Knowing You (12 page)

“Ravioli,” she said, turning back to the stove to give the pot of sauce another stir. She was as much a scientist as any he'd ever seen at work in a lab. His mother never worked from a recipe. She used a little of this, a little of that, and regularly produced heaven.

“Sounds great.” Paul stepped to one side of her, leaned one hip against the edge of the countertop, and watched his mom while she worked. Steam lifted from a stainless-steel pot and the scent of his mother's sauce was almost enough to make him drop to his knees, weeping with gratitude.

“You've seen Nicky lately?” she asked, flicking a glance at him, then concentrating on the swirl of the wooden spoon as she stirred tirelessly.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Saw him a couple nights ago.”

“Something is wrong there.” She shook her head slowly, and when her lips kept moving, though she wasn't making a sound, Paul knew she was rushing through one of her quick, heartfelt demands on heaven.

Mama didn't just pray for her family. She pelted heaven with demands, requests, and indignant reproaches when she felt they were due. Paul had always had the distinct feeling that if God were paying attention, He'd do well to make sure Angela Candellano stayed happy.

But she wasn't happy now. Nick might think he was real slick at hiding what was bothering him. But obviously, their mother was on to him. Hell, they'd never been able to put one over on Mama when they were kids. Why would Nick think he could get away with it now? The woman made the CIA look like incompetent gossips. Her network of spies had kept all of her children on their toes growing up.

But at least in this one case, Mama could relax. Yeah, there had been something wrong, but Paul was pretty sure Nick was through the worst of it now. At least he hoped so. “He'll work it out.”

“You should help,” Mama told him, reaching for the dish towel slung over her left shoulder. “He's your brother.”

Paul sighed and let his gaze wander the familiar room. The same green-flecked linoleum. The battered old green Naugahyde bench-seat breakfast nook. Worn counters, herbs potted on the windowsill, pictures of kids on the refrigerator—only now those photos were of her grandchildren, Reese and Tina. Coming here
was like stepping into a time warp, once a week. And inevitably he walked into this room and felt twelve years old again.

But a man had to take a stand sometime. Even against so formidable an opponent as Mama.

“Nick has to help himself.” Besides, he wasn't sure that Nick would want his help at the moment. After all, things were going great for Paul right now, while Nick seemed to be neck-deep and sinking fast.

“Family helps family,” she said, inclining her head so she could give him a good long stare.

“Some things you just have to do yourself.”

She pulled the spoon from the pot and smacked it hard against the edge before setting it down on the spoon rest in the middle of the stove top. Reaching up, she wiped her hands on the dish towel slung across her left shoulder, then gave Paul a quick pat on the cheek. “You were always the one with the patience. Most like your papa. Nicky…” She sighed and shook her head. “Impatient. Too much of your grandpa in him. He wants what he wants and he wants it now. Is not good.”

That about summed up the difference in the twins, Paul thought. He'd always been the one to think a problem through, work at it in stages until finally he'd worked it to its logical conclusion. Nick, on the other hand, was more likely to pick up a hammer to slam away at something in his way. And to give him his due, it had always worked for him. Until lately.

“Yeah,” Paul said, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out an envelope. He turned it in his hands, staring at it, but seeing Nick's face the other night.
Desperation was never easy to watch. And seeing it in his twin was especially hard.

“Maybe Stevie is the answer.”

“Huh?” Pay attention, Paul. “What about Stevie?”

His mother brushed nonexistent wrinkles out of the front of the spotless apron tied around her thick waist. Then, never noticing Paul's reaction to her suggestion, she walked to the loaf of fresh bread waiting for her on the counter opposite. She talked as she picked up a serrated knife and started slicing. “Stevie. She was good for Nicky. Maybe she could be again, eh?”

A cold, tight fist closed around his heart. Jesus. Mama matchmaking? With Stevie? “Stevie and Nick broke up a long time ago, Mama.”

“I know, I know, but maybe not forever. Stevie is a good girl. Nicky needs a good girl. He should settle down. Have a family.”

