Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (2 page)

I bet, in your wildest dreams, you never thought you'd be living with your mother at your age."

Douglas Sawyer glowered at the
twenty-something-year-old sports star sprawled in the corner of his white leather sectional.
"Is that supposed to be funny, Ace?"

Ace Riordan, snowboarding king, flashed the trademark
grin that had catapulted him into million-dollar endorsements
and worldwide fame. "Well, yeah. You don't see the humor in
this situation?"

With a broad sweep of his arm, he indicated the evidence of
Violet Sawyer's complete takeover of what had once been a glorious beacon of successful bachelorhood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline were now marred with
whimsical suncatchers to prevent the birds from smacking their
little beaks into the glass. The scent of pumpkin pie wafted from
lit candles in odd-shaped jars on the mantel above Doug's pristine white marble fireplace. Floral arrangements from his recent
hospital stay, some with GET WELL SOON balloons still attached,
circled the room. A colorful pile of gossip rags-complete with
lurid headlines that screamed about adopted babies, cheating
spouses, and the latest celebrities to check into rehab-spread
across his glass cocktail table. The top tabloid in the pile featured a smiling couple beneath the banner April "Reins" In Her
Man: Mom & Doc Will Wed!

The woman in the cover photo caught Doug's attention.
Familiarity itched in his brain. Cute, perky-looking, with
brownish-red hair and a flashlight-sized diamond sparkling
on her finger. Where had he seen that smile before? The crinkled eyes, the dimples, the curve of her lips all tickled some ancient
memory from his past.

Mom's laughter trilled from behind the club chair where
Doug reclined, his stocking feet on the matching ottoman.

"Will you look at that?" she said, her tone filled with wonder.
"Isn't that the most adorable thing you've ever seen?"

When he looked up at her, she pointed to the high-definition
television. Doug fought back a groan of impatience. Of all the
stupid...

A squirrel rode water skis around a kiddie pool.

Ever since his discharge from the hospital, his mother had
slowly wormed her influence back into his life. The painkillers
were to blame, of course. That, and the fact he couldn't stir
himself up enough to really care. Earlier, Doug had spent the
afternoon in a medicine-induced daze while she watched three
hours' worth of soap operas. Which was why he'd welcomed
Ace's arrival and its inherent distraction.

"Sweet," Ace commented, and Doug suddenly wished for a
muzzle for the kid's grinning mouth.

"Wait," Mom said to both men. "Let me rewind this so you
can see it from the beginning."

Doug silently cursed the day his cable company added the
ability to stop, rewind, and replay any particular scene on any
television show at any given moment. At first he'd considered
having a DVR a godsend. As a sports journalist, he loved having the ability to fully analyze a layup, determine if a running
back's feet had truly landed flat in the end zone, and ascertain if
the ump's called strike should have been a ball four.

Now, however, he glowered at the goofy animal program,
and then up at his mother, who hovered nearby, one eye on the
television while the other kept watch over him-as if he might
explode at any second.

"What happened to the mom who taught high school English
and insisted on my reading Tolstoy and Hemingway every
night?" he grumbled.

His mother blinked, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"She nearly lost her only child in an incident outside of Baghdad." The words, a harsh whisper, grated the air. "And so now she has decided the world doesn't need war to be glamorized
quite so much"

"I miss the old mom," he said pointedly.

"And I miss the old son." She bent to ruffle his hair.

Good God, did she think he was still ten years old?

She flexed her wrist to stare at her watch. "Ooh! It's time for
your meds. Ace, why don't you pop in that DVD you brought
with you while I get Doug his pills?"

"You brought a DVD?" Doug arched a brow at Ace. "What
is this? A date? Want me to leave the room and give you two
some alone time?"

When Ace shook his head, his golden curls glistened beneath the jarred candlelight as if he were a star in some shampoo commercial. "The DVD's for you, pal o' mine."

The young man rose, picked up a black case near the mess
of tabloids, and strode to the smoked-glass and chrome cabinet. A minute later, the water-skiing squirrel blurred and disappeared, replaced with a blue screen and the directive to hit
PLAY.

"Oh, goodie," Doug remarked. "What's in store for us now?
A psychic cow? A skateboarding dog? Has the Animal Network found a paint-spitting llama that creates copies of original art masterpieces?"

"You'll find out soon enough." Ace turned from the unit and
meandered back to the couch. "Whenever you're ready, Mrs. S.,"
he called into the kitchen as he resettled himself in his seat.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Doug demanded.

"Lighten up, Dougie." His mother bustled back into the den
with a tall glass of water and a handful of pills that she pressed
into his left palm. "Here you go."

"Yeah, Dougie," Ace repeated in a singsong voice. "Make
sure you take your medicine like a good boy so you can be
aaaallllll better."

Great. Within an hour of Ace's departure from his apartment,
the world would know the age-old nickname that, until now,
only his mother dared to use. With sips of water, he swallowed
the colorful assortment cupped in his hand. First the blue pill
to fight infection. Then the two red caplets to promote healing. And finally, one of the tiny white ones for pain, which was
supposed to give his world a rosy glow. Yeah, right. Like anything in his life would ever be rosy again.

"Any time you're ready to leave, Ace," he growled, "you
know where the door is."

"Be quiet and watch," his mother snapped. "This is for your
own good." Settling in the matching club chair opposite his, she
fumbled for the remote control. With the press of her index finger, she sent the television screen hurtling into a blur of moving shapes.

The speed of the fast-forwarded images merged with the
effects of too many meds swimming in his blood. The combination overwhelmed his brain, and he closed his eyes to regain equilibrium, tilting his head into the soft pillow propped
against the chair back.

