A Mom for Matthew

“Not really, Mr. Rossetti. Judge Mooney processed the permit. He’s not on the docket again until Friday. I suppose you could stop by his office and either make an appointment for next week, or if you have a company attorney, you may want him to file an appeal. A lawyer can request an assignment to Judge Mooney’s caseload. He’s really busy, but with luck you might get a hearing as early as mid-July.”

“What? We can’t delay drilling that long. We’ll go bankrupt waiting for Ms. Stafford to bring up her blasted plane. Providing it even sank where she’s diving.”

The clerk shrugged again. This time it was accompanied by an expression of helpless sympathy. She seemed relieved when her phone rang.

Zeke realized that the poor woman had no more control over the situation than he did whenever Trixie’s lawyer and the Burnham woman yanked him into court. What choice did he have but to phone his boss? Zeke doubted Pace had received the letter yet; otherwise he would’ve contacted Zeke at home.

He left the records office, returning to his pickup to make the call. “Pace, hey, this is Zeke. I’m glad I caught you at your desk. I’m at the Galveston courthouse. You may not have received it yet, but you’re going to get a letter putting our next well on hold.”

Zeke moved the phone away from his ear as his boss vented steam before even asking particulars. Zeke read the short edict, then added, “I spoke with the salvager. First of all, it’s not any well-known outfit. We’re talking one woman diving off a leaky fishing boat.”

Kemper swore at length. “How in hell did she get authorization for that spot?”

Leaving his pickup, Zeke stalked up and down the sidewalk. “I think she has connections in D.C. She’s confident about her permits. The local judge who rubber-stamped the state permit is out until the end of the week. Don’t you have clout in Washington? I mean, we’ve got a government oil exploration contract, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Kemper muttered. “And I have got the ear of a couple of senators. Don’t know if they’ll lock horns with the military, though.”

“Well, you’ve got lawyers. Let them earn their keep.”

“I’d rather you took this salvager out to dinner tonight. See if you two can’t come to an agreement before involving our legal team. That can get messy.”

Zeke didn’t want to take Grace Stafford to dinner. “I think it’d go better coming from you, Pace. Can’t you fly down and handle negotiations? We’re up against one determined female.”

“You’ve got charm to spare, Rossetti. Use it.”

“Like hell! I’m the least able man for the chore, boss. How about if I pass the job to Gavin?” Forced to chuckle when Pace literally roared that he wanted the woman charmed into an agreement, not seduced into bed by a guy hunting wife number three, Zeke decided Pace knew their crew chief pretty well. Gavin did fancy himself a ladies’ man.

The two signed off, with Zeke reluctantly agreeing to invite the salvager out to dinner, and with Kemper promising to make inquiries at the energy commission.

All in all, this wasn’t an assignment Zeke relished. But Pace paid him well to keep the Galveston operation on track, and this happened to be the disadvantage of being at the top of the heap.

What he couldn’t decide was whether to go back to the office, where he’d have to confide in Gavin and the others, or just head back into the lobby where he’d seen a phone book and take a stab at calling waterfront hotels where the Stafford woman might be staying. She’d indicated she was in a small historic hotel. That narrowed the field. He’d leave her a message to call him on his cell so they could arrange to meet for dinner.

Zeke settled on that plan because he wanted time to swing by his house and change into something more presentable…although he had a hard time shaking the image he’d taken away of Grace Stafford’s godawful bathing suit.

On his third attempt to find where the blasted woman was registered, Zeke connected with a clerk at Seaport House who agreed to leave a message for Ms. Stafford. The man added that Grace generally returned to the hotel around four o’clock.

Zeke checked his watch and saw that he’d wasted more than half a day already, between boating out to her salvage site and digging around the courthouse. He suggested meeting in her hotel lobby at 5:00 p.m. There were any number of casual restaurants within walking distance of her hotel. Zeke had no idea what her preference might be in food. Damn, he was rusty at this, and he hated feeling inept.

Hoping he hadn’t stammered so badly that the clerk considered him some kind of demented loser, Zeke hung up and stormed back to his pickup.

Revving the engine, he headed home to dress for what would surely be the worst evening he’d spent in heaven only knew how long.

CHAPTER TWO

OF ALL THE POSSIBILITIES that ran through Zeke’s mind between 4:45, when he rushed off, leaving his mom for the second time that day to deal with a crying child, and exactly 5:00 p.m., when he arrived in the lobby of Seaport House, not one of them was that Grace Stafford would flat-out ignore his request to buy her dinner. Not just ignore, either. When he gave his name, a smirking clerk said, “Yes, sir, we delivered your message. Ms. Stafford wadded it up and tossed it in the trash. Right in that bin.” The skinny dude blinked behind owlish glasses and took pleasure in showing Zeke the relevant waste container.

Drumming his fingers on the counter, Zeke hesitated only briefly. “Where’s your courtesy phone? If she hasn’t gone out, I’ll just have to change her mind.”

For a minute, Zeke wasn’t sure the clerk would direct him to the phone. He wanted to ask what the guy’s problem was, but maybe he hankered after Grace Stafford. Yes, it was possible. Zeke wanted to tell the man that he, Zeke, wasn’t competing in the romance department over some loser who’d go out in public in that horrible frog bathing suit. But he held his tongue and crossed the lobby to a house phone the reluctant clerk had pointed out.

