“YOU’RE THROUGH.” THE DOCTOR’S words were simple. Final.
Morning sunlight sifted through the tinted windows, making the view of downtown San Francisco look as though it were encased in some weird shaded fog. Which was just how Nick Candellano felt. As if his brain were shrouded in mist. He’d heard the other man’s words; they just weren’t completely registering.
Because he didn’t want them to.
But he couldn’t ignore the situation forever.
Nick looked up at his doctor and saw something in the man’s eyes he didn’t want to see. Pity. Well, shit. A cold, hard knot formed in his guts and he fought to keep it from spreading. Hell of a way to start off a morning. He scraped one hand along the back of his neck and stalled for time. Time to adjust to the reality that was about to deliver a sucker punch to his life. He’d known this was coming, though, so it really wasn’t a sucker punch, was it? More like a body slam. Somehow he’d just known it. His knee didn’t feel a hundred percent, despite the physical therapy.
Still, it was a hard thing to face. Deliberately misunderstanding the man, Nick gave him a winning smile and said, “Through, you said. For this season, right?”
“For good, if you’re smart.” The orthopedic surgeon shook his head, took a seat behind his desk, and folded his hands atop the file folder that contained Nick’s life. “Look, Nick, your knee, to put it simply, is more plastic than bone, now. Take a hit the wrong way and you’re in serious trouble. You blow it out again and best-case scenario, you’re looking at using a cane for the rest of your life.”
Unconsciously Nick reached down and rubbed his kneecap protectively. It felt okay at the moment. Sure. While you’re sitting. What about running downfield with some three-hundred-pound maniac chasing you? Different story. Hell, he’d been taking hits on the field since junior high. But the thought of taking another hit to a knee that had already been blown out was enough to make him cringe. And a man who didn’t want to be tackled had no business being on a football field.
But Christ, he’d been playing to a crowd since Pop Warner football. How would he live without that? Without all of it? The sound of applause, the jolt of excitement he got every damn time he walked into a football stadium, the slaps on the back and the looks of pride that followed him whenever he went home.
Man, just listen to yourself.
Damn, but he was a petty man.
Nick’s gaze settled on the doctor’s face and he realized there was more the other man wasn’t saying. Hell, what else was there? But he had to know all of it. It was like staring at a traffic accident. You didn’t really want to see anything, but you just couldn’t stop yourself from looking. “And worst-case?”
“Wheelchair.”
Instantly an image of himself, freewheeling around Chandler, snarling at people who had the nerve to remind him of his heydays, kids throwing sticks into the spokes of his chair, filled his mind. Hell.
Sinking back into the rich leather armchair opposite his doctor, Nick scraped both hands across his face, took a deep breath, and mentally said good-bye to professional football. Though he’d known this was coming eventually, it didn’t make it any easier to swallow now that it had. On the other hand, he wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty-two, right? He’d had a good career. Made a lot of money. Traveled. And running backs didn’t usually have too long a life span anyway.
The knot in his guts twisted a little tighter. He could paint this any way he wanted. Bottom line, though … somebody’d just pulled the rug out from under his life. And he didn’t have a clue as to what he’d do next.
Looking at the doctor, he said, more to himself than the other man, “So. What exactly does a pro ballplayer do when he can’t play ball?”
* * *
Beth sat at the kitchen table, wadded up her third Kleenex, and tossed it at the trash can. Neat. Even in her misery, Beth’s personality shone through. She had always been a woman who believed in a place for everything and everything in its place.
Unlike Carla, who believed that wherever something landed, that obviously was its place.
“So tell me,” Carla said, and pushed the cookie bag closer to her sister-in-law.
“We had a horrible fight last night.” Then she thought about that for a minute, raised teary eyes to look at Carla, and amended, “Well, I had a horrible fight. Tony just stood there. He wouldn’t even yell at me.”
A bad sign.
When an Italian didn’t yell, that was not good.
Carla sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her middle. Fingers plucking at the material of her sweatshirt, she kept quiet, with difficulty, and waited for Beth to continue. It didn’t take long.
“I told him I wanted to know where he was going three nights a week.” She snagged a cookie, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Told him that I wasn’t going to let him make a fool out of me.”
“All good,” Carla assured her.
“Yes, but he didn’t say anything.” She tossed the cookie to the table, jumped up from her chair, and paced the kitchen. The heels of her sandals clicked furiously on the linoleum. “Nothing important, anyway.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“He said I should trust him.”
