Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Copyright

The Tycoon and the Townie
Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“Make the most of it, lady,”

Jeff challenged. “Put on your flashiest dress and come with me to the yacht club party on Saturday.”

Kate had sensed what was coming. All the same, she felt her stomach clench. “Jeff, it’s not that simple,” she muttered. “I can’t just—”

“Come on. Yes, you can,” Jeff urged.

“But what about all those people? What about your mother, for heaven’s sake? I know what she thinks of me.”

“Kate, don’t let these people intimidate you,” he said.

“I’m not intimidated. Not by anyone.”

“Then prove it. Because when I walk into that place with you on my arm,” Jeff went on, “lady, we’re going to knock their socks off!”

Dear Reader,

This month, Silhouette Romance has six irresistible, emotional and heartwarming love stories for you, starting with our FABULOUS FATHERS title, Wanted: One Son by Laurie Paige. Deputy sheriff Nick Dorelli had watched the woman he loved marry another and have that man’s child. But now, mother and child need Nick. Next is The Bride Price by bestselling author Suzanne Carey. Kyra Martin has fuzzy memories of having just married her Navajo ex-fiancé in a traditional wedding ceremony. And when she discovers she’s expecting his child, she knows her dream was not only real…but had mysteriously come true! We also have two notto-be missed new miniseries starting this month, beginning with Miss Prim’s Untamable Cowboy, book 1 of THE BRUBAKER BRIDES by Carolyn Zane. A prim image consultant tries to tame a very masculine working-class wrangler into the true Texas millionaire tycoon he really is. Good luck, Miss Prim!

In Only Bachelors Need Apply by Charlotte Maclay, a manshy woman’s handsome new neighbor has some secrets that will make her the happiest woman in the world, and in The Tycoon and the Townie by Elizabeth Lane, a struggling waitress from the wrong side of the tracks is romanced by a handsome, wealthy bachelor. Finally, our other new miniseries, ROYAL WEDDINGS by Lisa Kaye Laurel. The lovely caretaker of a royal castle finds herself a prince’s bride-to-be during a ball…with high hopes for happily ever after in The Prince’s Bride.

I hope you enjoy all six of Silhouette Romance’s terrific novels this month…and every month.

Regards,

Melissa Senate,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

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

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

To Millicent, my very first guide to the world of fairies, mermaids and other marvels.

ELIZABETH LANE

has traveled extensively in Latin America, Europe and China, and enjoys bringing these exotic locales to life on the printed page, but she also finds her home state of Utah and other areas of the American West to be fascinating sources for historical romance. Elizabeth loves such diverse activities as hiking and playing the piano, not to mention her latest hobby—belly dancing.

Chapter One

“Excuse me, but is my nose on straight?”

The raspy-cello voice was so sensual that for an instant Jefferson Parrish III thought he must still be dreaming. Lulled by cool Atlantic breezes, he had dozed off in one of the big Adirondack chairs on the open verandah, only to be startled awake by this libido-tickling Greta Garbo voice.

A voice that appeared to be coming from a clown.

“What the devil…?” Jeff blinked himself fully awake, expecting the clown to vaporize. No such luck.

“I need to make sure my nose is on straight. I bumped it getting out of the Jeep. Quick—take a look!”

Too startled to argue, Jeff did as he was told. The clown was certainly no Bozo, he observed. Or Ronald McDonald, either. Short and pudgy in a tie-dyed, padded suit and ragged purple wig, she couldn’t have stretched over five foot three. White greasepaint and a round, red, rubber nose hid whatever features she might possess—except for her eyes. Surrounded by painted circles, they blazed like oversize twin aquamarines.

Fine and dandy, Jeff groused, easing out of the chair and stretching to his husky six-foot height. But unless some ragtag circus had come to Misty Point, North Carolina, he still had no idea why this dumpy-looking little clown would be standing on his verandah in the middle of an ordinary July afternoon.

“Well?” the hypnotic voice demanded.

Jeff ran an impatient hand through his wiry thatch of prematurely graying hair. “Yes, your nose is on straight. Now, would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”.

She appeared startled, though it was hard to tell beneath all that paint. “Uh—you are Mr. Jefferson Parrish, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jeff snapped, none too graciously.

“Then you should be expecting me. My agency sent me. I’m Jo-Jo.”

The look he gave her was as blank as his mind.

“The clown you hired for your daughter, Ellen’s, birthday party.”

“The party—oh, blast…” Jeff remembered dimly that his mother had said something about hiring a party clown, but until this moment, he’d forgotten all about it. That, or he was still asleep, and having this bizarre dream….

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “And yes, you are expected.”

“Fine. So, where’s the party?”

“Around the back, on the lawn. My mother’s in charge. She’d be the one who called the agency.”

“And how old is little Ellen?” The clown gathered up a lumpy green duffel bag from the front steps and hefted it to her shoulder.

“She’s nine.”

“Nine!” The phrase she muttered under her breath sounded vaguely like an Irish curse.

“Is anything wrong?”

“It’s just that my act usually goes over better with the three- to five-year-old crowd. For nine-year-olds, you should’ve hired rock musicians!”

“Tell that to my mother. She’s in charge. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Jeff stifled a yawn and took a tentative step toward the front door, hoping Yo-Yo, or whatever her name was, would take the hint and head for the party. His blueprints for the new wing of Heath Memorial Hospital were up for review next week. Vacation or no vacation, it was time he went inside and got back to work on them.

He strode across the verandah, struggling to shake off the ennui that had settled over him in this sleepy little seashore town. It had been a mistake, giving in to his mother’s suggestion that they summer here, in the old family retreat where he had spent so many boyhood vacations. At first Jeff had nourished the hope that the sea air and familiar surroundings would have a healing effect on them all. But it had been an empty hope. Things had only gotten worse.

Even with the hospital project, there was too little for him to do here. And there were too many memories. Too often lately he’d caught himself pacing the confines of his studio, snarling like a caged bear. The discontent had spread to his daughter, as well. Ellen spent her time roaming the dunes of their private beach like a pale little sea wraith. As for Jeff’s mother, she’d thrown herself into projects designed to make their lives seem “all right” again. Projects like this birthday party, for which Ellen had displayed no enthusiasm at all.

Dammit, they should have all stayed home in Raleigh, where they—

“Oh—Mr. Parrish?”

Jeff glanced over his shoulder. The clown was poised on the verandah’s top step, the toes of her enormous, floppy shoes hanging eight inches over the edge.

“One more thing,” she said. “Just so you’ll be aware. I brought my daughter with me today—not that she’ll be a bother to anyone. She’s been told to stay in the kitchen with your cook, Floss, until I finish the party show. Floss is a friend of ours, and she said it wasn’t a problem. Is that all right with you?”

“It’s of no consequence whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

For the space of a heartbeat she froze, stung, perhaps, by his brusqueness. Then, determined to be cheerful, she thrust out her cherry red chin. “Work? On such a beautiful day? What a waste of creation! But if that’s your choice… Goodbye, Mr. Parrish! The agency will bill you for my time!”

With a toss of her shaggy purple mane, she took one blithe misstep into space, pitched forward and disappeared from sight.

Jeff sprinted to the rail of the verandah to find her sprawled across an azalea bed in a sputtering, tie-dyed heap, her duffel bag lying an arm’s length away.

“Are you all right?” he asked, torn between real concern and wondering how much her lawyer would settle for out of court.

