All a Man Can Be

by Virginia Kantra

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Mark called.

  The recruit turned his head. “Why the hell not?”

  Mark strolled bare-handed from behind the bar. The previous owner used to keep a baseball bat handy, but Mark figured any threat only stirred things up.

  “Your pal there is two sheets to the wind,” he said. “No challenge at all.”

  The recruit’s fist wavered. “There are eight of them.”

  Mark continued to move forward, keeping his tone light and his eyes steady. “There are four of you. And they’re civvies. They may have to appear before a judge for creating a public disturbance, but you’ll end up in jail for drunk and disorderly.” He addressed the group. “Is it really worth it?”

  Another sailor—a little older and slightly less drunk, a petty officer, maybe—stepped forward. His gaze slid over Mark before it found the tattoo riding just below his sleeve on his right arm.

  “You Navy?” he asked.

  Hell. Four of them, Mark thought with a sigh. But he said, “Marines.”

  The petty officer grinned. “No challenge at all.”

  All the frustration of the past two weeks seethed and surged through his bloodstream like lava, seeking a crack in his calm, an outlet. But Nicole was here, wide-eyed and silent. The whole bar was watching.

  And he had a kid at home.

  Mark didn’t have a model to go by, but he was pretty sure daddies weren’t supposed to show up at the breakfast table sporting split lips and black eyes. He had a responsibility here to keep the peace. To hold his tongue. To control his temper.

  He balled his fists. “Guess not,” he said. “You guys want to move this party someplace else? It would be a shame to end your night early in the brig.”

  The petty officer thought it over, his brain cells well lubricated but still working.

  The shaved recruit—he looked the same age as the college boy and just as incapable of holding his liquor—sneered. “Are we too much for you, jarhead?”

  “No,” Mark said clearly. “Too drunk.”

  Wrong answer. Seaman Stupid threw a jab to his stomach. Mark had to end this. Fast. And without breaking up the bar.

  He stepped to one side, grabbed the sailor’s wrist and elbow, and twisted his arm behind his back. His buddies lurched forward, but Mark was holding the cursing recruit in front of him like a tackle dummy.

  He made eye contact with the petty officer, giving him his best dead-eye glare and his easiest tone. “Do you guys really want to go up on charges because some townie was a jackass and your pal here is a little quick on the draw?”

  The older man’s bleary gaze sized up the situation. Mark decided to help. Alcohol did not promote clear thinking.

  “You could take me, no question,” Mark said. “But I’ve got a barful of witnesses and the police on the way. You got to ask yourselves if it’s worth it.” In case the other guy still didn’t get it, he added, “I’m betting you’ll say no.”

  He might have lost his bet.

  But before the befuddled sailors could make up their minds to take him and his bar apart, red lights flashed on the glass outside. Mark released his breath in relief. The cavalry was here. Or at least, an Eden police department squad car.

  Police Chief Jarek Denko was a lean man of medium height who should never have been able to command a room simply by walking in. But he did, Mark thought, both admiring and resentful. Maybe it was his fourteen years’ experience as a homicide cop in Chicago’s notorious Area 3. Maybe it was his freezing-as-the-lake-in-March-gray eyes. Maybe it was his gun.

  Whatever it was, he depressed the atmosphere in the bar like a cold front blowing down from Canada.

  “Mark. Ms. Reed.” He nodded in Nicole’s direction. “Having some trouble this evening?”

  Nicole frowned. “That’s why I—”

  Oops. Hell. For a smart woman, she could be really dumb sometimes.

  “No trouble,” Mark said, shifting his grip on the sweating recruit. “In fact, it’s been a little too quiet. Which is why some of these guys were leaving.”

  “That right?” Jarek asked mildly. He angled toward the sailors, keeping his shoulder back and his gun arm free. “Were you about to leave?”

  The petty officer had enough working brain cells left to recognize the hint and the opportunity. “Yes, sir. On our way.”

