Tea and Destiny

Tea and Destiny

Sherryl Woods

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Ann Davies was always giving away her heart—to her therapy patients, and to the dolphins she used to help them. For any stray kid that needed a home, she opened her arms in welcome. She never hesitated to give herself to anyone who asked. Until Hank Riley. The big contractor demanded everything—her body, her heart, her life.

Part of her wanted to give it all to him. She craved being desired, being cared for—after all, what had she ever done for herself? But another part feared everything he stood for—losing control, throwing away logic, living for the moment, surrendering. If she allowed herself to do that, what would be left when he walked away?

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

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

It was already late Sunday afternoon when Hank pulled his pickup truck to the side of the narrow road, turned off the engine and stared. His gaze turned not to the spectacular red-tinted sunset in the west, but east, with a sort of fascinated horror, toward the worst-designed house he’d ever seen. As an engineer with a healthy respect for architecture, that house offended his sense of style, his sense of proportion, even his sense of color.

What had once been a small and probably quite pleasant waterfront cottage now lurched improbably across a tiny spit of land that poked into the Atlantic. Additions had been tacked on willy-nilly, adjusting to whatever natural obstacle had been in the way. One wing took a left turn away from the abrupt curve in the beach. Another detoured around a banyan tree. Although it was all one story high, the rooftops were not level, as if the specifications for the additions had been dreamed up without paying the slightest attention to the original.

The color scheme… He shook his head in wonder. Was it possible that there had been only one can each of the salmon-pink, dusty blue and canary-yellow paint in the local paint store? The effect was jarring when it should have been soothing. The house reminded him of the owner.

Hank had met Ann Davies during the three days of festivities surrounding his best friend’s wedding. Her effect on his system had been about as soothing as rubbing sandpaper across metal. Ann was a tall, rawboned woman with short black hair that he was convinced had been sheared off by a lawn mower. Her idea of makeup was apparently limited to a slash of lipstick across a generous mouth that was always in motion. The woman talked more than any other human being he’d ever met. She had opinions—strong opinions—on everything from football to mushrooms. She thought the former too brutal, the latter unappetizing. Hank loved them both.

So why, in the name of all that was holy, was he parked at the edge of her property? More to the point, what had possessed him to listen to his friends Todd and Liz when they’d suggested he come here? They had actually managed to persuade him—even before he’d finished the six-pack of his favorite beer they had settled in front of him—that he could survive in the same house with this irritating woman for the next few months while he supervised construction of a shopping center being built in nearby Marathon. They were crazy. He was crazier.

He was also desperate, he reminded himself with stark realism. It was early January in the Florida Keys, the worst possible time to be starting a construction job. Condos, houses and hotels were filled to overflowing with tourists. Those accommodations that were still available cost an arm and a leg. The company could have written off the expense, of course, but the few places still sitting empty weren’t available long-term. They’d already been booked for scattered weeks of the season.

Even so, he’d looked at every one of them, hoping to find something that would do even short-term. Most consisted of nothing more than a tiny room and a shower. They were all too cramped by far for his big frame. He would have felt claustrophobic after a single night. He’d actually stepped into the shower stall in one and come close to being wedged in.

The remaining alternative, to commute from Miami, while not impossible, would have driven him nuts inside of a week. Traffic this time of the year required the patience of a saint. Hank recognized his limitations. He was no saint. Just the prospect of being locked bumper to bumper with a bunch of sight-seeing tourists made the muscles in the back of his neck knot.

Then Ann had offered, via Liz, to let him have a room in her spacious home at no charge. She’d even volunteered to throw in meals, if he’d pick up his share of the groceries. He couldn’t imagine what sort of blackmail Liz had held over her to convince her to invite him.

“Why’s she doing it?” he’d asked Liz suspiciously. “I didn’t exactly charm the socks off her at the wedding.”

He’d meant it quite literally. He’d never before known a woman who wore bright yellow socks and blue tennis shoes with a green skirt and hot-pink T-shirt. Not even to the movies, much less to a wedding rehearsal. He shuddered at the memory. He should have known right then what this house would look like.

Liz had given him one of her serene smiles and said blithely, “Oh, you know how Ann is.”

He didn’t know. He didn’t even want to. Yet the fact remained, here he was, a couple of suitcases in the back of the truck along with three bags of groceries he’d picked up at the supermarket. Actually it was two bags of food and one of beer and sodas. After a hot day on the job, nothing was better than lying peacefully in a hammock sipping an ice-cold can of beer. The soda was for breakfast. The carbonation and caffeine got his blood circulating. The sugar content of the jelly doughnuts he ate along with it gave him energy. He could have used both right now.

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 had mentioned the child’s mother.

“I wondered what brought on all the tears. She came in crying about some man.”

“Which explains the butcher knife.”

She glanced down at the weapon she’d grabbed on her way out the door. It was lying at her feet. “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be. In this day and age, I don’t suppose a woman can be too careful,” he said, reaching down to pick it up. “Since you didn’t use it on me, I gather you’ve decided I’m harmless.”

