Kitabı oku: «Suddenly Home»

“Let’s get something on those scratches.”

For the next five minutes, Alex sat in one of Taylor’s kitchen chairs as she swabbed his cuts with antiseptic. His own mother hadn’t fussed over him this gently when he’d skinned his knees as a boy.

What made Taylor’s attentions seem so…different? Maybe the way her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she touched the swabs to his cuts. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled just a little when she asked, “Does that hurt?”

And maybe, just maybe, it was the look in her eyes that said even something as insignificant as cat scratches were important…because he was important.

If only—

LOREE LOUGH

A full-time writer for more than a dozen years, Loree Lough has produced more than 2,000 published articles, dozens of short stories—appearing in magazines here and abroad—and novels for the young (and young at heart). The author of twenty-nine romances (including the award-winning Pocketful of Love, Emma’s Orphans and bestsellers like Reluctant Valentine, Miracle on Kismet Hill and Just One Christmas Wish) Loree also writes as Cara McCormack and Aleesha Carter.

A comedic teacher and conference speaker, Loree loves sharing in classrooms what she’s learned the hard way. She lives in Maryland with her husband of nearly (gasp, sputter, choke!) thirty years.

Suddenly Home
Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Come home with me, and refresh thyself,

and I will give thee a reward.

—I Kings 13:7

To Elice and Valerie, my daughters,

my friends…may the romance of true love

care for you all the days of your lives.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Letter to Reader

Prologue

Date: December 17

Time: 1600

Coordinates: 17º 22.3 minutes north

66º 45.6 minutes west

Altitude 500 feet

Like blue-green tentacles, lightning snaked along the F-16’s wingtips, brightening the Puerto Rican sky and blacking out the entire control panel. Lieutenant Alex Van Buren had mere seconds to decide: Eject…

Or go down with the fighter.

He jerked back on the throttle, but it was no use. He couldn’t bring the aircraft out of its nosedive. If he abandoned the plane, there’d be no time for his chute to open. Not while flying over the choppy waters at an altitude of five hundred feet.

He hoped for a miracle. There’d been times when, under similar conditions, other pilots’ parachutes had released…right…?

Who was he kidding? He’d been a test pilot a long time. More than long enough to know a guy didn’t bullet through the sky at nearly six hundred miles an hour and survive a crash. But even if he didn’t die, he’d be so broken and battered he’d be lucky to see a cockpit again, let alone manipulate its controls.

Death didn’t scare him. Living—if it meant he couldn’t fly—now, that terrified him. As a much younger man he’d entertained the idea of pastoring a little church in the boonies. But every Van Buren before him had been a naval officer. Who was he to break tradition, especially for something as meaningless as a boyhood dream?

So many thoughts, so many questions racing through his mind….

As the sparkling surface of the water hurtled closer, closer, Van Buren held his breath and closed his eyes, steeling himself for the rib-racking effects of ejection, and did something he hadn’t done in ages.

He prayed.

Prayed he’d pass out, so he wouldn’t hear his bones breaking, his muscles tearing. Prayed that God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, would let him drown quickly in the warm island waters; better that than go home as something other than the man he’d worked so long and hard to become.

Van Buren felt his body catapult from the cockpit.

And as he became one with the sky, he wondered if he’d survive the impact.

Date: December 17

Time: 4:00 p.m.

Supra-Air Flight 550

In the skies above Puerto Rico

If she spoke, even to order coffee, she’d break down. And so when the flight attendant stopped the drink cart beside her seat, Taylor pretended to be asleep…

And remembered the last time she’d talked to her mother.

Back then, Taylor had been working at a small pub in Houston. As usual, her mom ended the telephone conversation with a warning about what becomes of folks who live in the fast lane. In her mother’s opinion, Taylor—who’d traded her physical therapist smock for a microphone—had spent the past five years doing exactly that.

Taylor wasted no time pointing out that, in her opinion, it was the other way around. Because six months before, her mother had taken up with a has-been race-car driver who, frustrated by a dead-end career, had begun hurtling through life at maximum overdrive….

These past twelve hours had been a crazy, hazy blur: the phone call to her uncle Dave, then booking a last-minute flight from Puerto Rico to Baltimore, packing, hailing a taxi…. Through it all, Taylor fought tears, asking herself why she hadn’t called her mom more often, why she hadn’t visited home more frequently. Because if she’d been there, she could have steered her mother around the hazard signs in the road ahead.

It hardly seemed possible that just the night before, Taylor had been sitting on a tall padded stool at San Juan’s Posada Felicidad, strumming her Yamaha and singing “In Your Arms” when her boss had waved an arm to get her attention, then pointed at the phone, letting Taylor know the call was for her.

A slight frown, a small head shake had made clear what she’d mouthed between verses: “Take a message.”

Later, alone in her hotel room, Taylor had returned her uncle’s call. “For a while there,” he’d said, “your mama seemed to be holdin’ her own. That’s when she asked me to get hold of you.” He went on to explain how, despite the best efforts of the emergency-room team, her mother had died of complications suffered in a fiery car crash.

Would there have been time for a final goodbye, one last “I love you” if Taylor had put down her guitar long enough to accept her uncle’s call? She’d never know. Because now, every chance she had at being a better daughter was dead.

And so was her mother.

Looking out the airliner’s thick window, she watched as lightning sliced through the Puerto Rican sky. Shielding her eyes with the palm of one hand, she steeled herself against the if onlys and what ifs, remembering one of her mother’s favorite sayings: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”

Small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

In a few hours, when this overcrowded 747 landed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, Taylor would head for the funeral home to view her mother’s body.

Would she survive the impact of that?

Chapter One

Eighteen months later

BWI Airport

Baltimore, Maryland

From start to finish, the red-eye flight from Ireland had been a nightmare, complete with keep-your-seat-belts-fastened turbulence, crying babies and a grumpy crew. She’d barely cracked the spine of her novel when an over-weight gent tromped on her foot climbing into his window seat. If Taylor had known his first words would be the kickoff to an eight-hour gabfest, she’d have kept reading the scene that began, “His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….” Something told her she’d have to wait until she got home to find out how the heroine reacted to the hero’s scrutiny.

And she’d been right.

