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Single Dad
Jennifer Greene


Mr. June Dad: Josh PenoyerSons: Teenaged Calvin and BruiserDaughter: Six-year-old Patrice - a.k.a. "Killer"Missing Ingredient: A mom!How did one handle a kleptomaniac first grader? Solo parent Josh Penoyer was mystified by his youngest's latest hobby - swiping trinkets from Ariel Lindstrom's shop. Then he uncovered Killer's ulterior motive. She wanted a mother, and Ariel fit the bill!Ariel always had time for kids - including a certain sticky-fingered miniature matchmaker and her big brothers. In fact, the motherless brood - and their sexy dad - almost made her wish she were the marrying type… .









Single Dad

Jennifer Greene







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


One (#u70b8a171-ab78-5cb2-af84-dbd4f0b0db7d)

Two (#ue72a4fc0-e9dc-51c6-9133-b880e7dd1bd1)

Three (#uc2d03b26-8736-5ac9-ab96-f70ef1fb24d5)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)




One


“Well, of course you’re shook up that this guy asked you to dinner, Jeanne. You spend all day with serial killers and werewolves. You haven’t been off that computer in so long that you’ve probably forgotten what a real, normal human male looks like....”

The shop bell tinkled. Hugging the telephone receiver to her cheek, Ariel Lindstrom glanced through the doorway of the back room, but she didn’t see any customers.

“...An invitation to dinner doesn’t mean you have to marry him, for Pete’s sake. Just go out and have fun. What’s so hard?...of course you don’t have anything to wear. You haven’t been shopping since the turn of the decade. Come on over. I’ll find you something in my closet...so my taste is a little wild. It wouldn’t kill you to break out a little....”

Ariel was on a roll—giving advice was so much fun—but her gaze still searched the main room of the shop. Someone must have come in. The bell only rang when the door opened—yet there wasn’t a soul in sight. The afternoon had turned blistering, broiling, butter-burn hot—unreasonably hot, even for a Connecticut July summer day. Everyone in Woodridge had holed up behind their air conditioners or fans. Her partner, Dot, had the day off and the shop had been as quiet as a tomb since lunch.

“...So what if he gets the wrong idea? I hope he does. When’s the last time you were kissed? The Civil War? It’s about that long since you pried yourself away from that book you’ve been working on....”

Ariel rose on tiptoe and craned her neck, but nothing seemed to be stirring in the shop. When the phone first rang, she’d been soldering the sterling clasp on a 1914 lavaliere. Old jewelry was the specialty of the gift store; the first two aisles of the shop were packed with nests of baubles displayed on velvet. The stock also ran to the gaudy, bright and whimsical. Crystal dragons and unicorns had a special niche in a sunlit corner. Stained glass doodads shot prisms of rainbow colors from another nook. Beyond the door, she’d set up a “magic corner” for kids, with crystal balls and wands and magic tricks.

There. Ariel’s gaze narrowed. She couldn’t see the body from this angle, but peeking out from the edge of the magic aisle was the tip of a tennis shoe. A laceless, orange fluorescent tennis shoe—distinctly a child-size. She almost chuckled aloud. “I’m not through with you, Jeanne, so don’t think you’re off the hook. But I’ll have to call you back. I have a customer.”

Her friend sounded enormously relieved to escape the conversation. Ariel hung up the receiver and headed straight for the telltale shoe.

The entire world knew she was a sucker for kids, but this one was a true heart stealer. The child raised huge, stricken, guilty eyes the instant she spotted Ariel. The urchin was maybe five. A girl, dressed in a Red Sox T-shirt and stringy cutoffs, with two straggly brunette pigtails jammed under a backward baseball cap. Her nose had a smudge. Both knees had healing scrapes. Her face was downright plain—except for those liquid chocolate eyes—but lack of cuteness certainly hadn’t affected her self-confidence. Her whole belligerent posture spoke of smart-aleck bravado.

It wasn’t hard for Ariel to relate. She’d never been short of attitude herself at that age. Ariel crouched down by the child. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

“Killer.”

“Killer, huh? Well, if that isn’t a great name, I don’t know what is. Are you shopping for anything special today?”

Those skinny shoulders pulled off a huge shrug. “I just wanted to look at stuff. Like the magic tricks and things like that. I wasn’t gonna take anything—”

“Hey, I never thought you were. It’s a great afternoon to mess with magic. I’ll show you a couple of tricks if you want. Too hot to be playing outside, isn’t it?” Ariel tacked on casually, “Where’s your mom, sweetie?”

The question was never meant to be complicated. The neighborhood kids often made Treasures into a pit stop on a lazy afternoon. It was a middle-class suburb; lots of moms worked, and the hillside shop was within easy walking distance from the schools. Ariel only asked about the missing mom because she wanted to make sure the little one had permission to be here. She never expected the child to take the question so literally.

“My mom split. She took off because she didn’t want us kids anymore. We all made too many messes and drove her crazy.”

The child’s tone was matter-of-fact, no bid for sympathy, yet Ariel felt an instant, violent tug of kinship. Divorces were so every-day common that another broken-home story was hardly headline news, but growing up, she’d had ample experience being shrapnel in the divorce wars. At twenty-nine, she had no faith in the institution of marriage and even less belief in “forevers.” Still she hated to see a mite-size urchin stuck learning those painful lessons so young.

And could the mite talk. Eek. Once the urchin began chattering, she barely stopped for breath.

Her real name was Patrice, but no one called her anything but Killer. Her last name was Penoyer. Her great-grandfather was Hungarian, but he’d been dead for just about forever. She was six. Her dad couldn’t braid hair worth squat. Her two older brothers couldn’t play any girl games. She was supposed to start first grade in the fall, but her brothers had filled her in about the boring school business. She wasn’t interested and she wasn’t going. Ever. Her best friend was Boober. Boober was nine feet tall and liked magic, which was a secret she was keeping from her dad. “Because my dad doesn’t believe in magic. At all.”

“He doesn’t, hmm?” By then, Ariel had shown her the disappearing scarf trick and miraculously made a fifty-cent piece appear from behind the child’s left ear. She didn’t mind ignoring work and entertaining the little one. Give or take the unknown gender of the imaginary friend “Boober,” there didn’t seem to be any females in the child’s life, and she was clearly lonesome for some company. Only the clock over the antique cash register kept ticking, and the child showed no signs of winding down or leaving.

“Honey, are you sure it’s okay that you’re still here? No one’s expecting you at home, are they?”

Those liquid chocolate eyes turned stricken again. “Uh-oh. Can you read me the time?”

“It’s just after four o’clock,” Ariel told her.

“Oh, cripes. Oh, double cripes. I gotta go!

That was it. The child galloped for the door; the bell tinkled, and then she was gone, rounding the corner of the building down the alley and out of sight.

