She jerked awake at his entrance. Her head snapped back, and she glanced at him, blinking away sleep.
Nic had been with the NOPD for years. Before the new mayor of New Orleans had appointed him police chief, he’d been commander of the high-profile and highly pain-in-the-ass Eighth District, which included the French Quarter, Central Business District and Harrah’s Casino. He’d seen it all. Nowadays it took something really good to surprise him.
The young girl staring at him through unfamiliar eyes surprised him. Probably because the only thing unfamiliar about her were the eyes. The rest of her, from the top of her tawny head to those brightly painted toenails, was pure DiLeo.
Nic blinked, but the girl was still there, staring up at him from a face all-too recognizable to deny a blood connection.
If the tawny hair and olive-skinned features didn’t give her away, the look in her eyes did—a mix of curiosity and attitude and a little too much pride.
This girl was a DiLeo, no question.
He wasn’t going to catch a break, was he? And here he’d thought he was done cleaning up family messes.
With a mental sigh, Nic calculated her age, trying to guess which one of his brothers might be responsible.
Fourteen, he decided, early high school. She seemed to be poised right on the brink of becoming a real have-an-answer-for-everything, demand-the-car-keys teen. Nic knew the look. Knew it very well, in fact, as the oldest of six siblings. Which took his youngest brother, Vince, out of contention straightaway. Too young. That left Marc, Anthony or Damon.
Nic’s money was on Damon. But to be fair, Marc could have done the deed. He would have been knee-deep in his rock-star phase about the time this young girl became more than a twinkle in her daddy’s eye. Marc’s band had practiced in the garage behind the family house and no matter how often Nic and his mother had patrolled the premises, the groupies marching through those practices rivaled a Mardi Gras parade.
Definitely not Anthony. His girlfriend of the time had spent more time at the DiLeo house than Anthony. Still did. No way could she have kept a pregnancy secret.
So Nic was going with Damon. Just because he was on Nic’s shit list today.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” the girl announced before he’d gathered his wits enough to begin the interrogation. “I didn’t know about the curfew. And if that disgusting old pervert hadn’t been yelling at those women, the police wouldn’t have even come at all.”
Nic noticed a few things straight off. Her accent for one. There, but distinctly not there. As if no one place had taken root, yet many had left an impression. For some reason he wanted to say European, but knew that wasn’t right.
Then there were the glaring flaws in her reasoning. Namely, she would have still been breaking the curfew ordinance even if she hadn’t been caught. So unless there was parent or guardian in possession of a notarized letter in the folder he held, that fresh piercing on her nose also contradicted the part about her not doing anything wrong, too.
Nic was back to his original question.
Opening the folder—no parents or guardians in here—he glanced down at the incident report and…a passport. A few more facts clicked as he snapped open the booklet one handed. The girl was a U.S. citizen, a traveler.
Croatia. Africa. Thailand. He’d been right about the accent. The most recent custom stamp came from Chile, South America.
Raking his gaze over a photo taken a few years ago, when she’d been ten maybe, he glanced at the name—
Violet Nicole Bell.
The hair on the back of his neck crawled, and for a blind instant, he could only stare as every shred of reason rebelled.
Violet Nicole Bell.
The name jolted him from the present and filled his head with a memory from long ago…a memory of the beautiful girl he’d once been involved with.
Megan Bell.
He might not have thought about her in years, hadn’t seen her in even longer, but Nic didn’t have to close his eyes to pull up a vision of her face. Heart-shaped with a delicately pointed chin. Porcelain skin and a full mouth, a kissing mouth if ever there had been one. A mass of silky chocolate hair and eyes so deeply blue they looked almost violet.
Violet Nicole Bell.
With a quick shake of his head, he tried to dispel the image of that face, tried to shock himself back to the present where a young girl was staring at him, a young girl who couldn’t…shouldn’t exist. Nic shook his head again, determined to get control of himself, of the memories and speculations and facts that were paralyzing him. He needed to get a grip, so he could figure out what to think, what to feel.
Fingers trembling over the remaining papers, he forced himself to focus on the documents—a visa, some sort of permission form, a photo.
He knew this photo before he could bring himself to look at the smiling young faces. He fingered the paper frame that had yellowed over time, cartoon gravestones and grim reapers with scythes, a keepsake from a French Quarter ghost tour.
Unable to stop himself, he glanced at the back of the photo at the inscription.
Always, Nic.
At the time, he’d meant it.
Now, he had to force himself to flip the photo over, to look at the image, to shock himself with the knowledge that always hadn’t lasted a month after this photo had been taken.
And there they were. He and Megan sitting together on the curb, so close they might have been fused at the hips, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting casually on his thigh. Their heads were pressed close. Their expressions revealing no clue of what would be in store for them. They were immortalized in a way that couldn’t have been any more permanent than the young girl in front of him.
Nic was suddenly aware of her gaze, tense, expectant. She was waiting for something.
His reaction?
He didn’t have one. Megan had disappeared shortly after this tour, though she hadn’t intended to leave for her pricey private university until August. Nic had refused to believe she would walk away from him without a word, but Megan had never contacted him again. Not even to explain why she’d left so suddenly.
