San Diego
To Nicole’s surprise, Sam Reston hadn’t booked at one of the top ten most expensive restaurants in San Diego, or one listed in the food guides, preferably one that had been recently reviewed by Lauren Spitz, the trendiest San Diego food guru, whose word was more authoritative than that of God.
Men have very simple thought patterns. Nicole had learned that fact through long exposure to the gender.
Sam Reston knew perfectly well that she had thought he was some kind of a low-level hired hand, one step up from a bum, where instead he was the proprietor of a successful company and probably earned ten or twenty times what she did.
A normal guy would go all out to prove just how wrong she’d been about him and just how successful he was, how powerful. Rub it in. Make her suffer a little remorse for thinking badly of him.
The easiest way to do that was to spend a lot of money on dinner, the more exclusive and expensive the restaurant, the better.
But it looked like Sam Reston had hidden depths.
The light kiss had shut her right up. She had no idea what to say. So she spent the car trip gratefully mulling over the fact that maybe Sam had engineered her an escape from Creepy and Creepier.
There was silence in the car as they drove south, to an outlying part of town she’d never been to before. She looked around as Sam started slowing down. This was definitely not expensive restaurant territory.
It was, however, a lively area, with a great deal of ethnic diversity, mostly Hispanic but with strong Asian flavors. Sam drove by taperias and taquerìas and Vietnamese and Thai restaurants, finally pulling into the parking lot of a low, sprawling building surrounded by gardens. BALADI, announced a big billboard, and if that wasn’t enough, there was a beautifully rendered cedar tree covering half the billboard.
Nicole gave a delighted laugh. She turned to Sam as he parked the car in an overflowing lot. “Oh my God! A Lebanese restaurant! How on earth could you know I love Lebanese cooking?”
His hard mouth turned up at her excitement. “I confess I checked your website. It said you spent some time in Beirut. No one can live in Lebanon and not love the food. I love it, too. This is one of the best Lebanese restaurants I’ve ever eaten at, so I hope you enjoy it.”
He was a miracle worker. Already, her muscles were relaxing. However the night ended, she’d have had a fantastic meal and a rare evening dining out.
It occurred to her that she really needed this evening. She hadn’t eaten out in, what? Six months, maybe? No, more like seven months. And then it had been to an extremely boring restaurant with bland, forgettable food. She’d ignored her instincts and accepted a client’s dinner invitation. His conversation had been blander and more tasteless even than the food. He’d been appalled at how ill her father was, though Pops hadn’t even been fully confined to a wheelchair yet. It had been a disastrous evening and she hadn’t been out since.
No time. No money.
Whatever company Sam Reston turned out to be, she was really looking forward to the meal.
There was a long gravel walkway and he put a hand to her back as they walked up. She was actually grateful for that hand as her sandals had been chosen more for looks than function. The heat of his touch penetrated the material of her jacket and the dress.
She looked around as they approached the entrance. The building wasn’t luxurious, but looked well tended and friendly. The big picture windows showing happy-looking diners inside sparkled in the evening light. The décor was simple and functional, waiters bustling to and fro.
The grounds were extensive. Off to the right she could see—
“Oh my gosh. Are those tomato plants?” Row after row of perfectly spaced stakes with small green knobs hanging off the plants. And now that she looked more closely, she could see tiny, tender tufts of baby lettuce, brightly colored peppers, zucchini.
Sam looked down at her. “The proprietor grows most of his own produce. He says that way he knows what he’s getting. And it’s delicious, which is an added advantage.”
She smiled. “It reminds me of the hillsides outside Beirut. All those truck garden allotments.” You could always count on seeing an elderly member of the family, carefully weeding and watering, a kerchief on his head to protect against the hot Mediterranean sun.
“Yeah.” Sam smiled. “We used to go up into the hills and picnic with the guys we were training. Picked figs off the trees, it was great.”
Sam was known here.
When he opened the door for her, a handsome olive-skinned man wearing a long apron came out of the kitchen and rushed toward him. They gave each other one of those manly thumps on the back where women would have kissed, and the man turned dark, intelligent eyes to her.
Sam did the honors. “Nicole, meet the best chef in the state, Bashir Fakhry. Bashir, this is Nicole Pearce. She lived in Beirut for a few years.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Nicole had that phrase in Arabic down pat, having used it thousands of times in Beirut.