Ariel rubbed the back of her neck, amused and bemused by the whole encounter. It wasn’t hard to understand why she felt such a fast, fierce emotional bond with the gregarious little smart aleck. The child reminded her of herself at that age, but it would be silly to take the bond too seriously. Who knew if she’d ever see the urchin again?

And playtime was over. She’d brilliantly managed to avoid doing a lick of work all afternoon—no guilt there; she’d never been plagued by either ambition or practicality—but bills refused to disappear by osmosis. She pivoted on her heel and started walking toward the back room...when she suddenly noticed the missing unicorn.

The crystal unicorns had become a favorite with collectors. Because each tiny figure was unique, Ariel had decided to display each piece on its own tiny mirror. The mirror with nothing on it stood out like a beacon.

No one had been in the shop but Killer, and the price tag for the missing unicorn was forty-five bucks. A little late, Ariel recalled finding the child at the corner between the magic aisle and the crystal display—and the stricken, guilty look in those chocolate eyes.

Damn.

For a short five seconds, Ariel debated tracking down her miniature thief. The little delinquent had mentioned her last name. Penoyer? Wasn’t that it? Nothing so common that scouting a telephone number should be too challenging—if she wanted her unicorn or her forty-five bucks back.

The mental debate didn’t last long. The money was no big deal; the principle mattered more, but the red-line truth was that she’d rather chew rats than get the child in trouble. The image of that dad who didn’t believe in magic—”at all”— prowled through her mind.

Killer’s dad sounded like a hard-core realist. Stern. Unbending. An unyielding rule lover. Basing her judgment on the few comments the child had made about him was hardly fair, but it didn’t really matter if she was right or wrong. She’d never know him. One lost unicorn simply wasn’t worth the risk of getting the child in trouble, and that was that.

* * *

“Ariel!”

“Hmm.” Ariel heard her partner calling, but she didn’t look up from the workbench. The chances of Dot actually needing her for anything were about five million to one. It was nearly seven—closing time—which Dot could handle blindfolded in her sleep.

Spread in front of Ariel was a tray of seed pearls. She adjusted the gooseneck lamp for the third time. The coral cameo brooch was a real find. A little cracked, but not too bad. The brooch was circled with seed pearls, a style common around 1910, but two pearls had been missing when the piece came in. Fixing it was no challenge, but finding two seed pearls of the right color and size was a real blinger.

“Ariel! There’s someone out here to see you!”

“Hmm.” Using tweezers and a magnifying glass, she held up another seed pearl to the light. Dot had been handling customers for several hours, the same amount of time she’d buried herself in the back with repair projects. She was determined to finish this last one before calling it quits.

The two-day heat spell hadn’t broken, and the airconditioning just refused to reach back here. She’d jettisoned her shoes hours ago, piled and pinned her long blond hair off her neck, hiked up her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. She was still hot. And beginning to suffer from starvation.

She studied another seed pearl in the lamplight, but her mind was indulging in a lustful, dawdling daydream about bathtubs and butter-brickle ice cream. The daydream wasn’t as good as a nice, wicked fantasy about sex—but almost. Her apartment was over the shop. If she ever finished this blasted brooch, she just might climb the stairs, lock the door, strip and immerse herself in a cool scented bath, a spoon and a pint of ice cream in hand. So it was a little decadent. Who’d know? Who’d care?

And she could already taste that to-die-for-delicious butter brickle.

“Ariel, for heaven’s sakes, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“Hmm? Oh. Sorry, Dot, my mind was in another universe....” She spun around, expecting to see her partner in the doorway—which she did. But Dorothy, with her short-cropped Afro and bifocals and tastefully tailored clothes, had always been the stable member of their pair. Why she was standing there, winking and rolling her eyes, was beyond Ariel. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dot shot her another “meaningful” wink. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving. The register’s locked and the Closed sign is up, so you won’t be disturbed. I’ll be in tomorrow at nine.”

“Fine, see you tomorrow.” Ariel still hadn’t fathomed what all the winking was about, until her six-foot friend shifted past the doorway.

There were two people just behind Dot. A man and a child. Ariel recognized the miniature female delinquent in the orange fluorescent tennies in a heart’s blink—she’d thought about Killer more than once over the past two days. But it was Killer’s dad who riveted her attention.

She didn’t have to guess about the family connection—the physical resemblance was unmistakable. Mr. Penoyer had the same shock of thick unruly hair, midnight black, and the same liquid dark eyes as his daughter. But the squirt must have inherited her homely bones from some other source, because her daddy was one hell of a looker.

Ariel’s complete distrust in the institution of marriage never meant she was antimen. It had been a while, though, since she met a lightning bolt who inspired her feminine hormones to a 911 red-alert status. He wasn’t huge, maybe five feet ten, but the package was all lean, wired muscle. Apparently he’d come straight here after a day of working in the heat, because he carried a hard hat in one hand, and he was dressed in jeans, a worn navy T-shirt and scuffed work boots.

Judging from the character lines etched around his eyes, he was in his mid-thirties. Judging from the scowl cut deep as a well on his forehead, he was smoking with tension and temper. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he didn’t want to be here. The phrase “volatile powder keg” shot through her mind, followed by the disgracefully wayward thought that he’d be an incredible handful in bed—dangerous and exciting and unpredictable.

Not that his skills as a lover were relevant to anything. She wasn’t prospecting. It was just an objective observation.

In those same few seconds, he seemed to make some instantaneous objective observations about her, too. Those dark eyes laddered up her bare feet to her hiked-up skirt to her open-collared shirt to her wildly disarrayed blond hair. Modesty hadn’t been her concern in the privacy of the back room. Actually, modesty was rarely a front-line priority with her anyway—good grief, a body was a body. But hers suddenly felt different, alive and aware and definitely exposed. Heaven knew what he’d expected, but his gaze reflected the same kind of wariness he’d show an open vial of nitro.

“You’re the owner of this place? Ariel Lindstrom?”

He sounded so doubtful that she was tempted to offer him ID. “Yes.”

“Well, I’m Josh Penoyer. Patrice’s father.” With two firm hands on her shoulders, Killer was ousted from the safe hiding place behind his legs. “My daughter has something to say to you.” Killer clearly wasn’t fond of this plan, because she burrowed straight back for her daddy’s arms. “Patrice.” There was no meanness to his tone, but it wasn’t hard to identify the immobility of rock. Dad wasn’t gonna budge. The little one lifted dread-filled eyes. Sotto voce, he prompted her, “We’re sorry....”

“We’re sorry. Very sorry we took your unicorn.” Said-offending unicorn came out of a shorts pocket, wrapped protectively in several miles of tissue, and was placed on Ariel’s workbench.

“Oh, sweetheart...” Ariel started to say, but she was cut off.

“We have a little more to say than that, don’t we, Patrice?”

“Yeah.” Killer had to take a huge breath before she could get out the rest of the prepared speech. “We unnerstand that you could call the cops and put me away for the rest of my life, but we’re hoping you won’t. Because I would never steal anything again as long as I live. And because I’m real sorry. And because you were nice, and that makes it extra bad that I stole something from you, and I’ll probably never be able to forgive myself, even in my whole life.”

