when her sister barged through her front door, Dakota and Taylor in tow.
Sidney rubbed her tired eyes, wondering what tragedy had befallen Samantha this time.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” she said to the girls when she saw the frantic expression on her sister’s face. “Go on and serve yourselves some.”
“I left Greg,” Samantha said when her daughters were out of earshot.
“When?”
“This morning. Do you have any money?”
Sidney gaped at her incredulously.
“He knows about Richard, Sid. He’s frozen all the accounts and he says he’s going to get custody.” Her eyes darted around the room. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.
“He won’t get full custody,” Sidney assured her sister with more certainty than she felt. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“It could be months before the divorce goes through. What am I going to do until then? How am I going to live?”
“You can stay with me.”
Samantha’s smooth brow crumpled at the indignity of being brought so low. “Can you watch the girls for a few hours? I really need to, um, decompress.”
With a sigh, Sidney nodded her assent. Maybe it was better that Dakota and Taylor not see their mother looking so…crazed.
“You’re a doll,” Samantha gushed, scuttling out the door on high-heeled sandals before Sidney could change her mind.
By the time the girls were fed, bathed, brushed, and in bed, it was almost ten o’clock. Sidney had been on her feet almost eighteen hours and she was completely drained. Samantha was right. Taking care of two energetic children was exhausting.
Because Dakota and Taylor were sleeping upstairs, in the only bedroom, Sidney took a quick shower outside so as not to disturb their slumber. She grabbed a tank top and underwear straight out of the dryer, pulled them on and collapsed in a boneless heap on the couch next to Marley. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the moon-shaped pillow, only to be rudely awakened less than five minutes later.
Cursing all sisters, she stumbled to the door and wrenched it open. Samantha’s husband, Greg, was there, his handsome face flushed, dark eyes unfocused. “Where is she?” he asked, slurring the words together.
“Not here,” she said, crinkling her nose at his odor and appearance. His clothes were expensively tailored, his watch diamond encrusted, and his shoes Italian leather, but he reeked of bourgeoisie. And booze.
Sidney let him in, mentally calculating the time it would take a cab to arrive.
“That bitch took my kids,” he muttered. “Can you believe that? I’m calling the cops.”
As he fumbled in his pocket for a cell phone, his bloodshot eyes perused the length of her body, making her uncomfortably aware of her own dishabille.
“Greg, don’t,” she said, wrapping the sheet around her. “The girls are here.”
“Where?” He glanced toward the stairs. “I’m taking them home.”
“No,” she said, standing in front of him. “You’re not.”
“The hell I’m not,” he replied, stumbling around her.
Sidney reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, then thought better of it and dropped her arm. She didn’t want to know where he’d been. “Please,” she whispered. “They’re asleep. Let them rest.”
“I’m their father,” he asserted. “They belong with me.”
“Fine,” she said, pointing at the couch. “Hang out here and sober up for a few hours. Then you can take them.”
His mouth twisted bitterly, but he sat. “She’s going to pay for this,” he said in a grumble. “She drives them around, high as a kite-”
“You were about to do the same,” she felt compelled to point out.
He blinked up at her. “Oh God,” he moaned, covering his face with his hands. “How did everything get so messed up?” To Sidney’s acute discomfort, he began to cry in loud, wrenching sobs, his broad shoulders shaking with emotion.
The display was so pitiful she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “There, there,” she murmured, patting the top of his head. Instantly she was aware of her mistake. Although his thoughts were muddled by drink, they were easy enough to read.
“You’re so nice,” he breathed, throwing his heavy arms around her waist.
“Um,” she replied, trying to pry his hands away.
Groaning, he brought her down to the couch beside him and rolled on top of her, pinning her beneath the weight of his body.
“Greg, stop-”
With an impressive show of strength and determination, considering his blood alcohol level, he locked his hands around her wrists, trapping her arms above her head and trying to force his mouth over hers.
Gagging, she turned her face away, only to have him land a wet, sloppy kiss on her neck. When his teeth closed around the strap of her tank top, she saw red. “Get off me,” she grated, yanking her wrists free from his grip.
The spaghetti strap snapped, baring her left breast. His liquor-glazed eyes widened with inspiration as he lowered his mouth.
Sidney’s knee connected with his groin before he got there. His face contorted into a comical grimace and he fell away from her, onto the floor. She had an almost irrepressible urge to kick him while he was down.
As she stood over him, seriously contemplating it, another knock sounded at the front door. Samantha, she thought with relief. Holding her top up with one hand, she answered it.
Marc Cruz was standing there, looking more rumpled than he had this morning, wearing the same clothes. His eyes flicked over her, pausing only briefly on her bikini panties before coming to rest at the torn strap hanging off her shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he claimed, trying to see around her. “Can I come in?”
She hesitated. Greg was a schmuck, but he was her nieces’ father, and from what she’d seen this morning, Marc didn’t play nice with guys like him.
He didn’t wait for her permission. Walking past her, he asked, “Who the hell is this?” gesturing to the miserable heap curled up in the fetal position on the floor.
“None of your business,” she replied, wondering when he’d gone crazy.
“You’re entertaining some guy in your underwear, and it’s none of my business?”
“Who’re you?” Greg wheezed.
“I’m her boyfriend.”
“He’s a cop,” she said at the same time.
“I’m her boyfriend, the cop,” he clarified. “Want to explain why her shirt is ripped and you’re holding your balls?”
“No,” Greg decided, lumbering to his feet. “I’m leaving.”
“He’s too drunk to drive,” Sidney protested. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t bother,” Greg snarled.
Marc crossed his arms over his chest, his legs braced wide. “I haven’t handled a DUI in a while. This should be fun.”
“I can drive him,” Sidney said in a rush. “I’ll find someone to watch the kids.” The last thing she wanted was a fistfight on her front doorstep. Especially between a deranged cop and a drunk brother-in-law.
“You look tired,” Marc said, studying her face. “I’ll take him.”
“You and what army?” Greg slurred, having trouble standing in place.
Ignoring him, Marc reached out to take her hand. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’m picking you up early again tomorrow.” In a casual, boyfriendlike manner, he leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. The kiss could have been called perfunctory if he hadn’t used his tongue.
It was the barest touch, so light she might have thought she’d imagined it if not for the rush of cool night air coming in through the open doorway, caressing the moist spot his mouth had made on her trembling lips.
