If I Loved You

By Alyssa Kress

Parenthood is never easy, but especially not when murder is involved.

Successful career woman Pattie Bowen isn’t used to feeling helpless. But when her D-List actress sister dies, Pattie has no idea how to care for her sister's toddler orphan. She’d never expected to be a parent. She’d certainly never expected the chaos a two-year-old can create. To make matters worse, no nanny will stay on with the difficult child.
Until manny Zane Kincaid arrives. A former jet designer, blackballed for blowing the whistle on life-threatening corruption and then deserted by his wife, Zane has chucked the high-powered world he once knew. He now devotes his time to caring for the only people who’re innocent enough to appreciate it: children. Zane has no intention of getting involved with his new employer, even if she is attractive, single, and tempting.
Then Zane discovers that Pattie’s sister left her more than one sad child – a whole lot more, and all of it dangerous. Of course the vexatiously independent Pattie intends to take on all threats single-handed. Zane finds it increasingly difficult to remember he’s given up saving the world – or even one feisty woman.

A full-length, humorous and sexy romantic suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyssa Kress
• Release date: Jul 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311974013

Alyssa Kress

Alyssa Kress completed her first novel at the age of six, an unlikely romance between a lion and the jackal who wants to steal his meal. Despite earning two degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and spending nearly a decade in the construction industry, she's yet to see her feet stay firmly on the ground. She now lives in Southern California, three miles from where she first committed pen to paper, together with her husband and two children.

Book preview

Parenthood is never easy, but especially not when murder is involved.

Successful career woman Pattie Bowen isn’t used to feeling helpless. But when her D-List actress sister dies, Pattie has no idea how to care for her sister's toddler orphan. She’d never expected to be a parent. She’d certainly never expected the chaos a two-year-old can create. To make matters worse, no nanny will stay on with the difficult child.

Until manny Zane Kincaid arrives. A former jet designer, blackballed for blowing the whistle on life-threatening corruption and then deserted by his wife, Zane has chucked the high-powered world he once knew. He now devotes his time to caring for the only people who’re innocent enough to appreciate it: children. Zane has no intention of getting involved with his new employer, even if she is attractive, single, and tempting.

Then Zane discovers that Pattie’s sister left her more than one sad child – a whole lot more, and all of it dangerous. Of course the vexatiously independent Pattie intends to take on all threats single-handed.  Zane finds it increasingly difficult to remember he’s given up saving the world – or even one feisty woman.

A full-length, humorous and sexy romantic suspense.

IF I LOVED YOU

by Alyssa Kress

Published by 4 Dolphins Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Alyssa Kress

Cover Design Copyright 2014

by http://coversbykaren.com

Discover these and other titles by Alyssa Kress at her webpage, http://www.alyssakress.com

Marriage by Mistake

The Heart Heist

The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

Asking For It

Love and the Millionairess

Working on a Full House

Your Scheming Heart

I Gotta Feeling

The Fiancée Fiasco

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit http://www.alyssakress.com to find licensed retailers from whom you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious, even those referring to actual or well-known entities. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank everyone who has given immense support and help in creating this and other stories: Julie Woolley, Kathy Bennett, Jenna Ives, Leigh Court. I would also like to thank David for teaching me about the throwaway newspaper business, and Dr. Marian Goldsmith, who helped me kill off Savannah Bowen.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

About the Author

Other books by Alyssa Kress

Preview of That'll Be the Day

CHAPTER ONE

Don't move!

Pattie uttered this command from the door of her home office, pausing one horrified instant before flying across the room and raising her arms to block the bookcase atop her desk. Just—stay right there, she ordered.

Tristan whimpered. Pattie's two-and-a-half-year-old nephew had somehow stuffed himself into the top shelf of the bookcase. Resembling an oversized and poorly considered knick-knack, he lay in between her mother's crystal candlesticks and a macumba mask from her pre-being-a-business-owner trip to Brazil.

How he'd managed to get himself into such a position was beyond Pattie's imagination. How to get him out again was also beyond her. He was about six feet up.