Ariel couldn’t wait another second before pushing off the stool and crouching down to the child’s level. “Well, we certainly can’t have you feeling that bad. It takes a big person to own up to her mistakes, Killer, and it means a lot to me that you did that. You brought the unicorn back, and you apologized. That squares things with me just fine.”

She raised her eyes to Killer’s dad. “Really. The whole thing’s forgotten as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Penoyer.”

“Josh,” he corrected her, which was about the last word he said. His parental mission accomplished, he scooped up his daughter and gave her a riding seat on the back of his shoulders—where the little one was prevented from touching anything else in the shop, Ariel noted humorously. Less than a minute later, the two exited the store in a tinkle of bells.

From the window, Ariel watched him strap Killer into a dusty red Bronco, then take off. As hot and tired as she was, she stood there for a few more minutes. Belatedly she recognized that Josh had looked exhausted and hot, too, but that hadn’t stopped him from making his child’s problem a priority. That said a lot about his values as a dad. It said even more about him as a man.

She’d pegged him as a hard-core realist—positively her opposite in temperament—but Ariel had no problem admitting that she’d been charmed. Seriously and sincerely charmed. Killer’s behavior with her dad had been as revealing as a blueprint. Even when Josh had looked intimidatingly ready to blow the lid off that temper, the urchin had burrowed straight for his arms. He might get mad, but no way was his daughter afraid of him. The strong, loving bond between the two had been rich and rare, a measure of the man and his ability to love. Ariel hadn’t met a special man like that in a long time.

She abruptly turned around and headed for the back stairs. It was tempting to mull and muse all night about Josh—but far more sensible to force her mind back on butter-brickle. Her stomach was growling—a problem she could easily fix. And she’d learned young to steer clear of problems that she couldn’t. The chances of her seeing either of the Penoyers again seemed doubtful. It was best to forget them.

* * *

“She was pretty, wasn’t she, Dad? Didn’t you think she was pretty?”

Since it was the fourth time Killer had asked the question during the drive home, Josh figured he wasn’t going to get out of an answer. “Yeah, sure,” he said flatly. Truthfully, he thought that descriptive epitaph was an awfully pale peg for Ms. Lindstrom. Sexy. Wild. Flighty. Those were more like it.

“Did you like her, Dad?”

“Sure, I liked her.” He liked fireworks. He liked race cars and storms. And just because he was thirty-four and divorced didn’t mean he was dead from the waist down. He liked long-legged, long-haired blondes built with a memorable upper deck just fine. But a grown man didn’t have to dip his hand in flames to know there were unpleasant consequences to playing with fire.

“Wasn’t she nice? Didn’t you think she was nice?”

“Yeah, Ms. Lindstrom was nice. But if you think talking about her is going to distract me from what you did, you’re dreaming. I’m still mad at you. What you did was real, real wrong, Patrice.”

“I know.”

Aw, hell. Her lower lip was starting to tremble. Dammit, he hated it when the squirt did that.

Josh jammed a hand through his hair as he turned the corner. Calvin was fourteen, Bruiser thirteen. God knew they got into all kinds of mischief, but it was boy trouble, the kind Josh understood. The kind of stuff his daughter got into confused him. He was just no expert at six-year-old girls, and pretending he was qualified to be both Mom and Dad was a full-time challenge.

He sneaked another peek.

The lip was still trembling.

“Look, I can’t just forget it.”

“I know,” Killer said pitifully.

“We’ll go home. Have dinner. But after that, you go straight to your room. No playing. And no TV tonight.” His voice was stern, but he checked her face again. Was the punishment too mean?

“Okay.” A single tear dribbled down his daughter’s cheek, caught on a smudge of dirt, then drooled the rest of the way down her neck.

Josh glanced at traffic behind him, then reached over and gently wiped the tear away. “You have to have a punishment when you do something this serious. Could you try and understand that? It’s my job as a dad, for Pete’s sake. I have to do this, Killer.”

“I said okay.”

Maybe it was “okay,” but he saw another tear welling. Nothing with Calvin or Bruiser had ever been this complicated. He’d never hesitated to give the boys a swat on the behind at this age—like if they’d run in the street or broken a window—and for sure, stealing rated up there as a spanking offense. But somehow he’d never managed to lay a hand on Killer. Even when he was mad enough to strangle her—and God knew, the squirt could be exasperating—he had to work like a dog to even raise his voice. Something in those big brown eyes sabotaged him every time. They made him feel like melting. They made him feel like mush. They made him feel guilty.

Josh swung into the driveway, mentally damning Nancy for taking off on him and the kids. The divorce had been final for a year now. Whatever had gone wrong in the relationship, he hadn’t had time to figure out. He was too busy coping with work, bills, dishes, cooking, laundry, two teenage sons and a six-year-old daughter.

Still, as long as he ran sixty miles an hour, he’d really believed that he’d been coping—until a problem like this happened. “I still don’t get it. What possessed you to take that unicorn thing?” he asked his daughter.

“It was pretty.”

“Yeah? So? Lots of things are pretty, but if it’s not yours, you don’t touch it. You know that.”

“I know, Dad.”

Somehow he was failing to gain any comprehension of the six-year-old feminine mind. “Did you ever see me take anything that wasn’t mine?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Did you ever see me touch anything that didn’t belong to me?”

“No, Daddy.”

He was parked, the engine off, and she wanted out of the Bronco in the worst way. It wasn’t as if he were gaining any ground. “Okay, skedaddle. I’ll be in to make dinner in just a second.”

She skedaddled faster than a puppy with a burr, but Josh sat in the silence for a moment longer. Their house was at the end of a cul-de-sac on the hilltop. Matching frame bungalows lined the street, typical of a working-class neighborhood. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t rough. The kids had a ravine and woods to play in. Clusters of old maples and ash and birch trees lined the block. Anyone could identify his house as being womanless, though.

Two rusty bicycles lay abandoned in the yard, not put away. The curtains in the front window didn’t hang the way a woman seemed to genetically know how to hang the blasted things. There were no flowers planted in the beds. And inside, Josh already knew he was going to find dirty glasses, thrown towels, shoes and clothes that reproduced in the strangest places, and a bathroom that risked being condemned by the health department. His bedroom may—may—have been left sacrosanct, but for sure the only company he was likely to find in that lonely double bed was one of the boy’s basketballs.

Josh sighed with exasperation. He’d screwed up plenty in his life, but he valued integrity and tried to pass on that value to his kids. The problem was, it was hard to climb all over his daughter for falling prey to an irresistible impulse...when he personally knew how easily that could happen.

