Harlequin Superromance February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: His Forever Girl\Moonlight in Paris\Wife by Design (35 page)

His poor mother...missing out on all this. What a privilege it was to be able to sit here and watch him. An emotion stirred deep in Tara's chest that hit several vulnerable areas at once. Being a mother someday was her highest hope. Kids were one of the greatest treasures of life. But to have that treasure and then lose it? Her hand trembled as she pushed a curl out of her eye. Did Jacques Martin feel the same way? Would he be sorry he'd missed out on her childhood?

She shook away the melancholy that threatened for the second time that day and glanced at her hand, her constant reminder of the blessing of life.

“Boo!”

She jumped and let out a little squeal, which brought a hoot from Dylan, who'd sneaked up beside her.

“Are you hungry?”

She took his hint. “I
am
hungry. Shall we go eat supper?”

He cocked his head. “Is that another word for dinner?”

“Sort of. Supper's a light meal at night, like lunch is a light meal during the day,” she explained. “Dinner's a big meal either time.”

He thought about that for a moment. “I think I want dinner.”

“Dinner it is.”

He took the hand she extended without question, and they strolled home at a leisurely pace. Dylan must have decided it was time for her to learn the French language properly because, for the rest of the evening—through eating the shish kebabs Garrett had left to be grilled until she tucked him into bed—he pointed to things and drilled her on the correct word, insisting on proper pronunciation. By the time he fell asleep, she figured her French vocabulary had doubled.

Barely a week past the summer solstice, a hint of sun still lit the evening sky even though the clock read 9:33 p.m. Tara had just stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy the last remnants of sunset when she heard the
snick
of Garrett's key in the lock. She hurried back in to greet him.

He had a broad smile when he stepped through the door, which vanished the instant he saw her. “Tara? What are you doing here?”

The panic in his voice spurred her to the important matter first. “Dylan's fine. He's already asleep. Have you spoken with Monique?”

“No. I just got out of a long meeting.” Panic had been replaced by disapproval. He dropped his keys and briefcase on the desk. “What's going on?”

Tara's hackles rose at his tone. She clipped out her response as if she were answering a police interrogation. “She got a call from her mom that her dad had been rushed to the hospital, and she needed to get there right away. She was upset and crying, so I told her to go on, and I stayed with Dylan.”

“He's okay?” He stepped lightly over to his son's door and peeped in.

“He's fine.” Her voice dropped to a normal level as her neck muscles loosened. “We went to the park, and he played really hard. Then we came back and grilled the shish kebabs you had fixed, and I threw a salad together. It was a lovely meal, which we topped off by sharing one of your bold cabernets. Dylan chose it,” she taunted, keeping a straight face.

Garrett's eyes widened just like she'd seen Dylan's do so many times. “You let Dylan—” He stopped when her grin broke, and he gave her the first real smile she'd ever received from him. Her toes curled in reaction. “You're kidding, right?”

“Yeah. I had my own cabernet, and he had Orangina.”

“You could've opened one of mine. I wouldn't have—” He was interrupted by his cell phone.
“Allô? C'est Garrett.”
He paused.
“Oui, Monique...”

Tara watched the easy manner they'd briefly reached a few moments before dissolve as Garrett spoke to the babysitter. His voice held sympathy, but Tara could also see a milder form of the panic settle into the crease between his brows. It may have been her imagination, but the scar that cut into his lip seemed to have deepened by the time the call ended.

“How's Monique's father?” she asked.

Garrett rubbed his brow. “Not well. It's his heart. They're talking about open-heart surgery, but they're trying to decide if he's strong enough to take it.”

“Oh, the poor girl. She said her mom didn't handle crisis well, so she's got her hands full.” Thinking about her dad, Sawyer, in the same situation caused her chest to tighten. “I assume Monique's going to need some time off? I sure would.”

Garrett nodded absently. “At least a week, probably.”

“What will you do with Dylan?”

“There's an after-school program until six. He hates staying for it, but we have to use it occasionally.”

“But you haven't been getting home until later than that,” she reminded him, immediately regretting doing so when he squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Yes, well, normally, I could be off by then, but we've got this media blitz for another three days, so we're having to keep late hours.”

“I'll keep him for you.” The words came out before her brain fully processed the ramifications of what she was suggesting.

Garrett's head jerked toward her, and she got the feeling he'd forgotten she was there. “No. I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't ask. I volunteered.”

