For the Love of Family (4 page)

He knew better. He’d been raised by a fabulous grandmother, and a brilliant mother, although she had died too young. It was, actually, an insult to those strong role models for him to sleep with women he didn’t really, in the bright light of day, even like very much.

Much less love.

Maybe now that the expansion had reached such a delicate point, when so much of the family history, and his grandmother’s security, was on the line, he should back off romance altogether for a while. If he got this business move wrong, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

He felt better just making the decision. Work now. Focus on Diamante, and make sure he protected the treasure his grandmother had entrusted to him.

Maybe later, when he’d earned it, a relationship. A real one, with a woman who had imagination, starch and charm.

He chuckled to himself, and his grandmother gave
him a sharp look. “What right have you to be so pleased with yourself?” she asked acerbically.

“I’m not.” He squeezed her arm. “I’m pleased with you.”

She grunted, pretending she didn’t believe him, but he knew she probably did, and might even be able to guess why. The two of them were simpatico. They understood each other in a special way.

He wondered, not for the first time, what Nana Lina would have thought of the bitchy, beautiful girl with the crystal earring.

How different would things have been if he hadn’t fallen asleep that fateful Halloween night?

E
VEN THOUGH SHE WAS
late to her dinner with George, Belle Carson was using every red light to check the Internet on her cell phone for other employment openings around town.

She was desperate. Over the past month, she’d tried everything from social-networking pages to the traditional want ads. She’d applied for every single job that included the word
writer
.

Copywriter. Ad writer. Freelance writer. Ghost writer. Web writer.

Surely one of them would come through. She saw one for a technical writer, but a blast from the horn behind her pointed out that the light had turned green. She’d apply for that one when she got back home tonight.

Home to the tableful of bills she was almost afraid to open. Home to the apartment she couldn’t really afford, now that she no longer had a roommate.

Her cell phone rang as she hit the gas. She glanced at the display. Her dad. She pressed the “ignore” button and kept driving. Ever since the revelation about her grandfather’s secret life, her dad’s had been snarlier than ever. She’d tried to be empathetic. The news had rocked him, more than the rest of them. It had undermined his sense of his own importance, his special place in the family.

But right now she wasn’t up to tending to his wounded ego. He probably just wanted to know how the job search was coming, and he’d hear the desperation in her voice, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

Desperation
. The word seemed extreme, and yet it fit. But was she desperate enough to take the job George Phelps had invited her to dinner to discuss?

She tried to calm herself. Maybe he wouldn’t offer the job tonight. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Maybe she’d have a little more time to make up her mind.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the life raft George was extending. It was a respectable job with acceptable pay and excellent benefits. But for her it would be a compromise job. Purely a punch-the-clock-and-pay-the-bills job.

She glanced at her phone, wondering if she should widen her search parameters. Was seventy-five miles too far to commute?

But she had reached the restaurant, one of the trendy bar-plus-gourmet-dinner places that had probably sprung up in the past fifteen minutes. Parking was impossible, and she had to use her last cash, a wrinkled five dollar bill, to pay for a valet.

She found George instantly, sitting at a window table.
He was hard to miss, a handsome forty-something who was probably six-foot-six and shaped like a string bean. They had worked together at the
El Marleen Beacon
, and he’d shared his Skittles with her when they both worked the copy desk at night. He’d toss the candy, and if she could catch it she could have it.

George had been laid off in one of the earliest rounds of cutbacks in the newspaper industry. But he had landed on his feet, becoming the well-paid communications director for a rapidly expanding local pizza franchise.

Expanding enough that he was ready to hire an assistant.

He stood as she arrived, bumping his head into the faux Tiffany lamp that dangled over the table. “Hey, there,” he said. “You look gorgeous.”

She grimaced, returned his kiss, then sat down with a sigh. “You’re not at work now, George. You don’t have to spin me. My hair looks like a fright wig. I’ve been in this suit since six this morning, and it’s half a size too small anyhow.”

He handed her a menu. “I know. That’s why you look gorgeous.”

She groaned and bent her head over the list of choices. Apparently you could get endive salad, romaine salad, spinach salad and salad–salad.

The waitress presented herself at the end of the table. Belle closed the menu and smiled. “I guess I’ll have the salad.”

“And a sloe gin fizz.” George raised one eyebrow. “Which you’ll stir around and around until it’s disgusting, but will never drink. If I remember correctly.”

She laughed, and waited while he placed his order, too. It was nice, being with him again. He was a lot better dressed than he had been on a journalist’s salary, but otherwise, he was the same delightful dork, too handsome for his own good and saved from being a boring yuppie only by the smart-as-hell twinkle in his eye.