With Stevie?

She shot Paul a look over her shoulder. “You could maybe talk to her. Tell her that Nicky needs help.”

If Mama pulled this off, it wouldn't be Nick needing the help, but Paul. For God's sake. He scraped one hand across his face and shook his head. Wouldn't happen. Stevie was over Nick. Right? She didn't still care. Did she?

But he'd be damned if he'd help.

“So, you'll talk to Stevie.”

“I don't think so.”

“There's a problem?”

“Hell, yes—”

Her eyes narrowed.

He backtracked. “Sorry. Yes, it's a problem. Stevie's
not interested in Nick anymore. That's over.” At least he was pretty sure it was over. That's what he'd been telling himself. But what if it wasn't? What if she was still carrying a torch for Paul's twin? What if she was just making do with him, Paul—the consolation prize—until Nick wised up and came running back to her?

Would she go back to Nick?

No.

Bullshit.

Christ
. He didn't say that out loud, did he? No. If he had, his mother would be slapping a dish towel at him and yelling in half-intelligible Italian. She always reverted to Italian when on a rampage. And cursing in Mama's house would bring down the wrath of Angela faster than anything.

But he was safe. His mother was concentrating on the bread and whatever plan she was hatching. “Over isn't always over. Love is something you can't plan, Paul. Is something that just happens. And when it's right … nothing will stand in the way of it.” She looked at him and waved the knife for emphasis. “Nicky was happy with Stevie.”

“Yeah, but was Stevie happy with Nick?” Okay, that he
had
said out loud. And his mother was looking at him like he'd grown another head. Which he could have used.

“What's that mean—”

“Look, Mama,” he said, changing the subject, a little late, but better than never, “before everyone else gets here…” He held out the envelope and wasn't surprised when she didn't take it. They went through this every month.

Mama was still under the impression that Paul was a struggling underpaid scientist. But the plain truth was, he wouldn't have to work another day in his life if he didn't want to. Licensing the rights to the advanced programs he'd designed had seen to that. But he couldn't imagine
not
working.
Not
coming up with new and improved computer programs.

He loved a challenge.

Which, he thought, might explain why he was so drawn to Stevie.

Scowling at him, his mother said, “I don't need your money, Paul. You should save it.”

“I save plenty.”

“Save more. Your papa always said to save and—”

“I know what Papa said, and this is for you.”

She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “Is not right. I don't take money from my children.”

“If you don't take it,” he said, leaning in and bending low enough to drop a kiss on her forehead, “I'll just hide it in the house somewhere.”

Her mouth worked as though she wanted to argue with him a little more, but he knew he'd won again when she just sighed. “Is silly, though,” she said, taking the envelope and sliding it into the front pocket of her apron. “I don't even spend it. I'm just keeping it for the girls.”

He grinned. “Do whatever you want to with it. It's yours. Hell—heck,” he corrected quickly. “Spend it on fast cars and handsome men.”

She pretended outrage, then crossed herself as she said, “Your papa heard that.”

“Papa agrees with me.”

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “So stubborn.”

“Just like Mama,” he said, and grinned wickedly when she whipped the dish towel off her shoulder and gave him a playful smack in the arm with it.

Then the back door opened and Mama shouted, “Wipe your feet!”

A moment later, Stevie walked into the room and Paul's grin slowly faded. It had been two days since he'd seen her. Two days since he'd held her and tried to convince himself that whatever it was between them had burned itself out.

And now just one look into those deep blue eyes of hers—and he knew he was a pitiful liar.

*   *   *

Dinner was delicious. And loud. And just a little weird.

Sitting around the dinner table with the Candellanos was nothing new. But sitting next to Paul feeling his thigh pressed along hers was. Not easy to keep her mind on chewing when she was busy counting the tiny lightning strikes flashing along her leg to ricochet around her insides. She scooted farther toward the edge of her chair, trying to put a little distance between them, but Paul only shifted position, too. Stevie inhaled slowly, deeply, counted to ten, then twenty, then—

“Hello? Earth to Stevie…”

“Huh? What?” She came up out of her thoughts like a drowning woman breaching the surface of the water. Her gaze flicked around the table quickly and landed on Carla's perplexed face.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Must've been good.”

