Falling For Nick (21 page)

Clea met her mother's reflection in the mirror. Eyes as hard as chips of gray granite stared at her and Clea realized for the first time just how much her mother hated Nick.

"What did Nick ever do to you?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Other than being born poor, of course."

"He stole you from me. He impregnated my little girl and drove her from my life." Vivian spun away, going to the window. "I lost years with you because of that man."

Clea followed, standing beside Vivian. Her mother gripped the edge of the windowsill.

"Nick didn't drive me away, Mom."

Her mother sucked in a breath. "Don't say it, Clea. Don't you dare." She kept her eyes on the street outside.

"All right, but I want you to understand. I was in love with Nick. Yes, he frightened me at first. Yes, he broke my heart. But when we were together he loved me unconditionally. You can't imagine how strange that was for me. He loved me for who I am. Nick told me once that he didn't want to change a thing about me.
Not a single thing
. Do you know what that meant to me? I had trouble understanding that at first, because nothing I did or said was ever good enough for you and dad."

Vivian turned to face her, her hand on her heart. "I love you, Clea." Her eyebrows drew together, as if she were in pain. "I only wanted what was best for you. I couldn't let you throw your life away. All I ever wanted was for you to marry well, for people to see that the Roses were as good as Bloomfields."

"But that's silly. Why do we care what people think?" Her mother's face contorted with pain. Clea reached for her, realizing that Vivian wasn't just being dramatic. Her color was off. Sweat beaded her brow. "Mom, what's wrong?"

Vivian crumpled, her weight sagging against Clea.

"Elizabeth," Clea shouted. She caught her mother in her arms, going down to the floor with her. "Call 911. Mom. Oh, God. Mom, can you hear me?" Clea's heart raced. She couldn't lose her mother, not now, like this.

"I love you, Clea," Vivian said, her voice weak.

"I love you too, Mom."

A slight smiled touched her mother's lips as her eyes fluttered closed.

* * *

Nick heard about Vivian Rose's attack by mid-afternoon. He'd have heard about it sooner, but he'd been in Bradley with Billy at the bank, filling out the loan papers, and meeting with the web designer he'd hired.

He'd come home in a great mood, ready to celebrate his first steps toward owning his own business, then old man Mullin had told him about Vivian. He couldn't help but feel her attack had something to do with him.

When several hours had passed and Clea still hadn't come home, he'd really started to worry. He'd called the hospital to check on Vivian's condition, but they wouldn't release any information to non-family members. He didn't dare go to the hospital; not only wouldn't Boomer want him there, Vivian wouldn't want him there either.

Frustrated and worried, he finally went to bed around ten o'clock. He hadn't been in bed more than a couple of minutes when he heard the slam of a car door. He got up and went to the window.

Boomer's BMW was parked at the curb. He watched as Boomer pulled John from the car and carried him upstairs, Clea following behind. John must have gone to sleep on the drive home. What would it feel like to carry his son in his arms? Would he be heavy and warm with sleep? The thought tortured him.

The lights went on in Clea's apartment. The lamp went on in John's room. Nick pictured Boomer putting his son to bed and the image turned his stomach. More than anything he wanted to go over to Clea's. He wanted to be the one to carry John to his room, put him to bed. He wanted to be the one to comfort Clea, to make her a cup of tea, to rub her back or hold her hand. Instead, he resisted the urge to go across the street. A confrontation with Boomer wouldn't do any of them any good.

The lamp in John's room went out. A few minutes later he heard the unmistakable sound of Boomer's car starting. Before the car pulled away from the curb Nick picked up the phone and punched in Clea's number.

"Hello," she said on the second ring.

"It's me."

"Oh, Nick." He could hear the dismay in her tone, and he prayed she hadn't gotten bad news.

"I heard about your mother. I've been going crazy waiting for you to get home. How is she?"

"They're keeping her overnight for observation. They aren't sure what's wrong yet. The doctor thinks it was a panic attack."

"That doesn't sound too bad," he said, relieved at the diagnosis.

"She collapsed in my arms this afternoon," Clea told him. "I've never been so frightened in my life. I thought she was having a heart attack. It was…"

She broke off, and Nick waited. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said, the word shaky. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

"Is John asleep?" he asked.

"Yes, he went out like a light on the way home."

"I'm coming over."

"No," she said unconvincingly. "Don't."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid if I see you I'll crumble."

He heard the catch in her voice and made his decision. "You can crumble with me, Princess. That's what I'm here for. Unlock the door. I'm on my way."

*   *   *

Clea replaced the receiver. She had been doing fine until she'd heard Nick's voice on the other end of the line, so fine she'd sent Robert home without a second thought. Nick's offer of comfort was different. Just hearing his voice on the phone broke her will to resist him. She wanted him to come over, to make her feel better, even if it was just for a few minutes.

She unlatched the door and went onto the dark landing to meet him. She didn't flip on the light, and darkness surrounded her. He came up the enclosed stairwell, two steps at a time, and then she was in his arms.

