heart-melting looks and soulful black eyes, he looked exactly like photographs she’d seen of her uncle Gino when he was that age. Gino had only been two years older than Mickey when her father had left her with Nonna and him. That had been a year after Mama had died. Gino had been more like a big brother to her than an uncle. He’d brought a great deal of comfort and laughter into her life, as had Nonna.
It was time to pass on the favor.
She brought her white convertible to a stop at the curb. The driveway was blocked by a huge moving van. As she watched, two men in beige coveralls came out of the house, struggling with Diane’s four-poster bed.
Was Mickey moving away?
Her mouth hardened as she remembered things Diane had told her about her ex-husband. The rat probably couldn’t wait to sell her things and rent out the house. She thought of Mickey. He was so painfully shy. How was he going to adjust to so many changes?
By the time she approached the opened door and knocked on the jamb, Bridgette had accused, tried and convicted Blaine O’Connor of emotional child abuse.
Bridgette knocked again, fully expecting to look into Jack Robertson’s weathered face. Nonna had attended the funeral to lend her emotional support to Jack. She’d been seeing Jack socially for almost a year now, thanks to Bridgette’s introduction. Her grandmother had told her that Diane’s father was going to be staying with Mickey until some sort of final arrangements could be made.
Obviously they’d been made faster than either one of them had anticipated.
Nonna hadn’t mentioned that anyone else would be staying with Mickey. She certainly hadn’t mentioned a tall, broad-shouldered man in a faded blue shirt and even more faded blue jeans. He had silky dark hair and troubled green eyes as he looked down at her.
She knew who he was immediately.
He looked like Mickey, except for the eyes. And except for the fact that innocence that was so blatantly stamped on Mickey’s face had been chiseled out of Blaine’s.
Bridgette attempted to swallow the animosity that instantly sprang up to seize her by the throat as fragments of things Diane had told her swam through her mind. She succeeded only marginally.
If she was selling something, Blaine thought, this raven-haired woman was going about it all wrong. The scowl on her face would have a lesser man quaking in his shoes, even if he was innocent.
But Blaine was well versed in accusing looks. Diane had been a master at them.
“Yes?”
Bridgette squared her shoulders as she unconsciously ran a hand through her hair. It was a nervous habit Nonna chided her for.
“I’m here to see Mickey.”
The movers were approaching the house with Blaine’s fifty-inch television set. Instinctively, he grasped the unknown woman by the shoulders and maneuvered her out of the way. He managed to draw her momentarily into the house.
As she pulled back, he looked at her curiously, humor curving his mouth. “I know he’s a serious boy, but aren’t you a little old for him?”
Bridgette didn’t care for his cocky attitude, or the way he had handled her as if she were a chair, in the way. “Is there an age requirement for friends?”
He should have worn his parka for that one, he thought, a little amused at her retort. Pure frost. Who was she?
“No, of course not.”
With a photographer’s eye, he studied her for a moment. Blaine could envision her in a half dozen layouts. If the woman didn’t model, she should. The nice thing about photographs, he mused, was that you never heard the model’s voice. This one’s was low and throaty. And accusing as hell.
“Now that you’re in my house, would you mind if I asked who you are?”
His house? The man worked fast. “I’m Bridgette Rafanelli, Mickey’s music teacher.”
Another thing he wasn’t aware of, he thought. He wondered how long Mickey had been taking lessons. He had just assumed that the piano in the living room was for show. Diane had always enjoyed putting on airs.
There were so many things about Mickey that he didn’t know, he realized, frustration gnawing away at him.
Blaine extended his hand. “I’m Mickey’s father, Blaine O’Connor.”
Bridgette had every intention of ignoring his hand, but that would have made her as boorish as she knew he was. So instead, she thrust her hand into his and shook it tersely, then pulled it away, as if it were odious to touch him.
“I know.”
By her judgmental tone, Blaine surmised that she had heard about him from Diane and that whatever she had heard was decidedly unflattering.
“That makes you one up on me.” He slid his hands into his pockets as he kept one eye on the movers. He had no intention of allowing them to manhandle his set.
Blaine saw the frown on her mouth deepen. “I take it you were also a friend of Diane’s.”
“Yes.”
Whatever Diane had said must have been horrid. Her voice fairly dripped with acrimony. Blaine felt annoyance rising at being prejudged this way. He opened his mouth to ask her what her problem was when she strode past him, her eyes on the piano.
She pointed toward it. “Are you leaving the piano?”
He came up behind her. He was almost a foot taller, he thought. “Yes.”
“Good.” She looked around. The house appeared in a state of utter chaos. And Mickey was nowhere to be seen. She turned around to look at Blaine and nearly bumped into him. Space was at a premium and somehow, he seemed to take up all of it. “May I see Mickey?”
Attitude. The lady exuded attitude. The wrong kind of attitude and he’d had just about enough of it. Blaine folded his arms before him as he studied her. He took his time answering, enjoying the fact that his drawl apparently seemed to annoy her.
“You can if you tell me why you sound as if your tongue is a sword and I’m the pumice stone you’re determined to sharpen it on.”
Diane had said he was charming and Bridgette could see it, in a rough sort of way. That only intensified her adverse reaction to him. “Diane told me a great deal about you.”
Blaine’s easy gaze narrowed. “And you’ve decided that only pure gospel passed Diane’s lips.”
“I don’t see much to contradict her.” She gestured toward the movers. They were taking out Diane’s white marble-topped table. “You’re getting rid of her things.”
He didn’t see how this was any business of hers. “Just some of them. So that I can move mine in.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re moving in?”
He liked the way surprise rounded her mouth. It was an interesting mouth, he decided. Under other circumstances, perhaps even a
