Suddenly Married

Chapter Two

Noah watched her face as a myriad of emotions—confusion, surprise, delight—flickered over her lovely features.

“Father is making lasagna,” Bobby announced, nodding and grinning.

It was apparent that Noah’s son wanted her to say yes every bit as much as he did.

Smiling, Dara lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My goodness! I don’t know what to say.”

“If you’re busy,” Angie said, “say no. If you’re not…” The child held out her hands and lifted her shoulders.

Laughing softly, Dara combed her fingers through Angie’s dark curls. Noah couldn’t help but notice the way his little girl’s too-old stare faded under Dara’s tender touch. The children needed a woman like this…had been needing someone like Dara for nearly four years now.

The idea had begun to formulate last Sunday, when Bobby told him how Dara had hugged Angie in Sunday-school class and called her “sweetie” and referred to Francine as “Mommy.” Since his wife’s death, Noah had felt like a bumbling, stumbling mess when it came to providing affection. Oh, he doled out the occasional hug and kiss and greedily ate them up when the children offered them, but soft touches—like hair tousling and kisses—had not been a spontaneous part of his personality.

He could have blamed it on the fact that he’d been raised in an institutional setting with hundreds of parentless children just like him. He could have said it was because men weren’t born with instinctive nurturing tendencies.

But neither was true, and Noah knew it.

The only person in the world he’d felt free to be completely open and honest with had been Francine. She’d seen the vulnerable, needy side of him—and had loved him in spite of it.

“I know you,” she’d said days before her death. “You’ll stick your nose in a ledger book and try to hide from the world.” And grabbing a fistful of his shirt, she’d pulled him nearer with a strength that belied her condition. “The children will need you more than ever after I’m gone,” she’d said. “Promise me you’ll find a good woman who will be there for them. Someone who will make sure they get the guidance and discipline they need to become respectable citizens and obedient followers.” She’d shaken a maternal finger under his nose to add, “She’ll have to be a strongwilled woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. You’ll look for a woman like that, won’t you, after I’m gone?”

Of course he’d promised. How could he have denied her at a time like that? It had been an easy enough vow to take; living up to it, he soon discovered, was what had required constant and serious effort.

Because he loved Angie and Bobby more than life itself. They were more than extensions of Francine and him, the children were proof of his love for her and hers for him. That love turned out to be a double-edged sword, for every time he looked into their sweet, angelic faces, he was reminded of that love, and missed it all the more.

They were such well-behaved children—everyone said so—never talking out of turn, always tidy and eager to please. In truth, Noah had no idea why they rarely cried or complained, why they never roughhoused like other children. He’d never asked perfection from them…

Had he?

So it was the most natural thing in the world, he decided, when Bobby told him how Dara had mothered Angie. Was it any surprise that the idea had begun to formulate?

“If you’re busy,” Angie was saying, “say no.” If not, his daughter’s dainty shrug implied, what else was there to say?

Dara met Noah’s eyes, and the questions there made it clear she wasn’t certain he’d approved the invitation.

“I make a mean Caesar salad,” he prompted, “if I do say so myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to make a nice salad?” Angie asked, grinning.

“Nice is always better than mean,” Dara teased, winking.

“Does that mean you’re coming to dinner?” Bobby wanted to know.

Dara licked her lips. Swallowed. He could almost see the wheels grinding in her head as she considered all the reasons she should say no. Then she focused a dark-eyed, loving gaze on his children, and he saw the indecision and apprehension disappear. In place of her wary smile there was a warm grin.

“I’ll come,” she told them, “but on one condition only.”

Angie and Bobby probably didn’t even realize they’d taken a step forward. Noah had felt the pull, too, but they were children, without a lifetime of restraint and self-control under their belts.

“What?” they asked.

“That you’ll let me bring dessert.”

The children exchanged a glance before facing her again. What happened next convinced Noah he’d made the right decision, that God had planted the idea in his head and would continue guiding his actions.

