Night Jasmine (9 page)

Her father had suffered his aneurysm while she was gone. Aimee had come home to a father she barely recognized.

Hunter's heart went out to her. He could imagine how much that had hurt. How guilty she must have felt.

Inside the phone jangled. Oliver whimpered, then stirred. Without warning, Marie stood and placed the child in Hunter's lap. “
Pardon, cher.
I will be right back.”

Hunter watched her go, adrenaline pumping through him. As the screen door slapped shut, he looked down at Oliver. The boy whimpered again and snuggled against his chest, nestling his head into the curve of his arm.

Hunter swallowed. What the hell did he do now?

He looked anxiously back at the door; from inside he could hear Marie's deep voice as she spoke to whoever had called. Hunter looked back down at Oliver, emotion knotting in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The boy was warm with sleep, so
warm his hair and T-shirt were damp with sweat. So warm, the heat seemed to be pouring out of Oliver and into him. The warmth spread, filling him. His tensed muscles eased, then liquefied, and he relaxed back against the rocker.

Hunter breathed deeply through his nose, drawing in Oliver's scent, one that was both sweet and sweaty. Pete used to smell the same way, he remembered. Especially in the summer, or after an hour of particularly strenuous play.

A lump in his throat, Hunter lightly touched Oliver's hair, brushing the damp curls from where they clung to his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut. Dear God, it felt good to hold Oliver in his arms like this. The way he used to hold Pete.

The screen door opened and Marie stepped through, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. “That was Roberto,” she said. “For Aimee.”

Hunter looked blankly at Marie.

“He is in love with her,” Marie explained. “He is Cajun, but his blood, it is not so good.” She slid her gaze coyly to Hunter's. “But who knows? Our Aimee, she will do what she wants. And Oliver, he needs a father.”

Hunter frowned, denying that the feeling moving over him was jealousy. “This…Roberto, he's in love with Aimee?”

“Oui.”
Marie poured the lemonade and handed him a glass. “And he is a determined man. A man who goes after what he wants.”

And he wanted Aimee, Hunter thought. His Aimee.

As the thought passed through his head, Hunter reminded himself that Aimee was not
his.
He also told himself that he didn't care in the least that Aimee was involved with some guy named Roberto. He was glad Aimee had begun a new life. He wanted her to be happy. Sure.

Then why did he suddenly feel like flattening some guy he'd never even met before?

Fighting off both the thought and the urge, he took a sip of the lemonade. Working to keep his tone casual, he asked, “She and this…Roberto are seeing each other?”

Marie hesitated. “They see each other. Yes.”

He tightened his fingers on the glass. “It sounds serious.”

“This bothers you?”

“Of course not,” Hunter said quickly, his voice sounding gruff to his own ears. “It's none of my business. None at all,” he repeated firmly, moving the chair in a gentle rocking motion.

Marie watched him for a moment, then smiled. “It is something we never forget,
non?
How to love a child.”

Hunter looked down at Oliver, realizing with a shock how he'd been rocking him. How he'd been cradling him in his arms as if he belonged there. As if Oliver were his.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Buddy. Forever and ever.”

Guilt curled through him, squeezing, choking. Hunter set aside his glass, stood and handed Oliver back to Marie. She took the boy, the expression in her eyes quizzical.

“I don't want him to awake in my arms and be frightened,” Hunter murmured, his voice thick. He took a step back. “It was nice meeting you, Marie. I'm sure we'll see each other again before I leave.” He took another step. “If you'll excuse me, I've got some things to take care of.”

“Certainement.”
Marie stood, Oliver nestled in her arms. “But before you go, could you do for me a favor?”

Hunter hesitated, his gaze going to Oliver once again. “Sure.”

Marie led him into the store. “Alphonse called earlier. He's going to bring some shrimp tomorrow. To sell in the store. I went to clean the scale, and she slipped from her hook. It's too heavy for me or Aimee, and Roubin…he gets so frustrated when he can't do for himself.”

Hunter eyed the scale and its chains, set in a neat heap on the counter, then the hook in the ceiling above. “No problem. Is there a ladder?”

“
Oui.
In back.”

