“You keep out of this,” Peter snapped at him. “This is between Diana and me.”
Nick felt his temper rising like a fever inside him. That grip, those thick, brutal fingers circling Diana’s slender wrist like a manacle…and his size, looming over Diana, trying to bend her to his will with his hands when his words weren’t enough…
Memories swamped Nick, fierce, violent memories of his father grabbing his mother’s arm, shaking her, threatening her. Terrifying her.
He was no longer a little boy, watching in horror as his father beat his mother into submission. He was a man, a man who loved Diana.
A man with a criminal record. His record was sealed, but that seal could be broken if he did the wrong thing.
Yet standing by while this bastard hurt Diana was the wrong thing, too.
His hands reflexively curled into fists and he started to swing.
“Nick! Don’t!”
Her voice sliced through his feverish rage like ice water dousing the fire inside him. Miraculously—because he couldn’t remember deliberately lowering his arms—he discovered his hands at his sides. His breath came heavy, his eyes burned, and he felt a hatred almost as deep as what he’d once felt for his father. But he didn’t hit Peter.
Hell. He wanted to. He wanted to more than he could fathom.
But he didn’t. He would have pounded Peter into an oozing mass of pain for Diana. Instead, he didn’t pound Peter into an oozing mass of pain…for Diana. Because she’d asked him not to. Because if she’d asked him to let go of her, he would—no matter how much he never, ever wanted to let go of her. And if she asked him to hold her, he would, forever. Because if you loved a woman, you listened to her.
The same strength that had infused her voice when she’d shouted, “Don’t!” seemed to fill her body. She wrenched her hand loose and backed away from Peter. “You know what your problem is, Peter?”
“My problem is that my intended seems to be experiencing pre-nuptial jitters, that’s all.”
“Your problem,” Diana corrected him, “is that no one has ever said no to you. You’re handsome, you’re rich, you’re charming, and everyone has always said yes. Whatever you’ve wanted, you’ve gotten. You’re the one who’s gone crazy—because for the first time in your life, someone has said no to you. When I saw you in Boston and gave you back your ring, you bruised me.” She touched her wrist. Nick couldn’t see any bruising on her pale, delicate skin, but the mere possibility that this thug, this asshole, this monster had bruised her made Nick’s hands tighten into fists again. It took more self-control than he’d realized he had to keep his arms at his sides. “You never hurt me like that before, Peter. You never had to, because you always got your way. I always did what you wanted.
“Well, now I’m not doing what you want. I’m sorry, but that’s life. Sometimes things don’t go exactly the way you want them to. Get over it.”
Peter seemed incredulous. “I didn’t bruise you.”
“You did,” she said. “And it will never happen again. Now go away and leave me alone.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him, five-foot-four inches of steely resolve. Peter gaped at her, his frown deepening, growing less hostile and more perplexed, as if she were mutating before his eyes, transforming from a compliant little lady into a fire-breathing dragon.
He looked almost frightened, which suited Nick just fine.
One final gaze, and Peter turned, stormed down the steps to the parking lot, and climbed into a silver Mercedes coupe parked not far from Nick’s aged Honda. Peter revved the motor and, in an aggressive maneuver, tore out of the lot, his engine roaring and his tires sending loose gravel flying like shrapnel.
Had Diana actually chosen a rattly Honda Civic over a powerful Mercedes coupe? Or had she just chosen to reject the Mercedes? Was she going to reject Nick, too? He’d almost struck Peter. He would have, if she hadn’t stopped him. He would have resorted to violence, just like his old man.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
He’d been focused on the empty space where the Mercedes had been, on the pebbles and dust settling back to earth in its wake. Her question startled him. He spun back to her and found her watching him, looking uncannily calm. “The hell with me. How are you?”
“Never better.” She gave him a tentative smile. “You look a little ragged.”
“I wanted to punch his lights out,” Nick confessed. “Why didn’t you tell me he hurt you when you saw him in Boston?”
