Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) Page 4

  Once Daddy died, Rosie had brought Livy home to live with her own mother, a woman who had a hard time remembering her name, let alone her granddaughter’s. Rosie had visited once in a while, never staying longer than a week, being gone sometimes as much as six months. At seventeen, Livy became the responsible person of the house. At first she had no idea how, but as the years went by, she learned the lesson well. Perhaps too well.

  Every time she tried to loosen up, as her mother said she should, Livy would see that body rocketing toward the earth, view another picture of a child abused or lost, remember again the man she loved leaving her forever. Then she’d clutch Max closer and hold him tighter than ever before.

  Final splashing noises and the swirling belch of the drain broke into Livy’s thoughts. She peeked again and found Max drying himself off. His cast appeared fine, dry and all in one piece. Modem medicine was amazing. Lucky for Max.

  “I’ll check on breakfast,” she said. ‘‘Get dressed and come down.”

  “’Kay.”

  Livy took the back steps to the kitchen. Her mother had already skipped off to parts unknown, which solved Livy’s problem of getting rid of her before J.J. returned. Rosie wasn’t the kind of grandma who hung about watching television and knitting socks. Unfortunately, many of the times that Rosie disappeared without a word, Livy ended up bailing her out of jail.

  Rosie liked to organize peaceful protests for every lost cause she could find. Goblins, hawks or cobblestones, Indian burial grounds, geese or tumbledown pirate’s cave—it didn’t matter. If there was a person, place or thing that needed defending, Rosie would be there.

  On the up side, her causes kept her busy. On the downside, one woman’s peace was a police officer’s nightmare. The law enforcement community had discovered the only way to shut up Rosie was to lock up Rosie.

  At least Livy had gained a friend out of her mother’s proclivity for arrest. Detective Gabriel Klein—Gabe to his friends, Klein to his co-workers—was someone in between to Livy. New in Savannah, yet native to Georgia, he had been of help to her with a few long-term, criminal cases.

  His usual fare as a detective was serious infractions, and not Rosie’s type of nonsense, which was usually left to the officers on patrol. But because he and Livy were friendly, Klein looked out for Rosie whenever she turned up in jail. He’d also started to look out for Livy and Max, even though she hadn’t asked him to. From what she’d heard around Savannah, Klein liked to look after people. It was what he did best.

  Max thundered down the steps. How one child could sound like ten on the steps Livy had never figured out, but Max managed.

  He sat at the table, and she placed a plate of waffles in front of him. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Thank Rosie.”

  “Thanks, Rosie,” he called.

  “She’s not here.”

  “That’s okay. She said she can hear me even if she’s not around.”

  “You know sometimes Gramma says things that aren’t exactly so.”

  “Don’t call her Gramma.”

  “There you go. She is a gramma. Not calling her one doesn’t make it not so.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind callin’ her Rosie. I love her.”

  Max and Rosie had taken one look at each other and fallen instantly in love. No matter how much her mother annoyed Livy, she could never split up her and Max. Never.

  Livy left Max shoveling his breakfast as if protecting it from ravenous wolves. The boy ate like a truck driver, yet resembled an escapee from Andersonville Prison.

  She ran upstairs and into the bathroom, where she hung up his towel, then shut every drawer and door that Max had opened.

  Rosie understood this odd habit and it never irritated her to have to constantly shut every cover on every crevice after Max had been through a room. When Livy asked her mother what Max could possibly think lived beneath the bathroom sink, Rosie had said, “Maybe Max doesn’t even know, but better safe than sorry.”

  What were you supposed to say to logic like that?

  Sometimes Livy felt as much an outsider living with her mother and son as she’d felt when she’d first been left in Savannah. Back then she hadn’t known how to behave, how to make friends, whom to trust. Then there’d been one magic summer with one magic man…and she’d learned that in truth she could trust no one but herself.

  Now the man who had taught her the hardest lesson of her life was back.

  Livy cut off those treacherous thoughts and got dressed. For court she always wore a skirt, heels and a jacket. Today she added a bright-red camisole to give the illusion of power.

  She stuck out her tongue at the mirror. She looked scared to death, and she loathed suits. Unfortunately, all the big lawyer boys wore them.

  Livy returned to the kitchen just as Max tripped over the rag rug and dumped his dishes into the sink with a crash. “You okay?”

  The intensity of the glare she received for being such a mom was tempered somewhat by his milk mustache. Livy resisted the urge to wipe it off. With the white foam on his lip, Max looked like her baby again. Then he asked a typical Max question that reminded her he was no longer any kind of baby.

  “Mr. Stark said if you believe in something it’s true. Is that right?”

  ‘‘What do you think?”

  His chin went up; his eyes turned defiant “I thought that maybe it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe if I believe in something it would be true. Like magic.”

  ‘‘Magic isn’t any more real than Santa, Max. I wish it were.”

  His chin drooped toward his chest. Guilt, guilt, guilt. The word beat in time to the pulse of pain in Livy’s head.

  Once, Livy had believed in magic, but believing hadn’t made the magic real. She’d learned never to believe in anything she couldn’t see and hear and touch.