“I…think so.” She wiggled her hands and feet cautiously, then began to struggle like a high-centered terrapin in a vain effort to get up.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she muttered, collapsing into the azaleas again.

“It’s these—idiot shoes! Half the time I can’t see where I’m going, and if I fall down, they stick out so far I can’t get my knees—under me—”

“And here I thought it was all part of your act!” Jeff suppressed a bemused smile as he trotted down the steps toward her. “Relax, I’ll give you a hand.”

“No—don’t trouble yourself!” she snapped. “Not when you’ve got—so much work to do. I can get up myself if I take it bit by bit.”

“If you insist.” Jeff shrugged, then watched with ill-concealed interest as she tumbled onto her side and drew her knees toward her chest. With effort, she managed to roll her big, clown feet under her, push up with her arms and stagger to a standing position.

“There!” she exclaimed, her voice all more intriguing for its breathlessness. “I told you I could do it.”

“Independent little twit, aren’t you?” Jeff observed dryly as she brushed sprigs of loose grass from her costume.

Her small, ridiculously painted face froze for an instant.

“Independent little twit?” She repeated the words slowly, as if dissecting each syllable. “Independent little twit?”

As Jeff watched, the dumpy clown figure seemed to grow visibly taller. Then, suddenly, she spun toward him, her aquamarine eyes flashing cold fire.

“Independent I’ll accept as a compliment,” she declared icily. “But I’m certainly no twit, Mr. Parrish. I’m a woman alone with a daughter to raise and bills to pay. Jo-Jo the clown helps me pay those bills—but that’s something a man like you might not understand. You’ve probably never had a minute’s financial worry in your smug, arrogant, self-satisfied life!”

Before Jeff could gather his wits, she was gone, waddling across the grass like an indignant Jemima Puddleduck in her padded clown suit. He might have laughed—the sight of her was ludicrous enough—but something in her words and her voice had stung him like a smart blow with a riding quirt.

Good Lord, did he really come across as the woman had described him? Smug, arrogant and self-satisfied? Could that be the reason Meredith had—

But never mind, he brought himself up harshly. It was too damned late to do anything about Meredith, and too late to change his own nature. He was what he was, and right now he had work to do. The plans for the new hospital wing lay open on his drafting table, with hours—many, many hours—of changes yet to be done on them.

Closing his mind to the sunlit ocean air, the cry of seabirds and the vanishing figure of the odd little clown, Jeff strode into the house and shut the door firmly behind him.

Summer people!

Kate Valera’s thoughts seethed as she shuffled across the broad expanse of lawn. Every year the summer people invaded Misty Point like a flock of chattering, inland birds, flaunting their money and their success as if they owned the town. They opened up the elegant frame homes they called “cottages,” raced their Jaguars and Porsches along peaceful back roads and treated the yearrounders like second-rate hired help.

Summer people!

Kate quivered, still feeling the sting of Mr. Jefferson Parrish’s high-handed arrogance. She was not sorry she’d put him in his place. For two cents, in fact, she would cheerfully tell the whole pretentious lot of them to—

But what was she thinking? The economic survival of the town depended on these obnoxious visitors. Her own survival depended on them. They bought her beautiful, hand-thrown pots at gallery prices that made the locals gasp. They paid for her performances as Jo-Jo the Clown, with money that one day, she hoped, would finance an education for her daughter, Flannery. Oh, yes, she needed these people, and she had precious little choice except to grit her teeth and be nice to them. Saints preserve her!

As she came around the house, Kate spotted the party group seated at tables on the far end of the lawn. Not a very promising bunch, she mused glumly. A dozen boredlooking little girls in sundresses clustered around the soggy remains of cake and ice cream, overseen by a tall, stern-looking woman who seemed to have no idea what to do with them. Jo-Jo would have her work cut out for her today!

They had seen her. Kate waved breezily and broke into her prancing side-to-side clown gait. These kids were about the same age as her daughter, she reminded herself. Maybe she could pretend she was entertaining Flannery, and— But, no, she was deluding herself. These privileged little girls were nothing like Flannery. They had seen everything from first-run Broadway shows to the Ringling Brothers Circus. They would not be impressed by one shabby clown with a bag of simple tricks.

The woman, a stately figure in a lilac afternoon dress, with a visage as humorless as the Statue of Liberty’s, left the group and came striding toward her. “You’re late!” she snapped, brandishing the antique bull’s-eye watch she wore on a gold neck chain. “You were supposed to be here seven minutes ago!”

Sorry! Kate pantomimed, rippling her shoulders and spreading her hands in an elaborate shrug. She wasn’t usually silent during her Jo-Jo act, but today it struck her as a useful idea.

“Well, it can’t be helped now.” The woman’s ragged sigh revealed the edge of her own frustration. “Don’t just stand there looking silly. You were hired to do a job. Get on with it!”

And with that stirring introduction…

Kate clicked on the portable tape player in her duffel bag, pranced into the open space between the tables and executed a series of spins and fancy heel clicks that would have enthralled any group of three-year-olds. These jaded little dollies didn’t even blink. Well, maybe the juggling act would impress them; though, in truth, she had her doubts.

Scooping a net of multicolored balls out of the duffel, Kate lined them up on the grass in front of her. For a furtive moment her eyes scanned the young audience. It was easy enough to single out Ellen, the birthday girl. She was seated at the center table wearing a gold paper crown and a wretched expression. She was a beautiful child, Kate observed, with a pale oval face, long black hair and her father’s unsettling gray eyes.

Unsettling…now, where had that come from?

Forcing herself to concentrate, Kate went through the elaborate motions of counting the balls. One, two, three, four, five. She paused and shook her head in a show of bewilderment. One, two, three, four, five. She matched the count on her fingers, her actions indicating clearly that one ball was missing.

Aha! I know where it is! With a crafty expression on her painted face, she crept toward Ellen Parrish. The girl’s lips parted uncertainly as Kate’s gloved hand reached beneath the straight, dark silk of her hair and, with a triumphant flourish, produced the sixth ball.

A wave of giggles, underscored by none-too-kindly whispers, rippled around the tables. Too late, Kate glimpsed Ellen’s unshed tears and realized what she had done. She had embarrassed the sensitive child in front of these clannish girls who were not even pretending to be her friends.

Heartsick, Kate battled the urge to gather the sad little creature in her arms and beg her forgiveness. There was no way to undo what she had already done. But at least she could make sure the other girls got equal treatment. Oh, yes, she could, and she would.

Armed with a new sense of purpose, Kate realigned the colored balls on the grass, scooped up the first three and launched into her juggling routine. That little Shirley Temple blonde in the pink pinafore, the one who was smirking like a fox in a hen yard—yes, she would be next

Warm and restless in his upstairs studio, Jeff Parrish swung away from his drafting table and wandered to the window. Cracking it open, though not so far that the breeze would scatter his papers, he filled his senses with the clean, salty smell of the ocean.

He had loved that scent as a boy—loved it so much that he’d dreamed of running off to a life of exploration and piracy on the high seas. It had never happened, of course. Boys grew up to be practical men. Dreams changed, or they died. Now the smell of the sea only reminded Jeff of how far he had journeyed from his boyhood, how mechanical his life had become, and how empty.

