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She nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have been here when he told you. I…he arrived half an hour ago. After I spoke with him, I went to call Lucas. He’s on his way back from the city and would have been here soon anyway, but I…I just wanted to talk to him. I should have been here,” she repeated. “I’m sorry.”
“Never mind that.” Jillian hurried to her mother’s side. “Are you all right?”
Caroline smiled. “Of course.”
“I wasn’t going to tell them until you returned,” Grant said. “But your daughter found me waiting for you in the lanai and insisted I join the family in here. She was trying to be hospitable to a guest, I suppose,” he said wryly. “Then your son asked my name. I wasn’t going to make one up.”
“No, of course not. And once you told them you were an Ashton, you had to tell them the rest.”
“What’s the rest?” Cole demanded.
Grant met his eyes levelly. “My parents married young—a shotgun wedding, you might say. People still do that where I come from, or did, back when my mother found out she was pregnant. Until a couple weeks ago, I thought my father died when I was a year old. Turns out he just took off, leaving my mother to raise me and my sister.” He paused. “My father’s name is Spencer Ashton.”
No one moved. No one spoke. Then Cole’s sharp bark of laughter broke the silence. “The bastard started young, didn’t he?”
Caroline insisted that Grant join them for dinner. It was an awkward meal.
Merry was withdrawn, mostly silent. Jillian was tense. Dixie had noticed that she was sensitive to others’ moods, and the overall mood at the table that night was not jolly. Eli barely spoke—and Cole spoke too much, considering that he substituted grilling their guest for polite conversation.
They learned that Grant was from Crawley, Nebraska; that he had a farm there, which his nephew was running while he was gone; that he’d never married, but had raised his niece and nephew; and that he’d tried repeatedly to speak to Spencer, but the man brushed him off.
“I saw you at Charley’s,” Cole said. “You were trying to talk to him then?”
Grant nodded and buttered a roll.
“I can see why you’d think he owes you something, and he has plenty of money. Are you hoping to—”
“Cole!” Caroline said sharply. “That is quite enough.”
“For the record,” Grant said levelly, “I do fine, financially. I don’t want anything from him. Or you.”
Dixie gave him an approving smile. “For the record, Cole isn’t always such an ass. It sneaks up on him occasionally.”
Mercedes stifled a giggle. Cole turned to Dixie. “Thank you,” he said, dry enough to suck the juice from a mummy, “for your unquestioning support.”
“Friends don’t let friends talk junk. Especially at their mother’s table. Why don’t we discuss something innocuous for a while, like religion or politics?”
Surprisingly, it was Craig who came to her rescue. “How about sports? I missed the game last Monday and have been hearing about the Patriots’ fumble all week.”
Lucas picked up that ball and ran with it, and they managed to stagger on through dessert. Dixie saw that Craig had at least one undeniable virtue—he was socially adroit. He helped her keep the conversation going more than once during the interminable meal. So that was why Merry kept him around—he made the perfect fashion accessory. Pretty to look at, great at small talk, no obvious vices.
Dixie promised herself to find time soon to have a little talk with Merry. But not tonight. They still had to navigate the postdinner shoals.
She was worried about Cole. He’d made an effort to be civil for the rest of the meal, but the anger simmering in him demanded some kind of outlet. There wasn’t much she could do about it right now, though.
When they adjourned to the living room, the atmosphere wasn’t as tense as it had been immediately following the big revelation. Caroline and Lucas had cornered Cole and were forcing him to discuss some business involving the new chardonnay. Eli was talking to Grant about farming with Mercedes listening in, and Jillian had stepped out of the room for the moment.
That left Dixie with Craig. Unfortunately, he chose that time to demonstrate why he was Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right.
They chatted lightly for a few minutes about generalities. Feeling the need to give credit where credit was due, she thanked him for helping out during dinner.
“Glad I could do it.” He moved closer and spoke low, as if confiding in her. “Mercedes has some issues about her father. I admired the way you smoothed things over.”
“Mmm.” The jerk was trying to look down her dress. She frowned and shifted away slightly. “All of them have issues about Spencer, and with reason.”
