Breakfast in Bed

chapter 10


"SHIT." RICH PUT DOWN HIS RAZOR AND DID HIS BEST to blot the blood running down his neck while wondering what the hell he was going to do about Becca. One minute she was hot, wet, and ready, and the next she told him no and climbed out of the shower. "No" was not a word he heard often, and certainly not one he liked.
He tied a towel around his waist as he walked out of the bathroom, and without knocking, opened the closed door into Becca's room. "You can't just say 'no' and walk out."
"You're wrong. I can and I did." Becca wore her old ratty sweats and was torturing a big hunk of what looked like clay. She slammed it on an old wooden table in the corner of her room, picked it up, and slammed it down again.
Rich took a deep breath, crossed his arms, and leaned against the dresser. "So that's it. You're going to ignore everything between us?"
"The only thing between us is a lie."
"No it's not, and no matter how much you pretend it is, it's not going to work. Why don't you tell me what the hell you're so afraid of?"
She pushed the rolled sleeves of her faded green sweat shirt higher and pounded on the clay. "Let me get this straight. Just because I don't fall in line and buy into your little convenient scenario, I'm afraid of something?"
Rich laughed. "Babe, there is nothing convenient about you. Nothing whatsoever. And believe me, if all there was between us was sex, I wouldn't bother."
Well, that stopped her. She looked over her shoulder at him and swallowed.
"I'm going to get dressed. If you want to go like you are, that's fine. But in case you want to change, you better get a move on."
She checked her wardrobe as if she didn't remember what she'd thrown on before she took out her anger on that poor defenseless piece of clay.
"Huh?"
"We're going to pick up whatever art you want to show Emily. Remember?"
"I can do it myself."
"Right, I'm sure you'll fit a whole hell of a lot of your work in that little Roadster you buzz around in. Get real." He turned and walked out, leaving the door open. "You have five minutes."
Rich refrained from slamming the door and left his open just to tempt her. He muttered to himself while he pulled on his clothes. He found himself muttering a lot since he met Becca. She drove him crazy and not always in a good way, though he had no complaints about the way she drove him crazy last night. No. No complaints at all.
Rich knew what it felt like to pretend. Hell, he spent his life pretending to be the perfect son, pretending to be the perfect professor, and even once or twice pretending to be the interested boyfriend. When it came to Becca, Rich wasn't pretending, and from her reaction to him, neither was she. There was no pretending incredible sex. Meaningful sex. There was no pretending when it came to making love.
If anyone was pretending anything, it was Becca pretending that it was nothing more than a means to a mutually beneficial end. The hell with that. He'd play along for now, but somehow he'd prove her wrong. He had no idea how he'd do it, but he would. Maybe just being cooped up together for a whole day would do the trick. Since that was about the only thing he could think of, he'd go with it. She was smart. She'd figure it out in time. He just hoped she'd figure it out quickly because this pretending shit was getting really old.
Rich took his phone off the charger and speed dialed his mother. "Hi Mama. Look, I can't make it to dinner tomorrow."
"What do you mean you can't make it? What are you doing that is so important that you will snub your family?"
Rich sat on the bed and pulled on a sock. "Eh—I'm going to miss Sunday supper. That's not a snub to the family so don't break my chops, Ma. I have to help a friend move."
"So you'll come by on Monday and pick up your food?"
"No, Ma. I'm good. I started cooking a little for myself."
"What? You don't know how to cook. You can't cook."
Rich pulled on his boot. "I can too. It's not rocket science, Ma. Thanks for the offer, but I'm cooking for myself, and I even did a couple loads of laundry." He didn't bother telling her that he dyed half of it and incinerated the other.
"You got a girlfriend cooking and cleaning for you. It's that Becca your sister is so fond of. You're living in sin with her. Your Aunt Rose said she was staying there—"
"Mama. Stop. I'm not living in sin." Well, at least not as much as he'd like to be. "But a man's gotta know how to take care of himself. A very intelligent woman once told me that no matter how wonderful a mother you are, you don't like doing my laundry."
