“’Kay.” The boy reached for the door handle.
“Kent?”
He looked back.
“Those boys in there, they’re all hurting. They aren’t lucky enough to be able to stay home in their own rooms. I need your word that, no matter what, you’ll use your words, not force, if any of them cause any problems for you.”
He nodded.
“I mean it.”
“I know. I’ll be good.”
For once, he sounded as if he meant it. And Sherman wondered what kind of spell this Ms. Malone had spun over the Paulson men.
* * *
TALIA WAS ADDING more collage classes at the Stand. She’d still be doing her regular three afternoons a week, but she was now going to be working with the younger girls in residence. Her adult classes were moving to two nights a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven. It would mean more of a homework crunch. And a couple of very long days, as Tuesday and Thursday mornings were also when she had to drive into LA for the two classes she couldn’t take online. But long hours were nothing new to her.
And nothing she couldn’t handle.
Keeping busy was better than being idle. It left no time to dwell on what couldn’t be, what once was, what had been, what might have been...
She was just leaving Lila’s office on Wednesday, having purposely hung around just in case she’d run into Kent and Sherman Paulson, when she ran into them heading toward the door.
“Ms. Malone!” Kent saw her before his father did, leading Talia to immediately jump to the conclusion that he’d been looking for her.
Because she’d been so desperate to see him and hoping that he’d be glad to see her, too.
“Hi, Kent!” She’d purposely dressed in new black jeans, a white blouse and short black sweater in case she ran into them. Because she felt confident in them, yet they were still conservative. “How’d it go?” She focused on the boy.
“Great!” he said with a grin.
At which she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Sherman. The man was staring at her. Intently. She could read a huge thank-you in his gaze.
And, she was afraid, something more. She looked away.
“So we’re on for tomorrow, then? I’ll pick you up from school at three-thirty?” His group didn’t start until four.
“Yep.” Kent didn’t offer any details of what had transpired over the past hour. Details she desperately needed.
But they weren’t hers to own.
“We’re going to Barry’s. You wanna come?” the boy asked, naming a well-known burger place not far from the beach, as she walked with them toward the door.
“Oh, I—”
“Please,” Sherman said just when she was going to use the fact that his father would want some time with him as her excuse to beg off. “Buying you dinner every night for the next year would be the least we could do,” he said.
“Cool! Can we, Dad?”
“No!” Talia was quick to say, and some of the joy went out of her son’s expression. “But I’ll come tonight, how’s that?”
“Great!” he said, skipping out the door as Sherman held it open, his brown eyes gazing at her as he waited for her to follow his son past his body and out the door.
“I, uh, my car’s not—”
“Ride with us and I’ll bring you back here afterward,” he said, still holding open the door. She was close enough to smell a faint hint of whatever musky scent he’d put on that day.
His scent did something to womanly parts of her that had been deadened to a man’s touch by the time she was eighteen. Her best choice in that second was to get away from the scent as quickly as possible. So she passed through the door. And then had no other viable choice but to continue on to the silver BMW and climb in the front-passenger door that her son held open for her.
* * *
KENT LIKED CHEESE but not on his burgers. He was a fan of French fries. And didn’t ever drink soda, mostly because he’d never been allowed to do so. He ordered orange drink. But only after his father told him he couldn’t have a chocolate shake. He put his napkin in his lap, covered his mouth and excused himself the one time he burped, and spoke with better elocution than she’d had at twenty.
As Talia sat beside him—his choice—and across from his father, in the hard plastic booth, she knew a strange kind of peace. She’d done the right thing, giving him up.
She also found out that Kent’s dad was a bigwig at a campaign management company. She’d heard of one of his candidates. Sherman took Kent to all kinds of expensive and exciting places, introduced him to people Talia might have met in the dark hallways they didn’t let their public see, and he didn’t like cheese on his burgers.
They drove back to the Stand, and she jumped out, leaning down to tell Kent, buckled into the backseat, that she’d see him the next afternoon.
She was okay. Fine. And then she caught the look in Sherman’s eyes as her gaze brushed by him on the way out.
He looked...hungry. “Here’s my card,” he told her, handing her a business card. “Feel free to stop by anytime and I’ll show you around.”
He’d made the offer at dinner, when Kent had told her about the cool room at his dad’s office that had photo equipment and a full wall of different colored paper. A small in-house printer for some of their more basic jobs that required computer-generated art only.
She nodded. He glanced at the cleavage she purposely wasn’t showing, but which just might have been visible due to her bent-over position.
He wished her good-night.
She nodded again.
And hated herself for liking that look in Kent’s father’s eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHERMAN DIDN’T SEE Talia Malone again that week. Or the Monday of the following week. She picked his son up from school each day. He knew she drove an old beater, which his son thought was way cool and that he’d suggested to her that Sherman and Kent should maybe fix it up together in their garage.
