Strange Bedfellows Part 2. Кейси Майклс

make them wear decent clothes.”

      “You’re not married, are you, Herb?” Sean asked, not angry but more amused by Herb’s idea of cleaning up a teenager’s act. “No wife, no kids?”

      “No, sir,” Herb said, nodding once more. “No wife, no kids. I’ve got six older brothers, and more than two dozen nieces and nephews. I’ve seen plenty, let me tell you. And I never saw the point in all that hassle of raising a bunch of ungrateful kids, to tell you the truth.”

      Sean picked up the printouts again, smiling. “Oh, I don’t know, Herb. Parenthood has its rewards. Really, it’s got its rewards.”

      “If you say so, sir. Well, I’d best be punching out. It’s almost six-thirty.”

      Sean pushed back his sleeve and looked at his watch. Where had the time gone? Damn it! This was what Jason was always complaining about—how his father always had time for business but never enough time for him. Not that Jason knew they were meeting at Cassandra Mercer’s tonight. Jason was there doing a research project, and well, ever since he’d been stuck in the car with her during the mudslide, Sean found himself looking for any excuse to spend more time with Cassandra. And he needed to make sure she wasn’t pregnant, after their…tryst during the worst part of the storm.

      “I’ll walk out with you, Herb,” he said, picking up the suit jacket that had been draped over the back of his chair. He could call the Chinese takeout from his cell phone, pick up the order at the drive-through and be at Cassandra’s house in twenty minutes. Tops.

      And then what? he asked himself as he turned to his left in the employee parking lot, heading for his newly repaired Mercedes. Yeah, Frame. Then what? You’re ordering Chinese food, not a serving of crow.

      Chapter Ten

      Melissa Etheridge was belting out another chorus of “Bring Me Some Water,” and Cassandra danced around the kitchen, caught up in the pulsing beat of the music. Jason had cranked the stereo to the “ouch” level, and the bass was thumping in her chest, the drumbeat in the background causing her to bob her head with the rhythm, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, the music singing in her blood.

      She picked up the long-handled, plastic pot scrubber and used it like a microphone, growling the words into it as she shook her head, shook her shoulders, allowed herself to be moved by the beat, set free by the beat. She swung around in a circle, the pot scrubber turning into a guitar as she “air-played” the riff, felt her unbound hair slap against her cheeks.

      She pushed in Jason’s chair with a flip of her hip, picking up the empty soda can and winging it into the recycling container before pulling the pot scrubber to her mouth, and complaining that she was “burning alive!”

      The singer broke into the hard, thumping refrain once more, and Cassandra shifted into high gear—her hips swaying, her feet slip-sliding along the smooth tile as she opened the refrigerator, pulled out another can of soda, made her way to the office door, pulled it open and danced her way inside.

      Jason looked over his shoulder, saw her and grinned as he came to his feet. He immediately turned up the stereo another notch, took the soda away from her, then leaned in close as the song blared to its heart-thumping crescendo—at which time, their knees bent, their heads pressed together, they sang the last line together.

      Jason put his arm around Cassandra, to keep her from tumbling to the floor, and the two of them laughed at each other as the rock star began singing another song.

      And then he looked toward the kitchen, and his expression turned hard. His eyes went flat and dull, and his lip curled. “What’s he doing here?” he asked, wheeling away from Cassandra, who had been laughing and trying to catch her breath.

      “Curses. Foiled again,” Cassandra muttered even as she stood up straight, pushed the hair out of her eyes and turned to look at Sean Frame.

      She was more than a little aware of her closely fitting striped knit top and her cutoff jeans—hadn’t she been on her way upstairs to change? She had a vague memory of thinking it was time to head for the stairs, right before Jason had put on the Etheridge CD. She crossed her hands over her waist and said as cheerily as she could, “Oh, didn’t I tell you your dad was coming to dinner? Gee. I must have forgotten.”

      “You also forgot to lock your front door,” Sean pointed out as he walked into the office, which suddenly seemed much too small to hold the three of them. “I put the box of food on the kitchen table, then followed the noise. You two planning to take that act on the road?”

      Jason sniffed. “Yeah. Right, Dad. Ha. Ha. Look, Ms. Mercer, I can’t stay.”

      He brushed past Cassandra, on his way to the door, but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Jason, don’t go. I know I should have told you that your father was coming over. He—he wanted to say thank you for Friday night.”

      Sean’s voice was pure black velvet and held more than a hint of teasing. “Yes, indeed, Cassandra. I certainly do.”

      Her eyes wide, she shot him a shocked look. “I mean, that is—for picking him up.” As Sean’s smile, which had appeared when she’d made her first foot-in-mouth statement, widened appreciatively, she went on quickly, “No. I didn’t pick him up. Well, not exactly. I mean, I did pick him up. Well, at least technically. But I…Jason, can you please turn down the stereo?”

      Jason did as she’d asked, and the silence in the office instantly became deafening.

      “Yeah, well, I guess you two want to be alone. And, like I said, I gotta go now,” Jason muttered as he shut down the computer and began picking up the pages he had printed out.

      “Jason, don’t be an idiot,” Sean said as his son brushed past him, which really helped matters a whole lot, in Cassandra’s opinion. Not!

      “Jason,” she said, following him into the kitchen. “Your dad didn’t mean that the way it sounded. He brought dinner for the three of us, so let’s all just sit down and eat, okay? Can’t we do that?”

      Sean followed them into the kitchen, then leaned up against the counter, watching his son, watching Cassandra. At least he wasn’t saying anything anymore, thank goodness. Because that sort of “help” she didn’t need!

      Jason looked at his dad again. “No. I don’t think so.” He shook his head, his jaw twisted as his eyes narrowed, in anger, in pain. “You just had to horn in, didn’t you. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, leave me alone. Not even this once! I can’t have anything to myself, can I, Dad? Not anything…or anybody. Aw, hell, I’m outta here!”

      And then he was gone, the front door slamming behind him, and Cassandra and Sean were alone together in the kitchen, a big cardboard box full of fried rice and spare ribs filling the air with heady aromas—which did nothing to block out the smell of tension, of disquiet, of hot, juvenile anger.

      “I—I was just on my way upstairs. To change,” Cassandra explained, wishing she hadn’t had to witness such an embarrassing, painful family moment.

      “No need, Cassandra. I’ve seen you dressed less professionally than this,” Sean told her as he slipped out of his suit jacket and undid his tie. “You won’t mind if I get comfortable, will you?”

      “Look, I know you’re angry and all that, but calling him an idiot was nasty, Sean, and beneath you.” She spread her arms helplessly, then clasped her hands together. “I—I…oh, damn it! Why didn’t I warn him? That poor kid! Shouldn’t you be going after him?”

      Sean pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching into the cardboard box. “No, Cassandra, I shouldn’t. And neither should you, just in case you were thinking about it. He’s made his statement and I think we both understand the why of it. He thinks I’m cutting in on his girl. Now, as I haven’t had lunch today and most of this stuff turns into unrecognizable goo when it gets cold, let’s eat.”

      * * *