Her seatmate, who’d hogged the armrest and spilled coffee on both of them, now left his boot print on her other white sneaker as he joined the mad race to be first off the plane.

After the aisle cleared, Taylor stood and, looking at the space he’d occupied, bit back a groan. She considered calling out to him, “You’ve forgotten something…” so he’d have to shoulder his way back through the crowd to retrieve the peanut packages, napkins and candy wrappers he’d left behind. The flight crew might appreciate her efforts, but all she really wanted was to pick up Barney at Pampered Pets Kennels, brew herself a soothing cup of tea and settle in at home. Stifling a yawn, she reached into the overhead bin for her carry-on…

And collided with the man across the aisle.

“Ooomph,” he grunted.

A feeble “I’m sorry” sighed from her lips.

Shaking his head, he raised one dark eyebrow, reminding her of the passage from the novel she’d been reading. His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….

“No problem,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. Then he grabbed the straps of her bag and dragged it from the compartment. “This one yours?”

Nodding, Taylor clutched it to her. “Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.”

Turning, he slid his own bag from the bin above his seat and stepped back. With a grand sweep of his arm, he said, “After you.”

She couldn’t tell if the gesture was sincere or not. But Taylor thanked him, and headed down the aisle.

“Don’t mention it,” he growled. “My pleasure.”

She hurried from the plane, and halfway through the tube connecting the jetliner to the terminal, he passed her, aiming a curt nod and a two-finger salute at her. Taylor couldn’t help but notice his pronounced limp. During the flight, as he’d made his way to the lavatory, she’d blamed turbulence for his halting half step. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if an accident or a birth defect had caused him to favor his left leg.

Accident, she decided, remembering his grumpy demeanor; if he’d been born with the limp, wouldn’t he have adjusted to it by now?

He rounded the corner just as a terrible thought occurred to her—had she caused the injury when she’d backed into him? Had she stepped on his foot harder than she’d realized?

Well, surely she’d see him in baggage claim. And when she did, Taylor would apologize. And make it sound a little more sincere this time.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to find him, tall as he was. But she didn’t see him at the baggage claim. Or the taxi stand, either. Not even when she stood on tiptoe, searching the crowd. Taylor gave up looking for him when a cabbie said, “Where to, lady?”

“Ellicott City,” she said as her driver tossed her suitcase into the trunk.

The taxi driver made small talk as he maneuvered through the traffic on I-95. But Taylor barely heard him, because she couldn’t seem to shift her attention from the man with the limp.

She tried thinking about Barney, and how happy he’d be to see her after spending so many days at the kennel.

She tried thinking about all the gossip Mrs. Dansfield would share when she delivered the mail she’d been picking up for Taylor.

About getting back to work—a job far more satisfying than singing for her supper had ever been.

But it was no use. The image of his dark eyes seemed frozen in her mind. He looked familiar, and for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Had they met? But where? And when?

His expression flashed in her memory again. Was he as sad and forlorn as he seemed? Or had it been fear she’d seen in his big brown orbs? Taylor’s heart ached a bit on his behalf, because she’d learned something about that in the past eighteen months. She said a quick prayer, asking God to help the poor guy cope with whatever had painted such a doleful expression on his handsome face.

The familiar facade of her house came into view and she smiled. Not the Victorian she’d always dreamed of, but close enough for the time being.

She paid the taxi driver, shoved her suitcase through her front door and headed straight for Pampered Pets Kennels. Once she and the fat orange tabby were settled in, Taylor would have a day and a half to recuperate from her trip to Ireland. Thirty-six hours to readjust, pick up where she’d left off.

Maneuvering her car through Ellicott City’s side streets, Taylor sighed. Because where had she left off? Better question, she wondered, What did you leave behind?

Other than Barney, regrets mostly. Regrets that she’d spent those last precious months of her mother’s life “finding herself” instead of being the doting daughter her mother had deserved. Regrets that she hadn’t accepted the phone call that night in Puerto Rico.

The big pink-and-white sign that said Pampered Pets came into view and Taylor heaved a deep sigh. Parking in front of the pink-trimmed brick building, she thought again of her mother’s favorite saying: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”

Her mother, Amanda, also liked to say, “Life goes on!”

It had been eighteen months since the accident. And true to her mother’s witty wisdom, life had indeed gone on. A year and a half had passed since Amanda’s death. Eighteen months without so much as a syllable of motherly advice.

Yet Taylor had gone to work, had attended various church functions and social events, and had even gone out on a date or two.

Like it or not, her mother had been right.

Had he gone to Ireland simply to put an end to his mother’s nagging?

Alex groaned inwardly, knowing even as the thought crossed his mind that it wasn’t fair to call it “nagging.” Badgering was more like it. But her insistence hadn’t been the sole reason he’d taken the trip. He’d known better than anyone that a change of scenery had been in order, that doubt and self-pity had pretty much taken over his whole life since the crash, that if he didn’t get a handle on it pretty quickly, there was no telling how he’d end up, or where.

The so-called “vacation” was his last-ditch effort to get back a semblance of the man he’d been before the accident. And to give his mother her due, the trip had worked. Something about the Emerald Isle touched a long-forgotten…something…inside him, and that something had awakened his desire to fully participate in life again.

Now Alex was glad that before departing for Ireland he’d set certain things in motion, because it meant there was no turning back.

Not without losing face.

Soon his life would be fine and dandy. Right as rain. Good as new…

Keep that up, he told himself, you’ll be eligible for the next Channel 13 TV Jingle King contest.

All things considered, Alex believed he felt about as good as a man who’d survived a near-death experience could feel. He’d prove it when he woke up in his new apartment with its spanking new furniture, climbed into his shiny new car and headed for his brand-new job.

“Yippee,” he grumbled under his breath.

The cabbie met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s that, sir?”

He frowned. “Nothing,” Alex replied. “Just…nothing.”

Alex had found that the best medicine for self-pity was thinking of something besides himself. This time, it surprised him when the new subject occupying his thoughts was the young woman who’d crashed into him on the plane. She was petite and pretty, and he’d been watching her from the corner of his eye during most of the flight.

Well, not watching her, exactly, but he’d noticed that when the man beside her spilled coffee on her jacket, she’d casually blotted up the mess with a paper napkin. “It’s okay,” she’d said, smiling. “Time to take this old thing to the cleaners, anyway.” Amazing thing was, she seemed to mean it.

