Husband in Training Page 9

  Just who, Jenny wondered, was supposed to be overwhelmed with Nick's depth and sensitivity?

  She knew immediately: Sasha. The incredible, elusive, intellectual, cat-loving Sasha.

  And how was that supposed to happen? By something Polly was writing, apparently. Something Polly just had to get right.

  Jenny returned to the dining area and slid into the chair on Nick's left.

  Nick sat up a little straighter, then granted her another in a growing series of uncomfortable smiles. Polly didn't even lift her head.

  "What's going on here?"

  Nick cleared his throat. "Well, Jen, uh…" His voice trailed off as the kitten jumped from his lap. It strutted toward the kitchen, orange tail high.

  Jenny turned to her daughter. "Polly, what are you writing?"

  "Not now, Mom," Polly mumbled. "I've got to get this right."

  Jenny shifted her glance to Nick again. She gazed at him levelly, waiting.

  Finally he muttered, "It's a letter."

  She waited some more, for him to further enlighten her. He didn't. So she prompted, "A letter?"

  "Yeah."

  "A letter to whom?"

  At last he confessed what she'd already deduced. "To Sasha."

  "What kind of a letter?"

  He really looked miserable now. "Hell, Jen." He ran both hands over that thick, short-cropped hair of his, then let them fall to his sides with a heavy sigh.

  "What kind of a letter, Nick?" Jenny's growing impatience with him made her tone sharp.

  Polly deigned to glance up. She scowled. "Mother. I cannot think with you talking."

  "I have asked Nick several times, and he seems hesitant to explain this to me. So I'll ask you. What kind of a letter are you writing?"

  Polly gave a little snarl of pure impatience.

  "Please do not snarl at me. Answer my question."

  Polly glared, then snarled again, "That does it." She grabbed the paper she'd been writing on, wadded it into a ball and dropped it into the wastebasket beside her. "Thank you very much, Mother. I've totally lost it."

  "Lost what?" Increasing exasperation sharpened Jenny's voice even more. She did not like her daughter's snotty behavior. She did not like the look on Nick's face. She did not like the way he kept avoiding her questions. "Something suspicious is going on here. And I want to know what."

  Polly huffed, "I've lost my train of thought, Mother. You made me lose my entire train of thought."

  "Do I have to dig around in that wastebasket to find out what you're talking about?"

  "It's none of your business, Mother."

  Jenny warned, too gently, "Watch your tone, young lady."

  Polly huffed some more. "Mother. We are working here. You have interrupted us. You have no right to—"

  "Settle down, Pol," Nick said bleakly. He ran a hand over his hair again, and let out a long breath. "Damn, this is embarrassing. It's a love letter. A love letter for me to send to Sasha."

  A love letter. For him to send to Sasha.

  The words seemed to echo in Jenny's brain as she stared at him, at his sexy dark eyes and his silver-kissed black hair, at his powerful, tanned neck and his too-broad shoulders. At all that manliness. Too much manliness.

  All that manliness that was here, in her house, all the time now.

  She didn't need all that manliness sitting at her table every night, tempting her to forget who she was, who he was, who they were to each other. Tempting her to indulge herself in certain … feelings. Certain dangerous, impossible, terribly disturbing feelings that could never go anywhere, since he was in love with this woman named Sasha and she, Jenny, was—

  No. Jenny pulled her raging thoughts up short. What was the matter with her? It was not Nick's fault that, out of nowhere, after all these years, she'd suddenly developed a thoroughly embarrassing crush on him.

  She couldn't blame Nick for that. He'd done nothing at all to encourage her, beyond coming around five nights a week for these silly lessons in sensitivity and getting her thinking how handsome he was, getting her wondering about things she had no right to wonder about.

  She simply had to keep her mind on the real issue here.

  Which was that Polly had been writing passionate words for Nick to pass off as his own. To some woman Jenny didn't even know. Some woman totally unsuited to him who'd made it very clear that she was through with him.