His hands went to his hips, and she saw his fingers tighten their hold. “I really appreciate what you did tonight, stepping in and taking care of him. I'm grateful. Really. But I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around Dylan too much.”

That comment pushed her too far. Just what in the hell was he implying? “Look, Garrett, I don't know what your problem is with me.” She realized her voice had risen. She lowered it to a whisper as she moved away from the child's door, and continued to spit out the words. “I'm a schoolteacher. Kids are my life. I love them, and I'm very good with them. Now, you can stick Dylan in that after-school program, which he hates, if you think that would be better than spending the time with me. But Dylan and I get along well. We genuinely
like
each other. So if you come to your senses and change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She charged onto the terrace and crossed to her flat without looking back. Once at her place, she headed straight for the shower, where she could stand in the steam and let the hot spray beat away the day's frustration.

When she got out and dried off, she felt better—more relaxed—but still too wired to go to bed. She left her hair up in the clip and slipped into some loose cargo pants and a camisole, intending to plot out her Jacques Martin search for tomorrow.

She'd just gotten settled on the couch when she was startled by a soft knock on the sliding door that led to the terrace.

It could only be one of two people, and Dylan had been asleep for over an hour.

She looked out. Sure enough, it was Garrett. She slid the door open, but before she could speak, he held up a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“I'm sorry. I've been rude to you and have been a terrible neighbor. I'd like to start over.” He tilted his head toward the table on his side of the terrace. “Will you forgive me and join me for a drink? I just realized I have a lot to celebrate tonight.”

CHAPTER NINE

“D
OES
THIS
MEAN
YOU
'
VE
changed your mind about my keeping Dylan?” With her arms crossed firmly across her chest, Tara's green-eyed stare bored into Garrett, steady and unflinching—the quintessential teacher look.

Hell, he might as well confess everything. Her look had him convinced she'd find out anyway. “Yeah. I...um...I called Josh Essex after you left. He says you're a great teacher. Honest. Trustworthy. Always concerned about what's best for the kids.”

His confession didn't relax her stance even the slightest. Her eyes tightened at the corners, and she tilted her head in question. “What else did he say?”

He gave a sheepish grin. “He said you have a lot of energy, and everybody wants you on their committees because you're willing to do most of the work.”

She dropped her arms and her protective wall at last, answering his grin with one of her own and stepping out on the terrace to join him. “Okay, then. I get to babysit Dylan, so I have something to celebrate, as well.”

Garrett pointed across the way, where he already had some candles lit on his table to drive away mosquitoes. “Is it okay with you if we sit over there...in case he wakes up?” He hoped the candles didn't look too presumptuous...or romantic.

“Sure.” She nodded and turned to slide her door closed. A gentle night breeze caught some of the curls that had worked loose from the clip in the back of her hair. They stirred around her face, and his fingers twitched with an unsettling urge to brush them back and linger for a moment in their softness.

He shifted his gaze from the enticing curls, only to have it land on the tattoo below her ear. It looked different in the moonlight, like an exotic jewel embedded into her long, elegant neck at one of the tenderest areas. He imagined following the intricate design with the tip of his tongue...her warm breath quickening in response against his naked shoulder.

“Are we...waiting for something?”

Her question slapped him out of his inappropriate reverie. “No. I, uh, was just noticing the...” He wiggled his finger toward the area that had held him spellbound. “The, uh, tattoo on your neck. It must've hurt like hell.”

“Not really.” She held up her hand. “Compared to losing two fingers, it was a picnic.”

“I'm sure. Well...” He gestured toward his table.
“Après vous.”

“So, what are you celebrating?” She gave him a sidelong glance as they crossed the imaginary line to his section of the common space. “Other than the fact that you came to your senses, I mean.”

Josh had warned him the woman was known for not mincing words. He set the bottle and the glasses on the table and pulled the chair out for her to sit down, then began removing the foil from around the cork. “I think I told you before that I'm the head of marketing for Soulard Beer?” She nodded. “Well, we're in the middle of a media campaign. I don't want to jinx anything by talking too much about it, but suffice it to say that it appears the campaign has passed all our expectations.” A small
pop
punctuated his words.

Tara rose to her feet again in overstated ceremony. He filled the two glasses she held out, then he took one and, continuing the drama, held it aloft. “Here's to Soulard Beer and the venture of your choice. May our successes continue to grow in direct correlation to our friendship.”

