Fools Rush In

Fools Rush In
Gwynne Forster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my husband, whose love and unfailing

support sustain me and enrich my life, and to

Karen Thomas, my editor, whose helpfulness,

competence and upbeat approach make writing a

pleasure and deadlines a less ominous thing.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Justine let the white vehicle take her weight as she stood alone at the edge of the crowd, staring at the gutted Falls Church, Virginia motel in which, hours earlier, her faithful and loving husband of four years had perished with his white mistress. Perspiration matted her hair even as she tightened her jacket against the early fall chill. Her dry, tearless eyes stung their sockets as she gazed at the burned-out ruin still ripe with the smell of singed carpet, incinerated furniture, odoriferous rubbish, and charred flesh. Shivers coursed through her at the sight of the smoke-darkened glass and fragmented windows. Blackened bricks that had once gleamed red in the sunlight mocked her with their message of gloom and death.

“They shore musta been busy,” a female voice declared, “if they was the only ones in there that couldn’t hear the fire alarm.”

“You tell it, girl,” another agreed.

The only love she had even known. Why couldn’t she cry? Echoes shouted at her from the black ruins that jeered contemptuously at her. “Love ya, Baby!” He said it that way every time he left her. “You be ready for me, Baby.” She opened the crumpled note that he’d left tacked to the refrigerator and read it again. “Sorry I couldn’t reach you at work, Baby, but the company’s got an emergency of gargantuan proportions, and I’m on my way to Boston to straighten things out. May take a couple of days, but I’ll call you. Explain it all when I get back. You be ready for me. Love ya, Baby. Your devoted husband, Kenneth.” Boston! And here he was, dead in a Falls Church, Virginia motel.

She looked up and stared in horror as men approached her wheeling gurneys carrying one long, black plastic bag and one shorter bag, each tied securely. Dazed, she would have touched the remains of her husband if an ambulance worker hadn’t jumped between her and the lifeless object. Her fist pummeled the man’s chest until he held her hands to restrain her and folded her shaking form to his body until she gained control. She looked at the note, read it again, shredded it into bits, and let the wind have it. Then she turned from the horrifying scene where Kenneth Montgomery had perished with his lover, rested her hand on her belly—distended with their eight-months-along unborn child—and walked away. Thirty-five minutes later as she drove the Ford Taurus home, the first pains of a premature birth began….

Justine’s screams awakened her, and she sprang forward in bed, tugging the sheet to her as though to protect herself, and gazed rapidly around her bedroom. It wasn’t a dream. If only it was. If only that morning had never been, and she could sleep through one night without reliving it exactly as it had occurred that awful day. For nearly twelve months, that scene had been her constant companion, filling her thoughts during the day and her dreams at night. She wiped the perspiration from her face with her left hand and shook her right fist.

“I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t let you destroy my faith in human beings. You with your goodness, your humanitarianism, and your love for the common man. You for whom I ruined my relationship with my father. You treacherous bastard. You robbed me of my child. You…

“My child. Why did I…?” She rested her head on her raised knees and folded her arms around them. What had she done? She jumped from the bed, got dressed, rushed to the social service department of the hospital in which she’d given birth, and paced in front of the door for an hour and a half until the workers arrived at nine.

Maybe if she said if often enough, they’d do something. “I want my child back. I was sick. You can’t do this to me.” Her screams reverberated through the social service department of Alexandria, Virginia’s Presidents Hospital. She tightened the woolen stole that she wore to ward off the September chill and leaned across the social worker’s desk, oblivious to the tears that wet the corners of her mouth.

“I…I’ll sue you. I’ll…”

“You signed the papers, Justine. You couldn’t stand the sight of that baby and it was our duty to protect her.”

“But I was sick, and you knew it.”

“You said you didn’t want the baby. We know you sustained an unusually deep postpartum psychosis; many women do. Some of them have killed their babies when the psychosis was a deep one like yours. We thought you’d never come out of it. A week ago, I’d have sworn you never would. Your refusal to look at the child, and your insistence that we do whatever the law allowed, left us no choice, but to do as you said. Your therapist agreed.”

She stormed out of the social service department and, nearly blinded by her tears, made her way to the maternity ward to find the doctor and nurse who had taken care of her when she developed an embolism following the birth.

“After about a week,” the nurse told her, “you became withdrawn, refused food, wouldn’t talk to anybody, and wouldn’t take the baby. You refused to take the baby with you when we discharged you. We had a conference with you and your therapist, and when the therapist asked you what you wanted us to do, you said, ‘Suit yourself.’ I’ve never known postpartum psychosis to last as long or to be as deep as what you’ve been experiencing. Look at you now. You’re a changed woman; I can see that. But it’s too late. We can’t help you.”

Nurse Jane Wilkerson watched Justine’s heavy steps as she left them. “What else could we all have done?” she asked the doctor who had joined her. “Every time she saw that child, she sank deeper into depression, screaming and crying like we were beating her. I never felt so sorry for anybody in my life.”

“Yeah. I don’t think many women could handle learning that her husband died in a tryst with a woman he’d had a steady affair with since before he met her, and especially not if she was eight months pregnant.”

“Are you saying…? You’re joking.”

“Wish I was. Alexandria’s a small town, and the upper middle-class African American community here is minuscule. Marian Iverson had been Kenneth Montgomery’s mistress for at least twelve years—since their college days, I’m told. Uninterrupted. Long before he met Justine. But he couldn’t marry a white woman and run for congress in that all-black district he claimed to represent. African-American women don’t seem able to hack that from us black guys; though, believe me, they take whoever they please.”

“Well, I’ll be. Can you beat that? I never would have thought it of him. And such a distinguished man, too.”

“Yeah. But if his wife didn’t know about it, he must have done his best to be good to her. Poor fellow just got caught.”

Jane Wilkerson adjusted a blond curl beneath her crisp white cap and walked off, more certain than ever that being single and staying that way made good sense.

Justine walked aimlessly out of the building as a white Cougar pulled up, and the Washington, D.C. license plate on another white car flashed through her mind. Eleven months earlier, she’d just left her therapy session when a man walked out of the hospital carrying a newborn baby, and the woman beside him had seemed to drag her steps. They got into a white Mercedes, and the man held the tiny form wrapped in a little pink blanket as the woman drove them away. She hadn’t associated them with her child, but the scene had made her curious about it, and she had run back inside and asked the social worker’s secretary if they’d found an adoptive family for her baby.

“Yes,” the woman had beamed, “they just left. Now you can relax and get on with your life.”

Not one emotion had made its presence felt. She hadn’t tried to understand her unusual behavior, her lack of concern that her child had a new mother. She and Kenneth had planned to have three children—one every two years—but he wasn’t there and he’d lived a lie. Every time he’d held her and made passionate love to her, telling her that he loved her, that she was his world; he’d lied. He’d made a mockery of her love. She shivered, wondering if he had laughed with his mistress about his unresponsive wife, frantic to climax with him only to have it elude her every time. If only he were alive so she could despise him!

She shook off the unpleasant memories and gathered her wits. She’d get her child back, no matter what anybody said or did. They shouldn’t have let her sign those papers, knowing she had an illness fairly common among women who had just given birth. She couldn’t undo the past, but she was back to her old self now, and getting her child would be her number one priority. Her child would be hers again. She’d find her and nobody was going to stop her from getting her back. She remembered the license plate number now—dredging it up from the bowels of her subconscious mind. At the time, she’d thought that only someone rich and famous would have the number GDB 1800. She wrote it down and headed for Indiana Avenue and the municipal building in northwest Washington.

Hours passed while first one official and then another treated her to a dose of government bureaucracy, bouncing her from office to office. Anxious and frustrated, she called one of Kenneth’s fraternity brothers in the mayor’s office and, an hour later, had the information that she wanted. That car belonged to G. Duncan Banks, an investigative reporter for The Maryland Journal, a paper in Baltimore.

She searched in the Library Of Congress, the internet, and records of the Society of Professional Journalist, learning all she could about the man whom she believed called himself the father of her child. The information she treasured most concerned his character and his address. He lived in affluent Tacoma Park, at the edge of the Maryland/District line. Now, what could she do with that information? She couldn’t drive up to his house and demand her child, because he had a legal right to the child, but he’d hear from her. And soon.

Duncan Banks stretched his long frame out on the floor beside Tonya’s crib, his mind idling while his eleven-month-old adopted daughter’s chubby brown fingers examined his right thumb. She had wedged herself so deeply into his heart that he hated being away from her. He couldn’t understand how Marie, his ex-wife, could have agreed to their adopting a child if she hadn’t wanted one. He understood her disinclination to interrupt her career as a rising criminal lawyer in order to have a baby, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she hadn’t wanted to be a mother. And she’d quickly tired of it.

“I just can’t spend the rest of my youth taking care of somebody else’s kid,” she had announced. “I’m sorry.”

Every time he thought about that night when she’d asked out, pain seared his heart. “What about the indescribable, boundless love you feel for me? Your words. What about that?”

She looked him straight in the eye—insolent as usual when caught out. “Love doesn’t conquer all, Duncan. You’re old enough to know that.”

“No, but money does. Doesn’t it? Now that I’ve paid for your law degree and your career is humming and you can support yourself in the manner to which I have accustomed you, it’s bye, bye birdie, eh?”

She had the grace to be flustered. “Don’t be crude.”

“And don’t you be so high-handed.”

She was right; love didn’t conquer all. He wouldn’t let himself think about how he’d loved her or that his heart threatened to explode in his chest And when she lowered her lashes in that way she did when she wanted to control him with her body, make him forget whatever she’d done and make love to her, he’d clenched his fist.

Her lashes swept down over her large brown eyes—eyes that made a man stare at her beautiful brown face—and then came up slowly. “I’m not planning to ask for much of a settlement.”

“Smart girl. Collect your clothes. If you ask for more, I’ll take back that mink. Trust me.” He looked away to hide from her the pain he knew his face reflected. He’d loved her—really loved her with every atom of his being. “If you’re going, Marie, don’t draw it out.”

Three hours later, the door had closed on his dreams. But what the hell! The day before yesterday, he’d shot a perfect game of pool. From now on, nothing would surprise him.

For months, he had sensed a widening rift between them, a drifting away from each other, though he’d done everything he could think of to turn their relationship around. Nothing he did had touched her. He had thought that a baby would bring them closer. He wanted a family, and if she didn’t want the burden of bearing their own he’d take what he could get. Many babies needed parents he’d told her and she had agreed to their adopting Tonya. He’d been satisfied so long as he had a child to love and to raise. But he couldn’t take care of an eleven-month-old baby girl.

Duncan pulled his mind back to the present, got off the floor, and leaned over Tonya’s crib. “I’ll advertise for a wife,” he told his laughing daughter. “If the woman’s intelligent, loves children, and promises to spend the rest of her life being sweet to you, that’s as much as I want; I’ve had it with love—biggest hoax ever foisted on a man.” She raised her little arms to him, and he lifted her into his embrace.

“Daaaaddy,” she sang, clapping her little hands together. He sat with her in the rocker beside her crib and rocked her while he sang Brahms Lullaby, her favorite song. When she fell asleep, he put her into the crib and rolled it into his office so that he could work and keep an eye on her.

He had no luck advertising among his friends. Dee Dee Sharp, the feature editor of The Maryland Journal, told him she could get him someone to keep the baby, that she only had to drop a hint and even society women might show up if they knew he was single. He shook his head and went on to Wayne Roundtree’s office. Wayne owned the paper.

“Get a wife,” Wayne advised. “Tell her you want a marriage of convenience. You’ll take care of her and she’ll take care of your child. No emotional involvement.”

Duncan’s look of incredulity brought a wicked grin from Wayne. “Who’d fall for that?” Duncan asked him. “She’d have to be ninety and have all the beauty of a wet field mouse.”

Wayne leaned back in his high-back swivel chair. “Wake up, man. A lot of women would like a soft life, especially if they’re childless, out of work, down on their luck, jilted maybe, and—”

“Naaah, man, I can’t hack that.”

“But you said you’d had it with women. This way, your emotions won’t get you in trouble, and you might luck up on a great gal.”

“Is that you talking? I didn’t think you believed there was such a woman.”

“No? Well, that shows how well informed you are. Think about it.”

“Man, I haven’t the slightest notion how to go about a crazy thing like that.”

“Why not ask Dee Dee to stick a line in her column. Trust me, you’ll spend the next six months interviewing twelve hours a day.”

“Heaven forbid.” He passed Dee Dee on the way out of the building and wished he could close her grinning mouth. “The boss told me you’d be by to see me. I’ve got just the idea.”

“Do you DC ladies know that a prominent, recently divorced gentleman with the initials DB is in the market for a wife who’ll be a good mother to his baby daughter? Send your love letter to P.O.Box 0001, Washington, D.C. 20017,” Dee Dee wrote in her Thursday column. Duncan read it the next day and considered moving to Alaska. Letters arrived by the dozens and, though the procedure embarrassed him, he interviewed applicants, but didn’t like any of them.

“Maybe getting a nanny is easier,” his best friend, Wayne Roundtree suggested several weeks later. “Marriage can be such a permanent thing, man. Get a good nanny.”

“To sleep in and take over my house? No thank you.”

Wayne shrugged. “What have you got now? A cleaning woman who comes in every day at a time of her choice, leaves when she gets ready, won’t answer the phone, and avoids anything that isn’t six feet tall, male, and human.”

Duncan couldn’t help laughing. “Mattie’s a real number, but I’m used to her and when I need her in a pinch to look after Tonya, she doesn’t let me down. Besides, Tonya never stops laughing when she’s around Mattie.”

