And Then Came You (11 page)

But, he silently admitted, it hadn’t been years since he’d thought of her. How could he avoid thinking of Sam? Every time he looked at his child, he saw her mother’s face. “She’s everything to me, Sam.”

“She is to me, too.” The words burst from her as if she’d been holding them in all night and finally lost the battle. As she spoke, she came back toward him, her steps as hurried as her words. “I know you don’t believe that. Because I gave her up. But she’s
always
been everything to me. She’s never been out of my head, my heart. Not for a minute.”

“I do believe it,” he said, unable to deny what he could see so plainly in her eyes. He’d told himself for years that Sam hadn’t wanted either of them. That he and Emma had been a mistake. One she’d eagerly corrected as soon as she could. He’d been wrong. He understood that now. “But it doesn’t change what is, Sam. Emma’s mine.”

“And mine.”

A ripple of anger swam uneasily in the pit of his stomach and he forced himself to contain it. “I have full custody,” he reminded her with a calm he silently congratulated himself on.

“For now.”

Shock slapped him back a step. He’d expected her to want visitation rights and had even convinced himself that they could agree on something reasonable. A week or two in the summer—the occasional weekend. But
joint custody
?

“You can’t be serious.”

Her pale blue eyes narrowed again and he could almost
hear
the starting gun going off, signaling the beginning of the battle.

“I’ve missed eight years of her
life
, Jeff,” she said, her words an oath that was all the more powerful for the whisper it was delivered in. “I missed her first words, her first step, her first laugh. I wasn’t there for her first day of school. I wasn’t there to give her cookies when she came home—your housekeeper does that.”

“Julia is—”

“Doesn’t matter how wonderful Julia is. She’s not me. She’s not Emma’s
mom
. I’ve missed too much already, Jeff. I won’t miss any more.”

His control slipped a little further and he scrambled to hang on to it. But she was threatening everything he held dear. Everything that mattered. “I’m not giving her up.”

“I’m not, either.”

He shoved both hands through his hair, and snorted a choked-off laugh. “You already
did
.”

“Nice shot,” Sam muttered, and headed for the kitchen.

He was right behind her, his stride longer, and when he caught her, he grabbed hold of her arm and spun her around to face him. He yanked her close. So close, he could taste her breath on his face. So close, he could see her pulse pounding at the base of her neck. So close that the urge to be
closer
grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.

“Why?” His voice was a growl. A low roar of raw emotion. “Why are you the one woman in the world who can get to me like nobody else?”

She threw her hair back from her face, planted both hands on his chest, and curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not trying to get
to
you, Jeff. I’m
trying
to get
through
to you.”

Damn. Her perfume wrapped itself around him. Filled his head. Confused his senses. Stirred up flames until he felt the heat spreading through every inch of his body. He didn’t let her go.
Couldn’t
let her go.

Because he’d never really said good-bye?

Because she’d never left his mind?

Because he was an idiot letting his dick do the thinking for him again?

Or all of the above?

“That’s what makes me nuts, Sam,” he said, his voice hard, low, amazed. “You never
had
to try. You just do it. Always did.”

Some of the starch left her spine. Her shoulders slumped and she almost leaned into him. Almost. Her hands relaxed against him, her palms lying flat on his chest. Jeff could have sworn he felt the imprint of her hands on his skin.

“What did that ever get us, Jeff?” she asked quietly.

“Emma, for one thing.”

She smiled all too briefly. “But we lost
us
.”

True. Though he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit, at least silently, that he’d wondered often, over the years, what might have happened if they’d stuck it out. If one of them had only dug in their heels and demanded that the other
listen
. But they’d been too young. Too eager to blame. Too quick to quit.

And now it was too late.

Wasn’t it?

God, she felt good.

“Jeff . . .” She shook her head even as he lowered his head to hers. Even as his mouth hovered just a breath away from hers. “We can’t do this—”

She was right.

It was stupid.

And he absolutely
had
to. “Call it a nine-years-late good-bye kiss.”