When he finally opened his eyes again, no animals with
sporting equipment came into view. Instead, humans struggled
with sporting equipment. Snowboards and skis.

"... The program was begun several years ago by a group
of local skiers when one of their own arrived home without a
limb during the first Gulf War," a male voice-over announced.
"Since then, over one hundred injured veterans have found
new life on the slopes."

On the giant flat screen, at least a dozen skiers slowly traversed a snowy trail. The camera zoomed closer, and Mom
paused the action on a lone figure, gliding downhill in a sitski, a quasi-wheelchair mounted on skis.

"It's a rehabilitation program for injured war veterans," Ace
elaborated. "I did my community service there."

Ah, yes. His community service. Last year, the snowboarding
superstar had been involved in a scuffle at JFK International
Airport that resulted in a broken nose for a more virulent
member of the press. To help the kid out of what might have
been a prison sentence, Doug had written an editorial about
the pressure of the pro circuit, the stupidity of the young, and
how one mistake shouldn't destroy a promising career. His
article didn't score any points from the reporter with the broken nose, but public outcry convinced the New York District Attorney to settle the case quietly. Ace agreed to enroll in an
anger management program and perform four hundred hours
of community service.

"Don't say anything yet, Doug," his mother advised. "Just
watch." She pressed the PLAY button again, and the screen burst
to life.

"The Ski-Hab program is geared to enhance the well-being
of our soldiers emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Many of
these brave men and women assumed they'd never again lead
a normal life until they arrived here at Mount Elsie."

Mount Elsie? Sounded more like a dairy farm than a ski
resort. Doug squinted, studying the chairlifts and tree lines,
seeking anything that might give him a clue where this mysterious Mount Elsie might be located. Not much to differentiate
this place from any other. Lots of snow, chairs on elevated lines
scaling higher and higher, the graceful motion of hips and
legs creating slaloms down the trails, a rustic two-tiered deck,
and picnic tables crowded with people basking in a lemon sun.
No gondolas. No flags. No clues that would help him determine what state or country was home for Mount Elsie. He could
ask Ace, but that would only lead to his mother thinking he was
interested.

On-screen, the reporter interviewed several veterans. One
former Marine who had sustained a spinal cord injury admitted he'd suffered from post-traumatic stress until he'd begun
the Ski-Hab program.

"I'd lie in that hospital bed and plan how to get my hands
on enough pills to end it all," the Marine said.

Doug's skin itched as both his mother and Ace turned hard
gazes on him. He returned their scrutiny with a bland expression. "What?"

His mother frowned. "You know what."

"So. . ." He refused to confirm her silent accusation. "What?
You want me to write a story about this place? Too late. It's
already been done."

"No, Dougie," Mom replied. "You're going to participate."

Oh no. No way. "This is a program for soldiers. I'm a
reporter."

Okay, he used to be a reporter. Before Iraq. Before he'd
embedded with Giles Markham's unit. Before an enemy missile hit their Humvee, killing everyone inside-except him.

"Ace pulled some strings and got you enrolled in the SkiHab program."

A shot of pain blazed over one shoulder, and he grimaced.
"Forget it."

"Not so fast, my son. You owe me. Big time. Who taught you
how to throw a curveball? Who was team mom three years in
a row when you played peewee football? Who worked summer school to pay for your time at the ice hockey rink?"

"You." Heat washed his nape, and he skimmed a palm
down the back of his neck. "All you."

"That's right," she replied with a satisfied smile. "And may
I remind you about your crush on that snow bunny when you
were fourteen? What was her name again?"

"Brooklyn Raine," he murmured.

Hoots of laughter erupted from Ace. "You had a crush on
Brooklyn Raine? Oh, my God, that's so chill!"

"That was twenty years ago, for God's sake." Beneath his
palm, fine hairs prickled with annoyance. "What's so `chill'
about it?"

"Dude, you have no idea." Ace squirmed in his chair, rising
onto his haunches. "So did you, like, write her fan mail and
stuff?"

"No," Doug ground out, conveying with that one syllable
his refusal to discuss the topic freely.

He hadn't thought about Brooklyn Raine in aeons. While all
his high school buddies obsessed about the Baywatch babes, he
had found his dream girl on the slopes at the World Cup games.
Brooklyn Raine had it all: looks, a dynamite personality, and
a blinding smile. When she raced in the giant slalom, the sexy
swerve of her hips compelled an adolescent boy to stand up
and take notice.

"What about later?" Ace pressed. "When you grew up? Did
you ever interview her?"

"No."

Ace's denim eyes widened like an eager puppy's. "Too bad. I bet she would have gone for you. But then again, maybe not.
She was married to that Cheviot guy. Did you know Canada
named a holiday after him? It's not a bank holiday or anything,
but it gives the ski resorts another day to charge higher-"

"Is there a point to this?"

"Not yet." Ace snickered. "But there will be. Do you know
I was in kindergarten when Brooklyn Raine won the gold?"

"You're quickly wearing out your welcome, Ace."

"Too bad. I'm not leaving till I get the deets on your great
love affair with Brooklyn Raine."

"There was no great love affair."

Yet, by the time he had turned sixteen, his passion for her
had grown so manic, he insisted on spending the entire Christmas holiday at the nearest ski mountain on the off chance
Brooklyn might appear. Of course, in those days, the nearest
ski mountain to their home was a rinky-dink place in West
Virginia. A place that had since become a water park based
on famous battle sites of the Civil War. A place that a skier of
Brooklyn Raine's caliber would never visit.

But it was the only ski resort nearby that his single mother
could afford. And she'd stretched every penny that holiday season to give Doug the opportunity to learn the sport ... just in
case he should ever meet his dream girl.