Good? Oh, man. Beneath the table, Paul's fingertips trailed along her upper thigh, and Stevie hissed in a breath. What was he doing? They'd agreed. It was over. And even if it weren't, why was he doing this
here?
At his mother's table? She dropped her napkin, swatted at his hand, and gulped when he caught her hand and held it beneath the table. Delicately, like the touch of a feather, his fingertips traced patterns across her palm. She shifted in her seat, trying to deal with the distraction of Paul's sudden attention. But it was no use. Her brain short-circuited, but unfortunately, Carla was still expecting an answer.

“Good? Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever.”

“You okay?” Concern glittered in Carla's brown eyes, and Stevie immediately felt even guiltier than she had a minute ago. For heaven's sake, she was sitting at the family table having sex fantasies.

Good thing she wasn't Catholic, because she was pretty sure this would be considered a fairly big sin.

“I'm fine,” she lied, and crossed her legs, inching them farther away from Paul. For all the good it would do her, since he still held her hand in a firm grip that told her he wasn't letting go anytime soon.
Concentrate, Stevie
. “So, you're finally getting to leave on your honeymoon.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Carla practically cooed as she pulled at a slice of bread and popped the tiny piece into her mouth. “Mama's going to watch Reese and Abbey and we're outta here.”

“Paris … sounds fabulous.” Actually, all she remembered of Paris was one very elegant hotel and a lot
of cranky French people. But who was she to rain on Carla's honeymoon parade?

“I can't wait.”

“I can tell.” And damn it, she was happy for Carla. The woman was so in love she damn near glowed. Which was wonderful and lovely and … okay, Stevie could privately admit to a little envy.

She didn't have
love
.

She had … patty-fingers under the table.

She had amazing sex she couldn't tell anyone about.

She had … Stevie frowned to herself. Just what exactly
did
she have?

“You guys?” Nick spoke up, pitching his voice to carry over the babble at the table.

It took a minute or two, but everyone quieted and turned to look at him. There were shadows under his eyes and he lacked the usual flash of confidence that he generally wore as easily as most men did a suit and tie.

Stevie felt a pang of sympathy for the man she'd once cared so desperately for. But she noticed that as Nick began talking, Paul released her hand.

She missed that singing warmth.

“I'm through with football,” Nick said, and instantly voices rose up in question. But he waved one hand at them all, quirked a half-smile, and said, “It's my knee. Doc says I can't take another hit, so that's that.”

“Ah, Nicky.… ” Angela pushed up from her chair and walked around the table to her son. Dropping one arm around his shoulder, she gave him a hug, then smacked the back of his head.

“Hey!” He grabbed at the spot. “What was that for?”

“You don't tell your family what's happening in your life?” Mama's hands dropped to her hips. Never a good sign.

“I just did.”

“Too late. This is what was wrong. I felt it. I knew it.”

“The Great Mama,” Carla murmured, earning a chuckle from Tony and a frown from their mother.

“Make jokes.” Mama threw her hands high and let them slap against her sides again.

Stevie glanced at the man beside her and noted the tension in Paul's expression. Whatever he was thinking, though, was a mystery. And Stevie wasn't sure she wanted that particular mystery solved.

“It's no big deal,” Nick was saying. “I had a couple of rough weeks, but I'm over it.”

Paul snorted, but no one paid attention.

“So that's why all the booze?” Tony asked, his dark gaze coldly furious.

“Yeah.” Nick gave his older brother a sheepish grin. The same smile that had always been his key to escaping punishment of any kind. The smile that could coax or seduce or tempt. The smile Nick used as faultlessly as a trained soldier used his M-16.

Stevie knew that smile too well. In their time together, he'd pulled it on her time and again, getting her to forgive him for one thing or another. Until the cheerleader, she reminded herself. Then, finally, she'd had the courage to say “no more” and walk away.