Loving You (9 page)

She snorted a laugh that had nothing to do with humor and shook her head. “Oh, please. Like that's ever stopped a Candellano.”

Nick scooped one hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and in that one split second, Carla saw worry in his eyes. That sent a cold chill sweeping through her. Nick
never
worried. He went through life sailing by on his charm, his easygoing nature, and the fact that he could kick at a rock and have it turn out to be a diamond. In fact, blowing out his knee playing football was the first really bad thing that had ever happened to him. Which probably explained why he hadn't handled it very well.

Ordinarily, the world pretty much treated Nick like a king. And worry was something new for him.

“Fine,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Just for today, stop being a Candellano and remember you're a Wyatt now, okay? Fight the inner need to jump in and tell me what to do.”

Carla paid no attention to that—and she was pretty sure Nick had known even when he said it that she wouldn't. He'd been her brother way too long to think she could be put off that easy.

“Not gonna happen.”

“I'm not talking to you about this, Carla.”

“And no way I'm backing off. I want to know what's going on,” she said, ignoring Nick's refusal to speak. Heck, she'd find a way to make him talk, and they both knew it. For now, though, she shifted her gaze from her brother to her husband. Staring at Jackson, she narrowed her eyes and pinned him with a steely look.

But her husband didn't fold, which was only slightly irritating. After all, what woman wanted a weenie for a husband? Much better to have a stubborn man you could fight with than to have a man you could walk all over. Still, she felt a flash of annoyance when Jackson lifted both hands and said, “Sorry, Carla. Attorneyclient confidentiality—”

“Your
client
?” she interrupted him, zeroing in on that one important word. So it
was
an official visit. Uneasiness danced through her veins. Great. That meant that for some reason, Nick
needed
a lawyer. That couldn't be good news. “Why is Nick your client?”

“Because he wanted the best?” Jackson tried.

“Good effort,” she told him, and promised herself to make his life miserable later. At the moment, though, she spun around to stare up into her brother's eyes. “Do you talk to me or do I tell Mama that you're Jackson's ‘client' and let her get it out of you?”

A disgusted whoosh of air shot from Nick's lungs as he scowled at his sister. “Pulling out the big guns is really sinking low this early in the fight.”

“I go with what works,” she said with a shrug.

That scowl deepened. But in spite of his best efforts, a chill swept along Nick's spine.
Nobody
wanted to be on Mama's bad side. Mama had raised four children with a firm hand and—as far as her kids were concerned—an all-seeing eye. Her hugs were legendary,
as were her steely stares that could convince a kid to confess to anything in less than ten seconds. Now, though her children were grown, Mama Candellano was still a force to be reckoned with. And the ultimate threat. “Aren't we a little old for you to be tattling to Mama?”

“I repeat…”

“Christ, Carla, you're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?”

“What do you think?”

He loomed over her, trying for intimidation. It didn't work. Never had. Disgusted, he viciously rubbed the back of his neck. Finally he said, “I think life would be easier if I were an only child.”

“Yeah, well, that wish and five bucks'll buy you a latte at Stevie's.” Carla plopped both hands at her hips and dared him to look away. “Now tell me what's up.”

Nick stared down at his younger sister. Her curly dark brown hair surrounded her face and fell to her shoulders in wild abandon. She wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and her ratty old cowboy boots and looked just as fierce as a grizzly. He recognized the glint in her brown eyes, too. She might be married now and stepmother to a little girl, but at her heart and soul she was still and would always
be
a Candellano.

Ordinarily, he might have been pleased by that knowledge. His family was tight. Always had been. They stood up for one another and weren't afraid to kick a little butt when it was needed—as evidenced by the crap he'd been getting from the family for the last couple of months. He loved them all, but damn it, he wished to hell Carla was more intent on her own new family right now than on him. Because Carla just wouldn't give up and walk away.

Until she found out what she wanted, she was going to hound him until he was nothing but raw meat.

