“Son?”
He turned toward his father.
“Does this have anything to do with your decision to move back? You didn’t get into trouble down there in Houston, did you? You aren’t running away from something?”
“No, Pop. It’s nothing to do with Houston.” With a sigh, he changed the subject. “What time is Mom expecting you home?”
“In another fifteen minutes. Why don’t I call and tell her that I’m going to be late? We can go someplace quiet and talk.”
Talk. Ordinarily Nick would welcome the chance to go someplace quiet and talk with his father. Between Antonio’s obligations to the business, the community, his parents, his wife and each of his eight children, private time with Antonio had always been hard to come by. But Nick didn’t anticipate it tonight, the way he always had in the past. Tonight the best he could do was talk circles around what was really bothering him, taking care to give not even the slightest hint that Antonio could make a guess from. It would worry his father and frustrate him, and he would go home feeling no better than he did right now.
He summoned his best smile. “Nah, I’m kind of tired. I’m going to head home.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I’ve always known that, Pop. You’ve always been there for me.” The way he wanted to always be there for Amelia Rose. He wanted to follow his father’s example. He wanted to make him proud, and someday twenty or thirty years down the line, he wanted Amelia Rose to be proud.
And one of the big steps toward reaching that goal was giving her a home and a loving family, which included persuading her mother to marry him.
He gave his father a hug, then left the restaurant the same way he had entered. This time he managed the drive to Michael’s apartment without changing his mind.
The place was quiet, dimly lit by one lamp and about as welcoming as an anonymous motel room. As apartments went, it was typical — white walls, gold carpet, sliding doors opening onto a narrow balcony, compact spaces and the same floor plan as about a million other apartments in the state of Texas. It was similar to the place where he’d lived in college, nearly identical to the apartment he’d rented in Houston before buying the condo. It was perfectly suitable housing, but it had a temporary feel about it. People came and went, staying six months, a year, maybe even two. He could probably come back in five years and not a single one of the current residents would still be there.
Faith’s house would always be there.
So would Faith.
And — with help from God, the family and anyone else he could call on — he would be there, too.
He’d known she wouldn’t react kindly to any proposal of marriage right now, and he could even understand why she had found his particularly unwelcome. Except for the last few years, she’d lived her entire life made to feel as if she were a burden. Her parents had abandoned her, her grandparents had rejected her, and her great-aunt had taken her in only out of a sense of duty. None of them had ever seen her as the unique, special person that she was. To them, she had been something to be passed on or a responsibility that couldn’t be ignored.
Now she believed that he was proposing marriage solely because of his responsibility to Amelia Rose, that she was the burden he was willing to accept in exchange for getting to be with his daughter.
And she was right...wasn’t she?
If the baby was the only reason he’d come back here, the only reason he’d committed himself to the idea of marriage, why did it bother him so much that he couldn’t remember that night with Faith? Why did he feel queasy inside when those blue eyes of hers turned distrusting, wary or hurt?
He had to admit that there was something between them — some connection, some sharing — that had little to do with Amelia Rose.. There was the desire he’d felt for her, the dreams in which she’d haunted him, that aching sense of familiarity when he’d held her in his arms tonight. There was the pleasure he found in her company, talking and listening, just being with her or waiting for one of those rare smiles. There was the protectiveness he’d felt every time someone had gossiped about her. And there was his absolute certainty that getting married was the right thing to do — not just for Amelia Rose, but for them, too. He felt it down in his soul.
She could deny it until she was blue in the face, but there was more than their daughter between them. They had the foundation to turn their relationship into something stronger, more solid, lasting till the end of time. Or they could deny it, ignore it, concentrate solely on the baby and let whatever potential they shared wither and die.
There was no doubt in his mind what he wanted.
Now he simply had to convince Faith.
Faith awakened Wednesday morning to the insistent ringing of her alarm. Holding a pillow over her head with one hand, she flung out the other to connect with the snooze button on top of the small clock. It didn’t stop the noise, though. Rising groggily from the pillow, she looked around the room, then realized that it was the doorbell. Nick, she thought with a scowl. Who else would come by her house at seven in the morning?
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then pulled her robe on as she slid to her feet. Just as she made it to the top of the stairs, her alarm clock started beeping, a shrill, insistent sound guaranteed to rouse even the soundest of sleepers. Hesitating, she considered expending the effort to go back and shut it off, then shrugged and started a slow descent down the stairs to the front door.
She was right. It was Nick, holding in one hand a brown paper bag from which wafted all kinds of wonderful scents and, in the other, two large cups. “Did I wake you?”
Shoving her hair straight back from her face, she glowered at him. “Of course not. Why, it’s seven o’clock. What kind of slug stays in bed that late?”
He gave her a perfectly innocent, straight-faced look. “No wonder I left so early last February. You’re cranky in the morning.”