Harmless? No less than a pit of vipers. How had she forgotten that he had this strange effect on her? All she’d recalled after the wedding had been his infuriating habit of contradicting every opinion she held.

“Maybe I’d better explain about Melissa’s mother,” she said, clinging to a neutral topic. “The woman abandoned her a year ago, just took off without a word to anyone. A neighbor found Melissa all alone the next day. They say children adjust pretty easily, but Melissa hasn’t. She still wakes up in the middle of the night crying for her mother. Any reminder tends to set her off.”

Professional training kept her tone matter-of-fact, but she still seethed inside when she thought about it. “It’s beyond me how a mother could leave a child all alone like that. Anything could have happened to her. What if there’d been a fire? Good God, can you imagine?” she said, shuddering visibly. “Even waking up and being all alone would be enough to terrify a baby. When the social worker told me about it, I felt like going after the woman myself. No wonder Melissa’s not adjusting.”

Hank muttered what sounded like an indignant curse under his breath, then said, “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I guess I was just thinking of you as her mother.”

“We don’t do a lot of swearing around here,” she warned automatically. “The kids, well, some of them anyway, are at that impressionable age. As for Melissa, she calls me Ann. Some of the kids refer to me as Mother. It all depends on what they’re comfortable with. Since you’re going to be here awhile, I’ll give you a rundown on each of them, so you’ll understand how they ended up here. The older ones are pretty open about things, but the little ones are still a little sensitive.” She fingered a package of cupcakes, regarded them distastefully and sighed. “Then there’s Jason. He rarely talks at all.”

Hank didn’t seem to notice the fact that she couldn’t shut up. In fact, he looked decidedly uneasy. “How many are there?” he asked, as if he were inquiring about enemy troops just beyond a strategic hill.

“Five. Six. It depends on whether Tracy stays with friends after her classes at the junior college in Key West. Tonight they’re all here. Occasionally one of the kids who used to live here comes back for a visit.”

Hank, a man who struck her as big enough and tough enough to fear nothing, seemed to take a panicky step closer to his truck. He looked as though he wanted to escape. She could relate to the feeling. She’d felt that way since the instant she’d spotted him standing in the yard in faded jeans, a body-hugging T-shirt and sneakers. He hadn’t seemed nearly as devastating in the suits he’d worn the weekend of the wedding.

“I probably won’t see all that much of them,” he said, an edge of desperation in his voice. “I’ll be working pretty long hours.”

She waved aside the objection. “Nonetheless, it’ll be better if you know. Come on in now and I’ll show you around.”

She led him in through the kitchen, simply because it was closest. It was also a mess, as it always was by Sunday night after a weekend of having everyone at home. She saw Hank’s eyes widen at the sight of dishes stacked all over the counter and tried to view the clutter from the perspective of a bachelor who probably paid a maid to do his housework.

Toys were scattered all over the floor and her papers were strewn across the round oak table that could seat ten easily and usually was surrounded by that many or more, all trying to talk at once. It was chaotic, but she loved the happy confusion. She could understand, though, how it might seem daunting and disorganized to an outsider. She shrugged. He’d just have to get used to it.

“We have cleanup in another hour,” she said, stepping over a toy tank and rolling a tricycle out of their path as she plopped the groceries on top of the stove. “It’s hard to imagine now, but by the time we sit down to dinner, this room will be spotless. Look quick, though, because it’ll only be that way about twenty minutes.”

Hank was still standing uncertainly in the doorway. “Are you sure I’m not putting you out? I know you told Liz it would be okay, but…” He waved a hand around the room. “You seem to have enough on your hands.”

“Can you do your own laundry?”

“Yes, but…”

“Make your own bed?”

“Of course, but…”

“Are you any good at making coffee?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then it’s no problem.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Ann regretted them. If he wanted to run for his life, she should have let him. She should have encouraged him.

When Liz had first approached her about helping Hank out, she’d been adamantly against it. The man was the epitome of everything she disliked in the male of the species. He was handsome in some indefinable way that made him all the more dangerous. He had the powerful shoulders and chest of a lumberjack. He managed to have a light tan on slightly freckled skin that by all rights should only turn beet-red in the sun. His hair and beard were a golden shade just shy of red. He had laughing blue eyes that could undress a woman in ten seconds flat, usually before the introductions were completed. He was bold and brash and irritating. His treatment of women had all the finesse of the caveman’s, yet they flocked to do his bidding. With a reaction that was part astonishment, part dismay, she’d observed his effect on them at the wedding.

To top it off, his opinions on most subjects were diametrically opposed to her own. At the rehearsal dinner they’d been barely civil to each other. Their introduction had quickly escalated from hello into an argument about something so inane she couldn’t even recall it now. It might have had something to do with the hors d’oeuvres. Liz had witnessed the clashes with interest, which made her plea to Ann for help all the more unbelievable. Ann realized later it should have made her suspicious at once.

