by Day Leclaire
She stared at him in stunned disbelief. Then the corners of her eyes crinkled and her mouth tilted into a broad, quivering grin. "Oh, Alessandro. I should have known. Any other Salvatore would have taken one look at Nicky and allowed emotion to take over."
"I'm not like the others."
"True. But you'd begun to change. You were learning. The weeks you spent with Meg opened you up. It was quite amazing to watch. Maybe if you'd stayed longer in North Carolina, the changes would have taken." She caught her lip between her teeth. “Maybe Meg would have made more of an impact."
"Don't count on it."
She held up her hands in casual surrender, though he could tell his words had impacted harder than he'd intended. He'd have to be more cautious in the future. There was a difference between disengaging his emotions and acting like a coldhearted bastard. "All right, fine. If you'd rather keep your distance from your—" She broke off with a rueful shrug. "From Nick? Feel free. He's young enough that it won't do him any lasting harm, especially so long as I'm here to give him as much love and attention as he could want. The one you'll be hurtin' most is yourself."
"Another of your Southern homilies?" No doubt they were as much a part of her as her pride and the mountain spirit that imbued her with its essence. "Just what I need. A pint-size sprite without funds or a roof over her head landing on my doorstep and taking it upon herself to lecture me about my familial obligations and emotional welfare."
"Oh, I don't think the South has exclusive claim on that particular homily." She poked her index finger in his direction. "And I may be a pint-size woman without kith or kin, other than Nick, but at least I have my priorities straight—family first, last and in between. And at least I’m not hiding here when I should be with my relatives. Nor am I withholding my emotions from an innocent child."
"A child who might not be my son."
Her eyes flashed from a soft, powder-blue to an electric color that blazed with incandescent heat. "Why should that even matter? Do you only parcel out your affection to those you deem worthy? It can't possibly he because you're not sure whether or not he's true family. Family doesn't matter to you all that much, or you'd be with them, especially at this time of year.”
An unaccustomed anger ripped through him. “Drop it, Lauren. It’s none of your business."
"It is when it affects Nick. He deserves better than what you have to offer." Her voice softened and she held out a hand in appeal. "Where's your heart, Alessandro? What happened to the man I knew in North Carolina? How could you have forgotten your weeks there? It meant something to you. I know it did.”
He refused to explain, refused to believe the man she described even existed. "Assuming you're telling me the truth, that Alessandro is lost. He has been for a long time."
She flinched from his words, rejecting them with a quick, adamant shake of her head. "I can't accept that."
"You're going to have to."
She fought an internal battle, one he'd have given a hefty share of his bank balance to have listened in on. Was she going to call an end to this game? Or was she trying to determine her next line of attack? Once she realized emotional blackmail didn't work, perhaps she'd employ logic. Or maybe she'd wrap her arms around him and slip her wide, generous mouth over his. He closed his eyes. Oh, man. He definitely needed that coffee.
Finally, she gave a brisk nod. "I guess that's that. If you can't—or won't—remember, I have no choice.”
He'd regret asking this next question, but he asked anyway. "No choice about what?"
"I'm gonna find what you lost. I'm going to dig around until I uncover that other Alessandro."
Aw, hell. "No, Lauren. You're not."
"Oh, it's not for your sake." Determination settled over her, "Nick needs a daddy who can love him. He deserves to have the man I met in North Carolina. And I'm not leaving here until that's what he gets.”
CHAPTER THREE
Six days before Christmas…
She came to him again, all silk and sweetness and heady feminine perfume. They were outside in the snow, playing in the drifts like children. He could hear his own laughter, deep and clear, ringing through the crisp mountain air. She'd done that for him, he realized in amazement. She'd returned to him the joy of laughter. It had been a long time since he'd taken pleasure in the sheer simplicity of such a fundamental act.
She peeked at him from behind the trunk of an ancient oak, its mighty limbs bearing the hint of newborn leaves through the dusting of winter's last snow. She called to him. And finally, finally, he could hear her lilting voice. It joined them on some level, resonated straight through to the core of him, softening the hardness within and connecting with the most elemental part of his spirit. It was the voice of the mountains, rolling and proud and solid, and silvered with a generous helping of humor.
"Time's a’wastin’, boy. Catch me if you can."
"Who are you calling boy?" he demanded, charging after her.
Her bright laughter snagged at a place that had once held his heart, filling it, expanding it, inflaming it. The chase didn't last long. He captured her in his arms and they tumbled into a bed of powder-soft snow. Her long, cornsilk hair spread around her in a halo of rosy-gold, framing Rhonda's bold, handsome features and distinctive hazel eyes.
"Home is where your heart is, darlin’," she whispered. "Where do you keep your heart?”
"You'll always have it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
“And you’ll always have mine.”
She lifted her mouth to his and he was helpless to resist. He wanted her. Needed her.
Took her.
Alessandro awoke with a start, the fragments of his dream clinging with relentless determination. He groaned. Rhonda again. It defied understanding—not just because he continued to dream about a woman he hadn't loved in years, but also because the events in his dreams had never happened. It took a full minute to separate fantasy from reality and realize what had disturbed his sleep.
