Addicted to Nick (13 page)

 

Life after Nick left was exactly as T.C. had expected. Hollow, colorless, lonely, as gray as the skies that kept her misery company. Even Cheryl's fresh batch of double choc-chip muffins was doing little to lift her spirits.

“Something on your mind?” Cheryl asked.

Not on my mind, on my heart.
“This ugly weather's getting to me.”

“Only the weather?” Cheryl shook her head, a soft smile of understanding on her lips. “You miss him. It's okay to admit it.”

“That's ridiculous. He's only been gone a few days.”

“A few days is a long time when you're in love.”

T.C. laughed softly, self-consciously. “Is it so obvious?”

“To another woman.” She paused tellingly. “Have you told him?”

“Three weeks ago he was just a larger-than-life character in Joe's stories.”

“I knew Pete was the one after two hours.”

“Really?”

“We met on holiday in Queensland, and that first day I didn't know anything about him other than how he made me feel. Turned out we lived at opposite ends of the country, and we both had our families there, our lives. When I went home, I was so miserable I knew I had to do something about it.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave notice at work and started packing all my things, and then Pete turned up at my door. He had fewer things to pack.”

“I couldn't go to New York. I couldn't live there.”

“Did he ask you to?”

T.C. shook her head. “He asked me to go with him, to be his date at this charity thing.”

“And let me guess—you turned him down cold?”

“I couldn't just leave on a few days' notice.”

Cheryl lifted her brows. “You could've if you'd wanted to. You know Jase and I would have managed, or you could have got someone in to help out—old Harry or Gil's brother.”

“But I don't know how he feels about me, what he expected of me if I went to New York. I couldn't put myself through that. Not again.”

“Nick's not like that other bastard.”

“I know, but he could hurt me so much worse.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Cheryl came to her then, embraced her with arms full of compassion and reassurance. “There's lots of things hurt, but you know what hurts most? Regrets.”

A thick haze of tears clouded Cheryl's eyes as she released T.C. She wiped them unselfconsciously on the edge of her apron.

“I've been pretty miserable this past year, and it's only been the kids that have kept me sane, them and the memories of all the happy times me and Pete had together. You
don't want to grow old with only regrets. Memories make much better company.”

T.C. shifted restlessly on her stool. “Are you saying I should go over there?”

“You make up your own mind on that, but I
am
telling you it's time you stopped looking behind you and started looking toward your future.”

“If only it were that easy,” T.C. said heavily. “But we were never starting from scratch.”

“What do you mean?”

“Joe left me a letter to explain his will. He wasn't only giving me half of Yarra Park. He was giving me Nick.”

“Matchmaking.” Cheryl shook her head, then chuckled with rich amusement. “And doesn't that sound just like Joe?”

“Yes, but strangely enough, I can't see the funny side. I don't want the inheritance or Joe's matchmaking or anything else between us. I just want it to be about him and me.”

“I take it you never explained this to Nick?” Cheryl regarded her through shrewd eyes. “And why not? He's a good man, sweetie. You should talk to him.”

“I know he's a good man, Cheryl, but how do I know I'm a good enough woman for him?”

“Joe must have thought so. He picked you out for his favorite son.”

Sure, Joe might have thought so, but Joe had been biased. How long could she hold the interest of a man who craved excitement and challenge? Whose life was devoted to moving from one adventure to the next?

She wanted Joe to be right. She wanted Nick, but she wanted to hold him for life, not just until he moved on.

 

As she selected a search engine, T.C. told herself she was doing the research out of interest. She simply wanted to know more about this charity Nick supported.

The Alessandro Foundation.

After a frustrating ninety minutes she stumbled across it in a magazine article, and as the facts unfolded line by line, she found herself creeping closer and closer to the computer screen, drinking in every snapshot of the boy Nick had been and a new understanding of the man he had become.

She saw a young Nick in the character sketches of the youths the foundation helped. Kids they took from a dead-end existence to places and experiences they could never have known existed. Wilderness camps and cattle drives, kayaking trips and mountain climbs, places that would challenge their boundaries, tackling tasks that would build their self-esteem.