Nic’s shock must have been all over him because suddenly the girl—Violet—laughed and said, “I know. Crazy, isn’t it? I just found out myself.”
Her laughter finally penetrated his shock. Megan’s laugh. He hadn’t even known he remembered.
It took every ounce of his not-inconsiderable willpower to keep a poker face as he lifted his gaze to face this beautiful young girl with unusual blue eyes.
One glimpse of the uncertainty she was trying so hard to hide, and he knew his reaction mattered. He could see it all over her. He could feel it in the tight knot in his gut.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, the gears started grinding, and the only thing Nic knew for sure right now was that he couldn’t give over control of this situation.
It didn’t matter that a levee had collapsed and the past flooded in. It didn’t matter that his head was buzzing and long-ago memories and resentments were colliding inside. Not when Violet—his daughter—stared at him expectantly.
So Nic forced a smile. Then he said the only thing he could think to say, “Crazy works for me.”
Her expression melted, all the expectation evaporating into relief. He could see amusement, too, uncertain amusement, true, but it was still there.
A place to start.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WE’RE BEGINNING OUR descent,” the captain announced.
Thank God! Of all the flights Megan had taken over the years, forgettable and memorable, smooth and turbulent, these flights would hold the distinction of being the worst ever.
Nearly seventeen hours in the air, out of contact with Violet, angsting about everything from her daughter’s physical and emotional well-being to what the future might hold for their family. Nearly seventeen hours of imagining scenarios of what the meeting between Violet and Nic had been like and stressing about the potential long-term
consequences. Nearly seventeen hours of revisiting every decision she’d ever made regarding Violet and analyzing why she’d made it.
And gearing up to face this mess she’d made.
Once in the States, she’d sent Violet a text message:
Boarding in Atlanta. You have three choices. Pick up your phone. Text me your address. Or be at that gate when I arrive. I expect to see or hear from you. I trust you’ll make a good decision. Love you very much. Relieved you’re okay.
An understatement to say the least, but now the ball was in her daughter’s court.
Would she be at the airport? Or would Megan have to track her down? No, Violet may be fiercely independent, which was a trait she’d had since she’d been old enough to form the words, “I do it.” She may have gone berserk on this quest to find her father, but she was still an intelligent, good kid.
No, Megan wouldn’t have to chase her.
But when Megan emerged from the gate with her carry-on over a shoulder, she didn’t find Violet, but him.
She could have spotted him in the middle of the Rex Parade crowd on Fat Tuesday. He stood taller than most of the people, his light hair cropped close. The chiseled features were the same, yet different. Weathered by life. Damage had been done to the once-straight nose. A fight, most likely, as there was a small but deep scar she didn’t remember marring his eyebrow.
She recognized the boy she’d been wildly in love with so many years ago.
Nic.
A man now. A stranger.
The uniform he wore only added to the impression. All sparkly brass and knife-creased edges.
Her daughter wasn’t anywhere in sight, and her absence combined with Nic’s presence rattled Megan. She didn’t even realize she’d stopped until someone bumped into her.
“Excuse me.” A man brushed past so fast all she saw was the back of him as she steadied her bag, which was suddenly swinging her off balance.
She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing, either, until she tried to respond. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out because Nic had spotted her. His gaze swept over her in an assessing glance, taking in everything at once.
But giving nothing in return. Nothing to make her brace herself. Nothing to reassure her. Nothing but grim recognition on that still devastatingly handsome face.
Sucking in a deep breath, Megan propelled herself into motion. The burden of this meeting was all on her shoulders, and she wouldn’t shirk it. Holding his gaze, she strode toward him, determined to deal with this mess head-on. She would not make a difficult situation any more difficult.
If that was even possible.
“Nic, I am so sorry.” The words gushed out. “I don’t even know what to say. Is she okay? She said she was, but—”
“Seems to be.” He inclined his head curtly.
Megan tore her gaze from his, glanced around, suddenly needing to look anywhere but at him. “She didn’t come with you?”
“She’s with my mother. Thought it would be best if we talked alone first.”
That made sense. A very good idea, in fact. She was glad someone was thinking, because despite her best intentions, she was overwhelmed: by the stranger he’d become, by the realization that fifteen years away from this man didn’t make one bit of difference because they were still connected through their daughter.
“Do you have a suitcase?” he asked in that stranger’s voice.
“I do.” Spinning on her heel, she took off in the direction of baggage claim.
What was wrong with her? She’d known this day would come, but right now all her rationality, all her carefully planned explanations didn’t seem so rational as she faced that guarded look in Nic’s eyes.
Betrayal?
He had every right to feel however he felt. Every right. She’d made all the choices. And he hadn’t known he should have had an equal say until their daughter had popped into his life out of the blue.
There was no way for Megan to sugarcoat her mistakes or the consequences, no way to miraculously avert this train wreck.
He was suddenly beside her, and she could practically feel him, a physical sensation. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar, either, which surprised her. Fifteen years hadn’t diminished her awareness of him. It was ridiculous, the absolute last thing she needed to notice right now.
