The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

his already florid face ruddy with temper. A vein throbbed in his temple as he shot a glance at his daughter. “Megan is my daughter. She’ll do as she’s told. This situation will be taken care of.”
    “Just a darn minute, Father.” Megan wrapped one arm around Simon’s waist as if holding onto a talisman. “I’ll do what I please. I’m not a child anymore and you don’t run my life.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    If Ashton’s voice had been any colder, Simon thought, he would have been spitting ice cubes.
    Megan sailed right on—only the tight grip of her fingers against his bare skin letting him know howmuch she hated doing this in front of him. “I told you I wouldn’t marry Willie. Now, I’m married to Simon. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
    Simon squeezed her shoulders in solidarity, then shifted his gaze from his wife’s stony profile to the man still glaring at him. “You have your answer. And that should take care of any business you had here,” he said. “So I think you should be leaving.”
    Spencer’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened in shock. “You’re asking me to leave?”
    “No,” Simon corrected and silently congratulated himself on keeping a rein on his temper. “I’m telling you to leave.”
    “You son of a bitch, if you think you can—”
    Exasperated, Megan blew out a breath. “Father—”
    Simon pushed her behind him and hoped she’d stay there. He wasn’t looking forward to planting his fist in his wife’s father’s face, but if he had to, he wanted her out of the line of fire.
    Just then, another car pulled up in the long circular driveway and parked, motor running. An electric pizza sign on its roof blinked red and white and its horn tooted a greeting.
    “Our dinner’s arrived,” Simon said, and taking advantage of Spencer’s surprise, stepped forward and took the man by the elbow to steer him toward the doorway. The older man didn’t let him get away with that for long, though.
    He yanked his arm free, sent his daughter a lookof frustrated fury, then glared at Simon again. “This isn’t over.”
    “It’s long past over.” Simon had had enough.
    He dealt with powerful men every day. He was used to the egos, the confidence and the arrogance. Had even been accused of being fairly arrogant himself. He’d built Pearce Industries into a conglomerate worth millions by knowing how to defuse a situation and how to bend when necessary. But never once in all of his negotiations had he ever entertained the notion of plowing his fist into another man’s face.
    Until today.
    Watching emotions churn in his wife’s eyes, hearing her father talk to her as though she were a lowlevel employee made Simon want to throw the man out on his ear. And even while he was forced to choke down the urges, a part of him was stunned with the force of the need to protect that was choking him.
    “I suggest you go home, Mr. Ashton,” Simon murmured through gritted teeth. He kept his voice low, so that only Spencer heard him. “And don’t you ever come into our home and bully my wife again.”
    The older man met his gaze for a long moment and Simon found himself hoping the bastard would try to throw a punch. But that wasn’t Spencer Ashton’s way. Even furious, the man retained complete control of whatever emotions he allowed himself.
    “Yo!” Behind Spencer, the pizza delivery kidbounded up the narrow brick walkway and rocked on his heels. “Somebody in this place call for pizza?”
    “We did,” Simon said, sparing the kid a look before turning his stare back on Spencer. “Are we clear?”
    The older man’s jaw worked as if he were grinding to bits the angry words he wanted to spit out. “We’re clear, Pearce.”
    Simon smiled tightly. “Thanks for stopping by.”
    “Cool car, dude.” The kid was eyeing Spencer’s low-slung European sports car with envy etched into his face.
    “Get out of my way.” Spencer nearly bowled the boy over in his fury.
    “Jeez, chill why don’cha?” The boy with long blond hair and dimples shrugged off Spencer, handed the pizza to Simon and said, “Eighteen ninety-five—not including tip.”
    “Right.” Simon gave him twenty-five dollars and closed the door on the kid’s burbled thanks. Turning to face Megan, he looked into her eyes, and not knowing exactly what else to say after the set-to with her father, said only, “Pizza smells good.”
    She inhaled sharply, blew the air out again in a rush, and