Falling For Nick (3 page)

"Maybe he won't bother us. So far he hasn't made any trouble. His mother just died." Clea held her hand out to Robert. "Come here. Sit down. I don't like to see you upset."

"No one tells Nick Lombard what to do," Robert said, ignoring her invitation. "Trouble follows the man like a bad stink. It always has, and it always will. Don't worry about Nick. I'll take care of him. I've already started the paperwork for a No Contact Order."

Clea's stomach clenched. A No Contact Order seemed brutal and uncalled for. Nick hadn't asked for anything yet. Did she want to anger him? "I'm not sure I want to do that."

"It's for the best, Clea. You don't want Nick to think he can become involved in John's life do you?"

"No, I don't." She had no intention of letting Nick near her son. He didn't deserve to know John. On the flip side, she hated to anger him with a No Contact Order. "He may have left town already and we're worrying for nothing."

"Maybe, but I'm going to push the No Contact Order through tomorrow anyway, just to be safe." Robert sighed. "I don't want to talk about Nick. Come here." He pulled Clea up from the sofa and into his arms, hugging her. "I should be going."

"All right." Clea returned his embrace, wanting the strength he could give her. She understood his anger and pain, wished she could make things better for him.

Robert pressed a kiss to her temple. "Call me if you need anything, anything at all."

"I will." She tilted her head back and he kissed her.

Clea wound her arms around his neck, wanting him to make her forget Nick, forget the past. She wanted her body to sizzle with the kind of desire she knew she should feel. Robert's arms came around her, holding her closer, and he deepened the kiss.

She tried to lose herself to his kiss, but the passion, the hunger, just weren't there. She pressed her body more fully against his, willing a spark to erupt inside her. She wanted to be on fire for Robert. He deserved her love. John adored him. Robert was the right man for her.

"Maybe I will stay," Robert said, responding to her the way she wished her own body would react to his. "You make me crazy, Clea. When I'm with you I want to take risks, let go of everything and just feel." He ran his hands down her back to cup her butt, pulling her intimately against him.

Clea closed her eyes, hoping, praying for desire to fill her like it always had with Nick. Nick. His name sent a shiver straight through her.

"No. Go," she said, breaking the kiss. Suddenly, she didn't want Robert to stay. Her emotions felt pulverized, like they'd been put into a blender and whipped on high speed. She needed to think, to be alone. "I'll be fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

For a moment Robert couldn't seem to focus, his eyes clouded with passion. Then he sighed, running a critical hand over his hair to make sure he didn't have a strand out of place. "I'm just a phone call away."

Clea walked him to the door. Before he left, she gave him a final kiss. When he was gone, she shut the door and locked it, but she knew from personal experience that a lock wouldn't keep Nick out if he wanted to get in.

Going to the window, she looked across the street to the Port Bliss Tavern, to the room above it. Was Nick there, staying at his mother's place? Her eyes sought the location of his childhood bedroom. The room was dark. She'd been inside the apartment once. The place had been a mess. She'd never seen so many dirty dishes or empty liquor bottles. Maude wasn't much of a housekeeper. She remembered feeling sorry for Nick and Billy. She also remembered Nick telling her he didn't want her pity. He'd been so angry. When she'd tried to soothe his anger, he'd kissed her. Clea brought her fingers to her lips. A flutter of desire began to beat low in her belly. A desire she couldn't raise a moment ago with Robert.

She spun away from the window, her hand against her stomach. Nick Lombard had finally come home. She'd seen the questions in his eyes at the funeral, heard the frustration in his voice. Did he blame her for everything? More importantly, was she to blame? She didn't know, but deep down she knew that Nick wasn't finished with her yet.

And that thought scared her to death.

Nick pushed the apartment door open.

The smell of booze, stale cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume rushed to greet him, reminding him of everything he'd tried to forget in the ten years he'd been away. Disgust rolled through his belly and for a second he considered jumping back into his car and leaving town that night.

Steeling himself for the unpleasant memories to come, he left the door open, went to the window, and unlatched a lock made rusty by the salt air. When the frame refused to give, he struck the wood with the butt of his palm. The window creaked open, and fresh sea air moved into the room. Nick took a massive breath into his lungs - air so pure he could smell the saltwater and seaweed that hugged the beach of the canal. God, he'd missed that smell.

The gray water of Hood Canal lapped at the shore behind the row of business across the street. Oyster shells littered the beach, some bright white, others a dull gray. How many hours had he spent on that beach, skipping rocks, hunting for oysters, making out with girls? Until Clea. He looked across the street at The Coffee House. He'd never figured Clea for the type of woman to stay in this one-block town. The town of Port Bliss existed for the tourists, the rich, the people who lived seven miles up the mountain on Lake Bliss year-round, or in the summer. The locals here worked thirty minutes away at the factory in nearby Bradley, or like his mother, held low paying jobs in town.

The apartment above The Coffee House had to be about the same size as the one he stood in now. Billy told him Clea lived there. Why would she live in town when her mother owned one of the largest homes on the lake? He'd been inside the Rose house on Lake Bliss. In his eyes, the place had been a palace, fit for a princess. The perfect setting for Clea. The house had been filled with plush carpets, white furniture, with a dramatic lakefront view. Living on the lake meant you had money, lots of it. And while Clea's family might not have as much money as some, her father was a doctor, a pillar of the community. What the Rose family had lacked in wealth, they'd made up for in respectability.

