Secrets Of The Heart (Book 1, The Heart Series) (4 page)

She pulled away when they entered the plant-filled, glassed-in addition, creating distance. A sharp ache behind his rib cage throbbed to life.

The lush potted plants blended to concoct a fragrant bouquet. The overhanging blossoms caressed Bree’s cheek as she passed by. Nick longed to do the same.

Switching on a lamp near Nana’s favorite stuffed peach armchair, Nick squinted at the blare of harsh light, and then focused on Bree’s pale, almost pasty, complexion.

“Is Sydney all right?” His heart stilled.

“Yes. I’d tell you right away if she were hurt. You know that.”

Nick released a ragged breath, thankful that his granddaughter’s health hadn’t brought Bree on this late night mission. But Bree’s profile warned him of the serious nature of the conversation.

“I…I think we should reconsider Gil’s advice,” she choked out.

It felt like a bombshell went off in his head. Jolting himself out of his frozen stance, Nick moved to Bree’s side. She turned to face him.

Her hazel eyes, now a medium blue, halted the countless questions buzzing in his head. He’d seen that shade only when she cried.

Something inside Nick twisted, wringing out a river of sympathy, a well of despair. “Is marriage to me so distasteful?”

Bree gulped in a breath, furious at the tears smarting the backs of her eyes. Part of her wished she could walk out and erase the whole humbling episode. The other half, the half that cheered on Sydney’s welfare, kept Bree’s feet planted firmly in place.

“I barely know you,” she lied, sidestepping a direct response. “I want what’s best for Sydney.”

“And what about you?”

She stared at his firm chin, avoiding the tempting display of hard, male flesh and the whorls of damp dark hair peppering his wide chest.

Silence hung in the air. Tension swirled between his heated body and hers. Sandalwood after-shave mingled with his male scent, making her dizzy.

What had he asked her? She dragged her attention back to the question. An alarm rang in her head when she remembered.

Holding her breath, she ran several options through her scrambling brain. She always came back to one: lie like the devil. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you, if you
must
know. I need help.”

She chanced a peek at his face. A puzzled look replaced the stunned expression of earlier.

“What kind of help?” The hint of sympathy in his words surprised her.

“Uh…I’ve taken on too much with the shop and all.” Well, you have, she soothed herself for the exaggeration, the blatant deception. “I’m working night and day to keep it afloat and I miss Sydney. Hiring a lawyer to battle it out in court with you… Well, it will set me back, way back.” Her voice cracked.

She disliked this weakness, this vulnerability. But she knew she had to convince Nick of the soundness of this proposition, for her daughter’s sake. And the one sure way to achieve that lofty goal seemed to be by baring her concerns, her soul.

After all, he isn’t heartless, even where I’m concerned
. Hadn’t he shown her that time and time again?

“If you needed more money than all you had to do was ask me. I’ll write you a check right now. How much?”

A blistering heat slapped her cheeks. She stepped away, hiding her embarrassment. She prided herself on her financial independence, her resourcefulness. It rankled to have Nick think she failed.

Think of Sydney, she reminded herself.

Facing the back glass wall once again, Bree encountered the abundance of Nana’s gardening passion, her labor of love. Breathing in deeply, inhaling the pungent floral perfume, she curtailed her retort, the unvarnished truth. Instead, Bree said tightly, “I’m not destitute.”

“Even if you were you’d reject my offer, wouldn’t you?” he snapped.

Watching his reflection through the spindly arms of an Ivy, she noticed him dragging the end of his towel over his face. His frustration, thick and rock-like, swelled in the silence that followed.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you, Nick,” she said gently, mindful of his banked emotions.

“No, but that’s what we always end up doing anyway.”

“Not always,” she reminded him.

He sighed. “Vinnie was our referee on more than one occasion.” He paused. “Then Nana.”

“There were some civil moments.”

“Some. Mostly after Sydney was born.”

“Yeah.” She paused, debating the wisdom to probe a sore subject. Twisting around to face him, she put it on the table. “I didn’t corrupt Vinnie. Being six years older than him doesn’t mean I manipulated him or the situation. He’s the one who insisted on marrying me.”

“I should hope I raised him right so he wouldn’t shirk his responsibilities. But he was far too young to get involved with you.”

