Feeling breathless and off-kilter, Erin started down the hall, wishing she'd heeded her own common sense and brought the gift by when Nick wasn't home.
They reached the living room a moment later. Hector nodded a greeting from his place on the sofa. Mrs. Thornsberry looked on from the kitchen doorway. Steph sat in her wheelchair in the center of the room, surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper and assorted gifts.
"Hi, Steph," Erin said. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks."
Her heart melted when the little girl smiled. Such a pretty smile. Too bad she didn't do it more often.
"Dad got me a new easel for sketching," she said. "Want to see my new pad?"
"Sure." Erin took the pad from her, feeling inept, since she didn't know a thing about sketching, and opened it to feel the texture of the paper. "Very nice. What do you sketch?"
"Sometimes I sketch Bandito. Sometimes my mom, but m not very good at faces, so I mostly just make stuff up. I'm pretty good at evening gowns and dresses, too."
"Ah, a budding clothes designer," Erin said.
Pride jumped into the little girl's eyes, and her grin widened. "My dad says I'm going to give Liz Claiborne a run for her money."
"I don't doubt it." Erin handed her the sketch pad. "Maybe you could show me your drawings sometime."
"'Kay."
Mrs. Thornsberry took Erin 's gift from Nick and set it on Stephanie's lap. The little girl picked up the box and shook it. "Sure is big."
Leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Nick smiled at his daughter, the first genuine smile Erin had seen since she'd walked in.
"Have at it, honeybunch." His gaze met Erin 's, the smile he'd given his daughter still flirting with his mouth.
He had one of the nicest smiles she'd ever seen. Too bad he didn't use it more often. Disconcerted that she'd noticed something she shouldn't have, she looked away.
Stephanie stripped the paper from the box. Erin watched, anticipation building in her chest. The little girl's hands stilled. The crackle of wrapping paper stopped abruptly. Dead silence fell over the room. Stephanie stared at the bright orange basketball, blinking as if someone had just played a cruel joke on her.
"It's a basketball," she said dully.
Erin 's stomach went into a slow roll. Praying her carefully chosen gift didn't turn into a negative experience for the girl, she stepped forward. "I saw the hoop above the garage door outside and thought you might like to start playing again."
The little girl stared at Erin, her blue eyes wide with the kind of hurt Erin knew too well. She'd seen that look before; she'd felt it in her own heart a hundred times in the last several months. She knew intimately the harsh realities of shock and pain and betrayal. Her heart cramped in her chest when those bottomless blue eyes filled with tears.
"I can't play basketball anymore," Stephanie said in a small voice. "My legs…"
"Oh, honey, you can," Erin said gently. "You can take lessons if you want to. Disabled people play basketball and win marathons and do all sorts of fun things."
"I want to, but I can't." Stephanie looked at her father. "Why did she get this for me? I can't play anymore."
Erin 's breath jammed in her throat. The pain struck with such force that she couldn't breathe. All she could do was press her hand to her breast and pray the little girl would understand. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt this child who had already been hurt so brutally.
"Oh, my," Mrs. Thornsberry said. "Steph, honey, I'm sure Erin didn't mean-"
"I can't play!" the girl cried. "I don't want it."
"But you can play, Steph," Erin said. "Honey, I'll teach you-"
"That's enough." Nick's voice cracked through the air like cold steel being snapped in half.
The words jerked Erin 's gaze to his. His jaws were clamped tight, his hands clenched at his sides. He glared at her, his eyes as hard and infinitely cold as glacial ice.
She stared, vaguely aware that the room had become as quiet as a tomb. Hector gaped at her as if she'd just pulled out her pistol and shot the chandelier off the ceiling. Mrs. Thornsberry made a show of gathering gift wrap off the floor.
Erin looked at Stephanie. "I'm sorry," she said helplessly.
Spinning the wheelchair, uttering a single, heart-wrenching cry, Stephanie fled from the room.
Mrs. Thornsberry and Nick started after her simultaneously, but the older woman stopped him. "Let me handle this one, Nick."
He halted, uncertainty etched into his features as he watched her disappear down the hall.
Erin felt physically ill. She hadn't even considered the possibility that the basketball would upset Stephanie. How could she have been so insensitive? Why had she expected that little girl to understand something no one had ever bothered to explain?
Erin 's gaze swept to Nick's. She nearly winced at the anger she saw burning there. "I didn't mean to upset her," she said. "I didn't think-"
"That's your problem, McNeal," he snapped. "You don't think before you act."
Erin stepped back, hurt that she'd been so terribly misunderstood, angered that her judgment had been called into question once again by a man whose opinion was becoming increasingly important to her.
Erin didn't lose control of her emotions easily or break down in front of people at the drop of a hat. She'd learned the futility of tears at a very young age. But as she stood there taking in Nick's angry expression, thinking of how badly she'd hurt that little girl, tears threatened her dignity.
"I've got to get back to work." Turning abruptly, she started for the door.
"Wait a minute."
Erin didn't stop. She didn't trust her emotions not to betray her, and he was the last man on earth she wanted to break down in front of.
Letting herself out through the front door, she sucked in a breath of cool night air, thankful to be out of the house. When she reached the grass, she broke into a run.
The front door slammed behind her. Nick, she thought, and quickened her pace. When was she ever going to learn not to push the envelope in everything she did?
Blinded by the tears building behind her eyes, she stopped at her cruiser and fumbled for her keys.
"I'd like a word with you, McNeal."
She looked over her shoulder to see him crossing the lawn. Terrific. Here she was about to lose it, and he wanted a word with her. She had to hand it to him-the guy had great timing.
"I've got to get back to work," she said.
"It'll wait."
For an instant she was tempted to ignore him, and get in the car and drive away. Of course, she didn't. Erin had never been one to run away from her problems. So why did she feel the quiver of the fight-or-flight instinct every time Nick got near her?
She didn't turn to face him when he came up behind her and stopped. "You want to tell me what that was all about?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Why don't you turn around and look at me?"
Unduly humiliated, she swiped at the tears with her sleeve. "I said I was sorry, Nick. What else do you want?"
"I'm just trying to understand you. I don't have a clue why you bought Steph that ball. Why don't you help me out?"
Slowly, Erin turned. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. "I gave her that basketball because I want her to know she's strong and capable and doesn't have to stop living just because she's in a wheelchair."
"She can barely stand, McNeal. How on earth is she supposed to play basketball?"
"It's called wheelchair basketball, Nick. Don't tell me you've never heard of it."
"She's not ready for that."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm her father," he said. "I know what she's been through. I know what she can handle."
"She's ready, Nick. She'll eventually do it whether you're ready to accept it or not. She can do a lot of things you don't seem to be ready to accept. Once she realizes it, you'd better learn to deal with it, because she's not going to stop." The words came out in a rush. Harsh. Damning. So true her chest ached with the need to prove to him she was right.