Unmanageable Read online

  And maybe one more miracle would find him. Maybe the doctors would be wrong.

  * * *

  —

  That had been a god-awful day. Veronica stood to grab her briefcase from the overhead bin and waited as the train pulled into the station. To make it worse, it had been one of those days when nothing actually went wrong. There was no big thing she could gripe about; it was simply that nothing had gone right.

  She’d made her train this morning, but only by running the last fifty yards in her Manolo’s.

  Her blister hadn’t turned bloody and peaked above her shoe line, but it was still very definitely there. Her to-go cup of coffee hadn’t spilled on her blouse, but it had been lukewarm, the milk tasting slightly of Band-Aids. Her father hadn’t berated her for the slight billing overruns on her biggest case, but he’d given her that look of disappointment—which was definitely not how she wanted him feeling right now. And her train tonight wasn’t hours late, only ten minutes—but that was ten minutes she’d counted on having before Brian arrived with Baxter.

  Ten minutes to fantasize, and to play with the idea of pursuing those fantasies.

  She didn’t have time for a man in her life—but in her bed, that was another matter.

  She glared down at her shoes—and her hidden blister.

  She was in no mood to hurry.

  And certainly in no mood to deal with anything except a hot bath and large glass of wine—unless she gave in and decided to try for a hot bath and a large pillar of man. But that was fantasy. She might be adventurous, but not foolish—and besides, she wasn’t even sure she liked him yet. And no matter how handsome they were, she tried to avoid sleeping with men she didn’t like. She’d have to stick to the wine—and not too much of it. Tomorrow was a workday, even if it was one she’d spend here, in Forbidden Cove. Now, if she could just get home in time to take off these stupid shoes before Brian Walsh arrived.

  * * *

  —

  Brian was not going to carry the blasted dog. He was not. He was not.

  He gave another pull on the leash, careful not to yank.

  Not a movement. Not a sound.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the large dog who lay comfortably on the hard sidewalk.

  Shit.

  His phone buzzed. A text.

  He waited a moment and then pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the time first. Five minutes after ten. Surely she wouldn’t be texting yet. His thumb swiped up.

  Aunt Mols—checking how the day had been, and asking if he’d heard anything, even though she knew he wouldn’t for weeks.

  He let the phone drop into his pocket, glared at the dog. “Are you coming?”

  The dog yawned.

  He should have waited to feed the beast dinner even if it was late. From the moment the dog had finished devouring his food and licking the bowl, he’d had only one thing on his mind. Sleep.

  He had not appreciated being forced from his spot on the couch. Promises of Veronica and home had set the strong tail wagging, but had not prompted movement. Hell, if someone had promised him Veronica, Brian would have been running, his mind filled with those long legs and heels.

  “Walk? Let’s go for a walk” had been enough to get the dog up and out for just long enough to lift a leg. Then he’d sunk down, making it clear that he was done for the day.

  Shit. Shit.

  He glanced at the time again. Seven after.

  Well, there was no choice for it, he could either carry the dog, drag the dog or kick it hard—and of those there was only one actual answer. He walked back and bent over, lifting the large hound. A long tongue came out and licked his cheek. Wonderful.

  He started to stride quickly down the street toward Veronica’s house. He had the feeling she was not a woman to tolerate lateness, although it had been clear that she knew how lazy the beast was. His knee twinged with the first few steps. He powered on. He should have put his brace on, but who knew walking the dog home would turn into a weight-bearing exercise?

  Chapter 2

  Where was Brian? Had he run off with Baxter? That was enough to bring a smile to her tired lips. Who would want the smelly beast? She only had him because nobody else would take the puppy after the death of her brother—well, half brother—six years earlier. Aaron had loved the stupid creature and she’d had no more ability to send him to the shelter than she would have to send a child into care.

  Aaron. She didn’t think of him often these days, but the thought was enough to change the shape of her smile. She didn’t lose it, as she would have a few years ago, but she did grow more thoughtful, feeling bittersweet. She missed him. She missed him so much. She’d spent most of their years together wishing to kill him, but now she missed him. Missed him like a limb.

  She shook her head, trying to shake the thought away.

  Glanced up at the old clock on her mantel; it had belonged to her grandmother, but still worked perfectly, as long as she remembered to wind it. He was late. She shouldn’t have trusted him. No man who looked like that and didn’t have a regular job could possibly be reliable. No wonder he was late.

  It was another reason she shouldn’t try to seduce him—at least, not tonight.

  Her phone rang. She glanced down.

  Mrs. Clouster’s number. Was Brian calling to say he’d be late?

  She answered the phone.

  Mrs. Clouster began to talk. “Hi, Veronica, I just wanted to check in that everything went okay today. My nephew mentioned you hadn’t gotten my message that he’d be coming.”

  “As far as I know, everything’s fine. I’m waiting for him right now.”

  Mrs. Clouster laughed. “I’m sure he’ll be there soon. He may be acting the bum, but he’s reliable.”

  “Maybe he had to carry Baxter.” It really was a possibility.

