"Come on, Mrs. Fuller!" a girl shouted.
"I want a big dog, Mommy."
"You go first this time," she said.
To make him feel better, he thought, in case he needed the extra turn again. Her scruples tickled him.
"Lose your nerve?" he teased, deliberately echoing his earlier challenge.
Her chin went up. "Maybe I just want to study your form."
Yep, he was definitely going to have to kiss her. Or hit something. He eyed the stacked milk cans. Redirected energy, his old shop teacher called it. He fired the ball. Milk cans exploded in every direction. All ten of them.
"Very nice," Rachel approved. "Did you play baseball?"
He grinned. "Little League. You?"
"Fast-pitch softball. Four years in high school." And she turned and drilled the ball at her target. Two shots, and she'd cleared the stack.
The attendant spat out his toothpick. "She's a match for you, buddy."
"Yeah," Sean said slowly. "You could be right."
"Two!" Lindsey shrieked as the man reached for the pole that hooked down the big prizes.
"Chris gets one," Rachel said immediately.
"But who won?" the boy wanted to know.
"I don't know." Her dark eyes sought Sean's, oddly uncertain. "It's a draw, I guess. Nobody won."
"We both won," Sean contradicted her. "Let me get your tickets."
"You don't have to. You can't afford—"
He held up a hand to stop her. He wasn't any more strapped for cash than she was. "I can treat the kids to a couple of spins on the Ferns wheel. Besides—" He winked. "I can't have you thinking I welsh on my bets."
Now what had he said to make her look so stricken?
"Be right back," he promised, and strode off to buy the tickets before she thought up some other objection.
When he got back, Chris was clutching a giant red bull dog while his sister stroked a three-foot-tall dalmatian in a fireman's hat. At Sean's approach, the girl looked up and smiled almost shyly. He felt a twinge of an old pain like a splinter working its way to his heart.
"Do you like him?" she asked.
If Trina had stayed with him, their daughter—her daughter—would be a year older than Lindsey now. Sean set his jaw. He wasn't going to get mixed up with these kids, no matter how attracted he was to their mother.
"Yeah. Cute." He thrust the roll of tickets at Rachel. "Seven o'clock."
"Excuse me?"
"The band starts playing at seven. I'll meet you at the main stage."
"I can't leave the children."
"So, bring them."
"I don't know…"
"One dance, Rachel," he said stubbornly, afraid he might start begging. Terrified she would refuse. "You owe me."
She winced. "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
Chris bumped his mother's arm. "Mom, can we ride on the roller coaster now?"
"Here." Sean tugged a strip of tickets from Rachel's hand and gave them to Lindsey. "See that dart toss? Right there? Want to take your brother over there for a minute while I talk with your mom?"
"Yeah!" Chris shouted.
"Sure."
"Stay where I can see you," Rachel called after them. Sean turned back to her, trapping her against the side of the booth. "Don't say what? What's the problem?"
"I don't want to owe you." She ducked her head, so that her hair brushed his chin. He liked that she was tall, liked that he could indulge himself so easily in the scent of her, women's shampoo and essence of Rachel. She looked up, her dark eyes devastating at short range. "I've spent the past year worrying what I owe other people and I—well, I'm sick of it."
He didn't think she was talking just about money. "Okay. So, it's not what you owe me. How about what you owe yourself?"
Her breath was ragged. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" He crowded her a little, letting her feel his heat. "You've got a lot of people looking to you. Your mother. Your kids. It's admirable. I admire you like hell, all right? But don't you ever need a break?"
"Maybe it's not easy for someone like you to understand, but I take my responsibilities seriously."
"'Someone like me'?" he repeated softly. "What does that mean?"
"Well, someone single."
"Or childless? Unemployed, maybe?"
Her gaze dropped. Damn. That was it, then. Funny how her opinion hurt. He was suddenly tired of being stamped like low-grade lumber. But he wasn't about to start offering explanations or excuses for the way he lived his life.