“Well, okay,” Bobby began, slowly, quietly. Blue eyes alight with mischief, he added, “So long as it isn’t…”

A moment of silence ticked by before Angie covered her mouth with both hands and giggled. He couldn’t remember the last time his little girl had acted like a little girl. The sight touched him so much that Noah had to swallow to keep tears of gratitude at bay.

“Peanut butter balls!” she shouted through her fingers.

Dara got onto her knees, making herself child size, and held out her arms to them. The children melted against her like butter on a hot biscuit. That quickly, she’d worked her enchantment on them. “No peanut butter balls,” she promised, smiling. “Now, tell me—what’s your favorite dessert?”

“Brownies!” said Bobby.

“Chocolate cake!” Angie insisted.

Standing, Dara turned to Noah. “What time is dinner?” She spoke with the precise diction of a TV news anchor.

“Five o’clock?”

When she nodded, her shining reddish brown curls bounced. “Is your place easy to find?”

He never went anywhere without his trusty pen and pencil. Can’t tell when you might need to work out a problem, he’d found. He flipped open the pad, quickly jotted down the directions, then placed the small sheet of paper into her palm, closing his large hand around hers. “Route 40 west,” he said, pretending not to notice the slight tremor, “left on Centennial Lane, right at the light at Old Annapolis. We’re the fourth house on the right.” He turned her loose. “You can’t miss us.”

She stared at the directions, then looked at him. In school, when the teachers weren’t watching, he’d made fun of the supersensitive male poets who’d written lush prose describing how it felt to be lost in a woman’s gaze. He hadn’t understood a word of their sweet talk, because frankly, he couldn’t get a handle on the why of it.

He understood them now, as he looked into dusky eyes that made Dara seem mysterious and elusive and at the same time vulnerable and sensitive, with a capacity for love like no one he’d ever known.

It disappointed him more than he cared to admit when she blinked, turned that warmth on his children again. “See you in a few hours, then,” Dara said, waving and smiling as he took them by the hand and led them toward the big double doors at the end of the hall. Bobby and Angie turned three, perhaps four times to look over their shoulders, tripping over his feet and their own before he was able to guide them outside.

Clearly, his children were charmed by Dara Mackenzie.

He had a feeling it was going to take a concerted effort on his part to keep her charm from working on him.

The kids had been in the living room for half an hour already, knobby knees poking into the cushions, elbows resting on the sofa back as they pressed their noses to the windowpane. “Where is she?” Angie sighed.

Chuckling, Noah said, “It’s only four-thirty, sweet girl. Miss Mackenzie said she’d be here a little before five, remember?”

“But it’s snowing harder now. Do you think she decided not to come?”

“I think she would have called.”

“But maybe you should call and offer to pick her up and bring her here, Father.”

“Maybe.”

“I saw one car slipping and sliding a few minutes ago. Do you think she was in an accident?”

It surprised him, the way his heartbeat quickened at the possibility. “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, Angie.” But Noah sent a prayer heavenward on Dara’s behalf, just in case.…

“Do you think she’s…” Bobby squinted, searching his memory for the right word. “Do you think Miss Mackenzie is a punk-shal kind of person?”

“Yes, she seems the punctual type.”

“I hope she doesn’t get lost.”

“She won’t,” Angie confidently assured him.

Noah pocketed his hands and leaned on the door frame as he watched them, heads turning to follow every car that drove up or down the street. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them looking forward to having a guest to dinner. Fact was, he’d never seen them so excited about company, particularly female company.

A year or so ago, he’d warily ventured back into the dating scene, but only because his wife had insisted that he try, as soon as possible, to find a mother substitute for Angie and Bobby. He might not have considered it even then if Bobby hadn’t asked, “Father, do you ever get lonely?”

The answer had cried out from his heart, from his head. Yes! he’d wanted to shout, yes, I’m lonely. He’d felt the pangs of it day and night, starting on the morning when Francine’s doctor had announced her prognosis. But he couldn’t very well admit it to the boy. The children needed his strength, not his weakness. So he’d said, “Now, why would I be lonesome when I have you and your sister to keep me company?”