“Welcome to my restaurant. I hope you enjoy the meal.” The beautiful Arabic syllables flowed like water as he took her hand and bowed over it.
“Thank you, I’m looking forward to it. You have a very beautiful place here,” Nicole answered carefully, now having to create an actual sentence. Arabic was not her strongest language and she was prone to grammatical mistakes.
Either she hadn’t made a mistake, or Bashir Fakhry forgave her. He beamed at her.
“A beauty beyond compare and she speaks Arabic,” he murmured, dark liquid eyes gleaming. He shot a sly look at Sam, then smiled back down at her. “Ditch this hobo and run away with me.”
Nicole laughed. His English was excellent, with a to-die-for accent. Nicole was sure Bashir was a great hit with the ladies. She’d loved the extravagant personalities of the Lebanese, who had managed to retain their humanity even as their country was being torn apart.
Nicole had been lucky enough to be in Lebanon in the halcyon years after the civil war had ended and before the new war started. Her father had been Deputy Chief of Mission of the Beirut Embassy for two years. She’d just started her studies in Geneva, but she spent her summers in Lebanon, enjoying her parents’ company, desultorily studying Arabic and flirting with the cultural attaché she suspected was CIA.
Bashir led them through room after room of loud, happy diners to a quiet, small room in the back where a plate-glass wall gave out onto lush-looking fields.
The room was delightful—intimate and glowing with the evening light. He seated them at a corner table, at right angles to each other. Nicole was amused to note that Sam immediately took the seat with his back to the wall, which meant he had to turn his head to look out at the beautiful view.
Bashir disappeared without taking any orders, but within a minute, a beautiful young girl who looked like him started ferrying out bowl after bowl of food. A full array of mezze that smelled and looked delicious.
A young man who shared the family resemblance uncorked a bottle of Syrah from Baalbek and poured a finger in Sam’s glass. He stood at attention as Sam sipped and nodded. Sam waved a long finger at Nicole’s glass.
“I won’t say anything until the lady has tasted.”
Nicole sipped and narrowed her eyes at the explosion of taste in her mouth. Sunshine, cherries, oak…“Wow.”
Sam nodded. “I think that will be fine, then, Maroun. Thank you.”
The young man disappeared. Nicole looked around, pleased with everything. The room, the view, the food, the wine.
The man.
It was already the nicest time she’d had in, oh, at least a year, and she hadn’t even eaten yet.
So far, Sam Reston hadn’t said or done anything obnoxious, which put him in the tenth percentile of dates. The food smelled glorious, the wine was magnificent.
Her father was in good hands this evening. She’d landed the contract with the Wall Street Master of the Universe, inching her way slightly closer to, if not wealth, then at least solvency. Maybe.
The evening reminded her of happier days with her family and carefree summers with friends. It reminded her of another, lost, life.
Sam dipped a crispy lettuce leaf into the hummus in an enameled bowl decorated with swirling earth colors.
“If you’re already smiling, then I want to see you after you put this in your mouth.” He held it out to her. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted it.
It was like a little electric shock. Nicole paused, the leaf trembling in her hand and looked at him, dismayed.
Oh no.
No no no.
Just when she was settling into an enjoyable evening, too.
When her fingers met his, a powerful burst of heat had coursed through her system, head to toe, as if she’d stepped in front of an open furnace. Classic hot flush, only she wasn’t menopausal.
Oh God, no. She was attracted to Sam Reston. Massively. It had been hidden by his little trip through Grungeville, but apparently underneath, humming like a powerful engine, there’d been attraction.
Sexual attraction. Wild sexual attraction, of a pitch and intensity she’d never experienced before.
She’d been pleased to think that she might be making a friend of him. It would be nice to have someone to go out with occasionally, spiced by a little tug of sexual attraction, just to keep her hormones ticking over. He spent most of his working days across the hallway from her, which meant maybe she could have company sometimes at her noonday meals, which up until now had basically been yogurt and a packed sandwich alone at her desk.
She needed friendship. She did not need this red-hot connection to every erogenous zone in her body.
Dismayed, she looked down at the uneaten hummus-laden leaf of lettuce, out the window at the neatly tended gardens below, then back at Sam Reston.
She winced at the heat in his eyes.
He saw her trembling hand and steadied it with his own. He removed the lettuce from her fingers, curled his big, rough hand around hers and brought her hand to his mouth.
His breath was a hot wash over her skin. Goose pimples broke out when he kissed her hand.
