The abrupt end to their meeting stunned her. She watched, shocked, as he navigated out of the café.
Gail! She hadn’t gotten to ask him about her. Jamie hurried after him. “Sean, wait!”
He lowered his head and kept walking.
Surely he’d heard her. Everyone else in New York had. “Sean, wait.”
He drew to the side, waiting.
Jamie closed the distance, hands in the pockets of her coat. “Sorry to keep you, but you’re Mr. Wolfe’s grandson, right?”
“Imagine the name would’ve given that away.”
Snarly. “My uncle was close to Mr. Wolfe.”
“The only thing a Wolfe is close to is his ghosts.”
What was with this guy? “That’s really sad. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.” Okay, it was a stupid thing to say, but his attitude rankled her. Especially the way he dismissed what she’d said about her uncle.
He frowned. Again. “I meant ghosts of our past, demons. You know, metaphors.”
“I know.”
Again, he looked down, slumping against the wall. “Did you need something? Or did you just want to stop and hassle me about my family?”
She widened her eyes. “Wow. That was rude.”
Something flickered over his face and he swallowed, turning those magnetic eyes in a different direction.
If she didn’t love her uncle so much, she’d leave this guy to his snark. “Look, I just wanted to ask if you know a woman named Gail. Apparently connected to the Wolfes. A friend or what, I don’t know. My uncle won’t talk about it.”
Sean shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Oh.” Hope deflated, Jamie tucked the stray strands of hair from her face. “Well… I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Have a good day.” She hiked her satchel up on her shoulder and started away but then paused. Something about that conversation sat as heavy as gluten in her stomach.
Stop trying to rescue people, James. Her uncle’s warning drifted on the cool October wind. Though he’d used the endearment—James, a leftover from her mother’s maiden name, which is how she’d come to be named Jamie—it did nothing to soften his words. Chewing her lower lip, she looked back at the young man who’d thrown her enough attitude to lead a gang.
His tall, athletic frame slumped against the brick wall of a pastry shop. He pinched the bridge of his nose, bent forward, then his hand dropped. Head back against the wall, he slid down. What on… earth? Then it hit her—he’d passed out!
Breath backed into her throat, she plunged through the crowds to him and knelt at his side. “Sean?” Her boots scratched over the rocks and dirt. She touched his face. “Sean, are you okay? Sean!”
A small groan. He blinked. Unfocused eyes met hers. Confusion strangled his handsome features. “Wha…?”
“You passed out.”
He shook his head and pulled to his feet.
Though he was taller and, if the muscles stretching the fabric of his shirt and jacket were any indication, much stronger than her, she held a hand to his shoulder to steady him. “You okay?”
Those blue eyes pierced her. Then he scowled. Pushed off the wall. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“That you are not.” Jamie pointed to the café. “Let’s get a table. You need to sit down.”
He straightened and took a step in the opposite direction, his face drained of color. “I’m fine. I have another appointment.” He held up the bundle. “Thanks for these.”
Concern squeezed her lungs. What if he passed out and got hit by a car?
He snapped a salute and vanished into the teeming crowds of New York City.
Shouting pervaded the dark night. Sean huddled beneath the kitchen table, hugging his knees and praying his parents didn’t realize he was there.
“You’re worthless. Ever since you came back, you’ve done nothing but sit around.”
“I can’t work. My head—”
“Is messed up. I already know that. But I don’t see anything wrong with your head, and excuses don’t put food on the table or pay for clothes, or—”
“I get disability. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Well, it isn’t enough. I’ve taken care of four kids while you were off playing war. That baby of yours about killed me. He’s just like you. If he’d never been born—”
“Don’t say that, Marcia.”
“I’m only saying what you won’t.”
“He’s a good kid.”
“He’s trouble. Just like you.”
His father’s heavy footfalls stomped over the back deck. His mother disappeared down the hall, yelling at Jennifer to get off the phone. Sean crawled out from under the table and peeked around the kitchen. On his feet, he crept to the back door, wanting to find Daddy. A flash of light erupted from the shed.
Bang!
Sean jolted, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the shedding branches overhead. He pulled himself upright, letters tumbling away. He snatched for the pages, disbelieving he’d fallen asleep in Central Park, propped against a tree.
Rolling to the side, he roughed a hand over his face. Then… stilled. The dream. His heart kicked up a notch. Was that real? It felt crystal clear.
What noise had awoken him? He glanced around. A woman sat on the nearby bench.
Wait. Not just a woman.
Jamie Russo.
He tried not to groan. “What, are you following me?”
“No.” She lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
Sean started.
“After… when you…” She huffed. “I thought it best to make sure you were okay.”
She’d seen him lose consciousness, one of the humiliating side effects of the traumatic brain injury. The look in her eyes, the pity… he didn’t need that. Didn’t want it. Especially not from her.
He tucked his chin and stood, dusting off his legs as he stuffed the—
The screen door. The bang that startled him had been from the screen door. Sean went still, his mind aligning the loud bang in his dream with the facts from the past. Dad had gone out into the shed, grabbed his handgun… and never came back. Ever.
Nausea swirled in his gut.
