by Joleen James
"I should be going," Nick said, rising. He needed to think, to sort out this information and he needed Clea's help to do it.
John put the case away in the trunk.
"Go and get ready for bed," Clea said to John. "Brush your teeth, then I'll tuck you in."
"Okay." John grabbed his pajamas and went into the bathroom, closing the door.
"Has he exhausted you yet?" Clea asked when they were back in the living room.
"No," he replied honestly. "He's great."
"He is, isn't he?"
"You're a wonderful mother, Clea." He didn't miss the light that leapt into her eyes.
"I've tried, Nick," she said with a smile. "It hasn't been easy."
"No, I'm sure it hasn't."
A silence stretched between them, a silence filled with regret. The bathroom door opened, and John reappeared. "Can I read for fifteen minutes?" He wore Spiderman pajamas, the shirt dotted with water from his teeth brushing. A rush of love seized Nick, and he longed for the right to tuck his son in, to kiss him goodnight.
"Sure, honey. Then it's lights out. Say good night to Nick."
"Good night," John said while still looking at Clea.
"Good night, John." Nick wished the boy would look at him, give him some sign that things had gone well tonight, but John turned and went into his room, closing the door.
"Have a seat." Clea sat on the sofa, curling her legs under her.
"For a minute." Nick sat beside her, feeling some relief that the hard part of the evening was over. He'd met John, and they'd survived.
Clea appeared to be considering him. "How do you think it went?" she asked.
Nick shrugged. "I'm not sure. I never expected to be frightened of my own son, but I am. I'm scared shitless. He's so important. What if I screw this up?"
"Give it some time," she said softly. "He'll come around. He wants to love you, Nick. I'm certain of that."
"Did you know that John and Maude were friends?" Nick asked.
Clea sat up a little straighter. "What do you mean?"
"I mean they talked. She gave him presents. I'm not sure, but I think he has my entire car collection."
"What!" Clea started to get up, but Nick caught her hand, pulling her gently back down on the sofa.
"Don't tell him you know," Nick said. "I'm not sure what was going on, but I think Maude wanted a connection with him."
"But she never said anything," Clea said, lines of worry on her forehead. "She lived across the street and never acknowledged us in any way."
"Obviously, you are wrong about that." Nick gave Clea a wry smile. "She told John she would get me out of prison, and according to John, she kept that promise." Nick could hardly keep the bitterness from his words. "He believed her. He liked her."
"Well," Clea said on a sigh. "It's not such a bad thing. She was his grandmother."
"You're not upset?" Nick said with a shake of his head.
"No, not really." Clea smiled. "I don't know why Maude wasn't a part of our lives. She just wasn't. I was gone for a long time, and when I came back, we just didn't speak. If she'd asked, I probably would have let her become a part of John's life, but the truth is, she didn't show any interest. It stung that she ignored us."
"It was probably for the best." He couldn't imagine his mother being a grandma. She didn't have any maternal instincts, any warmth, any softness for children. Or did she? If he stretched his memory he could remember a time or two when she'd enjoyed being with them, but those days had faded fast from his memory once her drinking had gotten out of control. Inside, had she really cared about them? Maude had shared something with John she'd never shared with her own children. It confused Nick, and made him wonder about the changes Maude had gone through the last ten years. Had she been different? Or had she been the same self-centered, addicted woman from his past?
"I think John expected me sooner," Nick said. "He overheard Boomer say I was out of prison. You said John's been angry and upset. Seems to me he's got a lot of reasons to be mad."
"Oh, no," Clea said. "Poor John."
"Mom, I'm ready," John called from the bedroom.
Clea rose. "That's my cue to tuck him in."
Nick stood. "I'll go. Thank you for dinner and for the chance."
"You're welcome."
"Where do we go from here, Clea?" he asked. "I don't know what comes next."
"Neither do I. I've never had to share custody before. This is all new to me."
"What happens when you leave?" Nick allowed himself one last long look at her face, the smooth line of her jaw, the creamy column of her neck. His body tightened. He didn't want to lose her.
