Amazing Love

She snatched the twenty from his fingers and stuffed it into her purse.

“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” she muttered as she spun about-face and stomped up the aisle. She heard the rumble of his laughter just before she pushed through the security door into the muggy night air.

A Harvard MBA sent to fetch burritos. Miss Texas being asked to walk the dog. A guy she didn’t know from Adam criticizing her musical arrangement. If she weren’t so tired she’d indulge in a self-righteous hissy fit. She settled instead for slamming the door of her coupe a little harder than necessary.

As the pony car approached the late night drive-thru, the mature businesswoman in her toyed with a teenage prank. Claire’s huffy mood evaporated and a grin crept across her face. If the newcomer was going to treat her like one of the kids he’d better be prepared to suffer the consequences.

Chapter Three

“And put extra jalapeños on those two super tacos, please.” Claire smirked at the giant piñata head that returned her grin blindly and bobbed its approval of her diabolical plan.

“I have to warn you, ma’am. The super taco already comes with enough peppers to heat Minnesota in January,” the night manager of the restaurant replied.

“I know, but I’m just relaying the order. The man specifically said he wanted his meal ‘hot.’”

“Okaa-aa-aay, but he’s gonna be miserable tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan,” she muttered under her breath as she eased the car forward to the carry-out window.

With a sack of fragrant Tex-Mex on the bucket seat beside her and the warm evening breeze whipping through the open windows, Claire made the short drive back to the church. Determined to see this guy’s true colors, she crept inside the sanctuary to a seat in the shadows. The less she disturbed the more she could observe. If anyone noticed her arrival they didn’t acknowledge it.

Luke was taking the group through one of the numbers they’d played for the evening service, stopping them frequently as he’d done Claire during her practice run. Like a professional coach who insists a championship team start every drill with the basics, Luke singled out each boy and went over the fundamentals of his instrument. Though they reviewed familiar territory, the newcomer seemed to give each student a fresh sense of timing or tuning or the history of the instrument before moving on.

A series of high-pitched beeps emanated from Eric’s backpack. He cradled his guitar in the upright stand and reached for his cell phone.

“Unless that’s your mother, don’t answer it,” Luke commanded.

“Nobody calls him but his mother,” Zach sniped and the others snickered.

Eric gave a sidelong glance at the caller ID and punched the ignore button. Luke held his hand out and the cell phone was deposited into his open palm.

“Any others?” Luke’s tone left no doubt about what was expected.

Pockets were emptied and four flip phones ended up single file on top of an amplifier. Her Blackberry was set on vibrate but, unwilling to risk being discovered, Claire reached into her purse and silently depressed the “off” key.

“This is as good a time as any to spell out expectations.” Luke lowered his lean frame to the stage floor, folded long legs beneath him and motioned for the guys to do the same. They sat cross-legged in a circle like silent scouts around a campfire.

“Well? Speak up,” Luke snapped, then waited for a response. The boys cast one another unsure glances.

“Shouldn’t you tell us your expectations, sir,” Zach asked, as he nervously rolled a drumstick between his palms.

Luke shook his head. “Let’s get this straight. This isn’t about me or Praise Productions. It’s about the Harvest Sons. If you don’t know what you want, how can we move you to the next level?” Luke waited through several seconds of silence. “Talk to me,” he insisted. “Just share what’s on your minds.”

“The sound is pretty good in here,” Zach said, glancing at the high ceiling, “but I have to hold back. My dream is to rock an outdoor stadium before I’m in my thirties like you and too old to enjoy it.”

Teenage heads nodded agreement and Luke grimaced, “Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Zach studied his drumstick, clearly chagrined by his tactless admission.

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Luke grumbled, but winked at the others to let Zach see no offense was taken.

Chad spoke up. “Since I was seven I’ve been at the keyboard ten hours a week, twenty in the summer. I can mimic any style, but I wanna be known for a sound of my own. I want the Sons to play more than cover tunes and jazzed up hymns.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Luke nodded at Chad, then turned. “How about you, Eric?”