A movement in The Coffee House caught his attention. On his way over, he'd seen Clea working behind the counter. Billy had told him Clea co-owned the shop with Mitzi, her best friend from high school. That was another thing that didn't fit. Clea had wanted to be a photographer. The pictures she'd done in high school had won awards, earning her a scholarship to The Seattle Art Institute. Why hadn't she used her talent? A million questions ran through his mind. He wanted to ask Clea what had happened to her dreams, but knew he had no right.

"The place is a mess."

Nick turned at the sound of his brother's voice.

Billy came inside and set a box of cleaning supplies down on the kitchen table. That done, he went back to the door and pulled it shut.

"Leave the door open." Nick came away from the window, his emotions as mixed as his memories. "The place needs to air out."

"It smells the same as always," Billy said with a shrug, but he opened the door. "You can't air out thirty years of bad living. Why don't you stay with me? It's worked out okay the past couple of nights, right?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't want to crowd you." He didn't want to stay anywhere else, not while Clea lived across the street.

While he'd been in prison he'd done nothing but think about Clea and John and how he'd win them back, but reality had intruded the minute he'd been set free. A terrible fear had begun to grow in him, a fear laced with doubts and regrets. Instead of coming home, he'd taken a job in Bradley, giving himself time to breathe, to figure out his next move. Three months had slipped by since his release, three months where he'd almost managed to convince himself that John and Clea were better off without him; but now, after seeing her, he couldn't walk away. Standing close to her and inhaling her sweet scent had brought back memories he'd thought long buried.

He'd forgotten how beautiful she was, all that long blonde hair, and those soft green eyes. He'd seen those eyes burn with desire for him, but yesterday, he'd seen them bright with fear. And when she'd run from him, he'd been unable to let her go without a confrontation. She'd been afraid, and that saddened him. More than anything he wanted to talk to her, but knew he needed to give her a few days to get used to the idea he'd come home; then he'd move forward with his plan to meet with her.

He didn't want his son to think he didn't give a damn. It's what Nick thought about his own father and it hurt, a deep down hurt that never went away. Prison had given him time to think, to form a plan, but reality was a million times harder. Could he win Clea and John back? The thought terrified him more than being caught alone in prison with no weapon, his back unprotected.

"I'm glad you're here, Nick," Billy said, his words dragging Nick back to the present. Billy lifted a can of cleanser from the box of supplies. "I've missed you. Things will be better now that you're home."

"I hope so, Billy. I keep asking myself if I'm doing the right thing by staying." Nick glanced around the apartment. "I do know one thing; if I'm going to live here, the apartment needs to smell better than this." He moved into the kitchen. Dirty dishes and empty food containers littered the counters, filled the sink. "I see Mom's housekeeping skills stayed the same after I left."

Billy smiled. "A clean house was never a priority for Maude Lombard." He went to the supplies and pulled out a box of garbage bags. "I say we bag everything up and put it in the dumpster out back."

"Sounds good." Nick wandered through the living room. Several years' worth of framed school photos of himself and Billy were placed helter-skelter on the end table. Maude's large, cut-glass ashtray was filled with butts, in easy reach of the couch.

It surprised him that his mother had not only purchased the school photos, but had kept them displayed. She'd never had much time for her sons. Her social life had always come first. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. His fingers closed over a picture of himself standing next to his car - a photo Clea had taken. The '69 Mustang looked as it had the day he'd bought it. Faded paint, bad tires, a small dent in the left fender. The photo didn't match the car he'd come home to. Fully restored by Billy while Nick was in prison, the Mustang was in cherry condition, from the restored 302 under the hood to the six-coat paint job on the exterior.

"Some change, huh?" Billy pointed at the picture.

"Yeah." Nick set the photograph back on the table. "I'm going to pay you back every last penny you put into that car."

"No way." Billy shook his head. "It's my gift to you. I owe you brother, and this is my way of repaying you. Besides, I got most of the stuff for free or at cost. I have connections at the garage." He winked, the gesture reminding Nick of how fun loving Billy could be.

"It's too much, Billy."

"You started the restoration; I finished it for you." Billy's grin softened into a sad smile. "I want you to take the car, no strings attached. Please, for me."

     "For now," Nick said, but he still intended to pay Billy back every cent. He understood his brother's need to make things right between them, but he didn't want Billy to feel like he owed him. He didn't. Wanting to change the subject, he said, "Let's take a look at our old room."

Together they entered the room they used to share. The room smelled musty, old. Dust motes swam in the beam of light shining in-between the broken slats of the blinds. Their two beds were still there, the mattresses bare and depressing. Filthy orange and brown shag carpet covered the floor. The colors in the rug had always reminded Nick of a calico cat.

"It's the same." Billy smiled at Nick. "We had some good times in here, remember?"

Nick smiled back. "We did." But the bad times had far outweighed the good. Back at the doorway, he turned to look at the room, pitiful, barren, and dirty. They'd had nothing. He'd been so angry. He spun away, not wanting Billy to see his disgust for the childhood they'd shared.

He turned to Billy. "Pass me one of those plastic bags."

Each faded dishtowel, chipped plate, and moldy food container reminded Nick of his ugly childhood. As he added more trash to the bag, he felt like a traitor to his mother's memory. He tried not to think about her as they bagged up her life, but thoughts of Maude intruded. He remembered Christmases with no presents, his mother so drunk she couldn't stand up. He remembered days with no food in the fridge, nights with no heat. The memories hammered at him, opening wounds he thought long ago scabbed over.