Knowing You (18 page)

“It's not my life. It's just about my work, Mama. Nobody cares.”

She was across the room in a flash. He'd forgotten she could move that fast when really pissed. He'd also forgotten just how hard she could hit. The slap on the side of his head reminded him.

“
I
care. Your brothers care. Your sister cares.” She crossed herself quickly. “And your papa, God rest his soul,
cares
.”

He rubbed the spot on his head and winced. “If you cared any more, I'd be unconscious.”

“Funny again.” Shaking her head, she reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. “You would shut your family out of your life?”

“I'm not,” he argued, even while a corner of his brain reminded him that he was doing just that as far as it concerned Stevie. But that was different. Right?

“You are my son, Paul. I love you.”

He smiled. “I know you're proud of me, Mama,” he said softly. “I didn't need to show you the awards to make you tell me.”

“Always so quiet,” his mother murmured. “Like your papa.”

“Mama,” he said softly, grateful the storm appeared to be over, “why'd you come down here anyway?”

Angela blew out a breath that ruffled the one stray hair that had drifted free of her topknot. Glancing back at the wall of awards her son had won, she thought about his question for a long minute. She'd come here
to try to get Paul's help in bringing Stevie and Nick together again. Worry for Paul's twin kept her prodding, interfering. She only wanted her children to be happy. Was that so wrong?

But now … seeing what Paul had accomplished had given her second thoughts. Oh, she'd always known that Paul was her quiet achiever. He'd never needed the applause that Nick had always craved. Paul could do what needed to be done whether there was an admiring audience there or not. Nick needed people to see him. He needed approval. Paul found his own approval.

And maybe, she thought, looking up into her son's steady gaze, maybe it was time that Nick found his own way. Just as Paul had. As Tony had.

Frustration bubbled inside her, but she fought it back. Sometimes the best thing a mother could do was stay out of things. Nodding to herself, she said, “Nothing. Is nothing. I just wanted to see your work. Your mother can't visit?”

“Anytime,” he said, pulling her into his arms for a long, tight hug.

Another brisk knock on the door announced Max. “Sorry, boss,” she said, poking her head in the partially open door. “But the meeting—”

“You go,” Mama said, pulling away to walk over and pick up her purse. “Go to work. Win more prizes.” She wagged a finger at him. “And tell me about them.”

He grinned and she saw pride in his eyes. “I promise.”

Paul's mother left in a rush of green flower-sprigged cotton. There was something else going on; he was damn sure of it. His mother never did anything without a reason. But he didn't have time to worry about it
now. The scent of rosewater seemed to follow him as he marched off to the meeting.

*   *   *

The heavy cream-colored stationery crinkled as Stevie's fingers tightened on it. Her mother's handwriting—large, flamboyant letters, scrawled in brilliant peacock blue ink—filled the page.

Stephanie
My husband the Barrister insisted on my making a will and sending you a copy. As I continue to enjoy excellent health, this is simply a legal precaution. Joanna

“Touchingly personal, as always.”
Stephanie
. Her mother was the only person to ever have called her by her actual name. Her father had christened her Stevie when she was still a baby. But Joanna insisted that “nicknames are common.” And maybe, Stevie thought, that's why she liked them so much. Still, the nagging little twinge of pain she always associated with her mother zinged her heart, but it would pass. It always did.

Stevie sighed and unfolded the sheaf of legal papers. Her gaze sliding over the legalspeak, Stevie read it quickly, more out of curiosity than anything else. There were the usual bequests … usual for her mother, anyway. Ten thousand dollars left to the maid who'd been with her for twenty years—as opposed to the hundred-thousand-dollar gift to the medical facility that handled Joanna's biannual eye lift.

Fifty thousand left to a tarot card institute and five thousand to her chauffeur.

Yep, Stevie thought. That was fairly typical. There were plenty more along the same lines, and Stevie couldn't help wondering what the “barrister husband” had thought of his wife's peculiarities.

Then the word
trust
caught her eye.