Wayne’s left eyebrow went up. “Big deal. Neither do I. Tonya probably thinks Mattie’s an oversized rag doll. Every time she looks at the woman, she’s seeing a different color of hair.”

Duncan’s white teeth flashed against his dark face. “Took me a while to look at her and keep a straight face, but she’s good as gold.” He walked over to the big picture window with its tinted glass and ecru curtains and looked down on Charles Street. His hand fingered the change in his right pants pocket. Maybe a nanny was best. He didn’t really want to be married. Not then. Not ever again. But Tonya needed a mother on whom she could depend, not a nanny who might leave at a minute’s notice.

He whirled around and started out of Wayne’s office. “Man, I don’t care who decorated your office, it would look a lot better without these fancy curtains.”

“No argument here. My sister-in-law found me a decorator, and that’s what she put there.”

“You mean Adam’s wife?”

“Who else? Adam’s my only brother. He’s a lucky man. Our families strew their path with one obstacle after another, but they persevered. She was made for him. You and I should be so lucky. Forget about that wife business, and hire a nanny.”

“Yeah. You may be right, man.” Duncan threw Wayne a high five and headed for the heart of West Baltimore, where he put in at least a weekly appearance at CafeAhNay—a local bar, restaurant, and billiards hangout on Liberty Street—to keep up his contacts. As an investigative reporter, he needed to maintain good relations with his sources.

Several days later, Mattie stopped Duncan when he walked into the house after work. “Mr. B, you know I think you’re a good man, but you also know I don’t do no full time housework and no babysitting. I just been doing all this work ’round here to help you out. And I’m good and sick of all these women that’s started calling here axing about you. It ain’t my business, but having all these women chase you ain’t a proper atmosphere for a baby girl. A sweet little tyke, she is, too. All the same, Mr. B, you know me and phones don’t get along. I wish you’d get a nanny for Tonya. I’ll help you out, but I ain’t happy doing it.”

He patted her shoulder “I’ve decided to do that, Mattie. Just bear with me.”

He stared at her two front teeth, a perfect tribute to Bugs Bunny. “Mr. B, there ain’t a woman nowhere what can resist you when you looks helpless like that. If I wasn’t old enough to be your mother, and if I didn’t have my Moe, I’d be in trouble. You make sure you get somebody me and Tonya can get along with, now.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said and rushed past her to find a place where he could laugh in peace. She hadn’t noticed that he had gaped at her orange hair, front teeth, red lips, and purple dress. She’d called it “looking helpless.”

Justine listed her house with a real estate agent and began packing her things. She’d leave that torture chamber in which she’d lived with Kenneth, that brick and mortar vessel of pain and horror, if she had to give it away. She couldn’t bear it any more than she could stand the pitying eyes of her neighbors and the thoughtlessness of the store clerks and delivery men who seemed to enjoy greeting her with, “So sorry to hear about Mr. Montgomery, Ms. Montgomery. It sure was a tragedy.” As if they had decided among themselves how best to remind her that her husband would be alive if he hadn’t been unfaithful to her.

She left the real estate office, bought a copy of The Washington Post at the corner drugstore, and went home, where she made a cup of coffee, went into the guest room, pulled off her shoes, and sat on the bed. She hadn’t been in the master bedroom—the den of lies whose walls probably still echoed his false shouts of ecstasy in her arms—since the day he died, and she never wanted to see the inside of it again. The cleaning woman had removed her things and had packed his and taken them away. She flipped through the want-ads to check the job offers. She had to change her life, but resuming her profession as a clinical psychologist held no interest. She sat forward, more alert than in almost a year. Duncan Banks had advertised for a nanny and had given a postal address. She knew he’d gotten a divorce. Did she dare? She rushed to the phone, ignoring his request that the application be made in writing.

“Duncan Banks, speaking.”

“Mr. Banks, this is Justine Taylor. I’d like to apply for the position you advertised in The Washington Post.”

The voice, soft and refined, set him back a bit. He expected a person applying for a job as babysitter to be somewhat raw around the edges.

“I prefer applications in writing, Miss Taylor.”

“I know, but I figured I’d get a lead on the other applicants. I need a job, and I can provide good references. If I have to sleep in, I’d like to visit your home before we talk business.”

That made sense. He gave her his address and realized that he hoped she’d suit him. “When can you come out?”

She didn’t hesitate, and he liked that. Coyness in women had always put a sour taste in his mouth. “This evening, if you’d like. Say, a couple of hours from now?”

He glanced at his watch. “Perfect. I’ll get Tonya ready for bed, but she’ll still be awake when you get here.”

Justine hung up, fell back across the bed, and kicked up her heels. She made no attempt to squelch the scream of joy that peeled from her throat. She had spoken with him, and she would see her child. She rolled over and said a prayer of thanks. She’d never wanted anything as badly as she wanted that job and the chance to nurture her own child, to know that her baby was well cared for and loved. Tonya. He’d named her daughter Tonya. She liked the name. Her heart thundered as it raced inside her chest like a runaway train. She didn’t trust herself to drive in that state. After all this time. And all the pain. Maybe she was being given another chance. She didn’t mislead herself into believing that what she was about to do was fair to herself, Tonya, or Duncan Banks, but what choice did she have? If she’d been a well woman, she wouldn’t have given up her child for adoption. As a psychologist, she understood what she’d gone through and considered herself fortunate to have survived that awful trauma. She telephoned a deacon of her church who had a notarized letter of recommendation ready for her when she stopped by his house. She’d chosen him because he knew her only by her maiden name. The nursery school at which she’d volunteered since before her marriage and where she was known as Miss Taylor provided her second reference.

She styled her hair in a French twist, and in spite of the sweltering August heat, dressed carefully in a conservative beige silk suit and olive-green blouse, added brown accessories, debated the advisability of wearing lipstick, decided to apply it, and headed for her door. The phone rang and she almost didn’t answer it fearing that Duncan Banks was calling to cancel their appointment.

“Hello, Justine, this is Big Al. My sister is your real estate agent, and she tells me you’re changing your life, selling your house, and leaving Alexandria for DC. Can’t say I blame you, honey. How about doing that column I’ve been pestering you about?”

“Oh, Al. It’s great to hear from you. Just because I wrote a gossip column for The Hill Top when we were at Howard U doesn’t mean I can write a column for the lovelorn.”

“’Course you can, babe. You’ve got two degrees in psychology and plenty of horse sense. How about it?”

“How much of my time will that take?”

“Practically none. Three columns a week. For each one, you answer a minimum of three letters and write some family values stuff. You say the word, I’ll put the notice in tomorrow, and bingo. End of the week you’ll have dozens of letters. Just give me a P.O. box number.” She thought for a second. She needed time to consider the risks. “I like the idea right now. Who knows, I may someday be syndicated. Tell you tomorrow.”

“Two things. You’ll be Aunt Mariah, and you will not tell anybody—I mean not one soul on earth—that you write that column. We gotta have secrecy. Otherwise, it’ll be a total flop. Call me tomorrow before ten. See ya.”

Justine walked on liquid legs to her car, got behind the wheel, and slumped against it. She had to go through with it. No matter what conditions she found or what she faced, she had to do it. She had to be with her child. She had read Duncan Banks’s columns. Who hadn’t? But she’d never seen him. Please God, don’t let him be a slob, but the smiling, happy man she’d seen leaving the clinic that day carrying a newborn baby. Her shaking fingers stuck the key in the ignition, and she didn’t know how she did it, but she managed to release the brake. “Mind over matter,” she repeated aloud.

The drive along the Shirley Memorial Highway, over the Fourteenth Street Bridge, and on up Sixteenth Street didn’t soothe her nerves. Horns honked, drivers darted in and out of lanes breaking traffic rules, but she managed to keep her wits until she turned into Primrose Street at the edge of Maryland and stopped. Her nerves rioted throughout her body. She sat in the car until she could control the trembling that shot through her, making her skin crawl and her teeth chatter. In minutes she would see her child. She took a handkerchief from the glove compartment and dabbed at her tears.

Calmer now, she walked up the long, winding bricked walk to the modern white stone building whose enormous glass windows were more off-putting than welcoming. Trembling fingers rang the bell, and the jitters commenced again. Duncan Banks opened the door, and she stared at him, wondering if she’d lost her mind. He was the man, all right. The same tall, dark man. And what a man. Not that she cared, she’d finished with men. But even in her baffled state, she had the sense to recognize male perfection. And danger. As if his stature and facial features weren’t enough to sabotage a woman’s will, he opened his mouth and released a deep, sonorous, velvet timbre.

“Hi. You must be Justine Taylor. Come on in. I’m Duncan Banks.”

She found her voice and marveled at its even tenor. “Yes. I’m Justine. I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Banks.”

His smile had the effect of termites hard at work on the foundation of a shingled building. “I’m glad you agreed to come today. I’ve got an assignment that’ll take me away from home, and I have to be sure Tonya’s taken care of. Tell me about yourself.”

She told him as much as she wanted him to know, and she’d prepared herself for his misgivings. So when he commented that she seemed too polished to be working as a nanny, she countered that she was down on her luck and seeking to change her life.

He raised an eyebrow “What precisely do you mean?”

Don’t forget that he’s an investigative reporter, she reminded herself. “I plan to write, and this job will support me while I work at it. I know it may be years and years before I have any success,” she added, to allay his qualms about impermanence, “but this way, I needn’t worry about bills and a place to stay.”

She must have said the right thing, because he nodded and a smile surfaced around his mouth. She pulled her gaze from it as quickly as she could and asked some questions so he’d know she was a careful, responsible person.

“Where would I sleep?”

“The guest room faces Tonya’s room. You’d sleep there. It has a private bath and a small anteroom that you could use either for a dressing room or a little office. Did you bring your references?”

Electricity shot up her arm when his fingers brushed hers as he took the letters that she handed him. His gaze was that of a man who’d just had a surprise, one that he didn’t necessarily welcome. Well, it was time she got some of her own back. She’d been reacting to him ever since he’d opened that door. Where did he sleep? She wondered, but didn’t have the nerve to ask.

“Do you think I could see Tonya? Or is she asleep?”

His apparent pride in his daughter gave her a sinking feeling, even as it warmed her heart. He’d never give up that baby. Never. So she had better play her cards right.

“Come with me.” He raised his long frame from the big wing chair that had no place in a modern setting and headed down the hall. She looked away from Duncan for fear that the guilt curdling her stomach would blaze across her face, and she had her hands full, so to speak, controlling the wild anticipation that danced within her at the promise of seeing her child.

His leisurely smile only heightened her anticipation of the wonder awaiting her. “She’s wide awake, but she whispers to her bears so they don’t growl at her. I don’t know where in the devil she got that. Probably from Mattie.”

Her joy bordered on hysteria, and she didn’t think she could move another step, but she did. Icy marbles frolicked through her veins, and she had to bite her lips to control their quiver.

“Hi, Baby,” his deep voice began when Tonya looked up at him, threw the bear aside, and smiled. “You have company. This is Justine.” Tonya climbed to her feet with the bars on the crib for support and raised her little arms. Stunned disbelief spread over Duncan’s face. “She’s asking you to pick her up? Shy as she is with strangers? Can you beat that?”

If her life had depended upon it, Justine couldn’t have said where she got the strength to reach down and pull her child into her arms. “Juju,” Tonya said, pulling at Justine’s dangling gold earrings. Justine gazed into eyes identical to her own and, in spite of her efforts to retain her sanity and maintain a professional demeanor, she hugged the child to her bosom and kissed her cheek, all the while praying for composure.

“Juju,” Tonya repeated. Then, as if she’d had enough, she wiggled aside and raised her arms to Duncan. “Daddy. Daddy.”

He took the baby, held her with one arm and opened one of the references. Justine didn’t have to be told that she’d get the job if he liked what he read.

He folded the second letter and stuffed it in his left trouser pocket. “If these check out, we’re in business. Tonya seems to like you, and that’s my main concern. When could you start?”

She hadn’t gotten that far. “I need two or three days to get my stuff stored and settle my lease, but I’m fairly certain I could be here Saturday morning.”

He seemed to hesitate. “How do you expect to care for an active baby while you’re writing?”

“I’ll write while she’s asleep. If an idea pops up at any other time, I may make a few notes so I’ll remember it. Whenever I have to choose, Tonya will come first. I give you my word on that.”

His reddish-brown eyes seemed to penetrate her soul, and she knew she was looking at a man who relied on his own judgment, who didn’t need the words of others for his peace of mind. “You’re hired. Be here Saturday morning and do your best to make a hit with Mattie.” His grin nearly knocked her off balance.

“Who’s Mattie?”

The grin broadened. “If I was sure, I’d tell you. Suffice it to say she comes in every day to do the cleaning and cooking. She’ll surprise you, but take my word, she’s harmless.”

He moved toward the bed to put Tonya back in it, but she didn’t want to go there and reached for Justine.

“Juju.”

Duncan laughed aloud “Oh, no, you don’t. Think you’ve got an ally, do you? You’re going to bed, and that’s final.” He glanced at Justine. “This little devil thinks she can wind me around her little finger.”

“Can she?”

His sheepish expression grabbed at her feminine being. “Yeah. I guess so.”

He kissed Tonya, but she yelled, “Juju.”

Justine leaned over and kissed her cheek. She had to get out of there before she broke beneath the strain of it all.

“I’ll show you your room. Of course, you’ll have the freedom of the house. Your friends are welcome.” He ran his right hand across the back of his neck and stopped walking. “My child means everything to me, Justine. I’ve decided to postpone that assignment a few days and stay home until she gets used to you, though I think she’s already decided that she likes you.”

