The Garrisons: Parker, Brittany & Stephen: The CEO's Scandalous Affair

Megan took a bite of gooey pastry, nodding like a knowledgeable expert as she chewed. “And,” she added when she swallowed, pointing the roll at Anna, “when he laughs at something you said, the whole room sort of spins and your heart gets all fluttery and your arms get numb from the need to touch him?”

“Every time.”

Megan slid her finger along the top of the cinnamon roll, covering it with icing. “You’re in love,” she pronounced.

“No, I’m not. I’m just in big, fat trouble.”

Megan sucked the icing off her finger with a noisy smack and a knowing grin. “Same thing.”

The last thing Parker wanted to do on Sunday was trudge up to Bal Harbor for the weekly Garrison dinner. Not that driving Collins Avenue with the top of his BMW M3 down and his floorboard-rumbling stereo at full blast was exactly trudging, but he still would rather have spent the evening working on the endless pile of paper that seemed to accumulate on his desk that week.

Because, God knows, he hadn’t gotten anything of consequence accomplished at work since Monday. Unless playing games with Anna Cross was “work.”

He’d planted three separate false trails regarding business development, and not one of them had resulted in sending the Jefferieses on a wild-goose chase.

He’d tried to draw Anna out from her cloak of professionalism, teasing her with the occasional joke and letting the inevitable contact blister into heat between them. But that hadn’t accomplished anything except more than a few restless nights for him and a bad case of unrequited… arousal.

And that, he thought, popping out the classic-rock CD he’d been playing and searching his collection for something that suited his mood, was the problem.

She was getting to him.

Maybe it was her resistance to his obvious interest. Maybe it was the fact that he suspected her of spying and couldn’t seem to catch her. Maybe it was the memory of those few kisses, that promise of so much more in London.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the all-too-familiar southbound rush of blood reminding him that whatever the hell it was about Anna Cross, it had an undeniable effect on him.

No matter which way he cut it, rationalized it or ignored it, he still wanted her. A lot.

His fingers grazed the CD cases restlessly, skipping each one. If not rock or jazz or a decent piano concerto, what did he want to hear?

Broadway tunes.

“Oh, man.” He tapped the steering wheel and yanked left into the stone gates of the Garrison estate. “That’s bad, Garrison. That’s rock-bottom bad.”

He whipped into an open space behind Adam’s smaller model BMW and checked his rearview, raking his hands through his wind-whipped hair in self-disgust. Since when did he have the slightest interest in Rodgers and Hammerstein?

Since that little vixen hummed show tunes while she was filing. Off-key, no less. But when she tapped her toes to some ditty that ran through her head and the tip of her tongue sneaked out between her sweet, soft lips, the next thing he knew he had a sudden need to—

“Don’t worry, you’re perfect.” Brooke leaned over the passenger door of the convertible and offered her brother a friendly grin. “Making all the girls wild, as usual.”

He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m afraid it’s the other way around lately.”

That earned him a surprised lift of her shapely eyebrow. “Don’t tell me someone’s finally gotten under big, bad Parker’s skin.”

“Not a chance,” he assured her, popping out of the car and coming around to give her a hug. “But who are you sneaking around with these days?”

All the color drained from Brooke’s usually rosy cheeks. “What?” She half laughed and accepted his hug. “You must have me mixed up with my far more social twin.”

He released the embrace, but held her shoulders tightly and searched her face, a pang of guilt twisting through him. He’d promised Stephen he’d call her this week and he hadn’t even remembered. He’d been so caught up in… Anna.

“Are you okay?” he asked, unwilling to let go of her shoulders. “Stephen told me you’ve been pretty miserable since the whole Cassie Sinclair thing came out.”

Her eyes filled, but she blinked back the tears. “I’m having a hard time, Parker,” she replied. “What Dad did was, well, unforgivable. And to let us know like that. During the reading of his will.” She inched out of his grip with a shudder of anger.

He slid his arm around her as they crossed the brick driveway and approached the massive glass-and-mahogany entrance to the Spanish-style villa.

“I know how you feel,” Parker commiserated. “Mad and hurt and disillusioned. And, hell, we’re still in mourning.

I can’t believe I’m going to walk into this house and he isn’t going to be on the back veranda, drinking in the ocean view, ready to dissect every nuance of the past workweek and plan the attack for the next one.”

She raised her delicate jaw so the sunlight caught the dip of the Garrison cleft in her chin. “That’s your job now, Parker.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, the weight of the “patriarch” role weighing heavy on his shoulders. “Those are big shoes to fill.”

“No problem,” she assured him with a gentle elbow to the ribs. “You’ve got big feet.”

Before they even reached the last of the wide stucco stairs that led to the entrance, the doors opened and Lisette Wilson, the real keeper of the Garrison house, appeared in her standard navy-and-white uniform, looking a bit older than her fifty-five years.

The loss of John Garrison had hit their longtime housekeeper hard, but Parker knew that something more than that was working on Lisette.

“Hello, Lisette,” he greeted her with a gentle hand to her shoulder, while she gave a nod to him and a peck on Brooke’s cheek. “How are you?” Parker asked.

She answered that with pursed lips feathered with a dozen tiny creases. “I’m fine, Mr. Parker, but I can’t say the same for your mother. The bottle has been open since eleven this morning.”

He felt his sister sink into him. “Oh,” Brooke said. “Thanks for the warning, Lisette.”

Behind the housekeeper, Adam strode into the oversize entryway, a frown on his angular face. “I’m leaving,” he said gruffly. “Sorry, but I’d rather be anywhere but here listening to her rant about Ava Sinclair.”

“Ava who?” Brooke asked. “Is that Cassie’s mother?”

“Yes,” Parker said. “Brandon Washington has been doing some digging. The woman, Dad’s, uh, friend, passed away about a month before he did.”

“And I’m supposed to feel bad about that?” Bonita ambled in and leaned shakily on a wide stone column that marked the entrance to a sprawling living room, a glass of something potent in her hand. She shook a strand of hair off her face, revealing some makeup streaked under her eyes. “Maybe your father died of a broken heart when his mistress croaked.”

Parker’s heart sank. Mother was loud, rough and blasted.

Lisette immediately stepped to her side. “Why don’t I take you upstairs to freshen up while the children gather, Mrs. Garrison,” she said, as gently as if she were talking to a petulant toddler. “Mr. Stephen should be here soon, and maybe Miss Brittany. I daresay we’ll have a full house tonight, and I made braised beef.”

“I don’t like braised beef,” his mother whined, but she allowed herself to be led up a winding staircase, mumbling under her breath as she clutched the wrought iron railing.

Adam blew out a disgusted breath and continued toward the front door. “I’m outta here.”

“Wait,” Brooke said, going after him. “Come on, Adam. We need to be a family.”

“You need to be a family,” he shot back. “I need to be somewhere else.” He opened the door to leave just as Stephen walked up the stairs. Wordlessly, Adam pushed past his brother with Brooke on his tail.

“Adam, please,” she called. “She’ll sober up.”

“Just enough to insult you, Brooke.”