Harlequin Superromance February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: His Forever Girl\Moonlight in Paris\Wife by Design (8 page)

“Meh, I never stopped to see things before. Knowing death has caught hold of you by the neck changes what you see in life.”

“Shush, Frank, don't say things like that. I hate when you talk about dying. You're not dying. We're fighting this.”

He didn't have the words to protest. Maggie had set her foot down, defying the reaper to touch him. She was a tough opponent. Old Grim didn't realize what he was up against.

“The kids will be here in half an hour. Frank, Jr. is never late.” Frank looked around the place his wife felt most comfortable in. Maggie had returned the emerald earrings he'd given her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, taking the money to an appliance center and custom ordering the huge Viking range. He'd laughed because he could never convince his Maggie she was worthy of jewels...not when she'd rather be barefoot and making his grandmother's red sauce. Maggie may be as Irish as the Blarney Stone, but she cooked like she was a fifth-generation Italian.

“Tess is coming,” Maggie murmured, picking up the sharp knife and cutting the dough.

“It's Easter,” he said with a shrug. “Family is family.”

“She's angry and hurt, and rightly so.”

Frank stepped away, picking up the flour and sealing it into the large storage container, helping Maggie where he could. But he had no words to say regarding Tess. His youngest had been difficult from the moment she'd entered the world, screaming and impossible to console. As wonderful as Tess was, nothing was easy with her. From her being allergic to disposable diapers, formula and gluten to her choosiness over schools, clothes and hair bows, Tess overwhelmed any space she occupied.

“You have to talk to her, Frank. You have to make her go back to work for the company.”

He shook his head. “No. I'm not doing that, Maggie. Tess molds everyone to her, arranging her life so it fits her needs, her demands. She hasn't had much set against her and I think it would be a mistake to fix this for her. She needs to understand my side of this. She needs to see I'm not doing this capriciously or with any intention other than doing what is best for the company.”

“She's your daughter.” Maggie turned and prodded him with her gaze. They'd had this same conversation over and over in the past week, but Frank wasn't easily moved. On this he would stand firm.

He knew to some degree he'd failed Tess. His only girl, his last baby, she'd gotten all the petting and doting he'd held back from his boys. Whatever Tess wanted, Frank made sure she got. He'd been so proud when she'd declared she'd follow in his footsteps, even as he worried about her ability to handle a business like Frank Ullo. Tess thought she could handle everything thrown at her. Thing was, life hadn't thrown much at her. She'd lived a golden existence, and as Frank thought about his company and his daughter, he could see his child had never been tested in any way.

Tess needed to learn more than what he could give her. She had to be challenged, had to live outside of the bubble she'd been so safely ensconced within.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was playing God, testing his daughter much like God had tested Job.

But he knew his Tess. She would not only survive, she would thrive.

“Yes, she is my daughter, and so I know she will make her way.”

“Make her way? Frank, she's a hard worker and loves the company. Sure, she's young, but you should have made her the CEO and hired this fellow to work for her.”

“I know what the company needs, Maggie. Trust me on this—it's the right thing. The rubber is meeting the road and time will tell us where we go. You understand?”

His wife of forty-five years shook her head. “You're a stubborn goat.”

“Like my daughter...and my sons.”

“I don't see this as you do, but I will trust you. I have always trusted you. But tread softly, Frankie. These are strange times for us.”

He sighed. “Times I don't wish on my enemy, but this is what we're left with, Maggie.”

“Are you going to tell them about the cancer today? Tell them about the operation this past week?”

“It's the wrong time. People want to feel joy at Easter.”

“It's always the wrong time,” Maggie said, turning to the bowl containing the mascarpone cheese, stirring with a furrow between her lovely green eyes. Maggie meant business when she cooked for the family. “But you don't have much more time. Next week you'll start the chemotherapy. We've already hidden all the tests, and I don't know how we managed that as nosy as this family is.”

“Easy to do when your kids are busy living.” Frank looked out the window at his shady backyard. Everything bloomed—the huge azaleas clustered around the sprawling live oak anchoring the landscape. A beautiful waterscape tumbled water over the stones mined from a quarry in Arkansas. Birds darted through the canopy and the world looked soft and beautiful...as if something as ugly as cancer couldn't exist.

And it made Frank angry.