Either Bobby hadn’t heard him, or chose to ignore the comment. “I get sad sometimes,” Bobby had said, “because I miss Mother.”

Angie, he recalled, had not agreed. He’d sloughed it off to immaturity; perhaps the girl felt her mother had abandoned them.

“No need to be sad, kids,” he’d said, “because your mother is in heaven now, with Jesus.”

“Is she happy there?” Angie had wanted to know.

Francine had talked so much about paradise in those last, pain-filled days. “Yes, I believe she is.”

Bobby nodded. “Do you think she misses us?”

He’d looked into his little boy’s face, a face so small, so innocent, yet so old and wise. “Of course she does. Your mother loved you more than…more than life itself.”

Angie had sighed heavily and frowned. “Then I don’t see how she can be happy.” She’d met Noah’s eyes and said very matter-of-factly, “I’m sure not happy when I think about how much I miss her.”

They’d been so young when Francine died—Angie, four and Bobby three—too young to remember much about their mother. Or so the experts said.

“They miss the things she did for them,” insisted the Christian counselor Noah had hired. “Have you considered remarrying, Mr. Lucas?”

In truth, he had not. It may not be macho to admit it in this day and age, but Noah had never been with any woman except Francine. The thought of sharing himself so completely with another woman…

But the therapist’s words had echoed Francine’s own. If it would help his children, he’d set aside his feelings, take another wife. But it would have to be in name only, he told himself time and again, because the woman hadn’t been born who could replace Francine in his heart.

He’d learned to trust his children’s instincts about potential dates. They liked Dara Mackenzie. Noah had a feeling that tonight’s dinner was going to end up quite differently.

“Father, she’s here!” Angie announced, in a voice filled with anticipation and wonder.

Chapter Three

“I’ll wash, you dry,” Dara suggested as she stacked the dinner plates, “since you know where everything goes.”

He gave her a sideways look. “I realize I come off as an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud kind of guy,” he said, “but a couple of years back, I actually invested in a modern-day gizmo called a dishwasher.”

Dara grinned as Noah carried the nearly empty lasagna tray to the sink. “Amazing contraption,” he continued. “Put the dirty dishes in, close the door, and voilà! Clean dishes!”

“I stand corrected, Mr. Lucas.”

“‘Noah,’ Miss Mackenzie.”

“‘Dara,’ Mr. Lucas.”

He chuckled, tore off a sheet of aluminum foil and covered the leftover lasagna. “We could go on this way long into the night.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long into the night. In fact,” she said, standing on tiptoe at the window, “I should probably have left half an hour ago. I imagine the snow has started to mount up by now.”

Noah flipped a switch near the back door, flooding the yard with light.

Dara gasped. “Oh, my goodness! It’s white, as far as the eye can see, and still coming down like crazy.” She glanced at Noah, who had parted the miniblinds to stare out the half window in the back door. “How deep do you think it is?”

He squinted into the snowy night. “The bottom step is completely buried, and the snow is halfway up the second.” He met her eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say there’s more than a foot.” He snapped the blinds shut. “We could get another twelve inches before it’s over.”

“But it’s not even Thanksgiving yet!” Dara glanced at the wall clock, then gasped. “How could it be nearly nine o’clock already!”

Noah shrugged. “Time sure flies when you’re having fun?”

“I suppose,” she said distractedly, looking out the window again. “I hope they’ve plowed the roads. I don’t know if my car will make it through a foot of snow otherwise.”

He held out his hand. “Let’s take a gander out the front window and see if the plows have been by or not.”

Hesitantly, she put her hand into his and let him lead her down the hall and into the living room. Had she done or said something to make him think she’d accepted his invitation because she was interested in him? The last thing on her mind had been romance!

Well, not the last thing, but romance certainly hadn’t been the primary reason for the visit. Her plan had been simple and straightforward: hire Noah Lucas to help her prove that her father had not committed a crime. She hadn’t expected to have an opportunity to discuss the arrangement this evening, what with the children around, but she had presumed the dinner would be a good start, a place to establish the rapport required to make the question possible…later.

