Teacher, Teacher

Chapter 1

Cate realized a half-second too late that she'd pulled down more than the roll of posters. A cardboard box teetered on the edge of the top shelf, then lost its balance. Muttering under her breath at the pack rat teacher who last used the walk-in storage closet, she cringed against the inside wall before a dozen pint-sized tambourines landed on her head.

The box burst apart on impact with the hardwood floor and the scattered contents filled the cramped space with a clangor that shot straight through her head. The last of the racket died away slowly. As she stared down at the mess, her mouth hanging open in silent protest, Cate wasn't sure if the ringing in her ears was the tambourines or the office bell alerting her that this session of evening parent-teacher conferences was finally over.

She checked her watch in the naked glare of an overhead bulb. It hadn't been the bell. She still had a full hour to go.

Not that it had been a hectic afternoon and evening, she decided as she hunkered down for a better look at the damage. Spring conferences were little more than a formality, even for the classroom teachers. By March, most parents had a fair idea of their children's progress. As music teacher, she had marked grades and written her report cards nearly two weeks ago. In the three sessions set aside for conferences, she'd had parents stop by to say hello, or offer their help with the spring fine arts program. But only one had wanted to discuss a child's progress.

And that parent, Mr. Thomas Flannery, should have shown up over an hour ago.

"This is all Flannery's fault," she grumbled as she picked up the tambourines and tossed them into the battered box. "I could have gotten down to the photocopy machine if... Oh, for heaven's sake!" She had found a rotted wooden rim, minus most of its tiny cymbals. "How long have these things been in here?" she wondered in disgust.

Probably since Mrs. Meyer, the previous music teacher, started her career forty years ago. She duck- walked across the narrow closet tracking down loose metal disks.

Something glimmered to her left. She bent over and reached, and felt a draft as her one-piece knit dress rode up her thighs. She grabbed the hem and yanked down hard, nearly choking herself as the neck seam caught her throat.

"Okay, let's try that again," she muttered.

Once again, she felt the draft. This time, she ignored it. After all, no one was around to see her fanny stuck in the air.

Muttering nasty words, she didn't hear the footsteps until they stopped behind her. The muffled sound didn't bother her since Rosemary had gone to get her a soda moments before the box did its somersault. She smiled and deposited the last disk into the box and brushed her hands on the front of the apron. The flurry of dust motes made her cough. Kneeling, she rested her hands on her thighs and swung her head to let Rosemary know she'd really earned that can of soda.

"Ms. Munro?"

A breath caught in her throat at the sound of a deep, smooth, male voice. A tall, dark-haired, startlingly handsome man stood where she expected to find the stout, graying art teacher. The man fixed her with a steely gaze and cocked his head.

"Ms. Munro?"

"Yes, yes, I am. Catherine Munro, that is."

Riveted by the intense, narrowed blue-gray eyes, she felt her head swim, like she'd gotten up too fast.

"I'm Thomas Flannery. Megan Flannery's father."

"Thomas Fla... Megan?"

"Yes, Megan Flannery."

His patient reply broke whatever spell his sudden appearance had cast on her. She felt a wash of vulnerability as she knelt in front of this man who peered at her as if she were slightly dotty. Feeling heat rushed to her cheeks, irritation overran her mortification.

She lifted her brows. "I didn't expect you anymore today. You're an hour late."

His expression hardened. "I had some last minute business to attend to in Chicago and was delayed by heavy traffic on the expressway. I called the school office from my car around 6:00 to reschedule my conferences with you and Miss Erickson. The secretary said that there would be no problem."

Actually, there wasn't a problem, except that he'd caught her on her hands and knees, backside hanging out of the storage closet. To top it off, a loose curl tickled her cheek, escaping from the clip behind her ear.

"I didn't expect you, that's all," she repeated and brushed her hands again. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have started this project."

He scanned the closet, then settled his eyes back on her. Only now, amusement teased the corners of his mouth.

The slight play of muscle and flesh, the lengthening of fine lines on his rather angular face, the hint of a twinkle in his otherwise cool gaze fascinated her.

"In that case, I am sorry to have driven you to such...ah...measures," he said mischievously. "May I apologize by helping you up?"

Her attention focused on the tiny groove in his well-defined chin, she almost missed the question. "No," she snapped. "I mean, I'll manage."

No way did she want his rather condescending help, thank you very much.

Only she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to get off the floor without humiliating herself further. Her legs were already half-numb. Swallowing what was left of her pride, she cast him a sheepish smile over her shoulder. "On second thought, maybe I could use your arm for a moment."

He seemed to be expecting it. He tossed his black cashmere overcoat across a student chair and moved inside the closet. The warm, cramped space filled with his spicy scent. Charcoal gray, worsted wool filled her vision. His legs seemed to go on forever.

Eyes level with his thighs, she dared not look up any further. The throb at the base of her neck and the heat that fanned her face warned her that if she did, her gaze might linger on some part of the man's anatomy that it shouldn't.

What was happening here, anyway? She'd been close to most of her students' fathers and she'd never reacted like this, even when the men were as good-looking as Thomas Flannery.

Well, maybe none of them had been quite this good-looking.

"Ready, Ms. Munro?" He sounded smug. She willed her eyes to stay even with the charcoal-gray trouser legs.

"Yes, Mr. Flannery."

She lifted her right arm, flailed until she found his. The wool of his suit scratched her palm and wrist.

"Ms. Munro?" he asked, his voice smooth and silky.

She lifted her head in spite of herself. "What?"

At the same moment, he bent down until his nose practically touched hers. Past the heat pulsing in her cheeks, she felt the shimmering warmth of his skin. Past the spicy after-shave, she smelled his warm male scent. In that fleeting second, she realized that his dark lashes were long and slightly curled.

"Do you want both of us to end up on the floor?"

Cate reared back her head. "Certainly not!"

"I didn't think so." He gripped her arms just past the elbows, straightened and hauled her up.

She gasped at the suddenness of the action, then gasped again when she realized she'd come up close and personal with that part of his anatomy she hadn't dared so much as glance at.

"Didn't you learn anything about the physics of balance in teacher's college?" he asked, letting the edges of his mouth lift into a faint smile.

She didn't much care about balance right then. It was off-balance that he'd taken her. And he had the gall to stand there and gloat about it.

Cate decided to control her temper if she couldn't quite control the situation. "I don't know what I was thinking. Of course, you're right. Thank you for helping me up."

He didn't let go, only stared down at her. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," she answered, though her legs stung with the renewed blood flow. "I'm fine. Thanks." She shrugged him off.

For a moment, she was fine. Then her legs wobbled and went to jelly. She pitched forward, right back into his arms, her face hard against his chest. He absorbed the shock easily, as if he'd been waiting. His tie lay cool and soft against her lips. His lapel scratched her cheek and temple. She wondered fleetingly if the man were not like the contrast of the materials he wore - smooth and sensual, but too darned prickly to put up with for long.

She stepped back and looked up into his steel blue eyes. "I must have been on the floor too long. I think I'm all right now."

He lifted one dark brow and released her. She would have walked stiff-jointed if it had meant getting out of the closet without any more of his help. Fortunately, her knees seemed to bend properly. She smiled her most confident smile and squared her shoulders, gathering her shattered poise.

"Shall we have a seat?" she offered, and extended her arm toward her desk.

The corner of his mouth quirked again before he gave a curt nod.

Cate led the way into her classroom, praying to every power in heaven that Thomas Flannery didn't hear the slamming of her heart against her ribs.

Tom watched her exit the closet, shoulders thrown back, spine straight. The last thing he expected to greet him when he barreled into the music room was a sexy little backside sheathed in a clingy blue knit.

When Megan had told him that Ms. Munro was a 'pretty old' person, it occurred to him that his daughter considered him 'old' at thirty-six. He therefore conjured an image that resembled his ex-wife, Lara - long, fluffed blonde hair, heavy make-up, a sleek body stuffed into a short black skirt and a low cut V-necked blouse. Just in case Megan really did mean 'old', his backup image was of a wizened schoolmarm with mousy hair pulled back into a braided bun. Being the thoroughly prepared man, he had practiced a different speech for each image. But Catherine Munro wasn't at all what he had expected. Neither tirade fit.

Instead, he had flirted with her. He couldn't remember the last time he had teased a woman and not just with words, but with close, physical contact. More amazing still, he had enjoyed the heat of her satiny skin against him, the faint fragrance of flowers and sweetness overlaying her woman-scent, and the crush of her slender, supple body on his.

For a moment as he held Ms. Munro, staring down into her wide hazel-green eyes, he once again felt wholly male again after too many years of celibacy. Instinctively, he knew that her reaction had been the same. Knowing that he was somehow responsible for the bright pink flush across her pretty face swelled his ego. Now, as he watched her slip out of the ridiculous ruffled apron and shift that perfect little backside gracefully as she headed for her desk, he felt completely unprepared. Worse, he realized that he was grinning.

But he couldn't back out now. He was here for Megan's sake, not to give his libido exercise.

Tom forced his mouth into a straight line and pulled the light chain. It seemed the environmentally right thing to do, as Megan often reminded him. Well, the schools were doing some good, he thought with mild irritation. They'd turned his little girl into a seven-year-old eco-fanatic.

There was a smell of chalk, disinfectant and floor wax, mingled with the scent of Ms. Munro's perfume when he stepped into the classroom. Memories flashed as he snatched his coat from the back of the miniature chair and glanced around at the child-level shelves full of songbooks. They were good memories. Memories of his own small town school, of reading, writing and 'rithmetic, chaotic recesses and good-hearted teachers. Though none of his teachers had looked anything like Catherine Munro.

She rounded a slate-gray metal desk that looked three times too big for her and motioned to one of the adult chairs beside her desk. "Shall we get started?"

To Tom's amazement, she looked him straight in the eye. A streak of bright pink across her cheekbones remained the only indication of her earlier discomfort. Behind the desk, her podium of authority, she appeared poised and professional. He strode to the chair and sat down. She sat, folded her hands on the desk blotter and waited.

"I want to speak to you about the spring program," he began, just as he had planned regardless of the images he'd conjured. "I have some grave concerns."

Cate tilted her head. The honey-colored curl that had worked loose from the clip behind her ear bothered the gold loop hanging from her pierced lobe. It momentarily bothered him, too.

"In accordance with standard school policy, I sent home a permission slip with every child in kindergarten and first grade two weeks ago," she told him. "I assure you it explained everything we have planned. Our district is sensitive to the fact that there are families from various religious and ethnic backgrounds, and some parents might object to their child's participation in certain activities. If I remember, Megan was one of the first children to bring back her signed permission slip."

"Yes, she did," he agreed, and rubbed his damp palms on his trouser legs. "But, you see, I was out of town at the time. My Aunt Myrtle signed for me."

Her gaze was warm if uncertain. "Our office records indicate that your Aunt has the right to act on your behalf. But if you have concerns, I'll be happy to review the matter with you."

"I don't have reservations about the program itself." He suddenly wanting nothing more than to state his argument, solve the issue, and be gone. "It's Megan's role in the program that concerns me."

Cate sat back in her ancient leather swivel chair. Then she smiled brilliantly, showing lovely white teeth. "Megan is the perfect Velveteen Rabbit," she told him, obviously believing he'd come for nothing more than reassurance. "She has such a clear, sweet voice. Even the children who tried out with her agreed that she should have the part."

His pride at this praise almost surpassed his worry. Almost.

"I'm well aware of her talents," Tom replied, pitching his voice low.

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Flannery. Many parents don't recognize talent in their own children. I'm sure you're aware then, that Megan has a stage presence rare for someone her age. You've truly done a wonderful job developing her self-esteem."

He didn't want her praise. He wanted only her cooperation. "I warn you, Ms. Munro, I don't respond to flattery the way children do."

Her back and shoulders went rigid. The lingering blush across her cheek dulled. "I've never resorted to flattery with either children or adults," she informed him in a 'teacher' voice he hadn't heard in years. "I give honest, professional evaluations."

Tom knew when to shift tactics. That instinct had been partially responsible for his financial success. Now seemed the time to apply it. "I didn't mean to question your judgment or professionalism."

But hadn't he when he'd marched down the hallway toward the music room? From her skeptical expression, Tom decided that she didn't believe him. That irritated him more than it should have. "My point is, Ms. Munro, this entire situation seems too manufactured."

She puckered her light brown eyebrows into a frown. "Manufactured in what way?"

Now he didn't believe her. "You must know I've made my position clear at almost every School Board meeting."

Her brows smoothed, but her eyes widened. "Your 'position?'"

She feigned innocence well, he'd give her that much. But if she insisted on a synopsis, he'd supply it. "At most meetings since January, I've expressed my concerns about interruptions in educational instruction. I don't believe music and art should be given as high a priority in the curriculum as this district has historically afforded them. Given my opinions, it seems more than coincidental that my daughter was chosen for the lead in your spring program."

There, he said what he came to say. Why didn't he feel purged? Maybe it was the way she pressed her small hand to the base of her throat and inhaled sharply, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. It might have been the sight of her face, blanched clear of color, leaving her hazel-green eyes appear twice as large. Whatever the reason, he felt less like an aggrieved father than a big toad who just startled the fairy princess halfway into next week.

"Mr. Flannery, I assure you, I had no such intention!"

Damn, if he didn't want to believe the breathy denial! He held his tongue, afraid that if he started speaking again, he might babble an incoherent apology for his reasonable suspicions.

"I...had no idea..." Then she collected herself and stared at him in accusation. "I'm new to the district. I moved to Illinois to take this position in December, just before the semester began, and I haven't attended a Board meeting yet."

He eyed her carefully. She damned well looked and sounded honest enough. No one he knew could turn chalk white on a whim. Had he been a little too paranoid? The twitch in her jaw alerted him that she had found her composure. The steady rise of new color to her face brought him reflexively to the edge of his chair.

Catherine Munro clenched her hands on top of the desk and pinned him with a glare.

"Forgive my ignorance, Mr. Flannery," she began softly. "The truth is, your name meant nothing to me except that it identified you as Megan's father. Your personal opinions concerning the value of the art and music programs in this district had no bearing whatsoever on my decision to cast Megan as the lead in our program. I let the children volunteer for the different roles and then try out for them. Everyone is subject to the same criteria. She leaned forward, as if to spring from the chair. "Frankly, I take offense at your insinuation that I've somehow tried to influence you through your daughter. I've never known a teacher in my professional experience who would take such an underhanded approach."

Though slightly ashamed, Tom didn't look away from her glare. Again he found himself backing down. "Maybe I've made a hasty assumption."

"Yes, you have."

He blinked at her boldness. He shouldn't have judged her by the sweetness of her face and the tender curves of her body. This lady had brass knuckles encased in a silk glove, and he had just received a whack. On the verge of having to excuse himself for the third time, her glare softened into a frown. Her next words stunned him.

"You don't intend to pull Megan out of the program, are you?"

"Of course not!"

She looked at him, unconvinced.

Well, maybe he had come off like a hard-hearted bastard. So what? Why should he care about this music teacher's opinion of him? He dropped his left arm on the desk and slid toward her. Cate sat up straighter, but didn't move, though the flat of his hand lay close enough that she felt his heat.

"I wouldn't yank the rug out from under Megan like that, regardless of my opinions," he said, his voice grating in his own ears. "I've never seen her so excited about school. She's dressed and ready a half-an-hour early on the days she has practice."

Cate allowed herself a cautious smile. It reached her eyes and made them sparkle. Tom liked her like that, liked to see a bit of joy to her expression; liked knowing that he had made her a little happier.

"But that's not the point," he told her, told himself.

Her smile withered. "And the point is?"

He had to make her understand; he had to make somebody understand. "Megan's excited about school for the wrong reason. She wants to come here to sing songs and pretend that she's some floppy-eared rabbit, not to learn her basic subjects. I don't want her education negatively impacted by all this time spent out of class."

In a wink, everything about Catherine Munro changed, from the rigid tension in her jaw to the pinch between her brows. "I see."

"Do you? Do you really see?"

She opened her mouth to answer his anger. He didn't let her speak. "Megan can hardly read. She still uses her fingers to add five and one. On the advice of her teachers and the principal two years ago, I held her back in kindergarten. But that hasn't made a difference. She's been tested for learning disabilities, motor deficiencies, and physical impediments I didn't even know existed. There's nothing out of order. But she still isn't reading the way she should. And don't tell me it's a matter of maturity. I've heard that already from people who actually teach reading."

The beginnings of an empathetic smile flattened. "My area of concentration is reading, Mr. Flannery."

"You teach music," he pointed out, realizing that it sounded like an accusation.

"In my first three years of college, I majored in music and piano," she explained calmly. "When I went back for my education degree, I took a minor in music but specialized in reading." Her voice turned to flint. "In fact, when I applied to this district, I had a choice between this position at Stewart Elementary and one teaching in an early intervention reading program."

"If you're a reading specialist, why did you opt for music?" he asked, unable to hide the old bitterness inside.

"I wanted to stay at one school," she replied evenly. "The Bridge Reading Program position would have required that I travel between two schools on opposite ends of the city. I made the decision based on convenience, but I made the right decision."

He shook his head, not understanding her. "You'd rather not practice in your field of expertise?"

"I was informed that because of budget cuts the School Board made two years ago, the criteria for admitting children into the Bridge Reading Program have been narrowed. In schools like Stewart the program has been eliminated altogether. Megan would have benefited from the one-on-one attention BRP instruction offers, but the Board members didn't believe that children like her would be 'negatively impacted', as you put it, by the cutback."

Tom bristled. "My concern is with extracurricular activities, not basic subject matter. I don't deserve your sarcasm."

She lowered her chin an inch. "No, you don't. I'm sorry. But you have to understand that there is a purpose for the subjects we teach. Nothing at the elementary level is truly 'extracurricular.'"

"I expected you'd try to justify the time spent on this program."

Cate rubbed the arch of her nose, then drew her fingers through the fringe of bangs on her forehead. "I'm trying to give you a reason to feel good about Megan's excitement."

"I can't feel good when I believe she should be in a classroom learning to read, instead of on a stage learning silly songs."

"Have you or your wife helped her study her lines?"

He withdrew his arm from the desk and shifted in the chair. He didn't like discussing personal matters, but she had asked a valid question. "I usually read with Megan at bedtime, but the last two weeks, I've been home too late. As for my wife..." He cleared his throat. "I'm divorced. Lara lives in..." Where had that last letter been posted? Some ski resort. "Colorado. That's why my Aunt lives with us and has the right to act in my stead. Myrtle is the one who practices with Megan."

"Oh. I'm...I thought perhaps...I didn't know you...I didn't mean to pry..."

He swallowed a curt reply as she rose and walked to a tall file cabinet. When she opened the top drawer and reached inside, the knit dress molded to her curves, outlining her trim waist and gently rounded hips. Her hair curled at the nape of her neck, just past the edge of her turtleneck collar. Against the sky blue of her dress the strands appeared more golden than brown. He wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through those silky strands, then down her slender neck and narrow shoulders. He knew with simple male certainty that his touch would bring another bright flush to her smooth cheeks.

The fleeting fantasy infused him with pulsing heat. He shifted in the chair to loosen the tightness in his stomach and chest. She turned and walked back to the desk.

"This is Megan's script, Mr. Flannery."

She handed him a thin, spiral-bound booklet. Inside, Tom found the manuscript for "The Velveteen Rabbit". After scanning the first three pages, he shrugged and glanced up.

Cate took her seat and peered at the script upside-down. With her index finger she drew his attention to several lines on the first page. "Notice the simple words, the repetition and the pattern to these sentences. Many of the parts are in this sort of rhyme, and these are the elements of pre-reading and language fluency."

"Megan's classroom teacher gave me a capsulated lesson in educational buzzwords during my conference with her," he informed her brusquely.

Her chin went up again. "Then Miss Erickson probably also told you that practicing the patterns and repetitions and rhythms of reading will eventually bear results. Mr. Jordan, our media center director, practices every day with the children who are in the play. Megan sees the words over and over again. She hears the sounds and the cadences. Eventually, she'll begin to associate more and more the words with the sounds. Megan wants to read the lines," she pressed, as if afraid he would interrupt. "The play is a hook, something to draw her in, show her how much fun reading can be. Don't you sometimes enjoy reading a good novel just for fun?"

She caught him off guard. He let himself become too entranced by the sparkle of enthusiasm in her hazel- green eyes.

"Ah...yes, sometimes." He gazed back to the pages of the script, cutting his contact with the warm sincerity that she exuded. "When I have the time."

"Megan needs to read for enjoyment, too," she concluded. "She needs to have a purpose, especially if she's having some difficulties. Surely Miss Erickson told you as much."

"Who? Oh, yes, Miss Erickson. She did say something like that."

Cate blinked, appearing uncertain, then clasped her hands primly on her lap. Tom tried to disregard the pull of blue knit across her shapely thighs.

"I think that you have the wrong impression about these programs," she said. "They aren't separate from the curriculum, they're a part of it. These activities give Megan a chance to shine at something." Her face glowed from within as she grinned. "She does shine, Mr. Flannery."

Tom knew that she wasn't shoveling bull. With her words, with her expression, with the inflection of her voice, Catherine Munro had convinced him that she really did care about Megan's reading progress. Moreover, he'd seen the excitement in Megan's face, heard it when she chattered on about her bunny suit, or the new song she had learned. Yet, when Megan boasted so innocently about her talents, he could barely conceal his dread. In those moments, Megan not only looked, but also sounded like a miniature version of her mother.

He banished Lara's image, snapped the thin manuscript closed and tossed it on the desk. "I know you mean well and I'm grateful that you've taken the time to recognize my daughter's talents. But, I know my daughter and what is ultimately in her best interest."

Cate's smile dissolved into a grim line.

"In the future, I'll thank you to give lead roles in your programs to children whose parents are more eager to see them perform."

Her eyes went wide, but she quickly recovered her poise. "Of course. I'm glad that you told me your concerns so that we can avoid this situation in the future."

That was it. He did what he intended to do, said what had to be said. Yet something, an odd unwillingness to leave just then, held him to the chair. Finally, he extended his hand. "Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Munro."

Heat pooled beneath his starched collar when she only stared at him for a good five seconds before rising and accepting the gesture. Her grip startled him. Though his palm dwarfed hers, and his long, blunted fingers appeared awkward closing around her more delicate bones, she clasped his hand firmly and shook it with snap.

"You're welcome, Mr. Flannery."

When she pulled away, he found himself reluctant to let go. Her sweet flower scent lingered on his damp skin. Aware that the heat under his collar had started to push its way up, he dipped his head curtly, collected his overcoat from the back of the chair and turned to leave.

"Mr. Flannery?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Cate fixed him with an intent gaze. "For Megan's sake, you will come to the performance, won't you?"

The question hurt more than it angered him. She really did think the worst of him. "I'll be there," he replied, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice. "In the first row, with my camera, clapping the loudest."

Her mouth quivered a moment before she gave a shy grin. "Thank you. Good evening."

He whirled and left the stuffy classroom as purposefully as he'd entered it. He couldn't wait to get out into the cool, crisp March night and take in gulps of air.

Her stomach quivered, her legs felt unsteady, and the pulse in her throat thrummed. Cate pressed her hands flat on the desktop, braced herself and shut her eyes. Thomas Flannery was brash, snide, cocksure, and probably conceited. Anyone that handsome and sartorially suited had to be vain. But he made her nerve endings vibrate. His electric touch had pulsed through her, igniting a thousand tiny fires that still tingled along her arms, not to mention deep in a place that had lain dormant for years.

She shook her head to clear the overwhelming sensations. Had his presumptuousness not distracted and angered her, heaven only knew what kind of an idiot she would have made of herself. And over a man who criticized her for giving his daughter the lead in a school program!

Footsteps in the hallway brought her upright, as if someone had jerked a string attached to her head. Cate inhaled sharply, drew in the familiar smells of the classroom along with the scent of Thomas Flannery. Rosemary stuck her head around the door, and narrowed her warm brown eyes.

"Is it safe to come in?"

Cate lifted her head in an 'all clear' signal.

As she hurried to the desk, Rosemary held out a can of diet soda. "You didn't tell me your conference was with Thomas Flannery."

Cate grabbed the soda, relishing the painful cold can against her hot, sweaty palm, and popped the top. "It didn't seem important enough to mention."

"Not important? Cate, do you know who Thomas Flannery is?"

Cate wrinkled her nose. "Yes, sweet little Megan Flannery's father, poor child." Closing her eyes, she gulped a mouthful soda and let the effervescence refresh her body if not her fried nerves.

"Poor you," Rosemary countered just as Cate tried to swallow. "Thomas Flannery is the man who wants to eliminate your job."

Chapter 2

Cate swallowed and gasped. Fizz backed up through her nose, leaving a trail of needle-sharp pain. She sputtered. "He what?"

Rosemary slapped her between the shoulder blades. "Gosh, I'm sorry. You all right?"

"I'm fine," Cate managed to whisper as she wiped fat tears from her eyes. "But what about Flannery? He's trying to eliminate my job?"

Eyeing Cate with motherly concern, Rosemary eased into the chair Thomas Flannery had vacated moments before. "That's been the gist of his proposals since before he sat on the School Board."

Cate raised her hand and cut Rosemary off. "His proposals? He's a member of the School Board?"

Rosemary nodded. "He was elected to the Board in November. He's new, but influential."

Cate massaged her forehead with both hands. "That explains why he acted so paranoid."

"About what?"

Letting her hands fall away, Cate toyed with a rivulet of condensation on the side of her can. "He literally accused me of giving Megan the lead role in an attempt to manipulate his opinion about the music curriculum. But he never said anything about having a seat on the Board."

"He probably figured you were aware of it," Rosemary guessed. "You really have to take time to read the local paper. Or maybe even come to a union meeting."

Cate rolled her eyes. "We've had this conversation before. I don't have time. I give piano lessons until 8:00 almost every night, not to mention the fact that I still don't have half my belongings unpacked."

Rosemary sniffed. "You have more excuses than a kid who forgot her homework."

"Look, I pay my union dues. I vote in the elections. That's as much as I want to participate."

"I know, I know. 'We, as teachers, will be considered true professionals the day we are no longer represented by a union,'" Rosemary quoted her in a sing-song voice. "You stick to that story, Cate. But it won't mean two licks and a holler when the Board votes to consider you and me expendable."

A ripple of fear coursed through Cate. A lay-off was the last thing she could afford right now. As an untenured teacher, she had little or no job security. Though shaken, she smiled indulgently at Rosemary's melodrama. "I can't believe the Board would do that. There's tremendous parental support in this district for the fine arts curriculum at all levels."

Rosemary spread her hands. "That's exactly the justification our illustrious Board president, Lenore Kemper, used at the last month's meeting. She claimed that parents in River Bend were financially able to give their children private music and art lessons."

Cate tapped her fingernail against the desk blotter. "Obviously she didn't take a look at my bank account."

"Mine either," Rosemary agreed. "At least my kids are through the system. You have another four years to stick it out with your son. And I know how much you're hoping Jon can get some sort of music scholarship for college."

Cate shook her head. "Too bad Jon's not a super jock. I doubt the Board would tolerate cuts in any athletic programs."

"Just to be on the safe side Cate, have him take a little more batting practice."

Cate sank into her chair. "The Board won't do it," she decided.

"Some of the smaller school districts around us already have," Rosemary said. "The best the Board seems likely to offer us at contract time is a cutback. That means part-time schedules for most fine arts teachers."

Cate winced. "The Union won't let that happen, would it?"

"The previous Union leadership let the administration open the ironclad contract we negotiated two years ago to allow for some minor benefit changes," Rosemary reminded her.

"Most everyone, including the teachers, seemed satisfied with the compromises."

Rosemary crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. "But we've set a precedent. Just watch out. We might be compromised right out of our jobs."

Though aware that Rosemary had valid points, Cate decided to sidestep the issue. "I guess I'm just glad to have a job with a steady income in a district where Jon can walk the school halls without being harassed or injured."

After taking a sip of soda, Rosemary frowned. "I'm sure Lenore Kemper would be pleased to hear you say that."

Too restless to stay in her seat, Cate grabbed the script Thomas Flannery had left on her desk, sprang out of her chair and headed for the file cabinet. "I may not know much about School Board politics, but I do know Lenore Kemper can't be all powerful. She's only one person out of five."

"One very forceful person," Rosemary corrected her. "Jack Shrader was the only counterbalance to her slash-and-burn budget cutting agenda. When he resigned last year, he left behind three dedicated fence-sitters and the newly elected Thomas Flannery with his less-is-more philosophy. Not good odds for those of us in the trenches."

Cate chuckled softly as she turned back to her desk. "You should run for union rep next year. You almost have me believing Armageddon is upon us."

"It may be," Rosemary insisted.

"Then consider that Thomas Flannery may be swayed by public opinion."

"You've got it backwards," the art teacher warned. "He isn't swayed by public opinion. He sways it. He's handsome, well spoken, seemingly reasonable, a young single-parent father. I consider him the enemy, but even I can't remember the names of the two candidates who ran against him, and I voted for one of them."

Cate laughed at that. "Thinking with your hormones, Rosie?"

"Don't tell me you didn't notice him. I mean really notice him."

Warmth sprung to Cate's cheeks as she indeed remembered how fully she had noticed Thomas Flannery. Embarrassed that she blushed like a star-struck girl, she spun around and walked toward the tall window to peer into the dark evening sky.

"What I noticed, Rosemary, was an insensitive, overbearing, overconfident boor, who thinks I'm negatively impacting his daughter. I must be the first music teacher in history chewed out by a parent because I gave his child a part, not because I didn't. All I can say is that I feel sorry for Megan. Her father must bully and pressure the poor child within an inch of her life."

Even as she harangued, Cate shivered. Her skin tingled as it had when Thomas Flannery gripped her arms and hefted her up off the floor of the closet. The hair on the nape of her neck bristled with the memory of his solid, strong body pressed against her as they stood toe-to-toe in the tight, intimate space. Rosemary, it seemed, wasn't the only female in the room thinking with her hormones.

Angered with Thomas Flannery all over again, angered with herself for reacting so foolishly to the simple memory of his touch, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "You may be right, Rosie. That man may be the enemy."

"Professionally or personally?"

Startled by the question and the amused lilt in Rosemary's voice, Cate forgot about the burning heat suffusing her cheeks and turned on her heel.

Rosemary took one look at her and pressed her fingers to her mouth to stifle a grin. "Personal, I see."

Cate stomped over to the desk and gripped the back of her chair so hard that her fingers hurt. "Of course, it's personal. Flannery questioned my integrity. He accused me of manipulating the situation with Megan for my own purposes. Worse, I don't think he believed me when I told him his name meant nothing except that it identified him as Megan's father."

"You didn't!"

"I did. I'm sure it came as quite a blow to his pride. But I grovel to no one, not even handsome, opinionated School Board members who want to eliminate my job."

Realizing how shrill she'd become, Cate paused and shut her eyes. With his verbal sparring and physical presence, Thomas Flannery quickened responses in her that she thought had been put to permanent rest. Part of her rejoiced that she could still react as a woman. Part of her dreaded the reawakening of destructive fears and resentments. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout," she murmured. "Mr. Flannery just touched some raw nerves."

"I'll say." Rosemary tilted her head. "Care to talk about it?"

"No. Let's just say that I've known men like Thomas Flannery, who need to control everything and everyone around them. You don't compromise with men like that or they walk right over you."

"Men? Or was it just one man in particular?"

Cate let out her anger in a long sigh and found herself smiling at her friend's mild invasiveness.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Rosemary guessed.

"I have to finish cleaning my closet. Want to help?" Cate answered.

Rosemary threw up her hands. "Sure, why not. I've got nothing better to do with the rest of my conference time."

Relieved that she was temporarily off the hook, Cate grabbed her soda and made for the closest. The art teacher trailed behind her.

"What happened here?" Rosemary wondered when Cate snapped on the overhead light.

"It's a long story." A long, embarrassing story, she said to herself. Yet, as much as she tried to focus on the mess of tiny cymbals, her mind's eye filled with the image of Thomas Flannery.

"Were you burning incense in here?"

About to drop to a crouch, Cate instead turned sharply to find Rosemary sniffing the air. "Huh?"

Rosemary took another whiff of the air. "Smells like sandalwood."

Thomas Flannery's aftershave lingered in the stuffy confines of the closet, making the fine, blonde down on Cate's arms stand up.

"Yes, definitely sandalwood."

"You're just having a flashback," Cate suggested, knowing too well her smile was forced.

"At my age, kiddo, it's hot flashes, not flashbacks," Rosemary quipped.

"Then the smell is probably something Mrs. Meyer left in here for me to discover," Cate dismissed the subject, eager to finish and be out of the closet, away from the disturbing scent and the memories it triggered.

Rosemary slowly bent down. "Could be. Leah never threw anything away. I see you found the Gypsy tambourines."

"A couple dozen at least," Cate answered as she got down on the floor to help.

"The fifth graders did a cute little song and dance with them," Rosemary recalled as she snatched up the dusty disks. "Probably wouldn't be politically correct today."

Cate stopped and glanced at her friend. "Today? When was that program?"

"Oh, about twenty years ago."

A giggle bubbled up in Cate's throat and forced its way out. The sudden release of emotion felt so good that she found herself helpless to stop it even though Rosemary eyed her warily.

"I'm sorry," she finally gasped, grateful that the fit had somehow drained most of the tension from her body. "I guess I just knew as much. It...you had to be there, Rosie."

"Seems so," Rosemary replied, then resumed her chore. "Tell me, do such insignificant things always set you off like that?"

Cate sobered in an instant. No, it was Thomas Flannery who had set off her emotions like that.

And Thomas Flannery certainly wasn't an insignificant thing.

"Here, Daddy, let's read this one."

Megan grabbed the top book of five stacked on her nightstand and thrust it into her father's hand.

Tom glanced at the bright pastel-cover. "Meggie, we read this last night."

The little girl peered up at him with sharp, crystal-blue eyes. "I know. But we're learning about reptiles in class and crocodiles are reptiles, so I want to learn about them."

In that moment, with her tumble of corn silk-yellow hair framed against the peppermint pink pillowcase, her voice teetering between a sweet cajole and a whining demand, Megan appeared the mirror image of her mother. A flash of anger and resentment momentarily blinded him to the reality of the child lounging in the circle of his arm. He forced his gaze away, fixed it on the book jacket without seeing it and tamped down the rise hostile emotion.

Meggie is not Lara, he reminded himself. I will not let her become Lara. That much is within my power...

"Daddy?"

Tom shook himself and realized that he was gripping the edges of the school library book so hard that the protective Mylar cover gave a brittle crunch. "This isn't a real story, Meggie," he objected, trying to keep the untoward emotion out of his voice. "Look, the pictures are cartoons. And you know crocodiles can't really talk like people."

"I know, but Miss Erickson says that in Africa there really is a little bird that sits inside a crocodile's mouth and cleans his teeth and the crocodile doesn't eat him," Megan argued all in one breath. "The little bird is like the crocodile's toothbrush."

Yes, he knew the birds called plovers really existed and they cleaned the crocodiles' teeth. He also knew, because Miss Erickson had explained to him in some detail, that the district's emphasis on an integrated curriculum meant language arts overlapped with math and science to make learning a seamless process and a more meaningful experience for the children. In theory, Megan learned scientific facts about symbiotic animal relationships by reading a fictional story about a cute, cartoon crocodile and the friendship that develops between him and his little bird toothbrush.

In theory.

"Besides, I like the book, Daddy," Megan insisted, pulling the book from his grasp and flipping to the first page. "And I can read some of the words."

As she struggled to sound out some letters, Tom's heart wrenched. He sensed Megan understood his concern about her inability to read like most other first graders. Her questions and observations about the battery of tests he'd had her undertake inferred as much. She really did try hard, if for no other reason than to please him. Now, she wanted to mollify him by reading some of the words so he'd share her favorite story before bedtime.

"Here, Meggie, I'll read," he gave in, and gently took the book from her. "You follow along and help out when you recognize a word."

"Okay!"

Fearing he capitulated too easily, Tom gave her a no-nonsense look. "But this Saturday, I'll take you to the public library and we'll find some books about real crocodiles. How does that sound?"

"Sure, Daddy," she answered as if he'd asked her to give up ice cream for a year.

It's for your own good, Megan, he told her silently as he gazed down at the perfect, oval face crinkled with a pout. Someday you'll thank me. Someday when you have children of your own.

Megan needs to read for enjoyment, too.

Catherine Munro's clear, soft voice inside his head gave him pause. Her words pushed up into his consciousness, unwelcome and unbidden, just as did the image of the sparkling hazel-green eyes set in the pretty face. She invaded his thoughts, and not for the first time since he'd left her standing behind her desk earlier that evening. He really did need to get a life, if the glimpse of a woman's backside and the brief press of her body against his made him obsessive about her. When his lower body pulled in sensual warning, Tom was suddenly glad he held the silly crocodile book in his lap.

A tug on his pant leg jarred him out of the reverie. Megan stared up at him, concern creasing her forehead. "Are you all right, Daddy?"

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand to exorcise Ms. Munro's face from his mind. "Sure, honey. I was just thinking."

"You must have thunk hard because I pulled at you three times and you didn't answer."

Tom decided not to correct her lapse in grammar. At this stage, he'd most likely just trip over his tongue anyway. "I was thinking about seeing your teachers today."

And remembering one of them over and over.

"Daddy, I only have one teacher," Megan informed him archly.

"Yes, one classroom teacher. Miss Erickson."

Her mouth split into a somewhat toothless grin. "I like her."

"I know you do. Miss Erickson likes you, too."

The little girl beamed.

"I...ah...I also spoke with your music teacher," he stammered, too aware that Megan's smile had begun to glow.

"You did!" Megan squealed. "Isn't she nice?"

"Yes, Meggie, she's nice."

"She has pretty eyes, too."

Tom held his breath. "Yes, I suppose so."

"I like the way she smells. Like flowers."

Yes, Catherine Munro smelled like flowers. But Megan's childish sensibilities hadn't detected the other subtle fragrances of spring and fresh air and warm soft skin begging for a caress. Tom's lower body tightened to the point of discomfort.

"You're doing it again, Daddy."

Megan called him back into reality. "What am I doing?"

"You're zoning out."

"Huh?"

"My friend Blake says that," she explained. "It means you can't keep your mind on what you're saying."

Tom cleared this throat, glad that Megan couldn't guess in what direction his mind had wandered. "True enough. What was I saying?"

"That you talked to Ms. Munro," Megan reminded him, stretching her arms in a melodramatic gesture of impatience.

"I did, yes." Tom narrowed his gaze at her. "You like her a lot, don't you?"

Megan nodded three times. "She likes me, too. She lets me hug her every time I see her."

"She does?"

Megan nodded again. "Ms. Munro says hugs make her happier than anything in the world. She says she never gets enough of them."

Tom found that hard to believe. Surely a young woman as attractive and intelligent as Catherine Munro had someone to hug her.

"She said I make a perfect Velveteen Rabbit," Megan pressed on.

The earnest appeal for approval in Megan's eyes made him smile in spite of his misgivings about the program. Tom put his hand against the child's face, amazed as always that his palm cupped her entire chin and cheek. How fragile she felt beneath his caress. How innocently she trusted his judgment.

"You feel good about that, don't you, sweetheart?" Tom asked, knowing the answer. Catherine Munro had said Megan would shine. He saw a hint of just that in Megan's bright blue eyes.

Megan nodded, then leaned into him and encircled as much of him as her short arms allowed. "Maybe if I'm a really good Rabbit, Mommy will come see me."

A lump rose in his throat, cutting off his air and voice. Glad that Megan couldn't see the ache for her twist his face into a scowl, Tom folded his arms around the child and stroked her silky hair.

Damn, he didn't need this! The stupid program threatened not only Megan's valuable classroom time, but also the stability he'd tried to create for her since Lara had left. He couldn't let her dream that Lara would suddenly reappear and play the good mother. But how could he dash Megan's hopes with the plain truth? Though he tried to clear away the emotions lodged in his throat, his voice sounded tight when he finally answered.

"Meggie, your Mom is pretty busy singing in her own show."

Megan snuggled in closer. Tom felt the movement of her face against his breastbone and rested his cheek on the crown of her head.

"I know," Megan answered in a wee, quiet voice so unlike her. "But maybe if you tell her that even Ms. Munro thinks I'm a good Rabbit..." Her voice cracked. "Sometimes I don't remember very much about Mommy."

The pitiful loneliness of Megan's complaint cut at his heart, grazing old scars. Tom closed his eyes against the sudden, angry tears that he'd realized long ago were wasted on Lara. He'd taught himself not to dwell on the pain. He had to teach Megan the same.

"Just look at her picture on your night stand when you want to remember her," Tom whispered. "Think about that day at the zoo, when you took your first pony ride."

"Okay," Megan whimpered.

Don't remember all the broken promises and the missed holidays and the final abandonment, Tom warned his daughter silently as he kissed the top of her head. Don't remember the six months you cried every night because she wasn't there anymore to sing you to sleep. He had to stop the drift of bitter memories before both of them lapsed into melancholy.

"Hey, Megan, why don't we study your lines for the program."

Megan backed away just enough to look up at him. "Aunt Myrtle already helped me this afternoon."

He crimped the corner of his mouth. "Even a perfect Velveteen Rabbit can't have too much practice."

She rallied instantly. "Sure, Daddy! I'll go get the book!" Distracted out of her sadness, Megan scampered off her bed, out the door and into the hallway in search of her script.

When he no longer heard her running footsteps, Tom slumped against the bedpost and rubbed his aching eyes hard. Had he really volunteered to practice the lines of that damned play with Megan? Had he been that desperate to lift them both out of the doldrums?

Yes, the answer came back at him, loud and clear. And desperate men do desperate things.

A knowing laugh, light, sweet and clear, skittered from some corner of his mind. The sound fused with an image shimmering in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. A hazel-green gaze emerged from the gloom first. The pretty face that had invaded his thoughts all evening winked into being a moment later.

He didn't even try to fight it. He had no strength to do it. As Catherine Munro's image danced in his mind, he decided as obsessions went, she wasn't half-bad.

For a music teacher.

Myrtle sat in profile, facing the television. Her cross-stitch hoop rested forgotten on her knees. Congressional hearings, Tom guessed as he lounged in the archway between the kitchen and the family room.

Myrtle leaned forward and moved her lips in a silent stream of words. Four letter words, Tom guessed. Why did she risk sending her blood pressure into the danger zone like that? But since she'd come to live with him and Megan three years ago and discovered the wonders of cable TV, Myrtle had become a news junkie. She even had her favorite 'boys and girls' of the news media.

Tom smiled ruefully when she muttered again through set teeth. Obviously she wasn't listening to one of her darlings.

"It's rude to stand there in the doorway spying on me, Tommy. Don't you remember any of the manners I taught you?" Myrtle snapped, never once letting her gaze leave the screen.

Tom grinned wider. "I didn't want to bother you. I didn't even think that you heard me walk in."

She cast him a quick glance, the kind that had once a long time ago frozen him in his tracks. "I'm old, not deaf. Plant yourself or say good-night."

Tom straightened. "Yes, ma'am."

He ambled over behind her forest green reclining chair, rested his hands on her bony shoulders and brushed his lips to her temple. His stiff five o'clock shadow caught a few strands of her short, wiry white hair and he smoothed them down as he backed away. She smelled, as always, like violets.

"You get crankier every year," he teased.

She sniffed. "I'm seventy-five-years-old. What's been your problem lately?"

Tom dropped onto an ottoman next to Myrtle's chair. "I know. I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for the way I reacted last night."

She stared at the television, but a muscle in the line of her narrow jaw twitched. A good sign.

"You're not going to make this easy are you?" Tom asked.

Myrtle fished the remote control out of her sewing basket and hit the mute button. The room went uncomfortably quiet as she shifted in the leather chair and pinned him with her iron glare. "The last time you back-talked me, I sent you to your room for three days."

Tom bit back a grin. "I was twelve, then. I'd go along with you this time, Myrt, but my clients might start to miss me."

She waved her thin index finger at him. "Don't be sassy on top of it."

Tom captured her finger and encased her entire hand inside both of his. "All right, I give up. I know I hurt your feelings."

"You gave me permission to use my judgment where Megan's concerned," Myrtle griped, though he detected a catch in her voice. "I did what I thought was best and signed that permission slip. I still think it was best."

"I know you do."

"If you don't trust me anymore, fine. But don't give me the responsibility with none of the authority."

"I do trust you," Tom assured her, and lightly squeezed her wrinkled hand. "It's just that this whole situation..." He paused, searching for the right words. "You know how I feel about the school curriculum. If I didn't have concerns, I wouldn't be spending my time sitting on the School Board."

Myrtle's gaze softened and she squeezed his hand in return. "This is about more than the school curriculum and Megan learning to read. This is about Lara."

Irritated that she had pegged him so easily, he started to pull away. "Blunt as usual."

She held him in place with her glare. "A family trait you share, young man."

He glanced away, but nodded.

She let his hands slip from hers and settled back in the recliner. "When are you going to let it go, Tommy?"

"What?"

"The anger. The blame," she prodded.

"When I know that Megan can't be hurt by Lara's neglect anymore," he ground out.

Myrtle tilted her head, her eyes mirrors of age and wisdom. "You know that'll never be. Even if Lara saw her twice a week and three times on weekends Megan would miss her. You can't protect a child from that. She'll learn to deal with it herself."

"Then I can make sure that Megan becomes a responsible adult and doesn't repeat her mother's mistake," he argued.

"Lara's was a mistake of youth," Myrtle reasoned. "She's not a bad person. Good heavens, you loved her once enough to marry her. But you married someone who hadn't grown up yet, who didn't know her mind." Myrtle found his hand again and patted it. "You expected something of her that wasn't in her nature. And when she found her true nature, she had to follow it."

"Even if it meant abandoning her family?"

"Sometimes it's a matter of self-preservation."

Tom yanked his hand from her grasp. "I thought you were on my side."

"I am," Myrtle answered with her usual vinegar. "I don't approve of what Lara did. I'm not sure I'll ever understand it. But I've forgiven her. You haven't. And look what it's doing to you."

The reprimand raised his hackles. "I've been a good father."

"The best," Myrtle agreed, then smiled impishly. "After all, you had the good common sense to ask me to come live with you."

He ignored her humor. "Then what do you mean?"

"I mean, Thomas Patrick Flannery, that you still blame and resent Lara so much that you won't admit that there's good in her. She's a beautiful, talented woman." Myrtle arched a salt-and-pepper brow. "I think it scares you that Megan is beautiful and talented in the same way."

Tom lifted his arms in exasperation. "No big news there. It scares the hell out me."

The old woman pressed her cool, weathered hand against his stubbly cheek. "Then here is the big news, Tommy. Megan is not Lara. Megan is a different person, with a different temperament, from a different background. She won't break your heart." Myrtle paused and let her hand fall away. "Unless you drive her to it."

Fear and anger sent his pulse hammering. "Me? I've given her everything she needs and wants."

"What about the freedom to be who she wants to be?"

He clenched his fists, reining in emotions that seemed to push out from deep inside his chest. "I never denied Lara that freedom. I tried to make it work."

"Lara didn't know what to do with that gift," Myrtle explained. "She abused it. As Megan's father, you can see to it that this doesn't happen again by teaching your daughter how to use her freedom wisely."

He recognized the wisdom of Myrtle's advice, but wasn't ready to capitulate. "Megan's too young to understand such things."

"But she understands enough about herself to have tried for that part in the school program," Myrtle pointed out. "That took guts. Another Flannery trait both of you have in spades."

Right, Tom answered silently. I'm so brave that the thought of Megan performing in a school program sends me into a cold sweat.

"Still and all," Myrtle went on, lowering her eyes to her cross-stitching, "next time, I won't be signing a permission slip until I've discussed it with you."

She actually looked contrite, a rare occurrence. If she had wanted to stir guilt in him, she'd done an ace job of it.

"You did what you thought best," he caved in, no doubt as she had expected. "In any case, there probably won't be a next time."

Myrtle lifted her head and squinted her eyes. "Why?"

Tom stood up and strode to the bay window. Night enfolded the back yard, obscuring Megan's swing, her sandbox and the winter fallow rock garden at the edge of the property. He peered into the darkness, wondering why he suddenly felt so uncertain of his direction. "I went to see Megan's music teacher this evening after my conference with Miss Erickson. I explained my concerns to her and asked her not to choose Megan for any more lead roles."

Behind him, Myrtle snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

He spun around. "Ms. Munro agreed to abide by my wishes."

Myrtle smirked, an expression he'd mastered at her knee. "I'm sure you were at your most charming self when demanding it." She knew which buttons to push and she'd hit every one of his hottest.

"I was professional and forthright."

"Hah! You probably scared the poor little thing half to death!"

Crossing his arms, he stared at his aunt. "I'd hardly call Ms. Munro a 'poor little thing.'"

Suddenly, Myrtle's eyes were glittering. "She stood up to you?"

"We discussed the matter rationally," he temporized.

Myrtle chuckled as if she hadn't heard him. "My, my, I didn't think that the little slip of a girl had it in her. Must have been quite some 'discussion.' You don't usually turn red like that."

"That's anger, Myrtle," he insisted, though the heat racing through his body had a different, more primal source. He had to be careful. He didn't have Megan's book to use as a fig leaf. "Sometimes you go too far...Wait a minute. What do you know about Catherine Munro? Have you met her?"

Myrtle nodded, grinning with pure glee. "At open house in January, while you stayed in the cafeteria making political points with the president of the Home and School Association." She held up her hand when he started to protest. "You were politicking, don't deny it. Anyway, Meggie dragged me upstairs to meet her Ms. Munro. And a nice young lady she is. I can see why the child adores her. Cate and I had a nice long chat about Meggie's talent in music."

Tom blinked. "Cate?"

"Yes, that's her name. Cate, Cate Munro."

His aunt's familiarity with the teacher annoyed him. "She introduced herself as Catherine Munro."

"Well, she's Cate to me. And I imagine to anyone else who's even marginally civil to her."

"I was civil to her!" Except for the part when I questioned her motives, he recalled silently.