The window gave him a bird’s-eye view of Ellen’s birthday celebration on the lawn below. Judging from the looks of things, it wasn’t going particularly well. His mother had planned the party with the idea of finding Ellen some “proper” friends. She had invited girls from Misty Point’s most prominent summer families. As always, the dear woman had meant well, but there was one reality she had failed to grasp. Most of the young guests knew each other from summers that spanned as far back as they could remember. Sweet, shy Ellen was a newcomer, a stranger to them all.

When Jeff’s daughter had declared she did not want a birthday party, he had dismissed her attitude as plain stubbornness. Only now, looking down at the group on the lawn, did he truly understand her reasons. His Ellen sat alone, isolated in the seat of honor, while the other guests formed their own clusters on either side of her. None of the girls seemed to be paying her any attention at all.

Jeff ached with helpless worry. A more outgoing child might have bridged the gap and made friends. But Ellen had experienced so much aloneness in her young life that she only invited more. Worse, there seemed to be nothing he could do for her. The therapist said these things took time. But how much time? It had been more than eighteen months since Meredith—

Brooding over the past wouldn’t help, he reminded himself harshly. Ellen could only heal in her own time. As for him, the single antidote to what had happened was work.

As he turned to leave the window, his attention was drawn once more to the clown. She was prancing before the group, juggling a rainbow of multicolored balls. Jo-Jo, or whoever she was, had been right about nine-year-olds, he conceded. The lady had drawn one tough audience. But at least she was in there pitching. Not only was her juggling ability impressive, but she was making a real effort to involve the girls.

He watched as one of the balls disappeared into thin air, only to be plucked magically from behind one little blonde’s ear. The young audience giggled—more at the girl, Jeff suspected, than at the trick itself, but at least they were laughing. Jo-Jo the Clown knew her stuff.

Giving in to an impulse, he settled himself against the window to watch. A vague, yearning tingle passed through him as he remembered the husky timbre of her voice and the flash of those intriguing eyes. It would be an interesting challenge to find out what she looked like under that ridiculous wig and makeup. She sounded like a cuddly Lauren Bacall—but then, a man’s imagination played strange tricks. He was probably just as well off not knowing.

She had finished the juggling routine and was digging something else out of her lumpy green duffel. From where he stood, it appeared to be a box of long, thin balloons. Yes—she was blowing them up now, twisting them into clever animal shapes for each of the girls. As entertainment, it was corny, but her skill was mesmerizing. Although he would never have believed it possible, she had those jaded youngsters in the palms of her deft little hands. She damned near had him!

For another minute, perhaps, he remained glued to the window, fascinated by the puzzle of the woman beneath Jo-Jo the Clown. There was something about the quaint little figure—an air of grace and spirit….

But enough of this time wasting; he had work to do!

Reluctantly Jeff forced himself away from the view and back to his drafting table. Shutting out the distractions of the warm summer day and the disturbing little clown, he refocused his thoughts on the hospital plans. The ideas were just beginning to flow again when he heard his mother’s no-nonsense tread coming up the stairs.

“Jeff!—” Her agitated breathing told him she was upset. “You’ve got to come down and help me! It’s Ellen! She’s left her own party! She’s gone!”

Now what?

Kate rummaged in her duffel bag, wondering how much longer she could hold this show together on her own, with no guest of honor and no hostess.

She had glanced up from inflating the last few balloons to see Ellen Parrish slip away from her table and wander off in the direction of the house. If the other girls had noticed, none of them had spoken up, and Kate wasn’t about to call attention to the poor child, who was more than likely just feeling sick to her stomach. It was only a few minutes later, when Ellen’s grandmother caught sight of the empty chair, that the strain had burst into the open.

“Where could that child have gone?” she’d exclaimed, visibly at her wit’s end. “You—Clown—carry on while I go and find out what’s gotten into her!”

Jo-Jo hadn’t been doing too badly up to that point, but now things were beginning to come apart. The girls were whispering and giggling like a flock of restless budgie birds, and Kate knew the cheap pocket toys she’d brought along as favors would be no help at all. Groping in the duffel bag, her hand closed on the spare makeup case she carried for touch-ups. Suddenly she had an idea.

“Say, who wants to be a clown?” she exclaimed, speaking for the first time as she opened the case on a tabletop. “Come on, I need a volunteer!”

The girls buzzed and twittered, then shoved one of their peers to the center of the circle. It was the little Shirley Temple blonde Kate had noticed earlier.

“So, what’s your name, dear?” she asked in an encouraging tone.

“Muffet. Muffet Bodell. My father is—”

“How would you like to be a clown, Muffet?”

“Uh, I guess it would be—”

“Wonderful!” Kate plopped the little girl onto a chair and swiftly fashioned a makeshift cape out of a táblecloth. “Come closer and watch, girls. Then we’ll see who’d like to be next! Now…the first step in putting on clown makeup is to rub on lots and lots of white…”

The other girls crowded around, fascinated, as their playmate acquired a clown-white face, red cheeks and big, round, painted eyes. Kate was just adding some eyelashes when she heard a horrified gasp from behind her.

“No! Oh, no, no, no!”

She turned around to see Mrs. Parrish descending on her like a lavender steam locomotive. “How could you do this?” she snapped. “Muffet is Congressman Bodell’s daughter. Her mother is coming by to pick her up and take her to a wedding. She’ll be here any minute—and just look at the child!”

Kate grabbed a jar of cold cream and a handful of tissues. “I’m sorry, but no one told me a thing. We were just—”

“Here, I’ll do that!” The woman snatched the tissues out of Kate’s hand. “You’re already in enough trouble! I just talked to the cook. Ellen has disappeared with your daughter!”

“Flannery?” Kate’s heart plummeted. “But I told her to stay right there with Floss! She wouldn’t just disobey me and—”

“Well, it seems she did! Floss told me that Ellen wandered into the kitchen and the two of them started talking. The next time Floss turned around, they were both gone! My son’s out looking for them now, but I’m warning you, if anything’s happened to my granddaughter, I’ll hold you responsible!”

Worry, chagrin and indignation yanked at Kate’s emotions. “Look, I know you’re upset, but they shouldn’t be in any danger. Flannery knows the neighborhood and the beaches. She may have disobeyed me, but she’s not foolhardy enough to—”

“Never mind!” the woman snapped. “The party is over! I’ll look after these girls until their parents come for them. Meanwhile, if you have any notion where your daughter might have taken Ellen—”

Kate’s frayed emotions snapped. “Merciful heaven, you’re making it sound as if Flannery’s kidnapped her!” she burst out against her better judgment. “If you think you can just stand there and imply that—”

“I’m implying nothing! I just want my granddaughter found forthwith! Now if you wouldn’t mind—”

“I’m going. And don’t worry, I’ll find them.” Kate waddled off toward the house, clutching the shattered remains of her dignity. She could feel the eyes of the little girls drilling into her back like bullets from a firing squad. For all she knew, they’d concluded she was part of some evil conspiracy to lure small children with her clown act, then spirit them away into slavery or worse. If such a story got around, Jo-Jo would be finished for the season, maybe for good.

That Flannery!

What could have gotten into the child? Kate brooded as she trudged around to the kitchen entrance, intending to speak with Floss. Flannery was usually so obedient. Why on earth would she—

Oof!

The collision with Jeff Parrish was a solid blow, as if she’d run headlong into a brick wall. Kate reeled backward, the physical shock triggering an unexpected rush of tears. After this ghastly afternoon, all she wanted was to find Flannery, pile the clown things into the Jeep, and drive home. The last thing she needed was another encounter with this irritating man!

