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Father Of The Brood
Elizabeth Bevarly


CELEBRATION 1000 FROM HERE TO PATERNITY BACHELOR FOR SALE Maybe you can't buy love, but in Annie Malone's case, it wasn't for lack of trying! And though the housemother of twelve bids on Ike Guthrie for the sake of her "children," one look at his healthy physique and penetrating blue eyes had Annie realizing that spending the weekend alone with him might not be a sacrifice.PACKAGE DEALIke Guthrie didn't know how he got involved in this bachelor auction, but one thing was for sure: though his "buyer" might be unexpectedly sexy, her kids were more than he had bargained for. FROM HERE TO PATERNITY: These three men weren't exactly expecting - and fatherhood wasn't the only thing the stork delivered!CELEBRATION 1000: Come celebrate the publication of the 1000th Silhouette Desire, with scintillating love stories by some of your favorite writers!









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u4abd9c51-988c-5e6b-92ef-2ecd51dcfb75)

Excerpt (#u04417c6c-9da9-5ee2-8ef5-8c960d313d8e)

Dear Reader (#ud8581874-67d0-5103-9b59-0503ab853c17)

Title Page (#u459dd8ec-2a72-58f7-a9fd-6ddfff4d6341)

Dedication (#u21c7ba3c-cb19-5469-bb4a-f1a6c6c40e88)

Elizabeth Bevarly (#u1b249f28-9f0c-55ab-9f65-e0a63be27b40)

Dear Reader (#u0bb92ea1-cd18-549d-a4f8-c9e7875eb139)

One (#u9e2e4408-c864-58c5-befa-71ec4048c006)

Two (#u19b333bb-b882-52e7-91d2-b495ba7ffbc7)

Three (#u1d66588b-3f81-57c2-876b-db00ea07d7dc)

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)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“I Know Exactly What You Were Thinking About Right Now,” Ike Said Softly.


“I’ve seen that look often enough on a woman’s face. You were thinking about having something, all right, but it wasn’t dinner.”



Annie narrowed her eyes. “Boy, you have got some ego. Food was exactly what I was thinking about. I was thinking that the breast of chicken in Ike sauce…I mean wine sauce…would be really good. For dinner.”

Ike chuckled. “I see. I can only imagine what you have in mind for dessert.”



“Cheesecake,” Annie said, without looking at him.



“Funny, that’s what I’m planning to have, too.”



“Well, you’ll have to get your own,” she assured him. “Because I’m not sharing mine with you.”


Dear Reader,



It’s hard to believe that this is the grand finale of CELEBRATION 1000! But all good things must come to an end. Not that there aren’t more wonderful things in store for you next month, too….



But as for June, first we have an absolutely sizzling MAN OF THE MONTH from Ann Major called The Accidental Bodyguard.

Are you a fan of HAWK’S WAY? If so, don’t miss the latest “Hawk’s” story, The Temporary Groom by Joan Johnston. Check out the family tree on page six and see if you recognize all the members of the Whitelaw family.

And with The Cowboy and the Cradle Cait London has begun a fabulous new western series—THE TALLCHIEFS. (P.S. The next Tallchief is all set for September!)

Many of you have written to say how much you love Elizabeth Bevarly’s books. Her latest, Father of the Brood, book #2 in the FROM HERE TO PATERNITY series, simply shouldn’t be missed.

This month is completed with Karen Leabo’s The Prodigal Groom, the latest in our WEDDING NIGHT series, and don’t miss a wonderful star of tomorrow— DEBUT AUTHOR Eileen Wilks, who’s written The Loner and the Lady.

As for next month…we have a not-to-be-missed MAN OF THE MONTH by Anne McAllister, and Dixie Browning launches DADDY KNOWS LAST, a new Silhouette continuity series beginning in Desire.






Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave. P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3




Father Of The Brood

Elizabeth

Bevarly



















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


For Gail Chasen and Lucia Macro,

who make doing my job a real pleasme.

Thank you both.




ELIZABETH BEVARLY


is an honors graduate of the University of Louisville and achieved her dream of writing full-time before she even turned thirty! At heart, she is also an avid voyager who once helped navigate a friend’s thirty-five-foot sailboat across the Bermuda Triangle. “I really love to travel,” says this self-avowed beach bum. “To me, it’s the best education a person can give to herself.” Her dream is to one day have her own sailboat, a beautifully renovated older model forty-two footer, and to enjoy the freedom and tranquillity seafaring can bring. Elizabeth likes to think she has a lot in common with the characters she creates, people who know love and life go hand in hand. And she’s getting some first-hand experience with maternity as well—she and her husband recently welcomed their first-born baby, a son.


Dear Reader,



Someone once asked me why I thought romance novels were so wildly popular, and, for a moment, I was stumped for a response. Then I realized it’s because romance novels are one of the few things in our society that are so specifically tailored to women. Almost exclusively, women write, edit and read romance. The heroines in our books are strong, savvy and sensual Too often in our society, women are discouraged from being such things, but in a romance novel, there’s always a gorgeous; intelligent man who prizes a woman for those very traits. Talk about your happy endings…



And those happy endings are what it’s all about. Romance novels are often dismissed as insubstantial fluff. But those of us who love them know that simply isn’t true. Over the years, a good deal of change has come to our genre. And Silhouette Books has always been the front-runner of promoting that change, especially in its Desire line. I’ve enjoyed Desire novels that depict everything from timetravel to single-parenting to overcoming substance abuse to recovering from domestic violence. So much for insubstantial fluff.



A romance novel is just about the only place a woman can visit where the world works the way it’s supposed to, where good people are rewarded for their good deeds, and nice guys never finish last. In romance novels, no matter how tough a woman’s life gets, by the last page, we know she’s going to be just fine. And in this day and age, with the society we have to meet head-on every day, what woman wouldn’t be attracted to that?



There’s nothing better than a good romance. That’s something Silhouette knows, and something the Desire line has always aspired to bring its readers. I’m proud to be a Desire author and a Desire reader. And I can’t wait for the next 1000.

Best wishes,









One (#ulink_ff791084-446f-51ab-aba0-bc1346871cdb)


“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

Ike Guthrie gazed at his sister’s reflection in the cracked, spotty mirror and frowned. Nora Guthrie stood behind him, reaching over his shoulders to straighten his black bow tie. Behind her, a chorus of characters and a cacophony of voices split a haze of white cigarette and cigar smoke. Nora gave his tie one final tug, a gesture that nearly cut off his breath. He frowned again.

“Why is it, big sister,” he grumbled through gritted teeth as he loosened the knot that had nearly strangled him, “that you’ve always been able to talk me into doing things I don’t want to do?”

She brushed her palms down the smooth, satiny lapels of his tuxedo and smiled with much satisfaction. “It’s a talent I inherited from Mom. There. You look fabulous. You’re going to bring top dollar tonight. If you don’t win the grand prize, there’s no justice in the world.”

Ike eyed her warily. Like he, Nora was well above average in height, but her five-foot-ten still only brought her to his chin. Like his, her white-blond hair was fine and straight, but where hers was wound into a sleek French twist, his was razor-cut short and stylish. Their blue eyes, too, were a perfect match, right down to the overly long lashes. He glanced at their formal attire and frowned yet again. He looked like a fool in this monkey suit. God almighty, how had he let Nora talk him into this?

“Top dollar?” he repeated, turning to face her fully. “You talk like I’m some prime cut side of beef.”

Nora brushed a speck of lint from his shoulder. “Tonight, dear brother, you are. And all we on the board of St. Bernadette’s Children’s Hospital care about is how much you bring per pound.”

He opened his mouth to reiterate his reservations about this whole affair, but a loud commotion beyond a curtain on the other side of the room halted his objection. All the other men present in the room also paused to listen, each of them wearing an expression of undisguised panic. As if drawn by an invisible thread, Ike moved to stand next to the curtain, lifting his hand to pull it slightly to the side so that he could look past it.