He understood exactly what was going on inside her. His dark eyes were so intelligent and so heat-filled she didn’t know where to look.
If he had had that annoyingly smug male look of someone who’d hooked a live one, this would have been easy. Put up a wall, eat the nice food, make light conversation, be distant when saying good night, avoid the kiss.
But he didn’t look smug. He looked serious, stern, as if wild sexual attraction were the most dangerous thing on earth.
And it was. A loaded grenade, in fact.
Oh God, she had to nip this in the bud, and fast.
“Look, I—” Nicole’s eyes widened in dismay. The words didn’t come out. This was terrifying. All that came out was a huff of air as her throat tightened. She had to stop and try again.
“Look.” Through sheer willpower she steadied her voice, tugging her hand from his. Trying to, anyway. His hold was painless but unbreakable. “There’s something I need to say to you, right up front, Sam. And I need you to listen to me carefully.”
He bowed his head, eyes always on hers. “Fine.” He tightened his warm grasp slightly. “But I want to be touching you while I listen.”
Well, hell. Him not touching her was part of what she wanted to say. But her hand felt…wonderful in his. Warm, surrounded by hard male flesh, somehow safe.
She took a deep breath because this wasn’t going to be easy.
For a moment she simply looked at him, at this very large, very strong, utterly male man who had most improbably woken up her dormant libido at exactly the wrong time in her life. She had an enormous pang of regret for what she had to say to him, but there was no evading it. It had to be done.
From the moment she’d gone to pick up her sick father in Dushanbe and had been told by the doctors what condition he was in, she’d known that her old life was over and that everything but caring for her father was going to have to be tossed overboard. Her carefree single life in Geneva, friends, a love life. Everything had to go. She’d seen it all in one moment of brutal clarity.
The only other thing she could allow into her life was work, and that was purely out of necessity.
She hadn’t been even remotely tempted to allow anything else into her life before now, but somehow Sam Reston made her yearn, yearn for the affair they might have had if things had been different.
But they weren’t.
“This…this thing between us—” she waved her free hand between them, “and you’ll notice I’m not denying that there’s something. But whatever it is, it has to stop here. Much as I’d like to explore it, I can’t.”
His face was utterly impassive and he held himself still. He didn’t even appear to be breathing. He was completely concentrated on her, all that male power, tightly focused on her.
She’d asked him to listen carefully because she thought he wouldn’t want to hear what she was saying. He didn’t show any trace of denial, though, as most men would have. Maybe that was a soldier’s gift—to see what was. If you couldn’t see reality, no matter how unpalatable, you were dead.
“Explain, please.” The deep voice sounded thoughtful, not angry or defensive.
“Okay. I need to tell you where my life is right now.” Deep breath. Let it out in one controlled stream. Just like her yoga teacher had taught her. “A little over a year ago I was living in Geneva, where I’d gone to university. I was working for the UN as a translator. I loved my job and I had a wide circle of friends and an active social life.”
She looked out the window for a second, allowing herself the sharp pang of pain at what had been lost.
How incredibly happy she’d been. Young, single, earning well. She’d loved translating, her colleagues, her friends, her life. The UN paid very well, in Swiss francs and tax free. Geneva was a dream city—pretty and green and safe, surrounded by gorgeous mountains with the best skiing in the world. A short train ride away from southern France and northern Italy.
The world had been her oyster. She suppressed a sigh. Those days were gone, forever.
She looked back at Sam, watching her steadily. “Well,” she said briskly, “I imagine you know all that if you checked my website. Or at least you’d know the basics.”
“Yeah.” The deep voice was quiet. “I know you lived in Geneva and worked for the UN. Sounds interesting.”
A sharp little stab to the heart. “Yes, yes it was interesting. I loved it.” Nicole sat up straighter, stiffening her spine. It had been good. It was now over. Deal. “But now I have other priorities. I’ve always been close to my parents. My mother died in a car accident in 2004 and it was a huge blow to my father and me. We just had each other. When I graduated and started my new job, he was appointed ambassador to Tajikistan, with special plenipotentiary powers. He seemed as happy in his new life as I was in mine. So I had no inkling of trouble when the call came. Midnight, on the fourteenth of May, a little over a year ago. The call was to say that Dad was in the hospital.”
