Dad In Blue
Shelley Cooper
WILL YOU HELP ME HELP MY SON?The beseeching words were spoken by the most enchanting woman police chief Carlo Garibaldi had ever encountered. But Samantha Underwood was off-limits, the widow of an officer he'd lost during his watch. Now she stood before him, enlisting his help to make her boy smile again.Carlo's gut told him to refuse, but in his heart, his very soul, he wanted to be a hero to mother and son. He couldn't resist trying to coax quiet Jeffrey to talk again, laugh again, be a little boy. And he couldn't resist falling for the one woman he didn't have the right to love….
“Will you help me, Chief Garibaldi?”
Carlo looked away from Samantha’s hopeful face and tried to regain control of his emotions. Would it really be so hard?
Returning his attention to Samantha, he said, “Yes, I’ll help you.”
The smile she aimed at him as she surged to her feet transformed what had been a lovely face into one that was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Endless seconds passed as he stared at her, unable to summon the power to do anything else.
Lord, he had to be the biggest fool in town. If ever there was a woman who was off-limits, it was Samantha Underwood. Because if he ever told her the truth, she would never smile at him again.
Dear Reader,
Have you noticed our new look? Starting this month, Intimate Moments has a bigger, more mainstream design—hope you like it! And I hope you like this month’s books, too, starting with Maggie Shayne’s The Brands Who Came for Christmas. This emotional powerhouse of a tale launches Maggie’s new miniseries about the Brand sisters, THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS. I hope you love it as much as I do.
A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with Hero at Large, a suspenseful—and passionate—tale set on the mean streets of L.A. Robyn Amos brings a master’s touch to the romance of Keshon Gray and Rennie Williams. Doreen Owens Malek returns with a tale of suspense and secrets, Made for Each Other, and believe me…these two are! RITA Award winner Marie Ferrarella continues her popular CHILDFINDERS, INC. miniseries with Hero for Hire, and in January look for her CHILDFINDERS, INC. single title, An Uncommon Hero.
Complete the month with Maggie Price’s Dangerous Liaisons, told with her signature grittiness and sensuality, and Dad in Blue by Shelley Cooper, another of the newer authors we’re so proud to publish.
Then rejoin us next month as the excitement continues—right here in Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Dad in Blue
Shelley Cooper
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Kari and Mitchell, for making motherhood an incredible challenge, a thrilling adventure and my greatest joy. I never fully understood the meaning of total, unconditional love until those two miraculous February days when I first held each of you in my arms.
SHELLEY COOPER
first experienced the power of words when she was in the eighth grade and wrote a paragraph about the circus for a class assignment. Her teacher returned it with an A and seven pluses scrawled across the top of the paper, along with a note thanking her for rekindling so vividly some cherished childhood memories. Since Shelley had never been to the circus and had relied solely on her imagination to compose the paragraph, the teacher’s remarks were a revelation. Since then, Shelley has relied on her imagination to help her sell dozens of short stories and to write her first novel, Major Dad, a 1997 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist in Best Long Contemporary. She hopes her books will be as moving to her readers as her circus paragraph was to that long-ago English teacher.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Prologue
Carlo Garibaldi stood at the foot of the twelve cement steps leading up to the police station’s main entrance, and willed himself not to run in the opposite direction.
The impulse was one he had been fighting daily for longer than he cared to admit. This morning, as he examined the three-story, red brick building, whose cracks and crevices he knew more intimately than a lover knew the lines and curves of his beloved, the dread that filled him at the prospect of the climb was even more paralyzing than normal.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Today was the anniversary of his cowardice and his shame. It was not an event he planned on celebrating.
After drawing a steadying breath of the crisp, November air, Carlo placed his shaking left hand on the cold iron railing that bisected the stairs. It took him another twenty seconds to summon the energy to raise his right foot and place it on the bottom step.
The climb seemed to take an eternity. Despite the chill air, when he reached the top, he could feel a thin layer of perspiration coating his forehead. Beneath the lapels of his leather jacket, his heart thundered.
He pulled open the heavy, white-painted oak door, and the familiar aromas of coffee, stale cigarette smoke and ancient linoleum greeted him. But when he stepped inside, the place was deserted. Like Virginia’s lost colony, everyone, from the dispatcher to the janitor, seemed to have disappeared.
Chairs stood askew from their desks, as if they’d been hurriedly pushed aside. Here and there, a cigarette sat in an ashtray, burning unattended.
“Lon? Dennis? Mary?” he called. “Anyone here?”
The gurgling of the coffeepot was the only answer he received.
Sudden fear had adrenaline pumping through his veins. Where was everyone? What had happened? Had what he’d been dreading finally come to pass? What further sins would he have to atone for?
Shouldering past the empty desks, Carlo stumbled to his office and threw open the door. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw the sea of smiling people who had gathered there. The mayor. His five brothers and his sister. His missing staff.
“Mr. Mayor,” he said, blinking against the sudden glare of flashbulbs that told him the press was also in attendance. From behind him, someone relieved him of his jacket.
“Chief Garibaldi,” Douglas Boyer cried jovially. A wide grin split the mayor’s round face as he pumped Carlo’s arm. “I trust you’re feeling well.”
Slowly, Carlo’s heartbeat returned to normal. He’d dodged another bullet. This time.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Good, good. I suppose you’re wondering what we’re all doing here.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
Douglas Boyer broke into a hearty laugh. “Hear that, everyone? The thought crossed his mind. Not only is he the best police chief this community has ever had, but he’s also got a first-rate sense of humor.”
The mayor’s expression grew solemn. “We know this past year has been difficult for you, Chief. In one random act of violence, our town, and your force, lost a good man. For that we all still mourn. Because your injuries kept you away from the job for so long, we’ve been remiss in thanking you for your actions that day. But today, on the anniversary of that terrible event, I’m here to rectify the oversight. Without your quick thinking and selfless act of bravery, the loss of life could have been so much worse. On behalf of the good citizens of Bridgeton, Pennsylvania, I would like to express my gratitude by presenting you with this plaque.”
A familiar knot tightened Carlo’s stomach as he stared at the words that had been engraved on a brass plate. He was being honored for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
You’ve got it all wrong, he wanted to shout as applause filled the room and more camera flashes blinded his eyes. I’m not who you think I am. I’m certainly no hero. Because of him, one of his men was dead. Because of him, a woman and her young son would forever grieve.
Incredible as it seemed, he was the only one who knew the real truth of what had happened that day. In the three hundred and sixty-five days that had passed since then, no one had publicly, or even privately, denounced him. No one had righteously stepped forward to set the record straight.
Coward that he was, he hadn’t been able to do it, either. He hadn’t even been able to tell his family the truth.
And now he was being hailed as a hero. Talk about a perversion of justice.
Forcing a polite smile, Carlo nodded at all the well-wishers and tried not to flinch at the words of encouragement and the handshakes and pats on the back his staff gave him as they filed out of the room. After everyone left, and before anyone else could interrupt, he fled to the washroom and locked the door. He needed time alone to compose himself before facing what was left of the morning.
Leaning forward, he peered into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was drawn and pale, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted, his mouth a tightly sketched line. He looked worse than a cruiser that had been battered unmercifully in a high-speed chase, then run through a mile of mud puddles for good measure. The only things fresh about him were his crisply pressed blue uniform and the shiny badge that, until a year ago, he’d worn with pride. He wondered what his men would think if they knew how badly his hands shook every morning when he strapped on his gun belt.
Carlo sighed, and the sound echoed heavily in the small room. He was thirty-six years old, and all he’d ever wanted out of life was to be a cop, like his father and his grandfather before him. He’d joined this midsize, suburban Pittsburgh force straight out of college. Over the years, he’d risen steadily through the ranks, until he’d been named chief of police at the astonishingly young age of thirty. And he’d thrived on it all.
Until that awful day a year ago, he’d walked the streets of Bridgeton, confident he’d be able to face any challenge that crossed his path. His brother, Antonio, who worked undercover for the city of Pittsburgh, liked to needle him that he had the cushiest job in the world. According to Antonio, while drive-by shootings were commonplace on his beat, the worst crime Carlo could expect to encounter in Bridgeton was a drive-by shouting.
Joking aside, Antonio’s words hadn’t been far from the mark. On a typical day in this bedroom community of twenty thousand people, arrests were made for theft, vandalism, disorderly conduct and the occasional domestic disturbance. Murder, rape and aggravated assault were almost unheard of.
Carlo had been so proud of his force’s safety record and the fact that there were few unsolved cases on the books. Truth to tell, he’d been overly proud. And cocky as hell.
Then the unthinkable had happened. There was an old saying about pride going before a fall. Carlo’s certainly had. Along with it, so had his confidence. Where once he had reveled in the responsibilities of his office, now he didn’t trust himself to tie his shoes properly, let alone coordinate the efforts of the people in his charge.
He’d thought hard work was the solution to the feeling of helplessness that consumed him. He’d thought it would take away the nightmares that bedeviled him whenever he tried to sleep.
He’d thought wrong.
He second-guessed himself on every decision. Each time a call came in, each time one of his men climbed into a squad car, he tensed. For months now, he’d been living on automatic pilot, just going through the motions, and he’d been lucky. Nothing terrible had happened. But if the events of this morning proved anything, it was that his time was running out.
Squaring his shoulders, Carlo faced what he’d been denying for so long. Automatic pilot wasn’t good enough where his people, and where the citizens of this town, were concerned. The way he was feeling, he had no business being anywhere near here. Until he came to terms with the demons driving him, he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone.
