by Judy Duarte
“Why?” she asked, unable to quell the sense of seduction. And not just hers. She had half a notion to respond to each of his moves and make a few plays of her own.
Good grief. What was the matter with her? No way would she consider a one-night stand with a stranger. Yet when he flashed her another Brando smile, a part of her wanted his arms around her, his mouth on hers.
He motioned for her to sit, then took a seat on the other side of the sofa. His arm dangled over the back-rest, but not close enough to touch. “Let’s talk.”
Talk? Was that part of the seduction? A line he used?
“Talk about what?” she asked.
“You. I want to hear more about little Hailey, the cute girl with pigtails and a missing tooth.”
She glanced at the fireplace mantel, realizing he’d seen her photograph. As thoughts of Nick putting the moves on her flew out the window and escaped into the snowy night, a keen sense of relief mingled with disappointment. “There’s not much to tell.”
Nick studied the woman across from him, watched her struggle to open up. If he could piece together her life, understand her anger and disappointment, then convincing her to visit Harry in San Diego would be easier.
He was good at interrogating suspects, but this was different. Much different. A suspect’s secrets were often a result of guilt. Hailey’s secret was the result of a child’s pain.
It was something Nick could relate to, he supposed.
She shot him a wistful smile. “My parents weren’t married, and my dad was never really a part of my life. I suppose people don’t really miss what they never had.”
“I don’t know about that.” Nick still resented the sailor who’d fathered him, the man who’d refused to step up to the plate and be a dad. “It’s been years, but I still blame my old man for the lousy stepdad I ended up with. And for the beatings I received just for being someone else’s brat.”
Compassion swept across her brow. “I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t meant to spill his guts like that, and he wasn’t sure why he had. He supposed it was the wine, the quiet, introspective evening, or maybe it was something about the somber beauty sitting across from him. She continued to eye him with a tad more sympathy than he was comfortable with, blew out a slow, steady breath, then ran a hand through her long, brown locks of hair. The glow of the fire enhanced red and gold highlights he hadn’t noticed before.
His fingers itched to touch the strands, but he removed his hand from the sofa back and dropped it in his lap.
He watched as she drew up her knees, tucked her feet under her skirt, and slowly turned to face him. “I did okay without a dad. It was my mom who took the brunt of his abandonment. She died loving my father, even though he dumped us both years ago.”
Nick wanted to defend Harry, but didn’t think it was his place. If Hailey would just talk to the man, Harry could defend himself.
Twenty years ago, Hailey had been a kid. She couldn’t possibly know the whole story. Hell, Nick didn’t know the whole story, but he knew her father well enough to know there was something only Harry could explain.
Nick had never questioned Harry’s values. The man was practically a saint. But even saints were human. Maybe Harry had tried to befriend Hailey’s mom, like he had so many other people in recent years, and experienced a moment of indiscretion. And if the woman fell in love with him—
Hey, Nick had plenty of women look at him with hero worship. He just made it a point not to take any of them up on their various ways of showing gratitude. “Maybe your mom fell in love with your dad, but the feelings weren’t mutual.”
“Obviously not.” Curled into the corner of the sofa, she looked like a small child. And Nick had a feeling that’s where her thoughts were taking her—back to a sad childhood.
He had this sappy urge to go to her, offer her comfort and a shoulder to lean on, but God knew he wasn’t that kind of guy. What did a man like him offer a woman who needed emotional support?
Hell, that huggy/feely stuff was learned as a kid, which was why Nick had never been comfortable with showing affection to anyone other than a lover. He’d never had the luxury of a hug or a pat on the shoulder, which were things kids needed. Women, too, he supposed. But it was a difficult gesture for him and another reason why he wasn’t cut out to be a father or a husband.
She set her empty wineglass on the coffee table. He would have offered her a refill, but they’d finished the bottle. He could use another glass, too. The last swallow had left him warm and wanting.
Wanting more wine, he added. Of course, he wouldn’t ask. When she rose from the sofa, he smiled, thinking he wouldn’t have to.
He watched her go, but not to the kitchen. She padded down the hall and into her bedroom. He ached to follow her. Hold her close and chase the bad memories away. Give her some new ones.
Harry Logan might have convinced Nick to curb his delinquent ways, but no one had been able to shake the rebel from Nick’s blood.
And the rebel in him wanted to follow pretty Hailey into the bedroom and offer her more than comfort.
Hailey didn’t know why she knelt by the bed and reached underneath the dust ruffle for the old shoebox. She’d always kept the items hidden, even from her own sight. But for some reason she wanted to show the photograph to Nick.
She’d never confided in anyone before, other than a middle school teacher who’d sent Child Protective Services to visit their home. After that she’d kept quiet, kept things locked in her heart.
But tonight she felt the need to open up and share the past with someone. To cry in her beer and confide in an understanding, tight-lipped bartender she would never see again.
And who better to share with than a man who would leave town as soon as the roads cleared?
