Invincible (6 page)

Even though they were separated, they continued to show up at the same charity, political and business functions in England, Europe and America, providing more delicious tidbits for the gossips.

As though to goad her husband, Bella never failed to wear one of the fabulous jewels Bull had given her during
their marriage as a sign of his enduring love—when she walked in on the arm of another man.

“Are you going to America for Mother's Day?” Veronica asked as she crossed to him.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

She pressed her abdomen against his as she slid her arms around his neck. She played with the straight black hair at his nape, sending a shiver down his spine.

It seemed his seduction of the reporter was back on track.

Max leaned forward to kiss the beautiful woman in his arms but hesitated when she whispered, “I can't believe I'm kissing the Duchess of Blackthorne's son.”

He lifted his head and stared down at her with the cynicism he always felt when someone seemed awed by who he was. Or rather, who his mother was. No one knew the real Max Benedict.

Except K. She'd known exactly who he was.

And rejected you.

The boy. She'd rejected the boy. He was a man now. Would K see that if she got to know him again? Would she be able to love him again? Did he want her to love him again? The thought was dizzying. Intriguing. And terrifying. He'd simply have to be sure this time, if it came to it, that he was the one doing the rejecting.

Even K—Agent Lassiter—had believed the carefully cultivated common belief that he was a care-for-nothing playboy, a reckless rogue who'd learned his hedonism from Bull and Bella in their heyday. Despite what K
might think of his behavior, the deception made him a very good spy.

Not that he worked all the time. Or even every time the CIA—or some other American governmental organization identifying itself with capital letters—asked. But he was a valuable asset.

As he'd pointed out to K, by virtue of his pedigree, he had access to the very wealthy, which included drug czars and their sons and daughters, and munitions dealers and their sons and daughters, and of course, wealthy Arab potentates who might be funding terrorist activities and their sons, if not their daughters.

It was amazing how much information was dropped over a drink after a game of polo. Or during one of his seductions.

The sad thing was, Max hadn't wanted information from Veronica Granville. He'd simply liked the way she looked. He'd liked how bright she was, how witty she'd been at the bar where they'd crossed paths. He'd hoped for some good sex, along with some intelligent company.

Now she had stars in her eyes, put there by his mother's infamy. From now on, he would question whether her interest in him wasn't really interest in getting closer to his mother.

But he wasn't going to turn down the sex just because it might come with a few strings attached.

“Max,” she whispered in his ear. “If you go to America, will you take me with you?”

“We can talk about that later,” he said, used to
negotiations where he promised nothing but the promise of something that might be offered in the future. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

Max captured her mouth with his as he pulled her close. She rubbed herself against him like a cat drunk on catnip. He felt a little sad when he realized he didn't trust her enthusiastic response.

He cleared his mind and focused on sensations. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The sweet taste of her mouth. The heat that surged through his veins, causing almost instant rock-hard arousal. The throbbing need he would soon slake inside her hot, wet, willing body.

Insidious thoughts crept back in. Of K lecturing him on how lucky he was to have a mother. And how if she still had a mother, she'd treasure every day she had with her. He'd argued that his situation was different. That the duchess hadn't been a mother for many years. Just like K's mother, when Bella had left his father, she'd left her children, as well.

So why, after all these years, had the duchess invited him to spend Mother's Day at The Seasons? He had boy hood memories of holidays spent there with his brothers and his four male cousins, Nash, Ben, Carter and Rhett, Foster's sons with his first wife, Abigail.

When Foster had divorced Abby, they'd divided their four sons between them. Foster got Ben and Carter. Abby got Nash and Rhett. Both parents had remarried and had more kids. Max and his brothers hadn't been back to The
Seasons since his parents had separated ten years ago. So what was his mother's invitation all about?

“Max? Is something wrong?”

Max realized he'd stopped kissing Veronica and was once again staring out the window over her shoulder.

Damn you, Mother. You're worse than K. Why can't you stay the hell out of my life!

Max let go of the reporter and took a step back. “I'm sorry, Veronica. Maybe we can do this another time.”

“What?”

He could see she was annoyed. He didn't blame her. He was more than a little annoyed himself at the distraction K—and his mother's telegram—had created.

“I'll drive you back to London.” He was glad now he'd decided to make the hour drive south on the M20 motorway from London, rather than taking the train with Veronica from Victoria Station.

Her hands shot to her hips. “I thought we were going to spend the weekend here, Max. Why the sudden change in plans?”

