An Irresistible Bachelor(63)
But when Nathaniel Six had died, the seventh Nate had declared that, as Jack was head of the family for all intents and purposes, it should be worn by him. Jack had never been into jewelry before, except for his collection of cuff links, but the ring had felt right.
As he looked at the scratches and the dents in the gold, thinking of how many men in his family had worn it, he remembered the last time he'd seen his father alive. It had been the night before his death. Not surprisingly, they'd argued because his father had been into the Scotch and Jack had been determined to hold a hard line when it came to money.
After years of supporting his philanthropy habit by exchanging deeds and certificates of record for money with his son, Nate Six had nothing left to barter with. When the last interest in the house in Palm Beach had been signed over, Jack had told his father that he'd be willing to support the man's reasonable expenses, but not any more of his gift commitments. And for a while, there had been no new ones made.
On that night, however, the elder Nathaniel had announced that he'd promised half a million dollars to the MFA. He'd emphasized that he'd broken down the payment schedule into monthly sums, clearly thinking it would seem more like an expense that way. When Jack had refused to make good on the pledge, his father had been livid.
The situation would have been tough to handle at any time, but it had been ten o'clock at night, five hours after his father had started in with the drinking. The man had been past the point of rational conversation. When Jack had started to walk out of the room, Nathaniel had accused his son of being a bloodthirsty capitalist who was turning his back on the needs of the unfortunate.
Jack had reminded his father that those bloody battles in the financial world were what made Nathaniel's continued presence at Buona Fortuna possible. He'd also pointed out that there weren't many "unfortunates" hanging out at the MFA, and, if his father was truly concerned with social welfare, he should be volunteering at a soup kitchen or some worthy shelter.
When the drunken insults had continued, Jack grew frustrated at having to have the same conversation over and over again and had really let one rip. The comment had been something about his father failing at everything he'd ever done except getting his ass kissed by people after Walker money.
That had pretty much put a lid on the argument. His father had been stunned into silence, for a moment, but then struck back. Jack would never forget his words or tone of voice.
My sons are a source of inestimable sadness to me, my biggest failure. At least your brother has the decency to stay away.
And the next morning, he'd died.
Hell of a way to leave things, Jack thought, bringing the glass back to his lips and draining the bourbon dry. It was difficult to understand how his father had been able to embrace so many strangers while holding his own sons in such disdain. But then the things people did sometimes made no sense. Which was something he was beginning to understand from his own choices.
Pouring himself another glass, Jack put his legs up and crossed his feet at the ankles on his desk. He was contemplating the color of the liquor when, from down at the other end of the house, he heard the front door open and voices in the hall.
Getting to his feet, he came around the corner and saw Gray and Callie standing in the doorway. Jack was about to say something when his friend put a hand on her shoulder and dipped his head down low.
Jack shut his eyes, feeling a burn in his gut that had nothing to do with the bourbon. He went back to his study and waited, straining to hear the door shut.
When it finally did, he hurried back out to the hall, bracing himself to see the two of them going upstairs together. Instead, Callie was taking off her coat.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" he said, stepping forward into the light.
Her head nipped around. As if she were collecting herself, she brushed a length of hair behind her ear. "You're back."
Jessica Bird
Her eyes brushed over him, lingering on the open collar of his shirt.
"Miss me?" he asked. "Or were you otherwise occupied?"
She frowned, eyeing the glass in his hand. "How long have you been drinking?"
He looked at the bourbon. "Awhile."
She put her coat on the balustrade and stepped forward, holding out her hand. "I think maybe you've had enough."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"What do you think you're going to accomplish by drinking yourself into a stupor?"
His eyes traveled from the crown of her head all the way down her body. He went back to her lips and then her breasts. "Maybe I'll forget about you for a little while."