"Relax," she said urgently. "Just float. You know how. I won't let go."
She tried to hold her head up so that she could hear, though waves from the explosion kept slapping against her face. She caught glimpses of bits of burning debris floating on the lake, and an orange glow that must be what was left of the cabin cruiser.
Surely the men in the other boat would come looking for them. She couldn't see it, but she strained to hear the sound of the engine.
"Mac? Megan?" At last a voice came across the water. "You out there?"
"Here!" she called desperately. "Over here!"
"We're on our way! Keep talking."
Mac's voice sounded raw, but he took up the shout, "We're here. We're okay."
It was almost dark now, but a lamp came on, sweeping across the water.
"Over here!" Megan yelled again, and the light reached her. A moment later, the boat pulled alongside.
"Thank God," somebody said, and hands reached over the side. They pulled Mac in first, then her. The night air had cooled, and she began to shake. She dropped to her knees in the bottom of the boat, Mac in a coughing heap beside her.
"Here, get your hands up and I'll cut you loose," the same voice said, and she held them up without once taking her gaze from Mac.
The ropes were wet, slick. It took a moment for a knife to saw through them. When they at last fell free, Megan flexed her fingers and felt blood rushing into her hands. Somebody else had cut Mac's bonds at the same time, and he swore and struggled to his knees.
"Megan?" He said her name with frantic urgency as he swung around until he saw her. Breathing hard, shivering, she couldn't look away from the emotion in his eyes. Her heart contracted at the shattering mix of love and remembered fear.
When he spoke, mundane words were belied by the potent look in his eyes. "Maybe those swim lessons weren't such a bad idea. What do you think? Got time to teach me?"
He was asking more, she knew with a burst of exhilaration; much more. "I'll make the time," she said, and found herself smiling ridiculously. "Whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready," he said, in a voice so fierce, so positive, tears stung her eyes. Mac's arms closed tightly around her and she felt him trembling. She hugged him back with all her strength, not caring that he was wet and cold, and that she was exhausted. Vaguely she was aware when one of the men draped a scratchy blanket around them. Inside the cocoon, Mac's lips found hers.
Megan kissed him back. They were alive, and there would be a future. Triumph rose like a tide in her, almost engulfing the tenderness and fear, the anguish and gratitude. But strongest of all was her love for a man who had been willing to die for her, and now was ready to live.
THE END
About The Author
Janice Kay Johnson is the author of more than seventy books for children and adults. Her first four published romance novels were coauthored with her mother Norma Tadlock Johnson, also a writer who has since published mysteries and children's books on her own. These were "sweet" romance novels, the author hastens to add; she isn't sure they'd have felt comfortable coauthoring passionate love scenes!
Janice graduated from Whitman College with a B.A. in history and then received a master's degree in library science from the University of Washington. She was a branch librarian for a public library system until she began selling her own writing.
She has written six novels for young adults and one picture book for the read-aloud crowd. ROSAMUND was the outgrowth of all those hours spent reading to her own daughters, and of her passion for growing old roses. Two more of her favorite books were historical novels WINTER OF THE RAVEN and THE ISLAND SNATCHERS which she wrote for Tor/Forge. The research was pure indulgence for someone who set out intending to be a historian.
Janice is divorced and has raised her two daughters in a small, rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She's an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter, and foster kittens often enliven a household that already includes a few more cats than she wants to admit to.
Janice loves writing books about both love and family — about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her Superromance novels are frequent finalists for Romance Writers of America RITA awards, and she won the 2008 RITA for Best Contemporary Series Romance for SNOWBOUND.
Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson
HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE
Life is a struggle for Marian Wells, a single mother of twin toddlers who pays the bills with a home day care business but is on the verge of losing that home. She is a lifesaver in the eyes of John McRae, retired professional football player and now television color commentator. He’s started an Arabian horse ranch, but loves the television work too. Problem? Leaving his five year old daughter, Emma, several days a week during football season. Answer? Marian – who loves Emma right away, but is wary of the sexy television personality who doesn’t seem to understand how desperately his daughter has needed him since her mother died. Marian knows what it feels like to be abandoned by a man who refuses to be tied down by responsibilities. He may remind Marian of the sweetness and passion possible between a man and a woman. But can she and their children count on him when it matters most?
ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE
When Abigail McLeod landed the listing for the Irving House, a magnificent turn-of-the-century mansion with a haunted ballroom, she thought her luck had changed. Selling this house will establish her real estate agency and mean security at last for her and her four-year-old daughter. So why does something go wrong every time she shows the house? Could it have anything to do with Nate Taggart, architect and the current renter, a sexy and complex man whose mysterious attachment to the Irving House has turned into a major problem? How can she fall in love with a man she thinks she may have to kill the next time a hot prospect runs screaming from the house, especially when she knows better than to trust any man? Falling for Abigail and her delightful daughter isn’t in Nate’s plans, either. Achieving his own ends means hurting her. But can he abandon a lifelong dream for Abigail?
HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE
By Janice Kay Johnson
CHAPTER 1
John McRae straightened, abandoning his comfortable slouch against the tiled kitchen counter. Into the telephone, he said incredulously, "You're what?"
The woman's voice babbled on. "I'm so sorry. I know this must be inconvenient for you, but I was so upset, and, of course, things were in a mess here at home. Dad's in intensive care now. The doctor says he should make it, thank God, but, of course, I've just been living in the hospital. There's no way I can leave him, and I'm dreadfully sorry, Emma is such a doll, but ..." At last she faltered. "Well, I'm sure you understand."
"You couldn't have called a little sooner?" He reached up and rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck.
"I did try once," she said defensively, "but you must have been out. And since then...well, I didn't think about much but Dad. I am sorry."
She wasn't the only one who was sorry. A moment later, after tersely expressing his sympathy, John dropped the receiver back in its cradle, then slumped into a straight-back kitchen chair. What in hell was he going to do?
He was booked for a flight out of SeaTac in—he glanced at his watch—precisely three hours and forty-three minutes. Obviously he wasn't going to make that. He'd cancel the dinner date he had with the Denver Bronco's coach and switch his flight to tomorrow. Fine and dandy, he thought grimly, but where was he going to come up with a baby-sitter in the next twenty-four hours, one he could leave Emma with for two days?
Ten minutes later his flight reservation had been changed and the Bronco's coach had agreed to make their dinner tomorrow night instead. John could snag the Seattle coach sometime before the game for some profound words to quote during the broadcast. For that matter, he could make them up himself. Lord knew he'd heard it all often enough.
He was reaching into the refrigerator for a c
an of beer when the clatter of footsteps on the front porch distracted him. Glancing through the window, he saw the yellow school bus just lumbering into motion again out on the road. Then the door slammed and a five-year-old bundle of energy catapulted across the kitchen into his arms.
"Daddy, is she here? Can I help her unpack? You're not going right now, are you? I don't want you to go."
He smiled down into his daughter's dark eyes. "Whoa! No, she isn't here, and unfortunately she's not going to be. Her father is sick, and she can't come. I'm going to have to find somebody else, so I'm not leaving until tomorrow. Okay?"
Emma nodded, but looked troubled. "Didn't she like me? I was quiet when she came. Wasn't I? You said I was good."
John hugged her thin shoulders again. "You were terrific! She said she was especially sorry because she'd liked you so much. But her father has to come first. Do you understand?"
Emma nodded again, her brown ponytail bobbing, her face solemn. "Daddy, can't Helen come back? Just for this time? If we asked, I bet she would. I really miss her. Couldn't we ask her? Please?"
John crouched down to his daughter's level. Hands on her arms, he looked directly into her eyes. "Sweetie, Helen got married. Remember? She can't come back. Her new husband needs her, too. Besides," he added practically, "she's still in Hawaii. Hey, she's probably scuba diving this very instant!"