  “Well then, you have a pleasant evening,” Jarek said, and stepped aside.

  Mark turned away from the locked door, already running through the evening routines in his mind, the register, the tables, the floor, trying to figure the shortcuts that would get him out of here—get both of them out of here—before two in the morning.

  Nicole was standing by the open cash drawer, but she wasn’t counting bills or punching numbers. She looked over at him with an open, warm regard that made his lower body clench and the hair on the back of his neck rise in warning.

  “You were wonderful tonight,” she said.

  He rejected her praise instinctively. He was never wonderful. Nobody ever told him he was wonderful. He did his job, and sometimes he didn’t screw up.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You, too.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t do anything.”

  He smiled to himself. So he wasn’t the only one who had difficulty accepting compliments. “You kept your cool. You called the police.”

  “You kept a fight from breaking out in my bar.”

  “No. Jarek did that.”

  “You took down the Save Petey petition.”

  He felt the heat move in his cheeks. “That was a mistake.”

  “And the fish.”

  He was gratified. Embarrassed. “You noticed that?”

  “I noticed.” She came around the end of the bar. Her breasts shimmered distractingly under her shiny blouse. “I kind of miss it, though.”

  It? His mind blanked as her scent reached him. She was talking about the pike. Petey. “I hung him up in my apartment. Over the couch.”

  She moved closer. Her tongue touched her bottom lip. “If you’re not going to bring him back, maybe I could visit sometime.”

  Mark’s body, already revved with adrenaline and tensed with frustration, tightened even further. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was coming on to him. Which of course she wasn’t.

  Unless… What had she said the other night? She wanted to gain experience? His brain exploded with images. He almost groaned. If he wasn’t careful, if she didn’t stop him, he could give her some experiences neither one of them would recover from anytime soon.

  Right. Like that was going to happen with a six-year-old sleeping in his other bedroom. With his sister waiting up for him to come home, like he was sixteen again.

  Maybe he’d misunderstood her. “You want to visit my fish?” he repeated.

  Nicole smiled ruefully. “I didn’t want to sound clichéd. You think maybe I should ask to see your etchings instead?”

  Okay. He hadn’t misunderstood. He still didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have the space for this.

  But he sure as hell had the inclination.

  He looked her right in the eye. “You don’t have to ask, babe. For anything.”

  She raised her chin. “I think maybe I do. You’re sure not doing the asking.”

  “It’s…complicated,” he said.

  “So explain it to me.”

  Explain Betsy, the lawyer, Daniel? He really didn’t have the time. Or the words.

  “I can’t right now. I’ve got to go.”

  Or Tess would kill him. Jarek would kill him. It was after one in the morning.

  “I could go with you,” Nicole offered. “We could get coffee somewhere.”

  They could get coffee here. That wasn’t the point. He appreciated what she was trying to do—Friends talk to each other, she’d said—but no way was he launching into an explanation of his life right now. Especially when he didn’t understand it himself.

  As far as launching into anything else�
��

  He looked at Nicole, at her dark pupils and her distracting breasts and her pink cheeks. She wanted him. She was no different from any of his other women, really, he could have her or not, no big deal.

  Only her blue eyes were anxious. Her shoulders were stiff. This was Nicole, his hopeful, hardworking, infuriating boss. Nicole, who had lousy luck with men and a big, soft heart.

  And he couldn’t do it to her, couldn’t take what she was so clearly offering.

  Yeah, he was tempted. But it wouldn’t be right. She deserved more than a fifteen-minute standing bang, with him on his way out the door.

  It wouldn’t be fair. Not when she had no idea that he had become a package deal.

  He shook his head. “I’ve got to go home.”

  She took a deep breath, making the fabric over her breasts shimmer some more.

  “I could go with you,” she repeated. Hopeful. Stubborn.

  “It wouldn’t work,” he said.

  Her chin quivered, but she tried to make a joke of it. “What’s the matter? Got someone waiting for you?”