Her forgiving words seemed to invite her seatmate’s jabbering, which didn’t stop for the rest of the flight. What kept her from yawning from boredom as he droned on about his pedigreed Yorkshire terriers, his job as a tech systems analyst, his tomato garden, Alex didn’t know.

He only knew that, from his side of the aisle, anyway, she appeared to be interested in everything the man had to say.

Before he’d crashed his fighter plane, if he’d met a woman like that under any circumstances, he’d be having lunch with her by now, flirting his socks off, working his way up to inviting her to dinner. Wasn’t that what test pilots were expected to do, after all?

Why he felt he’d lost something meaningful when she disappeared from view, he didn’t know. He only knew that she was gorgeous. Kind. Special in ways he’d probably never understand. That look she’d given him when he took her bag out of the overhead bin kept flashing in his memory, a look that said she’d survived some pretty tough stuff in her life, too.

But since he’d probably never see her again, he wasn’t likely to find out what.

The cabbie stopped in front of Alex’s town house, popped the trunk and tossed an already battered suitcase onto the sidewalk.

Alex peeled a twenty from his money clip. “Keep the change,” he said, grabbing his bag.

The meter read $17.50, and even behind the iridescent wraparound sunglasses, the cabbie’s indignant expression was obvious. Tucking the bill into his shirt pocket, he slid in behind the steering wheel. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Trump,” he muttered as he slammed the door.

The sarcasm was lost on Alex, who stood at the end of his walk, staring at the black numbers above his front door. Shaking his head, he took out his new house key and jammed it into his new bolt, hoping the air conditioner was working, because it was uncharacteristically hot and humid for June in the Baltimore suburbs.

A note taped to the brass door knocker flapped in the sultry breeze. “Welcome home,” said his mother’s delicate script. “Remember: Life is what you make of it!”

Shoving open the front door, he stuffed the message into his jacket pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” he grumbled. “Next time I meet a gorgeous li’l gal, maybe I’ll remember your good advice.”

Taylor dropped her purse on the floor and opened the cat carrier. “Good to be home, isn’t it, Barn?” she asked, gathering him near. The gold-striped tabby nuzzled her cheek and chirruped happily, then leapt from her arms and headed straight for the long-fringed afghan at the foot of Taylor’s bed. As she watched him stretch, sadness cloaked her. Because Barney had been her mother’s cat, and wouldn’t be here at all if…

She straightened her shoulders. No point in dwelling in the past. What’s done is done, she told herself.

Taylor hurried into the kitchen and washed down two white pills with a glass of water. Prescription medication took care of Taylor’s allergy to cats, but who would have taken care of Barney if Taylor hadn’t adopted him? The better question was, who would have taken care of her if Barney hadn’t let her adopt him? By now, the cat was far more than a beloved pet; he was Taylor’s only living connection to her mother.

He rubbed her ankles as she filled his bowls with water and cat food. Once he’d finished nibbling at the kibbles, he headed for Taylor’s bedroom. Taylor followed, and watched as he sashayed toward the down-stuffed pillows at the head of her bed and began batting at the fringed trim.

Barely six months old when he lost his former mistress, Barney had quickly adapted to his new life. Taylor, on the other hand, had struggled with the loss every day since the accident.

Sighing, she tried to focus on the cat’s antics. Forcing a smile, she admitted that the pillows’ plumpness did look inviting, particularly after the long flight home from Ireland.

Ireland…

If not for her mother, Taylor probably wouldn’t have gone overseas at all.

After Taylor’s father died, her mother began traveling…and pestering Taylor to get a passport and see the world with her. Amanda visited dozens of countries in the years after Jake’s heart attack, but her favorite place in all the world had been Ireland. “If you go there,” she’d said, “you’ll find yourself drawn back, again and again.”

And just as Amanda had predicted, Taylor had fallen in love with the land and its people. If her budget allowed it, Taylor would return every June to commemorate her mother’s first trip there.

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she decided Barney was right. Those pillows did look irresistible. And they’d look even better after a hot shower and a soothing cup of herbal tea.

Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white chenille robe, long brown hair tucked under a thick towel, she carried a steaming mug of Lemon Clouds into the living room. “Just look at this,” she complained as Barney snuggled up close. “Do you have any idea how many trees had to die so this junk mail could be printed up?”

The cat gave the stack a slant-eyed stare and emitted an expansive yawn.

Grinning, she ruffled his fur. “Where would the rain forests be if everyone had your attitude?”

His response was a bigger, longer yawn.

Taylor smiled. Being needed, in Taylor’s opinion, didn’t get the notice it deserved. Having Barney to take care of, to look after, had made the difference between wallowing in grief and getting back to the business of living. She gave him a gentle pat. “Thanks, Barn.”

He rolled onto his side, as if to say, “Don’t mention it.”

Which was what the stranger on the airplane had said when she thanked him for getting her bag from the overhead bin….

Taylor shook her head and stuffed the junk mail into the pantry’s recycling bin, then gathered the important mail and headed for the home office she’d fashioned in a corner of her bedroom. Laying the envelopes on the desk, she faced her suitcase and groaned. The only thing she hated more than packing was unpacking.

Barney slunk into the room, stopping to sniff the suitcase. Forepaws resting on the handle, he continued his investigation.

“Oh, don’t be such a nag,” she teased when he meowed at her. “I’ll put things away tomor—”

Frowning, Taylor crossed the room. “Hey, where’s my luggage tag?” she wondered aloud. “And my bungee cord?” Her uncle Dave—self-appointed protector and Taylor’s only living relative—had insisted she secure the suitcase with a sturdy strap. “For extra protection,” he’d said.

Why hadn’t she noticed before that it was missing?

Jet lag, she thought, excusing the oversight.

On her knees now, she laid the suitcase on its side and pulled at the lock. It opened easily. Too easily. Ordinarily, it took several hard tugs to pop it. Unzipping the case, she threw back its lid and stifled a gasp.

Inside, where skirts and blouses should have been…

A jumble of rumpled blue jeans, wrinkled T-shirts and rag-knit socks. “Eee-yooo,” she complained, “just look at this mess.”