She blew out a jagged breath and, resting her bottom on the heels of her feet, opened the box. A soft kiss of bittersweet nostalgia brushed across her heart, as she looked at the items her mother had treasured: a stack of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon. A couple of ticket stubs. A take-out menu from some diner in Florida.
In the midst of her mother’s things sat something of hers. Something her father had given her after taking her to ride on a merry-go-round in the park.
She picked up the tissue-wrapped figurine and slowly unwound the paper, revealing a pretty, white carousel pony. In spite of herself, she fingered the cool ceramic, studied the colorful reds, blues and yellows. At one time she’d wanted to throw it away or break it against the wall. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d stashed it inside her mother’s box, which was a good place for it, she supposed.
After wrapping the tissue around the pony and putting it back into the box, she withdrew what she’d been looking for—the old photograph her mom had blown up from a strip of black-and-white pictures taken at the drugstore in Florida, where they used to live. She looked at it closely for a moment, then replaced the lid and slid the box back where it had been, out of sight but rarely out of mind.
When she returned to the living room, the soft glow of the candles and firelight gave the room a mystical iridescence. Magical. And, she supposed, sensual, if what they were sharing had been physical.
She handed Nick the black-and-white photo, then sat beside him, closer than she’d been before. With the new level of intimacy they’d reached, sitting near enough to touch seemed appropriate.
He took the picture, and as he did so, his fingers grazed her hand. Her breath caught, and her heart paused before going back into a strong, steady beat.
As he studied the only photograph she had of her parents, a lump formed in her throat. Funny thing about crying, she supposed. Years could go by without shedding a tear, and then the floodgates threatened at the weirdest times.
“Your mom looked a lot like you. Pretty. Same expressive eyes. You take after her.” He didn’t comment about her father, which was all right with her.
“They had it taken in one of those little booths at the five-and-dime. They’re b
oth smiling like crazy kids. Happy, you know. It was one of my mom’s most cherished possessions.”
“But not something you cherished,” he said. “You don’t keep it on the mantel with the other pictures.”
He was right. She didn’t place any sentimental value on the photograph or any of the other stuff her mom had saved. She wasn’t sure why she kept any of it, since the box of memories was a solid reminder of her mother’s descent into depression.
Hailey supposed it was a cop’s job to notice the little things and make assessments. “I stashed the picture in a shoebox full of my mother’s personal belongings that I keep under the bed.”
“What else do you have in that box?”
A pretty pony my father gave me, after taking me to the park to ride the carousel. But she didn’t see any point in mentioning it to Nick. “Just a few letters my dad sent my mom, some of which contained cash—never a check. I think she would have kept the money as a memento, but we had a hard time making ends meet.”
“I’m sorry.”
Hailey figured he meant it, that he’d, at least on some level, had plenty of disappointments in his own life. Maybe that’s why she found it so easy to confide in him. “I’d always considered my dad a hero because he was a policeman. And I looked forward to every visit.”
Nick nodded as though he understood, but she wasn’t sure he really did.
“I could never understand why he didn’t live with us, like other fathers did, but I figured it was because he was busy. I didn’t know he had another family.” Hailey sighed softly, again recalling the painful night she’d seen her father for the last time.
He’d promised to come to her birthday, and she’d told all of her friends they could meet him. But something had come up, he’d told her, and he couldn’t come to her party the next day. Then he’d handed her a twenty-dollar bill, as though the money would appease her. It hadn’t.
She looked at Nick, caught him watching her, waiting for her to speak. “The night before I turned six, he and my mother had an argument in the kitchen. I’m still not entirely sure what it was about, but my mother spent the night crying. The next morning she got a wild hair, and we moved to Minnesota.”
“Just like that?” Nick asked.
She wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Did your mother leave a forwarding address? Any way for your dad to find you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.” Hailey bit her lip until it hurt. She supposed that might be one reason Harry had neglected to call until just two weeks ago. But he was a cop, a detective, and he’d found her in Walden, hadn’t he?
“Maybe it was your mom’s fault he wasn’t there for you.”
“In part, maybe.” She blew out a sigh. “But my mom still suffered from his rejection. She had good days and bad ones. Sometimes, during low points, she used to drink—Scotch and too much of it. One day, when I was about ten, I came home from school and found her passed out on the bed. She was clutching that photo in her hand.”
“People get sentimental when they drink to forget.”
“Yeah, I suppose they do. But mom had an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand.” The tears Hailey had fought began to well in her eyes. “I called 911.”
“Tough job for a kid.”
“Yes. But at least help arrived in time.” She paused. “That day.”
“That day?”
“Four years ago, I came home too late. I called the paramedics, and they called for the coroner.” A sob escaped from someplace where it had lain dormant for years, and the man across from her reached out his arms.
Hailey had never had someone to hold her, to offer comfort. And as much as she wanted to maintain an emotional distance, she fell easily into his embrace.
Nick held Hailey while she cried, stroking her back. Her hair, clean and silky, sluiced through his fingers. The scent of lilac encompassed him, wrapping him in a swirl of softness.