He nodded solemnly. “Learning that he had yet another family that he abandoned was bound to upset them.”
“It wasn’t Grant’s fault, of course, but it’s hard not to associate the messenger with the message.”
“I’m fortunate,” he said. “My father and I get along great. Are you planning to stay in California, Dixie? I hope so.”
Uh-oh. “Probably. Is your family from around here?”
“They’re in Frisco. But enough about families. I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I like your work.” His voice turned caressing. “Being an unimaginative business grunt, I admire artists. They’re so…unconventional. I’d like to get to know you better.”
Hints weren’t going to work. “Don’t you think it’s tacky to come on to me with Mercedes in the room?”
He just smiled and reached up to toy with her hair. “Mercedes and I have an understanding. She likes you. I like you. Where’s the harm?”
Dixie sighed. “Coming at you from three o’-clock.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
Cole plucked Craig’s wineglass from his hand. “Sorry you have to leave so early, Bradford.” The glitter in his eyes did not resemble regret.
“I don’t have to—”
“Yes, you do.” Cole gripped Craig’s elbow with one hand and passed the glass to Dixie. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
March him to the door was more like it. Craig might not have been the brightest bulb on the tree, but he wasn’t stupid enough to protest or try to shrug off the hand propelling him to the front door.
Dixie caught Mercedes’ eye across the room. Merry shrugged apologetically, which annoyed Dixie no end. Her friend shouldn’t be apologizing for the jerk. She should be dumping him.
Definitely they needed to talk.
Cole came back alone. He didn’t look satisfied—more like a volcano ready to erupt. His eyes were hot when he snapped at her, “You ought to know better than to flirt with that idiot.”
“Hold on,” Eli said. “Dixie didn’t do anything.”
Cole swung around. “You stay out of this.”
“Okay,” Dixie said, taking Cole’s arm. “That’s enough. You tried. You made a valiant effort, but it isn’t working.” She sent a smile around the room. “Sorry to eat and run, but Cole and I need to go jog or chop wood or something.”
“It’s pouring down rain!” Lucas protested.
“So we’ll swim laps. Come on,” she said, pulling on Cole’s arm. “Your mother does not want you punching your brother in her living room. Either of your brothers. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Cole stared at her a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he nodded curtly, shook off her hand and headed for the door.
He opened it and looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”
“Coats,” she said, delving into the closet. She didn’t have one with her, so she borrowed a raincoat of Merry’s. She tossed Cole his windbreaker.
He shrugged into it impatiently. Then they stepped out into the rain.
Chapter Eight
Somewhere to the west, unseen in the murk, the sun was setting. There was no wind; the rain fell straight and cold. Dixie buttoned her borrowed raincoat and resigned herself to wet hair and ruined shoes. Cole was headed for the vineyards.
They tramped along the strip of barley planted between the vines, not touching. Halfway to the grove of olive trees he spoke abruptly. “I’m sorry. You weren’t flirting.”
“No, I wasn’t. It isn’t me you’re mad at.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He stopped, jammed his hands in his pockets and tilted his face up, letting the rain wash it. Then he shook his head like a dog, scattering more drops, and started walking again. “I’ve been flying off the handle all day, and for no good reason.”
“You hate your father, and his existence has been shoved in your face today.”
“He’s old news.”
“He abandoned you.”
“I put all that out of my mind years ago. Lucas has been a father to me, and a good one.”
“The problem with stuffing everything into a compartment labeled ‘the past’ is that the lid can get jarred off.”
He gave a single harsh bark of a laugh. “True. Then the ugly spills out. And there’s a lot of ugly.”
“Whose ugliness are you talking about? Yours? Or your father’s?”
“There’s plenty to go around, but we’ll stick with his for now.” The rain had sleeked all the curl from Cole’s hair, laying it flat against his skull. He tilted his face up slightly and let the rain wash over it. “He stole my mother’s birthright.”
A theft that had made Spencer a rich man. Caroline’s father had been of the old school, unable to believe that a woman could run a major business. He’d left his shares of the Lattimer Corporation to his son-in-law, not his daughter. Less than a year later, Spencer had left Caroline. “I didn’t think you wanted any part of Lattimer Corporation.”