  Jenny glared at him. He stared back at her. His dark eyes seemed to get darker.

  She wanted to scream. To jump on him and pound his chest and tell him to stop being such a complete fool. To stop being him, with his deep laugh and his big, comforting arms, his cat-stroking hands and his history of hot sex with women who were as unique as they were temporary in his life.

  Overreacting.

  She knew she was overreacting.

  She said, very carefully, "I think you should write your own love letters, Nick."

  Polly groaned. "Mother. He can't. He couldn't think of what to say. So I was helping him to—"

  "—lie," Jenny finished for her, feeling way too self-righteous. "You were helping him to lie."

  Polly let out an outraged cry. "This is unfair! It's not a lie. They were his feelings. I was just putting them in words."

  "If Nick wants to write Sasha a love letter, he should write it himself."

  "But I just told you. He can't write it. He can't think of what to say."

  "Then fine. Leave it at that. It's one thing to get him reading love poetry and romantic novels. To have him studying self-help articles and poring over books on art. But it's something else again to put words into his mouth. That's not right. I forbid you to do that."

  Polly made a loud growling sound. "Arrrgh. You're just butting in on something you don't even understand. I am trying to help this man, and you're ruining everything."

  "A lie won't help him." Calm. She really did sound calm. Oh, she was glad for that. Because she did not feel calm.

  "Mother, it is not a lie!"

  "Polly." Nick's voice was low.

  Polly swung on him. "What? What?"

  "Your mother's right."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Out of proportion, Nick thought. This whole thing was getting blown way, way out of proportion. Polly was watching him, her face all red and her eyes wide and wounded, as if he'd double-crossed her. And Jen looked as if she wanted to knock out a few of his teeth.

  He told Polly again, very gently, "Your mom is right. Writing a love letter is something I just have to do for myself."

  Polly moaned. "But that's just it. You won't do it."

  "Polly," Jen cut in, her voice drawn as tight as a chalked string. "That's enough. I've forbidden you to do this and Nick doesn't even want you to do this."

  Polly whirled on her mother. "He does so. It's you. You butted in. You're the one who's—"

  Jen didn't let her finish. "Polly. I said no."

  Polly went rigid. Then she stood, shoving her chair back so it tottered on two legs before it righted itself. "Fine. Ruin all our work. Ruin his life. Ruin everything. Go ahead."

  Jen said nothing. Polly took a step and bumped into the wastebasket. With great dignity, the kid bent, picked up the basket and moved it aside. Then she walked away, down the hall, her head held very high. She walked quietly for once.

  Nick waited. He knew damn well what would happen once she got past her bedroom door.

  And it did.

  She slammed it, hard.

  The sound echoed through the house. Nick shot a glance at Jen. She looked ready to chew nails.

  He eyed her for a moment, trying to figure out what he ought to say next.

  He couldn't think of a single thing. Apparently, she couldn't either. So they just sat there. The air seemed to hum and vibrate between them, as it used to sometimes in the old days, back when they only put up with each other for Andy's sake.

  Nick truly did hate having Jen mad at him. And he couldn't stand t
he damn silence. A remark popped into his mind and he said it. "That kid really knows how to slam a damn door."

  Jen's lips were pursed so tight they looked white. "And whose fault is that, do you think?"

  That bugged him, made him forget momentarily that he was trying to smooth things over. "Oh, right. Now it's my fault that your kid slams doors."

  "You know what I mean, Nick. You know very well." She pushed each word out, low and hissy, through those tight lips.

  He wanted to reach out and grab her, give her a good shake, until she loosened those lips and stopped glaring at him as if he was someone she wished she didn't know. But he didn't do that. Instead he tried for reason again. "Jen, you do let her walk all over you sometimes. You—"

  "Nick DeSalvo. Don't you dare tell me how to raise my child."

  "I'm not, damn it. I'm just saying that she needs—"

  She threw up a hand, palm out, chopping the air with it. "Stop. I will not sit here and listen to you tell me what she needs. I will not." She slapped the table with that hand, shook her head and repeated, "I will not."