Rich expected his mother to deny it and was surprised when she didn't.
"Richie, you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine, Ma, but I'm running late. I gotta go. I'll talk to you later in the week. Bye."

For an SUV, the Highlander was tiny. Rich took up all the space, and even with the sunroof opened, most of the oxygen. Becca opened the book she brought along, pretended to read, and did her best to ignore him. It wasn't working, but she wasn't about to share that little tidbit.
Rich cleared his throat. "Do you want to tell me where we're going? I'm heading in the general direction of Philadelphia , but it would help if I had an exact location." He took the GPS off its stand and tossed it into her lap. "If you're afraid to speak to me, you can just punch in the address."
"I'm not afraid to speak to you. I choose not to."
He turned on the radio, and the song they'd danced to last night filled the car. She switched the station. He raised an eyebrow and switched it back. "My car, my tunes."
Becca punched the address of her father's house into the GPS, handed it back to him, reopened her book, and turned as much as possible to face the window trying to ignore him.
The ride seemed interminable. She concentrated on turning the pages of her book even though she hadn't read a word. By the time they pulled into the driveway, she was ready to scream.
She directed him through the estate, past the stables, the pond, the greenhouses, and several servants' houses to the main house. She was out of the car before he killed the engine.
Rich took his time peering through the windshield at the mansion. She remembered Annabelle's first reaction, sure Rich had no doubt been exposed to more than his sister, but she doubted he'd seen anything quite like it. She always referred to it as the living mausoleum. When he climbed out of the car, he surprised her when he didn't say a word. He just followed her up the steps to the front door.
When Becca stepped inside, Madge, who had been their cook since Becca and Chip were in diapers, came running toward her and enveloped her in a hug.
"Becca, why didn't you call to say you were coming? I would have cooked something special." Without letting go of Becca she eyed Rich. "And who might you be?"
Rich held out his hand, or at least Becca thought he did, since Madge reached around Becca, and it felt as if Madge was shaking hands.
"Rich Ronaldi. I'm Becca's—"
Becca pushed out of Madge's forceful hug. "Roommate."
Rich nodded. "Right."
It didn't sound as if Rich believed it. The way Madge eyed him told Becca she didn't believe it either. Great. There was nothing worse than Madge when she thought Becca kept something from her. Madge could give Rich's Aunt Rose a run for her money when it came to knowing stuff.
"Rich is Annabelle's brother, and through no fault of our own, we got stuck sharing an apartment until the renovations are done with mine, so stop looking at me like that."
Madge smiled. "Oh, I see how it is."
Becca rolled her eyes. "No you don't. Rich and I are here to pick up some of my work. He has a big car, and I don't. We won't be staying for dinner."
Madge smiled at Rich and nodded. "Yes, Ms. Becca. Whatever you say." She turned to Rich. "So, it looks as if you're just a delivery boy."
Rich smiled back. "Yes, ma'am. It looks that way, doesn't it?"
"Madge, we're just going to get a few pieces, and we'll be out of your way."
Madge tsked. "You'd better call your father. I'm sure he'd like to see you."
Becca forced herself to smile. "I will." She reached over and gave Madge another hug and kissed her cheek. "We'll be down in a little while."
Becca was halfway up the main staircase before she looked back to find Rich hadn't followed. He was kibitzing with Madge, which was exactly what Becca wanted to avoid. "Rich, are you coming?"
He winked at Madge and took the steps two at a time. "Ah, right. We're pretending I'm a delivery boy now. You'll have to tell me when we start pretending something else so I can follow along."
Becca ignored him and kept walking.
The only thing keeping Rich from gawking at the crystal chandelier and the hand-carved woodwork and the massiveness of the place was that he was too busy gawking at the way Becca's ass looked in the jeans she'd changed into. He thanked God that she did have a few pieces of clothing that actually fit her rather spectacular body that, for some reason he'd yet to discover, she worked so hard to hide. He followed her up the stairs to the third floor and down a long hallway. He waited for her to open one of the closed doors they passed, but she strode to the end and then up another set of stairs. These stairs weren't as wide and not carpeted. They curved like the steps into an old basement, only they led to the fourth floor.