“Would you like to try that maneuver again? I don’t think I’ve quite gotten the hang of it.” He was standing on the kitchen stoop, making no move to let her pass.

Kate’s defiant gaze measured his muscular frame, moving upward to a square, suntanned face with a nose that would have looked more at home on a prizefighter than the architect she’d been told he was. It was not a glamorous face, not even a handsome face in the usual sense—but he did have unsettling gray eyes. A closer look confirmed that they were the same color as his daughter’s—except that Ellen’s eyes were like stormy sea clouds. Jeff Parrish’s eyes were the cold steel gray of bridge girders.

Kate realized she was staring at him. She groped for a clever remark and came up empty except for the emotions that threatened to bubble over and disgrace her on the spot.

“Oh, get out of my way!” she muttered, starting to edge around him. “I haven’t got time for this!”

Only then did she notice his shirt—a soft polo, obviously expensive, its color an immaculate ice blue against his golden skin—

Immaculate, except for the big, ugly makeup smear in front, where her face had slammed into his chest.

“Oh!” She noticed it the same time he did. “I’m sorry— no, sorry doesn’t say it! I’m mortified! I’ll pay to have it cleaned—”

“Cleaned?” He craned his neck, examining the spot. “No, wait! This could have possibilities! Maybe we could add a stencil saying ‘I Bumped Into Jo-Jo the Clown.’ You know, sort of like those old Tammi Faye shirts that were hot sellers a few years back. Think what great publicity it would be for you, Jo-Jo.”

“My name isn’t Jo-Jo.” Kate popped off the rubber nose and jammed it irritably into her pocket. “It’s Kathryn. Kate. Kate Valera.”

“I Bumped Into Kate Valera. No, I’m sorry. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

“Are you always this sarcastic?”

“Only when it suits me.” The barest hint of a spark flashed in his eyes, only to vanish when he spoke again. “If you’re looking for your daughter, she’s not in the kitchen.”

“I know. Your mother seems to think that Flannery has spirited your Ellen away and is holding her for ransom in some murky cave! I came by the house to see what I could learn from Floss. Then I’m going to look for the girls. So if you’ve still got work to do—”

“I’ve already spoken with Floss. From what she told me, I’d say our two young fugitives have gone to the beach. I was just on my way to look for them. If that chip on your shoulder isn’t weighing you down too much, you’re welcome to come with me.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “Chip on my shoulder…” she sputtered. “Of all the—”

“That’s what I said.” He steered her away from the house with a firm grip on her upper arm. “Now, stop arguing and come along. We’ve got a couple of lost daughters to find!”

Chapter Two

“So how long have you been, uh, clowning around?” Jeff realized the question was inane as soon as he’d asked it. First sarcasm, now lame wordplays. Thank goodness he wasn’t trying to impress this lady.

“Doing Jo-Jo, you mean?” She had a cute nose without that silly rubber ball. Small and pert—and was that a tiny freckle on the end, where the paint had rubbed off? He found himself itching for a closer look.

“Uh-huh. I saw your juggling act from the window. Pretty impressive.”

“My grandfather taught me how to juggle when I was ten.” She marched along beside him, picking up each clumsy shoe and putting it down flat to keep from stumbling in the long sea grass. “As for the rest of the act, about five years ago, I sent off for a video course in clowning. After a few months’ practice, I made the costume, bought the wig and makeup, and voilà! Jo-Jo was born!”

She paused to work her way around a thick clump of sedge. Jeff slowed his pace to wait for her, savoring the uneasy truce that had settled between them. Whatever she might look like under that clown getup, she struck him as a plucky little woman, smart and down to earth. And sexy, he conceded—which was damned strange, considering he’d never seen her face, let alone her figure.

“Jo-Jo’s been a good sideline,” she continued, “at least in the summer. If you count church fund-raisers and passing out cheese dip samples at Piggly Wiggly, I do two or three appearances a week. But I lied to you about one thing earlier this afternoon.”

“About my being smug, arrogant and self-satisfied?”

“Hardly.” Her eyes flashed danger.

Jeff faked an indifferent shrug. “All right. I’m waiting to hear your confession.”

“I lied about the money I earn as Jo-Jo. It doesn’t go to pay bills. I put every cent of it into my daughter’s college fund.”

“And you lied about that—for shame! What could have possessed you?” He studied the stubborn outline of her profile, thinking it was extraordinary of her, going through this idiot clown charade for her child’s future. He would have liked to tell her so, but something held him back. This woman was proud, he sensed—too proud to welcome such a compliment.

“It just came out,” she said. “But I don’t like lying. Not even to you.”

“Oh, thanks a lot” Jeff struck up the side of the first dune, feeling the sea wind like the stroke of cool fingers in his hair. From beyond the crest, he could hear the roll and hiss of the incoming tide. Silently he prayed that two venturesome little girls would have the sense to stay back from the waves.

“What do you do the rest of the year?” he asked, shifting the conversation back to neutral ground.

“The rest of the year, I batten down my house against the nor’easters and mostly hole up in my pottery studio,” she answered. “What gave you the idea the girls went to the beach? Was it something Floss told you?”

“Right—careful!” Jeff grabbed her elbow to steady her on the sandy slope. Her arm felt lean and strong. He liked touching her. “It struck me as a bit strange,” he said, “but Floss claimed she overheard them talking about…mermaids.”

“Mermaids!” Her laugh was low and cool, with a delicious little bite to it, like iced Kahlúa on a sweltering summer day. “I should have guessed! My daughter loves mermaids! She’s writing a book about them!”

“A book?” Jeff felt a hillock of sand give way beneath his step, filling his shoe with grit. He cursed mildly under his breath. “I thought we were looking for a youngster.”

“We are.” The glance she flashed him was ripe with mystery. Then she, too, stumbled in the cascade of loose sand. Her big, clown feet splayed in opposite directions, and she went down hard on her padded rump.

Caught between gallantry and amusement, Jeff stretched out a hand. She reached up tentatively, then withdrew, shaking her shaggy, purple mane. “It’s no use! I can’t climb sand dunes in these idiot shoes. I’ll have to get rid of them and catch up with you—go on.”

“Go on? And leave a lady in distress? I’d never live it down. Here…” Jeff slid to the sand at her feet and began tugging at her tightly knotted shoelaces. She sank back against the dune in tacit consent, resting, but far from relaxed.

“Are you sure you should be out here alone with me?” she ventured. “Your mother was upset enough when our daughters disappeared together. If her son vanishes, too…” She broke off, her small, even teeth pressing her lower lip as if she’d said too much.

“I’m a big boy. Even my mother knows that.” Jeff tugged off one of the platter-sized shoes and the thick cotton sweat sock she wore underneath. Her narrow-boned foot was as pink and innocent as a child’s. For a heartbeat, he cradled it like a captive seabird in his big, brown hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against his palm. A subtle electric pulse trickled up his arm, awakening his whole body to a quivering awareness of—

No, this was not a good idea.

“I realize she comes on a little stridently,” he said, reaching for the other shoe, “but don’t misjudge my mother. She never expected to be raising another child at the age of sixty. She does her best, and I know how much she cares for Ellen, but I daresay it hasn’t been an easy adjustment for either of them. Sometimes that shows.”

Her blue-green eyes studied him from their painted circles, their expression as unreadable as a cat’s. Seconds ticked by before she spoke.

