If I Loved You

by Kress, Alyssa

  Pattie didn't like being at a disadvantage. She didn't like feeling helpless or beholden. Heck, if her sister Savannah could have planned all of this, she couldn't have done a better job of driving Pattie crazy.

  But of course Savannah hadn't planned it. Pattie's petted, vain, difficult sister was dead.

  Pattie let out a slow breath. She fought down the confusing mixture of fury and guilt that thought always summoned. Right now, she needed to concentrate on today. And today, she didn't want this man around, this man who made her feel even more helpless than ever. No. There had to be someone else—anybody else—who could make Tristan laugh.

  Before Pattie was forced to conclude there was no such person, her doorbell chimed. She shot to her feet. At least she had an excuse to postpone her surrender.

  "Excuse me." Trying to look like she wasn't retreating, she strode from her office for the front door. She heard the tussle resume as soon as her back was turned. "I'm gonna get ya" and "No, you ain't" preceded scuffles and screeches.

  Pattie hoped her office wouldn't be destroyed while she was gone, but she had a feeling—an oddly sinking sensation—that Zane Kincaid was far too effective to let such a calamity occur.

  Pattie's landlord and downstairs neighbor was at the door. Michael Derby was tall, thin, and always expensively clad, even when he was wearing nothing fancier than jogging pants.

  Today he was wearing a 'casual' ensemble of pleated trousers and a polo shirt that had probably set him back a thousand dollars. His shaved head gleamed in the West Los Angeles sunshine.

  "Postman was early today." As Michael handed Pattie a stack of envelopes, his gaze went past her shoulder. "Who's the cute guy?"

  "My manny." In the background, Pattie could hear Zane still playing with Tristan. She inwardly moaned, realizing she'd described the guy as if she'd already hired him.

  "A manny." Michael's attention instantly sharpened. "Can I meet him?"

  Bringing up her mail had clearly been an excuse. "I thought you were dating Todd."

  "Oh, I am." Michael grinned. "But you can't blame a guy for looking."

  Pattie opened her mouth to tell Michael he needn't bother wasting energy on an obnoxious know-it-all, then decided to hold her tongue. She stepped back from the door. "Be my guest. They're in my office."

  Pattie watched Michael saunter down the hall while telling herself she wasn't being vindictive. Siccing Michael on Zane wasn't a cheap effort to get even with Zane for making her feel incompetent. Besides, the manny might even be gay. But she was smiling with decidedly feline satisfaction as she glanced down at the mail Michael had handed her.

  Her smile dropped as soon as she took in the top envelope. "Refused," was scrawled over the front of the certified letter, the one she'd sent last week. Nick hadn't even opened it. He hadn't even accepted delivery.

  Oh, boy. Whatever irritation she'd felt toward Zane Kincaid multiplied, sharpened, and shifted toward this far more familiar object: Nick. Refusing her letter was the last straw.

  Why should her life be in upheaval, while Nick wouldn't even deign to read about the child?

  It was the more infuriating in that Pattie felt she'd gone overboard in the restraint department. She had a lot to feel angry about, but she'd been patient. She understood it had been a shock to everyone, herself included, when Savannah had died at that nightclub party.

  But Nick wasn't suffering from shock. More like a severe case of deadbeat-itis. He'd never answered one of Pattie's phone calls, phone calls made with an heroic display of diplomacy. He hadn't replied to her emails, similarly self-controlled. So last week Pattie had sent the certified letter.

  A father was closer in blood than an aunt. Nick should have custody of Tristan. Nick should be the one dealing with overblown nannies. Nick should be the one acting as parent.

  Not Pattie.

  Pattie's fingers crushed the returned envelope. That bum could refuse to answer a phone, or even balk at opening a certified letter, but he couldn't avoid talking to Pattie if she were standing right in front of him. Especially if she were standing right in front of him with Tristan's hand in hers. His son.

  Reason tried to rear its ugly head, but three months of turmoil and frustration stamped it down, mixed with the unhappy prospect of having to hire Mr. Zane Kincaid. It was time for Nick to step up to the plate.

  Pattie whirled. She stalked down the hall.

  In her office, Zane was chatting with Michael while holding Tristan's neck in the crook of his elbow. The kid alternately struggled and giggled. Everyone stopped talking and stared when Pattie swept into the room.

  "We're going to the Getty Center," she announced.

  Michael's lips made an 'O.' He knew who worked at the Getty Center Museum. Meanwhile, Zane's brows dove downward and Tristan's smile transformed into an expression that looked like the precursor to a cry.

  Way to go, Pattie. Succeeding in the parent department, as always. She was terrifying the kid, poor thing. Trying her best to modulate her tone, she nevertheless heard it come out as flinty as before. "We have to leave now."

  Nick. How dare he refuse to deal with this, especially when—when—he was saddling Pattie with it? Had the man no shame?

  "'We' do?” Zane queried.

  "Tristan and I. Come on, Tristan." Pattie held out her hand toward the boy. She was going to get his father to acknowledge him. That's right. In forty-five minutes she could be parking in the Getty lot, another fifteen from there to Nick's office. She could have this out within the hour.

  Meanwhile, Tristan grabbed Zane's forearm. His lower lip puffed out. It was an expression Pattie had come to know well. It meant 'no way.'

  Her face began to heat. She was learning that when grown-ups made plans, kids destroyed them. But Tristan had to come with her. It was time—past time—for Nick to meet his son. "Come on, Tristan. We need to leave. Now." It occurred to Pattie, dimly, that she'd have to cancel her client meeting—and postpone getting his money. But...too bad. This showdown with Nick was three months overdue.

  "No!" Tristan scuttled further behind Zane.

  "Is this some kind of emergency?" Zane eyed Pattie warily.

  "Yes." The returned envelope had sent her over the edge. Nick wasn't going to weasel out of his responsibilities one more day. "Come on, Tristan," she said. Then she made the mistake of stepping toward the boy.

  He didn't wait for her to reach him, but slipped away from Zane to run over the top of the sofa and then drop behind it.

  Pattie stared at the spot Tristan had been. He was under the sofa now. She could hear him slithering down there. How the heck was she going to get him out? It would be impossible, even if she were willing to crawl on the ground in her tight business skirt.

  Feeling an increasingly familiar, and increasingly unpleasant, helplessness, Pattie stared at the bottom of the sofa. What now?

  "I'll get him," Zane said quietly.

  He would? Did he have magic power? Incredulous, she stared at the man.

  He stared back.

  Behind her, Michael nervously shifted weight.

  "Find your car keys and your purse," Zane instructed. "I'll have the child ready by the time you are."

  Pattie hesitated. Dammit, he probably would. So far he'd demonstrated remarkable talent with Tristan. She should feel grateful.

  Instead, she felt shame. She hated accepting help. She hated needing it. She particularly hated the respectful power Kincaid managed to project. She should be the one able to take on that role. She ought to be.

  Instead, she was useless. Shame was like bile in her chest.

  "Fine," Pattie returned, clipped. She whirled toward her desk. There she grabbed her car keys, her purse—and the paternity testing kit for which she'd paid $99.99. She wasn't about to forget the whole point of this little trip. Nick would have to admit he was responsible.

  Slipping the paternity kit into her large purse, she turned around.

  Michael had already flown the arena. But Zane stood by the
office door with Tristan's hand caught in his. The kid gazed at Pattie with sullen distrust.

  "We're ready to go," Zane said.

  We are? thought Pattie, mentally stumbling. She hadn't realized—hadn't considered—Zane thought he should come along?

  She let out a breath. Well, of course he thought he should come along. The chances of another disaster between herself and Tristan were astronomical. Face it. If she wanted to make it to the Getty Center and confront Nick in his hilltop office, she'd have to take Zane.

  Hiking her purse over her shoulder, Pattie swallowed her pride—again.

  "Fine," she told Zane. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Zane's gaze tracked Tristan as the kid ran up and down the elegant platform of the Getty Center tram station. The tram was the only route up a half-mile of chaparral hillside to the sprawling museum complex. With his hands clasped behind his back, Zane rocked onto the balls of his feet.

  He was not fazed here, not knocked off his balance at all.

  Okay, it was true that he usually decided the activities and outings of his little charges. He insisted on it, in fact. And it was true he'd let his present employer drag him halfway across Los Angeles to a museum that couldn't possibly engage the attention of a two-and-a-half-year-old child.

  But that didn't mean he'd lost control.

  On the contrary, he was maintaining an iron grip on proceedings by tagging along on this little jaunt. It was clear Ms. Bowen had intended to drag Tristan with her, willy-nilly. So he was here to make sure the kid was all right.

  That was his job. The kid. Zane had always been good at sticking to a job—even when doing so had gotten him fired.

  Now he rocked slowly back onto his heels. He threw a sidelong glance toward Pattie Bowen who, with her vibrant energy temporarily restrained, stared straight ahead of her in dark thought.

  Something tugged, low in his gut.

  She was nearly six feet tall, self-possessed, opinionated, and seemingly unaware of her own earthy sensuality. From the agency's file, he also knew that she was single, self-employed—and current office joke at NannyOntheGo. She'd been voted parent least likely to see her child grow into adulthood.

  The explanation for this distinction went beyond the scene in which he'd first met her, suspended between her office desk and her chair with her ward lodged in a shelf overhead. The moment had merely been an example of a bigger problem. Lack of maternal aptitude. Yup, this was a woman who could take down a Board of Directors, scale a mountain, or rob Fort Knox. She could probably do anything...except for motherhood.

  In her office, her ginger-colored eyes had met his squarely, defiantly. As if daring him to declare there was anything strange about the situation.

  For a very bad moment he'd felt arrested, caught, like a fish on a line. And, like a fish, he hadn't completely understood what had hooked him. Oh, yes, physical awareness of her had jumped out at him. That, by itself, had been shocking after a year of serene celibacy. But worse than the sexual hit had been something else, something Pattie desperately hadn't wanted him to see.

  Vulnerability.

  Fortunately, he'd wriggled off the hook. The moment had passed.

  Now Pattie stared at the hedge beyond the tramway tracks, her face set in lines of heat and frustration. She'd looked this way ever since she'd come back into her home office after interrupting their little 'job interview' to answer the door.

  A frown crossed Zane's face. He couldn't guess what was behind her frustrated expression, much less why it had sent them to the world-class Getty Center museum. On the other hand, the why of Pattie Bowen's decisions didn't concern him. He was no fish on a line. Her problems weren't his. He was out of the white knight business. Been there, done that.

  Feeling a pull on his pants leg, Zane looked down.

  Tristan was staring up at him, his eyes a few shades darker than his aunt's. "Where's the twain?" he asked, not for the first time.

  Zane smiled. Kids were great. Kids didn't need white knights. All they required was a little bit of care, and they responded like thirsty flowers. Over the past eight months of his job with NannyOntheGo, Zane had come to appreciate the wonderful simplicity of children. "The train is on its way. Just give it a few minutes."

  "Give it what?"

  "Just stand here, squirt." Chuckling, Zane ruffled the kid's hair. "And wait a little longer."

  Tristan did his best to cross his arms over his chest while Pattie interrupted her intent regard of the hedge to glance at the two of them. But she didn't offer anything to the exchange, didn't try to engage with the child. She turned back to stare at the hedge.

  Zane guessed she'd had enough of failure in the parenting department and was wary of trying any further.

  He—almost—felt sorry for her. He knew she hadn't expected to end up with a child, overnight no less. Zane had read the file. Three months ago Tristan's mother, a one-time B actress, had left him with a babysitter to go to a hot Hollywood party. At a nightclub in West Hollywood, she'd taken an overdose of drugs, collapsed right there, and died later that night.

  Completely irresponsible and downright selfish, if you asked Zane. He had to give Pattie Bowen credit for coming through for the kid. To the extent she could manage.

  "Is the twain weally gonna come?"

  Zane crouched down to look Tristan in the eye. "It really is."

  Tristan gave him a disbelieving half-smile. "But it's been so long."

  "That just tells you it's going to be a nice, long ride up."

  "It does?" Tristan's incredulity deepened. Clearly, he hadn't developed a concept of time distribution.

  "Trust me," Zane told the kid. "That train is going to come."

  Tristan sighed.

  Zane ruffled his hair again and straightened. "Oh, look," he laughed, and pointed. Up the track, a two-car tram was slowly descending. "There it is."

  "The twain! Issa twain!" Tristan called, delighted. He began to dance along the edge of the platform.

  "Don't get too close to the edge." Finally, Pattie spoke to Tristan—but only in order to command.

  Predictably, Tristan felt he had to defy her. He stopped dancing and held his ground at the edge of the platform, daring Pattie to do anything about it. Meanwhile, the tram drew closer.

  Tristan wasn't dangerously close to the edge, but Zane strolled over to take the kid gently by the shoulder. "Hey. We want to ride the train, not have the train ride us."

  Tristan's rebellious expression instantly broke. Grinning up at Zane, he allowed himself to be led from the edge.

  As he checked to see that Pattie was satisfied, Zane's slight smile dropped.

  Gone was the indomitable queen. In her stead he saw a woman flustered, frustrated, and utterly at sea. He saw the vulnerability she'd earlier tried so hard to hide. Oh, it vanished the next instant, but he'd seen it.

  Zane's iron grip on the situation faltered. Once again, he was a fish on a line.

  But not for long. He remembered and, remembering, pulled himself off the hook. This was his Achilles heel, falling under the spell of female need. He'd fallen under Maeve's spell for years, catered to her every—frequent—desire. At the time, he'd been thrilled to act as her provider, but in the end his he-man behavior had only hurt him. He could still hear Maeve's furious protest when, for once, he hadn't done what she wanted. When instead he'd insisted on doing the right thing.

  He wasn't falling in here, not getting sucked under. Besides, Zane thought with a huff, Pattie Bowen didn't want his help. She'd already made that perfectly clear.

  Smiling again, he held Tristan's hand as the tram sighed into the station. He was in control of the situation, and of himself. He wasn't going to waste his emotional resources on Pattie Bowen.

  He was a nanny now. The only person he was going to take care of here was Tristan.

  No one else.

  ~~~

  The carpet on the fifth floor of the Getty Research Institute hadn't changed its hue of burnt a
lmonds since Pattie had last been here three years before, nor had the seventeenth century Italian pencil drawings departed from the walls. A wish she could redo the past choked Pattie as she smiled a greeting toward Dot, the administrative assistant shared by Nick and eight of his colleagues.

  If only she'd been smarter three years ago, seen what was coming. But, no. She'd been a fool, complacent and needy.

  Loneliness was a plague Pattie was used to. A few times a month she'd get hit with a sense of isolation, of separation. She'd learned to deal with it. The feeling always passed. But not three years ago, after both her parents had died within months of each other.

  Neither demise had been unexpected. Having cared for her parents that last year, Pattie had seen it all coming. Even so, the loneliness that hit her afterward had been a shock. So much bigger than usual.

  Without it, she might have been more careful. More intelligent.

  Instead, she'd hooked up with Nick. Nick had been...refreshing. Blessedly free of the depression that had gripped her. She'd become a frequent visitor to this reception area—too frequent, as it had turned out. For six foolish months she'd been in and out of these offices, meeting Nick, coming in with Nick, hanging out with Nick. Using Nick's printer, gabbing on Nick's office phone.

  Acting altogether too much like a serious girlfriend of Nick's.

  That alone had been so different from her usual, casual style in relationships she should have known it would lead to disaster. But she'd blinded herself to all but her need for companionship.

  The result? Here she was, forced to meet Nick after yet another death in her family.

  "Pattie!" Dot, a blowsy woman in her fifties, soared up from her seat behind the desk in the center of the reception area. "How—? Oh, how stupid. I can imagine how you've been. I was so sorry to hear about your sister." She leaned over the desk and threw her arms around Pattie. A cloud of lavender perfume enfolded them both.

  Beyond Dot, Pattie could see Nick through the glass walls of his office. Seated at his desk, he'd stopped what he was doing. With his fancy pen raised, he stared straight at Pattie.

  She made a point of holding his gaze. Nick had the dark, lean good looks that usually attracted her in a man, with an edge of what she'd once thought intelligence. But now Pattie froze. What if his intelligence were actually something more sinister?