Why had this happened to him? Why now? At the end of his life when things should be simple...when he deserved to sink into his recliner and put his feet up?

He'd worked so hard his whole life, pouring blood, sweat and tears into creating something worthwhile, something good. He'd come from humble beginnings, born the year after the U.S. entered World War II, his father dying that same year in the Pacific. He'd been raised by a working single mother who married a man who drank hard and hit harder. Eventually, Frank dropped out of high school and went to work sweeping a warehouse owned by a celebrated early float maker. Soon after he put down his broom and learned how to build the floats rolling for some of the earliest parades like Comus and then Rex.

Years later after a stint in the army, Frank returned and bought a warehouse with his savings and a loan from Maggie's father. He'd started Frank Ullo Float Builders, and because he loved what he did, it had grown into the international business it was today. Finally, he'd been thinking about taking it easy, traveling to Italy for the summer, duck-hunting with his sons and watching his grandkids play soccer every Saturday morning.

Irony bit a man in the ass sometimes.

A sound at the door told him his reverie must end.

“Papa Frank?” Max bellowed, feet slapping the wood floors as the five-year-old headed for the kitchen.

Frank spun as Maggie wiped her hands on her apron. “Sugar, I told you about running in the house.”

Their grandson skidded to a halt in front of his grandmother who smiled through her fussing. “Sorry, Gee, but look what the Easter Bunny put in my basket.” He waved a lacrosse stick in the air.

“Jeez, Max. Put that down before you break something,” Frank Jr. said, entering the kitchen, snatching the stick from his youngest son's grasp and dropping a brusque kiss on his father's cheek then turning to Maggie. “Happy Easter, parents.”

Maggie started the hugging and kissing as Max's older brothers poured in, looking for snacks before dinner. Finally Frank Jr.'s wife, Laurie, stumbled in with a casserole dish and a tired smile.

Frank watched this part of his family, soaking in every detail, brushing away any annoyance he'd normally feel at the boys tussling over the remote or snitching too much chocolate from the candy dish. Then Joseph arrived with his quiet wife and even quieter twin girls. Michael showed up with a bottle of Cabernet and an Easter lily for his mother. And finally, Tess rushed in to good-natured ribbing from her older brothers about being late as usual.

Frank's mother, Bella, plodded in behind his daughter, sharp-eyed and grumpy about being late to dinner.

“She shows up ten minutes late. Ten minutes I had to listen to Ira Messamer complain about his damned gout. I didn't know a man could whine so much about swollen feet.”

Tess, dressed in trim pants and a cotton shirt that hugged her figure, rolled her eyes. “I told you I had to stop for rolls. You said it was okay.”

“A little late, you said,” Bella, otherwise known as Granny B, muttered. “Not a whole ten minutes.”

Tess looked at Maggie with a tight smile. “Next time see if Frankie can pick up Granny B. Please.”

Granny B shot a look at Tess. “Mind your manners, missy. I'm not too old to take you over my knee.”

“Yeah, you are,” Tess said.

Frank almost laughed, except his mother would swat at him, so he kept his mouth shut. Tess glanced at him, but quickly averted her eyes. The frostiness told him all he needed to know about where he stood with his daughter. Far away. Perhaps even across the ocean.

“I get no respect, especially from her,” Granny B said, jabbing a finger at Tess, even as something in her dark eyes sparked with admiration. Granny B thought the sun rose and set with her Tess...not that she'd ever let on. Tough as a cornstalk and soft as a brick, Isabella Ullo hadn't stayed long with a man who hit her or her son. She'd left Mick MacDougall two years after she'd married him, going to work at the Bon Sucre hotel, catering to the elite of society. She'd stayed for forty years before moving to a small retirement community in the Garden District.

Tess snorted. “You're being difficult, Granny B, because you can. Ten minutes isn't late.”

“Have you ever met Ira Messamer?” Granny B cracked lifting the lid on the sauce, smelling it critically. “Too much garlic, Maggie.”

“You know she can't have garlic, Mom,” Tess said with an evil gleam in her eye, “for the same reason I have to carry around a silver stake and have her at the home before sunset.”

“Hah,” Granny B said, “I wouldn't suck your blood if you paid me in cash. Probably half vodka anyway.”