“Ah, the standard return-fire volley.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Anything else?”
Beth pushed one hand through her auburn hair, and when that hair then fell back into place perfectly, Carla felt an inward sigh of admiration.
“He said he loved me, but he wasn’t going to explain himself. That he shouldn’t have to.”
“Oh, that’s great.” Carla shook her head and sat forward again, leaning her forearms on the table. “And if it was you taking off three times a week, he wouldn’t ask questions? He’d just trust you? Not expect an explanation?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Of course you did!” Carla nearly shouted. “It’s logical. Reasonable.”
Beth came to a stop beside the sink. Curling her fingers around the edge of the counter, she held on tightly, her knuckles whitening, as if her grip on that chipped Formica was the only thing holding her on to the planet. She stared out the window at the yapping puppies and said quietly, “Then he left.”
Carla simmered quietly inside. Looking at the other woman’s pain was enough to make her want to strangle the big brother she’d always loved so much. How could he be such an idiot? And what was she going to do about it?
The phone rang and Carla jumped, glaring at it. Now was not a good time. Her sister-in-law turned and looked at the ringing phone as if it were a snake poised to leap across the room and sink its fangs into her. Carla knew how she felt.
“God, I hate that thing. Just a minute, Beth. Whoever it is, I’ll get rid of ’em.” She stalked across the room, snatched up the receiver, and snapped, “What?”
“Carla? This is how you answer a phone?”
She sighed and turned around, shrugging helplessly at Beth. “Hi, Mama.”
Beth’s eyes went wide and she shook her head, pointing at her own chest. Thankfully, Carla was an expert at desperate pantomime. Beth didn’t want Mama knowing she was there.
“Was that a sigh?” her mother’s voice demanded.
“What?”
“You sighed. I heard you.”
“Ears like a hawk,” Carla muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” She pushed one hand through her hair. “What’s up, Mama?”
“Is Beth there? I thought I saw her car.”
“Beth?” Carla shot the other woman a look and winced as she shrugged and said, “Yes. Beth’s here.”
Her sister-in-law threw both hands wide and looked toward heaven for help. Carla could have told her from experience that it wasn’t coming. The only one “up there” who would be interested in helping any of them was Papa—and he was too busy enjoying the distance between him and Mama to leap into the fray.
“I’m coming over to see the baby.”
“What?” Carla shook her head and reminded herself to pay attention. When talking to Mama, it paid to have all your marbles lined up straight. If her mother showed up and saw Beth crying, there’d be no stopping her from jumping in and running down to the sheriff’s office to slap Tony upside the head. Which wasn’t altogether a bad idea, she told herself. But before she brought in the big guns, she wanted to know exactly what was going on. Key to that was stopping Mama.
“No,” she said quickly, “Tina’s not here. She’s with—” Carla looked to Beth.
“Debbie,” the other woman muttered.
“She’s with Debbie.”
“That teenager with the headphones?” Mama’s voice went up a notch. “All the time she’s listening to singers. How can she hear Tina if she cries?”
Carla sighed again.
“I heard that.”
Carla’s forehead hit the wall. “Mama, Tina’s fine. I’m fine. Beth’s fine.”
Her mother sniffed. “So fine then.”
Great. She had one woman in her kitchen, crying and another woman on the phone, offended. Well, if she had to pick one to deal with at a time, and she definitely had to choose, she’d pick the one standing in front of her.
“Did you want something, Mama?”
“I wanted to tell you I like your young man.”
Instantly worries about Beth slipped to second place in her mind as Carla saw where her mother was headed. “He’s not my ‘young man.’ Heck, he’s not a young man, period.”
“He’s too old for you?”
“I didn’t say that, I—”
“It’s because he has a child you don’t want him?”
“Of course not.” Insulted, Carla stood up straighter and tightened her grip on the phone. “Reese is a sweetheart.”
“So why don’t you like him?”
“I do like him—” Carla shot a glance at Beth and didn’t know whether to scream or be grateful. For the first time since walking in the front door, the other woman was smiling. All it took was Carla being tortured to ease Beth’s misery.
“Good. I’m having him over for dinner tomorrow night. You should come.”
“Mama, don’t invite him for dinner.” She reached up and rubbed her forehead, but it was like trying to fight off a nuclear missile attack with a fly swatter.
