“It’d be easier on me if I took a . . .”
“Date?” she asked. “Jesus, it has been too long. You can’t even say the word.”
“—date to this thing.” Frowning, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I go up Saturday morning, come back Sunday afternoon. What do you say?”
What was she supposed to say? She’d planned on fixing him up with someone else. Not herself.
Mike didn’t date fixer-uppers.
But damn it, he was kind of cute.
In a nerd-prince sort of way.
Then she thought about that kiss, damn it. And it had been a long time since she’d been out with anyone who could stir her up like that—even if he was a Weird Science guy.
“Separate rooms?” she asked, because hey, you should always check these things out in advance, and if she changed her mind later, well then, she could change her mind. But she’d been out with guys before who figured that springing for a fifty-dollar dinner also entitled them to Mike as dessert.
He frowned at her. “I said a date—not sex.”
There was that insulted look again.
“Fine. Take it easy. Just asking.” She tipped her head to one side to study him for a long minute. His dark brown eyes met hers steadily and she wished for one moment that she could actually know what he was thinking. Then she remembered he was some sort of genius and she probably wouldn’t understand anything she read in his mind anyway, so what would be the point?
He muttered something else, then said louder, “Do you want to go or not?”
“Sure,” she said before she could say no. “Why not?”
“Okay, then.” He nodded, revved the engine, then glanced at her again. “So. Thanks, I think, for all the ‘help’ today.”
“You’re welcome.” He gunned the engine again and the sleek little convertible roared like a mini Tiger. Apparently, he was expecting her to bail out and get gone. She stayed put and enjoyed the sizzle of frustration on his face. The nerd prince was turning out to be even more surprising than she’d thought.
“Are you just going to sit here the rest of the day?”
She grinned. “I was thinking about it.”
He sighed. “You want some coffee?”
“You buying?” She perked right up at the offer of coffee, and seriously, what red-blooded female wouldn’t?
“Why not?” he grumbled as he shut off the engine. “I bought everything else today.”
“Rocket man, I like your style.”
Both dark eyebrows lifted. “Rocket man?”
“Yeah.” She opened her car door, but paused to smile at him. “Rocket scientist, rocket man, get it?”
He laughed, and God, when his mouth curved, it did some pretty spectacular things to her belly.
“I told you. I’m not a rocket scientist.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mike teased, still smiling at him, “but ‘nano man’ sounds so lame.”
He thought about it and nodded. “True.”
“So, you up for one of Stevie’s cinnamon rolls, too?”
“Are they good?” he asked as he stepped up onto the sidewalk and waited for her.
“Good?” Mike laughed, threaded her arm through his, and promised, “Your mouth is about to get a helluva treat.”
“Another one?”
Her stomach jittered, but her steps didn’t falter and neither did her smile.
Ohboyohboyohboy.
Going away for the weekend with Rocket Man just might be a little more dangerous than she’d figured.
6
“Your father is the most stubborn man on the face of the planet.”
“Yow!” Startled, Mike jumped, then thunked her head on the elbow joint beneath the sink in the second kitchen at Grace Van Horn’s house. Scooting out from under, she rubbed at the throbbing spot, looked at the woman pacing, and said, “Hi, Grace. What’s new?”
The tiny woman in designer slacks and shirt, not to mention enough gold jewelry to sink a rowboat, huffed out a breath then sucked in another one before speaking again. While she talked, she walked, briskly paced little steps, the heels of her shoes clacking noisily on the Italian tile floor. “It’s your father.”
“I got that much.” Mike pulled her hand away from the knot on her skull and checked for blood. Not that she wasn’t interested in what was going on with Papa, but if she was bleeding, she wanted to know about it in time to keep from dying or something. Nope. No blood. Just mind-numbing pain.
Grumbling a little, she squinted into the afternoon sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Grace Van Horn, somewhere around the age of sixty, looked like a white-haired pixie. Her hair was short and stylish, her dark eyes were usually sparkling with good humor, and she pretty much flitted from one place to another. But at the moment, she looked like she wanted to slam the toe of her elegant, sling-back heel into someone’s backside.
“It’s at least ninety out there in the sun today.”
Mike stood up and raked a quick look across the compound. Most of the crew had left for the day, but there were a few guys left, tidying up some last-minute jobs.
Last weekend, the weather had been autumnish.
Last weekend.
Saturday.
She’d spent the whole day with Lucas, shopping, talking, kissing. Mike blinked and shook the thought away, like a big dog coming out of a lake. Naturally, the thought came skittering right back.
Insidious, really.
She’d been working herself half to death for the last few days, trying to keep her mind off Lucas and The Kiss, which she’d now started thinking of in capital letters—and, God help her, The Date.
Why in the hell had she agreed to go away for the weekend with him? And more importantly, why wasn’t she backing out?
Well, she knew the answer to that one. Mike Marconi never backed down. She’d done all the running she’d ever do back when she was sixteen. And hadn’t that ended well?
Nope. She’d go through with the date, suffer through boring speeches and even more boring scientist talk, then maybe she’d kiss Lucas again and then she’d come home.
