- -
- 100%
- +
“You look like you just lost your best friend,” Jenni observed as they prepared to close the clinic at midday.
“I did.” Yvonne sighed.
Because of her girth, Jenni had to give a sideways hug. “You aren’t losing me.” She patted her bulge. “Maybe I ought to say, you aren’t losing us.”
Yvonne didn’t feel that way, but she saw no point in quibbling. “I’ll be happy to drop off anything you leave behind.”
“Thanks. But Ethan can stop by.” Jenni’s husband, the police chief, worked around the corner. “If I’m allowed a word of advice, you might like Connor if you give him half a chance.”
Whether she liked the man or not made no difference. “He’s going to find out.”
Jenni didn’t ask what Yvonne was referring to. It was obvious. “Then maybe he’ll stop hero-worshipping that scumbag.”
“I wish it were that simple.” She hadn’t forgotten Connor’s public remarks about out-of-wedlock mothers setting a bad example. “Beneath the doctor-knows-best facade lurks a mentality to the right of Genghis Khan.”
“Patsy seems to think he’s cute.”
“Patsy leads a very sheltered existence.”
Yvonne’s cell phone rang. Exiting into the rear parking area so Jenni could finish locking up, she answered. “Johnson.”
“Your great-uncle called. He needs your help around the house,” her father said without preamble.
“Says who?” She couldn’t believe Beau had asked for her by name after ignoring her these past few years.
“Don’t smart-mouth me!”
She switched from flippancy to logic. “Dad, I can’t. I’ve got a job and a baby to take care of.”
Unfortunately, logic didn’t work, either. With Yvonne’s relatives, it rarely did. “Someone has to keep an eye on things. That’s what family members do, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“If he wants a slave to wait on him hand and foot, he shouldn’t have fired his caretaker!”
“A little assistance in the mornings and evenings isn’t a lot to ask.” The statement sounded like a quote from his uncle. “The poor man’s alone in the world. Besides, you work right across the street.”
Yvonne figured she’d only start a fight if she noted how Beau had joined the chorus of condemning voices while she was pregnant. Better to focus on the present. “He expects me to drop by twice a day on top of everything else I have to do?”
“He suggested you move in for a month,” came the unexpected response.
Her father had to be kidding. On second thought, the suggestion dovetailed with what she believed to be her great-uncle’s real agenda: to have her at his beck and call.
“He’s lost his mind.” Yvonne slid into her battered sedan. “You saw what he was like when we took presents last Christmas. He ignored Bethany and me except to complain when she fussed a little. Now he expects us to live with him?”
Dad heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suspect taking a fall made him confront his mortality. Maybe it finally sank in that the two of you are the last members of the Johnson clan.”
“Then why didn’t he call me personally?”
“Give him a break! He’s an old man.”
“And a crab of the first order.” Yvonne had endured too much to sympathize. “What he wants is my unpaid servitude.” She started the engine. She’d promised to collect her daughter by twelve-thirty, which was fast approaching.
“Bethany deserves to know her heritage. Technically, the house is half mine, and someday it’ll be hers.” A brief pause preceded the comment, “You remember the playroom? It hasn’t changed.”
“He mentioned that?”
“He sure did.”
Yvonne had often wished Bethany could enjoy the kind of happy afternoons she’d spent with her grandparents. However, while Beau might dangle that possibility as an enticement, he wasn’t a sweetheart like his late brother. Once he got his way, she had no doubt his attitude would deteriorate into the usual insults and bad temper.
“I don’t trust him. The answer is no.”
“He broke both wrists!”
“If he breaks both ankles, as well, maybe I’ll reconsider.” Realizing how callous that sounded, she added, “I’m sorry, Dad. If it were you or Mom, of course I’d pitch in. Your uncle’s a different story.”
“Tell him yourself. I’ve got my hands full.” After a clipped goodbye, her dad hung up.
Fine. She’d do it, but not right now. Better to wait until she was in a less contentious mood.
She swung by her cousin’s house in a tree-shaded residential area. Lindsay, whose husband was away serving in the marines, had to hurry to deliver three-year-old Christine to a birthday party, so they didn’t get a chance to chat. Instead, they arranged to meet for pizza on Sunday evening.
