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Stifling a smile, Chessa Margolis forced a parental firmness that had never come easily. Her son was the light of her life. She adored him beyond measure, and was loath to deny him anything, preferring to wheedle his acquiescence rather than insist upon it. “It’s up to you, sweetheart, but the pizza will be cold by then.”
“Pizza?” Bobby straightened, eyes huge, shoulders quivering. Rotating the black-and-white soccer ball in hands that seemed too small for the task, he angled an apologetic glance to his disappointed teammates. “Gotta go.” He flipped the ball to his best friend, Danny, a skinny blond dynamo who lived two houses away. “Later, dudes.”
Ignoring grumbles from his buddies, Bobby snatched up his beloved boom box, hit the porch running, dashed through the screen door his mother held open for him and skidded into the kitchen, sniffing the air like a hungry hound dog.
“Wash your hands.” Chessa waited for Mugsy’s unhurried entrance before releasing the screen door, which squeaked shut with a hollow shudder. “And take off that filthy hat before you eat.” A peek into the kitchen confirmed that the grungy blue baseball cap had been hooked on a peg by the back door while Bobby scrubbed up in the kitchen sink beside a large bowl of whole peeled apples waiting to be sculptured.
Wiping clean hands on his dirty T-shirt, Bobby spun from the sink, bounced into the nearest chair and helped himself to a slice of the freshly baked pizza. He bit into it without a trace of fear, as if a blistered mouth was small inconvenience compared to the joy of devouring his favorite food.
Chessa turned off the blaring radio on her way to the sink, eliciting a muffled protest from her chewing son. “You know the rules. No television or music during meals.”
Having polished off one slice of pizza, Bobby reached for another. “Danny’s got a new pair of sneakers,” he announced between chews. “They’re really cool. You can pump them full of air and stuff.”
“That’s nice.” At the sink, Chessa completed the apple processing with a diluted lemon juice bath, then set them into a colander to drain. Later that afternoon she’d carefully carve them, dry them and use the unique results to create country craft dolls that provided a tidy second income for Bobby’s college fund.
“I wish I had a pair.”
“A pair of what?”
“Air pumps, like Danny’s.”
“Oh. Do you have enough money saved up?” When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder. He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “How much more do you need?”
A limp shrug. “A lot.”
“There are some extra chores around here I could use some help with.” She set the draining apples aside and wiped her hands on a tea towel. “We’ll sit down and count out exactly how much money you have, then we’ll calculate how much more you need and—”
“Never mind.” Pushing away his half-empty plate, Bobby leaped up from the table with startling speed and an expression that could only be described as apprehensive. “I don’t want to count money and stuff.”
“Managing finances for things you want is important, sweetie. You know that. We do it all the time. That’s how you saved up for that remotecontrol car you love so much.”
Eyes darting like a cornered cat, Bobby snatched up his radio, sidestepped toward the door. “Can I go outside now?”
“You haven’t finished your lunch.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“Not hungry for pizza?” She frowned, concerned by the peculiar flush staining his cheeks. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m okay, I just wanna go out—” A knock at the door spun him around, flooding his tense features with obvious relief. “That’s Danny. Can I go, Morn?”
Heaving a sigh, she nodded, and watched her son bolt from the room. Bobby had been acting strangely for the past week. He’d been elusive, jumpy, even more anxious than usual. Just as disturbing was his refusal to acknowledge anything was wrong, let alone agree to discuss it.
Chessa knew her son, understood every nuance of expression, every subtle tilt of body language. He was biding something, something that both worried and excited him, something that, for the first time in his young life, he’d chosen not to share with the mother who adored him.
Lost in thought, she retrieved a paring knife and was absently eyeing the peeled apple in her palm when a peculiar sound caught her attention.
She returned the apple to the colander, laid down the paring knife and listened. It was a man’s voice, not a boy’s. A man speaking quietly, gently, in a tone too soft for words to be deciphered. Bobby’s response was choked, broken, inaudible.
Alarmed, Chessa rushed to the living room and nearly fainted. There he was, a specter from the past with the power to destroy everything she held dear.
From the doorway the man gazed over Bobby’s head, expectantly at first, then his eyes slowly clouded with confusion. “It’s been—” he paused, swallowed, studied her for a moment longer “—a long time.”
Her mouth went dry. She steadied herself on the doorjamb. The room continued to spin. It was her worst nightmare.
This time it was real.
She was beyond beautiful. The woman staring at him as if seeing a ghost affected him like a punch in the gut. A twist of sable hair above a fragile, heartshaped face with huge, liquid eyes so blue they took his breath away. It was a remarkable face, exquisite in its perfection even as its color dissipated to a sickly pallor. She clutched the doorjamb with a white-knuckled grip.
“Yes.” A whisper more than a word. “A long time.”