He opened the door to a large bedroom that faced Tonya’s and was decorated in mauve and violet blue. She would not have chosen those colors, but she found the effect appealing. A king-size bed bore a violet-blue silk spread and, except for a copy of Botticelli’s “Spring” that hung beside a large mirror, mauve adorned everything else in the room.

“Like it?”

She caught the anxiety in his voice, and realized that he wanted her comfort and contentment “Yes. Very much.” A smile claimed his incredible eyes, and she had to shake herself out of the trance into which they quickly dragged her. She had to get out of there.

“I’d better be going. Thanks for your confidence. I’ll see you Saturday. Oh. Do I get a day off?”

“Yeah. I nearly forgot that. Sunday for sure, and we’ll work out something else. Okay?”

“Fine.” She wanted to avoid his extended hand, but accepted it along with the feeling that she knew would come with it. “Good-bye, Mr. Banks.”

“Duncan. Good-bye, Justine.”

He’d said good-bye, but he didn’t stop looking at her. A hammer began pounding her insides. Had he seen the resemblance? Had he noticed that Tonya had her eyes? Why was he staring at her? She forced a smile and reached for the doorknob, but his hand shot out to open the door and landed on her own. He didn’t move it, but looked down into her face with a strange and indefinable expression.

“Goodnight,” he said at last, and opened the door.

She made her way to her car, got in, and sat there for a good half hour before she found the strength to drive away. Over and over she told herself that he hadn’t seen the resemblance, but she didn’t see how he or anybody else could be so unobservant.

Justine released the brake and started home, reliving the feel of her baby in her arms, pulling her earrings and pinching her nose. A screech of somebody’s automobile brakes called her attention to the red light she’d shot through, and she eased up on the accelerator. Shocks scooted up her spine as she recalled the soft flesh of little fingers on the back of her neck, the child’s joyous laughter, and Duncan Banks’s indulgent words, “Some daughter you are. Ready to chase after the first stranger who comes along.” She, a stranger to her own child. She attempted to pull out of the center lane, but a honking horn impeded her effort to get to the roadside and wipe the tears that blurred her vision.

When at last she reached the brown brick Tudor house in which she’d lived with Kenneth Montgomery, she parked in front of it, too drained to put the car in the garage. Sane enough not to sit in a car alone on a dark street at night, she dragged her weary body into the house she’d come to hate, changed her clothes, and washed her tear-stained face. The flashing light on her answering machine got her attention. Her real estate agent had a buyer for the house, a diplomat who didn’t bargain, and two co-op apartments in Washington for her inspection. Thank God, she could put Alexandria behind her. If she wasn’t certain the buyer would object, she’d walk away from that house and leave everything in it except her clothes.

Duncan stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers, fishing for change, and toyed absentmindedly with what he found there, something he did when he was thoroughly discombobulated. He tried to figure out his reaction to Justine Taylor, the strange feeling he got the minute he opened the door and looked at her. He’d swear he’d never seen her before, yet something in him said he knew her, had always known her. As if she’d somehow sprung out of him and had found her way back to where she belonged. It wasn’t sexual, at least he didn’t think so, though when he’d opened the door, she’d reacted to him as woman to man. But she had quickly controlled it. A refined woman. He’d give her that.

Tonya, too, had sensed something special about her. Granted, you couldn’t miss her warmth and sincerity. And she was pretty easy on the eyes. For a second, he let himself imagine what she’d look like if she pulled her hair out of that old-lady’s twist in the back of her head. He shrugged. A little too plump for his taste, but she had the height, around five-six, he guessed, to carry it. But why did he feel as if he knew her? He played with the change in his pocket and dismissed the thought. Some people had the kind of face that cropped up everywhere.

He started to Tonya’s room to check on her and stopped. Dee Dee’s notice had been in the paper more than a month, and Justine hadn’t answered it. So she wasn’t looking for a husband. Thank God for that. Accustomed to examining both sides of an issue or a fact, he considered the possibility that Justine hadn’t answered the ad because she didn’t read Maryland papers. Well, his daughter liked her, and that settled it as far as he was concerned. If Justine Taylor possessed any unsavory traits, Mattie would detect it at once, he could count on that. But he’d gotten good vibes from Justine—honesty, warmth, femininity, and self-confidence, traits he admired in a woman. And she clearly loved children. He phoned his sister.

“Banks speaking.”

Duncan took a deep, impatient breath. If only he could knock some sense into his sister. “Leah, I’ve told you a few million times to stop calling yourself by our last name. It’s too masculine.”

“And I’ve told you not to call me Leah. I can’t stand that name.”

“Then change it, for Pete’s sake. Oughta be easy, since nobody but the family knows what it is.”

“Duncan, did you call me to fight with me? I’m sleepy.”

“When will you have an evening free? I want to ask some people over. Seems like I owe everybody I know an invitation to dinner.”

“I’m always free. Promise to invite some men who still have their own hair on their head. And I’d like to see their chests before I see their bay windows.”

Duncan was used to his sister’s cynicism, but he couldn’t resist trying to change her. “Leah, your attitude needs refining. Learn to judge a man by the content of his character—to quote a famous one—instead of his girth and how much of his scalp you can see.”

He imagined that she tossed her head and shrugged her left shoulder. She was the only person he knew who did that. “Thanks for nothing, brother dear. Most of us women like a guy we can get our arms around, if need be. Besides, Martin Luther King was talking about kids; I had in mind cool brown brothers over the age of thirty.”

She never failed to amuse him—the best dose of anti-tension medicine to be had anywhere. Laughter flowed out of him. “Trust you to twist it your way. How about it?”

“Improve your list of men friends, and you can count me in. And no cigars. Why do newspaper men like those hideous things?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Everybody needs at least one virtue. Good for you”

“All right. All right. You’ll be glad to know that I just hired a nanny for Tonya.”

“You mean you’ve given up the idea of marrying somebody to mother her? It’s a dumb idea, anyway.”

“No, I haven’t, Miss know-it-all, but I haven’t found anyone who suits me, and I needed somebody to look after Tonya. So I hired Justine Taylor.”

“Well, this I’ve got to see. Is she good-looking?”

Trust Leah to focus on a side issue. “Among other attributes. See ya.” He hung up and called Wayne Roundtree in Baltimore.

“Say, man, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Duncan said when Wayne held the receiver a long time before speaking.

“Nah. I had to shake a couple of pests a few minutes ago, and I fully intended to hang up the minute I recognized either one of them. That’s the life of a managing editor. What’s up?”

Duncan trained his ear in the direction of Tonya’s room. No, she wasn’t crying, only talking. “I just hired a nanny. She won’t be on the job ’til Saturday, and I want to spend a few days at home after she starts to be sure she and Tonya get on. So I’d like to postpone work on that municipal bribery case.”

“Okay, but I hope it doesn’t break in The Sun or The Afro-American. What does she look like?”

“Who?”

“You know who I mean. This nanny you hired.”

Duncan leaned back in the big barrel chair, propped his left knee over his right one, and grinned. “Not worth a backward glance, man. And, I’m going to introduce her to Listerine mouthwash the minute she walks back into this house.”

His ears hummed with Wayne’s roar of laughter. “No kidding. She must be a knockout. When can I come over for…well, for dinner?”

“Come to think of it, I’m planning a dinner party soon as my sister can get over here to help me. I owe everybody I know an invitation.”

“Count me in. I have to meet this poor unfortunate nanny you hired. Let me know when you can get on that case.”

“Will do. In a couple of days, I’ll fax you my story on ward politics.”

“Right on, man.”

Duncan hung up and went into Tonya’s room to turn out the lamp beside her bed and put on her night light. It worried him that she feared the darkness so much. Maybe having Justine—someone who’d be with her all the time—would give her a greater sense of security. Justine. Why had he felt so comfortable with her? He’d swear that she had in some way been a part of his life.

Chapter 2

Justine took an old purse from a shelf in her closet and, for the first time in twelve months, looked at the picture taken of Tonya at birth. The little red spot at the top her right ear was now brown, but it was there, the final proof that she had found her baby. She needed to talk with someone, anybody. But who? She couldn’t expect another person not to divulge a secret as ripe for gossip and, at the same time, as potentially damaging as hers. She replaced the photo and lay down and, for the first time since Kenneth’s death, she slept through the night, and no horrible memories invaded her dreams.

She rose early the next morning and began preparing for life as her child’s nanny. Her first act was to phone Big Al, editor of The Evening Post. “You’re on, Al,” she squeaked out, less sure of her decision than when she’d made it. “As of now, I’m Aunt Mariah. I have to get a post office box. I’m moving to Tacoma Park, Al. You’ll get it all by fax sometime tomorrow.”

“Right. Soon as I get your P.O. address, I’ll tell the world not to be troubled any longer,” he crooned in his booming voice. “Aunt Mariah will solve all their problems. Just give ’em horse sense, babe. That’ll do it every time.”

The next three days were the busiest that she could remember, but knowing she was putting her life in order, folding the page that had been Mrs. Kenneth Montgomery, and beginning a life with her child—however impermanent it might prove to be—energized her and buoyed her spirit.

She got a post office box, closed the deal with the buyer of her house, and bought one of the co-op apartments that her agent reserved for her inspection. Then, she sent the fax to Al, and told her agent to find a tenant for her new apartment. That done, she invited the Salvation Army to come over to her house and take whatever it could sell, except for her blankets and Kenneth’s expensive clothing, which she planned to divide among the homeless men along “East of the River.”

She’d been determined to do it herself, and her stomach rolled from the stench of stale wine, the rags that served as the men’s bedding, the unwashed bodies, and the refuse that some more privileged citizens had thoughtlessly strewn along the street. Their gratitude shamed her, but she persisted until she’d given out all of the blankets, gloves, sweaters, and other clothing. Still, a sense of guilt wouldn’t let her leave the men without food. She counted them, went to the nearest McDonald’s, and got eleven bags of coffee and hamburgers and gave one to each man.

“I would ask the good Lord to bless you,” an older man said to her, “but it looks to me like he’s already done it.”

“You bet,” she answered, feeling good for the first time since she’d parked her car beside the rubble-strewn vacant lot two blocks away. She waved them good-bye and headed home.

Time crawled while her desire to see Tonya escalated. She examined the hands on her watch, thinking that it had stopped. Twice, a coffee cup slipped from her fingers and splattered the brown liquid on her legs and around where she stood. She turned off the radio, unable to tolerate music; even the soft strings of a Mozart quintet jarred her nerves.

Saturday morning arrived and she had to face another truth. The prospect of seeing Duncan Banks again excited her, though not as much as the thought of living with her child, but she gave herself a quick lecture and put Duncan out of her mind.

The response to her single ring of Duncan’s doorbell gave her one of the biggest shocks of her life. Canary-yellow hair—or was it a wig?—topped the tiniest woman she had seen in years. Perhaps ever. And that small face wore enough make-up to camouflage a couple dozen fashion models. If that weren’t enough, the two prominent upper front teeth that decorated the copper-colored woman’s generous mouth—now curved into a smile—sent pictures of Bugs Bunny flashing through Justine’s mind. What on earth?

“Quit staring and come on in,” was the way in which Mattie Swindell introduced herself. Justine resisted asking why she patted her hair when the hair spray on it wouldn’t allow it to move. “I just got it done yesterday,” Mattie explained, oblivious to the fact that Justine hadn’t uttered one word. “It’ll look good like this for two or three days. Where’s your things?”

“They’ll be here later. I’m Justine Taylor.” No wonder Duncan had said he wasn’t sure who she was.

“I know who you are. Mr. B told me to expect you.” Justine had almost gotten her breath when heavy footsteps on the stairs sent her pulse into a tailspin. If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d fail before she started. She took a few deep breaths and looked toward the foot of the stairs. “Don’t gasp, girl,” she told herself, when her gaze took in his open-neck yellow T-shirt, white canvas Dockers, and toeless sandals. He stopped within two feet of her, his sleepy, reddish-brown eyes the focal points of the most breathtaking smile she’d ever seen.

“Welcome. What did you do to yourself? I’ve been expecting that nice prim lady who came here the other night.” The fingers of his left hand toyed with the back of his neck. Then he shrugged his right shoulder. It was a series of gestures she’d seen him display several times when he’d interviewed her. A dimple transformed his right cheek, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d melted right there.

“I don’t mind the change, but I hope Tonya recognizes you. She’s asleep, and she should be after waking me up at five o’clock this morning.”

She didn’t tell him he’d done a number on her, switching from gentleman reporter to an advertisement for carnal joy. “My work clothes,” she said of her blue slacks and mauve-pink silk jersey shirt. “Unless you want me to wear uniforms.” She let her grimace give him her view on that matter.

“Whatta you want with a uniform?” Mattie interjected. “I shore don’t intend to put on one.”

Once more, his gaze seemed to bore into her. “Uniform? Not for me, but do whatever makes you comfortable. We’re all equals here. I see you’ve met Mattie,” he said, changing the subject, and she could have sworn she saw a meddlesome twinkle in his eyes. “Just take good care of my child. That’s all I want.” He winked at her, and the drum started its roll in her chest.

As if he wasn’t aware of his effect on women. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was susceptible to his taunting virility. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll wear jeans; they’re more comfortable.”

His raised eyebrow suggested that he didn’t believe her, and he was right. She’d never pulled a pair of jeans over her ample hips, because she prided herself on having sense and taste, and she hated walking behind overly-endowed female bottoms that threatened to work their way out of stretch jeans. She’d just been testing the water. She’d wear cotton pants.

Hoping to distract him from any evidence she’d given of her background, she added, “I’m very casual.”