She would have done better kissing him again, Max reflected. He didn't have much tolerance for female indignation. Although, he supposed she had a right to be upset.

She narrowed her eyes and said, “It's that telegram, isn't it? Is something going on with the duchess? I could use a scoop, Max. What do you know? Or think you know?”

“There's nothing going on with my mother except a desire to keep all her lambs in the fold,” Max shot back.

“What mother wouldn't want her children with her on Mother's Day?” Veronica pointed out.

“Mine.”

Max didn't elaborate. He wasn't about to tell a reporter from the
Times
how seldom he'd seen his mother since his parents had split up. How visits with her, from the age of seven onward—when he'd been shipped off to boarding school—had been prized, because they'd been so few and far between. And how often those visits had been canceled.

He and his brothers had spent their lives in one English or European or American boarding school after another. There had been so many because whenever one or another of them had done something to get himself thrown out, the others had refused to stay where they weren't all welcome. As the youngest, Max had created his own share of the carnage.

None of them had held a candle to Oliver. Oliver had a gift. He could destroy as easily with words as with a blow.

But, of course, Oliver had a greater burden to bear than any of the rest of them.

Max had heard the rumors about who'd really sired his eldest brother, who had dark brown eyes, rather than blue or gray, like both of their parents and the rest of his siblings. Max wasn't sure what he believed. But he'd more than once defended both his mother's—and his brother's—honor.

Max had been lonely at the end, because he was five years younger than his next older brother, Payne. His
brothers had all gone on to university—or not—and he'd been left behind. Sometimes he wondered how Lydia had managed. Being the only girl, and nearly two years younger than he was, she'd been all alone from the start.

“You're not being fair, Max,” Veronica said with a petulant pout that made him realize how much he would have enjoyed having that mouth, with those full lips, taking full advantage of his body.

“I'll make it up to you,” he said.

“Promise you'll bring me back here?” she said, moving close again.

Rather than reply in words, he took her in his arms and kissed her, giving the effort his full attention. And comparing the kiss, inevitably, with kissing K. He and K definitely had unfinished business. Whether she came to work with him or not, he hadn't seen her for the last time. He realized the woman he held in his arms wasn't the one he wanted to be kissing and let her go.

“You won't forget me, Max,” Veronica said in a breathy voice when he released her.

“Believe me, Veronica, you're unforgettable,” Max said with a teasing wink. He would never forget how difficult it had been to concentrate on this woman when he was thinking about another.

Veronica smiled and he watched her shoulders relax.

“Excuse me while I visit the powder room,” she said. She turned and he realized she had no idea where it was.

He pointed her in the right direction. “In there.”

He almost groaned with regret as he watched the sexy sway of her hips as she walked away. He was sure she had the sexual sophistication to please him a great deal in bed. Veronica turned to glance at him over her shoulder, her long blond hair swinging free, and smiled. The invitation remained.

He should take advantage of it. He should cross the room and take her in his arms and finish what he had, by God, started.

But there was no way he could enjoy partaking of such delicious fruit until he'd settled things one way or the other with K. He was going to have to talk with her again. He was going to have to convince her to work with him. If for no other reason than to prove to himself that the woman wouldn't—simply couldn't—live up to his memories of her.

Maybe he ought to go to America for Mother's Day. He could stop by The Seasons and find out what the hell his mother wanted.

More importantly, he'd be on the same continent as K. He could take a flight down to Miami and talk some sense into her. Because he wasn't going to have any peace until he did.

“A
nother gift has arrived, Your Grace, along with a note declining your invitation.”

Bella growled with frustration, then put a hand to her heart, which was beating hard enough from anxiety to hurt. What if none of her children showed up? She couldn't bear the thought. Did they despise her so much? Or were they truly as busy as they claimed to be?

Bella forced herself to take a deep, calming breath as she settled onto a rock-hard horsehair Victorian sofa. The sofa had survived fire and plague and pestilence over the centuries, which was why the uncomfortable thing still stood in the parlor at The Seasons.

She took several more deep breaths but didn't feel the least bit calmed. Oliver, Riley and Payne had already rejected her invitation, citing business commitments. “Who sent the latest gift?” she asked her assistant. “Lydia or Max?”

“It's from Lady Lydia,” Emily said.

“So Max might still come.”

“We can always hope, Your Grace.”

Bella eyed the young woman. “But you don't believe he'll show.”