On the drive home, Bethany babbled nonstop. She was picking up new words and combining them into short sentences, Yvonne noted with pleasure. Lindsay did a good job of teaching, and being around Christine proved stimulating.
They passed a man walking a terrier in Jackson Park. “Go wee-wee,” the little girl piped up.
“We’ll be home in a minute.” Although still diapered, Bethany had begun to show an interest in potty training.
“No, dog!”
Seeing the terrier doing his business against a tree, Yvonne laughed at the mistake. The toddler’s company always restored her good humor.
It lasted until they arrived home.
Two fire trucks and a police car lined Garden Street. As Yvonne approached, uniformed men hauled a table and chairs from the building where she lived.
Anxiously, she parked a few doors down. What was going on here?
Among the furniture strewn across the lawn she spotted her couch and bureau, both dripping wet. Were all her possessions ruined? Even though most came from thrift stores, she couldn’t afford replacements.
Her mood didn’t improve when she recognized her landlady, chamber of commerce director Hedy Greenwald, talking with a fire captain. The woman never missed a chance to treat Yvonne rudely, citing a reverence for high morals. Too bad her view of morality didn’t include living by the Golden Rule.
Hedy had only agreed to rent a unit to her after the town’s minister had intervened on Yvonne’s behalf. Also because it offered opportunities for prying, including unscheduled visits on weak excuses.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied!” were the first words out of Hedy’s mouth.
Yvonne paused with Bethany on her hip. “Care to clue me in?”
“You had to keep complaining about Leon!” the woman exclaimed, referring to the obnoxious upstairs neighbor.
“Everyone complains about him. What has he done?” Angrily, Hedy related that she’d posted an eviction notice. For the fire captain’s benefit, she implied she had done it at Yvonne’s insistence, but the entire building knew Leon was two months late with his rent.
Furious, the tenant had trashed his unit and left the water running in the bathroom when he’d departed. Intentionally or not, he’d wrecked Yvonne’s unit as well as his own.
Repairs would take several weeks. “I suppose I’m obligated to hold the place for you. Considering the new carpeting and fixtures, the rent will increase, of course,” the landlady concluded with a note of triumph.
“I can’t afford that!” Licensed practical nurses didn’t earn large incomes.
“That’s your problem.” Hedy smirked.
“You own the building. Don’t you have some obligations?” Even as she spoke, Yvonne recognized the futility. “Most of my stuff is ruined.”
“I’m not responsible for the damage to your possessions. If you carry renter’s insurance, I suggest you put in a claim.” Hedy undoubtedly suspected the truth—that Yvonne couldn’t afford a policy.
Wiggling, Bethany pointed toward the crib two firefighters were toting out of the building. A favorite teddy bear peered through the bars. “Me want Fuzzy!”
The declaration roused Yvonne from her worries. “You put three words together! Good for you, sweetie.”
Hedy made a hmphing noise. “It’s gibberish.”
Anger flared inside Yvonne. Still, if she ever unloaded, she might say things she’d regret. Ignoring the landlady, she went on addressing her daughter. “Your crib stayed nice and dry, Bethany. Aren’t we lucky?”
“Motels are expensive.” Hedy didn’t shrink from sticking in the needle. “Maybe you can rent one of those run-down trailers on the outskirts of town. I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”
Her spite broke through Yvonne’s self-control. Without making a conscious decision, she blurted, “Beau invited us to stay with him. I’m sure Bethany will love that great big house.”
“He did not! You’re making it up!” As president of the local historical society, Hedy regarded the Johnson home as an icon.
“Call him,” Yvonne retorted. “Anyway, I’m sure half the town will see us moving in.” She gave the landlady a bland smile. “Maybe we’ll invite you to tea one of these years.”
That ought to hurt. Hedy had been angling to visit the house for ages.
Turning away, Yvonne caught sight of the other woman’s lemon-sucking expression. It almost made the whole experience worthwhile.
STANDING IN THE LIVING ROOM where Grandma had once served tea and sugar cookies, Yvonne ticked off points on her fingers.
“Number one, I am not your personal maid. I will only do things that are absolutely necessary and that you can’t do unaided,” she informed Beau.
Sitting on the couch, he widened his eyes in mock innocence and made no comment.
“Number two, my other obligations take priority except in case of emergency. That includes my job and my daughter. Also, my social life, if I choose.
“Number three, you will eat whatever I cook, without complaining.