He straightened from the flimsy plywood wall. "Guess I'll take my irresponsible ass out of your way then. But if you decide you want something different, beautiful—a break, a shoulder, a good time—I'll be waiting on the main stage at seven."
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
Rachel glanced across the picnic table at her children, at Lindsey, her arm stretched around the plush dalmatian, and Chris, using the last of his French fries to shovel catsup. They were having fun. She was glad. She owed it to them for having a daddy who went and killed himself and a mama who dragged them a million miles from anyplace they wanted to be and then had panic attacks every time the phone rang. She owed them.
How about what you owe yourself?
Rachel took a hasty swallow of watered-down Coke and choked.
Chris paused with a fry halfway to his mouth. Lindsey patted her arm. "You okay, Mom?"
Her heart swelled with love. "Fine."
And she would be, too. She'd pay off Bilotti and save up enough for them to move into their own apartment. Her children would have safety, security, stability.
The last thing her babies needed was for their mother to form a temporary attachment to an inappropriate man. Rachel frowned at the melting ice in her cup. Or was it an inappropriate attachment to a temporary man? Either way, they didn't need it. She didn't need him.
"Rachel? Is that you?"
She jumped like a jock caught dozing in class and then smiled. Because that voice belonged to Deedee Pittman the algebra teacher, as close to a friend as Rachel had made since moving home. She swiveled on the splintery seat and watched as Deedee crossed the picnic ground, reminding Rachel of a robin with her black eyes and bright blouse, big chest and chirpy good humor.
"It's good to see you here. I thought you were going to tell me on Monday you got all tangled up in lesson plans." Deedee cocked her head to one side. "These your kids?"
Rachel smiled with pride. "Yes. Lindsey and Chris, this is Mrs. Pittman, who teaches with me at the high school."
They eyed her, Lindsey warily and Chris with disinterest. "Hi," they mumbled.
"I've got a girl about your age," Deedee said. "Jaclyn. You the new girl in her class she's been talking about?"
Lindsey brightened. "Jackie? Is she here?"
"She's about to get on the Ferris wheel with her daddy. You want to ride with them?"
"Can I go?" Chris asked.
"No," Lindsey said.
"I don't see why not," Deedee said at the same time, "seeing as how Jaclyn's got her little brothers with her. They're right down there, by the ticket stand, see?"
Chris hopped up from the picnic bench. "I see them!"
"Now, wait a minute," Rachel said, feeling her family slipping away. "We don't want to impose…"
"Mo-om," Lindsey groaned.
"Let 'em go," Deedee advised. "Rick's got his hands full, anyway. He won't notice two more. He'll take the boys, and the girls can go on their own."
"Is it—" Rachel broke off, uncertain how to ask her question without giving offense.
"—safe?" Deedee finished for her. "Honey, this is Benson. The kids'll be fine. Do them some good, if you ask me."
She was right. Wasn't that one of the reasons Rachel had come home, so that her children could do ordinary things without their mother acting weird and terror-stricken?
"I guess it would be all right," she said. "But I want you two back in twenty minu
tes, okay?"
Deedee shifted comfortably. "Give 'em an hour. You don't know what the lines are like. And maybe they'll want an ice cream or something."
"An hour, then," Rachel conceded.
"Ice cream!" Chris whooped.
Released, her children flew down the hill toward the prospect of friends and fun and the Ferris wheel. They looked like any of the other kids racing over the grass. They looked happy.
"Well." Rachel forced a laugh from her suddenly aching throat. "I feel unnecessary."
"About time." Deedee smiled to take the force from her words. "I've got to get going myself. I promised I'd put in an hour at the bake sale booth."
"Can I give you a hand?"
"Bless your heart, no. You're a single woman. You go carry on and enjoy yourself."
"This is Benson." Rachel repeated her friend's reminder dryly. "Not many opportunities for carrying on here."
"Band's starting," Deedee offered. "You could find yourself a nice 4-H boy and dance."