“Do you mind my asking what happened to Ellen’s mother?”

“She died over a year ago—in an automobile accident.” Jeff tugged at the stubbornly knotted shoelace. No use going into the ugly details—Meredith’s drinking, her affair with one of his clients, the bitter divorce that would have become final six days after she crashed her Mercedes into an oncoming truck….

“I’m sorry,” said the clown.

“We—were all sorry?” Jeff jerked the knot loose and twisted off the other shoe. The sock came with it. “Come on,” he muttered. “We’d better get moving if we want to find our daughters.”

He gave her a hand up, surprised at the power in her thin fingers. Then he waited while she knotted the ends of her shoelaces and flung the shoes over her shoulder. Her bare feet gripped the sand as they mounted the dune.

Kathryn. Kate. Kate Valera. The name had a nice ring to it. Almost as nice as her voice. And her eyes.

But what was he thinking? He wasn’t ready for another woman in his life, let alone a free-spirited throwback to the seventies, who made pottery, masqueraded as a clown and, for all he knew, could look like a basset hound under that greasepaint.

Oh, sooner or later he planned to remarry—to provide a mother for Ellen, if nothing else. But the few dates he’d tried in recent months had been disasters, underscoring the fact that he was still too raw, too angry for a new relationship.

But why was he being so damned analytical? He had no intention of dating this woman. He was making polite conversation with her, that was all. They would find their little girls, go their separate ways, and if he passed her on the street later, without that crazy clown paint, the odds were he would not even recognize her.

“What about you?” he asked. “You said you were alone.”

“Flannery’s father—he, uh, we separated before she was born.”

“Flannery?” he asked, bringing her back. “As in Flannery O’Connor?”

“Uh-huh. She’s my favorite author. Have you read her?”

“My freshman English professor assigned us a couple of her stories.” Jeff could not remember the titles or what the stories had been about. Now he found himself wishing he’d paid them more attention.

“So your Flannery’s an author, too.”

“Absolutely. She’s already filled up four spiral note-books. Who knows? We may have a bestseller on our hands, in which case, Jo-Jo can retire, and Flannery can put me through college!”

“But mermaids! Lord, why doesn’t she write about something sensible, or at least real?”

Blue lightning sparked in her eyes. “Watch it, mister! Flannery happens to be the world’s foremost authority on mermaids!”

“Then I can’t imagine that she and Ellen would have much in common. Ellen has been raised the way my parents raised me—in the world of truth and reality. No talking teapots. No animals with human personalities. No dragons, no fairy princesses—”

“And only anatomically correct teddy bears, I suppose! Good grief, that poor child—”

“Excuse me.” Jeff had gone rigid. “Are you presuming to tell me how to raise my daughter?”

She turned on him at the top of the dune, the sea wind ruffling her wild, purple hair. “I’m not presuming to tell you anything, you stuffy, pompous—”

“You watch it, lady!”

She faced him. almost toe-to-toe, undaunted by his size and his anger. “You wouldn’t listen if I did tell you! But then, why should I have to tell you anything? Just look at your little girl! Look how unhappy she is—”

“And you’re suggesting that a dose of fantasy will cure that?” He thrust his own steel into her intense blue-green gaze. “Answer me this, then, Kate Valera, or Jo-Jo the Clown, or whoever you think you are! Will fantasy bring back Ellen’s mother? Will fantasy give her a real family again?”

Her eyes held steady, but her lips had begun to tremble in the center of her painted clown smile. “I don’t know how to answer that,” she whispered, “except to say that I—I feel sorry for you!”

She spun away from him and stalked off along the crest of the dune. Jeff glared after the slight, lumpy figure, his mind still hearing the little catch in her voice. If it had been tears, then the woman was an emotional fool, he told himself. The last thing he and Ellen needed was pity, especially from someone who knew so little about her.

Mermaids indeed! No, Ellen didn’t need that kind of nonsense either! According to the therapist, what she needed was to accept the reality of. her mother’s loss, not escape from it. If he could just make that mule-headed little clown person understand—

“Wait up!” he called after her. “You’re not getting away without hearing my side of—”

“I see our daughters,” she said quietly, glancing back over her shoulder as if she hadn’t heard him. “They’re out on the end of the spit. Look…”

Jeff’s gaze followed the direction of her pointing arm, anxiously scanning the long, pale crescent of beach below the dunes. About two hundred yards away, on a rocky spit of land that jutted into the pounding surf, he saw them— two dark specks, perched on the flat top of a high rock, oblivious to the waves that crashed around them.

“Damn!” Jeff’s fear exploded as anger through his clenched teeth. “Look at that tide! Don’t they realize it’ll be over the spit in a minute or two? They’ll be cut off from the beach! And if they try to get back then—” He cupped his hands to his mouth, and was about to shout when he felt her cool, taut fingers on his bare arm.

“They won’t be able to hear you over the surf,” she said. “Come on, we’ve got to get down there!”

Without waiting for him to follow, she bounded down the slope of the dune, half-sliding, half-falling in her tie-off dyed clown suit. Jeff charged after her, each step setting off a small avalanche of sand. He knew this beach well. The girls were safe enough on their high rock, but if they realized their predicament and tried to cross the wave-swept spit, they could be washed into the ocean.

Kate had reached the level beach and was running fullout, her bare feet spattering the edge of the tide foam. Jeff could see the girls clearly now—Ellen, with her dark hair and pale yellow dress; carrot-topped Flannery, wearing shorts and a green T-shirt. They were sitting close together, staring out to sea, oblivious to the danger behind them.

Sheets of water were already whipping over the spit. He didn’t dare shout now or do anything that might draw the girls’ attention. If they saw him and tried to come back on their own, the waves would sweep them away.

Kate was flagging. Jeff saw her stumble, then catch herself and plunge ahead. With a surge of effort, he sprinted past her and raced toward the spit, silently praying the girls would stay put until he could reach them.

Gritty seawater swirled around his ankles as he pounded into the surf. The tide was coming in fast now. Its powerful undertow sucked at Jeff’s legs as he waded deeper. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Kate. She had plunged recklessly into the waves and was struggling after him. With a scowl, he motioned her back. The water was getting deep. It would be rough going for her in that soggy clown getup, and the last thing he needed was another body to rescue and haul ashore.

The girls had spotted him. Ellen was waving, dancing up and down like an excited jack-in-the-box. Flannery, he noticed, was hanging back with more caution. One hand gripped the skirt of Ellen’s sundress, as if to prevent her from leaping into the sea. The other hand clutched a brown spiral notebook.

“Stay put!” Jeff shouted, but his words were sucked into the roar of exploding surf. Sand dissolved under his feet as he rounded the narrow curve of the spit. The water hissed and clawed at his legs like a demented wildcat.

An eternity seemed to pass before he reached the rock. Looking up, he could see Ellen. She was straining toward him, her gray eyes round with fear. Only Flannery’s terrier grip on her skirt kept her from losing her balance and toppling into the waves.

“Come on!” Jeff held out his arms, and Ellen clambered into them, clinging to his neck like a frightened monkey. Shifting her to a piggyback position, he reached upward for Flannery.

Kate’s daughter hesitated. Her right hand clutched the notebook as her narrow, hazel eyes measured the distance between them. Then, with the fearlessness of an acrobat, she flung herself into space.