Of all the— Let's see. Maybe I can...climb onto the desk... The candlesticks were goners, Pattie understood. The macumba mask probably wouldn't survive the rescue either.

Hiking up her narrow skirt, she placed a foot on the cushion of her desk chair, then maneuvered her other knee on top of the desk. But as she put her weight on that knee, she heard an ominous crack. Along with the bookcase, the desk already held two computers and four monitors. Although Pattie was athletically built, she was five feet ten and no featherweight. Adding herself to the mix was apparently too much.

Damn cheap self-assemble furniture, she grumbled.

Damn! Tristan echoed. Damn, damn, damn!

Groaning, Pattie admitted, once again, that parenting was not her forté. After taking her eyes off her nephew long enough for him to get into this fix, she was now teaching him a few cuss words for good measure.

Please forget I said that, she muttered. At least don't practice it while I go get the stepladder.

But as Pattie started to ease off the desk, Tristan began to wiggle off the shelf.

What are you doing? She halted in her half-on, half-off position. Did the child have a death wish? Please, kid, don't move.

For once, Tristan obeyed her. He simply lay there and stared at her with his dark brown eyes. Nick's eyes.

Fortunately, it only hit her once in a while, the kid's resemblance to Nick. Only occasionally did she have to remember how stupid she'd been about Nick three years ago. Meanwhile, she and the child settled into a standoff. In the midst of this, Pattie heard the chimes of the doorbell.

The nanny. Damn, Pattie whispered. The nanny, whom the agency had told her was her 'last chance.' The one she'd wanted to impress that taking care of Tristan wouldn't be such an impossible job, after all.

Damn, Tristan replied. Wanna get down. He began to wiggle off the shelf again.

No! Pattie held up her hands. She wouldn't be able to catch him if he fell off the shelf. Meanwhile the desk beneath her gave another threatening creak.

Utter helplessness. The sensation settling over her was one she'd rarely experienced before her nephew had entered her life. If nothing else, she was an eminently competent person. But not now. Now she felt helpless and stupid at least ten times a day.

Never more so than this minute. She couldn't possibly finish the rescue by herself. Luckily...

Hello? She wondered if the nanny could hear her through the exterior wall of the adjacent dining room.

Hello? a deep, male voice answered.

Male? Oh, yeah. The agency had told her they were sending a man. He was the very best they had, they'd warned Pattie, the implication being if she let her charge drive this one off, they had nobody else to offer her.

Hello? The male nanny called again. His voice was strong and deep. It sounded too deep, really, for a young man.

Frowning, Pattie answered him. I can't get to the door— But she needed the nanny in here. He could prevent Tristan from falling off the shelf while she ran to get the stepladder. There's a spare key, she remembered. Under the Tiki god!

There followed a silence of apparent confusion. Nearly a dozen figurines nestled by the front door on the second-floor landing. Would the nanny know which was a Tiki god?

He must have, for she heard the too-deep voice again. Found it.

Great! Let yourself in— But Pattie already could hear the front door opening. The nanny appeared to own some initiative, which was a good thing, as Tristan was wiggling treacherously close to the edge of the shelf. A crystal candlestick wobbled. The kid was perched on disaster.

Wait! Pattie demanded, and waved her hands at him.

To her surprise, Tristan waited. In fact, he went absolutely still. His gaze shot past her.

Pattie turned.

A man who was definitely not a nanny stood in the open doorway of her home office. One of her downstairs neighbor's hotshot lawyer friends? No, even in the semi-casual clothes—tan chinos, a buttoned shirt, and zip-up jacket, he looked beyond that. With a face of hard-knocks experience, he could have been anything from a shark of high finance to a mafia henchman.

Hell. He'd be no use at all.

All the same, he strode into the room. With a twitch of his lips, he came to a stop in front of Pattie's desk. From there, he reached up and plucked Tristan out of the shelf.

The crystal candlesticks wobbled, then settled back into their places. The macumba mask from Brazil spun once before falling gently onto its side.

Without uttering even a small grunt of effort, the man set Tristan down on the Persian rug.