  She looked so … confused. As if she didn't know any better than he did how they'd gotten here, fighting with each other over a letter that was never going to get written, anyway.

  Something passed through him, something scary and tender, something that hurt. He spoke more gently, without even trying to. "Look. I'm sorry. This whole thing, this letter, it was a lousy idea."

  "Exactly." She lowered her chin, stared down at her hand, flat there on the table. "Lying is a bad idea. Pretending you wrote something you didn't is a bad idea. And getting my daughter in on your little deception is a really bad idea."

  He couldn't bear her anger. He wanted to make it go away. He reached across the distance between his chair and hers, needing to touch her, needing peace between them. "Jen…" His hand brushed her cheek.

  "Don't." Her head shot up. "Don't … give me any excuses. I don't want to hear them." She pushed her chair back a little, getting farther away, as if his touch revolted her.

  That urge took hold of him again, to grab her. To shake a little sense into her, until she softened and let him hold her, until she treated him once more like the real friend he knew that he was. He leaned closer to her, just a fraction, following that urge.

  And she said it again, a command, "Don't. I mean it."

  He retreated backward in his chair. It took everything he had in him, to do that.

  There was a silence. A long one. He didn't understand it. Not any of it. How the thing with the letter had led to this: to Polly stalking off and shutting herself in her room. To Jen so mad at him that she wouldn't even let him touch her.

  She had her head down again, as if she couldn't even look at him. "I think you'd better go home now. I think you've had about enough training for one week."

  What did that mean? "Are you saying you don't want me to show up tomorrow?"

  She raised her head, and pulled her shoulders straight. "Yes. I think you'd better stay away for a few days."

  A few days. How long, exactly, was that? He had to know. He asked, with heavy sarcasm, "Do I have your permission to come back on Monday?"

  She waved a hand, a tired kind of gesture. "Oh, Nick. Come on. Do you honestly believe that this training thing is doing any good?"

  He answered without hesitation, "Yeah. I do. I think it's helping me a lot." And it was—though maybe not in the way he'd expected at first.

  Damn it, he really liked what had been going on around here the past couple of weeks. Liked watching Jen in the kitchen. Liked the hot, home-cooked meals that they shared as if they were a family. Liked arguing with Polly. Liked all of it. Very much.

  He'd stay away till Monday, if Jen said he had to. He'd give them all a chance to cool off, to get past this mess that had happened tonight. But Monday was it. He'd be back then. In time for dinner. He'd make sure that Jen had forgiven him and he'd have a talk with Polly about controlling her temper.

  "All right," Jen said, sounding worn-out. "You can come back on Monday." She waved her hand again, dismissing him. "But now, I mean it. You go on. Go home."

  The way she said that made him feel like some stray dog. Some mangy mutt she'd found lifting its leg on her lawn, something she didn't have time for. Some creature she was shooing away.

  Okay, so he'd messed up. He never should have let Polly get going on that letter in the first place. But did a minor mistake like that give Jen the right to treat him like a stray mutt? To put that snooty tone in her voice? That tone he remembered damn well, now he thought about it.

  She used to get that tone with him all the time—in the old days. Whenever he and Andy wanted to shoot a few hoops together, or step out for a beer. Or do anything that didn't include Her Majesty, the snow queen.

  The snow queen. God, he'd forgotten that.

  He'd secretly called her that for years. Snow queen. With her blond hair and her fine white skin, and those blue eyes that gave him icy, superior looks. Yeah, she used to freeze him out like this all the time.

  Nick shoved back his chair, watched her wince at the abrupt sound, felt a small flare of satisfaction. Yeah, fine. He'd screwed up and she just had to make him pay for it. Make him squirm and fall all over himself trying to tell her how damn sorry he was. And now she jumped like a scared rabbit when he made a sudden move, so sensitive to his vulgar, masculine ways.

  "You know." He loomed over her. "You're making a hell of a big deal out of something pretty damn small."