The women all laughed, and Frank sank into the moment—typical teasing Sunday banter between the women in his family. How many more of these would he have? He wasn't sure. The doctors had been blunt—his cancer would move fast. The chemo he'd start next week would only slow the inevitable—there was a sliver of a chance he'd survive longer than six months.

So he sat in the middle of his family stocking up the images in his mind, piling them into a suitcase in his memory, carefully arranging them so when the pain came, the sickness overwhelmed, he could unlock the sound of Max's laughter, the curve of Maggie's cheek, the way Joseph tried to count Tess's freckles. Tears filled his eyes and he quickly turned his head, refusing to sully even one second of this day.

He'd tell them about his cancer another day—a day that wasn't about resurrection and new beginnings.

No, he wanted today full of sunshine...full of love.

And it might happen even if he'd invited Graham Naquin for coffee and dessert.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
ESS
SAT
AT
THE
TABLE
with her family and tried to pretend this Easter Sunday was like every other one that had gone before—full of deviled eggs, impromptu egg hunts and at least one chocolate bunny ear. She was pretty good at talking a niece or nephew into sharing.

But it wasn't the same.

Anger and betrayal made her mother's sauce taste of ashes. Hurt laced even the green-bean casserole bland Beth had thrown together...if such a thing were even possible. Not Beth's being bland—which she probably couldn't help, being married to Joseph—but the whole green-bean casserole tasting like tears.

Same old smiles, same old jokes, same old china filled with food Tess's mother and sisters-in-law had slaved over. She should be enjoying the home-cooked meal rather than picking at the jicama-and-shrimp salad and poking at the ziti.

The frustration over what her father had done had stitched itself inside her and refused to be undone. Not that Tess wanted it undone. In one way she liked what the soreness gave her—a hunger she'd never had before, a need to prove herself. Even admitting she craved the challenge, however, Tess couldn't erase the deep hurt at her father not believing in her. His failure to hand her the keys had knocked a hole in her she couldn't see filling anytime soon.

“Cat got your tongue, Tess?” Michael asked, his dark eyes studying her over the frames of his glasses. Father Michael Ullo read people who didn't want to be read—a talent he put to use often. In this case Tess knew her mother had told him what had happened. Michael knew why she was quieter than normal, but for some reason wouldn't let her get away with it.

“Just enjoying Mom's cooking as usual,” she said, chasing a noodle around her plate with her fork.

Michael took another sip of wine. “Yeah, I see. Ravenous, aren't you?”

Tess tossed him the “shut the hell up” look. As usual, Michael ignored her. God forgive her, but Father Michael could be super annoying.

“Might as well get everything out in the air before dessert, Therese,” Frankie, Jr. said, taking a butter knife away from Max before he could saw a flower from the arrangement her mother had put together. “Kid table next year.”

“Me or Max?” Tess cracked.

“Both?” Frankie deadpanned.

“Let it drop before you ruin today, Frankie,” Tess said, watching her brothers exchange looks. They'd always treated her like their child rather than their sister. Tess had been the ultimate surprise to her aging mother and father, throwing off the whole balance of the family when she'd arrived nine years after Michael, the youngest brother.

“We can't have every Sunday like this,” Joseph complained, giving Beth a knowing look. As a neurosurgeon, Joseph usually took a backseat to his brazen older brother who chewed up district attorneys every week as a highly sought-after defense attorney. Michael always held his own—the white collar did wonders for respect in their Irish-Italian Catholic family.

Tess glared at her brothers, pissed they'd waited until everyone was held hostage by her mother's red sauce to bring up the rift between her and her father. “We're going to do this now?”

Frankie Jr. shrugged. “We're all here.”

Tess's father cleared his throat and everyone stopped fidgeting and slurping their tea. “We ain't doing nothing to destroy this day, boys. Leave your sister alone. What happened between me and her is business, not of concern to the family.”

Tess lowered her head. She wasn't sure if it was because she was so angry at his words or relieved she wouldn't have to slug it out over Easter dinner. Lifting her head, she stared defiantly at a cream-colored camellia in the flower arrangement.

“Feels like it's more than business, Dad,” Joseph said, tossing down his napkin. “It's damned uncomfortable is what it is.”

“Well, it's not your concern. Tess is my daughter. I'm her father. Nothing changes that.” Frank set down his fork. He hadn't eaten much, either, which was very unlike him.