He’d taken one look at Ms. Lindstrom and felt as if he’d stepped in a land mine of blatant, irresistible impulses. He’d bet the bank that silvery blond hair reached her waist in length. The green eyes and pearl skin and that soft mouth still lingered in his mind. So did the swell of her breasts peeking out of that open-throated shirt. He suddenly recalled—to the day—how long he’d been celibate, which sure as hell wasn’t his nature or his choice.

It wasn’t as if anything had changed. There wasn’t a sane woman on the planet who’d take him and his brood on. And assuming he had the time and energy to pursue a woman—which he didn’t—he’d never pick a flighty seller-of-magic. His kids needed stability. Hell, so did he. But one look in those almond-shaped eyes had sparked a chemical combustion that woke up every masculine hormone. He likened it to trying to sleep when someone was hitting you over the head with a club.

Josh wasn’t going to do anything about it.

He just wasn’t going to lie to himself and pretend the feeling never happened. Irresistible impulses were a human frailty. Six-year-olds had an understandably difficult problem controlling them. A man his age—thank God—was smarter, older, wiser.

The safest thing to do was to put her straight, totally and completely, out of his mind.

And he did.




Two


Uh-oh. It was a good thing that Ariel glanced up when the tinkling of the bell announced someone had entered the store. A second later, and she might have missed the urchin in the backward baseball cap and oversize Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt.

She hadn’t seen Patrice in days—nor expected to—but temporarily she had her hands full. The entire morning had been an exercise in commotion and locomotion. Dot wasn’t due in until three. The phone refused to stop ringing; three browsers were wandering around; a woman lunch shopper was waiting at the cash register to buy earrings; and Ariel was stuck behind the jewelry counter with a gentleman who was sweating blood, trying to pick out a present for his wife.

The young blond man fingered a moonstone-and-mother-of-pearl pendant, which was about the ninetieth thing he’d considered, and shot her a helpless look. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Since Ariel had never met his wife, she didn’t have a clue. “I think it’s beautiful myself, and I don’t see how you can go too wrong with that—not if she likes antiquey-type jewelry.”

“She loves all kinds of antiquey stuff. But this has to be special.” He confided, “We’ve been married six months today.”

By today’s divorce statistics, enduring six months together was probably a record, but Ariel had no time to give him an “attaboy.” The woman at the cash register was impatiently tapping her foot. The phone rang again. And normally Ariel would have been happy to spend all day with blondie—he was really a darling, just a little short in the decision-making department. But she felt uneasy about Killer being in the store alone, and the urchin had already disappeared from sight.

“I’ll tell you what,” she told the gentleman. “You think about this for a minute, while I take care of the lady up front, and I’ll be right back.” She jogged to the front, quickly dealt with the phone call, rang up the sale, bagged it, answered a fast question from the browsers on stained-glass prices and galloped back to her man.

En route, she caught a glimpse of the miniature brunette near the magic aisle, which was enough to relieve her mind.

She was delighted to see the child again. She also believed the little one’s ardent promises about never stealing again. It was just that she’d met few adults who could keep their promises—especially ardently made promises—and she wasn’t about to believe the six-year-old had mastered temptation. Thankfully, the magic tricks were all safely locked inside the glass cabinet. She really didn’t want to see the urchin get into any more trouble.

The gentleman eventually chose a black-button pearl bracelet and paid—bless him!—in cash; the earrings shopper left; and the three browsers meandered to the front with their stained-glass window ornaments. Once they were gone, the transition from commotion to total silence was astoundingly quick. Ariel hustled toward the magic aisle.

Killer’s nose was pressed to the glass. “Hi,” she said, when Ariel crouched down.

“Hi, back.”

“I have money today.” To illustrate proof, Killer pushed up the Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt and dug in the pockets of her cherry-red shorts. Once all the pockets were turned inside out, five dollars in crumpled ones and change gradually accumulated on the counter.

“Wow. You have lots of money.”

“I want a magic trick. If that’s okay.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if it was okay if I came back. Maybe you’re still mad at me.”

“I was never mad at you, Killer. You made a mistake. I’ve made a few mistakes myself. And you’re welcome to come in the store as often as you want, sweetie, as long as you have your dad’s permission.”

“He’s gone during the day. But I asked Mary Sue. She takes care of me, and she said yes. I can pretty much go anyplace as long as I don’t have to cross streets, and all I gotta do to get here is walk down the ravine and then up the sidewalk and then down the alley.”

Well, that settled the issue of permission, but the purchase of the magic trick was a more complicated business. The quest for the Holy Grail never took this long. The goal was to dazzle and bedazzle her older brothers, but finding a magic trick that Killer could handle and her older brothers couldn’t figure out took some experimenting.

They tried card tricks. They tried cutting-rope tricks. They made a quarter miraculously disappear in a glass of water, and a scarf miraculously change color, and a broken toothpick miraculously heal itself. By then, Killer was chattering six for a dozen. The topic strayed from magic to girl stuff. Important things, like how to braid hair. Dolls. Perfume. Best friends. How disgusting boys were—especially Tommy Bradley.

“He tried to kiss me,” Killer said with a scrunch of her nose. “What a yuck.”

“Tommy Bradley lacks a little technique, hmm?”

“He really gives me the creeps—don’t tell my dad about that, okay? My dad wouldn’t like it if a boy tried to kiss me. He already told me he’s not gonna let me date until I’m forty-five. As if I’d want to.”

“I won’t tell,” Ariel said gravely.

“I’m gonna grow my hair just like you. And wear earrings just like you. I just have to get a little older about the earrings, Dad says.”

Half the little one’s conversation was peppered with whatever her dad said and thought. Ariel couldn’t help but picture Josh surviving the incessant stream of girl talk. She’d never rationed smiles—or laughter—and she wasn’t that busy. It was easy to give the child the female companionship she was so poignantly lonesome for.

Killer had fresh French braids and the bagged-up quarter magic trick—discounted—when she skipped out of the store around three.

Fifteen minutes later, Ariel discovered the missing ruby-eyed dragon.

* * *

Lightning striped the black sky. Rain slashed down in gusty torrents. After five days of killing heat, the storm was more than welcome, but Josh was soaked through by the time he jogged from the Bronco through the alley and up the back metal stairs. When he reached the top, rain drizzled down his neck and matted his eyelashes. Still, he hesitated before knocking.

He really didn’t want to be here.

Killer had told him that Ariel lived over the shop, and lights shone through the pale curtains, fair evidence that she was at home. It was past eight. He’d been to his place, had dinner and messed around with the kids for as long as he could procrastinate this little chore. Any later than this, and an unexpected caller at night would probably scare a woman alone. Hell, an unexpected guy caller could probably scare her now, but at least eight o’clock was still reasonably early.

He just really didn’t want to knock on that door.

Rain sluiced through his hair and rivered off his denim jacket. Impatiently he set his jaw, squared his shoulders. And firmly back-knuckled the door.

The back light popped on. He heard her, on the other side, undoing a dead bolt and locks. His shoulder muscles were bunched and braced even before she poked her head out.