Man, the day he'd had, dealing with tough women. First Tasha Flynn practically pushes him out of her house, green eyes flashing; then his own sister turns on him. Nick's head was pounding. Hell, his ears were still ringing from Tasha's temper. She'd shouted at him the whole time she was shoving him through the pink hell of a beauty parlor and out the door.

She hadn't bothered to keep quiet in front of their audience of very interested ladies in various stages of hairdos. And once his feet hit the porch, she'd told him in no uncertain terms to stay the hell away. When she'd slammed the door in his face, the resulting breeze had ruffled his hair and dented his ego.

Well, he'd love to be able to do just what she wanted. But until he had a chance to talk to the kid and smooth this mess over before it got even more out of hand, that wouldn't be happening.

“Carla,” Jackson said, standing up behind his desk, “back off.…”

She never took her gaze off Nick. “Butt out, Jackson.” Then, to soften her words a little, she added, “I love you, but this is between me and my brother.”

Nick looked over Carla's head to Jackson and nodded. Then shifting his gaze back to his sister, Nick surrendered to the inevitable. He'd had it fighting with temper-driven, determined women today.

“Okay,” he said, holding both hands up as if she were holding a gun on him. “You win.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Carla folded her arms across her chest, tipped her head to one side, and prompted, “Now, what's going on?” Her voice was filled with a concern that warmed him, despite the situation.
Family. It all came down to family.

The question was, would his
family
now include his
son
?

*   *   *

“Is he really your dad?”

Jonas nodded and looked down at the eight-by-ten glossy color photo of Nick Candellano. It was an action shot, of Nick, wearing his San Jose Saints uniform, except for the helmet. They didn't wear helmets in pictures, so people could see the players' faces. The photographer had caught Nick mid-leap, catching a pass, and his wide smile seemed to be aimed directly at Jonas. Scrawled across the bottom of the photo were the words:
Running Backs Rule! Best Wishes, Nick Candellano
.

It was the same thing written on all of the pictures he'd received from Nick. Sometimes the color ink was different and sometimes the way he signed his name changed, but other than that, they were just the same. Jonas had written four letters to his dad, telling him where he lived and how Nick could get in touch with him. Then he'd spent days watching the mailbox, waiting for a letter from his father.

But all he ever got was those pictures.

“He is.” Jonas looked at Tommy Malone. “He sends me pictures special, whenever I ask him to.”

Tommy took the picture and held it carefully by the edges, so his fingers wouldn't get it all dirty. “That's pretty cool, but how come you wanna sell 'em?”

Jonas rubbed the back of hand under his nose. “'Cause I don't need all of 'em.” And Tasha's birthday was coming up and he might need money and he could always get more pictures of his father.

“I don't have five bucks,” Tommy said. “I've only got three.”

Jonas thought about it for a long minute. Three dollars was better than nothing. “Okay, three.”

Tommy grinned at him, dug into his jeans pocket, and pulled out three crumpled one-dollar bills. He handed them to Jonas, then wandered off, across the playground, still admiring the photo of his favorite football player.

The first bell rang and the crowds of kids started wandering closer to the brick school buildings. Lunch recess was almost over. Noise rose up on the cold November wind and drifted across the overgrown lawn toward the asphalt. Tetherball ropes and chains clanged against poles, and basketballs thumped against backboards. The lunch ladies wandered through the crowds of shouting kids, blowing silver whistles that shrieked for attention, yet still went unnoticed.

“Are you selling all of 'em?” Alex asked as he sat down next to Jonas.

“Yep.” Leaning back against the old tree in the middle of the field, Jonas scooted over, making room for his pal. Tree bark bit into his back, right through his sweatshirt. He tipped his head back and stared up through the leafless limbs at the gray clouds overhead. The wind blew hard and sent the tree branches into a wild dance that made them kind of look like skeleton arms clapping together.

“My dad'll get me more as soon as I meet him.”

“When's that gonna be?”

“Don't know for sure,” Jonas said, and tore his gaze away from the storm clouds crashing across the sky. “But it'll be soon.”