“The only good thing our dad ever did was name me after Eric Clapton. He’s a triple inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” Eric’s eyes lit as he warmed to the subject of his rock hero. “I learned most of what I know by playing along with his CDs. I’d love to have a reputation like Clapton’s one day,” Eric admitted. “But only on the guitar,” he quickly added. “I’d never be stupid like he was with coke and heroin. Musicians who blow their careers over drugs are so lame.”

Luke brushed his palm across his short-cropped hair, before dropping his hand back into his lap.

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fall into that trap, Eric.”

Claire caught the slightly defensive note in his voice.

“Are you saying what he did was okay?” Chad asked.

“Absolutely not,” Luke insisted. “But you should have some compassion for what drove Clapton down the road he chose.”

“Nobody deserves compassion for making such stupid choices,” Eric insisted. “His drug abuse will label him for the rest of his life.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as Luke seemed to think about the judgmental comment.

“Good point, Eric. All a man really has to call his own is his reputation, and once that’s damaged it’s just about impossible to make repairs.”

Then he moved on. “And what do you want from this experience, Brian?”

The young bass player slumped, exhaled a pent-up breath and fiddled with the plastic guitar pick between his fingers.

“Brian wants to make it in the business so he can get away from our old man,” Eric offered on behalf of his kid brother.

“Forever,” Brian added, not looking up.

Claire noted the way Luke’s gaze darted back and forth between the two brothers, taking in that piece of news. She squirmed in her dark corner of the room, uncomfortable, feeling she was eavesdropping on group therapy. Luke was making a sincere, albeit gruff effort to get to know his protégés. Even grudgingly, she had to admire that in the man.

“Believe it or not, guys, I understand. At your age I felt all those things. Thanks for being honest with me.” Luke’s voice was hushed, almost reverent. She had to lean forward and listen closely.

“Now that I know why you’re here we can start plotting some serious progress. If you knuckle down and really work hard for me, what we accomplish in the next two days will blow your minds. But I warn you, I can’t abide slackers. I have to prove myself to your church council, and you guys have to prove yourselves to me. Got that?”

Heads bobbed agreement as he glanced around the circle.

“I never make a promise I can’t keep. So, listen up. When you work with me you’ll stretch your skills and your minds and I promise we’ll produce music that will open doors for you in this business. But when we’re working together you’ve got to give me your undivided attention, and I’ll do the same for you. No exceptions. You got that, too?”

They nodded understanding.

Luke extended his arm into the center of the circle, palm down and asked, “Are we a team?”

Hands stacked on hands as they shared that very male ritual of the pregame huddle followed by high fives.

“Hey, Miss Texas, you got anything to eat back there?”

When Luke called out his question young heads turned her way. Startled to realize he’d known she was there all along, Claire jumped to her feet, grabbed the bag of fast food and hurried down front.

“Thanks, Miss Claire!”

The youngsters took the bag, fished out burritos and napkins and tossed the sack and remaining contents to Luke. He pulled several bills from his wallet and sent them to the soft drink machines in the basement kitchen with stern instructions to hurry back.

“Still sore at me?” His brows arched expectantly over green eyes, his mouth quirked with a hint of humor.

“Why would you ask that?” She played the wide-eyed dumb blonde, and hated herself for it.

“Oh, maybe because I yanked your chain a few times, but just to see if you were a good sport.”

“And?” She waited, for some strange reason hoping she’d overcome the prima donna, first impression she may have given him.

“And you reacted like a professional.”

She could tell he wanted to say more.

“But?” She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and waited for the rest.

“But even pros make mistakes. That’s a popular piece of music that everybody will recognize, but it’s all wrong for your voice. If you wanna give your best performance you’ll let me coach you.” He threw down the gauntlet, something he appeared to do frequently.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” She brushed off his suggestion.

“Trust me. It is.”

“Speaking of trust,” she changed the subject, “I understand why Freeway trusts you. I was there this morning when you rescued him on the bridge. That was a brave thing you did.”

“Bravery had nothin’ to do with it.” He brushed away the compliment like a pesky fly. “I just couldn’t help myself. It makes me so mad to see an animal or a kid mistreated.”