“Number four, you will address Bethany and me with respect. You will make no snide references to my past or my morals, and if you breathe one negative word to my daughter about her origins, we’re leaving. If we end up sleeping in my car, that’s okay with me.”
Well, not entirely okay. After the showdown with Hedy, Yvonne had suffered a few pangs of anxiety that her great-uncle had changed his mind. When she’d called, however, he’d accepted the news of their impending arrival with aplomb.
“What’s orjinns?” queried Bethany from the Regency-style chair where Yvonne had deposited her.
Beau’s craggy face softened. “It’s fruit I sell at the store. Orjinns and applins. If you like ’em, I got some.”
He had a sense of humor? This was news to Yvonne.
“Okay!” Bethany cried.
“She’ll need someone to cut up the fruit.” Yvonne hesitated. A carload of salvaged possessions waited to be hauled upstairs, but her great-uncle couldn’t prepare food with his damaged wrists. “You don’t happen to have a banana, do you? She could eat that on her own.”
“Sure do,” Beau replied. “Then this li’l darlin’ can help me pull the plastic off the playroom toys.”
Li’l darlin’? The evidence of goodwill toward the child he’d publicly rejected amazed Yvonne. Perhaps his fall really had shaken some sense into him. “I can’t hang around the playroom right now. Would you be willing to watch her?”
“Don’t see why not,” he said. “Ain’t got nothing else to do.”
With him keeping an eye on Bethany, Yvonne could finish a lot faster. “Call me if she needs anything. And don’t leave her alone for a minute. That plastic could suffocate her.”
He sniffed. “I ain’t no amateur, Vonnie. I babysat your dad.”
More news. “Thanks, then.”
He held out one hand to the toddler. “Let’s go get that banana. Don’t squeeze hard. I hurt my durn wrists, you see.”
“Okay.” Bethany gripped one of the large, bony fingers and toddled away beside him.
Nostalgically, Yvonne watched them go. She’d spent many happy weekends with her gentle, artistic grandma and doting grandpa. Was it possible Beau might play a similar role for her daughter?
Tenderness must skip generations in the Johnson clan. Perhaps Beau could spare a warmth for Bethany that he’d never felt for Yvonne.
In a similar manner, her grandfather had been harshly critical of her father. Grandpa had resented the fact that, after inheriting the antique store he’d spent years building up, her father had gradually lost customers to a local company that made antique replicas. Dad hadn’t had the temperament or the energy to come up with marketing ploys, or the cleverness to expand the store’s wares. Plus, he’d been simply a victim of a disadvantageous situation.
Yet the old man had spent hours playing with Yvonne when she was little. She’d sometimes wondered if her father’s harsh attitude toward her didn’t contain a bit of envy.
When she was twelve, Grandma had died of pneumonia. Two years later Manley Johnson had suffered a fatal heart attack. Grief-stricken at the loss of her grandfather, Yvonne had hoped Beau might fill the gap. However, he’d showed only impatience for a gangly, emotionally needy teenager.
Then Dad had found a job in Mill Valley and relocated the family, forcing Yvonne to switch high schools for her senior year. Her mom’s as-yet-undiagnosed Alzheimer’s disease had further complicated the picture.
That was ancient history. Annoyed at herself for dwelling on what couldn’t be changed, Yvonne went out to the car.
An hour later, she had finished reassembling the crib in the smallest of the three bedrooms. In an adjacent chamber, she heard Beau and Bethany laughing as they played with the electric train.
Yvonne hoped their bond would last. Bethany needed a father figure.
From overhead, a thump resounded. She waited, listening for further sounds, but there was no repeat. All the same, she couldn’t imagine what would make such a noise in the empty studio.
She entered the playroom. “Do you have raccoons in the attic?”
“A big one,” Beau answered gleefully. “He’s real tame, though.” He sat on a low stool, watching Bethany pull dolls from a trunk.
“See raccoon!” Bethany’s pout signaled oncoming crankiness.
Beau gave a negative shake. “No can do.”
“Yes! Now!”
“No! Not now!” the old man grumped.
To Yvonne’s eye, both her charges appeared tired. “Nap-time.”
The toddler clutched one of the dolls. “No, Mommy!”
