Forbidden Son Read Free Page B

to him. Her voice
seemed to come out in a breathy whisper. “What are you doing here?”
    He
held out the roses. “One birthday rose for a lovely young lady, and one for a
peace offering. I didn’t mean to offend you, yesterday, Honey Belle. And if
you’d still like to take that ride, my chariot awaits.”
    She
inhaled the faint scent of his cologne, a designer fragrance to match his
masculinity. Then she lifted her gaze, fully intending to accept his offer.
    “I...I’d
love to go for a ride with you.” Love to fly to the moon, if he asked, she
thought, feeling entirely too giddy for a girl of nineteen.
    She
returned his smile and could no more have taken back her words than she could
have taken away her father’s illness. “Can’t.”
    She
hadn’t meant to cause Tripp to wince, just like she hadn’t meant for her voice
to sound abrupt.
    “I
see. Using the father excuse again?”
    “It
isn’t an excuse. Daddy suffers from congestive heart failure. He’s in a
wheelchair and has to wear an oxygen mask.”
    She
thought his voice sounded contrite. “Once again, I seem to have put my foot
where it doesn’t belong. At this rate, I’ll owe you a dozen roses.”
    She
hugged the flowers to her chest. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll ask my cousin to
sit with Daddy for a few hours.”
    “Tell
me where you live and I’ll pick you up at five.”
    “I...um...I
live at 1423 Barrington Street.”
    When
he turned to leave, she said, “Thank you, again, for the roses.”
    Carla’s
voice startled Honey Belle, causing her to jump. “I notice you didn’t give him
directions to your house.”
    Honey
Belle’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Mind your own business, Carla.”
    ****
    Too
embarrassed to have Tripp see the dilapidated rental house where she lived,
Honey Belle had given him a false address in the better section of Charleston’s
upper middle-class neighborhood.
    She
stood next to an elm tree at the end of a sidewalk, in front of an antebellum
home with a sweeping front porch, a neatly trimmed yard, bushes bursting with
red azaleas, all surrounded by a white picket fence.
    Whatever
guilt she felt disappeared when she glimpsed his car driving slowly down the
street toward her. She lifted her hand and waved. Then she whispered a little
prayer, hoping Tripp knew no one in this neighborhood.
    She
pressed her hands to her stomach, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly.
    Like
a proper lady, she waited for him to slow the car to a halt, get out and open
the door for her.
    “Hi.”
    “Hi.”
She smiled.
    “You
look nice, Honey Belle. I like your hair down.” He leaned over and gave her a
perfunctory kiss. She felt her cheeks grow warm as he caressed her lips.
    “Where
are we going?”
    “Not
the submarine races.” He winked and she laughed. “I made reservations for us at
the Pirate’s Den. I hope you like seafood.”
    “Love
it.” She wished the butterflies in her stomach would stop flitting around.
Tripp Hartwell was way out of her league. She shouldn’t be with him. She didn’t
know proper table etiquette for an expensive restaurant—or, for that matter,
any restaurant. What if she made a fool of herself? What if she didn’t know
which fork to use? And her seafood experience was limited to fried catfish.
She’d always dreamed of lobster. Lobster... No, too expensive.
    This
was a bad idea. The thought came too late. Tripp guided the convertible into an
empty parking space and before she could say scat he stood at her door,
offering his hand.
    With
his hand pressed against the small of her back, he guided her toward the
restaurant. “I made reservations for the porch. Hope you don’t mind.”
    “Hm.
The sound of the waves lapping the shore is soothing. I find it quite
relaxing.” She hoped she sounded sophisticated.
    A
hostess greeted them. “Mr. Hartwell, you’re at table number twelve.”
    “Good
evening, Jenna, and thank you.”
    After
they were seated, the hostess said, “Your waitress