Mad About You (35 page)

"I'll show you." Virginia brushed past Bailey with as much dignity as she could muster. "Keep in mind," she said to Chad as they climbed the stairs, "up to now it's been only a guest room—we can change it any way you like."

Her heart pounded, anticipating the likely explosion when Chad saw the frilly room. She pushed the door open and switched on the light.

"No way!" he shouted without even stepping inside.

"It'll do for now," Bailey said.

"It's a girl's room!"

Virginia hated herself for scrambling to make amends. "I didn't have time to take down the curtains. And we'll buy new linens tomorrow."

"I'm sleeping on the couch," Chad declared.

"Fine," Virginia said quickly. "We'll have your room fixed up in no time. We'll make a shopping list for tomorrow. Then, when your stuff gets here, it'll seem more like home."

Immediately, she wished she could take back the last word. It hung in the air between them, and she waited for Chad to lash out.

He stared at her, blinking furiously to rid himself of the tears she saw forming. "Wrong again," he said in a dull voice, then spun and pounded down the stairs. She started to follow him, but Bailey put out his arm.

"Let him be," he said. "Almost anything we say right now will upset him."

The TV blared from the first floor.

His voice softened. "Ginny, don't expect too much too soon. He'll come around."

Virginia nodded, hoping her ex-husband was right. He seemed to be able to read the boy better than she could.

She walked to the hall linen closet and withdrew extra bedclothes to take downstairs. Bailey offered a hand and she tossed him a pillow, trying to ignore the reminders of the previous night. She wondered if he, too, was remembering, because he was unusually quiet, as if he were watching her.

And the more he watched her, the more she thought about their kiss, the heat of his skin under her fingers, his raging arousal. She felt a light sheen of perspiration emerge at her hairline and desperately tried to push the thoughts from her mind. But the uneasy feelings persisted as they descended the stairs.

"Bailey," she said carefully, "I appreciate everything you've done today." She conjured up a smile, then continued. "But it's getting late and I think we could all use a good night's sleep."

He stopped in front of the door and winced at the volume coming from the living room. "Good luck," he said, grinning. Then he relented. "Okay, I know when I'm being thrown out."

She laughed, grateful he wasn't pressing the issue. "Why do I get the feeling it hasn't happened to you that often?"

He lowered his armload of bedclothes onto a stool by the stairs. With one arm on the banister, he bent toward her, his eyebrows wagging. "I take that as a compliment."

Sexual energy leapt through her as she felt the intensity of his gaze. She wet her lips, casting for something to throw him equally off balance.
The one who appears to care the least.
She drew herself up and said in her coolest voice, "Being a skirt-chaser isn't a very becoming characteristic for a father, Bailey."

His eyes narrowed as her words hit the mark. He straightened and worked his mouth thoughtfully, then said, "And bitterness isn't a very becoming characteristic for anyone, Ginny."

As he strode away from her into the living room, she allowed his blunt observation to sink in. After the emotional beating she'd taken these past two days, she'd expected her body to have triggered some kind of defense mechanism by now, to lessen the impact of her internal response.

But apparently, she'd not yet reached her threshold for pain—she'd only surpassed the previous day's capacity.

* * *

Bailey cranked the ignition on his aged Camaro, then sat in the confines of his darkened car, staring at the windows of Ginny's town home.

Both of their shadowed figures moved around in the living room, illuminated by the glow of the television. After nudging down the volume, they'd finally settled on a G-rated comedy before he'd left. Walking out the door had been difficult for him. Chad made no bones about the fact that he wanted to go with Bailey, and from the flashes of panic he observed on Ginny's face, he had the feeling he could have worn her down about letting him stay the night.

He sighed, pounding his fist lightly on the steering wheel. He felt distinctly divided—he wanted to be with her, but he was scared to succumb to the temptation to throw caution to the wind and play out his fantasy
—
woo Ginny into falling in love with him because she found him to be desirable and noble, not because she felt obligated, like she had years before. Then they'd get married.

Except he choked on the happily-ever-after part. What if after a couple of years he couldn't hack it? What if he grew to resent her late working hours and Sunday dinners with the in-laws? What if he became distant and drove her away again? The next time he'd not only be uprooting their lives again, but Chad's as well.

When he was alone, he could tell himself it wasn't fair to pursue Ginny's love, to insinuate he was ready for permanence, especially when she'd indicated her disinterest. But Ginny's presence was like a mind eraser, removing previously well-laid plans, reducing him to a childlike state where instincts and impulses reigned.

He looked back to the window. Chad and Ginny. The two people he held more precious than anything in the world. It was as if an incredible prize were dangling above him, just out of reach no matter how far he stretched, no matter how high he leapt. As he reluctantly backed out of the driveway, he felt angry with himself for the unshakable feeling that he was cheating Chad, cheating Ginny, and cheating himself out of something wonderful.

It was only ten o'clock when he nosed the Camaro into a cramped parking spot outside the saloon. The walls fairly jumped with the volume of the live music inside. Sunday night and the place was packed. After only a few seconds' hesitation, he slipped out of his car and headed toward the front door. He hadn't yet gotten to slake the previous night's craving for whiskey, and he didn't feel like going upstairs to an empty apartment.

"Hiya, Bailey," Big John said at the door. As usual, Bailey pulled out his wallet to pay the cover, and as usual, the burly bouncer waved it aside.

A smile crossed his lips when he entered his familiar haunt. He felt comfortable here, among people he knew, people who enjoyed life minute by minute. Making his way toward the bar, he nodded and exchanged greetings with several people he knew. A southern rock band played on the stage where the wet T-shirt contest had taken place Friday night. They sounded pretty good, he acknowledged, then a split second later found himself hoping the noise wouldn't travel up to his bedroom. Oh, well, it was just a minor bother for the convenience of living so close.