“For you and Grandpa both.” Quickly, she added, “May she call you that?” Addressing him as Beau would be too familiar, and the child couldn’t handle a moniker like great-great uncle.
“Fine,” he answered hoarsely. “I ain’t tired, though.”
“If I say you’re tired, you’re tired,” Yvonne informed him. “Must I tuck you into bed or can you go alone?”
He assumed a sly expression. “I’ll be a good boy, Nurse Johnson, if you’ll promise to poke your nose upstairs and make sure that raccoon stays out of trouble.”
“We’d better call a trapping service,” she answered irritably. It didn’t take a genius, however, to guess that a raccoon hadn’t caused the thump. What mischief was the old coot up to? For Bethany’s sake, she’d better investigate. “Okay, I’ll check. First, however…” She swooped up the toddler and the doll.
“Stay here!” Bethany struggled.
“She don’t look tired to me,” Beau protested.
Rather than argue, Yvonne tried distraction. “You could read her a book.”
He rose in a hurry. “You bet.”
“Book!” Bethany cheered.
Once the two were settled in the nursery, Beau chose a picture book about trains. As he read in a dry voice, Yvonne watched the pair from the doorway.
The tableau formed by the gruff old man and the tiny girl in the crib brought unaccustomed tears to her eyes. Beau seemed to have been waiting for a subject on whom to lavish his affections.
Satisfied, Yvonne went to inspect the attic.
She remembered these stairs right down to the worn places in the handrail. Although she’d believed no one went up here, the doorknob at the top rotated as if newly oiled.
When she stepped inside, Yvonne inhaled the scent of lemon cleanser mingled with an unidentified chemical smell. Despite a hint of warmth, the air lacked the stifling heat she’d expected.
Puzzled, she advanced into the open.
Easels stood at angles, perhaps to catch the light throughout the day. They held paintings done in a vivid, realistic style so familiar that she must have seen the artist’s work before. Against one wall leaned several blank canvases, one of which had toppled. That probably accounted for the thump.
Near the room’s center, his back to her, a man radiated intensity as he focused on his work. Paint-daubed jeans and a blue shirt clung to a muscular body that also struck her as familiar.
From this angle he bore a disconcerting resemblance to Connor Hardison. Who on earth was this man and why was he working in Beau’s attic?
On the canvas, roughed-in male and female shapes blazed with sensuality. Yvonne could feel their body heat and the texture of the sand, and smell the suntan lotion.
A laptop computer on an adjacent table displayed the image that served as inspiration. It showed a pair of sunbathers on a beach, the man applying lotion to the woman’s bikini-clad figure as they lay sprawled in careless intimacy.
When a floorboard creaked beneath her, the painter froze. Then he laid down his brush and swung around.
It was, amazingly, Connor. He appeared as shocked as Yvonne.
The suggestiveness of his creation made her aware of him in a new way. Aware of the rough masculine texture of his cheeks and the curve where his throat disappeared into the open shirt collar. Aware of the denim clinging to his thighs and the gleam of white teeth between parted lips.
Instinctively, she toyed with a strand of hair. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He frowned. “What about you?”
She couldn’t make sense of his statement. “You can’t live here. This is Beau’s attic.”
“He rented it to me.”
“You mean as a studio?” But that wasn’t what he’d said. “You can’t live here! This is the Johnson house!”
“You two weren’t speaking,” he answered quietly.
“We made up. Sort of.”
“Your uncle wanted a tenant. I needed a place close by and the space accommodates my hobby.”
They stared at each other. Both breathing fast, for some reason. She’d just climbed the stairs. What was his excuse?
How bizarre that Beau hadn’t mentioned renting the place. “He claimed you were a raccoon and sent me up to investigate.”
Connor burst out laughing. “I like that old man!” About to disagree, Yvonne recalled the tender scene in her daughter’s room. “He has a few good qualities.” She eyed the canvas. “You did the painting of the Allens, didn’t you?” That was where she’d seen the style before.
“Guilty as charged.”
“Incredible.” She indicated the pictures on the easels. “Do you always work from photographs?”
“Mostly.” His cheek, she noticed, bore a colorful smear.
His subjects were all people. No landscapes or abstracts.
Yvonne circled to examine a nearby work in progress. Charcoal lines roughed out the figure of a woman walking a small dog directly toward the viewer. Even at this incomplete stage, she could visualize the alluring sway of the lady’s hips and hear the click of the dog’s toenails on the sidewalk. “You’re brilliant.”
