Bittersweet Love. Rochelle Alers
keep your bedrooms and bathroom clean. I don’t want to find dirty clothes on the floor or under the beds. The first time I find food or drink upstairs there will be consequences.”
Layla shot her a questioning glance. “What kind of consequences?”
“There will be no television or Internet for a week. The only exception is to do homework. You’ll also have to give up your iPods and relinquish your cell phones—”
“But we don’t have cell phones,” Sabrina interrupted, sharing a look with her sister.
A mysterious smile tipped the corners of Belinda’s mouth. “If you look in the drawer of your bedside tables you’ll find a cell phone. The phones are a gift from your uncle Griffin. He’s programmed the numbers where you can reach him or me in an emergency. You’ll share a thousand minutes each month, plus unlimited texting. You…”
Her words trailed off when the girls raced out of the room, leaving her staring at the spots where they’d been.
She’d turned the master bedroom into a sanctuary for her nieces, decorated Sabrina’s room with a queen-size, off-white sleigh bed, with matching dresser, nightstands and lingerie chest. Waning daylight filtered through sheer curtains casting shadows on the white comforter dotted with embroidered yellow-and-green butterflies. Layla’s room reflected her offbeat style and personality with orange-red furniture and earth-toned accessories.
Belinda had moved her own bedroom to the first floor in what had been the enclosed back porch. It faced southeast, which meant the rising sun rather than an alarm clock woke her each morning. Layla and Sabrina returned, clutching Sidekick cell phones while doing the “happy dance.”
“Girls, I want you in bed by nine.”
“Yes, Aunt Lindy,” they said in unison.
She walked out of the study and made her way down the carpeted hallway to the staircase. Giving her nieces the run of the second floor would serve two purposes: it would give them a measure of independence and make them responsible for keeping their living space clean.
Griffin couldn’t remember the last time a woman had bored him to the point of walking out on a date. However, he’d promised Renata Crosby that he would have dinner with her the next time she came to Philadelphia on business. The screenwriter was pretty, but that’s where her appeal started and ended. From the time she sat down at the table in one of his favorite restaurants, Renata had talked nonstop about how much money she’d lost because of the writer’s strike in Hollywood. He wanted to tell her that everyone affected by the strike lost money.
“Griffin, darling, you haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying,” Renata admonished softly.
Griffin forced his attention back to the woman with eyes the color of lapis lazuli. Their deep blue color was the perfect foil for her olive complexion and straight raven-black, chin-length hair.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically, “but my mind is elsewhere.”
Renata blinked, a fringe of lashes touching the ridge of high cheekbones. She’d spent the better part of an hour trying to seduce Griffin Rice, but it was apparent her scheme to get him to sleep with her wasn’t working. She’d met the highly successful and charismatic sports attorney at an L.A. hot spot, and knew within seconds that she had to have a piece of him.
At the time, he was scheduled to fly out of LAX for the East Coast. So she had followed him to the parking lot where a driver waited for him and got him to exchange business cards with her. She and Griffin had played phone tag for more than a month until one day he answered his phone. She told him that she was meeting a client in Philadelphia, and wanted to have dinner with him before flying back to California. Of course, there was no client and it appeared as if she’d flown three thousand miles for nothing.
“You do seem rather distracted,” she crooned, deliberately lowering her voice.
Griffin stared at his fingers splayed over the pristine, white tablecloth. “That’s because it isn’t every day that a man becomes the father of twin girls.”
An audible gasp escaped Renata. “You’re a father?”
Griffin angled his head and smiled. “Awesome, isn’t it?”
Pressing her lips together, Renata swallowed hard. When she’d inquired about Griffin Rice’s marital status she was told that he wasn’t married. Had her source lied, or had Griffin perfected the art of keeping his private life very private?
“I’d say it’s downright shocking. You didn’t know your wife was having twins?”
“I’m not married.”
“If you’re not married, then you’re a baby daddy. Or should I say a babies’ daddy.”
Griffin registered the contempt in Renata’s voice. Although he wasn’t remotely interested in her, he was still perturbed by her reaction. After all, he’d only agreed to have dinner with her to be polite. Raising his hand, he signaled for the check.
“I’m going to forget you said that.”
Renata concealed her embarrassment behind a too-bright smile. “I’m sorry it came out that way. Please, let me make it up to you by sending you something for your girls,” she said in an attempt to salvage what was left of her pride.
“Apology accepted, but no, thank you.” He signed the check, pushed back his chair to come around the table and help Renata. When she came to her feet, he offered, “Can I drop you anywhere?”
Renata was nearly eye to eye with Griffin in her heels. She knew they would’ve made a striking couple if some other woman hadn’t gotten her hooks into him. She’d met more Griffin Rices than she could count on both hands. Most were good-looking, high-profile men who were willing to be seen with women like her, but when all was said and done they married women who wouldn’t cheat on them, or whom other men wouldn’t give a second glance. As soon as she returned to her hotel room she planned to call an entertainment reporter and give him the lowdown about Griffin Rice having fathered twins.
“No, thanks. I have a rental outside.”
He took her arm. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Griffin gave Renata the obligatory kiss on the cheek, waited until she maneuvered out of the restaurant’s parking lot and then made his way to where he’d parked his car. He wasn’t as annoyed with Renata’s inane conversation as he was with himself for wasting three precious hours he could’ve spent with his nieces. Glancing at the watch strapped to his wrist, he noted the time. It was eight thirty-five, and he wanted to talk to Sabrina and Layla before they went to bed for the night.
He exceeded the speed limit to make it to Belinda’s house in record time. She’d bought a house a mile from where Grant and Donna had lived, the perfect neighborhood for upwardly mobile young couples with children. Grant had tried to convince him to purchase one of the newer homes of the McMansion variety, but Griffin preferred the charm of the nineteenth-century homes along the Main Line. Though less exclusive than it once was, the suburb west of the city was still identified with the crème de la crème of Philadelphia society.
Whenever he closed the door to his three-story colonial on a half-acre lot along the tree-lined street in Paoli, he was no longer the hard-nosed negotiator trying to make the best deal for his client. Sitting on his patio overlooking a picturesque landscape of massive century-old trees and a carpet of wildflowers had become his ultimate pleasure. He opened his home on average about three times a year to entertain family, friends and clients. Living in Paoli suited his temperament. After growing up in a crowded, bustling Philadelphia neighborhood he’d come to appreciate the quietness of the suburb of fifty-four hundred residents.
Griffin maneuvered into Belinda’s wide driveway and shut off the engine. His dark mood lifted when he saw soft light coming through the first-floor windows. It was apparent Belinda hadn’t gone to bed. He rang the bell, waited and raised his hand to ring it again when the door opened and he came face-to-face