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Theresa brushed auburn tendrils off her face with the back of her hand. “It’s their day off.”
“Mom, you should have a day off,” Bridgett said, wishing her mother would listen to her and give up working as a domestic. Especially now that it was no longer necessary. Theresa could retire and live with Bridgett and never have to worry about money or putting a roof over their heads again.
Theresa frowned as she measured ingredients into the casserole dish and stirred them together briskly. “Then who would cook for Tom?”
“Maybe he could order takeout?” Bridgett suggested as her mother slid the crabmeat dip into the oven to bake. “Or eat at a restaurant.”
Theresa wiped her hands, then restored order to the bun on the top of her head. “I have all the time off I need whenever I need it.”
Bridgett sighed, knowing she was about as likely to talk her mother into taking early retirement at fifty as she was to get her to change her hairstyle or stop wearing the “uniform” that Tom and Grace Deveraux had both told her years ago she did not have to wear. “Except you never take any time off,” Bridgett reminded her mother gently.
“Honey, I don’t have time to argue with you.” Theresa went back to the refrigerator for salad fixings. “I’m trying to put together a dinner party for six on thirty minutes’ notice. And Tom said it was crucial that everything be very nice.”
Bridgett zeroed in on the concern in her mother’s voice, even as she did what she had done for years, as the daughter of a Deveraux domestic—pitched in to lend a hand. “Did something happen?” Bridgett asked as she rolled up her sleeves and helped her mother make a dinner salad on the fly.
“I’m not sure.” Her expression increasingly worried, Theresa got out the food processor and set it on the counter. “But he said Grace might be upset when she gets here and he wanted all the children to be in attendance so they could talk to them together.”
A feeling of foreboding came over Bridgett as she watched her mother fit the slicing disk into the machine. Bridgett hadn’t seen much of Grace Deveraux since Grace had gone to New York City to host the Rise and Shine, America! morning news program fifteen years ago, but she cared about her nonetheless. She cared about all the Deveraux, just as her mother did. “Grace isn’t ill, is she?”
Theresa shrugged. “I’m not sure Tom knows what this is all about, either. But you know how it’s been between the two of them since they divorced.”
“They can hardly stand to be in the same room with each other.”
“So if Grace called Tom and asked him to pick her up at the airport and bring her here, of all places…”
To the home the two of them had shared in happier times.
“It must be bad,” Bridgett concluded, reading her mother’s mind.
Theresa nodded.
And it was then, as she looked at her mother’s face, that Bridgett realized the real reason her mother had called her. Not because she needed help preparing dinner or carrying a tray of canapés. But because she needed moral support in dealing with whatever the fallout of Grace and Tom’s news. Theresa might insist on reminding herself daily in a million little ways that there was a huge class difference between the Owenses and the family Theresa had worked for since before Bridgett was born, but Theresa and Bridgett both loved all the Deveraux like family nevertheless. “How is Chase and everyone taking this?” Bridgett asked, knowing that Chase was likely to have a tough time with any calamity involving his parents. Maybe it was because he was the oldest, but he had taken his parents’ divorce thirteen years ago especially hard.
“I’m not sure,” Theresa said, jumping and grimacing at the big thud and shouting from the front of the house. Then the sound of glass breaking.
“Apparently,” Bridgett said, answering her own question, “not so well.”
There was another crash, even louder. Then the sound of Amy screaming.
“Oh, dear.” Theresa’s hand flew to her chest and she got a panicked look on her face.
“Sounds like another fight.” One of many, both before and after Tom and Grace’s divorce. Bridgett sighed. She put up a hand before her mother could exit the kitchen. “I’ll go, Mom.” She had experience breaking up fights. Why should this one be any different?
“DAMMIT, GABE, I don’t want to hurt you.” Ignoring the pain across his shoulder, where he’d caught the edge of the mantel, Chase staggered to his feet. He pressed one hand to the corner of his mouth, which seemed to be bleeding, and held Gabe at bay with the other palm upraised between them. “So back off!”
Gabe shook his head, his expression angry, intense, and continued coming, fists knotted at his side. “Not until you take back what you said about Maggie,” he stormed.
Chase smirked, not above taunting a self-righteous Gabe. “Right. Like you plan to take back sucking face with her?”
“That does it!” Gabe leaped over the back of the sofa, grabbed Chase by the shirt and swung again, his fist arcing straight for Chase’s jaw.