He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for having abandoned her so very long ago. He wanted to heap blessings and gratitude upon her for having gifted him with such a precious son. Most of all he wanted to know why he couldn’t remember ever having laid eyes on her.
This was a woman no sane man could forget.
Then again. Nick Purcell’s youth had been anything but sane. Town bad boy, blamed for everything and responsible for much, he’d been an angry adolescent who’d risen above poverty and abuse by having removed most of it from his mind. He could barely remember those years, didn’t want to remember them. That was his cross to bear, not this lovely woman’s. Clearly he’d hurt her enough. Nick would rather gnaw off his own arm than cause her more pain by confessing his own failure of recall.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” he told her, and meant it.
She swayed slightly, those gorgeous eyes so wide the China-blue pupils were completely surrounded by white. Lush lips quivered, moved slightly.
A sob, a sniff, a small hand clutched his sleeve. “I knew you’d come, I knew it.”
Dragging his gaze from the trembling woman, Nick knelt before the child whose eyes, as blue as his mother’s, gleamed with moisture and excitement. Words choked in Nick’s throat, caught behind a lump of emotion. Gazing into the face of his child was like a religious experience. His heart felt swollen, raw. His son, his flesh and blood. It was the proudest moment of his life. And the most poignant.
Bobby’s chin quivered. “Are you really my dad?”
In the breast pocket of his suit coat, a folded birth certificate forwarded from the St. Ives Law Firm burned over his heart. “Yes, Bobby, I’m really your dad.”
“Don’t go away again.” A tear slid quietly down his small cheek. “Please don’t go away.” With that, the child threw himself into Nick’s arms, sobbing.
Nick hugged him fiercely. “I won’t,” he whispered, barely about to choke out the words. “You’re my son, and I’ll never leave you. Never.”
The woman issued a strangled gasp. Nick barely heard it.
This wasn’t happening.
Icy fingers of fear closed around Chessa’s throat. Terror choked her dry. Dear God, she prayed silently. Let this be a dream.
Across the room that man, that horrifying phantom from the past, knelt down to gaze at her beloved child as if regarding a small god. In a blatant display of mutual veneration, Bobby focused on his newly discovered father with an expression of utter adulation that quite frankly drove a stake through Chessa’s heart.
For over nine years Bobby’s happiness had been the driving force of her life. Nothing else had mattered. Chessa had completely devoted herself to meeting her son’s emotional and physical needs. She’d thought it had been enough. It hadn’t.
That hurt.
There was more, so much more. Bobby didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that what he clearly believed to be the happiest moment of his life was in reality the worst thing that could possibly have happened. The joy in his young eyes would soon be replaced by pain and loathing. Chessa couldn’t allow that to happen but didn’t know how to stop it.
With a choked cry she spun back into the kitchen, staggered to the sink. Bracing herself, she gasped for breath, propped herself against the counter with widespread, trembling arms. Perhaps this was all a hoax, a cruel joke played by an impeccably groomed imposter wearing Italian loafers and a designer suit that probably cost more than her monthly mortgage. After all, the vision of prosperity in her living room bore little resemblance to the angry young man she remembered, the sullen adolescent in low-slung jeans and trademark black T-shirt with the sleeves torn out.
The young Nick Purcell had been wild, rebellious, always on the cutting edge of trouble, with a doleful James Dean sex appeal that teenage girls had found irresistible. He’d been the subject of gossip, whispers, speculation, and had been rumored to enjoy a love life more active than a rock musician.
Every town had at least one bad boy. The central California farming community where Chessa grew up had more than its share, although Nick Purcell had been far and away the most notorious. It was in the blood, folks had said. Like father, like son.
Like father. Like son.
“Chessa?”
She spun around, faced him with terror in her heart. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. She blinked rapidly. The image did not disappear.
He was there. He was real.
Extending a hand, Nick started to speak, then dropped his arm to his side with an anguished expression. His gaze flickered around the neat kitchen to settle on the plate of half-eaten pizza on the table. He smiled. “Sausage and mushroom,” he murmured. “It’s my favorite, too.”
Chessa found her voice. “Why are you here?”
The smile faded, tucked itself back into a face that was stronger than she remembered, but just as handsome. A square jaw. Perfect nose. Lips that were both virile and vulnerable, and dark eyes beneath a swath of brow that gave him a uniquely brooding appearance.
His sigh was nearly imperceptible, more sad than impatient. “I had to see him.”
She closed her eyes, clamped her lips together. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.
Pivoting around, she snatched a paring knife off the counter, grabbed an apple and carved frantically. “You had no right to come here.”
“He’s my son.”
Breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, then refilled her lungs and dug the paring knife into the pale fruit flesh to shape the bridge of the nose, the gouge of a mouth. “Bobby is my son, not yours.”