"I don't know, Nick." Worry filled her eyes. "You could visit."
"Not for five years." He glanced away, trying to get his bitterness under control.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Mom," John called.
"Just a minute," Clea called back, her tone a little impatient. "I'm saying good-bye to Nick. I'll be right there." In a whisper, she said, "Why can't you visit New York?"
Nick wanted to drown in her eyes, in the pools of green. Unable to help himself, he reached out, winding a lock of her hair around his fingers. The strands felt like silk against his rough skin. "I can't leave the state for five years, Princess. I may be free, but I'm still a prisoner. If I apply to change the conditions of my parole, it has to be for a good reason. I have to have a job waiting, and a place to live."
"Oh, Nick."
Her tender tone touched him. Suddenly, he didn't want to think about the mess his life was in. Clea stepped toward him and laid her hand against his chest in a gesture of comfort, but Nick felt anything but comforted. Lips the color of ripe watermelon parted and he wondered if she'd taste like the fruit. Heat rose between them. Clea dropped her hand, taking a step back.
"John's upset about the move to New York," Clea said, and Nick knew she was trying to put some distance between them. "He doesn't want me to take him away. Maybe he was waiting for you. Now, you're here. If you can't visit, well, I'm not sure how I'm going to handle that."
Nick didn't know how to reply. He couldn't ask her to stay. She had everything to look forward to in New York. Hopelessness filled him.
"I've tried to reassure John that you will be in his life no matter where we live." She spoke quietly. "Is that right?"
"Yes." He wanted to reach for her, hold her, beg her not to go, but instead he said, "I don't want you to go, but I understand why you have to."
"Do you?"
"I understand dreams, Clea. Believe me, I wish our dreams were the same."
She smiled sadly. Was she remembering that at one time their dreams had been the same? They'd been happy that last summer, full of plans and hope for the future.
"Thanks for coming tonight," she said.
"Thanks for asking me."
Her lips parted, and he moved a little closer to her. It would be easy to kiss her. But as much as he wanted to kiss her, he wanted to earn her respect more. If he tried to kiss her he might scare her away, and he didn't want to do that. "I should go."
"All right."
Did he detect a little regret in her words? He hoped so. "Thanks for dinner. It's the best meal I've eaten in years." She'd given him a taste of what it felt like to be a family, and no matter what happened between them, he'd never forget tonight.
"You're welcome." She followed him to the door.
He took his jacket from the coat rack.
She smiled and those wet lips of hers beckoned to him.
He swore he could smell the watermelon. His insides seized up with lust. His hand closed over the doorknob. "Good night."
"Good night, Nick."
Outside, he took in a giant gulp of air. Cold air surrounded him, and he prayed for it to cool him down, because no one set him on fire like Clea Rose.
Chapter Ten
Clea stared at her reflection in the mirror inside Elizabeth Spencer's shop. The tiara on her head caught the
overhead lights, sparkling in a thousand different directions. The crown was beautiful, she couldn't deny it, but it wasn't her. She'd never wanted to be a princess. She brought her fingers up to touch the white bandage on her forehead, thinking of Nick, of the tender care he'd given her. The irony of the situation struck her. She was trying on her bridal headpiece. She should be thinking of her groom, not her ex-boyfriend.
"I can't wait until that bandage comes off," Vivian said, her reflection joining Clea's in the mirror. "It's unsightly. The tiara, however, is stunning."
"It's beautiful, but I think I'm going to have to pass."
"Why?" Her mother reached up to touch the glittering jewels. "It's you. You can wear your hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. You have such a natural beauty."
"That's the key word, natural," Clea said. "The tiara doesn't feel natural to me. Why can't I just weave some flowers into my hair? Maybe some baby's breath. Something simple."
"That's common, Clea." Vivian's mouth turned down into a frown. "This is a society wedding. Flowers just aren't done, honey."
"It's my wedding." The minute Clea said the words something freed inside of her. "I want to do things my way."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Vivian asked. "What are you saying, Clea?"