“
To Soulard, new friendships and successful ventures,” she answered.

They clicked their glasses together and sipped. The candlelight heightened the color of the liquid to amber and cast a golden glow across Tara's face that was quite bewitching. Pleasant warmth from the shared toast and the fine drink bloomed in his chest making him happy he'd invited her to join him.

They sat, and Tara held her glass out again. “Here's to Dylan, one of the cutest, sweetest, most lovable kids I've had the pleasure of knowing.”

Her words caused the muscles in Garrett's throat to constrict, making it difficult for the second sip of champagne to pass. “Tara...” Getting too personal would be a mistake, but she deserved to know where he was coming from in regards his son. “I need to explain my concerns about Dylan, so you don't think I'm a total asswipe.”

“
Jerk
was my epithet of choice.”

He let that mull in his mind as he swirled his glass, causing a tempest of bubbles to rise to the top. “Okay.” He took another sip. “We'll go with jerk.”

Tara settled back in her chair, stretching her long legs out in front of her as if preparing to hear a lengthy story.

He took a deep breath. Where to start? “It wasn't so much you personally, as much as...well, how certain things about you remind me of my wife.”

“Oh...really?” Tara straightened, brows knitting in concern. “Is there a resemblance? Is that why Dylan took so quickly to me?”

“No, no, it's not like that. Angela was short, black haired, dark complexioned.” Garrett wiped his hand down his face. Hell, he needed to just say it. He took another sip, hoping the bubbles would lighten the weight in his chest. “She was bipolar.”

Tara's brows shot up. “Oh.”

“When she took her medication, she was fine.” He continued. “The problem was that she didn't like to take the medication. She said it repressed who she really was. During her pregnancy and then after Dylan was born, she went without it more and more often, and her mood swings flitted from one extreme to another. She could go from the most manic high to the most depressed low in a matter of hours. When I came home from work, I never knew if the woman who met me would be the same one who was there when I left or someone totally different.”

Tara sat her glass down gently and leaned forward to clasp her hands on the table. “And what exactly is it about me that reminds you of her? I mean, you really don't even know me.”

“I know. But when Angie would get on one of her highs, she would do things on the spur of the moment. She'd come home with a piercing or a tattoo.” He waved his hand in her direction. “She had lots of them...said the pain made her feel real and alive.”

While he talked, Tara had been listening intently, brushing a finger lightly up and down on her lips. She now used that finger to make figures in the air as if she were adding up some kind of imaginary math problem. “So, since that first day, it's been in your head that I might be mentally unstable because I have a few tattoos and a couple of piercings?”

“Well...” When she put it that way, his logic did sound a little weak. “You also admitted to the motorcycle wreck that cost you part of your hand...and your gorgeous red hair has blue streaks in it. Angie would do wild things like that to her hair, too.”

Tara started like he'd pinched her, and Garrett grunted in frustration. He wasn't explaining himself very well and was probably pissing her off, beating around the bush with his dance of avoidance. “Oh, hell.” He downed the remainder of his glass. Grabbing the bottle, he topped off Tara's glass and refilled his own. “I know I'm silly. I know that not everyone who has piercings and tattoos and blue hair is crazy like Angie. I know you're not crazy. And if I thought you were, Josh pretty well squelched that.”

The side of Tara's mouth lifted in a half smile. “I grew up in a small town as the preacher's kid, and I was always held to a higher standard. I followed the rules and never got into trouble. But as an adult, I realized I'd never learned to express myself. I have a reason for all of these.” She gestured to the ring in her eyebrow and the tattoo under her ear. “Play nice and maybe someday I'll tell you what they are.”

It had to be the champagne because something about her words shot straight to Garrett's groin, causing a stiffness that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. He shoved the idea of playing nicely with Tara from his mind. “I guess we all have our reasons for doing the things we do. And my objections to your being around Dylan go back to Angie. He lost his mom when he was three, and he has a definite soft spot for women.” He was in too deep to turn around now, so he laid it all out. “I got involved with my French tutor when we first moved here. Big mistake. Dylan latched on to her, and it was really tough on the little guy when we broke up. Ever since, I've been trying like hell to protect him from getting too attached to someone who's only going to vanish from his life.”

“Oh, Garrett.” Tara dropped against the back of her chair, throwing her arms into the air. “I understand now. You're afraid Dylan will see me every day for a month, and then I'll be gone.” Her finger settled on her lip again, brushing back and forth.

