A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart

“Pardon?” she inquired superciliously.

“I said, you’re chicken, just as I thought.”

“You know,” Melanie said, eyeing him severely, sunglasses pushed to the end of her nose, “if you ever win in court, it must be because of your bulldog tendencies.”

She stretched out on her stomach, letting the warming heat of the sun penetrate her skin. There was blissful silence for about sixty seconds.

“What do you mean, bulldog tendencies?” His voice was strident. “Admit it, you are a chicken.” Big blue eyes glimmered with excitement. “Bok, bok!” He flapped his arms.

Melanie was getting tired of his ridiculous juvenile games. She looked around the beach and found several pairs of interested eyes trained on them.

“Stop that,” she ordered angrily. “Everyone is staring at you.”

Mitch continued to chant louder and louder.

There was nothing else to do. He would not leave her alone, and she wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until she put an end to this stupidity.

Melanie stood gracefully and walked to the water’s edge, dipping the end of one big toe into the water.

“Agh!” She sucked in her breath. It was freezing!

But when she turned around, Mitch was looming behind her. His eyes met hers, and he mouthed the word chicken.

Melanie sighed, resigned to her fate and fully aware that he would keep it up until she got wet. She strolled slowly into the water, getting a bit more of her heated skin wet with each step. She turned carefully, trying not to splash, and found Mitch directly behind her.

“I hope you’re happy.” She glared at him. “I have no feeling below my waist, and my hands are getting numb.”

He grinned and dived into the smooth water beside her, splashing her hugely. When he stood up, streaming rivulets of chilly lake water running down his face, Melanie let him have it.

“You did that on purpose, you sadist. I’m soaked and I’m freezing. I do hope you feel better now.”

She turned to go back to shore and found him blocking her way.

“I’m sorry, Melanie.” His voice was deceptively soft as his chilly hand closed around her arm. Wide and innocent, his baby blues stared at her soulfully. “I really didn’t know you couldn’t swim.”

“Of course I can swim, silly,” Melanie told him, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, hugging herself for warmth.

Unfortunately the motion pushed her full breasts upward, accentuating the cleavage her suit displayed. She watched Mitch’s blue eyes grow rounder in appreciation before she realized the reason. Her hands dropped to her sides in embarrassment.

His laughing gaze met hers. One black lock of hair dangled boyishly over his forehead. A wide smile slashed across his rugged, tanned face.

“You are just going to have to get in there and swim a few strokes to prove it,” he whispered in her ear as his hands brushed up and down her arms to warm her.

Melanie glared at him even as her body recognized the heat flowing from his body. She moved closer. Just to get warm, she told herself. When his arms wrapped around her and she was pressed against the heat of his chest, she groaned at the warmth that was beginning to penetrate her skin.

“Come on, Melanie, let’s swim.”

It was the last thing she heard before Mitch’s arms tightened like steel bands and he pulled her under the water.

Icy cold waves slapped against her and left her with two options: move or freeze to death. Melanie moved.

Breaking his tight hold on her, Melanie surprised Mitch with a move she had learned long ago in lifesaving class. In a few seconds he was flat on his back and going under. With one last shove, Melanie pushed him to the sandy bottom before swimming furiously away in a speedy crawl that had won her numerous competitions in high school.

Of course, Mitch demanded retribution. She just had not expected it to be a kiss. And when his cold lips pressed against hers, Melanie found that the fire building between them could not be doused, even by the freezing lake water. She kissed him back, returning his warm embraces until her blood was singing in response.

Mitch was the first to pull away.

“Okay, you win,” he teased. “You can swim, and kiss.” He grinned that devilish grin at her. “And you do both very well, I might add.” Turning, he ducked under the water, surfacing twenty yards away to call out his challenge.

“I’ll race you to the buoys,” he dared her. His strong arms made a swath through the water. “Loser supplies supper,” he told her when she caught up.

And so it had gone for the rest of the day. Teasing, talking, touching each other, but never getting too serious.

The long, lazy afternoon on the crowded beach presented a perfect opportunity for getting to know each other, but regardless of the many ploys she tried, Melanie gained very little personal information about Mitchel. It was frustrating and she was finally forced to admit defeat.