The foundation aimed to prove that, with courage and commitment and a positive attitude, they could do things they'd never dreamed possible.

T.C. sat back in her chair. The kind of courage and commitment and positive attitude she needed to go after her future.

Without looking any further, she knew Nick's involvement far transcended that of a passive supporter. She knew why he had undertaken so many adventure expeditions over the past years, why he had been in Alaska when Joe died, and her heart tightened painfully in her chest.

How could she have so misunderstood him?

How could she not have seen the man he was?

It was a long time before she could go on, searching with more purpose now, needing to find out about the charity auction, if there was still time to do something that would take courage, that would show commitment and strength of character.

Something that would take her way outside her comfort zone. But if she succeeded, if she could do this, maybe she would also have proved to herself that she was worthy of Nick.

F
inding out about the fund-raiser was the easy part. Finding out that Nick was the prime lot, that a gaggle of rich, beautiful and savvy women would be bidding for a weekend adventure with him as their private guide…that was the hard part.

Because she knew instantly what she had to do.

She picked up the check Nick had tossed on the desk, and the sight of all those zeros caused her eyes to cross.

“You said to give it to charity. I suppose it might as well be your favorite one.”

Resolutely she folded the check and tucked it into her pocket; then she leaned back in her chair to consider the practicalities. They were so much easier to focus on. She had two days. No, a day more, she realized, thinking about the time difference between the two continents. She blew out a long breath and tried to ignore how it quavered.

Not much time, and beyond booking a plane ticket, she didn't know where to start. If she called, Nick would either
arrange everything or he would tell her not to bother. And/or he would demand to know why she had changed her mind, why she was coming. He would demand to hear all those full stories.

He would have them soon enough, but not over the phone. This was about proving her love, about proving herself worthy. It was not a coward's task and would not be done the coward's way. No, sirree.

She pictured the stunned silence in the room when she made her bid, the spotlight falling on a lone woman…a small blonde wearing the wrong kind of dress and tripping over heels she couldn't manage. For a moment her resolve weakened. Those old insecurities clawed their way back to the surface and dug in with sharply honed talons.

They screeched,
Remember your last sad attempt at sophistication? Miles laughing as he told you to stick to your boots. Remember the patronizing laughter of his friends?

And then she remembered the look in Cheryl's eyes when she spoke of regrets. No, she didn't want to grow old with regrets. She wanted a chance at the memories.

She slapped her hand down on the desk with a purpose that belied the enormity of what she still had to do. Get her hands on a ticket to a fancy New York society fund-raiser, get herself to that city, find something to wear.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard a car pull up.

 

A compact European sedan sat in the drive, and when T.C. came out the door, a vaguely familiar looking woman slid out of the driver's seat and pushed designer shades to the top of her sleek dark bob.

“Hello, you must be Tamara.” She smiled across the roof of her car. “I had to come and meet you. Curiosity is my middle name. That makes me Sophie
Curiosity
Corelli.”

She came around the car, at least five foot eight of elegant taste and exquisite grooming, and extended a per
fectly manicured hand. T.C. took it in her smaller unmanicured one. “Hello, Sophie. I've heard a lot about you.”

Both perfectly shaped brows shot up. “Is that so?”

T.C. felt a betraying warmth in her cheeks. Sophie
Troublemaker
Corelli, Nick had called her. The sister with too much time on her hands. She glanced down at Sophie's Italian sandals, then up at her artfully applied makeup. She couldn't recall praying for a fairy godmother, but it seemed as if one had arrived behind the wheel of an Audi 4.

“Would you like a coffee?” she asked with a tentative smile.

“No, but I'd kill for something cold.”

T.C. took a deep breath and ushered the woman she hoped to make her ally into the house.

 

Two nights later, she stood trembling in the lobby of one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants, wondering what had possessed her to undertake such a foolhardy scheme. Slinking away and leaving the country undetected suddenly seemed mighty appealing.

Is that what you really want? Is that why you went through all that tedious primping and preening? The hair-dresser and the beautician and the exhausting shopping trip? If you chicken out now, how will you face Sophie? And Cheryl and Jase?

Worse…how will you face up to yourself?