“I hurt him, too,” she said.
“You didn’t leave bruises.”
“Maybe I did. On his heart, or at least on his ego.”
“His ego could use some roughing up.”
Diana laughed.
“Diana.” Nick gathered her hands in his. They were so small, so soft and fine-boned. It pained him to think that prick had hurt her, and had been well on his way to hurting her again today. Nick would have done anything to protect her—even if it meant a second criminal charge, a stint in prison, a lifelong stain on his soul. He would have done it—but she’d protected him, instead. She’d saved him from his own worst impulses.
“I love you.” He could think of nothing more to say than those three words.
She rose on tiptoe and touched her lips to his. “I love you, too.”
“I know it’s been fast, and there’s still stuff you don’t know about me—”
“I’m looking forward to learning that stuff. And you’ll learn stuff about me, too.”
“I like heavy metal music.”
“My feet turn to ice in the winter.”
“I used to smoke, but I quit about five years ago.”
“I used to bite my nails.”
“I hate doing laundry.”
“So do I.”
Their eyes met. Her smile was so sweet, he felt it resonating inside him. “This is insane,” he said.
“Maybe it’s magic.”
“I didn’t use to believe in magic,” he admitted, then bowed to kiss her. “But now, I guess I do.”
“That’s because you’ve changed,” she murmured, then pulled him to her for a longer, deeper kiss.
Epilogue
“I’m a wreck,” Nick said.
Ed Nolan grinned and shook his head. They were seated across from each other in a booth at the Faulk Street Tavern. It was three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and they both nursed iced teas, Ed because he was on call that weekend and Nick because he would be leaving for Boston in fifteen minutes.
“You’ll be fine,” Ed assured him.
“Do I look okay? I thought about getting a haircut, but Diana told me not to.”
“I’d say you’re better off pleasing her than pleasing her parents,” Ed said. “And yes, you look okay.”
Nick was wearing a suit. The full deal—jacket, tailored trousers, button-down shirt, tie, lace-up shoes. He’d bought the outfit last week. He’d never owned a suit before, never needed one. But then, he’d never driven to Boston to meet the parents of the woman he planned to marry. The very rich, very proper parents.
“I feel like a freaking stock broker.”
“You look like a guy who cleans up pretty well,” Ed said, then shouted over his shoulder to Gus, “Tell Nick he looks okay.”
“You look gorgeous,” Gus shouted back. The bar was just beginning to fill up. Carl Stanton sat on his usual stool, hunched over a whisky. A half-dozen young guys were gathered around another table, laughing and swapping stories, a pitcher of beer and a platter of wings forming a centerpiece. A half-dozen young women sat two tables away, sipping exotic martinis and checking out the guys. Manny Lopez stood behind the bar with Gus, unloading clean glasses onto a shelf. If Gus wanted to shout across the room to Ed and Nick, no one seemed to mind.
Nick knew he didn’t look gorgeous. He looked clean-shaven and clean-cut and nothing like who he really was. “What if I blow it?” he asked.
“Listen to me.” Ed leaned forward, his beefy hands plante
d on the table on either side of his glass, his expression stern yet fatherly. He looked the way Nick’s father had never looked, and that alone gave Nick courage. “Diana loves you. You love her. You make her happy. You treat her right. If her parents are good people, that’s what they care about. If all they care about is that you haven’t got a fancy title or an executive office, then they’re not good people and you don’t have to worry about impressing them.”
“In other words, I win either way.”
“Exactly.”
Nick sighed, checked his watch, and swigged the last of his iced tea. “What if I use the wrong fork?”
“What do you think? They’ll point at you, snicker, and call you a moron.” Ed snorted. “Use whatever fork you want. As long as you chew with your mouth shut, they won’t mind.”
“What if they say they want us to get married in some mansion in Newport?”
“Diana’ll decide where she wants to get married. She’s no pushover, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” Nick said with a grin. That was just one of the things he loved about her—the thing about her that had changed the most since she’d heard the song.