“Josh?” Her clear-bell voice made his name sound like a question, but there didn’t seem to be any startled shock in her expression. She glanced at him, chuckled as she said, “Good grief, are you wet! Come on in, before you drown out there—” and then looked down and past him.

It wasn’t hard to guess that she was searching for another body. “Killer isn’t with me. Killer is grounded for the rest of her life,” he informed her.

“Ah.”

The twinkle of humor in her eyes disarmed him—maybe she didn’t know about his daughter’s latest shoplifting escapade? Either way, he positively wanted this encounter over quick. One horrified glance had revealed that she was in pajamas. Silky, sexy, scarlet pajamas. And the last time he’d seen her, her hair had been all piled up. Now it was down, brushed smooth, about three miles of silvery-gold taffy that swished almost to her waist. He averted his eyes, trying to look nowhere, not at her place and for sure not at her, as he dug inside his jacket for the small wrapped package. “I believe this dragon thingamabog belongs to you.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it does.” Her soft green eyes met his. “I realized she had it about three minutes after she left the shop.”

“You know she took it? Since yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure what to do. I really didn’t want to get her into any more trouble.” She hesitated. “Look, wouldn’t you like to come in and dry off for a few minutes? I’ve got some coffee on the stove. You want a splash of brandy in it?”

“I...” He never planned on coming in, not once he realized she was dressed for bed. But the friendly offer for coffee threw him. She could have been madder than a wet hen—hell, she could have called the cops on his kid. If there was some protocol for a single dad in this situation, he just didn’t know what it was. “I never meant to take up your evening. I just wanted to give the thing back to you and apologize.”

“I understand...but you’re worried about your daughter, aren’t you? Maybe it’d help if we talked about it.”

Personally, Josh never found that talking helped much of anything. But he figured he owed her some kind of explanation for his daughter’s recent kleptomaniac streak, and he didn’t want Ariel thinking he was the kind of dad who didn’t give a damn about his kids. So gingerly he stepped inside.

She took his jacket. And he had to heel off his boots or risk tracking in mud. The next thing he knew, he had a fragile-looking china cup in his hands, filled with some kind of fancy gourmet coffee, fragrant and rich and topped off with a splash of brandy.

“Come on in the living room. More comfortable to sit in there,” she said easily.

He took a gulp of the brew as he followed her, hoping the liquor might settle his nerves. It didn’t. Guessing conservatively, he figured the chances of his being comfortable around her rivaled the odds of a federal balanced budget. There’d be colonies on Mars first.

“I’m crazy about your daughter, you know.” She curled up in the corner of the couch, and motioned him to the closest chair. Her sweep of a smile seemed honest and warm. Somehow that smile made it easier for him to talk than he’d expected.

“She’s crazy about you, too. Practically everything she’s said in the last week was a quote from you. Don’t take this wrong, okay? But I think half the problem is this attachment she’s formed to you.”

Ariel nodded thoughtfully. “I had the feeling she was really lonesome for a woman’s company.”

“I know she’s lonesome for a woman’s company. She took her mom’s leaving hard. I have two boys....”

“She told me about her brothers.”

Josh rubbed his jaw. “Nancy’s leaving, the divorce, hasn’t been easy on any of them. But Killer definitely had the hardest time with it. And still is. That’s no excuse for stealing. She knows better. But I don’t want you thinking she’s a bad kid. She’s not bad. She’s...” Well, the squirt was damn near perfect in his eyes—always had been. Yes, exasperating and exhausting and an incredibly confusing little female person, but a light in his life like nothing else. Only, how was a grown man supposed to put that in words?

“I never thought she was bad, Josh,” Ariel said gently. “In fact, I can remember shoplifting a pack of gum when I was that age.”

“Shoplifting a quarter pack of gum is a little different than taking off with something that cost—what was that dragon thing worth, anyway?”

“Around sixty dollars. But I doubt she had any understanding of its dollar value. It looked like a little thing to her. Just something pretty. And she’s of the age where she’d know about dragons from fairy tales. You know, you won’t break that chair if you sit back in it,” she murmured with amusement.

Josh wasn’t worried about breaking the chair. He was worried about him. When she didn’t immediately hustle to some back room for a robe or cover-up, it finally registered that the scarlet outfit wasn’t pajamas. Apparently it was just one of those gummy-silk things that women walked around in these days. The shirtish top was loose, oversize. Not even suggestive of bedrooms or bedroom attire, if a guy didn’t have a dirty mind.

Josh was trying to keep his mind clean. He was trying, in fact, to think like a celibate monk. Only, he’d never been a monk, and a full bottle of bleach wasn’t likely to wash the X-rated thoughts racing through his mind.

She was really something. And so was her place.

The building was a good hundred years old, he guessed. The tall-pitched ceiling had to be hell on her heating bills. The old-fashioned windows were draft suckers. A white marble—cracked marble—fireplace stood in the far corner, another drafty nightmare if it wasn’t regularly maintenanced and cared for. She probably had to worry about blinking lights with wiring this old. Josh told himself he was judging the whole thing from an objective masculine perspective, but the truth was, he wasn’t thinking about her fireplace flue.

The carpet was a pale water blue and as plushy as a sponge. The couch and chairs had sink-deep cushions, the fabric soft and that same muted blue color. One lamp had a fringed shade, and the other—the one behind her head—was Tiffany-style, with roses against a blue sky background. Piles of candles sat on her coffee table. Not unused candles, like in any normal place, but vanilla-and spice-scented candles that she obviously lit and enjoyed, because the wax had swirled and pooled in the holders. She had a crystal ball on the mantel. An honest-to-Pete crystal ball, like witches used, and it picked up all the soft colors from everywhere and reflected them right back.

Nothing was bright. Nothing was noisy. There wasn’t a football in sight, no doll carriages to trip over, no dirty dishes, no video game screeching. Every scent, texture and sound was distinctly sensual—hedonistically, worrisomely sensual—and so was she.

It wasn’t her fault, Josh kept telling himself, that she looked like a guy’s seductive fantasy of a dream lover. The long legs were probably genetic. Blond hair probably ran in her family, too. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything to sell the package. Her hair had no special style, not full of gunky hairspray. It was just so silky, so long, that any man was naturally going to imagine his hands wrapped in it. And she was wearing a gold pendant—nothing big or gaudy, but the little chunk was trapped in the shadow of her plump breasts, drawing his eyes there. Forcing his eyes to the dip of ivory flesh in the vee of her shirt...especially when she was bending right over him.

“Would you like some more?”

Belatedly he realized she was holding the coffeepot, trying to offer him a refill. “Maybe one more quick one,” he said, then abruptly wiped a hand over his face. He wished he hadn’t said “Quick one.”

“A little more brandy, too?”

“No brandy for me this time, but thanks.” If that splash of brandy was responsible for this abrupt surge of hormones, he wanted no more of it. He wanted to kick himself. Maybe it had been a month of Sundays since he’d been alone with a woman, but he knew how to behave around one. He was also a practical, grounded, blue-collar kind of guy. He knew damn well when a lady was way, way out of his realm.

