Heart of Hurricane Read online

  Judy picked up her glass of lemonade from the wicker table and set the swing into motion once again. "Oh, don't worry about me," she said, patting her swollen abdomen. "I was going to quit in a couple of months anyway. As soon as 'junior' arrives I'm going to become a full-time mommy, and I plan to enjoy every moment of it."

  A trace of cynicism and pity flickered in Althea's eyes when she glanced at her friend. She had no doubt that Judy would make a wonderful mother, but somehow she just couldn't visualize Dan Fisher, Judy's airline-pilot husband, adjusting to the role of doting father. He'd never fully accepted the role of husband. Good-looking and personable, Dan was quite happy flying off to far-flung points on the globe for days on end, leaving Judy to keep the home fires burning. And, unlike Judy, Althea harbored no illusions that he remained faithful to his wife during those jaunts. Once, when the couple had first moved into the downstairs duplex, he had even tried his luck with her. Althea had given him a verbal blistering which had put a halt to that nonsense, but she had never liked the man since. The only reason she had let them stay was her friendship with Judy. Though the Fishers could well afford a place of their own, with Dan gone so much, Judy preferred the present arrangement, rather than being left completely alone.

  "Still, I'll do my best to see that you don't get into trouble over this."

  The crunch of tires on the paved drive brought a gasp from Judy, and Althea looked up in alarm. "At this point," Judy choked, "I think it's a little late for that."

  Following the direction of her friend's apprehensive stare, Althea looked over her shoulder just in time to see Ward Kingman climbing from a sleek metallic-bronze Continental.

  Althea's chest tightened painfully and her heart began to pound. What was he doing here? Couldn't he even wait until Monday to fire her? She rose slowly to her feet, embarrassingly aware of the mud caked on her knees, the scantiness of her old cut-off jeans and bandanna-patterned halter top, of the sweaty sheen of her bare skin, all of which Ward's eyes were cataloging as he drew steadily nearer.

  He stopped just a few feet from her and stood with his feet braced apart, his fingers splayed across his hipbones. He was wearing casual cream slacks that hugged his strong thighs and trim waist and a coffee-colored short-sleeved shirt, the top three buttons of which were undone. Althea's heart was booming like a kettledrum and her throat was dry. Even in the midst of her panic the feminine part of her noted and responded to the sight of his bare muscular arms and the thick pelt of dark, crisp chest hair revealed by the partially unbuttoned shirt. She tried to tell herself that her reaction was due merely to the fact that she was unaccustomed to seeing him dressed so casually, but deep down she knew that wasn't quite true. Memories of being held against that powerful body flitted tantalizingly through her mind.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Winters." The greeting was accompanied by a curt nod; then almost immediately Ward's gaze swung upward to the young woman sitting on the porch swing. His eyes narrowed in sudden recognition. "It's Mrs. Fisher, isn't it? I didn't realize that you and Miss Winters were friends."

  "I, uh . . ." Judy stopped to clear her throat and cast Althea a helpless look. "That is . . . Althea and I have been friends for years. My husband and I are also her tenants." She gestured vaguely over her shoulder toward the house. "We lease the downstairs from her."

  Ward ran an assessing eye over the huge old Victorian house, noting its interesting turret and many gables. The intricate gingerbread work on the wraparound porch, painted a pristine cream, resembled starched lace against the Williamsburg-blue structure. Black shutters flanked the enormous triple-hung windows whose wavy hand-blown glass sparkled in the afternoon sun like hundreds of mirrors. Ward's eyes held surprise and speculation when they swung from the ornate old home to Althea. "Nice place," he said laconically as his eyes made a sweeping inspection of the yard. They narrowed sharply when they encountered the brawny young man striding toward them.

  Greg came to a halt beside Althea and draped a protective arm over her shoulders, eyeing the older man with undisguised suspicion. He was shirtless, and his muscular torso gleamed with a sheen of perspiration. "Everything okay, sis?" he asked in a tone that reeked with male aggression.

