Read Secret Baby Santos Online
Authors: Barbara McCauley
Secret Baby Santos (3 page)
“Oh, baby, I'm so sorry.” Maggie looked up at Nick, her face stricken. “I...I didn't see it.”
Nick moved around to the passenger door, put the car in neutral and pushed it backward. Metal creaked as the car's tire rolled off the bike.
Tears streamed down Drew's face as he reached for the handlebars and attempted to stand the twisted bike up. “I'll never ride it now,” he railed.
“I'll get you another bike, sweetie.” Maggie reached out to touch her son's shoulder, but he shrugged away from her.
“I don't want another bike. This was the best one, and Grandpa gave it to me.”
Nick studied the bike and without thinking, said, “I'll fix it.”
Drew stopped crying, and both mother and son looked up at him. Good grief, Nick thought. Where had that come from? He'd never fixed a kid's bike in his life.
“You will?” Drew swiped at the tears on his cheeks.
The shop was backed up with two weeks of work, he had a mountain of paperwork to do, but what the hell? “Sure. A bicycle's just a motorcycle without an engine, right? Can't be much different. You can come to my shop and help me. We'll make it good as new. Better, even.”
“Better?” Drew's face lit up. “And I can come help? Really? Did you hear that, Mommy? Nick says I can help. I'm gonna go tell Grandma and Grandpa.”
In a flash of tennis shoes and blue jeans, he was gone. Her mouth open, Maggie stared after her son, then slowly turned to Nick. “This is very embarrassing. You must think I'm some kind of an idiot.”
He smiled, leaned in close enough to see the threads of dark brown in her deep green eyes. “Come out for coffee with me tomorrow, and I'll tell you what I think of you.” He'd show her, as well, if she'd let him close enough.
She shook her head, but not before he saw the hesitation. And something else, something wistful and sad. “I'm sorry, Nick. I'm just so busy right now. I really can't.”
He was trying to imagine her busy, exciting schedule. No work, home all day with her parents and an
almost-five-year-old. “Can't,” he asked carefully, “or don't want to?”
almost-five-year-old. “Can't,” he asked carefully, “or don't want to?”
Her gaze was steady as she met his. “I'm sorry,” she said evenly. “I'm just not interested.”
Well,
that
was certainly to the point, especially coming from such a
shy, sweet
girl. The words had even been spoken gently, but were still a direct verbal blow to his pride nonetheless. He nodded, backed off from her. “Can I ask why?”
that
was certainly to the point, especially coming from such a
shy, sweet
girl. The words had even been spoken gently, but were still a direct verbal blow to his pride nonetheless. He nodded, backed off from her. “Can I ask why?”
She dragged a hand through her hair, then sighed. “Like I told you, I'm only here for a few weeks to help my parents, that's all. I didn't come here forâ”
He grinned when she hesitated, lifted one brow. “Wild sex?”
Surprise widened her eyes at his outrageous comment. They both knew he was teasing, but still, something passed between them. Something intense and distinctly sexual.
“You think that's what I had in mind, Maggie? Coffee, then wild sex?” He put a hand over his chest and gave her his best wounded look. “I might be fast, darlin', but I'm not easy.”
She blushed rosy-red. Damn if he didn't itch to touch her heated skin and smooth his fingers over her cheek.
“I didn't mean to be rude,” she said softly. “But like I said, I'm just here for my parents.”
For a woman who wasn't interested, she was awfully nervous, awfully tense. And as curious as that made him, he knew when to back off.
For the time being.
“All right, then.” He flashed her his best smile, then held out his hand. “How 'bout friends?”
She stared at his hand for a long moment before
slipping her fingers into his palm. “Sure.” She smiled weakly. “Friends would be great.”
slipping her fingers into his palm. “Sure.” She smiled weakly. “Friends would be great.”
Her skin was smooth against his, soft and warm, and he was certain her fingers shook before she quickly pulled away. There was heat between them, all right, he thought with mild satisfaction. No question about it.
“I'll explain something to Drew,” she said. “I'm sure he'll understand how busy you must be at your shop. There's a bicycle repair in town I can call in the morning.”
“I didn't offer to fix Drew's bike to get you in bed, Maggie,” he said tightly. “Whatever it is you think of me, I haven't sunk that low, yet.”
“I'm sorry.” Distress narrowed her eyes. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you might have spoken before you realized what you were letting yourself in for. I was offering you an out.”
