black.”
“It depends. What cheese are we talking about?”
“For the sandwiches.”
Alex frowned. “It’s turning black? Why?”
“I dunno.”
Of course not. “Where is it?”
“With the bread.”
He prayed for patience. “Where is the bread?”
“In the toaster.”
“Ms. Layman? I have to go. I’ll expect to hear from you first thing in the morning. You can tell me then about the candidates you’ve lined up.”
“But—”
He slammed down the phone, scooped Mikey up and rushed down the hall. Between Ms. Spenser, Aunt Frannie, being dog tired and having his wits scared out of him twice in two hours, he’d had about all he could handle. He threw open the kitchen door and plunged inside at the same instant the smoke alarm went crazy.
His gaze shot to the counter. Not only was smoke pouring in an oily stream from the toaster, but the appliance was crackling ominously, as well.
Swearing a silent blue streak, he set Mikey down and leapt across the room, jerked the cord from the outlet and swept the device into the empty sink. Then he stalked over and threw open the outside door to let some fresh air into the smoke-filled room.
He whirled to face the boys. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted at Brady and Nick, furious as he realized how badly they might have been hurt.
“Uh-oh,” Nick said. “You said a bad word.”
Brady’s jaw rose pugnaciously. “Mikey and Nick were hungry. And you were on the phone forever!”
“I don’t care how long I was on the phone! You’re lucky you didn’t burn the damn house down! Don’t you know better than to put cheese in the toaster?”
Nick’s lip trembled. “We were only trying to help.”
Brady slung a protective arm around his younger brother. “Yeah! How’re we supposed to know? It’s not like we’ve got a—a mom to show us, you know!”
The boy’s logic—plus the wrenching reminder of their lack of a mother—punched a giant hole in Alex’s temper.
As swiftly as it had come, the anger drained out of him, replaced by guilt as he registered the mixture of anxiety, misery and defiance on all three young faces. Way to go, Morrison. You go weeks without seeing your kids, then come home and yell at them.
Before he could think of what to say, Mikey took a look around at the tableau of angry faces and burst into tears.
Like dominoes falling, the two older boys promptly covered their eyes and also began to sob.
Well, hell. What was he going to do now?
Three
More than slightly out of breath, Shay jogged along one of the wooded paths that crisscrossed the estate. After dropping her things at the cottage, she’d decided to go for a run, hoping the exercise would dispel the jumble of emotions her meeting with Alex Morrison had inspired.
Fat chance. No matter how hard she tried, how fast she ran, or how often she told herself the man was walking proof of the old adage that beauty was only skin-deep, she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
Of course, it really had nothing to do with him, she told herself firmly, as she darted around a protruding branch. Her concern was solely for the boys. They were bright, sweet, and funny. In the space of a few weeks they’d managed not just to get under her skin, but also to worm their way into her heart. Mostly because they were three of the most engaging little kids she’d ever met. But also because they were desperate for some adult attention. If there was one thing Shay could identify with, it was that.
Parental indifference had been a fixture of her own childhood, a by-product of being raised by two busy professionals so caught up in their own careers they had no time for their own child. In Shay’s case, the experience had ultimately made her independent, self-sufficient and motivated. But it had still been a lonely way to grow up, and it was not the kind of bond she wanted to share with Brady, Mikey and Nick.
They deserved better.
Which brought her back to the problem—all six blond-and-glorious feet of him—and also helped to explain why, she supposed, she couldn’t put Alex from her mind.
The situation would sure be easier, she thought crossly, if the man were a tad more approachable. Then she could simply talk to him—diplomatically, of course. Unfortunately it appeared the boys had inherited all of their charm, not to mention their senses of humor, from their mother.
Still, she promised, as she emerged into the clearing in front of the cottage, if the opportunity presented itself, she would try to do something to improve the boys’ situation. It was the least she could do, after the way they’d opened their home and their hearts to her these past few weeks.
Slowing to a walk, she wiped her damp face on the tail of her T-shirt, crossed the small patch of lawn and stepped onto the stoop. At first glance the cottage appeared nondescript, a simple, shingled structure with a small stoop and modest carport. Yet its initial appearance was deceiving, since the roof sloped up to meet a back wall made almost entirely of glass that commanded a breathtaking view of Puget Sound.
Inside, the floor plan was open and airy. The kitchen, living and bedroom areas flowed into each other and were filled with creature comforts. The appliances were ultra-modern. The plushly padded chairs and sofas, grouped around the massive stone fireplace, were covered in velvety corduroys and buttery leathers in restful shades of white, turquoise and navy. There was a state-of-the-art stereo CD system and a big-screen TV and VCR. The platform bed that dominated one corner was big but cozy and boasted a feather tick.
However, it was the view that always gave Shay the greatest pleasure. Tonight, evening sunshine glittered like gold dust on the vast expanse of slate blue water that filled the horizon. A large catamaran tacked in the wind, its spanking white sails billowing in a playful breeze. Farther away, purple-gray islands rose out of the haze, their shapes indistinct in the soft golden light.
Sighing with pleasure, she kicked off her shoes and began to strip off her clothes as she made her way toward the bathroom, leaving socks, shorts, shirt and underwear in her wake. She was naked by the time she stepped around the curving glass-block wall onto the tile floor of the oversize shower.
She washed her hair, then turned the shower head to pulse and gave herself up to the sheer bliss of the pounding hot water, the rhythm in perfect sync with the surf outside on the beach.
Except this stretch of Puget Sound didn’t have pounding surf, for heaven’s sake.
Her head shot up as she realized the steady thumping she heard was actually someone hammering on the front door. She twisted the spigots and scrambled out of the shower. Grabbing a towel, she mopped at her hair, her sense of urgency increasing as the knocking continued. “Hold your horses! I’m coming!” She tossed