Squeaking sneakers and the muffled voices of four teens signaled they were about to have company. Luke looked down and focused on the meal. He rustled inside the white paper sack and withdrew a taco. He peeled back the wrapper and prepared to take a large bite.

“Wait!” Claire shouted, regretting her juvenile act, making a sudden effort to stop him. But he leaned out of her reach and sunk his teeth into the crisp corn tortilla, loaded with three-alarm salsa and jalapeño peppers.

Luke scrunched his forehead in a scowl as he dodged the woman’s attempt to grab his taco. The salty shell broke in his mouth with a crunch. Tasty meat seasoned with hot sauce filled his senses. As he chewed he became aware of the spicy warmth that quickly morphed into a burning sensation. Within seconds his breath caught in his throat. His mouth and sinuses blazed.

Claire sprinted toward the door where Zach had appeared, an unopened soda in his hand. She scooped it from his grip and tossed it in a high arch directly at Luke. In a fluid movement he caught the can, popped the top, dodged the spray and chugged the soda. He stopped to draw a breath only to ensure his esophagus hadn’t suffered permanent damage.

“I’m so sorry!” Claire stood at his side, her hands clenched together at her heart as if pleading for forgiveness.

Luke continued to let the chilly effervescence of the drink soothe the coals that still smoldered inside his mouth.

Pure mortification in her eyes, Claire held out her hand for the remainder of his meal. Instead Luke plopped the empty can in her palm and took a close look at the offending taco. It was packed with hot peppers, each seed a tiny grenade of heat waiting to explode. He crammed it back into the sack, unwrapped, and examined a second taco that was also crowded with ripe green jalapeños. He turned to the woman who’d literally taken his breath away.

“How thoughtful of you to welcome a newcomer to your church with a meal that’s obviously a special order.” He spoke loud enough for the boys to hear and they naturally drifted toward the couple to find out what effort Claire had gone to for their new mentor.

Her eyes widened as Luke extended his hand, waving the peppery fare beneath her nose. “Care to share with me?”

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, an adamant refusal that brushed a cascade of fine blond hair across her shoulders. “I never eat this late at night.”

“Oh, come on now. How much can one bite hurt?” Luke cajoled, knowing full well how painful one bite would be.

“Yeah, Miss Claire, you’re too skinny,” Zach chimed in. “Eat up.”

The group of boys surrounded her, insisting she share the food Luke continued to offer. She waved Luke away but he caught her wrist, rotated her hand and deposited the taco into her palm. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly, a silent dare only she would understand.

Trepidation written all over her unforgettable face, she licked her lips as if anticipating the fire. The paper wrapper rustled as she squeezed the taco and brought it closer to her face. She eyed the heap of peppers, swallowed what must have been her pride and closed her eyes as if blocking the thought of the approaching inferno.

Luke enjoyed the way her perfect little nose twitched when it caught the vinegary scent of the peppers. He was sure she’d back down, but she resolutely parted her lips and prepared to take the plunge.

He was impressed.

He clapped his hands together loudly to capture everyone’s attention. Claire’s eyes flew wide at the noisy interruption. Her mouth clamped shut narrowly avoiding the peppery snack only moments from her lips.

“Okay, everybody, let’s get busy.” Luke waved them toward the stage.

When the boys had turned their backs she exhaled her relief, dropped the hazardous taco into the open sack and mouthed “I’m sorry.” The sincerity of the silent apology showed in her caramel-brown eyes but the small smirk that wriggled at the corners of her mouth said otherwise. She ducked her head too late to hide the smile.

“I’ll just clean up back here and be on my way.” Claire bent to gather her belongings.

“Not so fast,” he snapped.

Her head popped up at the insistent tone in his voice.

He masked his thoughts with a blank face and inclined his head in the direction the boys were heading.

“It’s time for me to repay your kindness.” He stressed the last word, a warning of what was to come.

Her eyebrows rose in question.

“Chad, go to the booth and cue the lady’s music,” Luke called out.