“You know,” he said as he unfolded his napkin, “I keep hoping that someday I’ll get the whole disgusting truth about that sloe gin story.”

“Oh, good grief.” One very late night at the bar across the street from the newspaper, all the
Beacon
reporters had dissolved into helpless laughter because Belle confided that once, long ago, she’d had a tragic sloe gin fizz experience.

For a writer, she’d sure put that badly. When she made matters worse by earnestly explaining that she ordered the cocktail now just to remind herself that she never wanted to drink another one as long as she lived, the table had exploded.

She’d had to change jobs to get away from the jokes.

She scowled. “Damn it, George. Aren’t you supposed to pretend you don’t know all that embarrassing stuff? How can we have a proper interview, where I try to impress you with how mature and competent I am, if you keep bringing up all my dirty secrets? Mention the Skittles and I’m out of here.”

He sobered. He toyed with his fork and didn’t meet her eyes. “Well, are you, Belle? Trying to impress me? Are you interested in the job?”

She bit her lower lip, wondering how to respond. He knew her well enough to guess how little enthusiasm she
had for the position. When she first heard that he’d turned to public relations, she had felt sorry for him, wondering what it was like to be forced to play for the other side.

In journalism, PR reps were viewed at best like ants at the picnic, annoying but harmless. At worst, they were seen as sleight of hand artists, slipping the truth under a shell while they got you to look in another direction.

Belle could have gone into PR right from the start. Everyone knew it made more money. In fact, her father, who thought journalism was an underpaid profession that was probably dying, had tried to talk her into it.

But Belle had always wanted to write for a newspaper. Who knew when the seed had been planted? She couldn’t remember not wanting to be an investigative reporter, uncovering scandals, standing up for the little guy, facing down the corporate bigwigs, all the clichés.

She’d been preparing for it since her first day of college. You might say she’d spent her whole life preparing for it. Standing up to her militaristic father, refusing to let him get away with bullying the family…it had to be excellent training for the career she loved.

Two months ago, after years of inching her way up, she’d landed her first job at a real daily newspaper. It had been the happiest day of her life.

The idyll lasted a month. Then, after a particularly bad earnings report, management had been told to slash the budget. One month ago, just thirty days after getting her press badge, she and about fifty other people in the paper’s newsroom had been laid off.

She’d been job-hunting ever since. But, madden
ingly, her father seemed to have been right. Journalism as an industry was struggling. No one was hiring, or if they were, they were hiring people with thirty years experience, not thirty days.

Which was why, when George called her this morning, she hadn’t said an immediate, emphatic
no.

“I’m not sure,” she said, deciding to be honest. That they had a happy work history was the most tempting thing about the offer. George Phelps was an ethical man, and it would take more than a PR job to change that.

“I do need a job. Bad. David moved out two months ago, so I’m paying all the rent myself. I had bought a car, too. I thought…I thought I was set at the
Chronicle.
I wasn’t thinking I needed a fat savings account to fall back on just yet.”

He shook his head. “That must have been nasty. Losing David, then the job.”

The sloe gin fizz had arrived, and she found herself fiddling with it, buying time. She didn’t want to get into the David story. She hadn’t exactly
lost
him. But he was gone, and so was his half of the rent, which was the pertinent part.

“I want to stay in the newspaper business. You know how much it means to me. But I’m just not sure that’s going to be possible.”

George nodded. “There’s an army of ex-journalists out there right now, Belle. You’re all knocking on the same closed doors.” He looked at her straight. “The door at Diamante Pizza is wide open. I want you there. I think you’d be surprised. I think you’d be terrific at it.”

She felt ungrateful, not jumping at the chance. Ev
erything he said was true. And yet she had always been haunted by Zorro’s face that night, when he’d told her about the job he felt he had to accept. Kings in a tumbrel, on their way to the guillotine, probably had looked a lot like that.

She still thought about him now and then, especially when she stared down into a lukewarm sloe gin fizz. She always said a stupid little prayer that the job had turned out to be better than he’d feared. She didn’t like to think of those sexy eyes gone cold and dead, him staring out that corner window, wishing he had the courage to jump.

She took a deep breath. “I can’t say yes yet, George. I’m grateful, really I am. But I’ve had this dream so long. I can’t just—”

She frowned, breaking off. George wasn’t even looking at her anymore. He was staring over her shoulder, and his face had changed completely. No longer relaxed and natural. He was already rearranging his posture, his jawline, his eyes, morphing into his professional persona.

“Belle, I’m sorry,” he said, talking through a fixed smile. “I should have warned you.”

