Addicted to Nick (6 page)

“Did he know he was…?”

Dying.

The unsaid word hung heavily between them. To Nick, the air felt morbidly thick. That was why breathing was so damn difficult.

“I don't know,” she replied in that same slow, considering voice. “He said nothing to me. I don't think anyone knew how sick he was.”

No one had said a word, not to him at any rate. Big surprise! He had returned from a month in Alaska to a coldly formal solicitor's letter. The memory was as keen
as the day he slit the seal on that innocuous looking envelope.

“I didn't know,” he said, his voice so gruff he barely recognized it as his own. “I didn't know anything until it was all over.”

When she placed her hand on his arm, Nick didn't shake it off. This time he accepted the firm, warm contact. He accepted it, and he waited for some cloying words of sympathy to break the peculiar bond he felt with this woman he barely knew, but who knew exactly how to touch him.

She surprised him by saying nothing.

They sat like that for a long time, their silence comfortable and comforting. Then her hand moved on his forearm. It was simply a shift in pressure, hardly a caress, yet it aroused his senses in a heartbeat. The sweet fragrance of some flowering shrub filled his nostrils, the hoot of an owl sounded preternaturally loud on the still night air, and she drifted closer, her eyes luminous in the ambient light.

His lips were only a whisper away when Ug bounded to life in her lap. T.C. turned her head sharply, and his lips grazed across her cheek. She laughed awkwardly, then sprang to her feet, dusting the backside of her jeans. “I have to go double-rug the horses. The nights are getting cold.”

Before he could reply, she was steaming off down the path. He had to raise his voice to be sure it would reach her. “How are we ever going to organize anything if you keep running away?”

She slowed, her dark silhouette wavering against the silvery outline of the stable block. “I have to rug up,” she insisted.

“We have to discuss our partnership.”

She lifted a hand and rubbed it through her tumbled locks, and he heard her faint, frustrated sigh. “Then why don't you come help me?”

 

T.C. ran a hand under Monte's rug, then stepped back while Nick threw a second, heavier, blanket over the top. Accepting his help hadn't hurt, and he had been right on another account. She had to stop running away. They had to discuss how they would handle this partnership. Before she could change her mind or find another excuse to procrastinate, she blurted, “My half share in Yarra Park is Joe's idea of insurance.”

Nick clicked the leg straps in place without missing a beat. “Insurance against…?”

“Selling up. Joe seemed to think you might not even consider keeping the place.” She took a deep breath, found it rich with straw and horse and all things important. “Was he right?”

“Yes.”

“You can't do that without my agreement. That's why Joe left me half.” It was a sound reason, one she understood. She wished it was the only reason Joe had given.

Nick's blue gaze narrowed intently on hers as he approached. “I could if I bought you out.”

“There isn't any offer I will accept.”

He paused in front of her, eyebrows raised. “No?”

“No!” She stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly.

“What if I offered you enough to start your own stables?”

“Money doesn't tempt me.”

He smiled as she let him out of the box—a practiced smile that perfectly matched the calculating gleam in his eyes. So this was Nick the Trader, the financial whiz who effortlessly raked in the millions. Funny, but this version of Nick didn't scare her at all.
This
Nick wouldn't send her running.

“What if I threw in your pick of the horses?” he asked, his tone as slick and smooth as molasses. “Take any six you fancy.”

“What if I told you I wouldn't take a million dollars and all the horses on this place?”

“I'd say you were bluffing…or crazy.”

“This isn't about money, Nick. This place has never been about money.”

“No?”

She looked him right in the eye, her message direct and sincere. “Joe built it from nothing. He must have looked at fifty parcels of land before he found the one that felt right. It had nothing to do with the price tag and everything to do with his heart. That's why it is so special.”

And that was why she had to do all she could to uphold Joe's wishes—not only because she owed him, but because she understood how much it meant to him. She leaned closer to Nick, willing him to do more than listen. Needing him to
hear
her.

“This is no consolation prize, Nick. This place mattered more to Joe than anything. He loved Yarra Park, and he doesn't want it sold. You have to understand what it meant to him.”

A fierce passion burned deep in her eyes. Hell, from this close Nick could practically feel her whole body resonating with it. What would it be like to taste that white-hot intensity? How would it feel to be buried deep inside it, to be wrapped in all that passion? He lifted a hand and placed it against the side of her neck, felt the leap of her pulse and the answering drum of his own.

“
You
understand. Maybe I should sign my half over to you,” he murmured, watching her lips, thinking about them under his.

“I hope you're joking!”

She pulled back abruptly, his hand fell away, and he was left staring into her wide eyes. She was clearly appalled…and probably not only by his offer. The fact that he was putting a move on her in the middle of this conversation appalled
him.

With a mental grimace, he leaned back against the door, shoved his hands into his pockets and considered her question. Was he joking about giving his half away? “He should have left you the whole caboodle. I have no interest in horses, and my home's in New York.”

