All a Man Can Be

by Virginia Kantra

  Nicole understood their silent warning. She’d grown up behind those walls.

  Mark turned the Jeep under the blank stone stare of two lions and onto a curving brick drive. The three-story house overlooking the lawn had more steps than a museum. The front door opened as soon as they pulled up, as if someone inside couldn’t wait to welcome Daniel back.

  Or didn’t want Mark to come into the house.

  Nicole shivered.

  “This will only take a minute,” Mark said. His voice was without expression. So was his face.

  Not good, she thought. He could hardly miss the contrast between his modest, masculine digs and this imposing residence. Did he resent it? Or was he simply sad to be saying goodbye to his son?

  I don’t know if I can take care of him.

  Nicole vaguely recognized the man who came down the steps: Robert Wainscott, another mover and shaker in her father’s legal circles. He was golf-course tanned with a naturally spare frame and unnaturally dark hair. His wife, waiting at the top of the stairs, had equally improbable coloring, but her champagne-blond hair was much softer and more flattering. She smiled when she saw Danny.

  He waved.

  “Thanks for the visit,” Mark said. Nicole wasn’t sure if he was addressing the Wainscotts or Danny.

  “Thank you for having me,” the boy said politely. “I had a nice time.”

  Nicole believed him. She hoped Mark did.

  They didn’t hug, she noticed. Mark touched the boy’s shoulder in brief farewell, and then both men watched as Danny trudged up the steps. He had almost reached the woman at the top when Nicole heard him humming. Two more steps, and the words of his song drifted down.

  “‘…dumpty-dum and a bottle of rum, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor.’”

  Mark laughed.

  Robert Wainscott turned on him in fury. “I only agreed to this visit because your lawyer insisted. I hoped a taste of responsibility would make you run. But if this is what I can expect—”

  Mark’s face wiped clean of amusement. “You can expect me to deal with my son in my own way. And you agreed because you didn’t have any choice. Daniel is my son.”

  “So you say.”

  “It’s what the test said.”

  “That test is not admissible in court.”

  Nicole bit her lip. She shouldn’t listen. She couldn’t resist.

  “Danny’s lawyer submitted the sample. Where do you think she got it?”

  “How should I know? From any one of your other bastards, I suppose.”

  Mark shook his head. “You are so full of crap.”

  “The agreement was for you to take the boy for one night,” Wainscott insisted. “I should have known that even that brief a time would subject him to corrupting influences.”

  “‘Corrupting influences’? What are you, nuts? It was a song.”

  Wainscott threw a venomous glance into the car. “I’m not talking about the song.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The woman. Did she spend the night with you?”

  Nicole shrank.

  “That’s none of your damn business,” Mark said.

  “It’s my business if you’re screwing her in front of my grandson.”

  Nicole sucked in her breath.

  Mark went as still as a coiled snake. “Given that your wife and my kid are watching from the top of those stairs, I won’t knock your teeth down your throat for that remark,” he said softly. “We’ll let the testing center settle this.”

  Wainscott puffed his narrow chest. “We’ll let the court settle this.”

  Mark shrugged. “The courts in Illinois favor the rights of the natural parents. I read enough to know that much.”

  “I have friends on the bench in Cook County. And no judge in the world would consider you a fit guardian for a child.”

  “Your daughter did.”

  “Elizabeth had no idea what she was doing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said seven years ago.” Mark’s eyes were flat and cold. Nicole felt a chill chase up her spine. “The difference is this time I won’t go away without a fight.”

  Chapter 13

  “This was a bad idea.” Mark roused himself to stare across the table at Nicole, her perfect hair, her perfect face, every freaking thing about her perfect and out of place. “You want to leave?”

  She straightened on her high-backed wooden chair. Behind her, the rollicking Greek music—bouzouki and drums—kicked up a notch. A roasting lamb rotated in the window. A waiter added a shot of ouzo to a sizzling plate, and cries of “Opa!” went up from the surrounding tables as blue flames shot toward the ceiling.

  “No.” She smiled, and something in his chest unclenched. “I like it here. It’s very lively.”

  “Which is more than you can say for the company,” he said dryly.

  “You have a lot on your mind,” she said.

  Now there was an understatement. But he didn’t need her to excuse his bad mood. Or his bad manners.

  “I promised you a good time.”

  “You promised me dinner. Which you provided. I liked the moo—the moos—the lamb dish.”

  “Moussaka.” He appreciated the way she’d plowed into her food. And the fact that she hadn’t ordered the most expensive item on the menu.

  He leaned forward to refill her glass with roditys, the raw red wine he’d ordered to go with their meal. Under the table their knees brushed.

  She touched her fingers to the lip of her glass. “You’ll make me dizzy.”

  “Maybe I want you dizzy.”

  She arched her brows, but took a sip of her wine. Setting down her glass, she observed, “You’re not drinking.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t, much.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? A bartender who doesn’t drink?”

  “Not really. A bartender who depletes the stock or loses control with the customers is going to find himself out of a job pretty damn quick. Besides—” He shut his mouth.

  “Besides…?” she prompted gently.

