by Robin Wells
“We’re having the chef’s specialty—sandwiches and potato chips,” Nick announced. “It’s the specialty because it’s the only thing the chef knows how to cook.”
Rachel smiled. “I’m certain the chef will be adding creamed peas and puréed carrots to his repertoire before you know it.”
“That’s true. I’m already working on mashed bananas and squashed peaches for this establishment’s most finicky patron.” Grinning broadly, Nick pulled out a chair. Rachel seated herself in it, feeling a bit self-conscious at his gallantry. She’d always loved Nick’s impeccable manners, had always thought there was a subtle sexiness to the way he’d open a door for her or pull out her chair. It was such a male-female thing—a small but frequent reminder that he was a man, she was a woman and he recognized and appreciated the differences between them.
Not that she’d ever needed a reminder. Being around Nick had always put her in a state of heightened sexual awareness.
She was uncomfortably aware right now. Not wanting to show it, she unfolded her napkin, placed it on her lap and eyed the plate with a show of interest. “Sliced turkey—my favorite.”
“I remember.” Nick’s eyes locked on hers, and a shiver of awareness skittered up her arm. “I fixed it just the way you like it, with mayonnaise and mustard mixed together.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail unnerved her. “And I suppose you have ketchup on yours,” she countered.
“You bet.” He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “It’s funny what you remember, isn’t it?”
The conversation was becoming disturbingly intimate. She gave a hesitant nod, then reached for her glass of iced tea, searching for a way to steer it to a safer subject. “It was interesting, what Dr. Jackson said about you reminding Jenny of her father. Were you and Ben much alike?”
Nick lifted his shoulders. “We looked alike, but otherwise we were pretty much complete opposites.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ben was quiet and complacent, and I was the family rebel.”
The information made Rachel lean forward. “What did you rebel against?”
“My father, mostly.”
“Why? Was he strict?”
“‘Strict’ doesn’t begin to describe it.” Nick’s mouth flattened into a tight, hard line. “Try domineering, dictatorial, autocratic and unreasonable.” He picked up his sandwich again. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”
“So I gathered.” Rachel took a sip of iced tea and watched him take a bite of sandwich. “You never told me anything about your childhood.”
Nick swallowed hard, as if his sandwich had just turned bitter. “That’s because there wasn’t much of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ben and I grew up buried in chores. Not just chores that were necessary for the operation of the farm, but busywork that Dad dreamed up to keep us from doing anything else.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why did your father do that?”
Nick shrugged, his expression grim. “I think he thought that if we were ever exposed to another way of life, we’d want to leave. He did everything he could to keep us home.”
“But why?”
“He was obsessed with keeping the farm in the family. I knew from an early age that I didn’t want to be a farmer, but Dad refused to even listen. Since I was the eldest son, I was supposed to run it, and that was that. By the time I was a teenager, he’d given up trying to talk me into it and had started trying to force me.”
“How?”
“Mostly by limiting my options. He wouldn’t let me have any kind of social life. He wouldn’t let me join the high school football team or debate team. He said I had too many chores. I could have been on the teams and done my chores, too, but he wouldn’t even let me try.” Nick stared out at the manicured backyard and blew out a harsh breath. For a long moment, Rachel wondered if he were going to continue.
“When I was a senior, I won an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C.,” he finally said. “I was supposed to represent my school in an honors math competition, but Dad wouldn’t let me go. He said I didn’t need to know any more math than it took to run the farm.”
“Oh, Nick,” Rachel breathed, her brow knit in concern.
“Mom tried to change his mind, but he wouldn’t budge. He said it would do nothing but give me a lot of high falutin big ideas.”
Rachel searched her mind for something, anything encouraging to say. “At least your mom sounds sympathetic.”
Nick nodded. “She was—when she wasn’t drowning her troubles in a bottle. She’d given up her dream of being an artist when she married Dad, and she’d always regretted lit.”