Dara didn’t know if she’d define what they’d established tonight as “rapport,” but something had developed between them, or that almost kiss wouldn’t have happened in the kitchen earlier.

She blamed it on tension, hers and Noah’s. He hadn’t so much as hinted at that distasteful Pinnacle matter, to give him his due, but it was there anyway, like a translucent fog. Her nerves had been in a knot since he’d first told her about the charges against her father. Surely it was on Noah’s mind, too, since he’d have to be the one to start the prosecution ball rolling.

“I thought you might like the opportunity to replace the money,” Noah had offered, even before she’d taken a seat that first day, “before I make my report to Kurt Turner, if I can legitimately attest that the funds are here…”

Dara had a respectable sum piled up in her savings account, and she’d invested a few dollars in the stock market, as well. But two hundred thousand?

He’d been reserved, businesslike, coldly calculating up until that point, but the moment she admitted she couldn’t put her hands on that kind of money, his demeanor changed. His frown had deepened, and he dug into the file as if he’d gone back a hundred years in time, to some dusty Texas town where a rustler had escaped the jailer’s wagon. In a snap, it was as though he saw himself headin’ up the posse that would hunt down the bad guy, then hold him till the sheriff showed up to haul the varmint off to the hoosegow.

She could tell by the way he attacked this case that he could be as determined as a bloodhound, as ruthless as a pit bull. If she could harness that tenacity, put it to work on her father’s behalf…

“How can I get you on my side?” she intended to ask. Cut and dried. Period. From what little she knew of him, a man like that would probably admire her straightforwardness, because she’d be speaking his language.

A man like what?

He wasn’t cold and heartless. At least, not entirely. He was strict with the children, but what choice did he have, when circumstances had forced him to be both mother and father to them?

He was still holding her hand when they walked into his living room, where the children lay on their stomachs, chins propped in upturned palms, staring at the TV.

“What are you watching?” Noah asked.

“Some show about angels.” Angie rolled over to face her father. “See that man with the long blond hair?”

He nodded.

“He’s one of the angels. Can you believe it? I didn’t know there were such things as boy angels.”

Chuckling, Noah said, “Some of the most powerful angels in God’s kingdom were boys. There was the archangel Gabriel, remember, and Michael, and—”

“Boat angels are no big deal,” Bobby said.

“Boat angels?” Dara asked.

Sitting cross-legged, the boy faced her. “You know, like the ones on the ark?”

Dara smiled. “Ark-angels. Of course.” And laughing, she said, “You’re an angel. A nutty one.”

The show’s credits scrolled up the screen as Noah said, “It’s after nine, kids. Time for bed.”

“But there won’t be any school tomorrow, Father. The weatherman said so, because of all the snow outside.”

“You’re probably right, Angie, but you’ve both been up since six.” He smiled. “Now, say good-night to Miss Mackenzie and run upstairs. I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in and hear your prayers.”

Without another word of protest, the children turned off the TV.

“Thank you for the dessert, Miss Mackenzie,” Bobby said.

Angie nodded. “It was delicious.”

Dara laid her hands on their shoulders. “I had a wonderful time. And to prove it, maybe I’ll teach you to make ice-cream-cone cakes sometime soon.”

Cheery faces tilted up to meet her eyes. “Really? When?”

“We’ll discuss it in the morning,” Noah interrupted gently. “Now, scoot! Call me when you’ve changed into your pajamas.”

Dara opened the front door a crack, peeked out into the snowy night. “Hmm…the plows haven’t been by yet” She stood for a moment, transfixed by the sight. “It’s so beautiful out there,” she whispered, hugging herself to fend off the chill, “all hushed and white and sparkly.”

Noah rested his chin on her shoulder to have a look for himself. “Beautiful,” he agreed.

He was behind her, so she couldn’t read the expression that accompanied the unadorned statement, yet something in his full, rich baritone told Dara he wasn’t referring to the wintry landscape. The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the temperature, because there he was again, unsettlingly close.

