Sheryl Nantus: Family Pride

“I thought I gave you a key.” I smiled as Bran stepped in. The dark blue suit was tailored to fit in all the right places, the white shirt spotless and freshly starched. The matching tie was a fraction crooked, enough to urge me to grab it and either fix it or rip it off.

“Yeah but I didn’t want to spook you.” His stare started down at my feet and moved up, slowly and deliberately tearing the clothing off me with his gaze. “Haven’t seen you in that outfit before.”

“Ditto.” I exhaled, feeling the familiar tingle down my spine. “Damn, you look hot.”

“Not enough time.” He held up a hand, a lustful grin spreading across his face. “Not enough time.”

He was lying and I knew it. And he knew I knew it.

I glanced toward the couch and licked my lips. “Race ya.”

We arrived at Sergio’s at five minutes to eight, tumbling out of a cab. I’d heard of the restaurant before—they had faboo seafood and steak and I’d never been able to afford to eat there. It was one of those places that scanned your wallet at the door and if you didn’t have enough credit or cash on hand they’d toss your ass out on the street. You didn’t eat there unless you were someone or you knew someone.

“Your tie is crooked.” I reached over and fiddled with the silk strip, so recently draped over the back of the couch.

“Your panties are as well, if I recall correctly,” Bran shot back. “Want me to fix those?”

I giggled. The smell of good sex was intoxicating and a small voice at the back of my mind reminded me about the importance of making a good impression on his parents, blah blah blah. We stumbled up to the front door and past the long line waiting for a chance to get a table and eat sometime in the next six hours. The thick-necked security guard nodded at us as if we were weekly visitors.

Michael Hanover waited in the small lobby, his wife on his arm. He wore a black suit and light blue shirt, impeccably fitted with a salmon-colored tie. Bernadette matched him in another black dress, much like mine but without the wrinkles.

Not to mention a nasty dark spot near my knee from a forgotten chocolate candy.

I had to clean that couch more often.

“Brandon. Rebecca,” Michael said with a nod. “Glad you could join us.”

I noticed heads turning and the whispering starting from nearby groups of socialites, more than a few women checking out Bran. I resisted the urge to bare my teeth and turned back to the waiting parents.

“Rebecca, you look lovely,” Bernadette joined in, giving me a wide smile that screamed fake. The diamonds in her ears and around her throat were real, catching every bit of light in the room to shine like a dozen supernovas.

We were the center of attention.

I hate attention. When people notice you they tend to notice too much. They study you and make judgments, try to figure out what they can get from you and what they can use you for.

I liked staying in the shadows.

Bran squeezed my hand, bringing me out of my daze. He gave me a reassuring smile and a wink, reminding me this would last a few hours and then we’d be free of this stifling alternative universe where I was pretty sure no one collected pennies.

The maître d’ scrambled to put us at a private table at the far end of the room, cut off from the rest of the diners with a three-paneled divider painted with images of Italian villas. I settled down behind a menu the size of my Jeep and tried not to look intimidated at the variety of food assaulting my senses.

There was no way to avoid the onrush of scents coming from the kitchen. Lobster, steak, scallops, shrimp, al dente pasta, grilled asparagus, fresh basil and thyme, red wine and whiskey. My head was swimming from trying to catalogue the delicious smells trampling over my tongue.

“Rebecca,” Bernadette purred, “I recommend the steak. Kobe beef, flown in daily.”

The comment came to me in a haze as I blinked, trying to put together the words and the sounds rushing in from around us. Kitchen natterings from the staff, mutterings from the nearest tables, the waiters rushing around and mumbling under their breath about cheap bastards and expensive whores.

As a Felis I’d been trained to be always be aware of my surroundings, sometimes painfully so. Over the years I’d learned how to dial down the signal, tamp the white noise around me to allow me to survive the overwhelming smells and sounds crashing through my mind’s eye.

I was dangerously close to losing it. There was so much going on, so much to pay attention to and so many different scents vying for attention.

It didn’t help that I was on edge, my nerves jingle-jangling at every strange sound and smell.

“Rebecca?” Bernadette repeated.

“Yes. That would be nice,” I answered, fighting my way out of the mental cloud.

The waiter hovered nearby, pen waiting.

I fumbled my way through ordering the steak, baked potato and mixed vegetables. The waiter didn’t flinch when I asked for the meat to be rare.

Bran gave me a curious look as he and his parents placed their orders. I rubbed the tip of my nose, hoping he’d catch on to the reason for my temporary confusion.

“Mom, tell me about this newest charity you’re involved with. Something about prisons?” He took over the conversation as I sorted through the mental chaos and balanced myself again, taking short, sharp breaths to anchor myself.

Bran patted my hand as his mother leaped into a cheerful litany about her new love, another rehab program for ex-convicts. I couldn’t complain about their efforts; I’d seen some good work come out of those organizations. Sure it was a way for the rich to dump money and get tax write-offs but a lot of men and women got a foot up into a new, clean life.

The food arrived. I tried not to drool over the fat slab of near-raw meat on my plate. A handful of vegetables scattered around the edges of the steak completed the picture.

“Do you deal with a lot of criminals, Rebecca?” Bernadette sliced an asparagus spear into tiny bite-sized pieces.

“Not as many as you’d think.” I followed suit, making mine even smaller. “Most of my clients have marital problems.” The green stalk held a bit of char from the grill. “You’d be surprised how many normal people have problems in their marriage.”

Her cool eyes caught mine with the efficiency of a laser sight. “How sad. Are they mostly based on money or love?”

I popped the tip into my mouth and chewed slowly, buying time for my answer. Bran, caught up in a discussion with his father over the future of ebooks and investing in same, kept watching me for signs of distress.

“Usually one leads to the other.” I speared a thin slice of steak. The piece of meat sat at the end of my fork, dripping blood. “If you marry for money you’re likely to leave when the money runs out. If you marry for love you’ll stay together through thick and thin.”

“I see,” she replied. “And which do you prefer?”

I looked over at Bran, still mired in the conversation with his father. “Love. Because in the end everything else can be taken from you but love lasts forever.”

Bernadette drew her fork over the china. “Well played.”

“Excuse me?”

Her eyes met mine, sharp and piercing. “I’ve seen gold diggers before. You think you’re the first to try and seduce my son, take control of the Hanover fortune?”

I resisted the urge to stab her with my fork.

It’d ruin the taste of the Kobe beef.

I leaned in and dropped my voice to a whisper. “If you’ve done your homework you’ll know I’m no dumb blonde looking to score a rich man. I had no idea who your son was when I first met him and I didn’t know you two existed until this morning.”