Daddy Protector

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Hale Crandall really ought to put on some clothes. He looked fantastic without them, though, in Connie’s opinion.

Sweat spread a bronze sheen across his rugged chest and face, from which exertion had stripped the customary know-it-all grin. A fierce, driving leap…breath coming hard…intensity turning his brown eyes to near-black…

Then he missed the softball, stumbled across the grass from his yard and plowed headfirst into the pansies and marigolds in Connie’s flower bed. As she drove up, her amusement mutated into annoyance at her havoc-wreaking neighbor.

Muttering under her breath, she pulled her maroon sedan into the driveway and stomped on the brake. She yanked the door handle too hard, resulting in a chipped fingernail. Well, great! Not exactly Hale’s fault, but she felt even more irked at him, anyway.

As she marched along the sidewalk—no sense ruining her strappy high heels or her lawn by taking the shortest route—she ignored the group of boys, assorted ages and states of griminess, who’d stopped playing to check on their ringleader. Why weren’t they spending a Saturday in June doing something useful, like studying? Although Connie didn’t have any children, she volunteered to tutor kids struggling in school, and knew how many of them blew off their assignments.

She stopped a few feet away from her neighbor. “Look at this mess! I hope you plan to replant those flowers.” She barely refrained from adding a well-deserved, “You idiot!”

A dirt-smeared Hale pushed himself onto the grass and retrieved a clot of nasturtiums from atop his thick, dark hair. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied with his customary sardonic edge.

With his taste for high jinks, she thought he might plant stink-weeds. “When you’re buying the plants, be sure to get the same colors and varieties,” she said. “It’s the least you can do.”

Rising, Hale dusted himself off. “I’ll have my butler make a note.” One of the boys giggled.

“Don’t get smart with me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he turned away, Connie tried not to stare at his well-muscled bare back. Sure, Hale Crandall was one fine specimen of masculinity. Unfortunately, in her book, that too often meant thickheaded and irresponsible.

The problem was his resemblance to her ex-husband, Joel, Hale’s best friend and fellow cop at the Villazon, California, Police Department. Together, the two overgrown adolescents had contributed to the breakup of her marriage. The only thing she’d snagged from the wreckage had been a pitiful monthly alimony check and this house—right next to Hale’s.

“Hey, guys. Game’s over!” As he headed for the porch, Hale waggled one hand at his followers, who dispersed reluctantly.

Connie retrieved her purse from the car. She had only an hour to grab an early dinner before returning to the gift shop she owned, since she’d agreed to let Jo Anne Larouche, her clerk, leave at five for personal reasons.

Her mother would have scolded Connie for being too soft on an employee. But in her opinion, treating workers well kept them loyal. And she was willing to work long hours if that’s what success required.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a straggler trailing into Hale’s house, a wiry little boy with blond hair. Darned if he didn’t bear a strong resemblance to Skip Enright, the six-year-old she tutored at the town’s homework center. Co-founded by a retired teacher and by a close friend of Connie’s, the after-school-and-weekend operation used volunteers to help kids master reading and math.

Just before the boy disappeared indoors, a cobalt gleam flashed from the heels of his running shoes. She’d bought Skip a pair exactly like those to celebrate his successful completion of first grade. Not only were they expensive, but she’d found them during a buying trip to L.A. That left no doubt in her mind about his identity.

Between the boy’s independent spirit and his foster mother’s preoccupation with the pending birth of a grandchild, he roamed far too freely around town. Anxious to provide sorely lacking supervision, Connie had brought Skip home several afternoons with the permission of his foster mother. If he’d wandered this way in search of her today, then she’d better retrieve him and drive him home.

To avoid any more contact with her neighbor than necessary, she took out her cell phone and dialed Hale’s number. Once he learned about the little intruder, he’d likely send the kid straight out.