  Livy gave in to the urge to pull Max against her and listen to his heart beat sure and steady; she touched his impossibly soft cheek.

  Max was all the magic she needed. No matter who was back in town.

  *

  Garrett walked to River Street, bought coffee he didn’t need or want, then sat on a bench and watched the Savannah River. Boats flowed by, tourists chattered, the city awoke around him, and Garrett still stared at the water.

  I have a son.

  He could not seem to get his mind around that fact. Maybe because his son was eight years old—a walking, talking, laughing, falling person. Most fathers got to start with a baby and work up. Not him. For a bonus, his son thought he was dead.

  Garrett dumped out his coffee untasted. His heart already pumped too hard and too fast from anger, fear and uncertainty. He didn’t need a caffeine jump start.

  Why hadn’t Livy told him? Had she even tried to find him? Most important why did she hate him?

  He wasn’t blameless. He had run away. He’d also been a child, at least when dealing with emotions. Because he’d never known love until Livy.

  Garrett’s mother had taken off when he was a baby. He didn’t have a single memory of her. Perhaps he should feel abandoned. Counselors and teachers had told him that often enough. But how could he feel left when he felt little to nothing at all?

  He might have wondered on occasion why she’d gone. Had it been to get away from him? But Garrett had lived with his father, and somehow he’d doubted his mother had run from a baby.

  James, Sr., a no-nonsense, high-profile, corporate attorney, had wanted a son to follow in his footsteps. He’d gotten J.J., instead.

  The man had not known what to do with a child who walked around in a cloud of imagination, tripped over his own feet, ran into doors and talked about people who did not exist—except try like hell to change him.

  Garrett had waited until he was eighteen to run. But a lifetime of being told he was useless and worthless, that dreams were only dreams and his would never amount to anything, had made Garrett uncertain of what was the truth.

  When Livy had told him she loved him, Garrett had run again, knowing he
did not deserve a gift as precious as that. And in running he’d made all his father’s predictions come true.

  The breeze off the river whispered autumn—summer dying, winter coming. The scent of sultry heat fading toward sharp, cool ice, but beneath it all, the tangy whiff of burning leaves and the prophesy of withering daylight.

  The rumble of cars over the cobblestone street at Garrett’s back made him remember walking along this very river, taking her hand, wishing things he’d never dared hope for and dreaming more than he’d ever dared to dream.

  Touching her skin in the moonlight, gently, reverently, knowing she was the most beautiful being on this earth. Pulling her close, smelling her hair, breathing her name, understanding he held everything in his arms. And knowing in his heart he deserved none of it, but wanting her nevertheless. She had given him strength, made him believe in himself and shared every bit of herself.

  Garrett had thought he was coming back to Savannah for the book. He admitted now, he had come back for her.

  He still didn’t deserve her love. He certainly didn’t deserve Max. But he had learned a few things over the past nine years. People rarely got what they deserved—be it good or bad. They quite often got what they fought for, though, and they could earn what they believed in deeply enough.

  Livy was different now. Perhaps not the woman he’d once loved, and he had no one to blame but himself. His son, on the other hand, was special. Garrett had seen that the second he looked into Max’s eyes. Max was like him, only better, and Garrett wasn’t going to allow Max to endure the childhood Garrett had endured. He was going to nourish his son’s magic and give him everything J. J. Garrett had longed for.

  Garrett breathed the river air one more time, felt the peace of this place he’d been awaiting. As he walked back to Livy’s house he made a vow to himself.

  He was going to become the father he’d always wanted.

  *

  When the doorbell rang, Livy let out a startled yelp. She wasn’t ready.

  Oh, she was dressed and Max was gone and the house was empty. But she was not ready to see the man again. Not now, maybe never.

  As she approached the door, Livy gave herself a quick pep talk. She was stronger, smarter, older. She had everything she needed in her life; she did not need him. J.J. could not hurt her anymore.

  She did not love him. He could not touch her and make her do anything. He could not speak to her in that haunting voice and make her dream impossible dreams.

  She would fix this. Wasn’t she the best family law attorney in town? If Livy Frasier couldn’t take care of her own problems, what good was she to anyone else?

  Livy opened the door and her breath stopped in her throat, making her chest hurt. He was more beautiful now than he’d been all those years ago. His hair just as black, but longer, his face more defined—a man’s face now, with no trace of the boy she’d lost everything to.

  Foolish girl. What difference did it make how he looked?

  His dark gaze met hers, and she shivered despite the rising heat of the day. The warmth of the sun became a memory; the strength she’d talked herself into, a whisper gone on the wind. This man had been her everything, and when she’d lost him she had nearly lost herself.

  Kisses in the moonlight, sex beneath the stars, secret meetings, murmured promises. She’d been so young, so unbelievably naive and stupid. But she’d never felt anything that strong, or that magical, since.

  Love that deep destroyed. The girl she’d been then was no more. Thank God.

  Tightening her fingers on the doorknob, Livy moved back, the only welcome she could bring herself to give. As he stepped inside, her head spun with memories of other times he’d been here, the occasions he’d snuck up the servants’ stairs to her room.

