Unlikely Allies (19 page)

Leaning against the bar, Mr. Kensington’s relaxed posture didn’t match his serious, pinched brow. “I know you’re set in, doing a great job running things. But have you given any thought to the future? What your plans will be?”

Rick’s spine snapped straight and jaw clenched. It could have been his imagination, but the mention of future plans came too close to Grandfather’s prodding. His gaze darted to the exit and he envisioned a quick escape. He’d have to bulldoze a hundred or so people blocking it.

“I respect you doing your own thing. Your dad may have started the company, but you’ve done a fine job making it your own. I’m proud of you, and he would be too.”

At the mention of his father, his stance shifted and his shoulders fell along with his elbow, ramming into the bar. The glass slipped out of his hand and spilled onto the marble surface. An observant bartender threw a towel on top. In seconds, a fresh replacement appeared in the cleaned spot.

Rolling his neck from the left to the back and right, Rick cracked it, releasing some of the tension, but not all of it. His knuckles produced a similar crunch as he pressed his palm into them. If this conversation continued, he’d end up drinking a lot more than he allowed himself at these events. Since he didn’t want to act like an ass in public, he left the alcohol alone for now. Sometimes though, a man just needed to tie one on and this occasion might drive him to.

Mr. Kensington set his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know. Maybe this wasn’t the place or time. I’m sorry.”

As sincere as Mr. Kensington might be, any conversation related to his father or the future unsettled him. While grinding his teeth together, the stubble already forming on his jaw began to itch. He scrubbed a hand over it and then through his trimmed-shorter hair. “Your opinion means a lot, thank you.”

“Can we get together sometime, just the two of us? Too bad neither of us plays golf, or I’d suggest we meet on the course. You still jog in Central Park?”

Relieved by the change of subject, Rick chuckled, shaking his head. “When I have time. Otherwise, I just run on a treadmill at home.”

Mr. Kensington patted him on the back. “All right, give me a call, and we’ll coordinate schedules, make it happen.”

“Sure you can keep up with me, old man?”

“Since you’re the betting type, we might have to throw down a little wager.” Mr. Kensington tucked a hand in his front pocket, jingling coins.

In the past their bets had amounted to thousands, so he doubted Mr. Kensington intended the challenge to be chump change. His mood lightened, and he picked up his drink and saluted him again. “You’re on.”

“The Mrs. is waving me down. I better go hit up the celebs, make sure they’re emptying their pockets, or in this case, their checkbooks.” After guzzling the rest of his whiskey, Mr. Kensington rubbed his hands together. “All right, enjoy your night.”

“I’ll place some bids at the silent auction.”

“You always do. I’m sure you’ll find something. Lots of good options.” With a wave of his hand over his shoulder, Mr. Kensington wandered up to couples, greeting and schmoozing. Charismatic and easy to talk to, he’d increase donations with each stop.

Determined to do his share, he studied the auction descriptions that scrolled along on a movie theater sized screen. Positioned between two sets of French doors and above the stage where a ten-piece orchestra played classical and jazz music, the location and pace of each slide made the presentation easy to read. Efficient and organized, ballots were available at the tables, and teens from Kensington House, the foundation-supported youth homeless shelter and safe haven, walked around to collect them.

As the list advanced in a cycle, he took mental note of the items he wanted to bid on. One in particular caught his eye. His normal fifty-times-the-value bidding would be upped to a hundred, ensuring he got it. He picked up a donation slip and filled it in.

“What are you getting me?” Julia whispered in his ear, grabbing his writing arm and jostling it so much, he had to crumple up the card and start over.

“Don’t you have enough?”

“Actually, no. I don’t have you.” She flicked her tongue over his earlobe, nuzzling it with her nose.

As swiftly as possible, he shrugged her off his shoulder and strolled several chairs away, as if he needed to move there to pick up another bid card.

“When are you going to stop playing hard to get.”

He nailed her with a scowl. “Believe me, I’m not playing.” He stated it louder than intended, emphasizing the “not.”

