by Kris Pearson
CHAPTER FIVE — A COMFORT HUG
She groaned inwardly and tried to concentrate. “Yes of course. They’d pass everything on. Half from each parent, unless one had more dominant characteristics. I think two brown eyed people can’t produce a truly blue eyed baby for instance.”
She reached out and took a desperate gulp of the deep red wine. It slid down her throat like a blessing. Why was she talking babies with him? “I might have that wrong about the blue eyes, but—”
“No, I get the picture. Same with body types. We get people at work who have a real hard time bulking up no matter what we do for them, and then we find their parents and siblings are the same build. ‘Slow gainers’ we call them.” He rasped a hand over his chin. “Sure we can tone them and reshape them to some extent, but if they’re naturally lean they can’t grow muscles like watermelons. One of my brothers...” He stopped. Sipped. Started again. “Someone who I thought was my brother until Friday is like that.” He shot her a direct anguished look. Pain blazed hot in his dark eyes.
“What do you mean, your brother until Friday?” Had he died? Somewhere along the way she’d lost the direction of the conversation. Could sense something huge was wrong, but had no idea what.
Suddenly big confident Nick looked sixteen again. Even less than sixteen.
His glass made a faint clatter as he set it down on the hard table with an unsteady hand. He dragged in a deep breath, trembling, obviously affected by some intense emotion, and directed his next words at the floor. “I’m just on thirty, Samantha. Doing okay businesswise. Nice car. No trouble getting money or women.”
“I’m so glad,” she needled.
He glanced across at her. The corners of his beautiful mouth pulled down in a tight line. “Yeah—sorry. But you get the drift. Life is fine and then everything explodes.”
“On Friday?”
He reached again for his glass and took another swig of wine. His Adam’s apple convulsed and then settled back into place as he put the glass down yet again. He drew another deep, deliberate breath. “I found out on Friday that my parents aren’t my parents and my brothers aren’t my brothers, and my name is not my name.” He swallowed again. Sammie suspected he’d gulped back tears.
“Adopted?” she whispered.
“Adopted and never told. Fucking cruel—because where does that leave me now?” He buried his head in his hands for a few seconds, dragging his fingers to and fro through his hair until it was thoroughly mussed and tousled.
She set her wine aside and turned. Slid an arm over his chest, around his shoulder, and pressed herself against him in a comfort hug. His arms came around her in return, and deep tremors of desperation racked him as he gripped her.
“Who the hell am I?” he rasped in her ear. “How can I find out thirty years later when the trail’s gone cold?”
“Ssshhhh,” she murmured, rocking him as though he was a child. There was relief in not having to look into his wounded eyes, but his grief burned so strongly there were tears in her own now. She’d be no help to him collapsing in a sobbing heap. She nestled her face a little closer, tucking her cheek against the strip of warm skin above his T-shirt. His scent was salty, earthy, ocean-fresh.
“Wasn’t going to do this,” he muttered. “Just wanted to talk about it with someone who can help me look at it from a bit of distance.”
He tensed against her, almost as though he might throw her aside.
“Sssshhhh,” she said again, clinging tighter.
“But shee-itt! It matters more than I thought it possibly could. My bastard of a father’ll be behind this. No-good scum. Twisted as a damn corkscrew.”
He dropped a kiss onto her hair. Did he even know he’d done it? She let him talk on to see if she could find something to respond helpfully to.
“It’s like I’m suddenly no-one. Now quite a few things make sense. They always treated my brothers differently from me. Softer.” His hard chest rose and fall against her as he sighed.
“My ‘so-called’ brothers. Jesus!”
She rubbed to and fro over his tense shoulder, willing him to relax and let her comfort him. “How did you find out? Are you really sure?”
“Straight from the doctor’s mouth. Same guy I’ve been to for years.”
Sammie’s resolve to conceal her identity crumbled a little. This made everything different. She couldn’t keep up the pretense of being a stranger any longer. “Nicky.”
“Hmmm?”
She took a deep breath. How would he accept her when she told him? “I really don’t want to do this.” She hesitated for a moment. “I thought I could just keep quiet and get on with being your temporary P.A. and it wouldn’t matter. It’s only a short term job...”
A strange and absolute stillness overtook him. “Spit it out, whatever it is. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve just told you.”
“No, not worse, but another surprise I’m afraid. I’m Sammie. Sammie from the orchard all those years ago.”
