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A Mom for Matthew
Roz Denny Fox
A wife for him–and a mother for his son?Zeke Rossetti likes things to run smoothly. He's the single father of a deaf child, and his job managing offshore oil sites in the Texas Gulf doesn't allow for distractions. Grace Stafford is definitely a distraction.She's searching for a downed plane, hoping to clear her grandfather's World War Two record. Unfortunately, Grace's mission interferes with Zeke's work–and he realizes the quickest way to get rid of her is to help her.Zeke's been burned before. His ex-wife left him and Matthew. As he grows closer to Grace, Zeke begins to suspect she's the woman for him–but can she be a mom for Matthew?



Should he tell her about Matthew?
As quickly as he’d thought of it, Zeke discarded the idea—even though he knew she taught little kids. Why would he bare his soul to a virtual stranger when he’d said almost nothing about his son’s condition to his coworkers, men who knew him a lot better than Grace Stafford ever would? She’d either find her grandfather’s plane and leave, or not find what she’d come for and go home to her life in San Antonio. He and Matt would remain in Galveston, battling the social worker who believed he should put Matt in a school miles from home.
When they’d walked a full block in silence, Grace assumed she’d been correct, that Zeke’s earlier question about her teaching had just been a way to pass the time.
He floored her again when he buried his hands in his pockets and said, “I’m not too interested in small talk. Tell me—do today’s first-graders learn to read, write and do math? Do all your students attend kindergarten first? I’m curious, Grace. I honestly can’t remember back to first grade. But then, I never had a teacher as pretty as you.” He gave her a mischievous grin.
That smile went to Grace’s head.
Dear Reader,
The idea for this story landed in my lap the day I sold my first book. I was working at a community college in Washington State, and Jean Floten, our college president, had just returned from an exciting vacation adventure off the coast of Florida. While her staff was celebrating my first book sale, President Floten’s secretary coaxed her to share a funny, interesting and touching tale about how she, her husband, Bill, and a friend had brought up an historic plane from the bottom of a lake. After listening raptly like everyone else at the table, I casually warned her that one day she’d see parts of this story in one of my books—to which she replied, “That would be great.”
It’s taken a long time to get this particular book off the ground. In my mind I moved the Grumman Duck many times before a cohesive story took shape. My apologies to Bill Floten for giving the role of finding and bringing up the plane to the heroine. I realize Bill has spent years lovingly restoring a plane I blithely gave away in my book. However, for the sake of this particular love story, my fictional hero and his son offer Grace Stafford far more than a barnacle-covered pontoon aircraft. They give her their hearts, their love and a chance to have the home and family Grace has long desired. Little Matthew Rossetti sure needs a mom like Grace, too.
I hope you and the other readers of this story take Zeke and Matthew Rossetti, and Grace Stafford, into your own hearts. And if you happen to pass through Bellevue, Washington, there are probably still staff at the college who can tell you about the Flotens’ real-life adventure.
Roz Denny Fox
I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona 85731. Or e-mail me at rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

A Mum for Matthew
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
My thanks go to Jean and Bill Floten for raising the real
Grumman Duck from the bottom of a freshwater lake in
Nassau, where it crashed more than forty years prior to their
adventure. I borrowed the concept from their experience,
but in all other ways my story is strictly fiction.
Cathie Morton also receives my gratitude for once telling me
that if I ever decided to write about a child with
profound hearing loss, I should contact her—which I did.
She kindly directed me to more information than I ever
dreamed existed. So to Cathie, my deepest thanks.
Any errors in this book are mine alone.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE
ON THE DOT OF NINE, Zeke Rossetti exited Harborside Drive and screeched to a stop in his assigned parking space at the Kemper Offshore Oil Research and Development Center. His dust trail continued to settle even after he bailed out of his Chevy pickup, which looked the way Zeke felt after three days of doing battle with the child welfare service. Horse-faced Bonnie Burnham had made it her life’s mission to remove Matthew from Zeke’s care, starting the day his ex-wife had made noises about suing for full custody. Ms. Burnham was supposed to be Matt’s caseworker, but she’d disliked Zeke from the get-go, so she schemed to take Matt away. Or at least that was how Zeke saw it. But once again, a family court judge upheld his petition. However, each encounter shook his confidence a little more—were he and his mom doing right by not boarding Matt at a special school?
Leaving his son to return to work this morning had been pure hell. Matt had awakened during the night screaming because of the pain in his ears. Zeke could never tell the true extent of the agony that caused his son to waken so frequently.
Last night, a new emergency-room doctor had ordered the usual medications. Zeke worried about the long-term effect of so many antibiotics repeatedly thrown into his son’s system. And yet, when the almost-four-year-old buried his head in Zeke’s chest and sobbed because he hurt somewhere he couldn’t even name, Zeke hurt, too. He’d become adept at hiding his own tears.
Grabbing his jacket and thermos from the Chevy’s jump seat, he loped across a plank walk that led to his workplace. This was his favorite time of day. The sun was on the rise. There was a salty tang in the air. The morning tide rushing into Galveston Bay made the uneven boards shift under his boots. By the time he reached the entry, Zeke had his sea legs under him again.
Out in the bay beyond the clapboard building, the hiss of steam and a reassuring bam-bam of the drilling rig that floated on a platform above the water line, even though it pumped oil from below the bay’s sandy bottom, centered Zeke’s mind on work. He really did love his job, and considered himself damned lucky that Pace Kemper had hired him to ramrod this drilling operation.
The offer had come at the lowest point in Zeke’s life. Mere weeks after Trixie Lee had abandoned motherhood and him. She’d hightailed it in the middle of the night, leaving him with a sick baby and working a dead-end mechanic job for her brother in a backwater burg. Which was why Zeke felt doubly lucky that Kemper, who ran his corporation from a Dallas high-rise, exhibited a willingness to be flexible with Zeke’s schedule. That allowed him time off whenever Matt took sick.
Of course, he was even more fortunate that his mom, Celia Rossetti, had without a qualm quit her nurse’s aide job to keep his house and tend his son. His mom had once been in his shoes, as a single parent. And since Trixie left him to muddle through parenting alone, Zeke had a new appreciation for everything Celia had faced, especially considering the wild kid he’d been. Zeke didn’t fool himself; his mom was the best thing standing between him and Ms. Burnham. He found it difficult to think about child welfare without wondering where they’d been in the early months, when he and Trixie Lee had struggled to deal with a profoundly deaf baby. Or maybe he’d expected too much….
Cutting short those unsettling memories, Zeke stiff-armed his way through Kemper’s revolving glass door.
Three men, clad in blue jeans and coordinated cotton shirts bearing the oil company’s logo, glanced up as Zeke brought in a June breeze and the ocean smell.
“Hey, hey, boss!” Gavin Davis, five years older than Zeke’s thirty, collected a hard hat from one of the desks and left his co-workers. “About time you got your skinny ass back in the saddle. But you don’t look like a guy who’s been lazing on the beach for three days. Did someone drag you through a doggie door sideways?” Pausing near Zeke, Davis studied the network of lines fanning out from his younger friend’s dark, deep-set eyes.
“Anybody ever tell you you’re too funny for words?” Zeke feigned a punch at Gavin’s shoulder, but Davis adroitly parried and avoided contact.
Sobering, Zeke shifted his thermos to his other hand. “So, how much did you guys accomplish in those same three days? How far did your crew get laying groundwork for Number Four?”
Gavin scraped a thumbnail across a shadowy blond beard. Gavin Davis was as fair as Zeke Rossetti was dark. The two had a relaxed rapport on the job. But unlike Davis, Zeke kept his private life private.
“Geological sound waves came in the first day you stayed home. Seismic recordings are up to snuff.” Davis fell into step with him. “Jud Watson tossed a stack of scientific data sheets on your desk yesterday. He said your hunch was right on, except he had to go about five hundred feet deeper than your original estimate.”
Zeke adjusted his stride to match Gavin’s longer legs. The two men entered a partitioned-off space that served as Zeke’s office. “Five hundred feet short? That changes the drilling angle. Means we’ve gotta add rebar to our estimates,” Zeke mused as he looked through a stack of messages he’d ripped off a spindle in the center of his desk. “Have the perimeter marker buoys been dropped?”
“Yep. Want a look-see?” Gavin lifted a squat pair of binoculars from a hook screwed into the plywood wall and passed them to Zeke. “We set the buoys, all right, but you got yourself a little problem, boss. Or I guess you could say a potentially big problem.” He clapped the field glasses into Zeke’s hand.
“How so?” Zeke absently juggled the binoculars with the message slips. Frowning, he finally tore his gaze from a note he’d been reading.
Gavin spun Zeke around, facing him toward a thirty-foot bank of windows. Then he pointed a finger at a partially obstructed section of sun-dappled water.
Zeke raised the glasses and fiddled with the dial until he’d adjusted the focus. “What the hell? Why’s an old fishing tub anchored smack in the middle of our cordoned-off drill site?”
“That’s your potential problem, Zeke. Yesterday afternoon, maybe five minutes before we finished anchoring the last buoy, a little ol’ gal sashays up in that leaky boat. Fast as you please, she put on scuba gear and commenced diving.”
“For what?” Zeke wet his lips and spun the view focus again.
“Says she’s hunting for an airplane that crashed here at the end of World War Two.”
“A damned treasure hunter?” Zeke sputtered. “Why didn’t you tell her to get lost?”
“Norm tried to. She tuned him out.”
“She’d better listen. We can’t have someone churning up the ocean floor right there—it’s where we’re building our next platform. And that’s not even taking into account the pure danger she’ll be in once we start hauling in equipment.”
“Then you’d better send her packing. She said we didn’t have any right to evict her from the bay.”
“The hell we don’t! I do. Well, Kemper does. He’s got general exploration access, thanks to a federal energy bill. I filed site requests three weeks ago and filled out the paperwork for drilling permits. Dammit, I don’t see our license in this stack of mail. Well, it’ll be here by Friday. It’s just late.”
“Don’t bite my head off, Zeke. Norm tried reasoning.” The straps on Gavin’s hard hat swung back and forth as he shook his head from side to side. “Didn’t faze her.”
“Is the runabout docked? Damn, I hate wasting part of a morning when I’m three days behind schedule as it is. But I’ll go set your treasure hunter straight.”
With a broad sweep of his hand, Gavin muttered, “She’s not mine, thank God! You’re welcome to have a go at her.”
Rolling his eyes, Zeke tossed the binoculars down on an already teetering pile of unopened mail—one of many stacks on his desk. He saw that they included contracts to subcontractors, awaiting his signature and a ream of data sheets outlining the next well Kemper would bring in.
Taking a deep breath, Zeke lost no time stalking outside again. He expected Gavin to follow. It wasn’t until Zeke reached the company runabout and knelt to unlash it from the cleats, that he realized his crew chief had remained behind. Zeke yanked repeatedly on the rope starter and managed to burn off part of his irritation at Gavin and the unknown troublemaker sitting in the bay. Idiot woman probably had no clue that oil-drillers spent months securing drilling right of ways.
Norm Steel, whom everyone on the team called Gramps, was too nice. He was also a man of few words. Zeke figured Norm hadn’t made their position clear.
Once he succeeded in getting the motor humming, he carefully guided the runabout between the creosote-covered pilings that separated the office finger pier from the Number Three driller. Not until he hit open water did his thoughts turn toward employing some tact and diplomacy in dealing with the unnamed troublemaker. Why hit her like gangbusters when a little friendliness might go further?
“Ship ahoy!” Cutting his engine, Zeke let his craft drift to the starboard side of the aging fishing vessel.
A wizened face, ancient enough to match the peeling paint on the old shrimp boat, peered at Zeke through a broken railing. “You callin’ me, you?” the man asked in the manner customary to the many Cajun shrimpers in the Gulf region.
Zeke offered up a toothy grin he didn’t feel. “Name’s Rossetti. Zeke Rossetti. I’m general manager for the outfit that owns the string of oil pumpers back there.” His wave encompassed three oil rigs already making rhythmic thuds in the background.
But since the leathery face above him continued to stare as if the man didn’t comprehend, Zeke elaborated. “I’m speaking for Kemper Oil Research and Development.”
The old fellow grimaced. “I rent my boat, me. To Miss Stafford.”
