Loving You Page 8

  The only way to find the answers to the questions haunting her was to ask. So, keeping her gaze locked with his, she cleared her throat and said, “A man came to see me today.”

  “Yeah?” He smiled, eyes wide. “A date?”

  “No,” Tasha said, and reached out to smooth his hair back from his face. Her fingertips lingered a moment, then she dropped her hand to his forearm. Holding on to him, she said, “He was really here to see Mimi…”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “… or you.”

  “Me?” His gaze shifted from hers. “Um … who was it?”

  Did he inch slightly away from her, or was it just her imagination?

  “Nick Candellano.”

  “He was here?” Jonas looked quickly around him as if he were expecting the man to be hiding behind a plant, waiting to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”

  Excitement fairly rippled out around him in a thick wave that danced across Tasha before it disappeared into the bone-numbing wind.

  “Where is he now?” he demanded.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Why didn’t he wait?”

  “Because I wouldn’t let him.”

  Jonas’s gaze snapped back to hers, and Tasha’s heart hurt at the accusation aimed at her. “You sent him away?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first and—”

  “But I’ve been waiting.…”

  He tried to pull away, but Tasha’s hand on his arm held him still. “Jonas, he says you’re suing him for paternity.”

  “I had to ’cause he wouldn’t answer my letters and—”

  “But why, Jonas? Why?”

  “’Cause he’s my dad,” the boy said, and his voice broke on the word. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, racing one another down his reddened cheeks.

  “How do you know that?” Tasha asked, her voice quiet, filled with the pain of watching him hurt.

  “My mom told me,” he said. “She always said it. That he was my dad.”

  “You should have told me what you were doing,” she said, trying to choose her words carefully.

  “You woulda said no.”

  “Probably.” It cost her some to admit it, but it was the truth and she’d never lied to the boy before. Lies only caused more grief. But yes, she would have prevented him from opening up this can of worms that just might rise up and devour them all. Because to protect him, to protect what they had, she was willing to do just about anything. “Jonas, you know we can’t let anyone find out about Mimi.”

  “He won’t tell,” the boy said quickly, eagerly.

  “We don’t know that,” she said, and silently she thought that Nick Candellano had struck her as the kind of man who would do whatever it took to cover his own ass. Maybe she was wrong about that, but she wasn’t willing to bet their lives on it.

  “I’m sorry, Tasha,” Jonas said, and his bottom lip quivered until he bit down on it. “I didn’t want to make you mad or anything, but I had to do it. I just had to.”

  “Jonas…”

  And then the boy who was always insisting he was “almost a teenager” did something he hadn’t done in too long to remember. He threw himself into Tasha’s embrace, laid his head on her shoulder, and let the tears flow. “He’ll help,” he said, the words choking on his body-shaking sobs. “He will.”

  Oh God. She soothed him with long, steady strokes of her hand along his spine, but the force of his crying shook her to the bone. He was so small, she thought. So young. So trusting. And so damn fragile. Her heart broke for him even as her mind raced, trying to figure out every possible complication. Oh, she wished he hadn’t done it. Would do anything to undo it.

  Through the tears, though, he gulped loudly and said, “He’s my dad.”

  Those three little words seemed to sum it all up for the boy. And in a way, Tasha couldn’t blame him. He was holding out for the American dream. Heck, he saw it every night on television. Even the damn commercials showcased Mom and Dad and the kids. She supposed the advertisers were trying to appeal to Middle America. But God, didn’t anyone guess what those family things did to kids who didn’t have families in the traditional sense?

  When she was a kid, she’d sneered at them. Known them for the joke they were. No one she had known lived that kind of life, had that kind of love and warmth. So she hadn’t been tortured with the “what ifs” that were driving Jonas today.

  But he was different.

  He was younger than she’d been at his age.

  He was hurt.

  He’d pinned his dreams on an egotistical football player who couldn’t give a shit about the boy who might be his son.