“Not now. Not when it’s been his so long. I don’t want a damned thing that’s his.”
Yet hate was just a deep, hard form of wanting. Cole wanted fiercely for his father to have been a different sort of person, or at least for Spencer to suffer as he’d caused others to suffer.
“It was during the divorce that he really put the screws to her,” Cole went on bitterly.
“What happened then?”
“He grabbed what was left. Money, properties—everything except The Vines.”
“But how? What judge would let him do that?”
“How else? Lies, threats and trickery. He told Mom he’d take us away from her if she fought him. He had people ready to testify that she used drugs.”
“God,” she murmured, rubbing her middle. “He does turn the stomach, doesn’t he?”
He didn’t say anything for several minutes, then burst out, “How does he do it? Are people like clothes to him? If you get tired of a shirt you throw it away. He gets tired of a family and he throws them away. They don’t exist for him after that.”
Dixie thought Spencer Ashton sounded like a classic narcissist. Other people weren’t real for him, except as echoes or reflections of his own ego. “What was he like when you were little?”
“I thought he liked me.” Cole snorted. “I was stupid, obviously, but…sometimes he was great. He used to ruffle my hair when I brought home a good report card and say, ‘Way to go, kid.’ But it was winning he liked, not me.”
“Was he hard to please?”
“More like hard to predict. If things were going badly for him, we all stayed away. He’d take it out on us. But sometimes he’d make a big deal about us. Birthdays, for example. He liked throwing parties. When I turned six he threw this big bash—clowns, balloons, pony rides for the kids, a catered picnic for their parents.”
The faint, wistful tone in his voice tugged at her. She swallowed. “Do you think parties were another way to enhance his own image?”
He shrugged. “They were more about him than me, but I didn’t see that as a kid. He didn’t come to school stuff, either, but back then I thought important people like him were always busy.”
He fell silent. Dixie walked with him, trying not to slide around too much in her slick-soled shoes. Her hair hung in wet rattails down her neck, dripping water beneath the collar of her raincoat. She tugged it to one side.
They reached the little grove of olive trees. It was darker here, but the trees offered some shelter. She stopped. “What about when he left? Kids often blame themselves when their parents break up.”
“I don’t remember blaming myself exactly, but…” He didn’t look at her. “You had it right when you said I hated him. But until he left, I’d tried to be like him.”
“You were a kid. You wanted to please your father, and the only thing that pleases a narcissist is his own reflection.”
“And I made myself into a damn good reflection, didn’t I?”
“No!” She seized his arm, making him turn and look at her. “Where did you get the idea you’re like him?”
“Aside from looking in the mirror, you mean?” Rain ran down the taut lines of his face as if the sky were weeping for him. “Come on, Dixie. You’re not dense. I’ve spent years building Louret up so I could prove to the bastard that we didn’t need him. That I’m better than he is in the one way that means anything to him—making money.”
“You’re ambitious, yes. But you don’t use people. You’d never discard someone the way he has.”
“You left me because I was like him.”
Dixie’s breath caught, hard and painful, in her chest. Was that what he’d thought? All these years had he believed, deep down, that her leaving proved he was like his father?
“Cole.” She reached up with both hands and cupped his hard, wet face between her hands, blinking back tears. “You idiot.”
He searched her face. He couldn’t have seen much in the dimness, but apparently he saw enough. He had no trouble finding her mouth with his.
His kiss was soft and slow and unbearably moving. He drifted his mouth over her cheek. “You’re cold.”
“No kidding.” But it wasn’t cold that made her shiver. It was his fingers playing along her throat.
He wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. “Warmer?” he murmured next to her ear, then kissed it.
She was cold, wet, muddy, and her heart was knocking against the wall of her chest so hard it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it. From fear? Arousal? Sheer exhilaration?
Did it matter? She put her hands on his chest. “Not yet,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the shush-shush of the rain. “Try harder.”
This time his mouth meant business. He kissed, licked and sucked, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around her. Her hands were trapped against his chest. She couldn’t move—could only tip her head back and meet his tongue with hers. His breath was warm. His body was warm and hard, and she ached.
