“Payroll’s done by a service,” he went on. “I’ll give you—”
Nicole cleared her throat. She was getting tired of interruptions. It was time to take control. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to calculate the deductions and write the checks ourselves?”
“Yeah. If you have time for that kind of thing. Which I don’t.”
She smiled, pleased to have discovered an area where she could make an immediate and positive difference. “But I do. Have the time. And the software.”
“You want me to give you a gold star?”
He didn’t sound jeering, she decided. More…amused.
“How about a cherry in my drink?”
He grinned suddenly, and the shock of it ran through her system like a computer virus. “You don’t strike me as the fruit-and-paper-umbrella type.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope.”
Drop it, her new, improved self ordered. You are not a healthy woman. You are a relationship addict. You cannot indulge in a flirtation, even a tiny one, without going on a love binge.
She moistened her lips with her tongue. “What type am I?” she asked.
Her better self groaned and threatened to call their mother.
Mark DeLucca studied her with his flat, black eyes. “Hard to say. Yesterday I had you pegged as a chardonnay girl.”
“And…today?”
“Today I think that’s too ordinary.”
He thought she wasn’t ordinary. Excitement licked along her nerves like flame set to paper.
The phone behind the bar rang.
They both reached for it.
Mark’s hand, hard and lean, closed over Nicole’s. She felt her cheeks color, but held on. This was her establishment. It was her phone.
After a moment he let go.
“Good morning, Blue Moon,” she said breathlessly into the receiver.
“Good morning.” The woman’s voice was pure Gold Coast, warm and rich as melted butter over lobster. “Is Mark DeLucca in?”
Nicole’s insides congealed. “One moment, please.” She thrust the phone at Mark. “It’s for you.”
He took the receiver from her cold hand. “Thanks. Mind if I—”
“Please, take the call. I think we’re done here.”
She was looking at him funny, like he’d said or done something on purpose to upset her, instead of just flirting with her a little.
But Mark didn’t have time to figure it out.
He didn’t have time to figure her out, not if this was the call he was expecting.
He held the receiver to his ear. “DeLucca here.”
“Mr. DeLucca, this is Jane Gilbert. What can I do for you?”
He turned his back on Nicole Reed, with her too-blue, too-interested eyes. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line? You wrote to me.”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you want?”
“I want whatever is in the best interests of six-year-old Daniel Wainscott. It remains to be seen if you can help me there.”
He didn’t bother to take offense at her tone. Hell, he agreed with her.
“Have you—” His heart was beating harder than it had on the airstrip at Kabul. His palm was sweaty on the receiver. “Have you said anything to him about me?”
“No. I see no point in raising the child’s hopes unless and until it is established that you are indeed his father. Are you?”
He was dimly aware of Nicole behind him, moving away to the other end of the bar. To give him more privacy?
“I don’t know,” he said.
He sure hadn’t thought about becoming a father seven years ago when he was making it with shy blond Betsy every chance they could both sneak away. Or when her mother figured out what they were up to and her daddy put a stop to it. Or at the end of that summer, when he’d joined up and shipped out, or in any of the intervening years since. But he’d given it plenty of thought in the last twenty-four hours.
“I could be,” he said.
“Then your first step should be a paternity test,” Jane Gilbert said briskly. “There are home kits, of course, but it would be better if you had the test done at a collection center, to establish a proper chain of custody. In case your claim to Daniel were to be questioned in court.”
His only previous court experience had been as a defendant. He wondered what her lawyership, this Gilbert woman, would make of that.
Daniel’s grandparents have expressed interest in adopting Daniel and appear ready to pursue all legal avenues to do so.
Hell.
“What do you need?” he asked. “Blood?”
“No. The technician will take a buccal swab—a sample of skin cells from the inside of your cheek.”
“How much?”
“How large a sample? I’m afraid I—”
“No. How much is this going to set me back?”
The lawyer’s voice chilled like vodka over ice. “The cost can probably be recovered from Elizabeth Wainscott’s estate. However, a test of the child and alleged father can run anywhere from $450 to nearly $800.”
“Why the difference?”
“I haven’t decided yet whether to subject Danny to the normal testing procedure or to collect a special sample.”
It was too much to take in.
He should have suggested he call her back, this afternoon, maybe, when he had more time to think.
And fewer distractions. Even with the length of the bar between them, he could still smell the light, expensive scent of Nicole’s perfume, could still hear the soft click of her computer keyboard, rappity-tap-tap behind him. He so did not want her getting the drift of this conversation. Which was dumb, since it wasn’t like he was going to make it with her anyway.
He pulled his mind back. “What kind of sample?”
“Chewing gum,” Jane Gilbert said simply and unexpectedly. “The lab can extract Danny’s DNA from well-chewed chewing gum. I’m told Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit works best.”
“So then he wouldn’t know what was going on.”
There was a little pause. “In a case such as this, when a child may already be feeling upset or abandoned by one parent’s death—”
Mark didn’t need a lawyer to tell him about children’s feelings of abandonment.
