by Lisa Ruff
Confused, Ian watched Mimi leave, his eyes lingering on her swaying hips
His mouth grew dry. Her legs, bared in a short skirt, were luscious, and he could imagine them wrapped around his waist as he—
Suddenly, she turned around and walked back to him. Ian braced himself, hands shoved firmly in his pockets. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. The caress was there and gone before his brain realized it had happened.
“Thank you for being so wonderful with my son.”
She turned and walked away again. This time she didn’t look back. Ian followed her with his eyes all the way up the street until she disappeared. He felt light-headed and sluggish, as if someone had slipped him a drug. He was getting in too deep, he told himself, yet he couldn’t convince himself to heed the warning. The depths that threatened to drown him looked too inviting.
Dear Reader,
From the moment Ian Berzani appeared on the page, he fascinated me. He is the calm center in the volatile Berzani family: unflappable, careful and considerate. But what is going on inside this quiet, strong man? What dreams, desires, wants and needs does he have?
I knew I had to write Ian’s story. I had to know if he could reach for his own brass ring while remaining true to his heart. In the end, Ian surprised even me. I hope you will enjoy his journey as much as I did.
Please visit me at www.lisaruff.net. And keep a watch out for my next book from Harlequin.
Happy reading,
Lisa Ruff
An Unexpected Father
LISA RUFF
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Ruff was born in Montana and grew up in Idaho but met the man of her dreams in Seattle. She married Kirk promising to love, honor and edit his rough drafts. His pursuit of writing led Lisa to the craft. A longtime reader of romance, she decided to try to create one herself. The first version of Man of the Year took three months to finish, but her day job got in the way of polishing the manuscript. She stuffed it in a drawer where it languished for several years.
In pursuit of time to write and freedom to explore the world, Lisa, Kirk and their cat sailed from Seattle on a 37-foot boat. They spent five years cruising in Central America and the Caribbean. Lisa wrote romance, but it took a backseat to an adventurous life. She was busy writing travel essays, learning to speak Spanish from taxi drivers and handling a small boat in gale-force winds.
When she returned to land-life, she finally revised Man of the Year and sent it to an agent. Within a year, she had a contract from Harlequin American Romance.
She and her husband are cruising on a sailboat again somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. When not setting sail for another port, she is working on her next Harlequin romance book.
Books by Lisa Ruff
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
1214—MAN OF THE YEAR
1243—BABY ON BOARD
For Ethan and Graham,
sons of sailors, both
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Ian shut the wood-shop door behind him. A warm breeze brushed his face and he automatically looked up at the flag over the marina office. West by Northwest. Even though the sky was dark with the threat of rain, the wind was perfect for sailing south. He could be in Norfolk by noon tomorrow. He wouldn’t stop, though. He would just hang a left at the mouth of the Chesapeake and head out to sea, straight for Bermuda.
The longing for freedom, for the wind and endless expanse of open sea, was so strong, Ian ached with the possibility.
Sighing, he walked across the boatyard. He wasn’t going anywhere, not today. Today, he was going to go finish the teak trim on Buckman’s boat so the varnishers could start coating the wood. Then he would go on to the next project and the one after that. Four months. Then he could leave. Ian stepped onto the ramp that connected the dock to the shore. Lost in his reverie, he almost missed seeing the young boy who was crouched down at the water’s edge. He was poking a stick at a clump of reeds in the rocks.
“Hey, kid. Leave that alone. That might be a duck’s nest in there.”
The boy looked up and slowly stood. “I wasn’t doing nothing.”
“Anything,” Ian said, then winced. Since when had he become a grammarian?
“Whatever. You sound like my mother.”
Ian had to laugh. The kid had hit the mark, dead-on. He took a better look at him. Though he tried to sound tough, the boy was small and scrawny. He was dressed in faded jeans that had both knees blown out. A black, hooded sweatshirt covered a white T-shirt and hung down past his hips, dwarfing his thin frame. Except for the holes in the jeans and the bagginess of the clothes, Ian was dressed the same, right down to the color of the hoodie.
“You and I must go to the same tailor,” Ian said with a smile.
The kid just stared back at him silently. Sandy-brown hair mingled with brows the same color and partially covered eyes that were a deep, intense blue. Those eyes were full of sullen antipathy. Ian didn’t take the hostility personally. It looked as if the kid’s face was permanently set in that grumpy mold.
“Your parents have a boat in the yard?” Ian asked.
“No.”
“Do they moor one here?”
“No.”
Ian sighed. “Then what are you doing hanging around?”
The boy shrugged and lowered his lashes. He dug the end of the stick he still carried into the mud at his feet. His black-and-white tennis shoes were liberally coated with the same muck, as if he had been poking around the shoreline for a while. With another sigh—this one in exasperation—Ian stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.
“This isn’t a playground, kid. It’s kind of dangerous.”