She poured them both more coffee, and carried her cup back to the couch, tucking her legs under her. “Killer never told me what you did for a living....”

“I’m an electrical contractor.” He almost chuckled. She cocked her head, expressing interest, but he couldn’t fathom a woman who was into crystal balls wanting to hear anything about wiring and electric circuits. It was past time he acted like a grown man who could handle a conversation without stuttering. “Have you owned your shop long?”

“Treasures? About four years now.” She grinned. “I think you met my partner the other day...the six-foot-tall black woman with the bifocals and the gorgeous mocha skin? Her real name is Dorothy, but her nickname’s always been Dot.”

He remembered the Amazon. When he walked in the shop, she’d treated him like handling lost-soul construction workers was the most fun she’d had all day. “She has quite a sense of humor.”

“She’s wonderful. We met at an antique jewelry auction a million years ago, and clicked right away. I used to work with silver, designing pieces, but I was never good enough to make a living at it. But I know jewelry, and she knows about the business end of running a shop. When the building came up for sale about four years ago, we decided to give it a go together.”

“You do okay?”

“Better than most gift stores, I suspect. The location’s great, and we’ve kept the payroll down to just the two of us and a part-time guy. Unique jewelry is our main thing. Even in recession times, most women can’t resist a new bangle or pair of earrings. Me, either. In fact, that’s what I try and stock—what I can’t resist,” she admitted humorously. “Anyway, we’re hardly banking millions, but we’re keeping afloat.”

“You seem to like kids....” Jeez. Talking with her wasn’t coming half as hard as he’d expected, but there were clearly some subjects that made her light up like a Christmas tree. She darn near bounced with enthusiasm, her smile turned up a thousand wattage.

“I’m crazy about kids. Wish I had a dozen of my own, but I make do, borrowing nieces and nephews and any relatives’ kids I can beg, borrow or kidnap whenever I have the chance.”

“Come from a big family?”

“If I told you how big, you probably wouldn’t believe it. My mother’s been divorced four times—at last count—and my dad’s on his third wife. My background hasn’t given me much faith in the institution of marriage, but I’ve collected whole clans of relatives along the way. In fact, I developed this theory, growing up.”

“Yeah?” He hadn’t a clue where she was leading, but if it was going to make her eyes sparkle and dance like that, he was willing to hear anything.

“Yeah. As a kid, I couldn’t see a reason on earth why I had to lose all my relatives because of divorce. I mean they were getting divorces. I wasn’t. So I decided to keep the relatives I was fond of. My aunt Betty, for instance, was a blood relative, but she was always a pistol. When she divorced my uncle Henry, I kept him. And my mom’s second husband’s parents—I’ve kept them as honorary grandparents. And then there are people like Jeanne—she’s a writer—she was my dad’s first wife’s niece...your eyes are crossing, Josh, are you getting a little confused?”

Damned if she wasn’t teasing him. “I’m just trying to picture who you have over for dinner on the holidays,” he said dryly. “The idea that you can keep or throw out the relatives you want is a little...unusual.”

“Families don’t seem to exist like they used to. If that’s the way it’s going to be, I figure we’ll have to create our nuclear-age families out of a new mold. And you’re divorced, so you already know how complicated it can get for the kids around birthdays and holidays—which ex-aunts and uncles get invited for which occasions—”

“Yeah, it gets complicated.” But his mind, for the first time in a millennium, wasn’t on his children. It was on her.

Vaguely he recalled that his sole reason for coming here had been to talk about Killer. Vaguely he recalled the madhouse of chores and noise and kids that he needed to go home to—soon. Yet he’d stretched out his legs. He couldn’t remember when. Her place, the warmth of lamplight and quiet and soft blues, gave him the strange feeling of being in a spellbound cocoon. When was the last time he’d shared a basic conversation with a woman? When was the last time a woman had curled up across from him, and focused her attention on his face as if nothing else mattered in the world except the conversation between the two of them?

“It’s hard to believe you mean that—about being antimarriage. Maybe the odds of a couple staying together aren’t too hot today. And just having been through a divorce, I get a case of hives even thinking about wedding rings again. But you must have been tempted to get married sometime. And if you want kids...”

“I want kids. But I’d never get married just for that reason. There’s no stigma against being a single mom these days. Obviously the situation is better for a child with both a mom and dad, but a ring doesn’t guarantee that.”

He argued with her. A damn silly argument, considering that nobody knew better than him how little a ring guaranteed. But it was fun, bickering the pros and cons of marriage back and forth with her. Eventually they moved off marriage and tried out an argument about politics—no way they could agree on anything there; she was a flaming do-gooder liberal, which he could have guessed. But they weren’t really fighting. She kept laughing, and making him laugh. She had a hatful of free-spirited wild ideas about life and love and everything else. Josh couldn’t begin to guess if she was serious, nor did it matter. For the first time in forever, he wasn’t thinking about work or bills or kids or when he was going to find time to change the oil on his Bronco.

But damn. When his gaze accidentally flickered to the dials on his watch, he almost had a stroke. How could he possibly have been there two hours?

He lurched to his feet faster than a bee-stung bear. “Damn. I didn’t realize how late it was. And I never meant to take up your whole evening.”

“I didn’t mind. I enjoyed talking with you.”

“Yeah...I enjoyed it, too.” Belatedly he realized how true that was, how much fun he’d had over the past two hours...and it worried him.

Ariel trailed him into the blue-and-white kitchen. “I’ll get your jacket. Hopefully it’ll be dry by now.” She glanced out the black windows. “It’s still drizzling, but I haven’t heard a boomer in a while. Looks like the worst of the storm finally passed.”

She fetched his denim jacket from the minuscule entryway and held it up with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. It only took a second to put on his boots and yank on the jacket. Then he meant to reach for the doorknob and go. There was no reason his leaving her had to be complicated.

But somehow he found himself still standing there. Close to her. Awkwardly close. In her bare feet, she reached his nose in height. With the sink light behind her, her delicate features were less shadowed than simply softened, blurred. Feminine scents seemed to surround her. Not one, but a blend—mango from her shampoo, and peach from the hand cream he’d seen her reach for, and yeah, he could catch an exotic spice from the perfume where her skin was warm. Her skin looked real, real warm.

When he’d first walked in, his tongue had been tangled somewhere near the roof of his mouth. Studying her over the evening, he’d seen she was pale. Too pale. And she had a plain old ordinary chin. Discovering those imperfections had been a relief. No way a guy could have a normal conversation with his personal Christie Brinkley fantasy. But she wasn’t that now. The legs, the body, the sultry green eyes—it was all still there, all just as distracting. But somehow over the evening she’d become...real.

And she looked at him, impossibly, as if she found him real, too. “You’re not really going to ground Killer for the rest of her life, are you?” she queried.