  "Yes. Fine," Althea assured him with a wan smile. "Mr. Kingman, I'd like you to meet my brother, Greg. Greg, this is Mr. Kingman. My boss."

  Greg's whole attitude underwent an immediate change. Extending his hand, he leaned forward and shook Ward's vigorously.

  "So you're the one who's studying to be an engineer," Ward said conversationally.

  "Yes, sir."

  Ward's gaze swept over the manicured yard once again, taking in the neatly trimmed hedge, the carpet-smooth grass, the rioting flowerbeds that surrounded the house and the base of each huge oak tree. "You've done a good job on the yard," he complimented, and in the next breath added, "I take it you don't have a summer job?"

  "No, I—"

  "Jobs are scarce and hard to find," Althea broke in defensively. "And Greg was too busy with his studies this spring to get out and look for one."

  "Perhaps I can help you there. I have an interest in an oil company that's drilling off the coast of Louisiana, and I'm sure I can get you on as a roustabout. It's a great job for a young single man. You live and work on the rig for two weeks, then you're ferried back to shore for two weeks off. And the pay is excellent."

  "Gee, thanks, Mr. Kingman. I appreciate th—"

  "But that's dangerous work," Althea protested, her voice tinged with alarm. "Greg could get hurt. And anyway, there's no need for him to work."

  Ward gave her a long, hard look. "It's no more dangerous than a dozen other jobs I could name. If he follows the rules, he shouldn't have any problem." Ignoring Althea's panicked expression, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pad and pencil. He quickly scribbled a name and number, then tore the page off and handed it to Greg. "I'll set it up for you tonight. You call Sid Monday morning and he'll tell you when and where to report."

  "Thanks, Mr. Kingman," Greg replied heartily, raking a hand through his sweat-darkened blond hair. "I don't know what to say."

  Althea wanted to scream. What was he doing, coming here turning her life upside down? She didn't want Greg working on some oil rig out in the Gulf, and she had a sneaking hunch Ward knew it. Yet she couldn't light into him the way she wanted to, not as long as there was a faint chance that she would be able to hold on to her job. And surely he wouldn't have bothered to offer Greg a job if he were going to dismiss his sister. Would he?

  "Was . . . was there something you wanted to see me about, Mr. Kingman?" Althea asked unsteadily, torn between anger and fear.

  "Yes. I want to speak with you privately for a moment." He glanced briefly at the other two. "I won't take more than a minute of your time."

  "Greg, would you mind helping me inside for a few minutes?" Judy asked, grasping the swing chain and clumsily hoisting herself to her feet. "I dropped an earring behind my dresser the other day and it's too heavy for me to move."

  "Sure. Be happy to," Greg replied, taking the porch steps two at a time.

  When the front door had shut behind them, Althea looked at Ward warily and waited for him to speak, but he seemed to be in no hurry. A strange smile tilted his mouth as he studied her smudged face and the thick golden plait that lay over one shoulder.

  Althea squirmed. She was hot and sticky and caked with dirt, and felt distinctly uncomfortable standing before this man in her skimpy attire. Why didn't he just say what he had to say and go?

  She felt a bead of sweat form on her temple. Avidly Ward's warm brown gaze tracked the tiny droplet as it trickled down to her neck and slid over her collarbone, gaining momentum as it made a curving path around the top of one rounded breast before entering the shadowed cleft and disappearing from view. Slowly Ward lifted his eyes from her cleavage, and Althea caught her breath when she saw the desire blazing in their brown depths.

  Then the shutters came down and his face was once more ch
iseled granite, his eyes hard and cold. "I just wanted to tell you that when you come in on Monday, leave your disguise at home. The masquerade is over. I don't ever want to see any of those god-awful drab suits on you again."

  "Oh, but—"

  "I mean it, Althea. If you show up in one of those ghastly outfits, so help me I'll send you right back home."

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked back to his car, leaving Althea standing there with her mouth open. She winced when he slammed the door, and again when he sent the car shooting out of her drive and took off down the street amid squealing tires and the roar of the powerful engine. One thing was certain: his temper hadn't cooled down by so much as a degree.