The boy looked up at him and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Ian pointed toward the gate at the back of the boatyard. “Scram.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” the kid said. “You’re not my dad.”
“No, but I could be.”
The kid rolled his eyes again and snorted. “You don’t own the world.”
“Nope.” Ian cocked his head. “But I own this little corner of it.”
“Do not.”
“Do, too.” Ian shook his head. He was supposed to be the adult here, he reminded himself. He tried again. “What’s your name?”
“My mom told me not to talk to strangers.”
“She tell you not to trespass, too? Where do you live?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.” Ian took a step closer.
The boy dropped the stick and turned around, poised to run. Ian reached out a hand and snagged the hood of the sweatshirt, stopping the flight before it started. “Hold on there, kid. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Lemme go!” The boy shrugged and tried to squirm away.
Ian dropped a hand on the kid’s shoulder and turned him around. He was done putting up with the little smart-ass. “Where’s home, kid?” he asked firmly.
For a minute, the boy looked as if he was going to balk, then he jerked his head to the left. “My grandpop owns the Laughing Gull. That’s where I live. So lemme go.”
“George is your grandfather?” Ian knew the owner of the local bar, but never realized he had a grandson. He spun th
e kid back around and began to propel him forward. “Well, let’s go talk to your grandfather then. Maybe he can answer my questions.”
The boy shot him an angry glance, his mouth set in a mulish line of stubbornness. Ian ignored it and kept his grip firm on the kid’s shoulder. With all the work he had to do, this was one more interruption he didn’t need. At this rate he wouldn’t get anything else done today and then the yard would be another day behind schedule.
MIMI HELD THE PHONE to her ear, listening to the ring on the other end of the connection and biting her lip. No answer. When the voice mail came on, she said, “Hi. It’s Mom. Where are you? School’s been out for an hour. Grandmom and Grandpop are still gone, so I’m here at the bar.” She paused, then added, “I’m worried, so call me soon, Jacky.”
She closed the cell phone and slipped it into her back pocket. Where could he be? It was already three-fifteen. She went to the tables by the side windows, looking out to see if Jack was coming up the road. A couple of cars drove by, but there was no sign of her son.
The Laughing Gull, the waterside bar her parents had owned for over thirty years, was quiet—typical for mid-afternoon on a Tuesday. Her last customers had been a couple who drank a quick beer, hunched over a collection of brochures they spread out on the table. She supposed they were shopping for a new boat, judging by the photos she saw when she delivered their drinks. After they left, not another soul passed through the door. It would be busy later, the place filling with workers from the nearby marinas. Locals would filter in after that for an evening drink or a quick snack.
Mimi ignored the empty glasses on the table and wandered to the windows at the back of the room. Although the Laughing Gull fronted a busy street, it had mostly turned its back to the traffic and commotion, preferring the more pleasant and tranquil view of Crab Creek. Instead of windows, the entrance and the bar stretched across the front wall with a small kitchen tucked behind them. To the left side of that, a second, smaller door opened out onto a patio that was seldom used. The rest of the walls were mostly window from table height up to the ceiling to take advantage of the view.
Standing between two tables, Mimi gazed out on Crab Creek rippling and flowing right past the Gull’s back windows. Her parents’ house—the house she had grown up in—was nestled behind a bank of lush, green viburnum on the left; to the right, A&E Marine’s silver-gray sheds and docks full of boats. Opposite the Gull, the shore curved away, opening at the mouth of the inlet. The bend gave the bar’s back windows a view out onto the Chesapeake Bay itself. Mimi had grown up with the view and only now, after ten years’ absence, did she appreciate the panorama. Everywhere else along the creek, houses had sprouted on top of houses to catch even the smallest glimpse of the water.
Before her parents bought it, the Laughing Gull had been a seedy, smoke-filled dive that catered to local watermen and workers at a nearby cannery. The beams that crisscrossed the white ceiling were rumored to have come from the Cosmonaut, a ship that sank near Thomas Point Light. The oak floors had been scavenged from a dance hall that had partially burned down in the forties. Her father had refinished the planks, but under the polish and gleam, they still bore the scars and blemishes from decades of fox-trots, waltzes and two-steps.
Mimi sighed and turned away from the view. Picking up the glasses left by her last customers, she took them behind the bar to the sink. It was comforting to be back home, even if she had tucked her tail and run to get here. Ten years. Wasted. She washed the glasses and set them on the drain board, then slipped a new CD into the stereo and turned up the volume.
Halfway through the second song, Mimi checked the time on her cell phone and wondered about Jack again. Her parents should be home soon and then she could chase him down. She hoped he had just made a new friend and was having too much fun to answer the call. Or they were playing a video game, and didn’t hear the phone. The normal, happy things kids did. Mimi doubted either of those events had occurred. Jack didn’t do normal and happy these days. Picking up a rag, she wiped the already-clean bar top again. The bangles on her wrist clanged together and clacked on the wood as she rubbed the smooth oak surface. She wished someone would come in to distract her. Anyone. A friendly face and an order to serve would be a welcome diversion.