  Jonas didn’t see that, though.

  He just wanted.

  And when he didn’t get it, he was going to be crushed.

  CHAPTER 7

  “You have a son?”

  Nick winced when his sister’s voice hit a note only dogs should have been able to hear. Jesus. Hadn’t he had enough crap already in the last couple of days? Did he really need a big spoonful of Candellano on top of it?

  “I didn’t say I had a son,” he snapped, biting off each word. “I said the kid says I have a son.”

  “Oh, big difference.”

  “There is a difference, thanks,” Nick said, and stalked across Jackson’s office. Being a wise man, Carla’s husband had already left brother and sister alone. Claiming to have been worried about paperwork that his secretary “might have” misplaced, Jackson had found an escape. The lucky bastard.

  “This is why I told you to stay out of it.”

  “How can I?” she demanded, leaping to her feet and marching to his side. “I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know I’ve got a nephew out there somewhere?”

  “Not somewhere,” Nick muttered. “Christ, he’s not lost at sea. He lives outside Santa Cruz.”

  “And I’m just now finding out about him?”

  “Hell, I just found out about him yesterday.”

  “And whose fault is that?” She crossed her arms over her chest. The toe of her right boot tapped loudly against the floor and sounded, for some reason, like the clock of fate numbering out the seconds of Nick’s life. Well, at least his life as he’d known it. Because if this kid really was his son, everything was going to change.

  Thoughts Ping-Ponged in his head and he didn’t like a damn one of them. Carla couldn’t say anything to him that he hadn’t already said to himself. But naturally, that knowledge wouldn’t have stopped her, even if he’d told her so.

  Still, he wasn’t going to just stand there and make like a target for Carla. If no one else was going to defend him, then it was up to Nick himself. “Damn it, how was I supposed to look out for a kid I didn’t know existed?”

  “No.” Carla took a step closer to him and jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “I think the better question is, How could you have been so stupid as to make a child and not know it?”

  “Thanks,” Nick said, sneering at her. This was great. Spending this time with his sister made him remember exactly why when they were kids he used to kidnap her Barbies and hide them. “Man, Carla, you’re really the one to have around when you’re feeling like shit already.”

  “Well, God, Nick. What do you expect me to say?” She threw her hands high. “There’s a little boy out there who’s part of our family and none of us, including his father, know him.”

  He scrubbed one hand across his face.

  “Where is he living? Who takes care of him?”

  “His foster mother is—”

  “Foster mother?” Carla’s voice hit that weird note again and he could have sworn he heard the muted sounds of every dog in town barking in response. “Foster mother. A Candellano kid has a foster mother.”

  Yeah, he’d known going in that that piece of news would hit the family like an 18-wheeler. To the Candellanos, family was everything. And knowing that one of their own—just a kid—was out in the world undefended by them would be enough to have them all read
y to kill Nick.

  “Jesus, Nick.”

  Her barbs hit hard and he felt every one of them like the tip of a knife blade, whittling at his skin. But damn it, he was being hanged here with no proof of his guilt. “I don’t have a son,” he repeated, and wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Carla or himself. At this point, he’d take either one. “I have a fan.”

  “What?” She looked at him like he was nuts.

  Hell. Maybe he was.

  “That’s all this is,” he said, warming to the one thought he’d been clinging to since being served with the lawsuit yesterday. “The kid’s obviously had a hard time of it. His mother’s dead, he’s in a foster home—of course he dreams up this fantasy. He picks somebody famous. Somebody who even looks like him a little. And he dreams it all up.”

  “He looks like you?”

  Figured she’d pick up on that. Blowing out a disgusted, frustrated rush of air, Nick snapped, “Damn it, Carla, I look a little like Tom Cruise, but we’re not related.”

  She snorted. “Oh, yeah. In your dreams, big brother. Besides, this is different. Most eleven-year-olds don’t hire lawyers to make their dreams come true.”