He glanced over at the jukebox, wondering if there was another song in it for him, something that would give him the fortitude to get through this evening with Diana’s parents. He was supposed to meet them, along with Diana and her sister, who was visiting from England, at some fancy French restaurant in downtown Boston—he doubted they’d be wearing plastic bibs with smiling lobsters on them, and dining at a table covered in butcher paper—and by the end of the meal, he hoped they’d accept him as the man their daughter loved. Actually, he hoped for more. He hoped they’d like him. He hoped they’d find him smart and honorable and pleasant, the ideal addition to their family. But he’d settle for acceptable.
Diana had sworn that her sister would love him. She wasn’t about to vouch for her parents, but she’d told him to be himself, because Nick himself was the man she loved.
How could he be himself when he was dressed in this tailored gray suit?
“I’ve got to go,” he said, nudging away his empty glass and sliding out of the booth. “Wish me luck.”
“You found Diana,” Ed reminded him, standing as well. “How much more luck do you want?”
“What I want…” Nick’s gaze drifted to the jukebox, standing in splendid isolation against the far wall of the tavern. “What I want is a song that’ll give me courage.”
Gus swung around from behind the bar and strode to their table to pick up the empty glasses. She patted Nick’s shoulder. “You don’t need another song,” she said. “You already got your magic, Nick. Run with it.”
He turned to face her. She was smiling, something she rarely did. Impulsively, he kissed her cheek. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll run with it. No—I’ll fly.” He gave Ed a nod, then strode to the door and out, off to Boston to be with the woman he loved.
***
Ed slung an arm around Gus. It pleased him that her height matched his. That seemed to make things easier, somehow.
The door swung shut behind Nick. “He’ll be fine,” he said, echoing the assurance he’d given the kid.
“He’ll wow them,” Gus agreed.
“Now you’re gonna tell me it’s all because of that jukebox?”
Gus shrugged noncommittally. “Believe what you want. And let me believe what I want.”
He eyed the jukebox and gave her a squeeze. “I’ve gotta get back to headquarters. I’ll be off at six.”
“You know where I’ll be at six,” she said, angling her head toward the bar.
He released her and took a step toward the door, which also brought him a step closer to the jukebox. He eyed it again, then rotated back to Gus. “You got a song in there for me?”
“Pop a quarter in the slot,” she said, a teasing undertone in her voice. “Maybe it’ll play ‘Take Me Home Tonight.’”
Ed grinned. Gus winked, then sauntered to the bar, the empty iced tea glasses in her hand, her slim hips shimmying just the slightest bit.
Nick Fiore wasn’t the only guy in love, Ed thought with a sigh.
###
About the Author
Judith Arnold is the award-winning, bestselling author of more than ninety published novels. A New York native, she currently lives in New England, where she indulges in her passions for jogging, dark chocolate, good music, good wine and good books. She is married and the mother of two sons.
For more information about Judith, or to contact her, please visit her website. Feel free to check out her other books and sign up for her newsletter.
If you enjoyed Changes, I hope you will consider posting a review of it online. Thank you!
Here’s a peek at True Colors, the second book in the Magic Jukebox series:
Chapter One
“We’ve got a problem,” Monica said.
Emma set down her paintbrush and blinked herself into the here and now. She’d been lost in her work, dabbing shadings into the stone façade of the castle behind Ava Lowery’s half-finished face. To Emma’s left stood an easel holding a pin board that displayed twenty close-up photographs of Ava, a five-year-old bundle of energy who hadn’t wanted to sit still while Emma had snapped the pictures, so some of them were a little blurry. To Emma’s right stood another easel holding images of medieval castles, unicorns, jewel-encrusted tiaras and satin gowns. Directly before Emma stood the easel containing the painting she was working on—her very first Dream Portraits commission since her arrival in Brogan’s Point four months ago.
