Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (6 page)

“What
would
you call him?”

“My son.”

“You’re so certain?”

“He looks exactly like I did at that age.
Size, hair, feet, everything.”

The mystery of the blond hair solved,
Livy thought. What she said was, “That means nothing.”

When he stood, Livy tensed, but he didn’t
come any closer, merely paced in front of the chaise lounge. He
wasn’t a big man in weight or musculature, but he was tall, much
taller than she, and his mien of barely suppressed energy filled
the room, pressed on her, made her aware and alive.

He’d always had the gift of being still, yet
the force of his personality would rivet attention upon him even in
a crowded room. The fact that he couldn’t be still now gave voice
to his agitation.

In the past few years, Livy had become a
master at seeing beneath the surface of anyone. Watching him, she
understood that though J.J.’s name might have changed, little else
had. She had to remember that. For Max’s sake, if not her own.

He faced her. “I can count, Livy, and I know
you.”

“You knew me.”

“Fine, I knew you. There was only me for
you.”

“Too bad that didn’t work the other way
around.”

His jaw tightened. “I never touched another
woman in Savannah.”

“No, not another woman. For you the mistress
was life.”

“And that’s so terrible? Life?”

He didn’t understand. No one ever had.

“Adventure, excitement, travel—something new,
someone different.” She took a deep breath, striving for control,
knowing it was lost. “Anywhere but here,” she whispered. “Anything
but love.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? I’m not a fool. The morning after
I tell you I’ll love you forever, you’re gone without a trace. I
meant little to nothing to you, J.J.”

“Garrett,” he corrected.

“Fine,
Garrett
,” she snapped. Screw
control; with this man, she’d never had any. “What is it you want
from me?”

“First, I’d like to know why my son thinks
I’m dead.”

“He thinks you’re undead.”

“Very funny. I want the truth.”

“The truth? J. J. Garrett
is
dead.
You’re Garrett Stark now.”

“Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere. I
want to see my son. I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

“No.”

“No?” His voice was deadly calm.

When had he crossed the room? How had he come
to stand only a few steps away? And how could she back up when she
was already against the wall?

“Just like that? No?”

“Pretty much.” She tried to appear
unconcerned, even though her heart pounded so loudly she could
barely think.

The air between them seemed to hum. She could
hear herself breathe, hear him, too. The room had gone hot; her
silk camisole stuck to her back. Her hair drifted into her eyes and
she shook her head to get it out.

How could she still want him? She had wanted
nothing for so long except to keep Max safe. Yet when faced with
the most dangerous thing she’d ever known, all she wanted to do was
pull him closer and forget all that might keep her sane.

He towered over her, crowded her. He smelled
like sultry nights and sin in the rain. His hands, on either side
of her head, trapped her. He wasn’t touching her anywhere, yet she
felt him everywhere.

“You can’t deny me my son.”

Raising her palms, she braced them against
his black-clad chest, prepared to shove him away if she had to.
“He’s
my
son. And I can do anything I damn well please.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then, so can I.”

He kissed her, hard—desperately seeking,
heedlessly searching. How could she have believed she was stronger
now? This man had been her only weakness, and now he taught her all
over again that he always would be.

His lips were the same ones that had tempted
her with passion, schooled her in sex, whispered hope, promised the
impossible.

Instead of shoving him away, her fingers
fisted in his shirt, holding him near. His pulse thundered against
her wrist, as loud and as fast as her own. His hair brushed her
cheek, shaded her face, as his smart, clever mouth captivated, and
his touch ignited her soul. The kiss was both everything she
remembered and everything she’d ever wanted to forget.

Caged memories tumbled free. Emotions she’d
never wanted to experience again burst full blown behind her closed
eyelids. The heart she’d hardened to everyone but her son shivered,
shook and began to sob.

Livy tore her mouth from his. “You’re not
going to get me to agree this way. You can’t see Max.” The words
sounded as hard and cold as she’d wanted them to.

His eyes darkened. He stepped away, and with
his mouth still wet from hers, he took her heart and stomped on it
all over again.