Back at his desk, he jotted a quick note to the mayor, asking for an unpaid leave of absence. Then he called Lon Sumner, his deputy chief, into his office and informed the man that he was now in charge. When Lon asked when Carlo would be returning, he didn’t answer. Truth was, he didn’t know if he would be returning at all.
What would he do if he wasn’t a cop? The question that would have been unimaginable a year ago echoed over and over in his brain. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, and the mayor’s office, Carlo was certain of only one thing: He never wanted to be responsible for anyone, or anything, again.
Chapter 1
Dozens of wooden animals littered the kitchen table. Deer. Horses. Dogs. Cats. Sheep. Goats. An elephant. Even a skunk. Picking up a square of wood, Carlo used a carving knife to make several rough cuts across the grain. An owl, he decided, was what he would carve next, and after that, perhaps a camel.
The unexpected peal of the doorbell made him jump. His knife slipped, nearly taking a chunk out of his thumb.
Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Carlo carefully placed the knife on the table. He knew exactly who he’d find when he opened the door: his brothers. All five of them. For the past six days, since he’d gone on his leave of absence, they had taken turns checking in on him. Hourly.
For sheer convenience, the telephone was their preferred method of reaching out and touching him. They’d instituted their phone check-in system years ago, when his baby sister, Kate, had left home to strike out on her own. A year and a half ago they’d relied on it heavily when a stalker had threatened her. Kate had always hated their constant surveillance, even when she’d been in danger, and Carlo finally understood why. His brothers were driving him crazy.
They were worried about him, and for that he felt a twinge of conscience. Just as he hadn’t told them what had actually happened on that day a year ago, neither had he told them the reason for his leave. In his opinion, his justification for not doing so was sound. If he told them the truth, one of two things would happen. They would either turn away from him in disgust, thus giving him the blessed peace he craved. Or their concern for him, and for his state of mind, would deepen, in which case they’d insist on setting up camp in his living room so they could monitor his every move. The way his luck was running, he’d give odds on the latter.
Which was why, two hours ago, after countless how-are-you-doing calls, he had taken the phone off the hook. He should have expected that, when his brothers couldn’t get through to him via Ma Bell, they’d show up at his front door instead. It just went to show how muddled his thinking had grown lately that he hadn’t anticipated an unannounced visit.
The doorbell echoed again.
Carlo had half a mind to pretend he wasn’t home and to let them stand there, out in the freezing cold. He would have, too, if he hadn’t been certain they’d do something drastic in response. Like bashing the door down. Or dragging out the police force and the fire department to bash it down for them.
With a resigned sigh, he placed the square of wood beside the carving knife and stomped into the living room.
“Don’t worry,” he growled, throwing the door wide. “I haven’t died…yet….”
Instead of his brothers, a woman stood there. She was lovely. Clad entirely in black, from the turtleneck encircling her long neck to the slacks and leather boots peeping from beneath her thigh-length wool coat, she was the picture of elegance. Even her purse and gloves were black.
A short silence greeted his announcement before she softly replied, “I’m happy to hear it.” Her voice was low and husky, as if she were fighting a cold, or on the verge of hoarseness.
Hair the color of corn silk fell to her shoulders and glinted in the sunlight. Her features were delicate, well defined, her cheeks rouged by the cold air. Her mouth was full and parted in an oh of surprise. And her eyes… Death by chocolate was the only term Carlo could think of to describe them.
He suddenly grew conscious of how he must appear to her in his rumpled jeans and flannel shirt. He searched his memory, but couldn’t remember if he’d even bothered to comb his hair that morning.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling and running a hand over his hair, hoping to flatten down any stray strands. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously.” She sounded amused.
He hadn’t looked at a woman in over a year. Initially his injuries, and the months spent in recovery and rehabilitation, had been the cause for his lack of interest. Later, when he’d gone back to work, he’d immersed himself so thoroughly in his job that he’d lacked both the desire and the energy called for when embarking on even the shortest-term relationship.
Today, however, he was definitely looking. Oh, yes, he was. And that took him by surprise. For six days he hadn’t been able to work up an interest for much of anything, except whittling.
Maybe this was what he needed. A temporary diversion to take his mind off his troubles. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he thought of it earlier? The good news was, she was staring at him with an equal measure of startled surprise and unexpected awareness. That was promising. Very promising indeed.
She was probably some do-gooder, out collecting for charity. Or an Avon lady going door to door. Whatever it was she was selling, Carlo was definitely buying. In bulk.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I suppose I should introduce myself.”
She offered her hand, and he took it, marveling at the perfect fit when his fingers wrapped around hers.
“My name is Samantha Underwood.”
Carlo felt his fingers go rigid with shock. It couldn’t be.
“James Underwood’s wife…er, widow,” she amended, confirming his worst fears.
He dropped her hand like a hot potato and took a step back. His chest felt suddenly thick, as if it were congested with flu. Only it wasn’t the flu he was suffering from. It was something worse. Far worse. Guilt. And shame.
First he’d been honored for bravery he didn’t possess. Now the wife of the man whose death weighed on his conscience was standing before him.
What could possibly happen next? he wondered in near desperation. Would James Underwood pay a personal visit, the way Marley’s ghost did Ebenezer Scrooge, and demand retribution for Carlo’s misdeeds?
This couldn’t be happening, he told himself as his heart thudded madly and a wave of anguish surged through him. Fate was simply having a huge practical joke at his expense.
Yet it was happening. For there Samantha Underwood stood, plain as day and twice as beautiful. And he’d been leering at her as if he was the Big Bad Wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.
What could she want from him? To denounce him? But if that were the case, why had she offered him her hand?
“You weren’t expecting me, were you?” she said at his continued silence.
Not even in his worst nightmares.
Given that the Bridgeton police force was not the largest one around—then again, it wasn’t the smallest, either—some people might think it odd that he and Samantha Underwood had never met. But James Underwood had only served under Carlo’s command for a little over a year when he died. And Carlo made it a practice not to socialize with his men, or to form close friendships with them. Things got too messy when personal feelings intruded on professional relationships.
He drew a ragged breath and struggled for composure. “Should I have been?”
Consternation crossed the fine features of her face. “Didn’t the mayor call you?”
Douglas Boyer? Why would he be calling Carlo about Samantha Underwood?
“No.”
“I’m sorry. When I spoke to him earlier today, he told me he’d clear the way for this meeting.”
Knowing the mayor the way Carlo did, the man had, in all probability, tried. Unlike most politicians, Douglas Boyer made a point of following through on his promises, campaign or otherwise. He would have fulfilled this one, too, if Carlo hadn’t taken his phone off the hook.
“It’s obvious my being here is inconvenient,” she said, sounding embarrassed. “I’ll come back another time. Have the mayor contact me with whatever is good for you.”
A rush of cold air alerted Carlo to the fact that she was still standing on his doorstep. It also alerted him to the fact that his manners were woefully lacking.
He couldn’t let her go like this, not without first discovering the reason for her visit. It would drive him crazy if he didn’t.
“There’s no need to come back later. Please, Mrs. Underwood, come in.”
He led her into a living room that literally sparkled with cleanliness—not because he was a normally fastidious housekeeper, but because, whenever his hands tired from whittling, cleaning provided a welcome distraction to the thoughts that crowded his mind whenever he had an idle moment.
When he relieved her of her coat, he saw that she was model slender. That slenderness, however, didn’t stop her from having curves in all the right places.
“You have a lovely home,” she said, looking around her as she took off her gloves.
“Thank you.”
“Is that an antique?”
She inclined her head toward a mahogany writing desk. It was one of several heirlooms that had belonged to his mother, and that his father had distributed among his children when he’d sold the family home three years ago in preparation for his move to a Florida condo.
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She was stalling for time, Carlo realized. Whatever the reason for her presence in his home, it made her as nervous as it did him.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he offered. “Some coffee or tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face him. “The reason I’m here is that I have a favor to ask of you.”
That took him aback. “You do?”
“It’s about my son.”
Both hands clasped firmly around her purse, she sank gracefully onto the sofa and lapsed into silence. So he wouldn’t tower over her and make her even more nervous, Carlo took a seat across from her in an overstuffed armchair.
“How old is your son?” he prompted, when she didn’t say anything more.
His words seemed to jolt her out of some inner reverie. “Eight.” She paused. “I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
“That always works for me,” he replied in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.
She nodded her agreement. “Mayor Boyer has been wonderful to my family since James’s…death. He calls every other week or so to check in on us and to see how we’re doing.”
Her words picked up speed. “I haven’t wanted to burden him with our troubles, but when he called me this morning…” Her slender shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “I guess you could say he caught me at a low point. To make a long story short, I unloaded on him.”
Because he was trained to notice details, Carlo glimpsed the dark circles beneath her skillfully applied makeup. Apparently Samantha Underwood wasn’t sleeping any better at night than he was. His throat tightened. Whose fault was that?
Her fingers whitened around the purse she clutched in her lap. “I told him about Jeffrey and how withdrawn he’s become. He doesn’t speak much to anyone but me or my mother. He refuses to participate in group activities at school. At lunch and recess he sits by himself and rebuffs all attempts to include him in play. His classmates no longer invite him to come over to their homes. He won’t even ride his bike anymore, and he rarely plays outside. Basically, he either plays by himself, reads a book or watches TV.”
She broke off, her eyes wearing a look of torture that Carlo longed to erase. Though he dreaded the answer, he knew the question was one he had to ask.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since his father’s death. He’s seeing a grief counselor, but so far she hasn’t made much progress. Ditto a whole host of specialists I’ve taken him to. He…he has nightmares.”
She couldn’t know the impact her words were having on him. Each was like a single bullet, and they were fired with the deadly accuracy of the bullets that had filled the air on the awful day that James Underwood died.
