Harlequin Superromance January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Everywhere She Goes\A Promise for the Baby\That Summer at the Shore (40 page)

When he looked at his mom again, tears were welling in her eyes. Tears his thoughtless words had caused.
Perfect son, my ass.
Apparently when he failed, he failed spectacularly. “I'm sorry for what I said. Every time I think I've reconciled myself to having a pregnant wife, I learn something about her that kicks me right back on my ass.”

“If Pawel were still alive, he would throw you over his knee and smack your behind for the sentiment.” She sniffed.

“I am sorry, Mother. It was thoughtlessly said. You're right, of course. I have a responsibility to both my child and my father's memory not to be an absentee father.”

He looked over at his wife, who was waving goodbye to the Czajas. She pulled at his soul. Not her pink lips, not the knobs of her spine and not her small breasts that his palms carried the memory of. Vivian
attracted
him. Her very essence—which was what made his attraction so frightening.

Lust could be rationalized away.
Of course
he lusted after Vivian. She was an attractive woman. But to be interested in her as a person, knowing why she had been fired and being appalled that she could have even gotten herself into that position in the first place—that was a different kettle of fish. An unacceptable, stinking, rotting kettle of fish. He had a responsibility to be against all forms of corruption and cheating, and his inner conflict only weakened him.

“It'll be okay.” His mom patted him on the shoulder. The pity in her eyes should've been shocking, but instead felt inevitable. No matter how stoic he kept his face, she was his mother.

Karl walked over to his wife, taking care to note how the pull on his body eased with each deliberate step, until he was next to her and felt both relaxed and tense at the same time. The smile she greeted him with started out shy before widening into an open, honest grin.

“Hi there.” God, he'd missed the spiciness of her voice and the way it washed over his entire body. “It's nice of you to come for dinner on your mom's first day back. She was hoping you'd come.”

“My mom is hoping the entire neighborhood notices how devoted her children are to her.”

Vivian blinked at him and he winced. “I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” His second of the night. “Between Mom and work and...”

“And me.”

“Yes, and you, I've not been sleeping well.” Somehow, even just her presence in his apartment for those short weeks she'd been there had improved his sleep.

Imagine what sharing a bed with her would do to your energy levels.

She placed a hand on his arm, the caress seeping through the wool of his winter coat and under his skin. Sharing a bed with her wouldn't help him sleep better. He shouldn't even be thinking such things.

“It's okay.” Vivian gave his mother an indulgent look. “I know that your mom would be pleased you came even if Healthy Food was empty and she was sworn to secrecy not to tell anyone. That doesn't mean she's not happy everyone will notice.”

The affection in her voice gave him pause. He'd assumed his mother had changed her opinion of Vivian because of the grandchild and the help she'd been providing at Healthy Food, but he'd underestimated them both. Vivian squeezed his arm, and he wondered what else about her he was underestimating.

“Your wife has been quite the success at Healthy Food, eh, Karl!” The smack on the back jolted him forward. The guy paying Vivian for his dinner had been a couple of years behind him in high school and now worked at Midway Airport as a baggage handler. Karl couldn't remember his name. “I always expected your future wife to wrinkle up her nose at living in Archer Heights and now you've got one helping out your mom at Healthy Food.”

Jessica
had
wrinkled her nose up at living in Archer Heights. And she never would have worked at Healthy Food. She'd liked the glamour of Chicago living and hadn't been interested in a house in a middle-class, ethnic neighborhood. At the time, he'd agreed with her. Now he had the sneaking suspicion that he'd underestimated his neighborhood and community. He was underestimating a whole hell of a lot of people recently.

“Here's your change. See you tomorrow,” Vivian said with a wave.

“You seem to be fitting in well,” Karl said when his wife turned back to face him.
Better than I thought you would.
How awful to have thought that.

She shrugged. “There have been a couple remarks about my obvious lack of Polish heritage....”

“Let me know who said things and I'll—”

“You'll what?”

Silence. Not knowing what he'd do from his office building downtown was an uncomfortable and unusual feeling.

“I've heard worse, and I've heard it from you.”

He looked around, but Healthy Food had emptied. The only table occupied was in the back, where two cops were surrounded by empty plates and would probably be here until their radios went off or his mom kicked them out.

Her words bit into his skin. “I couldn't care less which country your ancestors immigrated from, or if you're Catholic.”

“I can't do anything about being a Chinese-American, rather than a Polish-American. You questioned my character.”

You nearly committed a felony.
“Vivian, I...” He didn't know what to say. He couldn't apologize or wave off his words without sounding false. Because they would be false. Because he wasn't sure what he thought about her character anymore, only that he wanted to know more about her. Uncertainty was not a feeling he was comfortable with.