“I haven’t a clue what I’m gonna do with her,” he admitted dryly. “But thanks...for not being mad about her taking those things. And just...for listening.”

“No problem,” she said lightly.

“Well...good night.”

“Good night,” she returned.

He reached for the door. So did she. Their hands brushed, making them both chuckle.

They both jumped back to give the other room, making them both chuckle again.

And then their eyes met. And the most confounding thing happened.




Three


All evening, Josh had the weird sensation that it was wicked and wrong to be alone with her. His six-year-old was having trouble handling the temptation of Ariel’s magic. He wasn’t afraid of crystal balls or card tricks, but yeah, he was uncomfortably aware that the lady had some kind of magic. Dangerous magic, because she sure as hell seemed to have cast some kind of spell on him.

For that reason alone, he never meant to kiss her. He’d have sworn in court that neither the thought nor intent was remotely on his mind. And a guy was supposed to be able to count on those handy physics laws of the universe—like the relationship between fire and fuel. If nobody lit a match, nobody had to worry about the repercussions of starting a blaze.

There were no matches in sight. There was just an instant—an innocent instant—when they were standing together in her shadowed doorway. Her face was tilted up to his. He was wearing his denim jacket, ready to leave, his hand even on the doorknob. Their eyes met. It couldn’t have been for more than a millisecond. Nobody made a soul connection in a millisecond. For cripes’ sake, Josh didn’t even believe in hoaxy ethereal stuff like “soul connections.”

But something happened. Something insane. Something that made it feel perfectly natural to lift his hand to gently touch her cheek. When she turned her head, he bent down, as if they already naturally knew the steps to this dance. When their lips met, though, there was nothing natural about the kiss.

Her lips were softer than butter. Softer than spring. Her eyes turned this smoky misty green, and then they closed, as if inhaling the texture of this sensation was all she could concentrate on. She tasted sweet, and to kiss her small mouth, her lips, was like sliding on silk.

Hormones. His mind lanced on the word, seeking excuses and explanations for an explosion of emotion that had no such simple reason. Yeah, his whole body tightened from the chemical connection. And below his belt, he knew exactly what she was doing to him.

But that crazy, wild kiss had nothing of lust in it. It was a lost kiss. A testing, tentative, beguiling acknowledgment of longing and loneliness.

He’d never denied being lonely; it was just supposed to be a back-burner item, a problem he’d take out and deal with after the kids were grown and he had time for it. Only, she put it on his table right now. How many nights he’d been alone. How fiercely he missed believing there would ever be someone to talk to, be with. How rich, how heady, how mountain-tall a man could feel with a woman who cared about him.

He wasn’t used to riches—not extravagant, expensive, luxurious riches like her. Her silk rustled alluringly against his denim. His callused hands seemed an impossible contrast against her pearl skin. The pulse was beating hard in her throat. Hard, but not fast. The whole world had tuned down to slow motion, as if life had been kind enough to give them both a time-out, and nothing existed, not at this moment, but the two of them and a kiss that neither of them could seem to let go of.

He’d wondered how that long hair would feel sifting through his hands. Now he knew. Dangerous. A man’s fingers could get lost in those long, shivery strands and never come out. Her hands clutched his jacket and then slid, softly and slowly, around his neck.

Somewhere, he could smell blueberry muffins. Somewhere, he could hear a clock ticking. Somewhere, a coat hook was stabbing him directly between the shoulder blades, and it was extremely odd, but he didn’t give a damn. She was kissing him back as though she hadn’t met a man who mattered to her in the past four, five thousand years. His instincts pitched back to the caveman era, but even accounting for those primitive, prehistoric male emotions, he knew damn well he’d never kissed anyone like her. The crush of her plump breasts made him feel hot and violently protective at the same time. Her skin warmed under his touch—warmed and flushed. Her scent, her texture and touch, hit him like a seductive, erotic overload.

He tried to gulp in oxygen.

There wasn’t a lick of air in the whole room.

She tried to gulp in air, too, then raised her eyes and smiled at him as if she were waking from some dream. “Josh?”

He wasn’t sure what she was asking. Her voice was husky, low, shy. Hurtable, he recognized. Never mind her sensual feminine lair and her antimarriage rhetoric and the free spirit implied by her walking around in pajamas. She didn’t do this every day.

Hell, neither did he.

It took a second to untangle his hands from her hair, to smooth a strand away from her face, to brush his lips against her brow. The kiss was a gesture of comfort, not apology. He couldn’t apologize for something he wasn’t sorry for. But he also couldn’t talk about something he couldn’t explain.

She seemed to understand, seemed in no mood for conversation, either, because she smiled at him just before he turned around and pulled open the door.

Outside, a cool drizzling rain was still falling. He yanked up his collar and headed down the slick, wet metal steps. Smells drifted off the Connecticut River; a passing car swished water from a puddle, but that was the only sound. The whole town was dark and quiet. The white steeple of the Congregational Church and pointed rooftops were familiar landmarks, everything washed and clean this night. Rainbows haloed under the street lamps as he climbed into the cool, damp seat of the Bronco. He lifted up to filch the key from his jeans pocket and started the engine.

And then he took a breath. It seemed the first lungful of real oxygen he’d had since being with her.

For some crazy reason, that spellbound feeling didn’t want to go away. Josh had no patience or belief in fairy dust. He didn’t exactly mind a singular, temporary, short, one-shot excursion into insanity...surely any guy was entitled? Every male human being had fantasies from the day he reached puberty, but he never expected to actually experience one. Ariel. Hell. If all those looks and sensuality and sex appeal weren’t enough to knock a guy to his knees, her openness and giving nature, the way she listened as if he were the only man in the universe—and yeah, the way she kissed—were enough to rattle any man.

Of course he was shook up.

It was okay that he was shook up. No reason to panic. It was probably underlined and italicized in the guys’ rule book somewhere—any male exposed to Ariel Lindstrom who was not shook up should probably run, not walk, to a doctor for an immediate physical.

It was just that nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

He turned at the light, cruised Maple for a block, then traveled up the hill into his little burb. If it hadn’t been storming earlier, he’d have walked to her shop. The drive didn’t take five minutes.

The kids had left the lights on. In fact—no surprise, with him gone—every window in the house was ablaze with lights. The month’s electric bill was gonna be a monster. He swiped a hand over his face as he locked the Bronco and loped to the back door. It was coming back. Sanity. Slowly, too slowly, but logic and common sense had never deserted Josh for long.

A moment’s craziness was understandable, even acceptable. As long as a guy didn’t mistake it for reality.

The reality was that he had three troubled kids, a work and life schedule that blitzed any free time, and a mess of a divorce behind him. What would she want with a ready-made household of trouble, dirty towels, dishes and a kleptomaniac squirt? No way, nohow, could he picture Ariel fitting in. No way could he picture any sane woman wanting to.

He was in no position to ask any woman in his life.