Beyond was a stage surrounded by hundreds of women, each clutching a fistful of dollars. At the moment, those women seemed to be uncommonly pleased by whatever unfortunate man was up for grabs, because they hooted and whistled and cheered as if the home team had just come in for another unchallenged touchdown.

“Two thousand dollars!” Ike heard the auctioneer shout out in delight. Her voice was feminine, loud and rabid. “Going, going, gone! Well, ladies, that’s the highest bid we’ve received so far tonight. Looks like Dr. Gillette might just take home the grand prize.”

“Phooey,” Nora muttered beside his ear. “They haven’t gotten an eyeful of Isaac Guthrie, Philadelphia’s most prominent architect.”

Ike shook his head as more wolf whistles erupted from outside. “Something tells me they’re not going to care too much about what I do for a living,” he said softly.

Nora made a face at him. “I know that. But you’ve got a great tush, Ike. I’m telling you, your choice loins are going to bring in a fortune.”

Dr. Gillette came through the curtain then, dabbing a handkerchief at a forehead that was glistening with perspiration. “They’re animals,” he gasped. “Absolute animals. I don’t even know who bought me. Two women in the front row nearly came to blows.”

Nora patted his back comfortingly as he passed. “Don’t worry, Dr. Gillette. I’m sure whoever purchased you is a perfectly nice woman.” She lowered her voice as she added to Ike, “It was probably Edith Hathaway. She said she was determined to buy a doctor for her daughter, Pamela, no matter what the cost. And hey, if you ask me, a cardiologist for two thousand bucks is a steal.”

“Our next bachelor up for bids” came the auctioneer’s voice from the other side of the curtain, “is Mr. Isaac Guthrie, one of Philadelphia’s most prominent architects and most desirable men. I’m sure you’ve all admired the new Bidwell Corporate Center downtown. Well, Mr. Guthrie designed it. In addition to his architectural acumen, Isaac enjoys horseback riding, the poetry of Lord Byron and moonlit walks along the beach…”

“No, I don’t,” Ike whispered to his sister. “I’ve never ridden a horse in my life, and I hate poetry. Where’s she getting all that stuff?”

“Shh,” Nora quieted him. “There’s more. I wrote it myself.”

“You wrote it? But, I gave them a different—”

“Shh.”

His sister silently mouthed the rest of his introduction as the auctioneer offered it. “He’s a Scorpio, thirty-six years old, a gourmet chef and excellent tennis player, who sees his dream woman as someone who’s smart, sensitive and has a great sense of humor….”

Ike expelled a sound of disgust. “That’s supposed to read ‘someone who’s small, sexy, and has a great set of hooters.’ I thought it might keep anyone from buying me.”

“I know, you jerk. That’s why I changed it.”

He sighed. “Just wait, Nora. Someday, somehow, I’ll get even.”

“Shh.”

The auctioneer continued. “And the date Mr. Guthrie is offering is an overnight weekend extravaganza!”

More catcalls and whistling indicated the crowd was very enthusiastic about the announcement, not to mention digging deeply into their pocketbooks.

“‘Weekend extravaganza?’” Ike repeated incredulously. “I told them it was going to be dinner and a show. Where’s this all-night stuff coming fr… ?”

He looked at his sister. Nora was smiling. “I told you you’re going to bring top dollar.” She rolled her eyes at his expression. “Oh, quit pouting. I’ve taken care of all the arrangements for you. All you have to do is show up.” Her smile became devilish. “Hey, it’s not like you can’t afford it, Mr. Moneybags. And it’s for charity, after all, Ike. Just remember that some deserving children are going to get the medical treatment they wouldn’t get otherwise because of you. Thousands of dollars worth of medical treatment if I have anything to say about it.”

“Obviously, I don’t have anything to say about it, do I?”

Nora shook her head.

“Even though it’s my choice loins that are on the block?”

“Shh. You might just be bought by the woman of your dreams.”

“I doubt that.” He sighed, resigned to his fate. “Oh, well. I guess I should be happy that you at least got the part about my being a Scorpio right.”

The auctioneer had by now finished describing the overnight excursion to Cape May, New Jersey—her tone of voice carrying just the right amount of dubiety when she mentioned the separate rooms at the Hanson House Bed and Breakfast—and was lingering over the catered seafood brunch on the beach. Ike was shaking his head in wonder at his sister’s imagination and almost missed his cue. Then Nora shoved him hard from behind and he had no choice but to stumble out onstage.



“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

Annie Malone stared at her older sister, wondering how on earth Sophie always managed to get her to do things she normally wouldn’t even dream of doing. A bachelor auction. Honestly. Even if it was for charity, Annie had a million other things she should be doing tonight.

“Shh,” Sophie told her, glancing down at her program. “Look, this guy is perfect for you. He loves horses and Byron, and he knows how to cook.” She threw her sister a look of censure. “And seeing as how your idea of boiling water is putting it in the oven and setting the temperature at two-hundred-and-twelve degrees, this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

“I don’t want a relationship,” Annie told her petulantly, “beautiful or otherwise. Mark was—”

“I know,” Sophie cut her off. “Mark Malone was the man of your dreams, the heart of your heart, and you’ll never find another love like him again. But Mark’s been dead for five years, Annie. It’s time to get on with your life.”

Annie flinched at her sister’s matter-of-fact mention of her dead husband. Yes, Mark had been gone for a long time now. But she couldn’t possibly forget about him as quickly as Sophie evidently had. Nevertheless, she countered, “I have gotten on with my life. Quite nicely, in fact. I don’t want or need a man in it.”

“Yes, you do,” Sophie assured her with another quick scan over the new bachelor’s vital statistics. “And I’m going to buy you one. It’s the whole reason I insisted you come with me tonight. It’s the only reason I came myself.”

“I thought it was because you think St. Bernadette’s Children’s Hospital is a deserving charity.”

Sophie waved her hand at her as if Annie had just made a quaint little joke. “Silly. Come on, get an eyeful of this guy. He’s exactly the kind of man you need. You want him and you know it. And I think you should have him.”

Before Annie could say a word in protest, Sophie lifted her hand at the auctioneer’s request for three hundred dollars. She lifted it again when the bidding went to five hundred. And again when it went to seven hundred. And then to one thousand. And two thousand. Annie didn’t try to stop her sister, simply because she couldn’t believe Sophie was going to go through with it. Then she reminded herself that her sister was everything she wasn’t—assertive, confident and married to lots and lots of money. If Sophie got it into her head that she was going to buy a man for Annie, then she would and could sit here and bid all night.

When Sophie started to raise her hand in agreement to a bid of three thousand dollars, Annie grabbed her wrist in an effort to stop her. But Sophie only raised her other hand instead, and shouted out, “Five thousand dollars!”

“Five thousand!” the auctioneer repeated on a gasp. “My goodness, Mr. Guthrie, you are greatly desired.” She tittered prettily at her double entendre.

For the first time, Annie took a moment to consider the man her sister seemed determined to buy for her. She glanced up onto the stage to find that the bachelor in question was very tall, very blond, very well groomed, very good-looking, and, as all the other bachelors up for bids had been that evening, doubtless very wealthy. In other words, he was everything she didn’t want in a man. As she opened her mouth to warn Sophie to knock it off right now, Annie noticed that the bachelor onstage was also staring back at her sister without even trying to mask his unmistakably sexual interest in her.

And that was when Annie really got mad.

Okay, she couldn’t fault a man for looking at Sophie like…like…like that, but this guy was about to burn down the building with his incandescent gaze. So what if Sophie’s henna-stained auburn hair and pale green eyes caught the edge of the spotlight as if born to it? So what if her sapphire evening gown was virtually cut down to her navel and nearly every body part sparkled with gems? So what if her bright red smile suggested any number of unearthly delights? So what?

So why couldn’t the man onstage look at Annie that way, too?