“What is the favor you have to ask of me?” he said.
“After I confided in him, Mayor Boyer told me about the program you and he were involved in. He suggested I call you.”
“The Buddy System,” Carlo muttered dully.
“Yes.”
Patterned after Big Brothers and Big Sisters of America, the goal of The Buddy System was to match local children from single-parent homes with an older buddy of the appropriate sex. The program was the mayor’s baby, part of a community-oriented project he was heavily promoting in the year before his reelection. Carlo had agreed to oversee the project’s operations under duress, Douglas Boyer having twisted his arm a time or ten.
“So you want me to match Jeffrey with a buddy when the program is formally introduced a few months from now.”
“Not exactly.” Her big brown eyes bored into him, making him wonder if she could see into the darkest recesses of his soul, to the guilt that ate away at him like a cancer. “I want you to be Jeffrey’s buddy.”
Shock momentarily robbed him of the ability to speak. “Me?” he finally asked, blinking at her.
“Yes. Mayor Boyer seemed to think you would be the perfect buddy for my son. Especially now, since you’ve taken a leave of absence and have some time on your hands.”
Carlo had had to give the mayor some kind of excuse for his sudden request. He couldn’t recall exactly what he’d said, although he thought he’d muttered something about coming back to work too soon and needing more time to regroup.
Had the mayor seen through Carlo’s excuses to the underlying truth? The man was quite perceptive. Carlo couldn’t stem the thought that, by sending Samantha Underwood to him, Douglas Boyer was playing amateur psychologist.
If so, it was a dangerous game.
Carlo couldn’t help Jeffrey. He could barely take care of himself. How could he possibly be expected to act as a buddy to an eight-year-old boy? Besides, he couldn’t give the child the one thing he needed and wanted most: his father. If Jeffrey’s grief counselor hadn’t been able to help, surely Carlo wouldn’t be able to do any better.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Underwood,” he said as gently as he could. “I’m afraid I can’t be Jeffrey’s buddy. But I will promise to match Jeffrey with the most suitable buddy once the program is in place.”
Her face fell, and her voice was a whisper of pain. “I don’t think Jeffrey can wait that long.”
Her disappointment, and her obvious anguish, were almost too much for Carlo to bear. Harder yet to bear was that she had come to him, hat in hand, asking for his help. And he was letting her down. The way he’d let James Underwood down a year earlier.
“Why does it have to be me?” he asked, hearing the note of desperation in his voice. “Why not someone else on the force? I could give you the names of several men, all of whom would be more than qualified to do the job.”
“James respected you more than any other man he knew,” she told him. “He often spoke to Jeffrey about you. Although he hasn’t met you, Jeffrey knows who you are. You wouldn’t be a total stranger to him. Besides, I need someone who can help now. With Thanksgiving coming in a couple of weeks, and Christmas so soon after, I don’t think too many people will have the time to devote to Jeffrey that he needs. Especially if they have families of their own.”
“And I have the time,” Carlo murmured.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You do.”
It felt as if the walls of the room were closing in on him. “What about an uncle or a grandfather? Wouldn’t a relative be a better choice to spend time with Jeffrey?”
She gave him a sad smile. “Ideally, yes. Unfortunately, there are no uncles. For the most part, we’re a family of women. Jeffrey’s only surviving grandfather lives in Des Moines, and he’s not in good health. That leaves you, Chief Garibaldi.”
The walls closed in on him tighter, making it hard for him to breathe.
Samantha Underwood’s eyes pleaded with him. “I know I’m asking a lot. Too much, probably. But if you could see your way clear to helping Jeffrey, I’d be forever in your debt.”
That was it, then, he realized dully. He had no choice. Because the question had changed from could he do this to did he have the right to refuse Samantha Underwood’s request. And the answer was that he didn’t. He had to at least give being Jeffrey’s buddy his best shot. Because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try.
Carlo couldn’t help thinking—wishing?—that, if he was able to help the child, it would quiet some of his own demons. Leaving his job certainly hadn’t accomplished that task. Cleaning his house hadn’t. Neither had carving endless quantities of wooden figures. Maybe, if he could somehow reach Jeffrey Underwood, draw the boy out, he’d be able to come to terms with the past, which would in turn help him to come to some sort of decision about his future.
On the heels of that hopeful thought came doubt. What if he blew it? Because of him, Jeffrey Underwood didn’t have a father. Because of him, Jeffrey’s mother had been reduced to the point of begging so that the boy could have a male influence in his life. What if Carlo tried to help and only succeeded in making matters worse? Samantha Underwood had already lost her husband because of his incompetence. Could he bear it if she lost her son, too?
“Will you help me, Chief Garibaldi?” she asked again. “Will you help me help my son?”
Swallowing hard, he looked away from her hopeful face and tried to regain control of his emotions. Would it really be so hard? All he had to do was entertain the boy for a few hours each week. Having practically raised his four younger brothers, the youngest of whom had been more than a handful, Carlo felt fairly confident he could at least accomplish that task.
Returning his attention to the woman sitting across from him, he said, “Yes, Mrs. Underwood, I’ll help you. Until the program is up and running, and I can find someone else, I’ll be Jeffrey’s buddy.”
The smile she aimed at him as she surged to her feet transformed what had been a lovely face into one that was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Endless seconds passed as he stared at her, unable to summon the power to do anything else. For a moment he even thought she was going to reach out to him, to wrap her arms around him, and his heart thundered in anticipation.
When he came to his senses, self-reproach left a bitter taste in his mouth. What had he been thinking? That she was going to embrace him? And, if she had, would he have ruined what surely would have been a gesture of gratitude by covering her mouth with his own?
Lord, he had to be the biggest fool in town. If ever there was a woman who was off-limits, it was Samantha Underwood. Because if he ever told her the truth, she would never smile at him again.
“I can’t thank you enough, Chief Garibaldi,” she said. “You’ve taken such a weight off my mind.”
Carlo didn’t want her thanks. What he did want was for her to go, so he could think clearly again.
When he helped her into her coat, his hand accidentally grazed her cheek. He heard her indrawn breath of surprise in the second before he pulled away from the contact.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked, feeling decidedly shaky.
“You meet Jeffrey. Are you available Saturday morning?”
“Is ten o’clock okay?”
“Ten o’clock would be perfect.” She handed him a piece of paper with her address and phone number.
At the front door, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry about James,” he said. She’d never know how sorry. “He was a good man. It was a privilege to serve with him.”
The sorrow that filled her beautiful brown eyes let him know that, despite the spark of interest he thought he glimpsed earlier, her heart still belonged firmly to her late husband.
“Thank you.”
Carlo didn’t know what was worse. Receiving Samantha Underwood’s thanks, or realizing that, for the next several months, he would be spending a lot of time in her company.
“I really wanted to pay my respects, after James died,” he felt compelled to say. Unfortunately, his injuries had made that impossible.
She nodded her understanding. “And I meant to visit you in the hospital. Thank you again, Chief Garibaldi.”
He followed her out onto the front porch and watched while she climbed into her car and drove away. He was still standing there five minutes later, eyes shielded against the sun, when his brothers arrived.
“Did you speak to him?” her mother asked the minute Samantha walked through the front door.
Samantha shrugged out of her coat and hung it in the closet. “Yes.”
“And?”
She turned to face the older woman. “He’ll do it.”
Maxine Miller’s hands went to her heart. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“Yes,” Samantha echoed hollowly. “Thank goodness.”
Her mother frowned. “You don’t sound happy about it.”
The euphoria she’d felt after Carlo Garibaldi had agreed to be Jeffrey’s buddy had worn off during the drive home. While she was still thrilled that he’d agreed to help her, she was less than happy about the method she’d used to earn that agreement.
“That’s because I guilted him into it.”
“How did you do that?”
“By basically telling him that he was the only man who could do the job. He would have been heartless to refuse.”
“A less than honorable man would have had no problem refusing,” Maxine pointed out.
“Yes,” Samantha agreed. “And, as we all know, Carlo Garibaldi is an honorable man. Which just proves my original argument.”
A look of sympathy crossed her mother’s face. “You did the right thing, honey. In this case, the ends definitely justify the means.”
“Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better.” Samantha sighed. “Where’s Jeffrey?”
“Upstairs in his room.”
Her already heavy heart grew heavier. “I suppose it was too much to hope he’d be outside, playing with one of his friends.”
“Oh, Sam.” Maxine’s eyes filled with tears.
Samantha felt her throat thicken, and she quickly looked away. Though she longed to, she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of a good cry. She was afraid that, once she started, she would never stop.
“I hate to see you worry like this,” her mother said. “You have to understand that what happened to Jeffrey is a tragedy few children his age experience. It’s only natural he would withdraw the way he has.”
“I didn’t.” Nineteen years earlier, under circumstances eerily similar to the ones that had cost James his life, Samantha’s father had been killed in the line of duty.
“You were thirteen when your father died, not seven. And you had your two older sisters to help you through.”
“Maybe. But it’s been a year, Mom. What should have been the hardest part is already behind us. The first Thanksgiving without James. The first Christmas. The first birthday. Yet Jeffrey isn’t getting any better. If anything, he’s getting worse.”
“Have patience, honey. And faith. He’ll come back to us. I know he will.”
Samantha wished she could be so certain. She drew a long, shuddering breath. It tore at her heart to think of her child being so alone. Before James’s death, Jeffrey had been so outgoing, so alive. And now…
Swallowing, she said, “To tell you the truth, Mom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
She was a nurse. She’d dedicated her life to helping others. It tortured her that she couldn’t do anything to help her own son. She could bandage a cut, soothe a fevered brow, but she had no idea how to heal the bruising of Jeffrey’s soul. With every day that passed, he slipped further and further away from her. No matter how hard she tried, Samantha couldn’t reach him.