In her hurry to get home, she’d obviously grabbed the wrong suitcase. Had someone else picked up hers? Or was it still there, going round and round on the belt, waiting to be claimed?

Taylor glanced at the clock. Nearly six in the evening—far too late to call the airline now.

Attention on the suitcase again, she lifted one well-worn running shoe from the pile, held it at arm’s length. “Look at the size of this thing, Barn. Who would have guessed that the Jolly Green Giant was a jogger?”

In response, Barney hopped into the suitcase, purring as his forepaws kneaded the messy clothes inside.

“Get out of there,” she scolded, gently shooing him away, “before you snag something.” Though she honestly didn’t know how any of it could look any worse.

The cat gave an insulted meow and swaggered from the room, tail pointing indignantly toward the ceiling.

Taylor barely noticed. Pinkies raised and nose wrinkled, she searched for a business card, an address book, anything that would tell her the owner’s name.

She felt like Little Jack Horner as she stuck her hand into a side pocket and pulled out a business card. “‘Alex Van Buren,’” she read. “‘2345 Lancaster Road. Ellicott City, Maryland.’ Good. He’s local.”

A second glance at the clock told her it was early enough to call him.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she dialed Alex Van Buren’s number, and counted the rings.

“Alex’s answering machine is broken,” said a deep male voice. “This is his refrigerator. Leave your name and number, and I’ll put the message under one of the magnets he’s got stuck all over me.”

Giggling, Taylor rolled her eyes and waited for the beep. “Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith. It seems there was a mix-up at the airport, and I picked up your suitcase by mistake. Hopefully, you have mine, which, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like yours….”

She cleared her throat. Why was she rattling on this way?

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade? If you have my suitcase, that is. If not, we can arrange a good time for you to pick up your suitcase.” She recited her phone number and hung up.

Then, stretching, she slid under the covers, remembering his voice. Wholly, soothingly male, it reminded her of someone. Someone she knew.

But who?

The voice continued to echo in her mind until she drifted off to sleep.

“Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith.”

Alex lifted the corners of his pillow and pressed them against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear her. “I picked up your suitcase by mistake….”

He’d locked up tight and closed the blinds before climbing into bed, intent upon making up for the many nights of sleep he’d lost while in Ireland.

If only he’d remembered to turn off the answering machine.

Groaning, he levered himself up on one elbow and flicked on the light. Eyes shaded by one hand, he squinted across the room. Well, the bag he’d brought home certainly looked like his….

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade?”

Alex turned the volume on the answering machine down, clicked off the light and flopped back onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath, hoping to pick up where he’d left off when Taylor Griffith had interrupted his dream.

He’d been strolling along Ireland’s Dingle Coast, staring out at the great expanse of churning gray sea, when a lovely blue-eyed lass had stepped up beside him and offered to share her home-baked brown bread. But it was no use. Instead of accepting a slice, his thoughts returned to the Griffith woman’s message.

Knuckling his eyes, Alex decided the suitcase news wasn’t nearly as interesting as his dream. Punching his pillow, he tried again to return to Ireland and the lovely blue-eyed lass.

But a question popped into his head, disrupting the dream yet again. Its answer was obvious—this Taylor person had gotten his name and number from his luggage tag.

Jaw set with determination, he forced himself to remember Galway Bay. Bunglass Point. The thatched cottage on The Burren where he’d spent his first night abroad, listening to the gentle lowing of Black Angus cows.

But he couldn’t concentrate on Ireland or anything related to it, thanks to one Taylor Griffith.

Alex sat up, threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed and growled under his breath. There seemed to be a conspiracy these past few days to keep him from getting any shut-eye at all.

At a bed-and-breakfast in Ballydehob, the owner’s short-legged dog—named Bruce, of all things—barked the whole night away. In a small hotel in Killorglin, trains that ran like clockwork woke him every hour on the hour. Last night, the darlin’ woman who owned the house near Shannon Airport couldn’t seem to comfort her colicky baby. And now some girl seemed to think she had his suitcase, and he had hers.

He wouldn’t get any sleep until he got to the root of this, so why try?

Heaving a deep sigh, Alex hit the answering machine’s play button and turned the sound up. As the tape rewound, he opened the nightstand drawer, poked around until he found a pen buried under paperback novels and soda straws. Dig as he might, he couldn’t find anything to write on.

He listened to the first part of her message, and when she began reciting her number, Alex scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He’d call Ms. Griffith first thing in the morning, see about straightening out this mix-up she’d referred to.

After tossing the ballpoint back into the drawer, he turned the answering machine’s sound down. For the last time tonight, he hoped.

Then the red, white and blue ID tag on his bag caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lost the original luggage tag soon after buying the suitcase, and had been making do with the paper ones provided by the airlines ever since.

Alex hobbled toward it, rubbing his bad leg and doing his best not to think about how he’d earned the limp. Try as he might, the crash was something he’d never forget, or live down. And why should he be allowed to do either? It wasn’t every day that a test pilot lost a multimillion-dollar aircraft in the middle of the Caribbean.

He grabbed the luggage tag. “Taylor Griffith,” precise black letters spelled out, “142 Old Belle Way, Ellicott City.” Grinning, he thought, She sure didn’t sound like an old belle….

He unfastened the stretchy red-and-yellow band wrapped around the suitcase, then unzipped it. Inside, in neatly folded stacks, lay delicate, feminine articles of clothing in every shade of the rainbow. A tiny, pointy-toed black shoe poked out of a side pocket, and he held it by its long, slender heel. Chuckling, Alex said under his breath, “I guess not all elves live in hollow trees.” Turning it this way and that, he added, “Some of ’em live at 142 Old Belle Way.”

Chapter Two

Alex waited half an hour for Taylor to come back. He sat at the end of a long table, one arm slung over the back of the folding chair beside his own. “Sorry,” he told anyone who showed interest in the empty seat, “this one’s taken.”

Once it sank in that she wouldn’t be joining him for the meal, he wolfed down his stone-cold food. The level of his disappointment made no sense, especially considering he’d spent, what, ten minutes in her company? Maybe this was the reason he’d always been partial to tall, blue-eyed blondes…because it was less disappointing when they didn’t show up?

