“My father’s in jail. Life in prison. Drug dealing, once killed a guy during a deal.” He laughed, a grating, ironic chuckle. Fiona’s hand brushed over his chest to rest across it and onto his shoulder, half-hugging him. “He was a musician. Music was his life. He lived it, breathed for it, was addicted to it—to the detriment of everything else in his life.
“He attracted women as most musicians do, and my mother was no exception. She loved him, but eventually couldn’t handle the gigs, the drugs, the focus on only living for the moment…which was all he ever did. She took a bottle of pills along with an alcohol cocktail when I was sixteen. They couldn’t save her.”
Fiona didn’t speak. Her breathing had increased, but its waves still moved, soft and smooth, next to him. He was aware of the length of her body lined up along his, her breasts pressing into the side of his ribs, her arm a vee over his chest.
“My grandfather—my father’s father, of course—took me in, thank God. I wouldn’t admit it at first, but it was the best thing for me, to have a solid, stable home. He made sure I had the best education, and even though he wasn’t around much—and when he was, he was always focused on work—I felt like I had a place. I was so grateful to him for taking me in that I was determined to be a better son than his own son had been. Make him proud of me.”
“You’ve obviously succeeded.” He felt her lips move against his shoulder when she spoke and a bit of husk tinged her words.
“I’m not so sure about that. He came rushing home from his vacation the minute he found out about Valente’s death, as if I couldn’t handle a simple probate.”
“Gideon, your grandfather is very proud of you. I can see it in his eyes, and the way he acts around you. There’s no doubt about that. He adores you. What does he think about your art? Your drawings?”
He had to resist to keep from pulling away, but he knew she felt him tense because her face snapped up to look at him. “He doesn’t know about them. He…he believes art is a waste of time, and in truth, so do I. It’s a silly hobby left over from high school.”
Gideon felt her draw her breath to speak, so he headed her off. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Fiona. Tell me what it was like growing up in a commune.”
* * *
You are a fool, man.
Gideon frowned at himself in the rearview mirror as he pulled into the parking structure of Rachel Backley’s building. What ever had possessed him to make good on his promise to escort Rachel to her company’s big award-ceremony shindig?
He wouldn’t worry about it so much except that he was wasting an evening he could be spending with Fiona…lovely, fiery, the-only-woman-for-him-Fiona…to play trophy-man at an event he had no interest in whatsoever.
At least Fiona had been understanding…and she really had been. Although there had been just the slightest flare of irritation in her cinnamon eyes, it had disappeared with his earnest explanation—stolen from Rachel’s own imploring speech not to leave her high and dry on such an important night—and she sent him off with kisses, and promises of her own.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he’d vowed, kissing her at the door of his condo, where he’d suggested she spend the evening.
“I won’t wait up if it’s too late,” she teased, her cinnamon eyes hot and inviting.
Damn.He should have blown off Rachel and stayed home. But at least he knew Fiona would be waiting for him, warm and soft and curvy and sweet-smelling in his bed.
Straightening the bow tie of his tux, he took a quick, last glance in the rearview mirror before leaving the car to rush up and collect Rachel. She would be ready, and pacing her condo’s living room, as always.
A flash of familiarity washed over him as he rode up in the elevator. This would be the last time he would do so, he mused, unless, somehow, he and Rachel maintained their friendship. Which…he didn’t really see happening.
Rachel was, as expected, waiting for him. She was fairly pacing, like a caged tiger. Although she was put together perfectly as usual, he noticed tightness and stress in her face, and unusual weariness around her eyes. Her sleek hair was pulled back into a simple black velvet bow studded with sequins that matched the sparkles on her floor-length gown.
“You look stressed, Rache,” he commented as they rode down in the elevator.
She jerked and looked at him, as if pulled from some deep thoughts. “I am. But soon this night will be over.” Then she busied herself by digging through her impossibly tiny handbag—tiny, as compared to Fiona’s monstrosity.
“I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through.”
She shook her head as the elevator doors opened. “No, you can’t,” she murmured enigmatically.
The Amway Grand was the locale for The Marage Group’s huge celebration. Gideon pulled smoothly into the valet parking lane and escorted Rachel into the crisply elegant hotel, already counting the minutes until he could leave.
Once inside, he made a trip to the bar for a Scotch, and wine for Rachel, and then remained at her side as she turned on her corporate persona and schmoozed her way through the cluster of people—clients, potential clients, press, and representatives fromFortune.
She worked the crowd, and Gideon watched her, realizing suddenly that this was a lot more boring without Fiona at his side. He used to enjoy these types of functions—still did, sometimes…but he had been spoiled by a fiery, funny, feckless redhead who always made him laugh.
Even when he was trying to be proper.
Especiallywhen he was trying to be proper.
Rachel approached to guide him to the head table, where they’d sit during dinner. After the meal, she and her partner would do their overview of the company’s milestones and successes over the last year, and accept the award. Looking covertly at his watch, Gideon guessed that he could perhaps make it home by midnight, crawl into his warm bed, and gather that soft, supple body into his arms.