Funny that, because the only thing Sherman knew about fixing cars besides basic lightbulb changes and battery jumps was which garage to take his to.
He knew that Talia had a college degree in something Kent couldn’t quite remember and that she was going for another degree, too. He knew she lived alone. And that she had a small place on the beach. She had no pets but had always wanted a dog—at which point in the conversation Kent had slid in the idea that he and Sherman should get one.
He’d actually been thinking about that idea himself. Brooke had been allergic to animal hair so they’d never been able to have a pet.
Each day when Sherman picked up Kent from the Lemonade Stand he looked for Talia. She was nowhere to be found in the main portion of the building that he was allowed to be in. Even on the nights when he went early and waited in an alcove halfway down one of the two main hallways. Or when he waited in the other hallway the next night.
He thought about her every single day—at the time she was picking up his son—but also anytime he saw a blonde woman with long tanned legs, or just a blonde woman, or any woman, or really just anytime at all. At first he’d figured that his obsession with her had been a product of his intense gratitude for what she’d done for his son.
In a week’s time, Kent had had two episodes at school and one at home. Not great, but a definite improvement.
Sherman figured that, over time, Talia’s consumption of his thoughts would fade. It didn’t.
He was about at the point of calling her up and asking her out on an actual date—a first since he’d married Brooke—thinking that maybe if he spent a normal evening with her he’d somehow dispel the mystique with which she held him in thrall.
And then, out of the blue, on Wednesday morning, a week and a day after he’d first met her, Gina buzzed him to tel
l him that Talia Malone was in the office asking to see him.
On any other occasion he might have had Gina show his guest to the conference room across the hall, or into his private office. Instead, he was at the door before he’d made a conscious decision to stand.
As if the woman would somehow fade away if he didn’t get to her in thirty seconds.
“Talia, come in,” he invited, and wondered if Gina had heard the eagerness in his voice.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, barely looking around as she came in, as though she didn’t want to impinge on his private life.
God, she’d been in the shower with him, in bed with him, every day for a week. It didn’t get much more private than that.
“It’s not a bother. What can I do for you?”
“I was going to call, but you said that you were sure there was some extra paper that I could have for the kids at the Stand, and I was hoping I could just pop in and someone could give it to me without actually having to bother you.”
She was long-legged and gorgeous, the blonde in every man’s dreams, carried herself with a sexy confidence that had nothing to do with the way she was dressed. And her manner seemed almost...demure. As if she was just a tad bit unsure of herself.
While he stood there gaping, trying to come up with an appropriate response, she said, “I told them they didn’t need to disturb you, but as soon as I gave my name, they brought me back here.”
“I told reception that you were going to be picking up Kent every afternoon and that if you ever called you were to be put through immediately. No matter what. They simply applied the order to your physical appearance.”
He smiled. Crossed to his desk. Motioned for her to have a seat in one of the two mahogany-and-leather chairs in front of him.
She didn’t sit, but rather stayed standing, clutching the large satchel slung over her shoulder. It was cloth and emblazoned with the name of an exclusive high-end clothing store at the Beverly Center.
“I really was just hoping I could hit you up for a donation of some different colored and textured papers,” she said. “Different weights, too, if you have them. The Lemonade Stand does business almost exclusively by donation. I’m working with the girls on texturing and design collages, a kind of fashion thing, and I remembered what you’d said about the paper room.”
And he’d told her anytime she’d needed anything to come by. He remembered. He owed her far more than as much paper as she could use. Besides, the firm got it at cost and it would be a write-off, which they always needed.
“Of course,” he told her, scrambling for a reason to sit and visit with her before he walked her down the hall.
In jeans again, sandals that showed her prettily painted red toes, a solid-colored, tight-fitting T-shirt and a short white jacket, she could have walked off any of the fashion magazines she likely had her girls cut up for their collages. He felt decidedly plain in his brown pants, striped shirt and boring brown tie. They weren’t new. Or ironed, either.
“Have you got a minute?” he asked when no one moved toward the door. “I’d like to talk to you about Kent.”
She’d taken a very obvious liking to his son, and for the first time in his life, Sherman used him to get something for himself.
Five more minutes of this woman’s time.
“I’ve got about fifteen, actually,” she said, sliding into the chair he’d indicated, more than sitting on it. At least as far as his overactive imagination could ascertain. “I’m teaching an art class at Osborne in forty-five.” One of the other elementary schools in their district.
“Kent said you take classes at UCLA.” He only had fifteen minutes of her time and that was as good as he could do?
“That’s right. I’ll have my master’s in psychology by December.”
