Bombshell For The Black Sheep

Hartley kept an arm around Fiona’s waist. “Hello, Jonathan.”

Mazie made a huffing noise. “For God’s sake. Hug each other.”

The brothers ignored her. At last, Jonathan held out his hand. “Welcome home, Hartley.”

Even without being privy to all the details, Fiona knew this moment was epic. It was written in Jonathan Tarleton’s wary expression and in the rigid set of Hartley’s posture.

“Thank you,” Hartley said quietly. “I’m glad to be back, but not for this reason. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when it happened.”

Mazie spoke up, her tears flowing again. “None of us were. Apparently, he died in his sleep. The housekeeper found him.”

“Hell,” Hartley said quietly. “I knew he wasn’t well, but I honestly thought he would go on forever.”

“So did we.” Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Would you like to see him?”

Fiona felt the shudder that racked Hartley’s body. “Yes,” he said gruffly.

Moments later, the four of them stood around the casket. Gerald Tarleton had been a large man. But in death, he looked old and frail. Fiona knew he had built a far-reaching shipping empire that would now pass on to his children. Again, she wondered about Mrs. Tarleton. Was she dead or alive?

Soon they were joined by J.B. Vaughan and Lisette, Jonathan’s wife. Mazie took care of the introductions. Her husband wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “No more crying, honey. You’ll give yourself a migraine.” He dabbed his wife’s cheeks with a handkerchief.

Fiona felt a fierce stab of envy. Would any man ever look at her with such naked devotion?

Her stomach curled with tension. Dozens of floral arrangements flanked the casket and filled the walls on either side. The heavy scent of carnations made Fiona feel ill. A cold sweat dampened her brow.

Could she leave? Could she simply run away? This wasn’t her family crisis. Suddenly, she knew she needed a moment to gather her composure. But before she could make a break for it, the funeral home director appeared behind them and intruded with a hushed cough.

“Guests are arriving,” he said, his tone sepulchral. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to an anteroom. We’ll open the doors, and then I’ll bring you in and arrange the receiving line.”

This was Fiona’s chance. In the transition, she darted down the hall and found the ladies’ room. Once in the stall, she retched and dry-heaved. Oh, God. She felt terrible. Her life was usually placid and peaceful. She liked it that way. Damn Hartley for pulling her into the middle of this mess.

When the crisis passed, she put a cold paper towel on the back of her neck and touched up her makeup. All her life she had never done well with confrontation and stress. Lack of stability in her formative years had left her with issues. Duh.

Her psyche craved calm, the kind of steady, peaceful existence her art gave her. She was happiest when she could lose herself in a creative project. Seeing Hartley again and having to negotiate his family storms made her a nervous wreck.

Still, he said he needed her. That had been enough to coax her into accompanying him during this difficult afternoon. She’d spent too many years ingratiating herself with different foster families to change her personality overnight.

She was independent now. She didn’t have to worry about housing or food or even winning a kind word from a stranger. But the desire to fit in...to be useful...was never far from the surface.

Fortunately, the crowds of visitors had already overtaken the room where the Tarleton family stood to greet friends and business acquaintances. Fiona was able to slip in unnoticed and take her place at Hartley’s side. He gave her a quick intimate glance, but immediately returned his attention to the seemingly endless line of men and women waiting to speak to him.

Fiona smiled and nodded, content to remain in the background. Occasionally, someone questioned Hartley about his long absence from Charleston. Each well-meaning query was deflected with a vague throwaway comment.

The man was a social genius, even if he did have more disappearing acts than Houdini.

At last, it was time to adjourn to the chapel. A couple of songs, some readings and a few words from Jonathan. Finally, it was over.

Fiona couldn’t wait to leave. Her stomach still felt iffy, and her head ached. Before she could plan her exit, Mazie appeared at her side.

The other woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, but she was calm. “A few of our friends have catered a dinner for us out at the beach house. We’ll be headed that way in a few moments. Don’t let Hartley escape.”

“Oh, no,” Fiona said. “This is your family time. I need to go home. It was lovely to meet you.”

Mazie frowned and strong-armed Fiona into a nearby corner. “Please, Fiona. You don’t know all the details.” She paused and grimaced. “To be honest, I don’t even know. But Jonathan and Hartley had a huge falling-out about something, something big. This is the first time they’ve been in the same room in over a year. They have to heal this thing. And we need you to be an impartial bystander.”

“Why?” Fiona asked, searching desperately for a polite way to make her excuses.

Mazie’s eyes filled with tears again, though this time perhaps not for her father’s passing. “I adore my brothers. They’ve been my supporters and protectors my entire life. It kills me to see them so stiff and polite with each other. Please, Fiona,” she said urgently. “Please have dinner with us.”

Hartley walked up to them, overhearing his sister’s invitation. “Of course she’s coming—right, Fee?”

Fiona knew she was trapped. She gnawed her lip. “If you’re sure I won’t be intruding.” She gave Hartley a pointed stare. “But I can’t stay too late. I have a huge project to begin tomorrow, and I want to be in bed at a decent hour.”

His gaze was inscrutable. “Understood.”

Hartley was no more communicative during the drive to the Tarleton home than he had been earlier en route to the funeral. The silence suited Fiona just fine. She leaned her head back against her seat and closed her eyes.

Unfortunately, shutting Hartley out was not so easy. His masculine scent teased her nose. Her fingers itched to cross the divide between them and stroke his thigh. She wanted to help him. She really did. And she wanted to be with him. But her sense of self-preservation warned her to keep her distance.

Instead, she was accompanying him to a meal and a social occasion that was sure to produce strong emotions and any one of a dozen possible outcomes, from uncomfortable silence to vocal recriminations.

If she was lucky, the Tarletons would be on their best behavior. Fiona would be able to return home and would never again answer her door to a tall, handsome lover.

Despite her misgivings, she was eager to see the beach house. Years ago, Gerald Tarleton had built a walled compound on the tip of a barrier island north of Charleston. Fiona knew of the property in general terms, but when Hartley steered the car through the front gates, she was both taken aback and enchanted.

The structure rested on massive stilts, of course. A sweeping staircase led up to the beautiful double-door entrance. Even from the driveway, Fiona could see the intricate stained glass that incorporated sea turtles, dolphins and starfish. As an artist, she was fascinated.

As a woman, she wanted to run far away.

Hartley shut off the engine and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. “This feels so damned wrong.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were inadequate, but she didn’t know how else to help him.

The early evening light illuminated his drawn expression. “I grew up here,” he said quietly. “After 9/11, our father was paranoid. He barely let us leave the house for the longest time.”

“I can understand that, I suppose. He wanted to protect you.” She gazed up at Hartley’s family home. It was a far cry from the houses where she had been bounced around.

Her longest tenure was twenty-five months—with a family who had taken in four other foster children besides Fiona. When the wife eventually became pregnant with her own biological child, Fiona and her de facto brothers and sisters were reassigned.

Fiona had begged to stay. At thirteen, she was the oldest of the lot and capable of being a help around the house. But the pregnancy was high risk. The doctor said too much stress and chaos would threaten the mother’s health.

Fiona’s personality was quiet and self-abnegating. No chaos anywhere. But the doctor’s orders prevailed.

Fiona’s foster mom had cried and cried. She was too hormonal and stressed out to make a good decision. In the end, it was nobody’s fault, but Fiona had never again invested so much of herself emotionally.

Hartley touched her hand. “Ready to go inside?”

Even that one quick brush of his fingers against her skin sent shivers dancing down her spine. Why did he have this effect on her? “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”