Hailey's Hero. Judy Duarte
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succumb to temptation. She wouldn’t allow it.
Of course, that knowledge didn’t do anything to slow a racing pulse or to still an incredible sense of anticipation.
He led her to the sofa. “Sit down.”
“Why?” she asked, unable to quell the sense of seduction. And not just hers. She had half a notion to respond to each of his moves and make a few plays of her own.
Good grief. What was the matter with her? No way would she consider a one-night stand with a stranger. Yet when he flashed her another Brando smile, a part of her wanted his arms around her, his mouth on hers.
He motioned for her to sit, then took a seat on the other side of the sofa. His arm dangled over the back-rest, but not close enough to touch. “Let’s talk.”
Talk? Was that part of the seduction? A line he used?
“Talk about what?” she asked.
“You. I want to hear more about little Hailey, the cute girl with pigtails and a missing tooth.”
She glanced at the fireplace mantel, realizing he’d seen her photograph. As thoughts of Nick putting the moves on her flew out the window and escaped into the snowy night, a keen sense of relief mingled with disappointment. “There’s not much to tell.”
Nick studied the woman across from him, watched her struggle to open up. If he could piece together her life, understand her anger and disappointment, then convincing her to visit Harry in San Diego would be easier.
He was good at interrogating suspects, but this was different. Much different. A suspect’s secrets were often a result of guilt. Hailey’s secret was the result of a child’s pain.
It was something Nick could relate to, he supposed.
She shot him a wistful smile. “My parents weren’t married, and my dad was never really a part of my life. I suppose people don’t really miss what they never had.”
“I don’t know about that.” Nick still resented the sailor who’d fathered him, the man who’d refused to step up to the plate and be a dad. “It’s been years, but I still blame my old man for the lousy stepdad I ended up with. And for the beatings I received just for being someone else’s brat.”
Compassion swept across her brow. “I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t meant to spill his guts like that, and he wasn’t sure why he had. He supposed it was the wine, the quiet, introspective evening, or maybe it was something about the somber beauty sitting across from him. She continued to eye him with a tad more sympathy than he was comfortable with, blew out a slow, steady breath, then ran a hand through her long, brown locks of hair. The glow of the fire enhanced red and gold highlights he hadn’t noticed before.
His fingers itched to touch the strands, but he removed his hand from the sofa back and dropped it in his lap.
He watched as she drew up her knees, tucked her feet under her skirt, and slowly turned to face him. “I did okay without a dad. It was my mom who took the brunt of his abandonment. She died loving my father, even though he dumped us both years ago.”
Nick wanted to defend Harry, but didn’t think it was his place. If Hailey would just talk to the man, Harry could defend himself.
Twenty years ago, Hailey had been a kid. She couldn’t possibly know the whole story. Hell, Nick didn’t know the whole story, but he knew her father well enough to know there was something only Harry could explain.
Nick had never questioned Harry’s values. The man was practically a saint. But even saints were human. Maybe Harry had tried to befriend Hailey’s mom, like he had so many other people in recent years, and experienced a moment of indiscretion. And if the woman fell in love with him—
Hey, Nick had plenty of women look at him with hero worship. He just made it a point not to take any of them up on their various ways of showing gratitude. “Maybe your mom fell in love with your dad, but the feelings weren’t mutual.”
“Obviously not.” Curled into the corner of the sofa, she looked like a small child. And Nick had a feeling that’s where her thoughts were taking her—back to a sad childhood.
He had this sappy urge to go to her, offer her comfort and a shoulder to lean on, but God knew he wasn’t that kind of guy. What did a man like him offer a woman who needed emotional support?
Hell, that huggy/feely stuff was learned as a kid, which was why Nick had never been comfortable with showing affection to anyone other than a lover. He’d never had the luxury of a hug or a pat on the shoulder, which were things kids needed. Women, too, he supposed. But it was a difficult gesture for him and another reason why he wasn’t cut out to be a father or a husband.
She set her empty wineglass on the coffee table. He would have offered her a refill, but they’d finished the bottle. He could use another glass, too. The last swallow had left him warm and wanting.
Wanting more wine, he added. Of course, he wouldn’t ask. When she rose from the sofa, he smiled, thinking he wouldn’t have to.
He watched her go, but not to the kitchen. She padded down the hall and into her bedroom. He ached to follow her. Hold her close and chase the bad memories away. Give her some new ones.
Harry Logan might have convinced Nick to curb his delinquent ways, but no one had been able to shake the rebel from Nick’s blood.
And the rebel in him wanted to follow pretty Hailey into the bedroom and offer her more than comfort.
Hailey didn’t know why she knelt by the bed and reached underneath the dust ruffle for the old shoebox. She’d always kept the items hidden, even from her own sight. But for some reason she wanted to show the photograph to Nick.
She’d never confided in anyone before, other than a middle school teacher who’d sent Child Protective Services to visit their home. After that she’d kept quiet, kept things locked in her heart.
But tonight she felt the need to open up and share the past with someone. To cry in her beer and confide in an understanding, tight-lipped bartender she would never see again.
And who better to share with than a man who would leave town as soon as the roads cleared?
She blew out a jagged breath and, resting her bottom on the heels of her feet, opened the box. A soft kiss of bittersweet nostalgia brushed across her heart, as she looked at the items her mother had treasured: a stack of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon. A couple of ticket stubs. A take-out menu from some diner in Florida.
In the midst of her mother’s things sat something of hers. Something her father had given her after taking her to ride on a merry-go-round in the park.
She picked up the tissue-wrapped figurine and slowly unwound the paper, revealing a pretty, white carousel pony. In spite of herself, she fingered the cool ceramic, studied the colorful reds, blues and yellows. At one time she’d wanted to throw it away or break it against the wall. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d stashed it inside her mother’s box, which was a good place for it, she supposed.
After wrapping the tissue around the pony and putting it back into the box, she withdrew what she’d been looking for—the old photograph her mom had blown up from a strip of black-and-white pictures taken at the drugstore in Florida, where they used to live. She looked at it closely for a moment, then replaced the lid and slid the box back where it had been, out of sight but rarely out of mind.
When she returned to the living room, the soft glow of the candles and firelight gave the room a mystical iridescence. Magical. And, she supposed, sensual, if what they were sharing had been physical.
She handed Nick the black-and-white photo, then sat beside him, closer than she’d been before. With the new level of intimacy they’d reached, sitting near enough to touch seemed appropriate.
He took the picture, and as he did so, his fingers grazed her hand. Her breath caught, and her heart paused before going