Myrtle clucked her tongue. "Oh, Tommy, this is me, the woman who raised you. I know how you get when you have a single-minded purpose, especially where Meggie is concerned. I'm surprised that you didn't leave Cate in tears." Myrtle squinted. "Or did you?"

"No, Myrtle, I did not leave her in tears. My impression of Ms. Munro, or Cate as you call her," he added sarcastically, "is that it would take a hell of a lot more than one serious discussion with a dissatisfied parent to bring her to tears. For your information, she thanked me for sharing my concerns, promised her cooperation in the future and shook my hand."

"Probably glad to get rid of you," the old woman mumbled.

"I heard that."

Myrtle grinned. "She's a pretty one, isn't she?"

"What?"

"I said Ms. Munro's a pretty one, isn't she?"

He suddenly felt the urge to bang his head against a wall. "Did we change the subject here? I'd really like to finish the first argument before we start another."

She put her hand to her heart. "You mean you don't think she's pretty?"

He threw up his hands. "I give up. All right, yes, she's pretty. Yes, I could have been more tactful with her. And yes, I am truly, truly sorry I ever questioned that your judgment about signing that permission slip. Can we call a truce and get on with our lives now?"

Myrtle straightened her shoulders, smiled sweetly and nodded.

Tom wanted to be mad as hell at her. Unfortunately, all Myrtle had done was jostle the truth out of him with her verbal sparring. After all these years, he'd never developed a defense against her. Truth was, he had probably never wanted to develop one. As he stared at her, sitting so prim and proper in her easy chair, he felt a laugh tickle his throat.

"You know, Myrtle, you wasted your youth taking care of me. With your set of interrogation tactics, you should have signed up with the CIA."

"I'm sure you were much more of a challenge than hardened KGB agents, Tommy. And," she added with a wink, "you were certainly much more important to me."

Her words melted his anger. Had she been a different woman, one impressed by displays of affection, he would have kissed both of her wrinkled cheeks soundly. But his father's sister had never been an outwardly affectionate person. She gave her love by giving herself, by being the voice of guidance and discipline in his youth, by never failing in her support of him. Whatever he learned of physical caressing and touching, he had learned as an adult. Whatever he learned of integrity, trust, loyalty, and self-discipline, he had learned as a child from his aunt.

Myrtle must have seen the tender musing on his face. She cast him a narrow, suspicious glare and lifted her chin. "Don't you go to mush on me. You know I only say what I mean and mean what I feel."

Her warning forced a laugh from him. "I'll show you mush, Miss Flannery." Despite her squawks, Tom dropped to his knees, circled her with his arms and planted a kiss smack dab in the middle of her forehead.

Myrtle shooed him away. "Oh, for pity's sake! You shouldn't be wasting your kisses on me!"

Tom shook his head and chuckled. "I have no one but you and Meggie to waste them on."

Myrtle scowled. "And a sad state that is. A handsome young man like you should be out with a different lady every night, not sitting here listening to a cranky old woman rant and rave."

Tom pulled the ottoman closer to Myrtle's recliner and plopped into it. "Shhh! I want to hear this speech on farm price parity."

Myrtle waved her hand at him and laughed.

He set his attention on the screen, though he barely heard every tenth word. His thoughts dipped and whirled as he tried to organize the day's events - the office, the new contract, the lawyers, the tie-up on the expressway, the conference with Miss Erickson, his confrontation with Catherine 'Cate-to-everyone-else-but- him' Munro.

Not surprisingly, his mind paused on the music teacher, on his first sight of her crouched inside the small, musty closet. He replayed his tense conversation with her, made all the more awkward because of his inability to concentrate on anything but her soft, firm teacher's voice, her shimmering golden brown hair, and her trim figure. He recalled the clasp of her hand in his, how it had left his palm damp, the collar of his shirt suddenly a half-size too tight.

"Tommy?"

Caught in the middle of his reverie, he jerked his head around. "What?"

She stared at the television as if mesmerized. "I forgive you."

He started to grin.

"And I know that you won't mind that I wrote on the permission slip that you'd be happy to help with the school program."

"Myrtle!"

Chapter 3

Cate rapped on the polished, oak doorframe and stepped into the classroom. "Do you have a second to chat, Marlie?"

The first grade teacher didn't pause as she wrote 'March 10' in big, square letters on the chalkboard. "Sure, Cate. I've got fifteen minutes before chaos."

Cate chuckled and wended her way down a narrow, crooked row of munchkin-sized desks. "Well, I have only ten minutes or I lose my place at the laminator. I have a few questions about a student."

"Megan Flannery."

Cate settled her hip on the edge of Marlie's desk. "How did you guess?"

Marlie tucked a long strand of thick, black hair behind her ear. "Let's say that after last night, I didn't need psychic abilities to figure it out. Frankly, when my conference with Mr. Flannery was over, I had the distinct impression that he'd prefer to see you and the entire music curriculum drawn and quartered."

Cate folded her arms under her breasts. "He did seem irritated."

"I'd say hostile."

Cate frowned. Thomas Flannery had been direct, abrupt, even arrogant. But she didn't remember hostile. Or did she simply recall the confrontation differently after a night's sleep? Rather a lack of a night's sleep. The embarrassment of his untimely entrance and his cocksure challenge to her integrity had cost her precious rest. Neither had she been able to forget his cool, keen assessment of her.

"Did he yank Megan from the program?"

Marlie's question cut into her rambling thoughts. "Oh, no. From the way he began, I thought that he might. But he said he wouldn't do that to her."

"Well, the man has some sense of compassion, I guess. Megan needs that program more than the program needs her."

"I agree. In fact, I told him as much."

"Maybe he figured if two teachers said basically the same thing, it must have some validity."

"Not quite," Cate said. "He asked that I never again choose Megan for the lead in a program. He assumed I'd given her this role to appease him into softening his opinions."

"You? Cate, you're about as political as a box of rocks."

Feeling slightly hurt, Cate slid off the desk. "Thanks, I think."

Marlie massaged the right side of her face. "Well, don't feel bad. He's not happy with the results of my teaching, either."

Cate saw her opening. "I suppose that's why I came to see you this morning. I laid awake until about two o'clock plain furious with the man. By four, I found myself sympathizing with him."

Marlie looked confused.

"Hey, I'm just as amazed as you are," Cate went on. "But I realized, annoying as he is, Mr. Flannery really has honest concerns about Megan's progress in school. He wants her to succeed."

"Then he should let Megan succeed in her areas of talent," Marlie insisted.

"He obviously doesn't consider those areas important."

Marlie stared at Cate, yet past her. "Or maybe too important."

"Meaning?"

Marlie narrowed her eyes in concentration. "Something I read in Megan's folder. Mr. and Mrs. Flannery divorced when she was three-and-a-half. When Mrs. Flannery left, Megan had an overwhelming sense of abandonment and guilt. She repeated kindergarten. During those two years she had several sessions with the school psychologist."

The words hit Cate like a fist. If anything, she understood abandonment and guilt.

"Megan spent most of her first year in kindergarten huddled in a corner, sucking her thumb," Marlie continued, unaware of Cate's inner turmoil. "The psychologist intervened toward the end of the year, but by then Megan had blocked out too much instruction and she had to repeat. I think that's about the time Mr. Flannery's aunt came to live with them."

Clearing her throat, Cate dislodged bitter emotions of her own. "The aunt signed Megan's permission slip."

"The poor woman probably felt Flannery's wrath, too. And she's such a nice lady."

"I know. I met her at open house," Cate recalled with a genuine smile of delight. "She's full of sass and a little rough round the edges, but she loves that little girl dearly."

"Well, her coming to stay with the Flannery's must have made a difference, because Megan hasn't seen the psychologist this year."

"That's wonderful." Cate thought a moment. "What about Mrs. Flannery? Have you met her?"

"No, and this is the interesting part. The telephone number we have for her in our records belongs to her talent agent in New York. I'd guess she's in show business and on the road."

Cate picked up immediately on Marlie's reasoning. "Talented mother. Talented daughter. One scared father."

"Dad's probably bitter, too."

"Maybe he has a right to be bitter," Cate murmured, more to herself. "But Mrs. Flannery could have had a career and a marriage, too. I wonder why she divorced him?"

"You've met Mr. Flannery and you can ask that?"

When Cate glanced up, she noted the honest question in Marlie's eyes. But then, Marlie hadn't met Thomas Flannery as she had met Thomas Flannery. Last evening gave a whole new meaning to first impressions and sizing up a person by his handshake. He had sent currents of sexual energy through her. But then, marriages didn't survive on sexual appeal alone. How well she knew that.

"There are two sides to every story," Cate reminded her friend.

The first grade teacher waited for her to elaborate, but Cate offered only a weak smile. "Mr. Flannery's assumptions about me weren't even in the ballpark. I'm not going to turn around and pass judgment on him before I understand more about this situation."

Marlie took the lecture in stride. "Well, good luck figuring him out. Eileen Seeger couldn't the entire two years she had Megan in kindergarten. I'm past trying. Megan's my concern."

Yes, Megan, Cate reminded herself. After all, she came knocking on Marlie's door to find out about the child, not the father. "Exactly how is Megan doing?"

"She's approximately six months behind my average readers," Marlie replied. "But, in Megan's case, it isn't for lack of ability. In other areas she's perceptive, creative, and highly verbal."

"So why can't she read?"

Marlie lifted a dark, winged eyebrow. "My opinion? I think someone at home does everything for her. I see a sweet, relatively intelligent girl who is quite possibly overprotected, and very likely exempt from any real expectations. Here at school, she literally charms the other kids into doing the mundane chores like reading and adding for her. She had to learn that behavior is acceptable from somewhere else, because she didn't learn it in this classroom."

Cate mulled it over. While Marlie Erickson might have looked like the ideal image of a sweet-tempered first grade teacher she was no pushover for excuses. Still...

"I don't disagree with what you're saying," Cate replied carefully. "But that's not the Megan Flannery I have in my class."

"Music comes naturally to her," Marlie pointed out. "She believes you're the greatest thing since scented neon markers."

Cate chuckled at the comparison. "Really?"

"Really. You've made quite an impression on her."

On her father, too, Cate thought dourly before she asked, "What's the solution then?"

Marlie chewed her bottom lip. "I've never been one to suggest outside tutoring, especially for a child as young as Megan. But in this case, it might be the answer."

"Did you mention that to Mr. Flannery?"

Marlie sniffed. "He was in too much of a hurry to go rattle your cage."

He'd done more than rattle Cate's cage, that was certain.

The bell rang. Aware that inside one minute Marlie's overcrowded classroom would be a riot of first-graders scrambling for their seats, Cate rose.

"Goin' while the goin's good?" Marlie asked with a skewed smile.

"I think the laminator just freed up."

"Coward."

"You can write it on my headstone."

"That may be sooner than you know if you don't clear the door in the next ten seconds."

Cate laughed. "Thanks, Marlie. You really helped."

Marlie opened her mouth, but a banshee rush of little children cut her off. Cate heeded the warning and went for the door.

Tom's footsteps made hollow thuds as he walked down the deserted hallway. The muted recitation of the pledge of allegiance and the dry scratch of chalk on blackboards spilled out of the classrooms he passed. Only minutes before the deafening clang of slamming locker doors punctuated by shrill laughter and an angry wail or two had echoed off the walls. The office secretary had warned him to wait until the pandemonium cleared. She didn't want him literally cut off at the knees by the over exuberant juvenile crowd.

Though he'd loitered impatiently outside the office door, he was glad he'd taken the advice. He had clear sailing to the workroom where the secretary said he was likely to find Ms. Munro when intercom calls to the music room and the teachers' lounge went unanswered. The sooner he got there, he told himself, the better.

Contrarily, he slowed his brisk pace as tension settled in his stomach. He didn't enjoy the idea of backing down. Though, that wasn't quite what he intended to do. If only Myrtle had minded her own business for once. On the other hand, if his aunt had minded her own business thirty years ago he'd have grown up without her tough but fair guidance and unconditional love. He didn't even want to think what he'd have done had the old woman not agreed to come and live with him after Lara had left. Megan might be in private psychotherapy by now.

The rhythmic 'shush' of a photocopier spewing out paper caught his attention, and turned his thoughts to more immediate matters -- Catherine Munro. His pulse shivered, then picked up the tempo as he neared the workroom. A prickle ran up his spine and spread across his scalp. He put down the urge to smooth his hair, unwilling to succumb to last minute preening before he faced the pretty music teacher.

Instead, he hooked his index finger around the knot of his suddenly too-restrictive tie and loosened it a notch. He hadn't relished the idea of confronting her again, but it had been a condition of the uneasy truce that he had reached with Myrtle. As he approached the doorway, he wished that he had negotiated a better deal for himself. He sucked in a breath of air, tugged at the lapel of his jacket, braced himself, then stepped directly into the open archway.

She stood in the center of the tiny room, facing him, but too focused on whatever she was feeding into the roller jaws of an ancient, squawking laminate-sealing machine to notice his presence. Her shiny, golden-brown hair hung loose, almost touching the collar of the tailored, pale orange blouse she wore. A deep pink glow suffused her cheeks. Her slender neck was exposed by the modest V-neck of her blouse. He dragged his eyes away from the 'V' in time to catch her backhand a wispy curl from her brow. The heat of the laminator had brought the rich color to her skin, he decided.

Standing better than two yards away from her, he knew the warmth that suffused his limbs had nothing whatsoever to do with the machine. He realized with a jolt that the mere sight of this particular woman sent his nervous system into overload. Perspiration beaded along his hairline, his palms itched and his fingers drew reflexively into loose fists. Amazingly, the coil in the pit of his stomach had relocated itself to the lower region of his anatomy. He had to stop his body's automatic response to Catherine Munro.

She switched off the laminator and turned to the photocopier without looking up. Tom used the moment to command his hormones off red alert and remind himself of the purpose of his visit. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember a word of the speech he'd prepared.

Catherine Munro, 'Cate' to her friends, had turned his memory to mush. He rapped softly on the wooden door jamb.

"Ye-ess?" she sang a reply.

One word. Two tones: soft, melodic and sensual. He braced himself and put on a congenial smile. "Hello, Ms. Munro."

She jumped and pressed herself against the photocopier. "Mr. Flannery!"

Her breathless, almost panicked greeting, amused and irritated him at the same time. She gaped at him as if he'd caught her counterfeiting hundred dollar bills.

Trying not to let his smile degenerate into a Flannery family smirk, he glanced down at the official 'Visitor' name badge clipped to his breast pocket. "I must be." He brought his eyes level with hers. "Sorry if I startled you."

She put her hand to her throat, covering much of the 'V' he found so intriguing, leaving an erratically beating pulse at the base of her jawline. For a fleeting second, he magined feeling that pulse beneath his fingertips.

"No...I...I didn't expect anyone," she stammered. "I thought you were one of the children...when you knocked..." She cleared her throat and pushed away from the copier. "Quite frankly, you were the last person I expected to see this morning."

Her voice trembled slightly, but her honesty was clear. Her lack of guile pleasantly surprised him.

"Probably true," he agreed, and stepped into the small, over-equipped workroom. Was he fated always to meet her in such cramped spaces? "I wanted to follow up on our conversation last night."

A good beginning line, he thought. He even widened his smile. Why did she appear so wary?

Cate smoothed her expression into the bland mask of professionalism he'd seen a thousand times when dealing with clients and colleagues. "Certainly. I'm always available to answer parents' concerns. But you could have saved yourself time and called. I'd have gotten back to you as soon as possible."

Was she telling him never to darken her classroom doorway again? Or was she merely being polite? Tom decided that she was being polite. Oddly, he didn't want to believe that she found him repulsive.

"It's no trouble," he assured her with a slight wave of his hand. "I dropped Megan off this morning and thought I'd come to see you. It seemed a better option than playing telephone tag for the next two days." He could have called. He had no critical appointments today and was never far from a telephone, even in his car. He'd weighed his options while shaving, nicked himself twice under the chin in the process.

She narrowed her eyes. Was he offering her a half-truth?

Standing there, breathing in her faint scent of flowers and femininity, watching her hazel eyes shift ever so slightly to green, he understood on the most basic of levels why he had opted to come in person. He felt compelled to see her again.

"The office secretary said you didn't have a class until 9:00," he said hopefully.

"No, ah, yes, at 9:00." She glanced at the materials stacked next to the laminator. "I have to finish this work before then."

He spread his arms. "Go ahead. You won't distract me." And that was an outright lie. Every move she made distracted him. From the purse of her coral-tinted mouth, he got the impression that he had distracted her as well, though probably not for the same reason.

She thought for a moment, then nodded crisply. "As a matter of fact, your coming here this morning gives me a chance to follow up on something with you, too."

"Really?"

"Yes, give me moment, please."

He watched her retrieve papers from the copier. The fluid shift of her hips beneath the straight-cut, beige skirt she wore fascinated him. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He tried to appear casual, in direct contradiction to the unsteady tattoo of his heart.

She stepped to the counter, keeping a good four foot distance between them. As she divided the larger stack into four smaller ones, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. "You seemed so concerned about Megan's reading progress last night, that I took the liberty of talking with Miss Erickson this morning."

Tom flexed his jaw in response to the new tension her admission triggered.

She noted his reaction and looked back on the papers. "As I explained to you last night, Mr. Flannery, the curriculum in the elementary schools is more integrated than it is at any other level. The teachers at Stewart work as a team to assure a child's educational success. If I learn that any one of my students is having difficulty in another area, I try to work out strategies with the classroom teacher to help improve that child's achievement."

She fixed him with her open gaze. "I want you to understand that this so you don't think I'm intruding on your privacy, or that I spoke to Miss Erickson only because you registered objections to the music program."

Tom forced himself to relax. "Fair enough. I take it, then, you and Miss Erickson devised a 'strategy' for Megan?"

Though he had spoken a bit tersely, she didn't flinch. "More like a different approach to instruction."

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, obviously unaware how provocative that was. Tom leaned against the counter and clutched the edge to stay concentrated.

"Last night, do you recall my mentioning the Bridge Reading Program?"

When he nodded, she continued to collate the four stacks of paper. "Miss Erickson thinks, and I agree, that Megan might benefit from such individualized tutoring. That's not to say that the time you and your aunt spend reading with her isn't valuable. But children sometimes respond better and more eagerly to instruction from someone other than their parents or classroom teachers. I'm sure it has something to do with a new set of expectations."

"Something along the lines of a change of scenery?"

The spontaneous smile she flashed him lit up her face. "Exactly."

She made sense. Her sweet, hopeful expression also made him uneasy. He'd long ago stopped believing that anyone did anything solely for the benefit of another. Even Myrtle, who raised him after his mother died and now helped him raise Megan, had admittedly traded the time and energy of her middle years for the security of a family and a permanent roof over her head. Tom had to believe that this music teacher, as attractive as she was, only wanted to change his mind about the worth of the arts curriculum. He didn't want to believe it. And that troubled him more than his unexplainable attraction to Ms. Catherine Munro. He should have been able to maintain an intellectual distance. Instead, he found himself questioning his own fatherly instincts, and worse, barely keeping his distance from Cate. He didn't want to make a rash promise just to humor her. Neither did he want to appear to be dismissing her suggestion.

"Do you know of anyone who might be willing to tutor Megan?"

"Not offhand," she replied, her voice eager. "I do know, however, that the public library sponsors tutoring sessions three nights a week. I'm sure they'd have a list of certified teachers and their fee scales if you requested one."

"All right. I'll look into it."

Her smile softened. "Thank you, Mr. Flannery."

That surprised him. "Shouldn't I be thanking you for the suggestion?"

She went back to her collating with renewed vigor. "It seemed the least I could do in light of the worry I've put you through."

He tried to detect a note of sarcasm in her voice and heard none. "You've explained yourself and the program well, Ms. Munro. I..." he hesitated. The inside of his mouth went suddenly dry. "If last night I offended you with some of my inferences, I apologize."

Though she kept her attention riveted on her papers, her cheeks pinked. "Apology accepted."

The soft, demure reply made him feel generous. "There is something else," he added, since she made confessing so painless.

She finished her job and turned to him. "And that is?"

Tom pushed himself away from the counter. As serious as he wanted to be, he felt a smile threaten the corner of his mouth. "When my Aunt Myrtle signed Megan's permission slip, she also volunteered my services for the program."

"I see." She let her gaze wander to the floor a moment before she looked him straight in the eye. "I wasn't aware of that. I haven't gone through the slips to make a list of volunteers. I'll be sure to disregard yours."

"No!"

She blinked at his sharp reply, and he didn't quite believe the insistent quality of his voice.

"I mean," he went on more calmly, "I knew after our discussion last night that you'd probably disregard the offer. I came to ask you not to do that."

She seemed bemused. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to speak, but she closed it again and frowned. "Mr. Flannery, this isn't necessary. I really do understand."

"My Aunt Myrtle doesn't."

Something in the way he said that, or maybe the way he wrinkled one side of his face into an expression of mock pain, struck her as funny. She bit her lip to keep from grinning.

Tom smiled as he watched her try to hide her amusement. "Myrtle said she met you, so you understand what I mean."

"Your aunt seems a kind and caring person," she replied, letting the grin slip out.

"She must have had her mask of civility. She doesn't pretend with me. Besides, she likes you, probably because Meggie likes you."

Her amusement faded. "I'm pleased to hear that. But really, you don't need to do this because your aunt insists."

"I've taken orders from her since I've been six," Tom replied with a resigned shrug. "The habit's hard to break. More than that," he added seriously, "Myrtle had a good point. Because of the traveling I do for my own business, I haven't had much time to get involved with school activities. She convinced me that this would be a good place to begin."

Cate wasn't convinced. "She's right, but I warn you. Volunteering for one of these programs is time consuming. The week before the actual performance can be frantic. If you own a business, how will you have time?"

"I'll make time."

He hadn't meant his words to have a double meaning. But the idea of making time with Catherine Munro made his heart thud a little harder. For that matter, her eyes widened with chagrined surprise. Had the same notion flitted across her mind?

"I'm handy with a hammer and a saw," he told her, changing the subject enough to put the conversation back into the neutral zone.

"You are?"

He glanced down at himself, then back at her. "Don't let the jacket and tie fool you. I worked construction jobs with my dad every summer to put myself through college."

A smile flickered across her face as she glanced toward the laminator, then moved toward it. "Well, I'm not sure how much set construction we'll have."

"Then I can paint or move props." He grinned, wanting badly for her to accept him, though he'd originally bridled at the idea. "Maybe I could just ride herd on the kids backstage."

She chuckled softly as she stuck the edges of a large poster featuring symphonic instruments between the laminator's narrow rollers and flipped on the machine. "An interesting possibility."

He stared at her profile, head slightly bent, hair hiding most of the pink stain on her cheeks, long, darker brown lashes a startling contrast to her creamy skin. In that instant, numerous interesting possibilities bounced around his head. None of them had anything remotely to do with school, children, or floppy eared rabbits.

"How about it, Ms. Munro?"

Though her attention was on the laminator, he sensed her thoughts were focused elsewhere. After a few seconds, she looked at him. "You make a generous offer, Mr. Flannery, considering your opinions about the fine arts programs. I truly do sympathize with the way you must feel."

She stopped abruptly. Tom swore she bit her tongue before she took a deep breath. "Maybe this experience will show you how music really does enhance the curriculum."

He doubted it, but Myrtle hadn't left him an option. She'd stopped his arguments cold by appealing to his deep sense of fatherly duty. Still, Ms. Munro didn't know that.

He lifted a brow. "Then I've passed try outs?"

She laughed. "I take volunteers when I can get them. No try outs necessary."

He enjoyed the lilting sound of her laugh and the fine tiny crinkles that appeared around her eyes. As she stepped around the laminator table to inspect what had come through the rollers, he ambled to the place she'd vacated.

Still looking down, she was unaware that he had braced his hands on either side of the machine and was leaning forward. The top of her head lay only inches from his face. Her hair smelled as shiny clean as it looked. The heat from the laminator intensified her floral perfume.

"I'd like to prove I'm not the uncooperative jerk I pretended to be last night," he said softly.

Her head came up and she gasped, startled at his nearness. She drew in a shaky breath. "That...isn't necessary."

"Yes, Ms. Munro, it is necessary."

Tom, too, had trouble taking in air. This woman did strange things to his insides. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to act with bold recklessness. He felt himself pulled inexorably toward her. The shimmering heat of the laminator was the only wall between them. As he inhaled the warm air, his throat tightened. Her face came nearer as some force pulled him closer...

"Oh, no! Mr. Flannery!"

He saw her hand come up as she cried out. Good grief, he'd lost himself trying to make a pass. He didn't blame her if she smacked him one. But she didn't strike him. Instead, he felt her grip his tie just below the knot and give a yank.

"Oh, no!" she gasped again.

Tom tried to look down and couldn't. Neither could he bend up. "What the hell!"

He could barely croak as something slowly cut off his air.

"You're stuck in the laminator!" Cate cried in alarm and gave one last tug on his tie. At the same moment, Tom pushed with all his might against the machine, but couldn't stop the forward pull.

"Your tie! It's caught in the machine!"

That was it! The damned machine was devouring his tie and slowly garroting him.

"Move your hand!"

He did.

"The other one!"

She grabbed his right hand and tore it away from the machine. He heard a snap and his forward motion stopped.

"Mr. Flannery, are you hurt?"

"No!" he gasped.

She laid her hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him to look at the damage. Her warm breath wafted across his face. She turned to him, bringing the tip of her nose less than a thumb's width from his. He might have enjoyed the accidental intimacy had he been able to move without the risk of breaking his neck.

"I don't think I can pull your tie out, Mr. Flannery. It's gone through too far. I'll have to cut it."

He nodded and her floral scent left with her. A moment later, she reappeared at his side. In his peripheral vision, he saw her wield the longest pair of shears he'd seen in all his thirty-six years.

"Hold still," she cautioned.

He could have told her not to worry. He didn't dare make any sudden moves with that weapon so close to his face.

She moved in on him, but quickly stepped back. "Ah, Mr. Flannery...ah...I can't quite reach over you far enough. You'll have to put your arm down so I can get closer."

He dropped his arm and held it rigid at his side.

Once again she moved in on him and leaned forward, bracing her thighs against the edge of the table to steady herself. "I just have to be a little closer."

Then he felt it, what had to be the real reason for her regret. Catherine Munro laid her arm across his back and flattened her negligible weight against him. Her body from shoulder to thigh was as soft and yielding as it had been in his arms the night before when he hefted her off the closet floor. He stared down at the malicious looking blades she positioned on either side of his tie, trying to ignore the crush of her breast against his upper arm and the currents of electricity it sent through him. If Catherine Munro could have read his mind, seen the erotic images that flashed through it, she no doubt would have turned the laminator back on and let his entire carcass roll right through it. Luckily, he could reasonably blame the fire in his face on the idiotic situation.

The scissors blades meshed with a creak. Instantly, he snapped backward and reached for his throat. He found Cate's hand already there, clawing at the knot of his tie. Their fingers entwined frantically, managing to undo the remnants of the silken noose. He whipped out the tie and held it at arm's length as he gulped air.

"Mr. Flannery, are you all right?"

He heard her concern and nodded.

"Your face is so flushed. Would you like some water?"

The unexpected press of her cool palm against his cheek jarred him. The movement startled her. She fell back two steps and pressed her fingers her lips, still clutching the monster shears in her other hand.

The place where she had touched his cheek stung with the imprint of her fingertips. Every nerve in his body crackled with tension that had little to do with his narrow escape from the jaws of the laminator. He could do nothing but gape and wonder at the keen effect this woman had on him.

They faced each other like opponents squaring off before a duel, except that Cate held the one weapon between them. The blades were nearly as long as her forearm.

Tom let out a deep breath and dropped his arms. "I'm glad you had your wits about you, Ms. Munro," he said and gestured weakly to the scissors. She glanced at them and slowly let her fingers trail down her chin to rest on the 'V' of her blouse.

"Do you need a license to carry those things?" he asked, feeling the corner of his mouth itch with the makings of a giddy smile.

She let her puzzled gaze drift back to him. "A...what? License?" She blinked, then giggled, a tiny, self- conscious sound like the tinkling of wind chimes.

"This really...isn't...funny," she tried to excuse. "You might have been hurt." She cleared her throat and deposited the scissors on the laminating table. "I'm afraid your tie is ruined."

The new flush of pink in her cheeks, the effort she made to hide her laughter, the way she looked at him through her long lashes in amused apology sent his already fluttering gut into gyrations. Partly to cover his bemusement, partly because he couldn't hold it in, he threw his head back and laughed. Startled, she laughed with him. The release felt as good as it was unfamiliar, and reminded him that it had been awhile since he found side-splitting humor in a situation so ridiculous. And it had been far too long since he shared such a warm, unlikely moment and honest emotion with a lovely woman. He basked in the moment, unwilling to let it fade. He had lost his dignity, lost his tie, and almost lost his capacity to breathe. But the price he'd paid to discover the sweet, genuine trill of Catherine Munro's laughter somehow seemed worth it.

"I really am sorry about your tie," she finally said, gaining control.

Tom took a last, longing look at the remnants of his tie, then made a wad of it and heaved it into the wastebasket. "My fault. I've been a computer networking consultant for so long that I've lost all sense of caution around moving parts. A hard drive has yet to devour any part of my clothing."

He caught a glimmer of question in her eyes. Then Cate laughed again and his belly tightened.

"But now you have no tie to wear," she pointed out. She lifted her gaze, letting it linger on his mouth before she met his eyes.

What had she imagined in that brief moment, he wondered, his imagination crowded with carnal musings. He shrugged, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. "I always keep a spare at the office. I try to be prepared for anything."

She bit her lip, then grinned as she glanced at the laminator. "Anything?"

"Anything."

Except you, Ms. Catherine, Cate-to-your-friends, Munro, he added silently, peering into her eyes. I'm never quite prepared for you.

Amazingly, that insight didn't bother him. In fact, he found the notion a bracing challenge. She shifted her gaze to the clock overhead. Only then did he realize how much time had passed.

"I've kept you too long," he told her politely, though he didn't feel in the least bit guilty. He'd enjoyed the fleeting minutes with her; knew that the rest of the day would be dull in contrast.

"No, not at all," she hurried, then shook her head. "I mean, I'm pleased that you'll be helping us with the program." The color in her face deepened. "Even if your aunt did coerce you into it."

He let his grin fall askew. "I hate to admit it, but Myrtle usually knows what's best for me." Even if I don't know what's best for me, he decided, realizing that he should leave and wanting too much to stay. "Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Munro. I'll seriously consider your suggestion about tutoring for Megan."

Her smile sent a ripple of pleasure through him. Tom extended his hand. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Flannery." She wrapped her fingers around his and pumped his arm once.

Then he froze, unable for the next five, long seconds to release her. Her warm, silken skin felt right folded inside his hand. He knew her scent had imprinted itself there, that he'd catch wisps of it during the day, that the memories would distract him as keenly as her touch distracted him now.

She stared at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and curious. Yet, she didn't pull back. She hardly seemed to breathe. Some inner alarm clanged. He had to leave. It was late. Way too late. He willed his fingers to splay and relax. She stepped back immediately and lifted her chin. With a terse nod, he turned and left the workroom.

He was in his car, seat belt buckled, key in the ignition before he realized that his hands shook and perspiration had soaked his shirt.

Chapter 4

Cate held the permission slip with her index finger and thumb. The name 'Flannery' drew her attention as if it were written in blood. Like the blood that surged up her neck and into her face. She set the paper on the kitchen table and pressed her face into her palms. This blushing business had to stop. She was thirty- four, not fourteen. Ian Munro had long ago disillusioned her about ambitious, aggressive, charming men. With his dark handsome features, Thomas Flannery seemed to be a clone of her deceased husband - the same genetic stock, the same road to disaster. Once around that block was enough for several lifetimes.

Slowly, she tilted up her face and let her hands drop. She closed her gritty eyes to the cheery gleam of the ceiling light. What was the matter with her, then? She sighed. In any case, until the end of April, she was stuck with Mr. Flannery. She gave him credit for fulfilling his responsibility, even if it had been thrust upon him. She also gave him credit for realizing he had behaved like an uncooperative jerk, and that he had, sort of, apologized for inferring that she had tried to manipulate his opinions through Megan. But giving a man his due was one thing. Letting herself be carried away on a riptide of hormones every time she found herself near him was something else entirely.

Even now the mere memory of how she'd been forced to press herself to his strong, lean body in order to cut him free triggered another rush of blood to her face. She could almost smell his unique muskiness, with its subtle overlay of sandalwood. A shiver raced from her toes to her scalp. Her breasts tightened as they had then, and peaked pebble-hard against her camisole. Ian had once given her the same physical thrill even after the rest of their marriage had made a U-turn toward hell. She never stopped hoping that someday fulfillment of that excitement would live up to the expectation. It never had.

Why should she imagine that it might be different with Thomas Flannery?

The impact of her musing forced her to straighten. Why would she imagine Thomas Flannery in any way, shape or form? He was Megan Flannery's father. For professional reasons, he couldn't appear on her dance card. For crying out loud, she didn't even have a dance card. She had other, more important priorities in life.

The front door banged. Unless the FBI had barreled into the foyer, she suspected that one of her major priorities had just come home. The muted sound of a heavy backpack being dragged across the hallway carpet sent her scrambling to gather the permission slips and hide Megan Flannery's somewhere in the middle of the pile. She had no time to question herself about the sudden need to hide that particular piece of paper before Jon rounded the corner and greeted her with his usual wide smile.

"Yo, Mom!"

She raised a brow and grinned. "Your name isn't 'Rambo' and mine isn't 'Yo.'"

"Rewind. Hi, Mom!"

"Better. Hello, Jon."

He ambled to the table, his gait assured, almost cocky. He'd long ago lost his baby fat. At thirteen, he already had a fine set of broad shoulders and the makings of an athletic build. His father's contribution, no doubt about it. He also had the Munro family's crisp blue eyes and wide, angular features. But he had her mouth and smile, both of which tended to soften the edges of his face. And he'd inherited her hair coloring as well. Damp, light brown waves stuck out from beneath the black Chicago White Sox baseball cap he'd jammed on.

She smiled to herself. How many times had she told him to dry his hair before going out into the cold? It didn't seem worth mentioning now.

Jon swung his bulging backpack up and heaved it onto the kitchen table, something else she'd told him a hundred times not to do. An unsecured flap dropped open, allowing paperbacks, pencils, and felt-tipped markers to spew out. He peeked at her through dark brown lashes. "Sorry."

She should have scolded him, but couldn't find the anger in her heart, especially when he peered at her with such sincere contrition. "Just be more careful next time, okay?"

"Okay."

Cate stood and tapped the permission slips to straighten them. Jon grinned at her across the table and her heart lurched. At 5'5", he looked her straight in the eye. In another year she'd have to look up to see the tip of his chin. When had that happened, she wondered. When did time start slipping by at such an incredible rate?

"Lots of homework?" she asked.

He shrugged, his reply to most questions these days. "No, it just looks good."

"That answer should make me worry."

"That's your job, Mom."

"This is written on stone tablets somewhere?"

Jon frowned. "I'm pretty sure I've seen it."

She chuckled. "I'm pretty sure I've seen it, too. How was baseball practice?"

Jon pulled out a chair and slumped into it as she gathered the rest of her papers. "Same. Coach Barton's a slave driver."

"Yes, you've mentioned that once or twice."

He yawned. "At least he didn't run us as hard as he did yesterday. I was so tired last night, I couldn't stay awake until you got home."

He turned his warm gaze directly on her. In moments like this, she wondered if there wasn't a fifty-year-old man residing in her little boy's body. "How did conferences go? Anybody bother to come and see you?"

Then, of course, Jon could still be adolescent-tactless. At least with him around, she'd have no problem staying humble.

"A few parents stopped by, mostly to talk about the program. In fact, the father of my Velveteen Rabbit made an appointment to tell me how opposed he was to his daughter even being in the program."

She didn't know why she had mentioned Thomas Flannery, except that the man just wouldn't stay out of her mind.

Jon boosted himself out of the slouch. "Why? You said the kid sings great."

"She does. I've never heard a voice so pure in a child so young. If I were her father, I'd be delighted. But Mr. Flannery has his concerns and I suppose they're valid. I can't read his mind."

Though once or twice that morning in the workroom, she thought that she had glimpsed some wayward thoughts in the odd way he had looked at her. The tingling started again, somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Before it spread, she changed the subject. "Do any of your teachers want a conference with me?"

Leaning into the table, fiddling with the strap of his backpack, Jon shook his head. "Not really. But Mrs. Cucik wants to talk to you."

She cast him a suspicious glance. "I thought you had a 'B' in algebra."

"I do," he said, and flipped off the baseball cap. Sandy brown hair fell over his forehead. "She just wants to talk to a parent who's kid isn't having problems."

She let out a laugh of relief. "Okay, I'll give her a call tomorrow afternoon." She tilted her head toward the stove. "I kept supper warm in the oven."

Jon's eyes twinkled with anticipation. "I thought I smelled chili mac when I walked in."

With a quickness belying his recent yawn, Jon sprang from the chair and lunged for the stove.

"Afterward I want you to practice your saxophone," Cate said as he slipped on oven mittens and retrieved the casserole. "I haven't heard you do that in a while."

"Aw, Mom!" It was a token protest at best. Scooping out the chili mac commanded Jon's total attention.

"You have to practice your music like you practice basketball or baseball," she lectured.

"I know, I know," he replied through a mouthful of macaroni and tomato sauce. "Use it or lose it..."

She started to nod.

"Like sex."

She almost dropped her papers. "Huh?"

"Like sex," Jon repeated before he popped another forkful of food into his mouth.

All the psychology books advised against overreaction in situations like this. Obviously the authors had never handled a real situation, Cate decided as she watched her thirteen-year-old chow down while philosophizing about sex. She hoped her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

"Just what do you know, besides what we've talked about?"

Jon walked his plate and a glass of milk to the table and slipped back into his chair. "Just what I hear. Nothin' first hand."

"'Nothing,'" she corrected him absently, afraid to ask just what he had heard.

Jon bobbed his head in casual acceptance of her grammar check. "Guys talk, you know, about -- things." He said it so innocently, so nonchalantly, that for a split second Cate felt calm. Then she remembered her mother's warning: When everything seems just fine and dandy, start worrying.

"Well, don't listen to everything the guys say, all right?" she cautioned him. "Most of it's probably wrong, or at best muddled."

Jon gulped down his milk and wiped the white residue off his mouth. "No lie! I don't know where those guys get their information, 'cause some of it's just stupid. I have to set them straight all the time."

Her early warning system went into overload as he got up and crossed the kitchen to take another helping of the casserole. "Jon," she said carefully, "some parents might not take kindly to a person your age giving advice about sex to their sons."

He glanced over his shoulder, grinned. "And daughters."

Oh Lord!

She swallowed, glad that Jon had turned back to the casserole and didn't see her fleeting panic. "And daughters," she repeated with effort. "In any case, you aren't the junior high's answer to Dr. Ruth."

He snorted, his latest experiment expressing 'adult' amusement. "I wish I knew so much."

"You know what you need to know for right now," she insisted. "But if you have questions, please come to me. Or find an adult..."

"Who you can trust to answer your questions," he parroted her instructions as he wandered back to the table. "Someone like Coach Barton probably doesn't know as much as most of the kids."

"I didn't have Coach Barton in mind," Cate assured him archly.

Jon grinned. "I'd probably go to Uncle Dave, even if I was sure he'd come right back to you."

She started to protest that her brother would do no such thing. But Jon cast her a stern glance, an imitation of 'the look' she gave her students that meant, "Don't even think about it." She gave in and laughed.

"I'll be careful, Mom," he promised, then lifted his plate. "Can I finish upstairs while I start my homework?"

"'May I,'" she breathed as if exasperated. "And yes, you may. Just remember to bring the dishes back down when you're finished. I found a glass with mold at the bottom of it yesterday."

His eyes widened in horror. "You didn't wash it! That was my science experiment!"

Cate bit back another laugh. "Then you should have labeled it, Einstein. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use my glassware to grow genetic mutations."

He muttered something under his breath, then grabbed his overstuffed backpack by one strap. The school supply spill widened noisily. Jon feinted left, balancing his plate as he tried to corral the bulk of his textbooks. Cate grabbed at a lumpy sack that nearly rolled off the table, but missed two pencils, a ball-point pen and various other odds and ends. As she leaned over to retrieve the junk from the floor, making some comment about finding the lost continent of Atlantis at the bottom of his bag, she spotted the three, plastic wrapped packets perched atop a spiral notebook. Each of the packets was vacuum sealed and each bore the raised outline of a ring. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn't seen such packets in years, not since they had been made of foil. The last place she expected to be introduced to the newest prophylactic packaging was amid the debris of her son's school supplies.

Slowly, she stood and pointed to the packets. "What are those?"

Jon's eyes, suddenly electric blue, nearly popped out of his head. "Gosh, Mom, they're condoms!"

Steeling herself, she found the patience to try again without shouting. In fact, her voice sounded unnaturally calm. "Yes, I know they're condoms. Let me rephrase. What are they doing in your backpack?"

Jon set his plate down, peering at the packets in disgust. "That darned Will Fortney! It was him!" He lifted his eyes. "Will said that he found a bunch of 'em in his older brother's drawer when he went to borrow a pair of socks. He showed 'em off in homeroom until Mrs. Miller walked in. My backpack was next to his on the floor. I think he must have stuck them in mine by mistake."

It took her two seconds to determine that he told the truth. Jon could never have held her gaze and lied. In that way, too, Jon resembled her and not his father.

"I'll take them back to Will," he said.

She scooped the three packets before Jon could speak. "No you won't. They just popped out of your bag here at home. What if this had happened at school?"

Jon cringed.

"I'll take care of them," Cate told him, folding the packets inside her hand. And give Will Fortney's mother a call this weekend, she added silently.

Jon lifted a shoulder. "Okay. Are there any cookies left?"

The change of topic disoriented her. From condoms to cookies in a matter of seconds. Talk about sitting on the cusp between childhood and adolescence. The doorbell rang, reminding her to check her watch. "It's seven already. That must be Jackie Freeman here for her lesson."

Jon started jamming his spilled supplies back into the backpack with renewed frenzy.

"Cookies are in the pantry," she told him as she went for the hallway. "And make sure you put your dishes in the dishwasher."

"Thanks, Mom," he called back as she raced to the front door.

The bell rang a second time. When Cate reached to grab the knob, the condom packets almost dropped out of her hand. "Oh, good heavens!" she muttered, searching the side seams of her skirt for pockets that weren't there.

Now what? The bathroom was too far back down the hallway, and she couldn't just open the door to a minor with three condoms in her palm. Then she spotted her purse on the plant stand near the door. She grabbed it, zipped it open, deposited the packets, and zipped it closed.

Mrs. Fortney would definitely receive a telephone call this weekend, she promised herself. She opened the door, smiled in greeting to Jackie Freeman.

Tom pulled back his hand from the phone, third time in five minutes.

It wasn't like him to vacillate. Once he researched the options and made up his mind, he acted. Two years ago, he calmly signed on with a client although his banker advised against it. The deal not only earned his company a half-million dollars to date, it also established his credibility in the field of computer networking. He had pulled it all off with such cool aplomb that Shirley Webster, his office manager, started referring to him as Mr. Spock's less emotional half-brother.

He also dumped the banker: nothing personal, just business.

He slumped into the leather swivel chair. He knew damned well why his palms were damp. He wasn't at all certain of his motives in pursuing the business arrangement he was about to propose. Something else was at work here, something that made his heart thump with anticipation and his blood pressure rise. He'd never discussed business with anyone who made him feel so awkward, completely unprepared and ready to apologize when there was no need. But then, he'd never done business with anyone quite as alluring as Catherine Munro. Was he losing it? Or did he just need some warm, female companionship after four years of loneliness?

He rubbed his face, dropped his hands to his lap and fixed his eyes on the telephone. When had he gotten this brainstorm, anyway? It might have been during the interminable meeting with his lawyer that afternoon. Or maybe it had been afterward, when he'd been stuck on the expressway for an hour. Or maybe the notion had germinated when Catherine Munro had stared at him in wide-eyed wariness as she gripped his ruined tie in one hand and the menacing scissors in the other.

For all his confusion, he had formulated the outline of his plan by the time Megan snuggled next to him and read her lines from the program. She stumbled over a few of the words, but backtracked and tried again until she sounded them out. She hadn't asked for his help once and his heart surged with hope. Instinct told him to act. Megan seemed to be making progress, but she still needed help. It was the right thing to do, the right person to approach. Besides, Ms. Munro had suggested it in the first place.

He grabbed the handset. This was business, pure and simple. Right, business. Payment contracted for services rendered.

Pure. Simple. Right.

He scanned the open phone book, found 'Munro, C.E.'. What did the 'E' stand for? Dial, for the love of common sense! He punched in the numbers and held his breath during the digital tune. One ring. He shifted in the chair. The second ring. He heard a steady drumming and glanced down to find the fingers of his right hand dancing on the white pages. He stopped immediately. The third ring. He clenched the handset and leaned forward. A curl of disappointment bothered his stomach. The fourth ring. Didn't she have an answering machine? Everyone had an answering machine.

"Hello?"

He stiffened. The voice, young but low, gravely and definitely male, gave him a moment's pause.

"Hello?" The voice went a notch higher and didn't seem quite so sure.

"Ah, hello," Tom forced a reply. "I...ah, I think I have the wrong number. I must have misdialed."

"What number do you want?"

He read it from the book. It sure sounded like the numbers he'd dialed.

"Yeah, that's right," the voice assured him.

"I wanted the Munro residence," Tom clarified, thinking that he had been the victim either of a misprint or his own clumsy fingers.

"This is the Munro residence," came the exasperated answer.

He recognized the adolescent voice change. Obviously, he'd picked the wrong 'Munro'.

"I'm looking specifically for Ms. Catherine Munro," he emphasized, ready to make a hasty apology and hang up.

"You want my Mom."

"Your what? He searched his memory. He was sure he hadn't seen a wedding ring on her finger. He hadn't seen any rings on any of her fingers.

"My Mom," the youth answered as if talking to a dolt. "She's just finishing up a lesson. Hold on."

Tom worked his mouth. Nothing came out for a run of seconds; then: "No! Wait!"

He was too late. In the background, he heard a voice call out, "Mom! Telephone!" A heartbeat later, he heard his hurried voice. "She'll be here in a minute, mister."

Tom's face burned and his fingers were like ice as he clutched the handset. So she was married. No big deal. Megan still needed help. Megan liked this particular teacher. This was only business, he told himself, hoping he'd start believing it. Just business. Just business. Just business.

"Who is it?"

He strained to hear her whisper, but didn't catch enough. Hopefully, he had misdialed.

"Some guy," the kid replied.

"Some guy?" Cate repeated.

The kid chuckled. Tom's neck burned.

"Hello?"

Damn his deft dialing. Catherine Munro sounded as clear as if her mouth were inches from his ear.

"Ms. Munro, this is Tom Flannery." There was a long, painful pause. Was she stunned? Dismayed? Annoyed? "Mr. Flannery? I'm sorry to call you at home, but after our conversation this morning, I had an idea and I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible to see what you thought about it." He was babbling. God help him, he hadn't paused for air in at least two minutes! "Your number was in the book," he concluded lamely.

"Yes, I know it's in the book."

Of course, she knew. What a stupid comment. He sat up straighter, downshifted into neutral. At least, he tried.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Flannery?"

Erotic images involving a soft bed and warm, rumpled sheets popped into his brain. While Catherine Munro sat unaware at the other end of the line, Tom's traitorous body shifted from neutral to drive. He formed words around a thickened tongue. "Ms. Munro, I have a proposition for you."

Proposal! The word was proposal, as in 'business' proposal, not proposition! He couldn't have chosen a worse way to phrase it! Had his brain leaked out?

"Proposition?" She didn't sound offended. "Oh, I thought maybe you were calling about what happened this morning. With your tie," she added hastily. "Are you all right?"

Her concern encouraged him. "Fine. There's not even any bruising. You cut me out of there just in time."

Another pause. Maybe she didn't realize he'd been joking. Embarrassed that his humor had fallen flat, he cleared his throat. "Actually, I called about something you did mention this morning. I've thought about it and decided to ask you if you'd consider tutoring Megan." That sounded right. Nothing fancy, but nothing for which he'd have to apologize.

"Tutor?" She hesitated. "In music?"

"Of course, not."

"Then what, Mr. Flannery? I don't understand."

Her voice had tightened. I don't understand either, Cate Munro, he wanted to tell her, as he stared out into the misty March night. I wish someone would explain it to me.

"This morning you recommended I hire a reading tutor for Megan," he said.

"Actually, Miss Erickson recommended that you hire a reading tutor. I simply relayed the suggestion."

"Be that as it may. I've decided it's a good idea. I want you." Another Freudian slip? Maybe he'd found just one leg.

"Me?"

"You mentioned you had the credentials to teach reading," he reminded her.

"Yes, yes, I do, but..."

"You made it clear that Megan might benefit from studying with someone other than my Aunt Myrtle or me," he cut in smoothly.

"That's why I told you about the list at the library."

"Megan likes you, Ms. Munro. She's comfortable with you."

"I'm glad, but even so..."

"I checked the listing at the library. The going rate for tutoring is $15. I'll pay you $20 per session, twice a week."

He suffered another gigantic pause. When Cate did reply, she seemed wary. "Twenty dollars is generous. But I teach piano in the evenings. My schedule's already quite full."

Tom remembered the boy who had answered the telephone. "Yes, your son mentioned that. I certainly don't want to put a strain on the time you should be spending with him...or your husband."

She didn't seem to breathe for a few seconds. He was sure that he had wandered out of bounds with the last comment, and blinked in surprise when she answered him.

"Jonathan is very understanding about my giving piano lesson. He has plenty of his own interests to keep him busy. We don't spend as much time together as we used to."

"Your husband?" He couldn't help it. She'd sounded so casual about being ignored by the man to whom she was married.

"Jonathan's my son."

He heard a trace of amusement. Maybe she, too, thought that he was a dolt.

"As for the other," she continued, in a more subdued voice, "I'm a widow. My husband died almost eight years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he replied automatically, feeling simultaneously relieved and ashamed of that relief.