Jeff tensed as he caught her against his chest. She was taller than Ellen and lighter, her body all bone and sinew in his arms. Her freckled features were as sharp as an elf’s below the kinky bonfire of her hair. Even now, Jeff could not help wondering how much this rather strange child resembled her mother.

Water churned around his hips, threatening to drag him down with his precious burden. “Hang on,” he muttered, battling for a foothold on the treacherous bottom. “Whatever happens, don’t let go of me!” He staggered toward the beach, each step an adventure in peril. The girls weren’t heavy, but their weight was enough to throw him off balance. One false step, and they would all go down.

Through a curtain of sea spray, he could see Kate. She had left the beach and was toiling toward him through the battering surf. He wanted to shout at her, to warn her to stay back, but Kate Valera was a stubborn woman, and he was carrying her daughter. Even if she could hear him, Jeff knew she wouldn’t listen.

The water grew shallower, but no less violent, as the slope of the beach rose under his feet. Kate had almost reached him. She was stretching out her arms to take Flannery when a wave struck her from the side, knocking her off her feet and flinging her toward him.

Jeff had no free hand to grab her. He fought for balance as she crashed into him and went down. “Hang on to me!” he shouted over the roar of the surf. Her arms clutched his legs as he staggered out of the water, dragging her with him.

It took a moment for Jeff to realize they were safe, all of them, on the warm, dry sand. Still clutching her notebook, Flannery let go of Jeff’s neck and dropped lightly to her feet. Ellen clung, trembling, to his back. He unpeeled her arms and eased her downward.

Kate sprawled on the sand. Her wig was askew, her makeup smeared. The padding under her clown suit drooped with seawater. She looked so pathetic, and so ludicrous, that Jeff might have laughed—except there was nothing funny about the situation.

“Flannery Valera, you come here this minute!” She pushed herself to a sitting position, eyes sparking like flints. Her orange-haired daughter shuffled forward, eyes downcast, notebook clutched to her chest.

“What do you think you were doing, young lady?” Kate demanded. “You were told to stay in the kitchen! When we get home, you and I are going to have a long—”

“Oh, please don’t punish Flannery!” Ellen darted between them like a fragile, yellow butterfly. “It was my fault! I asked her to take me out on the rocks! She said no at first, but I begged her—”

“Why?” Jeff placed a hand on his child’s shoulder and turned her around to face him. “Why on earth would you want to go out on those dangerous rocks, Ellen?”

Ellen’s velvet eyes held an expression Jeff had never seen before—a look of pure, radiant wonder.

“Flannery told me about the mermaids. She said that if you sit on the rocks and listen with all your heart, sometimes you can hear them singing—”

“Ellen!” Jeff groaned in dismay. “That’s nonsense, and you know it! There’s no such thing as—”

“But you’re wrong, Daddy!” Ellen’s small frame quivered with certainty. “They’re real! I heard them out there! I listened with all my heart, and I heard the mermaids singing!”

Kate trudged miserably up the side of the dune. Her sand-caked costume hung like a sack of potatoes on her sweltering body. The saltwater residue on her skin was beginning to itch, and her damp wig had been discovered by a colony of friendly sand flies. All she wanted to do, at this point, was find the Jeep, go home, take a long, cool shower—and nail her daughter’s little freckled hide to the living room wall.

The afternoon had been a string of disasters, but this was the capper. For the most part, she enjoyed Flannery’s creative nature and allowed her youthful imagination free rein. But when Flannery’s imagination overruled good judgment and put her and another child in danger—

“Are you going to make it all right?” Jeff Parrish glanced over his shoulder with a superior scowl—his usual expression, Kate surmised. To avoid his gaze, she had deliberately dropped behind him in their trek up the dune. Her position, however, gave her a mouth-watering view of his rugged shoulders, tapering back and taut, muscular buttocks. Jefferson Parrish III might be a pain in the fanny, but he was also, Kate conceded, a world-class hunk.

“Kate?” He was waiting for an answer to his question.

“I’ll be—fine,” Kate muttered, blowing a sand fly out of her face. “Just get me back to my Jeep so I can drive home and forget this whole wretched afternoon!”

“You didn’t have to go into the water,” he said. “With the heavy surf, and you in all that padding, you should have known what would happen.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” Kate snapped. “I was concerned about my daughter—and yours. And speaking of our daughters, how far ahead of us are they? Can you see them?”

“They’re just over the top of the dune. They’ll be fine.”

“Except that Flannery is probably filling your Ellen’s head with more of that fantasy nonsense—oh, I saw your face when Ellen said she’d heard the mermaids. Your expression was definitely not a pretty sight.”

“Here.” He reached back, caught her hand, and yanked her up to his own level on the dune. “I want to be able to talk to you without getting a kink in my neck,” he explained.

“So talk.” Kate feigned an indifferent shrug, her saltsoaked bra straps chafing her tender flesh. “See if you can tell me anything I haven’t already figured out.”

“I was hoping that chip on your shoulder had washed off in the ocean.”

“No such luck. But at least I’m willing to listen.”

“I’ll take that into account.” He climbed in silence for the next few steps, his fingers still gripping hers. His palm was as smooth as fine Italian leather—but then, Jefferson Parrish III had probably never lifted anything heavier than a cricket bat. Maybe that was how he’d broken that quirkily gorgeous nose of his.

“This probably sounds stuffy, but I don’t know how else to explain it,” he said, his free hand swinging her clown shoes, which he’d gallantly fished out of the surf. “We Parrishes are raised with certain values—ethics, if you will. We take pride in passing those values down from one generation to the next.”

Like congenital arrogance, Kate almost said, but she managed to bite back the words.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. But family tradition is a serious matter. I was raised the way my father was raised, and his father and grandfather before him—to value honesty and hard work, to do one’s best in every effort and to shun anything that smacks of falsehood or frivolity—”

“Such as fairy tales. And mermaids.”

“Exactly.”’He sounded so smug that Kate could have punched him.

“But Ellen’s just a little girl—”

“We raise our girls the same way. My older sister is a neurosurgeon. One of my aunts was a civil engineer. Another taught physics at Radcliffe—”

“And what if Ellen doesn’t want to become a surgeon or an engineer or a physicist?”

His penetrating scowl knotted the thick, dark brows above his steely eyes. “You’re missing the point, Kate. Ellen will be free to become whatever she chooses. But as her. father, it’s my duty to see that her choices are based on sound, realistic principles.”

“I see.” Kate wiped a sweat bead off her nose. Overhead a pair of gulls wheeled and cried in a giddy mating dance. “And what if Ellen makes mistakes?” she asked. “What then?”

“If I do my job as a parent, that’s unlikely to happen. Most mistakes, after all, are based on unrealistic expectations.”

“But hasn’t anyone in your family ever made a mistake? For heaven’s sake, haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

She felt his hand go rigid, then withdraw from hers as they rounded the top of the dune. “You ask too many questions, Kate Valera,” he said coldly. “Come on, let’s catch up with our daughters and get you back to your Jeep.”

Kate clung to her silence, keeping a tight rein on her emotions as they trooped down the leeward slope toward the house. Jeff Parrish was the last person who deserved her sympathy, she told herself. The man was too cocksure, too boastful of a family tradition that turned children into little automatons with no freedom to dream and imagine. Worse, he was raising his sensitive daughter to be a copy of his cold, success-driven self. The whole situation was deplorable!