She glanced at her wristwatch, any excuse to break contact with those demanding green eyes. “It’s getting late and you have other commitments.”

“And miss the opportunity to collaborate? Not on your life.” Refusing to take “no” for an answer, he stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him up the aisle.

Two hours later, Claire sat before the computer in her southwest Houston townhome. Surrounded by her menagerie of foster pets, she arched her back and yawned as she waited for the final search engine to work its powerful magic.

Buck squirmed and buried his nose beneath her arm. She’d long since mastered the art of typing with the abused dachshund in her lap. R.C. perched nearby, dangling his long tail over the arm of Claire’s favorite chair. The red tabby cat would find himself relegated to the garage if he sharpened his claws on the leather recliner again.

Aptly named for his three-legged status, Tripod dozed on the rug beside her, his sides rising and falling in conjunction with his noisy breathing. The Airedale’s costly asthma was the primary reason he was still without a permanent home.

With one hand Claire snuggled Buck closer and with the other she reached to trail her fingers across Tripod’s wiry head. He opened adoring eyes, sighed his gratitude and drifted back into doggie dreamland. She understood the contentment these abandoned animals felt in the sanctuary of her home.

Two weeks after Claire’s thirteenth birthday, Dean Savage dealt his family a staggering blow. He was moving to L.A. to pursue his dream of being an actor. Alone.

To Claire’s astonishment Mary Savage didn’t plead with her husband to stay. Instead she sought comfort in her Bible as Claire’s father packed, muttering under his breath about women and their religious nonsense. The next day he was gone, leaving Claire and her mother with nothing more than the roof over their heads.

The computer beeped to signal its work was complete.

She scanned the results of her search on Praise Productions, disappointed to find no home page, odd for a growing business. There were numerous brief blurbs in relation to churches Praise Productions had worked with in the recent past. All glowing reports, nothing of concern. She should be relieved instead of feeling like she’d come up empty-handed, just as she had for the search under Luke’s name, yielding only pages of genealogy listings.

She looped the gold chain around her index finger and cupped the diamond cross in her hand. The grudging respect and strange attraction she felt for the man with the lazy smile conflicted with her need to protect her Abundant Harvest family.

The guy had some unique qualities but he was running stealth for a reason. Tomorrow Claire would go over his contract with a fine-tooth comb. She might even call her Texas Ranger friend, Daniel Stabler, for a background check. If Luke Dawson was hiding something, she’d pull the plug on the deal faster than you could say Savage Cycles of Houston.

Chapter Four

Sunday morning Luke twisted the knob and the door of his furnished efficiency swung open.

Home sweet home.

He surveyed his surroundings, nodding approval at the sparse furnishings that helped hold down costs. As long as the rental was located within five miles of his favorite coffee chain, was spotlessly cleaned and the previous occupants hadn’t smoked, Luke could be quite happy with used accommodations.

The thirty-eight-foot Praise Productions trailer afforded him the space to carry the few items he needed to be self-sufficient and comfortable during the weeks he’d spend at each location. Settling into a kitchen chair, he placed his morning latte on the table and dropped the newspaper beside it.

Four paws thumped the bedroom floor and Freeway lumbered around the corner. He stopped at the sight of his new master, wagged a long tail in a still-sleepy greeting and collapsed on the cool tile. His eyelids immediately sagged and he slipped back into puppy slumber.

Luke smiled at the contented animal and reached for the remote. Needing a quick feel for the local culture, he surfed dozens of Houston channels, pausing over the local television ministries.

Many of the services were in Spanish, leaving no doubt that the Hispanic population had exploded in Texas. A song recorded in Spanish would be a nice touch for the Harvest Sons album.

He reached for his backpack, pulled out a spiral notebook and pencil, and began making plans for the group. Though he wasn’t willing to praise them too soon, last night the Sons had given one of the best first efforts Luke had observed so far. Eric was particularly hungry for success. After the taste Luke would offer the boy, he’d never settle for crumbs again. With youth and talent on his side he had a shot.

And now he had a secret weapon. Luke Dawson.