“Well, explain to her you’ll have to weigh anchor and go elsewhere. She already heard this news yesterday from one of my crew. I understand she questioned his authority. I have the right to move Miss Stafford along. That is, Kemper does. Our latest exploratory permit encompasses the portion of the bay that lies between our twelve marker buoys, plus a five-hundred-yard perimeter in all directions. We need a lot of space.” He made a circular motion with both arms to show the general vicinity surrounding the buoys bobbing in bright orange array above aqua-colored waves. The rolling waves rocked Zeke’s boat, causing him to adjust his already wide-legged stance.
Suddenly, a swimmer in scuba gear broke the water’s surface a few feet away, rising like a mermaid between his unanchored runabout and the larger boat. This mermaid, Zeke noted, sported a peeling, badly sunburned nose, and hair skinned back in a dripping ponytail. She shoved an eye mask up into her hair, then paddled awkwardly toward a frayed rope ladder dropped over the side of the listing shrimp boat.
Zeke now saw the tub had impossibly worn rigging and a badly scratched hull. He wasn’t sure the damned thing wouldn’t sink when the woman kicked off her oversize swim fins and swung herself onto the sagging rope ladder.
He found himself holding his breath until she landed on deck and shimmied out of twin air tanks. Dispassionately, Zeke studied the boyish body encased in an ugly green, one-piece bathing suit that brought to mind an undernourished frog.
Flesh not covered by the ghastly suit gleamed oyster-shell pale—except for crimson shoulders that more or less matched her freckled nose. Had no one warned her that the Galveston sun wasn’t even at its zenith yet? It was still early in June. But if she persisted in her folly for many more days, she’d turn into a crispy critter. Of course Zeke was here to ensure she didn’t continue diving—at least not in this spot.
“Ma’am,” he said politely, shading his eyes. “I’m explaining to your partner why you can’t go on doing whatever it is you’re doing in this part of Galveston Bay. Within the week, I’ll have a dozen tugs hauling in underwater drill equipment on flatbed barges. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught in that mess.”
Grace Stafford accepted a towel handed her by Jorge Boudreaux, who pronounced his name Horhay Boodrow. She realized the gentle old soul whose boat she’d rented was practically quaking in his sisal flip-flops. That immediately raised her hackles. She didn’t know who this tall, slightly shaggy, melt-your-socks-rugged guy thought he was, but she couldn’t afford to let anyone intimidate the only person in Galveston whose boat she could afford to rent by the hour. She’d barely begun her quest. She couldn’t give up now. Especially not to please the kind of snake-charmer Grace had, for the past twenty-nine years, done her level best to avoid. For good reason. She imagined the father she’d never known as just such a smiling, fast-talking stinker. To say nothing of the fact that she’d recently had personal experience of a jerk just like this.
“I appreciate your concern for my safety, but…this is exactly where I need to be,” she said, pausing to prop her air tanks against an open sea chest before she joined Boudreaux at the break in the railing.
The handsome stranger kept shaking his head.
Grace explained again, deciding that a more formal approach might be the way to go. “After seven months of online sea chart study, combined with detailed analysis exchanged with naval and Coast Guard underwater explorers, I’ve got reason to believe my grandfather’s Grumman Duck, J2F-6, was blown off course here in a hurricane. That he went down near this very spot. The plane is an historic relic, Mr.—sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Not that exchanging names matters. In the interests of being neighborly, though, let me introduce myself. I’m Grace Stafford. From San Antonio,” she added, wringing out her wet ponytail. “Back at my hotel, I have documents issued by the naval department, giving me exclusive rights to excavate the ocean floor within a half-mile radius in any direction from where Jorge is currently anchored. In other words, my search is government sanctioned. I’m prepared to raise the plane as soon as I locate her. But I have no idea when that will be. Could be a week, a month or with luck—tomorrow,” she said, smiling sweetly down at the face now scowling up at her.
Zeke mulled over not only the woman’s too-smooth explanation, but the content of her statement. He hated the words historic and environmentally unsound almost as much as he hated women who camouflaged hidden agendas with sweet-as-pie smiles. Either could cause a man massive headaches. Zeke had learned both of these things the hard way during his wildcatting days in West Texas. And back then, few things rattled Zeke Rossetti. Those were his footloose, fancy-free years, when he followed his slightest whim—something he definitely couldn’t do these days. Now he had obligations. To his son, his mom and to Pace Kemper, who had faith that he’d excavate a string of productive wells.
“Look, Ms. Stafford,” Zeke began again, attempting equanimity. “I’m sure this salvage is important to you. However, my company stands to lose up to a quarter mil per day in various fees if you persist in your little venture.” Zeke figured he wouldn’t get anywhere being totally unreasonable. He’d especially hate to be accused of badgering a fragile, bean-pole, city gal, who obviously had no idea how drilling operations worked.
He thought if he appealed to her sense of fair play, they’d get somewhere—if women grasped a concept such as fair play. Zeke knew that to some women the term was foreign— Trixie Lee, his ex-wife, being a prime example. He forced himself not to think about how Trixie had suckered him into marriage and continued to sucker him with her sporadic custody threats.
He made an effort to appear relaxed and friendly toward the dripping woman on the rickety tub.
Grace considered her response as she smoothed back flyaway strands of red-gold hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Those same strands were beginning to dry, curling in the corkscrews she detested, curls she’d never been able to tame. Her hair gave the wrong impression; men tended to see her as young and flighty. And the teacher in Grace wanted everything orderly. “Be that as it may, uh…sir. I have clearance from the U.S. Navy to proceed. I’ve got letters from two departments at the Pentagon, if you’d care to have me fax you copies from my hotel—provided my historic hotel has a fax. Plus I have a personal interest in raising the plane. So I must insist you let me get on with it.” She ended abruptly, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the personal part. Men took advantage of women when things became the least bit emotional.
If ever Zeke had seen determination oozing from anyone, Miss—or more likely, Ms.—Stafford’s sea-colored eyes hardened with just such resolve. Clearly, he needed to go back to his office and make a few calls to find out how solid her claim was. And now he was starting to worry about why his permit wasn’t in the mail stacked on his desk.
Cursing roundly under his breath, Zeke yanked twice on the rope coiled around his outboard. The motor roared to life, enabling him to swing the runabout in such a tight turn he slammed a series of waves broadside against the boat. Too bad if the damn thing capsized. He’d happily see Ms. Uptight Stafford and her war documents join her supposed wreck at the bottom of the bay. He sped on, quelling an instinct to glance back.
Shading her eyes, Grace rode out the sway from his back-wash while following his retreat. He was irritated—and decidedly irritating. There was no mistaking his frame of mind, and Grace wasn’t foolish enough to think a man like this would give up easily. Anxiety brought pangs to her chest and knots to her stomach. Why had she been rude to him, letting him get under her skin based on nothing but a sexy appearance? Making enemies of locals wasn’t in her best interests. She seemed to have a habit of dealing poorly in face-to-face negotiations with men.
Grandmother Nell was always chiding her about that. But excellent teacher that Grace was, there were some traits she’d simply never been able to change. And this salvage was so important. She’d launched the exploration with the sole intent of easing her grandmother’s mind in what could well be the last days of Nell Dugan’s life. Grace didn’t have the luxury of time with which to bargain.
Grace’s grandmother had raised Grace by herself after Nell’s only child, a daughter, turned out to be too irresponsible to raise the kid she’d brought into the world. Vanessa Stafford was beautiful, but vain and totally selfish. Grace had only glimpsed her mother twice. And for all she knew, her father didn’t exist, since her mother didn’t bother to marry him or anything else.
But there was nothing Grace wouldn’t do for her grandmother, a woman who’d sacrificed much of her own life to give Grace a home, solid roots and a good education. A woman who’d already raised her daughter alone.
Admittedly, Grace knew very little about ocean salvage. Just what she’d gleaned online and from books checked out of the San Antonio library—yet this was a mission she was committed to completing.
“Jorge, will you refill my air tanks? I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the last of that gentleman. And I use the term loosely,” Grace said, shivering in spite of the sun’s heat.
“His company is powerful,” the old Cajun muttered. “They have jobs and a lotta dough. Shrimpers lost many off-loading docks when Kemper moved in. Maybe you’d better do as he says. I’ll motor us around the point.”
“Ah, Kemper Oil. That explains his arrogance. I’ve seen their logo on a whole bunch of trucks and buildings in town. Still, he doesn’t scare me.” Much, she murmured quietly in a tone that didn’t support her conviction.
Jorge picked up her tanks with a shrug.
“I spent every spare minute over the past year making sure I had every piece of documentation I needed to search for this plane. Our angry Kemper rep will just have to cool his heels until I find my grandfather’s plane and prove to the navy that he didn’t purposely go AWOL, but gave his life in the line of duty,” she explained, although she’d already told Jorge this more than once. “Grandmother battled the navy for years. Her big fear, Jorge, is that she’ll die before reinstating my grandfather’s honor. I will find the plane and give her peace of mind,” Grace said with steely resolve.

GAVIN DAVIS MET Zeke at the slip. He helped guide the runabout into its moorage and lashed the line thrown to him by Zeke around a T-cleat buried in the dock. “So, boss, that didn’t take long. You set her straight in a hurry, I guess.”
Zeke’s snort told the real story. But he elaborated anyway. “It was a wasted trip. Why didn’t Norm say she tossed around words like ‘historic’ and ‘government sanctioned’?”
“No kidding?” Gavin stopped in his tracks. “She didn’t mention government to me. Although, I did tell you she claimed to be hunting for a WWII plane.”
“I know. I didn’t figure out the significance then,” Zeke said testily.
“So, what are we gonna do now? We can forcibly remove her, can’t we?”
Zeke shifted on the gently swaying dock. “Maybe, but I don’t know that for sure, Gav. And I’d rather not take that route if we can avoid it. I’ll check at the courthouse first and see if I can find out how tight her permit is. Will you phone David Decker and tell him we need to delay renting his barge? He’ll whine about lost time and money and try to put the screws to us to pay extension fees. Remind him that until Kemper got here, his barges sat empty.”
“What excuse do I give Dave, Zeke?”
“Tell him the truth. We’ve got a problem sitting in the bay. If Ms. Stafford’s got the backing of the Pentagon as she claims, her story will circulate. Think of the hammering we’ll take by the press if she says Kemper’s uncooperative. She’ll have every historian and environmentalist in the state rallying around her and the flag. So, until I get the real skinny, let’s keep a low profile.”
“PK’s gonna be so pissed. Did you call him?”
Zeke gave a shake of his head. “Not yet. Grace could be running a bluff.”
Gavin grinned. “Grace, is it? You two got chummy pretty fast if you’re on first-name basis.”
Zeke’s second snort surpassed his first in fury. “She’s not my type. I thought you saw her, Gavin. Hell, the game hen I had for dinner last night had more meat on its bones.”
“Who knows what your type of woman is, buddy-boy? No one’s seen you out on the town in the three-plus years you’ve worked here.”
Zeke’s sudden scowl had his co-worker backing off. “I sowed my wild oats over in Kingsville before coming to Galveston. Learned a valuable lesson the hard way, Gavin. Came away with a motto: why be miserable with a woman when I can be happy without one?”
“We all figured you got burned, Zeke. You’re not alone there. Rick Foster has a daughter in New Orleans he only sees once a year ’cause his ex keeps going to court. I’m shelling out double alimony. Half the time I can’t scrape up funds to go on a date. Yet we all keep trying to find Ms. Right. Shoot, don’t you miss cuddling up to a soft, warm body on these cool spring nights?”
“No. And if I ever do I’ll get a dog,” Zeke said emphatically.
“I don’t reckon God meant for man to live his life alone,” Gavin muttered.
“I’m not alone,” Zeke said more testily than he usually spoke to a member of his crew. “I’ve got my son and my mom to fill that void in my life.”
“Kids and moms don’t fill the empty bed I’m talking about, man. Are you claiming you don’t miss sex?”
“Of course I do. I’m human. But liking sex with Trixie Lee Wilson led to getting careless one weekend when I rolled into town after three months’ wildcatting in West Texas. Me being careless led to Trix getting pregnant, which led to us getting married. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you the worst reason for gettin’ hitched is a pregnant girlfriend?”