“I'll let you know when I need an out.” He bent down to study the bike. “I can straighten the wheel, but I may have to order a couple of new parts. Come by my shop tomorrow with the bike and Drew. I'll give you both the nickel tour.” He relaxed, gave her a slow, easy grin. “I even promise not to hit on you.”
She smiled back, the first real smile he'd managed to lure from her. Her eyes softened and for the first time since he'd plucked her out of that stack of tumbled green beans, the tension between them eased.
Damn if she wasn't even more beautiful when she smiled like that, and damn if he hadn't promised not to do anything about it.
All he had to figure out now was how to get her interested without coming on to her.
This was a first for him, he realized, and brightened at the prospect. It wasn't going to be easy. Even now,
in the face of her rejection, all he could think about was pulling her into his arms and tasting that gorgeous mouth of hers.
in the face of her rejection, all he could think about was pulling her into his arms and tasting that gorgeous mouth of hers.
In the meantime, he thought with a sigh, since he couldn't have what he really wanted, roast beef and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy would have to keep him satisfied.
Three
S
he couldn't sleep. Hot shower, warm milk, counting sheep, three chapters of a boring book. Nothing had worked. She was wide awake, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about Nick.
he couldn't sleep. Hot shower, warm milk, counting sheep, three chapters of a boring book. Nothing had worked. She was wide awake, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about Nick.
Dinner with him tonight had been the longest two hours of her entire life.
She'd sat beside him, said grace, then passed him the potatoes as nonchalantly as if he were any other guest at her parents' table for any other dinner.
But it was hardly just any other dinner, and Nick was hardly just any other guest.
He certainly had a healthy appetite, Maggie thought. The way he packed food away, she couldn't believe he wasn't at least twenty pounds heavier. But there wasn't an ounce of fat on the man. She'd discovered that firsthand when Drew had tackled her straight into those strong arms and Nick had held her against his broad
chest. He was solid muscle, every last inch of his six-foot-four-inch frame.
chest. He was solid muscle, every last inch of his six-foot-four-inch frame.
Exactly as she remembered him five years ago.
How could he just show up here like this now, throwing her entire life into turmoil?
With a groan she sat and turned on the bedside lamp. Running into Nick at the store had been one thing. That she could have handled. But him showing up here, charming everyone in sight, including Drew, was another matter entirely.
The image of her son placing his small hand in Nick's would be burned in her memory forever.
At that moment she'd felt as if time had stopped, as if the world had stopped and nothing else existed but the two of them. The two men in her life who had changed her the most, both of them unintentionally altering her life forever. And neither one of them had a clue how important they were to her.
When her heart had started beating again, when she'd recovered her ability to breathe, all she could do was watch them, watch them in amazement and disbelief that two such wonderful people had touched her life.
She'd found a calm in that moment. As if she'd been waiting for that moment without even realizing it, and now that it had happened, she felt an incredible relief. She'd also realized she'd been acting like an idiot. There'd been no reason for her to be so afraid of them meeting.
In a hundred years Nick Santos would have no reason to believe that Drew was his son.
How could he, when Nick himself didn't even realize that he'd made love to her?
Sometimes even
she
wondered if she'd dreamed that
night, if she'd simply lost it completely and confused a fantasy with reality. At those moments all she'd have to do was look into her son's eyes, watch him smile and she knew the truth: Drew was Nick's son. Absolutely no doubt about it.
she
wondered if she'd dreamed that
night, if she'd simply lost it completely and confused a fantasy with reality. At those moments all she'd have to do was look into her son's eyes, watch him smile and she knew the truth: Drew was Nick's son. Absolutely no doubt about it.
And she'd do everything in her power to be certain that Nick never knew.
The soft light from the table lamp spilled onto the rose wallpaper, and Maggie stared at the delicate patterns of flowers and vines. This had been her bedroom growing up, until the day she'd left ten years ago. Hoping for excitement, she'd chosen a large East Coast university, but had realized soon enough that a plain, painfully shy small-town girl just didn't fit in with the big city. She stuck it out, though, earned her journalism degree, and through a college placement agency found her first job with the
North Carolina Tribune
. Never mind she was making coffee and filing, and no one in the office ever gave her a second look, she had a real job with a real newspaper. She'd vowed to prove herself somehow, make them see she could write the best damn article the
Tribune
had ever seen. All she needed was a chance.
North Carolina Tribune
. Never mind she was making coffee and filing, and no one in the office ever gave her a second look, she had a real job with a real newspaper. She'd vowed to prove herself somehow, make them see she could write the best damn article the
Tribune
had ever seen. All she needed was a chance.