No.
Wait a minute.
There would be no more kissing.
None whatsoever.
Probably.
“Mike!”
Grace’s voice, set at a pitch designed to make dogs deaf, rattled Mike enough to get her attention.
“The heat?” Grace demanded, staring up into Mike’s eyes impatiently. “Your father? Sunstroke?”
“Right.” Damn. Even when he wasn’t around, Lucas was making life harder.
Grace was right. Last weekend, the weather was nice. Today, summer had apparently decided to charbroil Chandler one last time.
All summer the Marconis had been here, working at Grace’s. She always paid well, but most of the extra money went to buy aspirin. Working with Grace was like working with a millionaire child. She just couldn’t make up her mind—there was always something new that she’d heard of. Or something she wanted to try.
Every year, the construction firms in the area took turns working for Grace; this time the Marconis had been up to bat. But now that the summer of hell was winding down, Mike was feeling relaxed enough—except for her throbbing skull—to actually wonder what the latest fuss was about.
“Yeah, it’s hot, but—”
Grace stepped up closer to her, lifted one hand and pointed through the window. “Everyone with an ounce of common sense is in the shade. Or inside.”
“Sure, but—”
“But not your father.” Grace stamped one foot against the ground and a tiny cloud of dust rose up from the floor and settled over the toe of her brown leather shoe. Mike winced, glad she wasn’t going to be in charge of cleaning the mess construction left behind.
“The man has a head like rock, Mike.”
She had to smile. How often had she heard her own mother make the same complaint? Until, of course, the ugly year. The year when Mama had gotten sick th
en slowly withered away until the only thing recognizable about her was her smile.
Mike lifted one shoulder, easing that memory away, and looked through the window toward her father. Hank Marconi wasn’t a tall man. But his short body was muscular, even for a man of sixty-five. His shoulders were broad, his hands huge and work worn, and his full, gray beard neatly trimmed. Some of the kids in Chandler were absolutely convinced that Papa Marconi was actually Santa Claus. Which delighted Papa no end.
But as Mike watched him now, she noticed that his features were bright red, sweat ran down his face, and he seemed to be breathing heavily.
“I told him to come inside and have some tea, but he refuses to quit until he’s finished that ridiculous gate for the goat shed.” Grace was furious, but Mike caught the undercurrent of concern in her voice.
Shifting position uncomfortably, Mike winced as the memory of what Sam had said about Grace and Papa reared to life in her brain. Oh, man. She so didn’t want to think about that.
“Don’t worry, Grace,” she said quickly, before a vision of Grace and Papa caught in a lip-lock could invade her mind. “Papa knows what he’s doing.”
Though even as she said it, she wondered.
“A man his age, standing around in the afternoon sun, working himself half to death over a ridiculous goat gate,” Grace muttered.
It was ridiculous. But Mike hesitated to point out that the stupid gate was Grace’s fault. It had been one of the older woman’s many “changes” to the plans. Scrolled woodwork lined the top of the gate and had to be fastened to the solid oak doors with dozens of finishing screws. Why Grace’s cashmere and angora goats needed a decorative gate in the first place was beyond Mike.
But she knew her father was stubborn enough to stand in the sun until he dropped rather than admit that he was uncomfortable.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Good luck to you.”
Grace marched off and Mike shrugged as she dropped her wrench into the toolbox and left the kitchen through the side door. “Trouble in paradise, I guess,” she murmured as she stepped into the blast of afternoon heat.
Waving to a couple of the guys as they packed up the equipment, Mike felt concern spike inside her. The closer she walked to her father, the more worried she was. He really didn’t look well at all. His blue eyes were glassy and his hands shook as he wielded the power drill.
“Papa—”
Instantly, he shut off the tool, let his arms drop to his sides, and looked around at her. Forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said, “Almost finished.”
That about covered it, Mike thought guiltily. She should have been paying more attention to him. He wasn’t a young man anymore and it had been unusually hot today. Hardly a breath of air stirred the trees around them—and standing directly in the sun made it seem even hotter. “Papa, why don’t you let me finish that?”
“What?” His gaze snapped to hers. “Since when do you do my work?”
“Since I’m finished and it’s really hot and you look—”
“What?” he argued, throwing his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “I look what?”
“Tired?”
He scowled at her, and just for a moment, Mike was sixteen again. That niggling curl of dread settled in the pit of her stomach just as it used to when he gave her a look that said he was both furious and disappointed.
“Grace sent you out here, didn’t she?”
Mike nodded and reminded herself she wasn’t sixteen anymore and Papa knew it. “She’s worried.”
“She doesn’t have to be. I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” Mike said dryly, “I can see that.”
“Don’t you be smart, Michaela.” He shook the electric drill at her as if it were a pointer. “I’m still the papa around here.”
Male egos. Touchy. In this situation, Sam would back down, tell Papa that he was worrying her. Jo would work Papa with a few wisely chosen words, figuring out a way to make him think that quitting was his idea.
Mike, though, worked differently. Always had. For better or worse, she just jumped in with both feet, and to hell with the consequences. “Yes, you’re the papa and you should know better than to stand in the hot sun without even wearing a hat, for God’s sake. You’d never let us get away with that.”
