“Would you really like to hear about it?” she asked. “It’s a little complicated.”
He was struck then by how vulnerable she looked, even with her hands hovering efficiently above the high-tech keyboard. There was a quality of wistfulness that played about her pretty features. He suddenly felt an unaccountable but overwhelming urge to protect her.
“I really would like to know about the children,” he answered, fighting the attraction he felt for her.
“I work for a private agency called Georgia’s Waiting Children. We help government agencies find foster homes and adoptive homes for children with special needs.”
“Special needs?”
“These aren’t your healthy babies typically associated with adoption. These kids are older. They may have phys. ical, mental or emotional disabilities. Or they may be broth. ers and sisters who want to stay together.”
And she worked to help these children. Neesa Little rose in his estimation. “How exactly do you fit into the pro. cess?”
“I’m an idea person.” She lowered her gaze modestly “I think of programs to support the kids who may never leave state care. Programs like—” She frowned. Setting her chin resolutely, she looked him in the eyes again. “I try to think of new and innovative ways to make these children who need families visible to the public.”
“How?”
“You have to use every tool at your disposal. And lately I’ve been creating Web sites on the Internet.”
Hank shook his head. “I know I’m from a different era but the Internet?” Computers, to him, meant the games the Russell kids played or the business records he kept at the ranch. Period.
“It’s a natural.” She beamed, obviously warming to the subject, and in the process, warming the far reaches or Hank’s heart. “Anyone with access to a computer and connection to the Internet can learn about waiting children through color photographs and descriptions.”
“But this isn’t like casual shopping on-line at a clothing store. These are living, breathing kids.” Genuine concert crept into his words. He hoped the hell she saw them as children and not as some product.
“Believe me, we don’t treat the process as if it were casual shopping for a child.” She looked faintly horrified He took comfort in her reaction. “Very often this is the final recourse to finding good homes. After we’ve explored all other options. Our overriding motivation is our belief that every child deserves a loving home.”
“You said some of the kids have special needs.”
“Yes, and the Net surfer who is more than merely curious can go beyond instant profiles of the children. At the click of a mouse, they can also learn more about a child’s disability or special situation. We provide an extensive reference library.” Her eyes widened. “Of course the real identities of the children are well protected. The prospective parents must go through our agency or a government agency before they ever meet the child in person. Our screening process is stringent.” There was a fierce, protective pride in her eyes. “Our first concern is always the welfare of the child.”
Damn. He’d heard of everything now. The lovely, delicate-looking lady who sat before him was certainly made of stronger stuff than he’d first imagined. And what a coincidence: in a grander sense, she did with children what he did with his Noah’s ark animals. Her caring nature made the attraction he felt for her all the more difficult to fight. This weekend was not working out at all as he’d anticipated.
Neesa watched the color of Hank’s eyes change from dark midnight blue to a warmer cobalt. He seemed genuinely interested in her job. In the children.
Interested, yes, but when he finally found out about her proposed Kids & Animals program, would he be interested enough?
“So what do you do?” she asked brightly. She needed a more solid footing—a little voluntarily shared history—with him before she asked her enormous favor.
A large, colorful beach ball blew out of nowhere and into her lap. Casey Russell came running up, breathless. “Hank! We’re playing a game. But we need a very big person to be the goal post.”
Hank chuckled. “How flattering! No skills required. Just stand there, dumb as a post.”
Casey scooped up the beach ball. “Will you, huh?”
He gently tapped her on the nose. “Will you, please?”
“Pretty please, with whipped cream and a cherry on top!” The little girl batted. her eyelashes.
“How can I resist?” With a grin to set a heart aflutter, he rose from his lounge chair, laid the Stetson on his towel, took Casey by the hand, then followed her to the shallow end of the pool.
Neesa sighed. Would he ever tell her in his own words that he ran a ranch? She felt awkward now, coming out and explaining that she’d heard it through the grapevine. For some inexplicable reason she felt as. if this man wouldn’t like prying of any kind, either early or late.
Then, too, maybe Claire’s information wasn’t accurate. Maybe he wasn’t even a rancher.
Maybe she sat here, risking sunstroke and worse—risk—ing letting her hormones run amok—for a very attractive man who couldn’t offer her anything professionally and could only offer her the wrong things personally. Goodness, but she didn’t even know if he was married. She hadn’t noted a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean a fig....
In an attempt at self-protection, she again put on her sun glasses. Settling herself comfortably on the lounge chair, she made a show of working at her laptop. In reality she watched Hank Whittaker playing with the children in the pool.
The man was, she had to admit, irresistible. She noticed several of the moms sit up in their poolside chairs, suddenly much more attentive to their kids in the water.
With long, well-muscled arms and legs, big hands and a broad, tanned chest that indicated hard work out-of-doors, Hank Whittaker was a sight to behold. Exuding a patience Neesa couldn’t quite believe, he played goal post for the kids’ impromptu game. When interest in that particular game seemed to wane, he helped them think up a new game. And another. And yet another. He welcomed all omers. All ages. All skill levels. He refereed fairly and gently, making no child feel inadequate. In the middle of 11 those kids, he didn’t look at all like a lonesome cowboy. le looked, instead, like a man destined to head a large, ambunctious and ever-expanding family.
Maybe he already did.
Unaccountably, Neesa’s heart sank.
“Miss Neesa!” Called out in a deep masculine voice, he neighborhood children’s name for her startled her. We’re short one player for sharks and minnows.”
Glancing in Hank’s direction, she raised both hands and look her head, declining the offer. The children around lank groaned.
Hank waded through the water to the side of the pool ght at the end of her lounge chair. He crossed his arms n the cement edge, lowered his chin to his arms, then looked up at her with a dark and soulful, definitely-hard -resist gaze.
“Please.” He filled the one word with husky undercur ents, sending little shivers up Neesa’s arms. “For the ds.”
The man certainly knew which button to push.
“If I recall,” she replied, steadfastly holding out, “in tarks and minnows it doesn’t matter how many players you have.”
“Well...technically.” Hank grinned up at her. “But the ds get a kick out of pursuing really big minnows. I was eling kind of outnumbered.”
His eyes twinkled merrily. The man was actually being