The question exploded in her brain before she even knew what hit her, and for the life of her, she could understand none of it. Helplessly, she looked down at her own modest, long-sleeved, black cocktail dress, and at the simple, sandy-colored braid that fell over one shoulder nearly to her breast. Almost unconsciously, she brushed a hand over the pale freckles on her nose and cheeks that had survived her adolescence along with her well-scrubbed, gee-whiz complexion. And although she did have green eyes like Sophie’s, Annie’s were rounder and less remarkable without the added enhancement of shadow.

All in all, she knew she looked like the wholesome, sensitive kind of woman a man would want to talk to about the other women in his life. Other women who could very easily include her own sister. Annie had been through that scenario often enough, after all.

Of course the man onstage would be looking at Sophie, she told herself without an ounce of envy. What man wouldn’t? Who cared if he was ignoring Annie and focusing on her sister as if Sophie were the answer to a prayer? Annie wasn’t interested in him anyway. If it wasn’t for the fact that Sophie was already happily married, she would. wish her sister and the bachelor the best. Unfortunately, Sophie’s five grand wasn’t paying for a man for Sophie. It was paying for a man for Annie. And maybe that was what was really making her angry.

“Sophie, you don’t have to buy me a man,” Annie told her sister in a grim whisper. “I can find one for myself. I mean, I could find one, if I wanted one. Which I don’t.”

“Not like this one, you couldn’t,” Sophie countered. “Not working with the kind of people you work with.”

“Underprivileged children,” Annie reminded her sister, trying to tamp down her irritation. “I work with underprivileged children.”

“Exactly. Which means you couldn’t meet a decent man to save your life. The men you meet are all social workers and family counselors and public servants and the like.”

“In other words, decent men.”

“That’s not the kind of decent I mean and you know it. You don’t need a decent man, Annie. You’ve got all the decency you can handle in that overgrown, do-gooder heart of yours. What you need is an indecent man.” She smiled mischievously. “The more indecent the better.” She nodded toward the bachelor onstage. “Just look at that guy’s nether regions. He’s going to be perfect for you.”

Annie declined her sister’s instructions and looked at the man’s eyes instead. They were cool, distant and still fixed on Sophie. “Even if he likes Byron?” she asked absently.

“Especially if he likes Byron. Byron was pretty indecent himself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I minored in English, remember?”

Instead of answering, Sophie nodded with satisfaction at the auctioneer’s announcement of “Going…going… gone for five thousand dollars!”

“Come on,” she said as she tugged on Annie’s sleeve. “Let’s go get your man.”

“He’s not my man,” Annie said, remaining seated steadfastly in place. “You bought him. He’s yours.”

Sophie smiled wryly, “And what am I supposed to tell Philip?”

Annie shrugged. “Tell him you’re going to lovely, romantic Cape May for the weekend with one of Philadelphia’s most prominent architects and indecent bachelors.”

Her sister gazed at her mildly. “And then Philip will divorce me. Is that what you want?”

She shrugged again. “You’re the one who bought Mr. Wonderful up there, not me. I’m not going anywhere with him.”

Sophie stared at her sister for a moment through slitted eyes, as if she were carefully considering her options and thoroughly unwilling to let five grand go to waste. Because, naturally, Sophie would consider a charity donation an unnecessary expense. Then Sophie began to smile. A decidedly evil smile that Annie didn’t like one bit.

“So what you’re telling me,” Sophie began, “is that I just paid five thousand dollars for an attractive, successful, intelligent man who is going to take you to spend the night in one of the most beautiful towns in the United States, and that you refuse to go.”

“That’s right,” Annie told her. “I refuse to go.”

“How about if I bribe you?”

Annie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What kind of bribe?”

“How about if I double the amount I just paid for him and donate it to Homestead House? Then would you go?”

Annie stood to meet her sister’s gaze levelly at that. “Ten thousand dollars to Homestead?”

Sophie nodded, her smile growing broader.

“That’s a low blow, Sophie.”

“Yes, I know, but hey, it’s tax deductible, right? Philip wouldn’t care. He’d think it was a sweet gesture for me to make. Besides, it will work, won’t it?”

Annie didn’t have to think twice. Homestead House was a juvenile home that she and her husband had started ten years ago and that she had kept going after his death. She had met Mark Malone in college, where they were both studying social work. Upon graduation, they’d scraped together personal funds, found a few backers, and won a few government grants, and had pooled the money to buy an old, dilapidated house in one of Philadelphia’s less-thandesirable neighborhoods. They’d brought it up to code, and had then turned it into a haven for kids who got lost in the system and had nowhere else to go, no one left to turn to.

Even during the best of times, Annie had to scramble to make ends meet and keep Homestead House open. Ten thousand dollars would buy a lot of the things she needed.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she agreed. “But only because of Homestead.”

Sophie shook her head in amazement. “Little Annie Malone,” she muttered in the way that Annie had always hated. “Still thinks she can save the world from itself after all these years. Well, let me tell you something, little sister. Something I learned a long time ago. The world’s a brittle, ugly place, and nothing you can do will ever change that. You better get yours while you can and enjoy it, and then watch your back. Because nothing in this life is worth much, but there’s always someone who wants to take it away from you anyhow.”

Annie nodded, not in agreement, but because this was the same philosophy Sophie had been spouting since they were adolescents. “Maybe that’s what you believe,” she said softly, “but I see things a little differently. You’ve got your life, Sophie, and I’ve got mine. As brittle and ugly as you think it is, I find it very rewarding.”

Sophie smiled. “Not as rewarding as the one this guy could give you,” she said. “Just you wait. One night with him, one little taste of the good life he has to offer, and you’ll want more. And the more you see of his way of life, the more you’ll like it. Just you wait, Annie. You’re in for a treat. Once you’ve sipped his wine, you’ll never go back to that crummy tenement you call home again. I guarantee it.”

Sophie turned then to cut her way through the crowd and pay for her purchase, and Annie followed obediently behind. Her sister was wrong about her life and her life-style, Annie knew. But there would be no arguing with Sophie about that tonight. At the moment, all Annie cared about was the ten thousand dollars she’d be depositing into the Homestead account Monday morning. She decided to start her shopping list with athletic equipment and work her way through the alphabet to the zoo trip she’d always wanted to take with her kids but had considered too frivolous. By the end of the week, she thought with a smile, she was going to have some very happy children on her hands.

She would also be packing for a weekend that was certain to wind up being disastrous. Oh, well, she thought. Ten grand was ten grand. She’d walk over fire to get that much money for her kids. How bad could a weekend in Cape May be, even if her companion would more than likely turn out to be a jerk? If nothing else, the fresh ocean breeze would be a welcome change over the stale, stagnant city air she was so used to breathing. And it would be nice to walk along the beach again, moonlit or not.

Fresh air and a view of the ocean, she marveled as she watched Sophie carelessly write out a check for five thousand dollars and hand it to the cashier. Two things that brought pleasure without costing a dime. It was a lesson her sister could stand to learn, and, judging by the high price tag on his offered date, something the bachelor onstage might benefit from, too.

But it wasn’t up to her to teach that lesson, Annie thought. It was only up to her to watch out for her kids. And like a protective female animal stalking the wild, she’d do whatever she had to do to make sure her brood was protected. Above all else, Annie Malone would always make sure her kids came first.



Ike breezed through the curtain and met his sister backstage feeling buoyant, lusty and full of anticipation. “I owe you,” he told Nora as he embraced her fiercely. “I owe you big. Did you get a load of the woman who bought me?”

He felt Nora nod against his shoulder. “Oh, I got a load, all right.”

Ike sighed wistfully. “I can think of no greater pleasure on earth than to be owned by that woman for an entire night.”

“I told you it would all work out,” Nora said when he released her. She twisted her mouth into a wry grin. “St. Bernadette’s gets five thousand dollars, and you get that great set of hooters you wanted. Well, my, my, my. Isn’t the world a lovely place?”

“Oh, Mr. Guthrie.”

Ike turned to find his new owner passing through the curtain behind him as gracefully as she would if borne on wings. While he was onstage, he had been fearful that in good light some of her dazzle would diminish. But he’d been wrong. Good light only made the woman even more radiant. He didn’t so much approach her as he was drawn to her. All he knew was that he couldn’t wait to take her hand in his.

