Loving You (11 page)

Yeah, he'd known going in that that piece of news would hit the family like an 18-wheeler. To the Candellanos, family was everything. And knowing that one of their own—just a kid—was out in the world undefended by them would be enough to have them all ready to kill Nick.

“Jesus, Nick.”

Her barbs hit hard and he felt every one of them like the tip of a knife blade, whittling at his skin. But damn it, he was being hanged here with no proof of his guilt. “I don't have a son,” he repeated, and wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Carla or himself. At this point, he'd take either one. “I have a
fan
.”

“What?” She looked at him like he was nuts.

Hell. Maybe he was.

“That's all this is,” he said, warming to the one thought he'd been clinging to since being served with the lawsuit yesterday. “The kid's obviously had a hard time of it. His mother's dead, he's in a foster home—of
course
he dreams up this fantasy. He picks somebody famous. Somebody who even looks like him a little. And he dreams it all up.”

“He
looks
like you?”

Figured she'd pick up on that. Blowing out a disgusted, frustrated rush of air, Nick snapped, “Damn it, Carla, I look a little like Tom Cruise, but
we're
not related.”

She snorted. “Oh, yeah. In your dreams, big brother. Besides, this is different. Most eleven-year-olds don't hire lawyers to make their dreams come true.”

“Okay,” Nick said, walking away from Carla's too-knowing gaze to pace the confines of Jackson's office again. His fingertips scraped along the backs of the overstuffed sofas as he moved past. “So he's a little more determined than your average kid. But that doesn't make his fantasy a reality. It doesn't make
me
his father.”

“Then take a DNA test,” she suggested. “Settle this.”

“I will. If it comes to that.”

“Why not now?”

“Think about it. If the media were to get hold of this…”

“So,” she said knowingly, “we're worried about you now, are we?”

Well, that sounded shitty. Even to him. “I just want a chance to talk to the kid. To sit him down—without that tiny storm trooper around—and talk to him, man-to-man.”

“Or boy-to-boy…” she mused.

“Cute. Don't you have a husband to torture?”

“There's plenty to go around.”

“Good to know.”

“Storm over?” Jackson spoke up from the door he'd cracked open just wide enough to risk his life.

Carla's golden retriever, Abbey, who'd been left in the outer office, woofed in a low, throaty half-roar and pushed at the door until it swung open and she could enter the room. Tail up, the golden pranced across the floor, her nails clicking madly as she walked up to Carla and plopped down on her butt.

“Yeah, it's done,” Nick said, without giving Carla a chance to answer.

“For now,” his sister piped up. She smoothed one
hand across the top of the dog's head and watched her husband approach warily. When he was close enough, Jackson took a chance, dropping one arm around her shoulders, and Carla instinctively leaned back into his chest.

“What time is it?” Nick asked suddenly, realizing that he and his sister had been going around and around for what felt like hours.

Jackson glanced at his watch. “Three-fifteen. Why?”

Jesus, he and Carla had been going around for a long time. “School's out by now, right?”

“Yeah.…”

“Good.” Nick headed for the door.

“Are you going to see him?” Carla called out.

“Yes. And
this
time, I'm actually going to see him.” If that meant he'd have to steamroll the little redhead, then he'd try to enjoy the ride. Nick stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder at his sister. “Don't spill your guts to Mama about this, Carla.”

“I won't say anything.”

He turned to leave, then stopped cold when she added, “Yet.”

Damn it
.

*   *   *

Jonas could hardly sit still. He should have been doing his homework upstairs. But he was just too excited. So instead, Tasha had let him stay in the living room to watch TV. But he wasn't watching it. He flipped the channels on the TV, hardly seeing the flashes of color zipping past his eyes. Snatches of dialogue snapped in the air, quickly changing from news channels to cartoons and old reruns of
The X-Files
. But he wasn't paying attention, anyway.

His mind was way too busy to concentrate on some dumb show. All he could think of was that Nick had been there. In
his
house. His dad had really come to see him. And that kind of made it okay that he never answered Jonas's letters. 'Cause when it mattered most … he'd shown up himself.