“Would you like me to come over for a couple of evenings this week, so you can get out on your own?” Maxine asked. “Maybe some time by yourself would help.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. I worry about Jeffrey whether I’m with him or not.”
“I could just come and keep you company.”
Once again, Samantha found herself blinking back tears. “I’d like that, Mom. Very much.”
“I think going to Chief Garibaldi was a step in the right direction. Having Jeffrey spend time with someone who knew and worked with his father might just be able to bring about the breakthrough we’ve been praying for.”
“I certainly hope so,” Samantha said fervently. So much rode on this relationship working out. The stakes were incredibly high. Too high?
“What’s he like?” Maxine asked.
“Who?”
“Chief Garibaldi.”
Samantha’s heart thudded as she recalled her first glimpse of him. “Oh.”
“Well?” Maxine gazed at her pointedly.
“He’s…just like James described him.” And so much more.
“His picture was in the paper last week. He was honored for his actions that day.”
“I know,” Samantha said softly. “I saw it.”
After speaking to Mayor Boyer that morning, Samantha had dug the newspaper in question out of the pile to be placed at the curb on recycling day. Though grainy, the photograph on the front page had arrested her attention. She’d seen his cap of unruly black hair, his broad forehead, his piercing brown eyes that gleamed with intelligence, his classic Roman nose and his determined chin, and had known exactly what to expect when she met him: a man who, like her husband, was filled with an unswerving dedication to right all wrongs.
What she hadn’t expected was his smoldering sensuality, or the helpless way she had responded to it.
Guilt stabbed at her as she faced a truth she’d been trying to hide from since the moment she’d laid eyes on her son’s buddy. Her husband, whom she’d loved more than life itself, had been gone just over a year, and she’d stood on Carlo Garibaldi’s front doorstep, gaping at him like a hormone-struck teenager. Her son needed help desperately, and all she’d been able to think about was the breadth of his shoulders, the depth of his brown eyes, and the fullness of his lips. What had gotten into her?
She supposed it had something to do with the fact that he was nothing like she had anticipated. When he’d answered his door, her first reaction, before awareness set in, had been amazement that he wasn’t taller. After the way James had sung Carlo’s praises, Samantha had expected him to be almost Paul Bunyanesque in stature. To discover that he was a good two inches shy of the six-foot mark had been a surprise.
What he lacked in height, however, he more than made up for with his dark good looks, sheer force of personality and well-muscled physique. He’d looked so strong, so capable, that Samantha had found herself repressing a ridiculous desire to lean her head on his shoulder and tell him all her troubles.
When she’d realized how he affected her, she’d almost turned on her heel and walked away. Instead, for Jeffrey’s sake, she’d forced herself to offer him her hand.
Since there was no way she could talk to her mother about this, Samantha decided that a change of subject was in order. “When do you leave on your cruise?” she asked.
“A week from tomorrow.”
Because Lawrence Miller had been killed on Thanksgiving Day, Maxine always took a cruise over the holiday—the exception being the preceding year because it had been too soon after James’s death. Getting away was her mother’s way of dealing with her loss.
“You really don’t mind me going?” Maxine asked.
“Why should I mind?”
Her mother shrugged. “I’m not sure I should be leaving you alone just now.”
“I’m not alone, Mom,” Samantha said gently. “I have Jeffrey. We’ll be just fine.”
She was stretching the truth somewhat. Things wouldn’t be truly fine until Jeffrey was himself again. But the last thing Samantha wanted was for her mother to worry about the two of them while she was on her cruise.
“If you say so.” The doubt in Maxine’s voice made her ambivalence clear.
“I say so.”
“If only your sisters didn’t live so far away.”
Bridget, Samantha’s oldest sister, was a financial analyst on Wall Street. Colleen, the middle child, was an electrical engineer and lived in Los Angeles. Both were so wrapped up in their careers that they rarely made it back home.
“It’s a sign of the times,” Samantha said.
“A sad sign, if you ask me,” her mother replied.
Silence reigned while Maxine followed Samantha out to the kitchen. Against her will, Samantha’s thoughts returned to Carlo Garibaldi and her reaction to him. Her mother had grieved for nineteen years now for the man she had lost. To the best of Samantha’s knowledge, in all that time Maxine had never looked at another man.
Samantha had looked long and hard at Carlo Garibaldi. What did that make her?
Her unwelcome awareness of him wasn’t important, she told herself. She certainly wasn’t going to act on it. All that mattered was that Jeffrey get well again.
Pairing Jeffrey with Carlo Garibaldi was a last-ditch effort to break down the walls he had erected between himself and the rest of the world. With all her heart and soul, Samantha prayed it would work. Because, while she herself didn’t know how to reach her son, she was certain of one thing. If someone didn’t get through to Jeffrey soon, she stood a good chance of losing him altogether.
Chapter 2
Hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, Carlo slowly walked the twelve blocks separating his home from the Underwood residence. Overhead, the sky was covered by a blanket of gray clouds that did or did not, depending upon which meteorologist one favored, hold the promise of the first snow of the season.
When he reached the foot of the cement path leading up to 221 Lincoln Drive, he came to a reluctant halt. At first glance, the house where Samantha Underwood lived with her son looked a lot like his own: older—probably built in the early twenties—constructed of brick, square in shape and two-and-a-half stories tall. It was only when Carlo peered closer that he glimpsed the subtle signs of neglect; signs all pointing to the absence of the man who had been in charge of its upkeep.
Leaves from an old oak tree carpeted the yard. The forest-green paint on the shutters flanking the front windows had begun to flake. A jagged crack marred one of the windows of the detached two-car garage.
Carlo shivered when an icy wind stung his cheeks and snuck its way into the folds of his jacket. Once again, he pondered the wisdom of the decision that had led him here. He’d half decided to walk back home when Samantha opened her front door and stared out at him.
She wore a pair of brown corduroy pants and a matching cotton sweater with a deep V neck that drew his gaze to the long, slender column of her throat. Her straight blond hair had been combed back off her forehead to fall freely to her shoulders.
At the sight of her lovely face, Carlo’s breath clogged in his throat. She was like the sunlight to a man who had been trapped in a dark cave for far too long. Try as he might, he couldn’t look away.
Damn. The awareness was still there. If anything, it had intensified. He’d hoped—prayed, actually—that it had just been a fluke, the result of a desperate man latching onto the sight of a beautiful woman standing on his doorstep. Especially now that he knew the impossibility of there ever being anything between them.
But it wasn’t a fluke. The way she made him feel inside wasn’t fading. Which meant he had to ignore it.
“Are you going to come in?” she called.
Since the choice of beating a hasty retreat had been taken away from him, Carlo moved up the walkway and climbed the steps of her front porch.
“Sorry I’m late.”
That she looked happy to see him made his breathing grow even more erratic. Actually, maybe relieved was a better description, an impression she confirmed with her next words.
“For a minute, I thought you weren’t coming.”
“For a minute, I almost didn’t,” he answered honestly.
Hand still on the brass knob of her front door, she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Having second thoughts?”
“And third and fourth and fifth. Aren’t you?”
“No,” she replied, without a hint of hesitation.
The way she stood firm in her conviction that he was the one person who could help her son illustrated how deceptive appearances could be. To look at her, a man might mistakenly believe that Samantha Underwood was as delicate as blown glass. But, though she looked slight and insubstantial, the woman had an inner strength that transcended her seeming fragility. Something told Carlo she was as fiercely and stubbornly independent as his sister. But then, she would have had to be, to survive the past year.
Unfortunately, her strength made her all the more attractive to him. He never had been drawn to women who clung tighter than the rose vines that climbed the trellis in his front yard every summer.
“So you’re having second thoughts,” she commented.
About more than just his promise to help her son. “Yes.”
“Why? Don’t you like children?”
“I like them well enough. It’s the responsibility that’s getting to me.”
She seemed to mull his words over. “From everything I’ve heard about you, you’re a man who thrives on responsibility. You wouldn’t be chief of police otherwise.”
A year ago, that had been more than true. He’d once been a man who’d prided himself on his ability to look out for others. The operative word being once.
“That may be so,” he said, “but while I’m responsible for directing the actions of the people under my charge, I always leave their mental welfare to others. I’m no mental health expert, Mrs. Underwood. I’ve never pretended to be.”
She seemed to relax. “He’s just a little boy, Chief Garibaldi. A lost little boy who needs a man’s guidance. That’s all. How about we leave his mental health to his grief counselor?”
Put that way, the task didn’t seem so daunting. “Carlo,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The name’s Carlo. Since we’re going to be seeing each other rather frequently, it only makes sense to drop the formalities.”
She stood aside. “Would you like to come in…Carlo? And please, call me Samantha.”
He stepped into a small foyer, the walls of which were lined with framed photographs. While Samantha collected his coat and hung it in a closet, Carlo rubbed his hands together to restore their warmth and allowed his gaze to rove over the gallery. Some of the pictures were very old, a few appearing to have been taken more than a century earlier; others had been shot more recently.
One in particular caught his eye. In it, Samantha smiled her radiant smile at the camera. Her arms were wrapped around a small boy who wasn’t more than three or four, and her chin rested lovingly atop his head. The openness of that smile, and the look of supreme contentment and quiet joy in her clear, brown eyes, held him riveted.