Eight months later, due to a flu epidemic that left two-thirds of the office home in bed, she finally got her chance. A sports assignment. Following the National Motorcycle Championship race that afternoon at the local speedway, she was supposed to interview twotime national champion Nick Santos.
She went straight to the bathroom and threw up.
Of all the assignments, of all the people in the world to interview, fate had given her Nick Santos, the man who'd rescued her from Roger Gerckee when she was
thirteen years old. She remembered every wonderful, glorious moment of that day.
thirteen years old. She remembered every wonderful, glorious moment of that day.
She'd been eating lunch alone, as she always did, in the back of the lunch area. Roger had singled her out that day and had been taunting her about her braces, big glasses and curly red hair. She'd managed to ignore him until he snatched her sandwich and threw it in the trash can, but then she hadn't been able to stop the tears of humiliation and anger.
Like a knight on a white horse, Nick Santos suddenly appeared. Vividly she could still remember the fury in Nick's dark eyes, hear the deadly calm in his voice, when he'd told Roger that he shouldn't be wasting food like that, then dumped the bully in the same trash can. The entire school had cheered, and she had fallen hopelessly in love.
She'd never told anyone her feelings for Nick. She would have been the laughingstock of the school if she had. She was different from the other girls. They'd always known what to say, what to wear, how to act. She'd simply never fit in, and falling for a boy like Nick was absurd. Nick was not only older, he was part of the notorious Bad-Boy Trio. A girl had to be fast to hang with Nick, she'd heard in whispered rumors, not to mention gorgeous and ready for a little danger.
Maggie had been none of those things, and the most dangerous thing she'd ever done was sneak in late to algebra class while Mr. Greenbaum, the teacher, had his back turned. She'd resigned herself that bad-boy Nick Santos would never, in a million years, look twice at a girl like her.
So it had just simply been more comfortable, and definitely safer, to immerse herself in books and school projects, and keep her fantasies about Nick to herself.
In those fantasies, she was fast, she was gorgeous, a femme fatale that stole his breath and heart and he wanted only her. She was as bad as he was, and damn good at it. Those fantasies had carried her through high school and college.
In those fantasies, she was fast, she was gorgeous, a femme fatale that stole his breath and heart and he wanted only her. She was as bad as he was, and damn good at it. Those fantasies had carried her through high school and college.
Until that day five years, six months ago, when she either had to interview him or lose her job.
She'd watched the race from the stands that day, cheered when Nick won his third national championship, driven to his hotel, then sat in her car forty-five minutes before she'd been able to work up the nerve to go up to his suite and actually knock on the door.
The celebration party of Nick's win was in full swing when she steppedâno, when she was
dragged
âthrough the door of the elegant suite by a large dark-haired man sporting a ponytail. People packed the room, laughing and talking, hard-rock music pounded from a stereo system, and a blond man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt circled the room pouring champagne. The women were all beautiful, the men rugged and handsome, and Maggie had never felt more out of place in her entire life.
dragged
âthrough the door of the elegant suite by a large dark-haired man sporting a ponytail. People packed the room, laughing and talking, hard-rock music pounded from a stereo system, and a blond man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt circled the room pouring champagne. The women were all beautiful, the men rugged and handsome, and Maggie had never felt more out of place in her entire life.
She couldn't do this. She still hadn't seen Nick, and even if he'd seen her, he wouldn't remember her, anyway. He had a different woman on his arm every time the tabloids took his picture. If she left right now, she wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of him having no idea who she was.
She was already turning to leave, already formulating the lie she'd tell her boss, when the Hawaiian man blocked her way and shoved a flute of champagne at her.
“You here from the hotel?” he asked.
Dressed in her tailored navy blue shirt and blazer,
she could understand why he'd think she was hotel staff. “Well, actuallyâ”
she could understand why he'd think she was hotel staff. “Well, actuallyâ”
“It's in the bedroom bathroom. I thought someone should look at it, but you don't need to send anyone to fix it until tomorrow.”
She tried to explain she wasn't with the hotel, but the noise level had risen considerably when two women grabbed Nick and started to dance with him, and the man leading her toward the bedroom couldn't hear her explanation.
She stumbled at the sight of him dancing with the women. Well, he wasn't exactly dancing, he was sort of watching more than anything. Her heart pounded furiously. He was as handsome as ever, his hair as thick and dark as she remembered, his smile just as dazzling. She couldn't find her voice when Hawaiian Man nudged her into the bedroom, then took off.
