Next came the kitchen, with its smaller windows overlooking the pool. She should be there right now, fixing breakfast for Alex and Jason, but Alex had made it very clear he didn’t want that.
Aunt Maida wasn’t going to be happy. The last thing she’d said the night before had been to fix breakfast. Paula’s protests—that Alex had told her not to, that Alex hadn’t agreed to let her stay yet—had fallen on deaf ears.
Maida’s stubborn streak was legendary in the Hansen family. Paula’s father was the same, and any battle between Maida and him was a clash of wills. She vividly remembered the war over Maida’s determination that Paula go to college. If not for Maida, Paula might have given up, accepting her father’s dictum that girls got marriage certificates, not degrees. Her dream of a profession might have remained a dream.
But Maida wouldn’t allow that. She’d pushed, encouraged, demanded. Paula had worked two jobs for most of the four years of college, but she’d made it through, thanks to Aunt Maida.
She leaned against the porch rail, watching a pair of wrens twittering in the thick yew hedge that stretched from the housekeeper’s cottage toward the garage. If only she could find a way to help her aunt, to help Jason, without being a servant in Alex Caine’s house.
She and Jason had played on the flagstone patio when she was his nanny. They’d sat in the gazebo with a storybook, and he’d leaned against her confidently, his small head burrowed against her arm. She remembered, so well, the vulnerable curve of his neck, the little-boy smell of him. He’d look up at her, his dark eyes so like his father’s, sure he could trust her, sure she’d be there for him. And then she’d gone away.
What am I supposed to do, Lord? If Alex said no, would she be upset or would she be relieved? Only the guilt she felt over Jason kept her from running in the opposite direction rather than face Alex Caine every day and remember how he’d kissed her and then turned away, embarrassed.
Infatuation, she told herself sternly. It was infatuation, nothing more. She would stop imagining it was love.
She remembered, only too clearly, standing in the moonlight looking up at him, her feelings surely written on her face. Then recognition swept over her. Alex regretted that kiss. He probably thought she’d invited it. Humiliation flooded her, as harsh and scalding as acid.
She’d mumbled some excuse and run back to Aunt Maida’s cottage. And a few days later, when she’d realized the feelings weren’t going to fade, she’d made another excuse and left her job several weeks earlier than she’d intended, prepared to scurry back to Baltimore.
The flow of memories slowed, sputtering to a painful halt. Her last clear recollection was of Alex lifting her suitcase into the limo next to his own, saying he had to take the commuter flight out that day, too. Then—nothing. She’d eventually regained the rest of her memories, but the actual take-off and crash remained hidden, perhaps gone forever.
When she’d recovered enough to ask questions, her parents had simply said she’d been on her way home from her summer job. If she’d remembered then, would she have done anything differently? She wasn’t sure. The failure had lain hidden in her mind.
Now, according to Aunt Maida, anyway, God was giving her a chance to make up for whatever mistakes she’d made then. Unlike most of the people Paula knew, Aunt Maida never hesitated to bring God into every decision.
Whether Maida was right about God’s will, Paula didn’t know. But her aunt was right about one thing—Jason had changed. Paula pictured his wary expression, the way he hunched his shoulders. The happy child he’d been once had vanished.
Of course, he was old enough now to understand a little more about his mother’s leaving. That traumatic event, followed so soon by the plane crash that injured his father, was enough to cause problems for any child. And he must know that his mother wouldn’t be coming back. Maida had told her the details that hadn’t appeared in Karin’s brief obituary—the wild party, the drunken driver. Paula frowned, thinking of students who’d struggled with similar losses.
A flicker of movement beyond the yew hedge caught her eye. Between the glossy dark leaves, she glimpsed a bright yellow shirt. She’d thought Jason was at breakfast with his father. What was he doing?
She rounded the corner of the cottage and spotted the child. The greeting she’d been about to call out died on her lips. All her teacher instincts went on alert. She might not know Jason well any longer, but she knew what a kid up to something looked like. Jason bent over something on the ground, his body shielding it from her view.
She moved quietly across the grass. “Jason? What’s up?”
He jerked around at her voice, dropping the object he held. The crumpled paper lit with a sudden spark, a flame shooting up.
She winced back, heart pounding, stomach contracting. Run! a voice screamed in her head. Run!
She took a breath, then another. She didn’t need to run. Nothing would hurt her. It’s all right. She repeated the comforting words over in her mind. It was all right.
Except that it wasn’t. Quite aside from the terror of fire that had plagued her since the accident, what was Jason doing playing with matches? Another thought jolted her. Was this connected with his father’s narrow escape from a fiery death?
Carefully she stepped on the spark that remained, grinding it into the still-wet grass. The scent of burning lingered in the air, sickening her.
She looked at Jason, and he took a quick step back. “Where’d you get the matches, Jason?”
His lower lip came out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any matches.”
“Sure you do.” She held out her hand. “Give them to me.”
Maybe it was the calm, authoritative “teacher” voice. Jason dug into his jeans’ pocket, pulled out the matchbook and dropped it into her hand.
She closed her fingers firmly around it. She wouldn’t let them tremble. “Where did you get this?”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. He glared at her, dark eyes defiant. Then he shrugged. “My dad’s desk. Are you gonna tell him?”
“I think someone should, don’t you?” It would hardly be surprising if Jason’s unresolved feelings about his father’s accident had led to a fascination with fire. Not surprising, but dangerous.
“No!” His anger flared so suddenly that it caught her by surprise. His small fists clenched. “Leave me alone.”
“Jason…” She reached toward him, impelled by the need to comfort him, but he dodged away from her.
“Go away!” He nearly shouted the words. “Just go away!” He turned and ran toward the house.
She discovered she was shaking and wrapped her arms around herself. Jason had made his feelings clear. His was definitely a vote for her to leave.
Alex put the weights back on their rack and stretched, gently flexing his injured knee. Brett Elliot, one of his oldest friends as well as his doctor, would personally supervise his workouts if he thought Alex was skipping them. And Brett was right; Alex had to admit it. The exercise therapy had brought him miles from where he’d been after the accident.
He toweled off, then picked up his juice bottle and stepped through the French doors to the flagstones surrounding the pool. The water looked tempting with the hot June sunshine bouncing from its surface, but he had another goal in mind at the moment. Jason was off on some game of his own. It was time Alex talked to Paula. He had to find some graceful way to get them both out of this difficult situation, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t yet found someone else to replace Maida.
His timing seemed perfect. Paula was coming around the pool toward the house, dressed a bit formally for her. Instead of her usual jeans, she wore neat tan slacks and a bright coral top—probably a concession for