Rachel laughed. And then Sean's words slid into her mind, tempting as the serpent in Eden. If you decide you want something different—a break, a shoulder, a good time—I'll be waiting on the main stage at seven.
Twelve minutes later she found herself standing on the band platform with a racing heart and cold feet.
She was late.
She shouldn't have come at all.
The band was playing something she recognized as background music from her mother's radio. Only a handful of couples braved the platform's duct-taped seams and dangling Christmas lights. Yet the soft air fading into night and autumn wrapped music and lights in a hazy glow, transforming the makeshift dance floor into an outdoor ballroom.
Look at that young couple, showing off for each other the steps they must have learned for their wedding day. Or that pair of old pros, dancing with a grace and intimacy developed over years together. Tears pricked her eyes. She'd wanted that once, the closeness and the lifetime together. But Doug's gambling, and then his suicide, had killed her chance.
Did she really want to risk her dreams again?
A young man loomed in front of her, blocking her view of the dance floor. "Hiya, Mrs. Fuller."
She blinked hastily, but she still didn't recognize him. Above his well-developed arms and chest, his round head appeared to balance directly on his shoulders like a jacko'-lantern on a brick wall. He wore dark slacks and a silk shirt open at the collar and a diamond earring. Not from around here, she thought.
"Do I know you?"
He offered her his broad, square hand. "Frank Bilotti. I work for my uncle Carmine."
Frank. The nephew. The one who got "carried away" when he'd robbed and then trashed her living room.
Her lips, her toes, her heart went numb. "What are you doing here?"
He squeezed her fingers. "I came to see you. My uncle, he's getting a little concerned about his investment."
"Gambling debt, you mean." She pulled her hand away. She resented his intrusion. It rankled that someone only half a dozen years older than her students could make her feel afraid. But she was terrified.
"Whatever. We trusted Doug was good for the money."
"Doug is dead."
"So, he had insurance, am I right?"
Was there a chance she could make him understand? "The insurance money went to pay off his casino debts. And the business. He took money from the dealership, did you know that? There's nothing left."
"There's got to be something. You got to give us something. An investment gets away, it doesn't make us look good. We have a reputation in the … business community, you might say."
"I can't talk about this now."
"You want I should come to the house?" He smirked when she froze.
Dear Heaven, her children. She had to get rid of this thug before it was time to meet the children. "No. Don't come to the house. I'll pay. I mailed the last check."
"It wasn't enough."
"It's the best I can do."
He shook his head almost regretfully. "See, now, that's the kind of attitude that's got Uncle Carmine so worried. And then you calling in the police—"
"That wasn't me," she said quickly.
"Whatever. This was a private arrangement You gonna get other people involved, somebody's gonna get hurt."
This was a nightmare. Frightening. Irrational. She had that sick, helpless feeling that sometimes haunted her in dreams and the same loss of control over her voice.
She forced the words from paralyzed vocal chords. "It won't happen again."
"It better not. Uncle Carmine doesn't like it when people hang up on him. It's like you're going back on your agreement, you know? He thinks you should make, like, a gesture of good faith."
"What kind of gesture?"
"A thousand dollars extra. A month. Until the loan's paid off."
The terms knocked the air from her lungs. He might as well have punched her. "I can't afford that. I can't possibly afford that much."
"I am real sorry to hear you say that. Because if you're not good for the money, you still got to be good for something. I hate to use the word 'example,' but—"
Another voice, male and assured, cut across his. "Hey, buddy, this is my dance. Why don't you beat it?"
Sean. Rachel's heart thudded in her chest. In gladness? In warning?
Bilotti's head swiveled sideways on his very short neck. "D'you mind? The lady and I are having a private conversation."
Sean took his hands out of his pockets. "Yeah, I do mind, actually. The lady made a prior commitment. To me."
"Get lost, wiseass."
"Make me."
"No!" Rachel lurched between them, her hands flattening on Sean's warm chest. What if Bilotti were armed? What if he decided to make an "example" of Sean? "Please, no. He was just leaving. Weren't you leaving, Frank? We can talk later."