Nicole’s mouth tightened. She remembered the scene so vividly. The call had come on a Friday evening. She’d been packing for a ski holiday on the glaciers, happily thinking of snow and schnaps and schnitzli. Then her world fell apart. The caller was an embassy secretary, to say that her father was in the ICU. An hour later, Nicole had been at the Geneva airport, waiting for the first of four connections for the 24-hour trip to get to her father’s side.
“The Embassy said that my—my father was very ill, in a coma. I left immediately and when I arrived in Dushanbe, Dad was just coming out of it. In carrying out a CAT scan to exclude a stroke, they discovered that—”
Oh God. This was so hard to say. Her hand in his started trembling and his hold tightened slightly.
Just say it.
“They discovered that he has brain cancer. Not one big tumor, which would be serious but perhaps treatable. His brain is riddled with them, almost too numerous to count, the doctors said. Inoperable. The only thing they could do for him was radiotherapy to extend his lifespan a little, and some chemotherapy. I was making arrangements to fly him back with me on a medevac flight to Geneva, when he started waking up. I knew I could cope in Geneva. I could find a larger house to rent; medical care there is excellent; the UN has a very generous health plan that includes relatives; I was phoning people, working it all out. When he was fully awake, Dad was told his condition. And—and he told me he’d served his country abroad all his adult life, and that now he wanted to go home, back to the States to—”
Nicole’s throat seized up, simply wouldn’t work. Her eyes prickled and she had to look away for a second. She swallowed. Sam didn’t show any impatience at all. He simply sat, looking at her, holding her hand. Quiet and still and focused.
A minute, two. She stared blindly out the window until she could get her voice back. She drew in a shuddering breath and looked back at him.
“To die. He wanted to come back home to die,” she finally whispered. A single tear spilled from her eye and plopped onto the table. And here she thought she had no tears left.
Sam dried the track it had left with his thumb. The skin of his finger was rough, like a cat’s tongue, the touch delicate.
“Sorry,” she said, bowing her head. A weeping dinner date was no fun.
“Sorry?” He frowned. “For what?”
She was sorry about everything. Sorry that she was soon going to lose her father, sorry about her reduced life, sorry that this attraction couldn’t go anywhere.
Okay, the next bit just had to be said.
“From that moment, from the moment I learned that my father was very ill and that he wanted to come home, my life changed on a dime. I quit my job and we moved here, to the house my grandmother left me.” Nicole tried to make her voice brisk. “So, Sam. Like it or not, this is my life. My father is dying and we have no money. While closing up Dad’s affairs, I discovered that Dad had invested his life savings in a mutual fund run by Lawrence Karloff.”
She nodded when he winced. The tangled lawsuits of the thousands of people who’d lost every cent of their savings in the giant Ponzi scheme run by the Wall Street legend were still making headlines.
“Yes, indeed. Dad lost every penny he’d ever put aside to that bastard Karloff. He is essentially penniless. That SOB took everything. And since Dad had to retire from the State Department early for reasons of health, he has a reduced pension. Basically, the pension pays for the utilities, food, taxes and that’s about it. The State Department covers hospitalization. But the costs for his nursing care, our housekeeper, his physical rehab, the drugs…they’re all astronomical and they’re all on me. I don’t think we could have afforded to actually move back to the States if my grandmother hadn’t left me our house. Luckily, we don’t have to pay rent or a mortgage. Otherwise I don’t think it would have worked and Dad wouldn’t have gotten his—his wish.
“So we came back to the States. I founded Wordsmith with my contacts from university and from my UN job. I tried to work out of the house all last year, but it wasn’t ideal. Dad, bless him, interrupted a thousand times a day, and I do need to meet with clients, so that’s when I decided to get an office downtown. At Wordsmith we’re good at what we do, but it’s a typical small company that is growing steadily but not always fast enough. With what I earn from it, I can barely keep up with the medical bills.”
She looked him straight in the eye. Recounting her life like this was painful and depressing. And, unfortunately, necessary.
“I’m not saying any of this to make you feel sorry for me. Please don’t. I’m doing exactly what I want to do and right now, I wouldn’t have my life any other way. But I do need you to know that this is my life and there’s no reason why any of my problems should be a part of yours. It’s no fun dating someone who has no money for anything. And it’s not just money I lack. Every second of my day is dedicated to my father or to work. That’s it, that’s what I do. I take care of Dad and I work. I don’t go out, I don’t go to the movies or to plays or concerts. I can’t even think of a vacation—not even just a couple of days away. I won’t leave my father alone and I couldn’t afford it anyway. This is the situation as long as my dad is alive, which I hope with all my heart will be as long as possible. So you see, I am not free to just…come out and play with you. There’s nothing lighthearted or easy about my life right now, Sam. I am, in all senses, a burden. I’m saying this to you because you—well, your body language is pretty clear. You seem to be, for want of a better word, attracted. Am I right?”