Chase ducked the blow and countered with a punch to Gabe’s gut. As he expected, it didn’t do much damage. Gabe had been ready for him, muscles tensed. Just as Chase was ready for the tumble over the upholstered Duncan Phyfe chair to the floor. Gabe landed on top of him, but not for long. Chase forced him over onto his back. He grabbed his brother by the front of his shirt, still seeing red. For the life of him, Chase didn’t understand why Gabe continued to defend—and apparently desire—the woman who had come as close to two-timing Chase as any woman ever would. Especially when Gabe had to know how hurt and humiliated Chase had been, both by the events and all the sordid speculation that had followed. Not that it had been any easier for Gabe and Maggie. Both their squeaky-clean reputations had been forever tarnished, too. And for what? It wasn’t as if the two of them had found any happiness, either. “Gonna give up now?” Chase demanded in frustration, wishing they could put this ugly episode behind them before it further destroyed their family.
“Not on your life.” Gabe scowled back, looking ready to do even more damage.
And that was when it happened. A shrill whistle split the air and two spectacular female legs glided into view. Sexy knees peeked out beneath a short silk skirt. His glance then took in slim sexy calves, trim feminine ankles and delicate feet clad in a pair of strappy sandals. Chase knew those legs. He knew her fragrance. And he especially knew that voice. It belonged to one of the most sought-after financial advisers in Charleston, South Carolina.
“One more punch, Chase Deveraux,” Bridgett Owens said sweetly, “and you’re going to be dealing with me.”
THE FIRST THING Chase thought was that Bridgett Owens hadn’t changed since he had last seen her. Unless it was to get even better-looking than she already was. Her long auburn hair had been all one length when she’d gone off on her phenomenally successful book tour three months ago. That soft-as-silk hair still fell several inches past her shoulders, but now it was layered in long sexy strands that framed her pretty oval face. She’d done something different to her eyes, too. He couldn’t say what it was exactly, though he figured it had something to do with her makeup, because her bittersweet-chocolate eyes had never looked so dark, mysterious or long-lashed. She was wearing a different color of lipstick, too. It made her lips look even more luscious against her wide, white orthodontics-perfect smile.
She was also dressing a little differently.
Maybe it was because she also ran a private financial-counseling service out of her home and hence felt the need to present a serious, businesslike image to the public that she’d worn suits that were so tailored and austere it was almost ridiculous. Today, however, she was wearing a silky pencil-slim skirt that was so soft and creamy it looked like it was made of raspberry-swirl ice cream. With it she wore a figure-hugging tank top in the palest of pinks and a matching cardigan sweater. The overall effect was sophisticated, feminine and sexy. Too sexy for Chase’s comfort.
“Honestly,” Bridgett continued, seeming to scold Chase a lot more than Gabe, “aren’t you two a little old for such nonsense?”
Chase scowled. The last thing he wanted—from anyone—was advice on how to handle the restoration of his pride. “This is none of your business,” he fumed, still holding tight to Gabe’s shirt.
“The heck it’s not!” Bridgett charged closer, inundating Chase with the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume. “When it’s gonna be my mother explaining to your parents what happened to all the priceless furniture here!”
“No explanation needed,” came a deep male voice from somewhere behind them.
Every head turned. There in the portal stood Tom Deveraux, dressed in a dark business suit, pale-blue shirt and conservative tie. Coming in right behind him was Chase’s mother, Grace. As the two of them stood frozen, looking at their two brawling sons, it was almost like going back in time for Chase—before his mother had moved to New York City. Before the estrangement between his mother and father, which neither he nor his siblings really understood to this day. To the time when they had been, for whatever it was worth, a family that was united, even in times of strife. Nowadays it seemed that all they had left was the strife. And the heartache of a once-loving family that had fallen apart.
“I suppose we don’t even have to ask what was the reason for this,” Grace said wearily, touching a hand to her short and fluffy white-blond hair.
Chase immediately noted the strain lines around his mom’s mouth, the shadows beneath her blue eyes, and his heart went out to her. Something had happened, he thought, and it was bad enough to bring his dad to her side again.
“If the two of you are fighting like this, Maggie Callaway has to have something to do with it,” Tom surmised frankly, clearly disappointed in both of them.
Neither Gabe nor Chase said anything.
Bridgett offered Chase her hand. Though hardly ready—or really even willing—to end the brawl with his woman-stealing brother, Chase took the assistance Bridgett offered. And, to his mounting discomfort, found his old pal Bridgett’s manicured hand just as delicate in shape, strong in grip and silky soft as it looked.