Despite the stern words, her knees kept knocking and her mouth remained so dry she knew for sure and certain it would be incapable of uttering a sound. The doorman looked across at her for perhaps the twentieth time, and again she avoided eye contact. If she didn't move soon, he might have her arrested for loitering.

A man in a tux came out of the dining area and stopped to say something to the doorman. Security? She didn't think security would wear dinner-suits, but then, what did she know? This was a very high-class venue. The thought
of being thrown out onto the street without a chance of explaining had her heading for the ladies room. She had already used it twice. Halfway there, she caught sight of herself in a huge mirror.

Herself?

What she saw was an elegant blonde wearing moss-green layered georgette that floated in all kinds of interesting ways in response to her body's undulating motion. Beneath the softly flowing fabric she saw long, smooth legs and little sandals that sparkled as they caught the light. Their high heels were what caused her body to undulate.

As she stopped, absorbed anew by this miracle of Sophie's creation, she noticed the man in the tuxedo eyeing her again. She recognized that look. He wasn't checking out a suspicious character—he was checking out the blonde in the mirror, the woman named Tamara.

Her glossy lips curved into a smile just as her admirer caught her eye. She gave him an apologetic shrug, tucked the little evening bag under her arm, and, with a new confidence in her step, she turned toward the doorman.

 

This was the third time Nick had participated in this auction. The other times he hadn't minded the attention, had even played up to the crowd, given them his best smile and encouraged them to do their worst.

Tonight he simply didn't want to be here.

Get it over with,
he thought as he stepped into the spotlight on the small raised dais in front of a well-fed—and equally well-lubricated—audience. That was all part of the plan. The more champagne they drank, the more deeply they dug into their wallets.

Dutifully he responded to the welcoming applause and the odd wolf whistle, but by the time bidding commenced, his face ached with the effort of smiling. He supposed he was out of practice.

Prompted by the celebrity auctioneer's prodding, the bids came helter-skelter, past ten, then twenty, thousand.

“Do I hear twenty-five?”

“You betcha,” rang loud and clear from an ancient supporter in the front row, and the crowd roared with delight.

Nick tuned out. Get it over with, he repeated silently, so I can get the hell out of here. And go where? Back to that cold, hollow apartment, to pace the floorboards well into the morning hours?

He knew the restlessness in his spirit couldn't be fixed as easily as it had in the past. None of the traditional challenges—no mountain, no river, no glacier—could do it. Only Tamara could.

Tamara. He was so lost in thoughts of her, of feeling her in his arms again, that he imagined he heard her voice, raised as if to attract attention.

“I don't think I could have heard you correctly, madam.” The auctioneer was peering toward the back of the room. “Would you mind repeating your bid?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

He hadn't imagined her voice. She was here, in this room, repeating her killer bid on the last lot. On him.

Nick wasn't the only one stunned. The laughter and chatter subsided to hushed murmurs, accompanied by the swish of fabric and creak of chairs as people turned to stare. Nick stared with them.

“That's a serious bid, madam?” the auctioneer asked.

“Lock the doors so she doesn't escape,” a heckler called. The laughter seemed a little strained, expectant, as if the joke might fall flat.

“It's a serious bid, but I can't go any higher.”

“In that case…” The auctioneer did his usual
Any more bids? Going once, going twice
patter, before bringing his gavel down. Someone up back started to clap. Gradually the rest of the crowd joined in, the applause rising to a
thunderous crescendo that pretty much matched the beating of Nick's heart.

He still couldn't see her, still couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined this whole scenario. Still wasn't sure how he felt about this whole ridiculous scenario.

He stepped off the stage and out of the light…although not out of the spotlight. The auction coordinator had her arm through his, wanting to complete the formalities. Others on the organizing committee gathered around, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand as if he had just performed some amazing act of benevolence.

Some of the crowd were standing, forming an informal guard of honor as they applauded the winning bidder's progress to the front of the room.

And finally he saw her.

T.C. felt her knees start to wobble and was grateful when a woman stepped from the group surrounding Nick to take her arm. That kept her upright. “Well, here she is. Our mystery bidder. I suppose you would like to meet Mr. Corelli?”