  “Yeah.” Regret roughened his voice. “Yeah, I do.”

  Rejected.

  Parked at the curb outside Kathy’s town house, Nicole leaned her forehead on the steering wheel and cried.

  Oh, God. She should be used to rejection. It shouldn’t hurt this much. He wasn’t Charles or Zack or Kevin, she hadn’t even slept with him…

  And the thought of what she’d missed, of what she was still missing, made her cry harder.

  Pathetic. That’s what she was.

  Nicole knuckled her eyes and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Maybe she’d had a lucky escape. Maybe she should be counting her blessings. Maybe she should be grateful Mark hadn’t accused her of sexual harassment.

  She winced. Oh, God. How was she going to face him at work tomorrow?

  She didn’t have to. Tomorrow was a Sunday. The bar was closed.

  The realization made her feel slightly better. Drawing a shuddering breath, she climbed out of her SUV on shaky knees and tottered up the walk to Kathy’s porch. The front light was on. She fumbled in her purse for her keys and—quietly, so as not to wake her roommate—unlocked the door.

  The end-table lamp was turned down low. But even in the dim light, Nicole could see the flash of Kathy’s red hair, her long pale legs…and a man’s bare buttocks, moving busily up and down among the cushions of the couch.

  There are a few things I’ve been wanting, and I can’t get them with a roommate around.

  Nicole’s mouth dropped open, but no sound, no breath escaped. Her chest ached. Obviously, not everyone got turned down tonight.

  She shut her jaw. She closed the door and stole quietly back to her car.

  Chapter 11

  “I hung up the towel,” Daniel announced, appearing around the end of the counter. The top of his head barely cleared the cutting surface. It was like living with Yoda.

  The gas flared as Mark adjusted the heat under the frying pan. “What towel?”

  “For my hands. I washed my hands.” He sounded anxious.

  “Well, that’s good,” Mark said. Wasn’t that good? His sister used to make him wash his hands. “How many eggs do you want for breakfast?”

  Daniel hovered just beyond arm’s reach. “How many are you having?”

  “Two.”

  “I’ll have two, please.”

  The kid had good manners. He wanted to fit in. Was that enough to make this father-son thing work?

  “You’ll have to get out another one, then,” Mark said.

  Daniel stared at him, wide-eyed.

  Mark jerked his head toward the fridge. Thank God he went shopping yesterday. “Another egg. In there.”

  The butter sizzled. Mark swirled it in the pan as the boy scooted into the kitchen behind him. He heard the refrigerator door open and close and then a wet smack, crack, as something—an egg—hit the floor.

  Mark said a word you weren’t supposed to use around six-year-olds and turned.

  Daniel stood beside the fridge with empty hands and a horrified expression. “I dropped it,” he said unnecessarily.

  Mark grinned. “I noticed.”

  “You said a bad word.”

  “Yeah. I shouldn’t.” The kid still looked upset, so he added, “Sometimes I forget I’m not onboard ship anymore.”

  “Mommy said—” The boy stopped.

  Mark reached for the roll of paper towels. “What did your mom say?”

  Daniel stepped back from the spreading egg. “She told me you were a sailor. In the war.”

  “Marine,” Mark corrected and squatted to wipe the floor. He felt cold. Warm. Nervous. Betsy had talked about him. To their son. To make the kid feel better, presumably, about his lack of a father.

  Mark could sympathize. He’d sat alone at too many “Dads and Doughnuts Days” himself. But he couldn’t let the kid think he was some kind of hero.

  “And we aren’t at war, exactly.”

  “She said that was why you didn’t come to see me.”

  Hell.

  Mark folded the paper towels with the runny egg inside and wiped his palms on his jeans. Crouched like this, he was almost eye-to-eye with the boy. “That was kind of why. When Betsy—your mom—found out she was expecting you, I was probably—” Gone. Doing his thirteen weeks of basic on Paris Island instead of two-to-five years in jail. “—really hard to get hold of,” Mark said.