"These are the servants' stairs. Not that the servants live up here anymore. All of them have their own homes on the estate, but old service quarters make great play rooms and storage rooms. Chip and I ruled up here."
Rich walked into an attic room that looked as if it was at one time a living room. He smiled. It was black with all the different constellations painted on the walls and ceiling.
Rich stopped to take it in. "Very cool."
Becca shrugged and sat on the old leather couch, rested back, and looked up at the ceiling. "I had fun painting it. It also pissed off my mother, which was an added benefit."
Rich sat beside her and lolled his head back. "How come she didn't make you repaint it?"
Becca shrugged. "I think that was about the time she washed her hands of me."
She didn't say it with even a hint of sadness, just matter of fact, like someone would talk about the weather.
"So that tattoo you have…" He reached over, slid the hem of her shirt up, and pulled the waist of her jeans down enough to reveal the sign of Gemini on her bikini line. The pillars framed a woman who looked like Becca dressed in a toga, reaching for a man facing away from her. Rich ran his finger across it, and Becca sucked in a breath of air in response. When he'd examined it closely the night before, he thought it was a picture of Becca and Mike. But now he wasn't so sure… "I take it you're a Gemini."
"In more ways than just one. Chip and I are twins. We were born May 29th, which made us Gemini twins."
Rich put his arm around her and pulled her a little closer. She didn't make it easy. She needed to be worn down. Wearing people down was something of a gift, so he wasn't too worried. "You don't talk about Chip much. So the tat. Did you get it about the same time you painted the room?"
Becca shook her head. "No, I got it a few years ago. I had it done after my brother died."
Rich took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "It's beautiful." When their eyes met, he had the feeling it was the first time she actually saw him since before Mike and Nick showed up.
He couldn't help but smile at the look of wariness he saw. "You're beautiful." He kissed her softly on the lips. Her eyes widened as he released her. "So, where are we going next on the tour?"
Becca stood to get away from him, and he followed as she tugged her top down and her jeans up. "It's not a tour. I have my work stored up here where it won't get into anyone's way."
Rich followed her down a hall and into a room that must have been thirty feet long by a good twenty feet wide. It had paintings hung and leaning against the walls, shelves and tables covered with pottery and sculpture of all sizes. Big dormers let in the light. The room was painted white, which only accentuated all the color on the canvases. "You paint, too?"
She shrugged. "Not well, but I enjoy it."
Rich laughed. "Yeah, right. Has anyone ever told you that you're your own worst critic?"
"No. They usually tell me I'm right. Everyone but you, that is."
Rich tried to take it all in. There were some pretty amateurish paintings, but some of them were nothing short of stunning.
The light from one of the windows seemed to spot light a small bronze of a mother and child. It was very art-deco looking—the woman had long curling hair, kinda like Annabelle's. Shit, that was Annabelle. Her face anyway, and she was kissing the head of a baby who nuzzled her breast, its face hidden.
"You did this?"
Becca worried the hem of her top between her fingers. "Yeah. I made it as a shower present for Annabelle."
Rich circled the small round table, looking at it from all angles. "God, it's gorgeous. Breathtaking."
Becca shrugged. "Thanks."
"You have to bring this. Emily will love it. Besides it's nice and small."
Becca put her hand on the baby's head and slid it down its back to where it melted into the stand. "I don't know. I'm worried it might be bad luck. The baby's not here yet, and if something happened—"
"Nothing's going to happen. But if you're worried, feel free to stick it in the back of my closet. Annabelle would never venture there. Believe me."
"Her and me both."
Rich ignored the comment and moved on to the next table. It was an old, tile-covered table that held a group of five separate sculptures. There was a woman in a dress sitting with a book in her hands surrounded by children.