“Hello, Ms…?” he began as he drew nearer.

“I’m Sophia Marchand,” she said as he reached for her hand.

But she stepped away before he could curl his fingers around hers, then thrust another woman forward to take her place—a drab, colorless creature who faded to nearly nothing beside her iridescent sponsor. Ike’s gaze flickered over the newcomer for scarcely a second before returning to the woman who had launched a variety of previously undiscovered fantasies in his brain.

“And this is my sister, Anna,” she told him. “I’ve bought you for her. She’s so looking forward to the weekend you have planned. Enjoy.”

And with that, the woman smiled and turned away, exiting through the curtain as quickly and completely as a magician’s assistant disappears into the black beyond.

A mouse, Ike thought as he gave the other woman another quick once-over. His gorgeous peacock bad bestowed upon him a mouse to take her place.

“Annie,” the mouse said quietly. Her voice was huskier than he would have thought, but he got the feeling she would indeed squeak when she reached the proper decibel. “My name is Annie. Annie Malone.”

She extended a hand toward him and smiled, a smile that was pleasant and harmless and rather pretty in a wholesome kind of way. In spite of her smile, however, Ike somehow got the impression that she was no more pleased by this turn of events than he was.

“Ike Guthrie.” he replied automatically, taking her hand in his.

Her hand was small, a bit rough, and in no way decorated. The woman who had bought him had been wearing rings on nearly every finger, and he’d already begun to indulge in all kinds of salacious imagery about her long, red nails. Annie’s hands didn’t evoke sensual pleasure. They evoked hard work. And her eyes didn’t promise untold realms of erotic discovery. They suggested about as much sexual expertise as an ingenue. Ike’s gaze skittered lower, and he sighed again. And great hooters, he noted with much disappointment, were simply out of the question.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Malone,” he said as be met her gaze once again.

Too late, he realized she understood completely where his own eyes had been lingering. But instead of blushing and turning away, as an ingenue would have, she had arched one eyebrow and squeezed his hand hard in what he concluded was an unspoken threat.

“Please, call me Annie,” she said, sounding surprisingly hardy in comparison to her slight build. “After all, we will be spending the night together.” The eyebrow fell, but one corner of her mouth lifted in a sardonic grin.

Oh, goody, Ike thought. A weekend with Raggedy Ann’s evil twin, Craggedy Annie. He hadn’t noticed at first that big chip on Annie Malone’s shoulder, and he didn’t know what caused it to sit there so resolutely. But now he could see it clear as day. She might look sweet and innocent—hell, she might look like a kid just freed from college—but there was an angry energy barely coiled within her that was just about to blow. Hastily, Ike dropped her hand before she could drag him down with her, and shoved his own hands deep into his pockets.

Oh, well, he thought further as he noted the sprinkling of pale freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. Maybe some sun would give her a little more color. And the sea breeze would be good for her. If it didn’t blow her right into the ocean first.

He glanced over his shoulder to find that his sister had been paying close attention to the scene played out. Nora nodded her approval, lifted a hand to circle forefinger and thumb in okay, then left the room laughing.




Two (#ulink_3774cac3-2b9a-5bea-889e-f72b5b46af9c)


“Annieee!”

Annie sighed with much frustration and growled under her breath. Now what? she wondered.

The cry had come from Mickey, that much she could determine immediately. But the little guy had a six-year-old’s propensity for wanting just about everything, and right away at that, and his cry of terror at the sight of blood was virtually identical to his urgent plea for just one more cookie. Whatever the problem was, Mickey, at least, would consider it of global importance.

Annie dropped her favorite pair of blue jeans on top of the meager wardrobe selections she was packing for the weekend and went in search of Mickey. She found him with his head caught between the rungs of the stairway banister and rolled her eyes hopelessly as she bent to help him free himself.

“I told you not to do this, didn’t I?” she asked him calmly as she twisted his head carefully to the side.

“Yes,” he whimpered, clearly frightened by his predicament but determined not to show it.

“The last time this happened, what did I say?”

Mickey sniffled. “I don’t remember.”

Annie’s voice softened. “I said, ‘Mickey, if you put your head in the banister railing this way, it’s going to get stuck.’ Isn’t that what I said?”

“I guess so.”

“So why did you do it again?”

He hesitated, biting his lip as Annie carefully extracted his head from the rungs. He remained silent as he stood rubbing his hands furiously over his forehead and through his pale blond hair. His blue eyes were resolute and adorably menacing.

“Well?” Annie prodded.

Mickey thrust his stomach forward, a gesture he probably thought she would find intimidating. Annie only smiled.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

Mickey relaxed and looked down at his feet. “I don’t know.”

She nodded her understanding. “Okay, hotshot. Just try not to do it again, okay?”

He nodded back. “Are you still going away this weekend?” he asked as he followed her to her room.

“Yes.” Annie went back to her packing, resigned to the Spanish Inquisition that she knew would follow. Mickey asked a lot of questions. And she’d discovered long ago that she had no alternative but to answer every one of them if she ever hoped to maintain any kind of balance in her life.

Mickey scrambled up onto her bed and began to remove things from her duffel bag, inspecting each item as if it were the most fascinating scientific specimen he’d ever had the good fortune to encounter. “Where are you going?” he asked.

They’d been through this a million times already, so Annie had the routine down pat. She continued to pack as she obediently replied, “Cape May.”

“That’s in New Jersey, isn’t it?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“And New Jersey is across the river, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He grinned, clearly pleased to be able to show her just how much he knew of the world. Then he plucked a pair of her socks out of the duffel, unrolled them and asked, “How long will you be gone?”

“I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“Saturday morning.”

“That’s tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Who are you going with?”

“A friend.”

“His name is Ike, right?”

“Right.”

“And he lives in Philadelphia, like we do, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

Annie stopped packing and gaped at Mickey. Well, that was a question that hadn’t cropped up in their earlier interviews. Where on earth had he picked up an interest in marriage?

“Why would you think I was going to marry him?” she asked cautiously.

“Cause that’s what grown-ups do, isn’t it? Molly says when you grow up and become an adult you have to get married. It’s the law.”

“Molly said that, did she?”

Mickey nodded furiously. “And she’s older than me, so she knows what she’s talking about.”

Annie bit her lip. “Um, Molly’s only seven, Mickey. She’s not that much older than you.”

“But she said grown-ups—”

“Not all grown-ups get married,” Annie interrupted him gently. “Only the ones who fall in love.”

The little boy thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Are you going to fall in love with Ike?”

She chuckled. “I can safely say no to that.”

“Why not?”

She ruffled his hair. “Because he’s not my type, kiddo.”

“What’s your type?”

Annie thought about her husband. She recalled Mark’s unruly black hair and bittersweet chocolate eyes, his tattered jeans and sweatshirts, and how much he loved coaching little league baseball. She remembered how he had always talked back to the network news and secretly devoured true-crime books. She smiled as she reminisced about his expertise in bandaging scraped knees so the BandAid wouldn’t pull, and about how he could bake absolutely perfect Toll-House cookies. And she realized she would never, not in a million years, meet another man like him.

“I don’t have a type, Mickey,” she said wistfully, “Not anymore.”

Mickey nodded his approval. “Good. Because when I grow up, I’m going to marry you.”

She smiled and bent to place a quick peck on his forehead. “Okay, palomino. I’ll wait for you.”

As quickly as he had taken an interest in her activities, the little boy’s fascination abated. “I’m going outside,” he announced as he launched himself off the bed. “See ya.”

Annie watched him leave, marveling that such a sweet kid had come out of such a crummy situation. She knew she had no business picking favorites when she had ten kids ranging in age from six to sixteen living under her roof. But Mickey Reeser was Annie’s favorite. No question about it.

She stuffed the last of her toiletries into the well-worn, army green duffel bag that had belonged to her husband, then placed it by her bedroom door. It was going to be a lousy weekend, she thought. Not only was she going to be spending it with someone she had no desire to get to know better, but she always became anxious when she had to leave her kids for any length of time.

