Loving You (35 page)

He looked down into the eyes that had haunted him for weeks. Nick fisted his hands at his sides to keep
from grabbing her just to shake some sense into her thick head. “How can a smart, capable, fiercely independent woman be so
dumb
?”

“I'm not dumb.” She stared up at him. “You just don't want to admit I'm right.”

He fought for calm when every instinct was to shout. “Because I have money, I don't love you. Because I have a family I love, I don't want you. All we have is sex. That it?”

“Yes,” she said tightly, pain radiating from her in thick waves. “That's it. Anything else is you trying to be nice.”

His blood actually boiled. He cupped her chin in his palm and leaned in close. “Trust me, honey, I'm not feeling
nice
right now.”

She jerked away and he let her go. He was too pissed to be rational at the moment anyway. Turning from her, he scanned the room for his shirt, and when he found it, he grabbed it and pulled it on. Stepping into his shoes, he picked up his jacket and shrugged into it.

She hadn't moved.

He didn't go to her again because if he did, Nick knew he wouldn't be able to let her go. And damn it, he wouldn't
beg
. Her words rattled around inside him until a response burst from him. “Tasha, you're a snob.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Your family sucked and mine didn't. We both grew up anyway. Rich guy can't love you? Well, that's bullshit, babe.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and fisted them. “I've got money 'cause I worked
hard
for it. Spent years getting my ass kicked. Blew out my knee by doing my
job
. I worked.
Hard. Just like
you
do and my parents did and my brothers and sister. You think that bank account puts me higher than you? Well, that's your hang-up, Tasha, not mine.”

“I didn't say—”

“You said plenty, believe me.” Nick cut her off with a harsh laugh that tore at his throat. Jesus, this night had gone to hell in a hurry.

Tasha stared at him. His eyes gleamed darkly in the moonlight and the soft scent of his aftershave reached for her, even though he didn't. The night seemed darker, blacker, than it had such a short while ago. And Nick seemed further away from her than ever.

Tasha was cold. God, so cold. Pain rose up inside and threatened to swallow her. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't seem to draw air into lungs screaming for it, and a part of her didn't care. What did breathing matter when your heart was shattered?

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to think he
did
love her. But how could she? Besides Mimi and Jonas, no one had ever loved her. Tears pooled in her eyes and she hoped to God he couldn't see them from across the room. She wasn't a snob. She was rational. A realist. And the simple truth was, a man like him would never want a woman like her.

It was the situation with Jonas that had set him off. The three of them had spent so much time together, Nick had gotten
used
to the semblance of a family. He'd started thinking of them as a unit. Of him and Tasha as a couple.

But it wasn't real.

It would never be real.

And knowing that was killing her.

Nick blew out a frustrated breath. “I was going to tell you this later.”

She looked at him.

“The station's sending me to Dallas. To interview some of the players before the Cowboys' game on Thanksgiving.”

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “It's what you've been hoping for, isn't it?”

His mouth thinned into a line sharp enough to draw blood. “Yeah. I'm a real lucky guy.”

He was leaving. Just like that. Walking away. So much for love, huh? Tasha buried her pain, refusing to let it out until she was alone. She wouldn't cry in front of him. She wouldn't let him know how much she hurt. “How long will you be gone?”

“Be back before Thanksgiving.”

“I'll tell Jonas.”

“You do that, Tasha.” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “And while you're at it, tell yourself that I love you. And keep telling yourself, till you believe it.”

“Nick—”

“Damn it—” He stomped across the room, jerked his hands from his pockets, and took her face between his palms. She looked up at him through watery eyes, and when he bent his head to kiss her, she leaned into him. She felt the heat of him slip inside her, and when he broke the kiss, she wanted to beg him not to stop. But he didn't give her the chance.

“Think about that, Tasha,” he murmured, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “We'll talk when I get back.”

Then he was gone and the house was quiet. Tasha was alone and she told herself she'd better start getting used to it.

*   *   *

Monday morning, he stood outside and watched the last of the Marconi crew pack up.

