on. Make your move.” Tuck pressed a knuckle into the small of Nolan’s back. The man could talk circles around opposing counsel in court. Facing the lash of Mikki’s sharp tongue and hot temper shouldn’t faze him.
But she just might knock him out of his designer loafers, at least temporarily.
Mikki’s dark head had snapped up. She turned slightly away from a small table crowded with drinks and food, ignoring her two companions as her eyes locked with Nolan’s. Tucker watched with interest. Either a head-to-head challenge or spontaneous combustion was in the offing.
Nolan’s features had tensed. “She’s as beautiful as ever,” he said under his breath.
“Gorgeous,” Tuck agreed. Personally, he was partial to blondes, but there was nothing on Mikki that he’d say no to—if she hadn’t been claimed by his best friend from the moment that the two had met in law school.
Nolan strode over to the table, radiating such an intense heat that the crowd parted in front of him. A small white-gold key had appeared in his hand.
Tuck followed. He knew exactly what would happen when that key made its way to Mikki’s lock, but he still wanted a ringside seat for the show.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mikki.” Wisely, Nolan slipped the key back into his pocket. He’d always been a man to pick his moments, as opposed to Tucker, who took things as they came.
While the pair struck at each other like flint and steel, Tucker glanced over at the two women at Mikki’s table. Her sisters, according to Nolan. Foster sisters, in fact, which explained their presence to support the cause of Maureen Baxter’s transitional halfway house. Both wore the suitcase locket on a chain around their necks, symbolic of the disrupted lives of the troubled teenage girls Maureen Baxter aimed to help.
“You remember Tuck,” Nolan was saying in a tone that betrayed his need for a temporary buffer from Mikki’s ire.
Mikki’s scowl was replaced with a generous smile. She and Tucker had always been friendly, even when he’d had to stand by his man Nolan during their rancorous split.
She climbed down from her perch on the stool and gave him a heartfelt hug. In the next minute she was introducing him to her sisters.
The first one’s name was lost in the din. His eyes slid past her to the other as Mikki said, “And this is Lauren Massey.” He nodded as she continued. “Tucker Schulz. He and Nolan have been friends for…”
“More years than I care to keep track of,” Tuck said, deciding that seventeen years of brotherly bonding and flirtatious females was just about right, after all. He flashed a devil-may-care grin at the blonde.
Lauren was a slim woman with a froth of honey-colored curls, prettily dressed in sleeveless peach silk. More his type than the other sister, but after a brief hello she made her excuses and departed. He’d missed his shot at trying his key on her.
Tucker shrugged. Easy come, easy go. He eyed the abandoned stool, well in range of the sparks that Mikki and Nolan were still striking off each other. Mikki was trying to leave, and if the fierce light in Nolan’s eyes was any indication, he wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.
Good for him. Tuck slid into place, snagged a server to request a beer, then remembered the brunette sister remaining at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her. She was the eldest, he recalled. A hippie like her mother, according to Nolan. If so, she’d forgotten to sign up for the retro-issue love beads and headbands.
Tucker gave her a quick once-over. Curved wings of nut-brown hair framed her calm face. She had a strong nose and jaw, paired with a wide mouth painted a shiny plum color. Even sitting, he could see that she was tall and comfortably built—statuesque, he guessed. There was a casual but well-taken-care-of air about her that spoke of salons and designer labels.
Generally he preferred women who romped on the beach without a care in the world. But there was something about Mikki’s sister. The longer he looked, the more he liked. He found himself drawn to her bare arms and hands, struck by the elegance of her long fingers, the graceful turn of a wrist beneath a heavy silver bangle. Instinct told him she’d be good with her hands, talented with her fingers. He could easily imagine her sliding them across his body….
She lifted the glass of wine. One eyebrow arched.
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I missed your name.”
She tilted a haughty chin at him. “Aurora Constable. But you can call me Rory.”
He leaned closer to hear. Her voice was low and smooth, soothing among the high-pitched shrieks of the other women. “What kind of a name is Aurora?” he asked, raising his voice above the live band playing an eclectic mix of jazz, swing and pop.
“From the Aurora Borealis. Northern Lights. My mother claimed she saw them over Woodstock on the night I was conceived, but I have my doubts. Woodstock, colored lights dancing in the sky, sex that was an out-of-body experience…” Rory shrugged, then caught her shawl from slipping down her arms. “You do the math.”
He grinned. “At least you got an interesting story out of it. A genuine Woodstock baby. Don’t think I’ve ever met one.”
“Oh, many make the claim, but few are the genuine article. My mother’s been known to tell a few wild tales. This one I believe. My birthdate proves it, although I was born on a commune in Oregon. We didn’t come to California until I was six.” She stopped and bit her lip. “I’m talking too much. Sorry.”
“No problem.” He scanned the crowd. Couples were quickly pairing off as keys found their way to the matching locks. The flirtatious procedure was producing much laughter and raunchy banter. He could have been off among them, searching for his soul mate for the night, but he’d been raised with manners. For now, he’d stick with Rory.
“What about you?” She pushed a plate of pastries toward him. “Try one.”
He picked up a cream puff drizzled with chocolate. “I’m a native Californian. Lived here all my life.”
“That’s rare, too.”
“My parents have been in the same big Victorian for as long as I can remember. They raised five of us there. Now the bedrooms are mostly empty, but they fill them up with grandchildren as often as possible.”
She glanced at his hand. “You’re not married.”
He shook his head and took another bite of the pastry. A dollop of filling squirted into his mouth. Rich and smooth—like Rory.
He swallowed. “None of the kids are mine. I’m the only holdout.”
“At least you’re an uncle.” Rory’s face softened with longing. She had that tender look in her eyes, the mushy one his sister Jenny got when she was cradling her pregnant belly and thinking about soon being able to hold her newborn.
A look like that, even from a woman he barely knew, would usually have Tucker running for the exit. But Rory was only remotely an option. Attractive, in her own way, but not his type. Despite the expert hands.
“How many nieces and nephews?” she asked.
“Eight and counting.”
“Aw, wonderful. A big family.”
“You must know what that’s like. Mikki used to tell me stories about life at Emma Constable’s. There was a constant stream of foster kids coming and going, she said. Wasn’t Maureen Baxter even one of them?”
“She wasn’t with us for long, but we’ve stayed in touch.” Rory glanced at the commingling singles, the set of her mouth betraying a trace of discomfort. “That’s why I’m here, to help get Baxter House up and running. Not to—” she waved a hand “—unlock the possibilities.”
“I figured as much.” Tucker’s gaze lingered on