In His Good Hands (19 page)

A buzzing party atmosphere spilled out of the open doors. Above the voices, laughter and the tinkling of glasses, he could hear music. Karaoke was in full swing in the private room at the back. A woman was singing, badly off-key.

Brett ordered a draft beer at the bar. Sipping through the foam, he picked his way across the lounge to the function room. In the low lighting, three long tables were crowded with partygoers. Dinner
was
over, judging by the empty plates, but the drinks were still flowing.

Renita was the singer on the dais, holding a microphone up to her red-lipsticked mouth. She wore a short black dress with a plunging neckline. With her head thrown back, she belted out a song about needing a hero. Her voice cracked on the high notes, but what she lacked in musicality she made up for in enthusiasm.

He had to chuckle at seeing yet another side to her. She was still his buddy, his pal. Yet now Renita was hot, even if she still didn’t know it. No, she wasn’t his “type.” That’s what he loved about her.

The song ended to a drunken roar of applause from the tables in front. A blond woman in a V-necked top and black pants climbed up eagerly to take the microphone. Renita, tottering slightly in four-inch heels, stepped off the platform with elaborate care, arms raised for balance. Safely on the floor, she flung back her hair with a triumphant smile.

Brett started forward, hand raised to catch her attention. Before he could make eye contact, a slick young dude in a sports jacket guided her to an empty chair…beside his. One hand held hers and his other hand was on her waist.

No, now his hand was on her butt. Brett’s smile flattened. He lengthened his stride to rescue Renita from this groping lounge lizard, but he nearly stumbled when she leaned in flirtatiously, all but batting her eyelids at the guy. The creep murmured in her ear. Renita laughed and rested her hand on his forearm.

Brett came to a halt, trying to figure out what was going on here. Renita wasn’t the type to flaunt her body, yet that’s exactly what she was doing.

Thanks to Amber, he was all too familiar with the body language of a woman on the prowl. Renita was preening, touching her hair, pushing her arms together and leaning on the table to emphasize her cleavage.

She was also drunk. When she raised her glass she nearly missed her mouth, then giggled when a few drops of sparkling wine fizzed down her chin. No wonder she was acting this way. She didn’t know what she was doing.

Her admirer immediately topped up her glass from a bottle on the table. Clearly, he expected the evening to end with Renita in his bed.

Brett carefully set his beer on a nearby table.

Not bloody likely, mate.

Craig was an idiot, but he was a distraction from the sense of doom that was driving her, literally, to drink. Brett should be here any minute. She couldn’t wait to see him, but she was also dreading it. His happiness and relief at his financial crisis being over was wonderful. But the stress of keeping such a huge secret from him—and having so many other people in on the secret—was taking its toll on her.

Someone squeezed her shoulder. For a moment she was confused, because both Craig’s hands were on the table. Then she saw another hand clamp Craig’s shoulder. She squinted at the long fingers and the gold hair on the wrist. Hey, that hand was familiar.

“Brett!” She swiveled in her chair, delight overcoming the dread at seeing him. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Clearly.” He turned to Craig. “I’m Brett, Renita’s date.”

Craig took one look at the tall, broad-shouldered athlete and got the hint. “Hey, Julie,” he said to the redheaded woman on his right, “how’s it going in Payroll?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Brett said to Renita. “There’s something I want to ask you about.”

Renita wasn’t ready to be alone with him. “I’m having a good time.” She drained the last drops from her glass, then shook the champagne bottle. It was empty. Looking around for the waiter, she met Brett’s exasperated stare. “What’s
your
problem?”

He dropped to a crouch next to her. “You’ve drunk a lot,” he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear over the music and conversation. “I want us to leave.”

Concentrating really hard on listening, Renita heard him say “us.”
She and Brett were an “us.”
People who were linked like that didn’t keep secrets.

“I’m not drunk,” she said, waving her glass. “I never drink more than two glasses of wine.” She frowned. “Although s’hard to count when the glass is never empty. Imagine that! A wineglass that never empties. They should put that on the market. It’d make a fortune. Don’t you think, Brett? Huh?”

“Please come with me, Renita.”

When he asked her like that, looking straight into her eyes, it was impossible to say no.

Standing unsteadily, she grabbed her purse. “Bye, everyone. I’m going.” She waved to her assistant at the head of the table. “Happy Birthday, Poppy.”

A chorus of protests rose from the group. “You can’t go,” Poppy said. “We haven’t had the cake yet!”

Brett tugged on her arm, urging her away from the table. She went, but the closer she got to the exit the more worried she became. Dumb idea, getting drunk. She would end up blurting everything out.

She dragged her feet. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Craig is a creep,” Brett said.

“He’s not that bad,” she replied automatically. It was easier to pick a fight with Brett than to tell him what she’d done.

“He had his hands all over you.”

“You’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You can’t handle that other men find me attractive. You want to hold me back.”

“I don’t want to hold you back. I’m having enough trouble holding you up,” he said, adjusting his grip around her waist. “Is that what you want—to go out with other men?”

“No, but…”

“But it’s okay to flirt and let them grope you when I’m not around.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Should I?”

“Course you should,” she said, swaying on her feet. She struggled to focus on his face. “
I love you.
I want you to know that, if…when…”

“Renita, you’re pissed as a newt,” he said. “Please come away from here.”