His mouth met hers and the flash of something hot, familiar, and overpowering hit him hard and fast. His body went tight. His blood pumped. His body tightened and his breath strangled in his lungs. Desire,
need
, was so overpowering, he felt his knees rock.

Then the guilt kicked in, slamming into him with a punch solid enough to steal what was left of his breath.

Instantly he let her go and took a step back. It wasn’t far enough, but it was all he could manage.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scraping one hand across his face as if he could wipe away the kiss and the memory of it. She looked as shaken as he, but true to her nature, she’d never admit it. Already, any semblance of softness had dropped away, like shadows disappearing when a light flicked off.

“That solved nothing.”

“Didn’t expect it to.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Now that he wasn’t touching her, they felt empty.

“So what was the point?”

“Jesus, does there have to
be
a point?”

“Usually.”

“Well, not this time.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Because if you’re trying to soften me up, confuse me with
some lame-ass kiss designed to remind me of happier days—”

“You think I
planned
to do that?”

“Please.” She snorted. “You always had a plan.”

“Oh, that’s good. Coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stared at her. “Aren’t you the one who once told me we’d have five children and then listed their names and where they’d go to school?”

She flushed. “That was different.”

“Oh,
your
plans are okay?”

“You are so far off the subject here.”

“What exactly
is
the subject?”

“Emma.”

Worry stirred inside him. “We’ll work something out.”

“Damn straight.”

“Never give an inch.”

“You got that right.”

In a weird sort of way, he almost admired that. He must be a masochist.

“There’s something else.”

“What?” Wary, Jeff waited.

“I want Emma this weekend.”

“I don’t—”

“You’ve had her for eight years, Jeff. I want time with her. I
need
time with her.”

He heard the desperation in her voice. Read it in her eyes. Felt it pulsing off her in thick, emotionally charged waves that wrapped around him and drew him close. He could fight her on it. He could hurt her and make Emma miserable. Or he could be a good guy.

Dammit, he hated being the good one.

“All right.”

Sam was already beginning to argue when she realized that he’d agreed. It threw her off stride, but not for long. She smiled, flashing the grin that he remembered so clearly. The one he’d never been able to forget.

“Thanks.”

He nodded, but even while she was still smiling, he wanted to make one thing clear. “This doesn’t mean anything’s settled.”

“I know.”

He wouldn’t give up his daughter and Sam was just as determined. And in a vicious game of tug-of-war, didn’t the rope sometimes snap?

Emma.

In the middle of a battleground and oblivious to the warring sides.

“Make no mistakes, here, Sam. I’m sorry if you’re regretting giving our daughter up. And I’m sure as hell sorry that my mother was the architect of all this misery.” He pulled her close again and loomed over her until her head fell back, but her gaze was still fixed on his. “And I’m willing to let you and Emma get to know each other. Spend time together. But I’m
not
going to relinquish full custody of my daughter without a fight.”

She pulled free of him and rubbed her upper arms, where a clear, red imprint of his fingers was staining her skin. Nodding, she met his gaze. “Okay, then. Buckle your seat belt, Jeff. ’Cause this ride’s about to get
real
bumpy.”

The weekend was starting off great.

Thanks to Sam, Emma was soaking wet, smelled like a dirty dog, and had a brand-new scrape on her knee.

The harbor was filled with boats. Small skiffs with colorful sails bumped up against rich men’s toys, and farther down the dock, as though they were living on the poor side of town, were the fishing boats. Like ugly stepsisters of the sleek yachts aboard which weekend sailors partied, the commercial ships were battered and worn. Rust spots stained their hulls and the smell of fish was never completely washed off, no matter how hard the deckhands scrubbed.

Yet Sam preferred the commercial fishing boats. At least they were hardworking and honest. The pleasure boats were pretty and stylish, but they’d never withstood heavy storm surf and daily wear and tear like the workingmen’s boats. Just like people, she thought, as she watched Emma run along the boardwalk in front of her.
Give me a good peasant over an aristocrat anytime. At least you know where you stand with them
.