“Can’t say he did. My old man’s the reason I did stick around and do right by Trixie Lee. My fine, upstanding daddy took a powder the minute my mom told him she was going to have his baby. This conversation’s going nowhere, Gavin,” he said abruptly. “Especially since I wouldn’t trade Matthew for anything. Go call Decker. I’ll see you after I check out Ms. Stafford’s story.” Without another word, Zeke sprinted to his pickup. He slid behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. A knot the size of Dallas took up residence in his stomach. Damn, but he ought to know better than to get drawn into conversations about women and marriage. It was a subject he did fancy footwork to avoid. As a rule, Zeke didn’t care if the crew razzed him about his lack of dates—not even when they talked behind his back. They were aware that he’d been married and divorced. Until now, he’d never admitted his split had been a messy one. But since he’d come clean about the divorce and brought up his dad, maybe they’d leave him the hell alone. Zeke got tired of making excuses about why he didn’t want to go drinking and carousing with the other guys on payday weekend. He believed a man ought to keep his home life separate from work.
Well, crap, he’d blown that, and Gavin tended to be a blabbermouth. Zeke didn’t doubt that his life story would soon circulate through the bar at Willie G’s the next time the crew hooked up there for happy hour.
He sighed. Maybe it didn’t matter. The crew might take pity on him and quit having their wives and girlfriends dig up spare friends on Friday nights.
Zeke swung into the parking lot at the courthouse, thinking it seemed unusually busy. That forced him to concentrate on finding a parking space. When one suddenly opened up in front of the building, Zeke grabbed it, vaulted from his vehicle and pocketed his keys.
Inside, he went to the information desk.
“The best place to begin is probably in records,” a receptionist said, taking time to flirt a little with Zeke as she hauled out a map of the courthouse and leaned close to show him the most direct route to the records room.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Even though Zeke ignored her efforts to attract his attention, he remained unfailingly polite. He knew how hard it was for male and female singles in small towns to connect. Because of a steady tourist trade, Galveston had a greater turnover of singles than a lot of places he’d landed when he’d been in the market to date. Back then, though, he’d only been in the market for a good time.
To give Trixie Lee some credit, he’d mistakenly thought their goals had matched. It was only later that he discovered what she really wanted—a one-way ticket out of Kingsville. Zeke blamed her for not having enough substance to stay for the sake of the child they’d made together, however unintentionally. Instead, she’d disappeared like a thief in the night with all the money in their joint account, leaving only a note on the kitchen table saying she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.
Zeke might have accepted that if she’d left it there. She didn’t. She hooked up with a girlfriend in Dallas, who’d referred her to a lawyer, who was determined to make Zeke pay and pay big. It wasn’t the money Zeke cared about. What he hated was how Trixie and her lawyer kept putting Matthew in the middle of an ongoing war. Every time Trix ran short of money, she played the custody card. Zeke found it easier to shell out dough than take a risk on her maybe winning.
Wrenching the doorknob to the records office, Zeke again vowed to put his personal headaches aside while he dealt with a potential company problem.
“The receptionist out front said you’d probably have what I’m looking for. I need to verify that a new salvager in town has the proper permits. My company, Kemper Oil, is fixin’ to sink a well in the same locale. I requested our permit three weeks ago. I assume it was approved. At least, I wasn’t notified to the contrary.”
The woman sat down at a computer and typed in the basic information Zeke provided. “Oh, I see what happened, Mr. Rossetti. Someone should’ve sent you a letter. Wait—it says here a letter went out.”
“I didn’t get any letter. About what? Have we been denied access?”
“Temporarily, yes. I see this letter went to Mr. Pace Kemper. Perhaps you should discuss the issue with him, Mr. Rossetti.”
“Yes, but he’s in Dallas. I’m the guy coordinating the local drill site and I have subcontractors on hold. Would you make me a copy, please?”
She gave a shrug, then smiled. “Since you ask so nicely, I guess that’d be all right.” The clerk turned and punched a few keys. She rose when a communal printer whirred, and came back carrying a single sheet.
Zeke scanned the page quickly. He saw immediately that the reason for temporary suspension was listed as the state having issued a prior permit to the salvager. The letter cited the navy’s interest in the salvage. Attached was a recommendation from the Pentagon expressing a desire to locate a supply plane piloted by an MIA from World War Two. Zeke’s headache increased exponentially.
“Kemper has a huge investment being threatened by this decision. Is there someone here I can see about reversing this order?” The hole in his stomach grew because his visits with judges left him in a perpetual state of tension.
“Not really, Mr. Rossetti. Judge Mooney processed the permit. He’s not on the docket again until Friday. I suppose you could stop by his office and either make an appointment for next week, or if you have a company attorney, you may want him to file an appeal. A lawyer can request an assignment to Judge Mooney’s caseload. He’s really busy, but with luck you might get a hearing as early as mid-July.”
“What? We can’t delay drilling that long. We’ll go bankrupt waiting for Ms. Stafford to bring up her blasted plane. Providing it even sank where she’s diving.”
The clerk shrugged again. This time it was accompanied by an expression of helpless sympathy. She seemed relieved when her phone rang.
Zeke realized that the poor woman had no more control over the situation than he did whenever Trixie’s lawyer and the Burnham woman yanked him into court. What choice did he have but to phone his boss? Zeke doubted Pace had received the letter yet; otherwise he would’ve contacted Zeke at home.
He left the records office, returning to his pickup to make the call. “Pace, hey, this is Zeke. I’m glad I caught you at your desk. I’m at the Galveston courthouse. You may not have received it yet, but you’re going to get a letter putting our next well on hold.”
Zeke moved the phone away from his ear as his boss vented steam before even asking particulars. Zeke read the short edict, then added, “I spoke with the salvager. First of all, it’s not any well-known outfit. We’re talking one woman diving off a leaky fishing boat.”
Kemper swore at length. “How in hell did she get authorization for that spot?”
Leaving his pickup, Zeke stalked up and down the sidewalk. “I think she has connections in D.C. She’s confident about her permits. The local judge who rubber-stamped the state permit is out until the end of the week. Don’t you have clout in Washington? I mean, we’ve got a government oil exploration contract, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” Kemper muttered. “And I have got the ear of a couple of senators. Don’t know if they’ll lock horns with the military, though.”
“Well, you’ve got lawyers. Let them earn their keep.”
“I’d rather you took this salvager out to dinner tonight. See if you two can’t come to an agreement before involving our legal team. That can get messy.”
Zeke didn’t want to take Grace Stafford to dinner. “I think it’d go better coming from you, Pace. Can’t you fly down and handle negotiations? We’re up against one determined female.”
“You’ve got charm to spare, Rossetti. Use it.”
“Like hell! I’m the least able man for the chore, boss. How about if I pass the job to Gavin?” Forced to chuckle when Pace literally roared that he wanted the woman charmed into an agreement, not seduced into bed by a guy hunting wife number three, Zeke decided Pace knew their crew chief pretty well. Gavin did fancy himself a ladies’ man.
The two signed off, with Zeke reluctantly agreeing to invite the salvager out to dinner, and with Kemper promising to make inquiries at the energy commission.
All in all, this wasn’t an assignment Zeke relished. But Pace paid him well to keep the Galveston operation on track, and this happened to be the disadvantage of being at the top of the heap.
What he couldn’t decide was whether to go back to the office, where he’d have to confide in Gavin and the others, or just head back into the lobby where he’d seen a phone book and take a stab at calling waterfront hotels where the Stafford woman might be staying. She’d indicated she was in a small historic hotel. That narrowed the field. He’d leave her a message to call him on his cell so they could arrange to meet for dinner.
Zeke settled on that plan because he wanted time to swing by his house and change into something more presentable…although he had a hard time shaking the image he’d taken away of Grace Stafford’s godawful bathing suit.
On his third attempt to find where the blasted woman was registered, Zeke connected with a clerk at Seaport House who agreed to leave a message for Ms. Stafford. The man added that Grace generally returned to the hotel around four o’clock.
Zeke checked his watch and saw that he’d wasted more than half a day already, between boating out to her salvage site and digging around the courthouse. He suggested meeting in her hotel lobby at 5:00 p.m. There were any number of casual restaurants within walking distance of her hotel. Zeke had no idea what her preference might be in food. Damn, he was rusty at this, and he hated feeling inept.
Hoping he hadn’t stammered so badly that the clerk considered him some kind of demented loser, Zeke hung up and stormed back to his pickup.
Revving the engine, he headed home to dress for what would surely be the worst evening he’d spent in heaven only knew how long.

CHAPTER TWO
OF ALL THE POSSIBILITIES that ran through Zeke’s mind between 4:45, when he rushed off, leaving his mom for the second time that day to deal with a crying child, and exactly 5:00 p.m., when he arrived in the lobby of Seaport House, not one of them was that Grace Stafford would flat-out ignore his request to buy her dinner. Not just ignore, either. When he gave his name, a smirking clerk said, “Yes, sir, we delivered your message. Ms. Stafford wadded it up and tossed it in the trash. Right in that bin.” The skinny dude blinked behind owlish glasses and took pleasure in showing Zeke the relevant waste container.
Drumming his fingers on the counter, Zeke hesitated only briefly. “Where’s your courtesy phone? If she hasn’t gone out, I’ll just have to change her mind.”
For a minute, Zeke wasn’t sure the clerk would direct him to the phone. He wanted to ask what the guy’s problem was, but maybe he hankered after Grace Stafford. Yes, it was possible. Zeke wanted to tell the man that he, Zeke, wasn’t competing in the romance department over some loser who’d go out in public in that horrible frog bathing suit. But he held his tongue and crossed the lobby to a house phone the reluctant clerk had pointed out.
Zeke listened while it rang and rang. For a minute, he wondered if the clerk was stonewalling him by ringing an empty room. Just as he was about to hang up, a breathless woman answered. “He…ll…o.”
“Ms. Stafford?” Zeke gave her a moment to catch her breath.
“Yes,” she returned hesitantly.
“It’s Zeke Rossetti. We met out in the bay today? I represent Kemper Oil Explorations.”
“Oh! I, ah, received your message. I’m sorry if you made a trip into town for nothing. Really, there’s no need for us to meet. I won’t be persuaded to give up searching for my grandfather’s plane. And as I only recently got to my room, I’ll say goodbye. You interrupted my shower. I’m dripping all over the carpet.”
Zeke followed her stilted, choppy response—which in essence told him to buzz off. He envisioned the soggy woman he’d glimpsed earlier, now resembling a sunburned prune and the image left him unable to speak for a moment. Sensing she was going to hang up, Zeke’s sluggish brain connected with his mouth. “If you just got in, that means you haven’t eaten. My employer’s springing for dinner. Isn’t that a fair exchange for listening to our side?”
The silence went on so long, Zeke grew tense. “If I recall, Ms. Stafford, you offered to let me look over your permits. Why not have dinner at the same time? There are plenty of good restaurants nearby.”
Zeke heard her swift intake of breath. “We can walk to a restaurant?” What did she think, that he’d drive her to the bay and drown her?
“Sure thing. I’ll even let you choose. We’re early enough to get in almost anywhere without a reservation.”
“All right, then. But I’ll need fifteen more minutes. And it’s your city, so you choose. Except…nowhere fancy, please. Diving’s hard work. In the evening I prefer casual and relaxed.”
“Works for me. I’ll wait in the lobby, Ms. Stafford.”
“Uh, if we’re dining together, perhaps you should call me Grace. And your name is…Zeke. Correct?”
“Yes.” As his name fell softly from Grace Stafford’s lips, shivery fingers of an almost forgotten anticipation marched up Zeke’s spine. His well-conditioned reactions kicked in, however, and slammed on the brakes. Tonight’s meeting with this woman was business. Zeke wanted it kept on that level. Clenching his teeth, he said, “I’ll wait. Fifteen minutes.” He didn’t care that he probably sounded rude.
After hanging up, he sat in an easy chair and sorted through the Dallas newspaper someone had left on a coffee table. Zeke fully expected her fifteen minutes to stretch into half an hour. In his experience, a woman needed at least fifteen minutes to dig through her closet. And twice that to apply makeup.