Becca stood beside him and crossed her arms. "I plan to have these enlarged at the foundry. The local library is building a small park on the land beside it. Once it gets closer to completion, I'll have them cast in bronze and donate them."
Rich touched the book the sculpted woman held. It was a perfect copy of one of his favorite books. " Treasure Island , huh?" He moved behind Becca. She was so rigid that she made a few of her statues look relaxed. He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "Will you have it enlarged to life-size?"
She bunched up her shoulders. "I'd like to. That way kids could sit with them and read."
"I think it's going to be amazing."
Becca broke away from his touch and took a bronze off a nearby shelf and set it beside the others. It was a sculpture of a life-like mare grazing while her colt nursed.
Becca turned away from him and pulled out her phone and dialed. Her body language screamed discomfort. "Daddy. Hi. I'm here at the estate to pick up a few pieces of my work."
She wandered the room as she listened. Rich followed her to a modern piece and touched the cold metal. It looked something like a wave. But when he walked around it and saw it from another angle, he wondered if it was some kind of modern rocking chair.
She turned her back to him again. "It was a spur of the moment trip. There's no need to—no, really. Don't feel as if you have to come home. Oh, okay. I'll see you in a few minutes then. Bye." She flipped her phone shut, and she certainly wasn't happy with the outcome.
Rich laughed. "You actually call your father Daddy?"
Becca shrugged. "I guess. I never thought about it."
Rich walked around the cool sculpture trying to read her and having no luck. Sometimes it's best to just ask the question. "Are you unhappy to see him for all the usual reasons, or is it specifically because I'm here?"
"I'm not unhappy to see him. It's just awkward. We'll get past it eventually, and believe me, it has nothing to do with you."
Rich bent low and tested the weight of the metal sculpture. It was lighter than he'd imagined it would be. "Let's take this too." He left it where it was, and when she moved to pick up another, Rich slid past her and beat her to it.
He let out a grunt when he lifted it. It was heavy as all get out. It only stood about two feet high, but was made out of white marble. Cool and smooth, the sculpture was of a nude woman riding astride a horse and holding its mane as it flew over a fence. He set it on a nearby table. The look of ecstasy on the woman's face was stunning. Rich swallowed. "This reminds me of how you looked last night."
Becca felt herself blush. She watched Rich's face as he studied the piece she called "Freedom." To Becca, that particular sculpture was her definition of the word, a chance to escape, to ride. Sometimes it meant riding away from something; sometimes it meant riding to something. The way she looked at it changed with her mood. But every time she rode she felt free, and it seemed as if Rich understood that. She felt like an animal being studied in its natural environment. He saw too much, read her too well, and was getting entirely too close. She felt completely unprotected, like by coming here, he'd stripped her of her shield. Shit, she knew coming here was a bad idea.
"Do you have anything to wrap these in?"
"Yes." She needed some space so she went to the storage room and took her time pulling out several moving blankets. When she returned, he was checking out her earlier work. "Do you think we can fit all the small pieces in the car?"
Rich didn't turn around. "I'm not sure, but we should be able to fit most of them. I'll put the seats down."
She'd never felt so exposed. He had a way of studying everything. He took a small piece off the shelf. "What's this?"
Becca took the less than perfect statue from him. It was the first piece she'd ever done. One of the kitchen help had snapped a picture of her feeding her colt. She turned the picture into a sculpture in clay. She fell in love, both with the colt and with the art of sculpture. The piece was very rough; her arm was around Russet's neck as she fed him from a bottle. He was almost as big as she was. She remembered the day she'd begun work on it. Becca had learned very early to appreciate the moments of life that were perfect, and sculpture gave her a way to freeze time. An image of Rich's face—the way he looked at her the night before—flashed through her mind. A perfect moment in time.
"That's you." His voice broke through her thoughts.
She reached for the piece and pulled it from his hands. "We're not taking that."
"How come? How old were you when you did this?"
Becca went to put it back where it belonged. Hidden. "I was about twelve, I think. It's not good."