Suddenly, he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave. Not only did he want to stick around, but he wanted to see her smile that way again. Worse, he wanted that smile to be for him only. He wanted to take away the cares and worries weighing so heavily upon the pair of shoulders that appeared too delicate to bear them.
And he really was losing it, if a mere picture could affect him so deeply.
The click of the latch on the closet door signaled that Samantha had finished hanging up his coat. Tearing his gaze away from the photograph, he turned to face her.
The picture’s impact didn’t even come close to how she affected him in the flesh.
“Why’d you grow a beard?” she surprised him by asking.
His hand automatically went to the growth covering his cheeks. Since the day he’d handed in his request for a leave of absence, he hadn’t shaved or gone to the barber. In that short period of time, he’d managed to cultivate a fairly respectable beard, and for the first time in years his hair now brushed the collar of his shirt.
The question was, how had Samantha known that his beard was a recent addition?
“I saw your picture in the newspaper,” she added, as if reading his mind.
“Oh.”
What had she thought when she’d seen it? Had she wished it were her husband, alive and well, receiving the award instead of him? If he were in her shoes, he knew that was what he would have wished.
“I decided I needed a change of pace,” he said.
“It suits you.”
“Thank you.” He felt oddly pleased.
“Jeffrey’s in the den,” she said. “I’ve prepared him for your visit. I want to warn you, though, that he probably won’t respond very…well, positively to your presence. At least at first. Don’t let it discourage you. Would you like to follow me?”
The house was neat and comfortably furnished. Samantha led him past a living room, through a brightly decorated kitchen and into a room that was obviously the den. A fire crackled in the brick fireplace, the sound and smell of burning wood both welcoming and comforting.
Deliberately forcing his awareness of his hostess to the back of his mind, Carlo turned his attention to the child sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Jeffrey Underwood wore blue jeans and a Steel City Wrestling Alliance sweatshirt. His head was bent, his gaze focused on the coffee table. There was a stillness about him that Carlo had never seen before in an eight-year-old. He seemed small for his age, and like his mother, way too thin. He was also unnaturally quiet.
“Jeffrey,” Samantha said gently. “Remember how we talked about finding you a buddy to do things with?”
The boy nodded without raising his head.
“Well, he’s here. I think you’re going to like him very much.”
Samantha gestured to Carlo, and he crossed to the sofa, where he took a seat next to the child. Though the boy didn’t move, Carlo could sense him mentally shrinking from the contact.
“Hi, Jeffrey,” he said. “I’m Carlo.”
The boy refused to look at him.
“Jeffrey,” Samantha prompted.
“Hello,” the child said in a flat voice.
“Carlo worked with your father,” Samantha offered. “He’s Bridgeton’s police chief.”
Jeffrey raised his head, and Carlo saw a flash of emotion in the child’s eyes. That was a good sign, at least. It meant he wasn’t totally withdrawn.
“My dad’s dead,” Jeffrey announced baldly. “He’s never coming home. And I don’t want a buddy.”
“Jeffrey!” To Carlo, Samantha added, “I’m sorry. He’s not usually so rude.”
In Samantha Underwood’s eyes, Carlo saw the pain she fought so hard to hide. And a worry that tugged at his heart.
“No need to apologize,” he said lightly, although his conviction that he wasn’t the person who could help this child had grown. Samantha might believe him capable of working miracles, but Carlo knew better. From the looks of him, Jeffrey was going to fight him all the way.
“Jeffrey’s just being honest about his feelings,” he continued. “I, for one, always appreciate honesty. I’m hoping, though, that once he gets to know me, he’ll change his mind about wanting a buddy.”
Jeffrey’s response was to pick up a toy car from the top of the coffee table. Making revving noises, he began running it across the smooth wood surface. Though he didn’t say the words, they vibrated on the air nevertheless. Fat chance.
Despite the fact that Carlo was fairly certain the battle had already been lost, he wasn’t ready to raise the white flag just yet. He owed Samantha, and her son, that much. Hoping to capture the boy’s attention, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pocketknife and a small piece of white pine.
“Do you know how to whittle? My grandfather taught me when I was about your age. It looks hard, but it’s really very easy, once you get the hang of it.”
Though Jeffrey seemed focused on the car that was now making circles on the floor, Carlo could swear the boy was watching him out of the corner of one eye. Encouraged, he glanced over at Samantha.
“Do you have something I could use to catch the wood chips?”
She handed him a magazine, which he opened on his lap. In a matter of minutes, the knife moving deftly in his hands, Carlo had fashioned a man’s head. He offered it to Jeffrey, who held it for a few seconds before giving it back.
“Would you like to learn to whittle?” Carlo asked.
Jeffrey gave an indifferent shrug.
A sudden thought occurred to him. “If you’d like, I could buy you a pocketknife of your very own—that is, if it’s okay with your mother.”
The boy shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Jeffrey uttered the word in the tone kids used to indulge their elders when they found the subject under discussion too boring for words, but didn’t want to hurt any feelings. Carlo wasn’t fooled; he’d seen the interest that had flashed in Jeffrey’s eyes. It had been brief, lasting only the fraction of a second, but it had definitely been there. After all, what eight-year-old boy could resist the lure of a pocketknife? When Carlo had been eight, weapons of any shape or size, even sticks and stones, had been endlessly fascinating.
Elated at his tiny victory, and thinking that maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all, Carlo looked up at Samantha for permission. “Is it okay if I buy Jeffrey a pocketknife?”
The gratitude in her eyes took his breath away. That the emotion was for him was enough to render Carlo speechless. It also made the blood race through his veins and obliterated all rational thought as he stared at her and tried to remember what question he had asked.
She was the first to look away, her fingers plucking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her sweater. “I think Jeffrey’s old enough to handle the responsibility. So yes, you can buy him a pocketknife.”
A deep breath did little to restore Carlo’s equilibrium, or lower his heart rate. “It’s settled, then.” He turned to Jeffrey. “I’ll bring it with me on my next visit.”
Jeffrey didn’t say anything. Still, Carlo couldn’t help feeling a faint glimmer of hope.
Samantha pulled a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Lowering her face, she basked in the warmth of their heat and breathed in their comforting aroma. Some people ate when they were nervous. Others wore out the carpet with their pacing. Samantha baked.
How was it going in there? she wondered as she closed the oven door. From her position at the kitchen’s center cooking island, she could see into the den if she leaned forward far enough and craned her neck like a contortionist. She did so and saw Carlo reading a book to her son. Though Jeffrey seemed to be paying more attention to the car he continued to push around on the floor, every once in a while he grew still as he listened. She could swear that, when Carlo read the part about the evil witch getting turned into a toadstool, Jeffrey actually smiled.
Her heart ballooned with hope. This was the first time her son had responded to someone outside their immediate family. She had done the right thing by going to Carlo Garibaldi. She could feel it in her bones. If things continued to go well, she just might get her miracle. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she wasn’t afraid to trust that everything would turn out okay.
Ignoring the growing crick in her neck, her gaze returned to the man who had occupied so much of her thoughts over the past couple of days. Everything about him was larger than life: his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, his stubborn chin. The faded jeans that fit his thighs like a second skin, and the white cotton shirt that he wore with the sleeves rolled back to his forearms only accentuated his maleness. He was definitely the most forceful man she had ever met.
He turned the page of the book, and she followed the movement with fascination. His fingers were long and capable looking. Without consciously summoning the memory, she vividly pictured the way they had moved so expertly over the piece of wood he’d held earlier. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine how they would skillfully caress a woman’s body. Samantha’s stomach fluttered at the unbidden thought.
It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. She could easily think of two or three movie stars who made her feel the same way when she watched them on screen. She didn’t lose any sleep over them, and she wasn’t going to lose any over the new man in her son’s life.
Carlo chose that moment to look up, caught her watching him and flashed her a grin. Samantha went all hot inside. Resisting the urge to fan herself like a menopausal woman in the middle of a hot flash, she pulled back out of view and busied herself removing the cookies from the tray.
She shouldn’t be looking at him that way, she told herself. She had no business looking at any man that way, had never been tempted to, until she’d met Carlo.
She’d never felt this way when James looked at her. She’d never burned inside like a forest fire raging out of control. She’d never yearned…for exactly what she couldn’t say.
Her love for James had been gentle and sweet. It had been quiet and steady, a rock upon which to depend in this crazy, topsy-turvy world. It had been real and lasting. There had been nothing frivolous about it.
And every thought she had about Carlo Garibaldi that didn’t relate to her son definitely fell into the frivolous category.
Even though the attraction was purely physical and meant nothing, it still felt like a betrayal. She loved her husband. She missed him with every fiber of her being. How, then, could she fantasize about the touch of another man?
The love she and James had shared was a love to last a lifetime. But it hadn’t lasted a lifetime. Because of a cruel twist of fate, they’d had only ten short years together. She wasn’t about to sully James’s memory by giving in to a foolish infatuation.
It was time for more baking, she told herself, and began mixing up a batch of snickerdoodles. Wryly she acknowledged that if she didn’t calm down soon, the welcoming committee at church was going to have more than its share of refreshments for their reception tomorrow.
She didn’t hear Carlo enter the kitchen. When she turned and nearly collided with his warm, hard body, she let out a gasp and her hand went to her heart.
“I did call your name,” he said with a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t hear.” Then, after a steadying breath, which helped slow her heartbeat appreciably, she asked, “Done already?”
“I think that’ll do it for today,” he confirmed. “I don’t want to push my luck.”
“What’s Jeffrey doing?”
“Watching a Disney movie.”
Because she didn’t know how to act around him, and because he made her feel so unsettled, Samantha picked up a plate mounded high with cookies and clumsily thrust it at him. “Would you like one? They’re fresh from the oven.”