Grateful for the quiet, Maggie slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She stared at the champagne in her hand, held her breath and took a big gulp. The bubbles lingered in her throat, tickling, and though she never drank much, she realized she liked the taste. She also liked the sudden shot of confidence buzzing through her.
Setting her cotton workbag on the bathroom counter, she recovered her handheld tape recorder, turned it on and cleared her throat. “Testing, testing,” she spoke into the recorder, cleared her throat and said quietly, “Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, a fly can't bird, but a bird can fly.” She listened to the recording, then flipped it off again and closed her eyes as she took another drink of champagne.
When she opened her eyes again, she looked into the bathroom mirror and stared at herself. She could have
at least put some lipstick on, tried to do something with her wild hair. She'd just never known what to do when it came to cosmetics and hairstyles. Or maybe it had just never mattered to her. Suddenly it seemed to matter very much.
at least put some lipstick on, tried to do something with her wild hair. She'd just never known what to do when it came to cosmetics and hairstyles. Or maybe it had just never mattered to her. Suddenly it seemed to matter very much.
But there was nothing that could be done about it now. With a sigh, she removed her glasses and turned the faucet on, intending to splash cold water on her face. A stream of water sprayed up at her, drenching the front of her jacket. Gasping, she fumbled with the faucet handle and shut off the water. Looks like she found out what Hawaiian Man had wanted her to look at.
Groaning, she removed her jacket and slipped it into her bag with her glasses, then mopped up the water on the counter and floor with a hand towel. This cinched it for her. She was leaving.
She downed the remaining champagne, drew in a deep breath and slipped out of the bathroom.
Someone had closed the bedroom door to the outside parlor and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness. Maggie had no idea where the light switch was, so she felt her way across the large bedroom. The corner couch, a desk chair, the edge of the king-size bed.
A man's chest.
Startled, she stumbled back onto the bed with a strangled cry.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I thought maybe you were in here.”
It was Nick! Maggie could barely breathe. He'd actually seen her? And recognized her? His thigh nudged hers and her pulse turned erratic as a New York taxi driver.
“You did?” Because she couldn't draw air into her lungs, her words had a soft, breathless quality to them.
He slipped an arm behind her. “I heard you wanted to see me.”
“Well, I...ah, yes, actually.” How clever she was. How professional. Sophisticated, she thought with disgust.
“I don't want to keep you from your party,” she said, reaching for her bag that had spilled over somewhere on the floor. Why hadn't he turned the light on? And why didn't she suggest that he do so now?
Because she liked it, she realized. Sitting on a bed in the dark with Nick, with champagne buzzing in her head and the masculine scent of his aftershave deep in her lungs.
“They moved the party to the suite across the hall. There's a football game on and that TV is bigger.”
“Well,” she said, her voice strained, “I guess bigger is better.”
He laughed, and the rich, deep sound of it was like velvet stroking her skin. His finger traced a hot, electric trail up her arm to her shoulders where he threaded his fingers through the ends of her curly hair. “You let your hair grow. I like it.”
He noticed her hair? Nick Santos, who hadn't seen her in at least seven years, had really noticed her hair? The buzz in her head increased with his nearness, with his touch. When his hand skimmed up her back, she trembled. “Thank you.”
“Relax,” he said softly, and she felt his breath on her ear. “I realize it's been a while, but you don't have to be so nervous.”
There was a roughness to his voice, a sensual quality that sent shivers up her spine. “I'm not nervous,” she
lied. “But I know how busy you are and I thought that...well, that maybe we should, uh, get started.”
lied. “But I know how busy you are and I thought that...well, that maybe we should, uh, get started.”
He chuckled quietly, then touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You always did make me laugh.”
She wasn't sure how to take that. Did he mean, laugh, like laugh
at
her, or laugh, like she said something funny. But he couldn't mean that. She'd never said more than hello to him.
at
her, or laugh, like she said something funny. But he couldn't mean that. She'd never said more than hello to him.
And when his lips closed over hers, when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on the bed, every thought she'd ever had flew out of her head.
She'd been kissed twice in her life before. Once in the tenth grade by Kevin Hatcher, and once by Brian Whitman, who'd sat next to her in an American history course in her second year of college. But neither kiss had tasted like champagne and pure, unadulterated lust, neither kiss had turned her upside down and inside out. Those other kisses would be like comparing a spark to a raging inferno.
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