Summer Reads Box Set, Books 4-6 Page 3

  Nick loved all of them, but he'd never felt loved for himself—until Lisa. She'd looked past the cocky insecure arrogance and seen who he really was and loved him anyway. When she'd become pregnant, they both thought they'd won the lottery.

  He closed his eyes for a moment as the pain threatened to overwhelm him, and he saw her again.

  "I can't believe I'm having a baby." Lisa took his hand and placed it on her abdomen. "Feel that? She's kicking me."

  Nick's gut tightened at the fluttering kick against his fingers. It was the most incredible feeling. He couldn't begin to express the depth of his love for this unborn child, but he could show Lisa. In the middle of the store, he kissed her on the lips, uncaring of the salespeople or the other customers. "I love you," he whispered against her mouth.

  She looked into his eyes. "I love you, too. More than anything. I'm so happy it scares me. What if something goes wrong?"

  "Nothing will go wrong."

  "Oh, Nick, things always go wrong around me. Remember our first date—we hit a parked car."

  He smiled. "That wasn't your fault. I'm the one who wasn't paying attention."

  "I'm the one who distracted you,'' she said with a worried look in her eyes.

  "Okay, it was your fault."

  "Nick!"

  "I'm teasing. Don't be afraid of being happy. It's not fatal, you know. This is just the beginning for us."

  It had been the beginning of the end.

  Nick blinked his eyes open as the woman in his booth asked him a question, intruding on his memories. "Excuse me?"

  "How much is the cradle?" she asked with a curious smile.

  "One hundred and thirty dollars."

  She nodded. "It's expensive, but it's also gorgeous. Are you the craftsman?"

  "Yes."

  "You do beautiful work,"

  "Thank you." Nick ran his calloused fingers along the side of the cradle, sending it into a gentle rocking motion.

  "It's so quiet. We've looked at a lot of cradles, but yours seem—special. I can almost see my baby lying there, rocking."

  "Me, too," he muttered, but it wasn't her baby he was seeing, it was his—Robin with the tiny curls of black hair and the bright blue eyes, so like her mother's. Nick shook the thought out of his head.

  "We'll take two," the woman said.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "We're having twins," she explained with a laugh, patting her rather large abdomen.

  "Congratulations."

  "Good luck would be more appropriate."

  He took down her name, address and phone number and set up a delivery date. When she and her husband left, the booth was empty, save for two lanky teenagers. So much for sentimental moments. It was time to get on with the business of breaking down the booth.

  "Hey, boss. It's almost five. Can we start packing up?" Ernie Mackey asked.

  "I'm starving," David Schmitz added.

  Nick smiled at the teenagers. Ernie was Walter's grandson and had absolutely no interest in making furniture, only in making money. He was a high school senior who needed wheels and cash for the prom, so he'd agreed to work for Nick after school and on the weekends. David was Ernie's best friend.

  "You guys have already eaten your way through the food court," Nick replied. "I think you can make it another half hour."

  "Aw, man," Ernie complained. "You're a slave driver."

  "You want to work for a slave driver, try working for your grandfather."

  "You're right. He's worse, but at least he doesn't do baby shows," Ernie said with disgust. "I've never seen so many screaming, ugly babies or pregnant women in my entire life."

  "Yeah," David agreed. He leaned over and dropped his voice a notch. "I didn't know so many people in San Diego were having this much sex. And some of them are really old."

  Nick laughed. "Like forty, right? Now you know what's in store for you if you have unprotected sex."

  "No way. I'm not having kids, not until I'm at least thirty," David said. "I want to have fun, man."

  "Just remember that every time you have fun, and I do mean every time," Nick said pointedly.

  "You sound like my father," Ernie complained.

  He did sound like a father, but he wasn't one—not anymore. "Why don't you guys take down the crib? I think we're just about done." Nick slipped the orders he had taken into a manila envelope.

  "How did you do, Nick?" Suzanne Brooks asked from the booth adjoining his.

  "Okay," he said.

