Jay narrowed his eyes, his blood boiling now. Quentin was lying, grasping every straw he could get his hands on to pull himself out of the hole he was in.

“Quentin, it’s true, isn’t it?” Olivia’s voice was toneless now, resigned.

Jay glanced toward Olivia, which was a mistake, because at that moment Quentin decided that words weren’t enough to deny Tara’s accusation. A balled fist landed on Jay’s chin, whipping his head to the side.

“You fucking shit!” Quentin yelled and drew back for another blow, but this time he wasn’t fast enough.

Jay pivoted and dealt a hard uppercut to Quentin’s chin, followed by a left hook that knocked his opponent against the table behind him.

“You touch Tara one more time, I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”

Apparently it wasn’t warning enough for Quentin, because he pushed himself off the table and barreled toward Jay, fists at the ready. Olivia’s cries to stop mingled with their grunts as Jay reacted to Quentin’s assault. The idiot had no idea who he was dealing with. Nobody hurt Tara and got away with it unscathed.

“Cheating bastard!” Jay underscored his words with a punch to Quentin’s midsection, making him fold in half for a short moment, before he managed to pull himself up again.

His opponent was quick, Jay had to give him that. Quentin whirled around and kicked his foot against Jay’s leg, making him lose his balance for an instant. It gave his attacker enough time to land a vicious blow against Jay’s nose.

He tasted blood, and that fact only made him more furious. Growling, Jay tackled Quentin and they both fell onto the tiled terrace, punching and kicking each other.

“Stop it!” Olivia screamed.

Jay now had the upper hand, pummeling Quentin with his fists.

From inside the house, a young boy suddenly started wailing. Jonathan, Olivia and Quentin’s three-year-old son. Perfect! No child should ever see his parents in a situation like this. As the cries came closer to the open French doors, Jay reluctantly let go of Quentin and jumped up. Quentin lay there, breathing hard and moaning in pain.

Jay loomed over the jerk, pointing his finger at him in warning. “If it weren’t for your son, believe me, I wouldn’t let you get away this easily. But you come close to Tara one more time, and I won’t be as gentle.”

Jay turned to look at Olivia. Their gazes met, and he saw the pain in her eyes. Jay had no words of comfort for her. What did you say to a woman who was seven months pregnant when she realized that her husband was a scumbag?

“I’m sorry, Olivia, but it was about time that somebody put him in his place.” Because from the few things Paul had told him over the last couple of years, this wasn’t Quentin’s first lapse. Whether he’d cheated on Olivia before was none of Jay’s business, but once he had turned his attention—his unwanted attention—to Tara, it had become his business.

Jay turned on his heel and stalked down the stairs, wiping away the blood that dripped from his nose.

12

Five voice messages were waiting for Tara when she finally switched on her cell phone while waiting for Jay to come back with the pizza.

The first voice message from her mother sounded friendly. “Honey, let us know where to pick you up. It looks like we must have missed each other after all the chaos at the party.” The time stamp was from the previous night, shortly after the party had ended abruptly.

The second message was a little more insistent. “Tara, we haven’t heard back from you yet. We’re worried about you. Where are you?”

Worried? Yeah, right! Her parents weren’t worried, they were annoyed that she wasn’t jumping at their command. Their next message, this time coming from her father, made that abundantly clear.

“Tara, call us now. We’re planning to drive back to New York tonight. And it’s impolite to ignore your mother’s phone calls. We raised you better than that! If I don’t hear from you within the hour¸ there will be consequences, young lady!”

Argh! How she hated it when her father called her young lady. He did it to emphasize his superiority. It made her all the more aware of her own failures. She’d tried over and over again to get a job. Her prospective employers had been impressed by her design portfolio, but in the end they had all changed their mind—suddenly and without any explanation. She’d started to suspect that her parents were thwarting her efforts to establish any sort of independence from them.

Every rejection chipped away at her self-confidence. If her designs really showed promise, somebody would hire her no matter what her parents did to discourage a prospective employer from offering her a job. So maybe she had no talent—and that was a reality she wasn’t ready to face. It was a hit her battered self-confidence couldn’t sustain.