“You don’t look old enough to have your master’s degree.” He’d have put her at twenty-three tops. And only because her eyes had stories to tell.
“I’m twenty-seven.” She offered nothing else.
He wanted more. Like what her undergraduate degree was in—the one his son couldn’t remember.
He thought about what he wanted to say.
“You said you wanted to talk about Kent?” she asked, frowning. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Exactly the opposite, in fact. I don’t know what it is with you that’s different from everyone else who’s tried to help him, but he responds to you. And I’m eternally grateful.”
“Maybe it’s just that I’m not a counselor or his teacher. I’m just an art person with a little psychology training and some theories.”
“Your art and theories are the only things that seem to have reached him.”
She smiled, but the look was distant, and he found that odd.
“So he’s not giving you any problems?” he asked, since it was all he could come up with regarding the one topic she seemed to want to talk about—his son.
“None. But then I’m only with him ten minutes a day.”
“He’s on time?”
“Yes.” Her words were detached, but that look in her eyes... The intensity was back again.
And he had to know what went on in that brain of hers. That heart of hers. What was she thinking? Feeling? Was it anything like the fire raging through him?
Sexually, and...in every way.
“He’s agreed to continue with the program,” he said, and realized he had a valid reason to speak with her after all. “If you’d rather not continue driving him, I’ve arranged to have the wife of one of the guys here in my office pick him up. Kent knows her and—”
“Has he indicated that he doesn’t want to ride with me?” He knew at least some of what she was feeling now. Her distress was obvious.
And so incredibly sweet.
“No, no. To the contrary, I think he’d move in with you if you’d let him.” He was joking. Completely. But the idea of him and Kent living with this kind, delectable woman...
“I just don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s no bother, really,” she said quickly, both hands on the strap of her bag now as she shook the hair back away from her face. The strands ended at her breasts, and he couldn’t help noticing as they moved, too. “I’m—” she licked her lower lip “—going that way, anyway, three of the days, and it’s not that far from where I live.”
“Kent says you have a cottage on the beach.”
“It belongs to my sister-in-law.” She was so careful about having her story straight, about making sure no one thought she was something she was not. He liked that about her, too.
“I...like Kent, too,” she said now, her smile cutting off his breathing space. “He...in some ways he reminds me of myself as a child.”
“Oh?” Sitting forward, he felt like a cat in front of a can of tuna, ready to pounce on the good stuff. “How so?”
“I never quite felt like I fit in with the other kids, either,” she said. But she didn’t look at him. And he knew there was more.
And that he wanted to know what it was.
“Why is that?”
Her shrug was a definite blow-off. And the clock was ticking. He needed more time. “Kent doesn’t have a mother, I didn’t have a father,” was all she said as she stood.
Another small piece of her to file away in his memory bank. Another set of questions he wanted to ask.
He headed for the door. “So, for now, we’ll stick with the status quo as far the driving?” he asked.
“I’d like that, yes.” So careful. With everything.
She walked beside him down the hall, her shoulders just a couple of inches below his. Just enough to fit comfortably under his arm were he to wrap it around her.
A couple of his associates looked up as they passed opened office doors. He saw some
raised eyebrows. A smile.
“I know it’s only been a week, but do you think the program’s going to be good for Kent?” she asked him.
“It’s already good for him. Not only have there been less instances of aggression and belligerence this week, he’s been more...his old self in between times. More like the funny, eager little guy he used to be.”
Her gaze softened, and he added, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a lot, but it’s enough that I noticed.”
“I’m glad.” The words felt like so much more.
“He’s made a friend there. A kid named Jason. You know him?”
“No, but I think I know his mother. I can ask around if you’d like.”
“No.” They’d reached the door to the printing room, and getting the keys in his pocket, Sherman unlocked it. “I want him to be free to do this on his own for now,” he said. “Dr. Jordon said it’s important for him to find his own way, to feel as though he has as much control over his life as a ten-year-old can have.”
“That sounds right.”
So did she. So right. In so many ways.
Maybe it had just been too long since he’d been on a date. Or had any intimate contact with a woman. Maybe he’d just hit the point in his healing that he was ready. For whatever reason, Sherman didn’t take time to figure out the best course of action as she chose her paper, gave him effusive thanks for something that cost him nothing and turned to go.
“I have box seats for the symphony next week. Would you like to go?”
“When?” The word was out almost before he’d finished speaking.
“Wednesday night. It’s a Broadway pops show.”
“I’d... What about Kent?”
“The next-door neighbors, a married couple who never had kids, stay with him whenever I have to be gone. They’re good with him. He likes them.”
“Okay.” Sherman didn’t understand what caused the shadow that flashed over her expression as she said the word.
But he knew that he wanted to find out.
Child by Chance Page 11