He was working hard to stay calm and controlled. It wasn’t obvious in his expression or in the way he strode silently at her side, so she wasn’t sure why she thought that. Maybe it was the silence. Heavy. Accusing. It didn’t matter that there was an entire airport filled with people, noise and chatter filtering through the place in tidal bursts. The silence between them was deafening. Or maybe she was projecting her anxiety.
Megan was relieved when they arrived at baggage claim and her flight number flashed on the overhead sign. She moved to plunge into the crowd, but Nic caught her arm. Nothing more than a light touch, but a touch that stopped her in midstride.
“What does your bag look like?”
“Lime-green. Can’t miss it.” She stopped obediently, not surprised. Nic, the boy she’d once known, had been equally attentive to details.
As he moved closer to the conveyor belt, the crowds parted to let him through. It might have been the uniform, but more likely it was the imposing figure he cut in the uniform.
Very imposing. Solemn, almost.
Megan hoped it was the circumstances. She didn’t like to think that the ultraresponsible teenager he’d once been had matured into a man who didn’t look like he smiled much.
Nic didn’t miss her bag. No one could miss a neon bag on the conveyor belt.
“We’ll need to pick up Violet’s before we leave, too,” he said after wheeling her suitcase over.
“She stored it?”
He nodded. “I’ve got the key. Want to grab a cup of coffee first? There’s a Starbucks.”
“Of course.”
Then Megan found herself on the concourse, standing on one side of a table facing Nic over two steaming cups of coffee. She could handle this. She’d known this day would come. And she wasn’t eighteen anymore. She was a woman who’d made choices and couldn’t take them back.
But as luck would have it the very first question Nic asked was one she hadn’t expected.
“Why didn’t you want our daughter to know me?”
CHAPTER FIVE
NIC HOPED LIKE HELL THE shock of the situation would wear off soon. Otherwise, he was in real trouble, because it didn’t feel as though fifteen years had passed since he’d last seen Megan.
More like yesterday.
Every time he met her gaze, he felt punched in the gut. Even her turmoil tugged at him. It was all over her face, a face he shouldn’t be so familiar with. Not after so long. Not after she’d blown out of his life without a glance back.
But he was aware, all right. Of every soft intake of breath. Of the way her lashes fluttered over her eyes as if she might block out everything for an instant. Of how her face had settled in with age, as if she’d grown into so much beauty, the blue, blue eyes, the full, soft mouth. Of the way her fingers tightened on the cup as if she were bracing herself.
He could relate to the feeling.
But when she lifted that magnificent gaze to him, she faced him squarely. “I didn’t keep Violet from you because I didn’t want her to know you. That never even crossed my mind. Not once in all these years.”
He didn’t have words. If she had wanted him to know his daughter, then she would have told him she was pregnant. That much seemed obvious.
“Why?” It was all he could manage, giving her a chance to make sense of this for him. It didn’t. None of it. Not the way she’d run away. Not the way she’d hidden her pregnancy.
She took another deep, shuddering breath, visibly steeling herself. He could see it all over her, in the tense set of her mouth, the rigid way she stood. She should have been a stranger by now. She wasn’t.
“Quite honestly, Nic, I was completely unable to cope
with the situation. I freaked. My parents freaked. I wasn’t in any position to raise a child, and I knew you weren’t, either. Abortion wasn’t an option, but adoption seemed like a good one. My mother found a private agency that handled everything from the medical care to the legalities. She took a leave from the university and we went to one of their maternity centers.” She paused briefly as if considering her next words. “At the last minute I couldn’t go through with it. That’s it. I know that doesn’t even begin to explain—”
“No, it doesn’t.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Last I heard there were laws that protected fathers from this sort of thing.”
She flinched, but held his gaze steadily. “There are.”
God, he was struggling. He’d promised himself not to feel anything until he had the facts, to treat this no differently than any case, buy himself some time to figure out how to feel.
The anger surprised him, and he was suddenly grateful they were standing in public, an external control that would help him keep the floodgates in check.
He was the one who’d been kept in the dark, who’d been sandbagged by the sudden appearance of a daughter he’d never known existed. He had every right to be pissed. For a hundred reasons. Every one of them valid.
“What did you do, Megan, lie?”
“Yes.”
Simple. Factual. How could he attack an admission like that? The fact that he wanted to warned he’d better get a lid on his reactions before he found his face plastered all over the front page of the Times-Picayune with the headline: New Police Chief Creates Scene at Airport.
This was Damon’s damned fault. If Nic had slept last night, he wouldn’t be standing here, raw-edged and ready to explode. He might have had self-control on his side when he’d opened the door to his office and stepped into a minefield.
Megan wasn’t helping. She waited, so stoic, as if she’d known she’d have to face the music and was determined to take whatever he dished out. As if she felt she deserved it.
And she did. Every damned bit.
“Did you think I wouldn’t help?” He wanted an answer. “Or did you think I wasn’t good enough for you?”
Then There Were Three Page 3