She might have gone quietly then, but their exit was prevented by the arrival of a three-layer cake with chocolate icing, sizzling with sparklers. It was so big it had to be carried by two people.

Mmm, cake.
She followed the procession with her eyes.

Brett reached for her hand. “You don’t want that.”

Before she’d come out tonight she’d told herself she wasn’t going to taste a single morsel of delicious, fattening cake. Then she’d gone and used up practically a week’s worth of calories on wine. So what the hell, she might as well eat cake, too.

“I may be in love with you,” she said, untangling her hand from his grasp. “But that doesn’t mean you can tell me what to eat.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Brett said. “But you’ll be sick if you put a load of sugar on top of alcohol.”

He might be right, but she felt compelled to take a stand. She was no doormat.
She
decided when she was going home.
And
if she was going to gorge herself on cake. If he didn’t like it, too bad.

“I have changed my mind,” she announced carefully and with immense dignity. “I am returning to the party.”

Brett put his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Enjoy yourself. I’ll wait in the bar. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you home.”

Was he making sure she didn’t go home with Craig? “You don’t have to do that. We’ve got a party bus and a chauffeur. No one’s driving.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Then all I have to say is, keep away from Craig.”

“I’ll talk to whoever I please.
Whom
ever.”

“You do that.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked out.

She watched him go. Her vision was a little blurry, but even so, she was certain she could see the thread of their relationship unraveling.

Number one: drinking too much champagne. Wa-a-ay too much.

Number two: eating an enormous piece of chocolate fudge cake with chocolate cream cheese frosting.

Number three: not talking things out with Brett and coming clean about the Brownlow Medal. She couldn’t take this level of stress any longer.

Number four: the second piece of cake.

Number five: telling Brett she loved him. Was she an idiot? It was too soon!

Groaning, she rolled onto her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head.

Regret number six: refusing to leave with him. If she’d gone home when he’d first asked, she’d have no list of regrets.

Well, except for drinking too much. And there was no guarantee that in her state last night she would have had the guts to confess.

Lucy put her yellow paws on the mattress and licked Renita’s arm.

“Hey, Luce,” Renita mumbled. At least her dog would always love her, no matter how much of an idiot she was.

Throwing back the covers, she dragged herself out of bed and into a scalding shower. Breakfast was coffee, toast, bacon and eggs. That was the other problem with a hangover; the antidote was copious amounts of greasy food.

Feeling slightly better, she padded out to the backyard to feed Frankie.

The cockatoo tilted his head and stared at her through one round, yellow-rimmed eye. “You’re a poop.”

“Yeah, I know.” She stroked the bird’s white feathers. “I can’t live like this, Frankie. I have to tell him. Even if he hates me.”

She went back inside and, in an attempt to lift her spirits, changed into a summery skirt and blouse. She did her hair and makeup, dotting concealer on the dark circles under her eyes.

Her stomach was churning again as she rang Brett’s doorbell, whether from the bacon or the coming confrontation, she wasn’t sure. She’d acted out of the goodness of her heart; surely he would see that.

Brett opened the door, his mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “How are we feeling this morning? A tad hung over, perhaps?”

“Not too flash. But it’s big of you to revel in my pain. Um, can I come in?”

“Are you sure you want to? You didn’t seem to care for my company last night.”

“I’d like to apologize.”

He stepped back to let her in. The house seemed unnaturally quiet with Tegan away. He led through the formal dining room into the kitchen. “I was finishing breakfast. Want anything?”

“Just coffee, thanks. I’m afraid to add any more food to the mix.” She pulled out a wicker chair opposite his place at the breakfast table. The sunny nook looked onto a garden of flowering shrubs and gravel paths. The remains of a boiled egg sat next to his bowl of fruit and yogurt.

Brett brought her a cup of coffee. He picked up his spoon and dug into the strawberries and yogurt. “Go ahead. Grovel away.”

“You could at least look at me.”

He glanced up. “Well?”

Immediately she dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to help me last night.”
See? Wanting to help is a good motive.

Brett nodded and went on eating.

“Craig
is
a creep. Even when I’m drunk, I’m aware of that.” She was stalling. She had to get to the point before she completely lost her nerve. Honesty was proving to be more painful than a champagne headache.

Brett’s gaze sharpened. “Did he give you trouble after I left?”

“Not at all. He turned his attentions elsewhere.”

Brett set his bowl aside. “Why did you flirt with him? Is there something you need that I’m not giving you?”

“No.” She picked up her cup, then set it down again. She wished he wouldn’t be so nice. It made this harder.

“Did you mean what you said?” He reached for her hand and turned it over, thoughtfully tracing the life line with his fingertip. “About loving me?”

“I didn’t want to fall in love with you,” she said. “When you first came back to Summerside I didn’t want anything to do with you.”

“You made that pretty clear.” He met her gaze. “Things have changed, though. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. I never thought I’d get together with some one so quickly after splitting with Amber, but you’re different. I should have been with a woman like you from the beginning.” Curling her fingers into her palm, he brought her hand to his lips. “I love you, too.”

They were words she’d longed to hear. Now they only made her feel guiltier.

“Brett.” Renita squeezed her eyes shut, tears seeping out at the corners. “There’s something I have to tell you about your Brownlow.”