And that was that.

* * *

He’d call. Ariel was sure he’d call. The secret, heady, champagne-high feeling of anticipation lasted for three days.

She never expected anything monumental. She never had—not from men or relationships. All her life she’d been an enthusiastic defender of magic, but that was never because she couldn’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. She had no faith in forevers, but a body could still seek—and reach for—those rare and real magical moments in life.

The evening with Josh had been magical. Special. There was no doubt in her mind that he felt the same way. They’d talked as easily and naturally as kindred spirits. He’d looked so stiff and tired when he first walked in, but she’d slowly watched him unbend, unfold, relax. Other men had looked at her with desire, but she’d never sensed a predator-and-prey feeling with Josh. The excitement he’d inspired had been wicked and nerve tingling, but not really threatening. She’d never have gone in his arms if she were afraid of him. She never remembered experiencing a kiss quite like that. It was like skydiving off a star, free-falling in the darkness to a place where she felt dizzyingly protected and desired and cherished all at once.

She’d kissed her share of men in the past decade. Never had a kiss or a man felt so right. And she wasn’t presuming to know Josh’s feelings, but positively he couldn’t have power-packed that kind of tenderness and raw emotion in an embrace if he hadn’t shared some of those feelings.

Only he hadn’t called the next day.

Or the next night.

Or the next day.

Three days had passed now, though, and that heady feeling of anticipation had fizzled out like too-long-uncorked champagne. Apparently she’d been wrong. Embarrassingly wrong. The only one doing any emotional skydiving must have been her, because it was hurtfully obvious that he wasn’t interested.

The telephone rang, but she ignored it. New stock had just arrived; she was buried neck-deep in boxes, and Dot was out front and would surely catch the call. Seconds later, though, her partner’s head poked around the doorway. “It’s for you. Mason.”

Grateful for the distraction, she wiped her dusty hands on a rag and hustled for the phone. Mason, an English professor in Boston, had been her one foray into trying out a forever. They’d lived together for three years. No different than any other relationship, that delightful spin of first love hadn’t lasted, but they’d managed to call it quits and still stay friends. Good friends.

“I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, you piker. Whatcha been up to?”

Mason was “up to” a deliriously happy love affair with a woman named Suzanna. He wasn’t getting any work done. He was losing weight, couldn’t eat, had given up sleep, was having trouble remembering his own name.

“This sounds wonderful. She’s really something, huh?” Dragging the phone cord, Ariel reached in the back room minirefrigerator and snatched a soda. No way to open it single-handed. She trapped the receiver between her ear and shoulder, so she had both hands to flip open the lid. “I don’t want to hear how gorgeous she is, you doofus. Who cares. Is she nice? What does she do, how’d you meet her, what kinds of things have you two been doing together...?”

Ariel had never quite figured out why the lovelorn sought her advice, since she never made a secret of her chosen single life-style. She’d been an advice-giver for so long that she rarely thought about it. But Mason was winding up to a long dissertation—and she’d guzzled half her ginger ale—when she abruptly realized that she wasn’t alone.

Josh may have dismissed her from his personal map, but apparently his offspring hadn’t.

Killer was standing on one foot, a balancing act apparently designed to give her something to do when she was stuck being patient. Her tennies were powder pink today. One of her lopsided pigtails sported a green polka dot bow, and her fingernails were painted a startling hellion-red shade, most of which was bitten off. Hopeful chocolate eyes were peeled on Ariel.

Behind her were two boys, standing still as statues. In no sense were they a physically matched set, but they definitely had a few things in common—slicked back hair, cowlicks, gawky arms and legs, and a terrified look of adolescent self-consciousness. One glance at their eyes, and Ariel would have bet the bank who their daddy was.

“Mason, catch you later, okay? Something’s come up. I’ll call you back.” She hung up the receiver and turned around. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi, Ariel. Did you see how quiet I was while you were on the phone? Are you still busy?”

“Yes, I saw how quiet you were—and nope, I’m not busy at all.”

“Good, �cause my brothers didn’t believe me about you. And Dad said I couldn’t come here any more unless I was...supravised. So I brought everybody to meet you. This is Calvin and this is Bruiser and this is Boober.”

Ariel extended her palm to Calvin, who flushed beet red for the handshake. He was going to be eight feet tall if he ever finished growing, she guessed, but temporarily he was stuck with big feet and a cracking voice and arms that were just too long to know what to do with themselves. “She’s not supposed to bother you,” he said, with a shoulder hunch in the direction of Killer.

“There’s no bothering involved. Patrice and I are old pals,” Ariel assured him, and then extended a hand to Bruiser. “That’s not your real name, is it?”

“Nah. My real name’s Daniel, but I take wrestling, you know? So everybody calls me Bruiser.”

“I can see why,” she said gravely. Although the muscles weren’t that developed yet, the attitude was all there, from the swaggering posture to the fingers dug into his jeans pockets. He was maybe thirteen? And he’d had peanut butter for lunch, judging from the teensy bit stuck on his chin. She wasn’t about to tell him what that peanut butter did to his tough-guy persona. “Nice to meet you, Bruiser, and this is Boober, huh?”

Remembering that Killer’s imaginary friend was of legendary height, Ariel looked way up as she extended her hand into thin air. “Nice to meet you, too, Boober.” She duly pumped the air as if there were actually a handshake involved. Both boys rolled their eyes at her foolishness, but they didn’t seem to mind her catering to their sister. She could see a little of those terrible self-aware nerves fading.

“Killer said you knew magic tricks and stuff.” Calvin, cracked voice and all, had apparently been voted spokesman. “Not that we’re interested. We’re too old for stuff like that. But she was driving us crazy, and I don’t have to deliver papers for a coupla hours, so we just kind of thought we’d take a walk. And we accidentally ended up here. But if we’re in your way or anything...”

“You’re not in my way,” Ariel immediately denied. The day she was too busy for kids would never happen. Too many adults had made her feel “in the way” when she was growing up.

Still, what to do with the Penoyer clan was trickier than a land mine. Josh’s silence had clearly spelled out his lack of interest in any personal connection with her. Maybe he didn’t want his kids involved with her, either?

Killer elbowed her brother. “I told you she was cool, didn’t I?”

Cool. Ariel’s heart sank. How the Sam Hill could she live up to an impossible kid epithet like cool? And there was no way she bought Calvin’s story about “accidentally” stopping by. Positively she was being checked out with more studying interest than a crammer in exam week. Bruiser, the poor kid, couldn’t keep his eyes off her breasts. Calvin hovered more at a distance, his eyes examining her face, her hair and how she behaved, as if prepared to abscond with his brother and sister any second if she did anything suspicious.

She handed out cans of soda. That broke some ice. Bruiser caught a look at her jewelry tools on the counter. That started him talking. And then Calvin, who denied his interest in magic loudly several times, was eventually coaxed into trying out some sleight-of-hand coin tricks.




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