The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,65
discussed, doll, you’re at my service.”
That evening, whatever Renata and Martin Nichols thought of Sara’s presence at the dining room table, they were polite enough not to comment. Instead they only praised her on the presentation of the food as she and Joaquin slid plates in front of them. Yes, he’d insisted on helping her serve.
Like they were a couple.
And only more so when he pulled out her chair, then halted her from sitting with a hand on her arm. “Apron,” he said, then tugged on the strings himself.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as he drew it over her head.
When Sara finally took her seat, she became aware of Renata studying her. Trying not to squirm, Sara smoothed her napkin over the skirt of her floral dress. Was the garment too casual? Joaquin’s mother wore linen slacks and a silk blouse that were lovely, but nowhere near formal.
Did the woman instead wonder about her son’s familiarity toward the help? Did she discern that they’d been…intimate?
Would she guess that Sara was almost-but-not-quite over him?
Then another thought chilled her. Was it possible Renata recognized Sara from the coverage of the scandal?
“Do I know you?” she asked Sara. “Where are you from?”
“Um…” Oh, why had she let down her guard? For a while now, since that incident with Imogen, she’d put from her mind all the London ugliness. But perhaps she shouldn’t have returned to her regular hair color. Going raven-wing black would have been smarter.
Except she’d wanted Joaquin to see the real her.
Remembering the older woman was waiting for an answer, Sara kept her gaze on her plate. “I went to school in Michigan.”
“That’s not a Michigan accent I hear,” Renata replied.
“Yes, well, my father is from the U.K.” Sara speared a bite of fish but didn’t dare place it anywhere near her dry mouth.
Joaquin’s mother frowned. “Hmm. A cold, damp country.”
“Renata likes her creature comforts,” Joaquin said.
And not as if it was a compliment. Renata realized that, too. Sara could see it in her little twitch.
“Speaking of comfort,” Sara hurried to say, “I hope you find the guest room pleasing.”
“Of course.” Renata relaxed. “The flowers are lovely, by the way.”
“Sara grows them,” Joaquin added. “She did all the landscape design at the estate herself, and she tends the flowers like a good mother would tend to her children.”
Renata twitched again. “I…see.” Her hand trembled as it reached for her wine.
Sara sent Joaquin a glance. While he’d admitted he and his mother weren’t on the best terms, she was surprised by his barbs. Was it merely Renata’s presence that gave him this unfamiliar edge, or had something else happened?
She thought back to his phone call that morning. Then, she’d suspected something was off. As Essie’s parents turned to the teenager to hear about her Malibu adventures, under cover of the girl’s chatter she touched Joaquin’s thigh.
He glanced over, his expression set. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
His demeanor seemed to soften. “Yeah. Okay. Even better when I get a big old slab of chocolate cake under my belt.”
Her lips twitched. “I made it with carob.”
“No. That’s too mean.”
She waved a hand. “You won’t even know the difference.”
His eyes narrowed. “If I do…” he threatened.
“And you, Joaquin?” Renata said from across the table.
He looked up. “And me, what?”
“Essie was just telling us about what her Zachary has been up to. It has me wondering if there’s someone special in your life as well.”
“No,” he said shortly.
Sara returned her attention on her plate.
“That’s too bad. I do hate to think of you all alone—”
“If I am, it’s because I like it that way,” her son ground out, and Sara could feel tension humming from him, like angry bees about to swarm.
Renata carefully set down her fork, clearly having more to say.
Drop it, Sara thought, trying to urgently deliver mental direction to the older woman. Don’t say another word on that subject. He’s clearly touchy right now.
“Son.” She leaned forward. “I wish so much more for you. If only you would—”
“Your ‘if onlys’ are too late, Renata,” Joaquin said, his voice hard. “And you lost the right to tell me how to live my life a long time ago. I believe I was seven.”
“Joaquin,” Martin said in a warning tone as the color drained from his wife’s face, and she went absolutely still.
Kill shot, Sara thought.
Joaquin must have realized it too, because he forked a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. Looking down at the table, he breathed roughly through his nose.