“That’s very flattering.” He seemed uncomfortable at being complimented.
“I don’t flatter people. It happens to be true.”
“Thanks.”
Another painting, completed and hung on the wall, showed a rear view of a partially draped female. To Yvonne, the style appeared less developed than his current work, so perhaps it stemmed from an earlier period. Yet it had a nearly three-dimensional quality lacking in the pictures derived from photos. “Was that a live model?”
A nod. “From art class.”
“You ought to use more models. They give your work extra depth.”
“It isn’t practical,” Connor replied. “Too expensive. It’s not as if I were a serious artist.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I don’t suppose you’d…” He shook off the notion. “Never mind.”
“I’d what?” Had he nearly asked her to model? The prospect gave her a small thrill.
Even now, she felt his artistic eye examining the contours of her body as if he were touching her through the light summer dress. Her breasts tingled as she imagined his strong hands arranging her in a pose.
When he met her gaze, Yvonne caught an answering glint of hunger. He was seeing her as a woman now rather than as a model.
In the quiet room, she could hear his heart beating. Or was that her own pulse?
She wished he would…do what? Nothing she dared put into words.
Despite her reservations, she treasured the awareness of sexual allure. A man hadn’t appealed to her this strongly since…ever.
Yet he was Connor Hardison. Dr. Wrong.
He blinked as if pulling back, and cleared his throat. “So you’re doing a good deed for your great-uncle. You planning to drop by the house every night?”
Oh, right. She hadn’t explained the ticklish part. “I’m staying here for a few weeks.”
Judging by Connor’s stunned expression, that rocked him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’d never have signed a six-month lease if I’d known.”
“Beau got the screwy idea that his family owes him something,” she explained. “It came out of nowhere.”
He gave a reluctant chuckle. “I may have accidentally reinforced that idea yesterday. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but he ended up firing his aide, and now this.”
“You must have quite a way with words.” She didn’t know whether to resent Connor’s interference or be glad he’d found her a place to stay. “He went from considering me a pariah to insisting I move in.”
“You could have said no.”
“I did, at first.” She shrugged. “My apartment suffered water damage this afternoon. I figure Bethany was better off here than at a motel. And Beau’s taken a liking to her.”
“You brought your daughter?”
His surprise annoyed Yvonne. “What should I do? Leave her in a storage locker?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” After collecting his brushes, Connor moved to the sink. “Still, holding down a job and raising a baby must be hard enough without taking on additional responsibilities. Are you sure you aren’t overdoing it?”
“I’ll manage,” she persisted. “I always have.”
“It can’t be easy.”
“Life isn’t easy.” Instinctively, she withdrew into the cynicism that had served her well these past two years.
Water swirled over the brushes. “That’s understandable. In an unplanned pregnancy, adoption is usually in the child’s best interest. And the mother’s, too.” He’d transformed without warning from the sexy painter into the stuffy doctor Yvonne knew and disliked
It was almost as if there were two different Connors. She suspected this control freak was the real him and the other a temporary aberration.
“Let’s get something straight.” She planted herself where he couldn’t avoid her stare. “At the clinic, you’re Dr. Hardison and I say ‘Yes, Doctor,’ and ‘No, Doctor.’ At home, you’re the raccoon who rents an attic from my pain-in-the-neck great-uncle. Got that?”
“No problem.” Losing his grip on one of the brushes, Connor accidentally flipped it. It flew to the floor, splattering soapy water across his shirt en route. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and blotted the mess. “By the way, that remark about adoption didn’t come out the way I’d intended.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Connor’s cell phone rang. Clearly irked, he pulled it from his shirt pocket. “I should have turned the thing off, since I’m not on call.”
“There could be an emergency,” she conceded.
He angled away as he flipped it open. “Dr. Hardison…I’m sorry, who?” His forehead furrowed. “Well, sure I remember her. What’s this about?”
It sounded personal. Yvonne started for the exit.
His last few remarks had confirmed her original negative impression. She couldn’t believe she’d actually been attracted to the man. She of all people understood how dangerous passion could be with a man who held power over her.
She would bury that moment of weakness in the same dark pit that had claimed her innocence. Like his mentor, Connor Hardison must never, never be trusted.