Sugar Rush (14 page)

Yeah, fucker. That won't ever happen.

“I'd love to, man,” I say sincerely as I open the door before turning slightly to look at him. “But I already invited Sela to the party and I can't just back out on her now. I know I need to slow things down, but I need to get through the holidays. We've made quite a few plans together.”

“I get it,” JT says amiably, and claps me on my shoulder. He squeezes once and releases. “But after that, Beck, you should probably cool it a bit with her. You don't want to lose focus on the business, and besides…do you really want to be tied down?”

I know I should play along with him, but I can't help a tiny burst of rage over his words. He doesn't know Sela at all. Clearly doesn't have my best interests at heart, because any sane person who saw their friend having the potential for happiness would be seeking instead to encourage it rather than destroy it.

“I said I'd slow it down,” I grit out while trying to keep a smile plastered to my face. “But I'm not giving her up. And I'm not averse to being tied down…not with the right woman.”

“But is Sela really that woman, is all I'm saying, Beck. She's a Sugar Baby. If you want to get tied down, Christ, get my mom to set you up with someone from our circle or something. But she's from Belle Haven, dude. Practically the ghetto.”

I have to force myself not to let my hands curl into fists. I have to swallow my anger and smooth out my facial features. I have to hold back the heat in my eyes.

Keep your eyes on the prize, Beck.

Sela's the prize.

“Look, JT,” I say slowly, and am pleased to hear my voice is bordering on unaffected. “I hear what you're saying and I'll be careful with her. Right now I'm having fun with a sexy woman. I don't have any designs on getting hitched to her or anything, and I don't forget she's a Sugar Baby. But I'm not done with her yet, okay?”

Not done by a long shot.

JT studies me, considering my words. Finally, he nods with a full smile. “Yeah, sure. I get it, and you're a smart guy. But just know I'm here if you want to talk about her or anything. I'll always have your best interests at heart.”

The lie rolls smoothly off my tongue. I give him a playful punch in the chest and tell him, “I've always got your best interests at heart too, buddy. Anything you need, I'm there for you.”

“So this is how the other half lives,” I whisper to Beck, bumping my shoulder against his as we walk up to the ginormous Pacific Heights mansion owned by his parents, Beckett and Helen North.

“I believe they're called the one percent, not the other half,” he says dryly.

“Well, color me impressed,” I say softly as I take in the four-story white house with a portico porch held up by massive stone columns.

“The house was built in 1901 in the neoclassical architectural style known as Beaux Arts,” Beck says as he sweeps a hand toward his childhood home, “which is epitomized by the flat roof, carved embellishments such as those mascarons above each window, and the numerous and richly detailed balustrades, pilasters, and acroteria that abound.”

I stop abruptly and turn to face him with my mouth hanging open.

He grins at me and says, “This house was completely renovated when my parents purchased it before I was even born. What makes it so impressive is how it sits on this hill providing a full and unobstructed 180-degree view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, and the San Francisco Bay. You don't even want me to get into the fine appointments inside the house once we go in.”

Shaking my head in amusement, I say, “You sound almost proud of this house. You know, the way you just rattled on about the architecture and stuff.”

Beck's hand curls around my neck and he pulls me in for a quick kiss. Chuckling, he says, “Nah. Not proud of it at all. I've just heard my mom say those same exact words about a million times as she brags about her house to anyone who will listen, and I picked up a few things.”

“That makes sense,” I say with a smile as I turn to look at the front decorated with wreaths on every window trimmed in red velvet bows and strategically placed floodlights to light up the façade.

“So you understand the game plan, right?” he asks in a serious voice, almost as if he were a coach and I was his star player.

“Yes,” I say with a nod of my head. “Quick in and out. We hunt down your parents for introductions, they can sneer down at me for a few moments, and then you ask to talk to your dad in private. I'll sample all the expensive food, ogle the fancy dresses, and drink a glass of champagne, because…well, I love champagne. You finish up with your dad, come grab me, and we jet out of there before anyone can stop us.”

“Then we go home and celebrate Christmas Eve together,” he adds.