Nick's leather jacket hung open and Clea buried her face against his T-shirt, the scent of fabric softener comforting. Her arms went around him, her hands sliding up the soft, worn jacket. This jacket felt like home to her, real. Nick's spicy scent wrapped around her and she drew strength from his body, a body she used to know so well.

"Are you okay?" he whispered against her hair.

"No." But she knew she would be, now that he was here.

One of his hands found its way into her hair. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and an answering warmth flowed through her body. His lips brushed against her temple, the touch feather light. Clea tipped her head back. A low moan left her lips as his mouth grazed her cheek.

"This is wrong," she whispered, her heart not in her words. "I'm engaged."

"Break the engagement." His lips touched hers.

Clea opened her mouth to him, kissing him like a starved woman. Her hands fanned against his back. She held him to her, molded her body to his. She didn't want to think about today, or about her future. For now, she wanted to feel something other than fear and anxiety and emptiness.

His hands touched the bare skin under her sweater. With a feather-light touch his fingers moved up her back, to her bra. A single snap and he freed the lacy undergarment.

Clea's eyes closed as his hands found her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples. A spiral of desire beat low in her belly, building into a raw lust she'd never experienced with anyone but Nick. He made her forget everything but him, the way he tasted, the way his skin felt under her fingers. She tugged his shirt from his jeans and slipped her hands underneath. Warm skin met her fingers, unforgettable skin. He pulled her sweater up. She slid his shirt up and leaned full into him, skin to skin. Her nipples hardened against his chest and this time he moaned.

"Mom?"

They broke apart, yanking their shirts down.

"Mom, where are you?" John called from inside the apartment.

"I'm out here, honey," Clea said, finding her voice.

John poked his head out the door. "It's dark. The light's not on." A click followed, and they were flooded with yellow light. John's eyes narrowed on Nick, his stare accusing as if he'd guessed what they'd been up to.

"Hi, John," Nick said, and Clea could hear the huskiness born from passion in his voice.

"Nick stopped by to see how Grandma is," she said, hoping John would buy the story.

"Why are you outside?" John asked suspiciously. "It's cold. You don't have your coat on."

He pointed at Clea's sweater, and she prayed he couldn't tell her bra was unhooked. She hadn't noticed the cold; in fact, her skin blazed. "Nick just got here." She turned to Nick and with false brightness in her voice, she said, "Would you like to come in?"

"Maybe for a few minutes."

Nick's hair was mussed, his lips stained by her lip-gloss. Could John see that? For that matter, how did she look? She closed the door behind Nick. "Excuse me for a minute."

Clea escaped to the bathroom to look in the mirror. The first thing she did was re-hook her bra. Her hair stuck up all over. The skin of her jaw held a red tint from being rubbed by Nick's whiskers. Her lips were puffy. She looked well-kissed. Would John notice?

Bending down, she splashed cold water on her face, dried off, and then quickly ran a brush through her hair. She couldn't allow herself to think about the wanton way she'd thrown herself at Nick. What must he think of her? More importantly, what did she think of herself? How could she marry Robert when she'd kissed Nick like that? Maybe she should call off the wedding. Thoughts of her mother, in the hospital, brought her to her senses. Stress over the wedding had put Vivian in the hospital. Clea couldn't call things off. It was too late.

Clea closed her eyes, willing away the turmoil in her mind and body. Why did everything have to be so confusing?

She returned to the living room, no closer to finding the answers. Nick and John sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Nick talked, but John wasn't responding. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, a closed look on his face. Her stomach turned. The door had been open a crack. How much had he seen before he'd called out to her?

"What are you two talking about?" Clea took a seat on the sofa close to John. She leaned forward to better see John, but he didn't reply.

"I was asking John about your mother," Nick said. "But he didn't have a whole lot of information."

"He didn't?" Clea raised one brow. "Well, my mother is spending the night in the hospital so she can have some additional tests done, just as a precaution. Dr. Martin thinks she's suffering from anxiety. She's been working too hard on the wedding. We all need to do what we can to help out. Grandma looked good when we left the hospital, didn't she, John?"

"I guess," came his noncommittal reply.

Clea glanced over at Nick. He shrugged.

"I should get you back to bed," she said to John.

"Okay," Nick said, the word holding a hint of resignation. He stood. "I should be going anyway. I just wanted to check on the two of you and make sure you were all right."

Clea came to her feet, relieved Nick was leaving. "Thank you for coming by. I'll see you out." She glanced at John, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Nick stepped outside. "Do you think he saw us?"

"Maybe."

"I'm sorry."

"Not half as sorry as I am. Good night, Nick." She shut the door before he could reply. Heaven help her, she liked kissing Nick too much. So much she'd forgotten that her son could discover them at any moment. And as much as that thought upset her, it upset her even more to think she could be so wrapped up in Nick and what she felt for him that she didn't even think once about the man she was going to marry.