"Thank you. But it was a long time ago."

A long time ago. Twice as long ago as it had been since Lara walked out. He wondered how Cate dealt with the emptiness.

"Be that as it may," she went on, "I really don't see how I can manage it, especially with the program coming up at the end of April."

"Then maybe we can work out something mutually agreeable? How about tutoring Megan once a week if I pick up some of the slack regarding the program." He grinned, though she couldn't see it. "You might as well take advantage of my aunt's generous nature."

"I don't think you realize what you're offering."

"I don't negotiate unless I'm sure I can follow through with my end of the bargain," he assured her. He just couldn't let her say no. Megan needed her help. He needed something, too.

"I...I don't know. I really can't give you an answer now, or even discuss it. I have a student waiting for me."

He sensed that she might be softening and pressed the advantage. "I understand. I've never liked doing business over the phone anyway. Let's meet and you can hear me out. I'm convinced this would be right for Megan."

"I'm sure you are."

She had a right to be accusing. He'd been certain of himself when he stomped into her classroom Wednesday night and lectured her about the curriculum. He still didn't think his objections were misguided. But Cate probably held that one meeting as her standard of how much he didn't know about the benefits of a comprehensive arts program.

"Still, I suppose that's only fair," she relented. "All right, I'll meet with you. I'm usually at school by 7:45 and leave around 3:30."

He ran a mental checklist of the coming week's schedule and groaned. "I'm out of town Monday and fly back Tuesday. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I'm in Chicago. The next week is almost as bad. I'll be busy until 5 or 6 o'clock every evening."

"Then I don't see how..."

"Why don't we discuss it over dinner tomorrow night."

The words had just slipped out. After all, he was used to talking business and making deals over a meal. Yes, dammit! This was business. Just business. Just business...

He heard her catch her breath. "I, ah, don't think...No, I couldn't."

Her rejection didn't surprise him as much as it disappointed him. "Do you teach piano on Friday nights?"

"No, but..."

"Then you have plans with your son?"

"No, he'll be with friends. But..."

"I'll have you back long before his curfew," he told her.

"Mr. Flannery, what I'm trying to say is that having dinner with you isn't a professional setting. It just wouldn't be appropriate." She spoke in her calm, cool teacher's voice, slowly enough for any dolt to understand.

It raised his hackles. "Appropriate? Isn't that a word you use when lecturing children, Ms. Munro?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Only if it's necessary."

Bull's eye! He had to admit the lady had her standards. He admired that. But he wouldn't give up. "Appropriate is in the eye of the beholder. This is business, not social. It isn't as if I'm asking you for a date."

"Of course, not!" She sounded incensed.

He smiled. "I assure you, I can be discreet. I'll bring my briefcase, you can bring your chalk, and no one will even dare to think that anything inappropriate is going on."

Judging from the absence of any sound at the other end of the line, he guessed she didn't have a comeback. "Ms. Munro, are you still there?"

"Yes, Mr. Flannery." The slight lift at the end of her reply hinted that she barely held back a smile.

"I'm waiting, Ms. Munro. So is your student."

She sighed. "Very well. I'll meet with you. But I'll pay for my own dinner."

"If you insist."

"I do. Moreover, I'm not promising anything."

"I only want you to hear me out. I'll make reservations for 7:00. I'll pick you up at 6:45."

"No, I'll meet you. Where?"

She really did mean to keep this appropriate. He didn't know whether to smile or frown. "Rick's '42 Club. I have all my business dinners there. Do you know where it is?"

"No, but I'll find it. Seven o'clock, tomorrow evening."

"Seven o'clock, Ms. Munro. Thank you."

"Good-bye, Mr. Flannery." The line went dead.

He held the handset away from his ear and realized that he missed Cate Munro's voice.

Chapter 5

Cate decided the cabby drove on instinct through the dense fog. With her nose nearly pressed to the window, she could barely see where the pavement ended and the curb began. Settling into the back seat, she wished the cabby would be a little more sociable. Balding and burly, his face was a well-creased map of life. He had nodded once and muttered something that sounded affirmative when she gave him the name of the 'Rick's '42 Club.' Otherwise, he was stone silent.

While she didn't fault his attention to duty, she needed a diversion to ease her nerves. Why did she ever agree to this 'business dinner' with Mr. Flannery? When she had watched him disappear down the corridor Thursday morning, his broad shoulders stiff, his head high, she figured the next time she'd cross his path would be at the spring performance, Myrtle Flannery's interference notwithstanding. But then he called and asked her to consider tutoring Megan. She realized now she should have given him an answer then and there, instead of agreeing to this dinner engagement.

This was a business negotiation, she reminded herself firmly. He'd asked her to discuss the matter over a dinner she had intended to buy herself. She'd set the boundaries and he'd agreed. This was business. So why did the mere thought of seeing him again make her insides somersault?

She glanced at the sheared-off middle fingernail that had sacrificed itself between the blades of a paper cutter to save the rest of her finger that morning. Had she been superstitious, she might have believed the accident was an omen of things to come. Of all the minor disasters of the day, and there had been a few, her car had sprung the nastiest surprise of all. As she had barreled up Packard Street after school, she had noticed the red, 'Service Engine Soon' light blink, blink, then stay on. On cue, a thick, white vapor started pouring out from under the hood. Ninety minutes later, she leaned over the exposed engine while Art Reese, her mechanic, explained that the problem might be as serious as a crack in the radiator, or as simple as the worn fan belt.

Cate stopped listening about that time since Art gave her the good news-bad news cost comparison between a belt replacement and a radiator overhaul. Bottom line, she probably couldn't afford extensive repairs. Reality, she definitely couldn't afford to be without a car.

Resigning herself to reality, she signed the work order and hitched a ride with Art's tow truck driver when he left for another call. She'd finally gotten home a little less than an hour ago, out of breath, nearly out of time, and admittedly out of sorts. With no opportunity to change out of the teal-blue, belted jumper and tailored ivory blouse she wore for school, she switched her loafers for dressy black leather pumps. This way, she didn't have to change purses.

Yet, she couldn't help feeling that she had forgotten something.

Cate checked her watch, though she already knew she'd be late for the 7:00 reservation. Of course, she could have flat out canceled. Strangely, she found herself ticking off excuses why she shouldn't or couldn't telephone Thomas Flannery. In the first place, she didn't know his office number, or the name of his company, or if he'd even still be there after 6:00. His home number was printed on the program permission slips. But she still hadn't quite convinced herself that this 'dinner business meeting' passed the acid test of professionalism. Calling him at home for a reason that wasn't strictly school related seemed too personal. And familiar. Familiar wasn't good with the father of one of her students. Not now, not ever.

Besides, had she called him, Flannery would probably have offered again to pick her up. Definitely too familiar.

As the cab slowed in front of a brightly lit awning, she wondered why had she endured this pea soup fog to get here. The expense of this 'meeting' would cash strap her for the entire coming week and she will probably turn down Mr. Flannery's generous offer in any case. The cab stopped with a jerk, distracting her. Through the fog, she saw the diffused red glow of taillights on a stationary pearl-white Lexus. A tall man in a dark coat stepped out of the Lexus and handed his keys to someone who hurried to the car.

Rick's '42 Club had valet service. Forget inexpensive fish for dinner. She might not be able to afford the appetizers.

The inside overhead light went on and the cabby turned toward her. "This is it, lady. Ten bucks."

"Ten?"

"Yeah, ten. Cars don't run cheap these days."

Didn't she know it.

She fumbled for her wallet. Should she tip him? Certainly not for the pleasant company.

She lifted a dollar with a ten and handed over the money. The driver eyed the bills. In the rearview mirror, she caught his joyless expression. She only hoped that she didn't get him on the return trip. Before she did something stupid, like apologize, the cab door opened. A pleasant looking young man greeted her with a smile and an extended hand.

"Welcome to Rick's. Watch your step, ma'am."

Cate slid across the seat and grabbed the young man's hand. With a strong but gentle tug, he helped her out and onto the sidewalk. Glad to be out of the stuffy cab, she sighed. "Thanks."

When she turned toward the restaurant, she noticed that the man in the black coat who had arrived just ahead of her stood in front of the twin oak doors of the entrance. Though the white mist swirled around them, she recognized the broad shouldered outline.

"Hello, Ms. Munro."

Cate wondered if the mellow quality she heard in Thomas Flannery's voice was due to the damp, heavy air. He seemed to beckon to her as much as greet her. The chill suddenly stung her warming cheeks. He strode toward her.

"You came," he said simply, as if surprised.

"Of course, I did," she replied in confusion.

His dark brows came together. "About ten to seven, I realized I'd be late and called the restaurant to tell the hostess to seat you. She said you hadn't arrived. I thought maybe...well, it doesn't matter now that we're both here."

He glanced down the street after the cab. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble of calling a cab. If you were worried about driving in this fog, I'd have understood you canceling dinner."

"It wasn't the fog," she hurried to say. "My car decided to blow some critical gasket." Cate waved her hand. "It's a long story."

He crooked his mouth. "You can tell me inside. Come on."

She followed him to the entrance, waited for him to grab the massive brass bar handles and swing open the door. Boisterous voices rushed out as did the dry heat and the cloying fragrance of competing perfumes. Jostling bodies clogged the foyer. Before she'd gotten across the threshold, she had to take a tottering step back to avoid the flailing elbow of a middle-aged man who seemed to be tottering a little himself.

"Sorry," the man muttered absently.

She started to nod her acceptance of the careless apology, when she realized the man was peering over her head. She felt Thomas Flannery's palm on the small of her back through the heavy folds of her lined raincoat and glanced up into his face. His dark scowl made her start, even though she wasn't the subject of his displeasure.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked the man, hardly moving his mouth yet projecting the anger in his words. "I'm not sure the lady heard you."

Cate was slightly disconcerted by the fierce protectiveness of his gesture, but also unreasonably flattered by it.

The man froze under the scowl, swallowed and lifted a shoulder as he refocused on her. "Sorry," he repeated.

Flannery growled something she didn't and gave her a gentle push. His hand never strayed from her back as he guided her through the jammed foyer and into a quieter hallway adjoining a cloakroom. Once they were beyond the worst crush, she disengaged herself from the gentle but proprietary shift of his hand on her back. Yet, she allowed him to take charge of her movements. In fact, she missed the press of his hand when he withdrew so they could remove their coats and hand them to the cloakroom attendant.

"Sorry I jumped in like that," he explained tersely after he took their claim tickets. "But that guy was half- drunk. Someone should cut him off before he does real damage."

More unsettled by her affinity for his touch than by the incident, she didn't trust her voice and nodded. He looked toward the reception desk. They both felt awkward. Cate decided to try humor to get them back on track.

"Where's your briefcase?"

He looked at her wryly. "I don't see any chalk."

She gave him a wisp of a smile. "If I searched my pockets, I could probably find a piece."

He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that warmed her. "We might need chalk to stake out our territory. This place is packed."

"You sound surprised. I thought you said this was where you had all your business dinners."

"Not on Friday nights. I'm usually otherwise occupied."

Cate recognized the euphemism. He dated, and probably quite a bit at that. Was it any wonder? A man like him -- good looking, successful, obviously wealthy if the car he drove was any indication, could find himself 'otherwise occupied' every night of the week. A little bubble of expectation deflated. She reminded herself that this was a business dinner, not a social engagement.

"Let's go announce ourselves," Flannery suggested.

In what appeared to be reflex, he opened his right arm as if he meant to circle her shoulders. A moment before he touched her, he straightened and used the arm to gesture Cate ahead of him. He seemed to be having difficulty with the concept of business versus social, she realized.

This really hadn't been a good idea. Not a good idea at all.

Cate slipped onto the cane chair and set her purse on the edge of the table, trying not to look conspicuous as she scanned the dining room. Without a doubt, she now understood the name, Rick's '42 Club. The restaurant could have been the set of the movie, Casablanca.

Indirect lighting cast a warm, amber glow over the whitewashed stucco walls. Wood and brass ceiling fans whirled silently overhead, stirring the fronds of six-foot tall potted palms that rimmed a dance floor and dais where there were chairs for six musicians and a well-worn console piano. Ornately carved privacy screens, made of heavy dark wood, sectioned the dining room. In front of the screens were dry sinks decorated with lacy ferns or spike-leafed succulent plants. Thick, Persian carpets graced the walls. The rich burgundy, brown and midnight blue of the weave accented the warm, deep terracotta of the arabesque tiled floor. Each café style table had its own small brass lamp with a bead-fringed shade that shed little real light on the snowy white tablecloths.

Even the hostess might have stepped off a 40s fashion plate. Dressed in a billowing sleeved, white silk blouse and a sleek, floor-length black skirt, the young woman had styled her long, dusky hair into a glamorous upsweep that was held in place by a rhinestone studded comb.

Cate glanced down at her jumper and realized that it must appear dowdy in contrast to the elegant period attire the hostess wore. Fleeting fantasies about sequined jackets and beaded satin shoes clashed with the reality of cotton corduroy and leather accessories. If only she'd had more time to dress. More time? She almost laughed at the ridiculous idea. Had she taken three hours, she'd have still worn a cotton something and accented it with black leather. Thomas Flannery might be used to wining and dining female business associates, who could dress in the latest chic apparel. Tonight he'd have to make due with a teacher on a limited budget, who could barely afford to keep her son in athletic shoes, much less throw away money on frivolous finery.

Annoyed by the thought that he would find her appearance somehow less than acceptable, she went back to studying her surroundings. Though the room was overlarge, the soft lighting and the understated elegance of the decor made the space feel far more intimate than its actual size. Even the small tables were designed for couples who wished to hold hands and whisper private words over wine and dinner. She realized with alarm that she'd fallen victim to the ambiance of the place -- one far better suited to a romantic assignation, rather than a parent-teacher conference.

She never should have agreed to this.

The hostess handed her a menu, told them that their server would be by directly, then turned on her black satin heel and left.

"You're impressed, aren't you?"

She looked up, her reply stuck in her throat. The shadows of muted lamplight lent Flannery's eyes a silvery cast and softened the harder edges of his face. He looked as if he'd come directly from work in a gray herringbone sports jacket. But he'd taken off his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his starched blue shirt to reveal a few dark, curly chest hairs.

She dragged her eyes away from the open collar of the shirt. As much as she wanted to deny it, the very sight of him did something wonderfully disturbing to her insides; something she hadn't felt in years and had no right feeling now. But feel it she did. She wanted to stroke the late-day stubble of his beard with the back of her hand. So vivid were the images that a prickle raced up her spine and raised gooseflesh on her arms. The physical discomfort snapped her out of her daydream. Discretely, she drew in air to clear her head and the untoward thoughts.

"Impressed? Yes, I am," she answered over a catch in her voice.

With the restaurant, too, she added silently.

He smiled, obviously pleased. "Wait until you hear the music. You'll start looking for Bogie and Bergman."

"I can see why you conduct business here."

"It's a good atmosphere. Great food, unhurried pace. Besides, I know the owner, Pete Maxwell. We applied for our business loans at the same time five years ago. Believe me, sweating out that process brings people close. Then I helped Pete set up a computer system for the restaurant and trained him on it. Ever since, he's made sure my clients and I are treated well."

She viewed the crowded room. "I like his taste in decor."

"Pete's a romantic."

The hard edge to his words startled her. "I take it you aren't."

He shrugged and looked down at the menu. "No reason to be."

"Oh."

He peeked at her. "Are you?"

Turnabout was fair play. "No reason to be."

His eyes widened slightly. "So what happened to your car?"

She welcomed the change of subject. It kept her mind off the blue-black highlights in his hair. Quickly, she explained what Art had told her.

"Sounds like a lemon," he remarked.

"No, it's just ten years old," she said. "It's one of the few things I brought back from Connecticut with me. But I've put more money into it recently than I think it costs new. My mechanic is so familiar with the engine that I'm waiting for him to announce that he's engaged to it."

Flannery laughed. "Do you trust him?"

"Completely. My brother recommended him."

"Your brother lives here, in River Bend?"

"Yes, he set up a veterinary practice about five years ago."

"Are you close to him?"

She smiled with affection. "Dave is one of the reasons I moved here."

He cocked his head, urging her to go on.

Enjoying the small talk, she obliged. "Jon and I had been living with my parents in Madison, Wisconsin since we came back here from Connecticut. But Dad and Mom were ready to retire and move to Arizona, and my teaching position there was only temporary. With this district expanding as it is, and Dave and my sister-in- law Susan already here, the relocation seemed like a good idea."

"Then your brother has helped you settle in?"

"He's done more than that. Dave's become the male role model Jon needs in his life. My Dad was great with Jon, but there was an entire generation span in their ages. Dave has a family of his own, and he's a little more current with the problems facing children today. Jon would follow my brother to the ends of the earth and over the edge."

Tom smiled, a rich expression that made her heart skip. "He sounds like a great guy."

Ready to agree, she was interrupted by a booming voice.

"Hey, Tom! It's been a couple of weeks!"

Tom grinned broadly as a short, balding blond man hovered near them. "Hi, Pete. Been tied up with lawyer stuff in Chicago."

Pete made a face as he pumped Tom's outstretched hand. "But this is Friday. Isn't that family night at the movies with the clan? Where'd you stash Meggie and the Tyrant...I mean Myrtle?"

So, Tom spent Friday nights with his daughter and his aunt. Cate bit back a chuckle that was part amusement at Pete Maxwell's wry description of the elderly woman, and one part relief that Tom didn't usually have a date.

On Friday nights, at least.

She shouldn't have found either comment humorous. Her chuckle slipped out anyway and Pete shifted his gaze to her. "Ah, this is a special Friday night, huh, Tom?"

Tom cleared his throat. "This, Pete, is Catherine Munro. She happens to be a music teacher at the school Megan attends. I hope by the end of the evening I can convince her to tutor Megan in reading."

"Nice to meet you, Catherine," Pete said, offering his hand.

"People usually call me Cate," she replied, accepting his hand. "You have a lovely restaurant."

"Thanks. It took years of planning." Pete gripped her hand firmly and gave a good shake. His grin put two deep dimples in his round cheeks. From the bulge around his middle, Cate decided that he sampled generously of each night's special.

"You must be proud of the results," she said.

"Proud, but still waiting to prosper," he joked. "So, you're a music teacher. Isn't that interesting."

She noticed that Tom had shifted in his chair. "She teaches reading, too, Pete," he emphasized. "That's why I'm trying to hire her to tutor Megan."

"Sure, whatever you say," Pete brushed him off, and turned his attention back to her. "Did he ever play his jazz guitar for you?"

Cate opened her eyes wide. "Why, no, I wasn't aware..."

Tom's steel-blue eyes hardened with irritation. "Until this moment Pete, that wasn't common knowledge."

Pete ignored him. "Tom's damn good. Have him play for you sometime. Now, what can I get you to start off the meal? Beer? Sparkling water? Wine?"

From the hint of dull red that crept into Tom's stubbled cheeks, Cate judged that Pete had just spared himself trouble. She glanced at the wine list and did a quick calculation of her cash reserve.

"I see you have Rousseau Vineyards zinfandel," she noted. "You wouldn't happen to sell it by the glass?"

Pete arched a white-blond brow. "You have excellent taste, Cate. That's one of our premium wines and generally speaking, we sell it only by the bottle. But," he added, grinning, "for a friend of Tom's, I'll make an exception. What about you, Tom?"

"Crown Royal and seven."

Pete chuckled. "Predictable. You should try the wine. Your lady made a great choice."

The red in Tom's face brightened. "Pete," he said with forced patience, "Ms. Munro is..."

"Business," Pete finished. "Right. So, one premium zinfandel, one standard Crown Royal and seven."

"You have a great memory, Pete."

Pete cast his friend a sardonic smile. "One of my better qualities. Be right back."

"Sorry. He gets carried away sometimes," Tom said when Pete was out of hearing. "But I told you that he's a romantic. He sees me with an attractive woman on a Friday night and jumps to conclusions."

Though Cate realized that he meant the compliment in the most generic way, it flattered her. In reflex, she lowered her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap. "That's quite all right. It doesn't matter what others assume, as long as we understand the difference."

"Pete was impressed with your choice of wine," he continued, ignoring her unease. "Was it a guess or a conscious decision?"

His wry skepticism helped steady her. "A conscious decision. I'm somewhat familiar with the subject."

"A college elective? Wine Selection 101?"

The tease made her smile. "No, a skill left over from my former life. My husband and I entertained a great deal. The owner of the local liquor emporium and I were on a first name basis after a while. The man taught me all I know about wines and a few things I really didn't need to know."

His warm smile erased the tension from his features. She noted again how handsome he appeared in the soft lamplight. "Maybe I'll have a glass with dinner on your recommendation. You might convince me to become a wine drinker."

She stared at him. "I think that convincing you of anything would be a formidable task."

"Never know until you try," he replied smoothly. "Might take time, but it could be worth it."

I don't have that much time with you, she mused silently.

"Was your husband a teacher, too?"

The question took her off guard. "Who? Ian?"

His smile faltered. He eased away from the table as if distancing himself from her and his inquiry. "If you'd rather not talk about him, I understand."

"No," she assured him. "That part of my life was a long time ago."

"You mentioned as much last night when I called."

Did she glimpse sympathy in his eyes? She hoped it wasn't just pity. She forced a smile.

"Yes, I did. And no, Ian wasn't a teacher. He didn't believe in the worth of any job that didn't offer stock options, a company car and a corner office with a window," she allowed bitterness to edge her words. "Ian made an excellent living for us. He was good as what he did," she temporized.

"That was?"

"Arbitrage," she replied, hoping she'd gotten the word out as emotionlessly as possible.

He gave a soft whistle. "That must have been a good living."

She nodded stiffly. "In some ways, Mr. Flannery."

"Tom."

She raised her eyes. "What?"

"That's my name." He crinkled his brow as if waiting for her to agree.

At least he wasn't asking more questions about Ian. "I know."

He spread his hands and shrugged. "We're on neutral territory here. Couldn't we consider dispensing with formality?"

She glanced at the sea of small, intimate tables before training her eyes back on his lopsided grin. "Define neutral."

"Neither school nor my office."

"That leaves almost everything else."

"My point exactly."

"I'm not sure that would be appro..."

"...priate," he finished for her with some exasperation, though the corner of his mouth lifted. "Personally, I think two people who fought side-by-side in a death struggle with runaway machinery can appropriately call each other by their first names."

In spite of herself, she laughed at the memory of the workroom fiasco.

"My aunt calls you Cate," he went on. "Hell, by the end of dinner, Pete'll be calling you Catie."

She lifted her hand in concession. "Fine. I'll admit the laminator...ah, situation may give us some basis for familiarity. But, no first names in front of Megan or other teachers and parents. That would not be appropriate."

A smile stretched across his face and she felt a twinge of pride at having put the expression there.

"Agreed. Ah, here comes the barkeep."

Pete managed to twist his soft, pleasant face into a brief snarl that turned into an easy grin as he set her wine in front of her. She sipped it and nodded approval.

"I'll be having a glass of that stuff for dinner," Tom told him. "Cate's trying to convert me."

The sound of her first name spoken in Tom's deep, smooth voice, sent a tingle through her that had nothing to do with the wine hitting her nearly empty stomach.

"You have a major victory to your credit," Pete announced. "I've been trying to wean him off that hard stuff for years."

Tom cast his friend a sideways glance. "She drives a hard bargain."

"Then you can continue negotiations over dinner," Pete suggested, and immediately went into a detailed description of the evening's specials.

Cate forced herself to listen, though her awareness of Tom increased by the second. He could be charming as well as forceful, both imposing traits in themselves. But when coupled with his dark good looks and casual sexiness, his presence threatened to overwhelm her sensibilities. She had to be careful, guard against letting herself be drawn to him in any way, shape, or form. She met him only two days ago. For all she knew, he might be the embodiment of female fantasies on the surface, yet cold and ruthless on the inside.

Ian had been such a man, an amalgam of superficial male attributes and deep personality flaws. Dealing with Ian had left her heart and soul in bloody shreds.

Somehow she managed to answer Pete when he asked for her choices. She ordered a poached sole with steamed and seasoned vegetables on the side. At least it didn't sound expensive. Tom took the veal cutlets.

"Allison will be your server," Pete told them both, but he was looking at Cate. "I'll stop by a little later and see how you're enjoying yourself. Oh, by the way, I've instructed that the bottle of Rousseau Vineyard zinfandel be brought the table, my treat." He winked at her. "If you're going to convert him, you might as well baptize him."

He left them both laughing, with Cate shaking her head. "Pete's quite a generous man."

Tom swirled the ice cubes in his glass and nodded. "He's been a good friend. But don't let that congenial face fool you. Underneath, he's one tough, savvy businessman."

"Takes one to know one?"

His eyes glimmered silver in the lamplight. "I usually get what I want."

Had she been warned? And if so, about what? "Sometimes failure is good for the soul."

"Success is better," he argued, and lifted his drink. "Here's to driving a hard bargain, Cate."

His deliberate use of her name gave her pause. He meant to show her that he had already won an important victory. Still, she couldn't let him know that it bothered her. She had to maintain some control. Following his lead, she picked up her wine glass and touched the rim to his. "To hard bargains and fair negotiations," she amended. "Tom."

"Of course."

The delicate chime of crystal meeting crystal registered somewhere in her consciousness. She didn't focus on anything but the quicksilver shift in his expression. The smile that deepened the fine lines around his eyes waned, until he peered at her with a gaze like blue flame; intense and heated that she should have had the good sense to glance away before it burned her.

She didn't have the will. Like a warm April sun, the compelling warmth of his unspoken male speculation drew forth a blossoming of her own feminine response that had languished in an emotional winter. Her breasts tightened, the peaks hardening to sensitive nubs that chafed against the restriction of her clothing. The sensation sparked a current that raced through her body, collected at the center of her being and throbbed gently for release. The blatant sensuality of the moment confused, terrified and fascinated her. She didn't even realize it was possible to become so aroused without touching. It was beyond her experience, beyond her imaginings, and she had no defense against it.

Tom pulled his glass from hers and broke the link between them. From the pucker that had settled between his brows, she realized she hadn't been the only one startled by the brief, singeing connection between them. He took a long sip before glancing at her again. By then, Allison appeared with their salads, the bottle of zinfandel, and an extra wine glass. Glad that she had something to focus on instead of Tom, she relished the first three forkfuls of the crisp greens with its tangy vinaigrette dressing.

"In terms of hard bargains," Tom finally said, his voice a shade husky, "what will I have to do to make you accept my proposal about tutoring Megan?"

Cate ran the question through her mind a half-dozen times. She took a fortifying sip of her wine and let the rush of warmth seep through her before she answered.

"I've given the matter some thought." She set down her fork and met his gaze. "I think you should know that when I talked to Miss Erickson yesterday, she mentioned that Megan had seen the school psychologist during her two years in kindergarten."

"That's true. Megan fell apart when Lara abandoned us."

His clipped tones, his choice of words to describe his ex-wife's departure, alerted her that he still carried scars

"Then I'm sure you've been advised that Megan's difficulties in reading may be due to that emotional trauma," she went on gently. "Sometimes it takes all of a person's energy just to survive and get past the hurt, much less try to deal with other aspects of life."

He pushed aside his salad plate, though half the greens remained. "Yes, it does. And I'm sure you speak from experience. It must have been hard after your husband died."

She lowered her gaze and pinched the stem of her glass between thumb and index finger. "Let's say I have some experience and I can sympathize," she hedged. "That's why I'm prefacing my remarks this way. You have to consider that Megan hasn't reconciled herself to the trauma yet, regardless of any signs to the contrary. This problem in reading may be a red flag that she needs more time to adjust."

"I have considered it. That's one of the reasons I want you, not some stranger, to do the tutoring."

She lifted her narrowed gaze to question him.

Tom shifted on the chair, started to run a hand through his hair, then stopped, his movements uncharacteristically graceless. "Megan's attached herself to you, Cate, probably because you've paid attention to her and encouraged her natural talent. You've struck a responsive chord that no one else has yet. Also...you're young, like the mothers of her friends."

Now Cate saw red flags. "As much as my heart goes out to Megan, I won't play her surrogate mother."

"I understand. But I believe you've been tapped for the job whether or not you want it."

Panic nibbled at the edges of the professional facade Cate tried to project. "What else?"

He squinted. "What else what?"

She took another swallow of wine. "That was only your first reason. What are the others?"

Tom crossed his arms in front of him. "Well, Myrtle approves."

He said it with a lilt of dry humor. She wasn't particularly amused. "She approves of what?"

"You in general, the tutoring specifically. And my aunt doesn't grant her approval so fast in every family matter."

She nodded. "I take that as a compliment. I've met her only once, but she seems like a lovely person."

A quick smile spoke of his affection for the woman. "She is if you agree with her about everything."

"Still, I'm complimented."

Tom peered at her oddly. "That doesn't happen often, does it?"

"What?"

"Compliments. I can tell by the way you blush."

Self-consciously, she raised her fingers to her cheek. "That's the wine. But, in answer to your question, no, I don't hear compliments often. As you well know, most people are quicker with complaints than words of praise."

"I meant the personal kind of compliment."

She knew the pink stains across her face had turned scarlet. "We're discussing business," she reminded him.

"So we are."

A porter came by and removed their salad plates. Tom poured himself some wine, then lifted the bottle and added a splash to Cate's glass when she nodded her consent.

"I won't press you," he said when the porter left them. "That's neither my business nor my personal style, regardless of the impressions I've left these past two days. I realize you aren't a surrogate mother or a miracle worker. But I believe you are what Meggie needs right now."

He fiddled with his dinner fork. "There's one more reason I want you to tutor Megan. It's probably the most important."

The sentence trailed off and he took a moment before starting again. "You teach music, and you've recognized Megan for her talents in that area. If she sees someone like you, someone she admires and trusts, place importance on reading, I'm convinced she'll consider it more worthy of her attention." He looked up from the silverware. "I'm sure you've heard the gossip about my divorce from Lara."

The seemingly unrelated question took her aback. While she had speculated with Marlie about the causes and effects of the divorce on Megan, she had done so from information contained in official school records.

"Remember, I haven't been in the district more than a few months," she replied truthfully. "If your marital problems were a topic of discussion at some point, I can assure you they no longer are."

"That's good to hear, I guess," he quipped without smiling. "The fact of the matter is that Megan inherited her gifts from her mother. Lara left us four years ago to pursue a career on the stage."

Cate and Marlie had suspected as much. Still, it sounded so harsh. "I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it.

"So were Megan and I," Tom assured her. "I want you to understand something. I never tried to hold Lara back in any way. She had her career before she married me. She even toured the Midwest for three months after Megan was born. But she discovered too late that singing filled in all the empty spaces of her life. There might have been room for me because I didn't ask much. But a child demanded too much of her time and energy. Lara never learned how to make room in her life for something or someone other than herself," he went on grimly. "I want to make sure my daughter learns a different set of priorities and puts her talents in perspective."

Cate understood his pain more than he realized. Still, he wanted to place a great deal of responsibility at her doorstep. "Two days ago you questioned my integrity," she reminded him. "Now, you practically want me to function as Megan's female role model."

He bristled. "Two days ago I reacted in what I felt were my daughter's best interests. I'm doing so tonight. My opinions about the program aren't a factor here. My confidence in you as a reading teacher and yes, a role model, is the issue."

She should have been flattered that he'd changed his mind about her basic character. Instead, his crisp, clean logic left her cold.

He seemed to sense her withdrawal and retreated himself. "Let's enjoy dinner. You can give me your answer later."

"All right," she replied, her voice soft with disappointment.

Chapter 6

Tom poked his fork into the remains of the strawberry drizzled cheesecake while he cradled his chin in his left palm. The strong espresso he ordered to amuse himself while he sat alone at the table sat cooled, unappreciated, while he riveted his attention on the dance floor. In front of the bandstand, Pete held Cate Munro in his arms and whirled her around to the soft, sensuous strains of Glenn Miller's classic, 'Moonlight Serenade'.

It wasn't fair. Pete had a wife, two kids, a dog and three gerbils. What more could the man want? Certainly not a dance with a woman he met two hours ago. Tom knew what he wanted. He wanted to dance, with Cate. He wanted to be the one coasting around the floor with her, hearing her breezy conversation, seeing the sparkle in her eyes instead of having to imagine it from a distance.

The fact that she followed Pete's lead with effortless grace deepened the envy Tom felt for his friend. He recalled a definition of dancing attributed to George Bernard Shaw: a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire. Not that Pete had anything improper in mind. Truth be told, Tom could have used Myrtle's measure of respectful dancing and slipped a Chicago metro telephone book between the couple. Still, dancing had always been an intimate experience for Tom. With Lara, it had been an exercise in sensuality -- holding her close, their bodies nudging in all the right places. After such an evening, more often than not, they made exciting, passionate love.

As he peered at the couple gliding across the floor, he conceded that he never could have confused Cate with his ex-wife. Physically, there was a lot less of the music teacher than there was of the voluptuous Lara. He remembered how large his hand felt braced against the small of Cate's back when he steered her through the crowded foyer. But he suspected that beneath that prim, shapeless corduroy jumper, Cate would have a few titillating feminine surprises that would feel like satin and silk in his hands.

A tightening in the region below his navel warned him that his thoughts had strayed too far. He slid his fingers over his chin and jaw, scrubbed the stubble of his beard and blew out a breath of air. All right, so he found himself attracted to her. He'd known that at approximately 7:05 p.m. on Wednesday evening. Setting aside his male ego, he knew that she was attracted to him, too. He didn't deny that women found him appealing. Over the past four years, he'd become expert at playing innocent to the overtures sent his way by female clients, lawyers, and next-door-neighbors.

Yes, Cate Munro liked what she saw of him, on the outside anyway. He felt it in her awkwardness with him, saw it in the ever-present pink stain across her cheeks, glimpsed it in her expressive eyes that betrayed every emotion. He knew it as surely as he knew she'd have rebuffed his invitation to dance as inappropriate, whatever the hell that was anymore. Never one to take the backside of one-upsmanship with good grace, he literally bit his tongue when Pete had escorted her to the dance floor.

Was she merely being professional? Maybe, but not entirely. At times he read pure panic in her eyes. True, in the cloakroom, he forgot himself and nearly wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. But after what happened in the foyer with that drunk, how could she have blamed him for being a little protective? No, something had spooked her.

It sure as hell wasn't Pete. Smiling as the squat restaurateur led her in a rather complicated series of turns, she seemed to be having the time of her life, dammit! In her conservative black pumps, she wasn't much shorter than Pete, but he looked great with her. Cate made him look great. Her understated grace would have made any dance partner look better.

Mercifully, the music ended. To appear innocent of spying, he lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. He tried not to grimace at the cold bitterness that assaulted his tongue as Cate and Pete returned to the table, chatting like old friends. He realized that the spasm in his gut had nothing to do with the sludge he had swallowed.

Pete's sweat dampened face told the story even if the man hadn't been grinning from ear-to-ear. "You're some dancer, Catie. You must have had lessons somewhere along the line."

She hardly glanced at Tom. "Tap and ballet when I was a girl. My Dad taught me ballroom dancing."

"My compliments to your father, then," Pete said. "I haven't had that much fun on the dance floor in years."

"Don't let Tess hear you say that," Tom growled the warning.

Pete eyed him playfully, then turned back to Cate. "Tess is my wife. But she knows she has two left feet. And she won't mind that I treated myself like this."

Cate smiled warmly. "Thanks. I enjoyed myself also. But, if you'll excuse me a moment, I should call Jon. It's a little later than I realized and I should let him know that I'm still here."

Pete nodded as Tom stood.

When she was out of sight and Tom back in his seat, Pete slipped into the vacant chair and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Incredible lady. Did you know that she got her degree just two years ago?"

"Really?" Tom tried to sound uninterested.

Pete gushed on. "Yeah, she studied music and had some theater experience, too. Then she decided she'd like to teach."

"Good for her."

"Can you believe she's old enough to have a thirteen-year-old son?"

"Jon."

"Who?"

"Jon," Tom repeated as he shoved his cheesecake plate to the side and rested his arms on the table. "That's who she's calling. He's staying with a friend until she gets home."

Pete raised his blond brows in speculation. "I thought it might be her boyfriend. I was pretty sure you wouldn't arrange a 'business' dinner on a Friday evening with married women."

Tom scowled. "You mean she told you her life story and neglected to mention that?"

"Testy, aren't we?"

"My espresso's cold."

"Want another?"

"No."

"Is she divorced?"

"Widowed."

"Widowed, huh? That's good. A clean break."

Tom frowned. "I don't think it was clean, as you so sensitively put it." He lifted one shoulder at Pete's puzzled expression. "Just a hunch. I don't know much about her yet. She isn't as forthcoming with me when it comes to her personal life."

"Maybe you don't ask the right questions," Pete suggested. "You're probably too busy negotiating a tutoring contract with her."

Tom sniffed. "Hardly."

"What did you talk about over dinner?" Pete asked, barely keeping the chuckle out of his voice.

"Mostly about how good the food was, how great the band sounded, how terrific the ambiance of your joint is..."

"Hey, careful what you call a joint," Pete cut in. "Don't insult my place just because she won't get personal with you."

"Who said I wanted to get personal with her?"

"You didn't have to say it, buddy."

Backed into a corner, Tom glanced toward the band as they began a rendition of 'String of Pearls'. He heard Pete sigh.

"This isn't your style, Tom. Usually you analyze things to death before you make a move."

"Who says I'm making a move, analyzed or not?"

"A widowed music teacher you hardly know, here with you on Friday night?" Pete pointed out. "Come on! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Tom Flannery, consorting with the enemy."

Tom bristled. "Myrtle got me into this."

"Hooray for Myrtle. For once."

Pete's banter had started to annoy him. "And I'm not consorting with anyone."

"Not yet..." Pete let the thought dangle.

"I told you, this is business."

"Sure. I've heard it's standard practice for all parents to interview prospective tutors in this way."

"I had to use hard sell tactics."

"Wine. Dinner. Dancing. Yeah, real hard sell tactics."

"You danced with her," Tom reminded him.

"You're jealous," Pete tweaked him.

Yes, jealousy. That's what Tom had felt twisting his gut. But he'd be damned if he'd admit it to Pete. "She's going to ask for a separate check."

"So, she's independent."

"She's going home by taxi."

Pete's smile disappeared. "No shit! That would be a shame."

"That is the situation."

Pete nodded sagely. "So, this is a 'situation' then?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No. Yes!"

Pete snickered. "That's what I thought."

Tom massaged his forehead. "Go away, Pete. You're giving me a headache."

"You got that from mixing booze. You should have stuck to whiskey and seven instead of trying to impress Cate by trying the wine."

"If it makes you feel better, I didn't like the vintage."

"Is that why the bottle's empty?"

"Check, please."

"All right, all right," Pete gave in with a wave of his hand. "I'll give it a rest. Besides, here she comes. Put on a smile, or she'll think you don't like music teachers."

Pete smiled at both of them as he vacated the chair and pulled it out for Cate. "Well, duty calls. It's been a pleasure, Cate," he said, taking her hand between both of his. "I'll look forward to seeing you again. Remember, you promised me a fox trot."

"I won't forget," she answered, grinning brightly. "Nice meeting you."

Pete turned to Tom and shook his hand. "See you around, buddy. Take care."

"'Bye, Pete. Thanks for the wine."

Pete winked at him. "I've got another bottle waiting for the next time you and Cate stop by."

Tom watched him leave, unsure whether he was exasperated or amused.

"I see why you like him."

He snapped his gaze back to Cate. Her kind words for his friend irritated him. "Uh-huh. Everything all right at home?"

She blinked, no doubt startled by the disconnected question. "Yes, Jon said he'd stay with his friend until ten."

Tom checked his watch. "It's nine-twenty. You'll be home in plenty of time."

He heard the unreasonable gruffness in his voice and couldn't do a damn thing about it. Unwilling to face the confusion inevitably reflected in her eyes, he raised his arm to hail Allison. The young server came over seconds later and handed them their separate checks. Cate did a double take at hers.

"Something wrong with the total?" Tom asked.

"Oh, ah, no, no, nothing's wrong."

But there was. She pulled her soft brown eyebrows together in concentration as she scanned the bill from top to bottom, then slowly lifted the wallet out of her purse and began counting out bills.

Tom read his own tab -- almost forty dollars. Besides a more expensive dinner, he had a mixed drink, coffee and dessert. Cate's bill was probably around thirty. He watched her unfold her money, place it on the table, think a moment, then lay down three more smaller bills.

Her slow, deliberate movement gave her away. The meal cost more than she planned. He should have figured she didn't frequent places like Rick's '42 Club very often on a teacher's salary.

"I'd usually write off a meal like this as a business expense," he told her as he fished for his money.

Cate smiled serenely, though her brow remained furrowed. "I doubt the IRS would agree to cover this as a business expense."

He tried to be diplomatically generous, but once again she blocked him. "You're probably right. Ready?"

She nodded and stood as he did. He followed her out of the dining room, vowing to keep his hands away from her even if she did allow him to help her with her coat.

The foyer had emptied in the two hours since they had arrived. Leaning against the receptionist's podium, Tom had a clear view of Cate as she stood in the pay phone alcove calling for a cab. The muted recessed lights cast a halo of gold around the crown of her tawny hair. The delicate lines of her cheek and chin, the soft fullness of her mouth, and the creamy luminescence of her skin lent her an aura of youthful innocence. Draped in a bulky, calf-length raincoat, she appeared almost fragile.

The front door opened, breaking his study of her. A valet, the one who earlier helped Cate from the cab, blew in with the wind and paused to give her a speculative once-over from behind.

Tom's hackles went up. He took three determined steps toward the alcove before he realized he'd done it. By the time he passed the valet, he was aware enough to shoot the younger man a blistering glare of warning before he took his place at Cate's side. The valet retreated outside into the cold night.

Had she witnessed the primitive display of territorial rights, Cate might have been justifiably upset with him. He really didn't care at that point. He wasn't about to let some college stud ogle her. If she wanted to take a cab home, fine. But now he wouldn't let her wait for it alone.

She peeked at him, but quickly lowered her eyes. Once again, he noticed the pucker between her brows. "It'll be how long?" she muttered into the receiver.

Curious, Tom tapped her on the shoulder and motioned for her to cover the mouthpiece. "What's wrong?"

She shrugged. "The fog is slowing down cab service tonight. The dispatcher told me it'll be at least another half-hour or more before he can send a ride over here."

Tom scowled. "Here, give me that." He reached for the receiver before she offered it and held it to his ear. "Thanks, but no thanks."

She gasped as he slammed the receiver back into the cradle. "That's not what I expected you to do!"

"You wanted me to argue with the guy? Trust me, it won't get a cab here any faster."

He sounded as indignant as she looked. Tom realized he was still pissed that she had danced with Pete, but this was the only safe way to vent it. He wrapped his hand around her upper arm. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"But...I...this isn't..."

"Appropriate?" he finished for her. He tugged at her gently and got her headed toward the door. "Maybe not, but it's practical. Otherwise, you won't be home much before 11:00."

She stopped sputtering. "All right. I guess I don't have a choice."

Tom smiled to himself as he led her into the foggy night. No, Ms. Munro, he told her silently. This time you don't have a choice.

Gershwin usually took the edge off his nerves after a long, stressful day. Tom purposely selected that CD and set the volume on low, hoping the music would work its magic.

But it didn't this time. As he drove the fog-shrouded streets in stop-and-go traffic, he was too aware of Cate, of her subtly floral perfume and how it overrode the new leather smell of his car. Worse, she'd wedged herself up against the passenger's door as if to put the greatest possible distance between them, and said just enough to give him directions to her home.

He resented the guilt her body language stirred in him. Hell, he had saved her from an interminable wait and the lecherous glances of the valet. If she were so insecure about her own professionalism that she couldn't even accept an act of kindness...

"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful back at the restaurant. I really do appreciate the ride home."

Wondering if she had read his mind, or at least his expression, he cast her a quick look. He barely made out her features in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, and doubted she could have done any better with him.

"No problem," he muttered. "At least, it isn't for me."

He thought she inhaled rather sharply, as if to rebut him. Instead, she settled a little closer to the door.

Damn, he swore at himself, expecting another round of irritating silence.

"Did you really play jazz guitar?"

The question surprised him. "Yes," he replied before he had completely cleared the annoyance from his voice. "In college."

Apparently undeterred, she pressed him. "Were you any good?"

In spite of his mood, he recalled the period with surprising fondness. "Our ensemble took first place three years running in State competition. People even hired us for weddings and parties."

"You earned money working as a musician?" She seemed shocked.

"For a while. But performing was never anything more than a pastime. I kept it in perspective."

He felt her recoil. If she leaned any further into the door, she'd be outside in the fog.

"Yes, you keep reminding me about perspective," she mused. "I think I should refocus mine."

"Meaning?"

She turned slightly toward him. "It means that tonight over dinner, you promised to organize the dads to build new risers for the program. You volunteered your secretary's services for all the word processing and photocopying of the programs."

"So?"

"So, for a man who didn't even want his daughter on stage two days ago you've changed your tune -- please pardon the musical pun." She was suspicious. True, he had gone a little overboard. But, by the same token, he hadn't promised anything he couldn't or wouldn't deliver.

"I honor my obligations," he told her. "Even if they didn't originate with me."

"Please don't blame your aunt," she replied stiffly. "I told you I wouldn't hold you to that volunteer slip. Whatever I decide about tutoring Megan, I'll decide independently of that."

Her inference nettled him. "I wasn't trying to bribe you. I meant what I said on Wednesday. I want you to leave Megan out of any future programs."

"If I'm here next year to grant your wishes."

He veiled reference to proposed budget cuts affecting teaching positions brought him up short and left him gaping at her.

"I'm sorry, that wasn't very professional," she said to his stunned silence. "But I've been warned that if you and some others on the School Board have your way, I may not have a job next fall."

He couldn't argue. From her perspective, it appeared as if he meant to do just that. "I'm not out to eliminate your job," he assured her.

"Then you just want to gut the fine arts programs, is that it?"

Tom tried to look at her while keeping one eye on the diffused red taillights ahead of him. "Don't believe everything your union rep tells you, Cate."

"But I should believe you, the man who wants to shield his daughter from my influence."

"I want Megan to get her priorities right."

"Hers or yours?"

He grit his teeth. "Why are you so argumentative?"

"Why are you so angry?"

Generally or specifically, he wondered, remembering that she had danced with Pete, but would have refused him. Remembering, too, that he had a responsibility to his daughter.

"Angry?" he shot back. "Who's angry?"

"You are, Mr. Flannery."

"So, we're back to 'Mr.' and 'Ms'."

"This is business."

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a wave of his hand. "And as long as we're on the subject, Ms. Munro, you haven't given me an answer concerning our 'business' negotiations."

"I don't remember that we negotiated anything except that you didn't expect me to be a miracle worker or a surrogate mother."

The unnatural calmness in her voice in contrast with the raspy edge in his, warned him that he has probably blown the entire evening. At this point, he suspected he had little to lose. "I don't expect to beg, either."

"I doubt you'd do it graciously, in any case, so I'll spare you the humiliation. I accept your proposal."

On the verge of responding to her sarcasm, he did a double take. "What?"

"I'll try it," she answered. "For a month, twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7:30. But only for half- hour sessions. At her age Megan can't sit through anything more than that."

She'd written and delivered the contract herself. Tom wondered why the hell he'd even bothered to show up. "Your fee?" he demanded, wanting to feel somehow useful.

"Fifteen dollars per session."

"Agreed."

"My townhouse is around the next corner."

It was done. No frills, no mess, no blood. Yet, he felt somehow that he hadn't come out ahead on this deal. Mechanically, he obeyed her directions and within thirty seconds, he pulled onto the apron of her driveway. Except for the faint, white glow of the porch light, he made out little of the structure itself through the fog. When he started to turn off the ignition, she shook her head. "You don't have to walk me up to the door, thank you. Just give me a moment to find my key."

"Fine."

Being the gentleman he was, he flipped on the overhead light as she rummaged around inside her purse. "Try the bottom," he suggested.

She gave him a glance that conveyed her irritation at the remark. But in that moment of inattention, she fumbled her wallet. As she reached to catch it, her thumb tangled in the shoulder strap of the purse and tipped everything sideways.

A lipstick tube, a mirror, tissue, her coin purse, comb and elusive key ring spilled onto the seat. The clatter lasted only seconds, but the silence following it seemed to go on forever as the interior light shown glaringly on three small, square packets that landed on top of the pile.

Tom blinked, uncertain that he wasn't misinterpreting what he saw. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to her face and found it frozen in horror, blazing three shades of scarlet.

No, he hadn't misinterpreted a thing. He wanted to laugh. What a perfect end to a perfect evening. The prim and proper, all-business schoolteacher dumps a load of condoms on his front seat. Somehow, he doubted that she saw the irony in the situation.

"I always say you can tell a lot about a woman from the contents of her purse," he ventured, keeping most of the laughter out of his voice. "You, obviously, never leave home unprepared."

She closed her eyes. "I...I..."

Tom held up his hand, swallowed a chuckle. "No, please, I'm flattered," he teased and picked up one of the packets by a corner. "This is a little different packaging than I remember, but what's inside is the same. Right?"

He shoved it at her.

She recoiled. "I have no idea! I don't want it...I...I'm sure you'll need it before I will."

He did chuckle then. "Well, yes, that's the idea."

Her eyes widened with fury. "I didn't mean that! Damn!"

He cocked his head in feigned surprise. "I didn't think teachers swore. Of course I didn't think..." He trailed off, working the packet between his thumb and forefinger.

A muscle in her delicate jaw spasmed. She turned her attention back to the pile of detritus and began scooping it into to her purse. Then she threw open the door. "You have a lot to learn about teachers, Mr. Flannery! A hell of a lot!"

She swung her legs around and set her feet on the pavement, smack dab in the middle of ankle-deep slush from the sound of it. To her credit, she didn't flinch as she gave the car door a furious slam.

He watched her march up the driveway to her porch. When she disappeared into the house, he threw his head back and let go of the laugh he had held inside. What a messed-up roller coaster-ride-of-an-evening it had been. He couldn't remember ever having experienced so many emotions so acutely in so short a time as he had in the past three hours. Cate Munro had taken him on a crazy ride and all he wanted to do was hop on and try it again.