  After the scene with Wainscott this afternoon, he owed it to her to let her know the worst.

  Maybe he owed it to himself.

  “My father was a drunk. My mom was a lush. I don’t want to end up like that.”

  “You haven’t. You won’t.”

  He played with his knife, watching the candlelight gleam off the silver handle so he wouldn’t have to see the look in her eyes. “It runs in families, you know. Alcoholism.”

  “Are you warning me? Or playing on my sympathies?”

  She surprised him. Her tone was almost tart. And the expression in her eyes wasn’t disgust or pity.

  It was almost…acceptance.

  His heart thumped. But he made one more effort to be straight with her.

  “I’m telling you I’m no prize. Old man Wainscott’s probably right about me.”

  “I’m not interested in Robert Wainscott’s opinions,” she said in that snooty, blondes-know-best voice that amused him and turned him on.

  “That’s good. Seeing as he’s full of—” bad word, he thought, practicing for Danny “—hot air.”

  “I’m sorry if my being in the car this afternoon created difficulties for you.” The words were stiff, but her eyes were genuinely concerned.

  “Don’t be,” he said roughly. “Wainscott’s the one making things difficult. You just got caught in the crossfire.” He was sorry for that. “You okay?”

  She swallowed. Nodded. “Did he really think that you would—that we would—”

  “He’ll think whatever he wants. Whatever makes him right and me scum, so he can keep telling himself that what’s his should never be mine.”

  “You sound…bitter.”

  He smiled thinly. “Damn straight.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that why you want Danny? To show him you can take something that belongs to him?”

  “No.” Maybe. He glared at her. “That’s stupid.”

>   But she didn’t drop it. “Is that why you want me? So that he’d see you with another blond, Gold Coast lawyer’s daughter and know there was nothing he could do about it?”

  He expelled his breath in frustration. “You read too much, you know that?”

  “It’s not what I read. It’s what I observe.”

  She saw a lot. But this time she was wrong.

  “Well, you’re blind on this one, babe. I don’t need an excuse to want you. I just do.”

  She sat back, crossing her arms and raising her brows. “Really.”

  If he had been a drinking man, he would have reached for the bottle. He wanted her until he ached with it. Wanted her nervous conversation and quiet understanding and can-do earnestness in his life. Wanted her soft mouth and blond hair and pale limbs in his bed. His hunger for her was a heaviness in his groin, a hollowness in his chest.

  And he didn’t have the words or the guts to tell her.

  “Yeah, really,” he mocked.

  Her cheeks were pink. “Then why are we still sitting here?”

  Mark couldn’t believe it. But he wasn’t about to question his luck. Once the objective was in sight, a marine never retreated.

  He signaled the waiter and stood. “Let’s go.”

  Nicole stood under the opulent arched ceiling of the Palmer House Hotel, rain spotting her blouse and dampening her hair. Mark leaned over the high counter to speak to the reservations clerk. She shivered from a combination of air-conditioning and nerves.

  The Palmer House didn’t cater to guests without luggage. They didn’t rent rooms by the hour, either. How on earth was Mark going to afford this?

  And what in heaven’s name was she doing here?

  He strode across the blue-and-gold lobby in his black jeans and dark shirt, lean and hot and dark as the devil. A white-haired matron in a pastel pantsuit nudged her companion. A sleek brunette in Armani turned around frankly to gawk.

  Nicole nibbled her lip. Women would always look at Mark DeLucca. Women would always respond. Could she compete with that? Could she live with it?

  One step at a time, she chastised herself.

  He stopped in front of her, the light of the lobby making his black eyes appear even darker than usual. His expression was all male and so satisfied her breath stuck in her throat. “We’re in luck. They had a cancellation.”

  Her heart thudded. She moistened her lips. Attempted a smile. “So, do we—did you—”

  “I’ve got the key. Did you pack a toothbrush?”

  It was in her purse, along with the condom.

  Her face burned. Her body burned with embarrassment and heat. She could be making a mistake. She could be repeating her mistakes, which was worse.

  But it was hard to think of that with Mark’s black gaze focused on her face, with his body close and taut and almost steaming with heat in the cool lobby air. It was hard to think at all.

  Toothbrush. Did she have one?

  “Yes,” she said.

  Satisfaction flashed across his face. “Outstanding.” He took her elbow. “Let’s go.”

  She let him steer her past the low, plush couches, the interested women and the carefully incurious bellman, feeling as obvious as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Mark didn’t put his arm around her, didn’t twine his fingers with hers or fondle her bottom.

  Maybe she would have felt more reassured if he had.

  In the elevator he stood behind her and slightly to one side, his shoulder warm against her back. She met his eyes in the mirrored doors. His gaze sharpened, became almost predatory. Her stomach fluttered with…

  It wasn’t fear, she told herself. She wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.

  But he was looking at her as if he was the Big Bad Wolf and she was Red Riding Hood and he could eat her up in a single bite.

  She shuddered with excitement and dread.

  “Cold?” he murmured close to her ear.

  “I— Not really.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “No.”

  To convince him, to convince herself, she turned, flattening her breasts against the hard planes of his chest, enjoying the instant response of his body. She put her hands on his shoulders, surprised when his arms didn’t wrap around her in return.