He nodded, eyes never leaving hers. “Jesus. Absolutely. From the first second I saw you.”
She sighed. He wasn’t making it any easier. The attraction was mutual. Except she’d been able to explain away the sharp awareness of him, the accelerated heartbeat, the slight trembling when she saw him as fear of a dangerous-looking man.
He was still dangerous-looking, but it wasn’t fear she felt. Oh God, no.
He wasn’t handsome but he had sharp, clean features, the strong features of a man used to wielding authority. The whole package—the outsize body, the big rough hands, the penetrating dark eyes, the no-nonsense air, the deep voice—was delectable and made her tremble deep inside.
She’d been so caught up in what she was telling him that she had had no sense of herself, but now sensations came rushing back in.
She was aroused by him, it was absolutely unmistakeable. Right now, in a perfectly nice Lebanese restaurant, blood was rushing to her sex and her breasts, her breathing was speeding up, her head filled with heated images of her crawling onto his lap and simply licking him all over.
Nicole hated machos. She’d grown up in third-world countries where the most idiotic male felt he was superior to all women because he had a Y chromosome and a piece of flesh dangling between his legs.
She was immune to their posturing, to their torrid glances and boasts of sexual prowess.
But Sam Reston was the real deal. He didn’t flaunt his maleness, it just…was. As much a part of him as his hands or feet. Male strength, not just of his muscles, but of his will, exuded from him, together with a godzillion male pheromones that had her heart racing.
He was still holding her hand and the connection felt electric, the heat running all the way up her arm. Even his smell was delicious. Not a cologne, just clean male skin, the starch in his blindingly white shirt, and a faint scent of soap. Not Armani or Boss, but still guaranteed to make female hearts trip up. He simply exuded power and sex.
Hormone city.
She was as turned on as she’d ever been in her life, yet they were simply sitting in a restaurant, hand in hand. Though nothing overt was happening at all, her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. She was hot all over, like she had a fever.
She had never felt this before, and it wasn’t…unpleasant. How sad to have to give it up without even having a chance to taste it first.
With a sigh, she tugged and he allowed her to slip her hand from his. She dipped into the hummus with a slice of home-made bread and hummed with pleasure. Delicious.
Nicole had learned the hard way the lesson of living moment by moment, being grateful for even the smallest of pleasures. This was a fabulous meal in the company of an amazingly sexy man. She had to put her feelings aside and enjoy it. She hadn’t had this nice an evening since she’d learned her father was sick. God knew when she’d have another evening like it.
“This is fabulous.” Nicole refrained from rolling her eyes with delight, and spooned some tabbouleh onto a torn-off chunk of fried bread.
Sam nodded gravely. “Yes, it is. Bashir and his mother are fantastic cooks.” He pushed a terra-cotta bowl of fatteh toward her. “Are you finished?”
She stopped, another bite halfway to her mouth. They had to leave already? A pang of sadness shot through her. Wow. That was quick. She’d said she wasn’t available for an affair and he wanted to end the evening as fast as he could.
Nicole tucked the disappointment away. “Finished? With the meal?”
“No. With what you wanted to say to me. Said all you wanted to say?”
Not really. She’d only lived in San Diego for a little over a year and between Wordsmith and her dad, there’d been no time to make any friends. This was the closest she’d come to a heart-to-heart talk since her lost carefree life in Geneva.
She hadn’t told him how her heart broke at watching her father die, day by day, piece by piece. How hard she tried to hold on to him, how horrible it was to feel him slipping from her grasp.
She hadn’t told Sam how tired she was between caring for her father at home and the fouteen hours a day and more she put in at work.
She hadn’t told him how lonely she felt, sometimes, without a friend to help relieve the relentless pressure. Or how worried she was about money, wondering whether her money would hold out to help ease his end.
But he wouldn’t want to hear that. Her story was pathetic enough as it was. “Yes. I think I more or less said what I had to say.”