“Thanks. They smell delicious.” He took a bite, chewed and his smile widened. “Incredible. Is that real butter I taste?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She watched in fascination while he quickly devoured three cookies, then demurred when she offered him a fourth, saying he didn’t want to spoil his appetite for lunch. The appreciation in his eyes warmed her heart.
Then he spoiled it all by reaching out a hand and brushing it across her forehead. Samantha nearly dropped the plate of cookies in her haste to get away from the contact.
“Don’t!” she cried.
“Sorry,” he said stiffly, pulling his hand back, and she knew she had offended him. “You had some flour on your forehead. I was just brushing it off.”
She forced an uneasy laugh. “I’m the one who should apologize. I don’t know what made me overreact like that.”
But she did know. It was Carlo and the way she had no control over her body’s response to him. And the guilt that swamped her because she couldn’t.
“Forget about it,” he dismissed, adding what had to be the understatement of the year. “We’re both a little on edge today.”
“You did a good job in there,” she told him, feeling more in control now that she wasn’t standing so close to him. “I think you made some progress.”
Carlo gave a short laugh. “That depends how you measure progress. To my way of thinking, I made a millimeter’s worth of headway, and we still have miles to go.”
“Baby steps,” she said.
“Baby steps?”
“You take one step forward, teeter for a bit, fall down on your butt and climb back to your feet. Over and over again, until you get where you’re going. Baby steps.”
“Baby steps,” he repeated with a nod. “I think I get it.”
“And I think, based on what I saw this morning, given time Jeffrey will come to trust you. If we’re lucky, he’ll even open up to you.” Samantha felt her throat close with emotion and drew a ragged breath. “And then I’ll have my son back.”
“You really think I can do all that?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I really do.”
His eyes darkened with emotion in the seconds before he tore his gaze from hers. “I hope your faith in me is justified,” he said gruffly.
The oven timer went off. Thankful to have something to occupy her attention, Samantha bent to remove a tray of cookies.
“Who’s the photographer?” she heard him ask as she scraped snickerdoodles onto the wax paper she’d spread across one counter.
“What photographer?”
“The one who took all the photos in the front hallway. I couldn’t help noticing them earlier.”
“The older ones are family hand-me-downs,” she replied, her back still to him. “The more recent ones are mine, along with a few from a professional studio.”
“The pictures of you and Jeffrey, you mean.”
“Yes. Those were professionally taken.”
“So, you’re into photography?”
Dusting her hands, she turned to face him. “I dabble a bit. What I really like is covering the walls of my home with pictures of the people who mean the most to me. It gives me pleasure to look at them. Plus I find gazing through a lens relaxing.”
He eyed the cookies covering her counter. “Does baking relax you, too?”
She had to smile. “No. Baking helps me use up nervous energy.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
Her smile faltered at the unexpected question, and her heart started pounding. Thank goodness he didn’t realize exactly how nervous he did make her. At least she thought he didn’t.
“This whole thing with Jeffrey has my nerves frayed,” she said quickly. “I’ve been baking up a storm for months.”
He seemed to hesitate briefly before saying, “About the photos in the front hallway. I couldn’t help noticing there weren’t any pictures of James.”
As little as a few months ago, the mention of her late husband would have filled her with a rush of pain. Now she felt only a dull ache. And an emptiness that seemed to go on forever.
“There used to be dozens. Everywhere I looked. I took them down after…you know.”
“After he died,” Carlo supplied.
“Yes.” Sometimes she still found it hard to say the “d” word. “It hurt too much to look at them.”
And now, at night, when she closed her eyes, she had trouble picturing him. She was terrified that she was starting to forget James. The way she responded to Carlo Garibaldi wasn’t helping matters.
“How are you coping?” he asked.
She busied herself scrubbing down the counters. “I have my good days and my bad days. For months there was only pain. And denial. I simply couldn’t believe James was gone. I wondered if the day would ever come when thoughts of him wouldn’t consume my every waking minute. Then I got angry and screamed at God for letting James die, and I screamed at James for dying. When the anger faded, I moped around for another couple of months. Finally I accepted that James was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Somehow, I had to make a life for Jeffrey and me without him. Now that you’re here, I think more good days just might be in our future.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and was surprised at the look of consternation on his face. Poor man. She’d made it sound like she was depending on him to solve her every problem. No wonder he looked terrified.
“I’m sorry, Carlo. I don’t know why I told you all that. What I meant to say is that I’ve been one of the lucky ones. My mother lives close by, as does my best friend. They’ve both been a wonderful support to me. So has Douglas Boyer. And now you. Jeffrey and I are doing just fine.”
“Except for the fact that he won’t talk to anyone,” he muttered.
She looked down at her hands. “Except for that.”
“I want you to know something.”
A quality in his voice she couldn’t quite define made her look up. “What?”
“If it were in my power, I’d wave a magic wand and make things the way they were before. I’d make it so that day never happened. I’d give you back your husband and your little boy.”
His sincerity was unmistakable. Why he should seem to care so much, she didn’t know. But he obviously did. And she was grateful for the sentiment.
“James was right,” she said.
He looked startled. “About what?”
“You really do take your responsibilities to heart.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“You’re a cop, and you can ask me that with a straight face?”
His smile was wry. “You have a point.”
“Actually, what I think James meant was that you take things too much to heart. When you agree to do something, you don’t take any half measures. You give it everything you have, and then some.”
“I believe in honoring my commitments.” His voice sounded stiff.
“And I’ve made you defensive. That’s not what I was trying to do.”
“What were you trying to do?”
“To say thank you. Thank you for helping me with Jeffrey, Carlo.”
He seemed to grow even more uncomfortable. “I don’t want your thanks, Samantha.”
What did he want? she wondered. Now wasn’t the time to ask. What it was time for was the truth. She had to be honest with him, or she’d never get rid of the guilt.
“I have a confession to make.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “I shamelessly manipulated you to get you to help me with Jeffrey.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I used what James had told me about you to get you to do what I wanted you to do.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to turn you down when you came to me.”
“I didn’t know for sure. But I hoped. And I definitely prayed. Thank goodness my prayers were answered.” She paused. “Are you angry?”
“I should be, I suppose,” he said on a sigh. “But no, I’m not angry. I understand why you did what you did. If Jeffrey were my son, I probably would have done the same.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “Does this mean you’ll be back next Saturday?”
Long, agonizing seconds passed before he finally answered. “Yes, Samantha. I’ll be back.”
Chapter 3
The Samantha Underwood who answered her door the following Saturday bore little resemblance to the woman who had bowled Carlo over the week before. The thick, lustrous blond hair that had gleamed like a badge in the sunlight was uncombed and hung lankly to her shoulders. Her eyes were sunken and red-rimmed, her lips chapped. In contrast, her cheeks were flushed with color. Though it was after noon, she wore a pair of flannel pajamas beneath a loosely belted, red terry cloth robe. It was a good thing the day was uncharacteristically mild, because she looked as if even the hint of a breeze would knock her off her feet.
Any other woman would have made an excuse for the way she looked. Samantha simply stood there, waiting.
And any other man—if he had a shred of decency, anyway—wouldn’t have found the sight alluring. But Carlo did. Heaven help him.
Guilt left a sour taste in his mouth. She was James Underwood’s widow. He had no business lusting after her like an awkward youth fumbling through his first crush.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She brought a tissue to her mouth and sneezed. “Just fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
She stood aside so he could enter. “I picked up a bug at work. The hazard of being a nurse, I suppose. It’ll run its course in a day or so.”
His gaze roved over her again. So she was a nurse. It seemed appropriate, given what he knew about her.
“Must be some bug, to make you look like that.”
Her smile caught him off guard. “Do you have to work at it, or are you naturally this charming? Much more of this flattery, and my ego will be totally deflated.”
Carlo amazed himself by doing something he hadn’t done in years: he blushed. He wasn’t normally so clumsy around women. But then, Samantha was unlike any woman he’d ever known.
Her words echoed in his ears. Much more of this flattery, and my ego will be totally deflated. Could she have wanted him to flatter her? His heart gave a wild leap in the seconds before reality jolted him roughly back to earth.
“Sorry,” he said stiffly, “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I was just teasing,” she chided. “Can’t you take a joke?”
Apparently not. The old Carlo would have taken it in stride. Not only that, he would have given back as good as he got, and thoroughly enjoyed himself in the process. But the old Carlo had died, and a new Carlo had been born in his place. A Carlo who had made the decision to drift aimlessly for a while, to go with the flow and see what happened. The old Carlo would have been appalled at this lack of direction and purpose. But then, the old Carlo hadn’t turned out to be such an admirable fellow, so who was he to complain?
And the new Carlo had had enough self-examination for one day, he decided, when the unpleasant memories threatened to push past the barriers of his subconscious.
“Is Jeffrey ready?”
“I’ll check.” Samantha turned to call up the stairs. “Jeffrey, Carlo’s here.”
Considering that she could have been the poster girl for Webster’s definition of death warmed over, her voice was surprisingly strong.
Carlo decided that he liked the way his name sounded on her lips. He liked it a lot. As a matter of fact, he liked it so much he wanted to hear her say it again. How would it feel, he mused, to hear her cry his name during the throes of passion, and then again, softly, once that passion had been sated?
Two thumps echoed from the ceiling. When Samantha turned back to him, he gave a guilty start at the realization of the direction his thoughts had wandered. He felt his cheeks grow even ruddier as he tried to school his expression into neutrality, so that those very thoughts weren’t visible on his face. What on earth was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he control himself when he was around her?