“I am not.” Steam rising from the vent in the lid of one of the two cups distracted her. “Is that coffee?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You can come in, but don’t talk to me.” Leaving him to close the door, she shuffled down the hall into the parlor. She had banked the fire before going to bed last night, so there was nothing but cold ash beneath the grate. She should have turned the heat on when she passed the thermostat, she realized, but instead of going back, she sat down on the sofa and pulled a heavy quilt over her. With her flannel nightgown and cotton robe, it helped some, but her feet were bare and slowly turning to icicles.
Nick disappeared into the kitchen, then returned a moment later with two plates of food and the foam cups. He set them on the table in front of her, then left again. The rumble of the heater coming on preceded his return. “You always sleep with it cold?” he asked as he settled onto the floor in front of her. She watched him, envying his easy grace. Once she had moved like that, so easily, so fluidly. On mornings like this, stiff and feeling every single ounce of the extra bulk she carried, she doubted that she would ever move like that again.
With a sigh, she pushed aside the jealousy and turned to his question. She did normally keep the house cold at night — heating bills on a house this size were substantial, and she always slept under warm covers — but she wasn’t in the mood to admit so. “Just because I let it get cold last night doesn’t mean I always do.”
“It was cold that night in February. I remember the iron rails on that old bed. They were like ice.”
Hoping the heat seeping into her throat and face came from the afghan and not intimate memories, she answered grumpily. “The house had been full of people that night, so of course I hadn’t turned the heat on high. When I went upstairs with you, I had every intention of going straight back down.”
“Do you regret that?” he asked softly.
“Going upstairs with you?”
“Not going straight back down.”
She wanted to say yes, just to see what effect it ha
d on him, but she was a lousy liar, as he’d pointed out before. Besides, even if she managed to appear halfway convincing, he still wouldn’t believe her. He knew too well how she felt about Amelia Rose to ever believe that she regretted the night that had brought her daughter into being. “No,” she admitted. “What I regret is ever letting you know your role that night.”
“Letting me know?” he echoed. “Sweetheart, I figured it out on my own. You certainly weren’t forthcoming with the details, and what you did tell me in the beginning was mostly lies.”
Ignoring the truth of what he said, she leaned forward to pick up the nearest foam cup. Anticipating the first sip of richly brewed coffee in — well, she couldn’t remember how long, she pulled the lid off...and stared into a cup of pulpy, fresh-squeezed orange juice. She raised her gaze to him. “I want coffee.”
“You don’t need coffee. All that caffeine isn’t good for the baby.”
“If I’m going to face you first thing in the morning, I want coffee.”
“Orange juice is good for you.” He pulled the lid from his own cup, dumped a couple packets of sugar in along with two little containers of cream and stirred it with a fork. She watched greedily as he lifted it, preparing to drink, then almost smiled when he reluctantly offered it to her. “A drink, that’s all.”
She took the cup, her fingers brushing his before wrapping around the warm foam. For a moment she simply closed her eyes and savored the aroma. Then she took a tentative sip. “This is Sue Ellen’s coffee, isn’t it?” No one in New Hope made coffee the way the proprietor of the diner did. No matter how miserable the day, a cup of Sue Ellen’s coffee made it better.
“Yeah. She said to tell you good morning.”
She opened one eye, then the other, giving him a narrow, suspicious look. “You’re lying,” she decided.
“She said you would complain about the orange juice but to tell you that it’s good for you. She also said that you come in occasionally for breakfast and that your favorite is scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns with cheese and buttery biscuits.”
Her scowl returned, proportional to his grin. “Now I know you’re lying, because my favorite breakfast is pancakes with peanut butter and maple syrup.” But eggs, bacon, hash browns and biscuits were a close second.
He handed her a plate, napkin and fork, then started on his own food. “I really didn’t mean to wake you,” he remarked as he spread jelly on the biscuit. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone in the world wakes up early just because I do.”
“I’m usually up by six.” She made the admission with her mouth full, then swallowed. “Lately I’m just so tired.”
“You’re carrying an entire person inside you. Gee, maybe that’s why.” Adding bacon, he made a sandwich of the biscuit, then leaned back on one hand while he ate. “Isn’t it normal to take a few days off just before giving birth and rest?”
“And who would run the shop?”
“Who’s going to run it after the baby’s born?”
“Beth’s mother, but only for two weeks. That was all the time she could spare.”
“There must be someone else in town who can read price tags, run the cash register and restock displays.”
She shook her head, although she knew he must be right. All she would have to do was run an ad in the New Hope Journal. Temporary help at this time of year would be easy to find. But she didn’t want to ask for help, and she didn’t want to pay out any more of the shop’s profits than necessary. She made a comfortable living — and was coming into her most profitable month of the year — but she still felt a little anxiety deep inside. After all, she would be supporting two soon, and it was important that her daughter’s life be secure in every way.
“Then why don’t you just close the store for a few days?”