Rich pulled it back out. "You think this isn't good? Bec. It's beautiful. Heck, you were a f*ckin' prodigy or something. Look at the way the two of you are leaning against each other. It's my favorite."
She laughed. "Yeah, right."
"It's you without your armor on. It's the you you hide from everyone but me."
"You are so completely arrogant it's amazing."
Rich rocked back on his heels. "It's not arrogance. It's confidence."
Becca rolled her eyes and took the sculpture from him a bit too forcefully before putting it back on the shelf.
He definitely saw too much.

"Becca?"
She turned toward her father's voice. She was almost happy for the interruption. "Up here, Daddy."
He walked in wearing his golfing attire. Heck, he had his glove still hanging from his back pocket. "Dad, you remember Rich Ronaldi, Annabelle's brother." She accepted her father's awkward hug, pulled away as soon as she could, and took a step back. Her dad and Rich shook hands.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Larsen."
"Rich."
The look her dad gave Rich made Becca want to put an immediate stop to it. "I have to start moving my work to Brooklyn , and since Rich has a nice, big SUV, he's offered to help."
Nope, he didn't buy it either. What, did she have a sign on her forehead that said she made a mistake, let her hormones rule her head, and had sex with Rich Ronaldi, or had Mike called and ratted her out? No, he wouldn't dare.
Rich took one of the moving blankets off the stack she'd brought out earlier and folded it under his arm. "I guess I'll get started while you two visit." He picked up the largest piece and headed down with it.
"You didn't have to cut your game short."
"I didn't. I just chose to play nine holes instead of eighteen." Her father wandered around with his hands clasped behind his back. "You told me you were going to store some of your work up here. I just had no idea you'd done so much."
What did he think she'd been doing all these years? "These are only the small pieces. I have a few of the large ones in the old equipment barn. I needed to bring them in on a truck. I'm hoping to move them into the studio once it's built. Part of it will have a thirty-foot ceiling."
He nodded. "There is one piece that Colleen and I both love. It's the modern granite one you have stored in the barn. I'd like to buy it."
The shock must have shown on her face.
"If it's for sale, that is. Colleen says it belongs in the foyer."
Becca didn't know what to say. He'd never shown any interest in any of her work, much less mentioned that he liked it.
"I know how you feel about having your work displayed here."
"You do?"
He nodded, stuck his hands in his pockets, which he never did, and looked at his feet. "You never wanted it here, but it would mean so much to Colleen and me."
"Daddy, I never said I didn't want it displayed here. I just didn't want to push it on anyone. Mother always called my work dust collectors. I just assumed you felt the same."
He looked pained. "I'm sorry if I ever gave you that impression."
Becca shrugged. "If you like the granite piece, consider it a wedding gift. You are going to ask Colleen to marry you, aren't you?"
When he didn't answer, she laughed. "Maybe that'll be the incentive she needs."
Her father finally smiled a real smile. They were rare. He put his arm around her and gave her a sideways hug. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Anything I can do to help."
Rich returned and raised an eyebrow. Obviously he'd caught the mood change. "I put the seats down, so all we need to do is get these downstairs."
Dad picked up one of the statues they'd gathered to take with them. "We can use the dumbwaiter, and once they get down to the third floor, just put them in the elevator."
Rich looked over the stack of blankets he held. "That old elevator still works?"
"Of course it does. What did you think it was there for? Decoration?"
Rich laughed. "Yeah, actually, I did. You have to admit, it's beautiful."
Her father laughed. "That elevator has a lot in common with my daughter—beautiful, capable, and hardworking."
Becca almost dropped one of her sculptures on her foot when she heard that one. "I'm outta here before he starts comparing me to the dumbwaiter."
With the three of them working, it didn't take long to have the SUV filled with lovingly wrapped sculpture.

Rich had everything in the Highlander; he waited in the foyer for Becca to tell him what she wanted to do next. Her father stepped out and shot Rich an intimidating stare. Rich didn't intimidate easily.
