she muttered thickly, turning her face back into the wind. “Semantics.”
Jennifer stared out at the horizon, deliberately ignoring him in the hopes that he’d go away. She couldn’t very well order him off. Not one of the long-lost sons for whom this party had been arranged. So either he left of his own accord, or she’d be forced to go back to the party and pretend everything was all right.
Please God, let him leave.
Apparently though, God wasn’t listening.
Chance Barnett Connelly moved up right beside her and curled his hands over the wrought-iron balcony railing. She glanced down at those strong, tanned hands and noticed that his knuckles whitened with his grip. Obviously, he felt as tense as she did. But their reasons, at least, were very different.
“So,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the wall of clouds hanging just at the horizon, “what seems to be the problem?”
“Problem?” She straightened up. The last thing she wanted or needed was sympathy. Especially from a man she didn’t even know. Besides, he was a Connelly. If she told him, then soon everyone would know and she’d like to put that off for as long as she could. At least until she’d had a chance to talk to Emma Connelly first.
Along with being her boss, Emma was as close to a mother figure as Jennifer could claim. Her own parents had died years ago, and but for her daughter, Sarah, Jennifer was alone in the world. Which had never really bothered her. Until yesterday.
“Yeah,” Chance said, shifting her a glance, “when I see a beautiful woman alone and crying on a balcony while there’s a party going on not five feet from her…well, I naturally figure there’s a problem.”
She inhaled sharply, taking the cold wind inside her, needing the bracing strength of it. Then, she forced a cheer she didn’t feel into her voice. “Thanks for asking, but I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “But you don’t believe me.”
“Nope.”
“Well,” she said, pushing away from the balcony railing, “that’s not my problem, is it?”
He reached out and grabbed her forearm. “Don’t go.”
His touch felt warm and strong and seemed to wrap itself not only around her arm, but around her bruised heart, too. Jennifer stopped short and lifted her gaze to look into amber eyes the exact color of fine, aged brandy. Her heartbeat stuttered slightly. His jaw looked as though it had been carved of granite. His nose had obviously been broken at least once sometime in the past. His brown hair was military-short, but even at that, there was a slight wave to it that made a woman want to stroke her fingers through it.
And good Lord, he was tall. With shoulders broad enough to balance the world. Today she could surely use a pair of shoulders broad enough to lean on. But Jennifer was too used to standing on her own two feet to take advantage of a near stranger in a weak moment.
As if he could read her mind though, he said, “I didn’t mean to intrude, but now that I’m here, why not let me help if I can?”
Tempting, she thought. Oh, so tempting. But no. She shook her head. “I appreciate it, but—”
“I’m a stranger.”
“Well,” she said, “yes.”
“Sometimes that’s better.” He kept his grip on her forearm as if he expected her to scurry for the door. Which she would have done, given half a chance. Then he smiled and her stomach flipped over. “Telling your troubles to a stranger is like talking to yourself. Only you don’t have to answer your own questions and run the risk of being locked in a padded room.”
A return smile tickled the corners of her mouth and she had to fight to keep it from blossoming. Which was a good thing actually, since she hadn’t had a thing to smile about since talking to her daughter’s doctors yesterday. And that stray thought was enough to wipe the beginnings of humor from her face.
A cold, empty well opened up inside her and she felt her heart slide into it.
“Hey,” he said, letting his hand slide from her forearm up to her shoulder, where his fingers squeezed gently. “Come on. Talk to me. Maybe I can help.” He dipped his head a bit and gave her another half smile. “I’m a SEAL. Trained to be a hero. So let me ride to the rescue here, okay?”
Jennifer glanced over her shoulder at the party just beyond the glass doors, then turned back to look at him again. What the heck, she thought. She could use a shoulder at the moment. And his were certainly broad enough to hold up under her assault.
“It’s my daughter,” she blurted before she could change her mind.
His gaze darkened slightly. “You have a daughter?”
“Yes.” Just the thought of Sarah brought up her image in Jennifer’s mind and she smiled to herself. Big brown eyes in a round little face that was usually smudged with dirt. Pigtails that were really no more than tiny wisps of light-brown hair caught up in barrettes at either side of her head. Small, pudgy hands and short, sturdy legs. Butterfly kisses and sticky-fingered hugs. Tickle bugs and belly laughs.
Doctors in white coats, long, dangerous-looking needles and Sarah’s tears.
“Oh, God,” Jennifer half moaned and clapped her hand to her mouth again, not sure if she was going to be sick or start screaming.
It was all just so damned unfair.
“Come here,” Chance said, turning her as he spoke, shifting to hold her, wrap his arms around her.
And because she needed a hug so badly, she went.
Nestled against that wide chest, she hung on for a long moment, wrapping her arms around his waist and drawing on the strength he so casually offered. She felt him awkwardly patting her back and for some silly reason, it helped. Though she knew it didn’t actually change anything, the physical act of being comforted soothed the frayed edges of her soul, and just for an instant, the world didn’t seem as terrifying as it had only minutes ago.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper coming from somewhere above her head. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Sarah,” she said, saying the words aloud for the first time since the doctor had so clinically outlined the trouble the day before, “my baby. She needs an operation. On her heart. There’s a small hole in it.”
“Aah…” A comforting sound, more of a deep breath released, maybe, but it too helped. She felt his sympathy in the gentle tightening of his grip on her. “How old is she?”
“Eighteen months,” she whispered, looking past him to the lake, but really looking at her mind’s eye picture of Sarah. “She’s so small. So tiny. This shouldn’t be happening.”
“No, it shouldn’t,” he said softly. “It sucks.”
Jennifer