A fiery ball of resentment sat in her chest, heavy and pressing. She held back the bubbling candor, robbing herself once again of the acquittal, the satisfaction.

For Sydney’s sake, for my little girl’s peace of mind, she reminded herself, knowing in Nick’s eyes she’d always be branded as an older woman stealing his son.

Even an all-out brawl would fail to solve the many differences they hung onto, Bree admitted. She bypassed her normal direct combativeness and doggedly proceeded with the matter at hand. “As long as we always put Sydney first I don’t see any problems with a marriage of convenience.”

Cold, stark pain mixed with stunned disbelief in the glare he shot her. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Probably.”

“For God’s sake, I can’t marry my son’s wife.” She heard the sense of betrayal coloring his words.

“Widow,” she corrected, a fresh wave of heat igniting in her cheeks. She’d rip out her tongue before she admitted that “wife” hardly described her role in her sham of a marriage.

“It adds up to the same for me, no matter how you present it.”

Her chest ached with the violent action her thundering heart put her through. “So, I take it the answer is no then.”

Nick froze, his hands curled around the ends of the crumpled white towel circling his neck. Despair robbed her of action. If she wished for even a thimbleful of dignity she’d leave right now. Instead, she waited for his final reply, the final blow to her self-respect.

She saw, as well as felt, Nick relax. The palpable tension siphoned out of him like a leaky balloon, slow and steady.

He sighed. “All right, I’ll marry you.”

***

Two weeks later, Nick still found it difficult to explain his agreeing to the ridiculous farce about to take place.

At forty-two he never intended to wed again. His first experience proved he didn’t do the compromising route very well.

Dorthea and he had battled, long and hard, for ten years, hanging on to a dead, non-existent relationship for their only child. He felt a well of sadness, regret even, after she died in a car accident when Vinnie was nine.

An image of twisted, blackened metal flashed through his head like a lightning bolt. The next zigzag of blinding light brought a picture of Dorthea’s charred body. A river of guilt swelled; she’d wrapped the car around a tree trying to escape him and their loveless marriage on her way to her lover.

Thank heavens he’d arrived home earlier to stop her from taking Vinnie. Nick had snatched his son from the car with only moments to spare. He’d saved Vinnie that time, but failed later on.

A shiver coursed through Nick. He shook off the ghosts of the past and focused on the here and now.

The eerie stillness of the holy sanctuary of Father Thomas O’Malley’s rectory office seemed to mock Nick’s forthcoming union.

Even with the stacks of books littering the floor and the cluttered scarred desktop, Nick felt the power. The reverence of the church seeped into the tiny, tucked away room.

Alone, he prowled the perimeter of the dark space. Drawing near to the waist high book stand which bore the heavy weight of a huge weathered Bible, Nick hesitated. He shrugged, and then stopped, “Aw, what the h—” he cut himself off before correcting the word, “heck.”

With a quivering hand, he touched the worn black leather. He jerked back as a ray of heat seared his palm. “Naw,” he said shakily, rubbing his still hot hand. “It’s all that force-fed religion growing up,” he pacified himself.

He turned his back on the Bible just as he had his faith a year and a half earlier when Vinnie’s life was snatched away, snuffed out.

Shaking his head to clear it, Nick patted the top left hand side of his black suit coat. The faint ruffling sound assured him that the legal document still remained in place.

He continually reiterated that the soon-to-be spoken nuptial’s had more to do with raising Sydney than with the undeniable attraction he experienced with Bree. If he had to marry her, then he’d control the situation, he reasoned, tapping his hand against his chest once again.

He’d blindly gone into his alliance with Dorthea, relying on trust and faith. The end result proved sorely disappointing and disillusioning.

I’ll never make that mistake again.
This marriage would be far different than his first dreadful one. He held the insurance close to his heart.

Dropping his hand a couple of inches, Nick outlined the square jeweler’s box resting in his inside pocket. A niggling sense of unease tickled his mind.

How could he present Bree with a wedding gift right after he issued his conditions?
How would you feel if she did this to you, Carletti?