He sucked in a deep breath of air, switched off the interior lights and reached for the gear shift. Only then did he realize he still held the tiny, troublesome packet. For several seconds, he just stared at the sealed condom. Then he glanced up at the townhouse and decided he had some unfinished 'business' with Ms. Catherine Munro. Unsure of his intentions, he switched off the engine and climbed out of the car. Fog swirled around him as he jogged up the sidewalk to Cate's front door, but he didn't feel the cold or the damp. His skin warmed with vague yet very real expectation.

He punched the doorbell. Three heartbeats later a muted chime sounded inside and the front door opened with a jerk. Cate stood in the still dark foyer, minus her bulky raincoat and seeming inches shorter without her soaked shoes. She spoke before she clearly saw him on the stoop. "I suppose you forgot your key...You!"

Tom raised a brow and stepped across the threshold before she could slam the door in his face. "Giving me a key might be a little premature, don't you think?" he teased. "I mean, we're barely on a first name basis."

Her hand went to her throat as she backed away from him. "I thought you were Jon."

He followed her two steps into the foyer and nodded with exaggerated understanding. "Sure. Well, here, you forgot to take this."

She forced her gaze downward to the packet he presented her. "I...I..."

He stifled a grin and snatched her right hand. Using his thumb as a gentle pry, he wheedled her fingers open and laid the glossy packet in the well of her palm. When she shook her head and backed another step, he squeezed her hand softly and forced her to look into his face.

"A word of advice," he said confidentially. "These things might have a shelf life. Don't wait too long before you use them."

He grinned openly when she gasped, and held her hand tighter. "I had a great time. Cate."

She looked so porcelain pale in the weak porch light that his insides wrenched with the same overpowering need to protect her that he felt earlier in the lobby of the restaurant. The impulse to reach out and fold her in his arms was impossible to resist. So he didn't resist as he pulled her toward him. She felt so good inside his arms, softly feminine and a little trembly. The scent of her hair filled his head and her eyes glimmered with golden- green innocence.

A second, more potent urge seized him, one he knew he should dismiss out-of-hand. He suddenly wanted to kiss her, just enough to sample her secrets and satisfy his curiosity about this prim music teacher. Ignoring the risk that she might smack him, he brushed his mouth against hers.

The impact of that simple grazing of flesh to flesh sent him reeling. He hadn't felt such an electric sizzle and sensual delight of a sweet, stolen kiss since the happier days with Lara. Though he set out only to tweak Cate's overwrought sense of propriety by returning the condom packets, he had stepped over the line of appropriateness by a country mile. He deserved whatever verbal or physical defenses she flung at him.

Cate did whimper a faint protest and pressed her hand to his shoulder. His heart racing as if he'd run a marathon, he braced for the sting of her palm on his cheek and began a preemptive retreat. But, amazingly, she lifted on her toes and followed him. He doubted that she realized what she'd done, or that she let a little gasp of disappointment slip out as she pressed into his body.

His ego swelled with unmitigated satisfaction, and a deeper, more basic urge made him bolder. He gripped her narrow waist with one arm and threaded his cold-stiffened fingers through the silken strands of her hair. Then he kissed her the way a warm, beautiful woman deserves to be kissed. She tasted like white wine and feminine promises. He inhaled her scent in ragged breaths as he moved his lips over hers. He wanted her to open her mouth to him, but didn't press. She clung to the sleeves of his coat as if she he were a life buoy. He didn't want to drown her in sensations for which she wasn't prepared.

Neither did he want to drown himself.

Reluctantly, he withdrew from her lips, but not far enough that he couldn't still feel the warmth of her face. She swallowed another protest and then blinked twice when he let her go. He was sure that his lopsided grin trembled from the aftershock of her kiss. "Well, well, Cate Munro," he murmured, "you're full of un-teacher-like surprises tonight. You kiss as good as you swear."

She stared at him dumbfounded. He decided to leave before she found her wits. He backed up until he stood on the cement stoop outside. "Goodnight. See you at 7:30 on Tuesday."

She didn't seem able to answer. He simply flashed another knowing grin, turned, and loped down the three steps to the sidewalk. In less than fifteen seconds, he was back inside the car, still grinning like some damned cat that had just eaten the canary of its dreams. Moreover, he decided that he'd like to try that particular entree sometime soon again.

Chapter 7

Cate watched her sister-in-law ease onto a hard metal chair. Susan looked as if she carried twins, not the single boy-child who still had over a month to go nestled inside his mother's petite body.

"We have twenty minutes before the board meeting starts, Sue," Cate said. "Would you like some coffee or tea?"

Susan looked as if Cate had asked her to sprint around the cafeteria. "No thanks. Not unless you want me excusing myself every five minutes to use the rest room."

"We didn't have to come tonight," Cate reminded her.

Susan sighed. "I haven't missed one of these things since Janie started school. I'm not about to now." She gave in to a smile. "I am glad you called to ask if you could come along, though. I think it made Dave feel better since he couldn't make it."

"He worries too much," Cate scoffed with affection. "Since when did you need a keeper?"

Sue groaned. "Since I practically doubled my weight and threw off my center of gravity. Dave doesn't like it when I'm out on slushy pavements without a crutch."

"I'm the designated crutch tonight, is that it?" Cate teased.

"Smart woman."

Cate scanned the expanse of the high school cafeteria. In all her years as a parent and as a teacher, she never saw such a turnout at a regular session school board meeting.

Hundreds of people milled around the room or clumped into small groups. The babble of conversation was punctuated by occasional laughter that bounced off the cement block walls and stainless steel fixtures. Two custodians wheeled carts of folding chairs to the back of the room to create several new rows of seats near a bank of soda vending machines. Even that addition didn't look sufficient to accommodate the overflow crowd.

"Are all board meetings this well attended?" she asked her sister-in-law.

Sue shifted positions. "Lately, they have been. The proposed budget cuts have everyone's undies in a bunch. I'm glad you finally decided to get involved, Catie. I'm not exaggerating when I say what happens here could affect your teaching career."

Trying not to feel or look guilty over Sue's assumptions, Cate slowly removed her raincoat and pretended interest in the crowd. In fact, she hadn't cancelled her piano lessons for the evening so she could come and be informed or enlightened. She had come for one reason and one reason only: to catch a glimpse of Tom Flannery. Just like a teenager mooning over a movie star idol.

Her cheeks warmed at the fitting analogy. She was behaving less rationally than she did in her adolescence, and all because of that unexpected kiss last Friday night. The memory, as vivid as the moment it happened five days ago, still raised her blood pressure, just as it raised a rush of long forgotten desire.

She'd been furious that he had imposed himself on her in such an inappropriate manner. Yet, she'd been more furious with herself for succumbing to the kiss, and practically begging for more. After Ian, she knew better than to let a handsome face and confident air distort her judgment. All this grief over those nasty little condoms. She hadn't dared explain that she had found them amid Jon's schoolwork for fear that he would have thought her a flake and a derelict mother, and sought to have her denied tenure on moral grounds. She had allowed him to imagine his own explanation, even if he assumed that she routinely packed for action.

Instead, he had gently teased her before slipping the rogue packet into her hand. Then, he had kissed her in a way that left her restless and vacillating between fury and giddiness for the remainder of the weekend.

By last night, when Flannery was supposed to bring Megan to her first tutoring session, she had planned and rejected half-a-dozen ways to greet him. She had finally settled on cool indifference, but never had the chance to convey it. Myrtle Flannery escorted Megan instead and explained that her nephew had been held over in Florida on a business trip for an extra day.

She should have been relieved that she didn't have to face him at all. Instead, she had to hide her disappointment. When Myrtle mentioned none-too-subtly and with a twinkle in her blue eyes that 'Tommy' certainly would be back for the school board meeting Wednesday night, Cate guessed that the old woman saw right through her overly understanding posture.

Cate didn't even want to know what Myrtle actually suspected or how she came to suspect it. She simply took the hint. So, here she was, surveying the converted high school cafeteria, pretending interest in local politics, all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of just one particular tall, dark, and handsome board member. How incredibly pathetic.

She grabbed Sue's coat to divert her self-accusatory thoughts. "I'll hang these up for us. Unless, of course, you'd like to use yours for a seat pad."

Sue thought a moment, then shook her head. "No, I'm down for the count. I'd rather not try to stand again until we leave."

Cate squeezed Sue's narrow shoulder and gave her a wink. "Be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"Not under my own power."

Cate chuckled, stepped into the aisle and jostled her way back to the perimeter. She managed to find one hanger for both coats on the overstuffed rack, then spotted three, tall coffee makers on a lunch table that had been pushed against the wall. Needing a cup of stimulation, she checked her watch and decided that she had at least ten minutes before the meeting started.

Fortunately, someone had set out some tea bags and a pot of hot water. She reached for a Styrofoam cup, then paused when a shiver ran up her spine. In reflex, she glanced toward the raised dais where the school board members presided over the meeting. Unerringly, she zeroed in on only one man among the seven who moved about on the platform.

Tom Flannery separated himself from the others and leaned against the edge of the long, nondescript brown lunch table that doubled tonight as a the official conference table. He sipped from a cup, reading a paper. Twice, he pinched the corners of his eyes as if to dispel the weariness that dragged down his solid features.

A ripple of compassion spread through her. At the same time, reason warned her to be careful how much sympathy she should feel for this man who had the power to turn her life upside-down.

He looked up from the paper when a tall, striking, well-dressed woman approached him on the dais. Cate's warmer sentiments chilled as Tom smiled and held out his hand in greeting. The woman held Tom's handshake much longer than was socially necessary, and tilted her head in an almost flirtatious manner in spite of her professional appearance.

Cate winced at the cold clench of jealousy in the pit of her stomach. She had no right to feel such ownership for his attentions. The man was the father of her student and the dictates of her profession demanded that she keep her personal distance from him. Yes, he'd kissed the wits out of her. But he might have meant it as part of his tease. She needed to get hold of herself, fix her cup of tea and hurry back to her seat. Yes, she needed to stop gawking and get on with business.

Unfortunately, she couldn't seem to obey common sense just then.

Tom took a deep swig of the weak coffee. His quivering stomach didn't need the acid, but his dulled brain needed the caffeine. Lenore Kemper's heavy, musky perfume aggravated the slight pitch of his insides. He really didn't want to talk to her just now, but she'd made of point of seeking him out.

"Big crowd tonight," she commented. "Twenty minutes before the gavel falls and already there's standing room only."

Tom nodded. "People are interested in what happens to their schools."

Lenore glanced at him. "You're the draw, Tom."

"Me?"

She chuckled, sounding predatory and sexy. "Yes, you. Take a look. Three-quarters of the people are women. They've come to take a peek at the new rising star."

Hardly complimented either by her words or by the all-too-familiar 'I'm available' gleam in her dark eyes, he gave her a noncommittal shrug.

"Don't be modest," she advised. "Good looks and charisma are a plus for any politician. You'll need both when it comes time to sell the tough decisions about RIF's and program cutbacks."

Bristling at the suggestion that he should play the game of manipulation, he suspecting that she might be trying to manipulate him. "I don't consider myself a politician. And I haven't voted on those proposals yet."

Her mouth curved into a cool smile. "You'll do the right thing. Someone with your strong motivation and popular agenda hasn't been elected to the Board for a long time. I know you aren't afraid to make hard choices for longer term gains."

He frowned at the implication that the two of them were somehow bound in a common cause. "We have to consider the longer term losses, too, don't we?"

When she turned to face him, he realized that Lenore had heard the skepticism in his voice. "Such as?"

He braced himself, wondering at his own defensiveness. "Such as the Bridge Reading Program. What happened to it?"

Lenore blinked. "BRP? We cut funding for that two years ago. It's no longer an issue."

"Except that the program might have helped children like Megan," Tom countered. "I did some research. Reducing the BRP resulted in minimal savings. Yet other programs, far more expensive and less basic to elementary education, were left intact. Some sports programs at the high school level were even expanded."

With a hint of irritation, Lenore crossed her arms. "The sports programs bring in money. We made a solid bottom line decision. Besides, I thought you agreed with me that children like Megan should be spending more time in the classroom during the day instead of being pulled out for experimental programs that may or may not help."

Tom couldn't argue with that logic. "I do agree."

"You even said you intended to have a meeting with Megan's music teacher about the part in the spring program," she prodded.

A chill shrouded him, clashing with the heat that pulsed from deep inside him at the thought of Cate Munro. He wondered what Lenore would say if she knew what kind of meeting he'd had with Cate on Friday night. He still hadn't completely shaken the euphoria of Cate's eager kiss after five days.

He cleared his throat. "I did. Meet with Ms. Munro, that is."

"And?"

The question sounded imperious and he forced himself into an unsteady calm. "I'm convinced that she isn't using Meggie to bend my opinions. Hell, she didn't even know me or my name, except in the context of being Meggie's dad."

Lenore sniffed. "I find that hard to believe. The Teachers' Union makes sure its members have lists of real or imagined enemies."

"Isn't that a cynical view?" he asked, hiding the disgust he felt. Then again, maybe he didn't hide his disgust well enough. Lenore unfolded her arms and stiffened. "The music teacher got to you, didn't she? Did she compliment Megan's talent to your face, or pat your hand and tell you in a soft voice not to worry, that Megan's still so young and maybe just isn't ready to read yet?"

Tom ground his teeth at the accusation, but had to admit Lenore wasn't far off the mark. Cate had gotten to him in more ways than one. "A little of both, I suppose."

Lenore tossed her head. "And she's a rookie, too. Heaven help unsuspecting parents in a few years when she's honed her skills."

He opened his mouth to rush to Cate's defense. But in the same instant his rational keyed in on something else Lenore had said. "How did you know that she's a new teacher?"

Lenore shook her head, as if he should have known better. "The School Board had to approve her hiring, remember? But after we start the RIF's, she may not be a problem. Untenured teachers are the first to go, especially if their programs are pared away."

He fisted his hand, amazed by the anger he felt at the cold observation. "Megan likes her. A lot." He almost added, "So do I," but decided it was none of Lenore Kemper's business.

Lenore smiled into his building temper. "Sorry. It's one of the necessary evils Board members have to deal with."

"Necessary evil? Like cutting BRP?"

"Yes, like BRP. And if you're so concerned, get Megan a tutor."

He looked at her. "I did. I asked Ms. Munro."

She gaped at him. Pleased that he had stunned her into silence, he lifted his shoulder. "I told you. Megan likes her. But that's beside the point. I can afford a tutor. What about parents who can't provide the same for their children?"

Lifting her chin, Lenore arched her brow. "I mean to see that teachers have enough time with each students in the classroom so tutoring isn't necessary. I was under the impression that your goals were the same as mine."

He nodded reluctantly. "They are." She started to smile, but he held up his hand. "You and I may have the same goals. That doesn't mean we necessarily agree on how to reach them."

At that, she did smile. "Fair enough. Being reasonable adults, I know we can reach a reasonable consensus."

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He'd seen Lenore in action. Reasonable consensus to her meant a short debate then full compliance with her point of view. It hadn't mattered to him before. He agreed with most everything she had proposed. But his perspective had widened since last week. He had met the opponent on the battlefield over his daughter's education and realized that Cate actually wanted to achieve the same goal -- teach Megan to read.

Unwilling to let Lenore see his inner conflict, he absently shifted his gaze. The sight of Cate Munro standing at the refreshment table brought him to his feet. Their eyes met, locked and held. He hadn't expected her here; hadn't even hoped for it. The sweet, unaffected look of her -- slightly windblown, vaguely uneasy, demurely pretty -- gave his flagging spirits a jolt of energy. Something else stirred in him, as well; some deeper, more basic urge that was wholly out of place under the glaring lights of a high school cafeteria. Such urges demanded release in the soft, sensual darkness of a candlelit room.

Cate smiled tentatively before she turned her to the array of cups and tea bags on the table.

"Tom?"

The tug at his sleeve brought him back to Lenore. "What? What did you say?" She glared her annoyance at his distraction. "I said, despite our difference, I'm sure we'll work well together."

He nodded, eager to end the conversation. "Sure. I know we will. Will you excuse me? I, ah, I need another cup of coffee," he said and edged around her.

"Your cup is nearly full."

He glanced down. "Needs warming, then."

He spun away from her before she gave him leave and set a course through the milling crowd. He reached the table as Cate scooped a teaspoon of sugar into the cup of tea she'd prepared for herself.

"Good choice," he quipped. "The coffee tastes like a chemistry experiment gone south." She spun around. Hot liquid sloshed around the edges of her Styrofoam cup, but didn't splash out. He stepped closer to her and handed her a napkin. "I didn't mean to startle you."

A nervous grin tugged at her mouth. "Oh, no, it's all right. I just didn't expect you'd come over. I...I'm under control now." That wasn't quite accurate. Her hand shook so badly that she had to set the cup down to dip her bag of tea.

He wasn't managing much better. He grinned stupidly at her. "I...ah, I'm sorry about last night."

She looked into his face, unaware that the edge of her tea bag was dripping on the table. "Last night?"

Did she think he'd apologize for Friday night? No way in hell, at least not here in public. "Yes, that I didn't have a chance to come over with Megan."

"Oh, that." She noticed her dripping bag and flinched, then tried to sop up the mess with her napkin.

Aware that he made her nervous, he felt compelled to do something about it. He snagged two more napkins from a pile behind him and helped her. "I wasn't even sure I'd make it home this morning. There was a line of thunderstorms between here and Miami. The captain of my flight must have figured he could outrun the weather front. The captain was wrong."

She chuckled. "Bumpy trip?"

"Let's say the turbulence rivaled the roller coaster rides at Great America," he joked. "At one point the plane bucked so hard a refreshment cart rolled back down the aisle and hit the galley wall."

She gasped, but didn't lose her grin.

Encouraged, he continued. "The seatbelt light stayed on after that. The rest of the flight, I tried to catch up on reports, but instead found myself mentally chanting the list of aerodynamic principles that theoretically keep winged aircraft flying."

She laughed softly and picked up her cup. "And after all that, you're facing a long night of discussion and debate."

"The price of public service."

Her smile quivered slightly at the mention of his position on the Board. "You needn't apologize. Your aunt explained everything. I'm just assessing Megan right now anyway."

"Myrtle told me," he replied awkwardly. "I'll make it tomorrow, though."

She brought her gaze level with his. The warmth and sudden hesitancy of her smile revived his sense of expectancy. "Good."

Tom grinned. "Good," he echoed. Then silence again. He racked his brain for words. "How's your car?"

"My car? Oh, fine. It needed a couple of new belts." She chuckled. "For now. Al supplied me with a laundry list of future problems, though."

"That's always the way."

"Yes." She struggled for words, too. "I...ah...have the volunteer slips sorted," she finally said. "I sent photocopies of them home with Megan. You'll have some idea who you'll be working with."

"Thanks. I'll check her backpack."

"Mrs. Davis is volunteer program chair. She'll be calling you about a meeting Monday evening. I know how busy your schedule is, so if you can't make it..."

"I'll be there."

Her smile blossomed again. "Good. I'll be there, too."

"Good."

She stared at him. "Tom, I think..." Something behind him distracted her. "I think the woman you were speaking to a few minutes ago wants your attention."

He glanced over his shoulder, irritated but not surprised that Lenore raised her chin to beckon him.

"Is that Lenore Kemper?"

He looked at Cate. "You didn't know?"

She shook her head. "I'm ashamed to admit it. But I'm learning," she added with a shaky laugh.

He grinned, this time with relief. Cate Munro really was as innocent of political intrigue and manipulation as she had professed. "I'm learning, too, Cate."

He drank the dregs of his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the trash can. "I have to go. Will I see you after the meeting?"

She shook her head. "I'm here with my sister-in-law. I think we'll stay for the open forum session, then leave."

Disappointed, he nodded. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Sure."

"Cate?"

Her brow crooked in wary anticipation. "Yes?"

He smiled with slow, mellow appreciation of this woman who made his heart beat double-time. "I'm glad you came tonight."

She drew in a stiff breath of air. "So am I."

Damn, if he didn't believe her.

Rosemary eyed Cate with concern. "You look shell-shocked."

Cate squinted into the afternoon sunshine and sidestepped the remnants of a slush puddle as she followed her friend into the parking lot. "Hardly. Sue and I left the Board meeting early."

"Then you missed the good stuff."

The sarcasm in Rosemary's words made Cate lift her eyes. "I thought I'd heard the worst."

Rosemary stopped next to her silver-gray car and jangled her keys to find the right one. "Is that why you came to the Union meeting this afternoon? Did Lenore Kemper finally scare you?"

Cate knew she couldn't hide her defensiveness. "I came because I was curious. Edna called the meeting so fast and I wondered why."

Rosemary sighed as she unlocked the car. "It's called rapid response. Union reps all over the district called teachers into meetings after school today to plan counter-strategies against last night's proposals."

Cate clutched the three binders she held to her breast. "I can't believe it."

Rosemary sniffed. "What? That Lenore Kemper might have the consensus of the Board to enforce the proposals? Or that the Union would actually fight to save our jobs?"

Though Cate felt a flash of anger at Rosemary's 'I-told-you-so' attitude, she held it in check. "I underestimated both," she confessed. "But I won't let it happen again."

Rosemary tossed a load of papers and books onto the right front seat. "It is hard to believe unless you've worked in this district as long as some of us have. Sorry if I sounded snotty."

"You did," Cate answered with a conciliatory grin. "But I was disinterested until this became personal. I deserve it."

"As a matter of fact..." Rosemary let the thought dangle.

They both laughed.

"I'm still troubled by the letter Edna drafted to present to the Board," Cate admitted. "The tone is so confrontational."

"And threatening our jobs isn't confrontational?"

Cate nodded slowly. "I suppose it is. But would the Union really take a non-negotiable stance against cutting the fine arts programs during contract negotiations this summer?"

Leaning against the car frame, Rosemary crossed her arms. "Look, Cate, parents may take the fine arts curriculum for granted. Administrators may use it as a political football. But every teacher I've ever known understands the importance of those programs. Yes, I think the Union membership would demand that the district keep the courses at the elementary level intact. And, yes, I think it will be a non-negotiable item in contract talks."

Cate shrugged to hide a shiver. "You're assuming that Lenore Kemper has that much power and influence over the other Board members."

"She does. She managed to get her man elected last November just for good measure."

A knot twisted Cate's stomach. "You mean Tom Flannery?"

Rosemary nodded. "Lenore practically anointed Flannery to replace Jack Shrader. She knew what she was doing. They're virtually 'bottom line' soul mates."

Rosemary described Tom Flannery's relationship with Lenore Kemper in almost intimate terms. The knot in Cate's stomach twisted tighter.

"Mr. Flannery doesn't seem like he's anyone's man. Personal, professional or otherwise," Cate argued. Maybe she argued too forcefully. Rosemary blinked as if stunned. "I only mean," Cate backtracked, "that he didn't appear to be much of cheerleader for her last night."

Rosemary snorted. "No, he didn't. That much surprised me. But you know better than anyone he's hell- bent-for-leather behind his crusade against peripheral educational activities."

"He's concerned for Megan."

"As all good parents would be. But there are better strategies to deal with Megan's reading problems than browbeating a teacher who's only trying to help."

"He is trying other strategies," Cate told her.

"Oh? Such as? And what do you know about it?"

Realizing that she'd gone a bit too far in her defense of Tom Flannery's parental concerns, Cate argued that she had to spill the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "Such as tutoring. I know, Rosemary, because I'm the tutor."

"What?"

"Marlie Erickson even said that it might do Megan some good," Cate hurried.

"It might," Rosemary agreed. "But, Catie, you? I thought you were Flannery's personal scapegoat."

"That was before I told him I had a concentration in reading," Cate said and laughed. "Maybe he's allowing me to redeem myself."

Rosemary squinted. "Are you sure that's all?"

Cate didn't think she trusted the shrewd don't-even-think-about-lying-to-me, I'm-a-teacher-after-all, cast to her friend's glare. It seemed intrusive and too intuitive.

"Yes, I'm sure," she snapped.

Surprised by Cate's sharpness, Rosemary jumped. "I hope so. Just remember who your friends are."

Cate breathed a sigh of relief. Rosemary hadn't hinted at a romantic connection, only a professional one. She reached over and gave Rosemary's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "If I didn't know that before, I know it now. Thanks. For everything. You know how important it is that I keep this job. I can't uproot Jon again, and I can't move back with my parents. They've done enough for me since Ian's death."

Rosemary gave her a sympathetic smile. "We'll stand together on this, Catie. Just watch yourself around Flannery. He can be very persuasive. I've seen him in action at the School Board meetings."

You should have seen him in action last Friday night, Cate thought as Rosemary slipped behind the steering wheel. "I'll consider myself warned."

"Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow morning. Enjoy your evening."

As Rosemary drove out of the parking lot, Cate stifled a niggle of guilt. She didn't want to deceive Rosemary, yet she had held important details about her association with Tom. And, as she always reminded Jon, withholding information is the same as outright lying. Regardless, she couldn't deceive herself. All day she'd waited impatiently for the end of classes and the start of the evening when Tom was scheduled to bring Megan for her second tutoring session.

Watch yourself around Thomas Flannery.

Rosemary's advice didn't keep Cate's heart from skipping an anticipatory beat.

Chapter 8

Tom pushed the doorbell. Only then did he notice that his hand shook. The twitches in his stomach had finally spread outward. Not that he was surprised. The last time he crossed Catherine Munro's doorstep, he had behaved like an impulsive schoolboy. The kiss he gave her was out-of-character, not to mention out-of- bounds.

And he had felt absolutely great afterwards.

What did she feel? Though she was friendly, even sweetly flustered, when they met at the Board meeting, he was aware that he was entering her territory tonight. Would she act as if nothing had happened? Should he? Did she expect an apology, or an explanation? A glance into Megan's upturned face reminded him of his primary purpose. He smiled at his daughter and started to relax.

Then the door swung open. A subtle fragrance of floral potpourri wafted out, bringing Cate's image once again to the forefront of his thoughts, and sending his insides skittering.

"Hi, Meg. You're early."

Tom recognized the adolescent voice, though it didn't seem to be pitched quite as deep as it had been over the telephone. He also recognized the shape of Cate's mouth and eyes, and her fair coloring in the boy's handsome features.

"Hi, Jon," Megan answered as if she and the boy were old friends. "I told Daddy we'd get here too soon, but he wouldn't listen."

The boy gave her a lopsided grin, as if telling her he understood about parents, then motioned them inside.

Feeling like an interloper, Tom extended his hand to Jon. "I'm Tom Flannery."

Jon looked down at Megan, then up at Tom. "I figured," he said, but took Tom's hand anyway and gave it a good, firm shake. "Sit down. Mom's just finishing a lesson."

Megan followed Jon into the living room. She shrugged out of her coat and dropped it on a chair, as if she were right at home. Feeling none of his daughter's ease, Tom entered Cate's world more cautiously. He'd only seen a little from a darkened doorway. In the arch between the foyer and the living room, he stopped and glanced around the small, modestly furnished space.

Jon plopped down in front of a compact entertainment center that held components of a serviceable, but bare bones audio system, and a portable television that displayed a video game. Megan watched over his shoulder as he deftly manipulated a joy stick while keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

Tom smiled at them, then scanned the rest of the room. The color scheme -- light, understated hues of green, white and mauve -- made the area appear more spacious than it must have measured. A tall, mahogany veneer bookcase stood in the far corner, three of its shelves bowed with the weight of thick volumes. To the right of the case was a grouping of two wing chairs, an end table, a lamp, and an ottoman. A couch, its beige- on-beige cushions frayed around the edges, filled one entire wall. Above it hung an array of framed photographs.

Family photos, he realized, as he recognized a somewhat younger Cate with a glowing grin and long, shoulder length hair, holding a chubby baby. She was lovely even then, he decided, and more carefree. The film captured a sparkle of joy in her hazel eyes that he hadn't seen firsthand, though he had often seen her smile. A sudden desire to see her look at him with such open, honest pleasure pulled him up short. He forced his gaze across the span of pictures before his imagination ran amok. He found a recent school picture of Jon, an informal amateur photo of what appeared to be a family reunion, and several other shots of people he didn't recognize.

Meaning to give the rest of the collection only a cursory glance, he started to turn before he registered the three images in the last photograph. He snapped back to the picture. It had been taken on a sailboat. Whitecap blue water and a rocky New England-like beach provided a distant backdrop. He almost failed to recognize Cate with her bobbed, sun streaked hair. She was smiling, though most of the light had disappeared from her eyes, leaving her expression vaguely sad. Jon had grown into a sturdy and grinning toddler. He was leaning toward the camera, his blue eyes wide and wondrous as he clung to a wood rail.

Tom scrutinized the last image in the photo -- a man, his smile full and confident, his dark brown hair rakishly windblown, his features perfectly handsome. The late Ian Munro, Tom guessed. Jon had his father's blue eyes and strong, angular facial features, though not the smug, self-satisfied cast to his expression. A discomfiting tension settled in Tom's chest. It didn't resemble the bracing apprehension he had felt earlier. He couldn't name the darker anxiety any more than he understood it. After all, the challenging tilt of Ian Munro's head posed no threat to him. The man was long dead. And, if appearances meant anything, Munro had a right to his arrogance. He had a beautiful wife, a healthy, happy son, and a good life.

Tom shifted his attention to Cate's face. She exuded little of her husband's outward happiness. In fact, compared to his careless enthusiasm, she seemed quietly haunted. Moreover, Ian appeared unconcerned or, at best, unaware of her pain. That Ian was somehow responsible for Cate's loss of joy filled Tom with irrational anger. He didn't know the man any better than he knew the drunk who nearly stumbled over her in the foyer of Pete's restaurant. Yet he felt the irresistible need to protect her.

A moot point, he told himself, wondering at the sudden, almost primal urge. The drunk had caused her no real harm, and Ian Munro was history. Wasn't he? Or did Cate still felt his loss, as he sometimes felt the absence of his ex-wife. The notion didn't soothe his anger as it should have, and that bothered him even more.

"Daddy?"

Tom glanced down to find Megan at his elbow. "What, honey?"

"You were zoning out again."

He seemed to do that a lot when he thought about Cate.

Megan frowned her displeasure. "Please don't do it here. You look silly. I don't want you to look silly in front of Ms. Munro."

Tom didn't want to look silly in front of Ms. Munro either. "I'll watch myself, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy," she sighed as if not quite certain.

"Keep practicing Ryan. You showed great improvement tonight."

Tom jerked around at the sound of Cate's voice. She stood in the archway leading to the foyer, then walked her previous student out the door. The child, not much older than Megan, struggled with his coat, but gave a huge, toothless grin. "Thanks, Ms. Munro. I will."

Cate smiled and laid her hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now just wait here until your mother drives up, all right?"

The boy nodded.

Tom watched her turn, noted how her gathered skirt swished around her slender legs, settling over the soft, round curve of her hips. He lifted his gaze slowly to her face and found a shadow of a smile she had given the boy still in place. He also saw a hint of bemusement flicker in her eyes before she discreetly licked her lips. Still, she didn't look away from him.

"Good evening, Mr. Flannery," she said, then cleared a slight huskiness from her voice.

He cringed at her formality, but understood the need for it with Megan and Jon in the room. "Hello, Ms. Munro."

With an effort, she shifted her gaze to his daughter. "Megan, how are you?"

"Fine. I read my words with Aunt Myrtle."

"Wonderful. I can hardly wait to hear you read them for me." She glanced back at Tom, then at the briefcase in his hand.

"I brought some work," he explained. "To do while you're with Megan."

"Feel free to use the kitchen table," she offered, waving her hand toward a hallway.

"Thanks, I will."

He sensed that she felt as awkward as he did. She paused, forced her smile a little wider and finally held out her hand to Megan. "Ready?"

"Sure."

Megan slipped her hand inside Cate's. The teacher might not want the job of surrogate mother, but Tom realized that Megan had adopted Cate anyway. He watched the two disappear into a smaller room and shut the door, thinking with pride that his Meggie already had good instincts about people.

He let out a sigh before realizing that someone was staring at him. He met Jon's curious gaze with a half- grin. "Yes?"

Jon glanced twice between Tom and the television screen before he held up the joy stick. "You play?"

Tom sensed a man-to-man challenge and sidled over to get a better look at the screen. "I have something like this on my computer at home. I've played a couple of times."

"Are you good?"

"I can hold my own."

Jon grinned. The expression reminded Tom of Cate's smile, only quicker. In that instant, he wondered what had happened to make her so guarded.

"I have another joy stick."

He focused back on Jon's words, then set down his briefcase and took off his jacket. "Hook it up."

While Jon plugged in the equipment, Tom dragged the ottoman closer to the television and plopped down. Jon shoved the joy stick into Tom's hand and cocked a brow. "It's only fair to warn you, Mr. Flannery, I'm pretty good at this. Do you want a handicap?"

Tom peered into the boy's blue eyes, but detected nothing but a sincere offer to level the playing field. Impressed by Jon's sense of sportsmanship, he declined with a smile. "What I lack in skill, I'll compensate with strategy."

Jon accepted the terms. "Two out of three matches?"

"Let's go."

Sometime during the first game Tom rolled up his sleeves and they started trading good-natured verbal jabs. By the end of the second game the score was tied. Less than five minutes into the third match, Tom nearly jumped off the ottoman when he felt the press of a small hand at his elbow.

"Meggie!"

"Hi, Daddy. We're done now. Is Jon beating you really bad?"

His attention torn between his little girl and the darting figures on the television screen, he sputtered out a few nonsense syllables before he heard the soft, feminine laugh.

Like a magnet to iron, his gaze riveted on Cate as she stood in the archway between the foyer and the living room. Her eyes sparkled with pure amusement. She seemed unguarded in that moment, much as she had been in the photo of her and Jon as a baby. He realized that he'd never seen her so spontaneous and so sweetly beautiful. For several seconds, he could do nothing but gape at her, drinking in her loveliness. But her smile faltered as he stared.

Tom set aside the joystick. "Sorry. You two startled me. I was concentrating to keep up with the master over here." He jerked his thumb at Jon, who grinned with pleasure at the compliment.

"You're pretty good, Mr. Flannery," Jon replied. "You just need more practice. Maybe we can finish the third match next time you bring Meg over."

"Sure. Next Tuesday. I'll warm up at home."

"Great. I should be home from baseball practice by then."

"You play baseball?" Tom asked in surprise. "So did I. Pitched for my high school team."

"I'm first base," Jon offered with enthusiasm.

"You must have strong hands and good eyes. No wonder you were beating the heck out of me."

"Daddy?"

Megan didn't sound too happy. Duly chastised for ignoring her, Tom turned to his little girl. "What, punkin'?"

"Don't you want to hear about my lesson?"

Tom glanced at Cate. A trace of her smile lingered, as did a trace of sparkle in her eyes as she nodded encouragement.

"Sure, punkin'. How did it go?"

Megan beamed. "I did a good job. Ms. Munro said so."

Cate strode forward. "Megan did a wonderful job tonight. In fact, I'd like to tell you all about it." She looked at her son. "Jon, why don't you show Megan the finer points of Tetras while I chat with Mr. Flannery."

Tom's stomach dropped before he realized the cause. This might be it, he told himself. This is where she takes me aside and lets me have it about last Friday. Reluctantly, he rose from the ottoman as Jon scooted over to make room for Megan on the floor.

Cate motioned at the hallway with a wave of her hand. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Flannery."

Tom nodded, wiped his damp palms in his thighs and trailed after her. "Jon's a nice boy," he commented, wondering if she could detect the nervous edge in his words.

"Thank you." She slowed a bit, but her answer seemed infused with maternal pride, not suspicion.

"Keep him away from the arcades, though, Cate. With his talent at the joy stick, he'd probably start hustling and quit school."

She sighed. "That wouldn't surprise me. When he's not practicing ball or doing his homework, he's playing those games. I wish he'd practice his saxophone as much."

"Spoken like a music teacher," he quipped as they entered the small, brightly lit kitchen.

Cate peered at him.

"That was a compliment," he rushed to say, hating the awkwardness of his comments, wishing he didn't have to explain himself to her, and realizing that he had no one to blame but himself.

She continued walking until she came to a counter, then stopped and turned. "Thanks again. You played baseball, huh?"

A few steps behind her, he planted himself just inside the doorway. "It impressed the girls."

Her grin reappeared. "I bet."

The comment had slipped out. The color that rose to her cheeks gave her away. At least he no longer felt alone in his awkwardness.

"I mean," she hurried to explain, "athletes always do seem to impress the girls."

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. "Do they impress you?"

She looked at him. "Sometimes. But I always preferred a few brains with the brawn."

Damn, if she wasn't flirting! So was he, he realized with amazement. Enjoying it, too.

"Somehow I expected as much," he teased. "Looks like that's the way you're trying to raise Jon."

"'Trying' is the operative word."

"I think you've made a good start. Was your husband smart and athletic, too?"

Tom regretted mentioning Ian before the words left his mouth. Cate's grin flattened and her eyes hardened in a way he thought impossible. "Jon and Ian aren't very much alike at all," she replied in a clipped voice. "But I didn't ask you in here to discuss either of them." She had declared the subject off limits, which fired his curiosity. He wanted to press, but now wasn't the time. Now, he had to stand there and take his lumps.

He might just as well apologize and be done with it. "Cate, about last Friday..."

"Tom, about Megan..."

Silence.

"What about Megan..."

"What about Friday night..."

He massaged the stubble on his chin to hide a nervous grin. "Do you really want to talk about Megan?"

Cate had trouble hiding her own chagrin. "Do you really want to talk about last Friday night?"

"No, not really," he started to explain. He straightened, crossed his arms, then undid the work and let his hands dangle at his sides. "Well, I...actually, I thought you might want to say something about it...last Friday night, that is."

Cate narrowed her gaze. "Specifically what about Friday night?"

"We...ah, haven't had a chance to...it's never been the right to time to say anything about what happened...you know, when you...when I came up to the door and I gave the...ah, packet back to you."

Cate bit her lip, then inhaled deeply. "I know it must have surprised you when the...packet," she said carefully, parroting him, "fell out of my purse. But I assure you, I was just as surprised as you. I never carry anything like that with me." She stopped, considered her words and paled. "What I mean to say is if there were a good reason to have them along. I would. If we had been out socially...but we weren't." She seemed horrified by her own explanation. "I'm responsible, don't get me wrong. But there's a different, perfectly good, explanation why I had them."

"Which I'd like to hear sometime," he agreed, wishing she'd just let him apologize. "But that isn't what I'm talking about."

"It isn't?"

Tom drew himself up. "I'm talking about what happened afterwards."

Her eyes grew wide. "Oh. That."

Slightly miffed by her nonchalance, he frowned. "Yes, that."

Cate crossed her arms. "Just what did you suppose I'd have to say about it?"

She wasn't going to make this easy. "I supposed you'd demand an apology. I suppose I should offer one."

Her face softened and there was a hint of the earlier sparkle in her eyes. "You suppose? But you don't want to apologize?"

Why lie? "No. That was one helluva kiss. But if I offended you..."

"You didn't."

Her words stopped him cold. He peered into her eyes and saw only honesty there. And something else, something he couldn't quite define before she looked away.

"It did shake me, at first," she admitted, then laughed under her breath. "But I'm not angry. Or sorry. Do you think I'd let you into my house a second time if I had any question about your character or intentions?"

"No. No, you probably wouldn't," he stammered, taken aback by her calm understanding. "I just wasn't sure that you hadn't been insulted. I mean, considering how we disagree about other matters."

"We'll continue to disagree. Both of us, however, do have Megan's best interest in mind, and that should be our priority, don't you think?"

He should have been relieved that she held no grudge, or taken no offense at his boldness. Instead, he felt deflated that she had somehow rationalized the incident into near nothingness. Damn it, he liked kissing her. Remembering the way her mouth had moved under his, the way she had reached up for more, Tom knew she liked it, too. Now, though, she did another shift on him, away from the personal toward the professional. Cate Munro had mastered the art of avoidance. Giving up, he nodded.

"Yes, of course, Megan is our priority. What did you want to tell me?"

He must not have hidden his irritation well. Cate tightened her crossed arms before she spoke. "I think I have a handle on Megan's needs. At least, I know where to begin. Tonight, she tried to convince me to do as much of the reading for her as possible. She stopped on difficult words, and waited for me to help her pronounce them instead of trying to do it on her own. Miss Erickson told me she sees the same pattern in the classroom. It seems Megan uses her charm to convince other children to help her out." Cate smiled, but he didn't find anything humorous in the analysis.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, you should insist that Megan read to you, not the other way around."

Tom bristled. "She can't do it."

"She depends on you to do it for her," she pointed out. "She needs the practice trying on her own. Let her know it's okay to make a mistake, and that the worst thing that can happen is she'll learn from her errors."

"She gets too frustrated," he argued. "I don't want to put so much pressure on her."

"I'm not suggesting you pressure her. But I do think she pressures herself. She senses your anxiety. That could be causing a block to her learning."

Her calm logic irritated him, however much it made sense. "You don't want me to help her."

"You can help Megan by not catching her every time she falls. Let her pick herself up and try again." She unlocked her arms and held them out to him. "Tom, I know you want to protect Megan, especially after what both of you have been through these past few years. But this isn't the way to do it. If she learns, however unconsciously, that she can manipulate your fears to get what she wants..."

"She'll become her mother," he finished.

Cate blinked at the sound of his bitterness.

"I shouldn't have said that," he apologized.

Cate smiled weakly, then reached inside the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of notebook paper. "This probably isn't the best time to show you this, but I think it's important." She held the paper to him.

"What is it?" he demanded, refusing to take the paper.

Lowering her arm, she moved a few steps toward him and lifted the paper again. "As part of my assessment of Megan's ability, I asked her to do a writing assignment. She..." Cate hesitated, then squared her shoulders. "Megan wrote a letter to her mother, asking her to come to the performance."

Tom stared at the slip of paper as if it were deadly.

"Megan asked me to mail it for her," she went on. "She told me you probably wouldn't."

"She's right."

The answer slipped out before he could stop it. He started to turn away, unwilling to see Cate's reaction to his lingering resentment. The tentative press of her palm on the back of his hand brought him around. Her gaze held no condemnation, only questions.

"I know Lara won't come anyway," he answered her silent inquiry.

"Would it hurt to invite her?"

"Maybe not," he admitted.

The pressure of her hand on his intensified. "I know it's asking a great deal. You must not be over the hurt yourself. Believe me, I understand."

In that moment, when he heard the tinge of pain in her voice, he knew that she did understand. Yes, she knew what he had felt, what he still felt. Secret heartaches lurked behind that cool, teacher-appropriate facade. Perhaps those heartaches were the foundation of that wall of self-possession she'd thrown up around herself. But the wall had cracks in it. The heat of her fingertips as they lay on his hand said as much, even if she didn't realize it herself. She had reached out to him to console and reassure. He'd have bet a month's income that she didn't do that on a regular basis with other parents.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked down at her hand folded over his. Obviously stunned, she pulled back and sealed the breach in her defenses.

"I know you don't want to raise Megan's hopes only to have them dashed," she continued when he didn't comment. "But if you don't mind a bit of free parental advice, I'll tell you for certain that she'll be more disappointed if you try to discourage her efforts to contact her mother. And, if your ex-wife does come, you'll be the hero in Megan's eyes for setting it all in motion." She flashed him a shy, encouraging smile. Whatever cool resistance he had felt toward her advice dissipated.

Yet, he distrusted his own susceptibility to such simple charms. He remained stone-faced. "Good applied psychology, Cate. You're making this a win-win situation for me."

She maintained her calm demeanor. Still her voice became edged with a gentle insistence. "Isn't it better than a loss for both you and Megan?"

"You know about those losses, too, don't you?"

The observation surprised him as much as it did her. But before he could withdraw it or apologize, she set Megan's letter on the counter and stepped back.

"The choice is yours," she told him. "I would never do anything for Megan without your express permission. As you've pointed out, you ultimately know what's best for her."

Unable to look into her eyes, he stared down at the letter for a moment before jamming it into his pocket. "I thought I knew what was best. Maybe..." he paused, and glanced at her. "Maybe not this time. Thanks. One parent to another."

"You're welcome." She rewarded him with another smile, then waved her arm and indicated that they should return to the living room.

He followed her back down the short, narrow hallway and allowed the swing of her rounded hips to distract him. When the special floral scent she left in her wake tweaked some deeper urges, he cleared his throat.

"I glanced over the volunteer list you sent home with Megan. Most of the names are females."

Cate nodded. Her hair shimmered dark gold in the soft overhead light. He remembered what those strands felt like slipping through his fingers. "That's usually the case," she answered, unaware of his musings. "I made a sexist decision, though, and gave you the chair of set construction since it best suited your background."

Tom chuckled. "Thanks. I was worried I might get stuck with makeup or costumes."

She laughed, the soft melodic sound made his flesh tingle. "Somehow I can't see you wielding an eyeliner brush with the same skill you probably wield a paint brush."

He enjoyed the banter. "Faultless reasoning."

"Remember, our first meeting is Monday evening."

They rounded the corner and approached the living room. "I've already marked it on my calendar."

Only then did he realize he had to wait three whole days before seeing her again.

Megan launched herself off the floor as soon as he stepped in. "Daddy, guess what!"

Crouching down, he widened his eyes in exaggerated anticipation. "What? Did you beat the master at Tetras?" When he glanced at the boy, Jon gave a quick not-a-chance grin and set down the controls.

"No, Daddy, I told Jon that you were going to buy me a cat for my birthday, and he said his Uncle Dave has lots of cats to give away."

"Is that so?" Tom played along, unsure where Megan intended to take him.

In the next second, Jon stood up. "My Uncle Dave is a vet, and he lives out in the country. He and my Aunt Sue kind of collect strays that wander in. They feed and vaccinate the cats, and sometimes, like back in February, one of the cats had a litter..."

"And there's lots of little kitties," Megan cut in breathlessly. "I bet I could find one..."

"They're almost any color," Jon talked over her.

"Yellow, black, striped..." Megan cut in. "Maybe I could get two..."

"Whoa!" Tom cautioned. "Megan, we can't just go up and knock on the door and ask for cats."

"Sure you can," Jon volunteered, now sounding as enthusiastic as Megan. "Anyway, we're going out there on Saturday, right, Mom?"

Cate didn't seem to be following the flow any better than Tom. She nodded, then thought better and shook her head. "Well, we were going. But Al wants to get the car back up on the hoist this weekend and make sure his repairs are holding together."

"You can come with us, Ms. Munro," Megan decided. "Daddy's going to take a van anyway, so we can buy some things for my new kitty."

Cate peered down at him as he squatted in front of his daughter. "Van?"

"Actually it's Pete's van," Tom said. "We planned to make a stop at the pet store for supplies."

"We can all fit in!" Megan enthused, grasping his hand. "You, me, Ms. Munro and Jon. Even Aunt Myrtle." She swung around to Cate. "My aunt likes farms. She had one when she was little girl."

Cate's smile was touched with confusion. "Well, my brother's place isn't exactly a farm, Megan. It's more like a house in the country with a barn and a few animals."

"A few?" Jon objected. "Mr. Flannery, Uncle Dave and Aunt Sue have everything but a boa constrictor out there."

"Everything but, huh?" Tom muttered.

Megan peered at him, her eyes wide and hopeful. Reluctantly, Tom laid his hand on her shoulder and gave a squeeze. "Look Meggie, we can't just invite ourselves to a family gathering."

"Uncle Dave won't mind, will he, Mom?" Jon piped up.

Tom looked at Cate, pleading silently with her to make some sense of the babble. Unfortunately, she didn't seem any better equipped to deal with the onslaught. "Ah...no, probably not."

"See?" Jon said with a shrug, then tugged gently on a lock of Megan's hair. "Looks like you get yourself a brand new barn cat on Saturday, Meg."

She grinned ear-to-ear before throwing herself at Tom's legs, giving him a big hug. "Thanks, Daddy!"

"Come on, Squirt," Jon beckoned to her, heading back for the television. "Let's finish this game before you leave."

"Okay." Megan scampered off to join the boy, leaving Tom and Cate alone in the archway.

"What just happened?" Tom wondered, partially amused, partially irritated.

"I think Frick and Frack over there just planned our Saturday for us," Cate answered, her voice verging on laughter. "Looks like you're going to adopt a barn cat. Maybe two."

Tom gazed into her face. "I thought so. I just don't remember agreeing to any of it."

"Me either."

"Think your brother will mind?"

She chuckled. "No, not at all."

"What about you? Do you mind?"

Her eyes glimmered and her cheeks pinked a shade darker. "No, not at all."

Tom's heart gave a joyous jump. So much for having to wait those three days.

Chapter 9

Sunshine edged through the crevices in the slatted wall, painting the barn floor with irregular yellow-white stripes. A chilly March wind also found the cracks and swirled around Tom's shoulders. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, wishing he hadn't left his gloves in the van.

The kids didn't seem to mind the crisp air. They huddled around the mother cat and her litter of kittens. Megan giggled when the tiny ball of golden fur nestled in her lap mewed and licked her outstretched palm. Jon tried to look serious as he stroked the ruff of the butterscotch-colored kitten he held. But he gave up the pretense when his eight-year-old cousin, Janie, and her six-year-old sister, Beth, teased him into a grin.

Even Myrtle got into the act. Perched on a throne of baled hay, her nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold, her hands a flurry of animation, she commented on the future size and personality of each kitten. Janie scrambled off the floor, plopped herself next to the old woman and let loose a string of questions. Obviously delighted with the attention, Myrtle put her arm around the little girl and the two of them chattered away.

A warm longing spread through Tom. He remembered happy, energetic visits with his own cousins in rural Illinois. He schemed and fought with Seth and Will, and occasionally tormented, but mostly defended little Annie. They were family, the closest thing he had to brothers and a sister. Megan never had that sort of kinship. Tom had no siblings and Lara's bother and family lived in San Diego. As he watched his daughter laugh and play with Jon and the two girls, he realized how natural and right the three of them fit together.

