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Temporary Father
Anna Adams
She makes him feel like a superhero…For all his success, Aidan Nikolas couldn' t save his wife. And he couldn' t save himself from what followed. But maybe he can save Beth Tully, her troubled son and her struggling business in one single bound.Beth fears she' s failing her son. But it' s hard not to lean on the strong, handsome man who makes them feel so loved and protected. Except, the more she lets Aidan into her life–and her heart–the harder it' s going to be when he leaves….WELCOME TO HONESTYWhere people care and love changes everything
“Eli’s father isn’t like you.”
Beth hurried to continue, “Not that I’m comparing. But I’ve always promised myself I wouldn’t stop trusting other men because of him.” She blushed. “I guess I have, though.”
“You don’t know me well enough to trust me,” he said.
“We know each other too well for people who met last week,” Beth said. And she leaned in to kiss his cheek.
He drowned in her scent. Without thinking, he reached for her, turning her face. Her lips were heat and succor and irresistible.
Sighing, she pushed her hands into his hair. She tasted sweeter than hope. His body clamored for more, and he staggered with her in his arms.
When she felt the rail at her back she pushed him away.
“I can’t,” she said. “Eli… He needs me.”
“I need you, too, Beth.”
“But for how long?”
Dear Reader,
Sometimes when I’m driving, I see in another car a family, or maybe a mom and her children, or a dad, looking harried, staring into the rearview mirror instead of keeping his eyes on the road. I think how odd it seems that life in that car is just as vital as my own. We’re all heading somewhere, mixed up in do-or-die business—or plodding through one day to get to the next—but we don’t have a clue about each other.
I was washing dishes—seeing the first scenes in Temporary Father—and I thought about those cars. I wanted to know everything about all the lives in a small town. So welcome to Honesty, Virginia, where the houses are quiet, the town is growing, the people are caring and lives are changing.
A newcomer to Honesty brings heaven and hell to Beth Tully. She has one priority—getting her son, who’s behaving oddly even for a hormonal preteen, back into their fire-damaged home. Aidan Nikolas is recuperating after an unexpected heart attack, which is attributed to business stress. Secretly he blames it on guilt over his wife’s death. When he meets Beth and her son, he’s struck by need for the optimistic, hardworking single mom, but he reads all the worst signs in her son’s implacable sadness and sudden bouts of anger. Aidan cannot walk away from the boy, even as he tries to persuade Beth she has time to love him, too.
I’d love to hear what you think. You can reach me at anna@annaadams.net.
Best wishes,
Anna
Temporary Father
Anna Adams
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anna Adams wrote her first romance story in wet sand with a stick. The Atlantic Ocean washed that one away, so these days she uses more modern tools to write the kind of stories she loves best—romance that involves everyone in the family—and often the whole community. Love between two people is like the proverbial stone in a lake. The ripples of their feelings spread and contract, bringing all kinds of conflict and “help” from the people who care most about them.
Anna is in the middle of one of those stories, with her own hero of twenty-seven years. From Iceland to Hawaii, and points in between, they’ve shared their lives with children and family and friends who’ve become family.
Mama and Grandpa,
I miss you too much.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
AIDAN NIKOLAS TOSSED his bag onto the bed in the cottage’s main bedroom. He stood stock still on the wide-plank floor, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and apple, listening, feeling, believing his heart would beat one more time. And then again and again and again…
He was okay. He rubbed his chest, his left arm. No pain. No shortness of breath. No nausea. Bringing his things in from the car hadn’t killed him.
He laughed, with no real humor and certainly without pride. Staying in his friend, Van Haddon’s, cottage in the middle of Small-town, U.S.A., also known as Honesty, Virginia, might kill him if he didn’t stop dwelling on every flutter of his own pulse.
He shoved his bags across the bed, wrinkling the burgundy comforter. Forget unpacking. He was starving.
After a “minor” myocardial infarction, he’d spent two weeks at home, eating bland pap, living no life, with his parents treating him as if he hadn’t run the family business for eight years without their ham-fisted help. A heart attack. At the tender age of forty-two, even though he’d been in such good shape the trainers at his gym left him alone.
When he couldn’t stand another second of his parents’ tender loving smothering, he’d called Van and asked to borrow his cottage.
The big plan for his first night of freedom? Make some dinner. And listen to the wildlife in the woods of Honesty, population “just under ten thousand.” The “just under” must keep them from having to change the sign after each birth.
In the kitchen, a stainless-steel fridge and stove gleamed among granite counters and crystal-clear windowpanes. His box of farm market vegetables and organic groceries looked out of place.
God, this pretty little house closed in on a man.
Despite the chill of a late April night, he flung up the window over the kitchen sink.
It didn’t help.
Nothing helped except moving. He unpacked the groceries first. Hard to wait for another pile of steamed veggies, just like the ones they’d plied him with at the hospital. Maybe some “nice apple slices,” as the head nurse had suggested, twirling the plate as if it were a kaleidoscope.
Which left him wanting to kill the first cow that crossed his path and eat it raw.
A telephone rang. He followed the sound down the hall to the living room where the phone lay on its cradle beside a pile of magazines. Businessweek. Fortune. Business 2.0.
Aidan touched each cover with reverence. They’d denied him even the Washington Post in the hospital. And who knew who’d taken custody of his Treo?
The phone rang again. The old-fashioned receiver had no caller ID. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Van.”
“Thanks for letting me use the cottage.” He worked gratitude into his voice. If he hadn’t felt so much like a rat in a cage, he would have been grateful. With tall ceilings and cool white walls the living room should have been relaxing.