His tongue poked the right side of his jaw. “If you say so.” He turned to the other woman. “I’ve got to run down to the Library of Congress, but I should be back shortly after twelve, Mattie. A sandwich will do.” He started for the door, checked himself, and walked back to Justine. “Seems I’m short on manners this morning. Mattie will get you settled. See ya.”

Justine was thinking that she had to watch herself with Duncan Banks when she realized that Mattie was speaking to her. “When he says sandwich, I cook him a hot meal. What do you want for lunch?”

“A sandwich and a glass of milk or—”

“I ain’t got no two percent milk in the house, and I don’t expect you need whole milk. First thing you got to do is get down to a size ten. You must wear a sixteen. My sister is a nursemaid for this rich woman in the Watergate Apartments who wears a ten. I swear a size two. One of us has to make use of those designer clothes she throws away. Can you take tea?”

A full-throated therapeutic laugh flowed out of Justine, and she hugged the little woman as best she could, considering the differences in their size and height. “Mattie, I think I’m going to love you. I’d better tell you, though, that I do wear a fourteen…well, sometimes, and not after holidays. I get plenty of appreciative looks at my size sixteen, and I’m satisfied. How long have you worked here?”

“Me? I’ve worked for Mr. B on and off for the last six or seven years. Why you ask?”

“Just curious. You like him?”

“He’s a real sweetheart…’til you mess up, that is. And then he’s got a real long memory. I mean long, honey.”

Unaccountably, shivers raced down her back, and her fingers gripped the back of the chair near where she stood.

Mattie went on in a sing-song voice. “One thing you better be sure about and that is not to utter one word of what goes on in this house. That’s his law. He’s had me understand that a hundred times. He values his privacy and, being a reporter and writing things about people, he has to keep hisself to hisself.”

“He needn’t worry. I know how to be discreet.” When Mattie stared up at her with both eyebrows raised, Justine amended her remark. “I know how to bridle my tongue.”

“Discreet, huh? Well, hush my mouth.”

Anxious to see Tonya, but afraid to reveal her longing to Mattie, Justine guarded her voice and spoke in casual tones. “You think Tonya is still asleep? She’s awfully quiet.”

“If she ain’t, she oughta be. Mr. B said she singing loud as you please five o’clock this morning and didn’t stop ’til he gave her her breakfast. But soon as she got her oatmeal down, she started noddin’. Gimme your bag. Did Mr. B tell you your room is facing his? Soon as we get rid of your stuff, I’ll show you around. This is one big house.”

Just what she needed. She wouldn’t be able to stick her head out of her room without taking the rollers out of her hair and getting fully dressed. Well, she’d asked for it. How was she to have known that Duncan Banks could spin the head of the most devoutly virginal woman? Best thing she could do would be not to care what he thought of the way she looked. She’d seen her own quarters and Tonya’s room, but Mattie didn’t open Duncan’s door. Instead, she ushered her into the office that adjoined his bedroom. Soft beige tones and Royal Bokhara carpets in his office, in the hallway, and on the curved stairs. Mattie didn’t pause at Tonya’s room, and no sound came from it, so she didn’t have an excuse to go in and fill her arms with her baby.

An arresting peaceful decor was all she could think of as they began Mattie’s tour of the first floor. “Mr. B loves to sit in this big lounge chair with his hands behind his head and think. I declare that man can do more thinking than anybody I ever saw.”

Mattie wasn’t a slouch at thinking, Justine mused, taking in the tall cactus plants on either side of a huge picture window that were among the few things of nonutilitarian value in the living room. Everywhere, masculine taste. What was it about James Denmark’s “Honky Tonk” that made Duncan Banks want it on his living room wall? She studied the painting of the itinerant guitar player, but got no clues. But it didn’t tax her mind to understand his attraction to Ulysses Marshall’s “Between Mother and Daughter.” She turned quickly away; the painter had given them identical faces.

“These here pieces only been here ’bout a month. He took his time getting things for this living room,” Mattie said, gesturing toward the comfortable beige leather sofas and chairs that rested on a cheerful Tabriz Persian carpet woven in beige, brown, and burnt orange colors. She noticed that the dining room was a place for eating, not for show. A walnut table, eight matching chairs, and a sideboard sat on a Royal Bokhara carpet. No curtains graced the windows.

“I’ll see the kitchen when I get my sandwich,” Justine told Mattie. One thing she had to ask, though, because she hadn’t seen any evidence of a woman’s touch was, “How long has Mr. Banks lived here?”

Mattie’s method of clearing her throat was unique. And loud. “Well, ’bout four months, I’d say. Why?” And she let it be known that her yellow hair topped a fast mind. “’Cause everything’s new? Mr. B’s been a bachelor since Tonya was four months old, and he been living here since Tonya was four months old. Anything else, ask Mr. B. We’d better go downstairs. That’s where Mr. B spends most of his time, ’cept when he’s in his office or off someplace.”

She could find her way around Duncan’s house on her own, and she hoped she had years in which to do it; what she wanted right then was to see Tonya. “Thanks for the tour, Mattie. I’d better see about Tonya.”

But Mattie wouldn’t be denied her opportunity to show Justine who ran Duncan’s house. “Tonya’s fine. Let’s get this over with. I can’t spend all my time giving out tours.” Justine saw no junk or apparent storage areas in the basement. One large, wood-paneled room held an enormous television, a recliner, and what looked like the original Nordic Track machine. A refrigerator, bar, and pool table filled a far end of the room.

“This is gonna be Tonya’s recreation room soon as Mr. B decides how he wants it fixed up,” Mattie said, after opening the door to an empty little room with windows on three sides of it. “He can’t figure out what color to put in there. Maybe you got some ideas.” Indeed she did. Soft, pastel colors lifted the spirit, though she thought greens too cold for babies. But she didn’t voice her opinion. She could too easily slide back into the skin of Dr. Justine Taylor Montgomery, clinical psychologist.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You reminds me of some kind of teacher, Justine. Ain’t no babysitter I ever saw talk like you. ’Course, it ain’t my business, Mr. B’s satisfied, and you seems nice enough.”

Tonya’s shrill cry served notice that she had awakened. “There’s the bell, honey. When she starts crying, she means business. Thank goodness, she’s all yours now.”

Justine’s throat constricted at the prophetic words. She had to force herself to walk up the two flights of stairs, when she wanted to run. When she crossed the threshold of that room, she would change her life for all time. At last she would mother her child, and from that moment onward, Tonya would be hers. She tiptoed into the nursery, looked at Tonya sitting up in bed, and smiled.

“Tonya, darling. Do you remember me? Justine.”

Fear curled around her heart. Had that other night been a fluke? She wondered, as Tonya looked up at her with wide inquiring eyes.

She tried again, less confident now. “Darling, don’t you remember Juju?”

“Juju?” Tonya pulled herself upright and lifted her arms to Justine. “Juju.” A smile claimed her little face, and Justine leaned over to take Tonya into her embrace.

“Honey, you must be a magician.”

Startled, Justine turned so quickly that she hit her head against the side of the bed bars, but Mattie shook her head in wonder and didn’t notice.

“What kind of sandwich? Chicken? Low sodium, low fat cheese? Lean, low sodium ham?”

For a moment, she wondered whether Duncan’s housekeeper was operating a health farm. Her glance lingered on Mattie until her eyes widened. It had to be the light. No, that hair really was fire-engine red. Good Lord, was the woman driving on four wheels?

“I decided this isn’t my yellow day,” Mattie explained after noticing Justine’s prolonged stare. “I learned long ago that hair does things to a person’s mood. Now take you. You ought to make yours a light blond or something. Anything but this dreadful neither black nor gray nor anything else these black women walk around with. Make it pretty so the men will notice you, honey.”

Justine laughed. Mattie seemed to have a prescription for everything. “Let Tonya and me get to know each other. We’ll be down soon.”

“Looks to me like she been knowing you all her life, the way she’s acting. Content as a little bee buzzing roses. Never seen the beat of it. That child never did like strangers. ’Course, you do have a nice way about ya.”

Justine breathed deeply as the door closed behind Mattie and prayed she wouldn’t be caught out. She picked up the baby and walked over to the rocker, and Tonya’s little arms curled around her birth mother’s neck. When the baby kissed her cheek, as Justine had seen her do to Duncan, a bottomless well of emotion sprang up in her, and love such as she had never felt for another human being gushed out of her. She stumbled to the rocker and slumped into it, barely avoiding sitting on the floor.

Was this what she had missed as a child? Was this feeling that she would gladly give her life for the baby in her arms what mothers had projected to the confident and self-possessed schoolmates of her early youth? Not once had she felt such love. Not from Kenneth, nor her Godfather, and certainly not from her father or his sisters to whose care he had entrusted her. Tonya cooed and wiggled, demanding her freedom. She couldn’t release her. Not yet. Softly, she began tossing, but tears choked her, and she closed her eyes and rocked.

A nearly unbearable sense of wholeness enveloped her. She’d come alive. The lifeless feeling that had engulfed her and crippled her emotions for a year lifted from her like a blanket of soot dissipating at the behest of a strong wind. Yes. Oh, yes. Her limbs no longer seemed deadweight, dangling from her torso like iron bars, dragging her down. But now, fear curled around her heart. Fear that Duncan would discover her deception and send her away.

Duncan answered his cell phone as he walked out of the Library of Congress and into the unlikely September heat. “Banks.”

“Wayne.”

“What’s up, Wayne?”

“I’m not the only editor onto that case of municipal bribery, man. Can you get free to cover it? Can’t you leave that new nanny with Tonya for a quick spin? Man, if this thing breaks, and I don’t have it, I’ll lose readers.”

“All right. Have somebody type me out a briefing. I’ll get over there around three-thirty or four.”

Duncan opened his front door to the aroma of frying chicken and buttermilk biscuits. If Mattie ever paid attention to his preferences for food, she’d be driven to it by a warning from St. Peter. He dashed up the stairs to change clothes.

“Patty cake, patty cake, loo, loo in the oven…”

“Baddy yake, baddy yake, ooh, ooh, wuwu,” Tonya repeated after Justine.

His eyes widened at the sight of his daughter sitting astride Justine’s lap, slapping hands with her and giggling, her little face glistening with joy. Pleased at that confirmation of his choice as the right one, he walked quickly to his room, closed the door and got into his daytime makeover: gray T-shirt, black cotton bomber jacket, crepe-bottom black loafers—in case he had to run—and dark gray Dockers. He wore that particular jacket because it had a place in which to hide his small, but powerful, recorder.

Duncan stopped in the kitchen for what he knew would be a tongue-lashing from Mattie. “Could you give me some biscuits and a couple of short thighs? I’ve gotta get over to Baltimore in a hurry. If you need me, call Roundtree at the paper.”

“Now, Mr. B, these biscuits won’t taste like a thing once they get cold. I puts my whole self into these biscuits, seeing that you’re so crazy about them, and now you wants to go and eat ’em out of a paper bag whilst you’re driving. And my chicken. Mr. B, if you try to eat my chicken and drive same time, you’ll have an accident. Mark my word. Nobody can concentrate on my chicken and try to do something else same time.” She patted her yellow hair and looked up at him. “Nobody, but my Moe, that is. ’Course, ain’t many men equal to my Moe.”

“I can believe that. Would you hurry, please? It’ll all be hot when it reaches my stomach. Trust me.”

She handed him the bag and patted his arm. “Y’all be careful now, Mr. B.”

“Thanks.” Mattie’s southern notions and mannerism gave him old-shoe comfort. Dizzy as a drunken chicken, but he liked her. At the front door, he looked up to see Justine strolling down the stairs with Tonya in her arms.

“I’m glad you two are getting on. I’ll be back sometime tonight. If you need me, call my cell phone number. It’s on the side of the refrigerator, on Tonya’s bed post, and on the side of my computer. See ya.”

An hour and a half later, Duncan parked on Reisterstown Road just off Rodgers Avenue in West Baltimore, walked a couple of blocks, and knocked on the apartment door of an ex-girlfriend, the notes that Wayne’s assistant had prepared tucked into his jacket pocket.

“Hi, Grace. Long time, no see.”

“Believe me, that’s not my fault. Come on in. you don’t have to tell me this isn’t a personal visit, though I’m more than willing to apply for the job of unrequited, unfulfilled wife just like the ten thousand other sistahs in this town.”

He let a grin crawl over his features. “On target, as usual. Where do you think I’ll find Buddy Kilgore?”

“Probably at the joint, but not before six or so. What are you doing ’til then?”

He wrote down “CafeAhNay” on a small pad, tucked it in his inside pocket, and prepared to make his excuses and leave. Not for anything he could think of would he get involved with Grace again. She’d been his girl in college, but she’d realized her dream of singing in jazz clubs and, somehow, had gotten into the dark side of life. That wasn’t for him. She’d put that behind her, but he saw her only as a friend.

“Grace, this is serious business, and you know I’m not for fooling around where my work is concerned. You and I are friends. Isn’t that enough?”

Her shrug said he couldn’t blame her for trying. “When I make a mistake, I lay ostrich eggs. It’s not enough, Duncan, but I have to accept it. We’re friends.”

He let go the breath he’d been holding. He needed her cooperation, because she had useful contacts that served him well from time to time. “Does Buddy have a manager for that cleaning service or does he look after it himself?”

“Duncan, honey, Buddy’s got a cover for every one of his businesses; he owns ’em, but somebody else takes the heat.”

Just as he’d thought. He leaned against the door and appraised her. She’d always been as transparent to him as pure water in a clean glass. “You going to tell him I asked about him?”

