A Bad Boy is Good to Find(2)

“That was in front of him, dear,” said her mother from the far side of the room, where she refilled her glass with unsteady hands. “You’d hardly expect us to insult him to his face.”

“I don’t know why not. You think it’s more polite to wait until he leaves, then stab him in the back?”

She’d seen that they didn’t like him. The too-polite smiles. The too-witty conversations. Con saw it too, but he asked her to marry him anyway. He loved her in spite of her parents.

“No one enjoys a confrontation, Elizabeth.” Her father surveyed her over the half-moons of his reading glasses. “There’s no need to stir up drama.”

“But why have a confrontation at all? What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know anything about him. Where he comes from, his family.”

“He’s from Louisiana,” she protested. “What does his family matter? I’m not marrying them.”

Her father gave a dismissive snort.

“Why are you sneering? Because his family is from the South?” Heat rushed her chest at the thought of them discriminating against someone so good and kind.

Her father removed his reading glasses and started to polish them. Anger bubbled up inside her as she saw that—once again—he planned to simply ignore her.

She groped for something to impress her father. “They’re descended from French aristocracy!”

He even has the family crest tattooed on his…

Never mind.

“It’s not so simple, dear.” Her mother shot a glance at her father. “There are things to consider. Your legacy, for example…” She paused and sipped her wine. Looked almost nervous.

“My legacy? Who are we kidding here? We’re garbage bag tycoons. The only reason we’re sitting on pots of money right now is because grandpa perfected the disposable bin-liner. People take our product and shove it in the trash can, literally, so excuse me if I can’t take it too freakin’ seriously.”

“You will not use language like that in my presence.” Her father lit his cigar, and her lungs recoiled as acrid smoke rolled toward her. “And as you know only too well, Hathaway Industries is one of the foremost manufacturers of household products in the world today.”

Anger stole her breath. “Why are we talking about Hathaway Industries? Why does everything always come back to ‘the firm’ and the embarrassment of money that’s a millstone around all our necks?”

She paused and took a deep breath, heart thudding. “Conroy Beale is the man I love. He loves me. Since I’ve met him I’ve changed and grown in ways I’d never dreamed possible.”

She smoothed the clingy black fabric of the elegant dress he’d helped her choose. The marcasite bracelet he’d picked out caught the golden light from the lowering sun. Strength seeped through her veins at the thought of him.

“Since I met him I feel like a new person. Look at me!” She gestured to her glamorous attire, the loose dark curls cascading over her bosom. “When did you last see me wear my hair down? When did you see me in a dress? I feel beautiful. I know I’m beautiful, and Conroy Beale has given me that gift.”

“Well, dear, I’m not sure that dress is entirely flattering, given your…endowments.” Her mother sipped her wine and peered at her with soulless pale eyes.

Lizzie shrank a little, the way she always did under that withering stare, then tossed her hair and stuck out her “endowments.” “I’m not ashamed of my body any more. I’m tired of creeping around, hiding myself under baggy clothes, trying out every crazy diet that comes along. I’m not meant to be a twig like you. I don’t have that kind of body. Conroy loves me just the way I am, and so do I!”

Her voice gave her a shivering thrill as it rang out over the polished parquet and reverberated off the wall of windows. She wanted to yell at them for every hurt she’d ever suffered at their hands.

“I’m intelligent and creative. I don’t need to sit in a dreary office designing promotional brochures so you can keep me tucked away in ‘gainful employment’ that won’t embarrass you. I was going to be an artist—” her voice cracked, “an artist who created beauty and made people see things in a new way—”

“Now, dear, let’s not get carried away.” Her mother’s low voice stuck her like a blunt knife. “You sprayed graffiti on canvas and called it art. I don’t recall anyone clamoring to put you in the Whitney Biennial.”

Lizzie’s breathing got shallow. Once again she felt herself shrinking, withering, losing stature and confidence while gaining in bloated girth under that critical glare.

Con. Think of him. In her mind she squeezed his hand. Remember all that strength and power and warm affection. The adoring way his gaze roamed over her, heated her skin and swelled her heart until it was ready to burst. The most handsome man she’d ever met, the sweetest, the most skilled and inventive lover…

“I’m going to marry him.”

“You are not.” Her father didn’t even look at her. He stared down at his cigar for a moment.

“Oh, for Christ sake. Tell her, Harold,” snapped her mother. She slammed her glass down on the antique sideboard.

“Tell me what?” Lizzie frowned. The sun had sunk in the sky and now blasted through the huge wall of paned windows, a fiery orange ball that made her squint.

“You’re drunk, dear. Don’t make a fool of yourself,”

Her mother didn’t even flinch, but Lizzie froze. Where was the thin-lipped pretense she’d grown up with?

“I’m going to bed.” Her mom turned and looked at her. An odd look in her pale eyes chilled Lizzie and made her glance at her father. She noticed for the first time that her mother’s hair wasn’t carefully styled and her clothes were wrinkled. Her whole façade seemed to be slipping. Even her face looked older, its lines deeper.

Instead of turning to the curved oak staircase she walked toward the French doors, opened them, and slipped out into the garden. The dark backyard screeched with tree frogs for a moment before the door closed behind her with a thunk.

“Where’s she going?”

Her father stubbed out his cigar on a priceless piece of Chinese porcelain, making Lizzie stare. “She’s staying in the pool house.”

“What?” Her voice was barely audible.

“Sleeping with the pool boy, too, for all I know.” His voice had taken on a newly malevolent tone.

She started to shake. “I don’t understand…” Pain shot up her calves from the uncomfortable high heels she shouldn’t have worn.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. You’ve led a sheltered life.” He stared at her from beneath lowered brows. “A very sheltered life. But that’s all about to come to an end.”

She shivered involuntarily at the coldness of his tone. Her parents had obviously gone stark raving mad. She lifted her chin and screwed up her courage. “I have to go. I’m marrying Con tomorrow, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I’m sorry you couldn’t be supportive, but I…I…I…” Tears rose in her throat and she fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.