Trevor scoffed. “How innovative of you.” He led her out back and onto the wide terrace. Arnold had set up a small bar to one side.

“What’s your poison, Miss Campbell?” His cock was still hard and watching her gracefully move around the patio in that short dress wasn’t helping.

Allie smiled. “Can you make a cosmopolitan?”

“Of course I can. I simply choose not to.”

“You take one part vodka—”

“Yes, yes, all right.” He began mixing ingredients into a shaker and poured the contents into a martini glass. “Here you go.” As he handed her the glass, their fingers touched, and he felt that spark again. Honestly, he was like a schoolboy with his first crush. It was embarrassing.

Allie’s eyes found his. “Thanks.”

Trevor let go of the glass and moved back to the bar. “I will have a very manly scotch, thank you.” He poured himself a glass of single malt and walked back to her.

“Come on, there’s something you need to see.” He held out his hand.

Allie stared at it before linking her fingers with his, and he helped her down the flagstone steps. They strolled along the path, toward the bottom of the garden to the small pond. He led her to a bench overlooking a hill. Two mountains in the distance framed the sunset. He squeezed her hand. “See there?”

She gasped. The water reflected the orange and pink hues that streaked across the sky. “It’s beautiful.” She shifted on the bench and placed her hand on his thigh, letting it rest there too briefly. “You’re so lucky, Trevor, to have all this.”

“Am I?” He’d never felt particularly lucky. Fortunate perhaps, not lucky. But sitting next to her, in his extravagant garden, he felt something like it for the first time.

They sipped their drinks and watched in silence as the sun fell, a dark purple sky replacing the orange glow. A few stars popped out. And Trevor was…at peace.

“When I was little,” Allie said, “my dad used to drive us out to the desert to look at the stars. He had this old telescope, and we’d take turns trying to find the different constellations. My mom would pack cookies, and Monica would never shut up, and Brynn used to fall asleep on the way home.”

He stretched his arm along the back of the bench, brushed the hair off her shoulder. “That’s a lovely memory.”

She nodded. “I think so too.”

He sighed. “We should go in soon. Arnold will have a coronary if the food gets cold.”

As they stood, she tucked her arm in his. He glanced down at the top of her head and suppressed the urge to kiss it. Good God, he was becoming treacly sweet, and it was slightly nauseating.

She peered up at him and smiled. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

“You’re most welcome.” He felt himself smiling back.

He led her through the fragrant garden and toward the lighted terrace where he noticed someone lounging on one of the chairs. Stopping in his tracks, the tendons in his hand strained as he clutched his tumbler of scotch.

Allie pulled to a stop beside him. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

Trevor glared at the woman making herself at home with a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Hello, Mother.”

Chapter 7

“Mother?” Allie gasped. “I thought your parents were dead?”

Gracefully, the woman uncrossed her legs and rose from the lounger. “Trevor, dearest, what have you been saying about me?”

“Nothing good, I assure you.”

Allie glanced between the two and winced at the cold expression on Trevor’s face. She hadn’t known him long, but she’d quickly learned that look always spelled trouble.

Allie switched her attention back to his mom—his beautiful, sophisticated mom—and saw the resemblance. Her hair, the same dark shade as Trevor’s, brushed the tops of her shoulders. Her tilted eyes were gray as well.

“Who’s your little friend, darling?” She nodded toward Allie, her inspection thorough.

Trevor’s muscles stiffened beneath her hand, but he adopted a casual tone. “This is Allison Campbell. Allison, this is my mother, Margaret Tremayne Blake del Santos Quinn Arceneau…” He narrowed his eyes. “What was the last one, Mother?”

She smiled at him. “Beauregard.”

“Yes, that’s it, Beauregard. Can’t believe I forgot.” He peered down at Allie. “Lived on a farm, that one.”

Margaret took a sip of champagne. “He lived on a ranch in Texas, as you very well know.” She turned to Allie. “Call me Mags, darling. Everyone does.”

Trevor extracted his arm from Allie’s and strode toward the bar. With his back to them, he poured himself another drink.

“I tried calling several times last week,” Mags said.

When Trevor turned around, he wore his most annoying smile—the sarcastic, nasty one. “I’ve been busy, as you see.” He pointed his glass at Allie.

Mags drained the last of her champagne. “Your father’s inside, taking a call. He should be out in a moment.”

Trevor’s body stilled, his glass froze in midair. Then he seemed to snap out of it, and if Allie hadn’t been watching closely, she might not have noticed.

“Father’s here?” Was that a hint of panic in his voice?

Seconds later, a tall man in his late fifties stepped onto the terrace. He was as strikingly handsome as Trevor, and Allie imagined that Trevor would look just like him in about twenty-five years.

Trevor had parents. He flat out told her he didn’t have any family. Why would he lie about that?

“Hello, Son. Any scotch left for me?”

Saying nothing, Trevor poured his father a glass and handed it to him.

As he accepted the drink, his gaze fixed on Allie. “Well, well, who have we here?”

“This is Allison.” Trevor’s voice was so frigid, it chilled her. “She’s my mistress. So no poaching.”

Allie clenched her fists and bit back the vehement denial that sprang to her lips. This was the role he wanted her to play? Well, fine. Every time she started to feel something for Trevor other than contempt, he got nasty and she remembered why she disliked him. She turned to his father with a polite smile. “How do you do?”

“Aren’t you a stunner? Good work, Trev.”

Mags gently poked him in the ribs. “Be good, Nigel. Leave the poor girl alone.”

Nigel wrapped his arm around Mags’s waist and gave her ass a little pat. “All right, love.”

Trevor stared up into the dark sky. “What have I done to deserve this?”

Mags raised a brow. “Quite a lot of mischief, I imagine. Now stop being so melodramatic, darling, and refill my glass.” She handed her flute to him. “And you, Allie—or is it Allison? Do you need a refill?”

Allie might need more than one to deal with all of these batty Brits. “Yes, champagne sounds lovely.”

Trevor handed Allie a glass before refilling his mom’s. “And it’s Miss Campbell to you, Mother.”

“Nonsense. Let’s eat, darling, or I’m going to expire.” Mags slowly turned toward the house.

“And I’m melodramatic?” Trevor walked over to Allie and placed his hand on her back. She took a page from Mags’s book and jabbed her elbow in his rib. But she wasn’t teasing.

“Umph,” Trevor groaned softly. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Behave yourself, darling, or you won’t get your pudding.”

Allie jerked away from him and hurried inside. He caught up to her and pulled out her chair before taking his seat at the head of the table.

Arnold served the first course, a lemony fish soup, and retreated. She didn’t blame him. Allie wished she could slip away to her room too. The tension coming off Trevor was so thick, it was hard to breathe.

“Son, you must be wondering why we’re here,” Nigel said. “Mmm, this soup is quite nice.”

Trevor leaned his elbow against the armrest of his chair and sipped his scotch. “I’m more curious about when you’ll be leaving.”

Mags placed her hand on Trevor’s arm. “We’re getting married, darling. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yes, delightful. Who are your victims this time? And is it a double ceremony? That would be quite novel.”