He lost their swimming contest and she left him to arrange their late supper, especially since he’d long ago finished off the sandwiches and pop she’d packed.

Ever resourceful, he’d come up with the very ingenious and inventive idea of hot dogs and chips, with chilled cans of iced tea to drink. As they sat around a campfire, replete with their feast, Melanie sensed he was deliberately shutting her out, refusing to answer her innocent questions. She turned a marshmallow, letting the coals toast it golden brown before popping it into her mouth.

Oh, he hadn’t been rude about it. His answers had been polite enough, but, somehow, the subject of family was a closed book with Mitchel Stewart. And although he freely discussed his work, Mitch only let her see bits and pieces of the real man.

Melanie knew that he hailed from the East, that he had gone to school there and come to Mossbank a few weeks ago. She had learned a little about his schoolboy antics and that he loved to swim but wasn’t very good at it.

But that was it. Mitch had told her nothing of his family or his past. And she wanted to know.

She gazed into the fire. Maybe a direct approach was the best. Plunge in and take the consequences. Somehow, the enveloping darkness gave her courage.

“Mitch?”

He sat on a log, staring vacantly into the flickering flames. The huge fire he had built had died down to an orange-red bed of coals. Wind danced across it, licking up a flame here or there.

“Hmm,” he asked, staring languidly.

“Please, don’t think I’m being nosy,” she began, knowing darn well that nosy was exactly what she was being. “It’s just that I would like to know a little more about you if we are going to be rooming together.”

When his dark head jerked, Melanie held up a defensive hand.

“I know your reputation from my friends at the hospital, but…” Melanie hesitated, searching. “I don’t know you.” Her voice was soft, plaintive, a call for understanding.

Mitch had pulled a pair of tattered blue jean shorts over his swimsuit. Below the frayed cuffs, his long, muscular legs crossed and uncrossed as he fidgeted on the huge log. Finally he stood, towering over her in the gloom. Melanie could feel his blue eyes studying her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

“Look. I’ve offered half of the prize money and a place to stay to make sure you can collect your half. Can we leave the personal histories out of it?”

He squatted in front of her and stared directly into her face. His voice was half-laughing, half-serious, but there was an underlying tenseness that Melanie couldn’t ignore.

“I give you my word I’m not an ax murderer, or a psychotic, or any of those other terrible things you’ve been imagining.” His white teeth glittered in the dark. Melanie thought immediately of a wolf and then remonstrated with her overactive imagination, sitting quietly when he continued.

“You are welcome to stay at my place for as long as you need to. But that’s it. You go your way and I go mine.”

His fingers closed around the soft flesh of her upper arms, drawing her upward. And Melanie allowed herself to be coaxed to his heat. He was like fire, and she a moth, drawn irresistibly to his flame. He attracted her with his hidden secrets and mysterious smile. His past was another facet of a man who occasionally let her see his generosity. And she would probably get burned, but right now Melanie could only concentrate on his touch.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he muttered as his eyes brushed her body, admiring her figure. “You’re a very beautiful woman and I enjoy the view as much as the next red-blooded male.” His hands slid down her back to the indentation of her waist, and he urged her closer.

“But I don’t play games, and I have no intention of getting married just because I allow you to stay in my apartment.”

“I never said I wanted to get married! Mitchel Stewart, you are the most egotistical, pushy, rude, overbearing—”

“You have said all this before,” he reminded her. His hands were stuck carelessly into his back pockets as he studied her. “Get to the point.”

With every atom of control she possessed, Melanie forced herself to refrain from violence. Curling her fingers into her palms, she sucked in a lungful of air.

“Look, buddy,” she told him, poking a finger into his very broad, very bare chest. It confused her, that tingling sensation, so Melanie put her hand down and concentrated on the words.

“I will move into your apartment because I do need that money for my friends.”

“We’ve already agreed on that.” He chuckled, then bent to stuff the remains of their meal into the tiny cooler before dousing the fire.

“Right.” Melanie tried to focus on her speech. “So I will stay there. But that’s it. Not for anything else.”