Seemed like only yesterday that Luke was just as trusting and hopeful. On his own at nineteen with enough money to do a world of good or a lot of damage, he lacked the maturity or the guidance to handle his fame. He’d naively signed over the management of his finances to entertainment lawyer Lisa Evans, never knowing he’d signed over full control as well. When a thick layer of dust settled on his career, she was a wealthy woman and he was lucky she’d left him the rights to his own music.

What different turns life might have taken if someone had stood in the gap for Luke Dawson before he became consumed by Striker Dark. He was committed to being that someone for Eric.

Since Luke had buried his anger along with Striker, he shook free of the memories and rattled open the Sunday paper.

The Southern Savage requires a Master. Do you have what it takes to dominate this machine?

The advertisement dared the reader. The rest of the full page ad listed the specs of the soon-to-be-released custom chopper, the signature bike of Savage Cycles of Houston.

Luke scanned the page for any mention of the owner. Finding none, he laid the paper on the table, folded his arms across his chest and squinted in concentration. Though he’d known her less than twenty-four hours, Claire Savage was possibly the most interesting woman he’d ever met. There was something apart from her physical beauty that demanded appreciation.

He found the self-confidence that bordered on arrogance appealing, and the matter-of-fact way she spoke of her accomplishments very attractive. Instead of the smug “I’m all that” kind of pride, she displayed a satisfied sureness that said she was capable and knew it.

There was no doubt she had a brilliant mind—the most worrisome part. After she’d left for the evening, Brian had offered a few unsolicited bits on her background. Seemed the mixture of pageant queen and Ivy League grad uniquely qualified her to serve as role model and femme fatale for the teens at Abundant Harvest. According to the boy, who was clearly smitten with her, the cool part was Claire didn’t let all her achievements go to her head.

Luke recalled having the same foolish thoughts about Lisa when they’d first met. But something about this Miss Texas was different from the financial shark who had bled Striker Dark dry.

The way Claire held her head—chin just a bit high—was definitely practiced. But when he’d stared into her eyes he’d caught a glimmer of what lay beneath the public veneer. He wasn’t sure it was confidence at all. He’d seen part bravado, part suspicion and something else. Fear maybe. Now what would a woman with the world by the tail have to fear?

She was a celebrity in this community, in this state actually. She had roots, an enviable past and was busy orchestrating a very public future. But he had a hunch she was afraid of something.

“Lord,” Luke spoke aloud, “do me a favor, will Ya? Keep that woman busy with her own life and out of my hair?”

Claire closed her Bible and stood for the final prayer that would dismiss the worship service. She waited for the busy aisle to clear, and then made her way toward the exit. As she inched closer to the door she stopped to accept praise for her solo.

The arrangement was not one she’d personally have chosen but the song had complimented the series Pastor Ken was teaching on forgiveness. She’d agreed to sing the popular tune, hoping she wouldn’t be compared unfavorably to the artist who’d won a Dove Award for the song. Though it bugged her to admit the truth, every suggestion Luke Dawson had imposed upon her last night had been right on target.

After following the instructions of a man who claimed he personally had the voice of a bullfrog, she’d found the comfort level that had been lacking when she’d practiced on her own. The guy was like that famous gymnastics coach who took the American women to the Olympics. He couldn’t do a double back flip off the balance beam if his life depended on it, but the girls he trained never failed to bring home the gold.

Luke was nowhere to be found this morning, his rig no longer a conspicuous sight in the parking lot. A small sigh escaped as she realized she’d expected him to be there. She’d actually wanted the man’s approval. She dropped her chin and trudged up the aisle.

“You were incredible this morning. Quite a moving performance.”

Claire’s head popped up as she recognized the male voice.

Arthur O’Malley stood just inside the exit door. In a lightweight summer suit, with his hands folded before him, he resembled a groom waiting for his bride.

Trained to accept a compliment graciously, this time she went with her gut instinct instead.

“Are you following me?” she demanded. “Because if you are you can kiss that interview goodbye.”

His eyes flew wide, and a smile creased his face.