Maybe, except, what was this?

This was ridiculous, that’s what. To be fixated on a young woman barely bigger than a minute, well, it just wasn’t Alex’s style. He’d always been so cool, so sophisticated where women were concerned.

He wanted to go home, slump into his easy chair and find an old war movie on TV. So for the life of him, Alex didn’t understand why he stayed, why he chatted with other brunch attendants.

That wasn’t entirely true. He knew, as he nodded and smiled and talked about the weather, that the sole purpose of his participation in the banal conversations was in the hope they might lead to information about Taylor Griffith.

He was about to ask an elderly woman if she’d seen Taylor when his mother, Helen, spotted him. Smiling, she waved. There was no mistaking what that “look” meant. She seemed as happy as a mother could be, believing he’d taken her advice, finally, that he was making an attempt at getting back on track, into “the stream of things.”

Helen had been at him for months, saying he needed to socialize more, get busy building a new life. And that couldn’t start, she’d insisted, until he first started talking about the accident. “You could have died in service to your country. That’s not something to hide—it’s something to be proud of!”

It was a hot button, but out of respect for her, Alex chose not to respond. Besides, he couldn’t imagine admitting the truth aloud, not even to his own mother: The mission had been a failure because he’d taken the coward’s way out.

A thousand times he’d relived those last milliseconds of the flight, searching his mind for the one thing he might have done differently, the decision that might have saved him and the Falcon. It was humiliating, not having a clear memory to help him understand what had gone wrong. That, in itself, Alex believed, was proof of his ineptness as a pilot.

Not an easy thing to admit, when flying had been his life for nearly a decade; when, for generations, all male Van Burens before him had been fliers.

His great-grandfather had tested some of the military’s earliest bombers, his grandfather had flown during World War II, his father had served in Vietnam. And each had earned awards and commendations for their bravery. Based on the evidence, Alex could only conclude that the “good pilot” gene had skipped a generation.

And though the man hadn’t said so, Alex believed his stepfather felt the same way, too.

Rusty Martin had been a good pilot, a good substitute father. He’d never actually vocalized disapproval of how Alex had handled things that fateful day, but then, he hadn’t said he agreed with his stepson, either.

Couldn’t be easy, Alex reasoned, for a guy whose best friends—like himself—had been part of the space program for most of their military careers. Poor guy, Alex had often thought, to have a loser for a stepson.

Even the men in his mother’s family had a long, illustrious military history. Alex didn’t suppose his grandma was any too surprised when her daughter announced her plans to marry a pilot; she’d married one, herself. Nor was it a surprise to anyone, when his mom finally chose to remarry, that she picked another pilot.

Alex hadn’t expected anyone else to understand the root of his shame, his guilt. But his mother… She’d spent her whole childhood with soldiers, most of whom had been pilots. She’d spent nearly a decade married to his father, another quarter of a century with Rusty. If she couldn’t figure out why Alex preferred to keep to himself, why he’d rather not discuss what he believed to be his greatest failure, who could?

He didn’t need some shrink to tell him why he worked so hard to avoid conversations that started with “So what was it like…” Alex knew full well that a beginning like that was sure to be followed by “waiting to be rescued?” or “knowing you could die?” or “realizing it was you or the plane?”

The questions were reminders of that failure. Besides, he had no satisfactory answers for any of the questioners. More important than that, he hated being reminded what a coward he’d been during those hair-raising last seconds before the crash.

The first-ever coward in a long line of Van Buren heroes.

Leave it to me to start a whole new tradition….

He knew as well as anyone that avoiding those questions had been harder than answering them. So why was today so different?

Simply put, because Taylor was different.

She was the sole reason that today, for the first time since the accident, he’d good-naturedly answered the questions put to him by his mother’s church cronies. If talking about what had happened that day would get him close enough to ask if anyone knew where Taylor had gone, it was worth the temporary discomfort.

Turnabout is fair play, he supposed when no one had an answer for him. Not Mable Jensen, not Alex’s mother, not even Taylor’s Uncle Dave knew where she’d disappeared to. She’d been the only reason he’d agreed to stay for the luncheon, rather than just drop his mother off at the church. Now that Taylor had obviously left, there wasn’t much point in hanging around.

After making sure his mom had a safe ride home, Alex aimed himself toward the door.

These days, church activities—church people in particular—made him extremely uncomfortable. One fellow’s well-intended opinion pretty much summed up how Alex believed everyone else felt: “The Lord performed a miracle out there, or you’d have been shark food, for sure.”

What the Lord had to do with it, Alex didn’t know, though he hadn’t said so at the time. Instead, he’d nodded and smiled politely at the sentiment. He’d never admitted it aloud, but it was true nonetheless—the accident had shattered more than his confidence…it had destroyed his faith.

He hadn’t exactly turned into one of those guys who blames God for the bad things that happen in life. But the Almighty had been responsible for letting Alex survive the crash. If He was so all-knowing, wouldn’t He have known that for a man like Alex, life without flying was no life at all?

Alex said his goodbyes and headed for the parking lot, frowning. If not for the limp, he didn’t think anyone would guess what had happened to him eighteen months earlier. Then again, if not for the limp, he wouldn’t be home again, trying to build a new life in his hometown. Rather, he’d be on active duty, waiting his turn to run yet another test on yet another F-16.

As he slid behind his pickup’s steering wheel, Alex thought about how he’d spent the past hour, answering painful questions in the hope he’d get an answer to a question of his own.

Why he wanted to know where Taylor had gone was a puzzle to him.

And then he pictured her, and the mystery began to unravel.

He shook his head. There had been attractive women in his past. Yeah, he preferred blondes, but there had been a brunette and even a redhead or two. He liked ’em tall, but a few of the short ones had been fun. Taylor seemed intelligent enough, but then, he’d dated doctors and attorneys and scientists….

Key in the ignition, Alex frowned, wondering what was so special about this petite brunette. And as the motor roared to a start, he had a feeling the answer had little, if anything, to do with her pale brown eyes or her chestnut-colored hair, her curvy little body or her big bright smile. No, something told him it had more to do with the person who lived behind that big, bright smile.