She tried to emphasize the words, but somehow they had little effect on Mitch. He smiled that lazy, sexy smile and agreed with her quietly as he tugged her arm.

“Right, darlin’,” he drawled as he pulled her along beside him through the warm sand. When they reached the car, he dropped everything on the pavement beside it and wrapped one lean brown hand around her neck.

“And nothin’ anybody can say will change it,” he drawled right before his grinning lips closed on hers.

Melanie knew his effusive charm was just a cover. Something that would draw her off course so Mitch would not have to answer any questions. And she would tell him that he couldn’t just get away with this.

Soon.

With a sigh, Melanie decided she would tell him so right after she’d kissed him back. For a few delicious minutes she allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his lips tasting hers before she pulled away from his strong embrace and climbed dazedly into the car.

She knew there was something she wanted to say. But right now she couldn’t remember what it was. Not on the long drive home, not when Mitch kissed her a very thorough good-night outside her apartment and not when she was lying in her soft bed much later.

“Thanks for the sign, Lord,” she whispered. “I’m taking this to mean that I should proceed full steam ahead. Now, if You could just work on his attitude a little.”

A smile curved her soft, full lips as she drifted off. Yes, he had a bad attitude, all right. Tomorrow, she decided. She would remember to tell him off tomorrow.

“Oh. Uh, hello. Miss Langford, isn’t it?” Mitch stared at the older blond woman in the doorway of his apartment. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Hope pressed past him without a word, her face drawn tight, lips pursed as she motioned to the items scattered at her feet.

“Actually there’s quite a lot. But for right now, would you mind bringing in my suitcases? I’ll be sharing Melanie’s room. You’re not going to destroy my best friend’s daughter’s reputation as long as I can stop it!”

Mitch stared at her, his mind whirling. Was this what Gramps had meant this morning on the phone? What had he said? “Hope has her feathers ruffled.” Was that it? Apparently she was angry with him. Mitch groaned at the thought of this straitlaced busybody and her obviously mistaken impression of his and Melanie’s unusual arrangement.

“Miss Langford, I assure you that there’s nothing like that going on. Melanie and I—”

“Will have a chaperone,” she interrupted smartly, straightening the cushions thrown haphazardly on his sofa. Her eyebrows lifted disdainfully at the coffee rings covering the glass surface of the coffee table. “Melanie should be staying with her mother. And if it weren’t for the missionaries Charity had already invited, I’m sure that’s where she would be.”

Mitch watched transfixed as Miss Langford picked up a half-eaten box of doughnuts and dumped the whole lot in the trash.

“Hey! That was my breakfast,” he told her, frowning resentfully. He decided to make a show of bravado, even though his knees were shaking. There was something about this woman that brooked no nonsense.

“Now, look here, Miss Langford. I’m letting Melanie use the spare room so she can get her half of the money for that nursing home she’s so wrapped up in. That’s all there is to it.”

“Fine.” Hope Langford stared at the carpet, grimacing at the bits of lint and fluff. “And while she’s here, I’m here,” she told him firmly. “Please bring my things through to Melanie’s room. I’d like to get settled in.”

Mitch found himself obeying even though the last thing he wanted was this neatness freak in his apartment. Fortunately his spare room had two single beds. He watched transfixed as Hope removed perfectly pressed clothes from the satchels and hung them in the minuscule closet that already housed a few of Melanie’s uniforms.

His original houseguest had planned on moving the rest of her stuff tonight. It was going to be a tight squeeze in this dinky apartment, he decided, leaving Hope to pour himself another cup of coffee and contemplate the doughnuts in their box in the garbage can.

A really tight squeeze, if she was going to insist on chucking out his food supply. But how did you throw out an older woman determined to save the reputation of someone who didn’t need it?

“Coffee is very hard on your stomach lining,” Hope said in a stern voice. “I make a wonderful protein drink with raw eggs and yogurt that would give you lasting energy.”

Mitch set down his cup hastily and grabbed his briefcase. He had to get out of here. Quickly.