“Your home's been at least ten places in the last ten years,” she countered hotly. Then, as if realizing she had given too much away, she bit her lip and looked away. A slow color suffused her face. “Not that anyone's keeping count.”

Nick leaned more heavily against the stable door. He felt weird, off-balance, as he considered what she had let slip—not the one instance, but the whole picture. Joe talking about him, about his life, to this stranger who didn't feel like a stranger. And Joe singling him out, gifting him with his most precious asset. “Joe talked a lot, huh?”

She scuffed her foot against the concrete, shrugged one shoulder. “When he came up here he did. I guess he felt he could tell me things his family didn't want to hear.”

“If it was about me, they definitely wouldn't have wanted to hear.”

“You don't exactly get along with your brother and sisters, do you?”

It was Nick's turn to shrug. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have felt compelled to talk to her about something so personal, something he never talked about. “We've gotten off subject.”

“Yes, we have.” She fixed him with a straight look. “You don't have to sell up, you know. It's not like you need the money.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Nothing. You go back to New York, and I continue to manage Yarra Park the way I've been doing.”

Agreeing should have been a cinch. She was right—he didn't need the money—and he realized that despite only knowing her two days, he trusted her. Yet there was some
thing about the way she held herself, as if on hearing his
Why not?
she would burst into a great whoop of delight.

“Well?” she asked, the one short word jammed full of impatient expectancy.

“Okay,” he drawled, but when relief spread across her face with the startling brilliance of a perfect sunrise, some perverse part of his nature dug its heels in. “I'll consider it,” he heard himself saying. “In the meantime, I'd like to help out. If I learn how things work it will make it easier to communicate after I leave.”

Her sunrise smile dimmed about sixty degrees. “What do you mean? Aren't you going back to New York?”

“Not immediately. I prefer to do my considering on site.”

“But what about your business?”

“I'll need to put in a couple of extra lines, but I can manage from anywhere with a modem and a telephone. That's the beauty of my business.”

She swallowed, cleared her throat. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

A whole gamut of emotions flitted across her expressive face. Shock, horror, dread. And beneath them all burned the unasked question.

As long as it takes to do what?

To assess her competence as a stable manager, her integrity as a business partner?

Or for her to stop running?

Nick wasn't sure
he
knew the answer. An hour ago he had been ready to pack his bags; half an hour later he had sat with her hand on his arm feeling as if he never wanted to move, ever again. Ten minutes ago he had been contemplating hot, immediate sex against a stable wall.

Now, as he stared down at her, those thoughts of openmouthed kisses and soft yielding flesh must have shown, for a panicky kind of awareness turned her skin soft and
rosy. She took a step back and blurted, “I'm not sleeping with you.”

“Well, I'm glad we cleared the air on that issue.” And as if the air really had been cleared, he smiled negligently and arched a brow. “But wouldn't it have been polite to wait until you were asked?”

S
omewhere shy of midnight, T.C. gave up all pretense of sleep, swung her legs out of bed and pressed a hand to her grumbling stomach. Food had been the last thing on her mind when she had turned and walked away through the silence that followed Nick's humiliating jibe.

Operating on automatic pilot, she had come straight to her room and paced a path in the carpet as she replayed the evening's events over and over again. Of course she kept returning to that dreadful moment when her fears flew heedlessly to her tongue.

I'm not sleeping with you.

How could she have said that? Sure, she had thought about it. Often. What red-blooded woman wouldn't fantasize about Nick Corelli in her bed? But she had gone and
said it
—to his face—and now she would have to deal with the mortifying fact that she had completely misinterpreted the intent behind his kiss and those touches. Quite likely he treated all women the same way. A little flirting,
a lot of charm. She would do well to remember the kind of man he was, and
that
kind of man she could deal with. Her experience with Miles had taught her that much.

Dealing with the man who had sat beside her on the verandah steps was not so easy. How tempting it had been to take up his offer, to lean into his strength, to let go of everything dammed up inside. Years and years and years of pretending she could cope, that she needed no one. Worse—how could she deal with the memory of his anguish and her own fiercely intense need to comfort him? That moment when something foreign and unexpected and dangerous had flared in her heart, something that went way beyond physical desire.

How could she work in partnership with him?

How could she not, knowing this was the only way of repaying her debt to Joe?

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and followed her stomach to the kitchen. She didn't bother with artificial lights—the full moon was bright enough to cast well-defined shadows as she poured a mug of milk and searched the pantry for something filling that didn't need preparation, finding it in the last of a batch of double-choc muffins Cheryl had sent over the previous week. She recalled Jason's goofy grin as he handed her the container, and how she had made her usual halfhearted protest, “She shouldn't have,” while the sinfully rich aroma of fresh baking seeped into her pores.