Hunter retrieved the ladder, and set it up. As he picked up the heavy old contraption, Oliver stirred, then yawned. “Maman,” he murmured, his eyes still tight shut.

“Non, bébé. Ti-tante.”

Oliver opened his eyes and smiled sleepily up at his great-aunt. “Maman coming home soon?”

“Oui.”

He shifted his gaze to Hunter, then hid his face in his aunt's blouse. “What he doing?”

“Rehanging the scale. Cousin Alphonse is bringing some shrimp tomorrow. Maybe your
maman,
she will make some bisque.”

Oliver peeked back at Hunter, studying him intently, watching as he effortlessly rehung the unwieldy old scale.

“There,” Hunter said, descending the ladder, being careful to keep his gaze from straying to Oliver. “Anything else while I have the ladder out?”

“Swing.” Oliver squirmed in Marie's arms, and she set him down. Wordlessly, he crossed to Hunter and slipped his small hand into Hunter's large one. Hunter stared at their joined hands, his mouth dry, his heart fast.

Oliver tugged. “Swing.”

Swallowing hard, Hunter let the boy lead him through the back of the store and out onto the back porch. Oliver pointed to the oak tree and the swing hanging dejectedly by one rope.

Oliver looked up at Hunter, his expression at once grim and hopeful. “You fix it?”

Hunter looked at the broken swing, then back down at Oliver's face, a warm sensation moving over him. Hunter smiled and squeezed Oliver's hand. “You got it…Tiger. I'll get the ladder.”

Chapter Five

A
imee and Roubin arrived home as the sky shifted from the blue of afternoon to the lavender of evening. Aimee helped her father from the car and into his chair, then pushed him up the ramp. Exhaustion pulled at her, as did a heart-deep weariness brought on by her father's predicament and her place in it.

The trip had been a disaster. Her father had been difficult—short-tempered and uncooperative. He'd taken his bitterness and anger out on her. It seemed the more accommodating she had become, the worse he'd treated her.

Several times during the course of the afternoon she'd had to fight off tears. It hurt to have him treat her so. It hurt more to see him so unhappy. She had made it through the day by reminding herself that her father needed her, that she was being a good, dutiful daughter, just as she'd promised herself she would be.

“Oliver,” Aimee called, holding the screen open with one hand and helping to guide Roubin's chair through the store's doorway with the other. “We're home.”

The screen snapped shut behind them, the sound echoing in the empty store. Aimee frowned. She had expected Oliver to be out front waiting; he always was when she left him for any amount of time.

She checked her watch. It was late for him to still be napping, but early for eating. Rubbing the back of her neck, she headed for the back room. “Tante Marie? Sorry we're late.”

From outside, Aimee heard the sound of Oliver's laughter. She smiled and turned to her father. “They're out back, Papa.”

She pushed through the back door, stepped out onto the porch and stopped in shock. Oliver sat in his swing, the one that had been broken for weeks now, the one she had promised her son a dozen times that she would have fixed. It wasn't broken any more. And it wasn't Tante Marie standing behind Oliver, pushing him.

Aimee sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the instinct to race across the yard and yank Oliver off the swing—and away from Hunter. Instead, she stood and watched as Hunter swung Oliver higher than she had ever dared to. Oliver squealed with excitement; Hunter laughed in response. They looked good together. Happy. Like any other father and son enjoying each other's company on a pretty afternoon.

Only Oliver and Hunter weren't any other father and son. They never would be.

Oliver looked over his shoulder at Hunter, laughing, obviously begging him to push him harder, higher. Her heart turned over and she gripped the door frame for support. She couldn't have Oliver becoming attached to Hunter. Couldn't have him getting used to having Hunter around, depending on him. He would be hurt when Hunter left, or when Hunter wasn't there for him when he needed him most.

Just as Hunter had hurt her, just as he hadn't been there for her when she'd needed him most.

She wouldn't allow that to happen. She wouldn't allow Hunter the opportunity to hurt Oliver that way. Aimee caught her bottom lip between her teeth. But hadn't she already? She'd known how much Oliver loved swinging, how much he'd missed it. Why hadn't she followed through on her promise to have it fixed?