“It's a great house, Nick.” Jo Marconi slid her toolbox onto the bed of her truck, then slammed the gate shut with a metallic clang that echoed in the stillness. Turning around, she leaned against the dusty black truck, looked at him, and smiled. “An A-one Marconi family project if I do say so myself.”

Nick stared up at the place by the lake and took in the new deck, new roof, and new paint job. “You guys and your dad do good work.”

“Thanks.” She straightened up and walked to the driver's door. Her dark brown ponytail swung in a wide arc with every step. Opening the door, she paused and said, “Like I said. Nice house here, Nick. Enjoy.”

She drove off, gravel and dirt fishtailing behind her. When the truck's engine roar had died off, all that was left were the sounds of the wind blowing through the trees and a few stray ducks making a racket on the lake. “It is a nice house,” he murmured, letting his gaze sweep over the structure. “But it's still not a home.” And wouldn't be, if Tasha insisted on being an idiot.

With that pleasant notion clanging in his head, he walked to his own car to make the drive to the airport. Two days in Dallas suddenly sounded like a good idea. At least he'd be so busy, he wouldn't be tempted to call her.

*   *   *

“I don't feel so good,” Jonas admitted when he walked in the door that afternoon.

“You don't
look
so good, either,” Tasha said, and instantly swept her palm beneath his hair to test his forehead. “You're burning up, kiddo.”

He looked up at her through glassy eyes. “My head hurts, too, Tash. Really bad.”

Worry tingled in every cell in her body. Jonas
never
complained.
Ever
. Mimi used to say the kid's arteries could be spurting blood and he'd apologize for the mess he was making. So if he said his head hurt, Tasha was willing to bet there was something more wrong than a simple headache. Worry jelled into fear and took a quick slide toward panic.

There was no one to ask if she was overreacting. No Mimi. No Nick. So, if she was overreacting, she'd apologize to the doctor and be embarrassed. But either way, Jonas would be safe.

She took his backpack from him and tossed it onto the closest chair. “Wait here a sec,” she told him before turning and sprinting toward the beauty shop. Sticking her head in the doorway, she ignored the customer with her head in the sink and called out, “Molly? Jonas is sick. I'm taking him to the doctor.”

“Poor kid—” Molly nodded. “Sure, go ahead. I'll lock up here when I'm finished.”

“Thanks.” Then she was racing back to the living room, grabbing her purse and keys off the dining room table as she passed. Stopping beside Jonas, she ran one hand over his hair, then tipped his head back. New panic jumped inside her when he winced. “Your neck hurt, too?”

“A little,” he said, and one small tear squeezed from the corner of his eye.

Tasha's mouth went dry. Could just be a pinched
nerve, she told herself, but even she didn't believe it. “It's okay, sweetie. The doctor'll fix you up. It'll be okay.”

He nodded and walked beside her, squinting into the late-afternoon sunlight as they stepped onto the porch. Draping one arm around his shoulders, Tasha pulled him tightly to her side and kept him there as they walked to the car.

*   *   *

Dr. Weston had been around forever. At least, that's what he claimed. The man looked as old as time, but his smile was young and bright and always comforting.

Until today.

He stepped out of the examination room, drawing Tasha with him. Looking back at Jonas, he said, “Sit right there, champ. We'll be back in a minute.”

When the door closed quietly, Tasha blurted, “What is it?”

The old man took off his glasses and cleaned them on a white hanky he was forever pulling out of his breast pocket for just that purpose. Tasha had long suspected he used the action as a stalling tactic while trying to figure out what to say to worried families. Today he proved her right.

Setting his wire-framed lenses back into place, he looked at her, reached out one hand to lay on her forearm, and said, “I think it's meningitis, Tasha.”

“Meningitis?”
She took a step back, as if distancing herself from the man would distance her from his diagnosis as well. She'd been hoping for flu. Would have accepted strep throat. Would even have settled for mono. But this? Oh God.