  “Well, the boy does have muscles, you can say that for him.”

  You certainly could—although it was weird to talk about it with his aunt. “I’m glad he’s there to help you. I know Baxter could be a bit much.”

  “He is stubborn. And yes, I was glad to put Brian to work when he showed up at my door with only a duffel. No slackers in this house. Well, I’m glad that it’s all working out. Call me if there are any problems. I’m off to bed now. It’s already past my bedtime. Bye.”

  And then she was gone. Veronica glanced at her watch. Brian had said Mrs. Clouster went to bed early. Bed. She didn’t need to be thinking about beds. Walking into the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of pinot noir and went to page through the day’s mail, trying to distract herself from thinking about strong thighs pressed against her own, of hard fingers running down her back, of white teeth pulling at…

  God, what was she thinking?

  Mail. She would look at the mail. There wasn’t as much as there would be in two or three months when the holidays approached, but there were still a couple catalogs, a credit card offer, two charitable solicitations and…Her eyes paused on the heavy cream envelope. A solicitation for a money management luncheon? Something that promised her a meal at a wonderful restaurant in return for an hour of her time?

  She turned it over.

  Swallowed.

  Her father’s address. She might never have lived with him, but she certainly knew exactly what 18 Dune Ridge Road was. Reaching across the counter, she grabbed a knife and slit the envelope, pulling the thick card out.

  It was too early for an invitation to his Winter Soiree—not that he’d ever invited her to it. Did he really send out invitations like this? She wouldn’t have been surprised if he sent mail by private couriers. His second wife was all about show.

  No, that was cattier than it needed to be. Still…

  Her eyes fell on the card and she froze.

  Charlotte was getting married.

  Charlotte was gett
ing married to Greg Longhorn.

  Her half sister was marrying her one-time boyfriend.

  In less than two months.

  Fuck.

  A large, large swallow of wine.

  And nobody had said anything to her.

  Another large swallow.

  Was Charlotte pregnant?

  Another fuck.

  Had she looked heavier? Looked nauseous? Looked pale? Glowing?

  She’d seen Charlotte today in the office and she’d not said a word—not that that was unusual.

  But neither had their father.

  Why had nobody said anything to her?

  Was pregnancy a real possibility?

  Why else would they be getting married so quickly?

  Hell, she could understand why Greg hadn’t said anything, but Charlotte? If nothing else, she’d have thought that her little sister would want to rub her face in it.

  She poured more wine and, still holding the invitation, walked down the hall and out the front door, stopping to sink down on the steps. She needed Baxter. He might be a smelly, lazy beast, but she had to admit that at this moment he’d be perfect.

  She glanced again at the invite. The wedding was at the country club, not some cathedral. If she’d had to guess, she would have been sure Charlotte would choose the most exclusive location possible, not someplace that she went twice a week in the summer to play tennis.

  And why weren’t they getting married in the city? Greg had lived there the last ten years, and while Charlotte might technically still live in Forbidden Cove, with their father, Veronica knew that she mostly lived in a condo in the city, blocks from their father’s firm, the place where all three of them worked.

  She let the invitation fall to the step beside her, took a gulp of the pinot.

  Closed her eyes, let her head fall back.

  Was she so self-centered that it felt like Charlotte was doing this to spite her? Yes, she was, but sometimes you couldn’t help a feeling. From the time Charlotte had been five years old there’d been nothing but competition between them. It had never been that way with Aaron, but whatever Veronica did, Charlotte had needed to do better. She knew that in some way it was all about earning their father’s love and respect, but still it had never quite made sense. Charlotte lived with him. He was currently married to Charlotte’s mother. He gave Charlotte whatever she wanted. He’d never done that with Veronica.

  He’d paid for her education, but that had been it beyond the bare minimum of child support. Even when her mother died while she was in college, he’d done little but offer his condolences. She’d fought to work at his firm, fought to move up, fought for every little thing that Charlotte had been given so easily.

  And yet it was Charlotte who was in constant competition with her.

  Yes, Veronica wanted their father’s approval, but she’d always known that Charlotte came first, that…

  She opened her eyes and stared at the wine. God, the way she was letting her thoughts ramble, she felt like she’d had a bottle not barely over a glass, although it was on an empty stomach.

  She should get herself something to eat.

  Instead she closed her eyes again, breathing in the summer air.

  A warm nose poked at her knee.

  Without opening her eyes, she reached down and scratched the drooping ears. “Who’s a good boy?”

  Baxter made no sound, but she knew when his thick body came to lie on the step beside her.

  She opened one eye and stared up at the man standing above her. “Do you want to go to a wedding?”

  What? He’d been ready for her to scold him for being late. Hell, he might even have been looking forward to it. There was something about the thought of her in that tight black skirt and those heels…Although when his gaze dropped to her feet, the heels were missing—damn, red toenails, trying to take him down a peg. It had him…“A wedding?” He resisted the urge to stare at her delectable toes.

  “My sister’s getting married. Do you want to go? I promise you the food will be decent and the bar extensive.”

  “You’re asking me to your sister’s wedding?”