  Since this house dated from the mid-1700s, there were also servants’ quarters, where Rosie lived, and such antiquities as a front parlor—where, Livy recalled, she’d shared her first French kiss with this man on the chaise lounge. There was even a wrought-iron gate around the garden, where once, in the middle of a thunderstorm, he’d put his hot hands all over her icy cold skin and—

  “Shall we go into the dining room?” Her voice polite but brittle, Livy hoped he could not tell that her palms had gone damp and she was having a hard time remembering this was business.

  Business she could manage. The past was beyond her control.

  “I’d rather keep it informal.” Taking charge, he strolled into the parlor and sat on the blasted chaise lounge. When he glanced at her, she knew he remembered the same things she did.

  Her face flamed and she wanted to hide. Her hard-won self-discipline slipped another notch. If he kept reminding her of the past, she didn’t know how she’d make it through the present.

  Livy waited for him to speak. That was always best in situations like these. Be patient. Wait for them to spill the beans, tip their hand, talk too much—then pounce. She remained standing, as far away from him as she could get without leaving the room.

  “You look…” He hesitated. “Different.”

  “You could use a haircut.”

  How she looked was irrelevant. Just as how he looked—spectacular—was not going to make her dreamy-eyed any longer. She had dreamed herself dry long ago.

  Livy glanced at her watch. “Can we get down to business?”

  “I wouldn’t call Max business.”

  “What would you call him?”

  “My son.”

  “You’re so certain?”

  “He looks exactly like I did at that age. Size, hair, feet, everything.”

  The mystery of the blond hair solved, Livy thought. What she said was, “That means nothing.”

  When he stood, Livy tensed, but he didn’t come any closer, merely paced in front of the chaise lounge. He wasn’t a big man in weight or musculature, but he was tall, much taller than she, and his mien of barely suppressed energy filled the room, pressed on her, made her aware and alive.

  He’d always had the gift of being still, yet the force of his personality would rivet attention upon him even in a crowded room. The fact that he couldn’t be still now gave voice to his agitation.

  In the past few years, Livy had become a master at seeing beneath the surface of anyone. Watching him, she understood that though J.J.’s name might have changed, little else had. She had to remember that. For Max’s sake, if not her own.

  He faced her. “I can count, Livy, and I know you.”

  “You knew me.”

  “Fine, I knew you. There was only me for you.”

  “Too bad that didn’t work the other way around.”

  His jaw tightened. “I never touched another woman in Savannah.”

  “No, not another woman. For you the mistress was life.”

  “And that’s so terrible? Life?”

  He didn’t understand. No one ever had.

  “Adventure, excitement, travel—something new, someone different.” She took a deep breath, striving for control, knowing it was lost. “Anywhere but here,” she whispered. “Anything but love.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? I’m not a fool. The morning after I tell you I’ll love you forever, you’re gone without a trace. I meant little to nothing to you, J.J.”

  “Garrett,” he corrected.

  “Fine, Garrett,” she snapped. Screw control; with this man, she’d never had any. “What is it you want from me?”

  “First, I’d like to know why my son thinks I’m dead.”

  “He thinks you’re undead.”

  “Very funny. I want the truth.”

  “The truth? J. J. Garrett is dead. You’re Garrett Stark now.”

  “Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere. I want to see my son. I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

  “No.”

  “No?” His voice was deadly calm.

  When had he crossed the room? How had he come to stand only a few steps away? And how could she back up when she was al
ready against the wall?

  “Just like that? No?”

  “Pretty much.” She tried to appear unconcerned, even though her heart pounded so loudly she could barely think.

  The air between them seemed to hum. She could hear herself breathe, hear him, too. The room had gone hot; her silk camisole stuck to her back. Her hair drifted into her eyes and she shook her head to get it out.

  How could she still want him? She had wanted nothing for so long except to keep Max safe. Yet when faced with the most dangerous thing she’d ever known, all she wanted to do was pull him closer and forget all that might keep her sane.

  He towered over her, crowded her. He smelled like sultry nights and sin in the rain. His hands, on either side of her head, trapped her. He wasn’t touching her anywhere, yet she felt him everywhere.

  “You can’t deny me my son.”

  Raising her palms, she braced them against his black-clad chest, prepared to shove him away if she had to. “He’s my son. And I can do anything I damn well please.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then, so can I.”

  He kissed her, hard—desperately seeking, heedlessly searching. How could she have believed she was stronger now? This man had been her only weakness, and now he taught her all over again that he always would be.

  His lips were the same ones that had tempted her with passion, schooled her in sex, whispered hope, promised the impossible.

  Instead of shoving him away, her fingers fisted in his shirt, holding him near. His pulse thundered against her wrist, as loud and as fast as her own. His hair brushed her cheek, shaded her face, as his smart, clever mouth captivated, and his touch ignited her soul. The kiss was both everything she remembered and everything she’d ever wanted to forget.

  Caged memories tumbled free. Emotions she’d never wanted to experience again burst full blown behind her closed eyelids. The heart she’d hardened to everyone but her son shivered, shook and began to sob.

  Livy tore her mouth from his. “You’re not going to get me to agree this way. You can’t see Max.” The words sounded as hard and cold as she’d wanted them to.