True, she had two graduate students from local universities who volunteered part-time to help her out. But Annie was the one responsible for the children at Homestead House. She was the only human being in the world who was there for them twenty-four hours a day. She didn’t like being gone overnight, even if Nancy and Jamal, her two volunteers, would be staying at the house with the kids. She just didn’t feel right being away. She didn’t feel as if she were being a good mother.

And although she reminded herself over and over again that she wasn’t anyone’s mother, she couldn’t help but to have fallen into the role. The children of Homestead House had no parents or families, either because they had been orphaned or abandoned or worse. Annie was it for them. She was their mother, father, sister and brother. She was their role model, their caretaker, their rock. She was all they had in a world that had turned its back on them. And she didn’t like leaving them alone.

Nevertheless, she reassured herself, it was only a weekend. Two days and one night that were of no consequence whatever in the scheme of things. And what could one simple weekend possibly do to screw up her very satisfying life-style?

Annie hummed as she closed her door behind her and headed down the stairs, an old Cat Stevens tune about the wild world. She decided not to dwell on the couple of days she’d be spending with Isaac Guthrie, prominent architect and indecent bachelor. Instead, she thought, she’d just look forward to Monday morning.

When her life would return to normal.



Ike glanced down at the piece of paper he had tossed onto the passenger seat when he’d climbed into his car that morning, then looked up at the red brick building again. Yep, this was the correct address all right. Though the place hardly looked habitable to him. There were bars on all the first story windows and a security door that was, at the moment, thrown open in welcome. The paint on the front shutters and door frame was stained and peeling, and what was left of the front stoop was a cracked, crumbling mass of concrete. A simple metal plaque affixed to the brick beside the front door read, Homestead House. And like everything else about the place, it looked old, tired and overused.

In contrast to the decay of the building—or perhaps in spite of it, Ike thought wryly—a bright cache of well-tended marigolds, petunias and geraniums had sprouted along the walkway that led to the sidewalk and street. They bestowed a certain humanity on the building it wouldn’t have claimed otherwise, and he couldn’t help but smile. The sky providing a backdrop for the place was blue and flawless, the warm spring afternoon balmy and full of promise.

If it wasn’t for the fact that this was a remarkably bad neighborhood that no one in his right mind would choose to visit if he didn’t have to, Ike might have seen some potential for the place. As it was, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what someone like Annie Malone was doing living here.

He had spoken to her briefly on the phone—once—since meeting her backstage the weekend before. The conversation had consisted of a few dozen words and lasted about a minute and a half. Mostly, they had just settled on what time Ike would pick Annie up and bring her home. And with that obligatory exchange out of the way, there had seemed nothing more to say.

Ike sighed. Man, he was dreading this.

He climbed out of his bright red sports car, eyed his surroundings and surreptitiously activated the car’s alarm. He didn’t plan on being here any longer than he had to, but in this neighborhood, his car could be stripped professionally in a matter of minutes. He scrubbed his palms over his khaki-clad thighs as he walked toward the front door of Annie’s house, then checked his navy polo for any potential smudges of filth. He was beginning to feel dirty just being in the vicinity.

He was about to knock when the front door was thrown open wide and he was nearly overrun by children and hockey sticks. Without a notice or care of him, the kids went blustering into the street, shouting and prancing and scrambling for position. Ike was left shaking his head in wonder that children felt so utterly immortal that they didn’t even watch for traffic. Then again, this street didn’t look particularly well traveled, either, he thought as he glanced down one way and then the other. The realization was just something else that put him on edge.

“Hi.”

He turned at the sound of a soft, husky, voice—a voice he’d heard on only two occasions, but one he was coming to find oddly familiar and comfortable nonetheless. Annie Malone stood at her front door wearing a white peasant blouse with roomy sleeves, very faded, hip-hugging blue jeans, and huge Birkenstocks on her otherwise bare feet. Her hair was parted in the middle and fell in two braids over her shoulders, and thanks to the thin, gauzy fabric of her shirt, he could clearly see that she was wearing an undershirt instead of a bra.

Ike didn’t know why no one had bothered to inform Annie that the sixties had ended more than two decades ago, and he had to force himself not to impart the information to her himself. Instead, he decided he may have been a bit rash in dismissing her upper regions so easily last weekend. Although small, Annie had good form. Then he noted the exhausted-looking duffel bag at her feet that appeared to be more empty than full. Annie, it seemed, traveled even more lightly than he.

“I saw you from my window and decided to come down to meet you,” she said. “I was hoping to make it before the kids trampled you, but…”

Ike glanced up when her voice trailed off, only to realize that she had once again been observing him as he ogled her. She had arched her left brow in that maddeningly challenging way, as if she were waiting for him to either assault her or offer an explanation for his rudeness. Ike did neither. He just tried to tamp down his irritation before it could become impropriety.

Hoping to defuse her anger, he glanced over his shoulder at the hastily scrambling children. “Do they all belong to you?” he asked. When Annie’s gaze skittered past him to fall on the children, every ounce of animosity left her eyes, and her lips formed a fond smile. Ike knew then that inquiring about her children had been exactly the right thing to dissolve her exasperation.

“Yeah, they’re all mine,” she told him.

“Funny,” he said dryly, “a couple of them look like they’re in high school. You must have been about eight when you gave birth.” Ike wanted to offer the further-wry observation that Annie was in remarkably good shape for someone who had spent most of her adult life pregnant. But he refrained, fearing the comment just might put them back where they started—with him ogling, and her being ogled, and neither of them any too comfortable with the knowledge of it.

Her smile was still wistful when she said, “I may not have carried them inside me, but they still belong to me.”

“So then you don’t have any kids of your own?” Ike ventured.

She looked at him strangely for a moment. “Why do you ask? For some reason, you strike me as the kind of person who doesn’t care much for children.”

“That’s because I am the kind of person who doesn’t care much for children.”

She sounded almost disappointed when she replied, “That doesn’t surprise me. And no, I don’t have any kids that are the product of any personal biological workings. But I do have kids. Lots of kids.” Before be could ask anything more, she met his gaze again. “I’m ready to head out whenever you are.”

Ike nodded. “Good. I didn’t want to leave my car parked out here any longer than I had to.”

She glanced past him at the bright red convertible and frowned.

“What?” he asked when he saw her disapproval of the sleek car he’d coveted for years before being able to afford it. “You don’t want to drive to the coast with the top down?”

She shook her head. “Oh, I love the feel of the wind when I’m driving.”

“Then why the sour look?”

“I was just thinking you probably paid more for that car than I spent buying and refinishing and outfitting this whole building.”

This time it was Ike who frowned, wondering why he felt so damned defensive around this woman. “Yeah, I probably did. Real estate in this area isn’t exactly prime—” He eyed her building deliberately before adding, “—or safe— for commercial or residential use. You know, my partner and I are working with the city on a beautification project that’s leveling neighborhoods like this one and turning them into something useful.”

She glared at him. “Neighborhoods like this one used to be the backbone of the city.”

He smiled acidly. “Soon they’ll be parking garages.”

“And that’s supposed to beautify the city?”

Ike looked around him again. “A nice, clean parking garage will be a damned sight more attractive than this… this…”

“Look,” Annie interrupted him, “maybe you don’t see much use for neighborhoods like this, but I see it in a way you obviously don’t. Granted, the area isn’t what it used to be, and yes, a bad element has begun to thrive. But there are still a lot of good people here. Besides that, it’s affordable and suits my needs just fine.”

Ike wanted to counter that if that was the case, then she was obviously and sadly neglecting her needs. But he kept his mouth shut. For the time being, he decided, he’d just as soon not wonder about Annie Malone’s needs. She probably had way too many of them for any man to be able to satisfy her. And why he should suddenly feel a tingling— and not unpleasant—sexual awareness of her at the idea of such, Ike couldn’t begin to imagine. So he pushed the thought away and bent to retrieve her duffel.