A machine picked up. Why didn’t the man answer? And he refused to provide the number of his cell. Probably he didn’t care to listen to her complain whenever he threw one of his loud parties, Connie admitted, but still…

She glared at his ranch-style home. Even under the best of circumstances, she disliked setting foot inside it. Too many uncomfortable memories from when her husband used to hang out there. Come to think of it, there were no best circumstances.

Marching along the walkway, she tried to ignore the weeds peeping through the cracks and the brown fronds dangling from an overgrown bird-of-paradise plant. At the top of the steps, she pressed the bell twice, waited and then knocked loudly. Zilch.

Being ignored had never stopped her before when she had a bone of contention with her neighbor, and it wouldn’t prevent her now from collecting the boy to whom she’d grown so attached.

Turning the knob, she went in, hit by the lingering smell of cigarette and cigar smoke. Although Hale didn’t indulge, his guests obviously did.

A billiards table dominated the living room amid mismatched chairs and a couch. On the walls, motorcycle posters reinforced the pool-hall theme. A crumpled potato chip bag lay in one corner.

She passed a den dominated by a vast TV screen and videogame system, and reached the kitchen. Skip was perched at the kitchen counter munching what appeared to be cheese puffs. Above him, doorless cabinets revealed a tooth-rotting supply of cookies and chips. Simply allowing a youngster in this kitchen ought to count as child abuse!

Hale, his head in the kitchen sink as he sprayed water over his upper body, either didn’t notice the boy or didn’t mind. Averting her eyes from the masculine figure, Connie addressed Skip. “Hi, fella. What brings you here?”

The boy grinned. “Cool place, huh?”

“If you say so.” Despite the possible damage to her suit from his soiled clothing, she gave him a hug.

The half-naked host switched off the water, grabbed a frayed towel from the counter and rubbed his hair as he swung around. Moisture beaded on bare flesh…as if Connie cared!

Only a slight hesitation betrayed his reaction on spotting her. “Aha. The princess braves the ogre’s lair.”

“Are you aware that this little boy followed you inside?” she demanded.

“I may be stupid but I’m not blind.” He seemed to take pride in ducking the issue.

Irked, Connie continued, “Didn’t it occur to you to find out where he belongs?”

The towel draped across his bare shoulders, Hale regarded her with feigned innocence. “Hey, he’s a guy. Why can’t he just hang out?” He tossed a handful of cheese puffs one by one into the air and caught them in his mouth. Missed one, picked it up and ate it anyway.

“Hale…”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “A lady named Paula was trying to drop him off at your place. I said he could stay here ’til you showed up.”

That would be Paula Layton, Skip’s foster mother. Apparently she hadn’t bothered to call. “She left him with a complete stranger?” That was scary. Just because someone lived next door didn’t make him trustworthy.

“She saw my picture in the paper last year when I got a commendation.” Hale had been honored for recognizing an L.A. robbery suspect at the supermarket. He’d quietly called for backup and trailed the man outside to collar him without endangering shoppers. “What can I say? I stick in some people’s minds.”

“Like a piece of chewing gum on their shoe,” Connie mocked. Of course, she’d been impressed by Hale’s actions, too, but admitting as much would only give him an advantage in their ongoing game of one-upmanship.

Skip seemed to find her remark funny. His laughter bubbled up, wonderfully free and open. He retained a warm spirit, despite a history of neglect that included removal from his birth home after neighbors repeatedly called social services about his lack of supervision. He’d been returned to his parents briefly, until their arrest for selling drugs. Eventually they’d agreed to relinquish custody.

“The kid’s been here about an hour,” Hale added. “This Paula person said her daughter was in labor and she had to rush off to the hospital. She wasn’t sure but he might have to stay overnight.”

“She might have phoned!” Connie wondered what the woman would have done with Skip if Hale hadn’t been available. “I understand her desire to be at the hospital, but she could have made babysitting arrangements. Her daughter’s full-term, so this hardly comes as a surprise.”

The real problem wasn’t today’s drop-off but Paula’s increasing inattentiveness to her ward. With a grandchild on the way, the woman seemed to have lost the motivation that had inspired her to begin foster parenting in the first place.