“Did she and your father get along?”
Nick shook his head. “No. My father made her miserable, and she did the best she could to return the favor.” He gave a bitter smile. “My folks weren’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet. I asked Mom once why she didn’t leave. She told me she’d made a sacred vow, and she had to honor it no matter what.”
No wonder Nick had such a terrible impression of marriage and family life, Rachel thought. “Mom didn’t want me to end up like her. She urged me to follow my dreams and encouraged me to apply for a college scholarship.” He gave a tight grin. “When I won one, Dad went ballistic. His face got so red and mottled that I thought he was going to have a stroke. He tried to bully me into staying. He said that if I left, I could never come back.”
Rachel reached out and placed her hand on top of his. He turned his hand and folded her fingers into his own. “I don’t think he believed I’d call his bluff. When I told him I was going anyway, he threw me out of the house with just the clothes on my back. I spent the night sleeping in a ditch beside the road.”
“How awful.”
“That’s not the worst of it. He forbade me to ever talk to my mother or brother again. He said that if he found out they’d been in contact with me, he’d throw them out without a dime, too.”
Rachel gasped.
“The horrible thing was, we all knew he meant it.” Nick exhaled heavily. “Mom died a year later. She used to write to me behind Dad’s back, and I’d call her when I knew Dad would be out in the fields, but I never saw her alive again.”
“What happened to your brother?”
“Ben stayed home and worked the farm.” His fingers tensed around Rachel’s hand. “We used to talk about sailing around the world together and hiking the Himalayas and having all kinds of great adventures. But he never went anywhere or did anything or knew much of anything except the farm.” Nick glanced away. Rachel saw a muscle flex in his jaw. “He took on the role I refused to fill. If I had stayed, maybe Ben would have gotten to have a life.”
“But he did have a life,” Rachel softly pointed out “He got married and had Jenny.”
“Yeah, but he never got to pursue his dreams.”
“Maybe he did.”
Nick looked up at her, his eyes questioning.
“Maybe his dreams changed.”
Rachel could tell Nick didn’t believe that Of course he wouldn’t, she thought sadly. In Nick’s mind, marriage was a lifelong jail sentence.
His face grew determined. “All I know is this—I’m going to make sure Jenny has the chance to become anything she wants to be.”
Rachel gave him an encouraging smile. “You’re going to do a great job with her.”
“I sure want to. But my credentials in the relationship department are pretty poor.” He looked at Rachel, his mouth curved in a sad smile. “You of all people should know that.”
Ignoring the pounding of her heart, Rachel searched for words to encourage him. “You’ll be terrific. You’re warm and affectionate and you have a great sense of fun. Heck, you can even make monthly profit and loss reports seem like fun. Imagine what you can do for ABCs and one-two-threes.” She squeezed his hand and gave him an encouraging smile. “Jenny’s lucky to have you. You have a gift for enjoying life and
for helping other people enjoy it, too.”
Nick looked unconvinced. “Sounds more like the criteria for becoming a clown than raising a child.”
“I don’t think so,” Rachel said softly. “I think it sounds like a man who’ll do a great job teaching a child how to enjoy reaching her full potential.”
Nick reached out and touched her cheek, his lips curved in a smile. “You’ve always had a way of making me feel better about things, Rachel.”
She smiled back at him. He’d never known blue could be such a warm color, he thought distractedly, gazing into her eyes. His thumb slid across her cheek. He’d never known skin could be so soft, either. And he’d never seen anything as tempting as Rachel’s lips. They were pink and moist and slightly parted, and he couldn’t help but remember how they’d tasted.
It was almost as if she read his thoughts. He saw her eyes widen, saw her pupils dilate, saw the attraction flare in response to his own. He tightened his grip on her hand, and she returned the pressure.