Tristan gave the man a brief, petrified regard, then scrammed. His sneakers could be heard scurrying down the hall.

The man who was definitely not a nanny raised his eyebrows and turned to face Pattie. He was a big and solid guy, at least four or five inches taller than herself. Powerful.

For a moment, very brief—and surprising—she felt physical awareness of him. It was a moment that felt like a punch.

Then he smiled. Patricia Bowen, I presume?

Pattie's mouth opened. How did the shark know her name?

Zane Kincaid. He held out his hand. Your new nanny. Or manny, if you prefer.

Oh, no. He couldn't be a nanny, or even a manny. He looked like he belonged behind the prosecutor's table in a murder trial, or smoking cigars in the back room of some high-ranking politician. Meanwhile, the man who couldn't be her nanny stood with his hand held out as if he fully expected her to buy this rot.

Worst of all, he looked as if, behind the polite smile, he was laughing at her.

Uncharacteristic heat suffused her face. She supposed, being objective, the situation was funny. She'd just allowed her ward to wedge himself onto a shelf like a spare dictionary, she'd had to shout through the dining room wall to tell the nanny where to find her spare key. Add to that, she was still perched with one foot on her office chair and the other knee on her desktop.

But she wasn't in the mood to laugh at herself. Besides, it wasn't as if any of this was really her. She wasn't a parent; she was a businesswoman. Her real life was hustling her website design company, expanding her client base, and winning awards. Efficiency and success.

Meanwhile, it was impossible to scramble down from her desk with any pretense of grace. It didn't help when the guy reached out to help her, a big hand under her elbow as she stumbled back onto her feet. A strong hand. Her five feet ten didn't even make the hand tremble.

Letting out a deep breath, Pattie determined to grab back her pride. With a firm smile, she casually straightened her blouse and claimed, Things aren't always this crazy around here.

The hint of his laugh blossomed into the real thing.

It would have been a nice laugh if it hadn't been directed at her. Annoyed, Pattie felt her face turn warm again.

Okay, dammit, things were crazy. How else were they supposed to be? Savannah's impossible child had dropped into her life three months ago. Pattie'd had no warning, wasn't prepared, and had no experience with parenthood. God knew, she felt for the poor kid, but still— It had been like a volcano erupting.

And she wasn't even Tristan's closest relative. It was his father, wasn't it, who should be dealing with all this?

Yes, Nick should be the one handling this problem.

But Nick wasn't here right now. I'd better go find the kid, Pattie realized, before he gets into more trouble.

Zane Kincaid shrugged. I doubt he'll have the stomach for another escapade for, oh, twenty minutes or so.

He doubted it, did he? He was an instant expert on Tristan Bowen, was he? Zane Kincaid appeared to think he was, for he gifted her with a knowing grin.

The grin said he knew more than she did. Of course, he probably actually did. Pretty much anyone knew more about kids than she did. But the grin still got to her.

Twenty minutes? Pattie repeated. Oh, good. That will give us just enough time for our interview.

Interview? a voice screeched in her head. As if she had a choice about hiring the guy? She had a client coming at two—bringing money—for a website she hadn't yet completed. She'd lost six nannies in the three months she'd contracted with NannyOntheGo. She was definitely in the beggars-can't-be-choosers category here. Whoever showed up, she had to snatch.

But that didn't mean she couldn't make him squirm a little first. She'd sure like to wipe that grin off his face.

Why don't you have a seat? She indicated the cushioned sofa she kept in the room for clients. Meanwhile she sat in the desk chair and swiveled to face him.

Looking amused, the man sat on her sofa. He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, relaxed, like he didn't have to impress anybody here.

Pattie put on her professional smile, then quickly crossed one leg over the other to conceal a shallow, two-inch-long cut she noticed on her knee, probably a result of her bout with the desk. To Kincaid she said, Why don't you tell me about your background?

My 'background?' With eyes oh-so-innocent, he reached into his zip-up jacket. What, exactly, would you like to know?