Those dark eyes bored into hers. He raised his hand and brought it to her face. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck lifted as he ran the back of a long index finger down her cheek.
“I’ve never felt skin this soft before.” The finger ran lower, over her jaw and rested on a vein in her neck. Surely he had to feel how her heart pounded?
She was finding it hard to breathe as he ran his finger up and down the pulse point. He could read her every reaction there, as if her neck were some kind of lie detector.
He wasn’t reacting at all, simply looking at her, touching her. “Did you even listen to a word I said?”
His mouth tightened. “Oh yeah. Every word. So. Let me get this straight. You’re caring for a sick father, while trying to start up a new business and keep your head above water financially. Is that about it?”
“Very sick father.” How it hurt, every time she said it. “But yes, that’s about it. And what it means is that I don’t have the time or the energy for an affair.” She finally found the strength to move her head away from his touch and sopped up some muhummarrah with a pita triangle and put the whole mess in her mouth. Hot, spicy, delicious. Pure heaven, tinged with regret. Well, the bitter taste of regret was one she was used to by now.
Man up, she told herself.
“I’m sorry.” Nicole studied the grain of the wooden table for a moment, then met Sam’s eyes again. “I’m trying to be as clear and honest here as possible, Sam.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” His jaw muscles clenched. “And I appreciate your honesty. What I don’t get at all is why should any of this should make me desire you any less?”
She blinked in surprise. “Well, I told you. I don’t have time for an affair. Time or energy. My father is my top priority, and after that comes trying to make a living. There just isn’t anything else in my life. There can’t be. So…anything you might want from me, I can’t give you. You’d be better off with someone else, someone who isn’t so wrapped up in problems. Actually, frankly, right now you’d be crazy to want me.”
He was silent a long moment, then picked up his fork. “I think we’d better eat some more of this meal, otherwise Bashir will have my head.”
Nicole put on a wobbly smile. He was right. The food was fabulous, it would be a huge pity to let it go to waste. Live in the moment, and all that. A sigh was in her chest but she refused to let it out. What good would it do?
It felt good to have spelled out the situation to Sam, clearly and coolly. She’d definitely done the right thing. And if it felt like she’d stabbed herself in the heart, well, her heart had been taking a pounding for quite some time now.
Her appetite had gone, but she made a real effort to do justice to the magnificent meal. She was a diplomat’s daughter and had attended 17-course state dinners even when she was ill and had to choke down the food. She knew how to do this.
Sam was quiet, and so was she. Maybe he was feeling the regrets, too. But life was like that—good things happened at the wrong time. It was simply fate.
Kismet, Bashir would call it.
The sun was starting to set over the pretty gardens by the time the waiter came with a small bronze coffeepot with a long wooden handle, the dallah, that had always somehow reminded her of Aladdin’s lamp, and poured a fragrant brew. The cups were without handles. Smiling, Nicole brought the warm cup to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. The coffee had been brewed with cardamom and was dense, sugary, delicious. It set off perfectly the tiny bite-sized pieces of baklava the waiter slipped on the table. She loved the Lebanese version, made with rosewater syrup instead of honey.
The room was dramatically lit by the intense glow of the setting sun, turning everything golden; even Sam Reston’s dark, deeply-tanned skin turned bronze. Right at this moment, he looked almost sinfully attractive. And utterly beyond reach.
Sam put down his coffee cup, crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, face deadly serious. Deep grooves bracketed his strong mouth and his nostrils were white and pinched, as if from some strong emotion. “Now I have something to say to you.”
Nicole put down her cup, leaning a little forward, too. He’d done her the courtesy of listening carefully to what she had to say. Now she’d return the favor.
Whatever he had to say wouldn’t change the situation, but he deserved a hearing. Whatever it was he wanted to say wasn’t pleasant, though. His face had taken on such a grave cast.
“Here’s the deal. I never talk about my past. It’s no one’s goddamned business but my own. But I think there are a few things about me you need to understand. You know I talked about my brother Mike, and that though we don’t share any blood, we’re closer than most brothers?”
Nicole nodded. The cop. The cop who was going to be driving by and deterring Creepy and Creepier.
“There’s a third brother, Harry. He’s not in good shape right now. He was shot up pretty bad in Afghanistan. He’s working with me. I’m going to make him a partner as soon as he’s better. Right now he’s barely on his feet. That’s the three of us. The reason Harry and Mike and I are so tight is that we spent part of our growing-up years in the same foster home, run by a brutally cruel couple. We had each other’s back, always, otherwise I don’t think we’d have survived. We’ve been looking out for each other ever since.”