“Preferably naked,” I say with an impish grin.

“In front of the fireplace.”

“With whipped cream.”

“And toys…we must play with toys,” he says with a laugh, and I can't help but join in. It's funny, because we've both got dirty minds, but it's not funny in the respect that we're both deadly serious about what we just laid out. We now have a date with a fireplace, whipped cream, and sex toys for our Christmas Eve.

“Come on,” Beck says as he takes my hand and starts toward the front porch. “Let's get this over and done with.”

I follow him up, my heels clicking on the stone steps. Tonight I'm wearing the same dress I wore the night of The Sugar Bowl mixer where JT tried to drug that girl. Beck offered to buy me a new one for tonight's party, but I couldn't see doing that when this one would work. Plus, I knew I looked damn good in it and Beck would appreciate it.

I'm surprised when Beck rings the doorbell of his own childhood home and patiently waits until the massive black iron door done in a scroll pattern and inset with beveled glass is swung open by a butler.

Or a servant.

Or, I don't know what he is, but he's wearing a black tuxedo and makes a slight bow toward Beck. “Good evening, Mr. North. It's lovely to see you.”

“Evening, Percy,” Beck says to the man, who I'm thinking might actually be a butler. He's older with silvered hair at the temples and has an overt familiarity with Beck in the way that he looks at him right now with a warm smile.

“And whom do you have with you tonight?” Percy asks as he turns my way, hands clasped in front of his stomach and his head tilted at me in curiosity.

“This is Sela Halstead,” Beck says, and then adds, “my girlfriend.”

Percy's head jerks slightly in surprise and he turns to Beck with a devilish grin. “Well, isn't this a very nice surprise.”

Putting his arm around me so he can pull me in closer, Beck presses a kiss to my temple before telling Percy, “She is very nice, I assure you. And not bad to look at, right?”

Percy gives Beck a chastising look and clucks his tongue before turning to me with an apologetic smile. “My apologies for young Beck's impertinence, so let me be the first to say, I'm glad he's found a lovely lady such as yourself.”

I blush, hopefully prettily, and I definitely know in this moment he's been around Beck for a good chunk of his life. I'm betting if his parents were as absent as Beck has indicated, maybe Percy was a bit of a father figure to him. I'll have to ask him that later.

“I'll take your coats, and your parents are in the music room the last I saw them,” Percy says in what I now recognize as a faint British accent. Shit, they must have imported their butler for maximum effect. “They've been awaiting your arrival.”

“We'll head there now,” Beck says as we both slip our coats off and hand them over. Beck then takes me by the elbow and starts to lead me past Percy. But then he cranes his head and says to the butler, “Oh, and Percy? You've got a stain on your shirt there. Mother will have a cow if she sees it.”

Beck points a finger at Percy's chest and then chuckles when Percy's head snaps downward to look at the offending stain. Of course, his shirt is pristine white, and once he realizes this, his gaze swings up and narrows at Beck.

Beck merely laughs and says, “Gotcha.”

I can't help the tiny giggle that pops out as I watch Percy's lips tip up in amusement even as he tries to glare Beck down. I give the older man a tiny wave goodbye and he gives me a warm smile.

We weave in and out of guests, all dressed in expensive finery and jewels, holding crystal flutes of champagne or delicate china plates with ridiculous-looking hors d'oeuvres the size of a postage stamp. Everywhere I look, fresh greenery is draped, and I swear there's a Christmas tree in every room.

Beck nods to some people with smiles but doesn't stop to talk. I know he's on a mission to get this party over and behind us as quickly as possible.

Which makes me wonder out loud, “Why do you even bother to come to this party, Beck? I mean…you don't want to be here, don't like your parents very much. Why suffer?”

“Well,” he says in a low voice as he inclines his head toward me, but still keeping his gaze forward while we walk to the music room. “First, it's always good to keep your foot in the door somewhat. My father has solid business contacts and I don't want to burn that bridge, but mainly it's to keep them off Caroline's back. They can't stand to have an estranged daughter and how it must look to their friends and peers. So it pacifies them for me to at least step up to the plate and attend a few functions each year. The next will be my father's birthday party.”