He was pleasantly surprised when, ten minutes later, the elevator bumped to a stop across from where he sat and opened. Out walked Grace Stafford. Zeke almost didn’t recognize her. The hair he’d seen in a soggy ponytail that had reminded him of a dead rat now curled in a reddish-gold halo around an oval face. She wore khaki slacks and a peach-colored blouse that complemented the golden tan she was beginning to acquire. No prune effect, after all. She’d tucked the blouse into the narrow waistband of her slacks. She also carried a shoulder bag and a dark-brown sweater, which told Zeke she was aware that Galveston evenings near the waterfront were cool this time of year.
She approached him the same way she’d spoken on the phone, tentatively.
Zeke rose at once and set the paper aside. “Wow,” he exclaimed. “That didn’t take you long. I didn’t mean to rush you, Ms., uh…Grace.” Rattled, Zeke buried his hands in his pockets and clinked his loose change.
“You didn’t. I’m starved, and I assumed you must be, too, after working all day.”
Zeke realized he was famished. As she halted beside him, her light fragrance, reminding him of spicy cinnamon, shot straight to his stomach. And suddenly, the prospect of sharing a meal with her held more appeal than he’d ever imagined it would. Up close, he saw she’d worked a little magic on her previously sunburned nose, too. Her soft freckles knocked Zeke off kilter enough to have him stammering, “How—ah—what would you like to eat?” He shuffled to his other foot and withdrew a hand from his pocket long enough to rake it through hair he suddenly discovered needed cutting.
But Grace barely glanced at him. She grew thoughtful as they moved toward the door. “Really, I’d rather defer to you. I must admit I haven’t taken time to check out what’s available. I’m not here on vacation but to find my grandfather Dugan’s plane. I’ve been grabbing whatever fast food is handiest.”
For a whole minute there, Zeke had forgotten their purpose in eating together. Brought back to earth, he held open the door to let her pass. “Still, I need to know what your idea of a satisfying meal is.”
When Grace shot him a puzzled glance, he shrugged and blurted, “Are you a woman who picks at a salad and claims she’s full, or do you eat real food?”
Grace laughed, and Zeke noticed that it changed her into a different person. She had a mouth full of pretty white teeth. And he realized he hadn’t noticed her lush pink lips before. Natural. No artificial color. Some guys were leg men. Some ogled women’s butts. Zeke gravitated toward a kissable mouth. Unfortunately, Grace Stafford possessed one.
At the moment, Zeke was trying hard to shake off his attraction and dismay. He needed to hear what she was saying—and he had to ignore that tinkling, delightful laughter.
“I know you wouldn’t think it from looking at me, but I fall in love with almost any food I set eyes on. My grandmother used to complain that when I was growing up, I threatened to eat her out of house and home. An active metabolism accounts for my staying thin. I’m warning you, Zeke Rossetti, your employer won’t get off easy when it comes to feeding me. Sure you wouldn’t rather reconsider?”
Now it was Zeke’s turn to laugh. “Nope. So, if that was a challenge of some sort, I accept. I have just the place, then. Guaranteed to fill a hungry stomach. An Italian restaurant on the Strand. I swear, if you leave Luigi’s hungry, it’s your own fault.” He took her elbow. “Let’s cross the street here. It’s a few blocks. That’ll give us a chance to walk off their huge servings of spaghetti or lasagna on the way back.” Zeke rubbed a hand over his flat belly, drawing Grace’s eyes to his rangy physique.
Up close, Zeke Rossetti was even more dangerously disarming and formidable than she’d guessed as she watched him motor away from Jorge’s boat. “I should’ve known,” she threw out quickly to cover her staring, “with the name Rossetti, of course you’d know where all the best Italian restaurants are. I read that Galveston was settled by families from the New York banking industry. Can you trace your roots back to the birth of the city?”
“No.” Zeke immediately pulled back from her eager personal inquiry. He also dropped his hand from her elbow as they were well across the street, down the block from where they’d cut over. Zeke never understood why women always wanted to delve into a man’s history five minutes after they’d met. “Turn here,” he said, feeling a need to slide some inconsequential remark into the uncomfortable silence swirling around them. “It’s not far.” He started walking faster.
Grace lengthened her stride to keep abreast. Before long, she found herself puffing up the steady sidewalk incline. She had no breath to ask further questions. And although she considered herself to be fairly good at reading people, they’d reached his proposed destination before it struck her that a desire to silence her questions was precisely what had led to Zeke Rossetti’s hundred-yard uphill sprint. It served to make Grace even more curious. But she’d get her answers eventually.
At the coffeehouse where she stopped for breakfast each day, everyone was local and they seemed willing to chat. Someone would give her the lowdown on Kemper Oil’s operating chief.
Holding the door, Zeke stepped aside to let Grace pass into the restaurant where music, muted laughter and mouthwatering odors enveloped all hungry arrivals. The hostess greeted Zeke by name and subsequently whisked them to a corner table. Even as Zeke accepted menus, he pulled out Grace’s chair, and waited patiently for her to be seated before handing her one.
Feeling awkward, she turned her attention to the many choices listed under entrées. “Goodness, how will I ever choose one thing? It all sounds fabulous, and everything looks and smells delicious.”
“If you want to sample more than one dish, I can always take the leftovers home. Anything they make here is great reheated,” he said enthusiastically.
Glancing up, Grace couldn’t help noticing that Zeke Rossetti wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Did that mean he lived alone and cooked for himself? Although she’d learned the hard way that married men didn’t necessarily advertise the fact with a ring. One in particular had gone to great lengths to conceal his marital status, she recalled with sudden distaste. Sure, she’d been gullible. Once. A mistake she wouldn’t repeat.
“Tell you what…” Rossetti’s voice rumbled from his dim corner. “Just order what you think you’d like to try.”
“Oh, but I’d hate to leave you with anything your family might not eat.”
Zeke sent her a veiled frown. He was sure he’d never mentioned having a family. So, Grace Stafford wasn’t above fishing for other things besides that old war plane, he decided uncomfortably. Zeke considered it lucky that a waiter came to take their drink order, and saved him from answering.
He ordered a bottle of the house Chianti, assuming she’d drink red wine with Italian food. Since Grace didn’t object when he held up two fingers as the waiter asked, “How many glasses?” Zeke continued, emboldened to order a sampler of four popular dishes. “I know it’s a lot for two people,” he added. “Tell the chef I’m showcasing house specialties to a visitor tonight. I’ll have you box what’s left.”
“Excellent choices,” the no-nonsense waiter said, turning to smile at Grace. “And welcome to our humble island. I know you’ll love every bite of the ravioli. It’s seafood tonight. Magnifico,” he said, kissing his fingertips.
Once the waiter had hurried off, Zeke didn’t know how to progress through the awkward initial phase of being out with a woman—the time after the food order had been taken and the drinks or salad hadn’t yet arrived as an icebreaker.
Grace opened her purse. She extracted a packet of folded papers—and filled the emptiness for Zeke. “Here are my permits. You said you wanted to see them. Now’s probably the best time. Then I can stow them away again without the risk of getting marinara sauce all over them.” Her mouth tilted up prettily on one side.
Zeke reached out blindly, thoroughly captivated by a deep dimple winking at him from her soft-looking cheek. He fumbled and dropped the papers atop a candle flickering in a red glass holder. “Jeez,” he yelped, snatching them away, and slapping them on the table to douse the flame.
“Ah, so that’s your plan,” Grace teased. “You think if you set them on fire and turn them into cinders, I’ll have to give up my quest. Sorry to disappoint you, Zeke, but I had copies made at the hotel before I went up to shower. The originals now reside in the hotel safe.”
“I didn’t drop them on purpose,” he muttered gruffly, feeling his cheeks heat. “I didn’t actually access them, but I’m aware they’re on file at our courthouse. I went there after we talked. I needed to check out Kemper’s options before phoning my boss at his office in Dallas.”
“Oh. So then you know I have salvage rights for as long as it takes to explore the floor of the bay.”
Zeke adjusted the pages so the low candlepower highlighted the intent and the signatures. He studied the permits, folding them closed as their waiter returned with a wine bottle and crisp house salads. Pulling the cork, the waiter offered him a taste. Zeke nodded in approval and the man poured their glasses. After a sip, Zeke set her papers aside. “These are mine, you say?”
Grace shrugged. “If you want. I assure you they’re valid.” She dug into her greens.
“I’m sure they are. However, I’d like to fax copies to Pace Kemper. He’s not going to be happy,” Zeke muttered right before he speared a cherry tomato. “Any delay costs Kemper Oil money. But I think you know that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, in the offhand way people did when they didn’t really care. While Zeke shifted salad aimlessly on his plate, Grace steadily ate hers.
Zeke put down his fork and twirled his glass. “You aren’t sorry. If you were, Grace, you’d pack in your search and let us go on about the business of drilling for oil that U.S. consumers depend on. It’s a necessity. I’d hoped you’d see that we’re involved in a serious debate here.”
Grace pushed away her empty bowl. “Well, you’re blunt. Is that what your employer believes? That I’d let a little wine and a meal convince me to quit? Just like that?” She set down her fork and snapped her fingers. “I don’t happen to consider my mission frivolous.”
Zeke’s irritation showed for a moment in his tightly pressed lips. He blotted away the bad taste with his napkin; as he crumpled it in his right hand, he muttered, “Frivolous is your term. You’re jumping to conclusions, Ms. Stafford.”
“Grace. And no, I don’t think I am. What’s this about if not to buy me off?”
“Grace, my boss asked me to try and negotiate an amicable agreement for us both. Pace Kemper is a reasonable man who happens to believe it’s more conducive to talk business over a nice meal.”
As if on cue, the waiter appeared and began to slide a variety of steaming, aromatic dishes between Zeke and Grace. Zeke grabbed up the permits moments before a plate of ravioli would have landed on top of them.
“May I bring you anything else?” the waiter asked, efficiently removing their salad plates as he topped up their barely touched wineglasses. “Is the wine to your liking, sir?”
“What?” Zeke tore his eyes from Grace. “Oh, it’s great.” He took a healthy swig.
Grace could only gape at the amount of food. Zeke was the one to ask belatedly for grated Parmesan on the spaghetti and the lasagna. “This all looks so fantastic. I hope you have a big family, Zeke. I doubt we’ll make much of a dent. I foresee most of this going home with you.” She dished up generous servings to her plate from each platter. Yes, she acknowledged, she was fishing as to who this handsome man had waiting for him at home. Grace told herself it was mere curiosity and a way to steer him off business talk for a while. She so rarely went out to dinner with someone else picking up the tab, and Grace wanted to relax and enjoy tonight’s experience.
She was a teacher in an elementary school where most of her co-workers were also female, so eating out was always Dutch treat. At one time she’d begun dating a science teacher she’d met on a district project; later she’d discovered that he had lied and was married. Deception hurt. She hadn’t recovered from it yet.
Zeke avoided her bait. He didn’t respond and made no apology for it. But it pleased him immensely to see her tuck into her food. Eating kept them both occupied for a while. Until Zeke glanced across the table and said, “Based on your setup, I take it salvage isn’t what you do for a living.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m a first-grade teacher. In San Antonio. That’s how I could take on this project. It’s summer break. I don’t need to be back in school until the day after Labor Day.”
“A teacher?” That jolted Zeke. He took another swig of wine. “So, what’s your experience with undersea salvage? It can be dangerous, you know.”
“This bay isn’t all that deep. And I happen to believe a person can learn any skill through reading up on it. Libraries are a great source for how-to books, Zeke. I bought used but serviceable equipment. I know what I’m doing.”
“That damned boat is a piece of junk.”
“Well…” Grace turned her eyes away. “I didn’t get realistic figures on boat rentals in this area. It seems the costs I was given pertain to out of season boats—when the shrimp aren’t running. But Jorge is confident his boat will suffice for my needs.”
Zeke rolled his eyes.
“Worried about my welfare?” she asked with a hint of challenge.
“Nope. I’m calculating the added cost to Kemper if Jorge’s damned boat sinks over where we have to dig our well. I didn’t factor in clearing the bay of debris.”
“You’re all heart, Rossetti.” Grace reached for the tortellini plate to take a second helping, but Zeke shot out a hand. They both pulled back fast, as though shocked by the brush of callused palm against soft flesh.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, her hand hovering above the table. “Am I being piggish? I told you I had a big appetite.”
“Nothing close to that. Eat all you want. I just wanted to mention that they serve homemade spumoni ice cream for dessert here. I always save room for a dishful with my coffee.”