“Warned me about what?” Her back itched slightly from the urge to turn around, but something told her not to.

“I invited my boss. I thought you might need convincing, so I asked Matt to meet us here.”

She stiffened. “You did what?”

“You’ll like him, Belle. He’s a regular guy.” George never lost his smile. He was good at this deception game. Too good. She was going to kill him.

“You invited your
boss
to eat dinner with us?”

“No. He’s just coming by to say hello, and to answer any questions you might have. I thought it would be—”

“Oh, George, how could you—”

But it was too late to say any more. George was rising, his face alight and his hand extended. “Matt! I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve been telling Belle how great Diamante is, and all because of your leadership.”

God, he was laying it on with a trowel! But, though Belle still intended to wring George’s neck later, she couldn’t embarrass him in front of his boss. Besides, a self-protective part of her hadn’t forgotten that she might, in the end, truly need this job.

She swiveled in her chair, arranging a fake smile that was the mirror image of George’s. “Hello, Mr.—”

Oh, my God.

Thank heaven she was sitting down.

Otherwise, she would have tumbled like a rag doll, painted eyes staring, painted mouth frozen in helpless surprise.

She met his gaze, and eight years fell away like one tick of the clock, one grain of sand in the hourglass.

Though she hadn’t seen him in all those years, the man who stood before her wasn’t a stranger.

Or rather, that’s exactly what he was.

A stranger.
Her
stranger. Her masked man with strong arms, an easy laugh and kisses that tasted of beer and sugar cookies. The dangerously charming man who, except for the merciful hand of Fate, could have made
off that night with her virginity, her self-respect and, God help her, maybe even her heart.

She wished the room would stop spinning around her.

Because she was about to have a job interview with Zorro.

M
ATT HAD ARRIVED AT
the restaurant about twenty minutes late.

It was his own fault. He’d stayed at the beach too long this afternoon because he was enjoying the waves and unusually warm water, and, if he was honest, because he dreaded tonight’s dinner with Tiffani.

This was the goodbye dinner, and he suspected she knew it. She had to recognize that he’d been calling her less frequently, including her on fewer things…even finding himself too busy for sex.

Privately, he classified his lovers into two groups: the mosquitoes and the barnacles. Mosquitoes were light, easy to brush away when their presence began to irritate. Barnacles clung stubbornly, and were deceptively sharp to the touch.

He suspected Tiffani might prove to be a barnacle.

So he’d ignored the dropping sunlight and kept on surfing until Stony Jones, his surfing buddy today, had finally felt the need to mention the time. Stony knew Matt’s plans and, though he sympathized, he also understood that being late to the goodbye dinner just made things worse.

Which it obviously had. When Matt entered the restaurant after his quick shower, his hair still damp at the edges, he’d seen Tiffany sitting at “their” table, looking decidedly miffed. He’d caught her eye and shot her an apologetic smile.

Then he’d seen George, off to the left. Oh, crap. He’d forgotten that he’d promised to stop by and say hello to the new hire. He’d even dictated George’s dinner spot, to streamline his own schedule.

He’d held one finger up, silently promising Tiffani this wouldn’t take long, and headed over to his communication director’s table.

“George!” He put as much enthusiasm into the greeting as he could, given that Tiffani’s eyes were boring an acid hole in his back. “Sorry I’m late.”

George had risen, smiling with his usual warmth, showing no sign that he’d been kept waiting. George was one of the smartest hires Matt had ever made. For more than three decades, Diamante had been making fabulous pizza, but it wasn’t until George took over PR that the hungry hordes had discovered it.

George was the reason Matt felt Diamante was ready for this summer’s expansion. So if George wanted a young, out-of-work journalist for an assistant, as far as Matt was concerned it was a done deal.

And he was perfectly happy to stop by and put his blessing on the choice, if it made George more comfortable.

What was her name again? He’d been preoccupied with Tiffani and forgot to check his notes. Darn it…was it Beth? Began with a
B
, surely…

But of course George was too smooth to let Matt flounder.

“Matt, I’d like you to meet Belle Carson,” he said. “We worked together at the
Beacon
a couple of years ago. She’s fabulous, and I’m hoping she’ll consider the assistant job.”

Matt shook George’s hand, while he took in the woman’s springy blond curls and round blue eyes, the slim, girlish figure inside a boring blue suit.

He was mildly unimpressed. She wasn’t bad looking…if he spotted her at a party, he’d probably make a point of meeting her. But as a hire? She didn’t look tough enough to handle the expansion pace he was planning.

In fact, she looked scared to death.

Her handshake was firm, but her fingers were cold as ice water. Behind her blue eyes, he sensed a mind furiously trying to think of what to say.