She’d left him feeling the way he had back when he’d flown to that village in France. No one there had spoken a word of English, and his French began with oui…and ended with oui. The “stranger in a foreign land” impression had been uncomfortable then, so why was it accompanied by such pleasant sensations now?

Alex slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the parking space, shaking his head. Too much fruit punch, he decided, grinning.

Half a dozen times, as they had stood in her foyer, as they had chatted in the church basement, he’d considered asking if she’d mind if maybe he gave her a call some time.

So why hadn’t he asked?

He drove north on Route 40, the image of her fixed in his mind’s eye. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that, but she simply wasn’t his type, he told himself again.

But if that was true, why had her voice seemed so mesmerizing? And why did he find it necessary to blink and clear his throat when he found himself thinking that, depending on how the light caught her long, curly hair, it could look like anything from mink to velvet to satin?

He adjusted the rearview mirror, a subtle reminder that, as he’d nosed into a parking space in the church lot, his mom had tilted it so she could touch up her lipstick.

Taylor didn’t wear lipstick. But then, Taylor didn’t need lipstick.

Alex ran a hand through his hair. You’re losin’ your ever-lovin’ mind, Van Buren.

He searched for a reason, something to blame for his temporary insanity.

The struggle to align himself with a world that was anything but “Navy” was obviously taking a bigger toll than he realized. Why else had he allowed himself to get all smitten by a woman he barely knew? She was everything he didn’t want—or need—especially now. So for the life of him, Alex didn’t know why he’d spent all that energy, there in the church basement, trying to track her down.

He bounced the heel of his fist on the steering wheel. He and Taylor had spent a few minutes in polite conversation, and he’d enjoyed it. Period. Besides, she obviously spent a lot of time at the church; everyone seemed to know her, and they knew her well.

So why hadn’t any of them known where she’d gone?

Makes no difference, Alex told himself. He had neither the time nor the inclination to participate in religious functions, and it was clear as the windshield in front of him that Taylor was a good, devout, church-goin’ girl. And since she seemed to spend all her free time doing good, devout, church-goin’-girl things, the chances he’d ever run into her again were slim to none.

End of discussion.

That fact alone should have given him some relief. Instead, a quiet craving grew inside him.

Put her out of your mind, he thought. He and Taylor had nothing in common. Nothing. And even if they did, he had no desire to get involved right now—romantically or otherwise.

Alex noticed that the truck’s gas gauge read Empty, and he pulled into the first filling station he came to. It was as he selected octane and began pumping that a small voice said, “Hey, mister. What happened to your leg?”

Alex glanced over his shoulder and looked into a cherubic face. Dimpled fists propped up the boy’s chin. Alex guessed him to be four or five.

“Tommy!” the child’s mother gasped. “You know better than to ask a question like that. Now, you apologize to the nice man, this instant!”

Tommy’s chubby cheeks reddened as he shot a sheepish glance Alex’s way. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly.

It wasn’t the first time Alex had been asked a question like that. At least Tommy’s interest was honest. “It’s okay, son,” he said. “I used to be a pilot, hurt my leg when my plane crashed.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really? Did it explode in the sky, like in the movies?”

Alex grinned. “Sort of. But I was long gone by the time that happened.”

Tommy’s brow crinkled with confusion. “Gone? Where’d you go?”

That day flashed through his mind. Involuntarily, Alex clenched his jaw. “Had to bail—”

Tommy faced his mother. “Mom, did you hear that?”

His mother frowned sternly. “Yes.” She shook a finger at him. “And you heard what I said….”

The boy turned back to Alex. “Did you have a parachute and ever’thing? Did you float down from the sky and get caught in a tree?”

Alex shook his head. “Wasn’t time for the chute to open.”

The boy’s brow crinkled slightly. “Then how’d you—”

“Tommy, not another word. I mean it.” His mother rolled her eyes at Alex. “I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. Please, accept my apologies.”

“No harm done,” he said, meaning it. And winking at Tommy, he added, “Boys will be boys.”

Tommy’s mother shrugged. “I suppose,” she said, then headed into the station to pay for her gas.

“Do you have a little boy?” Tommy asked.

Alex swallowed. He might be a father by now, if he hadn’t always put the navy…and flying…ahead of everything else. “No, ’fraid not.”

“A little girl?”

“No. I don’t have any kids.”

Tommy made an “I don’t believe it” face and held out his fat little hands. “Well, what’s your wife waiting for?”

“Don’t have a wife, either,” he said, chuckling.

“Why not?”

It was a good question. Another one for his “I have no answer for that” list. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he didn’t have a wife because, to date, Alex hadn’t met a woman he wanted to share his life with.

Not true, his conscience said as the memory of Taylor’s pretty face popped into his mind.

“Why not?” Tommy repeated.

Alex could only shrug and shake his head.

Taylor would have thought Mable Jensen’s nephew seemed like a pleasant enough fellow…if stand-up comedians had been her type.

She didn’t know, exactly, what her type was, but it certainly wasn’t an overaged hippie who thought it was cool to crack knock-knock jokes by the dozen.

Would’ve helped if Pete had been a little taller, with big brown eyes, dark shiny waves; if he’d been lean in a marathon kind of way; if he had a wounded puppy-dog expression that made her want to soothe all his troubles away.

Like Alex Van Buren? she wondered, pretending to enjoy Pete’s “what do you get when you cross a lawyer with a leech?” joke. When he said, “An agent!” Taylor smiled, even though she didn’t get it. Did the punch line miss its intended target because Mable’s nephew had laughed at his own joke? Or because she’d been distracted by images of Alex?

The latter, she decided as Pete launched into another ditty. She liked everything about Alex, from the way his dark eyes sparkled when he smiled—which, in her opinion, wasn’t nearly often enough—to the mellow tones of his vibrant voice. He’d dressed for the brunch like a man unsure what one wears to such an affair, which told Taylor two things: One, he wasn’t a regular churchgoer, and two, he didn’t believe in playing it safe.

“Safe” would have been khaki trousers and a dress shirt, loafers, but no tie. Alex, on the other hand, had worn faded jeans and a polo shirt that had seen better days. So had his sneakers. He smelled of bath soap and the barest hint of manly cologne. And he’d cut himself shaving…recently.

“And did you hear the one about…?”