The fragrance of floral perfume drew him gently from his reverie. The scent overrode the earthy smells of fresh hay, weathered wood and barn animals. He didn't have to glance over his shoulder to know that Cate had approached. His heart thrummed with anticipation. Smiling, he turned to find her arm-in-arm with her brother, Dave Austin. She rewarded his greeting with a wide grin and dragged Dave at a faster pace. With her hair tousled by the wind, her cheeks glowing pink, and her slender hips encased in snug blue jeans, she looked too young to be a woman already widowed and a mother of a teenage boy.

Tom felt an irrational urge to grab her by her slim waist, pull her into his arms and draw to himself a wisp of the carefree joy that made her eyes sparkle. A quick glance at Dave's cautionary glare cut the fantasy short. He allowed Dave a stiff nod of recognition, then shifted his attention back to Cate.

She broke away from her brother and sidled next to Tom. "Have we reached a decision yet?"

He shook his head. "Too many choices. Megan told me last night that she wanted the kitten to match her bedroom."

"And what color is that?"

"Pink."

She laughed. "Would Megan settle for a pink collar?"

"Suppose she chooses a male cat?"

Cate thought for a moment. "Cats are probably above concerning themselves with human stereotypes. As long as Megan gives him food and water and an occasional hug, I'm sure he won't mind."

Chuckling, Tom nodded. "Food, water and a little hug once in a while. Most people I know could get by on that."

"Could you, Flannery?"

Dave strolled forward and positioned himself on Tom's left, but a little ahead of them both. There was a challenge in his voice, and a glint of suspicion behind his faint smile.

"Without a problem," Tom answered trying not to betray the defensiveness he felt. "As I'm sure you could."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Cate take a step forward. If she meant to physically come between him and her brother, she needn't have bothered. Jon and Megan leapt off the floor and accomplished that for her.

"Daddy, I found the kitten I want," Megan informed him.

She carefully accepted the butterscotch furball from the boy and cradled the cat in her arms, close to her heart. "Jon gave him a name already. It's Thumper, because his back leg is a little shorter than his other legs so he has to limp," she explained with all due seriousness as she carefully lifted the kitten's appendage for examination. "Jon likes Thumper the best, but said I could have him if I give him lots of love. He needs lots of love, Daddy. But I can do that. Can I have him?"

His throat tight with tender emotion, Tom settled down and tickled the kitten's chin with his forefinger. "Looks like a fine cat, Meggie. I think you're just the person to give him all the love he needs."

Megan's joyous grin was all the thanks he needed. She wrapped one arm around his neck and squeezed while holding fast to her new pet. "I love you, Daddy!" she whispered in his ear before she tore free and rejoined the other two girls.

As he stood, Tom looked to Jon. "Thanks. I know it must have been difficult to part with a favorite animal."

Jon blushed and fastened his eyes on the toes of his shoes. "It's okay. We can't have cats at our townhouse, and Thumper needs a home. With his leg like that, he might not do too well out here in the barn with the stronger cats." He looked up, his gaze as forthright as his mother's. "Besides, Meg's a nice kid. She'll treat him good." He glanced at Cate. "Well," he corrected himself. His acceptance speech over, he returned to overseeing the litter.

Tom drew a deep breath and met Cate's eyes. Those beautiful golden-green depths reflected a quiet but genuine admiration meant only for him. They spoke to him of sudden awareness and wonderful possibilities, things that neither one of them could voice just yet. Exactly how long they stared at each other, Tom didn't know. He heard only the background chatter and children's giggles past the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"You're going to need a cat-taxi."

Dave's announcement jarred Tom's silent bond with Cate. "Huh?"

The corner of Dave's mouth twitched. There wasn't any doubt he'd cut in on purpose. "You'll need to have something to put your new cat in for the trip home," he explained. "I have some wooden crates stored in the garage. How about you and I find one." Without waiting for an answer, he headed outside.

"That wasn't an invitation, Tom."

Tom looked at Cate. "No, it was a summons. Why doesn't he like me?"

"Because he doesn't know you."

The answer, certain and without forethought, set his heart beating fast. Cate smiled with wry encouragement. "Don't worry. Dave doesn't have any guns on the property. A pitchfork or two," she added. "But he doesn't have very good aim."

Tom zipped up his jacket and flashed her a brave smile. "Thanks for the warning."

Dave Austin must have resembled the parent that Cate did not, Tom decided as he followed the young veterinarian into the garage. His eyes were clear green, his hair dark brown with a streaks of early gray, and his face was all sharp, long angles. In contrast to his sister's slender lithe build, Dave was compact and muscular; his movements sure, steady and economical. Though half-a-head shorter than Tom, Dave stood 'tall'. In a fight, they'd be equally matched.

Fight? Tom wasn't sure where that notion came from, except that Cate's brother hadn't been particularly friendly, however much Dave had extended gracious warmth to Megan and Myrtle. Neither had Dave tried to initiate more than a few grunts of conversation in the ten minutes they had spent rooting around for a 'cat taxi'.

Dusting off his hands, Tom took advantage of the fact that Dave's back was to him and he did a quick look around the garage. A cavernous place, it housed a pickup truck, a full-sized station wagon, two snowmobiles and a riding lawn mower. Overhead rafters and shelves on three walls held cross-country ski equipment, tennis racquets, badminton and croquet sets, tee-ball posts, baseball bats, three basketballs, and wood and metal construction projects in various stages of completion. As he marveled at the scope of activities the Austin family enjoyed, Tom did a double take at a set of rods hung with care in one corner.

"Nice fishing gear," he muttered, almost to himself.

"You fish much?"

Not having expected a response, Tom spun around. Dave stood, hands on his hips and stared at him with overt challenge.

Tom glanced again at the gear. "Not since I was a boy. We lived near a river downstate. Myrtle took me fishing almost every day during summer. My Dad and I went on weekends. Never had rods like this, though. Never caught much of anything either, as I remember."

Dave examined the rafters in search of the elusive crates. "My girls love to fish. Now that Jon lives so near, I'm sure he'll come with us. Have you ever taken Megan?"

Tom moved away from the rods and continued looking for the crates, certain that it wasn't the real reason Dave had dragged him out to the garage. "No, she's like her mother. Hates squishy things like worms."

"Is that why you and your wife split? No common interests?"

Beneath the casual nature of the intrusive question, Tom heard the protective snarl of a big brother. Glad that he didn't fully face Dave and give away his amusement with a quirky smile, Tom shook his head as he continued rooting around. "No, I think it was the third, maybe the fourth time I didn't call to let her know I'd be late for supper. She had a low tolerance for wasting food."

"You're a smart-ass."

Tom glanced over his shoulder. "And proud of it." The dead silence that followed should have worried him. He felt only a strange, confident calm as he faced Dave.

Dave finally dropped his hands to his sides. "Okay, so am I. Let's say I'm just overly cautious where my family's well-being is concerned."

Tom cocked his head. "Meaning?"

Dave sauntered to a shelf and started looking behind a box of gardening tools. "Meaning Cate's just getting her life back together and she doesn't need any nasty complications right now."

Obviously Dave assumed Tom knew more about Cate's recent past than he really did. "Well, Austin, I'm not."

"What? Nasty or a complication?"

"Either one."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Then why are you trying to eliminate Cate's teaching position?"

The accusation stung. "Did Cate tell you that?"

"No, Sue did."

That figured. Tom had wondered why the pretty, pregnant woman had a warm smile for everyone but him.

"I don't want to eliminate anyone's position," Tom stated. "What's more, I do appreciate that Cate is a good, concerned and caring teacher. Do you think she'd have come out here today with me if she suspected I thought any less of her, or that I'm trying to undermine her career?"

"No, I suppose not," Dave admitted. "But that brings up the complication part."

Tom willed the irritation out of his voice. "Just what sort of complication am I, Austin?"

"I'm not sure. I was hoping you'd enlighten me."

"You first. Right now, I'm just confused."

"Fine." Dave reached for a step-ladder. "For starters, Cate hasn't brought a man to a family gathering since Ian died."

Tom peered at Dave. "She said you wouldn't mind."

Dave opened the ladder beneath one of the rafters. "I don't. It just isn't like her to have men friends. Not since Ian." He glared at Tom. "You might say that her husband was one of those complications in her life. He was an SOB."

Though he didn't flinch, Tom shuddered. He suspected that Cate harbored some deep, unresolved pain. He even guessed that her late husband was the cause. Dave's confirmation made his gut twist.

"Is that it? Do I remind you of Munro?" Tom asked, determined to know, yet half-afraid to hear the answer.

Leaning against the ladder, Dave crossed his arms. "She hasn't told you about him?"

Tom growled a laugh. "I don't know why you think she had."

Dave's glare hardened.

"Look," Tom said, "I've known your sister for a little over a week, and she hasn't bared her soul to me. Besides, Jon and Megan set today up. I'm just the designated driver."

"You're sure about that?"

Tom hesitated. True, the plans for the day revolved around Megan's search for a kitten, and Jon had volunteered his uncle's litter of barn cats as a source. But after Cate's initial bemusement at how quickly the situation Thursday night had escalated from a pet search to a field trip, she had seemed agreeable, if not actually warm, to the idea. Neither could he deny that he'd looked forward at the prospect of spending a day with Cate, albeit one chaperoned by her family. He woke before daybreak. Anticipation had made sleeping impossible. He even shaved, a weekend rarity that Megan noted when she kissed him good morning.

"I'm as sure as I can be," Tom hedged.

Dave lifted his chin, making it clear that he felt as uncertain as Tom sounded.

Patience frayed, Tom took two steps forward, but stopped when Dave stood away from the ladder and pulled his body taut. He understood on a rational level that this verbal sparring would never escalate to physical blows. Yet Dave's stance signaled that he would use every weapon in his arsenal to defend his sister from harm.

Had he been less ambivalent about his own motives, or had their tension been less palpable, Tom might have laughed at the absurdity of this battle of wills. Instead, he lifted his hand in a gesture of truce.

Dave didn't stand down.

Tom's irritation surged again. "I know that Cate looks fragile. I made the same mistake the first time I met her. But, in case you haven't noticed, she's a grown woman and a damned strong woman at that. She's probably not the Catie who-used-to-be-your-little-sister."

Dave's shoulders sagged and his scowl flattened into a sad, straight line. "No, she's not the little sister I knew. That Catie Austin laughed a hundred times a day over things that everyone else took for granted. She gave her heart away as effortlessly as I give away those barn cats. Beautiful music and old movies made her cry." He drew a ragged breath and raked the garage floor with his eyes. "After three years of marriage to Ian, all that changed. She barely smiled, much less laughed. And for a long time, she shut everyone except Jon out of her life. I haven't seen her cry for joy or sadness in over ten years."

Irrational fury pushed up from Tom's gut. He went rigid, his body ready to strike out with blind, physical force against the man who had somehow hurt Cate Munro enough to take the joy and laughter out of her life. But the enemy was dead. Tom unleashed the anger verbally, stunning himself with the menace in his own voice.

"What the hell did he do to her?"

From the way Dave's head snapped up, Tom realized that he had stunned Cate's brother. Dave regarded Tom with new speculation. "Nothing that left physical scars. Cate doesn't talk about it, even with Sue, and the two of them are closer than most sisters." His jaw twitched. "I know I shouldn't say this, but I'm glad Ian's out of her life and can't come back. Problem is, he killed Catie's spirit long before that car accident killed him."

The memory of Cate's smile and the brief twinkle in her eyes overlaid Tom's cold fury. No, he could do nothing about the damage Ian Munro had done. But he swore he'd bring smiles to Cate Munro's lovely face again. He knew with certainty that he could do that and enjoying every minute of the challenge.

"I'd never to anything to hurt Cate," he said with conviction.

Dave met his gaze. "Ian probably didn't start out meaning to hurt her either."

When Tom opened his mouth to protest, Dave shook his head once, cutting him off. "Cate may not feel comfortable enough with you to pour out her life story, but she's interested, Flannery. I've seen the way she looks at you. Hell, I've seen the way you look at her. Don't screw it up for her. Cate's finally coming home to us and she doesn't need any setbacks. She has us. She has a new life. And she has her job."

Tom winced as if Dave had doused him with water. Did everyone view him as the man who would pull the rug out from under Cate's life? He felt guilty and defensive. "So what if I do screw it up? Will you call me out for a duel with pitchforks at twenty paces? Cate says your aim isn't worth spit."

For the first time, Dave flashed a genuine smile as he ascended the ladder. "Cate's right. I couldn't hit the proverbial broadside of my barn." He reached the rafters and shoved aside some debris. "Instead, like all good Americans, I believe in the power of the ballot box."

In spite of their verbal sparring, or maybe because of it, Tom found himself respecting the veterinarian. "In other words, you'll try to have me booted off the Board?"

"On your ass," Dave muttered. "Ah, here we go. One good solid cat-taxi. Take it, will you, Flannery?"

Tom sauntered over, stood beneath the crate dangling from Dave's fingers, and stared up at the man. "My friends call me Tom."

Dave angled the crate and peered down before a tentative grin spread across his face. "Okay, Tom."

The warmth of the big farm kitchen felt wonderful after the buffeting of the chilly March wind. Cate smiled to herself as she stirred a pan of hot cocoa. Of all the rooms in her brother's house, she liked this one the best. Massive, it served as a dining room, informal parlor, and even a playroom as evidenced by the riot of dolls, coloring books and puzzles in the far corner. It was a family gathering place, usually noisy with activity and voices. Now it lay blessedly quiet, the only sound that of the spoon circling the bottom of the pan.

"What's that tune you've been singing all day?"

Cate glanced to the table where Sue sliced apples for the fruit salad. She hadn't even been aware that she was singing. "Oh, it's from the school play we're rehearsing. The words explain how love can make the Velveteen Rabbit real."

"Pretty melody," Sue mused. "And a sweet sentiment."

"The kids love it." Cate tapped the spoon on the side of the pan and set it on the counter. "They sing it as if they really believe it."

"You do, too."

The observation surprised Cate. She giggled softly. "I do? Well, maybe I'm just into the play myself. The kids are so sincere that it's hard not to be swept away by it all."

Sue glanced up, her smile uncertain. "I'm glad, Catie. You haven't been swept away by anything for a long time. It's nice to hear you sing again."

"It has been a while," Cate agreed, hard pressed to remember when she abandon the inclination to express her contented moods with song. Now the urge was back, welling up from a new source deep inside, spreading outward, tingling as delightfully as the kitchen warmth that infused her numbed fingers and toes. Something had touched her heart, something ephemeral but honest. Maybe it was the brilliant sunshine with its promise of spring. Maybe it was the quiet companionship with Sue. Or maybe it was the joy of watching Jon and the girls romp with the kittens.

Another memory settled gently over her, that of Megan presenting the little lame kitten to her father, seeking permission and approval from the most important person in her life. Cate remembered holding her breath in awe at the loving tenderness and trust that flowed between Tom and his daughter at that moment. Her heart stilled at his gentle words of encouragement and faith in Megan's choice. Her eyes misted at the little girl's impulsive words of love and thanks. In that unguarded slip of time, she had glimpsed something of the man that made her want to reach out for him.

Instead, she sang to herself, something she hadn't done for a long, long time. She sang of love while making a raggedy little stuffed bunny real. Just as she felt real, confident, solid, and incredibly alive.

"The ham smells good. Is it almost done?"

Sue's question snapped Cate back to reality. "I'll check."

Donning protective mitts, Cate opened the oven door and knelt on one knee. Heat billowed out, stinging her cheeks as she checked the meat thermometer. "It's close. Twenty minutes at the most." She stood. "Everything else is ready. We just need to put some pickles on a serving dish."

Sue laid down her paring knife and started to rise. Cate waved her back down. "Sit. I'll take care of it."

"I'm not an invalid," Sue griped with a grin.

"No, just pregnant. In two months or so you'll be running around enough for three people. Enjoy the rest now."

"I suppose you're right." Sue said and sat down. "Tell me, does parenting get any easier?"

"No, just more interesting," Cate teased while she pulled jars of pickles and relishes from the refrigerator. "You'll never guess what fell out of Jon's backpack last week. Condoms."

"No!"

"Three of the them," Cate assured her, holding up her fingers. "A gift from the Safe Sex Fairy."

Sue squealed as, in a few, unadorned sentences, Cate told her how the packets had landed in Jon's possession. Cate said nothing about her own brush with near-disaster when the packets tumbled out of her purse in Tom Flannery's car.

"Something to look forward to," Sue finally managed to get out past her giggles. "Oh, Cate, Jon's gotten so big!"

Nodding, Cate began arranging the pickles on a serving plate. "You know you've lost your baby boy when he starts to smell like deodorant instead of talcum powder."

"Do you miss the talcum powder?"

Glad that she had her back to Sue, Cate winced. "Sometimes. I always wanted two or three children, like you and Dave. There wasn't time or opportunity with Ian."

"There are other men in the world."

Cate sidestepped the hint. "If I ever miss the smell of talcum powder that badly, I'll just come out and diaper the baby for a day. That should take care of any misplaced maternal instincts."

"Uh-huh. Well, in any case, I'm glad you moved closer to us. I missed you when we left Madison. And now Janie and Beth have a built-in big brother."

"It's been wonderful for Jon and me, too," Cate hurried to say. "Coming here, being close to Dave, has given Jon another man to look up to. Especially now when he's entering his teens."

"More especially with the Safe Sex Fairy lurking around every corner," Sue reminded her.

"True." Cate chuckled, then became serious. "Dave and my Dad are so much alike. I want Jon to grow up with the same honesty and integrity and compassion they have."

"I'm sure he's learned plenty of that from you."

"Thanks. But at some point a mom is just not enough. Jon needs to see those qualities in a strong man. A man he can like and imitate."

"Jon seems to like Tom Flannery."

Cate almost dropped her fork into the pickle jar. Sue was probing in her gentle but pointed way. "I suppose so. They met only once, over a video game."

"Tom seems nice enough," Sue admitted. "But I was surprised that your 'guest' turned out to be him, of all people."

Sue didn't hide the hurt in her voice. Cate glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "I told Dave."

At that, Sue let out sound of mild irritation. "You know Dave. He told me it was just some guy."

Cate glimpsed an intrigue. "Ah-ha! So Catie brings some guy out to the farm and sweet, little Sue decides to give the day a domestic twist with honey-baked ham, potato salad, and cold beer served up in a nice, big, family farm kitchen."

Sue had the grace to blush. "Guilty as charged. But I wouldn't have gone to the trouble if I had know it was him."

Cate set aside her pickle plucking, sauntered over to Sue and plopped down on a chair. "Sorry if I shocked you," she apologized, and stole an apple slice from Sue's bowl.

With a halfhearted swipe at Cate's hand, Sue tried to hide an embarrassed grin. "Shock' is a good word for it. Care to tell me how all this came about?"

"Actually," Cate explained around the bite of apple, "it was Jon's idea. That is Jon invited Megan when he found out she wanted a kitten."

"How does Jon know Megan?"

"Megan comes to our house for reading lessons."

Sue rested her hands on the table. "Well, I guess one could say that's a twisted sort of justice. Flannery pays you to teach his daughter to read while he tries to cut your position out of the curriculum."

Cate studied the remnants of the apple between her fingers. "I don't think that's his ultimate goal."

"I can't believe you're saying that. You were at the School Board meeting. You heard what I heard."

Cate lifted her gaze to meet Sue's questioning frown. "Lenore Kemper did most of the talking."

"Lenore Kemper wouldn't be talking unless she had support. His support."

Suddenly restless, Cate pushed away from the table and went back to the jars of pickles. "I've gotten to know him a little better in these past two weeks. He's not an ogre."

"An ogre-in-training, then?"

A glance behind her told her that Sue had spoken in jest.

"All right, all right," Sue conceded, waving her knife in little circles. "He's a good looking ogre. But that's as far as I'll defend the man. Hey, Catie, you're blushing. What's up?"

Cate spun around, crossed her arms and leaned into the counter. "Not my defenses, that's for sure."

"It's about time you let them down. But Tom Flannery? Good grief, you are attracted to him, aren't you?"

Cate knew the heat blanketing her body had nothing to do with the oven three feet away. Her temples throbbed with blood she felt stain her face and throat. If she ran outside at this moment she'd collapse in thermal shock.

Sue's eyes had widened until they dominated her pretty face. "This is serious, isn't it?"

Rubbing her forehead, knowing it wouldn't erase the scarlet evidence of her folly, Cate gave up and nodded. "I don't get it either. Less than two weeks ago the man walked into my classroom and accused me of trying to manipulate his opinions by giving Megan the lead in the program. And as I sat there fuming, I found myself mesmerized by how dark his hair looked in the overhead lights, and how wide his shoulders were, and how strong his arms felt."

Sue's eyes almost popped out. "When did you feel his arms?"

Remembering how their bodies had met when Tom pulled her off the closet floor, Cate swallowed hard. "Never mind. It's a long story."

"One you'll tell me before I die," Sue vowed. "But for now, I get the picture."

"No, I don't think you do," Cate argued, trying to calm herself. "When I so much as think about him my heart races. When I'm with him, I feel things inside me that I can't even describe. I'm almost afraid to trust myself around him."

Her arms crossed over the bulge of a baby-in-waiting, Sue leaned back in her chair. "You really need to get out more. You don't honestly think you're the only woman who's had the hots for some sexy guy, do you?"

"This isn't just some sexy guy," Cate insisted. "This is the father of one of my students. He's also an influence on the School Board, and not a popular man with the teachers. I can't allow myself these feelings, whatever they are."

"I don't think you have a choice."

Cate stared at her sister-in-law in total surprise.

Sue only laughed. With great effort, she hefted herself out the chair and crossed the room to where Cate stood. "I'll tell you a little secret, Cate, woman-to-woman. You're trapped by biological evolution that dates back millions of years. Females are attracted to strong, good looking and productive males. It's a matter of finding someone with whom we want to mingle our genes and produce the next generation."

Though she saw the twinkle in Sue's blue eyes, Cate didn't feel like playing along. "There's more to it than seeking a mate for gross procreation."

"True. We modern humans have overlaid it with mating rituals and other societal considerations. But when the rubber hits the road it's a search for good genes." Sue grinned. "And how a guy looks in jeans is just as important. Which, I have to admit, is another plus on Flannery's score card."

Despite her qualms, Sue's socio-psycho-babble tickled Cate's fancy. She started to chuckle, then laugh, until she had to hang on to the counter for support.

"You're making me crazy!" Cate finally managed to gasp.

With a sisterly affection, Sue patted Cate's hand. "Nonsense, Catie. You're already there."

Sighing, Cate shook her head. "You can't tell me that you think your love for Dave boils down to pure sexual attraction."

"Of course not!" Sue replied in mock exasperation. "Dave is one of those men who have developed a rather pleasing veneer of civility. But it doesn't hurt that he'd also qualify as male centerfold."

"Sue!"

"Now who's shocked?"

Cate tried to stifle a giggle and failed. "He's my brother!"

"Ever seen him naked?" Sue challenged, lifting a brow.

"Yes. Well, thirty-some years ago."

"Trust me, he's a big boy now."

The proud, sensual lift in Sue's full mouth spoke of a passionate intimacy with Dave that filled Cate with a cold, hollow envy. It must have shown in her eyes because Sue's smile flattened.

"I didn't mean to offend you. But, after all, you were married. I thought you'd understand."

Ashamed of her jealousy, Cate lowered her eyes. "You didn't offend me."

"I know," Sue comforted. "It's hard to imagine your brother in anything but platonic terms."

Cate dared meet Sue's concerned stare. "In all honesty, it's hard for me to imagine those kinds of feelings at all."

Sue frowned as the confession sank in. "Oh, I see. You and Ian...he didn't..."

Wanting to forestall a lengthy, painful explanation, Cate rested her hand on Sue's shoulder and gave a squeeze. "It wasn't all Ian's fault. Let's just say that I'm glad to know that passion doesn't have to die in a marriage." She drew a cleansing breath and managed a teasing smile. "I'm glad you and Dave make each other happy. And I'm glad my brother's not an embarrassment to the Austin clan."

Sue touched the back of Cate's hand as it lay on her shoulder. "Given the right circumstances and the right man, I think his sister would do the Austin clan proud, too."

New warmth flooded Cate's body. She bit back a disbelieving chuckle. "Do you now?"

"Sure do," Sue claimed with a sharp nod. "Look what Tom Flannery does to your insides."

"I'll forever regret confessing that to you," Cate declared in good humor.

"Take comfort knowing that you can't help yourself. It's because of his genes."

"The 'g' kind, or the 'j' kind?"

"Both. Either. Whatever."

That set them off laughing again. Sue was holding her side and Cate had reached for a tissue to wipe the tears from her eyes when the outside door opened on noisy hinges. Dave and Tom walked in, planted themselves and stared at the two women.

How long the silence lasted, Cate had no way of knowing. All she knew was that her gaze fastened on Tom and wouldn't let go. Even when he cocked his head and lifted his brows in question, even when her heart started its tap dance inside her chest, she didn't look away. His appraisal of her, speculative but admiring, and completely without guile.

Is this what Dave and Sue still feel when they look at each other, Cate wondered. Is this how it should always be?

"They were talking about us."

Dave's flat and factual statement broke the spell. Cate snapped her attention to her brother and found him depositing a crate and a battered brown blanket on the floor.

"Were not," Sue denied.

"Were, too. From the way you two shut down when we came in, I'd say it must have been some discussion. What do you think, Tom?"

Cate glanced at Tom. A smile of open male satisfaction brightened his expression. His blue-gray eyes skimmed over her face, lingered on her mouth, then lifted to her gaze.

"I think you might be right, Dave," Tom replied, the purr of his voice hinting of suspicion.

"Well, I think I'm hungry," Sue declared, changing the subject. "Anyone else?"

Cate nodded without thinking. As she wrested her attention from Tom, she realized with a start that the honey-baked ham and potato salad would not, for all the world satisfy the kind of new hunger stirring inside her.

Chapter 10

The cool March wind had taken on a cold bite by the time Tom finally escorted Cate to her door. He set the heavy cooler down on the front stoop and rubbed his strained thighs while she fished the bottom of her purse for the door key. "You could always dump it, like you did last time."

Though Tom couldn't clearly see her profile in the dark, he heard the grin in her voice. "I've already made sure that another such accident won't yield any surprises."

"Too bad. That was the most creative social ice-breaker I've ever seen."

She glanced at him. No doubt she too recalled the craziness of that, including the kiss that had ended it all.

Tom sure as hell did. He also remembered the subtle difference in the way Cate met his gaze all day long. He didn't know how to name it, but instinct alerted him that she had let down a measure of her defenses. Would she object if he tried to kiss her? Might she even anticipate it? Tom thought about little else the whole ride home. He hadn't felt this nervous since his first date back in high school.

"Yes, well," she finally answered and continued to search for the key. "I'd say we've broken through a lot of ice since then, don't you think?"

"The polar cap."

She laughed softly. Was that an invitation?

"Thanks for helping us shop for all that cat paraphernalia," he said, hoping the conversation would deflect some of the tension he felt between them.

"Sure," she muttered. "You were lucky Jon stayed at the farm tonight. You'd have walked out of the store with three more bags of cat toys."

"The credit card took enough of a hit," Tom agreed. "Megan couldn't wait to get everything home and spread it out. I hope you don't mind that we dropped her and Myrtle off first."

"No, not at all," she replied. "Your aunt mentioned she was a little tired anyway. It's been a long day."

Tom smiled to himself. He'd caught the twinkle in Myrtle's eyes and suspected the old girl had more energy left in her than he and Cate put together. There had been purpose behind his aunt's request to be dropped off before he took Cate home. He wondered what Myrtle supposed they'd do with their time alone.

"You have a nice home, from what I saw of it."

Tom snapped to. "What? Oh, my house. We like it."

"Compared to my townhouse, it's big."

"Too big."

Her sideways glance questioned.

"When Lara and I built it we thought we'd have a larger family." He hesitated. "Anyway, I thought we'd have a larger family."

"Oh."

The quiet understanding in that one syllable made him wonder what plans she had for her life, and why they didn't happen.

"Here it is!" she said, producing a ring of keys. "Sorry it took so long."

"No problem."

Yet.

Ten seconds later she let them inside and turned on the overhead foyer light. Then she proceeded down the hallway to the kitchen, assuming that he'd follow. Tom shuffled along behind her, careful not to let the huge, heavy case bang into a wall. "What did Sue pack in here?"

Cate flipped on the kitchen light. Her eyes sparkled in the soft, white glow. "Ready-made dinners. It's a little game she plays when Jon and I come to eat. Sue overbuys food, claims she has no room in the freezer, then off-loads as much as she can on me. Of course, I'm doing her a favor. It isn't that she's saving me the trouble of cooking for a week."

Tom set down the cooler and eyed it. "Maybe two weeks. Would you like some help putting all this stuff away?"

Cate hesitated. "I...I don't want to keep you too long. I mean, I thought maybe you had to get the van back to Pete's house."

She thought? Had she considered asking him to stay for a while? Hoping that he didn't appear too eager, Tom shrugged. "Pete and his family are out of town for the weekend. All I have to do is exchange the van for my car in the driveway. He won't mind if I don't have it back until tomorrow."

Cate let her eyes slide away from his gaze. A telltale streak of red slashed across her cheek. "I don't think it'll take quite that long. But, sure, help would be nice."

"Then help you'll have." Tom hunkered down and started unpacking the portable larder and passing the food off to her.

"Both Sue and Dave have such good hearts," she said as she ferried the packages to the refrigerator. "That's why they have so many barn animals. Neither one of them can turn away a stray."

"They do have a menagerie out there," Tom agreed.

"Susan grew up on a farm outside Madison," she chatted easily as they worked. "And Dave was the kind of kid who might have run off with the circus just so he could clean the animal cages."

The family history was nice, but Dave and Sue Austin weren't his primary interest. "What about you?"

Her chagrined smile made his skin prickle with appreciative warmth. "I was a little tag-along sister. If I wanted to be with Dave I had to put up with fur, feathers and scales."

"Scales?"

As she walked back to where he squatted next to the cooler, she shot him a glance of halfhearted disgust. "Let's say I tolerated scales, but just barely. My Dad was a professor of economics at the University of Wisconsin and he knew a couple of the professors in the agriculture department. We never wanted for animals." She sighed. "I missed the pets when I left home."

Tom handed her a slab of something wrapped in foil. "Then you went away for school?"

"No, I stayed at UW for three years," she replied, taking the package. Then, her shoulders stiffened and she turned back to the refrigerator. "I left Madison when I married Ian and we moved to Connecticut." Her smile dimmed into a shadow of what it had been. Tom recalled the photograph of the family group on the sailboat, and how dull her eyes had seemed. He had to tread carefully.

"Couldn't you have pets in the apartment where you and Ian lived?" Tom prodded when she said nothing.

She finished jamming the foil package into the freezer before answering. "Actually we lived in a big house, much like yours. I already told you Ian was a very successful man."

Not if he left you wanting for a smile, Cate Munro, Tom told her silently. "Your husband didn't like animals?"

She looked at him and he noted a hint of mischief in the curve of her lips. "Truth is, animals didn't like him. Right before I became pregnant with Jon, I took a female Maine coon kitten from a neighbor's litter. She was a feisty little thing. I hadn't thought to ask Ian if he'd mind. I should have. Ian resented Bootsy from the start because of it."

Tom stood, his job at the cooler finished, his interest in the story just beginning. "Did you keep her?"

She nodded and shut the refrigerator door, then leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. "The two of them ignored each other for the most part until Jon was born. Then I couldn't give Bootsy as much attention. She became jealous, as cats sometimes do, and started misbehaving so I'd notice her. One day she took out her frustration by shredding Ian's favorite linen shirt." She bit her lip but didn't stop the grin. "I pointed out to Ian that it wasn't entirely Bootsy's fault since he'd just dropped the shirt in the middle of the bedroom floor."

Tom move beside her within reaching distance. "So did Ian banish Bootsy to a far corner of the house?"

The luster faded from her eyes. "About a week after the incident, Bootsy disappeared. I never found her."

Tom's gut knotted. "You don't think Ian..."

Her deep, trembling breath stopped him. "We lived near a wooded area. Bootsy may have found a tomcat. Or she may have been killed by something."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

His accusation startled her into looking up. She shrugged, a sad little gesture. "I didn't...I don't want to believe differently."

Her defense of the late Ian Munro might have been admirable, but Tom sensed that it was forced. Just as forced as her new smile.

"The lease on my townhouse prohibits pets," she went on. "It's harder on Jon than on me. Since we moved here in December, Jon's spent as much time out at Dave's house as he can, just so he can be with the dogs and cats."

"And ponies," Tom added.

Her smile turned brilliant, as it always did when the subject turned to her son. "And ponies."

"Jon's a great kid," Tom complimented, basking in the warmth of her expression. "He earned Megan's undying gratitude by giving up his favorite kitten to her. But then, I have a sense that generosity is the rule, not the exception, in your family."

Beaming with pride, Cate dipped her head. "Thanks."

"Dave has a problem with me, though."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "What sort of a problem? I told him you'd give the kitten a good home."

"A vote of confidence, Ms. Munro?" Tom asked, pleased beyond words by the admission. "Does this mean you're beginning to trust me?"

"Well, yes," she said, then pushed away from the counter and eased past him to the sink. "You seem like a well-intentioned parent. You've done a fine job with Megan. Besides, from what I can tell, your Aunt Myrtle rides herd over you."

The lilt of a tease in her voice belied the nervous tension behind her retreat from him and her sudden attention to busywork. Cate ripped off a paper towel, wet it, then grabbed the cooler lid and began giving it a vigorous clean. She might be learning to trust him, Tom realized, but she remained skittish in his presence when the conversation became more personal. Her unaffected vulnerability sent a jolt of longing through him, leaving him no less unnerved than her. His need to know more about this woman clashed with his desire to spare her from the painful memories her brother had hinted about. Though uncertain himself, he strode to her and gently relieved her of the lid, then placed it on the cooler and peered down into her quizzical stare.

"Dave isn't concerned about whether or not I'd give the cat a good home."

She drew her brows together. "Then what?"

He propped himself casually against the counter. "Not 'what', Cate, 'who'. Dave's concerned about my intentions toward you."

"Toward me?"

"He put in a pitch for saving your job from budget cuts."

New color stole into her cheeks as she pressed her fingers to her mouth and shook her head.

"I've made a damn fine reputation for myself in short order, haven't I?" Tom joked. "What do the teachers call me behind my back? Slash and Burn Flannery?"

In spite of her embarrassment, she laughed. "I've heard worse. You might have to take the blame for a teachers' strike this fall."

The news piqued his interest. "Is the Union that determined to make a stand against cuts in the elementary programs?"

She nodded. "Yes. There were emergency meetings at every school after last Wednesday's Board meeting. But that aside, David shouldn't have confronted you like that. You weren't on duty as a member of the School Board today."

"You're right. But I think Dave sees me as a much worse threat than the man who would cut your job."

Cate sniffed a laugh. "What could be worse than that?"

"Breaking your heart."

He expected amazement, embarrassment or wilting disbelief. He didn't expect white-hot indignation.

"Breaking my hea...!" she sputtered, clenching the soggy paper towel in a death grip. "Oh, no! David James Austin, how could you!"

This glimpse of fiery anger startled him. Her chin trembled, her jawline tightened, her eyes sent out golden sparks as she turned her face from him and shook her head. Never before had he witnessed such raw emotion from her. With her protective shield lowered, he glimpsed a tantalizing facet of Ms. Cate Munro. Surely, anger alone didn't set her emotions to blaze. What would it take to set her heart on fire, convince her to spend that passion in more pleasurable pursuits?

And why did he suddenly want to be the man to discover the secret?

"I can't believe he'd have the nerve! Oh, he and Sue are quite a pair!" she went on, making no sense to him, but obviously building some sort of case to herself. "They both jumped to conclusions..." She jerked her gaze back to him. "I can't even begin to imagine what Dave said to you, but I apologize for his inferences."

Tom mustered his willpower to keep from grinning ear-to-ear. "He's just being a big brother."

She jammed her fist into her hip. "Makes me wish sometimes I were an only child. I hope you set him straight."

Tom wasn't sure he could set himself straight. The urge to drag her into his arms, seal his mouth to hers and draw some of the electric sizzle that filled the air around her, nearly overwhelmed him. In reflex, he angled his body toward her.

"Please tell me you did!"

Her impatient plea brought him up short. Suddenly aware that he almost lost himself in a moment of thrilling allure, he went rigid, but feigned nonchalance with a lift of his brow. "I did."

"Good."

"I told him I'd never intentionally hurt you."

That seemed to surprise her. The anger in her eyes turned to bewilderment and apprehension. She sank away from him until her back pressed into the juncture of counters behind her. "What exactly did Dave tell you?".

He wished he could smooth away the furrows of fear between her brows with his fingertips and calm the slight tremor in her voice with a brush of his lips against her cheek. Yet, as he watched her cringe into a corner, he knew if he touched her now, she'd fly away and take with her some of her trust in him. He stood rooted.

"He didn't say much. Just enough to raise a hundred questions. He did make it clear, though, that he worries about you because of what happened during your marriage to Ian."

She turned her face from him. She wasn't giving up her secrets easily.

"Dave doesn't think much of Ian," Tom stated bluntly. "I'd say he despises the man."

No answer. Cate hardly seemed to breathe.

He placed himself in front of her. "Tell me if it's none of my business, but does Dave have good cause to feel that way about Ian?"

She lifted her chin without meeting his gaze. "It's none of your business."

Her defiance challenged him as much as it frustrated him. "Come on, Cate, fair's fair. My entire marital history is detailed in school files. What you haven't read or heard about through gossip, I've told you already. Don't tell me you haven't drawn your own conclusions."

Her gaze snapped up. In her eyes, he saw a glint of her previous anger. She opened her mouth, ready it seemed, to refute him. After a moment, she lowered her face a notch. "I'm sure my horror stories aren't nearly as fascinating as yours."

"Your marriage was a horror story, then?"

"No!" Clearly agitated, she crossed her arms. "Not all of it," she qualified. "There was...is Jon. But...I suppose, toward the end it was..."

Tom counted five heartbeats. "Hell?" he finished for her.

She shivered, but didn't reply.

He had his answer. "I know all about it, Cate. I can still hear the shouting and the terrible accusations. I know the sound of hopes and dreams crashing and dying. Then the door slams for the last time and there's nothing but dead silence."

Cate's lovely face betrayed her shifting emotions as he spoke. Stubbornness gave way to caution, which yielded to empathy and finally, capitulation. "In a general way, I suppose you do understand. But you don't really know about what happened between Ian and me. It wasn't all his fault, you know, even if Dave leads you to believe it was."

He flinched at her defense of her dead husband. "I know that. I made mistakes, too."

She pinned him with an uncompromising glare. "Was your biggest mistake marrying Lara in the first place?"

"No, of course not," he retorted. "I was very much in love with Lara when we married. But each of us changed so much as people, that by the time Megan came along..." The implication of Cate's question finally hit home. She never had been happy in her marriage.

She turned away from his stunned silence, bent over and lifted the empty cooler. "Excuse me," she muttered as she shoved past him and headed back down the hallway.

Wondering at the admission, Tom stood motionless until he heard the faint click of a light switch and the sweep of an opening door. When he spun around and followed her, he half expected to find the front door yawning wide in a mute invitation for him to depart.

Instead, he found her shifting around winter boots on the floor of the coat closet to make room for the cooler. She kept her head bent low, ignoring his presence.

Irritation sliced through him. If she didn't want to answer his questions, fine. But he wasn't about to let a great day end in pained silence. Edging around her as she knelt on the floor, he entered the living room and stood in front of the gallery of family pictures. He'd wait her out, apologize if necessary, then take his leave...

"My mother said from the start that Ian and I weren't right for each other. I should have listened to her."

Cate silently came up behind him. He breathed in the scent of sunshine and fresh air that mingled with her own, unique womanly fragrance. But, afraid to meet her gaze, afraid she'd turn skittish again, he stared at the photographs. "Your mother didn't like Ian any more than Dave did, huh?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shift so that she stood slightly in front of him. "Ian Munro was educated, polished, and witty," Cate replied, her voice low and toneless. "Not only that, he had a job on Wall Street waiting for him once he completed his master's degree. Mom could not like him."

"But?"

"But, Mom saw other, shall we say, less admirable aspects of his personality that concerned her. She thought he was too driven, too sure of himself, and too much like a refrigerator."

"A refrigerator?"

"Shiny, big and powerful on the outside," she explained without humor. "Cold and dark on the inside."

She slid her gaze over the photographs. "Of course, I knew better in spite of the fact that I was only twenty, that I had gone to college in the same city where I grew up, and I had never even dated someone for more than three months running. I knew Ian wasn't cold, he was reserved and gentlemanly. He wasn't arrogant and materialistic, he was confident and worldly. I was in love with him. I just knew, in time, I could soften him up." She blinked and frowned. "Like I said, I should have listened to Mom."

He recalled Dave's description of his little sister, of her laughter and tears and outgoing warmth. He tried to imagine such a gentle and compassionate spirit clashing with an ambitious, cold heart. She probably never had a chance. He recalled how he had introduced himself to her -- charging into her classroom, looking like an ad from a men's fashion magazine, certain that both he and his daughter had been wronged by some underhanded music teacher.

Arrogant. Worldly. Cold...Ian Munro reincarnate.

He slanted his body toward her and peered at her until she noticed and turned to face him. "That's it, then, isn't it? I remind Dave and you of Ian."

Cate's eyes flashed golden-green. "You aren't like him, not really. I might have thought that once, but after today, I know you're different. In the barn, Megan looked at you with such faith and trust. She knows you'll always be there for her."

The quick, ardent reply stunned him. Relieved but confused, he lifted a skeptical brow.

"Ian couldn't even be there when Jon was born. I went into labor early. Ian hadn't left for New York yet that morning and I begged him to stay home. He took me to the hospital, but it was inconvenient for him to be with me. He hadn't scheduled time off for Jon's birth for another three weeks, and he was in the middle of some huge financial deal, and he left. Women had babies every day, he said. A six-figure commission came around far less often."

Though Cate spoke in a monotone, Tom saw the wince of pain in her eyes. He drew a breath to spare her the rest of the memory, but she went on.

"My friend, Gina, came to be with me. Jon was born that evening. By the time Ian showed up at the hospital the next day, I had already made out the birth certificate. I named my son Jonathan David, after my father and my brother. He was supposed to have been named Ian Gregory Munro the third." She forced a bitter smile. "I knew that it was a childish reaction. But I also knew Ian's concern for appearances would prevent him from tracking down the birth certificate and demanding the name be changed. He never forgave me for that."

"But you stayed with him?"

She walked to a chair and sat down. "I had pride, too. I wasn't ready to admit defeat and I kept trying. I found a marriage counselor, but Ian wouldn't go, so I went by myself. Even that turned against me. After Ian died, his parents sued for custody of Jon, claiming that I was a neurotic, unfit mother because I had once sought help."

Tom's heart wrenched. Dave hadn't been wrong, he realized. Ian Munro had left scars on her soul, even after his death.

"That's ridiculous," Tom growled. "No court with any sense of justice..."

The slow lift of her eyes cut him off. "I spent two years in and out of court," she told him in a whisper. "I sold my house, used nearly every penny of Ian's estate and put Jon's future education at stake. Even then, Ian's parents almost won. After all, they had hired the best lawyers their own considerable fortune could buy." As she spoke, her expression hardened. "One thing I did learn and learn well, Tom, is that money can't assure love, or security or happiness. It distorted Ian, and the way he viewed the world and the people around him. He thought that he had all the answers." She shook her head. "He really didn't know much of anything."

The statement felt like a slap across his face. "Is that why you can't quite trust me?" Tom asked, barely holding his anger in check. "Have you pigeonholed me with Ian because I'm wealthy and enjoy some of the things that wealth can buy? Do you believe money has somehow distorted my reasoning?"

She turned away. Once again Tom had a silent answer. He strode to her, sank down beside her and grasped her hands.

"I grew up in a blue collar family," he told her, grating out the words. "I put myself through college working construction in the summer and mopping floors during the school year. I used my talents and skills and I got damned lucky while I was young enough to enjoy it, and I have no reason to apologize."

Like a trapped animal, she stared at him unblinking.

Unwilling to be the cause of the terrible new wariness in her eyes, he banked his anger and retreated a few inches, though he didn't release his grip on her. "Look, Cate, I realize I must have seemed like Ian when I stormed into your classroom. But I was only a father concerned for his daughter's future. I know I don't have all the answers and it scares the hell out me. But I do know this. I can- - I am -- handling my windfall. Maybe Ian couldn't. That doesn't give you the right to tar me with the same brush."

She lifted her chin. "Any more than you have the right to expect Megan's natural talents will somehow turn her into Lara."

The logic of her retort didn't escape him. But he didn't want to be sidetracked. "This isn't about Megan."

She started to turn away. "Then I don't see why we're having this discussion."

"Don't you, Cate?"

He captured her chin and cheek with his right hand and held her still. The warm, rugged furrow of his palm clashed with the cool, silken smoothness of her skin. She drew in a soft gasp, yet didn't pull away.

"Go ahead, tell me you don't get it, Cate Munro," he whispered. "Tell me I'm wrong, that there isn't something happening between us."

A sweet rosy glow swept over her face, heating the cup of his palm. The color in her widened eyes deepened to shimmering gold. Tom slid his hand up until his fingers tangled in the tawny strands of hair that lay against her temple. The feathery weight teased his fingertips and sent a ripple of pleasure through his body. When her eyes fluttered shut, he smiled at her silent appreciation of his touch.

Her mouth opened and she tried to lift her eyelids. She managed both only halfway. "This shouldn't be happening," she murmured. "I'm Megan's teacher."

He traced his thumb across her lips, silencing her protest, igniting a need to let his mouth skim over hers. "I'm not with Megan's teacher right now. I'm with Catherine Munro."

Contrary to her words, she buried her face deeper into his hand. "It's not appro..."

"...priate," Tom finished for her. "To hell with appropriate."

He braced his right hand behind her neck and pushed away from the chair. Once balanced, he held her waist with his arm and lifted her. At the clash of their bodies, her eyes flew open. Beneath her surprised gaze, he detected a simmering, sultry awareness of her building desire. Her hands were flat against his shoulders, but she didn't try to shove him away. He heard the warning in her words.

"You shouldn't kiss me."

He cocked a brow and tangled his fingers deeper into her golden hair. "So you think I want to kiss you?"

"Don't you?"

The breathless vacillation in her voice sent a rush of heat through him. "You bet."

Though one hand lay at the small of her back and the other braced her nape, he made no effort to pull her to him. He leaned down and pressed his mouth over her lips. He did not vent the full force of his desire. This was an offering, a taste, not a plundering. He knew he held more than Cate Munro in his arms. He held something fragile, easily bruised and broken. He dared not play fast and reckless with it.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered them. Soft, but unyielding. Her body stiffened against him. Through his jacket, he felt her fingers curl into fists. Don't fight me, Cate! he pleaded silently. Open yourself up. Trust me just a little.

Letting loose more of his need, he parted his lips and teased the curve of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. A sigh escaped her throat and her lips eased apart. Slowly, her fists unclenched and her hands slid around his shoulders.

He met her hesitant yielding with a deepening of his kiss. He worked his fingers gently at the back of her neck until her feminine curves melded into his male hollows. The rush of blood to his head drowned out the frantic race of his heart. Her fingertips grazed his neck, his cheek, his ear. The frisson of pleasure it set off inside him made him gasp. He snapped his head back, panting to fill his lungs. His vision swam for a second before he could focus on her face. Her fine, luminous cheeks were stained scarlet. Her hair was mussed from his fingers. She peered at him with eyes huge and bright and sensually aware.

He teased her with a lazy grin. "I think I forgot to breathe."

A shadow passed over her face. She lowered her eyes, let her tongue moistened her lower lip, still swollen from his kiss. Did she know how much that simple, unconscious act excited him?

"It's all right," she whispered thickly. "You don't have to be kind. I've never..." she swallowed hard. "I've never been very good at this."

Her statement stunned him. Had she been a flirt, he'd have sworn that she was fishing for compliments. But she meant it. The dejected cast of her eyes, the tremble of her chin attested to the sincerity of her apology. Withdrawing his hand from her neck, he tucked his forefinger under her chin and lifted her face. When she met his eyes, he shook his head gently. "Where the hell did you ever get an idea like that?"

She twisted her face just enough to make him let go of her chin. "I told you not everything that went wrong in our marriage was Ian's fault. I...I didn't meet his...physical expectations," she said carefully, the embarrassment and pain behind the admission was heart wrenching. "I didn't know how. After a while I stopped even trying."

Anger at Ian welled inside him. "Ian said you didn't please him?"

She caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded.

He drew a sharp breath. "Then the son-of-a-bitch had ice water in his veins."

She fixed him with a doubtful gaze. Tom answered her by holding her closer, letting his arousal, the evidence of her effect on him, graze the inside of her thigh. A jolt went through her and she caught her breath.

"Yes, I know," she conceded, her voice edged with impatience. "I may not be very skilled about these things, but I do know that men...well...it doesn't take..."

The sentence trailed off. Tom stared down at her, biting back a smile, wondering at her innocence. "It doesn't take what?"

Cate's eyes flitted everywhere except his face. "It doesn't take much...stimulation."

"No, it usually doesn't." He laid his hand on her face, stroked the smooth heated skin. "But for me, it does take the right moment." He pressed his lips to her forehead, then brushed the crest of her cheek. "It takes the right place. And," he whispered into her ear, "it takes some damned fine stimulation." He lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her with restrained longing, then laid his cheek against hers. "More than all that, Cate Munro, it takes the right woman. If you hadn't pleased me the first time we kissed, do you think I'd come back for more?"

Though he held her tight to his chest, he felt the question wedge between them. For too many heartbeats, she didn't move, didn't seem to draw breath, and didn't answer. Beneath his hands the muscles in her back bunched with tension. She was re-examining her trust in him, he knew. It hurt to think that her protracted silence meant that she found him unworthy. It angered him to realize he had only himself to blame.

He started to draw back. "I understand. I won't push you..."

"Don't let go."

One part plea, one part command, her words made him shudder with relief. As she locked her arms around his shoulders, Tom buried his face in the golden hair.