Grace gazed longingly at the tortellini, but she sat back. “In case you can’t tell, I’m torn. I’ve never tasted homemade spumoni ice cream. I can’t pass up trying something new.”
“Are you a runner?”
“Me?” Grace laughed. “I’m the least athletic person I know. I swim and scuba dive because I grew up outside Corpus and there wasn’t much else to do for entertainment when I was a kid. What made you think I run?”
“Because you eat hearty and you’re no bigger than a minute,” Zeke blurted. Then he promptly shuffled in his seat, clearly discomfited.
“I told you about my metabolism? Well, according to Grandmother, speedy metabolism runs in my grandfather’s family. I think my mom passed it to me.”
“You think? It sounds as if you aren’t sure. Is your mom skinny or not?”
It was Grace’s turn to fidget. “Hey, no fair. Discussing your background is off limits, but suddenly mine’s a hot topic?”
“Excuse me,” Zeke said stiffly. Straightening, he signaled their waiter who’d just served drinks to another table.
Grace wished she hadn’t sounded so snappish. Being virtually abandoned by her mother was still a touchy issue, even though she’d had a lifetime to get used to the idea and get over it. If she’d opened up, maybe Zeke Rossetti would’ve lightened up.
The waiter veered toward their table.
“We decided to have spumoni and coffee,” Zeke said. “Unless Grace wants to keep the tortellini, in case the ice cream doesn’t fill her up. You can box the rest.”
“Dessert will be more than enough for me.” She pushed away the tortellini.
“Shall I make that regular coffee for both?” the waiter inquired as he cleared their dishes.
“I’d better pass on regular,” Grace lamented. “Diving exacts a toll. I need to get a full eight hours sleep. So decaf for me.”
“I run on high octane,” Zeke admitted. He figured it’d be another sleepless night, even though his mother had said Matt was pulling at his ears less, so the medicine must be working. The pediatrician had scolded Zeke for staying up nights to rock his son, especially once Matt started antibiotics for his frequent ear infections. Zeke tended to pay little attention to the advice. The doctor had never experienced pain in a dark and silent world as Matt did. If Zeke’s sleeping in a chair, holding the boy against his chest, gave his son a measure of comfort, then no matter how exhausted Zeke felt the next day he wasn’t going to deprive his child.
“You’ve got that closed, forbidding look again,” Grace said after the waiter had scurried off with their order. “Are you plotting new ways to shut down my operation?”
Zeke emerged from his private thoughts. “It’s not up to me. It’s up to Pace Kemper and his lawyers to find loopholes in your paperwork. I can’t force you to leave the bay.”
“But you’d like to.”
“Of course. I won’t lie. My team has everything in place to start moving in a well undercarriage. You represent one damned headache after another. I’ll have to dicker with a hostile barge company, a disgruntled pipefitters’ union, to say nothing of listening to my crew bellyache over lost time.”
“So, go farther out in the bay. Jorge said he heard in town that Kemper’s planned a whole string of wells.”
Zeke slumped in his chair until the coffee was delivered. Sitting up, he turned his cup around and raised it halfway to his lips. “Bringing in an oil well isn’t like finding a vein of gold or copper and then mining it until the thread peters out. Finding pockets of oil anywhere, especially undersea, is a long, involved process. Sure, I can call in test engineers again, provided they haven’t gone to Louisiana to hire on with another outfit. That’s only a small part of my problem. I have a well ready to dig. Guaranteed to pump oil, understand?”
“I see.” Grace fiddled with her coffee cup. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t say that again,” Zeke burst out. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
“You needn’t shout. People are staring.” Grace tasted her own coffee, then set the cup down and with a shaking hand added cream.
Zeke swiveled his head left, then right. People were indeed watching. He hated being at the center of a scene. Trixie Lee had instigated plenty of them in public during the short time they were married.
Luckily, the waiter arrived with their spumoni and a sack holding Zeke’s leftovers. Well aware that the woman seated across from him had him over a barrel for the moment, all he could do was down the ice cream fast and get the hell out as gracefully as possible. His obligation, with regard to Grace Stafford, would end the minute he dropped her at Seaport House. From here on, dealing with her would be Pace Kemper’s problem, thank God.
Zeke only wished she hadn’t closed her eyes after her first taste of spumoni, and then made noises that brought visions of another kind of ecstasy. Her smile of satisfaction as she savored her dessert showed the barest tip of her tongue—which sent blood rushing to Zeke’s groin. He tried to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t.
Her eyelids popped open suddenly and Grace caught him gaping with an odd expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Oh, did I embarrass you? If so, I can’t help it. This ice cream is heavenly.”
Zeke shifted his attention to his own melting ice cream, quickly stabbing his spoon into the center of his dish. He’d be damned if he’d admit to letting his mind drift to a different sort of heavenly experience. Obviously one he’d put on the back burner for too long, if watching a virtual stranger eat ice cream turned him on. “Eat up. I’m sure we both have to get an early start,” he said brusquely.
Grace didn’t know why, but it felt as if Zeke Rossetti was a Jekyll-Hyde personality. One minute he acted friendly; she even caught glimpses of compassion. The next minute, he was cold and distant. Well, she didn’t need that. She’d been dumped on by enough unpredictable, lying people, what with her mother, then that jerk of a science teacher, Stuart Mathias.
Bending her head, Grace matched her moody dinner partner in silently shoveling up ice cream. Trouble was, it was cold enough to freeze her tonsils, and deserved to be eaten with more care. However, a lot could be said for one’s own company. Grace was supremely glad that after tonight there’d be no reason for her to ever cross Zeke Rossetti’s path again.
Because she was feeling rocky, Grace pulled out her wallet when the waiter brought the check. “Since I’m causing you and Mr. Kemper grief,” she said as sweetly as possible, “I insist on paying my share. As you said when you phoned my room, I had to eat dinner anyway. I would never have tried this great restaurant if you hadn’t brought me here.”
Zeke scowled, raising his eyes from the folder where he’d already plunked down the company credit card. “Put your money away. I invited you, I’m paying. It’s final.”
“I want to confirm that there’s no obligation on my part,” she said stubbornly.
“I got your message loud and clear.” Zeke left an edge of his credit card sticking out as he closed the padded folder and set it on the edge of the table.
Flushing, Grace shut her wallet and returned it to her purse. “I just don’t want your boss to have any misconceptions.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s so damned important about this plane? I know you said it belonged to your grandfather, but what’s in the salvage for you? Did he go down with gold on board?”
“Not everyone is motivated by money,” she said stiffly.
“Okay. So, it’s an historic plane. Now what?”
Grace studied him for some time, then finally said, “My grandmother’s doctor told me her heart’s in bad shape. It’s giving out. He say’s she’s overtaxing weak artery walls—because she’s obsessively trying to set my grandfather’s war record straight before she dies. I wasn’t aware until recently how much time she’s devoted to writing letters and petitioning the navy to give her husband his due. He’s listed as missing. She needs remains or medals or something to bury beside her. Think what it’s like for her. He left to fly a wounded naval officer to Pensacola, Florida, and then a storm cut off his communication. The navy searched the waters off the Florida coast at his last coordinates. My research turned up reports from about that time of a plane crashing in Galveston Bay. The Coast Guard read my notes and they agree it’s possible the storm blew Albert Dugan’s Grumman Duck this far off-course.”
“But nothing’s certain? You’re riding on a hunch?”
She clutched her purse. “A hunch that’s strong enough to interest the Pentagon. Which is why I received authorization to dive here. If I’m right, it’ll close the books for the navy, for Grandmother and the family of the wounded officer Grandfather was transporting.”
“I have to hand it to you, babe, for a teacher, you’ve got guts.”
“You have something against teachers?” Her chin rose and she thrust it out pugnaciously. “And kindly don’t call me babe.”
“Sore spot, huh? Okay, so no one ever accused me of being a teacher’s pet. I was referring to the fact that your field generally takes brain, not brawn, like salvage.”
The waiter scooped up Zeke’s credit card, saving Grace from having to further defend her abilities in either area. And because Zeke told the man they’d follow him to the register in front, they didn’t return to the subject.
Grace put on her sweater and waited by the door until Zeke had signed his credit slip. When he joined her, she began to open the door, but he was faster and reached around her to hold it open. His warm breath whispered against her left ear and cheek and made her shiver.
“Cold?” he asked.
She clasped her sweater under her chin. “It’s the contrast between the warm restaurant and the sudden night air.” She stepped onto the sidewalk, then stopped to let Zeke catch up. “The shops are still open,” she said, gazing longingly at the Strand spread out ahead. “I assumed everything was closed by now.”
The last thing Zeke wanted to do was escort a woman with shopping on her mind in and out of the largely touristy shops that lined the Strand. But who knew if Grace Stafford might get it in her head to wander around alone? The business district was by and large safe. But the side streets she’d have to take to get back to her wharf hotel weren’t. Zeke had witnessed some incidents in the past. “I could stand to walk off that pasta. I don’t mind taking the long way if you’d like to window shop. The stores won’t close for another hour.”
“You don’t mind?”
He did, of course, but the smile she flashed him left Zeke wondering how he’d ever considered her drab. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. Rather than stammer out something that might ruin his tough-guy image, he clamped his teeth together and set off down the street.
Soon, her window-shopping pace had Zeke shortening his stride, and finally dropping back to trail along behind her.
“Oh, look! This shop sells music boxes. May I pop in for a look? My grandmother collects them. I feel so guilty for not spending my summer with her when it may be her last. I didn’t dare confide what I’m really doing in Galveston in case I’m not successful. She thinks I’m taking a summer class.” Grace shrugged lightly. “A music box would tell her that she’s very much on my mind.”
“I’ll wait here. Glass doodads make me nervous. I’m always afraid I’ll knock something off a shelf.”
She turned from the window to look at him. “You do have broad shoulders,” she remarked, continuing to gaze at him. “And those aisles are awfully narrow.” She sighed and moved away from the window. “I can come back another time. No sense holding you up. You probably want to get that food back to your family while it’s still warm.”
“It’s okay. They’ll have eaten,” he said quickly. “Please, go, browse all you want.” Zeke had to get rid of her so she’d stop staring. He’d never met anyone before who had ocean-colored eyes, now blue, now green. Grace Stafford’s eyes made him long for things he’d put behind him. Very little unnerved Zeke, but Grace’s big eyes sure did.
“I’ll be quick,” she murmured, and hurried up the steps, disappearing into the brightly lit shop. Zeke released his breath.
True to her promise, he’d barely settled a shoulder against the rough brick wall to take up people-watching when out she dashed, swinging a package. Her smile spread from ear to ear.
“Found something, did you?”
“It’s so perfect. Want to see?” Not waiting for him to agree, she pulled a box out of the bag, opened it and removed a block of packing foam.
To see better, Zeke had to bend his head near hers. Again her sweet perfume clouded his senses. “That’s a music box? Looks like a miniature white bench with garden gloves and a basket of flowers on the seat.”
“Exactly. It’s almost a replica of a bench in my grandmother’s garden. Better yet, when I wind up the music box it plays ‘I Will Wait For You.’ Grandmother wore out her old record of that tune. I bought a CD she plays over and over. I think the song speaks to her feelings about waiting for news of Grandpa Albert.”
Zeke expelled a loaded, “Oh,” right before he drew back. That one word couldn’t have stated more plainly his feeling on such romancey schmaltz. Grace didn’t care.
Shrugging, she restored the filler and closed the lid. She refused to let Zeke’s cynicism spoil her pleasure over having found the perfect gift for her grandmother.
They walked briskly toward the hotel. Zeke roused himself to comment on the crowded streets that signaled the beginning of summer tourism. Moments later, he pushed open the heavy door and followed Grace into the lobby. She stopped beside a cluster of chairs. “There’s no need for you to see me up. I, uh, thank you again for a lovely dinner.” She thrust out her hand, forcing Zeke to clasp it awkwardly.
“My pleasure,” he mumbled, dropping her fingers as if he’d grabbed a hot potato.
Grace headed for the elevators and entered an open car without glancing back. Zeke didn’t linger, either. He wanted to get home to give his mom a break from Matt.