Jonas had sorta worried about going to Legal Aid. But he could still remember how excited the lawyer had been when Jonas told him his dad's name. And it must've been the right thing to do, 'cause Nick had actually come to the house to see him.

If Tasha hadn't sent him away, Jonas and his dad could be out front right now, playing catch or something. He smiled to himself at the thought. Having a dad was gonna be great. For the first time ever, he'd have a dad standing on the sidelines at his Pop Warner football games. Nick would yell Jonas's name and maybe call him
pal
or
sport
or something cool like that. He grinned as he imagined walking off the field and Nick meeting him, being all proud. Then he'd pat Jonas on the back and put his arm around Jonas's shoulders and they'd talk about the game and laugh and stuff.

And the best part, Jonas thought as he flipped past local news, then quickly turned back to it, just to have the TV on Nick's channel, was, Jonas would be like the other guys. He'd have his dad with him. And they'd go out with the team for pizza and Nick'd talk to the other dads about how great his kid was. He smiled, enjoying the movie playing in his head, and scowled when a knock on the door interrupted it.

“I'll get it, Tasha,” he called out. Tossing the remote onto the magazine-littered table in front of him, Jonas stood up and headed for the door. Grabbing the cool
brass knob, he gave it a turn, yanked the door open, and swallowed his bubble gum.

“Hi. You must be Jonas.”

He nodded and opened and closed his mouth a few times. Nick Candellano. His father. Right here. In front of him. Standing on his porch. Jonas blinked and almost rubbed his eyes, but he was too afraid that if he did that, Nick would disappear and this would turn out to be some really great dream.

He looked different close up, Jonas thought. Taller. Bigger. But his smile was the same as in the pictures. And his voice sounded just like he did on TV. This was so cool.

“I'm Nick Candellano,” the man said, unnecessarily.

“Uh-huh.” Now
his
voice sounded weird. He cleared his throat. “I know.”

“I thought you and I could have a little talk.”

“A talk?” Jonas stared up at him and hardly noticed how fast his stomach was spinning. His dad.
Here
.

Finally.

“Yeah,” he said eagerly, “sure. You wanna come in?”

“Thanks.”

Jonas stepped back to let his father inside and just managed to keep from reaching out to touch him. Wow.

“Who was at the—” Tasha's words arrived just a second before she did. Her tennis shoes squeaked against the wood floor when she skidded to a stop. Jonas watched her face freeze up like it did the last time he got an F in math. Oh, man.

“Hello again,” Nick said, and Jonas's gaze flicked between his father and Tasha.

“What are you doing back here?” she demanded.

“Told you I'd be back.”

“And I told you not to bother.”

“Why don't you—” Nick stopped short and shot a look at Jonas. He wasn't going to shout at the kid's “family.” At least not in front of him. But damn. Looking into those wide brown eyes, Nick felt a pang of genuine concern rattle through him. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a stubborn chin. The kid could be his. And if he was? Jesus. God help them both.

Before that thought had a chance to take hold, he pushed it aside. No way. He'd been careful. Brown hair, brown eyes. What did that really mean, anyway? Probably half the people in the world were brown and brown. It was average.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” the redhead said, and Nick shifted his gaze to watch her approach.

Hell, she looked like she wanted to drop-kick him. His gaze shifted, giving her a slow look from head to toe. She was wearing those faded, soft-looking jeans again and a dark red sweatshirt that hid the curvy figure he knew lay beneath it. Her grass green eyes shot cold knives at him, and even at a distance he felt the chill she was giving off.

What did it say about him, he wondered, that the flash of desire she sparked in him didn't disappear despite the fury in her eyes?

And she might be mad, but she didn't worry him. Hell, she was no bigger than a kicker—if he had to, he could take her. Not that he'd even try to take her—well, he wouldn't mind
taking
her—but he figured if she had a temper like his sister, at the very least he could outrun her. But first things first.

“Yeah, well,” Nick said, shoving his hands into his
back pockets, “good idea or not, I'm here and I'm not leaving until I have a talk with Jonas.”