There was silence for a few seconds while he processed that. She continued to rub at his shoulder, but he suddenly thrust her backward so he could look at her.
“Why the hell didn’t you say?” Now his eyes burned with all manner of fierce accusations.
“Thirteen years, Nick—people change. I had no idea it was you yesterday. You used to be an angry boy who looked like a frog, with a mop of hair hiding half your face.”
He grimaced at her less than flattering description, and she rushed on to try and smooth things between them. “Now you’re a tall successful man and you’ve turned into the damn prince. Everything about you is totally different.”
His expression softened a little, and he gave a self-deprecating shrug before asking, “So how did you know it was me?”
Sammie reached for his hand and ran her thumb over the white scar line on his forefinger.
“I saw this and remembered making you jump and cut yourself. I’m sorry it’s left such a mark.”
Nick puffed out an amused breath. “Not you. I did it again about a year ago, gutting a fish, and it got infected. They had the devil of a job to get it right. The original scar had long gone.”
Now it was her turn to shrug. “So I might never have recognized you. I only knew you as Nicky. I wasn’t positive about the Sharpe.”
“Thirteen years,” he said, gazing down at her, wonder in his voice. “Where are your long brown pigtails, Sammie? Where’s my serious little shadow gone? You grew up in a big way.” He loosened his hand from hers and trailed his fingers across the tops of her breasts, keeping his caress just decent, but setting fire racing through her veins. “These grew up in a big way too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
She tried to struggle away from him. “No!” she exclaimed, squirming with unease. “Don’t go there Nick—we were only kids.”
“You were. I knew better. I never would have hurt you, but I couldn’t leave you alone.”
“You came here to talk,” she said, sounding half strangled.
Why didn’t I slap his hand away the instant he touched me?
Nick shot her a long considering glance. “And maybe I’ve hit the jackpot in an odd way. What did you know about my family, Sammie? Why did I end up at the orchard every school holiday?”
She looked up warily. This was Nicky. Lovely Nicky, who’d been part of her life so long ago, and part of her deep dark fantasies ever since. Against all the odds, here they were together again, and he was hurting, and maybe she could help.
“I didn’t know much about your family at all.” She flicked her eyes away from his intense scrutiny. “You were just a boy who stayed at the orchard sometimes when I was little. I had no idea why. I spent quite a lot of time with my grandparents because my Mom worked and couldn’t take all the school holidays off, so I suppose I assumed much the same about you.”
He gave a bitter laugh at that. “Not likely. My mother never worked at anything for long, and my father...” He stopped on a scowl.
; “What?”
“My so-called father wasn’t known for working with any enthusiasm either. He was a thief and a con man and sometimes in jail.”
Sammie gave up resisting Nick’s embrace and relaxed against his chest again. She drew a cautious breath. The fresh salty scent of his skin floated down her throat to expand her lungs with happiness.
“God, it feels good to be able to say that out loud without feeling guilty,” he added. “I’ve been ashamed of being his son ever since I knew he was such a loser. My brothers aren’t much better.”
Sammie heard anguish in his bitter words and searched for a comforting reply. “You’re nothing like them, so you no doubt have good ancestors behind you.”
“I want to know,” he ground out. “I’ve had my whole life stolen away from me—which probably sounds stupidly melodramatic to you, but it’s the way I feel.”
She burrowed even closer, finding her own comfort in his warmth. “Nicky, I understand more than you expect. A while after you left, my parents sailed to Fiji. I was fifteen. They never arrived. I had quite a chunk of my life stolen too.”
His arms tensed around her as her revelation sank in. “And what happened after that?”
She gazed up into his dark, dark eyes, trapped and sinking. She’d unconsciously yearned to be close since the moment she’d seen him on Monday morning, half dressed and sensational. She’d tried not to look at him for most of the last two long confusing days. Now she saw every strand of his glossy black hair, every dark eyelash, the faint gleam of teeth between warm, inviting lips. The thread of their conversation deserted her.
“Fifteen?” he prompted. “Too young to look after yourself. What happened next?”
“I lived at the orchard,” she muttered, finally pulling free from him and reaching for her wine. She took a deep gulp before continuing. “When I was twenty, I went flatting with a couple of girls at work, but within a few weeks Grandpa got ill and I had to go back home. We sold the orchard, and he moved into town.” She worried at her bottom lip, hoping not to sound like the buttoned-up unadventurous girl he’d assume from that sad description. “And he needed a caregiver so I stayed with him again. Not very interesting. What happened to you?”