Worse, even if she confessed that she had actually cheated the casino for her father, he would still want to know more about her. Still want to touch her. The desperation with which he wished she wasn't pregnant, wasn't working at Healthy Food and wasn't taking care of his mother was physically painful. Her entrance into his life had been like a jolt to everything he believed in. If only he could expel her from his world....

But then he'd miss her jasmine perfume.

“That's what I thought.” She looked more disappointed than angry. How to tell her all the emotions rolling inside him? How her presence both relaxed him and put him at odds with himself?

“When enough information about George Ryan and his corruption was made public for me to understand what cut my family in half, I made a commitment to myself and to them. I don't bend the rules for anyone, Vivian.”

“Even if I didn't actually break a rule?” She spit the question out, angry.

“That you could even have considered it...”

“Vivian,” his mother called from behind the two cops she was shooing up to the register. “After you take care of these two officers, close out the register.”

“Of course.” She smiled at the two cops as she rang up their dinner, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. He had removed the smile from her eyes. That had been him, and his inability to overlook her past.

“Have a good night, officers.” Vivian closed the register and turned the key. “Are you going to loom over me while I count the money?”

He took a step back. “It is not my intention to loom.”

I just want to be close to you.

He was stupid to be in this situation. He didn't consider himself a Lothario or Casanova, but neither had he been alone and dateless since his divorce. He was also self-aware enough to realize that he was considered a catch. So, why
this
woman?

Not
why did he get this woman pregnant?
They'd had sex, and no birth control in existence was infallible. Not
why did he marry this woman?
He'd been drunk, maudlin and in Las Vegas.

But why had this woman burrowed under his skin and detached his self-control? Why was this the woman he wanted to be near? Why not an easier woman?

“I should go,” he said, knowing he was running away and unable to stop himself. “I have to be at work early tomorrow morning.”

The sound of Vivian ripping receipt paper against the teeth of the cash register tore at his ears. He wanted to be home, where he could blame missing her presence in his apartment on wishing he didn't have to take care of the stupid bird.

But she stopped him before he was out the door. “I'm far enough along in the pregnancy for a paternity test.”

“It's not necessary.” She was correct that he questioned her character, but he'd only questioned the pregnancy in anger.

“I think we both know it is. I don't want you to be able to throw your doubt at me again.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

K
ARL
WAS
READING
over his notes when the smell of cigarettes invaded his nose. Greta must have just been outside smoking because it was almost a full minute before his assistant entered his office, following the potent smell.

“How's your wife?”

Vivian had looked lovely each time he'd seen her at Healthy Food this week. “She's fine.”

“Which means she's still living with your mother. Tell your mom thanks for the doughnuts, by the way.”

Greta wasn't here for anything more than gossip, so Karl ignored the first statement, said, “Okay,” to the second. Then he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

His assistant wasn't dissuaded so easily. “It's a real shame your pregnant wife is living with your mom.”

How did Greta know Vivian was pregnant? He'd been a fool to think he could keep anything a secret in Chicago. It may be a big city, but between the neighborhoods, churches and close-knit immigrant communities, he might as well have gotten a plane to write a message in the sky. Or had Dan told Mike at the blog CarpeChicago. He knew as well as anyone that eventually all secrets found their way to the glaring light of day.

He flipped his legal pad to read what he'd written on the next page. “My mom just had a heart attack. Vivian is very graciously taking care of her and helping out at Healthy Food.”

Hell, Vivian sounded like a saint when he described her like that. Karl reevaluated his words, then decided against correcting himself. His wife
was
taking care of his mother and helping out at Healthy Food, a job she had taken on before his mother had known she was carrying the beloved first grandchild. Vivian either had nerves worthy of Captain Cook or had desperately needed a place to stay that wasn't in Nevada—and wasn't his apartment. Karl didn't discount the possibility that both factors had played a role.

“You're newlyweds. You should be cooing over each other. Giggling and otherwise being cute enough to make your dearest friends barf.”

Karl didn't look up from the page he wasn't reading. “Greta, we're at work, and my wife and I shouldn't be subjects of work-time discussions.” He didn't expect the admonishment to have any effect, but it was worth a try.

“How do you expect to keep your marriage healthy if you and your wife aren't living together?” She put her hands on her hips and peered down her nose at him. “And you're having a child together.”

“Greta,” he said, trying to put a warning into his voice.

But she didn't care. She'd mothered previous inspector generals and she'd mother future inspector generals. “I never met your ex-wife and why you got a divorce is none of my business.”

