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He smacked her bottom, and she flipped over, reaching out to wrap him in her arms. Her mouth found his and again, the words fled as the desire took over. No need for words when there were sweet actions to perform, to savor, to revel in.
Her mouth opened to him, and he took full advantage, delving into all that was Mary Paige as her thighs welcomed him. But this would be no quick lovemaking. No, her body was a playground, and Brennan had spent far too long being a man who never played, who never savored.
So tonight he would eat that cold Chinese food gladly.
16
MALCOLMWATCHEDHISnephew, Joseph Asher Henry, sip his whiskey and eyeball the soup with a curled lip.
“Thought you loved seafood gumbo?”
Asher tossed him a jaded look. “Been so long, I suppose my tastes have changed. I’m much more accustomed to European cuisine.”
“I can’t imagine turning down Ernestine’s gumbo,” Brennan said, passing a basket of French bread from Leidenheimer, a bakery that was tops in turning out delicious, crusty loaves. “But to each his own. At least have the bread.”
Asher took a piece and set it on the Limoges china, and for the second time that evening, Malcolm wondered if it was a good thing Asher had come home in time for the company party. The past few weeks had been so smooth and joyful—two things not normally associated with Brennan. Malcolm was loath to have anything upset this new delicate balance.
“So, Brennan told me you’re going to marry again,” Asher said, favoring the liquor in his tumbler over the food. “Who’s her family?”
Malcolm shrugged. “She’s a Poche. From Chalmette.”
“Chalmette?” Asher looked puzzled.
“Or thereabouts,” Malcolm said, picking up the spoon and dipping it in the broth, allowing it to sail away and come back to his lips in proper soup-sipping fashion. “Her father’s a retired plumber.”
Asher shot a look at Brennan, who merely arched his eyebrows in a don’t-ask-me manner.
“I suppose you thought her family was an old Creole one? Or perhaps her great-grandfather an oil tycoon?”
“No, merely surprised. I thought you’d never marry again after being tied down to the original ballbuster.” Asher gave a look that was probably designed to encourage male bonding—a look more suited to the locker room than the dining room. “Aunt Cammie was the kind of woman who inspires a vow of bachelorhood.”
His nephew had always been a bit of a jackass, even if he was correct about Malcolm’s late wife, Camille. Before his illness, Asher’s snot-nosed attitude hadn’t bothered him much. The boy had sold his shares of MBH Industries, married a European supermodel, and moved to Switzerland. Asher was extraordinarily good-looking with enough polo-playing haughtiness and charm to get him invitations to any exclusive event he wished.
Brennan had always admired his older cousin to the point of obsession. Sunshine always seemed to sit upon Asher’s shoulders, and people often lingered near, as if his beauty and fortune might brush off on them. Few saw that beneath the perfection, he was a total charlatan. But the boywasfamily.
Still, Malcolm suspected something was rotten in Denmark, or rather, Switzerland. They had not seen hide nor hair of Asher in more than four years, and that trip had happened only because his wife, Elsa, had an American photo shoot.
“Judy’s the director of a home for mentally and physically challenged children and young adults and is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met. I’m honored she’s accepted my proposal,” Malcolm commented as Asher pulled out his phone and stared at the glowing screen before repocketing it.
“Then I’m pleased for you,” his nephew said with a nod. “Is Ellen coming for dinner?”
“She texted me she’d be late,” Brennan said, finishing the last of his soup. He had been particularly cheerful for the past few weeks. Even more peculiar, he left work early nearly every day, disappearing with little word of his planned activities. Of course, he still attended all the obligatory events for the Spirit of Christmas campaign alongside Mary Paige, except for the St. Thomas’s Christmas Bingo Bash. Mary Paige had chosen to attend her company’s small holiday dinner instead. Malcolm didn’t know whether it was wishful thinking on his part, but Brennan had appeared a little lost calling out numbers without her beside him. Hope had burgeoned at the thought Brennan might find a similar joy, as he had. At the very least Brennan might learn how beneficial service to others could be by experiencing it with Mary Paige.
“Ellen has a habit of being late, but because it’s often a result of her throwing herself into her work, I always let it slide.” Malcolm chuckled, taking another piece of bread even though he knew he shouldn’t. Never could resist the bread from Leidenheimer’s. “How are things for you, Asher? All is well in Bern?”
“Of course. Elsa would have come but decided to stay in Atlanta with friends. She sends holiday greetings and kisses, of course.” Asher tossed a glance toward Brennan, almost as though to rub it in that he was married to Elsa.
Irritation rose inside Malcolm at the reminder. Little shit.
Brennan had been the first one to meet the blonde model at a promotional shoot for a line of bathing suits. After they’d been dating for a while, it was clear Brennan was quite smitten with Elsa. She’d seemed to return his affections…until Asher had encountered her while on a summer jaunt in Rome. He’d culled her, wooed her, then stolen her away, giving no apology to his cousin for blatantly doing so.
Even worse than that foul act had been Brennan’s reaction. He hadn’t been devastated; had merely accepted the situation, as if it were understood that Asher would win.
Malcolm felt the sharp pinch of guilt at the role he might have played in perpetuating Brennan’s hero worship of Asher. Through his preoccupation with the business and making money, Malcolm had failed to provide guidance and a positive role model for Brennan. In that absence, he had fixated on Asher, who, on the surface, seemed almost perfect—gilded with money, success, and good genes. What Brennan didn’t seem to see was Asher’s ability twist all things to his advantage. Something Malcolm understood well since he’d spent most of his own life acting in a similar fashion.
But no longer.
“Is Elsa well?” Brennan asked, a subtle inquiry since Elsa had suffered a miscarriage nearly a year ago and it had devastated her.