Normally Emma could be distracted by a discussion of what their former baby-sitter and housekeeper might conceivably be doing at any given time, but for once his tactic didn't work. She stared at him, her eyes looking even bigger and darker than usual. He was reminded painfully of how young and vulnerable she was.
"Daddy, I didn't want Helen to go away." She bit her lip and tears suddenly shimmered in her eyes. "I miss Helen."
He pulled her against him and laid his cheek against her hair. "Sweetie, I'm sorry. I know you miss her. But she'll visit. She promised. And you have me. You'll always have me."
Her voice was very small. "If you don't die and go away like Mommy."
John rocked back on his heels so he could meet her eyes. "I won't die," he said. "God would have to drag me kicking and screaming. And I never was easy to bring down."
A watery chuckle rewarded him. "That's not what Isaiah says. He says you would have been knocked down all the time if it weren't for him. He says if you hadn't been so slow throwing the ball he wouldn't have knees that hurt so much."
John grinned at his daughter. "Don't believe a word he says. Your dad was All-Pro. I unloaded the ball damn quick on occasion. Isaiah is just teasing you."
She looked thoughtful. "Oh."
"Now." He stood up. "We need to go see if today's newspaper has come yet. Because, you know what? We have to find a baby-sitter for you, kiddo, or this time I am gonna get pounded for sure."
He tried to picture what his boss at the network would say if he called and pleaded baby-sitting problems as an excuse for not showing up in Denver to cover Sunday's game between the Broncos and the Seahawks. He failed, since he was pretty sure that'd be a new one on Frank. He also had a feeling Frank wouldn't be very forgiving. As it was, the network had a hell of a time shuffling play-by-play people and color commentators to make sure all the games were covered.
On the other hand, he wasn't going to leave Emma with just anyone. He'd taken weeks to select a new housekeeper, interviewing what had seemed like dozens of women. What he'd really been hiring was a mother for Emma, and she needed someone special. After losing her real mother when she was three, and now Helen, Emma was fragile.
He never had found anyone who really satisfied him, but in the end he'd decided he was being unrealistic. Hell, if he'd found the perfect woman, he'd have married her! But perfect women didn't answer newspaper ads.
Twenty minutes later, he and Emma sat at the kitchen table together, poring over the classifieds. No one was interested in baby-sitting in the child's home. And nary a one mentioned overnight stays. But that didn't mean he couldn't ask.
He was on his sixth call before he heard anything but "No, I'm sorry, children in my care have to be picked up by six P.M. I don't do evening babysitting."
Emma sat and listened to his end of the conversations, her small face anxious. For her benefit, John hid his growing frustration and worry. If only Emma had a close friend, whose parents he could ask. But they hadn't lived here in the Northwest long enough for either to have made friends yet, and school had only started three weeks ago.
If Helen had just stuck it out for a few months longer... But he had known she was in love. Deciding to move and taking her with them, separating her from her boyfriend, wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, even if this ranch about an hour north of Seattle was the perfect set-up. Rural, the area was still within easy reach of a major airport.
John shook his head impatiently. Who was he justifying his decision to, anyway? What was done was done. Helen wasn't here. They didn't have friends yet in this small Washington town.
Could he leave her with Isaiah? He just couldn't picture it. The huge, former offensive lineman was brilliant with the elegant Arabian horses out in the pasture, his big hands gentle and his rough voice a soft growl. Unfortunately, with people he rated closer to a zero. He talked to Emma, barely, but making dinner, washing her hair, holding her at night if she awakened crying...not Isaiah.
John's voice had become brusque by that sixth phone call. "I'd better ask right off the bat whether you'd consider taking my daughter overnight. I have to go out of town and our new housekeeper failed us."
"Well..." The woman on the other end hesitated and his hopes rose a notch. "I suppose I could consider it." Her voice suddenly became muffled. "Jesse, stay out of the bathroom! Toilet paper isn't to play with!" She came back on the line. "I'm sorry. How old did you say your daughter is?"