He shot her a very level look. “I suspect you’re glossing over things there, little Sammie. So you were orphaned a couple of years after I left? You had nice parents—I remember them being nicer than mine.”
Sammie nodded, her ‘last time’ picture of them vivid in her memory. “Penny and Michael. They did everything together. Even built their boat together.”
Nick huffed out a bitter laugh. “You couldn’t say the same about Brian and Gaynor. They spent a lot of time apart because he was so often in jail. That’s why we left town. He was convicted for growing hash in a big way. Gaynor brought us to Wellington because she has a sister here.”
“So that’s why you disappeared? I often wondered.”
They sat on in silence for a few minutes. Nick finished his wine and set his glass down. “If you can think of anything, I’d be grateful. I went to the Child, Youth, and Family office this morning but they were no help. You can’t see a caseworker without an appointment. You can’t get a caseworker without filling in forms. And that didn’t seem to be the way to go, anyway.”
“You could Google ‘adoption’?”
“Which takes you through to Births, Deaths, and Marriages.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then began to quote. “‘Once you turn twenty you can write to the Registrar General to get a copy of your original birth certificate. It may show details of one or more of your birth parents.’”
“So have you?” She remembered the furious pounding on his computer mid-morning and wondered if that was what he’d been doing.
“Yes, of course. But I’ve a perfectly normal looking birth certificate already showing Brian and Gaynor Sharpe as my birth parents. I’m not expecting there’ll be anything else on file.”
“Wait and see.”
He dipped his head in a slight nod. “Pigs may fly.” He slapped a hand against his forehead in exasperation. “I can’t believe I didn’t query things years ago. Both my so-called brothers are losing their hair early like Brian.”
“And you’re certainly not losing yours.”
“They’re both classic slow gainers. Scrawny as.”
“But you’re—” Perfect, just perfect, she told herself.
“I’m what?”
“Umm...stronger?” She’d soon be blushing. “You have nice muscles.”
“Need them in my business.” He sent her half a smile as thanks for her compliment.
“And there’s the Salvation Army,” she suggested, trying not to drown in his slow easy grin. “I think they do a lot of people tracing.”
“But again, I’d need a name to start with.”
“Surely your parents can tell you something?”
Nick’s expression changed as swiftly as if someone had slammed down a shutter. Jaw clenched, eyes dead.
“Haven’t asked. Can’t face them for a while yet. I’ll smash Brian’s bloody head in, the way I’m currently feeling. Lucky for him they’re away for a couple of days.” He sent her a glance that challenged her to disagree. “I’m not doing it on the phone. I want to look into the bastard’s eyes when I ask him.”
Sammie rested a hand on his knee for a second before pushing herself upright. “Another wine before you go? I’m throwing you out in a few minutes. I need to get myself properly unpacked and organized.”
Nick grabbed her hand before she slipped free.
“Thanks for listening. Just a coffee maybe? So I don’t drink myself into a maudlin haze and end up sleeping here on your sofa?”
Sammie’s heart gave a lurch of anticipation. Her brain followed up with a bucket of cold water.
“Not a chance, Nick. I’d push you out long before that.”
Or drag you into my bed.
“It’ll have to be instant coffee I think,” she somehow managed. “I haven’t been here long enough to check all the cupboards, but I don’t see a coffee maker.”
He shrugged, beautiful shoulders lifting and falling again, making the white T-shirt reshape itself so she imagined snowy marble sculpture coming alive. “Fine. Keep the rest of the wine for another day.”
“Take it with you.”
He shook his head and sent her another of his slow incendiary smiles. “I might come back for a glass tomorrow night.”
“I might be out.”
“You got a boyfriend, Sammie?”
God—what was she supposed to say to that? ‘Yes’ might mean he never came back. ‘No’ would make her sound far too eager and available.
“Not here in Wellington.”
“Back home?”
She shook her head. “Broke it off.” Well, it was only a small lie. “I’m going overseas, Nick. My relationship wasn’t going anywhere, but I am.” She turned and headed for the kitchen, busying herself finding mugs and teaspoons and a jar of coffee granules, head down, eyes well away from the glittering darkness of his.