“We can always hope,” Emily repeated. “You know how busy everyone is. According to the report from Warren & Warren Investigations, Courtland—I mean, the earl—Oliver—is purchasing ranch land in Argentina. Lord Riley is negotiating for oil tankers in Hong Kong. And Lord Payne…” A thoughtful frown wrinkled her forehead before she said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Warren reported that Lord Riley is on a ship somewhere in the Aegean, researching an underwater archeological find.”

“And Lydia's excuse?” Bella asked.

“According to the note that came with your gift, she's in Venice. She mentioned something about hunting down a stolen painting.”

Bella picked up a needlepointed pillow from the sofa and threw it across the room toward the elaborately carved white marble fireplace. It fell short. She hissed with fury.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Emily asked, rushing to her side.

“I'm fine, Emily,” Bella said with irritation. “There's nothing wrong with my heart. Go back to your knitting.”

Emily reluctantly crossed the room, picked up a pair of knitting needles and a partially completed blue wool sweater from a silk-brocade-covered wing chair, and sat down.

“You know what I hate most about what's happening here?” Bella said.

Over the clack of her knitting needles Emily asked, “What's that, Your Grace?”

“The smug look I'm going to see on my brother-in-law's face when only one of my children shows up here today.” Bella heard footsteps on the creaky, carpeted wooden
Gone-With-the-Wind
staircase in the central hallway of the nearly four-century-old home. She glanced over her shoulder and found Foster Benedict, Bull's younger brother—and her nemesis—standing in the doorway to the parlor. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered.

“Good morning, Bella,” he said with surprising cordiality.

Bella watched as Foster crossed to a breakfront where a silver coffee service and a selection of pastries had been set out by the butler. Foster had been incensed when she'd told him she intended to have her children visit her for Mother's Day at The Seasons. He'd already made plans to have his children meet their mother there. He'd ordered her to go somewhere else.

Bella had refused. Since she was still Bull's wife, she was entitled to use of The Seasons. Instead, she'd suggested Foster have his family join hers, as they had during holidays in years gone by. Given no other choice, he'd agreed.

“It seems it won't be as crowded here this weekend as I feared,” Foster said.

Bella saw the superior look on his face in the gilded mirror behind the breakfront. And heard the satisfaction in his voice. Foster expected five of his seven
children—two of his four sons and his three teenage daughters—to be on hand today. He must be aware that at least four of her five children would not.

“I wouldn't look so smug if I were you,” Bella said.

“Why not?” Foster said.

“Your children are making their way here from a few miles up the road. It's understandable if mine aren't able to come from halfway around the world. And I'm expecting Max to turn up at any moment.”

“One out of five,” Foster mused. “Frankly, one more than I expected.”

“You've always been a son of a bitch, Foster.”

“You're the bitch incarnate,” Foster shot back.

“How dare you!” Emily said, rising from her chair to confront Foster. “Take that back.”

Foster laughed viciously. “Take it back?” He turned to Bella and said, “Tell your minion to back off, Bella. Or I'll have
her
for breakfast.”

Emily looked flustered, but she stood her ground.

“Sit down, Emily,” Bella said in an even voice. Then she focused her narrowed eyes on Foster and said, “Don't threaten Emily again, or I'll have to retaliate in a way you won't like.”

“What would that be?”

“Use your imagination,” Bella said. “You know I make good on my promises.”

The last time they'd locked horns Bella had arranged for Foster to lose an extraordinary amount of money on one of his investments. Foster understood the power of money.

His mouth turned down in a sour look. “Like I said. You're a bitch.”

He turned back to the silver coffeepot and continued his recitation as though their altercation had never happened. “Just so you know, Ben brought his fiancée, Anna,” he said as he poured coffee into a china teacup. “Carter's home on leave from duty in Iraq, so he invited his girl, Sloan, to come for the day.”

He added a spoonful of sugar, then turned to her with china cup in hand. “I'm surprising Patsy by having Amanda and Bethany and Camille flown in on the family jet from that French boarding school they attend. I pick them up in Richmond before lunch.”

“I'm sure Patsy will enjoy having her daughters here,” Bella said neutrally. She was willing to be just exactly as polite as Foster was. Besides, she'd never had any enmity for Patsy or her three daughters. The elder two girls were twins with curly blond hair who resembled their mother. The younger had dark hair like her father.

To be perfectly honest, Bella liked Patsy Benedict. Foster's second wife would never be called thin or chic, but Patsy had warm hazel eyes and had always been extraordinarily kind to her.