He’d sworn to himself that he would be a perfect gentleman, that he would adhere to a strict hands-off policy while she was a guest in his home, but he found himself leaning toward her, pulled by a force as powerful and elemental as gravity. His hand reached around the back of her head. Her hair was even softer than he remembered, soft and springy and satin textured. He sifted it through his fingers. Her eyes locked on his. He’d intended to pull her toward him, but she was moving that way on her own.
He didn’t want to rush her, but the anticipation was killing him. His breath caught in his throat. Her lips were six inches, five inches, now four inches from his own.
And then a familiar, high-pitched cry crackled through the baby monitor on the kitchen counter.
Nick heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, felt her pull back. Reluctantly he released her and straightened.
Her eyes were wide and alarmed, like a sleepwalker who’d just awakened to discover herself in an expected place. “I—I’d better go check on Jenny.” Rachel’s chair screeched on the tile floor as she jumped to her feet and fled the room.
Chapter Four
Rachel knelt over him, her hair caressing his face, the mahogany-colored strands smooth and feather soft and fragrant. Her hair moved over him, draping across his chest like a satin sheet, grazing his cheek, filtering through his fingers, soft as moonlight. She was teasing him, deliberately taunting him—so near, yet just out of reach. He could nearly claim her lips, nearly feel the warmth of her body. He wanted her—desperately, achingly, painfully. He reached out to draw her down against him, and then...
The loud wail of a baby burst into Nick’s dream like a rude intruder. Jerking his eyes open, Nick sat up in bed and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightside table—4:53 a.m.
Crimony. What was the baby doing up at this hour?
Down the hall, a door creaked open. He heard the soft patter of feet, then the squeak of another door.
Rachel. The details of his dream were floating away from him, breaking up and trailing off like a wispy, fading cloud, but the thought of her here, in his house, sent another pulse of desire racing through him.
Nick swung his feet to the floor. No wonder he was having erotic dreams, he thought disgruntedly. He’d been thinking of nothing but Rachel ever since he’d nearly kissed her at lunch yesterday.
No, ever since she’d nearly kissed him, he mentally corrected himself. That was what he couldn’t get off his mind. She’d been just as willing, just as tempted as he was. If the baby hadn’t interrupted, there was no telling where they would have ended up. Maybe, he thought, looking around his frankly sensuous bedroom, even in here.
The thought did nothing to cool him off. With a mumbled oath, Nick rose and adjusted his navy sweatpants. He didn’t bother to pull on a shirt. He was plenty warm as it was.
He hurried into the nursery to find Rachel at the changing table, taping a new diaper on Jenny. “Is she okay?”
“She was a little soggy, but in these superabsorbent diapers, I doubt she even knew it.”
“So why was she crying?”
“Probably because she thinks it’s time to get up.” Rachel’s hair hung loose around her shoulders, reminding him of how it had flowed about her face in the dream. She wore a rose-colored satin robe, and the way she self-consciously tightened it made him wonder what she was—or wasn’t—wearing underneath it.
The thought made him irritable. “Well, she’s mistaken,” he grumbled. “All self-respecting people stay in bed until at least six o’clock. Especially on Sunday mornings.”
Rachel grinned as she resnapped the baby’s pajamas. “Not according to Jenny. And she gets to call the shots.”
“Seniority doesn’t count for anything?”
“Not as far as Jenny is concerned.” Rachel smiled at him. “Could you watch her for a moment while I go wash my hands?”
“Sure.”
Nick cautiously approached the changing table and gazed down at the baby. “Good morning, kiddo. Remember me?”
The baby’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. She stuck her fist in her mouth and whimpered unhappily.
“I see that you do.” Disheartened, Nick took a step back. The baby whined and eyed him warily, but at least she didn’t burst into a full-lunged howl.
“You’re making progress,” Rachel remarked, reentering the room. “She’s letting you stand closer than yesterday.”
“Maybe so, but she’s not happy about it.”
“It’s progress all the same.”