Pattie watched in confusion as he removed a finger-length toy train engine from his jacket. She blinked as he set the toy on his crossed leg and began to run it up and down his thigh.

Uh. Ahem. She forced her gaze up from the tan chinos and the muscles she could see under them. How about telling me how you were previously employed? Stockbroker, corporate raider—Olympic runner?

Ah, you would be referring to Emma Goldstein.

I would?

The toy engine went up and down the chinos. I not only got her two-year-old daughter toilet-trained, but taught her the alphabet. A very pleased client, Emma Goldstein.

Oh, really? And you're no longer with her because...?

Her daughter started preschool. There was a suspicious glint in the manny's eyes. After Emma, I worked for Sophia Dawani. She was so happy with my services she asked me to move with her family when they relocated to Scottsdale last month. He smiled. But I'm based in L.A.

Hmm. Pattie swung her foot up and down.

Meanwhile, the manny set the toy train engine on the sofa, about a foot from himself. Only then did Pattie notice Tristan was standing in the hall, half hidden by the doorframe. His gaze fixed on the manny.

So that's what Kincaid had been up to with the toy train engine. Getting Tristan out from hiding. Engaging with him.

Something reluctantly close to admiration curled through Pattie. Her leg swung from side to side now. She didn't want to admire the manny. She wanted to find something wrong with him, something to put her on an equal footing with the guy—or even give her an excuse not to hire him at all.

She had a feeling that something could be found in whatever explanation he gave for playing at nannying. With his high-powered demeanor and well-educated looks, Pattie was certain he ought to be plying some other trade. What trade had that been, and why wasn't he still at it?

While she attempted to frame the question, Tristan inched into the room. Pattie watched in fascination as he crept toward the train engine.

Uh...I don't believe NannyOntheGo mentioned your...training. Pattie did her best to avoid looking at Tristan. The kid was actually approaching an adult?

I don't have any. Cheerfully admitting this, Zane set an arm along the back of the sofa. I just have a knack for taking care of kids.

So you don't have any children of your own?

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. I don't.

There was something there, in that answer... But Pattie knew a brick wall when she saw one. Might as well cut to the chase. What did you do before you became a nanny?

His eyebrows shot upward, as if it were legitimate to be shocked by the question.

Meanwhile, Tristan slipped up to the sofa. Carefully, he reached out and laid a hand over the train engine that sat a little apart from Kincaid. Still carefully, Tristan made the toy roll.

Zane, with his eyes on Pattie, walked his fingers down the sofa toward Tristan. Suddenly, his hand pounced, closing over Tristan's with the train engine. A growl came from his throat.

Tristan screamed. Zane grabbed the boy. Another scream split the air, followed by a boy-man tussle.

Pattie jumped to her feet. Before she could do anything to stop the assault, the pair ended with Zane on his side on the sofa and Tristan clasped in his arms.

The kid was laughing.

Pattie stood transfixed. Tristan wasn't merely smiling—something she'd never seen him do. He was outright laughing, his face aglow, cheeks red, eyes sparkling. He looked...happy.

A peculiar sensation tingled through her. She'd never seen the kid happy, at least not in the three months she'd known him. It was three months ago that Tristan had lost his mother, his home, and any comfort of routine. Since then Pattie had watched helplessly as the child spiraled ever deeper into a defiant, angry funk.

In about five minutes, this man had made Tristan a kid again.

Her tingling sensation intensified. An interview? Who was she kidding?

The guy was a godsend.

Zane knew it, too. His light-colored eyes looked into Pattie's with pure confidence. He knew Tristan's situation. He knew Pattie needed him.

He knew way too much.

Pattie didn't like being at a disadvantage. She didn't like feeling helpless or beholden. Heck, if her sister Savannah could have planned all of this, she couldn't have done a better job of driving Pattie crazy.

But of course Savannah hadn't planned it. Pattie's petted, vain, difficult sister was dead.

Pattie let out a slow breath. She fought down the confusing mixture of fury and guilt that thought always summoned. Right now, she needed to concentrate on today. And today, she didn't want this man around, this man who made her feel even more helpless than ever. No. There had to be someone else—anybody else—who could make Tristan laugh.