"I'm saying this isn't me. Not the gown, not the gloves, and certainly not the tiara. Look at me, Mom. I like jeans. I like leather."
"Are you saying you want to be married in black leather?" her mother asked, her voice rising.
"No. I just want you to listen to me. Why can't you just listen to me for once?" Years of frustration spurred Clea on. She had so many things she wanted to say, to do. She'd kept silent for too long.
"Really, Clea!" Vivian glanced around the shop and Clea knew she was checking to see who might be overhearing her crazy daughter this time.
With a sigh, Clea pulled the tiara from her head. "I don't want to argue with you."
"Why must you always make everything difficult?" her mother whispered. "I know what's best."
"For you, maybe, but not for me." As long as she could remember Vivian had been giving her orders, making choices for her.
"Well for heaven's sake, what do you want?"
Her first impulse was to say, I want Nick. The realization froze Clea's vocal cords and made her heart skip a beat. Where had that thought come from?
"Well?" Vivian said, clearly losing patience. "You had plenty to say a few minutes ago. I asked you a question. What do you want?"
"I don't know." She pushed her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into order.
"You don't know?" Vivian took the tiara from Clea's hand. "Well, then let me tell you what you want. You want to marry Robert Bloomfield. You want a stable, mature role model for your son. If there are any wayward thoughts running around in your head that involve Nick Lombard, I suggest you push them from your mind, Clea Rose. I won't stand by and let you throw your life away on a murderer, a man with no future. It just isn't done. Not in our family."
Clea met her mother's reflection in the mirror. Eyes as hard as chips of gray granite stared at her and Clea realized for the first time just how much her mother hated Nick.
"What did Nick ever do to you?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Other than being born poor, of course."
"He stole you from me. He impregnated my little girl and drove her from my life." Vivian spun away, going to the window. "I lost years with you because of that man."
Clea followed, standing beside Vivian. Her mother gripped the edge of the windowsill.
"Nick didn't drive me away, Mom."
Her mother sucked in a breath. "Don't say it, Clea. Don't you dare." She kept her eyes on the street outside.
"All right, but I want you to understand. I was in love with Nick. Yes, he frightened me at first. Yes, he broke my heart. But when we were together he loved me unconditionally. You can't imagine how strange that was for me. He loved me for who I am. Nick told me once that he didn't want to change a thing about me. Not a single thing. Do you know what that meant to me? I had trouble understanding that at first, because nothing I did or said was ever good enough for you and dad."
Vivian turned to face her, her hand on her heart. "I love you, Clea." Her eyebrows drew together, as if she were in pain. "I only wanted what was best for you. I couldn't let you throw your life away. All I ever wanted was for you to marry well, for people to see that the Roses were as good as Bloomfields."
"But that's silly. Why do we care what people think?" Her mother's face contorted with pain. Clea reached for her, realizing that Vivian wasn't just being dramatic. Her color was off. Sweat beaded her brow. "Mom, what's wrong?"
Vivian crumpled, her weight sagging against Clea.
"Elizabeth," Clea shouted. She caught her mother in her arms, going down to the floor with her. "Call 911. Mom. Oh, God. Mom, can you hear me?" Clea's heart raced. She couldn't lose her mother, not now, like this.
"I love you, Clea," Vivian said, her voice weak.
"I love you too, Mom."
A slight smiled touched her mother's lips as her eyes fluttered closed.
* * *
Nick heard about Vivian Rose's attack by mid-afternoon. He'd have heard about it sooner, but he'd been in Bradley with Billy at the bank, filling out the loan papers, and meeting with the web designer he'd hired.
He'd come home in a great mood, ready to celebrate his first steps toward owning his own business, then old man Mullin had told him about Vivian. He couldn't help but feel her attack had something to do with him.
When several hours had passed and Clea still hadn't come home, he'd really started to worry. He'd called the hospital to check on Vivian's condition, but they wouldn't release any information to non-family members. He didn't dare go to the hospital; not only wouldn't Boomer want him there, Vivian wouldn't want him there either.