“It’s December,” she protested. “People are starting their Christmas shopping. I can’t afford to close up for a few days.”
This time he was the one scowling. “Oh, pardon me for thinking that your health might be a little more important than the Christmas rush.”
Some part of her was touched by his concern. Some smaller part wondered if it was genuine. “My health is fine. I’m just a little tired. Someone insisted on coming over last night and arguing with me for two hours. It made it kind of hard to fall asleep.”
Whatever response she expected from him, it wasn’t the grin that brightened his eyes. “Payback, sweetheart. You’ve cost me a hell of a lot more than one night’s sleep in the past nine months. Sometimes I could see you. Sometimes I could feel you. Sometimes I could smell that perfume you wear.” His eyes turned shadowy and his voice grew huskier. “I can’t even begin to count the number of nights I woke up hard and hot and this close to...”
Her mouth went dry as she stared at him. Just last night she had insisted that those dreams had nothing to do with her. This morning she wanted to believe that he’d dreamed about her. She wanted to believe that, in some way, he had been as affected by their few hours together as she had been. She especially wanted to believe that she could make him hard and hot and this close to...
He finished his breakfast, pushed his plate away and rested both arms on the table. “So you won’t take time off and you won’t close the shop,” he said. “How about some temporary help?”
How did he do that? she wondered. How could he talk about sex in that throaty, husky voice and then, in the next moment, return to their earlier conversation as if it had never been interrupted? “What kind of temporary help?” she asked, partly suspicious and still partly unbalanced.
“The cheap, charming kind. I’ll probably be hanging around down there anyway, so why not let me work?”
The suspicion was well deserved. “No.”
“Why not? I’m not an idiot, Faith. I can learn to run a cash register. I can deal with people. You can stretch out on the sofa in the storeroom, prop up your feet and supervise. You won’t have to close the shop, you’ll get some rest, and it won’t cost you a thing. I’ll work for free.”
“You’ll annoy me for free. How generous of you,” she said sarcastically. “No. It’s a lousy idea.”
“Why?”
“What would people say?”
He got to his feet as easily and smoothly as she’d known he would, came around the table and sat down on the edge of the cushion right beside her. “Who gives a damn what people say? They’re all going to know the truth in a few days anyway.”
“You don’t have to tell anyone right away,” she mumbled, fumbling with the belt knotted over her stomach. “You could wait until they figure it out on their own.”
Reaching out, he lifted her chin so that the only way to avoid his gaze was to close her eyes. She didn’t. “Right, Faith. I’ll just let Mom and Pop and my sisters and grandparents and everyone else find out about my daughter when they figure it out on their own. They would disown me, and they wouldn’t be too happy with you. That’s not the best way to begin a relationship with them.”
“It wouldn’t take them long to guess,” she said, managing to lower her gaze to the ribbed neck of his T-shirt. “Why else would you be hanging around me?”
He moved his fingers along her jaw, a gentle caress that made her clench the muscles there tighter. “Maybe because you’re a lovely woman,” he said softly. “Maybe because you’re smart, capable and independent, but you still manage to rouse every protective instinct I’ve got. Maybe because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. Hell, Faith, who knows what draws people to each other?”
She knew — in this instance, at least. It was Amelia Rose he wanted, not her.
And that knowledge damned near broke her heart.
Chapter 8
Nick sat on the couch, propped his feet on the coffee table and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. Faith was upstairs, the sound of running water indicating that she was taking the shower she’d been mumbling about as she disappeared down the hall. She had thanked him for the breakfast a
nd invited him to leave, but he had no intention of doing so, not unless she left with him.
A clock chimed somewhere, drawing his attention to his watch. Eight o’clock in the morning, and it already promised to be a long day. He didn’t mind long hours — didn’t mind hard work, either, which was good. Judging from her earlier question — Why else would you be hanging around me? — winning Faith over was going to take a lot of both.
A better question in most people’s minds, he thought scornfully, would be why she was letting him hang around. Even his own parents didn’t want her involved with him. Even they had suspected that he might use her, then walk away.
How could he blame her for not trusting him, either?
And how in the world could he change her mind?
Feeling restless, he left the couch and walked around the room, but he’d seen all there was to see last night. He’d already taken a few minutes to wash their breakfast dishes, so there was nothing requiring his attention in the kitchen. The formal living room at the front of the house was too dreary a room for so bright a day, and the study across the hall didn’t interest him.
What did interest him was upstairs. The nursery. The guest room where he’d slept — where they’d made love. And Faith.
He rested his hand lightly on the balustrade and stepped onto the first tread. After a moment’s hesitation—a brief moment’s guilt at giving himself free run of someone else’s house — he climbed to the top and stopped. If he turned left in the hallway, then right into one of the back bedrooms, he would be in Amelia Rose’s room. The room on the left was Faith’s. Sandwiched between the nursery and the front bedroom was a bathroom, its closed door muffling the splash of water. That left the two front rooms.
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