He scowled at her and she was glad of the beard. It hid the fact that his lips were no doubt thinned into a razor slash of disapproval.
“Papa,” she said, “you look crappy and it’s really hot out here. Would it kill you to go sit in the shade for a few minutes and cool down?”
“This is how you talk to your papa?” he demanded, his face getting, if possible, even redder than it had been a moment or two before.
“My papa has a hard head,” she countered, lifting her own chin in a mirror of his stance. “Like me. You always said that sometimes you had to shout at me just to get my attention. So . . .”
Heartbeats ticked by.
Somewhere a bird called and was answered by a dozen friends. A blessed breeze danced through the tops of the trees and tossed dappled shade across the dusty yard.
Mike held her breath and waited. Her head pounded, her mouth was dry, and a curl of worry kept trying to spread through her as she watched her father. Damn it. When had Papa gotten old? Sure, he wasn’t elderly or anything. Yet. But when had his hair gone completely gray? When had the lines around his eyes etched so deeply into his skin? And why the hell hadn’t she noticed?
He’d always been just Papa.
Unchanging.
There.
Her rock in the wildly swirling river that was her life.
It terrified her a little to see that rock wearing down. It horrified her to think of that rock one day not being there at all.
“Papa?” she said, her voice softer, less antagonistic. “Please?”
He frowned, then grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Shoving the cloth back into his work pants, he nodded. “It is hot. Maybe me and my girl should go sit in the shade and take a rest.”
Now that he’d given in, she felt better, and wanting to get them both back on their usual track, Mike winked, slung her arm over his shoulders, and steered him for the shade. “Your girl, huh? So, Papa, does that mean me? Or Grace?”
He stopped dead, turned his head and looked at her. Narrowing his eyes, he studied her for a long minute before his lips twitched. “Michaela,” he said, lifting one index finger to wave at her. “That smart mouth of yours is going to give you trouble one day.”
She kissed him and laughed. Everything was okay again. He’d never been able to stay mad at his daughters. The man had a heart as soft as his head was hard. “Then I’ll just run home to my papa. He’ll protect me.”
“Yes, he will,” Papa said, wrapping his thick, beefy arm around her waist and giving her a squeeze. “Your sisters? They know, too? About Grace?”
Mike laughed. “Please. We’re Marconis. Of course we know everything.”
He sighed and dropped into a lawn chair as Mike poured him some iced tea from the jug in the cooler. The deeply shaded spot was as welcoming as a sweet dip into a chilly pond. Papa accepted a glass, took a long drink, then winked up at her and said, “Girls are so bossy. I should have had boys.”
Grinning at the old complaint that meant absolutely nothing, Mike plopped down on the dirt at his feet and leaned her head against his knee. “You’d have missed us.”
“You’re right,” he said softly, one hand playing with Mike’s long blond braid. “I need my girls—and I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Me, either, Papa.” Mike closed her eyes and concentrated on the moment, etching this one tiny piece of time into her brain. “Me, either.”
Three days since the last time he’d seen her and Lucas still felt the residual effect of kissing Michaela Marconi. It helped him to think of her as Michaela, while remembering the incredible sensations she’d aroused in him. After all, a lover named
Mike wasn’t something he’d ever considered.
He laughed at the thought. Hell, there was absolutely nothing about Mike that wasn’t completely feminine. She smiled and her eyes lit up. She laughed and everyone around her lit up.
Rocket Man.
He grinned and caught himself. Damn it, he didn’t have time for this.
Shoving thoughts of Mike to one side, he focused on the computer screen and told himself to concentrate. His desk faced the window, most likely a big mistake. He’d probably spend too much time staring out at the pretty spectacular view.
From the second-story office at the back of the house, he could watch the wind dance across the surface of the lake. From his bedroom at the front of the house, he could almost catch a glimpse of a strip of ocean. When the wind hit the trees just right, they parted long enough for him to see that line of blue water where it met the blue sky and land and air dissolved into each other.
His yard was green and even now being filled with plants by a team of gardeners who spoke such rapid-fire Spanish that he missed most of the conversation, even though he spoke the language. The trees surrounding the house gave it a sense of peace and isolation that he’d been looking for when he left the lab.
A man more used to his own solitary company than to that of hordes of people needed quiet to work. Not that he was getting a hell of a lot of work done.
Scowling, he turned his gaze back to the computer screen, ignoring the near siren call of the wind battering the leaves and the birds singing and the soft sigh of the reeds dancing at the lake’s edge.
At long last, most of the work on the house was complete—so though he still heard the occasional hammer ringing, there was enough quiet to at least look at his research. He adjusted his glasses, then studied the lines of figures and notations scrolling past as he kept his finger on the mouse button. It had taken years of work to get this far—to know so much—and still nanotechnology was nowhere near being ready for general use.
But if they could keep donations coming in, keep increasing the money for research, then maybe, within the next ten years or so, nanotechnology would really be the miracle Lucas thought it could be.
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 8