Granny B's sharp eyes took in all that went on at the table. “What's he talking about? Of course she's his daughter. Stubborn enough, isn't she?”

Maggie inhaled and blew out a sigh. “Everyone looks ready for dessert. Who wants cannoli?”

Tess ignored her mother, jerking her gaze to meet her father's. “He's right. Nothing changes that.” Tossing her napkin down, she scooped up her plate and headed toward the kitchen.

Maggie followed, picking up the empty roll basket. Tess knew her mother hated conflict at the table, but could do nothing. Her stupid brothers were responsible for the discomfort.

The older nephews and twin nieces sat at the kids' table in the kitchen and all turned wearing guilty expressions, when she and Maggie entered the kitchen.

Maggie took one look at the uncovered plate of cannoli sitting on the granite counter and jabbed a finger at Conner. “I told you to stay out of the dessert.”

Conner wiped the cheese from the corner of his mouth. “I love you, Gee.”

“Flattery will get you another cannoli,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes, but softening. The woman was a sucker for her grandchildren. “Sorry, Tess. I told Joseph not to say anything. You know how he hates everything wrinkled.”

“Well, too damn bad,” Tess said, scraping her plate into the trash. Joseph's twin girls, Margaret Ann and Meghan, gasped. “Sorry, girls.”

Conner and Holden grinned, obviously enjoying the strong language—a family argument couldn't compare to middle school where naughty language wasn't so much colorful as the norm. Tess wasn't so old she didn't remember how an eighth grader rolled.

“He's trying to smooth out wrinkles in a world that's not his. He chose to be a doctor. Frankie chose to be a lawyer. And maybe God chose Michael, I don't know, but none of them are involved in the company outside of hanging out in our float stand during parades or showing up at an occasional ball, so they aren't involved in this.”

“They're members of this family, and that is enough.”

Tess set the plate in the sink and winced as it clattered against a soaking pot. “Dad said this isn't about the family.”

“You and I both know differently.” Her mother shot a frown at Holden, who wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Napkin, Holden.”

Holden and Conner rose in silent communication, grabbed a few cannoli and headed out to the yard.

“This isn't the time or the place, Mom,” Tess said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, eyeing the two girls watching them with rapt attention.

“You're just like him. That's the problem.”

Tess opened her mouth to deny her mother's declaration, but the doorbell rang.

Maggie made a face. “Who could that be?”

Tess shrugged. The family was there, so had to be a neighbor or a friend dropping by.

“Girls, help Auntie Tess with the dessert. I'll see who's here and find out who wants coffee and cannoli.” Maggie tucked her fading auburn hair behind her ears and headed toward the foyer.

Margaret Ann and Meghan cleared the table before coming to stand beside the stove. Tess located the serving spoon and uncovered the other plate of cannoli, eying the chocolate and pistachio coating. Her appetite hid behind the cold wall between her and her father, but surely she could summon enough enthusiasm to have her mother's Easter cannoli?

She'd just started serving when she heard his voice.

His
voice.

Graham Naquin.

The spoon clattered to the tiled floor. “Shit.”

Margaret Ann blinked at her.

“Yeah, I know, Margaret Ann. It's a bad word, but, baby, trust me. It fits the situation.”

“Oh,” her niece said, glancing at her sister whose eyes were wider than normal.

Not like Tess could explain that the guy she'd fallen at least a one-fourth in love with, had amazing sex with and lost a job to had shown up at her family's Easter dinner. Using the obscenity was mild compared to what she wanted to do, which was barge into the dining room and call him a no-good bastard. But this wasn't a soap opera, so she picked up the spoon and tossed it in the sink.

“Why?” This from Meghan.

“Huh?” Tess swiped at the tile floor with a paper towel, removing the crumbs.

“The reason you said
shit,
” Meghan persisted.

“Shh!” Tess said, slapping a hand over Meghan's mouth and looking around for Beth. “Don't repeat that word. Ever.”

Margaret Ann wrinkled her brow. “So why does it fit the situation?”

“Have you ever had a best friend who you thought was super cool, but then she kicked dirt in your face and went off to play with someone else?”

Meghan peeled Tess's hand from her mouth. “Kay-Kay didn't kick dirt but she did dump my bubbles out.”

“Well, that's what this is like. Kind of.” Tess eyed the hall leading to the dining room and tried to decipher the hum of conversation coming from there. She couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but the vibe seemed congenial.