“That’s Jeffrey’s signal that he’ll be down in a minute,” she said. “We were a little late getting started this morning, and he just got out of the shower.” She swayed and reached out for the newel post at the foot of the stairs.
Mentally cursing his wayward libido, Carlo moved quickly to her side and took her by the arm. The heat coming off her skin seared him as he led her into the den. The pillow and blanket already lying on the sofa bore witness to the fact that his arrival had disturbed her rest.
Samantha’s strength seemed to ebb out of her as he helped her settle onto the sofa, and he wondered exactly how hard she’d had to work not to let on how rotten she was feeling. If her sudden weakness was any indication, she’d used up valuable stores of energy; energy that should have gone to fighting her fever.
“You’re burning up,” he said, tucking the blanket securely around her.
“It’s just a slight temperature.”
“Right,” he muttered. “And the Nile is just a stream. At a guess, I’d put that slight temperature of yours at 102.4 degrees.”
Her eyebrows climbed. Despite her weakness, she managed to look amused.
“Do you always estimate to the tenth degree?”
“For temperatures, I do. And, I might add, I’m usually right.”
He made sure the pillow was centered beneath her head before straightening and looking down at her. She seemed so small and defenseless that he was overcome by an urge to stay by her side until she was well again. For a man who didn’t want any responsibilities, he seemed to be racking them up right and left: first Jeffrey, and now the boy’s mother.
“Just how did you come by this talent of yours?” she asked, her voice a near whisper.
It took him a beat to realize what she was talking about. “Let’s just say I’ve nursed a fever or two in my time. You’ve got a doozy. While it won’t kill you, it will sap your strength. What you need is plenty of fluids and rest.”
“Yes, doctor.”
He had to smile. Samantha Underwood was a nurse. She didn’t need him telling her how to treat her illness. Still…
“Is there anyone I can call to come in and stay with you? A friend? Neighbor?”
“I’m not an invalid,” she protested. She tried to rise up on her elbows and fell back against the sofa. “I’ve been taking care of myself for quite some time now. I think I can manage for a while longer.”
How did she expect to take care of herself, let alone an eight-year-old boy, when she could barely lift her head off the pillow? Carlo knew better, however, than to give voice to the question. Pointing out the obvious would only make her even more defensive.
“What about your mother? Maybe she could come over and keep Jeffrey occupied, so you can get the rest you need.”
Samantha closed her eyes and turned her face toward the wall. “Mom’s away on a cruise. Besides, you’re taking Jeffrey out for the afternoon. That’ll give me all the rest I need.”
Considering the thinness of her body and the circles under her eyes, Carlo doubted it. Samantha was in need of a lot more than a few hours sleep.
If he couldn’t talk her into getting help, at least he could do everything in his power to assure the outcome she seemed so certain of. For Jeffrey’s sake, of course. Turning on his heel, he headed for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you some water,” he called over his shoulder.
The countertop that had been covered with freshly baked cookies a week ago was a mess. An open loaf of bread teetered on the edge of the white Formica surface; two slices had already fallen to the floor. Beside the bread lay a knife that was smeared liberally with peanut butter and grape jelly. Equally smeared were the countertop itself and the two open containers from which both substances originated. An empty glass sat in a puddle of milk. Obviously, Jeffrey had fixed his own lunch.
Under normal circumstances, Carlo would never consider rummaging around in a stranger’s cupboards. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and he didn’t have the heart to disturb Samantha to ask where she kept things. He’d just have to rely on his intuition to lead him to the items he needed. After all, he’d once been able to find a cache of stolen jewels in under one minute by letting his intuition lead him to the most likely hiding spot. How hard would it be to find things that were meant to be found?
After cleaning up the mess Jeffrey left, it took him less than thirty seconds to find a tall glass, a tray and a pitcher, which he filled with ice and water. When he spied the bottle of aspirin on the counter, he called, “Have you taken anything for the fever?”
“Not yet,” came the weak reply.
He’d placed the aspirin bottle on the tray and was about to return to the den, when his glance landed on the telephone. His brother Marco was a doctor. While he had the opportunity, he might as well get the opinion of a professional.
Carlo felt a lot better after speaking to Marco. So long as Samantha got plenty of fluids and rest, so long as her fever didn’t rise to a dangerous level, and so long as she didn’t exhibit any worrisome signs like convulsions, she should be okay.
“Hold out your hand,” he ordered after placing the tray on the coffee table. When she complied, he shook two aspirin into her palm, then helped her to a sitting position before pouring a glass of water and handing it to her. “Drink.”
He waited until she drained the glass to say, “You should be all set here. There’s plenty of water for you whenever you’re thirsty. There are also some crackers, in case you feel like nibbling on anything. Can I find you something to watch on television? Bring you the remote control? A book?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll take a nap after you and Jeffrey leave.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me. And don’t worry about Jeffrey. He and I will be just fine. I thought, since it was such a nice day, we’d rake some leaves and jump in them.”
“I love jumping in leaves,” Samantha said wistfully.
“Unfortunately for you, the only jumping you’ll be doing today will be in your dreams.”
“In that case, will you take a flying leap for me?”
He laughed. It was a good sign that she was still able to joke with him. Yes, he decided, there was definitely a mischievous light gleaming in those big, brown eyes of hers. Maybe she was getting better.
“You’re teasing me again, right?” he asked.
“You catch on fast.”
“I try.”
“You should do that more often,” she said.
“Catch on to things?”
“Laugh. It makes you look more human.”
It came to him then that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed out loud. It felt good.
“What did I look like before?” he asked, still smiling. “Godzilla?”
“You know what I mean.”
He sobered, and the good feeling faded. “I guess I haven’t had much to laugh about lately.”
Her sigh was low and heartfelt. “Boy, can I relate.”
“Yes,” he said carefully, mindful that she’d had even less to laugh about in the past year than he had. “I suppose you can.”
“Thanks, Carlo,” she said.
He blinked. “For what?”
“For the aspirin and the water. For coming back today. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Warmth filled him as his heart swelled with pleasure. Then he remembered exactly why Jeffrey needed him, and the warmth was replaced by a sudden chill.
Carlo glanced at his watch. Jeffrey was taking his grand old time getting ready.
“Let me guess. He’s not any more anxious to see me today than he was last Saturday.”
“No,” she admitted. “But he’ll be down.”
“What did you bribe him with? A new toy?”
Her mouth curved. “I don’t believe in bribery, no matter how tempted I am to resort to it. Jeffrey is aware that he has a commitment to spend time with you each week, and that I expect him to honor it.”
The clump of feet slowly descending the staircase echoed into the room. A minute later, Jeffrey appeared in the doorway. His hair was still wet from his shower. When he glanced at Carlo, a wary light filled his eyes. It changed to worry when he caught sight of his mother on the sofa.
Somehow, Samantha managed to dredge up a brilliant smile. Carlo felt a spark of admiration for this spunky woman. Whatever her worries and fears were for her son, she wasn’t about to let the child see them. Nor was she about to let worry for her ruin what would hopefully be, for Jeffrey, a good time.
“Come here,” she beckoned to the boy. When he knelt by her side, she smoothed a hand back over his hair. “I want you to promise to be on your best behavior while you’re out with Carlo. Okay?”
“Okay.” Jeffrey nodded grudgingly.
“She’ll be just fine, sport,” Carlo reassured. “See? She’s all set. Water. Glass. Blanket. Pillow. The best medicine for your mom right now is for us to get out of her hair. Once she takes a nice long nap, she’ll be feeling much better.”
As he followed Jeffrey out of the room, Carlo couldn’t help tossing a worried glance over his shoulder. Samantha was already asleep.
It was the kind of Indian summer weather that, on a school day, inspired many a young boy to play hooky; the kind of weather Pittsburgh rarely saw in November. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the air was unseasonably warm. A light jacket or sweatshirt was all a person needed, and even that seemed too heavy when the sun blazed its brightest.
After closing the front door behind them, Carlo said, “Want to rake some leaves?”
Hands in his pants pockets, his gaze cast downward, Jeffrey toed the ground in front of him. “I guess so.”
Okay, Carlo reasoned. Put that way it did sound pretty much like a chore. He couldn’t blame Jeffrey for being less than enthusiastic.
“I was thinking of something along the lines of a race. I brought two rakes with me. What I thought we could do is see who has the biggest pile of leaves once the front yard is all raked up. Of course, after the winner is declared, we get to jump in those leaves before sweeping them into the street for the maintenance crew to pick up on Monday. You game?”
Carlo gazed at the child, expecting him to eagerly agree. After all, what red-blooded American boy could turn away from healthy competition?
Apparently Jeffrey could. His answer to Carlo’s challenge was an indifferent shrug.
“If you want.”
Strike one, Carlo thought wryly as he headed for the rakes he’d propped against the oak tree.
Twenty minutes later, he was lying face up in a pile of leaves. Ten feet away, Jeffrey stood playing with a yo-yo he’d pulled from his pants pocket.
To give the boy credit, he had tried. Well, he had pushed his rake around for ten minutes or so before abandoning both it and Carlo. Carlo had kept raking until he’d built a nice, high pile. He’d hoped to at least entice the boy into jumping into the leaves. So far, though, he’d had no luck.
Gazing up at the brilliance of the sun, Carlo felt its warmth caress his face. Despite his lack of success with Jeffrey, it felt wonderful, and he wished for nothing more than to lie there for a while longer. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much the guilt and regret he’d been carrying around had weighed him down; how it had dragged at his shoulders, his conscience and his heart as if an anvil had been hung around his neck. It felt good to let go of the load for a while.
He looked over to where Jeffrey was walking the dog with his yo-yo. “Neat trick. Could you show me how to do that?”
