Mr. Imperfect
Karina Bliss
"You're off the hook. I refuse your help."
Just what Christian wanted to hear; still, he was inexplicably annoyed. "I don't want to be involved any more than you want me to be, but it would be respectful to at least consider her last wishes."
Kezia thrust out the letter, waiting until he took it. "I can manage on my own."
It had always been her mantra-more than that, the truth. Now the words rang hollow, but she could not allow Christian back in her life. And she wouldn't cry in front of him, though she wanted to. Worse than the prospect of losing her heritage was realizing her grandmother hadn't trusted her enough to confide her troubles. She lifted her hand to her heart and pressed against the almost physical surge of pain.
"Don, more whiskey." Christian guided her to the couch with gentle hands while the older man hurried from the room in search of the bottle. "Relax." His breath was warm on the nape of her neck. "I have no intention of coming back."
Dear Reader,
In Mr. Imperfect, an old lady's will is the catalyst for bringing two people together. My father died suddenly when I was halfway through writing this book, and a couple of months after I'd taken a year off work to follow my writing dream. The money he left me allowed me to extend that year to two and resulted in the sale of this, my first book.
I feel very much as though his spirit imbues it, not with grief, but with the power of love-even beyond the grave. I hope that emotion shines through when you're reading it.
Karina Bliss
www.karinabliss.com
To my wonderful mother, Kathy Bliss, for instilling self-belief in a born skeptic. And to the memory of my father, Derek Bliss, who believed having five daughters made him immortal. It did, Dad.
CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTIAN KELLY CRIED at funerals. For a man who never wept it had been an appalling discovery. He figured the combination of somber hymns, gentle sobbing and church rituals struck some sentimental Irish chord and caused him to blubber like a baby.
He solved the problem by never attending funerals, which solidified his reputation as a hardened sinner. So it was a testament to his affection for Muriel Medina Rose that he came back to the New Zealand hometown he loathed, wearing the darkest pair of shades he could find, and stole into the last pew midway through a stirring rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In."
Kezia Rose appreciated the irony. Knew her grandmother would have, too. Still, it started a fit of giggles she fought to control-hysteria wasn't far away. It didn't help that she stood in full view of the congregation, shaky hands clasped, waiting to do her reading.
She dug one spiky heel into the top of her other foot until tears came to her eyes. Then looked at the coffin and had to force them back. Not yet. Not until she'd done her grandmother proud.
Why hadn't she expected him?
When she felt herself under control, Kezia looked again, coolly now, to where Christian sat, a big-city cat among country pigeons. Maturity had chiseled his features back to strong bone, his thick black hair finally tamed by an expensive cut. Beneath a pair of reflective sunglasses he held his full mouth tight, almost disdainful. In thrall to a newer, stronger grief, she looked-and was not burned. A small sigh of relief escaped her.
The music faltered to a stop in that ragtag way of amateurs and the minister gave her the signal. Three steps to the podium, deep breath. She found her place in the Bible's tissue-thin pages.
Her voice cracked on the first line; she stopped. Began again, one word at a time, found a rhythm, shut out emotion. The mantle of responsibility soothed her, reminded her who she was. A pillar of the community-teacher, chair of numerous country guilds, churchgoer. New owner of a hundred-year old ramshackle hotel in Waterview.
The bone-dry Hauraki Plains town had sprung up around the Waterview pub, both named by Kezia's Irish forbears in a fit of whimsy and not-as Christian had once joked-to provoke a powerful thirst in the locals.
Not thinking about him right now.
The words on the page ran out; the last full stop looked like a bullet hole signaling the end of one of the happiest times of her life. Dazed, she looked up to see Christian, in classic Armani, disappear through the arched church doors. And she was glad. Glad he'd made the effort to come, gladder he'd left without making contact. She had enough to cope with today without saying goodbye to someone else she had loved.
And lost.
CHRISTIAN STUMBLED TOWARD the car park, barely able to see through his fogged sunglasses. Damn it! Temples pounding, he groped through the open window of his car for a box of tissues, yanked off the shades and mopped up the damage. Kezia's fault. The first break in her voice had brought a lump to his throat, then her words-thin, brave and clear-had sliced at his self-control like stiletto knives until he had to get out of there.
He swung around to face the gabled church and glared at its white clapboards and gray iron roof, mottled with lichen. An old-fashioned church, gravestone companions rising to the left, rose beds to the right in a riotous clash of pinks, reds and yellows. Whoever had planted the damn things had been color blind. Funny he'd never noticed that when he was growing up.
But he remembered the scent. Sweet. Lush with summer heat. He'd always been attracted to women wearing floral scents-now he knew why.
Kezia.
In a prudish black suit at odds with her body. Christian was annoyed at his relief that she still wore her dark hair long. Of course he'd expected her to still be beautiful in that remote, untouchable way that had once driven him mad-but that no longer attracted him. He preferred easy women these days, easy to win, easy to leave. He'd even expected to feel something when he saw her again. A backwash of teenage emotions agitated by shared grief. A reflex, no more. Like crying at funerals.
He hadn't expected to be irked by her lack of recognition. Christian grimaced at his egotism. Maybe Miss September had been right. He was shallow and self-centered. Beholden to no woman and proud of it.
Then why was he wiping away tears in the backwater he'd left in anger fourteen years ago? Wearily he replaced his sunglasses and turned back toward the car park.
Beholden to one woman, then. Muriel Medina Rose. A surrogate mother to a motherless boy-when he'd let her. Which hadn't been as often as she would have liked.
He'd loved that old woman.
Loved taking her out gambling on the rare occasions she visited the city. She, outrageously provocative in an ancient fox-fur stole with its glassy eyes and tidy paws draped nonchalantly over one shoulder and carrying an equally impolitic diamanté-studded cigarette holder. He, in his sharpest suit, entertaining his best girl with his wildest stories.
And not even residual bitterness toward her granddaughter-and this hick town-could keep him from paying his last respects.
"Christian Kelly."
His hand on the car door handle, Christian turned, an easy smile disguising his irritation. "Don-how are you?" He reached for the lawyer's hand, still as dry as he remembered. In fact, everything about the sandy-haired old man suggested he was slowly crumbling into dust, from the furrowed jowls and droopy eyelids to the rounded shoulders and widow's hump.
Except he'd looked like this twenty years ago when he'd first represented Christian in the local courthouse. They'd come to know each other well in a resigned "not you again" sort of way until Muriel stepped in and Christian's life as a juvenile delinquent came to an unceremonious end.
"Sad day, sad day." The lawyer shook his head. "Good to see you here, though. Muriel would have liked it and it saves me a stamp."
Christian tried to make the connection but failed.
"The will," Don explained kindly. "Or rather, the letter. She was most particular about you getting the letter."
"I thought her heart attack was unexpected?" The notion that Muriel's final illness might have been deliberately kept from him increased his sense of misuse.
Don glanced back as though to ensure he hadn't been followed, and Christian remembered the man had a flair for the dramatic. "Doc told her two months ago she could keel over anytime," he confided, "but she didn't want a fuss. Told Kezia she was retiring to get her to take over running the hotel. When the end came, my girl was playing bridge-a glass of whiskey in one hand and a grand slam in the other."
Their eyes met. The two men exchanged the "Muriel smile"-equal parts tribute and frustration. Over at the church, the organ started up with a wheeze and voices rose in song for the final hymn. Christian's hand tightened on the car keys.
Don noticed. "Nice Bentley. A Continental GT, if I'm not mistaken." He ran a finger across the silver-gray bonnet, his rheumy eyes twinkling. "A bit understated for you isn't it?"