Since it wasn’t too late, he extracted his cell phone and hit the automatic dial for Pace Kemper. He’d have more peace and quiet to phone his boss from the pickup than if he waited until he got home. Matt wouldn’t be in bed yet, so Zeke’s evening could be hectic.
Kemper answered on the third ring. “Give me some good news, Zeke, my boy. I’ve had a lot of our contractors from Galveston on the horn, accusing me of stalling—if not outright breaking contracts.”
“Yeah, well, my news sucks. Grace Stafford is dug in solid until she finds that damned plane. She’s the stubbornest woman, Pace. After two meetings, I can assure you she’s not going away unless you arrange to have her kidnapped.”
“Damn!”
“You took the word right out of my mouth.”
“If you believe she’s that serious, Zeke, there’s only one thing for us to do.”
“Scrap this well and run tests farther out in the bay?”
“No. I want you to help her locate that damned airplane.”
“Pardon? You want me to—what?”
“You heard me. You scuba dive, don’t you?”
“Yes, but…” Zeke stammered. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Pace. She and I didn’t cotton to one another. She wouldn’t like me sticking my nose in her affairs.”
“Do it anyway,” Pace roared. “Purchase whatever gear you need on the company credit card. And don’t waste any time. I want you diving with her tomorrow. Oh, and assure our men and subcontractors that we’re gonna solve the problem—soon.”
Kemper’s phone slammed sharply in Zeke’s ear. Swearing long and loud, he almost missed the corner to his house.
Dammit! Zeke didn’t want to spend his days watching sweet-smelling Grace Stafford prance around deck in her ugly frog swimsuit. Would Pace know if he pawned this job off on Gavin Davis?

CHAPTER THREE
HIS BRAKES SQUEALED as Zeke rammed them to the floorboards seconds before he would’ve smashed into his garage door. He rubbed his face, hit the door opener, then proceeded. For Matthew’s sake, Zeke needed to shake off an anger that went nowhere, anyway.
Retrieving the sack of leftovers, Zeke climbed out and entered the house through the kitchen. Fresh-baked cookies cooled on the counter. He grabbed one out of habit, not because he was hungry. The house seemed awfully quiet. It’d be a miracle, but maybe his mom had gotten Matthew to bed early.
Zeke polished off the cookie and drank milk straight from the carton after he’d shoved his leftovers in the fridge.
He opened the vertical blind, automatically gravitating toward the light spilling from the living room.
Celia Rossetti slept on the couch, a paperback novel still open on her stomach. Zeke stood quietly a moment, simply observing his son, who sat at the center of a ring of Lincoln Logs.
Zeke’s heart tumbled. It killed him that Matthew hadn’t heard or apparently even sensed his approach. Closing his eyes, Zeke lowered his chin to his chest. He stifled a sigh, wishing his mom would try not to drift off like that when he wasn’t home. They’d spoken about it before. Zeke knew Celia worked hard. The work she used to do as a nurse’s aide had involved more standing and lifting than she did now. Granted, caring for a child took its toll. Still, she wasn’t old enough to be falling asleep at the switch. She hadn’t been quite seventeen when she’d had him.
A couple of weeks ago, she’d mentioned that her blood pressure pills made her fall asleep if she sat for any length of time. Celia slept like the dead, though. What if someone broke in? Or a fire started upstairs? Matthew couldn’t hear the smoke alarm. Or what if a young boy’s curiosity led him to try a dangerous stunt? Zeke recalled plenty of those he’d tackled as a kid.
Zeke circled his son carefully, not wanting to frighten him. The boy was so intent on fitting together his logs, he didn’t see his father until Zeke dropped to his knees on the carpet almost directly in front of Matt. Scrambling up, the boy made a series of toneless noises and flung his arms around his dad’s neck.
Maybe Matthew’s attempt to vocalize his joy woke his grandmother. Or perhaps it was Zeke’s laughter as he hugged his son and they fell backward on the carpet. Something jolted Celia awake so fast she sat up and the book flew off her lap and hit Zeke in the head.
“Goodness!” She hurried to inspect his head and retrieve her book. “I can’t believe I drifted off. What time is it? How long have you been home, Zeke?”
“I just got here, Ma. It’s still early. You look flushed. Are you getting sick?” Zeke worried that she appeared thinner and less energetic than she had when he and Matthew had moved to Galveston. Zeke didn’t know what he would’ve done without Celia, then or now. He didn’t tell her often enough how much he appreciated her putting her life on hold to help him raise his special needs son.
Zeke recognized her sacrifice. A lot of women Celia’s age launched second careers, or found second loves and a new lease on life. Was it unfair of him to depend on her? But when did he have time to make other arrangements? And what could he find that would be better? No one was going to love Matthew the way Celia did.
His ever-present nightmare was Bonnie Burnham. The social worker had been assigned the first time Trixie sicced her lawyer on Zeke to get more money. Ms. Burnham had decided Matt ought to attend a preschool out of state. She claimed it would better prepare Matthew to enter The Texas School for the Deaf at age five. If Zeke agreed to that, then his mom could reclaim her life. He understood the advantages. But the facility was in Florida.
“I could be coming down with whatever caused Matty’s latest ear infection.” Celia felt her face with both hands. “I think I’m fine. Just more tired than usual. I don’t know how you stay awake night after night when Matt’s ears flare up, and then go off to work. You tell me to sleep, but I worry. And I hate hearing Matty cry. Did you have any success with that Ms. Stafford, Zeke?”
“No.” His hands were busy showing Matt how to build a barn. Matthew loved the farm-animal set he got for Christmas, but he hadn’t yet learned which logs were needed to build the old-style barn.
“That’s too bad,” Celia said. “I hope Mr. Kemper doesn’t blame you.”
“He didn’t say so. On the other hand, he ordered me to help with her salvage to speed things up.”
“Oh, then that benefits your cause and hers. I’ll bet she’s happy to have an extra pair of hands. You said she was trying to raise an airplane by herself. This new breed of young women astound me. I can’t imagine anyone I grew up with doing that.”
“I didn’t talk to Pace and get the order until after I’d left Grace at her hotel. She doesn’t know yet that I’m expected to hasten her journey. I doubt she’ll be any happier at the news than I am.” He pressed a hand on Matt’s and forced the busy child to pause for a moment. Zeke caught his eye and showed him exactly how to attach roof pieces to the skeleton of the barn.
“I suppose you scowled at the poor girl all through dinner. Honey, may I remind you that every woman isn’t to blame for what Trixie Lee did to you.”
Zeke grew stony at the mention of his ex-wife.
As if sensing the tension swirling around him, Matthew whimpered, dropped his toys and crawled into his father’s lap. He buried his curly head against Zeke’s chest, and his thumb found its way into his mouth.
The man enfolded the boy carefully and willed himself to relax. “Ma,” he said in a milder tone, “You’ve gotta stop imagining every woman I meet is a potential mom for Matthew. Do you need a break? Have I placed too many expectations on you for too long?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I hate seeing you this bitter.” Celia swung her legs off the couch. She wafted a hand through her recently styled hair. The move caused her son to study her the way another man might.
“It’s not so ridiculous,” Zeke muttered. “I’m not talking about me here, Ma. You inherited good genes. You could easily pass for a woman ten years younger.”
“Hardly,” she shot back. Nevertheless, she couldn’t hide her pleasure. “This doesn’t sound like you, Zeke. I’ve never known you to be chatty. You’ve always been so…so…”
“Selfish?” he supplied with a crooked grin.
Celia swatted his arm. “Never. No one would think that, Zeke. When the bad-luck chips fell for Matty, you handled everything like a real man.”
Now it was Zeke’s turn to flush. He ducked his head and felt the rasp of his afternoon beard against Matthew’s boyishly soft hair. “I am a man, Ma. Have been for long enough that I should’ve known better than to get involved with Trixie. It was my irresponsible—”
“Trixie should’ve told you her brother’s kids had measles,” Celia broke in, “and that her doctor was concerned enough to warn her. She knew she’d never had them. She could’ve gotten the shot.”
“Old ground,” Zeke responded, screwing up his face. “Tell me honestly, Ma, is keeping house for me and watching Matt every day getting you down? I tied you down when you were younger. You deserve to find a nice man who’ll treat you right. Here you insist I need a wife. Well, you have a right to male companionship that’s not your son.”
Celia jumped up. “I had chances after you left home, Zeke. I could’ve gotten married if I’d wanted. I didn’t, and I don’t now. End of this silly discussion.”
“Oh, it’s silly for me to suggest you might like a man in your life? But it’s perfectly okay for you to harp at me over any woman we meet that you decide would make me a good wife?”
“Yes, for Matt’s sake. I saw over the years how hurt and angry you were about your father walking out on us—on you, Zeke. Matty’s more fragile. I worry—what if something happens to me?”
Zeke’s eyes cut to his mother’s face. “Which brings me back to my original question. Are you sick? Is there something you’re not saying, Ma? I see you put a doctor’s appointment on the calendar for next week.”
“My yearly checkup. But there is something I’ve never told you….” Biting her lip, she picked at her nail polish. “In the past I’ve had cancer scares. They’ve removed fibrous cysts from my breasts three times. It’s why I stopped smoking.”
Zeke finally found his voice. “And…you have another of these cysts?”
“A lump. Dr. Collins has ordered a biopsy, but not to worry—I arranged with Doris Smith next door to watch Matthew for that appointment and whatever else may be needed.”
“Of course I’m worried,” Zeke snapped. “That has nothing to do with arranging a sitter for Matt. Why didn’t you tell me about your health problems when I phoned nearly four years ago asking for your help?”
“Because, tough guy, in all of your twenty-six years, you’d never asked me for anything. I wanted to help you, Zeke. I wanted to feel needed. Dammit, I still do.”
That rocked Zeke. Again he wrestled with the weight of what had surely been selfishness throughout the years of his hell-raising youth. He didn’t know how to put any of what he was feeling into words. He barely managed to muster a croak as his mom headed for the kitchen, saying she was going to make a pot of coffee. “I more than need you, Ma,” he called. “Having Matthew changed my life. I want to know what Doc Collins finds. Until this is settled, I’ll hire a high-school girl part-time to watch Matt. Give you a break a few hours every day.”
Celia turned at the door. “You’re ignoring almost everything I’ve said. Hire someone for a few evenings so you can date a nice young woman once in a while.”
“There you have me, Ma.” Zeke spread his hands. “I don’t know any nice young women.” He stressed the nice, which Celia flatly ignored by covering her ears.
Bouncing his son on his hip, a child who’d clearly grown anxious again, Zeke strode down the opposite hall. Matthew used to be frightened to death of baths. Now that he was older, he loved them. Zeke discovered that the time he spent performing the routine task allowed him to mull over problems that cropped up at work or elsewhere. Tonight he was faced with so many, Matt would shrivel like a raisin if he left the kid in the tub long enough to figure out answers. Tomorrow morning, not only would Zeke have a host of workmen and upset contractors to deal with, he was also expected to hasten Grace Stafford’s departure. Last, but far from least, there was his mother’s health. What if her cyst was malignant?
Not until he’d wound up Matt’s toy boat and sent rows of ripples spewing from underneath a plastic bridge, did Zeke decide to deal with the obstacles one at a time. First, he’d talk to the men. The contractors next. Maybe by then Pace would have good news from his D.C. connections. If not, Zeke might ask if his boss would allow hazard pay for helping Grace. Or there was Gavin, who could be persuaded to do almost any job for a few extra bucks a week.
As far as Celia’s checkup went, Zeke refused to buy trouble by thinking the worst.

THE NEXT DAY, Zeke arrived at work with his plans made. Again, Gavin met him at the door. “What happened to you yesterday, Zeke? I expected you to come back after your trip to the courthouse. Instead, you left me here to field calls from all our contractors, who want to know what the hell’s going on. Thanks heaps.”
“Sorry, Gav. I phoned Pace to tell him what I learned about Ms. Stafford’s permits. He asked me to try and negotiate her out of our hair.”
“It must not have gone well. She’s back in the same spot this morning.” Davis jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Zeke shook his head. “She’s on a mission. Save me from women on a mission.” He shifted his lunch and thermos to the other hand and walked into his office. He set everything on his desk and grabbed the binoculars. Moving to the window, he brought the creaky old boat into focus. It swayed gently on the incoming tide, but he saw no signs of life. Zeke supposed that meant Grace had dived and Jorge was doing whatever the hell he did when she was down.