Her head jerked upward, and she glared at him, obviously affronted. “Of course not. That’s all you think of me? That I’m a stool pigeon? Dunc, honey, you know I wouldn’t do that.”

“I didn’t think so, Grace, but in this business, I can’t take chances.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. Lots of people are pushing up daisies for trusting the wrong guy.”

“Tell me about it. I owe you one.”

She flashed a smile, but it didn’t ring true. Grace was suffering from a bad case of if, of what might have been. “Don’t mention it,” she said, grasping for her self-respect. “Just let me know what kind of payment you want to make and when you plan to pay.”

Heaven forbid that Tonya should let herself slip into the clutches of degradation as Grace had. She’d pulled herself out of it, he’d give her credit for that much, because most people who flirted with the drug culture and got mired into it weren’t so fortunate. Grace had been raised by a father who’d spoiled her, and she was one reason why he’d go to any respectable length to find a woman who’d be a good female role model for Tonya. A picture of her bouncing happily in Justine’s arms as he left the house earlier flashed through his mind. She hadn’t even cried when she saw him walk out of the door, and she usually kicked up such a storm that he’d taken to slipping out when she couldn’t see him.

He wished he could figure out why the ease with which Tonya had accepted Justine didn’t alleviate his concerns about the child’s well being. Well, hell. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be jealous of his daughter’s seeming fondness for Justine.

He stopped by The Maryland Journal editorial office, got some blank press passes, and headed for Darby Elementary School. He looked around for a parking spot and glimpsed Buddy Kilgore leaving the school. He grabbed his camera out of the glove compartment and snapped the man’s picture as his feet touched the bottom step, and stayed in the car until Kilgore turned into Dolphin Street and was out of sight. Sure that his hunch had been right, he barged into the principal’s office unannounced just as the man began to cram papers into the shredder. He wished he’d brought his camera. With his recorder running in his jacket pocket, he walked over to the shredder, stopped it, retrieved the papers, and looked at the top page.

“What do you have to say?”

“Me? Nothing, Mr. Banks. I’m just getting my desk straightened out like I do every day before I leave.”

Duncan released a half laugh. “So you know who I am? Who tipped you off? Kilgore?”

“I’ve seen you around, mostly over on Liberty Street in CafeAhNay. Nobody told me anything. Mr. Kilgore came by to ask me to vote for him for the City Council.”

“No kidding. Hadn’t heard he was running. And you’d think a reporter would know things like that.”

“Whatever you’re after, man, I don’t know a thing about it; I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah? Well, next time, don’t trash your invoices. Of course, if you’re double billing or maybe giving your supplier a cut, I can see how that shredder over there comes in handy. Keep the faith, brother.”

It didn’t take genius to detect a lie that thin. He walked out of what the city fathers regarded as a bastion for the development of youthful minds, and shook his head in disgust at the debris and graffiti that decorated the building’s exterior. How could a child formulate goals and pursue them in an environment that consisted of vacant buildings whose windows and doors stood shuttered with plywood? Every building in sight was an example of someone’s failure, and every man-made thing that an eye could see stood in some stage of disrepair. He stopped at the sight of a two-story-high pile of rubbish that small children barely school age were using for a playground. No wonder childhood mortality was on the rise among the urban black poor. Broken glass, cracked sidewalks, and potholes were what most African Americans in West Baltimore got in return for their taxes. With an hour to kill, he headed for Micah’s Restaurant to get some crisp fried lake trout and the best soul food in Baltimore.

At six o’clock, Kilgore was where Grace said he’d be. Duncan sat in a dark corner of CafeAhNay trying to adjust his nostrils to the mixture of dime-store perfume, beer, and sloe gin, a favorite of the locals. No matter how many times he sat there, he always left feeling soiled, not that he’d let on to the owner and habitués; his bread and butter depended on their considering him one of them. He whittled on his egg-sized carving of a Frederick Douglas bust—as the regulars were used to seeing him do when he sat there alone—and watched the school principal rush over to Kilgore. He’d seen enough, so he slipped out of the place, leaving the two men gesticulating as though nervous and excited, and went to find the manager of Kilgore’s Cleaning Service. Two hours later, he had it on his recorder that Kilgore billed the system for twice the value of the merchandise, the principal signed the order to pay, and Kilgore gave the principal ten percent of the excess. One bill went to the school board and the other, a smaller one, Kilgore kept for the IRS. The scheme guaranteed that a lot of schools paid one dollar for a roll of toilet paper, fifteen dollars for a seven dollar box of Tide, and other exorbitant charges. He’d gotten the story, but he had a hunch that wasn’t the end of it.

It had all gone too smoothly. He had the facts, but his sixth sense warned him that more would come. He wove his way through the dense, stop-and-go traffic on Highway 295 to Washington, and in the slow driving conditions, his mind flitted between thoughts of Kilgore and the immediate rapport between Tonya and Justine. Justine’s odd femininity and warm personality could get to a man, but to a baby?

Justine put Tonya’s car seat in her car and drove with the baby to the post office. She hadn’t asked Duncan’s permission to take the child out of the house, so she’d get back there as quickly as possible. The sight of a dozen letters to Aunt Mariah escalated her spirits, and she could barely wait to read them. She parked in Duncan’s two-car garage seconds before he pulled into the other spot.

As she jumped out, he opened the back door and took Tonya from her car seat. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” but his gaze bore into Justine, unreadable and disquieting.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took her with me; I had to run a quick errand.”

“I don’t mind.” Did she imagine a reluctance in his voice? “Leave me a note, though, when you do that. I worry impatiently, Justine, and I don’t like to waste my time like that.” The smile that gleamed from his sleepy, reddish-brown eyes would have taken the sting out of his words and comforted her had it not sent hot darts zinging through her limbs.

But she refused him the satisfaction of knowing that, looked into his eyes as brazenly as he’d looked into hers, and assured him, “Of course, I’ll abide by your rules.”

He started walking toward the front door and stopped, when Tonya reached for her. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. When I’m around, Tonya sticks to me like glue. She’s been with me a couple of seconds and wants to go back to you. I didn’t hire a hypnotist, did I?”

“Children Tonya’s age enjoy the comfort of a soft bosom, which you don’t have.” She wanted to eat the words even as they slipped out of her mouth, uttered in a desperate effort to divert his mind from its dangerous track.

Her normal composure nearly deserted her as his rapt stare appraised her. Unwavering. She couldn’t erase the words and didn’t dare try to explain them, so she stepped past him and reached for the front door knob. His hand whipped out to grasp her elbow.

“I take it you weren’t being provocative with that comment, but if you were, you might remember that children aren’t the only ones who enjoy a warm, soft bosom.” He released her arm, opened the door, and headed upstairs as Tonya looked over his right shoulder and sang out, “Juju. Bye, bye Juju.”

Most men declared war when they wanted to fight, but this one gave no warning. She watched his long lithe body stride up the stairs as Tonya continued to wave good-bye to her over his shoulder. Several retorts surfaced to mind, but she couldn’t afford flippancy. She would have to decide how to deal with Duncan Banks, and she wouldn’t let his cool, self-assured manner tempt her into an ill-considered reaction to that taunt. After all, it was she who had everything to lose. Legally, he was Tonya’s father, and he didn’t have to make up stories or play games in order to be with her. But he’d better watch it; she had never played roll-over for anyone, and Duncan wouldn’t be her first experience at it.

Duncan removed Tonya’s jacket and cap and put the happy baby in her crib. He knew he should have let Justine do that, but he was close to furious at his reaction to her innocent comment. Yes, innocent. She’d been embarrassed at her words, for they had surprised her as much as him. He didn’t need the reminder that he had a lovely, desirable woman sleeping across the hall from him, a woman who responded to him without his having to encourage her. He changed Tonya’s diaper, as he had done for months past, without remembering that he was now paying a nanny to do it. He gazed down at her, lying there so peaceful and trusting while she fought her drooping eyelids and lost the battle.

What could he say to Justine after his own provocative and unnecessary remark? He stepped out of Tonya’s room seconds before Justine closed her bedroom door. Whiffs of her gently seductive perfume assaulted his nostrils and quickened his blood, but her door, that cold, white barrier that separated them, stirred his common sense into action, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and loped down the stairs.

“You hungry, Mr. B?” Mattie called from the kitchen.

He wished Mattie would resist yelling at him when three rooms separated them. “A little, but I’ll wait for Justine.”

“Well, I gotta get home. Moe complains when I’m out late.”

He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. “Call me when Justine comes down.” He headed for the basement. What he needed was a good workout. He discarded his jacket and shoes, did twenty push-ups, and threw a couple of dozen darts, each of which landed farther from the bull’s eye than the one that preceded it.

“Mr. B, come on up. I got to get my dinner on.”

He put on his shoes and jacket, washed his face and hands, ran up the stairs, and stopped short. Justine floated from the second floor, almost unrecognizable in a red silk jumpsuit, oversized gold hoops at her ears, and her makeup-free face framed with jet black hair that swung well below her shoulders.

When he could close his mouth, he asked her, “Going out tonight?”

Her raised eyebrow reminded him of the silent reprimands he used to get from his elementary school teachers. “I freshen up for dinner, even when I’m eating at home alone.”

Oh, no. He might have eaten dinner by the light of a kerosene oil lamp a few times as a small child, but she was still the nanny, for Pete’s sake, and she wasn’t pulling status on him. “And get all done up like that? Well, it doesn’t hurt my eyes one bit. Come on, let’s eat.”

Duncan reached for the cornbread, but Mattie sang out, “Dear Lord, we thank…” and he let his expelled breath tell her what he thought of her reprimand. From the corner of his eye, he could see the satisfied smile that claimed Justine’s face as she enjoyed Mattie’s audacious behavior. In his younger days, the devil would have gotten into him, and he’d have given himself the pleasure of seeing her eyelids pop open when he planted his mouth on hers. Better not entertain such thoughts. Besides, Justine would get her dose; nobody’s business was sacred to Mattie.

“Mattie, what’s the matter with this cornbread?” he asked when she’d finished her long supplication. She took a bite of bread and chewed it as though relishing rich ice cream.

“Come on, Mattie, What did you do to this stuff?”

“Nothing. Tastes good as it always did, and it’s a lot more healthy. I just left out the melted butter and eggs to give Justine a chance to drop a few pounds. I’m surprised she could get into that thing she’s wearing.”

He pretended not to hear Justine’s gasp. Now that Mattie was on her case, he wanted to see how she would deal with it. “Why do you want Justine to lose weight? As far as I can see, she’s got what she needs, and nothing’s out of place. Next thing I know you’ll have Tonya on a weight-losing diet. Could you please put some butter on the table?” He ignored her loud grumbles as she went to the kitchen. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Justine. You look good to me. Sometimes, I’m surprised Mattie doesn’t have us eating dinner in the morning and breakfast at night—”

“According to my books,” Mattie interrupted, “that’d be a lot healthier than eating all this heavy stuff and going straight to bed. Here’s your calories, Mr. B.” As though suddenly conscious of Justine’s silence, she went on, “Hope I didn’t upset you none, Justine, but you have to watch—”

“Mattie, I’ve already told you that I’m satisfied with the way I look. We’ll stay friends if you stop talking about it.”

“All right. All right, but you mark my word, men like little women.”

He recognized in himself the desire to protect Justine from embarrassment, and he knew himself well enough to know it spelled trouble. “This man likes women of substance, regardless of size, and I hope this is the last time I hear this subject in my house, Mattie.”

As usual, Mattie looked toward heaven before uttering what she considered a profundity. “Well hush my mouth. Like I ain’t said one thing.”

He spread his hands and let a helpless shrug tell Justine that doing battle with Mattie was a waste of time.

“How about a couple of games of pinochle?”

The shock of his suggestion had to show on her face. She hadn’t thought that he would involve them socially, and she wasn’t certain that she liked the idea. “I haven’t played since college, so I’d probably bore you. Besides, I need to get Tonya ready for bed.” She’d had enough of his charisma as well as his bluntness for one evening, and she’d as soon get to work answering Aunt Mariah’s mail.

“Tonya’s asleep. If you take her out, try to have her back before five o’clock so she can be in bed at seven. When she wakes up, I’ll get her something to eat. It’ll take you a while to learn her routine. How about a game? Give us a chance to get acquainted.”

“Well, all right.”

She didn’t remember having played cards or done anything else to the tune of Billie Holiday’s “Fine and Mellow.” Her aunts would have had a hissy fit if they’d caught her listening to “that low class trash.” The earthy and mellow voice and the suggestive rhythm made her wonder as to his motive. The track lighting threw round balls of soft light against the beige-colored ceiling and walls, and the floor-to-ceiling mirror that she faced reflected the intimacy of their surroundings at the far corner of the basement. An eight foot maroon-colored leather sofa graced the side of one wall and a large, framed Gordon Parks photo of an urban park in which children enjoyed greenery, flowers, and early spring sunshine hung above it. A gold patterned Persian carpet covered the parquet floor beneath their feet. The only things missing were lighted candles and sparkling champagne. She diverted her gaze from her seductive surroundings to see him studying her face.

“You don’t feel like playing cards?”

“Not really. I suppose I need to take stock of things. I’m home, but it doesn’t feel like it.” She couldn’t tell him that mothering her child for those few hours and having to deny their true relationship frustrated and saddened her, even as the joy of being with her baby had been almost intolerable.