Tom continued shaking his head at everyone in the room, then settled on Mitch and Amy. “You couldn’t have stopped this before they broke half the vases in the room?” he asked them.
Amy made a face and brushed her long hair, a dark brown like Tom’s, from her eyes. “It’s sort of a long story, Dad.”
Mitch shrugged his broad shoulders. “Amy and I figured they were going to come to blows again, no matter what. Better it happen here. Where they’re unlikely to get arrested or otherwise bring dishonor to the Deveraux name.”
Tom looked at Chase and Gabe. His lips thinned in disapproval as he demanded, “What do you two have to say for yourselves?”
“Not a thing,” Chase muttered, resenting being questioned like this at his age, even if he and Gabe did deserve it.
Gabe grimaced, looking at that moment like anything but the good Samaritan he was. “Me, neither.”
Tom turned to Bridgett. “At least you were trying to break it up.”
Bridgett smiled at Tom respectfully. “Someone had to. And since I have…I think I should excuse myself.”
“No reason for that,” Grace said, putting up a staying hand before Bridgett could so much as take a step out of the drawing room. “You’re family, Bridgett, you know that. Besides, I have something to tell you all,” Grace added, just as Theresa came into the room, a silver serving tray of hot crabmeat dip and crackers in hand. “Sit down, everyone.” Grace waited until one and all complied, including Theresa, before she continued reluctantly, “I wanted you to hear this from me before it hits the airwaves.” Grace paused, took a deep breath. “I’ve been fired.”
Chapter Two
Chase stared at his mother, barely able to believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean, you’ve been fired!”
“They can’t fire you!” Mitch cried, incensed, as the entire Deveraux family closed rank around Grace. “You’re the a.m. Sweetheart!”
Looking even more upset than their mother, Amy argued emotionally, “The American public loves you! They said so at last year’s Favorite Celebrity awards!”
Grace sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Since when?” Chase asked, incredulous, unable to understand how his mother could remain so resigned in the face of such a professional catastrophe. For the past fifteen years, her whole world had revolved around that job. She had given up her life in Charleston, sacrificed her marriage and what little happy family life they’d had, at that point, for that job. “Amy’s right, Mom. The morning news shows sink or swim on the personality of their cohosts.”
Grace sat down, looking unbearably weary. Her skin was pale against her cheerful yellow tunic and matching trousers. “The show’s ratings have been sinking for some time now.”
Gabe picked up an overturned chair and set it to rights. He looked their mother square in the eye. “You’re sure you can’t do anything to change the network’s decision?”
Again, Grace shook her head. “It’s not just me,” she said softly. “They’re replacing my cohost, too. And going with a younger couple.”
The family gave a collective sigh as Tom went over to the bar and fixed a tall glass of diet soda and ice. He brought it back to Grace and sat down next to her.
“When is all this going to happen?” Chase asked. He caught Bridgett’s gaze and saw she was just as concerned about his mother as he was. That was no surprise. He knew Bridgett loved his mother, too.
Grace cupped the glass in both her hands and ducked her head. “The network is going to announce my replacement later today. It’ll probably be on the evening news tonight. It may make the Internet before then.”
“You’re not going to hold a press conference?” Mitch, ever the businessman, asked.
Grace shook her head. “I’m letting my publicist handle it. We crafted a statement together before I left New York. She’ll release it.”
“And then what?” Gabe asked. “Will you be going back to finish up?”
“Surely the network is going to give you a big send-off,” Amy said.
Grace sipped her soda. “The network wanted to make a big deal about my leaving, but I told them I didn’t want it. Those things are always maudlin. I’d rather viewers remember me just as I was this morning, when I taped my last show. Besides, it’s not the last time I’ll ever be on television. My agent is already fielding offers. They began coming in last month when there were rumors a change was going to be made.”
Silence fell. Chase noted with no small amount of admiration that his mother seemed to be handling this catastrophe better than the rest of them. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked casually after a moment.
“Your mother is going to be staying here at the mansion,” Tom said. “I’ll be staying at a hotel.”
Chase wasn’t surprised. That had been the case ever since his parents’ divorce. Whenever his mother came to Charleston, she stayed at the family mansion, and his father moved—temporarily—to the Mills House Hotel. It was the only way his mother could get any privacy, she was so well-known. She was besieged by autograph hounds if she checked into a hotel. And staying at the mansion made it easier for her to see all four of her children.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Grace said, suddenly looking as if she was going to burst into tears, after all, “it’s been a very long day and I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down. That is, if you boys think you can stop fighting long enough to give us all some peace.”