“Er, uh, no, thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the doorknob like a lifeline. “I have to get to work. Early appointment.” At the convenience store across the street, he thought. He almost had the door safely closed behind him.

“Young man?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, debating the propriety of a salute.

“I will need a key to this residence. There are several matters to be taken care of today and I will need to let myself in and out.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He thought. “I made a spare for Melanie yesterday. I think it’s in the kitchen. In the drawer beside the sink. I’ll get another cut this afternoon.” He watched her carefully to see if that was all right with her, and when she nodded, he turned to escape.

“Have a nice day,” she told him cheerfully.

No doubt all that happiness came from her power drink. He shuddered and climbed into his red Camaro with relief. Thank goodness it was running properly, at last. At work, Mitch could hardly wait to dial Melanie’s work number. When she answered, he almost bellowed at her over the phone.

“Thanks a lot,” he shouted angrily.

“Mitch? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me.” He tried, really tried to control his temper. “I’m just calling to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered politely. A few seconds later her puzzled voice came on the line. “For what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. She arrived this morning, bag and baggage. All prepared to settle in for the duration.”

He waited for her excuse; her plea for understanding for her aunt. He was all ready to shoot her excuses down, one by one.

Instead he heard:

“Have another cup of coffee, Mitchel, and call me back when you’re awake and in your right mind. Okay, okay. I’ll settle for awake.” The telephone line went dead.

“Of all the overbearing, pushy women,” he began, stuffing another chocolate-covered doughnut into his mouth.

“Mitch, your nine-thirty is here. Shall I show him in?” His secretary’s eyebrows rose as she watched him nod and shove the doughnuts out of view. Amanda chuckled appreciatively. “Pigging out, are we?”

“Just show him in, will you, Amanda?” he muttered in frustration, trying to hide the sticky evidence.

Clarence Palmer had been a private investigator for thirty-five years. If there was a secret to be unearthed, Clarence knew exactly how to go about it. Mitch had known him for years and used his services several times, once for himself, to find the father he’d hated for so long.

He grabbed the older man’s hand and slapped the thin back with pleasure.

“Clarence! Gee, it’s good to see you again. Come on, sit down. Want a doughnut?”

“Mitch.” Clarence nodded, peering at the doughnuts as he carefully wiped his hand on his handkerchief. “You still addicted to these things?” His observant gaze scanned the package. “Must be a bad day.” He chuckled.

“Why do you say that?”

“Chocolate ones are all gone.” Clarence grinned. He helped himself to a sugared doughnut and settled back in the leather chair. “This a good time?” he asked quietly.

“Yep, perfect.” Mitch poured them both a cup of coffee and then leaned back, pen and paper at the ready. “What have you got for me?”

With a swift economy of movement, Clarence whipped open his notepad and began.

“I got a lot of this stuff from your grandfather’s contacts. Jean LeClerc. You want age, birthplace, all that?” He waited for Mitch’s negative reply, then continued. “Okay. Vietnam vet, killed in action, or so they said. Actually, the other guy was pretty sure this Jean was wounded and kept in an enemy camp for years. The Viet Cong deliberately left some of his stuff to be found so he’d be presumed dead. You know the routine.”

Mitch nodded grimly. He did know. Very well, as it happened. He’d worked on a few cases involving fathers who had died in Vietnam. It wasn’t pretty.

“Okay. Good old Jean came back but minus a few facts—like who he was. Met a volunteer at the vet hospital and they married. She had money and he put it to good use building an empire. Ever heard of Papa John?” Clarence looked at him through his wire-rimmed glasses and saw Mitch’s astonishment.

“This means something to you?”

“Yeah, it does.” He stared at Clarence, seeing not him but the elderly white-haired man he’d met at the Bismarck television station. “Let me get this straight. The Papa John’s Peanut Butter magnate is Hope Langford’s Jean LeClerc?”

“One and the same, we think. Only I’m not sure if he knows it. Legally his name is John Lexington. A nurse at the hospital said they called him that when he couldn’t remember his name. He apparently responded to John, and they adlibbed his last name.” Clarence left half his doughnut on a napkin as he dug through his notes.