Was he that intimidating?

“Hi, Belle,” he said, keeping his voice casual, unthreatening. “It’s great to meet you. George speaks very highly of you, and his recommendation means a lot to me.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “It means a lot to me, too.”

He let go of her hand, which seemed to give her a little relief, and glanced at George. He wondered whether this doe-eyed, sweet-faced Belle might be more to George than just a former colleague. Though Matt ordinarily didn’t concern himself with his employees’ personal lives, he’d always suspected George had an eye for a pretty woman. One player usually recognized another.

But this blushing innocent? He found the idea dis
tasteful on several levels. George was forty-three, and this woman couldn’t be more than what…twenty-five, tops?

Plus, it was bad business to bring sex into the workplace. If George was pursuing, and Belle was dodging, things could get sticky.

No, George was too smart for anything that dumb. But something wasn’t right here. Belle Carson could barely hold herself together.

She ran her fingers through her curls, as if to settle them down, which she must know wasn’t possible. They sprang right back to crazy life. She bit her lower lip, then quickly let go of it, as if lip biting was socially unacceptable.

She was actually kind of adorable, though blondes, especially ones with minimal curves, weren’t usually his thing. Still…those hot pink cheeks contrasted against the porcelain of her skin, giving her a Kewpie doll charm.

But this wasn’t charm school. It was business. How on earth was she going to handle PR if she couldn’t even handle the job interview?

“Any details I can help clear up?” He continued to smile. “Either of you have any questions?”

“No,” she began.

At the same time George said, “Yes.”

She ducked her chin, deferring to the men, but just as her eyes lowered Matt caught a glimpse of something…spunky. A flash that said she didn’t like being discounted.

A decidedly un-Kewpie doll flash. In that moment he wondered if she might deserve another look.

He turned to her, ignoring George. “I hope your lack
of curiosity doesn’t mean you’ve decided against the job already.”

“Oh, no,” George answered for her. “We hadn’t gotten far enough for any decisions. I was just about to tell her what an exciting time it would be to come on board.”

Matt nodded. “That’s true.”

She seemed to be regaining her poise, though she still looked wary. He kept talking, giving her more time to settle down.

“Thirty years ago Diamante began as one take-out Italian restaurant, where my grandmother cooked and my grandfather did the books. Now we have thirty pizza-delivery franchises, all along the California coast. In the next couple of months we’re opening twenty new franchises and introducing five new products.”

She was finally listening. Her eyes, now that they’d lost their deer-in-the-headlights expression, were intelligent, and she didn’t seem to be faking her interest.

“It does sound like a challenge,” she said.

“Yes. But it’s also a gamble. It’s the largest single expansion in the company’s history. We’re extending ourselves right to the cliff edge for this, and it has to succeed. That’s why we need the strongest possible PR team. We have to get the word out that Diamante pizza is the best pizza in California.”

“I see.” She hesitated. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “
Is
it?”

George made a sound. In a man less controlled and compulsively positive, it might have been a groan. He looked at Belle, sending silent messages with his eyes.

She didn’t take her gaze from Matt’s. She smiled
politely, but not apologetically. “It’s a legitimate question, George. Helping to get the word out about a first-class product is one thing. It’s a very different proposition to try to spin straw into gold.”

Matt had to fight back the urge to laugh. Yes, this lady had spunk, and she obviously had integrity. George had said she was desperate for work, but apparently she’d have to be a whole lot hungrier before she’d sell out.

Okay. He liked that. He had a quality product, and he ran a tight ship. He could afford to hire people with ethics.

“Have you never eaten a Diamante pizza?”

She shook her head.

“Then of course, before you make any decisions, you must do that.” He patted George on the shoulder. “Take care of it, would you? Send plenty, so she can share with her family and friends.”

He needed to wind this up. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt could see Tiffani rising. George wouldn’t have troubled her—she was used to Matt doing business at all hours. But he should have known she wouldn’t sit quietly while he chatted with a beautiful woman.

He saw Belle gaze in Tiffani’s direction, too. Then she brought her eyes back to Matt, and he thought perhaps they held a slight hint of disdain. She apparently didn’t admire his taste in women.

“I appreciate the pizza,” she said. “And I—I want you to know I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mr. Malone, but—”

“Call me Matt,” he said. She didn’t like that, either, apparently. She blinked quickly, as if to hide some unflattering thought.

He wondered why he was working so hard to persuade her. Colby and Red would undoubtedly say it was just his frustration at being thwarted. They’d probably applaud this woman for being one of the few who refused to fall at his feet.