He pushed away from the card table, got up, and changed the CD. Mozart’s Concerto for Flute and Harp did nothing to lessen the scene’s allure. He braced his shoulders, hips, and the sole of his left shoe against the wall, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Her pulse quickened, and she had to lower her gaze, but he seemed oblivious to the picture of male perfection that he presented. If he knew the woman facing him doubted that she’d ever been loved and longed to know it at least once in her life, would he turn off the heat, or would he…

He trained his reddish-brown eyes on her. “This won’t work if you’re not content, and I don’t want Tonya to get used to you only to have you leave. I know you haven’t ever worked as a nanny, and I hope you’ll someday trust me enough to tell me what this move is about. But if you intend to go, please do it now. Tonya needs a woman’s love and nurturing, and I can see that you’ll fill that role, because she seems taken with you, but I don’t want her hurt. I…If I have to have a…someone living in my home, actually becoming a part of my family, I…well, I’d as soon it was you. I think we’ll get along.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Duncan, but living in someone else’s home takes getting used to.” She switched topics, because the atmosphere was recipe for personal questions. “You have a beautiful home; all you need is a swimming pool.”

“There’s one out back, but I’m keeping it covered ’til Tonya is older. I can’t risk the danger.”

This man loved her child. It came home to her with hurricane force that knowing what Tonya meant to him was enough to suck her into his orbit. Yet, she had to live independently of this new world of which she was now a part.

“I’ve enjoyed our talk, Duncan, but I’d better do a little writing before I turn in.”

“Don’t forget, journalists are professional writers. I’ll be glad to read your stuff and give you some feedback.”

“Thanks,” she threw over her shoulder, petrified. She couldn’t show him her writing, which was actually a newspaper column, because she’d taken an oath not to divulge Aunt Mariah’s identity. And if he knew she worked for a paper, he could easily trace her to Justine Taylor Montgomery, daughter of the Virginia State Assemblyman and widow of Kenneth Montgomery, double-dealer and adulterer.

She stopped in Tonya’s room, and her heart pounded as though to burst with the joy that suffused her as she looked down at the sleeping child. She thought of the horrifying feeling that had engulfed her when she’d come to herself, realized what her therapist, the social worker and nurses had allowed her to do and fought the threatening tears. They said she’d rejected the baby and gave that as their excuse, when they knew she was ill. She resisted the urge to lift Tonya to her breast and know again the happiness of holding her. She secured the baby’s blanket, turned and looked into the shining eyes of Duncan Banks standing in the doorway. She had to pass him, and she didn’t like the tension that danced between them like an unharnessed electric current, wild and dangerous. She suspected that he could get to her if she wasn’t careful, and she wasn’t going to tempt fate with a wrong move, because she didn’t plan to let anything destroy her chance to be with her child.

Stiffening her back, she approached the door. “Excuse me, please.”

When he didn’t move, she had to stop. “Uh, would you please excuse me, Duncan?”

He glided in with the litheness of a wild animal on the prowl and gave her the door, but not without teasing, brushing close enough to let his heat envelop her like hot quicksand, signaling the certain coming of disaster. She opened her bedroom door and closed it, never glancing his way. Duncan Banks was honorable, she was sure of that, but he’d just let her know that he was a man—with limits. She couldn’t imagine what she would have done if he’d decided to let her squeeze past him in that doorway. She hadn’t felt lonely while in the grip of that terrible postpartum psychosis; she hadn’t felt anything, and as a psychologist, she understood that she was only now experiencing the loneliness that she should have felt following Kenneth’s death. Her need to reach out to someone, to have someone care, meant that her health had been restored. But she’d deal with it. One way to exorcise feelings for one man was to develop an attachment to another one. She rubbed her arms. Maybe Duncan wasn’t her type; maybe she was only lonely. Her loud laughter confirmed for her the hopelessness of it.

Chapter 3

Duncan fed Tonya and rocked her to sleep. Now what? His notes on Buddy Kilgore’s scam operation didn’t entice him. He couldn’t recall a time when his work had failed to excite him, when the lure of his next winning headline didn’t light him up like gasoline dumped on an open fire. He wandered back down to the basement and put on a stack of his old Ray Charles records, but after a few minutes, he switched off the record player, ambled over to the window, and looked out at the night.

What the devil had come over him? He’d flirted with her. In a way, he’d even challenged Justine. Thank god, she hadn’t taken him up on it. He didn’t know her, and even if he did, he wasn’t letting another woman embroil him in an emotional web as Marie had managed with such wily finesse—withholding affection and sex to get what she wanted and pulling out the stops in wild, frenzied lovemaking if he capitulated. It had taken him months to develop an immunity to her brazen bargaining. Love. She hadn’t known the meaning of it. He recognized something special and different in Justine, but he’d take an oath of celibacy before he’d get involved with his daughter’s nanny. Besides, he liked his women willowy, svelte. Or had. After his debacle of a marriage to tall, slim Marie, he’d be the first to admit the folly of picking women by their size.

Clouds covered the moon momentarily and raced onward. Somewhere a dog barked, not because of the moon’s enticement, it seemed, but in furor, and he wondered at the intruder’s fate. Disgusted with himself for his mental meandering and the images he conjured up to avoid thinking of Justine, he knocked his left fist into his right palm and let out a deep breath. His mind wouldn’t be shackled, however, and he gave in to his thoughts. Something about her had gotten to him the minute he saw her. Her eyes seemed to…He couldn’t name it. His hands moved ruthlessly over his tight curls. Had he known her before? And where?

Still restless, he closed the blinds and started slowly up the stairs. Was a failed love-marriage any reason for entering into one that was strictly a business deal? He had loved Marie, but soon after their marriage, he’d begun to wonder if she’d traded her freedom for financial security. She’d sworn that she loved him, but he’d never felt deep down that he was her world, her priority.

“I’ve never been anywhere or done anything,” she’d announced, “but you’ve been everywhere and you’ve got your life the way you want it. I didn’t want a baby, but you insisted on us adopting one, and I gave in. You love that baby more than you love me.”

“If you’re looking for excuses,” he said, “that one will serve as well as any.”

She’d merely shrugged and looked at herself in the mirror while she perfected her makeup.

“What’s your bottom line?” he’d asked her, dreading the answer.

He had marveled at the smoothness with which her reply slipped through her lips. “I’m checking out. You’ve got your life. I have to make mine, and I can’t do that tied to another woman’s child. I’m sorry, Duncan, but this scene’s not for me, and I’m tired of pretending. I wish you the best.”

The finality of those words had slammed into him with the loud finality of a hangman’s trapdoor. He glanced toward Justine’s bedroom door, and a rueful smile claimed his face. That woman would show him what he was made of, sure as his name was Duncan Banks.

Justine read the last of the Aunt Mariah letters and decided to answer the least serious one first. “If you love this man and you’re sure he loves you,” she wrote to a senior citizen, “you don’t need my advice. You want me to agree with your decision. If it feels right, go for it.”

To the twenty-seven-year-old woman who complained that her father allowed her twenty-five percent of her earnings, saved the remainder, and kept her bankbook, she advised, “Grow up. Take your bankbook and your clothes and move into your own apartment, preferably in another city.”

Wife abuse required more careful consideration. She wrote to a Washington, D.C. woman, “Eleven years of beatings and your husband’s numerous other acts of mistreatment always followed by his bent-knee apologies should tell you that he will not change. You have no children and no excuse for putting up with his pathological cruelty. Leave him, get a job, and take care of yourself.”

The sound of Duncan’s footsteps as he loped up the stairs sent shivers from her armpits to her fingertips. His door closed and she let herself breathe. It had to work; this was the only way in which she could be with her child.

The next morning, she got Tonya settled and began to organize her day around the child’s eating and sleeping schedules. She couldn’t have been happier that Duncan wasn’t around to disconcert her. She made a list of things she’d need—a child’s record player, records, blackboard, little musical instruments, crayons, drawing paper, and books for Tonya—and shoved the note under Duncan’s door. Then she called her editor.

“Big Al speaking. What can I do for you, Justine?”

She told him she preferred each column to have a general theme and answers to five letters. “I’ll mail my first one this afternoon.”

“Right on. Think you could come in for a conference Wednesday morning? We wanna talk syndication. If I can swing it, you’ll make some money.”

Money was not her first priority, but it wouldn’t pay to say so. “Mind if I bring my little charge?”

“Sure, baby. Long as she’s quiet. Eleven o’clock.”

“Sweetheart, the sight of you still gives a guy palpitations,” Al greeted Justine that Wednesday morning. “A nanny, huh? Well, honey, things are about to change. You won’t be doing that for long. Warren Stokes says he can syndicate you easy as that.” He snapped his long, thick fingers.

Justine gaped at him. “Warren Stokes? Is he the Warren Stokes we knew at Howard U?”

“That I am. Hello, Justine. Still beautiful, I see. And what a beautiful little girl you have there!”

That couldn’t be regret she heard in his voice. “I’m her nanny.”

His raised eyebrows and pursed lips didn’t surprise her. He’d have been less astonished to see her get out of a chauffeured Town Car. “Nanny, eh? I suppose you’ll explain that.”

Their conference ended with Justine’s agreement to syndicate after six months if the public’s reception of her column warranted it.

“Have lunch with me, Justine.”

She shifted Tonya to her hip. “That may not be wise, Warren. Best not to revisit the past.”

His gentle grasp of her left arm was her clue that the old Warren hadn’t changed. He still had the tenacity of an irritated bull. “I never married, because you have my heart. Always did and always will. We shouldn’t have let a stupid misunderstanding separate us. Is there anyone in your life right now? A husband?”

She shook her head. “If we pursue this syndication deal, I suppose we’ll run into each other. It’s been nice seeing you again.”

It didn’t surprise her that he wouldn’t be put off. “I’ll call you. You won’t get away from me this time.”

Something began to roll like rough ocean waves in the pit of her stomach. Warren never let anything get between him and what he wanted. She liked him, but she hadn’t suffered when, in a fit of jealousy, he’d broken their friendship because she’d regarded him only as a friend. She didn’t want a romantic entanglement with him or anyone else, and especially not now when she was trying to put order into her life.

She looked him in the eye. “Those were college days, and we were children. Let the past lie.”

Tonya called “bye bye” to him as Justine walked away. The years could have whittled down Warren Stokes’s ego, but she doubted it. As students, they’d talked of their future and shared their dreams. She had admired his dogged pursuit of his goal, loved his hip-swaggering way of dancing, and enjoyed arguing against his conservative views, but she hadn’t wanted him as a man. This older Warren wasn’t the man to be a woman’s pal, and she didn’t want a lover. She didn’t intend to give Duncan an excuse to fire her. If necessary, she’d don a nun’s habit.

Justine opened the front door and raced down the hall to answer the telephone. Mattie would let it ring indefinitely. No one had told her to identify Duncan’s home, so she picked up the phone and said, “Hello.” She couldn’t find her voice when the caller, a woman, wanted to know whether GDB was still looking for a wife. She seemed to panic at Justine’s dumbfounded silence, and an explanation of the notice in Dee Dee’s column spilled from her mouth. So he’d advertised for a wife. She couldn’t believe he’d need to resort to that. Unless…She promised the woman that she’d deliver the message.

Perplexed, she asked Mattie to watch Tonya for a few minutes while she went to the nearest drug store. She bought a copy of The Maryland Journal and scanned it until she found Dee Dee’s column. Stunned, she threw the paper into a refuse bin and drove home. Why would he do such a thing?

“I’m so sorry. The position has been filled,” she told the next caller.

The woman’s disappointed, “Oh no. Oh no” didn’t give her a sense of guilt. If Duncan married, Tonya wouldn’t need a nanny, and she intended to be the woman who took care of her child. Besides, what kind of an environment would an arranged marriage be for a baby?

She put Tonya to bed, ate a sandwich, and settled down to work. To the next four women callers who wanted to marry GDB, she responded, “The position has been filled,” reasoning that she hadn’t lied, since she hadn’t said which position was no longer open.

Several weeks later, leaving the house, Duncan collided with Justine as she raced out of her bedroom to answer the hall telephone. He couldn’t have said when the phone stopped ringing, and he’d have sworn that she couldn’t either.

“Sorry.”

“I…I…Please, I didn’t see you. I hope I didn’t…”

“No. No. I’m…I’m fine, but you must weigh a ton.”

Still holding her, he managed to say, “Well, no. Only about a hundred and ninety-five. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

He told himself to take his hand off her, but his arms remained around her shoulders, and her soft, ample breast nestled against his chest. A stricken look spread over her face, and he realized that he had tightened his hold on her in an unmistakable caress.

“Duncan…Please…I…”

If her wide eyes hadn’t silently pleaded with him, he didn’t know how far he’d have gone. He doubted that he would have released her of his own will. It had been so long since he’d known the loving arms of a warm sweet woman wrapped tightly around him. So long since he’d floated out of himself in the hot haven of a woman’s welcoming body. He wasn’t fooled by her business-like manners, walking past him day after day with barely a smile on her face, always so damned civilized and courteous. If she’d behave a little more naturally with him, he’d believe he held no attraction for her. But she worked too hard at it, always making appoint of not being interested.

“Duncan…”

He realized he’d been staring into her eyes, looking for he didn’t know what. “You all right now?” he asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

She nodded and rushed back into her room. Only then did he realize that she’d been dressed in a silk Japanese kimono. No wonder she’d gotten away from him as fast as possible.

He got back into his room, closed the door, and leaned against it. That had been close. Too close, if he didn’t want to start anything with Justine—and he didn’t—he’d better let her go and get someone else to take care of Tonya. He slapped his left fist into the palm of his right hand until the sting of it stopped him. Shaking his head as though to admonish himself, he conceded that he couldn’t do that either. It wouldn’t be right. After a month, he didn’t have a single complaint against her, and he doubted Tonya would have been as happy in Marie’s care as she was with Justine. If he wanted his child to have a woman’s love and caring, he didn’t think he’d find a better source than Justine. Her presence raised his home environment to a higher level, gave it a true feeling of home. He straightened up and walked over to the window, examining his feelings. After over half an hour of musing over his life, he told himself that he, and not Justine, was the problem. He had to figure out what he wanted between them and behave with her accordingly. Armed with this determination, he crossed the hall and risked knocking on her door.