“Don't know what kind yet. Could be either viral or bacterial.” He was talking to himself now, as well as her. “I'm admitting him to the hospital right away. Get some tests done. Find out what we're dealing with.”

“Hospital?” Fear, wearing tiny metal spikes, ran up and down her spine, delivering pain and panic. “Tests?”

The doctor nodded grimly but continued to pat her hand absently. “It's probably viral,” he said, his voice that practiced soothing monotone doctors seemed to develop in medical school. Did they teach classes in that stuff? “If it is,” he continued, “we'll send him home with some antibiotics and he'll be fine in a few days.”

“And if it's not…?” She wanted to know it all. The bad and the good. How could you possibly panic properly without all the facts?

He sighed wearily. “Bacterial carries a new set of threats, up to and including possible brain damage.”

Tasha staggered backward, slamming into the wall behind her. Breath rushed from her lungs. Her eyes filled and then spilled over with tears she was helpless to stop. Her gaze shot to the closed door behind which sat Jonas. Alone. Scared. Sick. Breathe, Tasha, she told herself. Breathe.

“I'm not saying that's what this is,” Dr. Weston said sternly, “or that that's what will happen. But I wanted you to know going in what to expect.”

“Does
he
know?” she asked, unable to shift her gaze from that closed door.

“Not yet.” Dr. Weston's fingers squeezed on her arm until she looked at him. “I'll tell him. But, Tasha, I want you to get a grip. He's going to need you. He'll
be scared and I want you to be able to help him through what's coming.”

She nodded. “What
is
coming?”

“A spinal tap.”

“Oh God.…” Nick, why aren't you here? Oh God, she wanted someone to hold on to right now. She wanted …
needed
Nick. He loved Jonas, too. He'd know what she was feeling. He'd help her keep the screams that wanted to rush from her locked inside.

“It's the only way to find out what we're dealing with,” he said. “Now. I'll make the call to set things up. Which hospital do you want to take him to?”

Santa Cruz, she asked herself, where the only person she knew well was Ms. Walker?… Or Chandler Community? Nick wasn't there. But his family was. And suddenly she
so
didn't want to be alone anymore.

“Chandler,” she said, then looked at the doctor. “After the spinal test … how long before we know?”

He shrugged. “If the lab's not too backed up, a few hours.”

Hours of not knowing. Hours of prayer and hope and panic. Tasha dragged air into her lungs, then reached up and rubbed away her tears. She didn't want Jonas to see her crying. “Okay then,” she said. “Let's do it.”

He patted her arm again, gave her a wink, then turned back to the examining room to break the news to Jonas. Alone in the hall, Tasha looked up at the ceiling and murmured, “Mimi, do what you can to look out for our boy, okay?”

Then she headed outside to use her cell phone to call Nick.

C
HAPTER
21

Fear perched on Nick's shoulders on the long flight home from Dallas. It whispered in his ear. Taunted him with visions of disaster. Fear dragged icy fingers along his spine and twisted his guts into a tight knot.

Would it be easier if he were there, in the hospital, with Tasha? Would it help to worry as a team? He didn't know. All he was sure of was his desire to
be
there. With her. Holding her.

Praying with her.

When Tasha called his cell phone, Nick hadn't thought twice. He'd looked the producer in the eye, said, “I quit,” and hit the road running. Suddenly football and a shot at national TV coverage seemed small. Pitiful. All he could think of was an eleven-year-old boy, lying in a hospital bed. And Tasha, terrified and alone.

He couldn't help the terrified part, but on the cab ride to the Dallas airport, he took care of the alone part of her situation. One phone call to Paul had alerted the Candellanos, and Nick knew his family well enough to know that Tasha would be taken care of until he could reach her. But it should have been him. He should have been at home when he was needed.

Why was Texas so damn big? If it had been a regular-size state, he'd have been a hell of a lot closer to California. To home. To Tasha. He never should have gone for the stupid interview. He didn't even
care
about it anymore. Didn't wonder when his agent would call. Didn't see his career as the all-encompassing ego massage he once had. There were other plans flitting through his mind now. Better plans.