“Fine, Counselor, I’ll see you in court.”

The slam of the front door reverberated
through the wall at her back as she slid into a boneless heap on
the floor.

I’ll see you in court.

Livy gave a watery, hysterical little laugh.
She liked that line a whole lot better when she said it.

Garrett didn’t slow down until he’d
power-walked all the way back to River Street. He was not a man
given to bursts of temper, slamming of doors or even the raising of
his voice. From his father he’d learned men in their family did not
show emotion of any kind. Not anger, not sadness and certainly not
love.

Why should he be surprised that the only
woman who’d ever coaxed him beyond his inbred reserve toward softer
emotions would also be the one to break the taut rein he kept on
any hint of temper? Not to say he didn’t get angry; he just didn’t
show it. Prime candidate for an ulcer was Garrett, as Andrew always
warned him. Andrew should talk.

Garrett’s mind a jumble, he thought crazy
things. The craziest of all was that he should turn right around,
return to the house where he’d first kissed Livy and kiss her
again.

If he didn’t play this right, he would lose
any hope of getting near Max again in this lifetime. He needed a
plan. Plans, though, were not his strong suit; Garrett liked to go
with the flow. But if he had to, he could come up with one.
Maybe.

Garrett hurried past the Hyatt Regency Hotel.
Some said the tall, concrete structure didn’t fit with the quaint,
restored nineteenth-century buildings in the river area, but the
tourists liked it, as evidenced by the constant stream of them
spilling from the back door of the hotel and onto River Street.

Past the Hyatt, Garrett walked into one of
the numerous restaurants. He glanced at his watch and growled.
Eight-thirty in the morning. Far too early for a nightcap. His
pending ulcer didn’t warrant alcohol or coffee. But milk only made
him think of his son.

And when he thought of Max, things got all
jumbled again. Need and love, longing and hope—they were all mixed
up with Livy and always had been. But now they were mixed up with
Max, too. Both for J. J. Garrett—a boy who’d known love but once—
and Garrett Stark—a man who could only write of it.

Though it was early, a bartender stood behind
the bar, preparing for the day. When she lifted an eyebrow his way,
Garrett ordered sweet tea, a southern confection he’d always missed
whenever he wasn’t in the South, and ignored her long look and
sultry smile. For reasons unfathomable to Garrett, women found his
distracted silences compelling and his gothic demeanor
intriguing.

This was convenient when the loneliness
overtook him, usually between books, because when he was in the
midst of a story his mind was so full of imaginary people, he had
no time for real ones. That truth would have ended every
relationship he’d ever begun, if his habit of moving on at the
first whisper of a new idea hadn’t ended it first. He never lied to
anyone. He never promised anything but the moment. He couldn’t
promise more, because he didn’t know how.

Was it fair to fight for his son? Could he
promise Max more than that moment? Could he love the boy the way he
deserved to be loved? What if he tried and failed? Garrett was very
good at failing.

The bartender returned. “You haven’t touched
your tea. Anything wrong?”

“Not with the tea.”

“Aw, that sounds serious. Can I help?” She
put her elbows on the bar and leaned over.

Garrett got an extraordinary view of her
breasts. They were extraordinary breasts.

In any other town he’d have considered the
offer. Be real. A day ago he’d have taken the offer. Anything to
avoid thinking about the book that wasn’t. But today he’d become a
father. This morning he’d touched and kissed Livy. Be it better or
worse, nothing would ever be the same again.

Though he might never be the parent he hoped
to be, he could try.
If
he could get Livy to let him see
Max. He’d threatened court. Dare he go that far? Was there another
option before things got nasty?

Garrett considered the helpful bartender. “If
I had a custody problem, who would be the best person to talk to
about it?”

“Custody?” The bartender straightened and
glanced at his left hand. “You’re married?”

Garrett ignored the question, standing to
reach for his wallet. He tossed some money next to his untouched
tea and started for the door. He’d find out what he needed to know.
He always did. Being a writer had honed his research skills.