But from the beginning, there had never been any love lost between her and her brother-in-law. The first time Foster had met her, he'd called her “a conniving bitch.” He was the one who'd insisted on the prenup. This was the first time they'd come in contact with one another in ten years. It seemed Foster's animosity had survived her separation from Bull intact.

Which caused her to reply to his recitation with just a little satisfaction of her own, “I'm sure it will be nice to have most of your children here for Mother's Day. But I can't help wondering, where is their mother?”

Foster cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She'll be here.”

“Why didn't Patsy come with you from Washington?”

Bella knew that Foster, a retired four-star general, currently served as an advisor to the president on terrorism. He and Patsy had a brick home in the Fan District of Richmond, but Foster spent most of his time in another large home they owned in Chevy Chase, Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C.

“Patsy's been staying at her father's ranch in Texas the past few months,” Foster said. “Her father's been ill.”

“Then it's nice you'll have a chance to get together today. When is she arriving? Are you picking her up at the airport, too?”

Foster cleared his throat again. “She said she'd make her own travel arrangements.”

Bella knew more about the situation between Foster and his second wife than she'd let on. She had enough social contacts in the Capitol to hear the rumors that Patsy and Foster had separated several months ago. Bella wasn't sure of the exact problem, but it must have been something serious, since the couple had been together for nearly twenty years. She could understand why Foster didn't want her around, if he was attempting a reconciliation with his wife.

Well, Bella wouldn't get in his way. For Patsy's sake, if not his. Besides, she had enough problems of her own. How was she going to get her sons married off before she died, if they were determined to avoid her company?

Bella had employed Warren & Warren Investigations, with its main offices in Dallas, Texas, often over the years to keep tabs on her children. Sam Warren's information had always been reliable. She rarely interfered in her children's lives, but once or twice, as they were growing up, she'd come to the rescue of one or another of her sons without his knowledge.

She'd helped anonymously, because she'd known none of them would want or appreciate her help. Lydia had remained loyal to her mother after the separation, but she knew the boys blamed her for breaking up their once-happy family.

It
was
your fault. You're guilty as charged.

There were circumstances she'd never had a chance to explain that might have excused her behavior, if only Bull had been willing to listen. He'd been too angry to hear reason. And she'd felt too betrayed to explain.

She'd stood shocked and heartbroken as Foster tried to goad his brother into divorcing her. His diatribe was indelibly etched in her memory.

“She was a bitch when you met her, and she hasn't changed one iota in the twenty-five years you've been married to her. I say cut your losses and get the hell out while you can.”

Bella wasn't sure she would ever be able to forgive Bull for refusing to listen to her. Although, at this point,
it didn't really matter, did it? She was running out of time to tell Bull the truth. Running out of chances to make amends before her heart failed.

When Foster spoke, it was as though he'd been reading her mind. “I called Bull at his office in Paris and mentioned this little visit of yours to The Seasons. I wondered if he might have some idea why you decided to come here, considering the fact you haven't been to The Seasons once since your separation.”

“Oh?” Bella said warily. “What did he say?”

“He was ready to get on a plane and come here himself. I didn't think that was a good idea, considering everything.”

Of course you didn't.

He arched a brow and said, “I told him that if you'd wanted him here, you would have invited him.”

And you heard me tell Bull when we ended up brangling at the Heart Association Ball in February, that I would rather die than lay eyes on him again.

“You know Bull,” Foster continued. “He does what he wants. If he comes, he'll be on the jet from Paris with my girls. He thought it would be a good chance to see all the kids.”

Bella heard the rest of Foster's thought without it being spoken:
He's not coming here to see you. Bull Benedict wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire.
It wasn't exaggerating to say that she and Bull had fought their own Revolutionary War during the ten years they'd been separated.

“The condition his European banks are in with this
crazy global economy, I doubt he can get away.” Foster set down his coffee cup. “I'd better get going, or I'll be late.”

Bella exhaled audibly when Foster left the room. She glanced at Emily, who was eyeing her worriedly, and shook her head to indicate she was fine. The young woman was acting like a mother hen with one chick. Bella didn't bother repeating that she was fine. She simply rose and headed for the stairs. Climbing that enormous staircase was great exercise. And she needed time alone in her room to think.

If she and Bull were going to be in the same room again, she should take advantage of the opportunity to explain what she'd kept secret for so many years.

Maybe, at long last, she would.