Pinching her cheeks and rubbing her bare lips together, Tess tossed her hair and scooped up two plates of cannoli. “Later, gators.”

“We wanna see the mean girl,” Meghan said.

“It's not a girl,” Tess whispered, wishing she could hold a finger up to her lips and shush the chatty eight-year-olds. “It's a man.”

“Ohh,” Margaret Ann said, her eyes growing wide. She gave an excited smile to her sister. “It's a boy...which is kind of gross and kind of interesting.”

“Shh,” Tess said again before throwing back her shoulders and sashaying into the dining room.... At least she thought it was a sashay. She'd never taken dance. Interfered with soccer.

Everyone turned and stared. Imaginary crickets chirped.

“I have cannoli,” she trilled with a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Us, too,” one of the twins said.

Tess set a plate in front of Michael and then one in her own place. Sinking into her chair, she refused to look at the man standing beside her father. Refused. Picking up a fork she cut into the crisp pastry with the sinful filling. “Mmm...this is fabulous, Mom.”

Michael stared at his plate and tossed Tess a questioning look. She could feel the guilt emanating off her family. Why did they feel guilty? Wasn't their fault her father had invited the enemy into the fold.

“Thank you, honey,” Maggie said, shifting eyes to her husband then to Tess. Getting no help, she rose. “And who else would like some dessert?”

A few murmured responses met her mother's inquiry. Then silence fell again, hard and loud.

After several stretched minutes, Frankie Jr. cleared his throat. “So, Graham, would you care for some coffee?”

Frankie Jr. What a nice boy. So mannerly for a shark. So hospitable toward the man who had screwed his sister then not bothered to call her like he'd said he would. So welcoming to the man who would take over the family business. Did Frankie even know he extended the hand of politeness to the wolf who would eat them?

“No, thanks,” Graham said. Everyone's attention was on him. But not Tess's. She was busy pretending Graham wasn't intruding on her family Easter dinner.

Why in the hell was he here anyway? Why on God's green earth had her father invited him to a family meal? If she didn't know her father better, she'd think it was designed to rub her nose in the mess he'd made of their relationship. But while her father was many things, he wasn't a total bastard. No way he invited Graham to needle her. He had other reasons.

Silence sat among them. Even Joseph, impeccable surgeon able to withstand excruciating ten-hour surgeries with a steady hand, squirmed in his chair.

Finally Beth smiled. “So, Graham. Frank told us you have a daughter who is close to our girls' age.”

Not a question but an invitation.

“Emily. She's seven and with her mother today. I'm actually on my way over to her house to take Em her Easter basket. Frank asked me to stop by and meet his wife. I had no idea the entire family would be here. I hate to interrupt. Sorry.”

His words were softly spoken, like an apology meant for Tess. But instead of soothing her, they made her angry. She didn't need his damn pity. If her father wanted Graham here for their family get-together and if he wanted Graham to take over their family business, fine. Tess had no say. If she had, she wouldn't be stabbing her cannoli, trying not to launch herself on the floor and pitch a temper tantrum the way Max had at the last family dinner.

Self-control—hadn't she told Graham it wasn't her strong suit? So he'd been forewarned if she launched herself at him and clawed his eyes out.

Her anger must have crackled because Michael picked up the knife nearest her hand and moved it. Tess glared at him and he shrugged.

“So you're the fellow who stole Tess's job?” Granny B piped up, tackling the cannoli one of the twins had set in front of her.

Tess shot Granny B a fierce look designed to zip lips, but, of course, Granny B didn't give a flying fig whom she offended. Never had.

“No, ma'am. I didn't steal anything,” Graham said, nodding his thanks at Joseph who had so thoughtfully brought him a chair.

“Frank gave you control of his business, control of the empire he built from a scrap of nothing into something that paid for this house, my house and a trip to Italy last year. He trusts you. He gave you what he'd give a son.”

“But not a daughter,” Tess said before she could stop herself. Setting down her fork, she glanced at her father. He looked miserable. Good. And ironically, Graham sat to his right, also looking miserable. Doubly good.

“Tess,” her father breathed, shaking his head. “Let's not do this now. I invited Graham over for coffee and dessert last week, before our kerfuffle. This is not the time or place.”