A moment of silence. When Nick spoke again, she realized he’d moved closer to her. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I should have been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”
The knife hovered over the partially carved apple. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, regretted it instantly. The expression on his face was one of guilt and torment.
He covered his pain quickly, clasping his hands behind his back the way a powerful man does to display command of an uncomfortable situation. “I wish you’d been able to tell me about our child. Of course, I understand why you couldn’t.”
Caution deadened her voice into a dull monotone. “Precisely what is it that you understand, Mr. Purcell?”
Raising his chin a notch, he twisted his mouth in a type of a shrug. “Calculating back from the date of Bobby’s birth, I realize that I’d already left town before you could possibly have known you were pregnant.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d punched her. “How do you know when Bobby was born?”
Apparently baffled by the question, he retrieved a folded sheet from his breast pocket, stepped forward to display it.
A moment before the room started to spin, Chessa recognized the copy of her son’s birth certificate. Without realizing that she still held the paring knife, she absently clasped her trembling hands, oblivious to the sting until Nick sprang forward.
“You’ve cut yourself.” Alarmed, he dropped the document, pried the paring knife from her hand, then snatched a tea towel from the counter and pressed it to the superficial wound. His touch was warm, firm, exquisitely gentle. “Do you have any bandages?”
“That isn’t necessary.” She pulled away, feeling strange. “I’d like you to leave now.”
A peculiar sadness shadowed his gaze. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can. You’re good at leaving.”
The snap in her voice jarred him. He stepped back, regarding her with unnerving intensity. “I understand how you feel.”
“No, you don’t.” She hated the frantic quaver in her voice, the high-pitched hysteria hovering at the back of her throat. “You can’t possibly understand. Please, please, I’m begging you, just go away and leave us alone.”
His eyelids fluttered shut, and she saw a scrape of white as his teeth grazed his lower lip. A shudder moved through him. When he opened his eyes, he regarded her with a peculiar hesitance. “Chessa, you have every right to be hurt, and to feel abandoned. I want to make that up to you.”
“You can’t.”
“I can try.” As she tried to turn away, he touched her arm, and the warmth radiated from his fingers like a small flame. “I want you to know that—” he paused for breath “—that you were always special to me.”
Chessa stiffened. “Excuse me?”
He licked his lips, tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it. “What we had together, what we shared was very special.”
All she could do was stare at him in utter awe. How gallant of him, she thought, to fake memories that didn’t exist about a relationship that never happened. Until five minutes ago, Chessa Margolis and Nick Purcell had never even met.
Chapter Two
During the few minutes it took for Chessa to retrieve an adhesive strip and bandage her hand, her mind was in chaos. There was no easy escape from the tangle of lies. Truth was the only option now, a truth that would deeply disappoint the son she adored. Postponing the inevitable would only intensify his disillusionment.
There was no choice, of course. Chessa knew that, and gathered her courage for what was to come. A deep breath, a silent prayer, and she faced the stranger in her kitchen. “We have to talk.”
Nick glanced up. “Isn’t it easier just to slice them?”
“Slice them?” She followed his gaze to the partially sculpted fruit draining on a paper towel. “Oh, the apples aren’t for pie. I sculpt them into novelty dolls as part of my craft business. Creations by Chessa.” To her horror, high-pitched laughter bubbled off a tongue quite clearly out of control. “It’s not a big business, of course. Just spare time. I make wreaths out of dried foliage, too. And holiday decorations, of course.”
“I see.” Clearly he didn’t see at all, although a distinctly amused glint lightened an otherwise dark gaze. “Are all of your apple faces as grumpy as this one?”
A glance at the sculpture in question revealed deep-set eyes beneath a slash of intense brow, a slightly imperfect nose above a mouth more detailed and exquisitely carnal than any she’d sculpted before. It was without doubt the scowling, apple-carved equivalent of Nick Purcell himself.
“Are you all right?”
Her head snapped around. “Of course.” She took a step back, her gaze darting to the window beyond which her excited son was telling every child in the neighborhood about his newly discovered father. A wave of nausea folded her forward.
“You’re ill.” Instantly concerned, Nick helped her to a chair, brought her a glass of water, then seated himself across the table from her.
She sipped the water, keeping her eyes closed until the sickness passed.
“Are you pregnant?”
Her eyelids snapped open. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry.” Having the grace to look embarrassed, he pushed away Bobby’s plate of half-eaten pizza and heaved a strained sigh. “It’s none of my business—”
“You’re right, it’s none of your business, I am none of your business, and my son is none of your business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Although his voice was mild, a bolt of danger erupted, displayed by the subtle clench of his jaw, the warning twitch of his mouth. “Bobby is also my son. That makes him my business.” A flash of anger, a striking image of defiance and danger that, for a fleeting moment, echoed the passion of his youth.
