Loving You (4 page)

But instead of turning into the puddle of goo he'd expected, she sighed, said, “We don't want any,” and closed the door.

Stunned, Nick just stood there.

He was still standing there when she turned off the porch light and darkness reached for him.

C
HAPTER
3

Nick blinked, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

He stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. Hell, he couldn't believe it had closed in the first place. Hadn't she seen his smile?

Shifting position uneasily, he glanced around at the quiet darkness around him, reassuring himself no one else had witnessed that. But just as he'd been when he first parked his Corvette in the gravel driveway, he was alone. The Victorian stood smack in the middle of what had to be at least a couple of acres of land. The nearest neighbor was no more than a lamplight gleam in the dark.

Maybe that was it, he told himself. The house was a little isolated—and a woman who looked like
that
was bound to be a little nervous opening the door to a stranger at night. It wasn't
him
in particular she'd shut the door on. She would have done the same to anyone.

So all he had to do was convince her he was harmless.

Determined, he knocked on the door one more time.

The porch light winked on and Nick blinked again
at the sudden spill of light. Then the door opened and there she was, the redhead with the great mouth, framed in the narrow opening, backlit by lamplight, glaring at him. From inside the house he heard the unmistakable sound of
The Simpsons
.

Had to be the kid. The boy at the root of his current problem.

But he wasn't dealing with Jonas Baker yet. First he had to get past the small, curvy sentinel. Nick tried his patented “all the women love me” smile again, focusing every bit of his attention on her.

No reaction.

Man.

“Look,” she said, “I don't want to be rude, but I don't need a vacuum, I don't buy Avon, and I'm too busy to accept Jesus just at the moment, so go away, okay?”

He couldn't believe it. He was getting the brush-off,
again
? No way. As the door swung closed again, he took a step forward. “Hey, hold on. I'm not a salesman and I'm not delivering pamphlets.”

She paused, sighed heavily, and said, “Fine. Are you lost? The freeway's just up the road another couple of miles. You can't miss it.”

“I'm not lost, either.” Jesus. He'd never had such a hard time trying to get a woman to listen to him. Of course, most of the time, he was wining and dining them and whisking them outside to stand under the moonlight. Apparently, it was a whole different story by porch light. “Are you always this friendly?”

“Only to uninvited guests.” Tasha leaned against the edge of the door, tilted her head to one side, and stared at him. He looked a little more frustrated than he had a minute ago, but that
so
wasn't her problem. In the
yellow glow of the overhead light his dark brown hair shone as if streaked with gold dust. His dark eyes fixed on hers and she could have sworn she actually
felt
a little jolt of electricity.

Great.

Now
her hormones wake up?

Fighting a reaction she didn't want, Tasha snapped, “So? What's this about then?”

“Are you Mimi Castle?”

“No,” she said, and her stomach flipped wildly. Straightening up, she felt her mouth go dry and her palms go damp. A stranger? Asking about Mimi? This couldn't be a good thing.

He blew out a breath and frowned. “I need to speak to her.”

Tasha stiffened and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him more closely. Even while her insides fluttered and swirled, she told herself he couldn't be with Social Services. Not with those expensive shoes—not to mention his car, she thought, shifting her gaze to the driveway and the Corvette parked behind her battered VW van. So if he wasn't a state snooper, who the hell was he and why did he want Mimi?

And what did it matter? she reminded herself. She didn't care who he was or who he worked for. He wasn't welcome here. The point was to get rid of him.

Fast.

“She's not home.”

“Are you the baby-sitter?”

“Is that really your business?” Good. Keep talking. Don't let your throat close up. Sound confident.

“Defensive, aren't you?”

“Nosy,” she countered, “aren't you?”

“Lady, why are you making this so hard?”

“Why in the hell should I make anything easy? I don't know you from a spot in the road.”

His jaw worked and she could almost hear him grind his back teeth together in mounting frustration. It took him a couple of minutes, but he got himself together again enough to ask, “Fine. Okay. When'll Ms. Castle be back?”