Frustrated and worried, he finally went to bed around ten o'clock. He hadn't been in bed more than a couple of minutes when he heard the slam of a car door. He got up and went to the window.
Boomer's BMW was parked at the curb. He watched as Boomer pulled John from the car and carried him upstairs, Clea following behind. John must have gone to sleep on the drive home. What would it feel like to carry his son in his arms? Would he be heavy and warm with sleep? The thought tortured him.
The lights went on in Clea's apartment. The lamp went on in John's room. Nick pictured Boomer putting his son to bed and the image turned his stomach. More than anything he wanted to go over to Clea's. He wanted to be the one to carry John to his room, put him to bed. He wanted to be the one to comfort Clea, to make her a cup of tea, to rub her back or hold her hand. Instead, he resisted the urge to go across the street. A confrontation with Boomer wouldn't do any of them any good.
The lamp in John's room went out. A few minutes later he heard the unmistakable sound of Boomer's car starting. Before the car pulled away from the curb Nick picked up the phone and punched in Clea's number.
"Hello," she said on the second ring.
"It's me."
"Oh, Nick." He could hear the dismay in her tone, and he prayed she hadn't gotten bad news.
"I heard about your mother. I've been going crazy waiting for you to get home. How is she?"
"They're keeping her overnight for observation. They aren't sure what's wrong yet. The doctor thinks it was a panic attack."
"That doesn't sound too bad," he said, relieved at the diagnosis.
"She collapsed in my arms this afternoon," Clea told him. "I've never been so frightened in my life. I thought she was having a heart attack. It was…"
She broke off, and Nick waited. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," she said, the word shaky. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."
"Is John asleep?" he asked.
"Yes, he went out like a light on the way home."
"I'm coming over."
"No," she said unconvincingly. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"I'm
afraid if I see you I'll crumble."
He heard the catch in her voice and made his decision. "You can crumble with me, Princess. That's what I'm here for. Unlock the door. I'm on my way."
* * *
Clea replaced the receiver. She had been doing fine until she'd heard Nick's voice on the other end of the line, so fine she'd sent Robert home without a second thought. Nick's offer of comfort was different. Just hearing his voice on the phone broke her will to resist him. She wanted him to come over, to make her feel better, even if it was just for a few minutes.
She unlatched the door and went onto the dark landing to meet him. She didn't flip on the light, and darkness surrounded her. He came up the enclosed stairwell, two steps at a time, and then she was in his arms.
Nick's leather jacket hung open and Clea buried her face against his T-shirt, the scent of fabric softener comforting. Her arms went around him, her hands sliding up the soft, worn jacket. This jacket felt like home to her, real. Nick's spicy scent wrapped around her and she drew strength from his body, a body she used to know so well.
"Are you okay?" he whispered against her hair.
"No." But she knew she would be, now that he was here.
One of his hands found its way into her hair. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and an answering warmth flowed through her body. His lips brushed against her temple, the touch feather light. Clea tipped her head back. A low moan left her lips as his mouth grazed her cheek.
"This is wrong," she whispered, her heart not in her words. "I'm engaged."
"Break the engagement." His lips touched hers.
Clea opened her mouth to him, kissing him like a starved woman. Her hands fanned against his back. She held him to her, molded her body to his. She didn't want to think about today, or about her future. For now, she wanted to feel something other than fear and anxiety and emptiness.
His hands touched the bare skin under her sweater. With a feather-light touch his fingers moved up her back, to her bra. A single snap and he freed the lacy undergarment.
Clea's eyes closed as his hands found her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples. A spiral of desire beat low in her belly, building into a raw lust she'd never experienced with anyone but Nick. He made her forget everything but him, the way he tasted, the way his skin felt under her fingers. She tugged his shirt from his jeans and slipped her hands underneath. Warm skin met her fingers, unforgettable skin. He pulled her sweater up. She slid his shirt up and leaned full into him, skin to skin. Her nipples hardened against his chest and this time he moaned.