  “Okay,” Nick said, walking away from Carla’s too-knowing gaze to pace the confines of Jackson’s office again. His fingertips scraped along the backs of the overstuffed sofas as he moved past. “So he’s a little more determined than your average kid. But that doesn’t make his fantasy a reality. It doesn’t make me his father.”

  “Then take a DNA test,” she suggested. “Settle this.”

  “I will. If it comes to that.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Think about it. If the media were to get hold of this…”

  “So,” she said knowingly, “we’re worried about you now, are we?”

  Well, that sounded shitty. Even to him. “I just want a chance to talk to the kid. To sit him down—without that tiny storm trooper around—and talk to him, man-to-man.”

  “Or boy-to-boy…” she mused.

  “Cute. Don’t you have a husband to torture?”

  “There’s plenty to go around.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Storm over?” Jackson spoke up from the door he’d cracked open just wide enough to risk his life.

  Carla’s golden retriever, Abbey, who’d been left in the outer office, woofed in a low, throaty half-roar and pushed at the door until it swung open and she could enter the room. Tail up, the golden pranced across the floor, her nails clicking madly as she walked up to Carla and plopped down on her butt.

  “Yeah, it’s done,” Nick said, without giving Carla a chance to answer.

  “For now,” his sister piped up. She smoothed one hand across the top of the dog’s head and watched her husband approach warily. When he was close enough, Jackson took a chance, dropping one arm around her shoulders, and Carla instinctively leaned back into his chest.

  “What time is it?” Nick asked suddenly, realizing that he and his sister had been going around and around for what felt like hours.

  Jackson glanced at his watch. “Three-fifteen. Why?”

  Jesus, he and Carla had been going around for a long time. “School’s out by now, right?”

  “Yeah.…”

  “Good.” Nick headed for the door.

  “Are you going to see him?” Carla called out.

  “Yes. And this time, I’m actually going to see him.” If that meant he’d have to steamroll the little redhead, then he’d try to enjoy the ride. Nick stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder at his sister. “Don’t spill your guts to Mama about this, Carla.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped cold when she added, “Yet.”

  Damn it.

  * * *

  Jonas could hardly sit still. He should have been doing his homework upstairs. But he was just too excited. So instead, Tasha had let him stay in the living room to watch TV. But he wasn’t watching it. He flipped the channels on the TV, hardly seeing the flashes of color zipping past his eyes. Snatches of dialogue snapped in the air, quickly changing from news channels to cartoons and old reruns of The X-Files. But he wasn’t paying attention, anyway.

  His mind was way too busy to concentrate on some dumb show. All he could think of was that Nick had been there. In his house. His dad had really come to see him. And that kind of made it okay that he never answered Jonas’s letters. ’Cause when it mattered most … he’d shown up himself.

  Jonas had sorta worried about going to Legal Aid. But he could still remember how excited the lawyer had been when Jonas told him his dad’s name. And it must’ve been the right thing to do, ’cause Nick had actually come to the house to see him.

  If Tasha hadn’t sent him away, Jonas and his dad could be out front right now, playing catch or something. He smiled to himself at the thought. Having a dad was gonna be great. For the first time ever, he’d have a dad standing on the sidelines at his Pop Warner football games. Nick would yell Jonas’s name and maybe call him pal or sport or something cool like that. He grinned as he imagined walking off the field and Nick meeting him, being all proud. Then he’d pat Jonas on the back and put his arm around Jonas’s shoulders and they’d talk about the game and laugh and stuff.

  And the best part, Jonas thought as he flipped past local news, then quickly turned back to it, just to have the TV on Nick’s channel, was, Jonas would be like the other guys. He’d have his dad with him. And they’d go out with the team for pizza and Nick’d talk to the other dads about how great his kid was. He smiled, enjoying the movie playing in his head, and scowled when a knock on the door interrupted it.