Before Pattie was forced to conclude there was no such person, her doorbell chimed. She shot to her feet. At least she had an excuse to postpone her surrender.

Excuse me. Trying to look like she wasn't retreating, she strode from her office for the front door. She heard the tussle resume as soon as her back was turned. I'm gonna get ya and No, you ain't preceded scuffles and screeches.

Pattie hoped her office wouldn't be destroyed while she was gone, but she had a feeling—an oddly sinking sensation—that Zane Kincaid was far too effective to let such a calamity occur.

Pattie's landlord and downstairs neighbor was at the door. Michael Derby was tall, thin, and always expensively clad, even when he was wearing nothing fancier than jogging pants.

Today he was wearing a 'casual' ensemble of pleated trousers and a polo shirt that had probably set him back a thousand dollars. His shaved head gleamed in the West Los Angeles sunshine.

Postman was early today. As Michael handed Pattie a stack of envelopes, his gaze went past her shoulder. Who's the cute guy?

My manny. In the background, Pattie could hear Zane still playing with Tristan. She inwardly moaned, realizing she'd described the guy as if she'd already hired him.

A manny. Michael's attention instantly sharpened. Can I meet him?

Bringing up her mail had clearly been an excuse. I thought you were dating Todd.

Oh, I am. Michael grinned. But you can't blame a guy for looking.

Pattie opened her mouth to tell Michael he needn't bother wasting energy on an obnoxious know-it-all, then decided to hold her tongue. She stepped back from the door. Be my guest. They're in my office.

Pattie watched Michael saunter down the hall while telling herself she wasn't being vindictive. Siccing Michael on Zane wasn't a cheap effort to get even with Zane for making her feel incompetent. Besides, the manny might even be gay. But she was smiling with decidedly feline satisfaction as she glanced down at the mail Michael had handed her.

Her smile dropped as soon as she took in the top envelope. Refused, was scrawled over the front of the certified letter, the one she'd sent last week. Nick hadn't even opened it. He hadn't even accepted delivery.

Oh, boy. Whatever irritation she'd felt toward Zane Kincaid multiplied, sharpened, and shifted toward this far more familiar object: Nick. Refusing her letter was the last straw.

Why should her life be in upheaval, while Nick wouldn't even deign to read about the child?

It was the more infuriating in that Pattie felt she'd gone overboard in the restraint department. She had a lot to feel angry about, but she'd been patient. She understood it had been a shock to everyone, herself included, when Savannah had died at that nightclub party.

But Nick wasn't suffering from shock. More like a severe case of deadbeat-itis. He'd never answered one of Pattie's phone calls, phone calls made with an heroic display of diplomacy. He hadn't replied to her emails, similarly self-controlled. So last week Pattie had sent the certified letter.

A father was closer in blood than an aunt. Nick should have custody of Tristan. Nick should be the one dealing with overblown nannies. Nick should be the one acting as parent.

Not Pattie.

Pattie's fingers crushed the returned envelope. That bum could refuse to answer a phone, or even balk at opening a certified letter, but he couldn't avoid talking to Pattie if she were standing right in front of him. Especially if she were standing right in front of him with Tristan's hand in hers. His son.

Reason tried to rear its ugly head, but three months of turmoil and frustration stamped it down, mixed with the unhappy prospect of having to hire Mr. Zane Kincaid. It was time for Nick to step up to the plate.

Pattie whirled. She stalked down the hall.

In her office, Zane was chatting with Michael while holding Tristan's neck in the crook of his elbow. The kid alternately struggled and giggled. Everyone stopped talking and stared when Pattie swept into the room.

We're going to the Getty Center, she announced.

Michael's lips made an 'O.' He knew who worked at the Getty Center Museum. Meanwhile, Zane's brows dove downward and Tristan's smile transformed into an expression that looked like the precursor to a cry.

Way to go, Pattie. Succeeding in the parent department, as always. She was terrifying the kid, poor thing. Trying her best to modulate her tone, she nevertheless heard it come out as flinty as before. We have to leave now.