But maybe, Aimee acknowledged, if it hadn't been the swing that had brought them together, it would have been something else. For the first time since earlier that day, she thought of the scene she had witnessed between Oliver and Hunter that morning. Seeing them together like that, interacting on such a personal level, had caught her totally by surprise. She remembered thinking that there must be some mistake, that some sort of fluke had brought them together.

After all, Oliver and Hunter took care not to even look at each other.

She saw now it wasn't a one-time thing, wasn't a fluke.

What was she going to do?

Her father wheeled up behind her and for a moment, watched the father and son outside. Then he chuckled. “They look good together,
non?
They look happy.”

Aimee glared at him, annoyed that he had mirrored her thoughts with words. “What you're seeing is an illusion. Hunter will never be a real father to Oliver, so stop hoping.”

Roubin shook his head slowly. “No,
chère.
What I see is real. It is what you feel that is an illusion.” Without waiting for a reply, he maneuvered himself around her and started down the ramp.

Aimee stared after him, tears stinging her eyes. Her feelings were real. Not imaginary. Not an illusion. She knew Hunter, understood him. It was her father, with his antiquated sense of family and duty, who was living in an imaginary world.

But if that were true, why did his words hurt so much?

Fighting the tears back, she marched after her father.

Oliver caught sight of them. “Pépàre!” he cried. “Maman! Look, swing fixed!”

“I see that, baby,” she said, forcing a smile. When she reached them, she stopped and looked furiously at Hunter. “You're pushing him too high,” she said softly, carefully. “He's just a baby. He could be hurt.”

“No, Maman!” Oliver pleaded, shaking his head. “Want to go higher!”

“I said no, Oliver.
I'm
the parent here. I know what's best for you.”

“But, Maman—”

“Your mom's right, Tiger,” Hunter interjected, slowing the swing, sending her a dark look as he did. “She's the boss and we follow orders. Right?”

Oliver stuck out his lower lip and sent her a sulky look. “Guess so.”

Aimee's heart twisted. She and Oliver had always been a team. He was the light of her life, she of his. Nobody had ever come between them. Until this moment. Until Hunter.

Aimee placed her fists on her hips, shaking with anger and exhaustion. “Where's Tante Marie?”

“Cooking.”

“Cooking?” Aimee echoed, surprised.

“Mmm. When it started to get late, she decided to get dinner going. She called cousin Alphonse and had him bring by some shrimp.”

Cousin Alphonse? Aimee thought incredulously. Hunter said the name as if he were speaking of a member of his own family.

“She can't believe you haven't made me
étouffée
yet,” he continued, grinning. “She clucked her tongue over that one.”

Beside her, Roubin chuckled.

“Oh,” Hunter added, giving Oliver a push, “a guy named Roberto called. He seemed pretty desperate to talk to you.”

Aimee frowned, unsure which bothered her more—that Roberto wouldn't take no for an answer or that Hunter was acting like he'd moved in for good.

“Boyfriend?”

Aimee stiffened. “That's none of your business. You are a visitor here. Not one of the family. I didn't authorize you to watch my son or answer the phone or fix anything.”

“Is something wrong, Aimee?” Hunter asked, his voice low, carefully controlled. “If there is, maybe you should just spit it out.”

Aimee turned to her son, her nerves at the snapping point, a bubble of hysteria rising up in her. “Oliver, get down.” When he defiantly shook his head, she sucked in a sharp breath, her control slipping one more notch. She knew she was acting irrationally, that her behavior was out of line, but she was too tired and too threatened to help herself. “Now!” she snapped.

Oliver's eyes filled and his lower lip began to quiver. Hunter stopped the swing, helped him off of it, then ruffled his hair. The familiarity of the gesture sent hysteria and insecurity charging through her. “Go get washed up for supper.”

Oliver turned to Hunter as if for reassurance, and Hunter nodded. “Do what your mom says. We can swing more tomorrow.”

“Come on,
petit-fils.
Pépàre will give you a ride.”

Aimee watched as Oliver gazed up at Hunter in adoration, and hysteria inched closer to the surface. How had everything changed so quickly? This morning Oliver wouldn't even look at Hunter, now he looked at him as if he were a god.