"I won't," he promised, planting tiny kisses at the base of her neck, on her throat, on her cheek and finally behind her ear. When he grazed her earlobe with his tongue, she shivered and let her full weight collapse against him. Tom grinned with satisfaction. "You like that, huh?"

"It makes me dizzy!" she gasped. "If you let go I think I'll fall!"

A surge of fierce protectiveness shot through him. "Then I won't let go. I won't let you fall, ever."

She pulled back, brushing her lips past his as she tilted her head to look at him. "I want to believe you, Tom." She spoke of more than her buckling knees. She spoke of trust given, shared, and cherished. He stared into her eyes, the color now a hazy golden-green, her lids heavy with sultry promise.

"I'm here, Cate," he told her in a whisper.

A smile, slow and rich with feminine secrets, lifted the edges of her mouth. "Yes, you are."

His heart thudded in his chest as he gazed into her passion-glazed eyes. "I won't hurt you."

Her smile lost a measure of its certainty. "I know you mean that."

A glimpse of her guileless vulnerability, stole his breath. She still doubted him, if only a little, but at least she'd opened herself to possibilities. He grinned, imagining all the possibilities.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, her smile hinting at a question.

"I'm thinking I'll kiss you again."

"Soon I hope."

He barely let her finish. The overpowering need to taste her again guided his actions as he lowered his head and claimed her mouth. This time, she opened to him without prompting. He drank deeply of her sweet, womanly passion, shuddered when she returned the teasing of his tongue with shy attempts of her own. When she swept her fingers up his neck and combed through his hair, every muscle in his body bristled with needful anticipation. He groaned his approval, set his hands to the small of her back and gently pressed her hips against his arousal.

For a split second, she resisted him. He lifted his mouth from hers, poised to rasp an apology for his impatience. But before he could draw breath to speak or relax the pressure of his hands, she burrowed into him, meeting his hard desire with her soft, willing feminine curves.

"Catie!" he chocked her name, covered her face with reckless kisses until he found her mouth again and took his pleasure there. His head whirled. She leaned hard into him now. He doubted her feet even touched the floor. His own legs trembled with an adrenaline rush and threatened to give way. Nothing like this had happened to him for a long time.

Too long a time.

Images of sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the couch and spreading himself on top of her, raced past his mind's eye. He wanted her. All of her. How could this be happening so fast?

Too fast. Much too fast.

Cate knew it, too. She slipped her hands to his shoulders, gripped at the bulky material of his jacket and gently pushed.

He yielded reluctantly and laid his cheek against hers. "I promised your brother my intentions toward you were honorable. Time to stop before he's duty bound to come after me with a pitchfork."

Her shaky laugh sounded almost giddy. "You're right. I...you've given me quite enough to think about for tonight."

"What about tomorrow?" The impulsive question spilled from him. "Can I see you?"

"Tomorrow? Yes. No! I promised Sue I'd shop for baby clothes with her tomorrow."

"The next day?"

"Monday. I have school. You have your work. But," she added, "we have the parents' meeting for the program."

"Right. The meeting. I'll be there."

"You already promised that."

He peered into her sparkling gaze, his mind suddenly clear. "I always keep my promises, Cate."

Her expression softened. "I'll count on it."

On impulse, he threaded his fingers into her hair, drew her close and kissed her lips. He lingered a moment longer that he should have. But when he pulled away, the pure trust in her smile made him glad.

"Monday," he repeated.

"Monday," she replied.

Chapter 11

Tom rushed into the meeting, ten minutes late, with his jacket and tie slung over his arm and the top two buttons of his starched white shirt undone.

Cate looked up, as did most of the other thirty or so parents already seated in the gym. She nodded a bland, professional acknowledgment, which he returned before sitting on a folding chair in the back row. She continued with her presentation, hoping the blotches of nervous color in her cheeks hid the new, more potent flush Tom's entrance had set off.

She lost track of him after she passed around a five page handout and the group broke into smaller committees. The chairperson of costumes, Audrey Graber, drew her into a round of discussion and questions. She last glimpsed Tom heading out the gym door, conversing with one of the few other dads in attendance.

A half-an-hour later the nasty knot of disappointment in the pit of her stomach still hadn't quite undone itself. As she set a sheaf of extra handouts on the middle shelf of her classroom closet, she admitted that her expectations may have been too high. After all, she and Tom had to maintain a professional distance in public, in spite of the new dimension in their relationship. Still, he might have at least said hello.

"Hey, Cate, are you still in here?"

Marlie Erickson's voice startled her. She glanced around the closet doorframe and smiled at the first grade teacher. "Thought you'd be long gone by now."

Marlie walked to Cate's desk and set down a handful of sample scripts. "You left these on the podium. I didn't want you to go crazy wondering where they were."

Cate emerged from the closet and walked to Marlie. "Thanks. Things were confusing for a while. I hope I didn't sound as nervous as I felt."

"You were great," Marlie assured her as she sat on the edge of the desk. "So was the turnout."

"I'm sure some of the parents just wanted to check out the rookie teacher," Cate guessed. "Thanks for being here tonight. I appreciate the moral support."

Marlie grinned. "I love these programs as much as the kids do. Besides, I like to be prepared when parents ask questions, or the students have concerns. It's nice having all the answers once in a while. And speaking of having all the answers, I had to come up with quite a few for Mr. Flannery tonight."

Cate plopped down into her chair and hoped that her voice sounded steadier than her breathing. "What sort of answers?"

"He wanted to know all about BRP."

"The Bridge Reading Program?"

"You're familiar with it?"

"Yes, my niece, Janie, was a student in the program during the pilot year," Cate explained. "She started calling it the 'burp' program. That's when we all knew she had made progress sounding out letters. My brother and sister-in-law were incredulous when the School Board cut most of the funding."

"So was I," Marlie told her. "Five years ago, I served on the advisory committee that helped develop the curriculum. In fact, I still use some of the materials in my classroom. But the program is barely alive for want of money. How Mr. Flannery would have found out about it is beyond me."

From the way Marlie fixed her with a sideways glance, Cate realized that the first grade teacher had made a few guesses about the source of the information.

"I mentioned it to him," Cate confessed. "I think it was the night of conferences when we touched on the subject of funding cuts in general. We talked about so many things, though, I'm surprised he remembered that." She bit her lip. "He didn't give you a hard time, did he?"

To Cate's relief, Marlie shook her head. "He asked polite, in-depth questions about the program, how it worked, what the results have been, and so on. He even thanked me twice for my time. He was not the same man who swooped down on us two weeks ago spreading fear and panic."

A knowing smile slipped from Cate before she could prevent it. "Yes, he can be nice when he wants to be."

Marlie squinted with suspicion. "I imagine you should know."

Cate lowered her eyes, a reflex of guilt she instantly regretted. "Me?"

As she anticipated, Marlie recognized the evasion. "Yes, you. Mr. Flannery told me tonight that you've been tutoring Megan. Why didn't you tell me? You know I'd be happy to help any way I can. That includes evaluating the results."

Cate looked up and saw the hurt in Marlie's eyes. Though sorry she'd ruffled Marlie's pride, Cate was relieved that her friend didn't suspect anything more complicated about her connection with Tom Flannery. Yet, she had an obligation to be honest. Within limits.

"I hesitated to take Megan as a student in the first place," Cate rushed to explain. "Since I see her almost every day at school, I had doubts about undermining your authority as her primary teacher. More than that, I had concerns about the word spreading, and Megan being seen somehow as one of my favorites. I'm sure Mr. Flannery has cautioned Megan to be discreet."

"She never said anything to me," Marlie said. "I suppose you have a point. With Megan having been chosen for the lead in the music program, and considering the obvious affinity she has with you, the rest of the kids might start to wonder if they found out you tutor her on the side."

"I'm glad you understand," Cate said with a smile. "Actually, I've seen Megan only twice. Both sessions were nothing more than assessments of her needs, but I would like to compare notes with you at some point. I made it clear to Mr. Flannery that I wouldn't continue if I thought tutoring had no effect on Megan's progress."

Seeming mollified, Marlie flashed a skewed grin. "Well, the tutoring has had an effect on Mr. Flannery's progress, if nothing else. He came to me looking for answers, instead of insinuating he already had them all."

The observation gave Cate pause. Had Tom been right? Had she judged him unfairly all along because of his superficial resemblance to her late husband? Did she still carry that much bitterness and anger toward Ian after all these eight years?

"Just remember, I'm here if you need my help."

Cate focused on the young teacher. "Thanks. I will remember. Sooner than you think."

Marlie stood and smiled. "See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Marlie."

Wondering at the insight about her own deep and lingering fears, Cate swiveled her chair to face the window. A cold March drizzle pattered against the glass. The naked branches of the old oak tree that stood in the middle of the parking lot outside her classroom, bobbed and weaved in the stiffening wind. Winter yielded its reign grudgingly in the Midwest, but eventually it thawed into gentle spring.

Just like your heart, Catie girl, she told herself. And you didn't even know how frozen it had become until Tom Flannery melted it with his passionate beliefs and heated kisses.

A reflection on the window caught her attention. As if her thoughts had made it so, Tom's face stared back at her. She spun around, half-afraid that his sudden appearance was nothing more than a trick of shadow and light. But there he stood, slouched against the doorway, coat slung over his shoulder, one dark stubbled cheek crinkled with a sexy half-grin.

"Hi, Cate."

The sight of him thrilled her, sweeping away earlier fears. Fighting an impulse to run over and throw herself into his arms, she gathered her wits, rose slowly from her chair and rounded the desk. "Hi. I thought you might have left already."

He pushed away from the door. "I had to confer with my fellow committee members. We have a big job ahead of us."

She grinned as he ambled toward her. "You have no idea."

"After tonight, oh yes I do," he groaned. "I saw Miss Erickson come down the stairs. She told me you were still here. Sorry I was late."

Her pulse picking up as he came nearer. "Bad traffic?"

"No, I was at the library and lost track of time."

"Library?"

"Researching a new project."

He didn't seem inclined to explain further, so Cate didn't press for details. "Well, you made it."

His eyes narrowed. "I said I would."

Her doubts had betrayed her again. Embarrassed, she groped for a more neutral topic. "How's the new kitten?"

He finally reached her and laid his coat across a student chair. She breathed in the faint scent of his spicy aftershave, her nerves sizzling with anticipation. Slowly, he propped himself against the width of the desk, his steady gaze on her.

"Thumper is the most loved cat west of Lake Michigan," Tom said. "Over the weekend Megan carried him everywhere in a back pouch Myrtle rigged for her. I finally had to take Megan aside and tell her to let Thumper walk so he could learn to deal with his limp. Then he could go back and teach his country brothers and sisters a thing or two about city cats."

Cate looked at him through her lashes. "You know, the words are different, but that message sounds familiar."

Flashing a lopsided grin, he leaned forward. "I think the words were spoken by a pretty music teacher who once told me to let my daughter read to me instead of doing it for her. You'll also be happy to know, Madame I- Told-You-So," he teased, "that I took another piece of your advice and mailed Megan's letter to Lara."

The news stunned her. "You did?"

"According to you, it was a gamble I couldn't loose," Tom reminded her, then snagged her wrist and pulled her toward him. "Fact is, Ms. Munro, right now I feel like I'm on a roll."

Before she realized what was happening, she found herself wedged solidly between his legs, her body pressed to his with intimate purpose. He wound his arms around her waist and brought his face to within an inch of hers.

"I missed you," he whispered, then brushed her lips with his.

Her senses crackled with energy, while her body went soft with yearning. Cate draped her arms over his shoulders and melded into the taut planes of his chest. "We've been apart only a day, but I missed you, too."

"A day to long. Kiss me."

Just as her eyelids fluttered shut and she made ready to comply, she glimpsed the bulletin board on the wall across the hallway from her room. She planted her hands on Tom's shoulders and held him back. "My door!"

Tom frowned, glanced over his shoulder. "It's still there."

"It's open!" she pointed out. "If someone walks by..."

In less than a second, he'd filled in the blanks. After a quick scan of the room he set her aside, stood and claimed her hand. Then he hauled her across the room and through the storage closet door. Once inside, he spun her around, backed her gently against a section of bare wall and settled himself over her. His blue-gray eyes glimmered mischievously. "Better?"

Startled by the rapid response, Cate gasped twice before opening her mouth. Even then, she struggled for words.

With a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, Tom cast a glance sideways. "Oh, sorry," he apologized, and kicked the closet door shut with his toe. "Much better."

Then he swamped her mind and senses with a kiss that made her want to swoon like some maiden out of a nineteenth century romance. She reveled in the chaos of sensations. She let her mind go numb while every nerve ending in her body ran riot.

When he flicked the tip of his tongue on her lower lip, she opened her mouth to him. With an urgent abandon that almost frightened her, she moved her hips against his already evident arousal in a deliberate rhythm that forced him to come up for air.

"Oh, Catie!" he breathed into her ear. "If you keep doing that, we're going to end up on the floor!"

The warning, accompanied by delicate kisses to her cheek and chin and throat, didn't threaten her. Her heart told her that he was an honorable, decent man. He'd never force himself on her, however much he wanted her. A rush of satisfaction coursed through her; a heady, prideful sensation tempered by her growing affection for the man in her arms. She would never hurt him either, of that she felt sure.

Her cheek crushed to his, she smiled. "Why do I feel wicked?"

He folded her closer. "You feel wonderful."

She giggled, laid her hands on either side of her face and pressed until he drew away and peered down at her. "That's not what I mean. I don't think I took these kinds of chances when I was a teenager. Now look at me, hiding away in a closet just off my classroom, when one of our night custodians could walk in any time."

Tom set two fingers on her lips and stilled her. "Don't you see the irony of it? After all, this is where it started."

He said it as a jest; yet tenderness softened the tease.

Her smile wavered. "What started?"

He searched her face as if for answers. "I'm not sure. But I don't want it to stop."

"Me either," she answered with all her heart.

His expression smoothed and he bent forward. His kiss was sweet and lingering and wistful. She savored the precious seconds until he pulled her away from the wall and laid his cheek against the crown of her head. His breath wafted across her face, warm and sensuous. "What are you doing next week, over Spring Break? Are you tutoring?"

She shook her head. "No, too many families leave town on vacation. I've canceled everything."

"Then you're free?"

She heard the hope in his voice, but tried not to be too excited by it. "Well, I'll have to meet with some of the program committees and catch up on some paperwork."

"Boring."

"What would you suggest?" she baited him.

"That you set some time aside for me."

"Really?" She backed away. "How much time?"

"How about every spare minute you have?"

Grinning, she nodded. "All right, yes."

He tilted his head. "Would I have had to barricade you in here to get you to say yes?"

Cate tried to look guilty and failed. "No."

Tom trailed a finger along her face from brow to chin, the feathery touch nearly as thrilling as his kisses had been. "Then I'm glad I didn't ask first."

She nodded again. "Me, too."

He brushed her forehead with his lips and stood away. "Can I walk you to your car, Ms. Munro?"

Walk? When she was already floating on air? "Of course, Mr. Flannery."

With a regretful sigh, he opened the closet door. But as she made to leave, he melodramatically stuck out his arm and stepped in front of her. He braced his hands on either side of the door, poked his head into the classroom and looked left and right. "All clear."

She gave him a playful shove. If the whole faculty had been waiting to greet them at that very moment, she wouldn't have cared.

In her navy blue business suit Lenore Kemper looked curiously out of place standing next to the stainless steel freezer in the kitchen of the high school cafeteria. "You dragged me in here to tell me what?"

Tom restrained his impatience in the face of her simmering anger. She had a right to be miffed. He'd blindsided her. But he wanted to move on his idea. He needed to move on his idea. The sense of urgency had surprised him.

"Sorry," he said. "I know this is abrupt and not exactly a professional setting, but I had to move fast before we take the final vote on the budget." He tossed a file folder on the counter between them. "I've done the research and I've consulted the other Board members. They're willing to appoint an Advisory Committee to study the re-expansion the Bridge Reading Program."

"You went to the rest of the Board before coming to me?"

He wasn't intimidated by her imperious tone. "I wanted to test support for the idea first."

Lenore gouged her manicured fingernails into the sleeves of her suit. "You wanted to approach me from a position of strength," she countered.

"That, too," he admitted. "I'm no Don Quixote. I don't tilt at windmills. And I don't make a proposal, no matter how solidly research supports it, unless I have at least the minimal interest of all parties concerned."

She glanced at the folder, but didn't reach for it. "BRP is a dead issue."

"It didn't have a chance to thrive," he argued. "The program ran for only two years before budget cuts nearly killed it. At its current level of funding, it will be dead in another two years."

Stiffening, Lenore unfolded her arms and fixed him with a stern glare. "We determined the benefits didn't outweigh the costs."

"How can you say that? No one's done a long term study to determine the program's effectiveness," he challenged.

"There weren't enough children in the pool of selected students."

Tom tapped the folder with his index finger. "If the criteria for admittance to the program had been broadened even marginally, half again as many children would have been accepted."

"At a higher cost."

"To a greater benefit. Moreover," he went on when she tried to object, "our demographics are changing. River Bend is one of the fastest growing suburbs outside the Chicago metro area. Long term population forecasts predict an influx of students, a percentage of whom will need individualized reading services. To maintain our high educational standards, we need to be prepared."

"What about the money?"

"There will be some funds needed," Tom admitted. "Mostly for additional teaching hours to expand the program. But the infrastructure is already in place. Training standards have been established. Materials not presently being used just need to be brought out of storage. I estimate that revitalizing the program would cost no more than buying new football jerseys and equipment for the two high schools."

Lenore's glare remained fixed. Unable to decide if he moved her at all, Tom blew exhaled. "Think of the kids as blue-chip stocks. Except our up-front investment is minimal considering the potential dividends."

The corner of Lenore's mouth twitched. "I'm impressed. You have done your homework."

The condescension in Lenore's manner irked hom. What she said next set his teeth on edge. "You wouldn't have had a young teacher as your research assistant, would you?"

He took a moment to collect himself. He wanted to snap back that it wasn't worthy of the President of the School Board to display such petty jealousies. Further, his personal life was none of her damned business. Instead, he nodded slowly. "I did consult with Megan's teacher since Miss Erickson served on the original BRP Advisory Committee five years ago."

Lenore's mouth hardened. He'd frustrated her unsubtle probing with the truth. He knew she didn't dare press him by mentioning Cate.

"I thought you were with me, Tom." Lenore sounded wounded and regal all at once. "I thought we shared the same bottom-line philosophy."

"We do," Tom assured her, though he realized his views weren't nearly as compatible with her's as they were once. "I'm just exploring all possibilities." All possibilities, he added silently, remembering the way Cate felt so right in his arms.

"Then you still agree with me about pursuing the cuts in the fine arts curriculum?"

Her blunt question caught him unprepared. The subject hadn't been uppermost in his thoughts these past days, but his attitude wasn't nearly so rigid as it had been. Reluctant to sound more like a candidate than an elected official, he nevertheless hedged.

"The plan needs further study, Lenore. We might be wise to settle for compromise, especially with the teachers' contract up for renewal this summer. I don't think either the Board or the public at large wants a peripheral concern clouding basic issues such as salary, benefits, and class size."

"'A peripheral concern?'" she echoed in disbelief. "Last November you were adamant about the cuts."

For the first time, he felt trapped. Fighting the reflex to avert his gaze from Lenore's penetrating stare, he held firm. "I'm saying it may not be wise to pursue it. Not this year."

That piqued her interest. "Then you're aware of the threats."

The statement puzzled him. "What threats?"

"That the teachers would strike if the Board included cuts in the music and art curricula as part of our contract offer to them this summer."

Tom searched his memory. Cate had mentioned such a possibility in passing, but it hadn't sounded like a threat. It hadn't even sounded like a solid rumor. "No, I'm not aware of anything I'd label as a serious threat." Maybe it was the pause he'd taken to collect his thoughts. Maybe there was an unconscious hesitation in his voice. Whatever the case, instant doubt flitted across Lenore's dour features.

"Well, trust me," she warned. "Resistance in the ranks of the Teachers' Union is forming. We have to be prepared to counter it."

"You make it sound like guerrilla warfare," Tom replied in jest.

The grim set of her face told him that she hadn't meant to be flip. "You will tell me if you hear anything, won't you, Tom?"

He went cold at the command in her voice, but maintained his outward composure. "If I hear anything important."

Lenore stared at him for a long moment, then broke into a wide disarming smile. "I'll have to keep my eye on you, Flannery. I think you could be as much of a threat as the Teachers' Union." She breezed past him and out the kitchen door.

Tom sank into the counter. He'd just been warned.

Chapter 12

They swayed in time to the lilting strains of 'Stardust'. Resting her face in the hollow of Tom's shoulder, Cate hardly moved her feet. To anyone else on the dance floor of Rick's '42 Club, it probably appeared as if she and Tom were standing still. She knew better. Tom held her close, his right hand pressed to the small of her back, his left hand clasping her fingers to his chest. As he shifted his body ever so gently against hers, he created a sensual friction that sparked an electrifying awareness in the center of her being. She held him fast and submitted to the delightful bewilderment of feeling contented and aroused at the same time.

"Are you having a good time?"

Tom's warm breath tickled her ear. She lifted her head from his shoulder and peered at him. "Oh, yes. This is a perfect end to a perfect week."

In the diffused light, his eyes appeared more gray than blue. Like the bone-melting kisses he bestowed on her whenever they were alone, his hooded gaze hinted of things sweet and wild and wonderful. "We've been busy, haven't we?"

"That's an understatement. Movies, the theater, jazz clubs. I've had more nightlife in the past five days than I've had in the past five years. And then today, flying kites with the kids. You must have completely cleared your calendar."

"Damned near. Except for Wednesday night. I couldn't miss the Board meeting."

Cate's heart gave a little twist at his mention of the School Board. It reminded her too clearly of her tenuous situation and the part Tom played in it. But she smiled and forced the sliver of fear back to the edges of her thoughts. "You made up for it."

"I did?"

She laughed at his feigned lapse of memory. "Yes, with the video game rentals you brought over after the meeting. Remember, I beat you two out of three times?"

He narrowed his gaze as if recalling. "Oh, yes, I do remember that." He focused back on her face, his eyes now twinkling. "I lost because you distracted me."

"I did not!"

"Yes, you did! I couldn't watch the screen because I was too busy watching you. You wrecked my concentration."

She looked at him as if she were sorry. "Oh, well, if that's the case, then I might have won the games by devious methods rather than skill. But you, being a gentleman, were gracious in defeat. Tell me, when you lose do you always kiss your opponent senseless?"

His eyes darkened to a smoky, sultry gray. "No, just the ones who make squeaky little noises in their throats when they score points."

"I don't do that!"

"And," he pressed, "only the ones who are as beautiful as you." He splayed the fingers of his hand at the narrow of her back and held her tighter. The open desire in his expression left her breathless with wanting. "You are beautiful, Cate. Especially tonight."

"Be careful, sir," she teased in a voice that quivered. "With such flattery, you could break my heart."

"Flattery?" He ran his palm slowly up her spine. "It's nothing but fact, Madame."

In truth, she had never felt more beautiful. Though she'd dressed with particular care that evening, she knew it had nothing to do with the silky black sheath hugging her figure. It wasn't the way she applied her makeup or styled her hair. No sophisticated gown or vivid cosmetic could mimic the sense of pulsing vitality, the glow of womanhood awakened. She saw the truth in Tom's heated gaze. She was beautiful. He made her feel beautiful and beautifully alive again after years of self-doubt and self-imposed isolation. Her heart swelled. His image blurred in her vision for an instant.

"Cate?" He stopped moving to the music. "Catie, what is it? Did I say something wrong?"

Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she swept her fingers across his cheek and temple, then threaded her way through the thick waves of dark hair at the back of his head. If she weren't careful, she could fall in love with this man. "I'm just not used to having my head turned. It does funny things to me."

His frown smoothed, but he still watched her intently as he began to sway once more in time to the music. "Then don't look around. Half the men in the place have been stealing glances at you all night."

She peeked left and right. "Every one of them must be doing it with monumental discretion."

"It's the truth. As a matter of fact, watching other guys watching you is starting to annoy me."

His teasing pleased her. She slanted looked at him, stroked the length of his strong jawline with the tip of her index finger and felt a tremor shoot through his body. "And for the past half hour, I imagined you were simply enjoying these dances with me."

He lowered his face until his lips almost touched hers. "Are you flirting with me?" he whispered, low and husky.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "All right, yes, I'm enjoying these dances with you, more than is decent. I shouldn't admit this because it'll probably make you even more of a flirt, but I've wanted to get you in my arms like this ever since I saw you dance with Pete."

She couldn't hide her amazement. "You have? That was three weeks ago. We were barely on speaking terms."

He nodded. The movement nearly brought his mouth in contact with hers. "Yes, three weeks ago. Now I have all these other poor guys staring at me with envy. I'm not sure which is worse." He grazed her lips with his. "Watching or being watched."

His words seduced her as much as the enticing brush of his kiss. Cate's eyes fluttered shut. She wanted more, needed more. "If it makes you feel so uncomfortable, do you want to go home?" she whispered against his mouth.

She felt him retreat. The sweetly suggestive tilt of his right brow sent a ripple of expectation up her spine. "My place or yours, Cate?"

The answer left her before she gave it a moment's thought. "Jon's staying overnight with a friend."

Tom searched her face. Beneath the hand he held to his chest, she felt his heart pound a faster new rhythm. Scarlet seeped into his cheeks. His intimate hold tightened another notch. "I suppose then, it's your place?"

The hopeful but endearingly hesitant reply brought moisture to the back of her eyes. He had given her room to escape. He cared enough about her heart to be cautious of simple, reckless passions. He wanted her to be certain. If she changed her mind, now or later, he'd understand and respect her wishes. He would never hurt her. All these things she knew as she peered into his apprehensive gaze and explored the depths of her own heart. No use worrying that she might be falling in love with him, she realized. That had already happened.

It took only a half-second for her to decide. "Yes, my place."

He stopped keeping time with the music. In the middle of the crowded dance floor, he held her in a lover's embrace as slow, sexy smile lifted his full mouth. "All right. Let's go."

He released her, slid his palm down her arm and clasped her hand inside his. Her heart fluttered wildly inside her chest as he led her through the maze of dancing couples and back to their table. Once there, he let her hand go only long enough to pull a few bills from his wallet and pay for the after-dinner drinks.

As she collected her evening purse, he came around behind her and whisked her lacy black shawl from the back of her chair and laid it across her arms. His hands lingered at the juncture of her neck and shoulders two heartbeats longer than was necessary. He stood so close that she felt the heat of his body.

"Should I stop off at a drug store before we get back to your place?" he whispered in her ear.

The flame of affection she felt for him burned hotter. His question, provocative and guileless all at once, nearly undid her barely controlled emotions. He hadn't supposed the evening might detour this way. In spite of all the time and attention he lavished on her the past week, he had assumed nothing of their budding relationship. Even now, he asked her to set the limits.

Right now, she desired him. All of him. Yet, aware that a swirl of heady sensations hazed her reason, she knew she had to be careful with her heart. And with his. Steeling her nerves, she turned to face him. "It never hurts to be ready for any situation, does it?"

A smile tickled the corner of his mouth. He nodded agreement to her vague reply and once again secured her hand inside his.

They claimed their coats from the cloakroom. He chatted with Pete at the reception desk while the valet brought the car. She smiled and spoke when spoken to. But her focus was clouded as if she had downed a glass of wine on an empty stomach. She floated on a cushion of pure sensation, heedless that she touched nothing solid or substantial. After eight years of guarding herself, reacting with reason not emotion, she now had only her instincts to guide her. She had to trust them again, as she'd learned to trust in Tom. Her eyes never left him. She marveled at his strong, handsome, animated profile. She wondered at the boldness of inviting him back to her townhouse. What had she done? What would she do?

The valet reappeared. Tom took his keys, then her arm, and escorted her to the waiting Lexus. After settling her inside, he ran around to his door, slipped into the bucket seat and shut himself in. In the pale light of the restaurant marquis, he turned to her.

She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. Instead, he leaned over the console that separated them, circled her nape with his right hand and drew her forward into a long, languorous kiss. She sank toward him and met his ardor with equal measure. She didn't care that people milled around on the sidewalk waiting for their cars. She didn't think even to breathe. She lost herself in the wild, sweet moment of need and hunger; the taste of his desire left her faint and giddy.

He drew away first. "If I had known there were teachers-in-training like you in college, I would have majored in kindergarten, not business."

She laughed and found his lips again.

A horn sounded, startling them both. His hand fell away, leaving her chilled. He glanced into the rearview mirror and waved obligingly at the driver behind him. She took the hint and buckled her seatbelt as he shifted into drive. Before he stepped on the accelerator, he reached in the dark and snagged her hand from her lap. Gently, he set it, palm side down, on the console and slipped his own fingers between hers. Whether by chance or design, he had created an erotic image -- her slender fingers parted by his, their flesh an indistinguishable tangle in the shadows.

Current sparked where they touched. Though she could barely see his expression in the semi-darkness, she felt the yearning desire in his gaze. It incited her own need for a taste of intimacy with him. But could she taste without wanting to feast?

He reluctantly released her to take the steering wheel. Setting his eyes on the street, he eased the car from the curb. He said nothing as he drove. She doubted that she had enough air in her lungs to reply in any case. She settled into the seat and tried to set the erratic rhythm of her breathing to the regular passage of streetlights. After a minute or two, she had nearly succeeded when a muffled buzz jarred her.

As if the noise had startled him as well, Tom jerked his gaze toward the console. In the fleeting glow of a streetlight, Cate saw him frown.

"What the hell," he muttered, and popped open the console to reveal a built-in car phone. Keeping one eye on the road, Tom picked up the handset and jammed it to his ear. "Hello?"

Cate held her breath as Tom listened intently.

"Pete? Who gave you this number?" He paused. "Myrtle?"

She leaned forward, now concerned as he took the message. If Pete had gone to the trouble of contacting Myrtle for the car phone number, something serious had happened.

Strangling the handset, her glanced at her. "Sure, sure, I've got it. Thanks."

Using his thumb, Tom ended the transmission, set the phone back into its cradle and slammed the console shut. Without an explanation or signal, he swerved into an empty parking lot of a real estate office and made a U-turn. He had the Lexus back on the street and headed in the opposite direction before answering Cate's unspoken question.

"A call came for you at the restaurant just after we left," Tom told her.

"Me?"

He kept his eyes glued on the road. "It was the police..."

Cate's heart lurched.

"They're holding Jon at the Tyler Street Station."

The buzz in her ears didn't seem quite so loud. Her legs bent, moved, supported her weight, though every muscle in her body felt as if it had turned to putty. She sensed Tom at her side, guiding her inside the police station. She even heard the soothing sound of his voice without understanding the words. She recognized the sense of detachment. She had experienced it last that night eight years ago when she had stood in the sterile white and stainless steel hospital morgue to identify Ian's body. The curious, cold numbness shielded her then from outrage and grief. It shielded her now from pain and panic.

"He's fine, Cate. Jon isn't hurt. He's only in custody."

Tom's voice broke through the horrible haze. She nodded stiffly and picked up her pace. She had to get to Jon. She had to find him. She had to see for herself that he was all right...

"Juvenile Holding is this way," Tom directed.

She obeyed his quiet command, but suddenly felt faint. Clinging to her composure by a frayed thread, she breathed deeply and wet her lips with a nearly desiccated tongue.

Tom opened a door and they entered a small foyer. Cate was vaguely aware that the place smelled clean but not antiseptic, and that the walls were covered with pale pink and white flowered paper; the kind she might have used to decorate a powder room. The glass enclosed command center directly ahead of her quickly destroyed that homey illusion.

Tom waved at a cushioned bench set into one wall. Instead of obeying this time, she broke from his hold and lurched toward the glass wall. Two uniformed officers sat in swivel chairs. One, a man, gave instructions into the mouthpiece of a headset he wore.

The woman glanced up and smiled tightly. "May I help you?"

Unsteady on her feet, Cate leaned into the ledge jutting from the glass. "I'm Catherine Munro. You're..." She swallowed hard. "You're holding my son, Jon."

The officer looked down and consulted sheets of paper on a clipboard. "Yes, Jonathan Munro. May I see some identification, please?"

Cate absorbed the question slowly. "Iden...yes, here."

Her fingers were trembling and stiff. She fumbled with the clasp of her tiny purse. Tom gently relieved her of the black, beaded evening bag and opened it. Quickly, he found her driver's license and handed it to the officer.

"Thank you, Ms. Munro," the officer said after inspecting the license and handing it back. "Your son is waiting in Number 2 holding area. His uncle is with him."

"Dave?" Her voice shook. "What's he doing here?"

The officer consulted her paperwork again and spoke as she read. "We couldn't reach you at the telephone number your son gave us, so he instructed us to call Mr. Austin."

Guilt stabbed her heart. "We had just left the restaurant!" she defended herself. "Jon was suppose to be staying overnight at Chris Warner's house! I spoke to Mrs. Warner myself yesterday!"

Cate knew that her voice had risen and that her control had slipped. The officer gaped up at her, no doubt glad that a barrier separated them. She felt Tom's arm over her shoulders. His touch calmed and comforted her.

"Can you tell us exactly what happened?" he asked the officer.

"Of course," the woman obliged. "The boys told us Mr. and Mrs. Warner were called out of town on a family emergency this morning and the sleep over they had planned was canceled. But the boys still wanted to get together, so they went to another house instead. That would have been..." The officer searched the pages on the clipboard. "...Will Fortney's house."

The air left Cate's lungs in a rush. "Will Fortney?"

The officer glanced up. "You know him?"

"I know of him," Cate managed to say. "I didn't think he and Jon...that they were friends...I wouldn't have given Jon permission..." She broke off, unable to find the words to go on. Jon had known about the change of plans. He also knew that Cate would never have given him permission to sleep over at Will's house, especially after the condom-in-the-backpack incident. Jon had deceived her, not by what he said, but by what he didn't say.

The same way Ian had deceived her.

Her legs weakened. She'd been deceived so often, and yet it seemed she never learned to read the signs. Was she that gullible? Or did she purposely blind herself to reality?

As if the officer had seen Cate's distress, she shook her head. "None of the other parents were aware of it either, Ms. Munro. Mr. and Mrs. Fortney had plans of their own and left their sixteen-year-old son Steve to supervise the four younger boys. When the parents left, Steve piled the kids into his car and drove to another house party. While the boys were in the basement playing pool, Steve and his friends were upstairs draining a keg. A neighbor called the police and everyone ended up here."

Images of handcuffs and police sirens and ink stained fingertips filled Cate's mind. She held back her tears, but couldn't keep the tremble out of her voice. "Is Jon being charged with an offense?"

The officer pushed aside the clipboard and smiled with reassurance. "The younger boys were put only in protective custody until they could arrange for transportation home. They did nothing illegal. The worst that can be said is that they exercised poor judgment."

And Jon lied to me! Cate cried silently.

"Thank you," she told the officer. "I...I'll take my son home now."

The officer nodded and indicated a door to the left. "Just go through there, straight down the hall. Room 2 is on the right side. We'll have some papers for you to sign before you leave, but there's really nothing more."

Nothing more, Cate repeated to herself. Except the lie...

She heard Tom mutter something to the officer, then felt the gentle tug of his arm as he turned her toward the door. Less than a minute later, she crossed the threshold of Holding Room Number 2. Jon and Dave sat huddled together behind a long table. Both of them shot up out of their chairs when the door opened, but only Dave came around the table to meet her.

Jon stood frozen, his shoulders hunched, his face pale, eyes watery. After meeting her gaze briefly, he looked down at the tabletop. Her son, the once self-confident adolescent, was for all the world a frightened, ashamed child.

A conflict of emotions tore her heart. Cate wanted to scream her anger at him, vent the hurt she felt, demand an explanation. In the same instant, she longed to run to him, enfold him in her arms, comfort his fears. Some instinct, far apart from both extremes, warned her to hold her tongue and keep her distance.

Dave pulled her from Tom's protection and kissed her cheek. "You all right, Catie?"

She nodded, but bit her lip to keep it from quivering. "Thanks for coming, Dave. I..." She glanced at Tom. "We got here as fast as we could."

Dave stroked her arm. "Jon's scared," he told her in a low voice. "He's already thrown up twice."

Her insides shuddered as she stared at her son. "I know the feeling."

Dave shifted to block her view of Jon. "Cate, he told me what you've taught him about the importance of trust. Now he's afraid he's broken that trust with you."

Cate drew a breath. "He has."

"He's sorry for what he did," Dave pressed. "But he isn't ready to face your disappointment yet. He can't face his own disappointment in himself."

She blinked. "Meaning?"

Dave glanced at Jon, then back at her. "Jon asked if he could come home with me tonight."

"What?"

Dave gripped her arms. "Jon needs some time and distance, Catie. The way you look right now, I'd say you need the same."

"No!" she snapped through clenched teeth. "I'm fine! I want Jon home with me!"

"Cate, you're white as a ghost and you're shaking so hard that I'm surprised your bones aren't rattling. I know you're just as scared as Jon is right now. That phone call from the police scared the hell out of me, too, and I don't have as much of an emotional stake in this as you do. Give both yourself and Jon some breathing room. Believe me, it won't seem as bad tomorrow morning."

How many times had she told herself, It won't seem as bad tomorrow morning? How many nights had she counted the minutes, marked the hours, wondered how she failed, waited to hear Ian's car pull into the garage before finally falling asleep as she wept?

It won't seem as bad tomorrow morning.

But it always had seemed as bad.

Why should she expect that it would be different now?

Chapter 13

Tom followed Cate to her front door. She kept her eyes forward and her back stiff, just as she had during the quiet drive home. While her silence worried him, he held his tongue. She needed the time to fix her emotions and temper her reactions. But as she fitted the key into her front door with almost mechanical purpose and crossed the threshold, he wondered if he should even try to penetrate her grief. She might need privacy and resent his intrusion. If he left, though, she might believe him callous to her distress.

She flipped on the foyer light and made no move to shut the door in his face. Then she began unfastening her coat. The first two top buttons gave way easily. The third button resisted and she tugged at it impatiently. Her jaw tightened and her hand trembled as she slipped her fingers over the fourth, most stubborn button. She moaned her frustration and clenched the placket edge, seeming ready to rip the coat open.

Tom made his decision. He lurched across the threshold, let the screen door slam shut behind him and grasped her hand. Cate stilled and looked at him. The raw anguish in her golden-green eyes tore his heart. He realized that something more than maternal disappointment and anger were at work here. He just didn't know what. He smiled as he gently peeled back her fingers from the placket.

"Let me finish. Your hands are probably stiff from the cold."

She stared at him for a moment as if she didn't understand. Then she blinked and let her hand fall away.

He helped her slip out of the coat. "Why don't you sit down?"

She didn't acknowledge the suggestion, but moved stiffly into the darkened living room as he closed the front door. After removing his own coat and tossing it along with her's over the stairway banister, he followed her.

Cate didn't switch on a lamp. Only a sliver of light from the foyer bled into the living room. He paused to adjust to the murkiness. Even then, he barely made out her slender figure sheathed in the black dress that was just a shade darker than the background. She stood near the couch, her back to him, her head and shoulders slumped. He wanted to slip behind her, fold her into his arms and whisper words of comfort. But how could he choose the right words and actions when he didn't understand the real depth of her pain?

He shifted restlessly. "If you want me to leave, I'll understand." His heart beat four times, strong, steady, loud in his ears. Nothing broke the silence.

"Cate..."

"He lied to me."

He tensed at the bitterness in her voice. "Who? Jon?"

Slowly, she lifted her chin and made a half turn to face him. The weak light cast her pale, delicate features in sharp relief. "He lied to me. He said he was spending the night at Chris Warner's house."

Though she spoke in a monotone, he sensed mounting anger in the force of her words. "The plans changed," he reminded her, keeping his voice soft and low.

"He should still have told me. Jon knows how I feel about honesty. We've talked about trust and how easily it's broken, but how hard it is to repair. I thought he understood that. But he lied."

"All kids lie," Tom soothed her. "I did it, sometimes just to see how far I could get before Myrtle caught on."

"This is not a game!" Her voice broke as it rose. "Honesty isn't a toy to use and discard on a whim! How can I believe anything he says after this!"

He edged closer to her. "Whoa, don't take this too far. I know tonight wasn't easy for you..."

Her face twisted with sudden fury and her eyes filled with tears. "Tonight? Tonight was just the beginning! Tonight Jon decided it was more important for him to get his way than to tell me the truth! He lied! The same way Ian lied!"

So that was it. Ian Munro was at the core of her anger and fear. For a man long dead, he still wreaked havoc. Something he did to her made her fear for her son. Fiery resentment swept through him. He wanted Ian Munro's memory buried along with the man. He wanted Cate, all of her, all to himself, free and clear. Before he could quash the flare of jealousy, he closed the distance between them in two long strides. She snapped her chin up and large tears skittered down her drawn cheeks. She stood no more than an arm's reach from him. He easily could drag her into his arms, kiss her senseless and numb her mind.

But only for a while.

Instead, he peered down into her tear-filled eyes. "You must have loved Ian very much."

Cate gasped sharply and lifted her watery gaze to the ceiling. "Once I did. I don't know when..." She swallowed. "I'm not sure when it changed. Maybe I loved him right up until the night he died." She lowered her gaze to his puzzled frown. "Then I knew it had all been a lie. Ian wanted a trophy wife and a showcase home in Connecticut, but he wanted her, too. And he lied to have her."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Another woman? He cheated on you?"

Cate folded her arms beneath her breasts and lowered her voice to a whisper. "She was with him the night of the accident. Ian called and told me that he would be staying overnight in the city because of the icy roads. He drove home with her. A truck skidded on the icy street, and broadsided her car." New tears streaked her face. "The police told me that Ian died in her arms. They thought she was just a friend or coworker and they were being kind letting me know that he didn't die alone."

As much as he wanted to dry her tears, he fisted his hands and kept them at his side. Cate looked so fragile, as if a single touch or word would shatter her. "You're sure she wasn't just a friend?"

She looked past him. "I'm sure. At that moment, so many things fell into place. I had tried to explain away too much in my mind, but deep down I knew what had been happening. I wanted to trust him, so I lied to myself." Her voice quavered. "I was the only one who denied the truth. At the wake, when I felt his co-workers stares and saw the questions their eyes, I knew. I even figured out who the woman was. She cried at Ian's funeral when I couldn't..."

She muffled a sob behind her hand, but once she let loose the pent up tears she couldn't call them back. Her body shuddered as the pain wrenched free. Tom gave up second guessing himself and swept her into his arms. Without resistance, she pressed her face against his thundering heart and clutched at his sleeves for support. Her tears soaked through his shirt and she breathed in wrenching spasms.

One arm securing her waist, his left hand kneaded the back of her neck with soothing strokes. He laid his cheek on the crown of her head and inhaled her sweet, feminine scent, his own heart aching for her. How long had she shouldered this burden by herself? Since Ian's death? Before? Tonight her anger at Jon had shattered that reserve and revived the resentments she still held against Ian Munro. She had stood on the edge of an emotional abyss and lost her balance.

And Tom alone was there to break her fall. As he held her, rocked her, enveloped her with his strength, he realized in that moment that Cate filled a need in him as urgent as her own. She trusted him and had turned to him without question. She infused him with a tender purpose that had been missing ever since Lara had walked out of his life.

"I'm here, Catie," he whispered, meaning it with all his heart. "I'll always be here." Wondering at the rash promise and how good it felt to say it aloud, he smiled against the silky strands of her hair and drew her closer.

After a moment, her grip loosened. Leaning back just enough to look at him through wet lashes, she tried to speak through shallow gasps. "I'm...so...sorry. I don't...know...how this happened." She swiped weakly at his chest. "There's lipstick and mascara all over your shirt."

Tom moved hair from her face with the tips of his fingers. "It'll give Myrtle something to smirk about."

That made her smile. But it was a watery, short-lived expression that reverted quickly into a frown. "Tom, I don't know what to say. We were having such a wonderful evening, until Jon..." She took a quick breath. "Taking me to the police station and bring me home was imposition enough. Now, I've ruined the evening and made a fool of myself on top of it."

He set his fingertips to her mouth. "Shhhh." He shifted her inside his arms and guided her to the couch, where they both eased down on the cushions.

"First," he said as he peered at her, "I'm glad that I could be with you at the station. Second, if I hadn't wanted to stay here, I'd have left you at the door. In fact, I thought I might have been imposing on your privacy by following you inside."

"No, not at all..."

"Third," he interrupted, cupping her face with his palm, "you are no one's fool, Catie Munro. It's my guess that you've needed that cry for a long time."

Her eyes glistened in the dim light as she gave a small nod.

He brushed his thumb over the full curve of her bottom lip. She rewarded him with a delicate shiver.

"Finally," he whispered, "nothing you've said or done has ruined the evening. I'll admit, it didn't end the way I had thought it might." Beneath his palm, her skin heated. She, too, remembered the unspoken, unfulfilled expectations. "But, I'm not sorry that this has happened. Tonight was good. No, it was terrific for many reasons."

On impulse, he leaned forward and set a fleeting kiss on her lips. She tasted of red wine and sweet promises. "That's a down payment on our next evening together. Don't think you can flirt with me and escape all the consequences."

Her laugh was shaky. A tear fell from the corner of her eye. "Thank you."

He searched her face. "I should be thanking you."

Cate narrowed her eyes. He hoped she wouldn't ask him to explain, since he didn't have the answers. New tears trickled down her cheek and collected on the ledge of his hand as is lay against her face. He smiled in the wake of her skittish emotions. "Are you going to cry again?"

Cate held her breath. "I can't seem to help myself."

"Then here." He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a neatly pressed handkerchief. "Myrtle never lets me leave home without one," he explained as he dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. "For once, it's come in handy."

She let him dry her face, then took the handkerchief when he offered it and nestled her head against his shoulder. For a long time, she simply huddled him. Tom savored the way her feminine curves molded to him, how her scented warmth filled his head. The in-and-out of her breathing slowed and fell into a rhythm with his. Content with the quiet companionship, drowsy yet aware, he closed his eyes.

"Tom?"

He came alert. "What, Cate?"

She paused, then lifted her head. Her silky hair brushed his chin and cheek, sending a tremor through him. "I've never told anyone what I learned about Ian the night of his accident."

"No one? Not even during the custody battle with your in-laws?"

"No."

"Why? If you had testified about Ian's adultery..."

"Then it would have been entered into the permanent court record. I didn't want to take the chance that Jon would ever find out."

"It might have also made Ian's parents reconsider their legal action."

"I know. But Jon was so little when Ian died. Even now he doesn't remember much about his father. I didn't want those few memories tarnished. In spite of everything, Ian loved Jon."

His heart swelled with fierce affection for this woman he held in his arms. "You want to protect Ian's memory after the way he hurt you and how his parents bullied you?"

She stiffened. "Ian wasn't to blame for everything that went wrong between us. When I finally stopped feeling sorry for myself, I realized that two people enter a marriage and two people have to make it work. Yes, Ian hurt me. But I probably hurt him in a hundred little ways, too."

"One difference. You tried to get help. He didn't want it."

"Yes, but Ian understood where we were headed." She lowered her chin and voice. "Because of the counseling, I told him I was considering a trial separation. I've often wondered if that's why he started the affair."

The startling revelation dredged up old, but still sharp pain. For one terrible moment, as he remembered the bleak sense of abandonment and grief he felt when Lara left him, Tom felt sorry for Ian Munro.

Cate rushed to explain. "I was desperate. I couldn't save the marriage if he wasn't willing to help. I could only save myself. Maybe the affair was Ian's way of admitting that something had gone terribly wrong and neither of us could fix it."

Her quavering, self-revealing words stabbed Tom's conscience. Had he really been surprised when Lara announced her intentions to leave him? How many signs of her discontent had he ignored, maybe by conscious design? Both of them had brought their own sets of expectations to the marriage. Had he imagined he'd change and grow while Lara remained static?

Myrtle told him that Lara's flight was one of simple self-preservation. Little different it seemed from the one Cate had planned. Because Myrtle understood, she'd forgiven his ex-wife, something he had yet to manage. Indeed, every time he looked into Megan's face, heard her clear and beautiful voice, he remembered the overwhelming sense of loss. He never considered that he might have been a small measure of the cause.

Until now.

"You can't blame yourself for what Ian did," he murmured more to himself than to Cate. "He shouldn't have cheated on you."

"As I'm sure he thought I shouldn't walk out on him," she replied in a stronger voice.

"You had reason."

"Ian probably thought he did, too."

He peered down at her upturned face. "You forgave him, then?"

She shook her head. "Not until tonight. I've kept all this inside me. I think I was too afraid and ashamed to take it out and look hard at it. But this thing with Jon..." she hesitated. "Everything suddenly came to the surface. Maybe I'm finally ready to deal with it after all these years."

He cuddled her closer, warding off the stirring of guilt and bewilderment. "Eight years is a long time."

"Too long. I think that's why I overreacted tonight about Jon."

He stroked her cheek. "I've been known to overreact on Megan's behalf myself. Or have you forgotten the night we formally met?"

Beneath his touch the corner of her mouth lifted into a grin. "You were afraid for her."

"You were afraid for Jon. And for yourself."

After a moment, she nodded and laid her hand over his. "I'm not afraid anymore."

Though her voice quivered, he heard a quiet, new determination in her words. He sensed the tears that rolled across his hand were now tears of relief. Moisture collected in his own eyes. He lifted her from the cushion and settled her across his lap. The sudden intimacy with the lithe curves of her body aroused his desire. More exhilarating still, her nearness satisfied an empty, aching need deep in his soul.

She burrowed into his shoulder and let one soft whimper escape before she pressed his handkerchief to her lips. Tom held her close and safe for an uncounted length of time, listening to her cry as he listened to his heart.

Minute by slow, hazy minute Cate realized that her cheek no longer rested on Tom's shoulder. Neither did she feel the strong thud of Tom's heart beneath her hand or the press of his face on the crown of her head. She lay on her side, her face buried into something soft and scented of her own perfume. Her eyelids felt leaden and gritty as she struggled to open them. The only light flickering in the near total darkness was the digital display of a clock radio when it flipped from 1:33 to 1:34 A.M. Images floated around in her brain then settled into a solid pattern. This was her bedroom. She lay on her bed. Problem was, she didn't remember exactly how or when she'd gotten there.