“Hey, wait.” The bartender followed him the
length of the bar. She smiled, friendly this time instead of a
come-on, so Garrett smiled back. “One of the cooks had a problem
like that. Hold on.”

She stepped into the kitchen, and a moment
later reappeared with a large, bald man who reminded Garrett of Mr.
Clean without the earring.

“Claudio, this guy needs advice on a custody
problem.”

“Talk to Kim Luchetti. She and her partner
are the best team in town. Savannah Family Law.” He waved vaguely
in the direction of town. “They’re in the book. Tell Kim, Claudio
sent you. She’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks.” Garrett checked his watch. Why, he
had no idea. It wasn’t as though he had a clock to punch. Or an
idea to write into a book.

He rubbed his forehead, craving a cigarette
for the first time in five years. Alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine. If
his Muse hadn’t already fled, she’d be running for her life right
about now.

Though he hated to consult an attorney, hated
the fact that his first response had been to threaten legal action,
just like dear old dad, what could it hurt to call and find out his
options?

He needed a plan. This seemed like a good
one. Once Garrett knew where he stood, he’d phone Livy; they’d
discuss the situation like adults. Everything would be fine.

Why didn’t he believe that?

* * *

Livy’s case went sour quicker than milk
beneath the noonday sun. No surprise there. She could think of
nothing but J. J. Garrett now Garrett Stark, who’d returned to
haunt her life.

To be honest, her case had gone badly through
no fault of hers. Yet she couldn’t help but feel on her walk back
from court that if her mind had been a little sharper, if she
hadn’t been hungover from a combination of fear, lack of sleep and
shock, then she might not have stood there gaping when the new
information was revealed, and maybe she could have salvaged
something.

Despite her mother’s view of lawyers, Livy
did
help people, and she had increased her family law
practice to the point that she could turn away cases she did not
believe in.

Livy loved the law. The law was
cut-and-dried. The law made sense. It gave a semblance of control
in a world gone out of control. Still, sometimes life just sucked.
And today was one of those times.

“Another day, another psycho nutcase.”

Livy glanced up from her notes on
Bernadette
v.
Bernadette
to find Kim Luchetti
lounging in the doorway. Kim was a paralegal, but in their small
office she handled the phones, filing, research and case
interviews, which was how she met the psycho nutcases first.

At times Livy felt the two of them were
Batman and Robin, the caped law crusaders, fighting for truth,
justice and the American Way. Unfortunately, the American Way
wasn’t all it used to be.

America had been founded on the backs of
folks who couldn’t quite fit in anywhere else on the
earth—outcasts, criminals, people who were very hard to get along
with. If they hadn’t been, America would have eaten those early
settlers alive. As a result, the American Way had become a modem
version of “get what you want no matter the cost, or hire a lawyer
to get it for you.”

“Which psycho nutcase are we talking about?”
Livy asked, only momentarily concerned that there was more than one
in her caseload.

“Our latest and greatest.” Kim kicked off her
four-inch spike heels and sprawled in a chair, heedless of her
short, mauve skirt. She could have been a fashion model except
fate, or a just God, had created her less than five feet tall. She
compensated with heels and short skirts, which made her legs look
long.

Livy really should hate her, but Kim was a
fantastic paralegal and an even better friend. Too bad she was a
Yankee. But nobody was perfect.

“Listen to this.” As Kim rubbed her hands
together, her French manicure caught the fluorescent light and shot
off sparks bright enough to blind a gnat. “Guy hauls ass for ten
miles with the cops chasing him, sirens blaring, lights flashing.
He stops only because he hits a patch of oil and skids into a pig
farm. When he gets out of the car at the cops’ request, beer cans
tumble out willy-nilly—”

“I don’t take cases like that. The guy’s an
idiot and obviously DUI.”

Kim giggled. Only Kim could giggle and make
the sound appealing. Was it her height that allowed the giggle, or
her bearing and self-confidence that made even a giggle seem so
Kim?