Two songs later, as if in answer to her thought, the front door of the bar opened and her son walked inside.
Mimi smiled widely. “Hey, kiddo! I’ve been wondering where you—”
The rest of her greeting died in her throat as a stranger followed Jack inside. The man towered over her son. His dark curling hair framed an angular and striking face, with an aquiline nose over lips that Mimi instantly—embarrassingly—imagined kissing. She wrenched her gaze from his mouth only to collide with dark brown eyes. They held hers for a long moment, sending her a message she couldn’t interpret, before she finally got the strength to look away. Her gaze traveled down his long, lean body instead, which did nothing to restore her voice.
She almost laughed when she saw that he was dressed exactly like her son, but on this man, the clothes actually fit. Really fit. Broad shoulders filled out the sweatshirt; the white cotton of his T-shirt stretched across a muscled chest. The faded denims he wore clung in all the right spots. Mimi closed her eyes for a second. When she looked at him again, a smile flitted across his face. There and gone so quickly, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it.
“I don’t have to ask if you’re related to this boy,” the man said in a quiet baritone.
People often said she and Jack looked alike, which pleased Mimi. They shared the same hair color: sandy-brown mixed with lighter gold giving it a slightly sun-streaked look. Their eyes were the same blue, too. But Mimi saw more of Jack’s father in the shape of his face. Jack had a squarer jaw, and his high cheekbones were gaining definition as he streaked toward puberty.
Jack climbed onto one of the stools and threw a glare at the man. “I wasn’t doing nothing, I—”
“Anything,” Mimi corrected absently. Taking a deep breath, she released her grip on the rag she had unconsciously twisted tightly. She dropped it in the sink and dried off her hands. Turning down the stereo a touch, she walked from behind the bar and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Mimi Green, Jack’s mother.”
“So that’s his name. Jack.” He slanted a glance at the boy, then looked back at Mimi. “Ian Berzani.”
Her hand was enfolded in a warm, callused grip, shaken once and released. Her palm tingled from the contact. Ian put his hands in his pockets, but offered no other words. Closer to him now, Mimi caught a faint whiff of new-cut wood, crisp and tangy. A few chips of it flecked his hair and she itched to brush them away. She stuck her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, keeping herself from acting on the impulse.
“Is Anna Berzani your sister?” she asked, making small talk to cover her agitation.
Ian nodded once, still taciturn.
“We were at school together,” Mimi said. “A long time ago.”
“Mmm.”
She laughed a little, uncomfortable with his reserve. He said nothing to help her move the conversation. “Is she around?” she tried again.
“No. She’s lived on the West Coast for years.”
Mimi smiled at the information. Anna had always said she was out of Crab Creek as soon as the ink was dry on her diploma. It was a goal they had shared that deepened their friendship all those years ago. “Well, tell her I said hello when you talk to her.”
“You can tell her yourself. She’s coming for a visit on Friday.”
“Really?” This was exciting news. “I’d love to see her!”
He nodded again. They stood in awkward silence, tension humming between them for a long moment, until Jack interrupted impatiently.
“Mom, tell him to get lost. I wasn’t doing—”
“You always order adults around like that, kid?” Ian asked. One dark eyebrow lifted as he looked at the boy through slightly narrowed eyes.
Mimi flushed as if
the rebuke had been aimed at her. “Jack! Apologize for being so rude.”
Jack stuck out his lower lip and glowered at them both. Mimi’s lips tightened in impatience. She had been the recipient of that sullen stare too often over the past few weeks. The man at her side shook his head and her embarrassment deepened.
“Be careful, kid,” Ian said, his eyes flickering back and forth between her and Jack. “Your face is going to get stuck like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Mimi said, turning to face Ian. “Has he done something wrong?”
“Trespassing,” Ian said flatly. “And generally being a smart-ass.” The dark eyes surveyed the boy for a moment. “The first charge can be overlooked, but I’m not so sure about the second.”
“Trespassing! Where?”
“In the yard.” Ian jerked his head in the direction of the masts and buildings of the marina visible through the window.
“Did he do any damage? I’ll be glad to—”
“No,” Ian said, interrupting her apology. “He just shouldn’t play there. It’s too dangerous.”
Mimi stiffened, finding a criticism of her parenting hidden in his words. “Yes, I suppose it could be,” she said tartly. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let him go there.”
“No, you probably wouldn’t.”
There was no inflection in the statement, but her hackles rose anyway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ian tilted his head to one side slightly. His dark eyes narrowed again. “What do you think it means?”
“I can look after my child.”
“Did I say you couldn’t?”
“Look, Mr. Berzani—”
“Mr. Berzani is my dad.” A frown dipped the man’s eyebrows in disapproval. “Call me Ian.”