A faint scent of wood smoke emerged from the cold, blackened fireplace, before which fat couches and chairs squatted around a big square table. A TV sat behind the open doors of an antique armoire that had never been meant for the purpose it served now.
“I’ll come down tomorrow and show you the walking paths,” Van said.
Aidan stifled an urge to snap that he could find them even after a minor myocardial infarction. “Thanks, but I’ll wander until I see them.” Then he felt bad. Van, a wunderkind of finance, the one man who always knew which parties to bring to the table, was trying to do him a favor. Aidan dialed back his frustration. “I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” Van hesitated. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“I stopped in town for supplies. I’m fine.” He wasn’t sure he could stand one more pair of watchful eyes, waiting for his heart to explode. There’d been patients in worse shape in the cardiac ICU, but his name and the fame of Nikolas Enterprises had garnered him more interest.
“Come up to the house any time,” Van said. “Let me know if I can do anything for you—if anything in the cottage needs work.”
Aidan switched on the lamp at his side. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. Every surface glowed. “Thanks, Van, but it’s great down here. See you tomorrow.”
He arranged the vegetables on the kitchen counter. Chopping them filled time and made some noise. So did toasting an illegal slice of fresh sourdough bread and slathering it with half a teaspoon of butter. Hunching over the sink, he ate it like a wild dog.
With less enthusiasm, he transferred his piles of celery, snow peas, cabbage, onions and carrots into a shiny silver colander. Next he unearthed a brand-new wok from its box and wrapping, washed it and did a quick stir-fry. Another boring, bland dinner.
He picked up his plate and made the mistake of glancing at the window, where his own face was reflected. And behind him…Madeline. He snapped his head around.
She wasn’t there. He knew that, but like a memory come to life, she appeared where he least wanted to see her, when he could least afford to face her.
Just over a year ago, she’d committed suicide. The cardiac team had attributed his heart attack to work pressure. They didn’t know guilt drove him or that it was his fault she’d done it.
He set the plate, food and all, in the spotless white sink. Another glance at the window revealed only him. He leaned into the open half, sucking down air, but it wasn’t enough. With his mouth gaping like a fish on a riverbank, he headed for the front door.
He pushed it open so hard it swung back at him. The night was colder than he’d thought, cold that bit into his lungs and set a fire that made him cough.
But he didn’t collapse. The only band around his chest came from breathing fresh air when he was used to the purified, sanctified, hospital-approved stuff.
He stared into the tall trees, mostly evergreen, waving in the moonlit sky. On the hill above him, Van’s house was alight with life. Lamps flickered in glowing pools all the way down to the shrubbery that divided Van’s lawn from the cottage’s. Another cold breath brought on another choking cough. As he grabbed his chest, he saw movement on the hill.
Someone crashed through the shrubbery, and a woman burst into his borrowed yard, wearing navy sweats, a white tank, holly leaves in her dark-blond ponytail and concern on her delicate face.
“Are you okay?”
He coughed again. It was a defining moment. Not that he was vain, but a lot of women came onto him. Some offered cell numbers and e-mail addresses. More than one had palmed a hotel key card into his hand.
This one, tall and lithe and smelling of pine and exercise, had busted through Van’s landscaping, bent on administering CPR.
“I was coughing,” he said, seduced by the sheen of sweat on her rounded shoulders.
“Oh.” She glanced toward the house. “Are you cooking? Set the place on fire? Van does that all the time.”
“I can cook.” Now that was an impressive display of testosterone. “I just coughed.” Oddly, she didn’t produce an oxygen canister. “I’m going for a walk. You must know Van?” He started down the gravel drive, knowing she’d fall into step beside him.
“I’m his sister.” She pushed her hand down her thigh and then offered it. “Beth Tully.” She looked at him too closely. “And you’re Aidan Nikolas.”
“Van told you about me?”
Her palm, hot from exercise, warmed his blood. The human contact felt almost too good after night upon night in the sterile confines of the hospital.
“He told me someone was arriving at the cottage today.” When she nodded her ponytail licked at either side of her neck. He couldn’t help staring. “But I’ve seen you on magazine covers, too.”
Some men might like being one of the sexiest guys alive, but Madeline had chosen to die rather than be with him. He wasn’t such a catch. “I try to ignore those. You live with Van?”
“He’s taken me and my son in.” Not mentioning a husband, she also ducked her head as if she’d said too much. “Our place burned down two months ago.”
“That’s bad.” Great answer. Nice and banal.
She dipped her head again, in a nod. Tall, round of breast, with curves that defined temptation and a voice like the whiskey tones of a forties starlet, she made him hope the husband she hadn’t mentioned didn’t exist.
“We’re rebuilding. It’s a fishing lodge.”
She stopped as if she’d slammed into a brick wall. Most people filled a silence. Not Beth Tully.
Sick of the sound of his own thoughts, Aidan searched for a way to keep her from running back to her own life. It had nothing to do with her sweet body reminding him he was only forty-two—and that he’d recovered from the heart attack. He was not an invalid.
His wife hadn’t wanted him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still want a woman.
“You’ve lived here all your life, Beth?”
The strands of her hair clung to her neck again. “Except for a year in Florida.” Her scent, spice and exotic flowers, drew him even closer. “When I was first married,” she said.
He’d resisted those key cards and phone numbers and addresses so clever they’d immediately imprinted themselves on his mind, but he’d never stumbled across a woman so full of life she’d knock down landscaping to save a man. “Your husband lives here, too?” He couldn’t help it.