It had to be soon. 'Cause with Mimi dead and Tasha
worried all the time, it was getting a little scary at home. He kept expecting to see Ms. Walker from Social Services pull into the driveway to take him away. Every time one of Tasha's customers drove up to the house, Jonas's stomach did a weird rolling thing that made him think he might barf. He always had to run to the window and look out to make sure it wasn't Ms. Walker's green Volkswagen parked outside.

Ms. Walker was always saying how important Jonas was to her, but he didn't like the way she kind of crinkled up her nose when she came inside. Like the house was dirty or something, and it totally wasn't, 'cause Tasha was always cleaning and making him pick up his dirty socks and stuff out of the living room.

But Ms. Walker didn't like the house and she hadn't liked Mimi, either. But 'cause Mimi was old, Ms. Walker treated her better. Nicer, kind of. But she treated Tasha like she was stupid, and pretty soon she'd probably take him away. Even though Tasha said it wouldn't happen, Jonas couldn't take the chance. He had to be sure. He didn't want to go away again. He liked his house. And Tasha. And he wanted to stay. So he needed his real dad to help.

And he would. Nick wouldn't let him down.

“Think he'll take us to some games before the season's over?” Alex asked. “I bet he can get us down on the field by the team and everything.”

“Sure he can,” Jonas said, nodding as if trying to convince himself as much as Alex. “Maybe we could even go to the Super Bowl.”

“Wow.…” His best friend's voice, filled with awe, drew that one word out like a song.

Jonas smiled to himself. He wasn't lying to his friend. He knew Nick would do all the things Jonas
said he would, as soon he knew about him. That's what dads did.

The second bell rang and the boys reluctantly got up and headed toward history class—visions of the Super Bowl game dancing in their heads.

*   *   *

By the time Jonas got home from school, Tasha had worn a rut through the living room carpet with her pacing.

She still wasn't sure how she'd managed to get the football player out of the shop. All she remembered was a lot of vague sputtering and arguing. Well, that and a few women whistling at him as Tasha pushed and shoved him through the shop and out the door. Once she had him on the porch, she'd closed the door in his face and hadn't taken another easy breath until she heard his Corvette roar into life and rush off down the road.

And even then, breathing was tough.

Air strangled in her throat.

Her lungs heaved, she felt light-headed, and her stomach was doing a whirligig thing that had her seriously worried about tossing her cookies.

Somehow, she'd pulled herself together enough to do Mrs. Sorenson's hair, then the other two appointments she'd had scheduled for today. It hadn't been nearly as easy to keep from talking to Molly about what was happening. She'd just had time to give her friend the headlines, then it had been back to work.

As if thinking about the woman had conjured her up, Molly spoke up from the doorway between the dining room and the living room.

“He's not here yet?”

“No.” Tasha shot her a quick look, then kept pacing, never breaking stride. Heck, she was in a rhythm, now. Twenty-one steps, turn, twenty-one steps back.

“What do you think's going on?”

“I don't know.”

“Is Jonas really this guy's son?”

“I don't
know
.” Too many questions. Not enough answers. Oh God. Her head pounded in time with her footsteps. Her heartbeat seemed to hammer out the count as she continued. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,
turn
.

“What'll you do if he is?”

Tasha's steps staggered. She lost count, then stopped dead. She shoved one hand through her hair and yanked at it, as if the sharp pain stinging her scalp could take her mind off everything else. It didn't work.

“I don't know,” she said again, and her voice was just a sigh of exasperation and worry. Her hand dropped to her side and her shoulders slumped. She felt as though she'd been beaten up. Her body was limp. Her knees were like water and her stomach was spinning. Surprised she was still standing, she admitted quietly, “I don't know anything.”

She stared at a square of sunlight outlined on the scarred wooden floor, but she wasn't seeing it. Instead, her mind filled with the image of Nick Candellano's face—and then Jonas's. There
were
similarities, she thought. The dark hair, the eyes. And that smile.
Oh God
.