Lauren was up again, moving cautiously around the bedroom she shared with Nick. It had to be at least the third time tonight. Did year-old children wake so often? He knew from tales his brothers had told that newborns didn't allow their parents a lot of sleep, but hadn't known it continued for so many months. Her footsteps padded to the general location of the crib he'd dragged down from the attic. Then she slipped into the hallway and tiptoed to the living area and on toward the kitchen. At the sound of the outside door opening and closing, he tossed aside the covers and escaped his bed.
This couldn't be good.
A shadow of movement drifted along the side of the house past his bay window and Alessandro deliberately left his bedroom in darkness until he could determine her purpose. Moving to a more advantageous line of sight near the window seat, he saw Lauren standing not far from the protection of the overhanging eaves, staring out at the woods. The snowstorm had abated for the moment and a fitful moon peered through the heavy clouds, its light enveloping her.
She looked small and delicate in comparison to her surroundings. Alessandro thrust a hand through his hair, frowning. Her coat couldn't offer much protection, anymore than the bits of moth-eaten leather sewn together in a poor imitation of a pair of shoes. If she didn't come back in soon, he'd go out and insist she utilize an ounce of common sense. If she got sick, he'd have her to care for, as well as Nick. And even though he baby-sat his nephews on rare occasions and had a rudimentary knowledge of which end to feed and which to change, there'd usually been someone more experienced around to deal with all those nasty baby details.
"Cut the crap, Salvatore," Alessandro muttered beneath his breath. "Having to take care of her and the kid isn't what has you all worked up. Admit it."
He was worried about her.
As though conceding his point about her vulnerability, Lauren wrapped her arms around her waist and lowered her head in the face of the bitter ferocity of the wind. Reaching for the chain around his neck, Alessandro swo
re softly. When would he remember that it wasn't there anymore and that it never would be again? And when would he stop giving in to what could only be an emotional crutch? With a piercing shriek, the snowstorm resumed, spitting an endless barrage of icy shards earthward. And in the last twinkling of moonlight, before the clouds obscured it, he realized that Lauren's shoulders were quivering.
Dammit all! She was crying.
He didn't wait any longer. Yanking on a pair of jeans and snatching up a shirt, he raced from the room. He couldn't say why he felt such an overwhelming urgency. He only knew he had to get to Lauren and reassure her that they'd work everything out over the coming weeks. Thrusting his arms into his shirt sleeves, he didn't bother with the buttons, but charged barefoot from the warmth of the house, pelting flat-out through the icy snow to her side. He didn't waste time on discussion, but snatched her slight figure into the safety of his arms.
She didn't shriek in surprise or struggle against his hold, as he'd expected. Instead, she yielded, curling into him and wrapping her arms around his neck, a tiny hiccupping sob confirming his worst fears. She was crying. His response came without hesitation, arising from an instinct he'd have sworn he didn't possess. He enfolded her in a tighter embrace and whispered a gentle reassurance into her damp, silky hair.
She felt warm and soft and disturbingly feminine in his arms. He'd expected more angles than curves. But what he found was a ripeness of form, both sleek and womanly. Her unfettered breasts flattened against his bare chest, her shirt and jacket providing far too little coverage, for his peace of mind. It would seem he wasn't the only one to have thrown on whatever clothes came to hand before bolting from the house.
"Don't cry, Lauren." He fought to keep all trace of an Italian accent from his voice. It was too great a betrayal. "Everything will work out, you'll see."
"How did you know I was crying?" She buried her face in his shoulder. “I snuck outside so you wouldn't hear."
His mouth tugged upward. "Call it a wild stab in the dark.”
"Not so wild," she muttered.
"Okay, not so wild." He tromped toward the back door, the snow biting his toes into numbness. Apparently gallantry didn't come without a price—not that there was a chance in hell he'd have delayed getting to her while he wasted time shoving his feet into boots or grabbing a jacket. "The real question is why you're crying."
"Nothing. Everything."
"That explains it." This was his fault. He'd been too hard on her. He didn't have to deny fathering Nick right off the bat. He could have waited and let the lab results do the dirty work for him. "Listen... If you're worried about finances, Salvatores is always on the lookout for dedicated employees. We even have onsite child-care facilities. You can have Nick close by while we figure out who and where his father might be."
Her head jerked upward and she banged his shoulder with her fist. "You're his father, you idiot. And I've already found you."
He grimaced. So much for letting the test results do the dirty work for him. One of these days he might learn to keep his mouth shut. "Time will tell," he limited himself to saying. Entering the house through the back door, he released her. She paced in the direction of the kitchen while he stood on the throw rug just inside the house and wiped off the rapidly melting snow.
Turning to face him, her breath caught in a gasp. "You're barefoot!" she exclaimed. "Have you lost your ever-lovin' mind?"
"Me?" He snorted in disbelief. "Honey, I'm not the one outside in the middle of a snowstorm, in tears."
"I was thinking." She assumed a defensive posture, her chin set at a stubborn angle, her spine ruler-straight. "I have my best thoughts when I'm outside."
"Your best thoughts come in the middle of a blizzard while you're crying your eyes out?”
