Jessica Bird - Until You're Mine

Which, in spite of her resolve, was about as often as the grandfather clock downstairs spoke up.

Basically, every fifteen minutes.

“Maybe you and Tom should go out sometime,” Frankie said.

Joy shrugged. “Maybe.”

As her sister left the room, Joy sat on the bed. She knew her fixation on Gray was unhealthy. Getting tangled up in fantasies about some man she saw maybe five or six times a year was ridiculous. And it wasn’t as if he encouraged her. Whenever Gray came up to the lake in the summer and she ran into him in town, he was always friendly. He even remembered her name. But that was as far as it ever got.

Well, except in her dreams. Then it went a whole lot further.

In real life, however, the attraction was totally one-sided. She was pretty certain about how Gray perceived her and it was just what she thought of Tom, the line cook. Nice. Sweet. Young.

Completely unremarkable.

And the truly pathetic thing was, even though she knew all that, even though she wanted to forget about Grayson Bennett, she still couldn’t wait to see him tonight.

Gray worked his father’s tie into a Windsor knot. Ever since the stroke five months ago, Walter Bennett’s left side wasn’t working right. The physical rehab helped, and with time’s passing his brain had recovered some, but his fine motor skills were still compromised.

“You ready for tonight, Papa?”

“Yes. I. Am.” The words were slow and slightly garbled.

“Well, you look sharp as hell.” Gray measured his efforts. A little tug to the right and the tie was perfect.

Walter tapped his chest with a gnarled hand, pushing aside the strip of bright red silk. “Happy. Very. Happy.”

“Me, too.” Gray smoothed the tie back into place.

“Are. You?”

Gray walked over to the bureau and picked up his father’s gold cuff links. They were heavy in his hand, marked with the Bennett family crest. He had a pair just like them, given to him when he’d turned eighteen and headed off to Harvard.

His father stamped his foot, a habit he’d developed when he had to get someone’s attention. “Are. You?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t. Lie.” Walter was stooped with age, far shorter than he’d been when he’d had his youth, but he was still a big man. And although he wasn’t fierce by nature, not like his only son, when he wanted to be, he could be very direct. The trait was no doubt one of the reasons he’d been such a successful federal judge in D.C.

Gray smiled to reassure his father. “I’m looking forward to getting back to Washington.”

Which was lie number two.

Walter huffed as his cuff links were put on and Gray had the feeling he was being given a stiff lecture in his father’s head.

“You. Should. Talk. More.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“There are much better subjects. Besides, you know the Dr. Phil stuff’s never been my thing.” Gray stepped back. “Okay, Papa. You’re done. I need to shower and change.”

“Change,” his father said. “Change. Is. Good.”

Gray nodded, but cut off the conversation by heading for his own room. On his way down the hall, he paused in front of Cassandra’s guest room.

And sometimes change wasn’t so good.

After he’d learned about Cassandra’s husband’s death, Gray had made a point of going to New York City to see her in person. He’d worried that with Reese gone, she’d be all alone in the midst of the Manhattan social tilt-a-whirl. Fortunately, their mutual friend, Allison Adams, and her husband, the senator, had taken to watching over the new widow like a hawk. But it was still a difficult time.

If Gray and Allison hadn’t ridden her so hard, Cass never would have agreed to come up for the weekend. She’d have continued to nurse her broken heart in that big penthouse on Park Avenue all by herself.

Gray kept walking. Cassandra and Allison were two unusual women for the circles he ran in. They loved their husbands and were faithful to them.

Which was why Reese’s death struck him as unfair.

Most of the ladies Gray knew, and he used the term lady loosely, thought fidelity was something you had for a clothing or shoe designer. The fact that some sap slid a diamond on their finger and they’d thrown on a white dress made little impression on their libidos.

But maybe he was just bitter.

Yeah, only a little, he thought.

Gray shut the door to his room and took off his polo shirt. He’d had a lot of women come on to him over the years and a good number had been married. But he couldn’t blame his distrust of the fairer sex solely on his contemporaries.

No, he’d learned his first lessons at home.

From mommy dearest.

Belinda Bennett was a blue-blooded, well-moneyed beauty. Real top-drawer stuff if you looked at her Mayflower roots and all that patrician bone structure. Unfortunately, she was first and foremost a harlot. A rebellious, misbehaving, spoiled brat who seemed determined to make her mark on her back.

As if getting screwed by men who didn’t give a damn about her was a badge of independence.

God, the things she’d done to his father. The humiliation. The degradation. And all of it caused by what she’d done with his friends at the club. His tax attorney. His own cousin. As well as the gardener, her tennis instructor, the choir master.

Hell, even Gray’s camp counselor and his prep school English professor hadn’t been off-limits. And she’d also managed to find her way into the pants of two of his buddies from college. Former buddies, that was.

Gray turned the shower on, kicked off his shorts and stepped under the water.

His father was a good man. Weak when it came to love, but a good man. Unfortunately, this combination meant he’d stayed in the marriage even though he’d known what was happening. Even though his heart had gotten broken over and over.

Which was precisely what happened when your principles outweighed your common sense. You got spanked.

Courtesy of the spectacle, Gray had decided long ago never to let a woman get into his head, much less the center of his chest. He’d been called a misogynist by quite a number of them, and though that was hardly something he was proud of, he’d never denied the charge.

Gray couldn’t imagine trying out what his father had attempted and failed at. He couldn’t fathom the idea of finding a woman he could really trust and marrying her.

Ah, hell. Maybe he was just a coward.

Gray snorted as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

Yeah, and if he was such a pansy, why were so many members of the Senate and the House of Representatives scared of him? And the President of the United States might not be wary, but he sure as hell took Gray’s calls, no matter where the man was, no matter who he was with.

No, it wasn’t cowardice that had him pulling the I-am-an-island routine. It was a complete lack of myopia. He saw clearly the truth other men didn’t. If you gave anyone the power to hurt you, soon enough, they were going to use it.

Gray walked into his closet, picked out a navy-blue suit and a button-down shirt, and tossed them onto the bed. He pulled on the pants and was zipping them up when he caught a flash of movement outside.

His hands stilled and he leaned toward the window.

He’d know that strawberry-blond hair anywhere.

Joy Moorehouse was coming down his driveway on a bicycle, her long mane of curls streaming out behind her like a flag. She pulled up to the side of the house, looked around and seemed to realize she’d overshot the service entrance. Slipping off the bike, she walked it around to the back, away from view.

Gray’s body slammed into overdrive, his blood pumping, his muscles twitching as if he were about to run after her.