Shaking off the sleep that muddled her thoughts, she tried to raise on one elbow. Material tugged at her shoulder and collared her throat. Only then did she realize that beneath the down comforter, she still wore her black evening dress. The memories came back in a foggy fits and starts. She'd nestled a long time in Tom's embrace. She had cried and dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief. Then a peaceful lethargy had stolen over her. She must have dozed off in his arms. He had moved her upstairs, she decided. Her face flushed hot with the image, then flushed hotter when she remembered the crying jag that left her helpless.

Yet Tom had been so patient, so kind and caring when she had unburdened her heart for the first time in nearly eight years. And when did she come to trust this one man after so long trusting no one, not even herself? She knew with all feminine certainty that, seduced by his kindness, she'd have gladly given herself to him, fulfilled the expectations they had conjured after their evening of dinner and dancing. But he hadn't once presumed on her vulnerability. He had stroked her face, smoothed her hair and kissed her cheek and forehead, yet restrained himself, subordinating his needs to hers. Then he let her fall asleep in the safety of his arms and tucked her into bed before taking his leave.

Had she not already fallen in love with Thomas Patrick Flannery, this evening surely would have sealed her fate. She smiled into the darkness, threw aside the comforter and sat up on the edge of the bed. She'd call him later to make certain that he understood the depth of her gratitude. And more.

She took her bearings in the dark and stood. She noticed that the bedroom door was open, but didn't bother to close it since she was alone in the house. Almost at the same moment, she realized that the black dress had bunched up around her thighs. She smoothed it down, then lifted her arms and reached over her shoulders to undo the top hook and zipper. As she contorted her wrists and fingers, she chuckled, remembering how earlier that evening she had enlisted Jon's help to close the last six inches of the zipper. He had stared at her with wide eyes, then blurted out that she looked 'hot'. Cate was both alarmed and flattered by the observation.

Her little boy was growing up. Until tonight, she feared that he'd hurt her the way Ian had. Thanks to Tom and his sweet, caring concern, she no longer harbored that fear. Though she wasn't yet sure what to say or do when she faced Jon, she knew she'd see him for the first time as his own person, not some shadowy reflection of his father.

The hook gave way and so did the zipper. She wiggled out of the dress, then peeled off her hose and draped them over her desk chair in the corner. Clad only in her black slip, she padded into her bathroom, flipped on the light and set about refreshing herself. Ten minutes later, her eyes a little less swollen, her brain less groggy, she returned to the bedroom and clicked on a small hurricane-style lamp on her desk. The dim twenty-five watt bulb gave her just enough light to finish undressing.

With the flat of her right hand, she slipped the narrow black strap off her left shoulder. It tickled as it slid down her arm. She held back a shiver and reached for the other strap. Then she heard a muted footfall climbing the darkened stairway outside her room. She froze, and a moment later her heart skipped a beat before it raced when Tom filled the doorway. His tie hung in a loose knot beneath the open collar of his wrinkled white shirt. He pushed a lock of tousled dark hair off his forehead and squinted into the weak light.

"Cate?" he called to her in a sleep-scratchy voice. He squinted harder and leaned through the doorway. "I heard the water running...Cate!"

Palpable expectancy eddied through the stunned silence as he took in the sight of her, head to toe and back up again. Though one thin strap kept her from a state of complete undress, Cate didn't try to conceal herself. His heated gaze ignited her desire as if he was stroking her body with is hands. Seething warmth pooled in the center of her being and radiated out. Her skin prickled from the tips of her fingers to the roots of her hair. The bodice of her slip seemed a size too small.

She let her hand slide down her bare arm and settle at her waist. He followed the path of her hand across her bosom then reluctantly dragged his gaze away. The hitch in his throat when he tried to catch his breath flooded her with deep, feminine satisfaction.

He braced his hand against the door jamb. "I didn't mean to barge in. I...I just wanted to make sure you were all right." But he didn't move or turn away. Neither could he steady his breathing.

Cate shook herself out of the sultry haze. "I'm fine. Did you bring me up here?"

He blinked twice and focused on her face before he nodded. "You don't remember?"

An embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "No, not really. But thank you."

He dipped his head and let go of the door jamb as he started to turn away. "As long as you're all right..."

She didn't want him to leave. Not yet. She lurched a step forward to stop him. "It's almost two o'clock. You... were downstairs all this time?"

Slowly, he turned. "You fell asleep, but I thought if you woke up you might need...someone," he said carefully. "So I called Myrtle, told her where I was and sat down on the couch to wait." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I guess I fell asleep, too. Sorry."

"I'm not."

He shook his head in puzzlement. Cate was just as startled by the admission and took another step toward him on trembling legs. "You stayed," she marveled. "You already gave me more than I had a right to expect. You could have considered your duty done and left."

He frowned with annoyance. "I didn't stay out of some sense of duty. You needed me. I wanted to be here if you needed me again."

"I do need you again, Tom. But not like before," she whispered her wish.

"Cate," he murmured, "I'm...I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

She searched her heart, found there a shocking and powerful new physical need. She didn't remember wanting any man so badly that she'd risk rejection by throwing herself at him. Yet, she dared now because she loved Tom Flannery. That love and her flaring desire made her bold despite her fear. She moved toward him until they stood only a hand's breadth apart.

"Take me in your arms, Tom. Please."

He swallowed hard. "If I hold you now...Cate, this isn't like before, downstairs. What I'm feeling right now isn't sympathy or compassion."

She answered his noble warning with a shy smile and laid her hand against his heart. The hard and fast rhythm beneath her palm echoed the mounting anticipation of her own pulse. She lifted her eyes to his face.

"I know where this is leading. I knew when we left the restaurant. Maybe I've known for longer than that." She leaned forward so that their bodies just barely touched, his hard-muscles close to her yielding bosom. "I don't need your compassion or sympathy now. I need you to hold and touch me."

His warm sigh ruffled the fringes of hair at her temple, igniting another surge of furious heat through her body. Inside the silky bodice of her slip, the aureoles of her breasts beaded hard. She eased up on her tiptoes and dragged the tender swelling over the plane of his chest. Responding to the wild urgings of her body only inflamed them. She whimpered with impatience, circled his neck with her arms and crushed herself to him.

"Please, hold me!"

She clung to him and waited for the vise of his embrace. But as each unresponsive second ticked by, apprehension nibbled at the edges of her certainty. Did he have second thoughts about her after the emotional scene in the living room? Did she once again follow her heart to the brink of disaster and throw herself after it? Suddenly cold with panic, she trembled and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears of humiliation. How could she possibly ask him to forgive this horrible miscalculation?

"Are you sure this isn't just gratitude, Catie?"

His voice rumbled in her ear. She dropped down on her heels and only then felt his hands settled loosely at her waist. As her body moved down to his, Tom pulled her forward so that the inside curve of her thigh slid along the length of his full arousal.

Yes, Tom wanted her. But he, too, had fears. Her racing heart robbed her of air and speech. "Gratitude is not what I'm feeling, Tom," she managed to say. "Maybe afterward..."

She thought he chuckled. The sound mingled with a groan as he clenched her body inside his arms and cut off her words with a soul-jarring kiss. His mouth locked to hers. His tongue arced across the inside of her lower lip, then traced the curve above it. She went weak in the knees and leaned her whole weight into him. He swung her around and anchored her against the door jamb with his own body, leaving his hands free to wander upward until his thumbs molded to the underside of her breasts.

Expecting him to free her from the confines of her slip, she held her breath. Instead, he brought both hands up and around in unison until his palms covered her sheathed swells. The effect of his palms gliding over the silky film of her slip taunted her sensitized flesh. When he swept the beaded aureoles with his thumbs, the friction blurred her mind in a rush of exquisite sensation.

Exhaling her delight, she shut her eyes and arched herself to press harder into his hands. He responded with near frenzied circles of the tender peaks until her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Just when she thought that she could take no more, he slid his thumbs away and moved his hands to brace her back. She thought it was over. But when she opened her eyes, she realized that he had just begun. He lowered his mouth to her left breast and suckled the peak through her slip. His tongue danced over, around, across until the wet silk clung to her hot skin, sending sparks of pleasure to every nerve in her body. Heat pooled below her waist and between her legs. The jolting depth of her response made her dizzy.

He lifted his face, brushed her lips with his. "More?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Yes, more!"

He shifted his weight, trailed a line of hot kisses along her neck, throat and shoulder before setting his mouth this time to her right breast. He brought her quickly to another plateau of erotic sensation using tongue, teeth, lips and a layer of silk. She forgot all else until she arched to bring herself closer against the hot, wet friction and he pressed his hand into her lower back, bringing her once again into immediate contact with his arousal. Only then did she realize she still gripped his arms, that he had given pleasure but she had not.

As he nursed at her breast, she released his arms and dragged her hands down the front of his shirt. He grunted his approval when she fumbled open the tiny white buttons and finally tore the shirttail out of his waistband. Crisp hair tickled her fingers as she ran her palms up his naked chest. Beneath the thick, dark mat, his male nipples were as erect as hers. When she circled her palms over them, he drew back from her and gasped. Smiling, she slid her hand down his breastbone and abdomen, then edged her fingertips inside the waistband of his slacks. He straightened and stared down at her with smoky blue-gray eyes.

"More?" she teased him.

"Yes, more," he rasped.

Unable to break his mesmerizing gaze, she stared into his taut features as she arrowed her hand downward, over his belt and onto the bulge between his legs.

Even through his clothes, Tom felt strong and hard and pulsing inside her palm. At her first fleeting touch, he snapped his eyes shut and jutted his chin upward. Strain pulled at the corners of his mouth, but a deep groan escaped his throat. As it did, he burrowed his fingertips into her back and pushed his hips forward. Answering his unspoken entreaty, she folded his arousal inside her palm and fingers.

His expression transformed. Tense and satisfied all at once, he rocked against her, setting up a rhythm that seemed to both torment and excite him. And she had caused it, she marveled. She had stirred passion in him just as he awakened it in her. Giddy and greedy as a seductress, she needed to flex this sudden new power she felt. His clothing was suddenly a barrier that she had to cast aside. She needed to feel his slick, hot flesh slide against her palm. She brought her free hand down and began to fumble with his belt buckle.

Suddenly, he clamped his hands over her wrists. "Catie, we have to stop! Now! Damn!" Still holding her, he collapsed backward against the doorframe. "Double damn!"

Her body shuddered with unfulfilled desire. "Why?"

He gritted his teeth. "Don't you remember? We got sidetracked on our way to the drug store after dinner. Unless you know of an all-night pharmacy closer than the west side of Chicago, we can't go much beyond this point."

For one irrational moment, Cate considered throwing caution to the wind. But Tom was right. Neither of them could be careless or shortsighted. Where was the Safe-Sex Fairy now when she needed her? The name popped into her passion fogged brain so suddenly that she laughed. "Mrs. Fortney!"

Chapter 14

Tom raked his hair with a shaking hand and stared at Cate as if she'd gone wingy. "Who the hell is Mrs. Fortney, and what does she have to do with us? Now?"

Cate broke from his hold, hurried to her desk and yanked open the top drawer. "Mrs. Fortney is Will Fortney's mother."

"Isn't he the kid who got Jon in trouble tonight?"

"Yes, and she never returned my phone calls."

"Yeah, so?" Tom persisted as he followed her into the room. "She doesn't watch her kids. She doesn't return her phone calls. I still don't get it."

She smiled at the sound of his impatience and rummaged in the dim light until she found what she wanted. Gripping the three little packets between her thumb and forefinger, Cate spun around and held them up. "Mrs. Fortney never answered my phone messages, so I never had the chance to return them."

He stared at the condoms as if she had conjured them out of thin air, then flew to her side. "I know I should ask why you were going to return those things to Mrs. Fortney, but right now, I don't care. She's not going to get them back." He plucked the packets from her fingers. "You, me, and these three condoms have a date with destiny, Cate."

She threw her head back and laughed. "Maybe I should write her a thank you note."

He set two of the packet on the desk and kept one. "You do that. Tomorrow. Right now we're going to put this windfall to good use."

Still reeling from the whirlwind of events and the onslaught of erotic sensations, she watched wide-eyed and slightly chagrined as Tom whipped off his shirt, then unfastened his belt buckle and kicked off his shoes. In less than ten furious heartbeats, he stood before her dressed only in dark blue briefs. The weak light cast his body in sharp shadows. The sight of his broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and narrow waist and hips, dazzled her. Beneath the folds of his briefs was the evidence of his impatient desire. She wanted to reach out and cradle his arousal as she had before, and feel the wonderful delight of pleasuring him.

"Cate?"

At his beckoning, she reluctantly lifted her eyes to his face. He smiled in his smart, sexy way, ripped open the condom packet and tossed the cover aside. He snatched her hand and placed the small latex ring in her palm. "Help me put this on?"

She didn't believe her ears. "Me? Help you?"

He slanted his brow playfully. "It's more fun that way."

He must have seen the panic in her face and frowned. He didn't understand, she thought miserably. How could he? She turned her face from the unspoken question in his eyes. "I told you I wasn't very good at this sort of thing. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

Tom pulled her toward him and Cate forced herself to look up at him.

As he cradled her hand inside his, he smiled, not with amusement, but with a warm, sweet intimacy that touched his voice. "Inexperience is not the same as inability. Would the teacher let herself be taught a very private lesson?"

He stroked the inside of her forearm. The soothing rhythm inexplicably excited her. His sweet consideration for her feelings made her throat constrict with emotion. Every second, she fell more deeply in love with him. That made it all the more important to be completely honest. "You may find that I have a lot to learn."

He drew her forward until their bodies almost touched. "Then the sooner we start the lesson the better. I have a feeling you're a very fast learner. Will you let me teach you?"

Even if she had wanted to refuse, she would never have found the will. His tender regard seduced her more thoroughly than his intimate caresses. She'd lost herself to him and didn't care to find her way back. "Yes, show me."

Her permission brought a satisfied grin to his face. He slipped one hand around her back, while he braced her nape with the other. "First, some review."

He set his mouth to hers and kissed her senseless. So many potent sensations whirled around her that she could barely discern between them. The dark, springy hair on his chest delightfully chafed the exposed crown of her bosom. Tom's powerful, possessive embrace inflamed her already incredible need for him. His hot, hungry kisses swept away all conscious thought. She forgot about the latex ring inside her fist until he broke his kiss. "Review's over," he gasped.

The clipped impatience in his voice made her giggle. He cast her a wicked glance, then caught her empty hand and settled it on the bulge between his legs. "You disagree?"

She nodded, no longer feeling like laughing.

She stepped back enough for him to shimmy out of his briefs. As he stripped, she openly admired the lean contours of his backside and the sinuous length of his legs. He grinned when he caught her peeking. When he moved against her again, his arousal free and hard against her silk covered belly, her pulse skittered with renewed anticipation and more than a little apprehension.

His face next to hers, he nuzzled her ear. "Just do what I tell you, Catie."

Between delicate kisses, fleeting touches and breathless words, he guided her in the necessary, yet amazingly erotic task. By the time she had enveloped his length, both of them could barely utter more than helpless sounds of need. She fell into his arms, clung to his shoulders to support herself. He held her fast with one arm, while the other slid down her spine to the curves of her backside. She shivered when his fingers caressed and cupped her.

"You're not wearing anything underneath, are you, Cate?"

The provocative whisper left her feeling delightfully wanton. She threaded her fingers through his hair. "I was getting ready for bed when you barged in."

In the pale lamplight, his smiled wickedly. "Barged in through an open door? I think you left it open on purpose."

She laughed, low, husky and breathless. "How could that be? I thought you'd left."

The smile left his face as he stared at her with a different, wholly beguiling sentiment. "I'll never leave you."

Against all reason, she believed him. "I know."

A wisp of his devilish grin reappeared and he moved the palms of his hands over her buttocks. "You made this easy for me, Cate. I'll show you how to get ready for bed."

He crumpled the back panels of her slip and bared her flesh. Wild sensations shot through her as he kneaded her softness, then ran a finger from the tip of her spine to the delicate cleavage below it. When glided his hand to her belly, she whimpered until he cupped her feminine depths and slid two fingers between her thighs. The sudden intimacy startled her. Though her body cried for more, some defensive impulse made her stiffen.

Tom immediately withdrew and held her tenderly. "What's wrong? Don't you want this?"

"I'm...not sure," she stammered. "I've never been touched like this...before now."

"Never?" He pulled back and cupped her face his hands. "You were married how long?"

"Four years."

He searched her eyes. "And Ian never..." He caught himself. A slow determined smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Good."

"Good?" she echoed in disbelief.

He nodded and let his thumb graze her lower lip. "This will be like your first time. I'm going to make love to you the way no one ever has. I'll make it so good that you'll want me again and again. I'll find a dozen different ways to please you."

From someone else the words might have sounded boastful. But she knew in her heart that his tender promises were sincere.

"You please me now," she sighed. "It feels so wonderful when you touch me that I don't want it to stop. Is it always that wonderful?"

"It's better," he said and reached to switch off the hurricane lamp. Standing in the dark brought all her senses alive. She heard the beating of her own heart, felt the heat of his body warm hers, breathed in the musky scent of their mutual arousal.

He leaned and lifted her face to brush her a kiss. "Time for lesson number two. Pay close attention. There may be a pop quiz later."

Her delighted giggle became an urgent gasp when he swept his hands down her throat, over her breasts and removed the lacy film of bodice. Her nipples, still damp from his frantic nursing, puckered in the chill. But heat quickly rose and suffused her body as he eased the slip over her hips and let it drop in a dark pool on the carpet.

"Now you're ready," he cooed, settling both hands at her waist.

And she was ready, unashamed of her nakedness before this man, willing to give what he desired. She wanted him. She loved him. Yes, she was ready.

"Come with me."

He pressed his hand into hers and led her the few steps to the rumpled bed. With his free arm, he swept the two pillows into a bank against the headboard and pulled her into his arms. Their bodies clashed, hard to soft, rough to smooth, heat to heat. The length of his arousal nudged her inner thighs. She thrust her hips forward to meet him. She had expected him to ease her back on to the bed. Instead, he swung her around until her back pressed into his chest and his erection nudged the cleavage of her bottom. With one arm, he clamped her waist. With the other hand, he cupped a breast and held the budded peak gently between his fingers. She succumbed without reservation to the unexpected fiery sensations this new arrangement sparked. As he worked his fingers over her flesh high and low, he pressed his mouth to her ear. "Do you trust me?"

Awash in wantonness, she leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Yes!"

"Come with me," he whispered.

Secure in his sensual embrace, she let her body meld and flex with his as he guided them both to the mattress. Half sitting, half-lying against the pillows, he settled her on top of him and set his cheek to hers from behind.

"I want you!" he murmured, and thrust his hardened flesh further into her soft contours. "Can you feel how much?"

"Yes, I feel it!"

He nipped her shoulder and sent a spasm of pleasure through her. "And you want me, don't you?"

Her body restless and needful, she arched in reflex. "Yes, I want you!"

He slid his hand from her abdomen and ventured downward. "Then open for me, Catie. Open so I can make you feel as good as you'll make me feel."

She hesitated a moment, but only for a moment. Slowly, she moved her leg apart. He groaned and slid his tongue over the ridge of her shoulder, sending delightful chills up her spine. He then fanned his fingers across her belly and combed through the nest of soft hair that hid her feminine secrets. Instinctively, she tensed.

"Trust me," he murmured as his fingers danced erotically over her breast. "Trust me."

"Yes," she whimpered. "I trust you..."

The words lodged in her throat with a sharp gasp as he eased his fingers across the nub of flesh at the gate of her womanhood and slowly penetrated her warm, moist depths. The sensation electrified her. Her body vibrated with an awareness that had been a mystery to her before. She was alive, on fire, greedy for more. When he pulled out, she murmured a protest. But he wasn't finished. He'd only begun. His fingers, wet with her need, slid over the nub of flesh, then back inside, his touch slightly more insistent.

"Cate, you're already hot and wet!" Tom groaned. "You make this too easy for me!"

She smiled her pleasure, and another wave of sensations carried her away as he worked his fingers in a stronger, faster rhythm. She opened herself wider to his erotic caresses and gripped the hand that covered her breast.

"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm with you all the way," she heard him say. "Hold on to me."

"Tom, come with me!" she begged.

"I will, soon enough," he promised. "Just feel now. Feel how good it can be."

The electric sizzle started everywhere at once, shot up her spine, through the ends of every nerve. The depths that he excited with his wild, rhythmic touches quivered then convulsed her until her entire body shook and she cried out at the glorious discovery. He held her in place when she would have flown apart with the overpowering force. He held her fast until the agonizing pleasure nearly overwhelmed her consciousness.

Cate wasn't aware when he shifted her body to the bed. Her lungs still gasping for air and her limbs spasming from the carnal rush, she realized that he had stretched his body above her. His breath came quick and hot on her face.

"Are you ready for me?"

She spread her legs and gripped his shoulders. "Yes, now!"

Tom lowered himself before the words were completely out of her mouth and drove deep inside her. His thick, hard arousal stretched her moistened depths, creating a lusty new friction that robbed her of breath. When he heard her gasp, he started to withdraw.

"No!" she protested, and clutched his lean hips. She pushed down, commanding him back inside her.

With a moan, he obeyed and hurried his rhythm, bringing her to a glorious frazzle again. She breathed in the scent of their joined bodies and the perspiration of their skin. Then, for the second time, the pulsing began even deeper inside her. She knew that he felt it, too. He scooped her bottom in one hand and lifted her toward him. She reached the height of ecstasy first and called him after her. Tom followed, roaring his exquisite pleasure, filling her with fierce womanly pride and tender affection.

Laboring for breath, he collapsed at her side and held her. "School's out, Cate Munro. You've graduated." he declared, then set a hot, hard kiss on her mouth. "With honors!"

His sweet tease made her heart overflow. She wanted to tell him so much, but knew she'd never get it past the swelling of emotion in her throat. Her eyes filling with tears of joy, she snuggled into his side.

Cate blinked lazily in the dark while her heart beat a steady, serene tattoo. For the first time since Jon's birth, she felt wholly complete, wonderfully certain. The euphoria amazed her, since tonight, she had breached every standard of professional and ethical conduct. Not only had she shared her bed with the father of a student, she had opened herself body and soul to a man who held the power to destroy her livelihood.

How unimportant it all seemed as she lay inside the circle of Tom's embrace. The protective weight of his arm across her abdomen seemed an unspoken promise for the future. He could have gone home after their lovemaking, but he stayed to caress her with affectionate words and kisses until he fell asleep beside her. As surely as he made her feel alive and desirable during their passion, his tender companionship afterward made her feel cherished and important.

He said he wouldn't leave when she needed him. Tom Flannery was a man of his word.

She shut her eyes. Until tonight, she expected little from life; nothing at all from love. She realized that her marriage to Ian had died long before he did, if it ever really thrived. For years, she had shouldered the responsibility for its failure. When her response to Ian's sexual overtures was tepid or disappointing, he blamed her for not trying hard enough. Now, she realized that Ian seldom gave her reason to try. His berating and impatience wounded her more deeply than she realized. If he sought passion elsewhere, it was because his own cruelty smothered any desire in their marriage bed. He had convinced her that she couldn't please any man, much less herself. And she had believed him.

Until tonight.

She set her cheek against the crown of Tom's head. The clean, male scent of his thick hair filled her every breath. The rich strands felt like plush velvet on her skin. The mere memory of his hands molding to her body with sensuous purpose flooded her with heat. He made her feel womanly and wanton and powerfully alluring. He made her want to give back as good as she received. She suddenly felt a rush of pity for her dead husband. Ian Munro, wonder-kid of investment banking, a man of social grace and exquisite taste, knew the cost of everything but the value of nothing worthwhile. He loved her as he might a possession, to be displayed and protected, but never really cherished. How tragic that he never had the chance to learn otherwise. She listened to the murmurings of her heart and found forgiveness for Ian. And for herself.

She nestled closer to Tom. Had it not been for this man, she might have gone through the rest of her life as lost and unaware as poor Ian. "I love you," she whispered to him in the dark.

He stirred and muttered a few nonsense syllables.

Cate smiled to herself, knowing her declaration hadn't cut through his sleepy haze. But then she felt his hand move over her ribs until he cupped her breast.

"Catie? Honey?" he murmured.

Her body tightened with sensual expectation. She turned and found his warm, waiting lips.

I love you, Tom.

He woke with the words fluttering inside his brain. Sunshine leaked through a crack in the blinds, making him squint as he turned his head. Without looking, he knew that Cate had left the bed. He jacked himself into a sitting position against the headboard and rubbed his eyes. As the drowsiness cleared from his senses, he heard the sound of a shower running in the bathroom. Then he heard her voice, singing.

Cate's voice.

He relaxed to the soothing melody. Lara often sang as she performed her morning bathroom rituals. But his ex-wife's voice was low and sexy, suited to jazz and torch songs. Cate sang high and warm and joyously, the lilting melody suited for children and springtime. Last night, she had sung a song of passion for him and chanted his name as he drove her toward fulfillment. That had been the sweetest melody of all.

I love you, Tom.

Had she said it? Or was it just an echo of her heartbeat and sweet sighs? Had he dreamed it? Or did he simply needed to hear it? He couldn't remember, but the sentiment shouldn't have surprised him. Shedding tears, she trusted him with her pain. Later, she committed her body to him. She wasn't the sort of woman who would make love before committing her love. Last night, he had discovered an untapped reserve of desire and love inside the prim Ms. Catherine Munro. His 'student' had become a master of his will and she didn't even know it. She had taught him about the deep, arousing satisfaction of initiating an innocent woman to the pleasures of physical desire. She had responded so eagerly and with such trust, her climaxes so intense, that he imagined himself a conquering hero.

What ego! Later, when he woke in the dark, fondling her and half-erect with anticipation, she had drawn him eagerly into her arms. With grace and tenderness, she had conquered him. He combed his hair with stiff fingers. Ian Munro had been a fool. If the man had really loved her, he would have tried everything in his power...

A jolt of caution went through him. Whoa, Flannery! 'If he'd loved her?' Does that mean I might love her? Could be, he answered himself. He didn't lust after every pretty woman he met, and quite a few had tried to tempt him over the past few years. But he hadn't really been interested since Lara. And not until Cate Munro. He leaned forward to clasp the pyramid of his knees. Maybe this was the real thing again. He did care for Cate. She stirred in him both need and purpose, in spite of their deep differences. But did he love her?

He spied the one, lone condom on the night stand and snatched it. Mental note, he told himself: buy a case of them. One thing for certain, he'd make love to her again. Between his house and hers, it might be hard to find privacy. But he'd take her in the back seat of his Lexus if need be. Circling the sealed ring with his thumb brought a grin to his face. It wouldn't be a good idea to leave this last one laying around, would it? What if Jon found it and started asking questions? He glanced at the bathroom door. The shower still ran and Cate still sang. Maybe she needed help rinsing off. The way his groin pulled tight, he figured such an offer would take care of packet number three in no time at all...

The telephone trill shattered his budding fantasy. Without thinking, he threw back the covers and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

The pause at the other end of the line was the first indication that he had probably made a mistake.

"Flannery! What the hell are you doing there?"

Tom held the receiver a couple inches from his ear as Dave bellowed into it. "Good morning, Austin," he replied when the noise died down. "A grand, fine day it is, too."

No laughter. Not a good sign.

"Are you on the upstairs or downstairs phone?" Dave demanded.

Tom eased back into the pillows. "None of your damn business."

"The hell it isn't!"

"Cut the big brother crap, Austin. It's starting to annoy me. What do you want?"

Another pause as Dave considered pursuing the subject. He decided against it. "Is Cate there?"

Tom glanced at the bathroom door. "She's busy right now...singing."

"Really?" Dave snarled.

"Yes, really."

"Well, when she's finished 'singing'," Dave informed him, "tell her Jon's ready to come home."

Tom sat up, no longer feeling the urge to do verbal combat. "Is he all right?"

On the other end of the line, Dave's voice softened. "The kid's tired. He finally got to sleep around midnight. And he's still scared, but ready to talk to his mom. How's Cate?"

"Finally got to sleep around midnight," Tom echoed Dave's report. "I took care of her."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

Tom scratched the stubble on his chin. "Tell Jon we'll be out in an hour."

"'We?'" Dave challenged.

Tom swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up straight. "Get used to me, Austin, I'm in for the long haul. See you in an hour." He slammed down the phone.

So, you're in for the long haul, huh? a voice inside his head taunted.

"I guess I am," he answered out loud, sensing somehow that he'd just made a solemn vow.

Tom steered the Lexus onto the gravel road that led up to Austin Acres, as he'd begun to think of the country home. As he made the right turn, he glanced at Cate.

She looked beautiful in the morning light. Though tension pulled at the corners of her mouth, her expression remained serene. Devoid of make-up, her cheeks glowed a natural pink as they had when she had emerged out of the bathroom and found him sitting naked on the edge of the bed. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, infusing it with brilliant, tantalizing color.

Tom had wanted her again, but knew it wasn't the time. Her mind was focused on one thing only: Jon. When he told her about the phone call, she tried to act calm, even telling him to take a long shower if he wanted. But he could see that she wanted to collect her son as quickly as possible. He'd have felt the same way about Megan. Needless to say, he had put aside his plans for the third condom, gave himself a five-minute scrubbing under a tepid spray and dressed while still damp. They bought fast-food coffee, which neither of them drank, and he overshot the speed limit by a consistent ten miles per hour on the country roads.

The old farmhouse loomed large in front of them. Tom slowed the car and pulled to a stop in front of the brick walkway leading to the front porch. As Cate fumbled with the seatbelt release, he reached over the console and took her hand. "Everything will be fine."

She stared down at their entwined hands, then fixed her luminous green-gold eyes on his face. "I know it will be. Thanks, Tom." She paused and smiled. "For everything."

Had he been ready with an appropriate reply to the intimate gratitude, Dave Austin's sudden appearance at the car door would have prevented him from saying it. As it was, he barely had time to flip the lock switch before Cate reached for the door handle. Once outside, she swept past her brother and flew up the porch steps. The screen door had already banged behind her when Tom finally extricated himself from the seatbelt and climbed out of the car. Over the roof of his Lexus, he confronted Dave Austin's glare.

After a few seconds of silent standoff, Dave jerked his head toward the house. "You might as well come in. Sue made breakfast. For all of us."

Tom slammed his car door shut. "Thanks."

When he headed toward the porch, Dave fell into step with him. "Weren't you wearing that jacket last night?" he asked, his tone as clipped as his footsteps on the wooden stairs.

Tom kept his eyes ahead. "Uh-huh. But I'm fresh and clean underneath."

They reached the screen door. Dave yanked it open, but did not stand aside. "You stayed with Catie the whole night, didn't you?"

Tom stared at him in the eye. "Yes, I did. And if you give her any grief about it, you'll answer to me, got it?"

When Dave didn't respond to the threat with anything but raised eyebrows, Tom lurched around him and walked into the kitchen. Cate had already taken Jon into her arms and the two hugged in tender silence. Tom sensed Dave behind him.

Dave didn't disappoint him. "I really want to hate you, Flannery..."

At that moment, tears began to trickle down Cate's beautiful, smiling face. Tom jumped when he felt the solid clamp of Dave's hand on his shoulder.

"Fact of the matter is," Dave said with a reluctant sigh, "I'm starting to like you."

Tom would have chuckled with triumph -- had be been able to get past the lump in his chest.

Chapter 15

Tom rose from a crouch and studied his last minute repair job. The reinforced cardboard appliance carton turned gaudy jack-in-the-box, would hold through the performance, if the little imp playing 'Jack' didn't ham it up too much.

Over the past two weeks, he had learned that rambunctious seven-year-olds could be as hard on stage props as they could on a person's nerves. How Cate, or any other teacher, managed to control thirty such pint- sized packets of undirected energy on a day-do-day basis, was beyond his comprehension. The fact that teachers actually got the kids to learn something, bordered on the miraculous.

Having done his best, he rolled down his sleeves and snatched his suit coat off the back of the script prompter's chair. Just beyond the heavy, drawn stage curtains, the crowd had already gathered in the auditorium. Myrtle ws out there, too, saving him a seat in the front row. A swarm of butterflies took flight in the pit of his stomach. Megan didn't seem the slightest bit nervous when he had dropped her off in her classroom earlier that evening. Sometimes the child's natural poise amazed him. Tom figured it was his parental responsibility to suffer jitters for both of them.

As he shrugged into his coat and headed for the stage door, he greeted several other volunteers who were also making last minute checks and changes on the stage. They were all tired, but undaunted. The group held a couple of flakes, and one unrepentant control freak. But to a person, they were all good-hearted and generous, and took pride in their children, in the school, and in their work. He coildn't remember a time since college when he had so thoroughly enjoyed himself with such an eclectic group of individuals.

He would definitely volunteer again, even though the three weeks since the spring break had been a blur of late night construction blitzes punctuated by last minute snags and frenzied problem solving. As the chair of set decoration and property management, he'd already been to several in-school practices and a dress rehearsal given for the student body. He knew the songs by heart. He probably muttered dialogue in his sleep.

Stepping into the hallway, he grinned. Maybe he'd ask Cate if he was reciting dialogue in his sleep. If anyone knew, she would. Especially after last weekend. His step quickened with new energy. It had been a great two days. Jon was on a baseball road trip with his team downstate. Myrtle, God bless her heart and make it beat for another seventy-five years, had taken Megan on the train into Chicago for a spring shopping spree on the Magnificent Mile. Tom and Cate had spent the entire time together, some of it at her place, some of it at his; but much of it finding new and exciting ways to make love.

The woman was a study in contrasts, one minute shy and naive, the next wanton and seductive. She wanted to please and be pleased, give and take in equal measure. It made his head reel. He couldn't get enough. If there was a way, he'd try to see her tonight. He hurried down the stage steps and turned left into the classroom hallway. The long stretch of tile and miniature lockers hummed with activity. Parents dropped off their young thespians and hurried to find a seat in the auditorium. High-pitched giggles and nervous child- chatter spilled from every classroom. Dodging costumed, adrenaline-driven first-graders, he made his way to Megan's room and peeked inside.

Megan didn't see him. She was too busy having her Velveteen Rabbit ears adjusted by one of the parent- volunteers. But Cate glanced up from the sheet music, as if she sensed his presence. Lovely, bright color tinged her already warmed cheeks and she tried to suppress a smile. Clutching the sheet music to her breast, she picked her way across the room and stopped a respectable arm's length from him.

"Mr. Flannery," she greeted him properly. "Mrs. Graber told me that she sent you off to repair some scenery. I take it from your smile that our 'Jack' won't split the sides of his box when he pops up."

"Mission accomplished, Ms. Munro," he teased her. "But that's not why I'm smiling."

Cate lowered her eyes, obviously aware of his meaning. "Remember where you are," she warned, though her grin matched his.

"It's hard for me to remember anything when I'm with you."

"You're not making this easy," she replied with delight. "This is my first solo production, remember. I'm nervous enough without worrying that someone will hear us."

His grin softened. "Everything will be great. I know it."

She gripped her sheet music and glanced over his shoulder. "The yellow roses were beautiful, Tom," she whispered furtively. "They came just before I left the house this evening. Thank you."

Her sweet gratitude pleased him no end. "What's an opening night without flowers," he replied in a voice as soft as hers. "I'd kiss you for luck, Catie. But it might get serious, and we don't want to hold up the program."

"Tom!" she scolded while suppressing a laugh.

"I guess protocol dictates that I tell you to break a leg," he went on, enjoying the exchange. "No, wait. That might be inconvenient later."

The color in her cheeks flamed. "I think you'd better go before we give grist to the rumor mill," she suggested, only half in jest. "I already have a hard time keeping all that's happened to myself. I think it's starting to show in quirky little ways. Rosemary asked three times just today what had gotten into me."

Tom gave her a rakish smirk. "I hope you weren't too explicit. I mean, I have a reputation."

Her eyes flew open, but she bit her lip to repress her mirth. "Go!" she ordered him under her breath.

"Going, but I'll see you later."

She nodded a quick, but eager agreement, took a deep breath and turned to a roomful of wiggling first- graders.

Tom left the doorway and strode toward the auditorium. How could he have ever believed that Catherine Elizabeth Munro was his nemesis? So much had happened since that night in March. So much had fundamentally changed in his life. And all because of one, pretty, untenured music teacher. After Wednesday night's school board meeting, he hoped that Cate would understand exactly how she'd changed his life.

He spotted Myrtle's silver-gray head in the front row and noted the empty seat beside her. He needed to talk with the old girl one of these days and lay out his plans. Right now, with the butterflies beating furiously inside his stomach, he hurried to her side.

She must have seen him coming out of the corner of her eye and glanced up. "Tommy!"

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Everything's under control."

"Don't be too sure of that," Myrtle whispered.

Bemused, he peered down at his fretting aunt. At the same moment, he saw a blur of red as someone came off the chair next to his empty one and walked the two steps to his side. He jerked his head around and stared straight into eyes as blue as Megan's.

"Hello, Tom."

The air left his lungs. "Lara!"

"It's been a long time. You look wonderful," she said into his open-mouthed stupor.

So did she, he had to admit. Volumes of thick, blonde hair cascaded over the shoulders, framing her beautiful, flawless face. Everything about her was voluptuous; from her almond shaped bedroom eyes to her expressive cherry-tinted mouth and hourglass figure. She had always dressed in bright colors and body hugging styles. The two-piece suit she wore was the same color as her lipstick. Though tailored, it was far from demure. A double row of gold buttons down the front of the jacket outlined her sensuous curves from neck to waist. The short, straight skirt displayed a generous length of shapely thigh.

Somewhere on the fringes of his awareness, he realized that Lara had extended her hand to him. The social graces Myrtle had drummed into him clicked on autopilot. He laid his palm on hers and gave a quick squeeze before he pulled back.

A quiver of her perfectly winged brow was the only hint she noticed of his awkwardness. She smiled without crinkling her eyes and stood a little taller. "I saw Myrtle when I came in. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" he repeated, then glanced down at the seat she'd just vacated -- the seat next to his. "Ah, no."

"I was invited," she reminded him curtly. "Megan sent me a letter."

Tom shook off his ridiculous paralysis. "I know. I mailed it."

"You did? I assumed Myrtle...that is, in the letter Megan wrote she had help," Lara rushed to explain her surprise. "I thought Myrtle was the one had done it. Not...not you."

"I didn't help her," he admitted. "Megan decided to invite you all by herself. Ms. Munro helped her write the letter. I just licked the stamp and sent it."

"Ms. Munro?" Lara glanced at the printed program she held. "Catherine Munro? The music teacher?"

"The same. Cate...that is, Ms. Munro is tutoring Meg in reading two evenings a week. Her classroom teacher has seen a real improvement."

Lara tilted her head. "Meg?'"

Smiling tentatively, he waved her into her seat, then dropped into place beside her. "That's what Ms. Munro's son, Jon, calls Megan. She prefers it now to 'Meggie'. You know how kids are."

Sadness flickered in his ex-wife's blue eyes. Lara was far removed from domestic concerns. How could she know about kids in general, or about her own daughter in particular. He considered how empty that would make him feel and infused his smiled with reassurance. "Megan will be thrilled to see you. This play is important to her and she kept hoping to hear that you'd come."

Lara shifted her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. "I realize I should have called or written. But I didn't want to raise Megan's hopes until I could break my weekend engagements. As it was, I did a show last night and caught the first flight to Chicago this afternoon."

Tom felt a rush of sympathy for her, one he didn't expect or quite understand. "Hey, you came, that's what's important."

Lara stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Well, think about it. What a great surprise. You sure as hell surprised me."

She laughed at that. "I have to say, you surprise me, too."

He settled back in his chair. "Do I?"

"Yes," she insisted with a saucy lilt to her voice. "Myrtle told me you were backstage fixing scenery, for crying out loud! Since when did you get involved as a volunteer?"

"Since Myrtle signed me up." He gave his aunt an affectionate sideways glance. "Guess she thought I needed a social life."

Myrtle pinched his arm and chuckled.

"But a musical play?" Lara pressed.

"I had to be convinced. But I am capable of having my mind changed once in while," he teased, then became serious. "You won't believe Meggie. She's really good. She has your talent, as well as your beauty."

Lara's mouth dropped open. "I know you pretty well, Tom. At least, I thought I did. But I never expected to hear you say that about Megan. And...about me. What's gotten into you?"

He considered the question for a long moment. What had gotten into him? The same thing he suspected had 'gotten into' into Cate Munro. It was something warm and wonderful and it left no room in his heart for past anger or bitterness.

"A lot has happened," he said. "We can talk later."

"I'd like that," she agreed easing back into her chair. "Myrtle invited me to stay at the house so Megan and I can visit. I don't have to fly back to Denver until Wednesday."

He recognized the provocative speculation in her softer smile, but now wasn't the time to dispel her misunderstanding. "Then we have plenty of time," he replied amiably.

In the pit of his stomach, the damned butterflies had started batting their wings like hell.

The noise was deafening. The crush left Cate straining for air. Six children and eight parents ringed her, all of them talking at the same time and trying to touch some part of her. Her conversation became a mind- numbing singsong.

"Thank you."

"I'm glad you enjoyed the performance."

"Yes, weren't the children wonderful?"

"It was their program. They did the work."

"Thank you."

"I'm glad...."

Drained and exhausted, Cate knew that she had chewed every bit of lipstick off her dry mouth. Her temples throbbed with heat and pain. A trickle of perspiration wound its way down her back, and her head felt light. She tried hard to keep a genuine smile pasted in place. They all meant well and she truly appreciated their kind words. The program had been a success with few flaws. The children had performed beyond her wildest hopes and expectations. After the third curtain call, Megan and Mrs. Graber presented her with a bouquet of fresh cut spring flowers from the children and the parent-volunteers. Until that moment, when she trembled with relief and delight, she didn't realize how absolutely panicked she actually had been before the program started.

"Yes, weren't the children wonderful..."

But she needed air!

She glanced to judge how far she stood in relation to the door. That's when she saw Tom and her heart raced in spite of her weariness. The grin he flashed her, part wholesome and part rakish, made her want to grin back with foolish abandon. Instead, she smiled demurely and dipped her head in recognition.

He stopped and turned to motion his aunt forward. But with the older woman came a striking blonde. Had Megan Flannery not at that moment cried out 'Mommy!', Cate still would have recognized Tom's ex-wife. The little girl was a perfect miniature of the statuesque woman dressed in vibrant red. Unable to look away, she watched as Lara Flannery bent down and scooped her daughter in a joyous hug. The movement bared an indecent length of her thigh.

For some seconds the hubbub died as mother and child became the focus of attention. Megan buried her face into Lara's neck, crushing her mother's voluminous blonde hair with her small arms. Lara held her daughter and spoke softly into Megan's ear, no doubt praising the little girl's delightful performance.

And Tom watched over it all, smiling proudly at the two of them.

They all looked so perfect together -- handsome father, gorgeous mother, darling child. They had a family history, and now, perhaps a new connection. Hadn't she herself urged Tom to forge a link in that connection by sending off Megan's letter? But then, he'd been so certain Lara wouldn't come. She realized that she had taken more comfort from that assurance than was wise. She had experienced a raw, cold ache of jealousy only once in her life when she had learned of Ian's infidelity. Now, watching Tom preside over this unexpected reunion and take unabashed satisfaction from it, Cate recognized the same dark emotion weigh down her heart.

If she had needed air a few minutes ago, she'd soon need complete resuscitation. Maybe with the distraction she could slip away...

"Hello, my dear. You must be so proud of the children tonight."

Myrtle Flannery stepped into her line of vision and sandwiched Cate's hand gently between hers. Cate blinked twice before her eyes focused on the older woman. But when she did, Myrtle flashed her the disarming Flannery grin and winked.

"Miss Flannery, how...how nice to see you," Cate choked out. "Yes, I am proud of the children."

"But we all know who's at the heart of it, don't we, dear," Myrtle interrupted, patting her hand, fixing her with a strangely no-nonsense gaze. "You must give yourself some credit. It takes special talent and a caring, firm hand to see a project like this through from beginning to end. Not everyone can do it." Myrtle squeezed Cate's fingers. "I do believe this is a promising start for you, not an end."

She spoke of something other than the program. Cate understood that intuitively without the gentle touch and playful wink. And though she trusted that Tom had been discrete about the past five weeks, even with his aunt, she didn't doubt that Myrtle had made some leaps of logic and come up with her own suppositions. As much as she wanted to thank Myrtle for her encouragement, the middle of this crowd was not the right place. Instead, she tightened her hold on the woman's weathered hand and managed her warmest smile. "I want to believe that, Miss Flannery," she replied with equal circumspection.

Myrtle patted her hand again before releasing her. "Then believe, my dear. You must believe to make it happen."

Like the Velveteen Rabbit believed that love could make her real. Could it be that simple?

"Ms. Munro! Ms. Munro! Look, it's my Mommy! She came!"

Megan's voice snapped Cate's attention away from Myrtle. In the next instant, she stood eye-to-eye with the beautiful Lara who looked fresh off a fashion runway, while she felt as if she had all the appeal of discount off-the-rack.

Believe it, my dear. You must believe it to make it happen.

With the words echoing in her mind, Cate extended her hand and smiled graciously. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Flannery. I'm so glad you could make it here tonight."

Lara shook hands briefly, but her return smile seemed guarded. "My last name is Durant. I've heard you mentioned quite a lot this evening myself."

The tension behind the words startled Cate. She glanced at Tom, who only grinned. "Is that so?" Cate asked him.

"The program was terrific, Ms. Munro," Tom complimented.

Cate went soft inside. "I couldn't have done it without you...ah, and the other volunteers," she amended, then turned back to Lara. "An undertaking like this is always a group effort."

"Coming from show business, I understand," Lara said, a mite too cordially. "Tom's right, though. You are to be congratulated."

Cate nodded acceptance of the rather reserved compliment. "Thank you. But Megan was our star." She wiggled one of the little girl's floppy bunny ears and made her giggle. "She's quite a talented young lady, just like her mom." When she looked at Lara, she saw surprise in the wide blue eyes. "You have a right to be very proud of your daughter, Mrs. Flan....Ms. Durant."

Lara peered at Cate before glancing down at Megan. "Yes, yes, I am proud. Thank you."

"Mommy, guess what else will make you proud," Megan crowed. "I can read! Really good, too!"

Lara smiled. "That's what daddy told me." She cast Cate a considering glance. "Tom thinks you're quite the miracle worker where Megan's reading progress is concerned."

Wildly flattered, Cate suppressed the urge to snap her gaze to Tom. "We have made some strides," she said cautiously.

"Come here, Mommy." Megan yanked her mother's arm to drag her away. "I'll get my reading book. It's right over there in my desk. I'll show you how I read, okay?"

Her mouth edging into a tender smile, Lara gave in. "Okay. Will you excuse me, Ms. Munro?"

"Of course."

Cate watched Megan lead her mother across the room with Aunt Myrtle in tow.

"I didn't actually use the term miracle worker."

The quietly spoken words brought Cate's attention back to Tom about the same time he shifted his back to her. A crowd still milled around them but had dissipated, and he had her to himself.

"That did sound a little dramatic," she admitted.

"It may not be far off the mark, though."

Confused, Cate shook her head. "I don't follow."

"Just look at Megan," he explained. "She belts out a program like a seasoned trouper and earns praise that veteran performers would kill for. But what she really wants to show her mother is how well she's learned to read. Cate, six weeks ago she wouldn't finish a single sentence without help."

"Reading is connected to something important in her life now," Cate said with a shrug.

"Music?"

"For the time being," she replied. "Next year it might be something else. Megan may yet surprise you."

"Yeah," he agreed, fixing her with his Flannery blue-gray eyes. "The women in my life have a penchant for doing just that."

His gaze caressed her, but his statement sent a weak chill up her spine. Did he include Lara among the women in his life?

Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Look, Cate, about later tonight..."

She held up her hand to preempt his apology. "I understand. You're going to be busy."

He nodded. "Lara's staying at the house."

That bit of information brought the leaden weight back over her heart. "Megan needs time with her mother," she agreed, more to herself than to Tom.

"I don't know when I'll be able to call you."

"It's all right."

But it wasn't.

"Thanks, Cate."

"Sure."

His gaze softened, suggesting little more than a fraction of the sweet intimacy she had grown used to seeing. But what more could he do in this crowded place, Cate rationalized as he turned and strode toward Megan's desk. Yet she deliberately looked away started talking with other parents before Tom took his place in the family group.

When he heard the click of high heels on the parquet floor, Tom swiveled in the desk chair and looked up from the screen of his laptop computer. Lara lounged against the doorway of the den. She'd discarded the red jacket. The white, silk body shirt she wore beneath it fit like second skin, amplifying her full, womanly curves. She cast an imposing silhouette, one he appreciated but no longer desired.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked.

He hit the Save command and pushed the laptop aside. "Just catching up on a few things. Nothing that can't wait. Come on in."

Lara pushed away from the door and kicked off her black leather heels one-by-one as she strode into the room. Choosing a mahogany brown leather chair closest to Tom's desk, she gracefully swooned her body into its cushy folds and tucked her long legs under her. The seductive pose amused and flattered him. But then, sexiness always surrounded Lara like an aura. Yet, there was something too forced in her entrance. Forced and a little desperate. He repressed a twinge of pity for the woman who had once been his wife and smiled.

"Did Megan finally fall asleep?"

She rolled her eyes. "After the fifth story."

"Usually takes only two for me," he joked. "But I probably don't make them as dramatic as you do."

"My talent and my curse," she complained with a laugh.

"Did you get to the one about the crocodile and his little friend, the bird-toothbrush?"

"Twice. I read it, then she read it. Quite well, too."

"Don't be overly impressed," he cautioned. "That's her favorite. She has it memorized."

Lara tilted her head. Golden hair caressed her shoulder like a lover's hand. "You've done a great job with her, Tom."

The compliment took him aback. He only stared at her.