"In this case, yes." She glanced around. Spying a towel he'd set out as a dumping spot for muddy boots, she snatched it up and knelt, drying the snow from his feet. "At least I had a jacket and shoes, which is more than I can say for you. Honest to Pete, Alessandro," she scolded. "You haven't changed a bit. For a man who claims to be so logical, you can make the most illogical choices.”
"Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her upward. "Don't touch me like that.” The words escaped through gritted teeth. "Don't...don't wait on me.”
"Why ever not?" Her eyes were the faintest flash of blue in the dim entryway and a slight smile softened her mouth. "Do you think I'm demeaning myself?"
"Aren't you?"
"Is it demeaning to help? Is it demeaning to warm you after you showed such concern for me? I don't think so." She tossed the towel aside. "And neither do you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I suspect what's bothering you is somethin' far different than my drying your feet."
His senses sharpened, tuned to the hungry give-and-take of her breath, to the song of desire that underscored her words, to the scent of want that perfumed her. He found he couldn't answer. Not that she required one.
"Why can't I touch you, Alessandro?"
The question was an unmistakable provocation, though he doubted she realized it. But he did. He heard the challenge as clearly as if she'd shouted it and he reacted to the subtle mating call on the most elemental level. Sheer, raw instinct took over, rending his facade of calm and stripping all vestige of logic or dispassion. The word that escaped was in Italian, a fiery brand of possession.
He had do memory of snatching her into his arms. No memory of sinking his hands into her hair and tilting her head up a more advantageous angle. No memory of lowering his mouth to hers. All he knew was that one minute she stood apart from him and the next he'd joined her to him with a masculine aggression that couldn't be denied.
He didn't even bother with preliminaries. There wasn't the least need to accustom himself to the slant of her mouth or the feel of her lips or the taste of her. Nor was there any need to ease into the kiss. No initial sampling or exploring. Instead he closed his mouth over hers and plunged inward, demanding a response.
She exhaled in surprise, her breath mingling with his. And then she sank into him, her mouth open and fervent and deliciously hot. She slipped her hands inside his open shirt and splayed her fingers across his chest, warming their chill in the dark tangle of his hair. He shuddered in response. But whether it was from the coldness of her hands or from the delicate urgency of her touch he couldn't tell.
Unable to help himself, he deepened the kiss, voracious in the taking. He'd gone outside to rescue Lauren from her own foolishness. Now he needed someone to rescue him from his. Hunger drove all thoughts from his head, except one. He wanted this woman with a desperation he'd never felt before. Wanted to strip away the ill-fitting clothing and explore every inch of her, from the soft roundness of her breasts to the trim waist and belly to the gentle flare of her hips.
She was willing. Hell, she was eager. If he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his bed, she wouldn't offer a single word of protest. He sensed she might even welcome it, coming to him with a generous grace unlike any other woman he'd ever had.
Or was that how it had been with Meg? Had she been equally generous in her welcome?
The questions froze him more completely than the snowstorm outside. He swore viciously before he could catch himself Fortunately, it was in Italian, so he doubled Lauren understood, not that that minor detail made him feel any better about it. His tone had been harsh enough to suggest the intent of his words, if not their meaning. He snatched a quick breath, fighting to recover his equilibrium. Something about the woman in his arms seemed to inspire a loss of control. In fact, he suspected any control he presumed to possess around her was no more than wishful thinking.
"I'm sorry." He set her out of arm's reach, hoping it would be far enough. "I shouldn't have kissed you."
"Why did you?" she asked.
He shrugged, wrapping himself in his illusion of control. "I don't know.
Curiosity. Chemistry." His mouth pulled to one side. "Idiocy."
She searched his face. "Are you sure it wasn't something else?"
"To be honest, I suspect it was my feeble attempt to reassure you," he lied without compunction. "You'd been crying. And then you tried to take care of me when it should have been the other way around. I should have been the one offering comfort not you."
"Comfort." She said the word as though it left a bad taste in her mouth.
He suppressed a groan. Why did women always have to analyze everything—even an impulsive kiss? It must be a genetic imperative. Whatever caused the flaw, it was time to end the conversation before he got himself in any deeper. "I could use a few more hours' sleep. How about you?"
"Nick will be up soon," she warned.
''All the more reason to get back to bed. And I mean you, too." He eyed her critically. "I know exhaustion when I see it. You're not getting enough rest."
“I have a baby to care for.”
He took another wild stab in the dark. "It's more than that, isn't it?"
'"My sister." The words escaped with an effort. "It's been...rough."
An understatement if he ever heard one. "I have five brothers. I can't imagine having to face what you went through. I hope I never do.” He started to reach for her and caught himself at the last minute. Offering comfort again wasn't his best choice at this juncture. It would definitely lead to bed—though not to the sleep she needed so desperately. "You're not alone anymore, Lauren. Consider the Salvatores your family while we figure out why Meg named me as Nick's father."
"She named you because you are his daddy."
"Enough. Lauren." He cut her off without compunction. "We've been over that ground. It's pointless to go through it another time when we're so tired. It won't accomplish anything other than to aggravate us both.”