  Althea didn't know what had surprised her the most, his order or the fact that he had called her by her first name. She was surprised he even remembered it.

  And how had he known that she intended to resume her dowdy disguise? Of course, it seemed only common sense to her that one didn't just change one's appearance overnight, not without setting off a storm of office gossip. She had planned, provided he allowed her to keep her job, to make the change gradually, over a period of several months. Angrily Althea kicked a clod of dirt, breaking it into a dozen pieces that rolled and bounced over the grass like tiny boulders. Blast Ward Kingman! Thanks to him, the office gossips were going to have a field day—at her expense! "Sis?"

  Althea looked up to find Greg regarding her through the screen door, the worried look on his face making her instantly apprehensive. "Yes? What is it? What's the matter?"

  "Uncle Bill is on the phone," he replied grimly, and Althea felt her already sagging spirits sink all the way to her knees. The last thing she needed right now was a session with her uncle.

  Wearily Althea brushed the dirt off her hands and knees as best she could, and climbed the steps. Greg was right on her heels as she went upstairs to her apartment, and hovered over her like an overprotective father when she picked up the receiver.

  "Hello." Althea carefully kept her voice neutral. "What can I do for you, Uncle Bill?"

  "For a start, you can let me have a couple of thousand," Bill Holland stated without preamble. "I'm overdrawn at the bank and I've got some creditors I can't put off much longer.''

  Althea closed her eyes and sighed deeply, despair and exasperation mingling in her expression. She had known he wanted something, of course. Her aunt and uncle never contacted her unless they wanted something. They seemed to think that she owed them payment for the years she and Greg had lived with them. Privately Althea considered that the work she and her brother had put in at their hardware store during those years, along with the insurance her parents had left, had been more than adequate compensation. Nevertheless, in the past, rather than embroil herself in an unpleasant quarrel, she had always acceded to their demands for money, especially since the amounts had rarely been more than fifty or a hundred dollars. But two thousand? She certainly didn't have that kind of money to toss away. And she didn't kid herself: any money she gave to Edna and Bill was as good as lost.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't possibly loan you that much. The most I can spare is about two hundred."

  "You could raise it if you'd mortgage that barn you live in."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that," Althea replied tightly, struggling to hold on to her temper. The house had been a bone of contention between them ever since Althea had inherited it. Edna Holland had fully expected to inherit her mother's property, but Grandma Thurston had never approved of her daughter's choice in a husband and had left everything to Althea. Edna and Bill had been livid. Spitefully, they never missed a chance to make some snide remark about her inheritance. "This is my home," Althea stated with soft forcefulness. "I won't jeopardize it for anyone."

  "Well, let me remind you, Miss High and Mighty, that in the past I provided you with a home and the education that got you that cushy job you hold. You owe us, girlie," he sneered nastily.

  Cupping her brow with her hand, Althea massaged her forehead, moving her thumb and forefinger in slow, tiny circles over her throbbing temples. She didn't even bother to point out to her uncle that she had earned her degree through a scholarship and a series of menial part-time jobs. Or that, from the time she graduated from high school, she had paid them for her room and board. The only reason she had even stayed with them was to be near Greg.

  "Look, Uncle Bill, I'm sorry you feel that way," Althea said with a weary sigh. "But the fact remains that I simply don't have two thousand dollars to give you." Greg made an outraged sound but Althea silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Perhaps in a month or so, if I earn a bonus, I'll be able to help you out, but right now all I can spare is a couple of hundred."

  A long, angry silence followed. "All right," Bill Holland growled finally. "I'll take the two hundred for now, but you'd better come up with the rest before too long. Otherwise, your aunt and I will be forced to take legal action."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means, girlie, that you stole my wife's inheritance, and we intend to get it back ... one way or another. So just you have that check ready when I come by tonight to get it." Before Althea could respond, he hung up.

  Jerking the buzzing receiver away from her ear, she slammed it down into its cradle and stood rigid for a moment, trembling with a combination of fear and suppressed fury. That horrible man! Would she never be rid of him? Logic told Althea that he was just bluffing, that he didn't stand a chance and he knew it, but just the thought of losing her home, the only real stability she had ever known, sent an icy chill through her. Coming on top of everything else, this was really a low blow.

