokes? Another subtle change. She seemed more relaxed than he’d ever seen her, her soft-spoken words peppered with frequent smiles.

  He’d rarely seen her smile growing up, had lived for those infrequent smiles where her eyes would light up like he’d done something she was proud of. He’d tried his damndest for those smiles, had been the best at everything but unfortunately, whatever he’d achieved had been overshadowed by George and the disaster he’d wreaked by walking in the front door most nights.

  It hadn’t been all-out warfare, not at first. As a kid he’d been helpless to do anything other than cringe whenever he heard the BMW pull in the drive, flinch as the door slammed open and George’s rants began.

  His mom could do nothing right. No matter what she wore or how she styled her hair or the effort made to create the perfect dinner table George would find fault and the evening’s entertainment would begin.

  Subtle put-downs at first, sarcastic little jibes designed to hurt and he’d watched, night after night, as the spark in his mom’s eyes died, extinguished by a cold, heartless bastard who got his kicks from belittling others. The spark soon replaced by something else, something he hadn’t recognized at first, something a lot scarier than anything dear old dad dished out.

  The glaze of a downtrodden woman resigned to her fate, an alcohol-induced glaze he knew nothing about until he was older, much older.

  They’d survived and now he’d never seen his mom look so happy. He’d seen her smile more in the last few minutes than in the last few years, and he should be punching the air in victory. Instead, he felt like punching a hole in the wall, hated seeing her about to make a monumental mistake that could set her back.

  “About that email—”

  “Don’t.” The rebuke whipped through the air, laser sharp. “I can tell by the expression on your face you’re none too impressed with my news and before you say anything I want you to know how much Hank means to me.”

  She took a sip of tea and he noticed the slight tremor as she replaced the delicate cup in its saucer. “I love him. He’s made me happier than I’ve ever been.”

  Before he could respond she held up a hand.

  “Let me finish. Your support is important to me and I’d like nothing better than having you by my side when I get married. But if you don’t approve I’d rather you kept it to yourself. I won’t have you jeopardizing my relationship with Hank. Have I made myself clear?”

  He half expected her to waggle her finger under his nose like she used to when chastising him as a youngster. Now he was all grown up, though she’d probably debate it, he had every intention of standing up to her.

  He didn’t respect her any less now than he had back then but in this instance he had the benefit of first-hand experience combined with hindsight. He loved his mom and if he could save her assured heartache, he would. Short-term pain would be better than a lifetime of agony.

  “You’re awfully quiet.” She fiddled with the edge of the damask tablecloth, a sure-fire sign she was nervous. His elegant mother, who had played hostess to some of Beverly Hills biggest charity events over the years, never fiddled. She had an innate grace even when coping in harrowing circumstances. Like copping years of unfair criticism from his dad.

  What if he was wrong? What if she’d truly found happiness with this farmer and he’d come barging in here where he didn’t belong? Damn, he wished he had the investigator’s report, some solid proof her fiancé was up to no good.

  He took hold of her hand, an action he’d treasured as a child. It was one of the few physical displays his father didn’t chastise him for or call him a sissy. What a bastard. Nothing had changed.

  “I’m worried about you. This wedding is happening too fast.”

  “It may appear like I’m rushing into this but it’s what I want.” She patted the back of his hand. “Being with Hank is like finally coming home. He’s a wonderful man and I’m sure you’ll see for yourself when you meet him.”

  For a moment he swore he could see stars in her eyes. Who would’ve thought, his mom head over heels at her age? Which made broaching the delicate subject of finances all the more difficult.

  “Have you discussed the money side of things?”

  She squared her shoulders and withdrew her hand, reacting as expected. He would’ve been defensive if someone came poking their nose in his private affairs.

  “Hank knows I’m well off if that’s what you mean. He knows everything about my past.”

  “But what do you know about his?” He persisted, feeling like a lawyer badgering a witness.

  “Hank has told me all I need to know.”

  She stood and turned her back on him, carrying their empty cups to the sink. “Not that it’s any of your business what we do with our money.”

  Our money.

  She was already thinking joint finances; which could only mean one thing. His mom was so rapt in this Hank character she’d lost all sense of self-preservation and was intending on combining their assets.

  A fair deal for Hank. He scored a wife and around thirty million—taking into account his mom’s inheritance, her investments and the divorce settlement—his mom ended up living on a modest farm in Hicksville.

  “Would you consider a pre-nup?”

  At least he’d had the sense to insist on one when he’d married Annie. Though in the end he’d felt so bad about how he’d treated her he’d happily given her a house, a car and two million dollars when they’d divorced.

  Not that he’d been a bad husband. He hadn’t been around to be a husband at all. They’d had nothing in common, a fact that had enchanted him at the start, opposites attracting and all that bull.

  He’d been honest from the outset about his long hours, his drive to succeed, his lengthy absences. Annie had been agreeable to all of it, particularly as she was desperate to escape Howdale. It had been a win-win situation for them both, until reality set in. The closer she wanted to get, the further he ran.

  He’d never intended on using her but when he sat down and analyzed the situation in the cold, hard light of day post-divorce, he had to admit the ugly truth. That’s exactly what he’d done. He’d liked their differences, he’d loved how his father hated them. Unfortunately, he had a sneaking suspicion his mom was about to make the same mistake without even realizing it.

&n
bsp; “A pre-nup? Have you lost your mind?”

  He’d never seen his mom so angry, hands on hips, shoulders rigid, eyes blazing.

  “It’s no big deal. Most couples have one these days.”

  If his hunch were correct the moment she mentioned the idea of it to Hank, the farmer would leave his mom alone and move onto easier prey.

  “I don’t give a hoot what other couples are doing. I’m doing what I want to do and that’s marrying the best thing that ever happened to me. And if you don’t like it, too bad.”

  Marc heard the slight quiver in her voice and felt like the biggest bastard in the world. His mom didn’t deserve this. She’d been through enough but what was worse? Hurting her now or waiting until Hank did later?

  Before he could reply the back door opened and a tall, distinguished man with a thatch of peppery hair and piercing blue eyes entered. In the second it took Marc to sum up his physical appearance the man made a beeline for his mother while casting a cursory nod in his direction

  “You all right, Liv? I heard you all the way down in the barn.”

  “I’m fine. Just having a discussion with Marc.”

  He watched as his mother turned her cheek to rest it against the man, who could only be her fiancé, as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  In all the years living under his parents’ roof he’d never seen a physical display of affection much less his mom snuggling in the arms of a man and enraptured while doing so.

  “So this is young Marc?”

  Hank dropped a kiss on his mother’s head and stepped toward him, hand outstretched. “Hank Stevens. Pleased to meet you.”

  He wished he could say the same but he’d never been any good at lying.

  “Marc Fairley.”

  He shook hands with his nemesis, surprised by the strength in the older man’s grip. He’d half-expected a weak man who wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. Instead, he felt compelled to look away first by the direct, assessing gaze leveled at him.

  “I take it you’re none too keen on our plans?”

  Another surprise; Hank met him head-on, not skirting the issue in the least.

  “I’m concerned for my mom and the speed at which this has happened.”