With one last fortifying breath, he turned on the ignition and drove into a driveway with ruts so deep they jarred his teeth. He pulled the truck around to the side of the house. He’d climbed out and was in the process of trying to adjust all three bags of groceries in his arms when he was slammed broadside by something that hit him about knee-high. The bags went flying. Hank grabbed for the beer the way a dying man reaches for a lifeline. He knew in his gut he was going to need that beer, probably before the night was out.
When he and the bag of beer were upright—the groceries were strewn across the lawn—he looked down and saw a child of about three staring solemnly up at him. She had a thumb poked in her mouth and a frayed blanket dangling from her other hand. He only barely resisted the urge to moan. He had forgotten about the kids. More likely, he’d conveniently blocked them right out of his mind.
Hank really hated kids. They made him nervous. They aroused all sorts of odd feelings of inadequacy. They were noisy, demanding and messy. They asked endless, unanswerable questions. They caused nothing but worry for their parents, aside from turning perfectly enjoyable lifestyles upside down and inside out. Girls were even more of a mystery to him than boys. At least he’d been a boy once himself.
Still, he had to admit there was something appealing about this little girl. With her silver-blond hair curling in a wispy halo, she looked placid and innocent, as if she’d had absolutely nothing to do with virtually upending a man six times her size.
“Hi,” he said cautiously. It had been a long time since Todd’s son—his godson—had been this age, and he’d vowed to avoid Todd’s new baby until she could speak intelligently. He’d figured that was another twelve to fourteen years away. He stared at the child in front of him. Beyond hello, what else did you say to a three-year-old, especially one who still had a thumb tucked in her mouth and showed no inclination to communicate?
“Where’s your mommy?” he tried finally.
To his horror, tears welled up in the wide, blue eyes and the child took off at a run, dragging her thumb from her mouth long enough to let out a wail that would have wakened the dead.
Hank was just considering getting straight back into the pickup and bolting to the most expensive, tiniest condo he could find when a screen door slammed. The woman who’d loomed in his memory rounded a corner of the house at a run, her ankle-length purple skirt flapping, a butcher knife clutched threateningly in her raised hand. She skidded to a stop at the sight of him and slowly lowered the knife. Her furious expression calmed slightly.
There was nothing at all calm about his own reaction to the sight of her. His heart lurched with an astonishing thump. He dismissed the sensation at once as delayed panic. He’d rarely been confronted at the door by knife-wielding women. Surely that explained the surge of adrenaline that had his blood pumping fast and hard through his veins.
And yet… He took a good long look at her. Somehow all those uneven features he’d recalled had been rearranged into a face that was interesting, rather than plain, especially now with her color high. The tall, gaunt body, still dressed in an utterly absurd combination of colors and styles, seemed, for some peculiar reason, more appealing than he’d remembered. Her hair, still cropped short, suddenly seemed to suit her face with its feathery softness. It emphasized her eyes and those thick, sooty lashes. She looked…good. Damned good. Even with a knife in her hand.
He’d obviously lost his mind.
“Well, here you are,” Ann said briskly as she put down the knife and began methodically to gather up the groceries. It gave her something to do to cover the nervous, fluttery feeling that had suddenly assailed her without warning. Nabbing a box of jelly doughnuts, she regarded them disapprovingly, then stuffed them in the bag along with assorted snack foods that she absolutely refused to have within a five-mile radius of the kids except on special occasions. She would deal with Hank Riley’s dietary habits later, after she’d reconciled her memory of the obnoxious, arrogant man with the disconcertingly appealing sight of him.
“Sorry about Melissa,” she apologized distractedly, fingering a head of lettuce. Lettuce was good. The choke hold this bearded giant of a man seemed to have over her senses was not. She swallowed hard. “I gather she’s responsible for this.”
“If she’s about so high and partial to her thumb, she’s the one,” he acknowledged with a smile that made her stomach do an unexpected flip. “Did I frighten her or something? I asked where her mommy was and she let out a war cry that would have straightened the hair on Hitler’s head.”
Ann struggled with the unfamiliar sensations that continued to rampage through her, decided her panic at Melissa’s scream was to blame and reclaimed a bit of control.
“So that’s it,” she said, satisfied with the explanation for her nervousness and oblivious to Hank’s confusion.
He was regarding her oddly. “That’s what?”
She tried frantically to recall what he’d just said. Something about Melissa’s mother and Hitler? She wasn’t sure what the Nazi connection was, but she understood precisely what had happened when Hank