A warm wash of sunlight flooded the loft through the glass wall behind her stool. If she turned around, she would be rewarded with a spectacular view of scattered trees and rooftops and outcroppings of granite sloping down toward the heart of town, and beyond it the ocean. But she needed that wonderful natural light behind her, spilling onto her canvas, way more than she needed the distractions of a beautiful view.
Immersed in her painting, she hadn’t heard Monica climb the stairs to the loft. The stairs and loft were floored in white wall-to-wall carpeting—what sane person covered the floor with white?—but Emma had spread a patchwork of canvas drop cloths across the floor of the loft to protect the ridiculously impractical carpet from paint spatters. She should have heard Monica’s shoes scratching across the canvas. She would have, if she hadn’t been so intensely focused on the castle she was painting.
Despite that intense focus, she’d heard Monica’s voice. In particular, she’d heard the word problem. “I’ve already used up my allotment of problems for this year,” she said. She was smiling, but it was true. Things had finally turned around for her—thanks, in huge part, to Monica—and she really wanted to enjoy a few problem-free months before the next onslaught of problems crashed over her.
She’d been sleeping on her ex-boyfriend’s cousin’s couch in the Dumbo neighborhood of Brooklyn when Monica had phoned last November and said, “Look—you and Claudio are history and you’re living out of a suitcase. And I’m living in this fabulous house for dirt-cheap. There’s plenty of space here, and a sun-filled loft where you could paint. Three and a half bathrooms. Kiss New York goodbye and come to Brogan’s Point.”
Emma had come. She’d scrounged up a few local art students. She’d knocked herself out promoting her Dream Portraits business, and she’d finally gotten her first commission. She wanted only good news from now on.
Maybe the problem Monica had mentioned was something simple. A clogged toilet? Emma knew how to use a plunger. A blow-up between Monica and Jimmy? Emma had survived her own blow-up with Claudio. She could nurse Monica through a heartbreak. Jimmy wasn’t good enough for Monica, anyway, although Emma was wise enough to keep that opinion to herself.
Monica didn’t look heartbroken, however. Emma tore her gaze from the painting she’d been working on and scrutinized her friend’s expression. As an artist specializing in portraiture, she knew how to read faces. Monica’s
face was not sad or dejected. It was concerned and annoyed.
Clogged toilet or the equivalent, Emma thought with relief.
“Our asshole landlord wants to sell this house,” Monica said.
That was not the equivalent of a clogged toilet. “What do you mean, sell it?”
“Sell it. Find a buyer and unload it. Stop renting it to us.”
That was a problem. In fact, it was a problem. Emma had no idea what property values were in this picturesque seaside town an hour north of Boston, but she could guess that any house as spacious and new as the one she and Monica were renting, with a gorgeous ocean view and three and a half bathrooms, had to be worth some serious money. “I don’t suppose we can buy it from him,” she said.
Monica laughed bitterly. “If someone dies and leaves us a million dollars, maybe. I just got a call from Andrea.”
“Andrea?”
“My mother’s friend. The realtor who got me this deal. The landlord—Max Something, I can’t remember his last name—lives out in California or somewhere, and he’d asked Andrea to rent this house out until he figured out what he wanted to do with it. He didn’t want it sitting empty while he did whatever the hell it is he does in California, or wherever the hell he is. I got a year’s lease—way below market value, because he thought I was doing a favor for him, occupying the place, turning lights on and off and scaring away potential vandals.”
“You’re so scary,” Emma joked.
“Well, not me in particular. A tenant, any tenant, as long as I was responsible. Which I am,” Monica insisted, evidently in response to Emma’s smirk. “I got this deal because my mother knew Andrea, and she knew I didn’t want to live down the hall from her and my dad at the inn. Anyway, our landlord—Max Whatever—can’t evict us until June, because of the lease. But he might want to start showing the house now, which means we have to give Andrea access and keep the place tidy.”
Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1) Page 16