“He has to eat.”
“Not with me.”
“Why not with you? You need a man; he needs a woman.…”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Well what’re you waiting for? Book the church!”
Behind her, Beth snorted out a laugh.
“Don’t be smart,” Mama said.
“Mama, I don’t need help finding a man. I just don’t want one.”
She heard her mother take in a long, protracted breath before releasing it again in a rush. “You told me you weren’t gay.”
Help me. Mentally, she screamed. But somehow, she managed to keep her voice steady and even as she said, “Mama, I have to go.”
“Go where?”
Anywhere.
“Beth and I…”—her mind raced, then settled on an acceptable excuse—“are going shopping.”
“Fine. So buy a nice dress to wear for dinner.”
Her mother hung up before she could argue again, and a dial tone told Carla that Mama had won that round.
Carla actually winced as she pulled her fingers back from the phone. But problems with Mama could come later. Right at the moment, there were other pots to stir. Turning around, she looked at Beth, and the other woman said, “Looks like we’ve all got our troubles.”
“Don’t even go there,” Carla told her. “I’ll worry about Mama later. Have you ever considered following Tony when he leaves?”
Beth shook her head fiercely and folded her arms across her summer yellow tank top. “No way. I don’t want to see him with his girlfriend, the home-wrecking, husband-stealing bitch. It’s hard enough to imagine it.”
Carla guessed she could understand that. However, she wouldn’t have any trouble at all facing down her brother and whatever female he was doing whatever he was doing with. “All right,” she said, “I’ll follow him. What nights does he go out and what time does he leave?”
* * *
Jackson stared down at his daughter’s mutinous face and held back a groan of frustration. For such a little thing, she could really put a lot of disapproval into a glare.
“Reese baby,” he tried again, still futilely hoping that a six-year-old could be reasoned with, “we can’t go see the puppies.”
Her little arms snapped across a narrow chest and her brow furrowed. She sighed heavily, unwound her arms, and mimed picking up a puppy and holding it to her face.
“I know you want to see them, but they’re not your puppies. We can’t just go over there anytime you want to.”
She nodded so vigorously, one of her pink barrettes flew out of her hair and clattered on the wood floor.
“Fine. I know Carla said you could come and see the dogs, but—” He was talking to the back of her head as she walked toward the front door. Two long steps and he’d caught her. Taking her arm in a gentle grip, he turned her around to face him. Jackson went down on one knee so they were at eye level, and he studied those solemn but determined blue eyes so much like his own.
She was in there. God knows she had no trouble making her wishes—well, demands—known. Why wouldn’t she talk to him? Why wouldn’t she let him inside, beyond the walls that she’d built since that night a year ago?
Reese laid her small hands atop his and tugged. Jackson’s heart ached, and not for the first time a thread of panic unwound inside him. If he couldn’t reach her … if he couldn’t get her to talk to him …
Resolutely he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind where they simmered constantly, occasionally erupting into a froth of desperation. He would get through to her. He couldn’t lose Reese. Time was running out. Just last night, his mother-in-law had called again, reminding him that if he didn’t find a way into Reese’s silence, she might be lost to him forever.
“Ah, baby, why won’t you talk to Daddy?” he whispered, and he watched her eyes darken. Secrets lurked in their depths and he wished to God she’d let him help. Pain rippled through him. He sighed, swallowed, and said, “It’s okay, Reese. It’s okay. You can talk to me when you’re ready. I’ll be here. Always.”
She nodded slowly, keeping her solemn gaze locked with his.
He only hoped she was ready to talk before the end of summer.
Reaching out, he swiped his fingers across the silky strands of blond hair lying across her forehead. She gave him a tentative smile as if she knew he was weakening. And, damn it, he was. That smile alone should have been enough to convince him to race his daughter across the road. A smile. Laughter. Hell, she’d reacted more to the puppies—and to Carla—than she had to anything else in the last year. So if he had any sense, Jackson told himself, he’d be using whatever he could in his campaign to bring his daughter back to him.
Even if that meant spending time with a woman who touched places inside him he’d thought were long dead.
* * *
Two hours later, Carla tried to reclaim some of her morning. But not even playing with the puppies could completely ease the turmoil raging in her brain.
When had her world shifted so out of control?