He claimed his regular seat at the bar, then signaled the bartender. A whiskey sour appeared before him in a flash. He held the drink up to his lips with a slight frown, observing in a moment of self-discipline that it wasn't necessarily a good sign that the aproned man was so well acquainted with his drink order.

Studying the ice cubes, he surmised that few respectable fathers were in a bar on Sunday night, drinking whiskey. He lowered his drink and glanced around the room. Mostly single people, with a few straying marrieds thrown in. He wrinkled his nose. Everyone seemed so damn young. Bailey winced. And come to think of it, the lead singer was butchering that Lynyrd Skynyrd classic.

A comely brunette sidled up next to him. "Bailey," she shouted, touching his arm. "Long time no see. Mind if I sit?" She didn't wait for an answer, falling onto the stool beside him.

"Hey, Mia."

Long and lush-bodied, Mia had been his bed partner several months earlier, before he'd been distracted by Lisa.

"What're you up to these days?" she yelled over the music.

Chad's face flashed through his mind, and Bailey had the sudden urge to tell someone about his newfound son. "Funny you ask. I just found out I'm a father."

Her thin eyebrows shot up. "Really? Lisa's pregnant?"

He scowled. "No. I had a son when I was married years ago, but he was kidnapped. They found him Friday, and now he's living with my ex-wife."

Mia's eyes bulged. "No fooling? That's some story."

"It's true."

She smiled. "Kids—you learn to love 'em."

He squinted at her. "You have kids?"

"Three. Two girls and a boy."

Bailey looked back to his drink and bent the stirrer. "I never knew you had kids."

"Yep," she said, nodding. "My mom keeps them for me."

His first thought was what was she doing here, but his next thought was what was
he
doing here? He looked around him, shifting uncomfortably. The thought of his son walking in and seeing him spurred him to his feet. "I just remembered something," he yelled, scooting away from the bar. "See you around."

"Sure," she said, taking out a cigarette.

He tossed money for the untouched drink on the counter and exited the door he'd just entered a few minutes earlier.

"That was quick," Big John said. "Been to church today, Bailey?" He guffawed at his own joke, clapping Bailey on the back.

Bailey walked quickly toward the stairs that led to his apartment, his ears ringing from his short exposure to the blaring music. He felt disoriented and panicky, like a kid who'd done something wrong and was scrambling to cover it up before anyone realized what a mess he'd made.

The clock read nearly ten-thirty when he tossed his keys on the cheap nightstand by his water bed. He clicked on the lamp, then remembered the bulb had burnt out weeks earlier, and felt for the flashlight he kept nearby. By the dim illumination he opened a drawer full of rumpled papers and rummaged around until he came up with the business card he sought, then pulled out his phone.

He dialed the number on the card, and a man answered on the third ring. "Jackson? Bailey Kallihan here... fine, fine. Listen, I've had a change of heart on the Caddy and the Caribbean—when can you come by? Tomorrow morning is good, say around eight? Fine, see you then."

He looked for a place to set down his phone, but the nightstand was cluttered with beer cans and Lisa's overflowing ashtray. He frowned, then put the phone on the bed next to him, in case Ginny called during the night. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, then expelled a long breath as he settled back against a lumpy pillow and waited for the waves around him to subside.

Pounding on the door of the living room brought him to his feet again. He took his time getting there, looked through the peephole, and groaned at the distorted image of Lisa waving.

He swung the door open, his mouth already forming words to send her away. She fell upon him, a mass of giggles and exposed flesh, her breath stinking of bourbon.

"Where ya been, Bailey Boy?" she slurred, running her hands through the hair on his bare chest. "Someone said they just saw you downstairs."

Patiently, he removed her hands and held her by the wrists, cursing himself. He'd been sleeping with this woman? "Lisa," he said firmly, "you can't come up here anymore."

Her lipstick-smeared mouth formed a slow pout. "Why not?"

"Because I found out this weekend I have an eight-year-old son."

She angled her head at him and smiled dreamily. "Don't you think I'd make a good mommy?"

He didn't voice his thoughts. How could he criticize the girl, when he'd been content with her company only a few days before? "Like I said, you can't come up here anymore. It's over between us."

She straightened her shoulders and jerked her wrists away, stumbling back out into the hall. "Are you sleeping with that dressed-up little miss who came in and dragged you away the other night?" she yelled, her eyes glassy with drunken tears.

"No," he said through gritted teeth.

"Bet you she's an uptight little thing between the sheets."

He closed his eyes and counted to five. "I'm going to call you a cab."

"No! Just leave me alone!"

He took a step toward her, then sighed. "Go home, Lisa, and don't come back. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," she spat out. "Loud and clear." She lurched away, and he watched her half walk, half fall down the stairs. "Screw you, Bailey!" she yelled just as she opened the hallway door to admit the sounds of a thumping bass guitar.

Distaste for his bad habits and bad judgment erupted in his stomach, roiling as he made his way back to the unmade water bed. He cursed—he could definitely hear the band. His nostrils flared at the lingering scent of stale sex on the tangled sheets. God, when had he last changed them? He searched for the remote control among the musky bedclothes, but frowned when he came up with the device, sticky with food and lint.

Disgusted, he pulled himself up and went to the kitchen in search of a lightbulb, then realized the chance for success among the chaos there was slim to none. He turned on every working light in the apartment and cringed at the sight that lay before him. Newspapers, magazines, pizza boxes, beer bottles, and clothing were strewn among and over the dilapidated, dusty furniture. An unidentifiable but foul odor permeated the rooms, probably some spoiled carton of takeout food.