“Do it,” he ordered.
“Excuse me?”
“Get the special thing. I’ll pay for it.”
“It will take a week longer to process,” the lawyer warned.
Mark had already spent—what, six years? seven?—without knowing that he was a father. If he was a father.
“I can wait,” he said.
“Very well.” Did he imagine it, or had the lawyer’s voice warmed ever so slightly? “There’s probably a lab or doctor’s office near you that could take the sample. However, if you choose to have the test done in Chicago, we could meet. To discuss Daniel.”
To see if getting him mixed up in the kid’s life would be in the best interests of the child, she meant.
“Yeah,” he said. Rappity-tap-tap, went Nicole’s fingers behind him. “Yeah, that would be good. When?”
“Next week sometime?”
“Sure.”
“Thursday? Four o’clock?”
“Fine.”
He hung up the receiver, annoyed to note that his hand wasn’t steady. When he turned, Nicole was watching him with narrowed blue eyes.
“You got a problem?” he asked.
Swell, DeLucca. Make it a perfect day. Pick a fight with the boss.
Her slim shoulders squared. “Not necessarily. Do you?”
He could almost like the way she didn’t back down. Almost.
“Not necessarily,” he said, mocking her. “I need next Thursday off.”
“All right. I—did you say Thursday?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I have a previous commitment that night.”
Mark shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll switch hours with Joe.”
“And
if he’s not available?”
“I’ll work something out.”
“I need someone who can close the register.”
He was unwillingly pleased that she trusted him with her money. But that didn’t give her the right to command his time.
“So, you do it.”
“I told you, I have plans for that evening.”
He might have just dismissed her as a spoiled rich girl. But her voice was stiff with distress. Her shoulders were rigid.
He frowned. “What kind of plans?”
“If you must know, I’m attending a party with my parents.”
Any temptation to feel sorry for her died. “A party is that important to you?”
She sighed. Some of the starch left her shoulders, like the wind abandoning a sail. “No. My parents are important to me. Their good opinion is important to me.”
Betsy had cared about her parents’ opinion, too, Mark remembered.
More than she’d cared about him.
More than she’d cared about…their son?
Pain stabbed an old wound, making him snarl. “Sorry. I’m not going to give up my plans so you can make nice with your parents.”
Nicole glared. “Well, I’m not giving up my evening so you can make time with your married lover!”
Chapter 4
She was wacko.
“What are you talking about?” Mark demanded.
Nicole’s face turned fiery red. He could almost—almost—feel sorry for her.
“I’m not judging you,” she said painfully. “But it’s unwise to form a relationship with someone who isn’t free to commit to you fully.”
Mark lifted an eyebrow. She was so earnest it was funny. “You speaking from experience here?”
Her face got even redder. He wouldn’t have believed it.
“I’m not trying to get personal,” she said. “I’m simply saying it’s a mistake.”
He could go for the direct approach. Sometimes that worked. “He really did a number on you, huh? What was his name?”
“Ted,” she said, surprised into a reply. She looked down at her rings. “He had three children. Boys.”
Her lips pressed closed, as if she’d let something precious escape. Interesting.
“You got a problem with boys?”
She didn’t smile. “No. I liked them. I liked spending time with them. I never minded going over on the weekends so that he could meet with customers or go into the office. Only—” She broke off.
“Let me guess. It wasn’t only customers he was meeting.”
Her blue eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I hear it all the time, babe. It happens all the time.”
“He wasn’t even divorced,” she said. “Only separated.”
He heard that, too. But it didn’t make sense. She was rich. Blond. A looker. “Why’d you put up with it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged. Her love life wasn’t his problem. “Okay.”
“And you don’t have any right to sound so superior.”
“Hey,” he said, genuinely startled. “You don’t need to get so defensive.”
But she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “You can’t tell me you’ve never gotten involved with a married woman.”
“No. I can’t tell you that,” Mark said grimly. “But I can tell you that’s one mistake I don’t plan on repeating.”
Nicole sniffed. “Why did you agree to meet with her, then?”
“Meet who?”
“The woman on the phone.”
He almost goggled at her. The lawyer?
He turned to check the liquor levels in the bottles behind the bar. Not that anyone in Eden was likely to order a lunchtime grappa, but it bought him some time to figure out how to deal with her accusation.
“You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said.
Nicole lowered her voice to a wickedly deep imitation of his. “‘Have you told him about me?’” She shook her head and said in her normal voice, “Big leap.”
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to laugh. She was funny and concerned and totally wrong.
Mark was getting pretty damn tired of being accused of things he hadn’t done.
“You don’t know the situation,” he said.
You don’t know me.
“So tell me.” Her voice was bright and sympathetic. So were her eyes.
“No.”
She stiffened. “I can’t let you have Thursday night off without some kind of explanation. Staffing is a problem.”