"What are you really doing here with my daughter?"
Rich pushed himself off the wall he leaned against and mimicked Larsen's stance. "Becca has the opportunity to show her work to my dean's wife, who happens to head up a small foundation for the arts—"
"If Rebecca needs money—"
Rich held up his hand to stop Larsen. "No, I don't think money is the driving force here. Becca wants to get her work shown, and Emily Stewart has the connections to make that happen. If she likes Becca's work, she'll give Becca the exposure she needs."
"I told her I could get her into one of the best galleries—"
"Oh yeah. She really loved that idea."
"You have some nerve judging me."
Rich shrugged. "I'm not judging you, but if you haven't noticed, every time someone offers to help your daughter with anything, she shuts him down. She won't let me even help her rearrange her furniture."
"I have no idea where that independent streak came from. Certainly not her mother."
"I've got an idea. It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Larsen." He shook the man's hand. "Tell Becca I'll be waiting in the car."
Rich opened the door and skipped down the steps. No wonder he and Becca understood each other and got along so well. They were alike in so many ways. They both spent their life having people do everything for them, which sounds nice at first, until you see that people either won't allow you to do things for yourself or think you're incapable. Rich rebelled, got into trouble, and was finally sent to military school. It looked as if Becca escaped into her art.
When Becca joined him outside a few minutes later, she looked no happier than she had that morning. She stepped beside him and leaned against the car facing into the cold wind. "Rich, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I know you want to get home." The temperature dropped, and a wall of clouds moved in. She hugged her jacket to herself.
He pulled her close to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm in no rush. Why the long face?"
She cuddled closer; he couldn't help but smile.
"I got a call from a friend. I guess Dad was at the club when I called, and well, word spread. A few of my friends are meeting at The Big Easy. It's a restaurant and bar not far from here."
"You want to go?"
Becca shrugged. "I know you probably have things to do…"
Rich opened the door for her. "We do have to eat." He helped her in, walked around to his side of the car, and got behind the wheel. He started the car and turned around the circular drive. He got to the gatehouse where the driveway stopped. "Which way?"

It's amazing how much a person can learn about another after only a few weeks of living together. Rich knew from the set of Becca's shoulders and the way she rubbed the cuff of her jacket between her thumb and forefinger that she was nervous. He didn't know why, after all, she still held a good bit of mystery. The look on her face screamed she wasn't into sharing.
Rich tried for a supportive smile as he held the restaurant door open. Music spilled out along with the sound of conversation. The place was crowded, which was probably typical for a Saturday night. Becca stopped and scanned the room. He knew the second she'd spotted her friends by the plastic smile she wore and the way she raised her chin in acknowledgement. When he followed her line of sight, he saw a dark haired woman waving.
"I see them."
So did Rich. He put his hand on the small of her back as he ushered her across the bar to the four or five tables Becca's friends had pushed together and surrounded.
Introductions were made and measurements taken. Several of the guys wore matching rugby shirts as well as the bruises from a recent game. Rich didn't catch many of the names. What he did catch was the shimmer of tension like heat off a desert highway in July at noon . That was pretty hard to miss, and it wasn't only coming from Becca.
The women surrounded Becca and did that air-kissing thing. Becca hugged one of the biggest of the rugby guys the same way she hugged her brother, but it was the way he hugged her back that had Rich wanting to give him a smack upside the head.
"Tristan, this is Rich Ronaldi." She stepped closer to Rich. "Tristan and I grew up next door to each other. He and my brother, Chip, were best friends."
Rich nodded, but didn't like the guy on sight. He didn't know if it was the way rugby boy looked at Becca, like he was undressing her with his eyes, or the way he looked down at Rich as if he'd just stepped in something. Probably it was way he looked at Becca, since Rich couldn't give a shit what this bozo thought of him.