“Yes?”

“Did Mattie tell you I’m having a dinner party tomorrow night? If I had seen you, I would have told you myself. Just a few close friends.”

“She said some people were coming over. Do you want me to help?”

He realized then that he didn’t think of her as a servant, and maybe he ought to. Seeing her in that light might have a taming influence on his libido. “No, indeed. That’s Mattie’s job. You’re invited as my guest. See you this evening.”

For once, she didn’t look him in the eye the way she did when she wanted to get a point over. Instead, she gazed so intently at something over his left shoulder that he had to control the impulse to turn around and see what had her attention. “Uh…Thanks for the invitation. How casual are your dinner parties?”

The question took him back a bit. What kind of dinner parties did she go to? “Well, I put on a jacket and tie. You mean what should you wear?” At the risk of annoying her, he grinned broadly. “That red jumpsuit would be just the ticket.” He’d wanted to see her in it again.

Her eyes widened, and she shifted her gaze to his face. “Really?”

“You bet. And don’t forget those big silver earrings.”

She stared at him as though in wonderment. “Why’re you so surprised? Believe me, you made quite a picture in that get-up.”

“Thanks.”

For once she didn’t have a come-back, and he wondered what she thought of the way she looked. As far as he was concerned, she had what she needed and plenty of it in just the right places. “See you this evening. Oh, yes. Those things you ordered for Tonya…I’ll pick them up Saturday.” He braced his left hip against the doorjamb. “You grooming her for a show in the National Gallery of Art or for the Metropolitan Opera House? Hell, Justine, she’s only a year old.”

Her shoulders squared and her back stiffened. She’d gone from kitten to lioness in a second, and he prepared himself for their first argument. But her gentle voice belied her battle-ready demeanor. “Duncan, she’s a thirteen-month-old who sings all the time and draws on everything. If she doesn’t have crayons, she uses her little fingers.” She laid her head to one side, and he knew he could expect a challenge. “Do you know how Picasso and Leontyne Price got started?”

He didn’t, and he expressed his capitulation in joyous laughter. “Remind me not to confront you unless I’m ready to do battle.”

Justine hummed a few bars of “Mighty Like A Rose,” one of her mother’s few legacies. Whenever she hurt, her mother would kiss and rock her and sing a few bars of that song. She didn’t remember the words, because she was five when her mother died, but the tune lived in her memory, a cherished possession.

Overjoyed as she was to be with her child, happiness eluded her. The flame between Duncan and her would someday erupt into an inferno, and when it did, the Piper would come to collect his due. She picked up a copy of The Evening Post, glanced at her column, and threw the paper aside. What would she do if Duncan’s self-control deserted him and she found herself locked to him in the consuming passion of which she’d begun to dream? He’d send her away, because he didn’t want an involvement with her any more than she wanted it with him. But oh, how good it had been to feel his hands on her and her breast against his rock-hard chest. She had wanted to scream at him, Just take me and love me and show me what I’ve missed. Shocked at her thoughts, she walked out on her balcony and gazed at the forest of oaks that proudly displayed their orange, red, purple, and yellow autumn leaves. She sucked in her breath in awe at the beauty her eyes beheld. Her mood of minutes earlier dissipated and a smile crossed her face. Maybe this was where Mattie got ideas for her hair. The thought enlivened her spirits.

Was she his partner? An extra woman for the unattached man? Would he have a date? She considered staying in her room rather than be seen as an extra at the dinner table. Her older aunt invited couples only to dinner, and the widowed one did the same, except for the “friend” who’d been a “friend” for as long as she could remember. Justine had long ago decided that her aunt’s friend was her lover and had been years before Uncle Benedick had passed on. She wondered if she should check the dining room; Mattie could be sloppy. She stamped her foot in frustration at her awkward position in Duncan’s house.

She hung a long rope of silver beads around her neck, setting off the deep red silk jumpsuit and silver hoops. She had always regarded that jump suit as casual wear, something in which she lounged in her room. But if he wanted her to wear it, she would. She didn’t like high heels, but wore them anyway as she tripped down the stairs and nearly stumbled when she reached the bottom. Duncan stood nearby, tall and handsome in a dark business suit, talking heatedly with a tall woman whose flawless skin had the color of fresh pecans. She raised her head and started past them.

His arm lightly on her shoulder brought her to a quick halt “Justine, this is my sister, Leah.”

Leah’s knowing look told Justine that Duncan’s sister had noticed her relief that she was his sister and not his date. “Hello, Justine. I’ve been anxious to meet you. Duncan talks about you a lot.”

He looked down at his feet and then toward the living room. “Leah lets anything that comes to her mind drop out of her mouth.”

Leah shrugged a shoulder. “I’m blunt. And nobody calls me Leah. I hate the name. Call me Banks if you want me to answer.”

Justine extended her hand. “I’m happy to meet you, Banks. Duncan hasn’t mentioned having a sister.”

Banks let a rueful smile linger on her face. “I embarrass him, Justine. He’d love to have a dainty, ultra feminine little sister who’s brainless.”

Both of Justine’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure? He’s been acting like an egalitarian with me.”

“I’ve known him longer. He thinks I need a total makeover.”

The grin that settled around Duncan’s mouth assured Justine that she shouldn’t take the conversation seriously. Duncan and his sister adored each other.

“I’d be satisfied if she’d quit walking around like a chimney belching bituminous smoke.”

“Grant me my one vice, Duncan. I don’t interfere with yours.” She turned to Justine. “You’d think he’d introduce me to his boss. I’ve been trying for six months to meet that man on square ground when I have the advantage, and my own beloved brother has access to him every day, and won’t get us together. I was just telling him what I thought of him when—”

So that had been their argument! “If he won’t do it, ask somebody else.”

“I asked my girlfriend, Melissa Grant Roundtree, to introduce us, but the opportunity just won’t come.”

“Excuse me while I answer the door,” Duncan said, looking down at Justine’s face. “Be right back.”

Chills snaked down her back. What would she do if he walked back to them with a woman on his arm?

“Wipe the worry off your face, Justine. Duncan doesn’t have a woman. He’s sworn off them for life.”

“Wh…What?”

“Sorry, but I saw right away that you like him. Just be careful. He’s a great guy, but he goes by the title of man, if you know what I mean. And I don’t expect he’s going to expose himself to what he just got out of any time soon.”

“Leah. I mean, Banks, what are you talking about? I’m Tonya’s nanny.”

“Come on back in the kitchen. Duncan won’t let me smoke anywhere else in the house, and Mattie doesn’t mind.” They walked down the long brown and beige tiled hallway to the modern brick-floored kitchen. Banks kissed Mattie on the cheek and lit a cigarette. “I know you’re her nanny,” Banks said softly so that Mattie couldn’t hear, “and we don’t want to get into that yet. If you’re a nanny, Wayne Roundtree’s in love with me, and as far as I know, he’s never met me. Did you answer the ad for nanny or the one for wife?”

I need my wits with this woman, Justine cautioned herself. “Nanny. Is he looking for a wife?”

Banks blew a few smoke rings. “Yeah. For a strictly business deal. Now who’s crazy? Him or me?”

“There you are,” Duncan’s voice boomed. “Wayne, I want you to meet my sister, Leah—the one who’s blowing smoke. And this is Justine Taylor.” Banks quickly rubbed the cigarette against the sole of her left shoe and put it out.

“I’m glad to meet you, Wayne,” Justine said, showing as little interest as possible in the man who was Duncan’s boss and the object of Banks’s affection.

Wayne grinned and winked at Duncan. “Not worth a backward glance, eh?” He took her extended hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Justine.”

She looked from Wayne to Banks, hoping to see a spark of desire in his face and praying that Banks would say the right words.

“Hello, Wayne. It’s a relief to see somebody from home down here among these jaded Washingtonians.”

Wayne appeared suitably impressed, and his low drawl seemed to captivate Banks, who gazed unsteadily at him. “Well, hello. Duncan didn’t tell me he had a sister. Where’ve you been?”

“Mostly in Frederick. I told Melissa I wanted to meet you, but the three of us are never in the same place.”

“Melissa? My sister-in-law? Wait ’til I see her. All she had to do was tell me she had a nice brown, long-stemmed beauty she wanted me to meet. Duncan, what’s the matter with these women?”

“Search me. Justine, you want to come with me and meet some of my buddies?”

At least he had the grace to leave them alone and give Banks a chance. Wayne seemed interested enough, but maybe his joviality was nothing more than courtesy. Duncan’s fingers at her elbow were meant to reassure her, and she didn’t attach any significance to the special attention. If only he wouldn’t watch her like an eagle about to dive for trout while he introduced her to his friends. She’d been properly brought up by aunts with strict codes of behavior, and she knew how to act with people. What did he expect? She opened her mouth to tell him he needn’t fear embarrassment, when it dawned on her that his interest was in another direction: she wasn’t behaving as a servant would, but as Dr. Justine Taylor Montgomery. Too late to repair that damage; she’d have to watch it.

“You don’t drink?” he asked after she declined all that he offered.

“I’ll drink wine with my dinner, but Tonya could wake up any minute, and I don’t want to be tipsy if she needs me.”

He searched her face as though gauging some inscrutable object or investigating the unknown. “What do you usually drink?”

“A glass of white wine.”

“Mr. B,” Mattie yelled. “It’s on.”

He continued to gaze into her eyes. “Dinner’s ready. Will you sit at my right?”

“But Duncan, that’s…I work for you. Surely, you don’t want to give the impression that I’m more than—”

His fingers tightened on her arm. “As long as I’m in my house, I can give any impression I like—provided I don’t offend you. I wouldn’t want to do that. Come with me.”

None of his friends appeared to find it unseemly that Duncan escorted his daughter’s nanny to dinner and gave her a place of honor at the table. She turned to find Duncan’s gaze on her.

Unsure as to how she should deal with his attentiveness, she tried to divert his attention by focusing the conversation on Banks and Wayne. “They seem to have hit it off. If you knew she wanted to meet him, why didn’t you arrange it before now?”

He placed his fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. “Justine, my sister is as mercurial as a person gets. If Wayne makes one false move with her, she’ll tell him to drop dead. He’s my boss, and he’s also like a brother to me, and I’d as soon not have to tie up with him because of Leah.”

“But she’s enchanted with him and has been for a while.”

“Enchanted or not; if he doesn’t toe the line, she’ll give him the boot, and he won’t get a second chance, sure as my name is Duncan Banks.”

She didn’t like the sound of it. “Does that run in the family?”

“Hardly. I don’t expect perfection from people.”

She let herself breathe more deeply. “What do you expect?”

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Honesty. Weakness, I can understand, but not dishonesty. And whatever you give me, give it with your whole soul, every bit of yourself. I refuse to be anybody else’s guilt or, for that matter, their charitable duty.”

His stricken look told her he’d said more than he had intended, that he hadn’t wanted to reveal so much of himself. She shuddered to think that, of their own volition, her fingers had found his beneath the table and grasped them as though in a gesture of comfort. When she tried to remove her hand, he tightened his grip.

“Look at me, Justine.”

She cast her glance downward and closed her eyes, refusing him, but she was about to learn that he would always stand his ground.

“Justine, if you don’t look at me, I’ll make you do it right here in front of everybody. If you don’t want my mouth on yours right here, open your eyes.”

She had to open them. Not merely because of his threat, but because she needed to see his face. “Don’t complicate this, Duncan. Please leave things as they are. I want to work here, but I can’t if you start something with me. I—”

“Why do you want to work here? And another thing, I can’t start anything with you unless I have your eager cooperation. You’re as safe with me as you would be in the Vatican. And you know it.”

His question, potent with danger, flowed out of him so readily that she knew it hadn’t just occurred to him, that it nagged at him waiting for a chance to be asked. She dodged it and commented on his assurance of her safety.

“Thank you, Duncan, but I have never doubted that you are honorable. It blazes across your countenance like a big red sun just before it sinks beyond the horizon.”

She glanced first at their entwined fingers and then toward the other end of the table where Banks sat with Wayne Roundtree in rapt attention beside her. “Duncan, please give me back my hand.”

His answer was a wide grin, roguish but determined, and she shifted her gaze to find Duncan’s sister watching them intently. She couldn’t help wondering why Banks wouldn’t use the opportunity to gain Wayne’s attention. Instead, the woman’s eyes seemed to pierce her, to scrutinize her insides, and she’d have thought it an act of rudeness if Banks hadn’t suddenly smiled and then turned to Wayne.

When they finished the five course meal and moved to the living room, Justine expected Duncan to circulate among his friends, but he stayed close to her.

His long-lashed reddish-brown eyes seemed to measure her features, as he gazed down at her. “Enjoy the meal?”

She nodded and forced a half-smile. All right, he was honorable, but her nerves still rioted at the thought that he slept across the hall from her and that their bedroom doors didn’t have locks. “Yes. It was wonderful. I had no idea that Mattie could turn out a gourmet meal. I had expected some first class soul food.”

Looking at him, relaxed against the marble fireplace, she didn’t think she’d ever seen a man so comfortable with himself. “Oh, she can cook that, too,” he said, “as well as French or Italian, and always top fare. There’s more to Mattie than those ridiculous wigs. Aperitif?”

“N…No thank you. I’d better run up and check on Tonya.”