Nothing about his personal life was any of Greta's business, but that'd never stopped her from interfering before.

“But that baby is more important than any little argument you may have had that sent your wife to your mother's. And, next time you fight,
you
should have to go live with your mother. Seems only fair.”

“Thank you, Greta.”

“Oh—” she produced papers from behind her back “—these came for you.” Her piece said, his meddlesome assistant left.

Karl glanced at the papers she'd given him. If he'd known what she'd held, he wouldn't have listened to a word she'd just said about Vivian—probably why she'd kept them hidden behind her back.

* * *

H
EALTHY
F
OOD
'
S
FRONT
door squeaked open, accompanied by a strong wind, and Vivian looked away from the customer she was helping to see Karl unwrapping the scarf from his neck. The knit cap she'd made him was pulled over his ears, the smudge of ashes from an Ash Wednesday service poking out from under the wool. Almost everyone she'd served today had a cross of ashes on their forehead and Mrs. Milek had offered each employee some extra time off to go to Mass if they wanted.

Vivian was worldly enough to know what the ashes meant, but the significance of Karl wearing the cap was beyond her experience. She'd find out soon enough, so she swallowed her anxiety and turned back to the customer, barely managing to say “thank you” and “have a nice night” as she returned the woman's credit card. Apparently she'd swallowed her anxiety away, but hope still choked her up.

“The cap looks nice on you.” She could be polite. Even if he couldn't get over his issues with her past, she could be polite. He was the father of her child. She liked his family and was working for his mother. He was her link to stability and security.

Even if
she
knew her politeness was just a cover for wanting his respect and friendship, she didn't have to tell him.

“When it was given to me, I was too preoccupied with other things to thank its maker.”

She searched his face for some indication that he wasn't as distant as his words indicated. Even though she hated herself for caring, she wanted them to be more than polite strangers sharing a child. She could pretend it was all for the baby, but lying to herself would be more damaging to her sense of self than keeping a secret from Karl had been.

She didn't acknowledge his roundabout thank-you, though. Graciousness only went so far. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow.

His eyes softened in his otherwise unyielding face. “Thank you. The hat is very nice.”

“You're welcome.”

“Is my mom around?”

“She's in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” And then, as though they were cashier and customer instead of man and wife, mother and father, Karl walked off to find Susan.

Despite the banality of their exchange, Vivian felt as if the air between them had become clearer. Bright sun breaking through an otherwise cloudy day. Maybe even a possible rainbow.

* * *

V
IVIAN
'
S
FACE
WAS
lit up with amusement when she opened the door to let him into his mother's house on Saturday, though her eyes had a guilty cast to them. Not guilt as if she'd done something criminal. More naughty—like he'd caught her with her hand in the cookie jar and crumbs at the corners of her mouth. His mom had many cookie jars, of both the literal and figurative type.

You have to stop suspecting your wife of being a petty criminal.
And that was his problem. He knew—
knew
—she wasn't doing anything other than watching over his mom and working at Healthy Food. He had to stop thinking such things or he and Vivian would never progress to anything remotely like parents who could raise a child together. And that would all be his fault.

Of course, his suspicions were worse because he understood why Vivian had nearly cheated—and could even understand why she might have followed through with her father's plan. Watching her with his mother or working at Healthy Food, he saw how important family and community were to her. How loyal she was to the people in her life. Her father had trapped her with those loyalties, and if Karl had been in her position, he might have followed a similar thought process. He wouldn't have let it get as far as Vivian had, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't have explored all possible options.

Fate was scuffing up his line in the sand so that he could no longer see it.

Living together in his apartment may have seemed like a good way to get to know his new wife, but now he saw how trapped she had been, with no job and all her friends still in Las Vegas. He would never have been able to fully appreciate Vivian's personality and her principles had she not moved out. In his apartment, he would have continued to see the down-on-her-luck woman who'd appeared on his doorstep rather than the effervescent woman who flirted with old Polish men while asking after the health of their wives.

Then he heard giggles, and Vivian's lips pursed and the sparkle in her eyes changed from guilt to merriment. “You might as well come in,” she said as she opened the door wide enough that the laughter sailed out into the front yard. “Though I don't think you'll like what you find.”

Three of his mother's friends and his mom sat around the kitchen table in a semicircle, small piles of gambling chips in front of them. The fifth place, which must have been for Vivian, had piles of playing cards and more chips.

“Karl.” His mom didn't even get up from her seat to greet him. “There's plenty of food on the counter if you want, and we have an extra seat. Vivian hasn't dealt the next hand yet.”