  A slender woman with a sleek cap of red hair that framed her face and emphasized her brown eyes, Suzanne owned an expensive baby clothing store in La Jolla, and they had become a source of referrals for one another. They had gone out a few times. Nick enjoyed her company but was wary of her eager interest in him. Suzanne seemed to be pushing for a deeper, more personal relationship, and he wasn't ready for it. Although as soon as the thought came to mind, he felt like a fool. Just when the hell was he going to be ready? It had been almost eight years, well past time to move on with his life.

  "Do you want to get a drink after work, maybe some dinner?" she asked, straightening her emerald green suit jacket. "I didn't have a chance to get lunch."

  "Sure."

  "Really?"

  "You sound surprised," he said with a grin.

  "No, I'm pleased. Shall we go to the Glass House? It's supposed to be very good."

  He frowned. "I'm more steak and potatoes than pheasant under glass, Suzanne. I'm not sure I could find a suit if I needed one to be buried in."

  "Well, wherever you want to go then."

  "Ruby's Chili House."

  "Oh, okay. That sounds interesting."

  She looked a bit disheartened by his choice, which didn't totally surprise him. Suzanne was a lovely woman, but her tastes were more sophisticated than his.

  "I'm not very good with spicy food," she added. "Is the chili hot?"

  "Hotter than hell," he said cheerfully. Lisa had loved Ruby's chili. He could still see the sweat beading along her forehead with every bite, the fire in her blue eyes, the rosiness of her cheeks. She'd been as passionate about food as... God, where had that thought come from? "Never mind," he said to Suzanne. "Let's go somewhere else. You pick. Just don't make it black tie, okay? I'm a working guy."

  "You're a successful business owner, a great-looking man. Most of the women stop by your booth just to look at you."

  "Yeah, right."

  "It's true. I don't think they can fathom how such a big, brawny guy can make such beautiful furniture. I wish you could see yourself as others see you."

  He smiled somewhat awkwardly as he dug his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans. If Suzanne could really see him for what he was, she'd run as far away from him as possible. Sure, he'd seen desire in a few women's eyes over the past couple of years. But he still remembered that one scathing look of complete and utter rejection.

  "Nick?"

  He shook himself, not understanding why the memories had begun again. It probably had something to do with Silvia, Lisa's mother. Two days earlier, Silvia had asked him for the key to the storage locker where they'd put Lisa's things all those years ago. She'd said she wanted to get something out, something important.

  He hadn't asked what. He hadn't been to the storage locker in years. He probably should have cleaned it out or at least sent Lisa the bill, but for some reason, he'd just kept paying it.

  "Nick?" Suzanne repeated. "Shall I come by your place and pick you up?"

  "Don't like riding in my pickup truck, huh?" He knew the battered Toyota wasn't much to look at, but it was handy for moving furniture. "I can bring the jeep. It's not much better, but at least it has a solid coat of paint."

  "That's fine."

  "Why don't I pick you up at seven-thirty?" he suggested.

  She hesitated. "Is there something you're hiding in that house of yours? You've never invited me in. I'm beginning to think you have a wife stashed away inside."

  "No wife," he s
aid bluntly. "If you'd rather I didn't come by, we can forget the whole thing."

  "No, no." She put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't mean to pry. You can pick me up. You can even stay for breakfast if you want."

  He saw the seductive invitation in her eyes and knew she'd make good on her promise, but what about the morning? What about breakfast, lunch and dinner? He had a feeling Suzanne Brooks didn't sleep with a man for the hell of it, and that was the only reason he'd slept with anyone in the past eight years.

  Walter kept telling him it was time to move on, to settle down, to get on with the rest of his life. Perhaps the old man was right. He could get used to breakfast at Suzanne's. He could forget that her skin wasn't dark, her eyes weren't blue, her hair wasn't the color of the night.

  Or maybe he'd spend the rest of his life haunted by a memory, by a woman he would probably never see again—at least if she had anything to say about it.