Stevie read that passage once.

She straightened up.

And read it again.

Her mouth went dry.

One more time.

Sister?

She had a
sister?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“O
H MY GOD
.”

Stevie jumped to her feet and her chair toppled over, clattering loudly against the plank wood floor. She didn't care. Hardly heard it. Her own heartbeat was pounding so loudly, it deafened her to everything else.

Her hands closed over the edges of the will, crumpling it in a tight two-fisted grip. The room spun wildly around her, like one of those strange special effects shots in a horror movie.

A sister.

“I have a sister.” Saying the words aloud felt … well, okay, weird. But wonderful. Amazing.

When the world stopped spinning, her gaze dropped to the will again. She focused on the few lines that interested her most:

A trust fund has been arranged for my mentally deficient daughter, Debbie Harris. This trust will remain in place for Debbie's lifetime
.
On Debbie's death, the trust fund will then be dissolved and any and all remaining monies are to be donated to Reach for the Stars, the organization which has provided Debbie's home
.

Mentally
deficient?

Jesus, what an ugly word.

A well of empathy for a sister she'd never known existed rose up inside Stevie. And matching it came a fountain of anger for her mother. “For God's sake, Joanna,” she muttered thickly, past the knot of emotion in her throat. “This is low even for you.”

But was it, really?

Stevie had plenty of less than pleasant memories from her childhood. Not that she'd ever been physically abused in any way. After all, you had to be noticed to be smacked around. But she'd learned early on that she was little more than an annoyance to her mother. And if Joanna, whose mothering skills ranked right up there with those of a praying mantis, ignored a so-called normal child, what kind of life would Debbie have lived? Images of a locked attic on the top floor of a Gothic manor rose up in Stevie's brain, and it disgusted her to know that she probably wasn't far off.

“But how could she not at least
tell
me about my own sister?” Yet even as she ground out the question, she already knew the answer.

Joanna had dumped her child in a home and then never given her another thought. A chill raced along Stevie's spine. Jesus. She came from that woman. It
was almost enough to make a person run out and get her tubes tied—just to end the line of rotten mothering.

But she was wasting too much time thinking about Joanna. This wasn't about her. Not now, anyway. There'd be time later for phone calls and recriminations. Right now, Stevie had to figure out where her sister was.

She had a sister. Family.

Harris
. Her last name was Harris. That made her the daughter of Joanna's—quickly Stevie mentally ticked off her mother's husbands in chronological order. First on the list was Stevie's own dad. But he'd been followed by Miguel Santos, then Rory Hudson and Michael Harris and
someone
Franco and now the unfortunate barrister Henry Whiting-Smythe.

Okay, Michael Harris. Stevie had vague recollections of a short man with a kind smile. But she'd only been ten years old then and had spent most of her mother's marriage to Michael in a boarding school in Sussex, so she didn't recall much else.

It didn't matter so much, though. Because now she knew that Michael Harris had given her the best gift ever. He'd given her
family
.

And in the space of a few mind-numbing seconds she indulged in all sorts of fantasies. She and Debbie, living together. She and Debbie going to lunch, shopping, laughing. Spending Christmases together. Thanksgiving. All of those family-centered holidays would now seem new and more important than ever.

She'd have someone to spend them with.

She'd have someone to love.

Stevie sucked in a huge gulp of air in a futile attempt to calm down the swarms of butterflies dancing around in her stomach. She had to find her. Had to find Debbie. She should call London. Talk to Joanna.

Glancing at the clock on the wall above the television, she noted the time and did a quick calculation to British time. Four
A.M.
over there. Not a good time to catch Joanna at her best. Stevie grimaced tightly. Besides, she had a few things she wanted to say to dear old Mom and wanted Joanna perfectly awake and coherent when she said them.

So what could she do?

Her skin felt too tight. Nerves hummed and she actually
felt
electricity buzzing in the still air.

This was
big
.

