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Four
Hendrix nursed a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks as he hung out near the fireplace on the east end of the house and wished like hell he could blame the whiskey for the burn in his throat. But that pain was pure Roz.
And maybe some leftover crap from the discussion with Jonas and Warren, where his so-called friends had made it known in no uncertain terms how weak they thought he was when it came to women.
He could go without sex. He could. Hadn’t he walked away from Roz when she’d said walk? If that wasn’t a stellar test of his iron will, he didn’t know what was. And he’d passed.
So why was he still so pissed? His skin felt like a hundred ants were crawling over it as he failed yet again at keeping his eyes off his fiancée. She lit up the room as she talked to his mother. So what if anyone caught him staring? He and Roz were engaged and he was allowed to look at her. In fact, he’d say it was expected.
The unexpected part was how...fierce the whole encounter in the kitchen had made him. Someone had upset Roz and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like how fragile she’d felt in his arms as he did his best to beat back whatever was going on with her internally. But she’d snapped out of it like the champ she was and he’d had a hard time letting her go when what he really wanted to do was explore that lush mouth of hers. That wasn’t what she’d needed. Wasn’t what he needed, either.
Okay, it was what he needed all right. But he also needed to prove to everyone—and maybe to himself—that he had what it took to reel back his sex-soaked lifestyle. If he’d learned to do that when his mother had asked him to, Vegas wouldn’t have happened and there’d be no photograph of Hendrix’s bare butt plastered all over the internet.
Paul Carpenter loomed in Hendrix’s peripheral vision and then the man parked near him with a lift of his glass. “Haven’t had a chance to speak to you one-on-one yet.”
“No, sir.”
Hendrix eyed the older man whose wealth and power in the retail industry eclipsed almost everyone in the world. Certainly a smaller chain like Harris Tobacco Lounge had nothing on Carpenter Furniture, nor did people get vaguely distasteful looks on their faces when talking about the business Roz’s father had founded. Tobacco wasn’t in vogue any longer, not the way it had been in the late eighties when Helene had partnered with her brother to build a string of shops from the ground up. Hendrix had joined the company almost a year after Uncle Peter died and then worked ninety hours a week to pull miracle after miracle from thin air to increase revenue over the past decade as he gradually took over the reins from his mom.
But Hendrix didn’t assume for a moment that a man like Paul Carpenter respected one thin dime of Harris tobacco money, regardless of how hard he and his mom had worked for their fortune.
Mr. Carpenter eyed Hendrix as he swished his own amber liquid around the ice in his highball. “I suppose soon enough you’ll be my son-in-law.”
“Yes, sir.” Why did it feel like he’d been called to the principal’s office? He’d bet every last dollar of Harris money that Carpenter didn’t think Hendrix was good enough for his daughter. “Roz is pretty important to me.”
Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe this conversation. Hendrix shifted his stance. Didn’t help.
“She’s important to me, too,” Paul said with a small smile. “It’s just been the two of us since she was eight, you know.”
“Yes, she mentioned that her mother had passed away.” It was something they had in common—a missing parent. But Carpenter hadn’t thrown that tidbit in for anything close to the same reason as Roz had. At the time, they’d been playing truth or dare and doing Jell-O shots off each other’s bare stomachs. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
The memory of Roz’s hot body decked out on the bed with the little circle of raspberry gelatin covering her navel slammed through his senses with far more potency than he’d have expected given that he’d just had the woman in his arms less than fifteen minutes ago.
Problem was that she’d been dressed. And off-limits. And probably even if he’d had permission to boost her up on the
counter so he could get underneath that black dress, he’d still want her with a bone-deep ache. That had happened in Vegas, too. He couldn’t get enough of her skin, her abandon, the way she was always game for whatever he did next.
And that was a conviction of his crimes as much as anything else. He had few memories of Roz that didn’t involve her naked. That was the way he liked it...and lent entirely too much credence to everyone’s certainty that he was a walking boner, panting after the next piece of tail he could get his hands on.
God, what was wrong with him? He was having a conversation with his future father-in-law and all he could think about was casting the man’s daughter in the dirtiest sex scenario imaginable.
Something that might have been a blush if he’d been a girl prickled across his cheeks. But embarrassment wasn’t something he did. Ever. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Except for the handful of scandals he’d managed to fall into over the past few years—Roz had certainly not been the first. She was just the one that had been the most worth it.
He sighed as Paul nodded his thanks over Hendrix’s condolences. Maybe if he thought about something else, like cars, he could pretend the hard-on he’d been carrying around since Roz walked through his front door would eventually go away.
“I’m not one to pry,” Paul said in that tone people used when they meant the exact opposite of what they’d just claimed. “And it’s none of my business. But I wanted you to know that if you’re marrying Roz to eliminate the scandal, I approve.”
“You, um...what?” Hendrix swallowed. It didn’t work. Throat still burned. He gulped enough whiskey to choke a horse, coughed and then had to wipe his watering eyes.
Paul Carpenter approved of Hendrix’s marriage to Roz. As if Hendrix was someone he might have picked out for his daughter. It was as shocking as it was unbelievable.
For the first time in his life, he’d been automatically accepted by a male of note, one he wasn’t related to, whom he admired, one whose approval he would have never sought, save this specific situation. And he’d never expected to get it.
“It’s high time that Roz take responsibility for the questionable decisions she makes, especially the one that led to so much trouble for you and your mother’s campaign. I appreciate that you’ve been a willing party to the fix.” Paul accompanied that word with two fingered air quotes.
The elation that had accompanied the man’s initial statement fizzled. Fast.
A willing party? As if Roz had somehow seduced him into indulging a one night stand and then orchestrated the photograph? As if Hendrix had been an innocent victim of her stupidity?