Taylor was in the middle of wishing for a legitimate excuse to walk away from Pete when Trish O’Connor ran up to her, huffing and puffing. “You need to get home right away,” the church secretary said. “Your neighbor called and said your cat’s on the porch roof, meowing up a storm!”

The woman promised to let Taylor’s uncle know where she’d gone, promised to drive him home to save Taylor a trip back to the church.

Pete, Mable and even Alex were immediately forgotten as Taylor headed for her car. Every nerve end in her twitched with fear and dread, yet she resisted the urge to speed. Fast driving had killed her mother. Besides, if a cop stopped her to issue a ticket, it would only take that much longer to get home.

And the more time it took, the more likely Barney would fall off the roof. If there was any truth to the old wives’ tale about cats having nine lives, he’d be lucky to have one left, clumsy as he’d always been.

Her car came to a jerky stop when she pulled into the driveway. Sure enough, there was Barney, teetering near the roof’s edge, meowing for all he was worth. The sight of his mistress seemed to increase his angst, and he began pacing to and fro, precariously close to the rain gutter.

Taylor raced inside, taking the porch stairs two at a time, then did the same with the stairs leading to the second floor of her house.

There, on the other side of her bedroom window, sat Barney, front paws together, ears twitching, eyes glowing. Tempted by the sunshine on the other side of the window, Taylor reasoned, her curious kitty must have fiddled with the locks that held the window screen in place.

She leaned out the opening and extended her arms. “C’mere, you silly thing,” she crooned. When he stayed put, she added, “Barney…come here. I’ll give you a treat.”

He blinked and meowed…

And flicked his tail. “Come and get me” seemed to be the silent message he sent his mistress.

Pursing her lips, Taylor made kissing sounds and snapped her fingers. “Barrrr-neeeee,” she sang, “come to mah-meeeee….”

But he didn’t budge. If a squirrel or a bird should decide to perch in the branches of the tree just beyond the roof, there was no telling what the cat might do.

All her life Taylor had been afraid of heights. But what choice did she have? It was either climb out there and grab him, right now, or wait and take a chance he’d fall.

She eased her upper body through the window and, trembling, brought up her knee. When it rested on the warm, sandpapery shingles, she swallowed. Hard. “Please, God,” she prayed, “get the both of us back inside safely….”

Alex didn’t know what prompted him to do it, but instead of turning left at St. Johns Lane, he hung a right. At the first intersection he made another right, which put him on Taylor’s street. If he remembered correctly, her house was third from the corner.

If her car was in the driveway, maybe he’d stop by. Just to make sure everything was all right…since she’d disappeared so quickly from the brunch….

The red compact was there, all right. He noted the relief that coursed through him.

Movement on the roof caught his eye.

What on earth did she think she was doing up there!

He parked on the street, in the shade of the big maple in her front yard. Even from this distance he could hear her, making kissing noises. When he got closer, Alex grinned. “What’s up?” he asked as Barney maneuvered nearer the roof’s edge.

Taylor only gasped.

“Cat got your tongue?” he added.

“Funny,” Taylor said. “Real funny.”

But by the look on her face, he reasoned she hadn’t found his comment the least bit humorous. On closer inspection, he could see that she was terrified. Of losing the cat? Or of being up so high?

The latter. No, both, he decided.

“You want I should come up there? See if I can get her to come to me?”

“Him. His name is Barney.”

“Pardon me,” he said, smiling, hoping to ease her tension, “but we were never formally introduced.” Waving one arm above his head, Alex said, “Pleased to meet ya, Barn.”

He was still grinning when the cat launched itself from the roof, legs flailing, tail twitching, claws extended to get a grip on something.

Alex turned out to be that something.

Ignoring the stinging, piercing pain, he wrapped both arms around the cat and held on tight. “Is the front door open?” he asked, wincing and clenching his teeth.

Taylor nodded.

“Good. I’ll meet you inside, then.”

Thirty seconds later she was beside him, relieving him of the cat, who made a beeline for the living-room sofa.

“Oh my goodness,” Taylor gasped. “Just look at you.”

He glanced in the hall mirror. “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he said. “Looks like I’ve been—”

“In a catfight?”

They shared a moment of nervous laughter, and then she took his hand. “Come with me,” Taylor said. “Let’s get something on those scratches. We don’t want them to get infected.”

Her hand was warm. And despite her size, she had an amazingly strong grip. Alex liked that.

For the next five minutes he sat in one of her kitchen chairs, alternately cringing and sucking air between his teeth as she swabbed his cuts with antiseptic. Taylor leaned in, brow furrowed in concentration, as if she were a skilled surgeon and Alex an unconscious patient.

His own mother hadn’t fussed over him this gently when he’d skinned his knees as a boy. She’d put Mercurochrome here, bandages there, a slap on his behind and a warning to be more careful next time. And he’d had his share of minor accidents over the years—no surprise, considering what he’d chosen as his life’s ambition. A wide variety of nurses had doled out medication, changed the dressings on his wounds. But like his mother, there had been a matter-of-factness to their ministrations.

What made Taylor’s attentions seem so…different? Maybe the way her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she touched the swabs to his cuts. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled, just a little, when she asked, “Does that hurt?” and “Am I being too rough?”

And maybe, just maybe, it was the look in her eyes that said even something as insignificant as cat scratches were important…because he was important.

Right here, right now, Alex thought he could look into her pretty face forever. If only—

“You were the answer to a prayer,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Who? Me?”

She tossed the swab into the trash can and recapped the brown peroxide bottle. And pressing one small hand against her chest, Taylor sighed. “I’d been up there…”

She closed her eyes, and when she did, Alex felt as if someone had turned off the sun.

“I don’t know how long I’d been up there,” she finished, eyes wide again. “Seemed like forever!”

Alex said a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, amazed, because he hadn’t asked God for diddly in who knew how long, yet he’d asked Him to make Taylor open her eyes. He was even more amazed at the rush of warmth he felt swirling around inside his chest when she did.

“If I’d been up there another minute,” she said, laughing, “you’d probably have had two people to rescue.”

He could think of worse things than having a woman like this beholden to him for rescuing her. Because a woman like this—

Barney sauntered through the room just then, stopping only long enough to give both Alex and Taylor a look that said, “Who are you calling people?”