Nick. How dare he refuse to deal with this, especially when—when—he was saddling Pattie with it? Had the man no shame?

'We' do? Zane queried.

Tristan and I. Come on, Tristan. Pattie held out her hand toward the boy. She was going to get his father to acknowledge him. That's right. In forty-five minutes she could be parking in the Getty lot, another fifteen from there to Nick's office. She could have this out within the hour.

Meanwhile, Tristan grabbed Zane's forearm. His lower lip puffed out. It was an expression Pattie had come to know well. It meant 'no way.'

Her face began to heat. She was learning that when grown-ups made plans, kids destroyed them. But Tristan had to come with her. It was time—past time—for Nick to meet his son. Come on, Tristan. We need to leave. Now. It occurred to Pattie, dimly, that she'd have to cancel her client meeting—and postpone getting his money. But...too bad. This showdown with Nick was three months overdue.

No! Tristan scuttled further behind Zane.

Is this some kind of emergency? Zane eyed Pattie warily.

Yes. The returned envelope had sent her over the edge. Nick wasn't going to weasel out of his responsibilities one more day. "Come on, Tristan," she said. Then she made the mistake of stepping toward the boy.

He didn't wait for her to reach him, but slipped away from Zane to run over the top of the sofa and then drop behind it.

Pattie stared at the spot Tristan had been. He was under the sofa now. She could hear him slithering down there. How the heck was she going to get him out? It would be impossible, even if she were willing to crawl on the ground in her tight business skirt.

Feeling an increasingly familiar, and increasingly unpleasant, helplessness, Pattie stared at the bottom of the sofa. What now?

I'll get him, Zane said quietly.

He would? Did he have magic power? Incredulous, she stared at the man.

He stared back.

Behind her, Michael nervously shifted weight.

Find your car keys and your purse, Zane instructed. I'll have the child ready by the time you are.

Pattie hesitated. Dammit, he probably would. So far he'd demonstrated remarkable talent with Tristan. She should feel grateful.

Instead, she felt shame. She hated accepting help. She hated needing it. She particularly hated the respectful power Kincaid managed to project. She should be the one able to take on that role. She ought to be.

Instead, she was useless. Shame was like bile in her chest.

Fine, Pattie returned, clipped. She whirled toward her desk. There she grabbed her car keys, her purse—and the paternity testing kit for which she'd paid $99.99. She wasn't about to forget the whole point of this little trip. Nick would have to admit he was responsible.

Slipping the paternity kit into her large purse, she turned around.

Michael had already flown the arena. But Zane stood by the office door with Tristan's hand caught in his. The kid gazed at Pattie with sullen distrust.

We're ready to go, Zane said.

We are? thought Pattie, mentally stumbling. She hadn't realized—hadn't considered—Zane thought he should come along?

She let out a breath. Well, of course he thought he should come along. The chances of another disaster between herself and Tristan were astronomical. Face it. If she wanted to make it to the Getty Center and confront Nick in his hilltop office, she'd have to take Zane.

Hiking her purse over her shoulder, Pattie swallowed her pride—again.

Fine, she told Zane. Let's go.

CHAPTER TWO

Zane's gaze tracked Tristan as the kid ran up and down the elegant platform of the Getty Center tram station. The tram was the only route up a half-mile of chaparral hillside to the sprawling museum complex. With his hands clasped behind his back, Zane rocked onto the balls of his feet.

He was not fazed here, not knocked off his balance at all.

Okay, it was true that he usually decided the activities and outings of his little charges. He insisted on it, in fact. And it was true he'd let his present employer drag him halfway across Los Angeles to a museum that couldn't possibly engage the attention of a two-and-a-half-year-old child.

But that didn't mean he'd lost control.

On the contrary, he was maintaining an iron grip on proceedings by tagging along on this little jaunt. It was clear Ms. Bowen had intended to drag Tristan with her, willy-nilly. So he was here to make sure the kid was all right.

That was his job. The kid. Zane had always been good at