  * * *

  Raymond Curtis took the elevator downstairs. Instead of descending to the underground parking, he impulsively stepped off at the lobby level. He didn't feel like going home yet. His Spanish-style house in the San Fernando Valley with its cool red tiles and slick hardwood floors would be neat and clean and waiting for him. The evening paper would be on the dining room table, and his housekeeper would have something warming in the oven, but Elisabeth wouldn't be there.

  No, Elisabeth was on her way to San Diego to rescue some childhood friend from a panic attack. Raymond frowned, still angry at his fiancé’s abrupt and sudden departure. He didn't like unpredictability. He didn't appreciate people doing what they weren't supposed to do.

  That was one of the reasons he'd stayed single for fifteen years after his first marriage ended in divorce. Margery had never done what she was supposed to do. She'd been impetuous, impulsive and impossible. She'd been young.

  The little warning voice returned to his head, Elisabeth was young, too. The difference was him. He was older now. He could handle a young wife. He wouldn't make the same mistakes he had made before.

  As he walked through the lobby and into the crowded Irish bar serving up happy hour, he thought about the strange present Elisabeth's mother had sent them, a charm bracelet with baby shoes, of all things. What an odd gift. It made him feel uneasy. Elisabeth had been upset by the present, too. Did she want children? Was she simply pretending she didn't, ready to trap him into fatherhood once they were married?

  He hated to think she could be that devious. He'd certainly never seen that side of her. She was always open and honest in her dealings with coworkers and clients. No, he was simply imagining problems. Pre-wedding jitters, he told himself, as he stepped up to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.

  He'd asked Elisabeth to marry him the same day he'd discovered a new bald spot on the back of his head. He'd never admit that the two events were related, but deep down in his heart, he knew they were. He was getting older. He didn't want to end up alone.

  Not that he didn't love her. Who wouldn't love her? She was gorgeous, with her dark hair and striking blue eyes. She had great breasts, beautiful legs, a sharp mind. And she didn't talk much. She didn't question him about the past. She didn't analyze their lovemaking. She didn't ask him for anything.

  His uneasiness increased. She didn't ask him for anything. She didn't need him.

  He took another sip of his drink to calm his unreasonable fears. Elisabeth looked up to him. She respected his business decisions. She'd told him she cared a great deal for him.

  Cared. It was a word he'd used a lot. Now, he hated it coming back at him, because he knew it didn't mean the same thing as love. But if she didn't love him, why the hell was she marrying him? For money, security? He hoped not. He wanted her to love him, to lust for him, to adore him.

  So why was he planning the whole goddamned wedding, while she took off to San Diego?

  Raymond picked up his drink and slammed it down his throat. He had half a mind to go after Elisabeth, to track down this friend of hers and make it clear that he was the most important person in her life.

  "Alone on a Friday night? You're slipping, Raymond." Beverly Wickham slid onto the bar stool next to him and ordered a Manhattan.

  "Beverly," Raymond said in cool, even tones. Beverly had worked as an account executive for him six years earlier. When he didn't promote her fast enough, she'd left him to start her own agency and had become one of his toughest competitors.

  A tall, statuesque blond in her late forties, Beverly wore a teal-blue Armani suit, matching high heels and sheer stockings. Although her face didn't have the natural glowing beauty of a younger woman, it was perfectly made up. She definitely knew how to make the most of her assets.

  "Raymond," Beverly said, her hazel-colored eyes filled with mischief. "I hear we'll be going head to head on the Nature Brand account. I do love a good fight."

  "It won't be a fight. It will be a knockout."

  "I seriously doubt that. Who's writing the copy—Elisabeth?"

  "Of course."

  "Of course," she echoed mockingly. "Where is she tonight? Picking out pink bridesmaid's dresses?"

  "She's visiting a friend."

  Beverly arched an eyebrow. "You don't sound happy about it."

  "I couldn't care less. We don't live in each other's pockets." He looked down the bar, hoping to catch the bartender's eye. He needed another drink.

  "Not yet anyway," Beverly said. "When is the big day?”

  "April twenty-seventh."

  "That's four weeks from--"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Oh, my." She shook her finger at him. "Time is running out for you, Raymond."