“Your problem,” he said. “You’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am. And since I am—” she took a deep breath and straightened on her bar stool “—I want you back by eleven that night to close the register.”
She was drawing her line in the sand.
He could do what he wanted. Let her call the shots. His business with the Gilbert woman would be over by five. Six, tops.
Or he could tell her to go to hell.
Yeah, and then he could explain to the guardian-ad-whatever, at their first meeting, that not only was he the kind of loser scum who lost track of a seventeen-year-old girl and their baby, he was an unemployed loser scum incapable of supporting said child.
Oh, yeah. That would go over well.
He looked at Nicole, sitting at the end of his bar in her don’t-touch-me blouse with her don’t-mess-with-me face, nervously twisting those pretty gold rings on her fingers. What would she do if he walked on her? She’d be screwed. They both knew it.
“Eleven?” he asked.
She tried hard to keep the hope from her expression, but it shone in those incredible blue eyes.
“In time to close,” she said.
“Fine. I can manage that.”
He didn’t know what he expected. Not gratitude, exactly, but… Well, okay, gratitude would have been nice.
Instead she nodded, like his capitulation was never in doubt, and started grilling him about the menu.
Okey-damn-dokey. He wasn’t trying to make points with her. From now on, he would just do his job and hope she didn’t interfere too much.
She was taking him line by line through the appetizer listing, with him explaining which items Louis prepared in the kitchen and what he purchased from their wholesaler in Chicago, when a horn blared in the parking lot.
Nicole jumped. “What’s that?”
Mark shrugged. “Beats me.”
The horn sounded again, a quick, impatient tattoo.
Nicole nibbled her lip. “Well, don’t you want to go see?”
“Nope. It’s probably some kid with a new car.”
Whoever it was decided hitting the horn wasn’t working and starting banging on the door instead. Nicole slid from her seat.
“Or a drunk,” Mark added, “who can’t wait for opening hour.” In which case he couldn’t very well let Blondie answer the door alone now, could he? He strolled from behind the bar. “Or it could be—”
Nicole threw the bolt and opened the door on a very attractive, very ticked-off brunette wearing gold jewelry and sunglasses.
His sister, Tess.
Oh, hell.
He had a tux fitting at ten-thirty which he had just totally blown off.
Of the two women, Tess looked more surprised. But she also recovered faster. Growing up with an alcoholic mother and an abusive father did that for you. Both DeLucca kids had plenty of practice in hiding their feelings and thinking fast on their feet.
His sister stuck out her hand. “You must be Nicole. I’m Tess. Is Mark here?”
Nicole froze like one of those ice sculptures they set on the buffet tables in the Algonquin Hotel dining room. “Yes, he is. Is he expecting you?”
“He should be,” Tess said. “The rat.” She looked over Nicole’s shoulder at Mark. “You are not getting out of this. I don’t care how uncomfortable it makes you or what you think of this marriage. If you hurry, they can still squeeze us in.”
&nb
sp; Oh, yeah. Tess was one tough cookie, all right. Only he knew what a softie, what a sucker she was.
He owed her. Always had.
And maybe now was a good time to prove to his blond boss—hell, to prove to himself—that he could walk away at any time.
“Okay,” he said to his sister. “I’m gone,” he told Nicole.
“But—”
Looking into those wide blue eyes, he felt a very unfamiliar and totally unwelcome need to explain. To apologize. To reassure.
He squashed it.
Nicole Reed didn’t need him or his explanations.
Besides, Joe would be along in a few minutes to help her open.
“I work four until close,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you then.”
“It was nice meeting you,” Tess added.
He followed her out to her car.
Nicole folded back the grimy shutters, watching through the window as Mark drove off with the gorgeous brunette with red nails and attitude.
Things could be worse. At least this time she knew what kind of man he was before her heart got involved.
Mark DeLucca was not the type of guy who could make her happy. He was a player. Like Charles. Like Zack. Like every other guy who had ever strung her along and used her. Only this guy wasn’t even bothering to string her along. He had enough women on his line already. That Kathleen Turner wannabe on the phone. The exotic-looking brunette in the car.
Nicole couldn’t compete.
She shouldn’t want to compete.
Her relationship with Mark was strictly professional, employer to employee.
She slid into a booth, kneeling on the bench seat to unlatch the heavy shutters.
Employee. Right.
Only she hadn’t been in the kitchen flirting with Louis. She hadn’t quizzed Joe about his personal life or blurted out the pathetic story of married-Ted-the-insurance-sales-man-and-his-three-children to Deanna.
Oh, no. Nicole tugged at the dirty shutters. Because that wouldn’t be humiliating enough. No, she had to go and expose herself to Mark DeLucca instead.
Outside the windows, the sky was overcast. The lake reflected shards of light like an open drawer of tarnished flatware. Nicole closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass.
She was such a loser.
“Miss Reed? Nicole?” It was Joe, coming through the open front door. She’d forgotten to lock up. “Is Mark here?”
All a Man Can Be Page 4