Never, Tasha thought, and wished for the thousandth time that things were different. That Mimi was just off on one of her weekend “adventures.” But her latest adventure was forever, and wishing wouldn't change a damn thing, as Tasha knew better than anyone else.

She inhaled sharply, lifted her chin, looked him dead in the eye, and lied. She was getting pretty good at it. And for someone who hated a lie more than anything else, that was saying something. “Who knows? She'll come back when she feels like it and not before.”

Mr. Tassel Loafer didn't like that one bit. His sharply defined features twisted into a scowl and he reached up to shove one hand impatiently through his hair. “Look,” he said, taking another step closer. “This is important. I have to see her. Talk to her.”

As casually as she could manage, Tasha lifted one hand, grabbed the screen door handle, snicked it completely closed, and flipped the lock. A flimsy barrier, she knew, but it was better than nothing. Just in case Gucci Guy decided to press the issue.

“Well, she's not here, so you can't.”

“It's about her foster son,” he said tightly, “Jonas Baker.”

Everything inside Tasha went cold and still. There it was. Plainly said. Jonas. He was here about Jonas. Fear rippled along her spine, but she managed to keep from shivering. It was never a good thing to let your
opponent know that you were rattled. And she'd learned long ago to
never
show fear. Even when you were choking on it.

She took another long, hard look at him. Those dark brown eyes of his were fixed on her face and she tried to read what might be written there. But all she could see was his frustration.

She didn't want to ask. Didn't want to invite him even an inch further into their lives. She wanted to make this guy go away and leave them alone. But she couldn't afford to send him off without at least getting an idea as to what was going on. Why he was so interested in Mimi. After all, she told herself grimly, know your enemy.

“What about Jonas?” she demanded, keeping her voice low. There wasn't really a need for quiet, though. Jonas kept the TV high enough to block the sound of machine-gun fire.

“Is he here?”

“Of course he's here, he lives here.”

Gucci smiled again and nodded stiffly. “Sure. Stupid question. Okay, since Mimi's not here, can I talk to him?”

“No,” Tasha said sharply. “Mister, I've already told you. I don't know you from a hole in the wall. Why in the hell would I let you inside my house to talk to Jonas?”

He blew out a breath that ruffled his hair. Brown eyes narrowed as he considered her a full minute before he said tightly, “That's between me and Ms. Castle. And Jonas.”

“Swell,” she countered, and congratulated herself silently when her voice didn't shake. So much for getting
a little information. “Then you can wait for Mimi to get back to take care of it.”

“This can't wait—”

She shut the door and gave the dead bolt a fast spin. Then slipping the chain into place, she turned around and leaned against the door, as if bracing her back against the solid oak panel to keep the intruder out.

“Who was it?” Jonas called out.

Trouble, she thought, her brain wheeling with the possibilities. But she shouted back, “No one. Just some salesman!”

Another lie.

She reached up and rubbed the center of her forehead with her fingertips. The volume of the TV seemed to reach inside her head to play on the last few nerves that weren't already shrieking. Dropping her hand to her side, she shouted, “Turn off the TV and do your homework!”

“Ta—sha…” Jonas drew her name out until it sounded like a six-syllable word.

“Now, Jonas,” she said, and waited a heartbeat or two before he complied. Silence dropped on the old house like a warm blanket and Tasha breathed a sigh of pure relief.

Jonas, on the other hand, slouched through the living room, down the hall, and to the stairs. He shot her one angry glance over his shoulder, then stomped up the stairs, each pounding step an exclamation point to his disgust. When he reached the top of the stairs, he went to his room and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the windows downstairs.

Tasha winced at the demonstration, then pushed away from the door and headed into the kitchen to finish the dishes. She stared into the window above the
sink but didn't see the blackness outside. Instead, she focused on her own reflection. “He's mad,” she told her mirrored self, “but he's safe.” He was here. In his own home. With her.