Unfortunately, he thought grimly, he wasn’t making any progress with Rachel—not in the direction he needed to be moving, at least. He’d come back to Arizona determined to develop a purely platonic, strictly professional relationship with her, and what had he done instead? He’d moved her into his home, become heavily dependent on her and started having erotic dreams about her.
The neck of her robe gaped open as she bent to pick up Jenny. He caught a glimpse of her surprisingly lush décolletage and immediately felt a surge of desire.
Dammit, it wasn’t helping matters that they were both standing there in their nightclothes. “Why don’t we get dressed, then go downstairs and fix some breakfast?”
“I think we’re going to have to see to Jenny’s breakfast first,” Rachel said, smiling at the baby. “Judging from the way she’s about to devour her fist, I’d say we have about five minutes to get her some food or suffer the consequences.” Rachel glanced up at him. “But you can go ahead and change if you want to.”
He needed a cold shower in the worst way, but he wasn’t going to cop out. “Nah. The doctor said the more I’m around Jenny, the sooner she’ll learn to tolerate me.” And the sooner Rachel would stop playing such a giant role in his life.
He pondered the situation as he followed her down the stairs. Jenny stared at him over Rachel’s shoulder, regarding him with frank distrust.
He needed a way to win the baby over. The technique he usually used with a female was to show her a good time and get her to let down her guard. Maybe it would work on Jenny, as well.
“What do babies do for fun?” he asked.
Rachel’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I think just about everything is fun for a baby.”
“What things do they like the most?” he persisted, following her into the kitchen.
“Well, they like to play with all kinds of toys. They like to swing. And most babies love to play in water.”
Water—that was it!
“I’ve got an idea,” Nick said leaning against the counter. “Jenny really seemed to like playing in the bathtub last night. After breakfast, let’s get one of those little wading pools for the backyard.”
Several hours later, Nick stood on the back lawn, using a bicycle pump to pump air into an inflatable pool, while Jenny and Rachel changed into their swimsuits. At Rachel’s suggestion, he’d already pulled Jenny’s high chair out onto the deck and set it at the large umbrella-covered table, next to four wrought
-iron chairs covered with colorful cushions. He’d also set up Jenny’s portable crib in the shade of the deck, and spread a blanket on the lawn for sunbathing.
It had been a busy morning. The three of them had made a trip to the local Wal-Mart and nearly cleaned out the store’s water-toy supply. On the way back, they’d swung by Rachel’s apartment to let her get her swimsuit.
He heard the French door that led from the breakfast room to the deck swing open, and rapidly turned around, eager to see Rachel in the scrap of red Spandex she’d toted out to the car. He was disappointed to discover she was wearing a long, loose T-shirt over it. The legs that the shirt exposed were no disappointment, however. Long and lean and smooth, they were exactly as he remembered.
She was holding Jenny, who looked plump as a baby seal in her new hot-pink swimsuit. A pink sun hat and matching sunglasses with yellow ducks on the cat’s-eye corners completed Jenny’s beach wear ensemble.
Nick grinned. “She looks like a link sausage in that swimsuit.”
Rachel laughed. “She’s adorable, isn’t she?”
“Both of you are. But you’re a whole lot less sausage-like.”
He liked the way Rachel blushed. He’d forgotten how easily he could make her do it. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her.
Liked, he mentally corrected himself. He never used the word love in connection with a woman.
He gave the bicycle pump a few extra pushes, then disconnected it and punched the plastic stopper into the air hole. “We’re ready to fill this thing up. I think I saw a garden hose in the garage.”
He filled up a pair of water guns while he was at it, then returned to find Rachel seated by the umbrella-covered table, carefully dabbing sunblock on Jenny as the baby sat in her lap. “You seem to have thought of everything,” he said, lowering himself into the chair beside them.
“Babies have really sensitive skin. Whenever Jenny’s going to be out in the sun for any length of time, you’ll need to put sunblock on her.”
“There’s an awful lot to this parenthood business,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever remember it all.”