“Christ, Mom. Is Vivian teaching you to gamble? It's Lent.” He'd never known his mom to gamble and it was certainly against the spirit of the season to
pick up
a bad habit during Lent.

“If you've not given up taking the Lord's name in vain during Lent, Karl, perhaps you should worry about your own behavior first,” his mom answered primly. “Get some food. Being hungry always makes you crabby.”

Karl turned his indignation to Vivian. “Are you teaching them to gamble?”

“No.” By the way the corners of her mouth danced, she was trying to keep a straight face, though not succeeding. “They already know how to gamble. I'm teaching them how to win.”

“By cheating?” And he'd just convinced himself to stop thinking of Vivian as a petty criminal.

“By counting cards. Which isn't illegal, by the way. It's frowned upon, and casinos in Las Vegas will kick you out if they catch you, but it's not illegal.”

“That's a straw man if I've ever heard one.”

She shrugged. “They're having fun. What's the harm?”

“You're teaching my mother to cheat.”

“I'm teaching your mother to play the odds of the cards she's dealt with the brains God gave her, not to stick cards up her sleeve. Do you stop thinking the moment you walk into a courtroom so the opposing attorney has an advantage over you?”

“That's not really what I do every day.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Karl knew he sounded like a lecturing prig. Had been sounding like a lecturing prig since he'd walked into the house. His mom and her friends were having fun. Vivian wasn't really teaching them anything illegal. Hell, casinos were designed to favor the house; what was the harm in a few old ladies learning how to count cards
in case
they ever went to a casino—which, as far as he knew, his mother had never done.

He sat at the last of the chairs. “Deal the cards and I'll play, too.”

Vivian raised an eyebrow at him. One of his mom's friends tittered. Karl stood—well,
sat
—his ground.

His wife pushed some chips over to him. “Do you want to learn the counting system I've been teaching your mom?”

“No. If I'm going to make such a big deal about counting cards being akin to cheating, I might as well play in ignorance and get my ass kicked.” His wry tone was rewarded by a small lift at the corner of Vivian's mouth before she shuffled the cards.

“Okay. We'll play some hands with everyone but Karl counting cards and no direction from me. Then we'll see how everyone fared and people can ask questions. Ready?” At nods from around the table, including Karl, Vivian dealt a hand.

After five hands, Karl hadn't lost much more than two of his mother's friends, though his mom's constant murmuring was getting on his nerves. He blamed any stupid bet he made on the distraction of constant droning in his ear, not on a lack of ability to count cards.

When her two decks were nearly dealt out, Vivian stopped play. “The first rule of counting cards is to not say your count out loud when I deal.”

“It's just practice,” his mom said defensively.

“Practice or not, if you get into the habit of advertising that you're cheating—”

“You said it wasn't cheating,” Karl interrupted.

“Using your brain,” Vivian corrected herself. “If you ever do go to a casino, you'll chatter there, too. Even though counting cards like this in blackjack is little different from counting cards in a bridge hand, casinos do frown on it.” Vivian said the bit about bridge with a prim look at him, her eyebrows raised and her lovely pink lips pursed.

If they weren't at his mother's, surrounded by his mother's friends, and if she wasn't the near felonious wife he married while he was drunk, he would kiss her. Just a peck on those lips, enough to mess with her starchy defense of counting cards as though it was something old ladies did on Sundays while drinking tea and eating cookies.

Of course, his mom and her friends were drinking tea and eating cookies while learning to count cards, so—point of fact—it
was
something old ladies did. Which was further evidence that Vivian was turning his world upside down and inside out.

That he was sitting here eating cookies and drinking tea while gambling—even if there wasn't any real money on the table—was a sign that he liked the new Vivian-addled world. As hard as that may be for him to admit. And more than the lectures from his mom, more than Greta's mothering, his sitting at this table while Vivian discussed the hands that had been dealt and played was a sign that he had to give this relationship a try.

The child she carried was important, but still abstract. However, the joy he felt while in Vivian's presence was real and palpable. He'd be a fool to let those feelings slip out of his life because of some misbegotten sense of justice for a crime she'd never committed in a state he didn't live in.

He wasn't committing himself to anything. Exploration of a relationship wasn't the same thing as a marriage proposal—or a divorce retraction, since they were already married. This was just him getting to know the real Vivian, with faults to match the kissable knobs of her long neck. He could learn to see her as a person. Not just as the person he'd married, or the mother of his child, or the near criminal or the woman he thought about before he fell asleep every night, but a
person
—complete and flawed and perfect.