The dark-haired woman, Kendal, pulled Becca away and whispered something in her ear while staring at Rich. It probably would have been a good idea if Becca had told him what he was supposed to be pretending now. Becca was more tight-lipped than usual, which only served to stir everyone's curiosity. It took awhile for everyone to settle down and make room for the newcomers. Rich rubbed the back of his neck and surreptitiously looked around for a server. Unfortunately servers were scarce, and Rich was thirsty.
He leaned over and whispered in Becca's ear. "I'll go get us drinks. Be right back."
She smiled at him and returned to her conversation.
Happy for a reprieve from the weird vibes coming from Becca's friends, he made his way to the bar and signaled the bartender, content to listen to the guitarist play a Beatles tune, while he checked out the beer taps. He turned to see the other set of taps and caught the rugby boy approaching. Rich nodded an acknowledgment and wished the bartender would hurry up. When she noticed what's-his-name, she came right over.
"Hi, Tristan. What can I get you?"
Tristan. Right, that's his name.
Tristan leaned over the bar and smiled at her. "My friend was here first. It's Rich, isn't it? What'll you have?"
"Yeah, thanks. I'll take a Grey Goose dirty martini, a pale ale, and whatever he's having." She nodded and turned away, obviously knowing Tristan's drink.
They watched in silence as she poured and delivered the drinks.
Rich took a sip and then pulled his wallet out of his pocket.
Tristan set his beer back on the bar. "So, Rich. Is Becca all right?"
Rich looked back over at Becca. She seemed fine to him. "Yeah, why wouldn't she be?"
"After what happened, I'm surprised to see her back here. I mean, going through something like that's got to be devastating, not to mention social suicide."
The only thing that Rich knew of that must have been devastating in Becca's life was her brother dying, but it wasn't as if that had happened yesterday. It had been a few years. As for social suicide, Rich knew Becca well enough to know that she had the social aptitude of a diplomat. He'd seen her in action. He crossed his arms and without a word dared Tristan to continue.
"I'm talking about Becca losing the entire estate and half her trust fund to her father's bastard son just a few months ago. It wasn't surprising when she turned tail and ran to New York . The only surprise is her having the guts to show up back here as if nothing happened."
Rich calmly paid the bartender and thanked her. He tucked his wallet back into his pants and motioned for Tristan to move closer. He put his hand on the guy's shoulder and brought his mouth close to his ear, so as not to be overheard.
"A couple things you should know. First is, that bastard you spoke of is my brother-in-law and one of my best friends. The second is that Becca found him and welcomed him into her family. Unlike you, she is not ruled by money or the whims of the social elite who have nothing more pressing to do than sit around pronouncing judgment on their so-called friends." He released the guy's shoulder when he realized how hard he'd been gripping it. "Obviously all your money and your position in The Social Register haven't given you what you really need: manners. Now excuse me, I'm going to take Becca her drink."
Rich turned back to the bar to get the drink and found Becca already sipping her martini. She had her mask firmly in place, which made Rich want to rearrange Tristan's face. A broken nose and jaw would be one way of giving the man a little character. "Hi Tris. I see you and Rich are getting to know one another."
Rich wrapped his arm around Becca and kept his mouth shut.
"Becca. I was just telling Rich—"
"That I turned tail and ran. Oh, and I committed social suicide. My my my. You sure make my boring move to Brooklyn to be closer to my brother and sister-in-law so much more interesting than it really was. I know you see work as a four-letter word, but if you should ever decide to do something useful with your life, you might want to try writing fiction. You seem to have a real gift."
God she was sexy when she completely deflated someone. Maybe it was the regal way she held her head while delivering the final blow. Rich considered the differences in their styles and decided he'd much prefer cleaning the a*shole's clock, but then Becca's way did have some advantages. Every time she got that queen of-all-things look about her, Rich's pants got tight.
Becca finished her drink, slipped an olive between her lips, and slid it off the toothpick. Rich couldn't take his eyes off her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, licked her lips, and set the glass on the bar before taking his hand. "Let's go say good-bye to everyone and then go home."
Oh yeah. He definitely liked the sound of that.