  "I'm getting married; I'm not dying."

  "Then why the long face, the empty glass?"

  "I'm tired and I was thirsty."

  "Let me buy you a drink."

  Raymond hesitated. Beverly loved to push his buttons, and she seemed to know exactly how to do it. In many ways they were alike—both ambitious, tough, and in love with the world of advertising.

  "Another gin and tonic for my friend," Beverly said as the bartender came over. "That is what you were drinking, isn't it?"

  He looked into her perceptive eyes and smiled. "Good memory."

  "You're actually paying me a compliment? I'm impressed."

  "You'll get over it." When the bartender set down the drinks, Raymond handed him a ten-dollar bill. "I'll take care of these."

  "You don't want to be indebted to me, even for the price of a drink?" Beverly asked, putting her wallet away.

  "I don't let women pay for my drinks."

  She shifted in her chair, sending him a thoughtful look. "One of the last few gentlemen in L.A. So, how do you plan to get married and dream up an advertising campaign for Nature Brand at the same time?"

  "The wedding is all done. Elisabeth and I have plenty of time to concentrate on Nature Brand."

  "One might think a man's thoughts would be more focused on his lovely bride than on cereal."

  "That's the beauty of marrying a coworker. We're both willing to make sacrifices for the company.”

  "Sounds like the perfect marriage."

  "It will be."

  Silence fell between them.

  "Do you want to have dinner?" Beverly asked.

  Raymond took a sip of his drink. "I don't think so."

  "Because we're competitors, or because you don't like me?"

  He shrugged, not sure how to answer such a pointed question. "I haven't given it much thought."

  "I have." She ran her finger around the edge of her glass. "I'm forty-nine years old and all the men my age are dating younger women, some of them much younger. I don't understand it. I mean Elisabeth is what—twenty-seven?"

  "Thirty-one," he said through tight lips.

  "She's only six years older than your son, Raymond. What on earth do you have to talk about? Or is talking not one of your priorities?"

  Raymond felt the color rise in his cheeks. "Elisabeth and I hav
e a great deal in common."

  "Okay, maybe you do. Maybe she's the love of your life, but just out of curiosity, have you ever dated a woman of your own generation?"

  "I married one."

  "That was years ago, when you were both young. I'm talking about recently, the past fifteen years since your divorce."

  Raymond finished his drink and slid the glass across the counter. "I have to go."

  "Why do older women scare older men?" Beverly persisted, putting a hand on his arm as he attempted to stand up. "I'd really like to know, because I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone, but I also don't want to spend it with some young twenty-year-old to whom JFK is as unfamiliar as George Washington."

  Raymond peeled her fingers from his suit sleeve. "You'd be lucky to find a twenty-year-old, Beverly. It's not your age. It's you. You talk too much. You push too much."

  Beverly's hand dropped to her side. She didn't look insulted, just thoughtful. "Maybe you're right. I just want to meet a man who understands me, who knows my mind, who can relate to where I'm coming from. All the men I want seem to be taken by younger gals. I just don't get it. I'm a lot better at sex now than when I was twenty, believe me. I'm in better shape, too. Some day, somebody is going to have the thrill of his life."

  Raymond swallowed hard, his gaze drawn to her ample breasts, the curve of her hips. Simple physical reaction, he told himself. He certainly had no interest in Beverly. She'd eat him alive. "I have to go."

  "Don't worry. I wasn't going to make a pass at you."

  "I wasn't worried.”

  "After all, you're in love with Elisabeth, right?" she said with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  "Right." And he'd better get the hell out of this bar before he forgot that. "I'll see you around."

  "Raymond? If I was thirty..." Her eyes met his. "Any chance?" She shook her head before he could answer. "Never mind. I don't really want to know. Sometimes, it's better just to live with the fantasy."

  As Raymond left the bar, he realized Beverly had just pushed another button. She wasn't the one living the fantasy, he was—a fifty-two-year-old man and a thirty-one-year-old woman. He could have been Elisabeth's father. A wave of doubts washed over him, almost drowning him in insecurity and fear.