  "Why, that sorry, low-down, good-for-nothing ..." Red-faced, Greg sputtered to a stop, unable to find a word vile enough to call their uncle. "Do you mean he's got the nerve to try to mooch two thousand dollars from you?"

  "You should know by now that Bill Holland has the nerve to try anything," Althea replied wearily, giving him a wry look. "Not that it will do him any good. I can't give him what I don't have."

  "But surely you're not going to fork over the two hundred?"

  "If it will keep him off my back, yes." When Greg would have argued, Althea raised her hand and cut him off. "Greg, please! Let's just drop the subject, shall we? I know what I'm doing, believe me." Turning away, she headed for the door. "Now, come on, let's get back to the yard work while we still have some daylight left." Without waiting for a reply, Althea loped down the stairs and slammed out the front door. When Greg followed a few minutes later, he found her once more on her knees, vigorously working the soil of the flowerbed with a hand cultivator.

  Althea worked in the yard the rest of that day and all the next. By Sunday evening the lawn was mowed, the walkways and drive were sharply edged, every bush and hedge had been clipped, the flowerbeds, which were a mass of bobbing blossoms of every color and kind imaginable, had been thoroughly weeded, cultivated, watered, fertilized and sprayed. Everything was picture perfect ... yet Althea was still eaten up with nerves.

  All weekend long she had vacillated between hope and despair, telling herself one minute that everything would be fine, and certain the next that she would soon be standing in the unemployment line.

  Monday morning Althea reluctantly dressed in a dusty-rose silk shirtdress that buttoned down the front all the way to the hem. The soft material skimmed delicately over her breasts and hips, while a self belt gathered it in snugly at her waist. Long full sleeves, whose wide French cuffs were fastened with tiny pearl cufflinks, softened the garment's mannish cut. She left the top two buttons of the dress open, exposing the graceful line of her bare throat. In her ears she wore tiny pearl studs, and around her left arm clipped a fine gold chain. Her shoes were high-heeled white leather sandals.

  But when it came to her hair, rebellion set in. Telling herself that he had only insisted that she discard her dowdy clothes, Althea stubbornly twisted her golden hair into a loose chignon on the back of her head.

  Hopi
ng to avoid most of her fellow workers, she deliberately arrived at the office early. She was in no condition to contend with the stir her changed appearance was bound to cause. She was also hoping she would have a chance to calm down and get herself in hand before her boss arrived.

  No such luck. She had barely deposited her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk when Ward called through the open door that separated their offices. "Get in here, Miss Winters."

  With a sigh, Althea squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and started for the door. She felt like a condemned prisoner taking her last walk.

  Sweet heaven, she's beautiful. Excitement spread through Ward's body as he watched Althea glide toward him. Slowly, methodically, his eyes savored every detail of her appearance, starting at her dainty feet and working up over her shapely legs, the utterly feminine dress and the alluring curves it covered, all the way to the cameo perfection of her lovely face. He felt a spurt of anger when his eyes encountered her severe hairstyle, but not by so much as a twitch did his impassive features reveal his inner feelings.

  "Sit down, Miss Winters."

  As she complied, he rose and came around the desk. Althea fixed her eyes on the onyx-and-gold pen-and-pencil set directly in front of her. When he passed her chair, she assumed he was headed for the credenza which held the coffeepot. A demanding and difficult employer he might be, but to Ward's credit, he had never expected her to wait on him.

  "Oh! What are you doing?" she cried when she felt his fingers digging into the chignon on the back of her head. "Stop that!"

  Althea tried to stand, but a hard hand clamped on her shoulder and held her in place while nimble fingers searched through the coil of blond hair. Rapidly the metal hairpins rained to the floor, hitting the carpet in a series of soft plops. Althea's outraged sputtering was ignored, and within seconds the silky tresses were tumbling free. Using both hands, Ward ran his fingers through the golden mass and spread it across her shoulders.