Zeke listened while it rang and rang. For a minute, he wondered if the clerk was stonewalling him by ringing an empty room. Just as he was about to hang up, a breathless woman answered. “He…ll…o.”

“Ms. Stafford?” Zeke gave her a moment to catch her breath.

“Yes,” she returned hesitantly.

“It’s Zeke Rossetti. We met out in the bay today? I represent Kemper Oil Explorations.”

“Oh! I, ah, received your message. I’m sorry if you made a trip into town for nothing. Really, there’s no need for us to meet. I won’t be persuaded to give up searching for my grandfather’s plane. And as I only recently got to my room, I’ll say goodbye. You interrupted my shower. I’m dripping all over the carpet.”

Zeke followed her stilted, choppy response—which in essence told him to buzz off. He envisioned the soggy woman he’d glimpsed earlier, now resembling a sunburned prune and the image left him unable to speak for a moment. Sensing she was going to hang up, Zeke’s sluggish brain connected with his mouth. “If you just got in, that means you haven’t eaten. My employer’s springing for dinner. Isn’t that a fair exchange for listening to our side?”

The silence went on so long, Zeke grew tense. “If I recall, Ms. Stafford, you offered to let me look over your permits. Why not have dinner at the same time? There are plenty of good restaurants nearby.”

Zeke heard her swift intake of breath. “We can walk to a restaurant?” What did she think, that he’d drive her to the bay and drown her?

“Sure thing. I’ll even let you choose. We’re early enough to get in almost anywhere without a reservation.”

“All right, then. But I’ll need fifteen more minutes. And it’s your city, so you choose. Except…nowhere fancy, please. Diving’s hard work. In the evening I prefer casual and relaxed.”

“Works for me. I’ll wait in the lobby, Ms. Stafford.”

“Uh, if we’re dining together, perhaps you should call me Grace. And your name is…Zeke. Correct?”

“Yes.” As his name fell softly from Grace Stafford’s lips, shivery fingers of an almost forgotten anticipation marched up Zeke’s spine. His well-conditioned reactions kicked in, however, and slammed on the brakes. Tonight’s meeting with this woman was business. Zeke wanted it kept on that level. Clenching his teeth, he said, “I’ll wait. Fifteen minutes.” He didn’t care that he probably sounded rude.

After hanging up, he sat in an easy chair and sorted through the Dallas newspaper someone had left on a coffee table. Zeke fully expected her fifteen minutes to stretch into half an hour. In his experience, a woman needed at least fifteen minutes to dig through her closet. And twice that to apply makeup.

He was pleasantly surprised when, ten minutes later, the elevator bumped to a stop across from where he sat and opened. Out walked Grace Stafford. Zeke almost didn’t recognize her. The hair he’d seen in a soggy ponytail that had reminded him of a dead rat now curled in a reddish-gold halo around an oval face. She wore khaki slacks and a peach-colored blouse that complemented the golden tan she was beginning to acquire. No prune effect, after all. She’d tucked the blouse into the narrow waistband of her slacks. She also carried a shoulder bag and a dark-brown sweater, which told Zeke she was aware that Galveston evenings near the waterfront were cool this time of year.

She approached him the same way she’d spoken on the phone, tentatively.

Zeke rose at once and set the paper aside. “Wow,” he exclaimed. “That didn’t take you long. I didn’t mean to rush you, Ms., uh…Grace.” Rattled, Zeke buried his hands in his pockets and clinked his loose change.

“You didn’t. I’m starved, and I assumed you must be, too, after working all day.”

Zeke realized he was famished. As she halted beside him, her light fragrance, reminding him of spicy cinnamon, shot straight to his stomach. And suddenly, the prospect of sharing a meal with her held more appeal than he’d ever imagined it would. Up close, he saw she’d worked a little magic on her previously sunburned nose, too. Her soft freckles knocked Zeke off kilter enough to have him stammering, “How—ah—what would you like to eat?” He shuffled to his other foot and withdrew a hand from his pocket long enough to rake it through hair he suddenly discovered needed cutting.

But Grace barely glanced at him. She grew thoughtful as they moved toward the door. “Really, I’d rather defer to you. I must admit I haven’t taken time to check out what’s available. I’m not here on vacation but to find my grandfather Dugan’s plane. I’ve been grabbing whatever fast food is handiest.”

For a whole minute there, Zeke had forgotten their purpose in eating together. Brought back to earth, he held open the door to let her pass. “Still, I need to know what your idea of a satisfying meal is.”

When Grace shot him a puzzled glance, he shrugged and blurted, “Are you a woman who picks at a salad and claims she’s full, or do you eat real food?”

Grace laughed, and Zeke noticed that it changed her into a different person. She had a mouth full of pretty white teeth. And he realized he hadn’t noticed her lush pink lips before. Natural. No artificial color. Some guys were leg men. Some ogled women’s butts. Zeke gravitated toward a kissable mouth. Unfortunately, Grace Stafford possessed one.

At the moment, Zeke was trying hard to shake off his attraction and dismay. He needed to hear what she was saying—and he had to ignore that tinkling, delightful laughter.