  Had she even tried?

  What could he say that wouldn’t sound like a criticism of the child’s dead mother?

  He cleared his throat. “So we haven’t had, you know, much chance to—”

  The kid was staring at him with those big eyes that belonged on some cartoon character. Pinocchio, maybe, or Bambi. Mark stopped himself from saying another bad word.

  “—get to know each other. Before this, I mean,” he finished lamely.

  The boy blinked once. “Are you mad?”

  “You mean, like, crazy?”

  The kid looked confused. “I mean about the mess.”

  “Oh. No. No big deal.”

  “Okay.” Daniel smiled. And then he padded barefoot to the refrigerator and carefully took out another egg.

  Okay.

  Mark released his breath. And smelled butter burning. He snatched at the frying pan with one hand, made a grab for the control knob with the other.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Daniel, unnaturally helpful or maybe just curious, volunteered.

  “You’re not supposed to—”

  The egg the child had set on the counter rolled. Splat, on the floor.

  Bad word, bad word, bad word, bad word.

  Nicole stood on the weathered landing outside Mark’s apartment, light-headed with nerves and lack of sleep, her stomach churning and her pulse racing. The platform was dark and slick from last night’s storms. Over the lake a fresh wind scoured the clouds away and ruffled the surface to sunlit peaks.

  She should not be here.

  She had humiliated herself enough already. Mark had rejected her for another woman, a woman who was probably still inside with him. It was only ten o’clock. They could be having brunch. Couples did that on lazy Sunday mornings. They could be having sex.

  Nicole hunched her shoulders, shivering in the breeze from the lake. She should have called.

  Except she didn’t know what she was going to say. She’d spent the night in her unfinished apartment among the unpacked boxes, tearing them apart in search of answers. She was bleary-eyed from reading the advice of a dozen different gurus, from poring over a dozen different self-help guides.

  When Loving Yourself Means Hating Him

  Getting the Love You Deserve

  I’m Okay and You Have Problems

  When Your Lover Leaves You

  Except her lover hadn’t left her. Her bartender had.

  Sometime during the long and sleepless night, it occurred to Nicole that she’d not
only acted completely out of character, she’d been completely out of line. She had confused work and sex, repeating the mistake she had made with Kevin. Only this time she was the one with the power to make things right. The power and the obligation.

  And until she did, she would be existing in this sleepless, anxious limbo. Unless she acted, she would not see Mark until Monday night. Their first meeting was bound to be awkward. Awful. Much better to get it over with quickly, with no one to witness her humiliation.

  At least, that’s what she told herself, driving her hands deeper into her pockets, praying for him to answer the door. She had to put their relationship back on a business footing.

  She would tell Mark that her only focus right now was the Blue Moon. He could go back to tending bar and having hassle-free sex with women who didn’t want to be his friend, and she could go back to minding her business and being miserable and alone.

  She sniffed. She was getting gradually better at the first part. She had the second down pat.

  Where was he, anyway? It shouldn’t take this long to come to the door. What if she had interrupted him? Interrupted them. Her heart pumped faster with shame and rage. She would kill him. She would die.

  The door opened six inches.

  Nicole jumped back, prepared to bolt.

  But there was no one there.

  “Hi,” said a voice from the vicinity of her waist.

  Mark was dating a midget? Bewildered, she looked down. A little face, a little boy, hovered in the crack of the door. A beautiful little boy, with soft dark curls and big dark eyes.

  Helplessly enchanted, Nicole smiled.

  The boy smiled back.

  “Daniel?” She recognized Mark’s voice, deep and impatient. “Who is it?”

  The boy turned his head. He had a cherub’s profile, round cheeked with long lashes. “I don’t know.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have answered the door,” Mark instructed roughly.

  His voice came closer. The boy shrank back.

  Nicole wanted to shrink, too.

  She was not here as Mark’s rejected lover, she reminded herself. She was here as his employer. She would be professional and conciliatory.