She crossed her arms along her chest, shoving mounds of flesh above the plunging v-neckline of her glittery red gown. If she believed that move would spur a reaction out of him, she would’ve been wrong. Sure, he loved everything about a woman’s breasts, but he’d always been more of a curvy hip and plump ass man. That brought an image of Maggie and her behind grinding into him, along with something else that popped up, an aftereffect whenever she came to mind. Thank goodness his tux jacket covered the evidence. Still, he turned around and filled in another card, losing track of the amount he’d completed so far. He didn’t want Julia thinking his hardened condition had anything to do with her.

A bell ringing at the stage signified dinner would be served in five minutes. Guests shuffled about, locating their seats and readying for the four-course meal. He strolled around his assigned table, recognizing the same names he did every year. Settled in his chair, he ignored Julia brushing her thumb across the nape of his neck as she sat to the right of him.

Under her breath, she chastised, “You’re being rude. You could’ve at least waited until I was seated.”

Ever since they were kids, she’d attempted to boss him around and correct his actions or inactions. For the most part, he ignored her mightier-than-thou attitude, but her snide remark pushed his limits. Or maybe the thought of his grandfather, expected to be seated on his left, added to his agitated mood. He anticipated a whiplashing effect coming from both sides, replaying the same nightmarish tune nonstop.

Mr. and Mrs. Kensington, along with their best friends, the Shepherds, took their seats. Grandfather scooted in his chair and brushed his shoulder against him, grumbling, “Glad to see you kept your word, boy.”

Rick’s fists clenched next to the silverware. He drew in slow, even breaths, attempting to calm his rising temper. The pressure of being in between them for the next four or five hours soured his stomach. As usual, he’d pick through his meal, counting the minutes before he could bust the hell out of there, and instead of being relieved by the much-anticipated escape, he felt worse. The foundation not only honored his father but gave youth an opportunity to succeed. All of which Rick supported too.

Zoned out, it wasn’t until he saw a bowl with green mush on his plate that he looked up and recognized a familiar face—Antonio from Le Gourmet. Shock along with chills rolled over him. Shoulder to shoulder next to the Italian Stallion poser and clad in a white chef’s coat with hands tucked behind her back in a military stance—Maggie Tyson. Shit.

He had to give her credit. When they caught sight of each other at almost the same time, he expected a surprised reaction from her. Yet the only thing he noticed were her sage green eyes darting to his right, narrowing on Julia, and then flicking to the stage. Antonio whispered something in her ear. The guy might have been her instructor or supervisor or whatever, but Rick noticed the lust-filled glances directed at Maggie. Not just tonight, but the last time he saw them together. The soup spoon bit into his palm while he refused to deflect his stare-down at the asshole.

Maggie cleared her throat and presented the courses with professional flair, similar to how she’d done for Matt, Alex, and him. That time though had been much more friendly and relaxed compared to her stiff posture now. “We have a cream of asparagus soup. For the entrée, a baked shrimp scampi and lobster tail with creamed spinach and roasted rosemary potatoes, followed by a cool cucumber salad. Completing the meal will be a selection of desserts, including your choice of baklava, apple strudel, or powdered sugar beignets.”

Her lips moved, spoke, yet it wasn’t her words that registered. Her eyebrows, the right one pitched a tad higher as she took a breath between each explanation. The dip in her upper lip curled the slightest bit as she rattled on. Her pixie nose and a nostril twitched after Julia placed her hand on his white-knuckled fist. He slid out of her grip and picked up a glass of ice water, taking long, drawn-out sips.

After Maggie finished, she and Antonio swung around in unison, escaping to where they’d come from. Halfway across the room Antonio clenched her shoulder and bent down, speaking in her ear. What the fuck?

He threw his napkin on the forks, breaking protocol and high-society etiquette. As he began to rise, Grandfather clamped down on his arm. “Stay where you are. Sit down, boy.”

“Rick, is something wrong?” Mrs. Kensington prompted, darting a glance to Julia and then over to him.

He yanked and Grandfather released his grip. “I’ll be just a minute. Excuse me.”

Most guests were engrossed in their meals and paid him no mind as he pushed his chair in. Julia executed a snatch-and-grab maneuver attempting to alter his direction but missed him. As he passed Grandfather though, his red-faced fury promised retribution. Since he didn’t give a damn and knew Grandfather would never make a scene in public, he picked up his pace.