Just saying the boy's name out loud made this whole situation seem more real than it had in the last two days. Before, he'd been more or less a faceless threat. A threat to Nick's freedom. His future. His lifestyle. But now … here Jonas stood, staring up at Nick like he was a hero.

Something inside him turned over, even while he fought it. Hell, he'd had kids look at him like that before. Every game day, there were dozens of 'em waiting outside the stadium. Clamoring for autographs or a handshake, they were delighted with a couple minutes of your time and walked away telling their friends how cool you were.

But this was different, his brain argued. This was personal. This kid didn't want a few minutes. He wanted a lifetime. He wanted commitment. From
Nick
of all people. Man, if this wasn't some weird-ass kind of cosmic joke, he didn't know what would qualify.

Scraping one hand across his face, Nick tore his gaze from the kid's. If this was gonna work, he had to retain some distance. And staring into those eyes full of hopes and dreams wasn't the way to maintain it.

“Jonas…” The redhead spoke up and her voice was flat, even.

“Tasha, come on. He's my
dad
,” the boy pleaded.

Jesus. There was that word again. Nick could see she didn't like it any more than he did. All she wanted was for him to disappear. Well, hey, honey, he thought. That makes two of us.

“Just let me talk to the boy,” he said tightly. “What could it hurt?”

She sucked in a gulp of air and folded both arms across her chest. He could almost see thoughts racing through her mind, and none of them were making her happy. That fabulous mouth of hers flattened into a grim slash and her eyes narrowed as she considered him. Then her gaze shifted to the boy and Nick watched her features soften until her beauty was ripe enough to steal his breath. Whatever she thought of
him
, Nick told himself, she loved that kid.

Another long minute passed in anxious silence and Nick damn near
felt
the boy's excitement rippling off of him in thick waves. Tasha must have sensed it, too, and obviously didn't have the heart to squash it.

“Okay,” she said, and Jonas practically danced in place. “Fifteen minutes,” she added quickly, which earned her a whine from Jonas and a grateful sigh from Nick.

Hell, he wanted to talk to the kid, but fifteen minutes was more than enough time. What he had to say could be summed up pretty quickly. All he had to do was explain how being a fan was one thing, but making up stories was something else. Once that was done, he'd give the kid the stuff he'd left out in the car; then he'd be gone. And he could get back to rebuilding his life. To getting onto a track that would lead him somewhere beyond the dead end he'd found himself in when his career ended.

“C'mon…” The kid paused as if not quite sure what to call him, then settled for, “Nick. I'll show you my room.”

The boy sprinted ahead of Nick and shot up the stairs, making enough noise, as he went, for ten kids. Nick's gaze shifted from the kid to the redhead, and
when he met those green eyes of hers, he damn near took a step backward. He caught himself just in time.

“If you hurt him,” she threatened, “I swear I'll—”

He shot a quick look at the stairs to make sure the kid was out of earshot. Then he took a step toward her and snapped, “Christ, what do you think I am?”

“Don't you get it, football hero?” she asked quietly, her voice filled with ice. “This isn't about
you
.”

God damn it. Was she blind or something? His life was riding on this. Sure, he didn't want to see the kid crushed, but none of this had been
his
idea. A spurt of something dark and dangerous shot through him, and Nick's head snapped back as he stared at her. “You know, lady, you and I need to—”

“
We
don't need to do anything.” She cut him off cleanly. Her eyes flashed green fire and Nick could have sworn she singed him from across the room. “Jonas is waiting for you. Take your fifteen minutes, then I want you out of here.”

She turned her back and walked away. Nick watched her go as ribbons of fury snaked through him. Hell, he'd never been thrown out of
anywhere
as often as this redhead was pitching him out of her house. And damn it, that kind of shit just didn't happen to Nick Candellano.

Couldn't she see he was trying to do the right thing here? Okay, so what if his main concern wasn't the kid? He hadn't started this and he almost shouted that after her. But he figured she wouldn't care, wouldn't stop to fight it out with him, and that was something he wasn't used to. In his family, people chose sides and jumped into the battle. They didn't fire a shot and walk away. They stuck around until everyone was battered
and bloody—figuratively speaking, of course—and the argument was finished.