“So we’re twiddling our thumbs until she finds that relic?” Gavin crowded in behind Zeke and cupped his hands around his eyes to squint into the sun.
Zeke spun and looped the binoculars back on their hook. “Pace wants us to hurry her along.”
Gavin frowned. “You mean…like purposely jab a few extra holes in that leaky old tub?”
“Jeez, no.” Zeke threw himself into his swivel chair. He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Kemper thinks two divers will cut her search time in half. Here’s a list of scuba gear. Run down to the dive shop and have this put on the company account. I’ll stay here and try to buy time with the crew and subcontractors. Once you get the gear, take the runabout and offer to assist Ms. Stafford. Tell her your help is courtesy of Pace Kemper.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Gavin’s jaw dropped and he turned five shades of red. “I can’t do that, Zeke.”
“Why not?” Zeke glanced up from rummaging in his desk drawer, hunting for a stack of contractors’ business cards.
Gavin sidled over and closed the door to Zeke’s makeshift office. Then he lowered his voice and said, “I wouldn’t want this to get out, but I can’t swim.”
Zeke’s eyes widened. “Now who’s kidding?”
“I’m not. I swear.” Gavin held up his hand, palm out in pledge fashion. “I’ve tried to learn a hundred times. I freeze up and sink like a stone.”
“Then how in hell can you work on offshore rigs? Or set marker buoys? What if you got swamped by a wave and fell in, Gav?”
“Unless somebody fished me out, I guess I’d drown. I try not to think about it. That’s why I don’t want anyone I work with to know. It’d be just like some smart-ass to toss me in to see if I’m telling the truth.”
“Holy catfish!” Zeke closed his eyes and rubbed at the lines forming between his brows. “Didn’t it occur to you that something like that could negate our broad policy insurance?”
“I’m careful out there.”
“Accidents happen.” Zeke leaned forward in his chair. Damn, he didn’t need this on top of everything else.
Gavin bellied up to the desk. “You thinking about firing me, Zeke? I don’t know any other kind of work. I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. First down in Louisiana, then California, now here.”
“I’m not going to fire you. I came here only knowing land wells, for God’s sake. You taught me almost everything I know about offshore drilling.”
“So, you won’t tell Pace? ’Cause he’d have a fit over the insurance thing. I reckon he’d ax me, Zeke.”
“I won’t tell him. But I will insist that during this slow period you find a swim instructor in town and take private lessons. I refuse to believe you can’t learn. I want your promise that you’ll keep at it until you can swim twice the length of a pool.”
The crew chief didn’t look overjoyed, but he agreed.
Zeke didn’t like where that left him. Back at square one when it came to diving with Grace Stafford. “Go on,” he growled, “buy the stuff on that list. I’ll start making those calls.”
Gavin looked decidedly happier. So happy and relieved that Zeke didn’t have the heart to tell him it’d been his own assignment all along.
After Davis departed, Zeke rose and snatched up the binoculars again. He spent the next ten minutes panning the point where sky met bay until at last he saw Grace’s red-gold head surface. “Fool woman shouldn’t dive alone.”
Disgusted, and more irritated by the fact that he’d been grinding his back teeth because she’d stayed submerged for so long, he muttered a totally uncivilized remark and swung aside. This time he dumped the field glasses on his messy desk, poured a cup of strong black coffee and bent to his tasks.
The calls to his subcontractors made his head pound. David Decker, owner of the flatbed barges they needed to transport everything out to the site, was especially nasty. As was the steamfitters’ union rep. Both threatened Zeke with loss of body parts. In the old days of oil exploration in Texas, those would have been very real possibilities. Nowadays, it was saber rattling. Pace’s lawyer would probably be dragged into court to settle breach-of-contract issues, and Kemper would pay delay fines if Zeke didn’t fix the problem.
He ran some calculations, then signed correspondence and the time cards a part-time secretary had left on his desk. After sealing them in a larger envelope to send off to headquarters where the main bookkeeping was done, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
“Hey, Possum,” he called to the chunkier of the two men working at desks in the outer office. He was Ramon Trujillo the sixth or something, and everyone always called him Possum. “Are either you or Gramps certified to dive?”
“As in deep-sea?” Norm Steel, the old-timer of the crew, known as Gramps, asked as he exited the bathroom, hitching his saggy jeans up over skinny hips.
“Not deep-sea. Scuba, with fins and snorkel,” Zeke said, pausing in front of the two men to display a hopeful expression.
“Not me. Too much water inside or out will weaken a man,” Norm said with a laugh.
Trujillo was already shaking his head. “Why do we need an extra diver? Ain’t the union requiring our sonar specialist on Number Four?”
Zeke slung his jacket over his shoulder, hooking it with an index finger. “Pace thinks we oughta help our obstacle in the bay locate that WWII plane she thinks is under our buoys. I’ve got plenty on my plate here, but if I’m the only certified scuba diver, I’ll have no choice but to give her my time.”
Possum pulled his double chins down until it looked like he had no neck. “Gramps, what did I tell you when we found that woman out there? Told you Jorge Boudreaux shouldn’t have rented her his boat. Bad luck to let a woman on the deck of a shrimp boat. Her being there’s already causing trouble.”
The very last thing Zeke needed was to have his men spouting dire superstitions or warnings that might distract everyone and jeopardize the whole project. Oil crews were a superstitious lot, and offshore drillers some of the worst.
“The only trouble she’s causing, Possum, is a slight delay. I have Gavin otherwise occupied. If you can hold down the fort for a few days, our operation will be back on track in no time.”
Trujillo didn’t look convinced. He rocked back and forth in his chair, the squeak getting on Zeke’s frayed nerves. “Mark my words, Zeke, things is only gonna get worse.”
Zeke laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his ears as he left the two somber men who’d been the backbone of the team since he’d come on board with Kemper.
It took longer than expected to assemble what he needed for diving. He had to make a trip home to find his certification before the shop would rent him air tanks. Matthew thought he was home for the day, and sobbed uncontrollably when Zeke attempted to leave again.
“Stay and eat lunch, at least,” Celia suggested. “Matt’s favorite cartoon comes on right after that, and it’ll distract him.”
“I didn’t know he had a favorite cartoon.” Zeke frowned, wondering how much else he’d missed. Surely that was a positive step toward more focused awareness-development—an issue Ms. Burnham harangued him about constantly.
“Matt loves watching the children in the interactive shows, Zeke. I know I let him sit too close to the TV, but the other day I saw him bobbing and swinging his shoulders,” she said excitedly. “I think he might feel the beat of the music.”
“You do? Jeez, that’s great! I wonder if the library has a book that might tell us how to capitalize on that?” Zeke suddenly recalled a conversation with Grace, who’d said a person could learn virtually any skill on the Internet or by reading.
“Have you forgotten that we got books on Matty’s condition after you moved here? They were too technical for us to make heads or tails of.”
“Yeah, but the research assistant gave us medical texts used by students at the nursing college.”
“Right, Zeke. I wish you could go with me to Matt’s regular checkups sometime. The doc and his nurse talk over my head. I never finished high school, you know. Maybe they think I know more than I do because I was a nurse’s aide. Really, I was basically just a maid.”
“Ma, you have more common sense than those medical folks who should’ve explained a lot of stuff to me and Trixie Lee about our newborn.” Zeke’s bitterness at the system that, in his opinion, fell far short of helping scared, confused young parents reared its head as he patted his mom’s shoulder.
He glanced at his watch, then swung Matthew high in his arms. The boy had been clinging to Zeke’s leg practically since he’d entered the house. “I’ll stay for lunch, but then I’ve gotta take off. I’ll pick up my gear, then I guess I’ll be breaking the unpleasant news to Ms. Stafford that she’s gonna have a partner, like it or not.”
“It’d probably go a whole lot smoother, Zeke, if you’d start with a better attitude.”
He let the remark pass. He was the busy manager of a vital oil company, dammit. He didn’t have the time or inclination to babysit a schoolteacher on a fool’s mission.
Loading the equipment took a while. Gavin got too-small flippers, so Zeke had to exchange them. As he finally turned around, headed back to Kemper’s to collect the runabout, he noticed what looked like Boudreaux’s boat berthed at the pier. Squeezing into a parking space, he jogged to the boat. Sure enough, the leathery old Cajun was dozing in a deck chair. Zeke cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “Ahoy there, Jorge. Jorge Boudreaux.”
The old man came stiffly awake.
“It’s Zeke Rossetti.” He leaped from the dock to the deck. “Where’s Ms. Stafford? Isn’t this earlier than you normally knock off?”
“Miss Grace had trouble with an air tank. We be finished for today.”
“I just came from the dive shop. Didn’t see her. Was she going to her hotel?”
Jorge shrugged. “Maybe gone to see the sights. Hasn’t seen much of Galveston yet.”
Zeke’s anger surged. He’d put important work on hold and busted his balls so he could lend her a hand, and she went sightseeing? “If Grace comes back to the boat, tell her I’m looking for her,” he ground out.
Hell, if she and Jorge had free time on their hands, it’d be better spent patching holes in this leaky boat.
He decided to hike along the Strand. Last night she’d shown interest in the shops. Although quite a few tourists roamed the city’s best-known street, his sharp eyes spotted Grace crossing up ahead. She wore a pink sundress that clashed with her hair, and was making a beeline for the coffeehouse.
Zeke broke into a jog, smiling when he saw the coffeehouse door close off his view of Grace’s dress.
She was next in line, and Zeke was out of breath when he skidded to a stop behind her. “Isn’t this a coincidence?” he said near her ear, giving her an obvious jolt. “Our afternoon breaks coincide.”
“What do you want, Rossetti?”
“Caffeine,” he murmured, edging closer as if they’d planned to meet. Meeting the eyes of the harried clerk, he said, “I’ll have a double espresso. Grace, what’s your pleasure?” Zeke dug in his tight jeans and extracted a silver money clip. He peeled off a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the counter.
Grace plunked down her own money. “I believe I was here first,” she said sweetly. “I’ll have a coffee latte with a double shot of almond extract.”
“Put hers on my ticket,” Zeke insisted. His irritation over her stubbornness barely controlled, he shoved her money back into her hand.
The clerk, who must’ve had a trying day, muttered, “So which is it, lady? Should I let him pay?”
“Why not?” Grace magnanimously gave in. Clearly, she was less happy when Zeke latched on to her elbow and steered her to an empty table for two. “I didn’t say I’d share a table,” she hissed.
“Truce?” Zeke said as they plopped down on opposite chairs. “I needed to talk to you anyway. I was on my way to the office to get the runabout so I could meet you in the bay when I saw Jorge’s boat tied up at the marina.”
“How’d you find me? Galveston isn’t that small.”
“No. But Jorge said he thought you went sightseeing. Unless you took off in a car, I thought it was logical that you’d hit the Strand.” His grin widened as her scowl deepened.
She might have said something unkind had the clerk not called out the number on Zeke’s slip. He rose and collected their order.
“How can you drink a double espresso?” she asked, gazing into the thick black depths of his small cup. “That looks strong enough to eat holes in the lining of your stomach.”
Taking a sip, Zeke smacked his lips. “This stuff will keep me going for another six hours. Long after your sissy drink lets you down.”
“I’m already upset over lost worktime, especially since I rent Jorge’s boat by the day. So rather than trade meaningless insults, Zeke, how about if you tell me why you were looking for me?”
Zeke cast a glance around at the nearly full room. He was glad now that he’d found her here. She seemed too ladylike to pitch a fit in front of innocent bystanders. “My boss decided you could use an extra pair of eyes in your search. Now don’t jump for joy, but I was elected. I’m gonna help you out.”
“Pardon? No. No way!” Grace rose from her chair, bumped into the table and watched her almond latte spill across it—and into Zeke’s lap.
He, and the people at the tables on either side, leapt forward to mop up the mess. Grace grabbed her handbag and tossed it over her shoulder. “That is the most preposterous idea you’ve come up with yet, Rossetti. I know what I’m doing. I have a plan. I have a grid I work methodically. I don’t need or want anyone else down there stirring up sand.”