Well acquainted with the layout of the Kensington’s home, he marched into the kitchen, scanning the restaurant-worthy space and finding his target tucked in the corner by a walk-in freezer. Antonio had Maggie pinned, engaged in a too-private discussion. She scrubbed her palm against her forehead, rubbing it in circles.

The closer he got, the more his face heated. Visions of the two of them kissing filled his head, but when he overheard Antonio’s hushed reprimand, his anger switched to protection.

“You don’t want your grade docked. You’ll get your head on straight.”

He came up behind Antonio, speaking over him. “Is there a problem?”

Antonio turned toward him, and Maggie ducked around her teacher, mouth dropping open when he came into her view.

“What do you want?” Antonio’s arm extended, blocking or holding her behind him; he wasn’t sure which.

Instead of answering, he asked her, “You okay?” He didn’t know what caused him to do it, but he reached out to her. And to his surprise, she took his hand, sidestepped Antonio, and strayed over to his side.

Ducking down to her height, he inspected her bloodshot eyes and smashed-together lips, brushing his thumb over her rosy cheek. “Hi. Funny running into you here.” He meant it as a play on the common pick-up line yet hadn’t intended it in that exact way. He just wanted to see if he could get her to smile.

“You’re going to have to leave. We need to serve the entrees, and Maggie needs to get to work.”

Straightened to his full height, he glared at Antonio. “Go ahead, do your thing. When I’m finished talking to her, I’ll send her over.”

At least twenty or thirty chefs prepped and plated while servers lined up nearby. Called to lend a hand, Antonio warned Maggie not to take long, then rushed over to a cart, grabbing an empty tray.

A squeeze on his wrist pulled his attention away from Antonio’s back to Maggie. “I have to get goin.’ He won’t be happy if I don’t.”

“Is something going on with him? He almost added, “and you” but left that part off since he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It wasn’t his business what she did or what guy she did it with. As another image of Maggie and Antonio in a passionate embrace entered his head, his earlier fury amped back up.

“No.” But her furtive glances over his shoulder and timid response didn’t instill confidence in him. After seeing her willingness to tackle Kat to the ground and challenge him, her slouched posture contradicted earlier interactions. “Mr. Stone, I should g—”

He held up his hand, not willing to let her leave yet. “Say my name.” Now he had her pinned, his arms pressed to the wall, thumbs lining her neck. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. He leaned in closer, his nose inches from hers. She stared at his mouth and licked her own. “You have to use the right one, and then I’ll let you go.”
Maybe.

A quick smile came and went, her eyes darting up to his. “Di—”

He thrust his fingers against her lips, chuckling at her stubbornness. His mouth inches from her ear, he said, “Maybe this will work . . . pwease.” And then he felt the lightest caress above his belt, her thumb rolling in circles above his belly button.

She tilted her head a bit, her mouth brushing against his ear and exhaled, “Rick,” just as a screeching cackle called for him.

“Rick, what are you doing? Dinner is being served.” Julia had her nose in the air and weaved around the waiters, aiming her quick stride toward him.

“I have to go.” Maggie skirted around him and rushed past Julia. As she did, Julia watched her until she returned to the counter, picking up several plates for service.

“Is that the woman whose brat put gum in my hair?”

“Shut up.” Rick stormed past her, returning to his seat. Within seconds his dinner had been served, even though the others at the table already had theirs.

“I told them not to deliver yours or Julia’s until you got back,” Mrs. Kensington announced.

Waving a fork a few inches from Rick’s nose, Grandfather demanded, “At least apologize. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’ll tell you what’s in him. See that woman over there, Mr. Stone.” Julia pointed at Maggie following servers to the teenage volunteers’ table. “Your grandson was in the kitchen with her. Do you know who she is?”

“Julia, sit down.” Most of the time the princess could do no wrong, but Mr. Kensington was no fool. His stern demand insisted she better not argue.

More than aware of who provided her lavish lifestyle, particularly since she didn’t have a job, Julia eased into her seat. “Yes, Daddy.” Fake smile cued up and cast to everyone except for him. She had another act in mind. Her hand drifted across his thigh, slid between his parted legs, and her fingernails ran along the inseam.