Bilotti rocked on his heels to look up into Sean's hard face. "Yeah, sure. Later. I'll be in touch." He tapped one finger between his brows and saluted her before swaggering away.
"You okay?" Sean asked quietly.
She shivered. "Fine."
He reached to take her in his arms, to draw her smoothly against him. "He didn't look like your type."
"He's not."
His thighs brushed hers. They were dancing, she realized, vaguely astonished. He smelled so good, like sun-dried cotton and himself. He felt so solid, and his hands were warm. The garlanded lights made a crazy halo behind his head as they spun.
"I thought you stood me up," he said.
"No. No, I was just late." She shouldn't be dancing, she thought, resisting the pleasure of his strong lead. She had to get to her children. She had to get them home, where it was safe. "I have to go. Is he watching?"
Sean's mouth quirked. "You're really tough on a guy's ego, you know that? You using me to make him jealous?"
"No. God, no."
"Rachel." His eyes were warm and serious. "What's going on?"
For all his free-and-easy ways, she suspected he wouldn't back down from a fight. And she couldn't live with her conscience if she sent him charging after the thug who'd trashed her living room and threatened her children. "It's nothing. I can't talk about it."
"Uh-uh. Which is it? It's nothing, or you can't talk about it?"
"I don't want to talk about it." His hand on her back was warm and sure. How did he know how to dance? "Is he gone?"
Sean looked over her shoulder. "Yeah, he's gone. Listen, I planned on showing you a good time tonight, but if you want that shoulder…"
She did. She wanted everything he offered, kindness and comfort and sex, but she couldn't let herself take any of them. "Thank you. Really."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Thanks, but no thanks?"
"I can handle it."
He pulled her tighter as they turned. "It wouldn't kill you to lean on somebody once in a while."
No, but it could kill him, she thought starkly. She couldn't involve him. She shouldn't even be danc
ing with him. His body's heat reached through their clothes. Her breasts tingled from brushing contact with his chest.
"Is that what you want?" she asked. "Me confiding in you? Leaning on you? A widow with two kids who lives with her mother?"
"I just want to help."
She shook her head. "For a while, maybe, because you're a nice guy. But you do not want to get sucked into my problems."
Two hours ago Sean would have agreed with her. So why did her dismissal rankle?
For all that she was tall and stacked like an Amazon, she was pliant and graceful in his arms. She shouldn't be hassled by some moron.
"You're pretty quick to write both of us off," he said.
"I'm realistic, that's all. And right now I need to find my kids and go home."
Her kids. Right. He was no part of their tight family unit. But a niggling concern for her prompted him to say, "I'll go with you."
"You don't have to."
"Maybe I will anyway. In case your friend Frankie shows up again."
"I…" He saw the doubt in those big dark eyes and then the acceptance. He wished it didn't make him feel so good. "Thank you."
Her decision made, she didn't waste any more words or time. He caught up with her before she left the dance floor.
* * *
Lower lip sticking out at an alarming degree, Lindsey glared at her mother. "We can't leave now. Jackie and I hardly had a chance to do anything. We didn't even get our ice cream."
Rachel looked almost as distressed as her daughter.
"Maybe you and Jackie can get together another time." She turned to the pretty black woman standing back with her children, watching the show. "Dee, why don't I call—"
"But Mr. Pittman said he'd take us on the Tilt-A-Whirl!" Lindsey wailed.
Rachel's lips firmed. "Another time."
"There's not going to be another time. The fair's almost over."
"I'm sorry, honey, but—"
"You're not sorry at all. You don't want me to have any fun."
"I just need you and Chris to come home now."
Lindsey was hurting. And she reached for words that would hurt back, hurling them at her mother with a child's accuracy and ruthlessness. "I always have to go where you say. It doesn't matter what I want. You said we had to move. You said we had to live with Grandma. I hate it at Grandma's."
THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL Page 8