But someone else had beaten him to it, he realized before completing the action. Clutching the bag that would be nearly as big as he was if it were full, was a young boy with hair the mixed pale yellows of chicken noodle soup and eyes so blue and large and guileless, they almost stopped Ike’s breath.

“I got it,” the boy said as he stepped past Annie. “I can carry it. Where do you want it?”

So transfixed was he still by the child’s round-eyed expression that Ike could only thrust a thumb over his shoulder. The boy looked past him at the car parked at the curb, and his huge eyes grew even larger with admiration.

“Cool!”

He slapped down the steps and stumbled down the walk, weaving first one way and then the other under the weight of the duffel. He dropped the bag by the trunk and, before Ike could stop him, hauled himself over the side of the car and into the driver’s seat. Immediately the alarm erupted, as loud and raucous as an air raid siren. And the little boy’s expression—the one that had been so utterly open and carefree—transformed into a grimace of unadulterated terror. When his gaze met Ike’s, the boy actually began to cower as if he were about to be sucked down into hell’s darkest core. Ike had never seen anyone look so scared before in his life.

“Hey, kid, it’s okay,” Ike tried to reassure him over the noise.

He started down the walk toward the car, watching in amazement as the little boy’s fear grew more tangible with every step he took. And when he rounded the front of the car toward the driver’s side and reached in to deactivate the alarm, the little boy covered his head with his hands, curled into a tiny ball and screamed.

Screamed as if his lungs were about to burst.

Ike could do nothing but stare dumbfounded as Annie calmly came up behind him, reached into the car instead and effortlessly plucked the boy out of the driver’s seat and into her arms. He curled himself over her body as if he wanted to crawl inside her forever, then buried his face in her neck and began to cry with all his might. Annie patted his back and murmured soothing sounds until the boy’s sobs abated some.

Then she looked at Ike with a perfectly normal expression and stated in matter-of-fact terms, “Mickey was badly beaten by both of his parents before he came to live with me. He thought you were going to hurt him for setting off the alarm.”

Ike shook his head dumbly and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So he watched in silence as Annie carried the boy back up the steps and sat down on the front stoop beside him. Ike didn’t know what she said to the boy to calm him down, but within a matter of minutes, the little guy was nodding and scrubbing a finger under his nose. Not long after that, he was smiling shyly again. Ike watched as Annie kissed the crown of his head with much gusto and hugged him close one final time. Then Mickey jumped up from the stoop and raced past Ike without looking at him, and joined the other kids in their completely disorganized and unorchestrated game of street hockey.

Annie, too, stood and ambled after him, stopping to pick up her duffel bag and toss it into the back seat. “I’m ready when you are,” she said again as she opened the passenger side door and climbed inside.

Ike nodded and joined her in the car, then eased his way into the street at about a half a mile an hour to avoid the wildly scattering kids. When he braked for a stop sign at the corner, Annie looked over at him with a broad smile and asked, “If you could be any vegetable in the world, what would you be?”

As questions went, it wasn’t one Ike heard often in his line of work. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you could be any vegetable in the world,” she repeated, “what would you be?”

He turned right and headed toward the Schuylkill Expressway. “Why?”

Annie’s smile broadened. “Because it occurs to me that we know absolutely nothing about each other, other than the fact that we were both gullible enough to be sucked into going to that bachelor auction. We’ve got a long drive to the shore ahead of us, so why not use the opportunity to find out a little bit more about each other, right?”

Sounded reasonable, Ike thought. But… vegetables?

“I’d be an eggplant, myself,” she volunteered without being asked. “Eggplants seem to have it so together, don’t you think? Not to mention having a sleek design and gorgeous coloring.”

Ike drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and said nothing.

“Now you I see as more of a cauliflower kind of guy.”

He flicked his right turn signal, veered onto the entrance ramp and melded smoothly with traffic before glancing over at Annie and repeating blandly, “Cauliflower.”

She nodded. “Cauliflowers are pretty moody.” She offered the observation as if that explained everything.

Ike sighed again, slipped on his Ray·Bans and settled back in the driver’s seat. As Annie had just pointed out, it was going to be a long drive to the shore.



It was also, he admitted grudgingly some time later, a rather enjoyable drive, one that allowed him to discover a great many surprising things about his companion. In addition to wanting to be an eggplant, if Annie could be any fruit in the world, she wanted to be a kiwi. If given the choice of any animal in-the world, she would be an ocelot. Any color, she would be green. Any musical instrument, she would be a banjo. Any supermarket product, a box of Velveeta. Any mode of transportation, a streetcar.

And so it had gone across the entire width of the great state of New Jersey. Whether he’d wanted to or not, Ike had learned more about Annie Malone than he had about any other human being he’d ever met. He knew she was thirty-two years old, a Virgo, and the youngest of two children. He knew she had two degrees in social work and one in child development, and that she had kicked the smoking habit three years ago, but still craved a cigarette now and then. On the few occasions when she indulged in alcohol, she always drank vodka martinis, very dry, no olive. She had gone to her senior prom stag and had received six stitches in her knee when she was seven years old.

Oh, yeah. And she was a widow.

That bit of information, when she’d offered it, had nearly sent Ike driving off the side of the road. She was too young to have experienced such a loss. Too fresh-looking. Too nice. She hadn’t mentioned how her husband died, only that he had five years ago. And even having known her a short while, Ike could tell that Annie hadn’t surrendered the information easily. Her husband’s death was simply a part of her, like everything else she had told him, and therefore worthy of mention.

In turn, Ike had spoken little of himself, other than to oblige her with one- or two-word responses like “grapes,” “wolf,” “black,” “tenor saxophone,” “top sirloin” and “steam locomotive.” He didn’t like to talk about himself, preferred to keep private things private. He hadn’t pried into Annie’s life or asked many questions of her. She was just the type of person who revealed herself freely. Ike liked that about her. But it didn’t mean he had to unburden himself in the process.

Now as he tossed his leather weekend bag on the bed in his room, he couldn’t quite put thoughts of Annie to rest. She was, to say the least, an enigma. She was bright, attractive, and capable of doing just about anything she wanted to do. She smiled freely and spoke without inhibition. She was the kind of person one would expect to find living in sunshine and wide open spaces, amid nature’s bounty, if not an actual part of it. Yet Annie Malone had buried herself in a decaying urban landscape, and had surrounded herself with damaged children who were the victims of life’s darkest secrets.

It made no sense to Ike. He was the kind of man who put unpleasant thoughts as far from himself as he could. He’d had the most ordinary of upbringings and a very happy childhood—middle middle-class suburbs, public schools, a bicycle for Christmas when he was ten, twenty-five cents from the Tooth Fairy on a pretty regular basis, a craving for marshmallow cream on graham crackers that he’d never quite outgrown. He’d never had a reason or opportunity to suspect that other people had grown up any differently.

And although as an adult, he did know better, he still couldn’t begin to understand the drive or motivation behind people who purposely put themselves into ugly situations when they didn’t have to. Why would someone like Annie choose to live the way she did? What could she possibly be getting out of it?

Unable to answer the questions, he unzipped his bag and began to halfheartedly unpack. The early afternoon sun hung high in the sky, its rays tumbling through the open window to spill over the hardwood floor in streaks of white and gold. Across the street from the Hanson House Bed and Breakfast, the mighty Atlantic roared and crashed against the beach like a hungry beast. A warm breeze danced with the lacy curtains, redolent with the fresh scent of salt and the far-off fragrance of a barbecue grill warming up for lunch.

Ike paused in his activity to move to the window, inhaling deeply as he pushed it open more. He loved the ocean. Even with Craggedy Annie along for the ride—who, was growing less craggedy, he had to confess—it was going to be nice to get away for the weekend. His work had become so demanding since he’d joined his company with his partner’s some years ago. The merger had come at an ideal time and had suited well both men’s needs. Ike had wanted more business, more opportunity. His partner, Chase Buchanan, had wanted more time to spend with his family. Both men had gotten exactly what they wanted from the deal, and the business had grown by leaps and bounds as a result.

