8 Sandpiper Way

Nothing.



It cranked and cranked and wouldn’t start.



Great, just great. She was stuck. Bobby Polgar wouldn’t be any help. All he knew was chess. Teri wouldn’t know what to do, either. And Christie wasn’t going to drag her pregnant sister out on a chilly night. There was no point in going in to phone the auto club, either, because she’d let her membership lapse years ago; she couldn’t afford it.



Reluctantly, Christie looked at the upstairs apartment. Apparently she was going to see James, after all. She trudged up the outside staircase and knocked twice, then stepped back and waited.



James opened the door wearing a suit. Christie wondered if he even owned a pair of jeans.



“My car won’t start,” she said without preamble.



“What about Triple A?” he asked, still holding the door handle as if he thought he might have to close it quickly.



“Do you think I’d be here pestering you if I was a member?” she asked sharply. She modulated her voice. “I would very much appreciate a ride home.”



“Of course. I’ll be just a moment.”



“Thank you.” This was so embarrassing.



When he returned, he’d donned an overcoat, hat and gloves. “I’d like to see if I can get your vehicle started, if that’s all right.”



“Sure.” She gestured toward her car. “Have at it.”



James released the latch and raised the hood. He fiddled with the engine for a couple of minutes, then looked at her gravely.



“I believe you need a new alternator.”



“Wonderful.” She had no idea how expensive that would be, but it went without saying she couldn’t afford it. With rent and debts to pay, she was barely subsisting as it was.



“I’ll bring the car around,” James told her.



She nodded, still numb at the news. Somehow or other, she’d have to get the car towed from Teri’s to a repair shop. That wouldn’t be cheap, either. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.



James slowly backed the limousine out of the garage. He stepped out and opened the passenger door for her.



“I can open my own door.”



“Yes, miss,” James said in the formal tone she hated.



“I told you before I don’t want you to call me miss.”



“You did,” he agreed.



“Then why do you insist on doing it? Do you look for ways to irritate me?” She was angry now. This entire evening had been a disaster and that was his fault. “Listen, I don’t need a ride, after all, thank you very much. I prefer to walk.” She slammed the car door, jerked her purse strap over her shoulder and started walking. The bells on her necklace jingled with every step. Her feet already hurt but it wasn’t as if she could take her shoes off.



She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when James silently joined her.



“Go away.”



“I can’t do that.”



“Why not?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “I don’t want you walking with me.”



“You’re alone. It isn’t safe.”



“I’ve been alone practically my whole life. I don’t need a bodyguard, understand?” She made her voice as hard and unwelcoming as she could.



“I know,” he said gently.



“What do you know?” She turned to glare at him. “You don’t know anything about me.” Her voice cracked and she buried her hands deep in her pockets, shivering against the cold.



“Christie.” His voice was soft, soothing, as if he were speaking to a child.



That irritated her even more. “Go away!” she shouted. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want you walking with me,” she said again. “Don’t you get it?” They hadn’t even reached the end of the long hilly driveway and already she was winded and her feet had begun to swell. Her apartment had to be a good five miles away.



He drew back slightly, but still he followed her.



“Everyone thinks you’re this big hero,” she muttered, trying to distract herself from the agony of walking. “You fought those two thugs and Teri says you might have saved Rachel’s life.” She stopped for a few seconds. “Only I know the real truth about you, James. You’re a coward, aren’t you?”



He said nothing.



Whirling around she confronted him face-to-face. “Did you hear me, coward?”



“Yes.”



“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”



“No.”



The man infuriated her and she childishly stamped her foot—big mistake—before whirling back around and walking again. A blister had begun to form on her heel. She’d known the shoes, very cute ballet flats, were a size too small, but they’d been on sale and they went so nicely with her red sweater.



“Why are you limping?” he asked.



“I’m not. Go away.”



“Christie, be reasonable.”



“No!” she shouted back, struggling not to cry. “I hate my life, I hate myself and I hate you.”



“No, you don’t,” he said calmly.



The man was impossible to fight with. She’d had it. Turning abruptly, she placed her hands on her hips.



“What’s it going to take to get you to leave me alone?”



He didn’t respond.



“Fine, if that’s how you want it, walk behind me.” She made it all the way to the end of the street before she just couldn’t walk anymore. Her right shoe rubbed against raw, bloody flesh. Now she had to stop and remove it. She’d taken about five uneven steps when James came from behind her and casually swept her into his arms as if she weighed next to nothing.



“Put me down, you idiot!”



She wanted to kick and scream and argue with him. His jaw was tight, and from the angry set of his mouth she could see he wasn’t going anywhere without her.