Was it real? He hadn’t remembered those details… not till… now. Letters in his fisted hand, Sean tried to push the memories aside. He stared at the yellowed paper, remembering the message his grandfather had written:
Now, you may not want to hear this, Lord knows it’s not easy to write because I bear your mother no ill, but I want you to have what I know to be a true accounting of your father’s last months. After your birth, your mother fell into a deep depression. Some said she had a mental illness. When your father went to Vietnam the second time and returned, even more traumatized… well, I don’t believe anything short of a miracle could’ve saved their marriage or your father.
Don’t get me wrong. Your father was a very good man, very athletic—a lot like you.
Which is why he’d died. His father bred trouble—named Sean Patrick Wolfe. Me. Everyone in the family blamed him, said after he came things changed.
Sean stuffed the letters in a nearby receptacle. He wasn’t going to fill his head with more guilt trips. Though he tried to avoid looking at Jamie as he stalked past her, his eyes moved of their own will.
Mouth open, she looked from him to the bin. She came to her feet. “Y–you’re just throwing them away?” Hurrying toward the green trash can, she glared at him.
Sean hesitated and followed her with his gaze. When she plucked the letters from the top of the heap, he turned back.
“What’re you doing?”
Another heated glare.
“Those are my letters.”
Her chin tilted up. “Actually, they aren’t. They’re trash. And I happen to be a trash collector.” She smoothed the letters against her hip then folded them into thirds.
If she weren’t so pretty with that chestnut hair and brown eyes, he’d give her a piece of his mind. The thought of her reading about his fa
ther killing himself… about his mom’s purported mental illness… about how Sean had messed up his family by being born—
“Look, just give them back.” He held his hand out, but when she didn’t return them, he added, “Please.”
Jamie pushed the hair from her face. “Why… why would you throw them away?”
“Let’s just say they don’t bring back good memories.”
Finally, she returned them. “We all need the bad memories to recognize the good ones.”
As he held the penned reports, Sean considered her words. She had a point. Pretty, dressed nice, intelligent… She didn’t seem to bear the weight of the world the way he did, so he doubted she understood. “You have bad memories?”
Dipping her head, she brought a hand to her throat. “Yeah, you could say that.” She pointed to the Bow Bridge. “Mind if we walk because”—she hoisted her bag—“I have dance in twenty.”
“Sorry.” Why did he think someone like her would want to talk with him? “I’ll let you get on with things.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
He hesitated. Was she inviting him to walk with her? Nobody had given him the time of day since he’d returned, especially after seeing the marred mess on his neck and jaw. And she’d noticed that in the café. Besides, he so wasn’t going there after that Dear John letter.
Yet he fell into step with her, his gut churning. This is a bad idea…. Someone like her—the obvious reason for her invitation was pity.
Quiet settled between them, only the sound of crunching leaves kept them company amid the rustling of the American elms lining the path. Wind whipped the leaves in a frantic dance across the footpath.
Hands stuffed in her coat pockets, Jamie hunched her shoulders. “My parents died in a car accident on the way to my senior recital in high school.” A cool breeze lifted her brown hair and tossed it over her shoulder. “As the recital was about to start, I peeked out from behind the curtain, looking for them. They weren’t there. I kept watching, hoping… they’d never been late before. My uncle showed up as I was about to take the stage and told me about the accident, that they had both died.”
“Wow,” Sean said, feeling the weight of the guilt she must’ve experienced. “That’s heavy. So you didn’t do your recital?”
“What?” She looked at him, her delicately arched brows knitted. “Oh. Well, actually, I did.”
“Seriously?”
Jamie smiled, squinting as she gazed into the darkening sky. “My father always said he wanted nothing more than to see me fulfill my dreams. My mother wanted to be a ballerina, so the best way I could honor them… was to dance.”
“You’re not like normal people.”
Surprise marched across her pert nose and brown eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry.” Heat crept into his face. “That came out wrong.”
She laughed. “Yeah, it did.”
“I just meant… you don’t seem to let things bother you.” Wow, that made him sound like a person who hung on to bad things. “I mean…” Well, what did he mean?
With a sidelong glance, she paused in front of a building. “I think I get what you’re saying.” She continued, nodding toward a door with stenciled letters that marked it a dance company. “I remember the past, but I don’t cling to it.” She managed a weak smile. “Well, my uncle would argue, since I’d do anything to find his long-lost love.”
A woman leaned out the door. “Jamie, you’re late! Martin is getting mad.”
Cheeks pinked, Jamie rolled her eyes. “I’d better go.”
“Well, thanks for the letters.” He held them up. “And the talk.”
“Jamie,” the woman called.
“I’ll be there, Monet,” she said over her shoulder then placed a hand on Sean’s arm. “Promise me one thing?”
Anything. Whoa. Easy, chief. Where had that come from? “I don’t even know you.”
“Yes, you do. We met—I’m Jamie Russo, remember?” She had an infectious giggle. “Just promise you’ll read those letters. And if you don’t want to keep them, return them to my uncle—his shop is on Seventy-Third.” She raised her eyebrows. “Deal?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Huh?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You seem like a guy who keeps his promises, so I want your promise.”