He’d never held someone so gentle, so vulnerable in his life. And he wasn’t sure what he should say. Something sappy, probably. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter a word. His hands just moved up and down her back, as though they knew instinctively what to do, how to comfort. The rest of him didn’t have a clue.
Her sweet touch stirred his blood, aroused an erection he tried to ignore. Sexual feelings, he supposed, were the only ones he was adept at handling.
Something mushy in his heart went out to Hailey—both the child who’d had to deal with a suicidal mother and the young woman who’d blamed her dad for the misery in her life.
Harry had told Nick there was a lot more to the story than met the eye. And Nick had no trouble believing him. Harry wasn’t the kind of guy to father a child and not acknowledge her. He was too decent. Too moral and upstanding.
Nick considered telling Hailey who had sent him and why, but thought better of it. Too much had been said tonight. He’d wait and discuss it over coffee in the morning.
When Hailey’s tears had been spent, she pulled away and swiped at her eyes with the back of a hand—first one, then the other.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling again and offering him a weak smile. “I don’t usually get weepy.”
He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against the softness of her skin. “It’s been a tough evening.”
“Yeah,” she said, again wiping her eyes. “And it’s time to call it a night. I’ll get you some bedding for the sofa.”
When she stood, her eyes remained locked on his. And as she moved, her shin rammed the glass edge of the coffee table. “Ouch.”
“Are you okay?” Nick reached for her hand, pulling her gently around. He stooped to look at her leg, taking the shapely calf in his hand.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”
But something in her eyes told him she wasn’t fine. And neither was he. But it had little to do with pain from contact with the table, and everything to do with the heat of his touch.
When he stood, facing her again, she swallowed hard, and her lips parted.
Damn. He had an incredible urge to kiss her. Just once.
She must have had the very same fantasy, because she placed a hand on his shoulder, then moved her fingertips toward his neck, his jaw, his cheek.
Ah, Hailey. Nick was lost in her touch, in her springtime scent.
He pulled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. She moaned in anticipation, or maybe surrender. He wasn’t sure, but when she opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to seek hers, the rebel in him took over.
The kiss was deep and hot. Demanding. And Nick couldn’t seem to get enough of the woman in his arms. His hands roamed her back, her hips, and he pulled her flush against him. Against a telltale erection. If he’d frightened her, she gave him no clue, because she only leaned in closer.
He didn’t know where this was heading. The decent side of him said to back off, but the rebel side wasn’t listening.
When Hailey placed her hands against his chest and broke the kiss, he wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or frustration. Probably a combination of both.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said.
“About the kiss? Or about stopping it?”
“Both, I guess.” She offered him a half smile, as though trying to shrug off the obvious desire they’d both shared, but a passion-induced flush on her chest and neck told him her arousal would take longer to subside than her words suggested.
“Yeah. Me, too,” the decent side of him said.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the bedding for you.” She drew away, leaving him with the lingering scent of lilac.
While she disappeared down the hall to a linen closet, Nick plopped down in the easy chair and sank back into his seat. The evening had taken a lot out of him, but it wasn’t just the spilling of tears and memories that had affected him. Something else had zapped the energy out of him, weakened him like he’d stayed in a sauna too damn long. He’d never been that close to an emotional woman before
. At least not one that wasn’t yelling and throwing things at him.
He stood when Hailey entered the room and helped her make up a bed on the sofa, but they both remained quiet. Lost in their thoughts.
And their regrets, he supposed, although he didn’t regret the kiss. Not really. His real regret was the damn erection that continued to plague him.
She glanced down at the bed they’d made, then looked up at him and smiled. “Good night.”
“Night.” He stood there for a while, long after she took one of the candles, padded down the hall and closed the bedroom door.
He figured sleep would be a long time coming, but he slipped out of his pants and draped them over the easy chair in the corner.
Usually, he slept in the raw, but tonight, as he settled onto the sofa, he figured it best to wear his briefs.
Hours later the flame in the fireplace had dwindled down to a soft red glow, and although he was tired, sleep evaded him. He stared at the ceiling and continued to contemplate the woman who slept down the hall.
When a scream sounded from behind the closed bedroom door, he jumped from the sofa.
“No!” Hailey shrieked.
A nightmare or an intruder?
He flung off the blanket and rushed down the hall, ready to battle whoever or whatever had frightened her.
Chapter Four
Nick threw open the bedroom door, only to find Hailey sitting upright in bed.
Alone.
No intruder.
A candle flickered on the dresser, bathing the room in soft, muted light. And the scent of lilac and lavender filled the air.
She wore a white satin nightgown with tiny straps that outlined near-perfect breasts. Her hair, rumpled from sleep, tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. She looked ready to cry.
And in need of comfort.
Don’t get too close, the rebel in him warned. What the hell do you know about comforting women? Turn around and go back into the living room.
But the decent side of him stepped forward, leading him closer to the bed. “Are you okay?”
“I guess so.” A tear welled in her eye, then ran down her cheek. She swiped it away. “Did I scream?”
