Dana poured herself coffee, then glanced at him. “Hello.”
Her knees went weak at his oh-so-attractive smile. She debated the pros and cons of turning completely around. On the one hand, not looking at him would be incredibly rude. On the other, if she faced him, she would have to deal with the full effects of Storkville’s sexiest man.
She took a deep breath and turned around.
“Hi,” he answered. “I see you’re avoiding Aunt Gertie’s lemonade,” he said, ladling some into his cup. “It’s made with Storkville springwater,” he added.
“So I’ve heard, along with the rumor about it causing pregnancy. But I see you’re not afraid.”
Grinning, he said, “For obvious reasons. But you shouldn’t be either. The last time I took biology, they were teaching that there’s only one time-honored way to produce a baby,” he said, his voice lowering with the suggestive comment. “And it doesn’t include storks or finding bundles under cabbage leaves.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” she said firmly.
“For three very good reasons.” He chuckled.
As she spooned sugar into her cup, she concentrated on controlling her shaking hands. He was a tycoon—Storkville’s answer to Donald Trump—according to teenage town gossip Penny Sue Lipton, who worked after school at the day-care center. Still, the man had been more than kind to her son, even after being on the business end of his cotton candy. Nine out of ten tycoons would have chewed Lukie up and spit him out, not asked him to call them Mr. Mac. However much she rationalized her reaction to him, she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she found Quentin McCormack super-appealing.
With her coffee carefully cradled in both hands, she tried to inch away from the table, but she was trapped. People were behind her and one incredibly sexy tycoon blocked her from the front. She blew on the contents of her cup as she searched for an escape route, or failing that, something to say. “How are you?” she finally asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“Busy,” she answered automatically.
He studied her face. “You look tired.”
“Just distracted,” she said.
“If anyone else said that to me, I’d figure it was just small talk. In your case, you’ve got reasons times three why your focus is fragmented. How are the kids?”
“Great,” she said.
“Are they excited about the holidays coming?”
“That’s hard to say. They remember a little from last year. But it wasn’t a very happy time.” The expression on his handsome face was so kind and sympathetic she found herself telling him more. “Their father was in an automobile accident almost a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
“He was in a coma for a week before he died on Christmas Eve. It was a rough time for them. Their recollections are vague, thank goodness. I hope to replace those memories with happy ones this year.” But if her in-laws had their way, that wasn’t likely. She couldn’t suppress the shiver of apprehension that slithered through her.
“Is something wrong, Dana?” he asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she answered.
Just then Cleland Knox, in line behind Dana, backed into her, knocking her forward. The sudden movement caused her to launch the contents of her cup. It arced onto the front of Quentin’s sport coat, the stark white shirt beneath, and the front of his pants.
Stunned, she stared open-mouthed at the liquid soaking into his shirt and dripping down his flat-as-a-washboard abdomen. “Oh, Quentin, I’m so sorry.”
Quickly, she grabbed the stack of napkins from the table beside her and began to blot him. At least the coffee had cooled and didn’t scald him. If only she could say the same for herself—she was hot and bothered. She tried to ignore her response to touching the abdomen she’d admired. But her stomach fluttered like a thousand butterflies in flight.
“I can’t believe this,” she said as she stood back to survey the results of her efforts. Without soap, water and some strong stain remover, there wasn’t much more she could do.
“It must be in the genes. Like mother, like son,” he teased. He studied her face and added, “That was a joke, Dana. And it was an accident.”
After watching her work, Cleland said, “My apologies. You all right, Dana? Sorry, Quentin. The missus keeps telling me to watch where I’m going.”
“No harm done,” Quentin said graciously.
“Again, I must offer to pay any dry-cleaning costs.” Dana twisted her hands together.
“Why, he wouldn’t dream of letting you do that. He’s got more money than God,” Cleland said with a laugh. Then someone from across the room called him over.
“He’s right, Dana. It’s not a big deal. Forget it.”
“If you say so. I just can’t believe the Hewitts have clobbered you twice. But I promise I won’t come near you again.”
“Ever?” he asked.
Was that disappointment on his face?
“Not while I’ve got food or drink in my hand,” she qualified, trying to quell the glow his expression had caused.
“Deal,” Quentin said. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Still, if this keeps up, you won’t have any decent clothes left. I know how hard it is to get stains out.”
“Not as hard as it’s been to get you out of my thoughts,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I said, you should know with your tots. About stains, I mean,” he added.
“You can say that again.” She met his blue-eyed gaze, which held an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. Suddenly he grinned and it was as if the heavens had opened and the earth stood still. Her heart skipped.
“From now on, I’ll wear a raincoat when I’m around you,” he teased.
“Go ahead. Joke about it. But truly, I feel just awful. This time, I will make it up to you.”
No excuses. Time and money were hurdles she could overcome with ingenuity. Before another twenty-four hours passed, she would do something to show him how very sorry she was. The only question: how do you make amends to a man who has more money than God?
Chapter Two
The morning after the chamber of commerce meeting, Quentin entered his office and sat down behind his desk. At the same time, the intercom buzzed and he pushed the button. “Yes, Doleen?”
“You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Sheriff Malone is here to see you, Mr. McCormack.”
“Send him in.”
Quentin figured he was making a pitch for the police department’s Halloween fund. Usually one of the deputies made a phone call; it was good that the sheriff was making a personal appeal. The man kept too much to himself. And the annual event was a worthy cause. The money raised was used for a haunted house to keep the kids supervised and out of mischief. Every year, Quentin made a generous donation. After all, Storkville was all about kids.
A vision of Dana Hewitt and her three children flashed through his mind. It was something