Jeffrey showed him his back.
Strike two. Carlo decided to try a different tack.
“When I was your age and my brothers and I raked leaves together, they would throw them at me. It always made me mad. There’s nothing I hate worse than a bunch of leaves in my face.”
Ignoring the blatant hint, Jeffrey sat down on the front steps and stared wistfully at the horizon.
Strike three. You’re out. Carlo sighed. He might have been able to pique Jeffrey’s interest a time or two last weekend, but so far today he was batting zero.
“Baby steps,” he muttered, remembering what Samantha had said to him. He’d measure each success in terms of baby steps, ignore the failures and refuse to look beyond that.
“I have that pocketknife I promised you. Want to do some whittling?”
“Some other time,” Jeffrey said.
Brushing the leaves from his clothing, Carlo sat up. “I’m pretty hot. I think I need an ice cream cone to cool me off. What about you?”
That, at least, got the boy’s attention, Carlo thought with satisfaction. Samantha Underwood might be above bribery, but Carlo Garibaldi wasn’t.
“Baby steps,” he murmured to himself as they set off down the street. “Baby steps.”
They were seated at the local Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor, munching contentedly on a double scoop of Quarterback Crunch and Rocky Road, when Carlo felt Jeffrey’s gaze on him. More specifically, on his upper arms. When he glanced at the boy, Jeffrey quickly—almost guiltily—looked away. A minute later, though, Carlo felt the child’s gaze on him again.
He had a flash of understanding. “You want to know if I’ve always been this strong, don’t you?”
Jeffrey nodded.
“The answer is no. When I was your age, I was built just like you. I’ve been lifting weights since I was eighteen. It took a lot of work to get to the point where I am now.”
Carlo hadn’t been to the gym for his daily workout since he’d taken his leave of absence. Though he’d wanted to, he simply hadn’t been able to summon the energy to go. Surprisingly, given his idleness, he still had a good deal of muscle tone.
“Can I lift, too?” Jeffrey asked.
“Anyone can lift. You just have to make sure to use proper form so that you don’t injure yourself. When you’re old enough, you can join a gym.”
Jeffrey frowned. “I don’t want to wait till I’m older. I want to lift now.”
Why not? Carlo thought. The day was still young, and he wanted to give Samantha as much rest as possible. Besides, this was the most he’d heard Jeffrey speak. If this was what it took to reach him, Carlo was all for it.
“Would you like to see the gym where I work out?” he asked.
The light in Jeffrey’s eyes was all the answer he needed.
“Hey, Carlo,” Pete Loring, the owner of Fit Bodies, greeted when they walked through the door. “Long time no see.”
“I’ve been busy,” Carlo replied guardedly.
Typical of Pete, he didn’t pry any further. “Who’s your young friend?”
“A prospective client.”
Carlo watched Jeffrey’s eyes go round at the sight of the giant man who wrestled professionally under the name of Killer. Never had a title been a greater misnomer. Though fierce-looking, when not beating his competition to a pulp in the ring, Pete Loring was one of the gentlest men Carlo had ever met.
Pete’s smile broadened. “A prospective client, eh? Well, then, we’ll have to see that he receives the star treatment, won’t we?”
“I know you,” Jeffrey said with the first real excitement Carlo had seen him exhibit. “You’re Killer.”
“You a SCWA fan?” Pete asked, obviously pleased.
Eyes shining, Jeffrey nodded. “You’re my favorite wrestler.”
“Ah,” Pete said, settling a meaty hand around Jeffrey’s shoulders. “A fan. For a fan, not only will I give you the star treatment, but I will also roll out the red carpet. Ready for a tour?”
Carlo stood off to one side while Pete showed a star-struck Jeffrey around the gym and patiently explained the purpose of each machine and exercise. The crowded room was filled with grunts of effort and the sound of weights clanking as men and women alike stared at the mirror-lined walls to ensure they were using proper form. Though they came in all shapes and sizes, they all had one thing in common: their bodies gleamed with the sheen of perspiration that could only be brought on by hard work.
There was a time when the sights, sounds and smells of this room had thrilled him, a time when he’d lived for that hour or two each day when he could lose himself in the sheer joy of pushing his body to its limits. A time when, the minute he walked into this room, his fingers would itch to lift a barbell or to do repetitions on one of the machines. Carlo looked down at the hands hanging limply at his sides. No itch.
He gazed around him with a curious detachment. He’d worked so hard to build and maintain his physique, especially after his injuries, and now he no longer cared if he ever lifted another weight. There were so many things he no longer cared about. And he didn’t even care that he didn’t care. Intellectually, he knew that should worry him, that he wouldn’t be able to resume even the semblance of his former life until he could care.
At the moment, though, the only things he seemed able to work up any feeling for were an emotionally scarred little boy and his sick mother.
When his gaze found Jeffrey again, Carlo saw that Pete had finished the tour and had left the boy to complete a workout of his choosing. The grimness and determination on Jeffrey’s face as he lifted weights with a purposefulness that was far older than his years startled Carlo out of his reverie.
“Whoa, slugger, slow down,” he cautioned, moving to the boy’s side. “You don’t want to overdo it your first time out. What are you preparing for? Battle?”
Jeffrey kept pumping iron. “When I grow up,” he said in a fierce voice, “I’m going to be big and strong like you and Killer. And then I’m going to find the man who killed my dad and kill him.”
Dismayed, Carlo didn’t know what to say. After all, Jeffrey wouldn’t have to look far. The man who had killed his father was standing right beside him.
There was no answer when, darkness rapidly falling, Carlo pressed the doorbell of the Underwood home. At his side, Jeffrey held the autographed T-shirt Pete had given him and the set of weights Carlo had bought so that Jeffrey could continue his workouts at home.
Frowning, Carlo pressed the doorbell again. Still no answer. Inside, no lights shone in any of the windows.
She was probably still sleeping, he told himself, refusing to succumb to the feeling of dread that had his heart suddenly racing. Four hours was a long time for anyone, unless they were desperately ill, to sleep.
“Do you have a key?” he asked Jeffrey.
Jeffrey placed the weights and the T-shirt on the porch floor so that he could rummage through his pants pockets. He pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, a battered toy soldier, the yo-yo and three marbles before finally producing a key. When he slid it into the lock, the door swung silently inward.
“Why don’t you run upstairs, put your things away and wash up, while I go check on your mom.” Carlo needed to get the boy safely out of the way, just in case something really was wrong with Samantha. “It’s important that you wash your hands and arms thoroughly, because you might have picked up some germs at the gym. Since your mom’s sick, you want to be careful not to pass them on to her.”
His reluctance obvious, Jeffrey slowly mounted the stairs. When he reached the top, Carlo headed for the den.
It was hard to see in the dimness, but he definitely glimpsed the outline of her body beneath the blanket. It looked as though she hadn’t moved since he’d left with Jeffrey.
He hated to wake her. But he couldn’t leave until he knew she was alert and able to care for her son.
“Samantha?” he said, switching on a light. She didn’t answer, and he called louder. “Samantha?”
“What?” She sounded groggy as she opened her eyes and blinked against the brightness. “Oh, you’re back. Did you have a nice time?”
“I think it went well.” Except for Jeffrey’s startling revelation about his plans for vengeance. “How are you feeling?”
“Thirsty.”
He poured her a glass of water and helped her to a sitting position. “Better?” he asked, when she’d drained every drop.
“Much. What time is it?”
“Five o’clock.”
Her eyes widened. For a woman who’d slept the afternoon away, she looked anything but rested.
“Already? It feels like I just closed my eyes.”
“That’s because you’re sick.” A lot sicker than she wanted to let on. Leaning down, he rested his hand against her forehead. While still not into dangerous territory, her temperature had definitely risen.
He knew then what he had to do. It was the last thing he wanted. But he would be less than heartless to leave an eight-year-old and a defenseless sick woman to their own devices.
“That settles it,” he said. “I’m staying.”
Chapter 4
Samantha was determined to stand, even if it took every ounce of her strength. Pushing the blankets aside, she swung her feet to the floor and placed her hands flat against the sofa cushions for support. If only her head wasn’t so woozy and her limbs didn’t feel like they each weighed a thousand pounds.
After drawing a deep, bracing breath, she leaned forward and centered her weight on her legs. For a second or two, she was certain she’d collapse. But finally, through sheer determination, and not a little perspiration, she gained her feet.
She didn’t even want to think about how awful she must look.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, locking her knees when they threatened to give way beneath her. After being huddled beneath a blanket all afternoon, the air in the room felt cool, and she shivered. “I’m feeling much better.”
“Liar,” he said mildly.
“No, really. I know you’re used to taking charge, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll be just fine. You can go home now.”
She heard a hint of panic creep into her voice and bit her lip. She couldn’t concentrate enough to figure out why it was so vital that he leave. All she knew was that every instinct of self-preservation she possessed was screaming how it was imperative for him to go.
“Face it, Samantha, you need help.”
Sick as she was, the sound of her name on his lips still managed to send shivers of awareness up her spine. Those six words, spoken softly and with concern, penetrated the haze clouding her mind. In a moment of clarity, she knew exactly why she was so desperate for him to leave. She didn’t like the way he made her feel when he looked at her, all soft and feminine and trembly inside. Even less did she like the way her breathing went haywire when he smiled; how her heart raced when he spoke her name.
She’d had her chance at love, and it had been wonderful. No woman could have asked for more. Then James had died, and they’d buried her heart with him.
Apparently, however, her hormones had stayed behind.
When she was well again, none of this would matter, she told herself. When her weakness disappeared, so would her vulnerability.
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