  Her head shot up. Two bright spots of color stained those high, delicate cheekbones. He saw it in her eyes: shame. The awareness that she really had pushed this thing too far.

  His frustration with her faded again. All he wanted was to touch her, to find some way to make everything instantly right.

  But things weren't tight. And if she wouldn't let him get near her, he couldn't make them right.

  "I'll be back on Monday." He gave her the words as both a threat and a promise.

  She sighed. "Yes. Monday. All right."

  "We'll … work this out then."

  "Whatever. That's fine."

  He turned and started for the door.

  She spoke to his back. "Nick."

  Hope—like some bright, warm light in a window late at night—switched on inside him. He turned back. "Yeah?"

  "Better take Daisy with you."

  The bright light went dark.

  "Nick, you did say you'd take her, on the weekend."

  "I know what I said."

  "Well, then. Since you won't be back tomorrow, you'd better go ahead and take her now."

  As if she knew who they were talking about, the little cat appeared, peeking around the kitchen doorway at them. Nick met those curious, golden eyes, then glanced at Jen again.

  She stared right back at him. Patient. Unwavering.

  The cat tiptoed over to him, sat down. "Rreow?"

  "Fine," he growled, "I'll take the damn cat."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  The minute the door clicked shut behind Nick and little Daisy, Jenny wanted to call them back.

  She heard Nick's words in her mind: You're making a hell of a big deal out of something pretty damn small.

  He was right.

  She'd jumped at the chance to blame him. And she'd used her trumped-up anger as an excuse to send him away, to give herself a little breather from his nearness, a little distance from him, a few days where she didn't have to deal with her dear friend who had suddenly managed to become the object of her crazy, disorienting, inappropriate infatuation.

  Well, she'd gotten her breather.

  But she hadn't been fair.

  And she knew it.

  She should tell him as much. She should wait until he had time to get home and then call him and tell him—

  What?

  That she longed to join the ranks of the flugel player, the lady biker and the feminist performance artist? That she couldn
't watch him pet a cat without that loosening, heating sensation in the pit of her stomach? That she was jealous of Sasha? That if he was going to try to write a love letter, she wanted it addressed to her?

  Oh, no.

  She couldn't tell him things like that.

  And she wouldn't tell him things like that.

  This crush of hers would fade. She knew it. She would go out with Roger tomorrow night, and have a good time. She would get some perspective on these irrational feelings she had for Nick.

  And when Nick returned on Monday night, she'd apologize for overreacting. She'd say she'd had a … headache. Yes. That she hadn't been feeling well and she'd taken it out on him. She'd ask him to forgive her.

  And they'd put tonight behind them, once and for all.

  "Nick left, huh?"

  Jenny turned to see her daughter, standing right behind her. Polly had her hands in the pockets of her faded wide-leg jeans. "I heard the front door close."

  "Yes. Well, you're right. Nick is gone."

  Polly looked down at her shoes. "Mom?"

  Jenny waited. She knew the beginnings Of an apology when she heard one.

  "I guess I was kind of a creep, about this letter thing."

  Jenny kept her expression grave. "Yes. You were definitely a creep."

  Polly slid into the chair next to Jenny, the one Nick had been sitting in a few minutes before. "Mom. I want to help him. I … I think I'm really good at this, you know?"

  "Good at what?"

  "Helping people. To work out their romantic problems."

  Jenny wondered about her choice of words. "Helping people? Is there someone else you're giving romantic advice to?"

  Polly's eyes went vague. "Someone else?"

  "Yes, Polly. Someone else."

  "Oh, Mom. All I meant is, I think I'm good at it. I think I'm really helping Nick. And I guess I got too … enthusiastic, about that love letter. I didn't stop to think that it wasn't honest, to write it for him." She hunched her shoulders, and pressed both hands between her knees. "I guess I'm sorry." She looked at Jenny, adorably contrite. Jenny melted inside, though she knew she probably shouldn't. "I mean it, Mom. I was a creep and I'm sorry and I'll try not to be like that again."