"I didn't say. She's five."
"And does she have any particular needs or problems?"
"No. Emma is always cooperative."
"Really." She sounded faintly disbelieving. "Well, normally, if I'll be taking a child on long- term, I like to schedule an interview alone with the parents first. But if this is just a temporary situation...?"
"It is," he assured her.
"Then why don't you bring Emma over this evening so we can get acquainted?" She mentioned her charges, which John thought were reasonable. Too reasonable, maybe. But he was desperate, and anyway, he had faith in his ability to judge people.
"About seven o'clock?" he asked, and she agreed. Only after hanging up did John realize that he had forgotten to ask her name.
At seven that evening he pulled up to the ramshackle white cottage that matched the address the woman had given him. Dusk had deepened the blue sky, and the air was crisp with early autumn. Apples ripened on a huge old gnarled tree that overhung the cottage, and a white-painted fence enclosed at least an acre. One of the smallest, plumpest ponies he'd ever seen gazed at them over the board fence. Emma gave a crow of delight and tugged at his hand.
"Can we pet the pony?"
"After we're done inside," he said firmly. "We'll ask if it's okay then."
The pony forgotten as they neared the front door, Emma clung to John's hand and hung slightly back. The spiky blue-and-yellow blooms of asters and chrysanthemums spilled over the low picket fence that edged a flower bed along the house. John looked down at his daughter's dark head and felt a pang of bittersweet love. He wanted to give her everything, and was reduced to this: abandoning her for days with a virtual stranger.
His knock produced an unexpected cacophony of noise. The deep bark of a large dog mixed with the higher yap of a smaller one and the squeals of more than one child. A zoo. John's hand tightened protectively on Emma's shoulder as the door swung open.
He was only peripherally aware of the toddlers peeking around the woman's legs, of the walking dust mop that sprang out onto the porch, of the deep woofs still coming from the background. For just an instant, the world narrowed so that all he saw was her.
She might have stepped out of an old picture of Russian nobility. Thick dark hair slid out of the loose bun at the nape of her long, slender neck, and eyes as dark as midnight stared back at him. Her cheekbones were stark, her forehead high, her nose slender and patrician, and her mouth soft and sensuous. She was pale, with the creamy complexion Victorian women had been known to kill themselves trying to achieve. Perhaps the contrast of hair and eyes and skin was what had made him think of her in black and white, like an old daguerrotype, but the faded jeans and loose cotton sweater were thoroughly modern.
His voice sounded strange to his own ears when he managed to summon his powers of speech. "Uh... I'm John McRae. I called earlier?"
And then she smiled, not at him but at Emma, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. Perhaps the perfect woman didn't answer advertisements in the newspaper, but it appeared that she did place them.
"Hi. You're Emma? I'm Marian. And this," she glanced around, then lightly touched the head of a brown-haired boy who looked about two, "is Jesse and"—her hand moved on to the girl, obviously a twin—"his sister Anna. And I see you've already met Aja."
Emma nodded shyly, reaching down to pat the ball of fur that bounded around their feet.
"Come in." Marian stepped back. "For heaven's sake, hush!" She gave John an apologetic look. "Rhodo sounds much more ferocious than he is. You don't mind Emma being around dogs, do you?"
"Not at all." John held out one hand to be sniffed by the huge black German shepherd that wagged his tail. As he followed Marian and the toddlers that clung to her into the living room, John somehow wasn't surprised to notice two cats as well, one lounging on the back of the couch, the other draped over an end table.
Marian was suddenly conscious of the cats, too, not to mention the Duplo spread over ten square feet, and the puzzle pieces that had been cheerfully scattered, and the coloring books and markers, the picture books, boxes of juice, and a plate of cookie crumbles. Why hadn't she picked up before he came? But the house was clean, she told herself defensively. Just cluttered. With six children here all day, what would he expect?
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