Off-key, no less. But when she tapped her toes to some ditty that ran through her head and the tip of her tongue sneaked out between her sweet, soft lips, the next thing he knew he had a sudden need to—
“Don’t worry, you’re perfect.” Brooke leaned over the passenger door of the convertible and offered her brother a friendly grin. “Making all the girls wild, as usual.”
He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m afraid it’s the other way around lately.”
That earned him a surprised lift of her shapely eyebrow. “Don’t tell me someone’s finally gotten under big, bad Parker’s skin.”
“Not a chance,” he assured her, popping out of the car and coming around to give her a hug. “But who are you sneaking around with these days?”
All the color drained from Brooke’s usually rosy cheeks. “What?” She half laughed and accepted his hug. “You must have me mixed up with my far more social twin.”
He released the embrace, but held her shoulders tightly and searched her face, a pang of guilt twisting through him. He’d promised Stephen he’d call her this week and he hadn’t even remembered. He’d been so caught up in… Anna.
“Are you okay?” he asked, unwilling to let go of her shoulders. “Stephen told me you’ve been pretty miserable since the whole Cassie Sinclair thing came out.”
Her eyes filled, but she blinked back the tears. “I’m having a hard time, Parker,” she replied. “What Dad did was, well, unforgivable. And to let us know like that. During the reading of his will.” She inched out of his grip with a shudder of anger.
He slid his arm around her as they crossed the brick driveway and approached the massive glass-and-mahogany entrance to the Spanish-style villa.
“I know how you feel,” Parker commiserated. “Mad and hurt and disillusioned. And, hell, we’re still in mourning.
I can’t believe I’m going to walk into this house and he isn’t going to be on the back veranda, drinking in the ocean view, ready to dissect every nuance of the past workweek and plan the attack for the next one.”
She raised her delicate jaw so the sunlight caught the dip of the Garrison cleft in her chin. “That’s your job now, Parker.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said, the weight of the “patriarch” role weighing heavy on his shoulders. “Those are big shoes to fill.”
“No problem,” she assured him with a gentle elbow to the ribs. “You’ve got big feet.”
Before they even reached the last of the wide stucco stairs that led to the entrance, the doors opened and Lisette Wilson, the real keeper of the Garrison house, appeared in her standard navy-and-white uniform, looking a bit older than her fifty-five years.
The loss of John Garrison had hit their longtime housekeeper hard, but Parker knew that something more than that was working on Lisette.
“Hello, Lisette,” he greeted her with a gentle hand to her shoulder, while she gave a nod to him and a peck on Brooke’s cheek. “How are you?” Parker asked.
She answered that with pursed lips feathered with a dozen tiny creases. “I’m fine, Mr. Parker, but I can’t say the same for your mother. The bottle has been open since eleven this morning.”
He felt his sister sink into him. “Oh,” Brooke said. “Thanks for the warning, Lisette.”
Behind the housekeeper, Adam strode into the oversize entryway, a frown on his angular face. “I’m leaving,” he said gruffly. “Sorry, but I’d rather be anywhere but here listening to her rant about Ava Sinclair.”
“Ava who?” Brooke asked. “Is that Cassie’s mother?”
“Yes,” Parker said. “Brandon Washington has been doing some digging. The woman, Dad’s, uh, friend, passed away about a month before he did.”
“And I’m supposed to feel bad about that?” Bonita ambled in and leaned shakily on a wide stone column that marked the entrance to a sprawling living room, a glass of something potent in her hand. She shook a strand of hair off her face, revealing some makeup streaked under her eyes. “Maybe your father died of a broken heart when his mistress croaked.”
Parker’s heart sank. Mother was loud, rough and blasted.
Lisette immediately stepped to her side. “Why don’t I take you upstairs to freshen up while the children gather, Mrs. Garrison,” she said, as gently as if she were talking to a petulant toddler. “Mr. Stephen should be here soon, and maybe Miss Brittany. I daresay we’ll have a full house tonight, and I made braised beef.”
“I don’t like braised beef,” his mother whined, but she allowed herself to be led up a winding staircase, mumbling under her breath as she clutched the wrought iron railing.
Adam blew out a disgusted breath and continued toward the front door. “I’m outta here.”
“Wait,” Brooke said, going after him. “Come on, Adam. We need to be a family.”
“You need to be a family,” he shot back. “I need to be somewhere else.” He opened the door to leave just as Stephen walked up the stairs. Wordlessly, Adam pushed past his brother with Brooke on his tail.
“Adam, please,” she called. “She’ll sober up.”
“Just enough to insult you, Brooke.”
“No, wait, Adam.”
Stephen stepped aside to let his siblings barrel by, a bemused smile aimed at Parker. “Another Sunday in paradise, I see.”
Parker shook his head. “For this, I gave up work.”
Stephen laughed lightly and gave his brother a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Spoken like a true Garrison, bro. But I bet the old man isn’t up in heaven saying, ‘I should have spent more days at the office.’ “
“What do you mean? You’re as much of a workaholic as I am,” Parker said as the two of them headed toward the back of the house, drawn by the scents of Lisette’s cooking and the possibility of a relaxing, private moment together.
Out of habit, they went straight through the bank of French doors to the veranda. A cool breeze blew the dozens of queen palms that lined the limestone patio, exotic scents of tropical flowers wafting from the planters that surrounded an Olympic-size pool that no one actually used.
Stephen ambled to the marble-topped wet bar and poured two fingers of Dad’s single malt into cut-crystal tumblers.
“In honor of the old man,” he said, giving one glass to Parker and holding the other in a mock toast.
“We’re as bad as mom,” Parker said drily.
“Nah. This is my first and it’s five o’clock.”
Parker acknowledged that with a nod. “Yeah, yeah.” But he barely sipped the hot, amber liquid, clunking the glass down on the bar. “It’s been a helluva week.”
Stephen