With a finger on her arm, he detained her. “I told you. You’re off tonight. I’ll check on her. If you want to get away from me, just say so.”

She looked up quickly, startled. “Why would I want to do that?”

“You’re asking me?” Ice laced his speech. “Look, Justine, I don’t know why I’m pestering you. If you’ll excuse me…”

To her amazement, he half-bowed and left her. What had brought that on? Surely, he wasn’t so thin-skinned.

“What got into him?” Banks asked, her words and delicate spicy perfume announcing her presence.

Justine looked up at Banks, about five-feet-nine, slim, and beautiful. Almost enough like Duncan to be his twin. “You tell me. You’ve known him longer than I have.”

Banks’s tongue poked the lower side of her jaw, a gesture Justine had often seen Duncan make. “He’s bothered about something, and maybe he ought to be.”

Justine had to reach for self-control to avoid reacting to Banks’s cryptic remark. Still, she couldn’t refrain from glaring at Banks. “What do you mean?”

Unperturbed, Banks shrugged with the elaboration of royalty conferring an honor. “Why is an intelligent, well-educated, smart woman like you working as a babysitter? You’re finishing school from your head to your toes, girlfriend, and I bet you never made a bed in your life.”

Taken aback by the woman’s shrewdness and blunt remark, Justine pretended to be unruffled. “Not everybody can judge a book by its cover. Congratulations.”

“Save the sarcasm, Justine. What are you after?”

A sigh eased through her lips before she could stifle it. She lifted her chin in defiance, but thought better of the words about to spill out and decided to bridle her tongue. No point in making an enemy of Duncan’s sister. “I’m trying to make a living while I develop some writing skills. That all right with you?”

Banks sat on the edge of a leather arm chair, leaned forward, and cupped her knees with her hands. “I’ll buy that. For now. If I were you, though, I’d watch it with Duncan. For all that heman front, he’s as tender as Tonya, and I’ll tell you one more thing. Girl, if you ever trip his trigger, you’re in for a full-scale war.”

“Thanks. But why are you telling me this?”

Banks’s raised left eyebrow was meant to question Justine’s intelligence. “You kidding? Deny it all you please, girlfriend, but you want Duncan just about as much as I want Wayne Roundtree. From what I’ve seen, I suspect you’d be good for him. Of course, what I’ve seen also tells me there’s plenty more to you than meets the eye.” At Justine’s barely contained annoyance, she went on, “Don’t mind me. I say what I think. That way you know where you stand with me. Can’t say that for my brother, though. He’s about as open with his thoughts as a deaf mute; by the time you figure it out, your name is Mudd.” Wayne joined them and saved Justine a rejoinder.

“Are you headed back to Frederick tonight, Leah?”

Justine could barely refrain from grinning when Banks pulled air through her teeth and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Wayne, we aren’t going to get anywhere if you insist on calling me Leah. My name is Banks.”

“Get real, Leah. I can’t call you Banks; that’s what I call your brother.”

“Then call him Duncan,” she huffed. “He loves his name. I can’t stand mine.”

“It’s a lovely name, and I like it. Brings to my mind a graceful swan, long-necked and elegant, as you are,” Wayne said, and Justine thought of telling Banks that Wayne Roundtree wouldn’t be browbeaten. “I repeat, going to Frederick?”

“I have to,” she mumbled, in a manner that suggested she wasn’t pleased with him. “I’m working tomorrow.” She bunched her shoulders. “Duncan would love it if you drove me. Save him the long trip tonight.”

Wayne raised up to his full height of six feet, three inches and bestowed a cool smile on Banks. “Leah, I don’t give two hoots what Duncan would love, and I’m not trying to save him a trip anywhere. I want to know what you would like. Do I drive you?”

“That would be nice,” she said in a barely audible voice.

Justine left them to settle the matter and slipped upstairs to look in on Tonya. All evening, she’d longed to sit beside the child’s bed and watch her sleep, to be there for her when she woke up and see her smile of recognition. Torn between the desire to nurture Duncan’s interest into a living, permanent emotion and the need to preserve her status as Tonya’s nanny, she’d needed reassurance of Tonya’s affection—the one thing that could fill her life forever. Her heart pounded in joyous rhythm as she gazed down at the sleeping child.

“She’s asleep.”

The sound of his deep, velvety voice sent tremors of excitement ricocheting through her body. “I know. I just thought I’d check.” She cut a wide swath around him, avoiding his eyes as she did so, rushed to her room, and closed the door. She’d never been afraid of relationships, had always delighted in exploring them, game for new experiences. And then Kenneth deceived her. She squeezed her fists tight, fighting to shut out the gnawing sounds of the past, to live in the present, grab whatever happiness came her way and hang onto it.

The stench of the burning rubble, the gutted remains of the Sutton Motel in Falls Church, Virginia and the sight of the black plastic bags tied to gurneys that passed within inches of her came back to her, bridging time, and she was there again. She hadn’t known that she cried out until her door sprang open and Duncan Banks had her in his arms.

“What is it? Why are you shaking so? Justine, honey, tell me what’s the matter.” She had to pull herself together, to reclaim her dignity. She couldn’t let him see her shattered this way. He held her closer in an unmistakable caress, and she wanted to luxuriate in the warmth of his embrace, but her relationship with her child was at stake. She rested her head on his shoulder for a second, lolling in what might have been, and then moved away.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you, Duncan, but I’m all right now.”

He wasn’t easily pacified. “You don’t get off that simply, Justine, and if you had heard the terror in your voice, you wouldn’t blame me for insisting. What happened to you?”

She didn’t question his right to an explanation, but she couldn’t tell all. “You’re right. It was the sudden memory of a terrible tragedy, so fresh and so real. I…I suppose I forgot where I was.”

“And you’re not going to tell me about it, are you?”

Still shaken, she had to control her voice, lest it tremble.

“Some day, perhaps, if our relationship warrants it. For now, you’ll have to trust me, Duncan. I promise I haven’t committed any crimes, and I have no unpaid debts. You don’t have to worry about my character.”

His grim expression belied his words. “I don’t question your good character, Justine. To mimic you, you wear it wrapped around you like a bold spring breeze. If you’re all right, I’ll leave you. But if you need me…” He let it hang.

She couldn’t face the merrymakers downstairs, so she’d get Banks’s phone number and apologize for not saying good night. She got ready for bed and faced a welcomed fact. That scream was at last a physical reaction to the pain of that morning in Falls Church, Virginia. She still hadn’t cried.

Duncan walked down the stairs with heavy, burdened steps. He’d waste a lot of time if he tried guessing what could have been so horrible that its memory wrung such a terror-stricken scream from Justine. He ought to be grateful that it happened, because he needed a reminder that he didn’t know Justine Taylor. Yet, it was no use denying his strong attraction to her. When he’d held her in his arms upstairs there, he’d felt her pain, and he knew the danger that presaged. A man was headed for trouble when his gut reaction to a woman was to protect her, and he’d wanted to shield Justine from whatever demons haunted and hurt her. He paused on the bottom step, unwilling to break his thoughts and join his friends. Maybe he’d take his annual hunting trip early. Justine was as capable of taking care of Tonya as he was. When he got back home, she’d be out of his system.

He pulled air through his teeth in disgust at himself. He had to straighten out his head. If she had so much as raised her face and looked at him or put her hands near his shoulders, he’d have taken her mouth, the consequences be damned. And that didn’t make a shred of sense. He glanced up at Wayne Roundtree and his baby sister heading for the front door.

“You don’t want me to drive you home, Leah?”

“Wayne’s gonna drop me off on his way to Beaver Ridge.”

He didn’t suppose it was funny; nothing amused him right then. But he couldn’t help enjoying Wayne’s apparent discomfort—until the man reprimanded Banks, “I’m not dropping you off; I’m taking you home. You said you’d like that, and that’s what I’m doing.”

She was about to learn that Roundtrees didn’t let people jerk them around, and the lesson might do her some good. Still…Duncan ignored Wayne’s scowl. “If you want me to take you, Leah, it’s no sweat.” He didn’t laugh when Wayne glared at him, though maintaining a straight face took some mental discipline.

“What do you want?” Wayne asked her, his voice tinged with vexation and his stance just short of predatory.

Banks’s sheepish grin settled it for Duncan even before she said, “He can take me home.” Wayne Roundtree had her number, but it didn’t surprise him when she took care not to get too far out of character and added, “You trust him, don’t you, Duncan?”

A belly laugh rolled out of him. Trust his sister to squeeze the humor out of a situation. “Make him stick to the speed limit, Sis. Wayne drives like a bat out of hell.”

“I’ll open that door,” Wayne said when Banks reached the car.

She shifted her weight to her left foot and let fly with, “Something wrong with my hands?”

She resisted squirming when he stopped inches from her, looked down into her face and said, “No. The problem lies elsewhere. And that’s something you and I are going to get straight before I move this car.”

Tough, was he? “Hmmm. Maybe I’d better tell Duncan he has to take me home after all.”

His hand on her elbow said he meant business. Fine with her. “Leah, I don’t care for this constant stream of sarcasm and cynicism. I’m with you because I want to be, and I assume the same goes for you. But if you’d rather be somewhere else, say the word and we won’t start this. What’ll it be?”

She wished she could see his eyes a little better and figure out what he thought, and she’d give anything to know how to talk to him. She opened her mouth to tell him he couldn’t always have his likes, remembered how long and how badly she’d wanted to be with him, and said, instead, “Are you always so cut and dried?”

“Not usually, but your constant challenges bring out a side of me that I’m not familiar with. Think you can mellow a little?”

“I…I thought I was.”

He helped her into the sleek, maroon-colored Town Car, seated himself, and started the engine. “Do you want us to spend time together?”

Playing it safe, was he? She bristled. “Wayne, I’m not an authority on boy-girl behavior these days, but I think if you want us to see each other, you have to ask.”

He glanced her way briefly before accelerating onto the capital Beltway. “Okay. Okay. Will you spend time with me? I’d like to get to know you.”

He was asking her out. Everything inside of her started swimming, and she grasped her forehead as though to quell an attack of vertigo. Only air came out of her mouth when she parted her lips to speak.

“Well? You turning me down? I though you said you’d wanted to meet me. If I’ve bombed this fast with you, I’m in trouble.”

She grabbed her middle when he zipped into Route 270 and nearly panicked when words still wouldn’t come. In desperation, she placed a tentative hand on his knee and risked a gentle pat. The man had tied her into knots; she’d never been speechless in her life.

He glanced down at her hand resting on his knee. “What does that mean?”

“I…I think you’re nice, Wayne, and we can go out sometime.”

He rested his hand on hers. “On a steady basis?”

Just because the man was wonderful wasn’t a reason to chuck her common sense. “Well, let’s see if that’s what we want. Okay?”

“Works for me.”

They reached Frederick well before driving at the legal speed limit would have allowed. When Wayne parked in front of the white brick house at 75 North Teal, she breathed in sweet relief. “Thanks for the ride home. See you soon.”

He took her hand and walked toward the front door. “I assume you don’t live out here on Teal Street. Let me have your keys.” He unlocked the door with his free hand and walked with her into the darkened foyer. “I’m glad we met. Goodnight, Leah.”

She jerked her hand from his. “I told you not to call me—” His mouth warm and firm settled on hers and scrambled her brain, and she grabbed the lapels of his jacket to steady herself. She’d never felt anything like it. Shivers coursed through her body until she trembled in his arms.

He broke the kiss and gazed down at her as though in wonder. “Is there a guy in your life? Serious, I mean?”

She blinked her eyes. “Why’d you do that? You caught me off guard.”

She luxuriated in his grin, its warmth toasting her like midday sunshine on a deserted beach. “If I’d asked you, I’d never have gotten that kiss, and especially not one that honest. And I’m calling you Leah. Period. Get that?”

He was out of the door before she could tell him he’d be talking to the wind, because she’d refuse to answer him. She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and made up for lost time.

Duncan told the last of his guests good night, extinguished the lights, and headed upstairs. The light shining beneath Justine’s door caused him some concern, and he left his bedroom door ajar so he could hear her if she called out to him. He stripped and slid into bed. Justine was across the hall from him, crying for all he knew, since she hadn’t come back downstairs, and he was helpless to do anything about it, because she hadn’t trusted him. Then there was Wayne Roundtree and his kid sister. Kid? She was twenty-seven. He hoped the man had sense enough to realize that she was a tenderfoot, that she hid her innocence behind her sharp tongue. He flipped over on his belly. He’d hate to flatten his boss, but he’d do it in a New York minute and wouldn’t think twice about it.

Across the hall, Justine struggled with her reaction to Duncan’s almost kiss. She had wanted it. She rolled over to untangle the sheet twisted around her body. Her unloved body. Behind closed eyelids she saw his lips moving toward hers, slowly. Teasing. Tantalizing her. She parted her lips for the taste of his hot velvet tongue and moaned in despair when it failed to penetrate her welcoming mouth. When her breasts began to ache for his stroking fingers, she swung out of bed, took off her gown and showered. She didn’t fool herself. Duncan wasn’t the only source of her discontent, nor could she attribute it to celibacy, for she’d never been fulfilled. The certainty that she’d never been loved, that her failure at lovemaking with her husband wasn’t her fault, had triggered in her a need to explore herself, to fly. Because Kenneth Montgomery hadn’t loved her, his heart hadn’t been in his lovemaking. She knew that now. And sleeping within fifteen feet of her every night was the epitome of temptation in the person of Duncan Banks, a good-looking, mesmerizing, and powerful hunk of a man who wanted her and whose lure beckoned her. Torment was right here on earth.

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