“If they want to make amends with Caroline, why don't they just do so? End the estrangement?”

Beck laughs sarcastically and squeezes my elbow. “Because, my dear Sela, that would require my parents to apologize for their terrible behavior toward Caroline and Ally, and they would never lower themselves to do so. They just expect her to get over her snit and start acting like a real daughter again.”

“I know I've said it before, but I don't like your parents,” I mutter.

“The thing that bothers me the most is that they don't seem to care about their granddaughter. She's like this dirty little secret or something,” Beck says on a growl, his hand tightening on my elbow reflexively.

Before I can respond, we approach a room with a wide entrance and glass French doors open to either side. I can see why it's the music room, because it's got a large black piano in one corner that I'm guessing cost a mint. It's sparsely furnished with only a couch and two chairs, both done in black leather and sleek contemporary design. The rest of the room is open and clearly designed for parties in mind with plenty of room for people to mingle. But the real focal point is a massive, charcoal-gray marble fireplace that looks like it could hold a football team. A roaring fire is dancing inside, but doesn't seem to be throwing off oppressive heat, so I'm guessing it's flued in such a way to be more for show than anything else.

I can tell the minute Beck locates his parents, because he stands a bit straighter and his hand slips from my elbow to my hand, which he squeezes reflexively. I squeeze back and then we're headed across the room toward a man I easily identify as Beck's father. They share the same dark brown hair, although his dad's is going gray throughout, and brilliant blue eyes. Same facial features, strong jawline. He's his dad through and through. I don't see any resemblance to the tall, elegant blond woman next to him who wears her hair in a sleek bob that comes just a few inches above her shoulders.

As we approach, Beck's mom sees him first and lightly touches her hand to her husband's arm to get his attention. He stops in midsentence, as he was talking to another older couple, and looks down at his wife, then follows her gaze our way. I don't miss that both of them look first to Beck, then drop down to where our hands are clasped, and then over to me in wary interest.

“Beck,” his mother says in a light, airy tone of welcome. “So glad you could make it tonight.”

Stepping up to his mother, he gives her a light kiss on her cheek. “Mother…looking beautiful as ever.”

His mother preens with the compliment.

Beck turns to his father and merely nods at him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Beck,” he says in a deep voice, and I'm betting that these two have never hugged in their life.

“And whom have you brought to the party?” his mom asks as she turns her gaze to me in polite interest with a plastic smile on her face.

“This is Sela Halstead,” Beck says as he releases my hand and once again wraps his arm around my waist. “My girlfriend. Sela…my parents…Helen and Beckett North.”

I smile, reach my hand out to his mother, and say, “It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. North.”

She takes my hand and gives is a soft shake, still keeping her own smile in place. As soon as she releases it, I offer my hand to Mr. North. His grip is firmer, a complete businessman to the core.

“Mr. North,” I say in greeting.

“Well, welcome Sela,” Beck's father says before he releases my hand, only to have his mom pounce immediately.

“And where are you from Sela?” Helen North asks me with her chin lifted a little.

“Belle Haven.” And I swear, her nose actually wrinkles up a bit. “But I'm working on my master's at Golden Gate University and have an apartment in Oakland.”

“She actually lives with me now,” Beck says, and I have to wonder why he feels he must antagonize his mother. Even I, who just met his parents not thirty seconds ago, could tell this would not go over well with them.

Well, at least not with his mother.

Helen's eyebrows raise sky-high as she turns to Beck. “Isn't that moving a little fast?”

“I don't know,” Beck says smoothly. “You tell me, Mother. I'm assuming you know how long Sela and I have been dating.”

His mom just stares at him, completely unable to answer the question. His dad coughs slightly. It was a very pointed reminder from Beck to his parents that they know nothing about him really.

They clearly get the message, because his dad changes the subject quickly. “How's business going?”

“Very well,” Beck says, and uses the opportunity to present the real reason we came tonight. “Actually, I need to talk to you about a business issue in private. Do you have some time right now?”