He stared down at his clasped hands. They were clean, the nails short, but they looked like they’d been used a lot, and hard. There were scars and nicks and calluses, the hands of a man who, though a businessman, didn’t shy from manual labor. Completely unlike the hands of any other man she’d ever been out to dinner with.
Nicole couldn’t help herself. She reached out, one hand hovering over his clasped ones. She hesitated for just a second, then covered his hands with her own. She wanted him to feel the human connection. He’d known hard times, too.
His hands were warm, radiating heat and strength.
He spoke, looking at their joined hands.
“My mother abandoned me in a Dumpster. Just threw me away, like garbage.” He looked up at her shocked gasp, opened his hands and sandwiched her hand between his. A wry smile lifted his mouth. “It’s okay, honey. The story has a happy ending. Eventually. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are,” she murmured. He was here. And how. Huge and strong and utterly unlike any other man she’d ever met. She tried to suppress the sharp punch she’d felt when he called her “honey.” Stop that, she told herself sternly. This wasn’t going anywhere. Getting her heart involved wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.
“Someone had seen her doing it and fished me out. They took me to the hospital immediately and I was put in an incubator stat. Apparently I was about a month old and seriously underweight. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Nicole looked him over. Immensely broad and tall, with hard-packed dense muscles. It was impossible to connect him with an undernourished baby. This tragic story definitely had a happy ending.
“This woman—my mother—was a drunk and a prostitute. She was known in the area. I have no idea who my father was. I don’t think she did, either. The police tracked her down and she was tried and convicted for attempted homicide and was sentenced to ten years in jail. She served eight years, then was paroled. She went looking for me at the orphanage, spouting nonsense about wanting to atone and start over.” He rolled his eyes. “Some nutcase of a social worker believed her and they simply gave me to her. I was eight years old and I’d never seen the woman who claimed to be my mother before.”
“Oh no,” Nicole breathed. The story might have a happy ending but it sounded like there was to be tragedy before they got there.
“Yeah.” His hands tightened on hers. “Her name was Darlene Reston. I can’t think of her as my mother, she was just this…woman I had to live with for a few years. She drank away the welfare checks and there were drugs going on, too. One thing I do know is that she sure wasn’t buying food and milk and clothes with what the State sent her. Once I got a bad ear infection that went untreated and I was left with a weakened eardrum. I squeaked by the physical to get into the Navy but then a mortar round finished the eardrum off. I was almost deaf in one ear, had to leave the Navy on a medical discharge. I had an operation that restored some of my hearing. But I can’t dive to any depth.” He shook his head. “Can’t be a SEAL if you can’t dive.”
Nicole had a flash of a young, skinny, vulnerable Sam, trapped in the care of a woman who drank away his food money, who wouldn’t get him medical care when he needed it.
“There were men around, too, lots of them.” Sam’s deep voice was low and dispassionate. “Most of them were high and stayed high for days. They barely noticed me but when they did, I got the shit kicked out of me. For most of my childhood, I was badly undernourished and weak.” His mouth tightened. “The kind of kid a bully loves to kick around. Makes them feel strong. When I was around twelve, a teacher finally noticed that something was deeply wrong. So the State took me out of Darlene’s care and put me in a foster home.”
“Thank God.” Nicole blinked the tears back. The strong, successful man in front of her was light-years away from the small, abused boy and he wouldn’t want her tears. But her heart ached.
“Not really. The foster home wasn’t any better. Old Man Hughes and his wife took in older, unadoptable kids because they got paid more. The wife gave us watered-down canned soup and crackers bought in bulk, slapped us upside the head when the spirit took her, and locked herself in her room when her husband had his little spells of rage. He could go beserk on a dime. Anything could set him off. An unmade bed. Cracker crumbs on the table. A look, even. We learned never to say anything, ever. He hated a lot of things, but mostly he hated what he called ‘mouthy’ women and kids. He was a big, mean son of a bitch and he loved using his fists on us.”
There was a huge boulder on Nicole’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Her battle against her tears was a losing one. He reached out once more to dry a tear against her cheek.