“Think of him as a project,” Liz had challenged. “You’ll have weeks to work on him.”

“I have six kids staying with me, plus a full-time career. I don’t need a project. I need a maid.”

“You need a man.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ann said, just catching on to the direction of her friend’s devious thoughts. “Just because you’re crazy in love and radiantly happy doesn’t mean that everyone aspires to the same state of marital bliss. I do not need a man. I especially do not need a man who thinks that watching wrestling is cultural.”

Liz had laughed. “Hank does not watch wrestling.”

“Okay, maybe it was tractor pulls.”

“You’re just a coward.”

“Hardly. I just don’t have time to waste trying to rehabilitate a thirty-seven-year-old man. It’s too late.”

“You’re a psychologist. You know perfectly well it’s never too late to reform someone.”

“If they want to be reformed. What gives you the idea that Hank Riley has any desire to change?”

“Think of it as an experiment. You could probably get a great research paper out of it.”

“You’re stretching, Liz.”

“I’m desperate,” Liz had admitted finally. “I already told him you’d do it.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“It was a calculated risk. When have you ever turned down a stray?”

“Hank Riley has a home to go to. From everything you’ve told me and my own observations, he has more women to look after him than Hugh Hefner. He does not need me.”

Liz merely smiled. Ann found the reaction irritating. And, unfortunately, challenging.

“Maybe you’re the one I should be trying to reform,” Ann had finally said with a sigh of resignation. “Send him on. I suppose it won’t kill Jason and Paul to share a room for a couple of weeks. I’ll put Hank in Jason’s room. It’ll probably give him nightmares with all those awful sci-fi posters on the walls.” That thought had cheered her considerably.

Liz, however, had looked very guilty. It had left her virtually tongue-tied for just long enough to panic Ann.

“Okay, Liz. What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Now don’t be upset,” Liz pleaded. “You can still back out if you really want to.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Lord. It must be even worse than I thought.” She peeked. “Okay. Out with the rest of it.”

“It’s just that it’s more like a couple of months, actually. Maybe three or four.”

Ann had protested loudly at that, but she’d known she was beaten. There were moments when she’d even convinced herself it would be just fine. It would be good for the boys to have a male role model around. Not that Hank was the one she would have chosen, of course, but a little of that macho nature of his might be okay for them for a short time. He could take them fishing, play baseball. She could do those things perfectly well herself, but she knew in her heart it probably wasn’t the same. Whole textbooks had been written on a boy’s need for male bonding.

Now that Hank was actually here in the kitchen, though, she wondered. He seemed a little overwhelming somehow. At the wedding, he had infuriated her with such frequency that she’d barely noticed that he had an interesting effect on her pulse. She’d assumed that it had been part of her constant exasperation with him, but he’d done nothing in the past five minutes to flat out annoy her and her heart was reacting peculiarly just the same. Maybe it was the sight of all those empty calories—doughnuts, potato chips, corn curls.

“These have to go,” she said, taking a handful of packages and reaching for the garbage can.

Hank snatched them away from her, an expression of horror on his face. Indignation radiated from every considerable inch of him. “Are you out of your everlovin’ mind, woman? Liz said you wanted groceries. I brought groceries.”

“You brought junk. The kids will all be hyperactive if they eat that.”

“So tell ’em not to touch the stuff. I’ll sacrifice. I’ll eat every last chip myself.”

“You can’t tell children not to eat foods like that, then put them right smack in front of them.”

“I’ll hide every bit of it in my room.”

“See,” she said, waving a finger under his nose. “That is exactly what I mean. You’re addicted to that junk. That’s what it does to you.”

His blue eyes took on a challenging glint. “I enjoy it. I am not addicted to it. There’s a difference.”

“Smokers enjoy their cigarettes, too. That doesn’t mean they’re any less addicted.”

He took one step toward her, which put them toe-to-toe. Close enough for her to smell the minty freshness of his breath and the clean, masculine scent of his soap. Near enough to kiss. Oh, dear heaven.

“The food stays,” he said softly.

That gleam in his eyes turned dangerous. It might have been a warning about those damn corn curls, but she had a feeling it was something else entirely. She wasn’t particularly crazy about the alternative. She took a step backward, then lifted her chin to counter any impression of retreat.

“Keep them out of sight of the children.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

The response was polite enough, but the bold and brash tone made her want to slap him. Hard. She was shocked by the intensity of her desire to strike that smug, unrepentant expression off his face. She was a trained psychologist, a woman who believed in rational thought and the importance of calm communication. She did not believe in spankings for childish misbehavior, much less in beating up on people just because they infuriated her.

“Anything else?” he inquired.

She bit back a whole string of charges about his attitude. He was Liz’s friend. Well, more precisely he was Todd’s friend, but she would tolerate him just the same. He was only a temporary boarder, after all. With any luck he’d chafe at the restrictions of living with them and be gone by the following weekend.

“Dinner’s at seven. We all help. House rule.”