  “Yes, I’m not quite sure why that’s so hard to understand.” She squinted up at him.

  His gaze fell to the glass in her hand. “Are you drunk?”

  She sat up straighter, her gaze leaving him to settle on the half-full glass. “No, but I’d like to be. Can I pour you one? Or I have some beer. It’s probably light, but if that doesn’t offend your masculinity, it’s cold.”

  That did make him smile. “I think my masculinity is safe. I’ve never found it to be bothered by the type of beer I drink—or when I drink wine. I can even handle a cosmo, a lemon drop, or one of those things with foam and an umbrella.”

  “I only have beer and wine. There might be some whiskey over the fridge and maybe an ancient bottle of Baileys, but that is probably older than I’d want to think about.”

  “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

  “Not even slightly sloshed.” She pushed herself to her feet. Without the heels, even standing on the steps, she was only roughly his height. His gaze slipped back to her feet. He’d liked the shoes, but there was something about bare toes and red nails that…“I’m just a little in shock. I hadn’t known my sister was engaged until I got the invite.”

  He let his eyes slowly run up her body. What was it about a tight skirt? And she’d undone a couple of buttons on her blouse since this morning, the creamy skin of her chest peeking out from the blush silk. The upper swells of her breasts invited him, and he had to hold back the urge to reach out a finger and…

  Baxter grunted, drawing his eyes back down. The dog glared up at him, as if knowing exactly what he’d been thinking and finding his thoughts unacceptable.

  “He is such an attention hound—pun intended. He always wants to be at the center of what’s going on,” Veronica said, leaning down to give those long ears another scratch.

  And showing him the peach silk of her bra. Hell. He was old enough to understand that no invitation was intended, but…Hell. Why did women have to be so complicated? And so…tempting. Back in his playing days, when a woman bent to show him her bra, he’d known that more was on offer—although he never failed to double-check. A man couldn’t be too careful.

  But with Veronica, he knew damn well it was a mistake and one she was completely unaware of.

  He shifted, glad his shorts were loose. The show might not be deliberate, but it was mighty pleasant. He knew exactly where his thoughts would be centered when he lay in bed tonight.

  “Come on, boy, let’s go get you what you want,” she said, turning to the house.

  She was talking to the dog. He knew she was talking to the dog. It was only the talk of weddings that had him thinking otherwise. Not weddings themselves, but invitations to weddings. He didn’t think he’d been invited to a wedding that hadn’t ended in a night of great sex. Well, at least not since he’d been sixteen.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  Now, that was addressed to him. He looked up, puzzled. God, she had great lips, shiny and lush. “Me?”

  “If you’re going to be filling in for Mrs. Clouster, then we need to talk about scheduling.” A smile stretched across those lips. “And you can gently refuse my wedding invite. I know it’s a crazy idea; I just hate that Charlotte gave me a plus one when she knows I’m not seeing anyone. It feels like this whole thing is a dig at me, which I know is ridiculous. And it makes me sound whiny—which I’m not. I have a great life and I appreciate it. It just all caught me by surprise, knocked the sense out of me.”

  It must have. This morning she’d been so in control and tonight he was wondering how much wine she’d had. “Is that beer still on offer? Or a glass of the wine? I’m not picky; I’m happy with anything.”

  She
turned, her eyes meeting his, then dropping to his lips before rising again. “Are you, now? That’s good to know.” She turned back, her hips swaying as she led him down the hall into a decent kitchen, a kitchen that looked like it was actually used. She peered back over her shoulder and her smile grew wide. “Of course. I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on.”

  And there went his mind into the gutter again. He shifted his weight. “And does that go for the wedding as well?”

  She paused, the refrigerator door open. “I suppose it does. I know it’s crazy, but I really don’t want to go alone.”

  “You’d rather go with a complete stranger? Surely you must have a friend you could take, a good buddy.”

  “Well, you’re not a complete stranger.” She looked down at her dog. “Baxter likes you—although I have to admit he doesn’t seem to be that picky, unless you smell of coconuts. He has something against suntan lotion. But I digress—you are Mrs. Clouster’s nephew. She wouldn’t send you if you weren’t somewhat trustworthy.”

  “I think you might be stretching it a bit.”

  She pulled a beer from the fridge, twisted the top off and held it out. “I know. But I can’t avoid going to the wedding and I’d rather not go alone. I’m being honest about that. Yes, I probably could ask somebody else, but they’d know my sister and it would be complicated.” She pulled the beer back slightly. “You don’t know Charlotte, do you?”

  He reached out and took the beer, taking a long pull before saying, “I don’t think so. I don’t know very many people here yet—unless she’s a runner. I have talked to a few women on the beach. Can’t think of any Charlottes though. Does she ever go by Charlie?”

  “No.”

  And wasn’t that emphatic. “Well, if she’s that opposed to being called Charlie, I’m pretty sure I don’t.” He tended to avoid anyone who couldn’t hang back and relax. Working hard was important—very, very important—but part of that was knowing how to release it all sometimes. “Do you ever let people call you Ronnie?”