“We've met.”

His voice sounded as reserved as the first touch of his gaze, and T.C. felt it like a physical blow. What had she expected? Open arms and melting smiles? Maybe not, but a touch of warmth, of encouragement, even of surprise, would have been nice.

The organizer was trying to draw her aside, talking sotto voce of paperwork and the chance of publicity, and T.C. appealed to Nick—to those cool blue eyes.

“Can we handle the formalities later, Yvonne?” he asked.

The woman tutted something about
unknown quantities,
and something definitely unreserved sparked in his eyes. “I can vouch for this lady's check, Yvonne.”

“Are you certain?”

“I believe I wrote it myself.”

Yvonne's raised eyebrows almost disappeared off her forehead as she added up the score. T.C. felt the weight of a dozen calculating gazes, but there was only one that mattered. It had turned intent, serious, questioning. Her smile was tentative as she held up his check.

“You said if I didn't want it I should give it to charity. I liked the sound of this one.”

“It does good work.”

“Yes, you do.”

Yvonne cleared her throat, and impatience or irritation flickered in Nick's eyes. But he turned to her and smiled. “We will handle the formalities tomorrow. All right?”

But it wasn't a question, not really.

“And could we have a little privacy right now?”

That wasn't a question, either. The group dispersed amid some unsettled muttering, and finally they were alone…alone with a room full of curious onlookers pretending not to watch.

Nick turned his impatient, irritated gaze on her, and T.C. felt her stomach dip. “Now, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Well, according to the catalogue, I have bought an adventure weekend with you as my personal guide.” She took a deep, nervous gulp of air. “Now, I know it's rather short notice, but I was wondering if you would have this weekend free?”

“You have something in mind?”

She held nothing back when she looked right into his eyes. “I believe I owe you some backstory.”

“You needed to come all the way over here, to pay an exorbitant amount of money, to talk to me?”

“I hope it will be worth it.”

He gave nothing away in the next moment—a long breath-held moment that meant more to T.C. than any single moment that had ever come before.

Then he gave a swift nod of his head, murmured,
“We'll see what you've got to say, then,” and his voice sounded as dark and compelling as the hour before dawn. Then he took her hand and drew her in his wake across the room, through the crowd that parted before them and closed ranks behind them. A crowd that applauded their departure as they would stars leaving the stage.

 

T.C.'s head was still spinning long after they climbed into the back of a cab and started for whatever address Nick had given.

She felt his gaze on her from across the cab and the distance he seemed to have put between them again. “There were easier ways of doing this, you know.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “But I decided I didn't want to do this the easy way. I decided I should do something right outside that comfort zone.”

“Coming to New York wasn't enough?”

“Not to get rid of that check.”

“It always comes back to that!”

“Yes, it does, and you want to know why?” She didn't wait for him to say anything, for him to turn any further away from her. “I didn't want Yarra Park or what Joe wanted for us to come between us. I wanted this to be about us, Nick, with no inheritance and no expectations interceding.”

Her impassioned plea seemed to fill the enclosed space, to suck up the very air until she felt giddy with lack of oxygen. “Expectations?” he asked slowly.

“Yeah.” She smiled, wryly. “Joe wanted us to be together. His wanting you to come over to Australia to tell me about the inheritance, his wanting me to talk you into caring for the place so you would keep it—it was a matchmaking thing. He wanted us tied together.”

He took a long time to digest those words, to turn them over and to formulate his response. And all the while Tamara's heart beat a heady tattoo in her chest.

“And so you wanted to get rid of these ties. You didn't want to be tied to me?”

Here it was. The moment when she put it all on the line. She took a deep breath. “I didn't want to be tied to you by other people or by property. That doesn't mean I didn't want you.”

“And you couldn't tell me this before I left Australia?”

“Ridiculous, huh? But I needed to sort it out in my head first, and I needed to take a huge dose of courage, and I needed Cheryl to talk some sense into me.”

For the first time he smiled, and it was as if that simple action released an unbearable pressure in her chest. “If she talked you into paying half a million for a weekend with me, then I'm not sure we're talking sense here.”