“They had better—” Tom Deveraux cast a warning look at his sons “—or they aren’t half the men I thought they were.”
“WELL, I GUESS he told us,” Chase murmured after his father and mother had disappeared up the wide sweeping staircase.
Bridget looked at Chase. “It’s not as if you didn’t deserve it,” she said, clearly exasperated. “You and Gabe are far too old to be rolling around on the floor.”
“I’ll certainly second that!” Theresa Owens fumed, like the second mother she was to them all. “Chase, you’re bleeding. And Gabe, you need some ice on that eye.”
“You take care of Gabe. I’ll take care of Chase,” Bridgett told her mother. Before Chase could reply, Bridgett had him by the sleeve of his loose fitting linen shirt and was tugging him toward the powder room tucked beneath the stairs. She shut the door behind them, pushed him down on the closed commode and began rummaging through the medicine cabinet for supplies.
“Just like old times, huh?” Chase said. Glad Bridgett had volunteered to act as his nurse, but sorry she had witnessed his humiliation and juvenile behavior, he began unbuttoning his ripped shirt to get a look at the stinging skin underneath.
Bridgett set the antiseptic, antibiotic cream and bandages on the rim of the pedestal sink. She turned back to him, pushed up her cardigan sleeves and prepared to get to work. “You haven’t punched out Gabe since the wedding that wasn’t, have you?”
“No.” Chase peeled off his shirt and stared at the nasty-looking scrape that ran from his left shoulder to midchest and down his arm. He was pretty sure it had happened when he slammed into the mantel and slid to the floor. “Although maybe I should have,” Chase added as he touched his lip and found that it, too, was still bleeding, just a little bit. “Gabe still doesn’t seem to have learned his lesson about stealing someone else’s woman.” Chase grimaced as he checked out a rug burn beneath his right elbow.
“He stole another of your girlfriends?” Bridgett frowned at the scrape on his forearm.
Chase scowled, recalling. “I saw him and Maggie at her beach house a few hours ago. They were kissing.”
Bridgett wet a sterile pad with warm water, doused it liberally with soap, and began washing the scraped skin. “You and Maggie are back together?”
“Hell, no!” Chase clamped his teeth together. Damn, that stung! And damned if Bridgett didn’t seem to enjoy making it sting, too!
“Then why does it matter if Gabe kisses her?” Bridgett added more soap and moved on to his shoulder.
Chase tried not to think about how good it felt to have her hands moving across his skin in such a gentle, womanly way. Bridgett was and had always been his friend, not an object of lust. “Because she was my woman and I was there first!” Chase hissed again as Bridgett dampened another sterile pad and rinsed away the soap on his skin.
Bridgett shrugged. “If that’s your only objection, she was right not to marry you.”
Chase shot her a look. He didn’t care if the two of them had been as telepathic as twins since the moment they were born. He didn’t like the censure in Bridgett’s low tone. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, turning toward her.
“I mean,” Bridgett enunciated as if speaking to a total dunce, “I understand your not wanting him to kiss her if you were in love with her, but if you’re not—”
“I’m not,” Chase interrupted firmly.
“Then it shouldn’t matter to you. Period.”
“Well, it does.” Chase bristled under her watchful gaze.
“Why?” Bridgett dabbed antibiotic cream across his shoulder.
“Because it’s like pouring salt in a wound,” Chase explained in frustration, wishing she would hurry up and get this over with.
“One that obviously has yet to heal,” Bridgett countered, moving close enough to Chase that he could see the barest hint of cleavage revealed by the décolletage of her form-fitting sweater set. He swallowed around the knowledge that Bridgett’s breasts were fuller and rounder than he had ever realized. Or wanted to realize.
“I’m over her,” Chase said, struggling to keep his mind on Maggie, instead of Bridgett and what her closeness, her sheer femininity, were doing to him.
“Just not over the humiliation of being dumped by her,” Bridget guessed, apparently oblivious to the discomfort she was causing him.
Chase shifted his weight to relieve the unexpected pressure at the front of his khaki beach shorts. “You got it.”
Bridgett unrolled sterile gauze across his shoulder. “Well, then, I suggest you get over it,” she advised, her warm hands brushing across his even warmer skin as she taped the bandage into place.