So why, as her gaze outlined the back of his elegantly rugged head, was her mind flitting through visions of cradling that head in the warm furrow between her breasts while her fingers tunneled the rich, dark silver of his hair?…

Merciful heaven, maybe she was the one who needed a healthy dose of reality!

She could see the girls now. They were skipping down the slope of the dune, hand in hand, as if they’d been friends for years. And even that was odd, Kate reflected. Flannery had always been a loner, choosing the world of her own creative imagination over the company of other children. What would draw her to a shy child like Ellen Parrish?

But the answer made no difference, Kate reminded herself bitterly. After today’s fiasco, the two little girls would not be allowed to see each other again.

Mrs. Parrish had come out of the house. She strode across the lawn like a clipper under full sail, her purple dress fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Where the grass lost itself at the foot of the dune, she paused, wringing her hands in a classic portrait of agitation.

“Ellen!” she called. “Where have you been, child? Don’t you realize what bad manners it shows, wandering away from your little guests like that? If you want those nice young ladies to be your friends—”

“It’s all right, Mother.” Jeff had sprinted ahead to catch up with the girls, leaving Kate to trail in at her own pace. “I’ll speak with Ellen alone after she’s had a chance to think about what she did.” He turned on his daughter with an imperious frown. “Upstairs with you now, Ellen. You’re not to come down again until we’ve talked. Understand?”

“Can’t Flannery come with me?” Ellen clung to her new friend’s hand, eyes wide and imploring.

“I’m sorry, Ellen, but Flannery has to go home now.” Kate elected to play the meanie—anything to end this miserable farce and make her getaway.

“But she can come back tomorrow, can’t she?” Ellen persisted. “Oh, please let her come!”

“Go upstairs, Ellen.” Jeff’s eyes were granite slits. “Now.”

With a heartrending sob, Ellen broke her grip on Flannery’s hand and fled toward the house.

“Mom, can’t I—”

“Be still, Flannery, you’ve caused enough trouble for one afternoon.” Kate clasped her daughter’s shoulder. Then, struggling for dignity in her smeared makeup and waterlogged costume, she squared her chin and turned back toward Jefferson Parrish III and his imposing mother.

“We’ll be going now,” she declared. “And please don’t worry about paying the agency for my time, Mrs. Parrish. I’ll make sure they know that this performance was on…me.”

It was all Kate could do to get the words out before the waves of anger and humiliation swept over her. Jeff Parrish held out her shoes. She snatched them out of his hand and spun away, her throat jerking as she led her daughter across the lawn to the road, where the Jeep was parked.

Summer people!

Chapter Three

Jeff was hauling chairs and tables into the storage shed when he stumbled over the green duffel lying open on the grass. Only after he’d caught his balance did he realize what he’d found. “Damn,” he muttered, his emotions slamming between dismay and a strange, primitive elation. “Damn.”

He stood still for a moment, the lonesome cry of a kittiwake echoing in his ears. Inky clouds were swirling in over the dunes. The breeze carried the cool smell of rain. Kate would need the duffel before her next Jo-Jo performance, he reminded himself. He would have to get it back to her.

Jeff exhaled slowly, then, drawn by an urge too strong to resist, lowered himself to a crouch and began rummaging through the contents of the faded canvas bag. If he could find an address, or a phone number—

But who was he kidding? It was plain male curiosity that was driving this search. The odd little clown with the sexy voice had gotten to him in a most unsettling way, and he was looking for a clue—any clue—about the woman beneath that padding and greasepaint. A driver’s license photo, an article of clothing…

But the bag held no surprises. There was nothing inside except clown props—a small boom box and an assortment of tapes, the fluorescent balls from the juggling act, a sack of leftover balloons, a bag of cheap party favors and a battered tin fishing-tackle box that contained brushes, tissues, cold cream and tubes of greasy stage makeup. There was nothing of real interest—except for a name and address scratched inside the tackle box lid.

Frank Valera, 81 Seacove Road, Misty Point, N.C.

Jeff frowned pensively as he latched the box and zipped it inside the duffel bag. Kate had mentioned that she was single. So who was Frank Valera? Her brother? Her ex?

But what did that matter? Jeff reminded himself as he tossed the duffel in the trunk of his silver-gray BMW and slammed the lid. Kate’s private life was none of his business. He would return her things, drive home, and that would be the end of it.

The end?

The end of what?

For Pete’s sake, he barely knew Kate Valera. He wasn’t even sure what she looked like. He was making altogether too much of this, Jeff berated himself as he carted the last few folding chairs into the shed and padlocked the door. Maybe he’d spent too many months living like a blasted monk, cloistered in his work. Maybe it was time he came out of his shell and found himself a woman—a genteel, socially accomplished lady who would set a fine example for his daughter.

The wind was picking up. It raked Jeff’s hair as he strode toward the house. It rippled the grass and lashed his face with the first cool raindrops. Lightning crackled blue fire above the dunes, its resounding thunderclap echoing over the ghostly hiss of the ocean.

Mermaids!

Yes, it was time he had that talk with Ellen.

The rain was splattering down by the time Jeff reached the front steps. He sprinted across the wet verandah and hurried inside through the front door.

The house was silent except for the staccato patter of raindrops against the glass. Jeff was shutting an open window when he remembered that his mother had gone out for early dinner and a movie with Mrs. Frances Appleton, who lived up the road. Floss, the cook, had the evening off—so much the better, Jeff resolved. He would build a fire, then make Ellen some hot cocoa and toasted cheese sandwiches. The two of them could enjoy an evening alone reading or playing a few games of checkers, and there would be plenty of opportunity to talk her out of this mermaid nonsense before bedtime.

There was the matter of Kate Valera’s bag. But—yes— he could return it after his mother came home. Maybe he would give Kate a call about it later if her number was in the book. The thought of hearing that delicious, raspy little voice in his ear…

“Ellen…” he shouted from the foot of the staircase. “Hey, come on down, and I’ll make us some supper!”

The only answer was the sound of rain.

“Ellen?” He started up the stairs, wondering why she hadn’t replied. He’d been a bit harsh with her earlier, but it wasn’t like his daughter to sulk.

“Hey, answer me! This isn’t funny!” He reached the landing and paused, listening. Outside, thunder boomed across the sky and raindrops splattered the wooden shingles. Inside, the silence was louder than the storm.

“Ellen!” He raced down the hall toward the closed door of her room. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and couldn’t hear him. Maybe…

His heart stopped as he reached the door and flung it open. Ellen’s small neat room, with its white ruffled bedspread and framed Renoir prints, was empty.

Kate stepped out of the shower, flung a towel around her short, auburn hair and shrugged into her thick, green terry robe. The steamy air surrounded her like a blanket. She inhaled its damp warmth, forcing the afternoon’s events to the back of her mind. Yes, she was doing better. Maybe after a cup of good, hot herbal tea, she would feel almost human again.

She opened the bathroom window to clear the steam. Outside, the storm had grown savage. Rain battered the sides of the small clapboard house. Wind lashed the oleander bushes and tore at the wisteria vine Kate had trained with such patience, threatening to rip its tendrils from the eaves. The roiling clouds matched the stormy hue of Jeff Parrish’s eyes.

Kate pattered down the hallway to her room, tossed the towel on the bed, and finger-combed the tangles out of her hair. Forget Jeff Parrish, she admonished herself. The man was a hopeless, hidebound snob, and she pitied any woman addlepated enough to give him a second glance.

