A Taste Of Paradise: Addicted to You. Leslie Kelly
Besides, he wasn’t sure he could explain it without sounding like an asshole who feared he could never trust another woman. He wasn’t a misogynist. He still liked and respected women. But the trust thing was going to be hard to get over.
So all he said was, “I stayed out of touch because my life’s been pretty screwed up ever since.”
She downed her drink. “Join the club.”
Hearing the pain in her voice, he asked, “They didn’t—I mean, nobody from the tabloids ever came after you, did they?”
“No. I escaped their radar.” She fished an olive out of her drink with her long, slim fingers and popped it into her mouth, the movement as graceful as it was sexy.
Damn, he was still so affected by this woman. He had to drag his eyes away from those lips as he asked, “Then what do you mean? What happened? Was it something about the emergency you mentioned in your note that day?”
“Indirectly, I guess.” She nodded toward the happy couple, who were dancing to a big band number on the otherwise empty dance floor. “Essentially, that’s what happened.”
“So you’re not happy about this, either?”
She shook her head, and a rush of relief flooded him. He had been worried Heather would support the romantic lunacy when, in fact, she might actually be an ally.
“Thank God,” he said, lifting his own drink and tossing back a mouthful. “I thought I was gonna have to break up this wedding all by myself.”
Shock widened her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I flew here today to convince my father how crazy this whole thing is. We’ve been fighting about it all day.”
“Fighting...”
“He’s such a romantic. A sucker for a pretty face. Two out of three of his former wives have swindled him out of fortunes. My dad can’t see clearly when it comes to women.”
“Swindled?”
“What’s that old saying? Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Believe me, his accountant always repents,” he said, thinking how lucky he had been that his own romantic misadventure hadn’t actually led down any aisles other than in a courtroom. “Desperate, middle-aged women see the name and the dollar signs and can’t resist trying for the brass ring. He falls for it every damn time.”
Heather stared at him for a long moment, her eyes flashing. Her whole body had grown rigid, and her mouth opened and then snapped closed, as if she were trying to control herself.
Which was when Nate remembered exactly who he’d been referencing as a desperate, middle-aged woman.
“Oh, crap, Heather.”
“My mother is no swindler.” She launched from her chair.
He rose, too. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
“Yes, you did mean. You think my mother’s marrying your father for his money?”
No backing off that now, and no way to say it nicely. “She wouldn’t be the first bored divorcée to want what a rich man can give her.”
Heather gasped, drawing a hand to her chest. Her fingers pressed so hard they left red marks on the pale, creamy swell of her cleavage. It was as if she were trying to hold her heart in place, as if he’d wounded her.
He was so out of practice talking to women. He’d lost his charm, and tonight, it seemed, even his tact. Maybe it was her nearness that had loosened his tongue, and his own recent history that had made his words so bitter. Maybe the martini he’d just consumed—and the two he’d had earlier—had contributed, too. In any case, Heather appeared as furious as a tornado.
Without another word, she swooped her nearly empty glass off the table. To his shock, she tossed the contents—liquor, melting ice, one olive—right into his face.
“Stay away from me, Nate Watson,” she said, her whole body shaking. “Or I swear to God, I will pitch you off that boat right in the middle of the Caribbean and laugh while you drown.”
DURING THE FLIGHT to Florida two days later, Heather was fortunate enough to be seated far away from Nate. That wasn’t too difficult, since there were about twenty other people in their group. Jerry had invited a few of his employees, and her mother had asked a bunch of her friends to come, plus Heather’s two cousins and their wives. Other than a brunch yesterday, she hadn’t had to see Nate, and she’d managed to avoid saying much to him there.
When they arrived in Miami, stretch limousines waited to take them to a beachfront hotel where they would spend the night before the cruise got underway the next morning. Heather was supposed to ride in a limo with the bride, groom and best man. Like that was gonna happen.
Intentionally dawdling in the terminal, she missed her car and got into the last limo. In it were six of Jerry’s friends she didn’t know, including two guys with beer bottles in hand.
“Hey, Red! You’re slumming back here with us today, huh?”
“Ha-ha,” she said, wishing she’d been faster so she could have hopped in with her mom’s friends or her cousins.
“So what did Mr. Quarterback do to deserve a drink in the face the other night?” asked a blond man wearing a Hawaiian shirt. “Don’t tell me—you lost a bundle on his last game, too?”
“Not a football fan,” she said, tucking herself closer to the side of the car. He didn’t get the hint, edging closer.
“I don’t blame you after last season. Talk about suckage.”
“I bet lack of suckage was the problem,” said the other one with a suggestive eyebrow wag. He was dark haired and attractive—and he knew it. “He was missing Felicity’s mouth.”
Now she really wished she hadn’t played these car games. Not just because the guys were drunk and obnoxious, but because she didn’t want to hear about Nate or his pop-star ex.
“I’d be happy to be on the receiving end of her suckage!”
“And I’d be happy to be accused of being her baby-daddy.”
“Excuse me,” Heather said, elbowing the blond. “This car is huge. Do you have to sit on top of me?”
He grinned and blew out a breath fragrant with onion rings and beer. Ugh. “You can sit on top of me, if you want.”
“Go away, or you’ll get worse than a drink in your face.”
“Touchy, touchy,” he said, hands up, palms out, playing the role of injured party. Typical man.
Fortunately, another occupant, a middle-aged woman, saw what was happening and shoved her way down the long seat to squeeze in between Heather and the guy. “Sorry, honey. Can’t take the bears out of the cage.”
“Or the dogs out of the pen,” she muttered.
She tried to ignore them as the men continued to rag on Nate’s season. She wanted to tell them to shut up, not liking to hear anybody ripped apart. But a tiny part of her kept hearing the words “swindler” and “middle-aged divorcée” echoing in her head, and she decided Nate could fight his own battles.
The fact that he didn’t realize her mom had recently lost her husband of thirty years made no difference. Because he hadn’t bothered to find out before shooting off his mouth. His words had stabbed her right in the heart. She’d give anything for her mom to be merely a happy divorcée if it meant her father was still alive somewhere in this world. So, no, she was nowhere near ready to forgive him.
She was, however, able to spare a moment to wonder what