Grimacing, he mentally kicked himself for the single-minded insistence he’d applied to Gil. If he had any compunction at all he’d yank out the paper and rip if into tiny pieces. He slipped his hand between his suit jacket and shirt ready to follow through on his last twinge of guilt.

The door burst open then, crashing against the wall. Nick spun around, withdrawing his hand.

“Poppa,” Sydney cried, rushing in. A whirlwind of white tulle dashed across the floor and launched itself at Nick.

He bent, scooping up the little girl. Hugging her tight, his heart expanded, filling to overflowing with love. “Princess.” He kissed her soft, flushed cheek, and then pulled back a little to get a good look at her.

She smiled widely, showing off the small dimple at the corner of her mouth. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight. No sign of sadness shadowed her round features, something he’d longed to see.

“Do you like my new dress? Isn’t it pretty? I just love the pink roses.” With a stubby digit, she pointed to the silky waistband, fingering the clusters of pink roses circling her. “I picked them out and Mommy made it for me.”

“She did?” Wonder and admiration colored his answer. “It’s beautiful. And so are you.” He kissed her on the cheek, making her giggle. It sounded like sweet music to his ears.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Bree’s husky voice, with a catch of hesitation in it, tugged at his middle.

Nick jerked his head to the doorway. His breath stuck in the back of his throat. The mid-thigh, ice blue satiny dress she wore molded itself to all the right places and exposed her long, shapely legs. “Wow,” he whispered.

Sydney giggled again. “I think he likes it, Mommy. That means you’re beautee…beautee…”

“Beautiful,” Nick corrected, meaning it. He lowered Sydney to the floor and she raced to her mother’s side, grabbing her hand.

“Why, thank you,” Bree said almost shyly.

She failed to meet his gaze. Second thoughts? he wondered. Determination grew roots. She’d get one hell of a fight if she backed out.

That thought took him by surprise. But, once noted, it cemented itself in his mind, in his resolve. Bree would become his wife today, even if he had to fling her over his back caveman style and dump her on the altar.

He’d have his family, the family he yearned for, within the next hour. Nothing would stop him now.

“Go in, child,” Father Thomas O’Malley said as he stood impatiently behind Bree.

Bree stepped in, moving to the desk. Sydney followed, but the angel paper weight soon caught her full attention. Bree leaned against the sturdy structure, gripping the edge as if her life depended on it. Nick saw the white-knuckled clasp, realizing this wasn’t easy for her either. A knot of empathy crowded in his chest.

“I’m sorry for my shortness, Bree. I’m a little cranky today.” Father Tom’s kind, craggy face wrinkled in dismay.

His gray, fluffy brows lifted at the corners, like angel wings. Midnight blue, peeble-like eyes usually held a wealth of peace and serenity. Now, directed at Bree, they shone with contriteness. His bulbous nose dominated the center of his face, but his wide, ready smile captured the most attention.

He explained, “Gil and I have a standing bet every time the Red Sox plays the Yankees.” He pulled out his tarnished silver pocket watch and flipped it open. “The game starts in a half hour.” He clicked the lid shut, and then returned it to his vest.

“How much did you wager this time?” Bree asked, her tone one of forgiveness and understanding.

The sly grin transformed his worry-filled expression, his eyes twinkling in mischief. “If the Sox wins he has to come to church for a month of Sundays.”

“And if they don’t?” Nick prompted, arching a brow, curious at the losing end of this gamble. Father Tom and Gil were known to stack the decks high each and every time their teams competed, sometimes with hilarious outcomes.

The priest shuddered. “Now, son, we won’t discuss that prospect. All I’ve got to say on that matter is it involves a chicken suit. I put in a good word, so we’ll just have to have faith in the power of prayers.” Father Tom looked heavenward and mumbled a desperate plea.

Bree’s laughter sparked liquid fire in Nick’s blood, tantalizing him, unnerving him.

Sydney slapped a hand to her forehead, saying, “Oh, brother.”

“In this case, Oh, Father, would be more appropriate, wouldn’t you agree, young lady?” Father Tom asked, fighting a smile, and then beaming as Sydney burst out laughing. He shook his head, muttering, “The lengths I go to to get parishioners to come to mass.”

“You can’t fool an old fool, Father,” Nick said, wagging a finger at him, “you love the Sox just as much as I do.”