The Good Father (33 page)

The trick was to face them.

And to share them when you were lucky enough to have someone who was willing to sit in the fire with you.

Ella guided his palm to her stomach. And he knew what she was asking.

“I’m not panicked, El,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for it to happen, but it hasn’t.”

“No nightmares?”

“No dreams, either.” He had to be honest. “But no, no nightmares.”

“You had a dream, Brett. A big one. And it came true. You’re sitting in the midst of it. The Lemonade Stand.”

She had no idea how true those words were. His dream, his biggest one, was to have a loving family of his own. And right there, that night, she’d made it come true.

He rubbed the mound of her belly, wondering if fate had created their child that night on the boat. Knowing that with a child ending their marriage, it would take a child to bring them together again.

“We really should find out if we’re having a boy or a girl,” he told her. “It’s time she had a name.”

“I did find out,” she told him. “On my last visit.”

And she hadn’t told him. Most likely because she’d thought he didn’t care. “So?” he asked.

“You’re right,” Ella said. “It was time she had a name. So I gave her one. It’s Livia.”

He choked up again. But didn’t lose it a second time. He was too busy kissing the mother of his child. And drowning in the love gushing from a heart that had burst free.

* * *

T
HERE WAS A
text waiting for Brett the next morning.

I’m proud of you
,
was all it said
.

And, for now, it was enough.

* * * * *

Look for the next
WHERE SECRETS ARE SAFE
book
by Tara Taylor Quinn!

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CHAPTER ONE

C
LINTON
B
ARTASAVICH
J
R.
tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”

He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.

Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”

He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”

Not Bart-as-a-vitch.

With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”

He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.

“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”

One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.

While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.

And definitely no simpering.

But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.

Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.

Not his money.

“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.

And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very
pink
hell.

It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.

A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.

Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.

Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.

He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.

No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.

But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.

Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.

“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”

C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”

From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.

He’d failed.

“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”

“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.

Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”

“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.

At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”

She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course.
He
isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.

“It’s too...”
Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult.
“...red.”

“How can something be too red?”

He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”

“Who is Evan?”

She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”

“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”

“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”

C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”

She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”

“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.

“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”

She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”

Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”

“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”

“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.

He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”

She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”

He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even want to be here.”

He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.

Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?