  “I’ll get it, Tasha,” he called out. Tossing the remote onto the magazine-littered table in front of him, Jonas stood up and headed for the door. Grabbing the cool brass knob, he gave it a turn, yanked the door open, and swallowed his bubble gum.

  “Hi. You must be Jonas.”

  He nodded and opened and closed his mouth a few times. Nick Candellano. His father. Right here. In front of him. Standing on his porch. Jonas blinked and almost rubbed his eyes, but he was too afraid that if he did that, Nick would disappear and this would turn out to be some really great dream.

  He looked different close up, Jonas thought. Taller. Bigger. But his smile was the same as in the pictures. And his voice sounded just like he did on TV. This was so cool.

  “I’m Nick Candellano,” the man said, unnecessarily.

  “Uh-huh.” Now his voice sounded weird. He cleared his throat. “I know.”

  “I thought you and I could have a little talk.”

  “A talk?” Jonas stared up at him and hardly noticed how fast his stomach was spinning. His dad. Here.

  Finally.

  “Yeah,” he said eagerly, “sure. You wanna come in?”

  “Thanks.”

  Jonas stepped back to let his father inside and just managed to keep from reaching out to touch him. Wow.

  “Who was at the—” Tasha’s words arrived just a second before she did. Her tennis shoes squeaked against the wood floor when she skidded to a stop. Jonas watched her face freeze up like it did the last time he got an F in math. Oh, man.

  “Hello again,” Nick said, and Jonas’s gaze flicked between his father and Tasha.

  “What are you doing back here?” she demanded.

  “Told you I’d be back.”

  “And I told you not to bother.”

  “Why don’t you—” Nick stopped short and shot a look at Jonas. He wasn’t going to shout at the kid’s “family.” At least not in front of him. But damn. Looking into those wide brown eyes, Nick felt a pang of genuine concern rattle through him. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a stubborn chin. The kid could be his. And if he was? Jesus. God help them both.

  Before that thought had a chance to take hold, he pushed it aside. No way. He’d been careful. Brown hair, brown eyes. What did that really mean, anyway? Probably half the people in the world were bro
wn and brown. It was average.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” the redhead said, and Nick shifted his gaze to watch her approach.

  Hell, she looked like she wanted to drop-kick him. His gaze shifted, giving her a slow look from head to toe. She was wearing those faded, soft-looking jeans again and a dark red sweatshirt that hid the curvy figure he knew lay beneath it. Her grass green eyes shot cold knives at him, and even at a distance he felt the chill she was giving off.

  What did it say about him, he wondered, that the flash of desire she sparked in him didn’t disappear despite the fury in her eyes?

  And she might be mad, but she didn’t worry him. Hell, she was no bigger than a kicker—if he had to, he could take her. Not that he’d even try to take her—well, he wouldn’t mind taking her—but he figured if she had a temper like his sister, at the very least he could outrun her. But first things first.

  “Yeah, well,” Nick said, shoving his hands into his back pockets, “good idea or not, I’m here and I’m not leaving until I have a talk with Jonas.”

  Just saying the boy’s name out loud made this whole situation seem more real than it had in the last two days. Before, he’d been more or less a faceless threat. A threat to Nick’s freedom. His future. His lifestyle. But now … here Jonas stood, staring up at Nick like he was a hero.

  Something inside him turned over, even while he fought it. Hell, he’d had kids look at him like that before. Every game day, there were dozens of ’em waiting outside the stadium. Clamoring for autographs or a handshake, they were delighted with a couple minutes of your time and walked away telling their friends how cool you were.

  But this was different, his brain argued. This was personal. This kid didn’t want a few minutes. He wanted a lifetime. He wanted commitment. From Nick of all people. Man, if this wasn’t some weird-ass kind of cosmic joke, he didn’t know what would qualify.

  Scraping one hand across his face, Nick tore his gaze from the kid’s. If this was gonna work, he had to retain some distance. And staring into those eyes full of hopes and dreams wasn’t the way to maintain it.