“That's what I said,” Jase replied, “but she reckons you don't look after yourself properly.”

A week ago the caring behind Cheryl's gesture had settled pleasurably somewhere deep inside. Tonight, as she took her supper into the living room, that same place churned with regret. These past months she had been too wrapped up in her own loss to spare a thought for Cheryl's pain as she relived the events of twelve months before.

It hadn't surprised anyone when she grieved long and
hard for her husband. They had shared a special closeness, the kind visitors immediately felt in the open warmth of their home. Watching the exchanged glances and casual touches, as if they communicated in some secret shorthand, had never failed to move T.C.

Sometimes she would lie awake through the loneliest hours and wonder what it might be like to experience such intimacy; other times she would sternly reprimand herself for yearning after the unattainable. Better to be strong and insular than dependent on another for your happiness.

“Can't sleep?”

She turned her head to see Nick standing in the archway leading to the hall. Her heart quickened instantly.

“The full moon always unsettles me.” It wasn't exactly a lame excuse, but it had a definite limp.

He came into the room, all rumpled hair and bare chest and long naked legs. She looked away, swallowed a hot gulp.
Holy jiminy.
He was wearing nothing but shorts, and he was taking a seat at the other end of the sofa, less than an arm's length away.

He gestured toward the remains of her supper. “You should have come out for dinner. You can't live on snacks.”

“That's what Cheryl says.” She could feel warmth in her cheeks, everywhere on her skin, and was as thankful for the low light as for the subject. Anything to distract her overactive imagination. “I was thinking about her just now, her and Pete. I guess that's another reason why I couldn't sleep.”

“You want to know why I couldn't sleep?”

He tilted his head, and the moonlight slanted across his face, highlighting the sharp plane between cheekbone and jaw, making him look a lot less laid-back, a lot more dangerous. Her heartbeat kicked up another notch.

“I guess you have a lot on your mind,” she said. “I know I have.”

When he turned more fully toward her it was tough not to stare at all that bare skin, near impossible not to track the pattern of dark hair across his broad chest and down toward the low-riding waist of his shorts. Oh help, she had to concentrate on something else. Not those long athlete's legs…maybe his arms. One rested along the back of the sofa, and as she took in the strong curve of his biceps and the softer, almost vulnerable line of his underarm, the tug of attraction was so powerful she could barely breathe. She forced herself to look away. To breathe.

“I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about what you said down at the stables, and my knee-jerk reaction.”

There was no reason to expound; she knew exactly what he was referring to.

I'm not sleeping with you.

“Is it because of your vet?”

“Dave?” She thought about taking the easy road, then rejected it. It seemed like the time for honesty. “No. Dave's a good friend. I wish it were more, but…” She shrugged.

“No fire?”

“Not even a spark. Look, it was a bit previous of me to assume…”

“To assume I want to get you into my bed?” Their eyes met and held. Spark, fire, inferno. T.C. felt her whole body combust. “It was a fair enough assumption.”

It took a long time to assimilate that simple statement. What did he mean? And did she really want to know?

“You have that scared look in your eyes again. Why is that? The night we met, when you came after me with that cap gun, I thought nothing would scare you.”

The tips of his fingers touched her hair, and she recoiled sharply, pulling her legs up under her in an unwittingly defensive posture.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“I'm scared of how far out of my depth I am,” she
said, the words tumbling out in a breathy rush. “I don't know what you want from me.”

“I think you do know. I think that's what scares you.”

His voice was as soft as the moonlight, as dark and alluring as the shadows. T.C. felt a shiver run through her. Not cold, but heat. “Casual sex isn't something I handle well,” she breathed.

“You think this would be casual?”

Her startled gaze flew to his and was immediately trapped by his intent expression. Her breathing grew shallow; her pulse pounded like racing hoofbeats on summer-hard earth.

“I imagine nothing's ever casual with you,” he said slowly.

“Yes, well, that's my problem. I take everything way too seriously.”

“Funny, but that's exactly what I've been telling myself ever since I met you. That you're too serious and prickly and difficult.”

How did he do it? How did he turn such an uncomplimentary description into flattery, just with a look?

“I don't know what to say to that.”

“How about, ‘I'm not usually this prickly but around you I'm on edge all the time. I can't sleep nights. I toss and turn until the sheets are as hot and twisted as the images in my mind'?”

A throttled sound rose from her throat. “I get your drift,” she growled, shifting restlessly, feeling as hot and twisted as the images he painted. Needing to escape them but needing to set this straight. “I
am
attracted to you, physically, and there's been all this emotional drama drawing us together. The way we feel about Joe… But that's all this is. I mean, if it weren't for Joe, we would never have met. You are hardly the kind of guy I'd have bumped into at a friend's place. If you'd passed me on the street, you wouldn't have spared me a second glance.”

“How do you know that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I know. We don't live in the same world, Nick. We have nothing in common.”