Unlike dealing with the movers and shakers. With Jeff.
Dammit
. He kept popping into her head. As she acknowledged that truth, she felt a slow hum and burn sizzling inside her. Ruthlessly, she stomped it out, mentally jumping up and down on the embers with both feet.

Jeff wasn’t important now. Emma was. Only Emma.

Her
daughter
was happy. Healthy. And currently chasing an ugly little dog with one missing ear, a sloppy grin, and the smell of fish embedded in his fur. Homer was short on looks but long on personality, and he’d never met a kid he didn’t like.

“Mommy!”

“Right behind you, honey!” She hurried, catching up just as Emma and Homer approached the battered ship that Homer’s owner called home.

The boats alongside the dock creaked and swayed with the soft rippling of the water. Seals gathered on the rocks and swimming just below the dock barked and flapped their fins for the tourists tossing baitfish at them. The combined scents of the sea and fish and deep-fried churros being sold from the cart at the end of the dock filled the air.

Summer in Chandler, and as far as Sam was concerned, the best one in a long time.

“You two walk to China or something?” Hank Marconi leaned on the railing of the ship docked on her left and grinned at Sam and Emma. His thick gray hair bristled around his head, his beard looked tidy, and his pale blue eyes sparkled with delight as he watched his granddaughter scramble up the wide plank leading to the boat deck.

“Homer wanted to,” Sam called back. “But we got tired.”

“We got lunch ready.” Hank grinned at his daughter, then turned and swung Emma up into his arms, cuddling her close to his barrel chest. God, Sam remembered what that felt like. To be held so close to Papa that you were sure nothing could ever hurt you. And she was so grateful that her own daughter was getting the chance to experience that wide, loving safety net, too.

“Lunch? Who cooked?” Sam asked as she walked up the ramp. “You or Antonio?”

“McDonald’s,” her father said with a wink. “It’s special for my girls.”

Thank God
. Antonio Miletti, Papa’s oldest friend since Anthony Candellano had passed away several years ago, was a nice man. But Emeril he wasn’t.

“Look, Papa!” Emma crowed, pointing past him to the patio area of Charlie’s, the upscale seafood restaurant overlooking the harbor. “It’s my daddy! Daddy and Cynthia!”

Cynthia?

Sam turned, followed her daughter’s pointing finger, and had no trouble at all finding her soon-to-be ex-husband and his current fiancée seated at one of the small glass tables covered by snow-white tablecloths.

Instantly, Sam’s gaze locked on the woman.

She even
looked
like a Cynthia.

Cool. Beautiful. Her soft blond hair was expertly styled so that when the sea wind mussed it, every hair fell back into place like soldiers standing guard. Her emerald-green silk dress clung to every curve (which were pretty damned impressive even from a distance), and she was leaning in toward Jeff as if she couldn’t bear the table separating them.

Sam took a minute to look down at herself. Frayed denim shorts, battered sneakers, and a tank top stained with whatever was clinging to Homer’s fur.

Oh yeah.

No contest.

Winner and still champion, Cynthia.

Jo ran her measuring tape along the base of the wall in the soon-to-be-torn-apart library and tried to shut out the noise drifting to her from the back of the house. “One more half hour and I’d have been finished,” she muttered as she made a note on the pad she kept in the front pocket of her jeans.

When she stuffed the notebook back into her pocket, she released the stop button on the tape measure and smiled as the metallic tape raced across the floor and back into its shell. With Sam down at the harbor with Emma, Mike off doing God knew what, she’d stopped in at Grace’s house to have a little alone time with her work.

On Monday, the crews would start tearing down the walls and pulling up the old floorboards, and a part of Jo wished she could have talked Grace out of it. There was something to be said for the old. For wood that had stood the test of time. Sure it was scarred, but refinishing would have taken care of that. But Grace was determined. She didn’t want refinishing. She wanted
new
.

Good steady income for Marconi Construction . . . but the artist buried deep within Jo wanted to change the older woman’s mind.