How terrible life could be. She’d wept for her dying father and now she wept for a child who’d never known love, only neglect and violence. She met his impassive gaze. “Tell me something good happened. Please. Tell me they took you out of that foster home and put you in another one.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Stayed there until I was old enough to enlist. But a couple of good things did happen. There was a nice elderly lady lived next door. Mrs. Colley. Strange old coot, but kind-hearted. She was scared to death of Old Man Hughes but when he wasn’t around, she invited me over and stuffed me full of food. I grew six inches and put on forty pounds in one year. I made sure they were forty pounds of muscle. The old man started thinking twice about using his fists on me.”
“Good for you,” Nicole said fiercely. Sam Reston had grown up to be the kind of man no one beat up on, not without serious consequences.
“Another good thing happened when I was twelve. My brother Harry Bolt arrived and then three months later my other brother Mike Keillor. Harry had tried to defend his baby sister and his mother against his mom’s meth-head boyfriend. The fucker—pardon my language.”
Nicole nodded and waved the expletive away with her free hand. Fucker sounded about right for a man who hurt little girls. “Fucker beat Harry’s little sister and mom to death. Harry went wild. Put the guy in the hospital but not before he got both legs broken. He was fostered out to the Hughes. I saw Old Man Hughes smile as Harry walked through the door on crutches and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I wasn’t an easy target for his rage any more. He needed an outlet and here comes Harry, crippled, fresh meat. That night I took a knife to Old Man Hughes and I told him that if he so much as touched the new guy, I’d cut his miserable hide to ribbons, starting with his balls. I meant every word, too, and I think he knew it. By that time I was as tall as Hughes, though he had a lot of weight on me. But it wasn’t muscle, it was all gut. Harry healed and Mrs. Colley shoved as much food down his throat as he could eat and by the end of that year, he was as big as I was. Harry and I were really tight. And then Mike came. It was his eighth foster home. The three of us banded together, looked after each other and we all shipped out as soon as we could. Me to the Navy, Harry to the Army and Mike to the Marines.”
Nicole opened her mouth to say something but he hadn’t finished. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, lips warm against her cold skin. Sam’s story had chilled her to the bone.
“Now, the reason I told you all of that is so that you can understand something. Me and my brothers came out okay because we looked after each other, no matter what. All three of us know, up close and personal, what it means when no one looks out for you. When no one cares. And we know, deep down in our bones, what it means when someone cares and does the right thing. We all have jobs where we see, daily, the effects of not caring for your kid or your wife or your parents or your friends.”
His face suddenly sharpened, the skin over those high cheekbones tightening, eyes boring into hers.
“So, Nicole, you will forgive me if I don’t find it a turnoff that you love your father so much. That you’re sacrificing important things to make sure he has a dignified death and you’re making sure that he’s right where he wants and needs to be. You’re doing the hard thing, the right thing, and I admire you for it. I was blown away by you the first time I saw you, but by God, it’s worse now that I know what’s behind that gorgeous face.”
Sam took her hand and, shockingly, brought it under the table, between his legs. He folded her hand over his penis. His huge, rock-hard penis. At her touch, she could feel the blood coursing through him, turning his penis even harder, thicker.
The feel of him beneath her hand brought a rush of blood to her own sex, which clenched involuntarily, once, twice.
She was utterly incapable of movement, of thought.
“Not want you?” Sam’s voice was raspy now, as if he found it difficult to get the words out. He breathed out hard. His jaw muscles bunched and his nostrils flared. “I’ve wanted you since the first second I saw you. I couldn’t do anything about it because I was on an undercover job but I sure as hell thought about it, night and day. Christ, Nicole, I want you so much I can hardly breathe. I want you so much I can’t think. Say you’ll come back home with me. Now.”
She couldn’t remove her hand because his big one was curled around it, keeping it over his penis. This was utterly insane. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
There was no air in the room.
No, the answer was no, of course. She had to say no. How could she go home with him, just like that? This was crazy, she’d never done anything like that in her life.
She’d had her share of lovers but she was incredibly picky. It took several evenings out and if there was a false note, if she was uncomfortable in any way with the idea, she just said no. She was good-looking, she got asked out a lot, but then a lot of men were jerks. She’d said no a lot since puberty. There were tons of reasons to say no right now to Sam, if only she could get her brain working again to think of them. Like her hand, like her breasts and between her thighs, it was hot, melting in a sudden surge of pulsing desire.
No, of course not, are you crazy? she said, only the words didn’t quite come out that way.
Somehow, what came out was, “Yes.”