"I mean it," she pressed. "She's a sweet, unspoiled little girl. And you're right about her reading. Last November, when I talked with Miss Erickson, she was concerned that Megan didn't work to her capability."

He edged forward in his chair. "You've spoken with Miss Erickson?"

She lifted her brow. "I may not be physically here, but I keep informed. Obviously, more than you realize. When you sent me the photocopy of Megan's progress report after the November parent-teacher conference, I called the school. Then I called Myrtle."

"Myrtle?"

She laughed at his astonishment. "She knows everything that goes on. Always has." She sighed with less amusement. "I thought I could get her opinion unfiltered by emotion. I asked her not to tell you that we'd talked. Please don't pretend you haven't a clue why."

The inference that he might have colored a discussion of Megan's welfare with his own lingering resentments stung his pride, but only for a moment. Lara had reason to suspect him. He would have laid guilt at her symbolic door, just as he tried to lay guilt at Cate's classroom door.

"No, you were right," he said. "Talking with me then would not have been a good idea."

"You admit it?" she wondered, her eyes wide.

"It's the truth," he replied, spreading his hands. "It's also in the past. I've learned the hard way that holding on to anger only blinds us to the possibilities of the present."

Lara sat up and searched his face. "Are you saying you're no longer angry with me?"

He searched his heart and found none of those destructive, hurtful emotions. They were gone, like the last of the winter snow in the April sunshine.

"I suppose you did what you had to do," he said, remembering Myrtle's wise words. "I don't understand. I'd never choose it myself. But, no, Lara," he answered with a smile of genuine relief, "I'm not angry. I can't be if I want to move forward. I almost let my anger deny Megan the joy of performing in the program. That would have been a monumental mistake. For all of us."

She uncurled her legs and set her feet on the floor. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I've always known you were a good person, Tom. When I left..." She swallowed hard. "What I did I had to do. For myself. I didn't want to hurt you or Megan. I'm sorry."

"I know," he answered, discomfited by her confession, yet aware that he had to hear it as much as she had to say it.

"I wasn't sure you'd ever forgive me," she whispered. "Thank you." She then rose from the leather chair and glided toward him.

Tom recognized the need in her sinuous movement, the purpose in her sultry gaze. He knew what she was offering him and put up his hand. "Lara, don't."

She halted at the edge of the desk. After staring at him for one bleak moment, she pivoted away, stooped to gather her shoes, and headed for the door. Relieved that she hadn't pursued him with her usual tenacity, he found her unchallenged acceptance of rejection startling. Only when she reached the doorway did she glance over her shoulder. Cast partly in shadow, her face appeared drawn and weary. "She doesn't look all that impressive."

Tom's defenses went on red alert. "Who?"

The corner of Lara's mouth lifted. "Ms. Munro. You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"

His insides clenched. "Don't jump to conclusions because of what just happened..."

Her laugh cut him off. "What happened just now only proved what I suspected the minute I saw you look at Ms. Munro tonight. You have never slept around. That was the word about you even in college. I may not have been the first, but after we started dating, I knew I was the only one. And now..." Her smiled faded. "Now you're sleeping with Cate Munro."

Somehow Tom got to his feet. "I don't know what you think you saw, but..."

"But nothing, Tommy," she silenced him gently. "I was married to you for almost ten years. I knew you for three before then. You don't hide your more tender emotions well. Neither does she, for that matter. I'd be surprised if everyone in that classroom tonight didn't notice the electricity between you two. Well, the women noticed it anyway," she amended with a humorless chuckle. "What do you see in her?"

Stunned by her insight, he gave up pretending. "Everything I've missed for three years. Hope, happiness, purpose, pride. Maybe even my future."

"Do you love her?"

The blunt question left him struggling for words as he'd struggled with his own feelings for the past five weeks. He honestly didn't know how to answer.

"Of course, you do," Lara replied for him. "You wouldn't sleep with her unless you loved her. That was part of the Flannery mystique, too. Absolute fidelity, body and soul." Her voice cracked. "I envy her," she said and turned away. "Good night, Tom."

She disappeared before he could reply. Feeling weak in the knees, he dropped into the chair. Do you love her? Of course, you do. You wouldn't sleep with her unless you loved her. Did Lara know him better than he knew himself? Had she seen that deep connection between him and Cate? Did he love Cate so much that the attempt to hide it from everyone was an exercise in futility?

Of course, you love her. The words this time, came from his own heart.

"Of course, I love her," he murmured into the silence around him. "I love you, Cate!"

Impulsively, he reached for the telephone.

No, he decided, not over the phone. He wanted to look into her eyes, hold her in his arms. But the phone jangled beneath his grip, startling him.

"Hello?" he answered brusquely.

"Tom? Lenore Kemper."

In reflex, he tensed. "Lenore? It's late..."

"I just talked to Superintendent Feldman," she cut in, her tone as clipped as his. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Chapter 16

From ecstasy to agony in forty-eight hours. It was enough to make one's head spin. Or pound, Cate realized as she rubbed the middle of her forehead for no good reason. The massage didn't ease the throbbing ache any more than did the dose of extra-strength aspirin she took on her morning break. The words on the page in front of her blurred, crystallized, then blurred again. It didn't matter. She read the three-paragraph letter so many times she practically knew it by heart.

As she brooded over the words at her classroom desk, she found it ironic that such notices were called a 'pink slips' when they weren't pink at all. They were stark, antiseptic white and black: Dear Ms. Munro, We regret to inform you...

Not that she hadn't expected it. She'd been teaching in the district less than four months. She had no tenure and, like classroom aides and part-time staff, she could not be guaranteed a job until the School Board passed a budget for the next year.

"Strictly pro forma," Betty Quinn, the district's Director of Personnel, told her that morning when she came to speak personally with everyone who'd been laid-off. "Your work here at Stewart Elementary has been exemplary. The principal wants you back in August. I see no reason why that won't happen. Unless, of course, this position is trimmed or eliminated by budget cuts."

Yes, the budget cuts.

She folded the letter into thirds and stuffed it into her open purse. Maybe she would have taken this news with more grace if she hadn't felt suddenly besieged on all sides. She still reeled from last night's introduction to the former Mrs. Flannery, and from the knowledge that Lara was staying at Tom's home for two days. Well, two days at least, according to Megan. The little girl had bounded into music that morning, brimming with excitement because her mommy might stay until the weekend. Then Megan presented Cate with a note from Tom, canceling the week's tutoring sessions. If Lara did extend her visit, then Tom might not have time or opportunity to even call again until next Monday.

The prospect disheartened her. She and Tom had been alone together only two days ago on Sunday evening, yet she missed him terribly. And the jealousy that Lara's appearance had unleashed only grew stronger and heavier on her heart, no matter how much she tried to rationalize it away. She was in love with Tom Flannery, but he had never said as much to her. Yes, their days together were full and fun, their nights indescribably satisfying. He admitted from the beginning that he wanted her. His teasing wit, his open honesty, his intense passion, all made her feel loved. But she wasn't so blinded by her own need that she mistook desire or affection for love. Neither did she take that giant leap of faith and assume that Tom mirrored her deepest feelings.

And now Lara had been thrown into the mix. The more she tried not to think about the beautiful blonde sharing his home, the more her imagination worked, robbing her of sleep and energy. As a result, not even the brilliant sunshine streaming through her classroom window lightened her mood. She hated this depression, but couldn't shake it.

"Hey, there you are. Missed you at lunch." With a grin bright as the April afternoon, Rosemary barreled into the room.

"I wasn't hungry," Cate said with a weak smile. "Do you have any more aspirin?"

Rosemary frowned in sympathy. "Been a tough day, hasn't it? But, you know, I've personally survived six lay-offs in three different districts and still have my sanity and my job."

"You also had your husband's paycheck as a cushion," Cate reminded her, then waved her hand. "Sorry. I'm deep into self-pity right now."

Rosemary perched on the edge of Cate's desk. "It's allowed. But try to pull yourself together by this afternoon. Edna's called another emergency union meeting at 3:15. I know it's last minute," she added, when Cate opened her mouth. "But it's important. She warned everyone in the lunchroom to be there. Something is rotten in the fiefdom of Stewart Elementary, if you take my meaning."

It isn't roses and baby's breath in the house of Munro either, Cate thought to herself.

Rosemary peeled a sheet of paper from a sheaf she carried and thrust it at Cate. "This is the final draft of the letter Edna presented at our last meeting. She wants everyone to read it so we can approve and sign the copy before tonight."

Cate scanned the letter without really reading it. "Why tonight?"

"Because Edna wants to fax the letter to Lenore Kemper in advance of the School Board meeting tomorrow. That session is the last open forum before a vote on cuts in the fine arts program."

Cate slumped a little more. Impending doom seemed closer every minute. "All right, I'll do my duty and be at the meeting. But only if you have two more aspirin."

Rosemary chuckled and stood. "Be right back with a whole bottle. Stay put."

After Rosemary left, Cate turned her attention to the letter. Somehow she doubted it would lighten her mood.

Tom marveled that Lara had become a good listener in the three years since their divorce. She sat with him at the kitchen table while he outlined his proposal for revitalizing the Bridge Reading Program by borrowing dollars here and there from other funds. After asking a few pointed questions, she gave her enthusiastic blessing.

"If anyone can lay out a workable plan, it's you," she told him as she finished her ice cream bar.

He bit the last chunk of vanilla ice cream off his stick, swallowed, and shrugged without enthusiasm. "No, there's nothing wrong with the plan."

"Then what's the problem?" Lara pressed. "You already have the backing of the other School Board members, and the Superintendent."

"But I did an end run around the President of the School Board to get it all done. She's pissed."

Lara set her stripped stick on a napkin. "I see. The queen suspects the prince of a palace coup."

He lifted his brows. "What do you know about my relationship with Lenore Kemper?"

She tilted her chin. "I subscribe to the River Bend Messenger. I've kept up with the local news. Lenore Kemper supported you in the November election. Now she probably thinks you stabbed her in the back."

He snorted. "I have a good idea, and I don't want it debated to death. My motives aren't as Machiavellian as you suggest."

"No, but your method of execution is very much Thomas Patrick Flannery," Lara replied silkily, then held up her hand when he scowled at her. "You set a goal and, come hell or high water, you go for it. Anyone gets in your way, you shove them aside."

Her comment, though delivered with good humor, stung. "I know I'm driven. I've had to be to get where I am."

"Did I say I disapproved?"

"You implied that I'm uncompromising and insensitive to other people's considerations."

"Not always," she hedged. "Just when those considerations conflict with what you want."

The quirk at the corner of her mouth made him more curious than defensive. "Your point is?"

"You're not a politician."

He threw up his hands in mock despair. "I didn't know this?"

"Then why did you run for a political office when you were a much better citizen advocate?"

The description amused him. "Citizen advocate, huh? I guess you did read the paper. Is that what I seemed like before?"

She lowered her eyelids and regarded him. "More like a general pain-in-the-tush, I suspect. But you got your ideas in front of people. You made them talk and think. You were a one-man crusade. Now, you're just one voice among six, and you don't do it well."

He wanted to protest that he was just learning the game. But he couldn't and still remain honest. Propping his elbow on the table, he palmed his face. "All this backdoor, convoluted, time-wasting crap drives me crazy! It's as if the fight were more important than the cause."

"And your cause is Megan, isn't it?"

Her soft voice made him sit up and look into her lovely blue eyes. "I was afraid for her. I had to do something to protect her."

"From becoming me?"

He stared at his ex-wife in the harsh kitchen light. Lara didn't flinch, or seem to want his pity. She only wanted an answer.

"I was wrong," he confessed.

She settled back into her chair with a thud. "Wrong?"

Tom chuckled darkly. "The crusader was struck from his charging white horse by a heavenly revelation," he said with a dramatic sweep of his hand that was more Lara's style than his. "I wasn't protecting anyone but myself. In fact, I might have hurt Megan. I may still because of my stupidity."

Lara tilted her head. "How?"

Suddenly restless, he scooped up the trash from their ice cream bars, rose and stomped toward the garbage. "I may have won the battle for BRP by blowing past Lenore Kemper," he said while tossing the wrappers and sticks. "But in doing so, I probably jeopardized my influence on a much larger issue."

"Such as?"

He turned to face her. "When I ran my campaign for the seat on the School Board, I opposed what I judged were the excessive hours the elementary students spent in extra-classroom activities."

"Like music." She smiled at his bemusement. "I followed the election closely. Can't say your position surprised me."

"No, it probably didn't. But it was a position I took in ignorance. And fear," he added grudgingly. "I've changed my mind, done a complete one-eighty."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with Cate Munro, would it?"

"It might. But it has more to do with how that play inspired Megan. I don't know how else to put it. All that time she spent learning her lines and songs and stage direction enhanced her education instead of detracting from it. Who knows how many other kids are like her. To cut the fine arts programs would be shortsighted, if not downright irresponsible. We have to find the money to fund the programs fully. I've done some preliminary research and I think we could if we make the effort."

Lara sat up in her chair and clapped three times. "Great speech! Impassioned delivery, too. When are you taking it public?"

"At this point, I could take it to the end of the universe and back and I don't think it would matter," he retorted with self-directed anger. "For one, it's too late. We have to start cobbling a budget together next week."

He pulled his fingers through his already mussed hair. "More to the point, though, Lenore feels betrayed. She told me as much last night over the phone. Frankly, I don't blame her. I know her well enough to expect that she's already undermined whatever future influence I have with the other Board members. Not only that, but half the voting public is lined up against tax hikes, and the other half is pushing back-to-the-basics in education. After winning the election on promises to watch the district's bottom line, I'd have little or no credibility with either the Board or the public."

Lara nodded. "You have a problem."

"A big problem." He waited, but she said nothing.

"Well? Any suggestions?"

She pushed away from the table and rose. The folds of her pale blue satin lounging pajamas clung to her full figure as she ambled toward the door. "None that you want to hear right now. Besides," she added with a glance over her shoulder, "you'll sort it out sooner or later."

About to continue the conversation whether she wanted to or not, he snapped to attention when the doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch, swore under his breath about the late hour and stalked past Lara into the foyer. Half expecting to find that some teenage pranksters had been playing 'Ding-Dong-Ditch' at his expense, he yanked open the door and prepared to launch himself into the yard.

He would have run right over Cate.

The shock of discovering her on his front stoop momentarily robbed him of words. She stood there and looked at him. The glare of the porch light washed her pale features. Her hair splayed in all directions from the capricious spring wind. She'd set her nearly colorless mouth into a straight, stern line. Though she stared at him without blinking, Tom thought he saw more apprehension than purpose in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's late. I need to talk to you."

She delivered her message in breathy, clipped phrases. He wanted to reach out, drag her to him, soothe the tension from her pinched expression. But something about the inflexible line of her shoulders warned him to keep his distance.

"Yeah...sure," he stammered, and stepped aside to let her in.

She crossed the threshold and looked past him. He knew from the tight set of her jaw that she had spotted Lara in the kitchen doorway.

"I didn't mean to intrude on your evening," Cate said, her stare never wavering from Lara. "I won't take much of your time."

Even in the softer foyer light, she appeared wan. For the first time, he noticed dark smudges beneath Cate's eyes and fear raced through him. "What is it? Is Jon all right?"

She looked back to him. "He's fine. I need to talk to you. Alone."

The hollow tap of heels on the tile let him know that Lara had disappeared into the kitchen. "Sure. Let's go into the den."

When he held out his hand to take her arm, Cate ignored him and walked ahead. Startled by the rebuff, he took a moment to collect himself before following her.

A high intensity lamp illuminated scattered papers on top of the desk. Otherwise the den lay in shadow.

Trembling, Cate stopped just short of the desk. She shouldn't come inside. She knew that the minute she had seen the agitated expression on Tom's face when he opened the door. If that hadn't been deterrent enough, one glance at Lara lounging in the kitchen doorway dressed in provocative satin pajamas should have been. The impulse that drove her to seek him out well past ten o'clock seemed more foolhardy with each passing second. She swallowed hard as a queasiness assailed her. Behind her, Tom shut the door then flipped on a bank of indirect lights.

She almost wished he'd left them in the semi-darkness. She realized that she looked like she felt -- desperate, disheveled, helpless, one notch past panic and descending rapidly. The veneer of self-control she had refined over the past eight years was cracking under too much heat and pressure. All because of Tom Flannery, her inner voice taunted her. Since the minute he had walked through her classroom door, she had found herself losing her grip on emotional restraint. Now, rational thought was almost beyond her.

Hold on, Catie, she commanded herself. Dig deep and find some self-control. God knows you have nothing else left!

She only hoped that the eye drops she'd applied at home erased the red crisscrossed evidence of her latest crying jag. Tom moved beside her, but maintained his distance. She imagined that the tension that held her ramrod stiff kept him at bayl. "Why don't you sit down, Cate?"

Unable to look at him yet, she gave a terse shake of her head. "I'll stand. This won't take long."

"Okay," he replied carefully. "What's all this about?"

"How could you!" The words escaped in a furious whisper. In the throes of raw anger, she remembered nothing of her carefully prepared speech.

He stood there, stunned. "How could I what?" he finally asked. "Cate, what's wrong? I've never seen you like this."

"You've never seen me in a lot of ways, Tom." She yanked the wadded pro forma letter from her coat pocket and thrust it at him. "Unemployed for one thing!"

He took the crumbled letter, unwrinkled it and skimmed the contents. His brow furrowed and he looked up with concern. "I didn't know. I mean, I did know because Superintendent Feldman told us about the standard yearly lay-offs at our last Board meeting. But I didn't think...it didn't cross my mind that you would get one..."

Understanding widened his eyes and he laid his hands tenderly on her shoulders. "I promised to call, didn't I? I'm sorry. I should have been there for you. You must have had a terrible day."

Cate twisted from his grip and stepped back. She couldn't let his touch distract her. Trying to ignore the hurt that flickered in his eyes before he narrowed his gaze in confusion, she lifted her chin. "Yes, it was quite a day. A character-builder, as they say. I've never been fired and publicly humiliated all in the same twenty-four hours!"

He swiped at the edge of her letter with the back of his fingertips, on the verge of losing his own temper. "This is standard practice at the end of the school year. You know it doesn't reflect on your performance or on the district's decision to hire you back in August."

"Damn it!" she swore, stopping him cold with her outburst. "You don't understand! I can't go back to my classroom tomorrow morning, much less next August! How can I face my students! How can I face any of them now that they know!"

"Know?" Tom echoed. "Know what?"

Cate balled her hands and beat one fist against the ache in her chest. "About me! And you! Us...sleeping together!"

Tom gaped at her. "What?"

She caught her breath before she choked on the words. What was left of her meager control disintegrated. She covered her mouth with her hand until she recaptured a few shards of composure.

"It was bad enough that you repeated what I told you about the plans for a strike to Lenore Kemper," she finally managed, "but why did you...Oh, damn it, Tom, I trusted you!"

He sliced the air with the flat of his hand. "From the top, Cate! What the hell are you talking about?"

Despite his angry defensiveness, she heard true bewilderment in his demand. For the first time, uncertainty nibbled at the edges of her own fury. She struggled to inhale before answering.

"Lenore Kemper called our Union rep this morning," she told him in a rush. "She told Edna that she was aware of our discussions about planning a strike if certain budget cuts are passed. She made it very clear that kind of threat is subversive and not constructive."

He reached across the desk, shuffled a few papers and found what he wanted. "So that's what this means." He lifted a sheet for her to see. "Lenore faxed me a copy of a letter the Stewart Elementary teachers signed and delivered to her late this afternoon. The wording isn't exactly conciliatory," he growled.

"I know," she shot back. "I read it."

With a show of disgust, he tossed the paper back on the heap. "Then you know that the threat of a strike seems real. What was Lenore suppose to think?"

"She wasn't supposed to think anything!" Cate insisted through clenched teeth. "She shouldn't have even known about those discussions!"

"And you think I told her? How did you come up with that brilliant deduction?"

He sounded incensed. She wanted to cringe but held her ground. "I didn't come up with it! But you're the only suspect. Correction," she snapped with sarcasm, "we're the only suspects. I'm considered the weak link in this chain, because somehow the whole staff knows about us!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"Maybe. But it's true," she retorted, and thumped her fist on his desk. "Why do you think my name isn't on that letter? I agree with almost every point, but I didn't stick around to sign it because I was too busy running for cover after the Union meeting. Word on the grapevine is that I've been feeding you tidbits of confidential information from our emergency sessions and you've been passing them along to Lenore Kemper." She drew a breath that pained her. "Every teacher at Stewart knows that we've been seeing each other. No one had to say anything. I saw accusation in everyone's stare when I walked into the teachers' lounge even before Rosemary pulled me aside and told me what they suspected." She shook her head to try and dislodge the humiliating memory. "It was bad enough to have my personal life laid open like that. I hardly know most of the teachers yet beyond a passing acquaintance, and now they know who I sleep with. But that anyone should think I'd betray a confidence with pillow talk...Marlie Erickson couldn't even look at me! I don't know how I'm going to go back tomorrow! No one trusts me now, because I trusted you!"

Every trace of anger left his face, replaced by stark bewilderment. "Do you really think that I told Lenore about us, or about the conversations we've had?"

Hating that she was responsible for the hurt in his voice, she frowned. "I don't know what to think anymore!"

After a moment of dull silence, he shook his head. "I'll be damned. Lara was right."

Cate filled with new resentment. "Really? And what was Lara right about?"

His mouth quirked at one corner. "She said that we don't hide our feelings well. After the program, Lara guessed flat out that we've been sleeping together. She said it would have surprised her if everyone, of the female persuasion anyway, hadn't guessed the same."

Cate opened her mouth to ridicule the notion, but wondered if it might be true. Hadn't Rosemary glimpsed something in her manner and attitude and commented on it? Why would it be so farfetched to believe that others had seen it, too?

Tom edged closer. "Lara said..."

The second mention of his ex-wife's name jolted her from her musings. "I don't want to hear what Lara had to say!"

He stared at her for a moment. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

The insight struck home. Unable to read his expression, but afraid that he might be mocking her, she felt her face burn with embarrassment. "Don't try to sidetrack me."

"Fine," he agreed curtly. "Back to the subject. I remember exactly when you mentioned the possibility of a strike. It was in passing, as I remember. And technically it wasn't in a moment of pillow talk."

Her fury rose again. "No, but we were headed in that direction. Five minutes after I told you, we were standing in the middle of my living room acting like two hormone-crazed teenagers."

"Hey, wait a minute, you told me not to let go, remember?"

She did remember and remembered the need that forced those words from her heart. She needed him now, but she doubted that she'd ever have him again. Not after this. Struggling hard for control, unable to face his anger, she spun and crossed her arms.

"Catie," Tom called to her softly. "I swear to you that I don't remember telling Lenore about the strike plans. If she inferred anything, if I unconsciously led her to reach some conclusion..."

She rolled her eyes. "Unconsciously, right. That's what I must have been when I trusted you."

He grabbed her arm and whirled her around. She mouthed a protest, but it died in her throat when she saw the naked pain in his steel-blue gaze.

"I'm the same man you trusted enough to take into your bed, Cate Munro," he growled.

She peered at him and lost herself for a moment in the depth of his raging hurt. Then she remembered her own struggle with the pain of betrayal. "I've been wrong before."

His expression went blank. But it was a cold, menacing blankness that made her tremble. "I thought you'd gotten beyond this. I'm not Ian."

The fierce denial revealed a truth she had tried hard to ignore these past glorious weeks. "No, Tom, you aren't Ian," she murmured. "You've always been honest with me, and I have no reason to doubt you now." She looked away. "I had no right to accuse you the way I did. You've never made a commitment to me, so you have no obligations to keep. I...I presumed too much from you...from the time we've spent together."

His touch was gentle. "Cate..."

She shook her head to stop him. "No, this is my problem, not yours. I ignored common sense and pretended our conflicts of interest wouldn't matter as much if we..."

"If we what?" Tom prompted when she paused mid-thought.

If we loved each other, she wanted to say. "Nothing," she whispered instead, her voice as shaky as her knees. "I was wrong. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."

She gave a tug to free herself from his grip. She needn't have exerted herself. Tom released her immediately and stepped back. His gaze mirrored the paralyzing conflict that she felt, and she had to turn away from the wrenching agony of it.

She made for the door and flung it open. Tom did nothing to stop her. What did she expect?

Fleeing the sounds of her own heart breaking, Cate bolted out the front door and into the night.

Chapter 17

Cate made ready for the school day like a woman reconciled to her own execution. Just as she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, the telephone jangled. It rang a second time while she decided whether to answer it. As much as she dreaded confronting a staff that suspected her of disloyalty, she had no wish to be late for work.

Still, it might be Jon. Sometimes it seemed the older he got the more he needed mothering. Wondering what she'd have to urgently deliver to the junior high this morning, she dropped her portfolio and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Ms. Munro? This is Lara Durant."

Cate clutched the receiver in a death grip. "I have nothing to say..."

"No, Ms. Munro. Unfortunately, you said it all last night. Now shut up and listen."

Stunned into silence, she did just that.

From his seat on the dais, Tom watched the people pour into the cafeteria. In spite of his generally dismal mood, he smiled. Too many times in the past, he'd been one of only twenty or so citizens who consistently attended the Wednesday meetings. Lenore's flattery aside, he doubted that his election to the Board was the reason for increased participation. He wanted to believe that people had serious concerns about the district's limited finances and the subsequent direction of education in River Bend.

He lifted the Styrofoam cup to his mouth and sipped the cold, bitter coffee. Tuning out the noise of a hundred voices and the scrape of metal chairs on tile floor, he stared down at the printed meeting agenda. But reading proved an exercise in futility, just as most other mundane tasks had been that day. Conflict of interest. The damning phrase repeated itself incessantly in his brain. Conflict of interest had wrenched him and Cate apart. He should have seen it coming, but he had blinded himself to the consequences that their opposing views might create in his rush to fill personal emptiness. Cate had admitted as much about herself.

But, if that was the case, she'd soon understand that the conflict no longer existed. Then why hadn't he explained his plan to her before she ran from his house last night? For that matter, why didn't he yank her into his arms and tell her how much he loved her, and that he did feel a sense of commitment and obligation to her?

Hurt played a role in his silence. She accused him of betrayal. Damn, she should have trusted him. Yes, but trust him on what basis? His word alone? If he had opened himself enough to her, if he hadn't kept his own counsel, she would have no reason to doubt him. He couldn't even take credit for the belated insight. Lara had heard their raised voices in the den. For some reason, a need for sympathy maybe, he had recounted the argument to her. Instead of kind and soothing words, Lara had gaven a sniff of disgust and proceeded to enumerate his most recent relationship mistakes.

"You never confided your plan to Cate? You never told her you love her?" she railed at him. "Inexcusable. Incredible. Stupid!"

Hell! Were all women in his life obligated to be the voice of conscience? But what irritated him most was that he needed those voices more than he'd ever imagined possible.

A folder slapped down on the table to his right at the same moment Tom caught of whiff of heavy perfume. "Hello, Lenore."

He kept his eyes on the agenda as she pulled out her chair and sat next to him. "Good evening, Tom. Looks like standing-room-only again."

"A lot of teachers, I suspect." He cast her a sideways glance. "Did you call the Union rep at all the elementary schools, or just Stewart in particular?"

Lenore raised a brow. Nothing in her expression suggested that he irritated her. "One school. Half-a-dozen. What does it matter? Word gets around fast either way, doesn't it? Of course," she added, flipping open her folder with more force than necessary, "some of us have our own, personal pipeline."

Tom pushed the agenda and his folder away and swiveled in his chair to face her. "You're good at this game, Lenore."

She stuck out her chin. "What game?"

"Point-counterpoint. Thrust and parry. Plain old politics," he replied with a wave of his hand. "Whatever you want to call it. You're smooth. I didn't even see it happen. Maybe I was just too focused on my own priorities. Or," he said after a considering pause, "maybe I just assumed you weren't that unethical."

Lenore's face blanched. "I beg your pardon?"

"Not mine. You should beg Cate Munro's pardon."

"What?"

Tom worked to keep his voice low. "In a way, I admire your intuitiveness. Of course, I have been told I don't hide my feelings for Cate very well. And let me tell you, they're damned strong feelings, Lenore. But, as far as I know, you're the only one who used that knowledge for political advantage."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you do," Tom countered. "You took that intuition, my own lapse of judgment about your integrity, then stirred in some threats and came up with a witch's brew that poisoned Cate's reputation." He leaned forward and fixed her with a glare. "That doesn't set well with me, Lenore. Not well at all."

Lenore didn't back down. "You lost sight of our purpose."

"No, you lost sight of it. We're supposed to oversee the general welfare of education in this district, not practice political warfare and character assassination. Even if I still agreed with you one hundred percent, I'd never condone your tactics."

As he spoke, Tom opened his folder, retrieved a sheet of paper and pushed it at her.

She scanned the single paragraph twice, then jerked her gaze back to him. "You can't be serious!"

"I won't play this game anymore," Tom answered. "It's already cost me too much."

She ground her teeth. "You claimed you wanted to make a difference!"

"I will," he replied easily, and tilted his head toward the crowded room in front of them. "But I'll do it from the floor. And," he added with a wicked grin, "when I work as a citizen advocate against your reelection."

After a moment of shocked silence, Lenore sputtered. Tom pushed back his chair, rose and stalked off to the refreshment table to warm his coffee.

It was going to be a long night.

At the beginning of the session, the secretary of the School Board reminded everyone in the cafeteria that demonstrations such as applause were not allowed due to time constraints. She then read two petitions and three letters, including the declaration signed by the teachers at Stewart Elementary. Afterward, members of the audience took the floor podium to stress some viewpoint or another usually related to budget matters.

Cate watched the petitioners with only passing interest. Her heart and mind were focused on the man seated on the dais, third chair from the left.

Tom looked wretched. More than once in the preceding hour, he pinched the bridge of his nose. The fluorescent light washed his face pale. Even from her seat on the end of the twelfth row, she noticed dark circles beneath his eyes. Though he'd discarded his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and loosened his tie, he shifted restlessly every few minutes.

Shame welled inside her. Ignorant of vital information and mired in her own anger, she had lashed out at him. True, he might have been more forthcoming about his plans, but self-reliance and initiative were part of his nature. Old habits and practices died hard. Anyway, Lara had told her as much that morning. And how could Cate dispute it, when her own ancient fear of betrayal caused her to mistrust him without proof of any wrongdoing.

Tom scribbled something on the pad in front of him, immediately crossed it out and tossed his pen aside. Cate wanted to spring from her chair, run to the dais and fold him tenderly in her arms to ease his tension. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to tell him that she loved him. The last wayward musing made her stiffen. Would he even want to hear of her love after she had accused him of deception and betrayal? She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. A moment later, Rosemary patted the back of her fisted hand as it lay on her lap.

"One more speaker to go, Catie," Rosemary whispered to her. "We're almost there."

Cate managed a weak smile at her friend. Rosemary had been a refuge of support and calm in a day fraught with stress and confusion. She had made a point to chat with Cate about the latest mishaps with watercolors or molding clay between classes. At noon, alerted by some sixth sense that Cate would probably skip lunch rather than set foot in the teachers' lounge, Rosemary had breezed into the music room, deposited her sack lunch on Cate's desk and pulled up a chair. Over sandwiches and cartons of Vitamin D milk, Cate had unburdened her heart and Rosemary had hatched a plan.

All too aware that the art teacher was about to put her own standing with the Stewart faculty on the firing line in the name of friendship, Cate placed her hand over Rosemary's. "Thanks again. For everything."

Rosemary's eyes twinkled. "You're doing all the work. I didn't want this honored responsibility of speaking for the faculty anyway. Edna thrust it upon me. Now, relax. You'll be fine."

As Rosemary turned her attention to the front of the room, Cate wondered if anything would ever be fine again. Before she could dwell on it the Board secretary cleared her throat. "Next speaker, Rosemary DeVries."

Rosemary stood, smoothed down her skirt, and walked to the podium. Cate's heart pounded, forcing her to draw in two deep breaths. Her stomach tightened and her hands went cold as she focused, not on Rosemary at the podium, but on Tom. He glanced at the art teacher, gave her a nod of recognition, then hunched over his papers. His lack of interest deepened Cate's guilt.

"My name is Rosemary DeVries," Cate heard through the rush of blood in her ears. "I've been employed by this school district for twenty years and have been an art teacher at Stewart Elementary for fifteen of those years. Because of my experience, tenure and field of expertise, I have been asked by the members of our teaching staff at Stewart to address the Board with follow-up comments concerning our letter which was read earlier this evening. However..."

On the dais, Tom lifted his gaze. Cate held her breath.

"...at this time," Rosemary continued, "I yield my allotted five minutes to a member of our staff who has been involved more recently than I with a practical application of the fine arts program. Ladies and gentleman of the Board, I yield to Catherine Munro."

The whole room might have been in a vacuum for the eerie quiet that settled over the cafeteria. Cate imagined that the contingent of ten Stewart Elementary teachers staring in bug-eyed horror now that the suspected traitor among them was their official spokesperson. She no longer felt certain that she could carry this off. Yet, she had to do it. For the fine arts program. For the elementary students. For herself. She rose from her seat. At the same moment, Tom shot up straight in his chair and scanned the audience until he found her. He gaped at her for several heartbeats before mouthing her name.

His silent call galvanized her. She couldn't determine his exact expression, but at least he didn't seem disgusted or outraged. As she moved into the aisle, she clung to that pale reassurance. Rosemary passed her on the way back to her row, smiled her encouragement and touched her arm. "Knock 'em dead, kiddo."

If I don't die first, Cate told herself.

She stepped onto the small, square platform and into the podium box. Behind her, scores of hushed questions broke the silence. Ahead of her, she saw only Tom. Cate dared hope that the new glimmer of anticipation in his eyes meant that he'd listen to her with an open mind and heart. She adjusted the microphone a half-inch lower and took a breath.

"My name is Catherine Munro," she introduced herself as she held Tom's gaze. "I'm the music teacher at Stewart School. I am here to speak on behalf of the continued full funding of the elementary fine arts program..."

Tom found it nearly impossible to be still. The mere fact that Cate had came to the Board meeting surprised him. That she took a turn to speak had shocked the hell out of him. But then, Cate Munro had been shocking the hell out of him for weeks.

She stood only three yards away. The sound system amplified a slight tremble in her voice. The massive, mahogany podium box seemed to swallow her up. She looked so small and alone that his heart gave a protective tug. But her gaze, fixed on him, was steady and sure. He lost himself in the lovely hazel-green for a long moment, then forced himself to listen to her words.

"Music is not my field of expertise," Cate began. "Though I am qualified to teach it, I am first and foremost a reading specialist. But as a reading specialist, I am particularly aware of the importance of a strong fine arts program at the elementary level of education."

As she spoke, she dragged her gaze away from Tom. No longer the focus of her attention, Tom felt a lonely chill. He suddenly realized that he hadn't been truly warm and whole since he'd last held her in his arms.

"Rhythm. Cadence. Phrasing," she said, tapping her finger lightly on the podium. "Terms which apply to music. Terms which apply to the language arts as well. The spoken word and written composition have rhythm, cadence, phrasing, as does a musical composition. We read left to right, as we read sheet music. We speak with expression, as we sing a song. One field of learning compliments the other and often we're not certain which benefits most."

Cate's voice rose in strength and determination. "This is why our district many years ago adopted integrated learning programs at all educational levels. Our children are taught reading, literature, science, social studies, mathematics and fine arts as a seamless whole, instead of as a series of disconnected subjects."

How well Tom knew that now. Yet how stubborn he'd been about accepting it. Until Cate...

She met his gaze a moment as if reading his thoughts, then continued. "I could quote research detailing the positive impact exposure to fine arts has on the study of core subjects such as mathematics and science, but there isn't time. Besides, in the day-to-day world the practical outweighs the theoretical. Having had to deal with my own finances, I know that's true in budgetary matters, as well." She stood taller. "So, I'll be practical. Music and art are tangible forms of communication. Fine arts transcend culture, language and most importantly, social prejudices. To appreciate the arts, we must use multiple senses -- sight, hearing and touch. And we know, as parents and educators, that involving as many senses as possible deepens the learning experience.

"This evening, we've heard from those who speak on behalf of the athletic programs. It is true that sports promote directed competition, cooperation, goal-setting, and team building. But what about those of our children whose talents are creative, not athletic? How do they learn teamwork and individual responsibility, cooperation and goal-setting?"

Cate skimmed her eyes over those seated at the front table. "Have you ever watched nine-year-olds create a class mural for Open House?" she asked rhetorically, the joy of her own personal memory evident in a warm, relaxed smile. "Have you ever walked into a second grade classroom that had been transformed magically into a tropical rain forest complete with paper-mâché fruit and newsprint boa constrictors?

"How many of you have attended a high school football game," she pressed her point. "At half-time do you stay in the bleachers and watch the marching band? Our city has two of the finest bands in the entire state. But that great music, those straight lines and complicated formations don't just happen. Students compete for their placement in that band. They earn the right to march with their fellow musicians. Ask any fourteen-year-old freshman and you'll find out fast that it's darn hard to march in a straight line, turn a sharp corner, and play on key."

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. Tom found himself grinning. He also found his heart swelling with pride and admiration and a sweet, aching love for her.

"It takes cooperation, individual responsibility and teamwork to transform a classroom into a fantasy jungle, or produce a play, or field an award-winning marching band," Cate concluded. "The same lessons that are derived from team sports. But," she cautioned, as she leaned forward and gripped the edges of the podium, "ask my colleagues at the junior highs and high schools, and to a person they will tell you that to achieve musical and artistic excellence, we must begin early. No amount of intense training at the upper levels of education can reproduce the gradual awakening of a very young child's mind to the creative beauty and satisfaction found in the fine arts."

Cate raised her chin. "If we as parents, educators and community leaders, insist that our children have regular periods of physical education to build their bodies and daily lessons in literature and mathematics to expand their minds, then why would we demand less of a curriculum that nourishes their souls?"

She glanced at each Board member briefly. When she came to Tom, she let her gaze linger two heartbeats longer. Did she see how his heart overflowed with tender emotion? Could she understand how important she'd become to him, to his life, to his future? Her gaze flickered with a moment of pleading before she set her focus on Lenore and continued. "We have a responsibility to make sure that all of our children, regardless of age, income, or opportunity can grow into happy responsible citizens. To accomplish that, we need to expose them to a wide range of creative, intellectual, and athletic experiences."

She relaxed her shoulders and smiled faintly. "In keeping with this philosophy the staff of Stewart Elementary asks in the name of the children that you reconsider cutting full funding of the elementary fine arts curriculum. Thank you for your time."

Tom let out a sigh, unaware that he'd been holding his breath. Cate glanced at him. Her mouth inched its way into a tentative smile before she turned to step off the podium.

Lenore stirred beside him. "Ms. Munro, one moment for a few questions, if you please."

Questioning a petitioner was unusual. The staccato clip in Lenore's tone did not request, it demanded. Suddenly alert to danger, Tom grasped at the first line of defense that came to mind. "We have at least an hour and a half of speakers left. Do we have time for questions?"

Lenore dismissed the objection with a flick of her hand before and smiled at Cate standing at the podium. Tom knew that smile. It wasn't meant to ease, but to intimidate.

"I simply want to clarify a few things," she promised in a more conciliatory tone. "You don't mind, do you, Ms. Munro?"

Realizing that Lenore would give him no further opening to protest, Tom faced forward.

Innocently, Cate nodded her agreement. "No, of course not."

Watch yourself, Catie, Tom warned her with a stern frown.

But Lenore held Cate's attention, like a cobra with a prey. "Ms. Munro, we all must agree that you have spoken well in defense of the letter from the staff at your school. Yet, I don't see your name as one of the signatories."

"I was unable to sign before the letter was sent to you," Cate answered. "I assure you, I agree with the contents."

"And you agree with the threatening tone of the letter?"

Cate drew a breath, but it did nothing to stanch the drain of color from her face. "You may consider the tone threatening, Ms. Kemper, but..."

"Are you saying that I, or any other member of this Board, should not consider the insinuation of a strike next fall as a threat?" Lenore broke in.

Cate's knuckles blanched as she gripped the podium. "I believe the language and tone of the letter infers we would press for reinstatement of full and proper funding of those teaching positions when the contract is negotiated."

Lenore no longer smiled. "Or what? You would force a strike?"

"Lenore!" Tom cautioned under his breath.

She ignored him as Cate began to reply. "That isn't our intention. A strike is in no one's best interest."

"Not even yours?" Lenore pressed. "An untenured teacher who's job may be eliminated?"

Cate drew herself up tall. Tom had never seen so much determination spark from her beautiful eyes, yet they were somehow sad, too. "Believe me, Ms. Kemper, I may have already lost something much more important than my job because of all this."

The retort cut at his heart. Not me, Catie! He wanted to call to her. Don't believe for a minute that you've lost me! Instead, he slapped his hand on the table in front of Lenore and glared when she swiveled to face him. "I've heard enough," he growled a whispered warning. "This is way over the line, Lenore. Back off."

Instead of temper, Lenore allowed him a cool glare as she addressed Cate. "Well, well, Ms. Munro," she said in a street voice for all to hear, "it seems that you have a champion on the Board tonight."

Tom clenched his teeth. "Lenore..."

The murmur of voices and the shuffle of feet distracted him. Irritated, he looked around. Beyond the podium in the audience, a cluster of people rose from their seats. He recognized Marlie Erickson. Behind her were other teachers from Stewart, all standing in silence. At the end of the twelfth row, Rosemary DeVries stared at the others for a moment, then rose, too. He grinned with pride as other teachers and parents left their chairs in a show of solidarity until nearly two-thirds of the audience stood. Cate turned to take in the sight.

"Well, look at that, Lenore," he ordered. "Ms. Munro has her pick of champions tonight."

Lenore flushed red. "This demonstration is entirely inappropriate."

Tom's scowl cut her off. While Lenore stammered, Tom leaned forward. "Ms. Munro?"

Cate spun around. The bemused joy of her expression made him chuckle.

"There are no more questions," he told her softly. "You can go back to your friends now."

The glimmer of moisture in her eyes nearly undid him. The potent urge to leave the dais, to fold her in his arms and walk back to the audience with her, forced him to dredge up every ounce of will and remain in his seat. As he watched her reunite with Rosemary DeVries, then move to the clutch of teachers and embrace each one, he suddenly knew the plan for the rest of his life.

But, first, he had some budget business to finish.

Chapter 18

Cate mounted the last step and let out a sigh of relief. Though she usually enjoyed the brisk climb to her classroom on the second floor, this was not the day for aerobic exercise. An adrenaline high had left her awake and restless past three o'clock that morning. Had she been given a choice of a million dollars or an hour more of sleep, she'd have chosen the sleep in a minute. Unfortunately, the first three days of the week had been disaster multiplied by ten. Now, work lay scattered over her desk at home and at school. With a stolen forty-five minutes here and twenty minutes there, she might catch up by the beginning of May.

The classrooms on either side still lay in darkness. At 7:15, she didn't wonder why. As she trudged to the music room at the end of the deserted hallway, she yawned, wide and long. Last night, she had stayed at the Board meeting until Lenore Kemper called for a vote on the future of the fine arts program. The head count was four to three in favor of funding at current levels. With a deep sense of pride and satisfaction, she knew that Tom's affirmative vote had made the difference.

She reached her doorway and flipped on the room lights. A wisp of melancholy stole over her as she scanned the child-sized desks, the stacks of music books, posters of instruments and the console piano. Even the restoration of the cuts didn't guarantee her a job in the fall. On the balance, the rest of the teachers at Stewart no longer distrusted her. After her presentation before the Board, even Edna Waters had given her a bear hug. Her near future looked bright.

Long term though...

She pushed the dreary thoughts aside and headed for her desk. A moment before she plopped her portfolio on the blotter, she spied a simple white-and-gold embossed note card. Unnerved by the discovery, Cate only stared at the card. Curiosity got the better of her. Perhaps Rosemary had left it yesterday afternoon, before either of them could guess what might happen at the Board meeting.

Grinning with appreciation at her friend's kindness, she picked up the card and opened it. "IN THE CLOSET," it read, in bold, block letters. She whirled around. Light leaked from the bottom edge of the closed closet door. Rosemary wouldn't have left the bulb burning. Anyway, the night custodian would have shut it off during his routine check.

Puzzled but intrigued, she walked to the closet and opened the door. "What in the world...oh, my!"

The cramped space no longer smelled of floor wax and dust, but of springtime and promises. On the built-in shelf in front of her lay an armful of two-dozen dewy red roses gathered in deep green tissue. The scent drew her forward. With a squeal of delight, she scooped the bouquet into her arms and inhaled deeply of the wonderful fragrance.

But another scent, male and wondrously familiar, filled her head as well. Her heart beat double-time as she whirled around. "Tom!"

"Hi, Cate. 'Bout time you got here."

He was sitting on the floor just to the left of the doorway, his arms balanced on the triangle of his bent knees. His five-o'clock shadow looked twelve hours old and his eyelids drooped with exhaustion. Still, the Flannery blue eyes sparkled with mischief and warmed her to the core of her soul. As she peered down at him, a hundred questions raced through her brain. "What...where...how did you get in here?"

Tom leaned his head back against the wall and blinked lazily. "The custodian recognized me and let me in. That was the easy part. Ever try to find red roses at six in the morning?"

He straightened his right leg and grinned when she shook her head in bewilderment. "Hope you don't want me to stand," he said, waving at the floor. "Not sure I could manage it right now." He cocked his head. "Are you as glad to see me as I am to see you?"

Cradling the roses at her breast, Cate dropped to her knees in front of him. "Oh, yes, Tom, I am!" She smoothed his stubbled cheek with the back of her hand. "I was so afraid that after Tuesday night..."

He cupped her face with his palm. "Shhh, that's past."

She drew an unsteady breath and nodded. "But I don't understand. What...why...here?"

He slid his hand behind her neck and drew her down onto his lap. His eyes now dark with serious intent, he took the bouquet from her, set it on the floor and held her with both arms. "I'm a man who likes to tie up loose ends. This is where it all started. Now it's come full circle."

"Full circle? What do you mean?"

"First this."

He set his mouth to hers with deep, hungry passion. Too long away from the man she loved, she returned the gift measure for measure. When he broke for air, she savored the scratch of his beard on her skin and the warmth of his breath in her ear.

"I wanted to get you alone and do that last night," he murmured, then teased her cheek with feathery kisses. "But the damned Board meeting ran until two o'clock this morning."

"Mm, it did?" she answered against the brush of his mouth across her lips. "I left around eleven after the vote. Because of Jon."

He threaded his fingers through her hair. "Uh-huh, I figured. I would have left then, too, but I had some business to finish concerning the BRP Program."

Cate gasped when he nipped her ear with his teeth. "I know."

Suddenly he set her back. "You know?"

Cate giggled. "Lara told me."

"Lara? When?"

"Yesterday morning. She called before I left the house and told me that I was one stupid, stupid woman if I walked away from you."

Tom cocked a brow. "Did she?"

"She sure did. Then she told me about your proposal for the Bridge Reading Program." She softened her giddy smile and touched the dark hair at his temples. "Lara also told me about your change of heart concerning the fine arts. She's one strong, smart woman. I think I like her."

He smirked and drew her back toward the warmth of his body. "Yeah, I can pick 'em."

She bit her lip. "I'm so sorry. I should have trusted you..."

Laying the tip of his finger to her lips, he stopped her apology. "I should have confided in you. I'm just so used to making plans and decisions on my own, then running off like the Lone Ranger to get it done myself." He shrugged. "Guess it's all for the better. I quit the School Board."

"What?"

Tom laughed. "Lara didn't tell you everything then?"

"Obviously not! You quit? But why?"

He grinned, the expression that always made her a little bit wary. "After what happened this week, I foresaw an insurmountable conflict of interest looming on the horizon."

"What conflict of interest?"

"The negotiations for the new teachers' contract."

Cate stared at him as if it might draw out a further explanation.

Tom answered by first slipping his hand around her nape and working his fingers gently against her flesh. "The School Board negotiates the contract with the teachers," he reminded her, and touched his nose to hers.

Though distracted, she prodded, "Yes?"

The kiss he brushed over her mouth sent a shiver down her spine. Unable to see his face clearly, she still heard the tease in his voice. "Now, Cate, how can a School Board member, in good faith, negotiate a pay raise for his wife?"

She stilled inside his arms. "His...wife?"

Slowly, Tom eased her away enough so that she could look into her eyes. "Good," he whispered. "Lara left that surprise for me, too."

"Tom?" she murmured, half afraid that she'd misunderstood.

"Catie, I love you," he answered, his words now as unsteady as hers had been. "I want you to be my wife, and teach our children to sing." He smiled sweetly. "And maybe a little math and reading."

Her vision blurred and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, Tom, I love you so much! I'll trust you forever with my heart!"

Tom brought his mouth to hers. "I'll take that as a yes," he murmured, then sealed the promise with his kiss.

"Cate? Cate, are you in here...Oh, my heavens!"

Had Tom not held her tight, Cate would have leaped off his lap and landed on the hard floor. "Rosemary!"

The art teacher stood over them gaping and Tom laughed. Whether exhaustion and euphoria had come to claim her, or the realization of how she and Tom must have looked tangled in a wad of abandon on the floor, Cate went over the edge with him.

"It's all right, Rosemary," Cate finally gasped. "We're getting married."

Rosemary gave them one of her 'teacher' looks, then raised an eyebrow. "Good. After witnessing that kiss, I'm afraid I'd have to insist upon it."

Cate laughed harder and leaned her face into Tom's shoulder.

Rosemary stifled a grin, doing it badly, and glanced at the roses. "I'll see if I can find you a vase."

"You do that," Tom agreed.

Rosemary gave him a highhanded sniff and started to turn. Then she glanced around, smiled and started pulling the closet door shut. "Fifteen minutes to zero hour," she warned Cate before closing them off from the rest of the world.

Tom wiggled his eyebrows with lascivious glee. "One can do a lot of learning in fifteen minutes, Ms. Munro."

Cate draped her arms around his neck. "So teach me, Mr. Flannery."

To learn about other books Awe-Struck publishes, go to the Awe-Struck E-Books website at http://www.awe-struck.net/

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