Buchanan-Guthrie Designs, Inc. was now enormously successful, and Ike had more work than he had ever imagined he would. He ate, drank, breathed, slept…he absolutely lived his career, and liked it that way just fine. Working was what Ike did best. Maybe Chase was a family man, the perfect father. But Ike couldn’t imagine living his life that way. He was too full of ambition to ever settle down. What would he do with kids?

Kids. He couldn’t stop thinking about that kid.

That kid at Annie’s. The one with the eyes so big and blue, they seemed to peer right into his soul. The one who had screamed in terror that Ike was going to hurt him. The one who had been so badly abused by his parents he didn’t know any other way of being treated. Even a guy like Ike, who had no desire to have children, couldn’t begin to understand how anyone could do that to a kid.

A soft rap on the door connecting his room to Annie’s pulled him away from his thoughts, and back into his room. The Hanson House was a Victorian wonder, the owners clearly having cared for it as if it were a much-loved relative. Outside, the looming structure was trimmed in yellow and green, and it soared three stories high in a seemingly unplanned zigzag of angles and corners. Inside, the rooms were furnished with period pieces and accessories, painted soft colors suited to ocean living, and filled with sunlight. Ike and Annie had been placed in rooms on the third floor, rooms that had apparently been assigned to the servants way back when the Hanson House had been a private residence. And although his room was a bit small, the ceiling slanted on one side, it was cozy and welcoming and surprisingly accommodating.

“Nice place,” Annie said when Ike opened the door. “Must be setting you back a bundle.”

“Yeah, it is a nice place,” he agreed, deciding it might be best to just avoid commenting on the second, more acerbic, half of her observation. “I guess Hanson House is a world away from Homestead House, isn’t it? Which reminds me,” he added quickly when he saw her frown. “Just exactly what is Homestead House, anyway?”

She rotated one shoulder in what he decided was a defensive gesture. “It’s a house in town,” she told him evenly. “It’s a place where people live. It’s a home.”

Ike nodded. “A home for unwanted kids, you mean.”

Annie shook her head. “No, I mean it’s a home. Period. Exactly like your place—whatever that place may be—is a home.” She straightened as she added, “And just for the record, every one of those kids is wanted. Wanted by me and my staff. They just have nowhere else to go for the time being.”

Ike eyed her thoughtfully. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“No,” she replied quickly, clearly not at all surprised by the question or quick change of subject. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the kind of person who’s in the best position to help other people, but you don’t make a single effort to do so.”

“Because I have money?”

Annie shook her head again. “Not because you have money, but because of the way you use it. And because you have prestige and a position in the community you let go to waste, too.”

Ike took a step forward to lean against the doorjamb, a gesture that brought him close enough to Annie to detect just a hint of her perfume. It was a spicy scent, vaguely familiar. But he couldn’t quite identify what it was. “What do you mean?” he asked softly.

Relentlessly, Annie continued, “People like you run around in an impressive social circle and have a lot of clout. You have the ear of government officials, society leaders and corporate bigwigs. You’re high profile. You could do a lot to improve the situation of other people who don’t have such opportunities. But the only benefits and profits you reap from your status are strictly of a personal nature.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

“And that’s why you don’t like me.”

“That’s why I don’t like you.”

“Then I guess we’re even,” he muttered as he pushed himself away from the doorjamb again. “Because I don’t like you, either.”

His blunt statement appeared to surprise her, in spite of the fact that she’d spoken so frankly to him herself. “You don’t?” Her voice was quiet and timid when she uttered the question, and she seemed to be genuinely distressed that he would find her unappealing. “Why not?”

“Because you’re full of anger and resentment, you make snap judgments about people, and you’re completely unrealistic. And dammit, Annie, nobody dresses the way you do nowadays. The Age of Aquarius ended twenty-five years ago. People found out they couldn’t change the world with love-ins and protests. Nobody cared then. Nobody cares now. Deal with it.”

He hadn’t meant to go off like that, and, too late, Ike realized how awful he must have sounded. There was just something about Annie Malone that put him on edge and made him feel defensive. Something that made him quick to overreact. But before he could apologize and try to explain himself—no easy feat, since he didn’t understand his behavior himself—Annie withdrew, both literally and figuratively.

She narrowed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut, then reached past Ike to curl her fingers over the doorknob, clearly intending to close the door tight, too. But she could only pull it closed a few inches before it hit his big body and stopped. Instead of moving away, he circled her wrist with loose fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That was out of line.”

“Yeah, it was,” she agreed every bit as quietly. She glanced up and met his gaze, then looked past him into his room. “But you’re right. I did make a snap judgment about you. And for that, I apologize, too.”

Neither seemed to know what to say after that, and as much as Ike wished Annie would look into his eyes again, her gaze ricocheted everywhere but there. She did have nice eyes, he thought. Pale green irises ringed by a darker circle of color, and thick, dark lashes that were so perfect, they almost looked false. But if there was one thing Ike was certain about in Annie, it was that there was absolutely nothing false about her.

The silence between them stretched until it became even more uncomfortable than their-angry exchange had been. Finally, he released her wrist and stepped away from the door. Without a word, she began to tug it toward herself again.

“I guess I’ll just have to prove to you that you’re wrong about me,” he said when the door was nearly closed, wondering why it was so important that Annie Malone not misjudge him.

The door paused in its slow movement for only a moment, and he heard her reply softly, “I guess you will.”

“How about grabbing some lunch?” he rushed on before she could close the door completely. “I know a great little place that most of the tourists overlook.”

For one long moment, when she didn’t reply right away, Ike thought Annie was going to tell him to take a flying leap. Not for the first time, he wondered why she had come along on this jaunt when she clearly would have preferred to be anywhere but alone with him in romantic surroundings. Then she surprised him by pushing the door open again.

She surveyed him slowly, literally from head to toe, then lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug. “Okay,” she said. “I guess I am pretty hungry. And I wouldn’t mind doing a little shopping. I promised the kids a couple of souvenirs. Just give me a few more minutes to get unpacked.”

Ike nodded, oddly pleased to discover that he wouldn’t be spending the entire weekend alone after all. He decided it might be best if he didn’t think about how curious a realization that was when he’d awakened that morning wanting nothing more in the world than simply to be left alone. He hadn’t wanted to leave Philadelphia, hadn’t wanted to go anywhere with Annie Malone. But now that he was here in Cape May, alone with the woman he had been so sure would annoy him, he felt anything but annoyed.

What exactly he was feeling, he wasn’t quite certain. But Annie’s presence was doing something to him—something rather weird and wonderful—of that he was sure.

While he was mulling the revelation over, however, the door connecting his room to Annie’s—and to her—closed with a quiet, but resolute, click.




Three (#ulink_5403b806-3721-562c-bf7c-65c6bc3a2b69)


Ike needn’t have worried that Annie would take his remark about her dressing habits to heart. When he knocked on her hotel room door some hours later—the real room to her door, not the connecting one—she responded to his summons wearing an ankle-skimming dress of some crinkly fabric, that buttoned from hem to scooped neck, claret in color and patterned with tiny flowers in pale yellow and ivory. A velvet, burgundy ribbon tied around her neck and simple gold hoops looped through her earlobes served as her only jewelry, and her hair hung down her back in a foot-long, loosely plaited braid. Her shoes were flat, the same texture and color as the ribbon around her neck, and as a result, she was forced to tip her head back substantially to meet his gaze.

She still looked like a hippie, he thought. But there was something about her getup that he found more than a little appealing.

And Patchouli, he suddenly realized. That was the scent that surrounded Annie Malone. But only faintly, as if it were the result of soap or powder, and not a heavily applied perfume. The fragrance was clean and fresh and slightly exotic, much like the woman herself. For some reason, Ike wanted to bend to bury his head in the curve of her neck and drink in great gulps of her scent. Only with a massive amount of restraint did he keep himself from doing just that.