As for his ridiculous family tradition—

A knock at the front door, faint but insistent, shattered her train of thought. Kate hesitated; then, remembering she’d remanded Flannery to her room, she knotted the sash on her robe and hurried down the hall. As she raced across the living room, the weak tapping, like the peck of a stormtossed bird, grew more urgent, more frantic.

She flung open the door to find a small, forlorn figure trembling on the stoop.

“Ellen!” She swept the little girl inside. Jeff Parrish’s daughter was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, all soaked with rain. Water dripped off the end of her nose and streamed down her hair to puddle on the floor.

Kate seized a knitted afghan off the couch and flung it around the shivering little body. There would be time for questions later. Right now she had to get the child warm and dry.

Racing back down the hall, she snatched an armful of towels from the bathroom shelf. She returned to find that Flannery had come out of her room. “Get Ellen some dry clothes,” Kate ordered, letting the violation pass for now. “Something warm. Then, young lady, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

“Can Ellen stay here? Please—”

“Flannery, you’re really pushing it!”

“I only drew her a map to our house,” Flannery said. “I didn’t know she’d be coming here tonight, in the rain.”

“Go on,” Kate sighed. “Get the clothes. We’ll deal with what you did later.” She took the thickest towel and began blotting rainwater from Ellen’s long, black hair. The child’s father and grandmother were probably frantic. As soon as she got Ellen dried off, Kate resolved, she would hurry to the phone and call them.

Ellen had begun to respond to the warm blanket and vigorous toweling. The color had returned to her cheeks. Her shy, gray eyes explored the room, lingering on the plump, orange tabby curled among the sofa cushions.

“What’s his name?” she asked, her teeth still chattering a little.

“Her name. It’s Mehitabel. She’s named after a cat in a book of poems.”

“Can I pet her?”

“As soon as you’re dried off.” Kate tugged the neck of the soggy, pink T-shirt over Ellen’s ears. “I don’t suppose your father knows where you are, does he?”

Ellen shook her head, rosebud lips pressed tightly together as the shirt pulled free of her head. Her eyes, when she looked at Kate, were large with wonder.

“Are you…the clown?”

Kate chuckled in spite of herself. “That’s right, dear. This is the real me. Or maybe it’s Jo-Jo who’s the real me. After a day like this one, I’m not so sure.”

“And do you believe in mermaids?”

A warning flickered in Kate’s mind. “I believe in the gift of imagination,” she said, tucking the afghan around Ellen’s bare chest and shoulders. “Hang on a sec, and I’ll see if Flannery’s found you some dry clothes. Then you can pet Mehitabel while I call your—”

The rap at the door was fierce and urgent. Kate froze, her mouth suddenly dry, her pulse jumping like a beached pompano. There was no need to wonder who was outside, or to question what was going through his mind. Any way you looked at it, the next few minutes were not bound to be pleasant.

Steeling herself for the confrontation to come, Kate squared her shoulders and marched across the room to answer the door.

Kate’s house had not been difficult to find. Jeff remembered it, in fact, from the summers of his boyhood—a lowslung structure that clung to the rim of the beach, its clapboard exterior so weathered that the house looked more like an outsize hunk of driftwood than a dwelling place. An elderly man had lived here back then, Jeff recalled, a salty, reclusive old codger he’d often seen shuffling along the edge of the tide with his two mongrel dogs.

But never mind the past—it was Kate Valera who lived here now. Through the drizzling curtain of rain, he could see her Jeep parked in the makeshift carport. He could see the faint glow of light through curtained windows—and as he raised his hand to knock again, Jeff could only hope to heaven she would know something about Ellen.

The door opened before his knuckles could strike again. The woman who stood before him, haloed by the lamplight behind her, was even smaller than he remembered. Her damp, reddish curls spilled around a sharp little fox face that seemed to be mostly eyes. Her hands tugged nervously at the sash of a thick green bathrobe that looked about four sizes too big for her.

“Ellen’s here,” she said calmly. “Come on in.”

Jeff stepped across the threshold, dimly aware of the light and warmth that enfolded him as he did so. Relief jellied his knees as he spotted his daughter huddled in the corner of a flowered sofa, her arms embracing an immense, mustard-colored cat.

Fear dissolved into anger as he took a step toward her. “Young lady, do you have any idea what—”

“Please don’t be mad, Daddy.” Her sad-eyed gaze tore at his heart. “It’s so lonesome in the house. There’s nobody there but grown-ups. I just wanted to play with Flannery for a little while.”

“And how did you know where to find Flannery?” Jeff demanded, but more gently this time. He knew how much his daughter needed a friend her own age. He’d seen it that afternoon, from the window.

“I can answer your question,” Kate said. “Flannery drew her a map.”

“So, Ellen just showed up on your doorstep in the rain?”

“Of course she did.” Kate glared at him as if he’d just accused her of kidnapping. “I was about to phone your house when you knocked.” She walked away a few steps, then turned to face him again. “And now that your daughter’s safely found, I suppose you’ll both be going.”

Jeff’s eyes measured her where she stood, poised like a gazelle beside an open cabinet that overflowed with books. Her small, square chin was thrust defiantly upward. Her eyes blazed wounded pride. Still hugging the cat, Ellen watched them in expectant silence.

No, Jeff realized, he couldn’t be so monstrous as to grab his daughter and walk out. He couldn’t do that to Ellen. He couldn’t do it to Kate—or to himself.

“I—uh—think we need to talk,” he muttered, suddenly aware that his clothes were dripping water onto her faded Persian rug.

“All right.” Her body relaxed but her eyes remained guarded. “Flannery, dear, I know you’re listening.”

The child materialized from the hallway.

“Take Ellen to your bedroom for a little while, okay? And make sure you get her into something dry.”

“Yes!” Flannery’s grin lit the room like a flash bulb. “Come on, Ellen!” she exclaimed, bounding over to the couch. “You can wear my purple sweats, and I’ll show you my sea glass collection!”

“Cool!” Ellen struggled off the sofa, clutching the afghan to her chest. “Can we take Mehitabel with us?”

“Sure.” Flannery scooped up the cat. The placid creature hung over her arm like a limp Salvador Dali watch as the little girls scampered down the hallway, leaving the two grown-ups alone.

“Uh—can I make you some hot tea?” Kate spoke almost too swiftly as she scrambled to fill the awkward silence.

“No, that’s all right.” Jeff’s gaze explored the room, taking in the lush, green jumble of houseplants, the seashells and driftwood, the varicolored cushions and worn, mismatched furniture, all of which blended, somehow, into an ambiance of cozy warmth. Outside, cold, gray rain lashed the roof and battered the windowpanes. Inside, the whole room seemed to glow.

“Well, we can sit down, at least,” she said, settling onto a low ottoman. The neck of her robe had fallen open to reveal the luminous curve of her throat. Her skin was delicately freckled, like tiny dots of cinnamon sprinkled on rich cream. Jeff battled the ridiculous urge to bend over and taste her.

“I—my clothes are pretty wet,” he muttered.

“Oh, sit down. You can’t do anything to that couch that hasn’t been done a hundred times before.”

Jeff moved the cushions aside and lowered himself onto the threadbare upholstery. “Sorry about that I drove over here, but before that, I was running along the beach like a wild man. I was afraid Ellen had tried to go back out to the rocks.”

“You must have been frantic.” Her aquamarine eyes were cautious.

“Out of my mind is more like it. Ellen’s never done anything like this before. If she hadn’t been here—”

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