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“He probably won’t stop until you reply.”
“Can’t you do anything about that?”
“We’ve been over this.” But she didn’t blame her daughter. Truth to tell, she would like to string Lucky up by his balls and read him the riot act over and over again or see him drop off the face of the earth. Yeah, that would be better. But she held her tongue. She’d said what she’d had to about her ex and what he’d done months ago, then had fought all her motherly instincts and let her nearly grown daughter deal with the dirtbag that was her father. It about killed her.
“I’m not talking to him. Ever.” Again the challenge as Bianca glared at her mother, but Pescoli was staying out of that dog fight. Bianca’s father, Luke aka Lucky Pescoli, had crossed a line with both Regan and Bianca just this past summer when he’d been instrumental in her kidnapping. Bianca had nearly lost her life and in the process had killed her captor, though no charges had been filed against her. Hence, Bianca was dealing with all kinds of thorny issues that included guilt, anger, fear, and, of course, there was no way she’d forgiven Lucky.
Regan got it.
Lucky Pescoli was handsome as hell, or had been, but was a prick of the highest—make that lowest— order, but she didn’t say it, just sipped her jolt-less coffee because like it or not, she’d picked him for husband number two and he was Bianca’s father.
A big mistake, but there it was.
“And I’m changing my name—my last name.”
“If you want to—”
“To Santana,” she said, lifting her chin. “You should too!”
She swept out the back door.
On that count, her daughter was right. Pescoli was considering it.
Through the window she watched Bianca trudge through the snow to her ten-year-old Jeep. Once behind the wheel, she fired up the engine and took off, snow spraying from beneath the Wrangler’s big tires.
Pescoli watched the SUV disappear into the trees just as the back door opened again. Along with a blast of cold air, Santana, three dogs trailing behind him, strode into the kitchen. Cisco, the oldest of the lot, a small, wiry terrier, took one look at Pescoli and did his little dance, rotating in tight circles and barking, while Sturgis, the black lab they’d inherited upon Dan Grayson’s death, wagged his tail slowly. Nikita, Santana’s husky, nosed around the baseboards hoping for a scrap of forgotten food.
“Hey, beautiful,” her husband said, and she shook her head.
“Not feeling all that beautiful today,” she admitted, setting her cup on the counter.
“Always are to me.”
She eyed him warily. “What’s with all the flattery?”
“Just the facts, ma’am,” he drawled.
“Sure,” she replied, fighting a smile as he settled onto a stool at the kitchen island and skimmed his iPad. Where once there had been newsprint in their home, there were now only computer screens. “Alvarez called.”
“Yeah?”
“She wants me to come back to work. Sooner rather than later.”
He looked up and she saw the reservation in his dark eyes. “You tried before,” he said, reminding her of her brief stint on duty once her maternity leave had ended.
“I know.” She’d been excited to return to work but had missed her son to the point of being miserable. And then there was the fact that her emotions had been stretched to the breaking point.
“So?” he prompted.
“I don’t know.”
“For what it’s worth—”
“I know where you stand.” She cut him off. “But my decision, right?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Right.”
“Glad to see you’re so progressive,” she said sharply, then regretted her tone. “Never mind. You want me here, I know. But you know I’m really not the type to sit at home and volunteer at the preschool or arrange playdates with moms who are probably, oh, I dunno, maybe half or at least only two-thirds my age?”