Garrett shifted in his seat again, wishing she'd stop calling attention to her luscious lips. “Exactly.” His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

“But there have to be other women in Dylan's life that he's attached to. Teachers? Grandmothers? How do you handle other situations?”

“Teachers he'll see occasionally even after he's left their classes. We call my mom and Angie's mom a lot, usually a couple of times a week.”

She tipped her glass his direction. “If that works, then we have our answer. Even after I go home, I'll be as close as a phone call. Dylan can call me whenever he wants to, and I'll take his calls as long as he needs to make them. But I have a feeling he won't need them too long. People have a way of forgetting. Out of sight, out of mind, you know?” A shadow crossed her face, and Garrett got the feeling she wasn't just referring to Dylan, but he didn't press her about it. Whatever it was, it was none of his business.

That she understood and was taking his concern for his son so seriously filled him with gratitude. “You seem to know Dylan pretty well. Have you been spending time together I haven't been aware of?”

Tara's smile was gentle...and disarming. “We play catch almost every night before you get home.”

* * *

“T
HAT
'
S
TROUBLESOME
.” A
GROWL
of displeasure underscored his voice. “I gave him strict orders not to bother you. It's not like him to disobey. At least, I didn't
think
it was like him to disobey.”

Tara hadn't meant to get her little friend in trouble. “Relax, Dad.” She leaned across the table, laying a hand of reassurance on Garrett's. “He told me from the beginning that he wasn't supposed to bother me. He only comes over to my section if he's invited. And playing catch
is usually my idea.”

Garrett chuckled and turned his hand over to grasp hers. “So you're telling me you and my son have been having clandestine meetings for...?”

“About a week now.” She filled in the blank.

He laughed and shook his head. “And here I thought I was keeping him safely out of your clutches.”

He gave her fingers a light squeeze. It felt nice, and she squeezed back before letting go. “I'm the one caught in the clutches, I'm afraid. Dylan's a heart stealer.”

Pride bloomed on his face. “Yeah, he's pretty special.”

The second glass of champagne was making them bold, adding warmth to the conversation, convincing her she could get away with more than what would normally be proper. “Garrett, if you don't mind my asking—and you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to...”

“Suicide,” he answered.

Tara recoiled at the word spoken so matter-of-factly, though the tense set of Garrett's jaw and the shadow that veiled his eyes belied a deep pain within.

His response hadn't been what she expected.
Cancer. A horrible accident.
Those she'd been prepared for. But suicide? How did one respond to that? “I'm—I'm sorry,” she faltered. “I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“It's okay.” Garrett downed the remainder of his champagne in one gulp. He reached for the bottle. His hand hovered near it momentarily before he drew it back. “The coroner declared it an accident. She was texting and smashed her car into a tree. But there were no skid marks. No sign of any braking at all.” His eyes found a faraway point to focus on—one from three years ago, if she were guessing. “The text was for me. It said, ‘I hate you
.
'”

The icy words sent a shiver down Tara's spine despite the lingering heat of the evening. “That's horrible.” Garrett's Adam's apple bobbed in agreement. “No,” she corrected herself. “It's cruel. No one should have to live with something like that hanging over his head.”

His gaze jerked back, crashing headlong into hers, and this time the pain wasn't hidden. It oozed from him like a sore that had lost its protective scab. “We don't get a choice in the matter, do we?”

“No. No, we don't.” Emma had used those same words when they'd talked about the bizarre twist of Sawyer not being Tara's birth father. Her brain spun in circles, searching for a topic she could switch to. Anything that would shift them from this sad conversation. But how could she do that tactfully and without seeming callous?

“She got it in her head I was having an affair.”

He didn't wait for any prompting, so obviously he wanted—maybe needed—to talk about this. Tara took a large gulp of champagne to dull her senses.

“I worried about leaving Dylan at home alone with her, but I had to work, so I hired a woman—a housekeeper to clean and cook, but mostly just to be there to keep an eye on things. I never even gave her a second look, but Angie was convinced we had a thing for each other.” His hand mopped his face again, and he blew out a long breath. “The night she died, she flew into a rage because I'd given Sally a Christmas bonus that Angie thought was too much. The truth was, Sally was threatening to quit at the first of the year because Angie was getting so hard to deal with, so I'd hoped the extra money would be an incentive to stay on.”