Dair’s bark of laughter this time had zero amusement.
“Really?” he sneered. “You using our school holidays to have a fuckfest like the total twat and common tart you two arseholes are, doing this every year since we were wee isn’t my business?”
Mum wasn’t preening anymore.
It was the “common tart” comment, I knew. She’d hate that, and she did.
“Blake Charlotte, remove Wallace and yourself this instant,” Mum demanded.
I didn’t know what came over me.
Oh wait.
I did.
Years of her being a total and complete bitch.
But this…
This took the damned cake.
I broke from Dair’s hold, strode forward, and slapped her across the face with everything I had.
It was so violent, she cried out, flew to the side and bent double, her hand going to her cheek.
I wouldn’t have done it again, and not only because it made my hand sting hella bad, but it was still good Dair caught my wrist from behind, curled my arm around my belly, yanked me against his body and pulled me back several steps.
I might not have been about to strike twice physically, but he didn’t contain my mouth.
“I know this will mean nothing,” I ground out between my teeth. “I know nothing penetrates your utter and complete selfishness. But an assignation with your married lover at your daughter’s wedding? What is the matter with you?”
“What’s going on?”
Fabulous.
Dad was here.
He came up to Dair and my sides and recoiled at the tableau in front of him, his reaction stating plainly he’d translated it without a word of explanation.
In that split instant, several things occurred to me.
One, Dad had it going on. He was older, but he was exceptionally good-looking. He had that Pierce Brosnan thing happening. He’d be hot when he was eighty.
Two, Kenna gave Dair (and Davina) all their good looks.
It wasn’t that Bally was a ginger. I’d seen a lot of redheaded men who were gorgeous.
It was that he had a weak chin (and Kenna did not, Dair definitely didn’t). She was as tall as her husband (and he was six foot, but Dair was taller, so he got that from his mum too). And Dair and Davina both inherited the olive undertone of their skin from her. It was the kind of skin that took to the sun and just got prettier and prettier the more it soaked it up. Bally, on the other hand, was pale, freckled and ruddy.
Oh, and Bally was totally loaded, but Dad was like, way richer.
Since I was being petty, I might as well pull out all the stops, so I’d add that Dad also had a pedigree.
Mum had totally traded down.
“Christ, Helena,” Dad bit out. “Here? Now?”
“Your daughter struck me,” Mum bleated, hand still cradling her cheek.