“You look lovely,” he said, surprising himself. He’d never called a woman lovely before. Beautiful, many times, ravishing on a few occasions, and incredible when the word seemed appropriate. But lovely? It was an outdated term, something a person normally used when referring to an elderly aunt. At least, that’s what Ike had always thought before. But the word seemed somehow suited to Annie.

“Thanks,” she said. She eyed his dove gray Hugo Boss suit, his pale lavender Geoffrey Beene dress shirt and his multihued pastel silk tie. Then she grinned mischievously. “You look like an ad for GQ.“

He narrowed his eyes at her tone of voice. “You don’t make that sound like a compliment.”

Her grin broadened, and her tone was playful as she assured him, “Oh, it wasn’t meant to be.”

He smiled back in spite of himself. “I see. You, no doubt, prefer a man in Levi’s, Earth shoes and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, right?”

She lifted a hand to finger the necktie that was splashed with color like an abstract painting. She turned it over to check the label, smiled, then flattened her palm over the length of silk as she patted it back into place. “Hey, you’re the one wearing the Jerry Garcia tie, Ike, not me.”

It was the first time she had referred to him using his given name, and they both seemed to feel a little uncomfortable at having it hanging between them that way. Annie continued to meet his gaze levelly, tracing an idle pattern on his tie with her fingertip, seemingly oblivious to the oddly heated sensations her gesture raised elsewhere on his body. Before he became completely undone by the careless meanderings of her hand, Ike curled his fingers around hers and lifted her palm to his lips.

“You’re right,” he said after pressing his lips against the warm pad of her palm.

He had meant to say more, something about there being a little of the sixties in everyone, as hard as people like him tried to exorcise the decade. But the taste and feel of her skin on his seemed to numb his lips. Annie Malone may seem brittle and clipped, he thought, but she wasn’t. She was soft. Warm. He didn’t know how he could be so certain when he knew so little about her, but there were no edges to Annie, as much as she might try to make people believe that there were. And when Ike realized he was about to lift her hand to his mouth again for an even more intimate exploration, he quickly released her fingers and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“We’d better go,” he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than it felt. “Our reservation is for seven.”

She nodded silently and preceded him down the hall. Ike followed closely behind, watching with much interest the way the skirt of her dress swung first one way and then the other in response to the subtle sway of her hips. He sighed. He had spent the entire afternoon following Annie all over Cape May in much the same way, wondering how he could have been so bothered by her hip-hugger jeans initially, when they hugged her hips so damned beautifully. The woman had some way of walking, he decided. And he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way she moved.

Annie could feel his eyes on her as she made her way quietly down the stairs toward the first floor, just as she had felt his eyes on her all afternoon. For Pete’s sake, what was he staring at? she wondered. He’d already gone out of his way to disparage her wardrobe, and she knew he didn’t like the way she wore her hair. He quite clearly didn’t like her, had even said so to her face. Although she loved the dress she was wearing, she knew it was old-fashioned and shapeless and revealed absolutely nothing of interest.

So, dammit, what was he staring at?

And what had that kiss on her palm been all about? She closed her eyes briefly as she remembered the rigidness of his torso beneath her hand when she’d straightened his necktie. She had always thought executives and businessmen were supposed to be flabby and soft. But Ike must get some kind of regular exercise, she thought, because he’d felt like solid rock beneath her fingers. Hot, solid rock, she realized further. Hot, solid rock that was alive and rabid and…

Stop it, she ordered herself when her thoughts started to become far too graphic. She was being silly. He was just some guy she was spending the weekend with. Some hot, rigid guy who—

Annie sighed fitfully and forced herself to pause at the foot of the stairs to let him catch up. She had no reason to be running away from him to begin with, she told herself. Just because he’d kissed her hand, and just because she’d felt that kiss wind a blazing trail all the way from her fingertips through her heart to her toes… Annie squeezed her eyes shut again and tried to remind herself that she didn’t like Ike Guthrie. Unfortunately, that deep-seated animosity she had been so certain would be her constant companion this weekend had evidently packed up and gone home.

She made herself relax when he joined her at her side, inhaling a calming breath as he took her elbow lightly in his hand to lead her toward the dining room. The Hanson House was as renowned for its restaurant as it was for its hospitality, and Annie figured out why almost immediately. Even if they served nothing but greasy burgers and fries, people would keep coming back to this place. Because the dining room was so beautiful.

Where the bedrooms of the bed-and-breakfast were light and airy, the dining room was dark and intimate and cozy. A huge crystal chandelier hung at its center, dimmed low to mimic candlelight. Real candles flickered in crystal votives on each of the tables, all of which seemed to be isolated by virtue of very strategically placed potted ferns and lacy screens. The walls were papered in sapphire moirè, the mahogany chairs upholstered in gold velvet. The table to which the maître d’ led them was draped with ivory lace, a single yellow rose rising from a crystal vase at its center.

“Wow, this place is wonderful,” Annie said as she made herself comfortable. She tried not to notice how the candlelight flecked Ike’s hair with bits of golden fire, tried to ignore the way his cheekbones appeared even more prominent in the shadows. Tried and failed miserably.

He picked up his menu and began to idly scan it. “Yes, it is. And I imagine it’s a far cry from the way you usually have dinner.”

Annie had picked up her menu and started to open it, but she slapped it shut and tossed it back onto the table when he uttered his comment. She wished he would quit making references to her life sound as if she were the little match girl. And she wished she would stop caring about what he thought of her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

He glanced up, clearly not understanding why she was angry. “What’s what supposed to mean?”

“Why do you keep talking to me like I’m some indigent, ignorant rube?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Just about everything you’ve said to me since you picked me up this morning has been insulting. What I want to know is, why?”

He seemed genuinely surprised by her charge. “That’s not true.”

Annie lifted her hands, touching the index finger of one to the thumb of the other. “You’ve insulted my home,” she began. She then pressed one index finger to the other. “You’ve insulted my neighborhood.” She counted off the rest of her fingers as she added, “You’ve insulted the way I dress, my system of beliefs and my way of life.” She dropped her hands to the table, folding them convulsively together to keep herself from popping him in the eye. “You’ve insulted me. Continuously. And I’m telling you to cut it out. Now.”

He opened his mouth to argue, seemed to think better of it, and said simply, “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. And it won’t happen again.”

Annie picked up her menu and studied the appetizers. “Thanks,” she muttered.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for some moments, each seeming inordinately fascinated by their dinner choices. A wine steward came and went when Ike ordered something for them to drink that Annie had never heard of, then returned again with a bottle that was very dusty and old-looking. She watched Ike smile and nod his approval, then the steward opened the wine and poured a scant splash of red into Ike’s glass. Annie studied him as he lifted the glass to his mouth and swallowed the contents, uttered a murmur of satisfaction and nodded again. The steward then filled Annie’s glass before performing the same task for Ike’s.

The whole episode lasted scarcely a minute, but Annie felt as if time had expanded to eternity. Her heart seemed to have climbed into her throat as she watched him sample the wine, and her stomach was still flip-flopping madly. Her breathing had become shallow and was making her feel faint. Her face and neck were hot, her hands sweaty. How could she possibly feel as if she’d just made love to the man when she’d done nothing but watch him take a sip of wine?

It was his mouth, she decided. Although Ike’s chin and jaw were square and blunt, his cheeks rough with pale blond traces of a day-old beard, his lips were full and softlooking. And without even realizing what was happening, she suddenly found herself indulging in a too realistic fantasy about what it would be like to feel those lips dragging openmouthed kisses along her calf and up the back of her thigh.

“Oh, jeez,” she whispered, closing her eyes in an effort to dispel the image. But it remained firmly imprinted at the forefront of her brain.

“What?”

She heard Ike’s roughly uttered question, but Annie kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, still unable to push the graphic fantasy away. When she finally did open them again, it was to find him staring at her in the oddest way. As if he wanted to yank her across the table and into his lap, hike up her skirt, and make love to her right there in front of everyone dining. That realization, of course, only agitated her further, and Annie struggled to regain control of her crazily spinning thoughts.




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