It was as if she were living in one of those little glass snow globes and some unseen giant hand had given it a good shake. And she didn’t like it. She preferred things as they’d been for the last two years. Predictable. Safe.
But instead, she had her brothers worrying her, and a little girl with lost eyes, and the girl’s father—who managed to light wildfires in her body with a glance. And then there was Mama. “She told me to buy a dress. I don’t do dresses. And she knows it.” She looked over at Abbey. “Why me?”
Disgusted, Carla plopped down onto the wet grass, drew her knees up to her chest, and focused her gaze on the puppies, splashing through the sprinkler. Bath time always began with a free-for-all. The puppies got to play and she got them all wet at once. One thing about goldens—they loved water. Despite her whirling thoughts, Carla laughed as the puppies tripped over their own feet and climbed all over one another and her to get closer to the water source. Abbey sat to one side, like a canine lifeguard, watching her children with a patient eye.
“Morning.”
Her stomach jittered at the sound of his voice. Well, this is good, she thought. Nothing like having a gorgeous man see you when you’re soaking wet and covered with muddy puppy paw prints. Sure. Why not? The morning was on a downhill slide already. Facing the inevitable, Carla glanced over her shoulder at Jackson and his daughter, right beside him.
Her heart did a weird little bump and roll and she wasn’t sure if it was caffeine deprivation or the sight of Jackson Wyatt. She hadn’t had nearly enough coffee this morning, but she had a feeling this particular reaction was pure Jackson. His dark hair was windblown and he wore a forest green T-shirt that clung to the chest that only last night had had a starring role in her dreams. His blue jeans were well worn and did amazing things for his long legs.
Blood pumped, breath staggered, heartbeat trip-hammered.
Oh, yeah. She was in fine shape. She blew out an unsteady breath and told her hormones to take a nap. Or a cold shower, whichever was quickest. A sense of self-preservation had her shifting her gaze to the child standing alongside him. Her little Scooby-Doo tennies practically danced in place in her eagerness to get to the puppies. Her hair still looked bedraggled, but there was a shine in her eyes that hadn’t been there just two weeks ago.
Dogs. Little miracles, Carla thought. Without even trying, they gave love that reached out to whoever needed it most. And Reese obviously needed it. She still wasn’t speaking, but since that first magical morning when she’d laughed, she’d seemed a little less shut off. A little more “connected.”
No wonder her father was warming up to the idea of allowing the kid to play with the dogs—despite the fact that it meant spending time with Carla. Even he could see that the pups were making a difference in his daughter’s life.
“Hello?” Jackson said. “Earth to Carla.”
She blinked up at him, laughed, and said, “Sorry. Zoned out there for a minute.”
Jackson didn’t mind. Her distraction had given him an extra minute or two to simply look at her. No woman had a right to look that good wet and muddy. She smiled and her face lit up, her dark brown eyes sparkled, and something inside him yearned to be there in the mud beside her. Preferably naked.
Diane never would have rolled around in the grass with a cluster of puppies climbing all over her. But then, Carla Candellano was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.
Which was as good a reason as any for him to keep his distance. Yet here he stood. He couldn’t seem to stay away from Carla any more than his daughter could bear to be separated from these puppies. And that probably explained why he’d agreed to have dinner with the Candellanos again tomorrow night. It was simply another excuse to be near Carla.
Reese tugged at his hand, trying for freedom, but he held her tight. “Your mother came over this morning.”
Carla’s chin hit her chest. “I know. She called. You know, you don’t have to say yes when she comes up with one of her plans.”
“I wanted to say yes. I like your mother.” And you, he added silently.
“Oh.”
Not exactly an enthusiastic response. A little uncomfortable now, he said, “Look, I’ll understand if you’re not exactly pleased to see me today, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let Reese and me help with”—he waved a hand at the puppy balancing itself against Reese’s right leg—“whatever it is you’re up to.”
She flipped her hair behind her back. “It’s bath day.”
Reese pulled away and this time he let her go. He watched as she dropped to the ground and gathered the puppy in close, laughing as the tiny dog wriggled its wet little body against her.
“For them or you?” he asked, smiling at the sound of his daughter’s laughter. But as he studied Carla, that smile faded. Her long dark curls were gathered into a ponytail on top of her head, but the ringlets hung wet and black down to her shoulders. Her T-shirt clung to her breasts, outlining the lace of her bra and molding itself to her figure. Her gray sweat shorts were soaking wet and those long legs of hers looked tan and luscious enough to fuel daydreams designed to taunt a man. And that silver toe ring seemed to wink at him in the sunlight.