  “It’s not like I’m a virgin,” she said.

  “A woman of experience.” His voice was bland.

  If he was laughing at her, she would die. No, she would kill him.

  She stuck out her chin. “Yes.”

  A crease deepened in his cheek. “I’m going to have to work harder to impress you, then.”

  She panicked. “No. Mark, I—”

  He stopped her with his kiss, his mouth hard and sure as he took hers with devastating skill. Her mind blanked. Her knees melted.

  He sucked in his breath and raised his head. “It’s okay,” he said against her lips. “It’ll be good. Better than good. I promise.”

  He’d made promises before. Promises that mostly hadn’t been wanted and a few that hadn’t been kept.

  I’ll never hurt you, to Betsy.

  I’ll never leave you, to Hayley.

  I’ll call you, to the beautiful women who sometimes occupied his evenings or his bed.

  They used him for excitement. He used them for release. He figured it was a fair exchange. They got their stories or their memories of “How I Spent My Summer Vacation,” and he got off. Everybody was satisfied.

  Except he wanted more from Nicole than recreation or physical release. Wanted to give her more than a brief thrill or a bout of hot, sweaty sex.

  It was a jarring thought. An alien thought. He’d played out this scenario too many times with too many women to welcome a change in the script.

  But Nicole was special. Or maybe it was just the situation that was different. After all, they worked together. Unlike his summer women, he would see her again. Tomorrow he had to be able to look her in the eyes, had to face himself in the mirror.

  Which meant that when the door to their hotel room finally closed behind him, he couldn’t fall on her like a starving dog on a piece of meat.

  He bolted the door, dragged in his breath, and turned. And practically salivated at the sight of her, slim and pale and pretty at the foot of the bed. Her face was shadowed. Her hair gleamed in the dim glow of the distant street below. Against the rain-streaked, gauze-covered window, he could make out the shape of one breast and the curve of her hip.

  His libido grew fangs and bit deep.

  Easy, ace. He reached under the silk shade to turn on a lamp. “Nice room.”

  She winced at the sudden brightness, or maybe the stupidity of his observation. “Do we really need a light to see it?”

  Hell, no.

  All he needed was the bed.

  He didn’t even need the bed as long as she was in the room.

  But he wanted her to see that he hadn’t brought her to some cheap dive with stains on the sheets and lipstick on the bathroom glass. He wanted to see her, wanted to watch the rise and fall of her body and the shifting expressions of her face, like the changing moods of the sea.

  “You want to do it in the dark?” he asked, half-joking.

  Her shoulders squared like she faced a firing squad. “I would be more comfortable with the lights off, yes.”

  “Comfortable is good.” He switched off the light. “Even relaxed would be an improvement.”

  “I am relaxed,” she insisted.

  Her voice was strained. She was rigid as a board and nervous as a nine-year-old embarking on her first solo sail.

  He stalked her carefully. “Good. That will definitely make it easier to seduce you.”

  She sputtered. He hoped with amusement, but it could have been outrage. “You don’t have to seduce me.”

  “Sure I do.” He reached her, damp silk and subtle curves in the dark. His lips skimmed her forehead. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You’re shaking.”

  “So are you,” she announce
d with bravado.

  “Mmm.” He slid his hands up her back, pulled her close and tight against him. His senses swam with her. She smelled so good. The urge to touch, to taste, to take, gnawed on his bones. “It’s because I’m nervous,” he said, hoping she would think he was joking.

  “You?” she scoffed. “Nervous? Of what?”

  He trailed his mouth down the side of her face. What the hell. Maybe she was right about the dark. Maybe he could tell her in the dark the stuff he never would admit in the light of day. “Of this. Of you. I don’t have a lot of experience at this sort of thing.”

  A snort of disbelief escaped her. He felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Oh, please. No experience seducing women?”

  “Nope.”

  It was true, he realized. The marine groupies, the bar bunnies…they kind of threw themselves at him. He mostly just picked them up and moved on. “Anyway, I don’t have to work for it.”

  “You don’t have to work for me, either,” she pointed out. Her voice was stiff, her body fluid against him.

  He nuzzled the curve of her jaw. “There’s a difference.”

  She drew back her head until they were face-to-face, nose to nose. “What difference?”

  “I like working for you,” he whispered against her mouth and then bit into her lower lip so that she clutched at him.

  But she didn’t surrender, not right away, not all the way. Her nipples were tight little points against his chest, her fingers curled into his shoulders, but he could feel the hesitancy in her mouth, the resistance in her mind. She was holding out on him. She was holding back.

  So he kissed her again, long and wet and deep, pushing for her response. She cooperated, winding her arms around his neck, welcoming his tongue. Oh, baby. His blood surged. But he eased back to study her face in the dim light that filtered through the window: her soft, slick mouth and her warm, smooth cheeks and the tiny pleat between her eyebrows.

  His lust developed claws that raked his gut. He could have her. He could take her right now, standing, pressing her back against the wall with his pants down around his ankles, and she would not object. He beat the thought back into its cage.