“Other than the fact that Joe tied us together.”

Her eyes widened at his choice of words; then she quickly lowered her lids to hide her reaction. No way was she ever letting him know how closely she thought Joe wanted them tied.

“You want to know what I feel about this?” he asked.

She met his eyes with a heartfelt plea in hers.
Please, don't go there. Don't say it.
The deep breath she took seemed to shudder with tension. “I think it's best if we leave this where we were before. I'm not sleeping with you, and you're not asking.”

“Best for who?” A hint of humor touched his mouth. “It sure doesn't feel like it's best for me.”

And looking at him sitting there, so decadently beautiful—the bed-ruffled hair she yearned to smooth, the shadowed planes of his cheeks, that direct blue gaze—it didn't feel best for T.C., either. When she felt the temptation tingle through her nerve endings, she sat on her hands and bit down on her lip.

His last line, the delivery, the wicked glint in his eyes, called for a witty, teasing response, but she couldn't think of a thing. Better to change the subject.

“I've been thinking—” She had to stop, clear her throat, it was so husky. “I've been thinking about what I said earlier, about you going back to New York and me managing Yarra Park.”

“Change your mind?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “But I don't think I was completely clear. I'm not comfortable with accepting this bequest.”

“It's how Joe wanted it.”

“Only in a de facto kind of way. It would have been
easier if he gave you all of Yarra Park with the proviso that you keep me on as manager.”

“You answered that one earlier. He didn't trust me not to sell up.”

“What if I gave you my half and we drew up an agreement that says you can't sell?”

“Hang on.” Nick held up a hand. “You won't take money for your half but you want to give it away? Am I missing something here?”

T.C. blew out a puff of frustration. “Look, I don't want to own Yarra Park, I just want to live here, to work here, and the only money I want is wages. You don't want to live here, but surely owning the place doesn't bother you. Couldn't we come to some kind of agreement where we both get what we want?”

He didn't answer right away, and that gave her some hope. Then he shook his head. “I don't think—”

“You don't have to think, you only have to agree.” She leaned forward, imploring him to reconsider. “Will you please think about it?”

He got to his feet and stalked to the window. For a long silent minute he stood there, his silhouette etched broad and strong by the frosted light, while T.C.'s whole being vibrated with a powerful longing that transcended the physical. She wanted to talk to him,
really
talk to him. She wanted to tell him all the reasons why she couldn't accept the bequest, yet she feared he wouldn't understand.

He turned to face her, his expression impossible to read in the tricky shadows. “I have to be back in New York on the twenty-fifth. That gives me two weeks to think about this. How does that sound?”

About thirteen days too long.

He came closer and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet and not letting go. Suddenly the air seemed close with his body heat, redolent with his scent. She felt more than
a little giddy and struggled not to lean on him for support, then struggled for something to ease the tension.

“Are we shaking on anything in particular?” she asked.

“Shaking?”

He looked down, seemed to consider her hand in his. She felt his grip tighten infinitesimally, and it felt as if something closed reflexively around her heart. Oh boy. Too much Nick at too close a distance. She tried to regain her hand and failed.

“How about we shake to mutual satisfaction?” he purred. Then he laughed in the same low, dark tone, probably at the confused heat in her expression. “You said we should both get what we want, and that sounds fine by me. Deal?”

T.C. blinked as he shook her hand; then she managed to tug her fingers free and back up until her knees hit the couch. If Nick hadn't been there, a solid anchor for her wildly flailing arms, she would have toppled right down, but once she'd regained her balance he stepped clear and yawned with a total lack of self-consciousness. “Seems like it might be worth giving sleep another try.”

She managed to mumble something resembling
good-night,
and he left as noiselessly as he had arrived, leaving her with three distinct impressions.

Number one—touching him was like absorbing his voice. Velvet over steel. Soft and harsh, darkness and light. Two—she didn't feel like she had shaken on anything resembling mutual satisfaction. Three—sleep would be a long time coming.

 

Nick wasn't sure why he had exercised such restraint during that moonlight meeting the previous night. The whole hour had been one painful exercise in self-restraint, and when she overbalanced and grabbed at his arms—hell, he'd been one narrow noble streak from following her
down onto that couch. From covering her head to foot, skin against skin.

Noble streak? Huh!

He hadn't used that description for years, maybe a decade. It was Joe who had introduced him to the term—said it was unusual to find a kid with such a noble streak. Given his background, the irony hadn't escaped Nick, nor had the impact of the compliment, and now Joe had gone and topped it.

He had left him his most precious asset. The ultimate compliment. He felt humbled, honored and, to top it off, mighty confused. Why would Joe single him out? Sure, he'd accepted him into his family and done his best to be fair, to treat him as one of his own children, but they both knew he was only distant kith and kin. That was why George was being such a pain in the rear.