Laughing, Taylor added, “Well, you would’ve had two somethings to rescue.”

He was about to say she was as far from a “thing” as a woman could get when she said, “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

You’re a magnet, he thought, and my innards seem to be made of iron ore. “You left the church brunch just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—without a word.” He was beginning to sound to himself like a guy who’d fallen head over heels. Couldn’t have her thinking that, he decided. And so Alex gave a nonchalant shrug. “Just checking, makin’ sure you’re okay, is all.”

She laid a hand on the shoulder he’d shrugged. “Thanks, Alex.” And her voice was sweeter than honey when she added, “That was really nice of you.” Then, as if she thought maybe she sounded like someone who’d fallen head over heels, she spread her arms wide. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”

You can say that again, he thought. But “I’m glad” is what he said.

She clasped both hands in front of her. Small gesture, really, and yet because it seemed sweet and old-fashioned and feminine all rolled into one, it made his heart pound.

One hand on the refrigerator door handle, Taylor said, “Would you like a soda? Coffee? Tea?”

He chuckled, relieved to have something to focus on besides her dainty hands, her gorgeous eyes. “You sound like the stewardess on our flight back from Ireland.”

“Flight attendant,” she chided good-naturedly, her fore-finger moving like a silent metronome. “You don’t want a ticket from the Politically Correct Police, now, do you?”

Alex slapped himself in the forehead. His intended “Wash my mouth out with soap” was replaced by a “Yeee-ouch!” inspired when he hit one of the still-smarting cat scratches.

She was beside him in an instant, hands fluttering around his wounded face, a worried frown on her own. “Oh, no…you’ve got this one bleeding again.” Taylor grabbed the bottle of antiseptic, slid open the box of cotton swabs. “You really ought to be more gentle with yourself,” she scolded softly, daubing the open wound.

She was near enough to kiss, and it took every ounce of self-control he could muster to keep from doing just that. Would her lips feel as soft as they looked? Would those big eyes grow misty, or would she close them and—

“Just because you’re a big burly man,” she continued, “doesn’t mean you have to be so rough with yourself, you know.”

Alex swallowed. He didn’t know why her innocent comment struck a nerve. But it did. No one had ever been so tender with him. Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d have to say Taylor believed he was capable of breaking.

An ugly thought surfaced in his mind.

The accident had all but broken him, physically. But how could she have known that the aftereffects of it had all but shattered his spirit, when they’d spent no more than fifteen minutes, total, in one another’s company?

He needed to get out of this place, away from this woman. He had no business feeling drawn to her, not this soon, maybe not at all, ever. It was a good idea, this plan of his to heal on his own, alone. Because alone, he could think. Could reason things out. No way he could do that with her standing there looking at him like some kind of guardian angel.

Getting to his feet, Alex ran a hand through his hair. “Well, thanks for—”

“No,” she interrupted, “I’m the one who’s supposed to say thanks. You saved Barney, and very likely me, too.” She was smiling prettily when she added, “You’re our hero!”

He felt the heat of a blush creep into his cheeks. Hero? If only you knew, he thought glumly. “Well, guess I’d better get on my way.” He forced a grin. “You stay off rooftops now, y’hear?”

Standing at attention, she formed two fingers of her right hand into the Girl Scout salute. “Promise. Once I get that screen back into place, I won’t be going near any second-story openings any time in the near future.”

“Screen?”

She nodded. “That’s how Barney got onto the roof in the first place. He fiddled with the latches and the screen fell out onto the roof, and…”

Bobbing her head left and right, Taylor clamped her hands together. “I feel ridiculous, being so afraid of high places. Especially since I have no real reason to be afraid of—”

“Why should you feel ridiculous?” He didn’t know why, but Alex felt an overwhelming need to defend her. Careful, he warned himself, careful….

“Oh, I don’t know,” she began softly.

He’d never been afraid of heights. And frankly, he didn’t understand people who were. Wasn’t afraid of much, and never had been, for that matter. Fat lot of good your so-called bravado did you over the Caribbean, came his angry thought.

“I guess,” she continued, “I guess it’s embarrassing because people, well, you know, they tend to think if they aren’t afraid of something, no one else should be, either.”

Alex searched for something to say. Something that would comfort and reassure her. “Lots of people have a fear of heights.”

It was a lame thing to say, and he knew it. He thought she knew it, too. Why else had she sighed and shrugged and looked away?

What business did she have, looking so gorgeous and womanly and…and sad? Didn’t she realize what it was doing to him? How was he supposed to make a quick getaway, keep an arm’s-length emotional distance, with her standing there, in reach, looking like…like that?

He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Promise that nothing would ever scare her again—at least, not while he was around to prevent it. Wanted to kiss her, to prove how much he meant it.

Alex cleared his throat. You’re outta your ever-lovin’ mind, Van Buren. “Which window?”

“The one in my room.”

Great, he thought. Just what he needed. More information to make him want her in his life. Ruffled curtains, probably, and pink stuff sitting on lacy doilies. “Show me. I’ll put the screen back into place for you.” It was the least he could do. And then he’d make tracks, fast.

Taylor led him upstairs and down the hall, then pointed. “You’re a peach to do this.” Her lopsided smile became a full grin. “You don’t know how much I was dreading going out there to fetch the screen.” Laughing, she added, “I was seriously considering closing the window and praying for a strong wind to blow it off the roof.”

Alex realized the moment he poked his head through the opening that she’d never have been able to reach the screen from inside. Tiny as she was, she’d have been forced to climb outside, onto the roof, to get it. Wouldn’t have been easy, considering how she felt about being up so high. But something told him she would have forced herself to do it anyway.

Gritting his teeth, he realized which of the two of them was most brave. He leaned through the opening, stuck his arm out and took hold of the screen. No big deal for someone who didn’t mind heights. But she’d gone out there to save her cat, despite her terror.

Once he’d snapped it into place, Alex said, “Do you have a wrench?”

“Sure. But what do you need with a wrench?”

He wished she wouldn’t stand there like that, looking up at him with those big, long-lashed eyes. Being near her was having a peculiar effect on his nervous system. Alex didn’t remember feeling this fidgety around a woman before. Didn’t remember feeling this fidgety, period.