“You are the most unreasonable female I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering. On the one hand, you stand here bitching about how much it costs to rent Jorge’s boat. Yet when Pace Kemper offers you a way to cut your costs and shorten your search, all you worry about is me stomping on your ego.” To keep from hopping about or yanking off his pants right there because the hot coffee was burning tender parts, Zeke lashed back while trying to ease the steaming denim away from his skin. And did sweet little Grace apologize for attempting to emasculate him? No!
“My ego?” she shouted. “Yours is monumental. I don’t have to listen to your insults, either.” She started to sweep past Zeke.
He reached out and grabbed her bare arm. Grace’s wince told Zeke that he was holding her too tightly. He immediately relaxed his grip—but not before he glanced up and straight into the eyes of Bonnie Burnham, the social worker from hell. The gleam in her eyes didn’t bode particularly well for Zeke’s next scheduled home visit the following week.
“Ezekiel Rossetti!” she exclaimed. “Who is that poor woman you’re manhandling? And why aren’t you working at this hour? I wonder if your boss in Dallas knows you’re goofing off?”
Grace dashed for the door the moment Zeke dropped his hand. On hearing the woman speak to him, Grace looked over and mouthed Ezekiel?
Zeke’s head whipped between the two. “Shit,” he muttered, his eyes lingering on Grace’s lips. The expletive slipped out. Grace thought he’d sworn at her; apparently, so did those nearby. The kind patrons who’d helped him mop up the spilled coffee suddenly glared at him.
“Wait! Grace,” Zeke called futilely. Each step he took rubbed hot denim against his stomach and below, slowing him to a hobble. Grace made good her escape, and in the time it took him to wad up the wet napkins and toss them in a trash container, a new group of people had swept through the door and she vanished completely.
Feeling Bonnie Burnham’s eyes boring into his back, Zeke turned to face her. She was a large woman with shoulder-length brassy hair. The social worker always wore dark clothes, layered to minimize her size. And big, flashy rings drew attention to her hands. If she ever smiled, she wouldn’t be unattractive. But Zeke had never seen her smile, and he was in no mood to parry with her today. “Miz Burnham,” he drawled, assuming a jocular air he was far from feeling. “Did I ask if your agency head knows you’re having coffee instead of doing your usual job of micromanaging some poor family’s life?”
She clutched a large gold medallion that hung around her neck. “Young man, it’s that attitude that gets you negative points. In spite of what you believe, our agency advocates for children. And I care very much about Matthew’s welfare. You’re the one who’s being difficult. I could get Matthew into that school.”
Zeke heaved a massive sigh, but because people were listening in, he lowered his voice. “You can’t care as much as I do, Miz Burnham. I love my son more than anything in the world. And…I am—was—working when Ms. Stafford’s coffee tipped over. As you can see, most of it landed on me. You’d show some attitude, too, if you’d just been burned by hot coffee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll run home and change. I’m sure we’ll both have plenty to say at our next visit.” Giving a stiff, dismissive jerk of his chin, Zeke left. He duck-walked to his pickup. The cool breeze blowing off the bay was almost too cold when it hit his wet jeans, but it also cleared his head. Enough so that he groaned when he thought about how he’d once again let his temper control his mouth—when it came to dealing with Grace Stafford and Bonnie Burnham. The child welfare people weren’t all bad. There were families who needed their help. But Zeke wouldn’t be one of their cases if Trixie Lee hadn’t discovered that it was a surefire way of getting him to cough up money.
Revving his engine, he backed out and recalled his mother chiding him about his attitude last night. It made him spare a moment to contemplate the happy-go-lucky guy he used to be. Oh, he’d always had rough edges. Basically, though, he made friends easily. And women liked him. During the last few years, his outlook had changed. Although he might want to lay his surliness at Trixie Lee’s feet, Zeke knew that was just too convenient.
The big question was, how did he put an end to his useless squabble with his ex-wife? As he swung into his driveway at home, he reached the conclusion that no one could solve the problem but him. And there was no time like the present to start.
Matthew was still napping. Zeke told Celia what had happened and why he was home in the middle of the day, rummaging in the medicine cabinet.
“If your skin is burned, Zeke, don’t put salve on it. Use ice.”
“Ice?” He came out of the bathroom.
“Really. Read the first aid book you bought. It’s the recommended treatment for burns. If the skin isn’t blistered, just cover your privates with a clean pair of soft, white cotton underpants.”
“Ma, I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you. I’m thirty, not three.”
She shrugged and returned to watching TV.
Zeke went to his bedroom and followed her recommendation. He found a pair of knock-around pants with a drawstring waist and put them on instead of another pair of jeans. “I’m leaving again,” he called, after looking in on his sleeping son. “I’ve still gotta run Grace to ground. I’ll try to be home in time for dinner. She’s being stubborn about letting me help with her salvage, and I need to change her mind. Even if I manage, today’s virtually gone. We won’t be able to start until tomorrow.”
“I almost forgot. Norm Steel phoned and said Ms. Stafford called your office a few minutes before you showed up here. He wasn’t sure if you wanted him to give her your home or your cell number.”
“She called the office? For me?” Zeke buttoned in his wallet. “From where, I wonder?”
“Her hotel. At least that’s the number Norm gave me. I wrote it on the pad by the kitchen phone.”
Zeke retrieved the number and called her from his pickup.
“I did call,” Grace said in a low, quiet voice. “I was almost back at my hotel when it dawned on me how much that hot coffee must’ve hurt. Are you all right? It was my fault, and I’m so sorry. I feel awful. And…I shouldn’t have reacted so badly to your offer of help. It’s just…that kind of behavior is so typical of the male teachers in my district, like women can’t handle chairing projects or committees. Like we aren’t capable of being in charge of anything. It’s my problem, not yours. But, I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”
“You can forgive me for grabbing you.”
“I will. Did…that woman in the coffeehouse make trouble for you? Who is she? Someone from your headquarters? And…is Ezekiel your real name?”
“No trouble. She’s nobody to worry about. What’s wrong with Ezekiel?”
“It sounds sort of religious, like…Grace. But you don’t strike me as—well, never mind.”
Zeke chuckled. “I get the picture. My mother liked the name. She said it had strength of character. But enough of that. I’d like to try again to negotiate with you. In a more civil manner this time. I’m not far from your hotel. Would you walk down the pier with me? We can try coffee again—or maybe a beer this time.”
“Yes. All right. Beer’s fine. I have a confession to make, though. The dive shop phoned. They have to order a valve for my air tanks. And you, uh, apparently rented the last tanks of a size they think I should dive with. If you’re agreeable, I’d like to, well, sublet your tanks.”
For the first time in hours, Zeke found something to smile about. So he finally held a trump card. “See you in five minutes, Grace. We’ll discuss it.” Zeke clicked off before she could present any other roadblocks. He imagined they’d both be a lot mellower after a beer or two.

CHAPTER FOUR
ZEKE NEEDED MORE than the five minutes to reach the hotel and locate parking. He was pleasantly surprised to find Grace seated in the lobby.
Zeke smiled as he pocketed his keys. “Always prompt, are you?”
“I hate being kept waiting, so I try not to make anyone wait on my account.”
Zeke noticed the owl-eyed clerk keeping tabs on them. He lowered his voice. “What’s with the guy behind the counter?”
“Russell?” Grace glanced around and waggled her fingers at the man in question. “Russ checked me in when I first arrived. He’s been so helpful and sweet.”
“I’ll just bet he has,” Zeke muttered, not liking the surprising and decidedly unwanted stab of jealousy he felt toward the unknown man.
Grace turned back, her smile fading. “Do you know something about him I should know? Are you saying he’s not nice?”
“Forget I said anything.” Zeke clamped his hand around Grace’s elbow and propelled her toward the doors.
“You can’t do that and leave me wondering,” Grace sputtered, digging in her heels.
“I’m sure he’s perfectly fine. On the other hand, he could be a closet killer with a penchant for gullible women guests.” The door swished shut behind them.
Zeke scowled so fiercely, Grace had to laugh. “If that was your idea of easing my mind, you failed miserably. Now anytime I come in and Russ isn’t behind the counter, I’ll have to check under my bed and in my closet, for sure.” She paused. “I get the distinct impression you don’t like me, so why not hand me over to Russell Tredway if you think he’s apt to do me in?”
Zeke wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He did so now, only it was too obvious.
“Great! Clam up. I hate when people do that. It’s so immature.”
“No. The conversation wasn’t relevant to us. You and me.” He released her arm. “I shouldn’t have said a word about someone I’ve never met. Forget it.”
“Fine.” Grace hugged her purse to her chest. “Where are we going? To a fire? I’m having a hard time keeping up with you.”
“Sorry.” Zeke immediately cut his stride in half. “There’s a bar and grill down the street.”
“We passed several places with lounges.”
Zeke knew the ones she meant. Spots frequented by guys who worked for Kemper. He didn’t like his new assignment and preferred not to take any added flak over it from his men. “Those are touristy,” he lied, although he sounded lame.
“I see. By that do you mean they pad their drink prices? If so, I’ll want to avoid them in the future.”
“No. Jeez! I don’t recall you being this inquisitive the last time we met.”
Grace grinned. “Maybe I’m getting to feel we’ve become friends.”
Zeke couldn’t help laughing then. The weight of this meeting seemed to slide off his shoulders. Ducking his head, he massaged the side of his neck. “Too tense, huh? Guess my manners could use a serious overhaul. The truth is…it’s you, Grace. I almost never go to a bar with a woman. Not almost never. Never,” he finished emphatically, but looked chagrined about discovering he’d been snappish again.
“Really? What’s wrong with the women in Galveston?” Grace exclaimed unexpectedly. “I should think they’d beat a path to your door.” As if realizing how that probably sounded, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I…I—I just mean where I live, and especially where I work, single guys are besieged. In elementary school teaching, women outnumber men five to one.”
“Around oil rigs it’s the exact opposite.”
Grace noticed Zeke rarely gave out any personal information; it was always general, like this. She’d led with the perfect chance to open up about himself. Maybe she hadn’t been direct enough. She didn’t want to be intrigued by Zeke Rossetti, but the man did interest her. She found him popping into her thoughts at odd hours. In her experience, limited though it was, men who looked like Zeke didn’t reach his age without acquiring plenty of history with women. And he had a way about him that made a woman feel…well, like a woman. A slow, sexy drawl. Impeccable manners. Although, Grace mused, as she let him place a warm hand on her waist to guide her into a little hole-in-the-wall bar, her past brush with a lying, cheating, polite married man had left her skeptical of manners.
“I see you brought your sweater again. Shall we nab a table on the patio? It’s a nice night,” he said, gesturing out a window that showed a glimpse of the bay. “I guarantee the patio will be half as smoky as it’ll get in here.”
“The patio, by all means,” she agreed. “Is there a side that’s better for seeing the sun go down? I’ve only been here a week, but I’m addicted to your sunsets. There’s something so fabulous about the red, peach and purple colors layered all the way down to aqua waves that’s…indescribable.”
“Hmm. To me, sundown signals the end of our most productive hours out on the rig. Even with as much wattage as we use to light the platform, there’s much more danger to our workers after dark.”
“Goodness,” Grace exclaimed as she settled into the wrought iron chair Zeke pulled out. “If it’s so dangerous at night, why not shut down like most businesses do?”
Zeke looked indignant, while simultaneously signaling to a waitress moving among the outer tables. “How many ways can you spell money? We’re an oil-dependent society. Until we unearth new pockets of black gold, it’s all outgo and no income for our companies.”
The waitress arrived then to take their orders. Zeke requested a dark ale, and she ordered a popular south-of-the-border light beer with a twist of lime. After the waitress had gone, Grace traced the logo on one of the napkins the woman had set out. “I never stopped to consider everything you had at stake, Zeke. I guess you must view me as worse than a sunset, huh?”
He snorted with laughter. “That’s one way of putting it, Gracie.”
Her head came up fast. “My grandmother’s the only person who ever calls me Gracie.” Hearing it delivered in Zeke’s gravelly voice caused a curl of pleasure to spread through Grace, and for a moment she looked at him differently.
Ignoring her heartfelt comment, he continued speaking. “As I said, we work at night despite an increased risk of injury. But now—thanks to you—we’re not working at all. Not only have I laid off a number of qualified men, many of them with families, but Pace is shelling out big bucks daily in fines because we’re running beyond the start time we promised our subcontractors.”

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