Too important to keep to herself. Heart pounding, blood racing, excitement jangled in her nervous system. She had to tell
somebody
. Racing to the phone, she jumped over Scruffy as she poked her little head out from under the coffee table.

“Sorry, Scruff, gotta call—” Phone receiver in her hand, Stevie stopped and stared down at it as if waiting for it to speak to her.

Call
who?

Her instincts shouted, Carla! But Carla was on her honeymoon. Fingers sliding across the numbered buttons, Stevie's mind moved at lightning speed. Yes, ordinarily, she would call Carla. But tonight, there was really only one person she wanted to talk to. One person she
needed
to talk to about this.

Chewing at her bottom lip, Stevie punched in the
right numbers, slapped the receiver to her ear, and listened as the phone on the other end of the line rang.

On the fourth ring, Paul answered, and he sounded winded. “Hello?”

His voice was husky and breathless and Stevie instantly imagined him wrapped around some brilliant scientist or astronaut. Her brain painted an exceptionally clear picture of a tall redhead leaning into Paul and biting his ear and running her fingers up and down his naked back and—

“Yo! Stevie!” Paul practically shouted into the phone, and Stevie pulled the receiver from her ear in self-defense.

“You don't have to shout.”

“Well, you weren't answering me, so I figured you were dead or something.”

“And shouting would bring me back?”

“It was worth a shot.”

Stevie smiled. If there was a redhead there, he was ignoring her, which was okay by Stevie.

“Okay, you're zoning out again.” Now he sounded patient, interested.

“Sorry. My brain's busy.” Understatement of the century.

His tone changed instantly. “Everything all right?”

“No, not all right,” she said, glancing down at the will she still held tight in her right fist. “Everything is … different.”

“What is it?” His voice dropped another notch, hitting that low rumble of sound she associated with darkness and wrinkled sheets and slow hands and fast breathing.

She didn't want to say this over the phone. She wanted to see his face. Watch his reaction. “Can I come over?” she asked.

“Now?”

“Yeah. Is it a problem?”
Please say no
.

“Come. I'll make coffee.”

“God, no, don't do that,” she laughed, loving the rush of expectation rushing through her at the thought of seeing Paul. At the thought of how her life was about to change. At …
everything
. Probably she shouldn't be going to Paul's. Not with how things were between them right now. But she'd worry about consequences later. Right now, she needed her friend. “Get the pot ready.
I'll
make the coffee.”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

The sound of her tires on the drive pulled Paul to the front porch. Damn it, he shouldn't be so happy to see her. Shouldn't have gotten such a charge out of hearing her voice on the phone or knowing that she wanted to come to him. But he couldn't seem to stop himself. Just thinking about her gave him the kind of rush he used to get after solving some intricate calculation. At meetings, he caught himself drifting into thoughts of Stevie when he should be taking notes. He wasn't getting much sleep anymore, either, since every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Hell, they couldn't be together for more than five minutes without groping each other like a couple of teenagers in the backseat of Dad's minivan.

Stevie'd slipped deeper and deeper into his life. She
was more than his friend. She was his lover. His …
what
, exactly?

Hell, he didn't know.

Paul Candellano, boy genius, didn't have a damn clue what was happening to him.

And at the moment, he didn't give a rat's ass. All that was important was that Stevie was here. Now.

He stepped out onto the porch, feeling the cold, damp wood planks pressing against the soles of his bare feet. A chill ocean-scented wind slapped his face and stung his lungs as he dragged in a deep breath and waited while she climbed out of her car.

In the moonlight, her blond hair shone like silver and her fair skin damn near glowed like porcelain, lit from within. Wearing worn, faded blue jeans and a bright red sweatshirt with the Leaf and Bean logo across the front, she looked impossibly young and fresh and … Christ, face it. Breathtaking.

Shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Paul kept his gaze locked on Stevie as she walked across the yard, carrying a small paper sack. The wind tossed her hair across her eyes and she reached up to pluck it free, shaking her head, swinging her hair into the wind, and laughing like a loon.