Joan Johnston - Invincible

“There’s nothing going on with my mother except a desire to keep all her lambs in the fold,” Max shot back.

“What mother wouldn’t want her children with her on Mother’s Day?” Veronica pointed out.

“Mine.”

Max didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t about to tell a reporter from the Times how seldom he’d seen his mother since his parents had split up. How visits with her, from the age of seven onward—when he’d been shipped off to boarding school—had been prized, because they’d been so few and far between. And how often those visits had been canceled.

He and his brothers had spent their lives in one English or European or American boarding school after another. There had been so many because whenever one or another of them had done something to get himself thrown out, the others had refused to stay where they weren’t all welcome. As the youngest, Max had created his own share of the carnage.

None of them had held a candle to Oliver. Oliver had a gift. He could destroy as easily with words as with a blow.

But, of course, Oliver had a greater burden to bear than any of the rest of them.

Max had heard the rumors about who’d really sired his eldest brother, who had dark brown eyes, rather than blue or gray, like both of their parents and the rest of his siblings. Max wasn’t sure what he believed. But he’d more than once defended both his mother’s—and his brother’s—honor.

Max had been lonely at the end, because he was five years younger than his next older brother, Payne. His brothers had all gone on to university—or not—and he’d been left behind. Sometimes he wondered how Lydia had managed. Being the only girl, and nearly two years younger than he was, she’d been all alone from the start.

“You’re not being fair, Max,” Veronica said with a petulant pout that made him realize how much he would have enjoyed having that mouth, with those full lips, taking full advantage of his body.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

“Promise you’ll bring me back here?” she said, moving close again.

Rather than reply in words, he took her in his arms and kissed her, giving the effort his full attention. And comparing the kiss, inevitably, with kissing K. He and K definitely had unfinished business. Whether she came to work with him or not, he hadn’t seen her for the last time. He realized the woman he held in his arms wasn’t the one he wanted to be kissing and let her go.

“You won’t forget me, Max,” Veronica said in a breathy voice when he released her.

“Believe me, Veronica, you’re unforgettable,” Max said with a teasing wink. He would never forget how difficult it had been to concentrate on this woman when he was thinking about another.

Veronica smiled and he watched her shoulders relax.

“Excuse me while I visit the powder room,” she said. She turned and he realized she had no idea where it was.

He pointed her in the right direction. “In there.”

He almost groaned with regret as he watched the sexy sway of her hips as she walked away. He was sure she had the sexual sophistication to please him a great deal in bed. Veronica turned to glance at him over her shoulder, her long blond hair swinging free, and smiled. The invitation remained.

He should take advantage of it. He should cross the room and take her in his arms and finish what he had, by God, started.

But there was no way he could enjoy partaking of such delicious fruit until he’d settled things one way or the other with K. He was going to have to talk with her again. He was going to have to convince her to work with him. If for no other reason than to prove to himself that the woman wouldn’t—simply couldn’t—live up to his memories of her.

Maybe he ought to go to America for Mother’s Day. He could stop by The Seasons and find out what the hell his mother wanted.

More importantly, he’d be on the same continent as K. He could take a flight down to Miami and talk some sense into her. Because he wasn’t going to have any peace until he did.

“Another gift has arrived, Your Grace, along with a note declining your invitation.”

Bella growled with frustration, then put a hand to her heart, which was beating hard enough from anxiety to hurt. What if none of her children showed up? She couldn’t bear the thought. Did they despise her so much? Or were they truly as busy as they claimed to be?

Bella forced herself to take a deep, calming breath as she settled onto a rock-hard horsehair Victorian sofa. The sofa had survived fire and plague and pestilence over the centuries, which was why the uncomfortable thing still stood in the parlor at The Seasons.

She took several more deep breaths but didn’t feel the least bit calmed. Oliver, Riley and Payne had already rejected her invitation, citing business commitments. “Who sent the latest gift?” she asked her assistant. “Lydia or Max?”

“It’s from Lady Lydia,” Emily said.

“So Max might still come.”

“We can always hope, Your Grace.”

Bella eyed the young woman. “But you don’t believe he’ll show.”

“We can always hope,” Emily repeated. “You know how busy everyone is. According to the report from Warren & Warren Investigations, Courtland—I mean, the earl—Oliver—is purchasing ranch land in Argentina. Lord Riley is negotiating for oil tankers in Hong Kong. And Lord Payne…” A thoughtful frown wrinkled her forehead before she said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Warren reported that Lord Riley is on a ship somewhere in the Aegean, researching an underwater archeological find.”

“And Lydia’s excuse?” Bella asked.

“According to the note that came with your gift, she’s in Venice. She mentioned something about hunting down a stolen painting.”

Bella picked up a needlepointed pillow from the sofa and threw it across the room toward the elaborately carved white marble fireplace. It fell short. She hissed with fury.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Emily asked, rushing to her side.

“I’m fine, Emily,” Bella said with irritation. “There’s nothing wrong with my heart. Go back to your knitting.”

Emily reluctantly crossed the room, picked up a pair of knitting needles and a partially completed blue wool sweater from a silk-brocade-covered wing chair, and sat down.

“You know what I hate most about what’s happening here?” Bella said.

Over the clack of her knitting needles Emily asked, “What’s that, Your Grace?”

“The smug look I’m going to see on my brother-in-law’s face when only one of my children shows up here today.” Bella heard footsteps on the creaky, carpeted wooden Gone-With-the-Wind staircase in the central hallway of the nearly four-century-old home. She glanced over her shoulder and found Foster Benedict, Bull’s younger brother—and her nemesis—standing in the doorway to the parlor. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered.

“Good morning, Bella,” he said with surprising cordiality.

Bella watched as Foster crossed to a breakfront where a silver coffee service and a selection of pastries had been set out by the butler. Foster had been incensed when she’d told him she intended to have her children visit her for Mother’s Day at The Seasons. He’d already made plans to have his children meet their mother there. He’d ordered her to go somewhere else.

Bella had refused. Since she was still Bull’s wife, she was entitled to use of The Seasons. Instead, she’d suggested Foster have his family join hers, as they had during holidays in years gone by. Given no other choice, he’d agreed.

“It seems it won’t be as crowded here this weekend as I feared,” Foster said.

Bella saw the superior look on his face in the gilded mirror behind the breakfront. And heard the satisfaction in his voice. Foster expected five of his seven children—two of his four sons and his three teenage daughters—to be on hand today. He must be aware that at least four of her five children would not.