Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika #3)(5)

Bronson Giles was attending a gallery showing in L.A. with his oldest son, Dermot.  I’d heard somewhere that he was following in his dad’s acting footsteps.  He looked like a perfect younger image of his father, big, blond, and very handsome.

With my same eyes.

I think I was too completely dead to the idea of feeling anything for my father to have a reaction to him.  To see him, well, it was only a sort of vague discomfort.

Dermot, on the other hand, I had not expected.

The idea of a deadbeat dad was one thing.  The concept of a half-sibling, one that had no inkling that I existed, was something else.  It was very strange, but I found myself staring at him whenever he wandered close as they perused the art, trying to catch some kindness in him, some redemption.  I didn’t want to hate him.

In fact, I quite wanted to like him.

I wasn’t sure if Bronson thought it was him I was staring at, or if I just happened to catch his eye, but he watched me even more than I watched Dermot.

Finally, Bronson approached me directly.  I tensed up sure he’d caught the resemblance between me and my mother, who he’d obviously known well.

That wasn’t why he approached.  Well, I suppose it was a twisted version of that.  Marta was apparently his type, and being close to the spitting image of her, I suppose I was too.

His smile dripped with greasy charm even before he opened his disgusting mouth.

Before he even got a word out, I had the thought: Oh God, no.  My own father is about to hit on me.

Please, please, please, I thought, make this not actually be happening.

Who the f**k else had this kind of luck?

I didn’t even catch the first little bit that he said, more heard his tone, my mind reeling in horror.

It was just too much.  Even I couldn’t maintain my usual professional demeanor as I stood there and had the man that had sired me tell me how hot I was.

He didn’t even have good lines.  He’d been relying on his fame and money for way too long.

“So what do you say?”  He reached into his pocket, pulling out what looked like a hotel room key card.  “I keep a regular room at The Beverly Hills Hotel.  I can meet you there in three hours.  In the meantime, feel free to make yourself comfortable, order some drinks.  Charge it to the room.”

He said it all like it was just a forgone conclusion, even when I knew that the look on my face must have told him that I liked him about as much as something particularly smelly that had just gotten stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

He was that oblivious.

“You are just stunning.  Where do you get that coloring from?  A bit of Asian in there, right?  I’ve always been a fan of the Asian girls.  But the black hair with those pale eyes.”  He whistled long and low.  “So very striking.  What a beauty.  Hot little body on you too.”

I had to restrain myself from slapping him across the face.  My voice was not quite steady when I finally found it.  “What is your heritage?”

“I’m mainly Danish and English.  Your turn, babe.”

My mouth shaped into a sharp smile.  “My mother is Japanese and Russian, and my father is apparently Danish and English, though I just this second found that out.”

He gave me a strange look.  “How so?”

“Bronson Giles, my mother’s name is Marta Markova.  I assume that rings a bell?”

He at least had the decency to turn green then.  “My God,” he whispered.

“I can see where that would be a problem, knocking up so many women that you can’t keep track of your offspring.  And by the way, Bronson, you are way too old for me.  Even if I wasn’t your daughter.”  I made a face.  “That’s just gross.  If you’re going to be a philandering pig, at least be more age appropriate about it.  Especially with all of the random women you must have gotten pregnant over the years.  Maybe stay away from women that are young enough to be your daughters, or hell, your granddaughters.”

“My God,” he said again.  “Do you want money from me or something?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” I told him furiously, my voice low and mean.  “Not one thing.  I manage this gallery.  You are the one that came up to me, or did you not realize that?”

He blinked a few times, turned on his heel and strode away.

Dermot, who’d been about a dozen feet away for the whole thing, sent me one probing glance and followed him.

I thought that was the end of it, but about an hour later, Dermot was back.

He sought me out, waiting while I handled a sale.  He smiled and held out his hand when I was free.  “I’m Dermot,” he said warmly.

I smiled tentatively back, shaking his hand.  “Danika.”

“I just wanted to apologize for my father.  He’s…a throwback, and it looked like he came on a little strong back there.”

I studied him.  “I’m not sure why you’re apologizing.  You didn’t do anything.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was like him.  He’s my father, but I’ve known since I was a kid that he’s a creep when it comes to women.”

I nodded.  That he was, and I didn’t know what to say about it.