She pushed a long wet strand of hair out of her eyes and said, “I’ll answer that, wise guy, as soon as you tell me why I wouldn’t want to see you today.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Well,” he said, remembering how it had been when he and Diane had had their legendary arguments, “I figured after last night, you’d need some time to cool down.” Diane had always needed days. And expensive presents.
Carla laughed. “Are you serious?” Shaking her head, she set the puppy aside and reached for the hose. Scrambling to her feet, she added, “For an Italian, yelling just means you’re alive.”
“Is that right?” Tension he didn’t know he was carrying unwound inside him, and he smiled as he watched her waving the sprinkler end of the hose.
“Oh, yeah. So.” She swung the sprinkler closer toward him and asked, “You alive?”
“You wouldn’t.” But he backed up a step just in case.
Carla laughed. “Never dare a Candellano.”
He closed his eyes as the water hit his face.
* * *
That night, Carla prowled restlessly through her house. Her nuked half-eaten frozen dinner sat abandoned on the kitchen table and the TV sounded from the living room. Some game show host was snidely pronouncing her contestants Too Stupid to Live and Carla didn’t care enough to go in there and shut the rude woman off.
She turned her back, leaned one hip against the counter, and stared at the kitchen. “I guess I could clean.” Abbey cocked her head as if surprised by the suggestion. Carla laughed. “Yeah. I’m not that bored.”
And it wasn’t really boredom clawing at her anyway. It was something else. Something she hadn’t felt in way too long. Heat pulsed inside her, warming her blood and clouding her mind. That had to be the reason why it suddenly seemed like such a good idea to run across the road to ask Jackson if she could borrow a cup of sex.
“Oh, man.”
A knock at the door brought her upright. Hey. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just as needy as she was right now. Maybe—“Hell, Carla,” she muttered, stalking across the kitchen, “just open the door.”
“Well, it’s about time,” the woman on the porch announced. “Is this any way to treat the bearer of coconut rum?”
“Stevie!” Stephanie Ryan, girlfriend extraordinaire. Tall, blond, with a great body, which was, just now, sporting a gorgeous Caribbean tan, she was the kind of woman other women usually hated, just on general principles. But Stevie was also the best kind of friend. She’d tell you exactly what you needed to hear. Whether you wanted to hear it or not. “You’re back!”
“Well,” she said, “to coin a phrase, duh.”
Stevie leaned forward, gave her a quick kiss, then carried her bag of goodies straight through the house to the kitchen. “Hi, Ab. I brought you a present, too.”
The big dog woofed, then snatched the squeaky rubber palm tree out of the air when Stevie tossed it to her.
“And what’d you bring me?” Carla asked, watching her friend pull bottle after bottle out of her bag. God, she’d missed having Stevie to talk to. But with Jackson here, Carla had to admit the two weeks her best friend had been gone had passed a lot faster than they would have without him around.
Stevie flashed her a wicked smile. “I picked up a new favorite drink on that cruise. And being the wonderful human being that I am, I’ve decided to share. I brought coconut rum and all the fixings for a fabulous girls’ night in.”
It did sound fabulous. “Just what I need.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Stevie said, uncapping the first bottle.
“Huh?”
“Good one.” The tall blonde grinned and said, “I wasn’t home fifteen minutes and I was hearing all about you and Mr. Wonderful across the street.”
“Oh, crap.”
“Virginia says he’s a Mafia informer.”
“Perfect.”
“Rachel says he loved her tuna-pineapple slop.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And your mother says he’s your new boyfriend.”
“Good God.”
“So which is it?”
“Would you believe none of the above?”
“Nope.” She reached down Carla’s blender from the top shelf. Then, walking to the fridge, she opened the freezer, took out the ice bucket, and plunked some into the blender. “Girl, any man who can get all these women talking is one I’ve got to meet.”
“Why?” Carla asked, suspicion coloring her tone.
“Oooh,” Stevie countered, smiling, “territorial. So tell me, have you two done the ugly yet?”
“No,” damn it, “and we’re not going to.”
“Uh-huh. That was convincing. How bad do you want him?”
“Oh,” Carla admitted, “bad, Stevie. I want him really bad.”