She smiled, covering nicely. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she repeated, and he noticed that this time she didn’t call him anything. “But my decision is a little more complicated than that. The road between journalism and public relations travels only one way. If I take this position, it will almost certainly mean I’ll never go back to newspaper work.”

Wow. That went straight to the point, didn’t it? This woman really had some steel under that baby-doll exterior.

He tilted his head. “You mean you’ll be tainted by working at my company? You’ll be a ruined woman, so to speak?”

George shook his head and held out a hand, almost throwing himself between them.
Poor guy,
Matt thought, once again feeling the urge to laugh. George undoubtedly thought this interview was going up in smoke, when in fact Belle’s show of spine had only intrigued Matt.

“No, no,” George said heartily, “of course that’s not what she means. She—”

“It’s okay, George,” she said. “You’ve put it rather starkly, Mr. Malone. But essentially, yes, that’s what I mean. It may be unfair, but that’s how ethical newspapers would look at it.”

Before he could respond, Tiffani touched his shoulder. She gracefully tucked her hand up under his elbow,
staking her claim the way any self-respecting cavewoman would, without words or ambivalence.

“Hi, George,” she said. Then she nuzzled Matt’s shoulder. “Honey, can’t work wait?”

God, he wasn’t hosting the goodbye dinner a moment too soon. She was being civilized, but even that annoyed him tonight.

It wasn’t fair, but her dulcet tones irritated him, in contrast to Belle Carson’s uncompromising candor.

He introduced the two women, out of sorts with himself. “Okay, we’ll let you guys eat your dinner, then. George, nice to see you.” He turned to Belle. “Take your time with the decision. I don’t need my answer until Tuesday.”

Her eyes widened. “Tuesday?”

He knew three days didn’t sound like much. But he didn’t care. Though he liked her spark, if she didn’t want the job, plenty of other people would. Former journalists were lying thick on the ground right now.

“Tuesday,” he repeated. “I would like to have you on our team, Belle. You have guts. I like that.”

A strangely wistful half smile flirted at the edges of her mouth. He noticed that she glanced at Tiffani. “You do?”

“Yes. What I don’t like is indifference. If you join us, come with all the energy and enthusiasm you’ve got. My grandmother’s business is at stake. So unless you’re one hundred percent certain, your answer ought to be no.”

H
ELL, YES, HER ANSWER
ought to be no.

On Saturday afternoon, Belle had promised to drive out to Saint Francis Wood to see her mother. But she
drove around for a while first, trying to clear her head, and rehearsing about a hundred ways to say that all-important
no
.

She even wound her way up to Twin Peaks, just so she could assure herself that the For Sale sign on her grandmother’s house was still there. Her dad was chafing, already starting to blame the Realtors for the lack of buyers, but Belle secretly hoped it would never sell. She had so many memories there. In her mind’s eye, she couldn’t picture her grandfather anywhere else.

God, she missed her grandparents. Grandpa Robert would have backed her up a hundred percent about this. He’d know she wasn’t ready to give up the dream of being a journalist. She wasn’t ready to settle for second best.

And she definitely wasn’t ready to work for Matt Malone. To punch a clock as his insignificant peon, his hired hack’s charity-case assistant. Answer the phone when his brainless bimbos called, maybe get asked to be a dear girl and run out and buy something nice for a forgotten birthday.

Be a slave to the man who had lived in her deepest fantasies for the past eight years.

And worse still…risk the moment when he looked across the office and, because of some trick of light, finally recognized her.

No. She’d had a stroke of luck last night. He clearly hadn’t felt the tiniest tug of recognition, not even a fuzzy shimmer of memory. She wasn’t going to push her luck.

Her answer
would
be no.

She’d go home this weekend, as she’d planned, and
they’d eat Matt Malone’s free pizza, and then, on Monday morning, she’d call George and say thanks but no thanks.

But the whole thing had left her prickling with nerves.

The moment, straight out of one of her dreams, when she’d turned, and there he was…

And even worse, the moment when she’d seen Tiffani—pouty Tiffani with an
i
, which Belle had guessed even before George confirmed it. The moment when she’d realized that Matt Malone, the laughing, fiery Zorro of that never-forgotten night, was just another obnoxious alpha male who liked his women dumb and gorgeous.

She played the moments over and over in her head, until she nearly went mad. By the time she pulled into the front drive of her parents’ house, nestled on a quiet street in the beautiful neighborhood of Saint Francis Wood, she was so tired she almost couldn’t get out of the car.

Belle ordinarily looked forward to going home. She missed her mother, and now that Belle and her father didn’t live under the same roof—and he couldn’t threaten to kick her out every time she annoyed him—they seemed to get along better.