C.J. sat frozen, his mouth hanging open, a strange buzzing in his head. Forget the forks in his eyes. He’d much rather use them to dig his mother’s words from his ears.
She was often thoughtless with her words, careless with her deeds, but the alcohol had obviously washed away any and all filters between her brain and her mouth.
No doubt about it. He really was in hell.
“Please,” he managed to choke out, holding up his hand as if that would stop her from talking, “I’d like to keep up the illusion that you don’t have a sex life, and that would be easier to do if you didn’t share details.”
He made a mental note never to ride in her car again.
She laughed and slapped his arm. “Don’t be silly. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends, as well. And friends tell each other such things.”
“I will never tell you such things,” he promised solemnly. “Ever.”
“Well, just know that you can. But I do hope you won’t divulge anything I’ve said to your father.”
Her voice had been casual, her expression clear. If C.J. hadn’t looked carefully, he would have missed the calculation in her eyes, the small, satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth. As if all she needed for her evil plans to come to fruition was for C.J. to regale his disabled father with stories of her sexual escapades, causing Senior to become insanely jealous, toss aside his latest bimbo and finally come crawling back to Gwen.
C.J. had an entire lifetime of experience when it came to Gwen and her manipulations. As a kid, he’d fallen for her act too many times to count. Had run to his father every time Gwen had a date, had told Senior about the days she’d spent locked in her room, crying over him. But no matter how hard C.J. had tried, no matter how much he’d begged, his father had never come back.
Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.
C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.
He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.
Trouble.
That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.
Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.
His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.
Definitely trouble.
The very best kind.
“Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”
The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a bless your heart at the end of his sentences.
She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”
He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.
The instant connection.
He frowned. No. Not connection. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.
He wanted her.
And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.
Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.
Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.
He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.
“Gotcha.”
Copyright © 2015 by Beth Burgoon
ISBN-13: 9781460383087
The Good Father
Copyright © 2015 by Tara Taylor Quinn
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Table of Contents
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Excerpt
Copyright
Table of Contents
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty