by Natasha Deen
Double shit. His focus darted to where Aya stood. Had she heard?
Daniel let out a whoop. “She has no idea she let Satan into her house, does she? What’s your plan, seduce the land from her?”
Swift, silent, and lethal, Mason stormed toward him. The other man recoiled. Mason didn’t stop, he just kept advancing until he’d backed Daniel to the hood of his car. “Never talk about her like she’s a thing to be used or conquered.”
A smart man would have kept his mouth shut. Daniel just sneered, and Mason wanted to grab his face and smear it over the Corvette’s windshield.
“I know all about your fight with her over this land. What do you think she’ll do when I tell her who you really are?”
“You’re not going to tell her a thing.”
“Or what?” Daniel leaned against the car, crossing his arms and smiling with malicious delight at Mason. “You can’t do anything to me, and I’ll bet once she finds out about you, I’ll be the least of her concerns.”
“Bastard.” That he would sell out Mason was one thing, but doing it to avoid his responsibilities made him a repugnant waste of humanity. “Spencer’s your son. Own up to your goddamn responsibilities.”
“A speech on morality by the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Nice.” He stood and brushed his hands against his twill cotton pants. “Excuse me, but I have something to discuss with my ex-wife.”
Mason put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and squeezed until the smaller man’s knees buckled. “You’re turning around and going home. Then you’re going to send Aya all the money you owe her.”
“I’m not one of your business lackeys, Mason. I don’t work for one of your money-mongering, soul-sucking machines. You can’t threaten me.”
“There’s no threat in this. It’s a friendly suggestion.”
Daniel pushed against his hand. Mason held him back.
“Let me go before I sell my story to the nearest tabloid.”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure beats marking papers.”
“Let me guess. Political science.”
“Yes,” he sniffed. “My specialty is the law—” He looked down at Mason’s hand. “Human rights and violation.”
“And you teach at UCLA?”
“No.”
He waited.
“University of Montana.”
A thrill of victory coursed through Mason. He smiled, feeling like he was armed with an uzi and going into a fight with a man whose only weapon was a twig. Fear crept into Daniel’s eyes. Wary, he twisted and wriggled, trying to escape.
Mason held on, pressed into the other man’s personal space, and in soft, deadly tones asked, “Is that the same one that has me to thank for its art building and the new extension to the library?”
The fearful light became a terrified beacon. “So?”
“That school really needed the money. It’d be a shame if I pulled its funding. I bet the administration would be pissed at the asshole who screwed up that donation. I bet that guy would lose his tenure, his job. Hell, I bet he’d be lucky to get a job flipping burgers after such a screw-up.”
He heard Daniel gulp. Hell, gophers three feet underground probably heard him gulp.
Releasing his quarry and taking a step back, Mason said, “You’re going home, now, aren’t you?”
The other man nodded, a green tinge in his face. He stumbled forward, almost careened into Mason. At the door of his ’Vette, he paused. “You’re not going to say anything to the dean or the chancellor about my comments, are you?”
“That depends. Is Aya getting her back payments?”
“I should be caught up by December.”
“I bet if you sold this car, you’d be caught up sooner.”
“Sell my baby?” He asked the question like a man asked to sacrifice his child.
A swift, furious rage swelled in Mason. “You rank that piece of tin higher than Spencer?”
“N-no. I’ll sell it.”
“Then our conversation never happened. The chancellor won’t know anything.”
Daniel opened his car door.
“Wait.”
He turned, slowly, painfully, and watched Mason with a fearful, wary expression.
“My memory’s a tricky thing. If any of your future child support or alimony payments go into arrears, I’ll be talking to the dean, then I’ll be talking to every college and university in creation. By the time I’m through, not even a school of fish will hire you.”
Daniel nodded and retreated into his car. The Corvette pulled on to the lane and sped away from the house in a hail of dirt and pebbles. At the sound of the creaking porch steps, Mason glanced behind and saw Aya heading toward him.
“I don’t usually let men brush me to the door like I’m some kind of delicate flower.”
“I had to use language un-fitting for a lady’s ears.”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously, you haven’t been listening to me when I’m doing the bills.”
“Oh, I’ve been listening,” he grinned. “Where do you think I learned those words?”
“So, what’s the big deal with me hearing them?”
“I’m a gentleman, those words make me blush and my voice crack. If you’d heard me, it would have ruined my macho image.”
“Assuming you have a macho image.”
She laughed, and his heart grew light at the joy her presence caused. “Want me to show you how macho I can be?”
A sensual, wanting light flashed in her eyes and tightened his loins.
“What are you going to do? Make me bring you a beer?” She looked away for a moment, then turned a candid gaze to him. “I stopped and let you handle Daniel because I trust you.”
Respect threaded through her words and sewed his heart with bitter-sweet delight.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing much.” They headed up the porch stairs. “Basically, if he didn’t get off your property, I would let you lay into him with the baseball bat.”
“I’d never do that; it belongs to Spencer. Besides, my shotgun would be faster—less swinging.” She rotated her shoulders. “My bursitis has been acting up.”
“What did you ever see in this guy?”
“You don’t want to go there.” She turned back to gaze into the horizon, her arms folded across her chest.
“Come on, you must have seen something if you married him.”
She sighed. “I married him because I was pregnant.”
“Oh.”
“I was pregnant because I had sex with him.”
“Double-oh.”
“I had sex because it was our third date and he made such a fuss, I figured it would shut him up.”
“Remind me to make a fuss.”
She glared at him. “Any more questions?”
“Just one.”
She sighed. “What?”
“Can I take you and Spencer for dinner?”
She grinned. And in the small “yes” she spoke, he heard the walls of her defenses crash, and knew he’d been allowed into the private, sacred part of her life.
Chapter Seven
When she told Spencer they were going out for dinner, he reacted with exuberant delight that only the word “pizza” created in little children. Twenty minutes later, after she’d spent far too much time on her hair and changed into a skirt and T-shirt—primping for herself, not to impress Nate, she lied to herself—they headed into town.
A few minutes to find parking and get everyone sorted, then they headed into the pizza parlor. The warm, comforting smell of rising dough filled the air. A bouquet of pepperoni and green peppers seeded the stained-glass chandeliers and maroon-colored booth seats with their heavenly, spicy scents. Though Aya hadn’t eaten anything but seafood in years, the smell of chorizo sausage and onions set her stomach rumbling and her taste buds yearning. She waved at a waitress, who smiled and gestured to a table for them to take.
“Too bad Destina and Pops didn’t come,” S
pencer said, as he slid into the spot nearest the wall. He pushed the salt and pepper shakers from their spot in the middle of the table to the far corner with the napkins.
Aya caught Nate’s gaze. In his eyes, a mischievous light glimmered. He knew the same thing she did: Pops and Destina had stayed back to enjoy a night alone. That they shared an unspoken secret—the trivial knowledge of the couple’s burgeoning relationship—made pleasure bubble in her. Delight at knowing his thoughts before he spoke them added a tingly effervescence.
Foolishness! Her brain chastised her girlish tendency to romanticize a superficial moment, and believe it granted special access to him. Yet, she couldn’t deny the tingling in her bones as his lips formed a lopsided smile, nor could she feign ignorance at the funny thump-thump her heart made as his smile graduated into a boyish grin.
Nate slid into the seat next to her son. “I think they stayed back to fix her window.”
“It sure gets stuck a lot.” Spencer tore the green paper wrapper off the napkin. As he unrolled it, freeing the cutlery, his frames slipped down his nose.
Nate gently pushed Spencer’s glasses back to their rightful spot, and at the genuine affection shown in the gesture, an ache, borne of hopes which could never be, compressed Aya’s heart, turning the skipping beat into a tortured limp. She nodded her thanks to Chloe, the waitress, as she set mugs of water on their table.
“Hey, Mom,” Spencer said as Nate swallowed his drink, “your bedroom window sticks. You should get Nate to fix it.”
Nate choked on his drink, while Aya stomped down the sexy images flashing in her mind. But in the span of a breath, she’d counted a billion ways she’d like him to fix her window. She yanked a couple of napkins out of their silver holder and handed them to him.
“I can fix my own window, sweetie, but that was a good suggestion.”
Nate—still coughing—shot her a look, part-pain, part-aroused, and all-male. A shot of sex charged through her system, hot enough to evaporate an ocean.
“I didn’t mean—” She glanced at her son and tried to think of a euphemism for masturbation. Nothing came to mind, except another thousand ways of un-sticking a window. She shoved a menu at Spencer, and plucked at the buttons of her apple-green polo shirt, as if pulling the cotton fabric away from her skin would give her the emotional space to breathe and relax. “What kind of pizza do you want, Spencer?”
He studied the menu, his tiny nose scrunched tight with indecision, his eyes carefully reading all the selections. After a minute, he set the plastic sheet down, and with a sigh more akin to deciding the fate of the world than a dinner entrée, he said, “Hawaiian.”
“Nate? What would you like?”
A look flashed along the strong planes of his face, and like a lighting bolt streaking across a darkened sky, lit his inner thoughts: You. The charged, sensual look blazed across the synapses of her mind, setting fire to her wants, desires and burning her reservations to cinder. As quickly as the look ignited the air between them, it snuffed itself out and left her in the dark, in the cold, and wishing for the fire to rage again.
“I’m easy—” he said, and jolted her libido. “Hawaiian is fine. What about you? Don’t you want something that fits your no-meat diet?”
She looked at his broad shoulders, the granite line of his jaw, the sensuous curve of his mouth, and knew that what she wanted wouldn’t be found on the menu. He caught her gaze, and in his eyes, the light began to burn once more.
“Vegetarian,” she gasped. “I’ll have vegetarian.”
Good, safe, Aya, she thought. Always choosing the right thing, the appropriate decision. But she didn’t want to be obedient or to behave. She craved passion, to fill the sensuous, decadent desires Nate created. Aya wanted to lean across the table, ask him to whisper his naughty thoughts and see how they compared to her own. Hell, she wanted to clear the table, send Spencer to a movie, and act out her fantasies—damn the patrons, and screw propriety.
Instead, with a control Aya hadn’t known she possessed, she handed Spencer her menu, and told him he could order for all of them. Then she turned her gaze out the window, retreated from prying eyes, and momentarily lost herself in a reality where she got to keep Nate as more than an employee. When she turned back, the sight of Nate’s dark head bent protectively over her son’s lighter one, their voices hushed and serious as they debated superheroes and villains, wrung her heart so tight she could feel the pain in her toes.
Nate whispered something in Spencer’s ear, and he laughed. Childish giggles of delight rose with the bass tones of male laughter, and curled into her heart. They wound their way past ventricles and chambers, found the soft, secret places where she stored her favorite memories. Overhead, Carol King crooned, “It’s Too Late,” and Aya had to agree with her. It was too late for her and love, too late for her and Nate.
If she had no farm, then he would move on to another place. What was she thinking? If she saved the farm, he might still leave. She grimaced and mentally kicked herself. Here she was, pining and torturing her heart and loins over Nate, yet he’d never said anything about a permanent relationship—he’d never said anything about a trivial one, either. Once again, she was getting ahead of herself, and all over a man.
Nate’s fingers wrapped around hers. Her eyes met his, and everything—save the strength and comfort in his gaze—receded from view. The soothing warmth of his skin brought to reality how cold she felt, inside and out, and how he dispelled the Arctic barrenness with a simple touch.
“It’ll be fine,” he said.
She frowned. “What will?”
“Whatever’s got your eyes clouding over like that.”
Her soul sighed at his words. “Promise?”
He gave her a bittersweet smile. “No, but you’ll survive.”
Not exactly a rallying cry of victory, but she’d take what she could. As long as he was around, she’d handle whatever came her way. The current problem remained, though. She needed a new ace in the hole. One that kept the farm for Spencer’s inheritance, made her parents’ dream a reality, and kept Nate by her side.
“Hey y’all. Ready to order?” Chloe materialized by Aya’s elbow, her notepad in hand, and a smile on her cherubic face.
“Spencer, go ahead, honey. Order for us.”
But her son’s gaze—and his attention—was trained on an object over Aya’s shoulder. She turned and smiled. Jessica stood by the jukebox, coins in hand, and a thoughtful expression on her face. The little girl looked up, caught her gaze, grinned, and Aya lost her breath. She always did because it seemed as if all that was good and lovely about life and humanity resided in Jessica’s smile. It was pure, full of kindness and joy, and from it poured the gentle, loving spirit of its owner.
“Aya?”
“Sorry, Chloe. A large Hawaiian, medium vegetarian, and some cola.”
“Sure.” She took the menus and trotted off.
“She’s c-c-coming...coming this way.” Spencer gulped, and gulped again, looking like a guppie tossed from his bowl as a deep red blush crept from his neck to the roots of his hair. “J-Jeh—”
“Hello, you must be Jessica,” Nate intervened as she came close enough to hear Spencer’s labored attempts at speech. “From S—Aya’s description, I’d recognize you anywhere.”
Aya smiled at his quick recovery.
Jessica limped over to where he stood. “Yes, sir—”
“Nate.”
“Yes, Nate.” She cast a shy gaze at Spencer. Though her skin was the exotic, tanned shade of her English mother and African father and thus hid any deep blushes, Aya knew the girl’s face was every bit as red as Spencer’s. “Hi.”
Her son could only nod, and grabbing for his water glass, downed half the liquid in one swallow.
“I notice you’re limping, honey. Is everything okay?”
Jessica pulled her lavender corduroy pants up to reveal her leg prosthetic. “It’s new,” she said, “and it fits okay, but it’s still kind of hurting
. Dad said we’ll go back and get them to adjust it.” She made a face. “I think I just don’t like it because it’s new.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Spencer, who’d leaned over the table to look.
Jessica grinned. “You like my leg?”
“Yes, you have nice legs—leg—prosthesis.” He floundered, his mouth opening and closing and shot a beseeching look at Nate.
“Absolutely. Fine workmanship.”
“Yes! The engineers did a great job at design.” Spencer’s fingers danced, nervous and jerky, across the table.
Jessica’s shoulders slumped forward, tiny, infinitesimal, but Aya—who recognized the sign of a woman in love—saw it.
“Um, thanks,” Jessica mumbled.
“Here are your drinks,” Chloe interrupted as she set them down. Turning to Jessica, she asked, “Do you want anything, sweetheart?”
“I’ll wait for my mom and dad.” Jessica smiled at Aya. “Dad said if I’m really good, I might be getting a new swim leg for my birthday.”
“That’s right, I forgot your birthday is coming up.” Aya reached out, wrapped her arm around the girl’s waist, and pulled her into a hug.
Jessica giggled. “You can’t forget. Our birthdays are only two days apart.”
“I’m old,” Aya sighed. “Some days, I forget to brush my teeth or shower.”
“Gross, Mom!” Spencer shot his friend a pained look. “That’s not true. We’re a very hygienic family.”
“Oops, sorry.” She winked at Jessica. “Where are your mom and dad?”
“At the General Store. We’re meeting here for dinner.”
She glanced at Spencer. Between the jerking of his fingers, his constant swallowing, and the darkening shade of his blush, which was quickly beginning to match the maroon booth, he looked like a twitchy gecko.
Nate reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. “Why don’t you guys go put some tunes on for us?” He pressed the coins into Spencer’s hands, then stood to let him pass.
Her son edged out of the seat, and as he passed Nate, the farmhand bent down and whispered in his ear.
Aya waited until the children moved out of hearing range. “What did you say to him?”