Where he belonged.

Where he would stay.

*   *   *

When he woke up the next morning, Nick was still feeling the frustration that had had him kicking his way down a graveled drive, then peeling out of Mimi Castle's driveway. And not even pushing the Vette to ninety on the way home or feeling the oncoming wind slap at his face had done a damn thing to make him feel better.

If he'd only been able to get past the redhead, he might've been able to straighten out the situation then and there. But wouldn't you know that when he most needed his legendary charm, it had deserted him?

He didn't have a clue who the redhead was—and under different circumstances, he'd have been anxious to find out. Instantly an image of her leaped into his brain and those green eyes of hers hit him just as hard in memory as they had in person.

Damn it.

But she wasn't the real problem. She was just blocking his way to it.

Jonas Baker was beginning to feel like an ax hanging over his head. Hell, he'd only known about the kid for twenty-four hours and already Nick had been pushed to the edge of his patience.

Yeah, parenthood was a real treat.

Whoa
. His brain stopped, backed up, and erased that word,
parenthood
. He wasn't this kid's father. No way,
nohow. All he had to do was convince the kid. If he could get a few minutes alone with the boy, Nick was sure he'd find a way to settle this mess without courtrooms. Or the media.

He knew he wasn't the father. Couldn't be. The kid was probably a fan. A fan with fantasies. A bit of hero worship gone bad, that's all. Nick could straighten him out. Give him a pep talk. Kids liked that kind of shit. Build up the boy's self-esteem a little. Tell him that this was no way to meet your football heroes. Then he'd sign a few photographs.… hell, maybe he'd give the kid one of his old jerseys. Nick grinned. Yeah. That was it. No fuss, no muss.

Jackson would want him to take a DNA paternity test. But hell, he didn't need it. Didn't want it. Why put the kid through that, anyway?

And a small voice in the back of his mind whispered,
Besides, if the press got hold of a DNA test … they'd have a field day
.

His head was pounding with a rhythmic slam that felt as though his brain were sliding from side to side to bang against his temples. He hadn't had a headache like that since his last hangover. And since he hadn't been drinking, there was no reason for the—shit. He finally located the source of the noise battering at his head and muttered every vicious curse he could think of.

Throwing the blankets back, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up. Bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor and he shivered as he reached for the gray sweats strewn across a nearby chair. Standing up, he tugged the pants up over his naked ass and headed for the window on the far side of the room.

That pounding accompanied every step he took as
if he were a dancer in a well-choreographed show. Wincing as the hammering sound smashed against his caffeine-starved system, he threw the window up, stuck his head outside, and almost groaned as the sun slammed into his eyes. Jesus Christ. Did people actually get up this early on purpose?

Pulling in a gulp of air, he yelled, “What the hell's going on?”

“Good morning, Nick!”

Nothing good about it as far as he could see. Nick glared at the cheerful little man standing on a ladder not two feet away. Hank Marconi, of Marconi's Construction, grinned at him. Barrel-chested, Hank had thick gray hair, twinkling eyes, and a nose that took up half of his face. Actually, he looked like a short Italian Santa. Normally, Hank was so short Nick had to practically bend over to look the man in the eye. However, this morning the little guy was perched on a ten-foot aluminum ladder and staring at Nick eyeball-to-eyeball.

“Hank,” Nick asked, his voice rough with the lack of sleep scratching at his throat, “why are you torturing me?”

The man's wide blue eyes fairly sparkled. Humor creased his features and he shook dangerously as a laugh rumbled through his compact body. “Torture? Ah, Nick, your papa and me, we used to be up with the birds every morning.”

“Papa's dead,” Nick reminded his father's oldest friend.

“God rest his soul,” Hank muttered, and crossed himself quickly. Since he was holding the hammer in his right hand, it was a miracle he didn't knock himself out.

“Lack of sleep probably did him in early, Hank,” Nick said, despite hearing the plea in his voice. “Are you trying to kill me?”