She sniffled.



“Are you in pain?” he asked.



She nodded and sniffled again. “Why do you hate me?” she asked plaintively, furious with herself for caring. She didn’t want his gentleness or his kindness; they confused her.



“I don’t hate you.”



“You wouldn’t come to dinner tonight because I was there.”



He remained stubbornly silent.



After another minute, she demanded he put her down. “Please, please just leave me alone.” She was an emotional wreck. Tears stung her eyes, but the last thing, the very last thing, she wanted was for James to see her cry.



He sighed audibly, but instead of releasing her, he held her closer. Christie rested her head against his shoulder and absorbed the warmth and comfort he offered.



“Allow me to drive you home?”



She nodded. She was in such pain, and she was finished being stupid. She’d been ridiculous to think she could actually walk that distance.



“Good.” He carefully lowered her to the ground.



Holding hands, they walked side by side. Clutching her shoe in her other hand, Christie limped back down the driveway. Once they reached the car, James opened the passenger door for her. This time she didn’t protest.



She was half in the vehicle and half out when he stopped her. Leaning forward, James pressed his mouth to hers. His hand was in her hair, his lips urging, questing, deepening the kiss until she trembled. When he lifted his head, she nearly fell the rest of the way into the car.



She wanted to ask why he’d done that, but found she couldn’t speak. She didn’t say a word during the drive. At her apartment complex, he parked and helped her out.



She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Thank you.”



He nodded formally.



She lingered, hoping he’d kiss her again.



James didn’t disappoint her. He kissed her long and hard. While she was still reeling from his touch, he climbed into the car and drove away.



Twenty



Troy’s daughter had called her at work that morning, and Faith was actually looking forward to seeing her. Poor Megan had sounded hesitant about interrupting her at the clinic, but it was the only number she had, since Faith’s home phone was unlisted.



In the intervening days since she’d seen Troy, Faith had thought almost constantly about his visit. Perhaps she’d been more unyielding than necessary. She also wondered—had to wonder—whether he’d used Megan as an excuse. Megan didn’t seem unreasonable and she clearly loved her father. Faith couldn’t believe she wouldn’t want him to be happy. Perhaps Troy had misread his daughter’s attitude. Or perhaps he was inconsistent about his own feelings for Faith.



“Could we get together?” Megan had asked. “I’m having some problems with the baby blanket. I’d really appreciate if you’d take a look at it for me. I’ll buy your lunch,” she’d added.



“Nonsense. You don’t need to pay for my lunch and I’d be happy to look at the blanket.” They arranged to meet at the deli Tuesday afternoon, during their lunch break.



Afterward Faith reviewed their brief telephone conversation. The two of them had developed a relationship, although Megan didn’t know Faith had been involved with Troy. This lunch would be the perfect opportunity to tell her. Faith had no interest in the kind of secrecy Troy had tried to maintain. She’d noticed early on that he hadn’t wanted his daughter to know they were seeing each other. In any event, it couldn’t possibly matter now.



When she got to the restaurant, Megan was already there, having secured a table by the window. She waved, and Faith walked across the crowded room to join her.



“I came a bit early so I could grab us a table,” Megan explained. She stood, quickly hugging Faith.



Megan looked healthy, Faith observed; her hair shone and her color was good. That cliché about pregnant women glowing was certainly true for her. Knowing how close Troy was to his daughter, she assumed he was thrilled with the news of this pregnancy. If Megan had told him…When the opportunity arose, she’d ask.



The waitress rushed over to their table, menus tucked under her arm and two water glasses in her hands. “The soup of the day is broccoli and cheese, and the special is a crab melt,” she informed them.



Megan and Faith each ordered soup and decided to split the crab melt. They both wanted tea, so the waitress returned minutes later with a large blue teapot and two cups.



Megan brought out her knitting. “I made a mistake way back here,” she said, her brow furrowed as she stared down at the blanket. The pattern was relatively simple but did involve a four-row pattern. Faith knew, at a glance, what Megan had done wrong. She’d repeated the third row twice.



“Does it bother you?” Faith asked, studying the half-completed blanket.



Megan nodded. “At first I didn’t think it would, so I just kept knitting.”



Faith had done that plenty of times herself. “But now, it seems glaring, doesn’t it?”



“Sure does.”



“Then go back and correct it,” Faith advised.



“Really? You’re saying I should tear all this out?” She sighed as if that was exactly what she’d been afraid of hearing.



“I do it quite a lot,” Faith told her. “Sometimes I’ll tear out a section three or four times before I get it right. If the mistake’s really minor, I might leave it in. In those cases I’m usually the only one who knows it’s there.”