“I’d better be going,” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice, “before it gets any worse.”

“Before what gets worse?”

Swallowing a gasp, she gave a thought to the possibility that he could read her mind. Then, dismissing it, she said, “The weather, of course.”

Noah turned her to face him. “You can’t drive that puddle jumper of yours in this mess.” With his free hand, he closed the door. “First snowplow that comes along will bury you for sure.”

“Well, I can’t stay here. What would people think?”

“They’d think you were smart enough to know better than to risk your life to protect your reputation.”

Reputation. The word reverberated in her ears. Preserving her father’s reputation had been the sole reason she’d come here.

Or had it?

Whatever the reason, it had gotten lost amid the children’s happy banter, a home-cooked meal, a near kiss.…

Now I know why they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Noah had all but destroyed her original assessment of him with the affection he’d showered on his kids, with the home he’d made for them. If only he had been the brutal businessman she’d thought him to be, Dara wouldn’t be fighting her feelings for him now!

And how do you feel about him?

The answer was easy: she liked him. Liked him a great deal. Which made things hard, very hard, because in order for her plan to work, she would have to keep things “strictly business.”

Wouldn’t she?

Dara had heard of being backed into a corner, but it had never actually happened to her before. Well, you’re cornered now, she told herself, figuratively and literally. She stood, shoulders and backside pressed against the cool wall, blinking into his dark-lashed blue eyes. Instinct told her Noah would never harm her. So what’re you afraid of? she wondered as her heartbeat doubled.

Was fear responsible for her racing pulse? Or had some other emotion made her feel light-headed and jittery, like a girl in the throes of her first crush?

The only light in the foyer spilled in from the living room, soft and dim and puddling on the deep-green slate in buttery pools. The hazy amber rays painted his face in light and shadow, accenting the patrician nose, the square jaw, the fullness of his thickly mustached mouth.

She wasn’t afraid of him, Dara realized. Rather, it was her reaction to him that scared her witless. The pull couldn’t have been stronger, not if he were made of ore and a magnet had been implanted in her heart.

Noah pressed his palms against the wall, one on either side of her head. “If you insist on going home,” he said, “I insist on driving you.”

“But…”

But that would mean bundling the children up and loading them into the car, putting all three Lucases at risk on the slick, snow-covered roads.

“But what?” Noah asked.

Dara closed her eyes. Lord, she prayed, tell me what to do!

“Father,” Angie called from the top of the stairs, “we’re ready.”

“I’ll be right there.”

His mustache grazed her cheek before he pulled away. Without taking his gaze from Dara’s eyes, he grabbed her hand, led her back into the kitchen. “There’s a canister of hot chocolate in the pantry. Why don’t you fix us both a cup while I make my rounds.”

She glanced toward the French doors that led to the deck. Noah hadn’t turned off the spotlights, and they illuminated thousands of fat snowflakes, as big as quarters, that drifted down and landed silently atop the high, silvery drifts. Every twig and branch seemed to reach up and out, welcoming the thick downy blanket of white. Lovely as it was, Dara couldn’t drive in this. Noah had been right: her aging little compact could barely make it over speed bumps; it would never make it through a foot and a half of heavy, wet snow.

One foot on the bottom step, he turned and said, “I think the snow is a blessing in disguise.”

“A blessing?”

He nodded. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and now that you’re a captive audience…” He gave her a small, mysterious smile, then climbed the stairs two at a time.

Does he want to talk more about the Pinnacle funds? Dara wondered as he disappeared around the landing. She had the impression that subject was talked through. Shrugging, she walked into the kitchen. After filling the gleaming chrome teapot with tap water and setting it atop the back burner, Dara grabbed two mugs from the cabinet above the dishwasher. He doesn’t seem like the cocoa type to me, she told herself, dropping a tea bag into each cup. And while she waited for the water to boil, Dara wandered into the family room, where she held her hands above the warmth radiating from the big black woodstove.