Tapping the letters against his hand, Sean studied her. How did she know that about him? Could he commit to digging into the past… for her? In that instant, Sean knew he was doomed. He’d do anything for this girl. No, he wouldn’t. He’d vowed to never again get messed up with girls.
“Okay. I promise.” So much for his vow.
A bright smile spread over her tawny features. “Great!” She backed away. “I… I hope we meet again, Sean Wolfe.” With that, she whirled and rushed into the studio.
He clamped down the smile her words pulled out. This girl twisted up his mind. He’d had enough of that in one lifetime. Meet again? Not if he could help it.
Chapter 3
Tonight’s rehearsal had been the longest four hours of her life. Jamie forced her mind from the exotic blue eyes of Sean Wolfe and back to the music, to the moves, her form. Thankfully, when he’d escorted her to practice last week, Martin had left in a hurry, telling them to practice alone. But tonight… she still couldn’t shake Sean from her mind.
Oh no. Was that a narrowed gaze from Martin? She mentally traced her lines, determined to give one hundred percent to this session.
Wounded. That was the only word that hung with her even now. Seven days had only agitated her thoughts over him. His comment about Wolfes only being close to ghosts worried her. What ghosts did Sean have?
The music faded.
Martin aimed the remote at the player. “Jamie—where is your mind? Again.”
“On a six-two, blue-eyed, dark-haired hunk,” Monet muttered as she passed behind Jamie to her starting position.
Jamie speared her friend with a sharp look as she retrieved a towel, wiped off, then returned to her spot with her partner, Claude. When he smiled at her, she could only wonder what Sean Wolfe’s smile looked like. He hadn’t broken one the entire time—well, one almost sneaked past his barrier, but he’d smothered it.
Music streamed through the studio.
She hurried into the dance, missing a step.
“Jamie—à la seconde!” Martin clapped frantically. “No! No, again!”
Shaking out her arms and legs, Jamie moved back to Claude.
“Jamie!” Martin’s voice held the French accent that had thickened his words. “Where is your mind? I need it here, yes? Allegro!”
She nodded and looked to the side, her right arm extended and her feet in second. But as she did, she remembered Sean’s hand dropping to the ground when he’d passed out. What caused that? It’d been short lived and embarrassed him. But hadn’t surprised him. Was it related to whatever happened to his neck? And why didn’t it bother her? Because something about him draws me in. Was that true?
The music snapped off.
Jamie stopped in the middle of the polonaise with Claude.
Waving his arms, Martin growled. “Go—out of my studio.” He brushed her away. “Come back with your mind! You are better than this.”
Guilt should make her want to stay, but Jamie left the floor with the others, grateful for the chance to explore the thought that capsized her focus. She’d never been drawn to a guy before. In the locker room, she slid onto the bench and untied her slippers. As she plied them off, she winced at the sting in her toes. Bloodied, they’d need to be soaked at home.
“So, what’s his name?” Monet stuffed her gear in her bag as she slipped on her shoes.
“Sean Wolfe.” Jamie dressed then donned her boots and coat.
“Exotic,” Monet said with a giggle.
“His eyes are—but there’s something haunted about him.” She packed her dance clothes away. “Want to grab something from Mario’s
?”
Monet shook her head. “Sorry, Claude and I have a date.”
“Again?” Jamie sighed. The two were forever exploring dating. But didn’t have a bone of fidelity in their bodies.
“You haven’t had a date since high school, Jamie!”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“Craig Mueller.”
Jamie froze. Had it really been that long?
“Just because you’re holding out for Prince Charming doesn’t mean I have to.” Monet grinned. “Besides, Claude is fun.”
“He’s a flirt.” Burying the hurt and shock at what her friend had said, she started out of the room.
“Exactly!”
Shaking her head, Jamie shuffled out of the studio. She’d never understand Monet’s penchant for dating the wrong men. On the other hand, Jamie just… didn’t date. “Jamie-girl, you’ve given up your whole life, all your dreams to help me….”
Had she really?
Sure, she’d given up her scholarship to attend The Juilliard, but that’s what family did for each other, right? Alone, Uncle Alan didn’t have anyone besides her when he went through a serious health scare. Nearly losing him—the only family she had left—well, it was too close to home. Too familiar a pain, having lost her parents. So the decision had been easy for her.
But it’d been six years. Now at twenty-four, she found herself jobless, thanks to his closing the shop, attending night dance school to keep her skills fresh and performing with a local civic ballet troupe, and… alone.
There was nothing wrong with making tough choices for loved ones.
Unless it’s a cover for your fears.
Jamie’s gaze rose to the sky as she slowed. Fears? What fears?
Fear of losing someone you love.
All at once, she saw the double caskets on that May afternoon. Felt Uncle Alan’s arm around her. Remembered his words that they would make it together. But if he found Gail…
Blowing out a hard breath that made her lips flap like one of the Central Park horses, Jamie trudged across the tree-littered lawn. Was she living in fear? If she helped Uncle Alan find Gail, he’d have his true love, and Jamie would’ve been part of finding a piece of his broken life. How was that living in fear of losing someone she loved?
Central Park Rendezvous Page 2