“Nurse Mary said he had lots of nightmares and kept mentioning the same words over and over. One of those words was hope. They didn’t realize it could be a name until I offered it as an explanation. Apparently this guy was worried that someone would think he’d reneged on their deal. But whenever he woke up, he remembered nothing and couldn’t tell them any more about what he was hoping for.”

“And she waited,” Mitch muttered to himself. “She held on until she was sure he was dead. All this time she’s been mourning his loss, and he’s alive and well and married to someone else.” He thought. “Have he and his wife any children?”

“Clarence shook his head. The wife’s dead. Six years ago. Cancer. Long, drawn out and very painful.”

“And children?”

“One. A boy.”

“Can we talk to him?” Mitch snatched his pen, prepared to write down the name and address.

“No. He’s dead, too. Drive-by shooting. And it almost did the old man in last year. Some of my contacts in his company say he found solace in his loss with some woman. Don’t have her name yet.”

“Wow!” Mitch sighed, turning it all around and around in his mind, wondering what this new information would do to the prim and proper woman ensconced in his apartment.

“Want me to keep on digging?” Clarence asked diffidently, as if it was none of his business either way.

“Heavens, yes.” Mitch exhaled heavily. “The more we know, the better. I’d like to know who he’s interested in and where she lives. I’d also like to know if he’s remembered everything and is just too much of a coward to come and explain it all or if everything is still a blur.”

“Do what I can,” Clarence assured him, snapping his notebook closed and rising to his feet in one practiced motion. “I’ll check in when I’ve got something. See you, Mitch.” And with those words, Clarence disappeared as silently as he’d shown up.

Mitch snatched his phone and stabbed out his grandfather’s number.

“This is Mitch,” he told the guardian secretary. “Is he there?” He listened, frowning. “As soon as he gets out of court, have him call me. It’s important, Dora.” He slammed the phone down in irritation and stood up to pace around his tiny office.

“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” he groaned. “I know You’re omnipotent and in control of everything. And You can make good things happen from bad.” This was all so new to him. Mitch tried desperately to remember how the minister had told him to talk to God.

“Like a son talking to his father,” Pastor Dave had told him.

Well, he hadn’t had the typical father-son relationship, and he wasn’t too sure just what that included, but Mitch decided to give it a try anyway.

“Father, I think a lot of people could be hurt by this. Please show me what to do. And help all those involved. Amen.” Satisfied that he’d laid it all before the One who could deal with it, he returned to his desk and sat down.

A moment later, his head was bowed once more.

“And help me in this situation with Melanie so that neither of us get hurt. Just friends, that’s all I want. Thank You,” he murmured quietly.

It had finally happened, Mitch decided three weeks later.

He had begun to lose his sanity.

Thing was, he wasn’t surprised. Not really. In fact, he’d half suspected she would be trouble. It had taken her just one week to move in and throw everything out of whack. Melanie Stewart had thoroughly upset his placid life, and now he was going nuts fantasizing about a woman he barely knew.

He tugged the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sounds of Melanie in the shower. It was impossible. Jumping Jehoshaphat, those two women got up before dawn every blinking morning! And they didn’t care who knew it, either.

Resigned, he placed the pillow behind his head and lay back, calmly accepting his fate. The way he figured it, he’d once done something really terrible and now it was payback time. Fine, he would take his punishment, but why did this torture have to begin so early?

It wasn’t the panty hose hanging in the laundry room, slapping him in the face every night, that got to him. It wasn’t that light but lingering scent she always wore that clung to everything in the apartment and refused to be doused by the strongest room deodorizer.

It wasn’t even that she brought some of her residents to his apartment for a meal, a game of cards or just a night out—and more often than not, they conned him into playing crazy eights, too.

He could deal with all that, Mitch told himself firmly. He’d even managed to tolerate Hope’s insistence on chaperoning every second of time they spent in the apartment.

But this daily trauma of pretending he wasn’t aware when she showered, wasn’t waiting for the faint hint of her lemony shampoo to carry to him, wasn’t visualizing her rosy cheeks and that fresh-scrubbed look she wore so well—that’s what was really getting to him.