She would find a way, she told herself finally, somehow, to complete her assignment.
John Everett blew the horn outside her motel room. It was a blatant insult, and he knew it, she thought furiously. It showed an appalling lack of manners.
For two cents, she thought as she peered through the blinds,I’d leave him sitting out there and refuse to go.
But sanity prevailed. She drew her embroidered wool wrap around her shoulders, picked up her purse and walked out the door.
John, who knew class and sophistication when he saw it, was so stunned by her appearance that before he could get out of the truck to open her door, she’d opened it and climbed into the cab.
He just stared at her.
She fastened her seat belt and raised an eyebrow. “What?” she asked. “You expected me to show up for Thanksgiving dinner in worn jeans and dirty boots?”
He took a long breath. She was lovely, dressed up, and she smelled like heaven must. He almost ground his teeth together. He’d behaved badly and he felt the guilt. His mother would be ashamed, if she knew.
His chiseled lips compressed, and he turned his attention back to the steering wheel as he put the truck in gear and pulled out into the highway.
“No comment?” she asked with a cold smile.
“Yes,” he bit off. “I expected worn jeans.”
“I own a dress.”
“What a shock.”
She sighed as she looked out the window. “How’s JJ?” she asked.
He glanced at her irritably. But he knew it was a question from the heart. She was obviously fond of the boy, as they all were. “Getting along very well,” he said. “We brought his dad’s truck over and had it repaired, repainted. When JJ’s old enough, we’ll let him learn to drive with it.” He smiled. “When Dad told him that, he cried. He’s a hell of a kid.”
“He is,” she agreed, smiling, too. “I shudder to think of him in a foster home. That’s surely where he would have wound up, if your parents hadn’t decided to take him in.” Her face tautened. “There are a few good foster homes. But only a few. Most are overcrowded and the foster parents overworked and underpaid. Often, there’s abuse among the children.”
He stopped at the stop sign and looked at her. “How do you know that?”
“My mother was a social worker,” she said simply. “It was her whole life. I wish I had a nickel for every time she tried to save abused women and children from so-called safe places.”
“One of my classmates in college was a social work major,” he commented. “She was working with troubled children as part of her major. She cried.”
“Crying doesn’t help,” she said shortly. “We need adults who take responsibility for the lives they create. Or better yet, adults who show a little restraint.”
“Human nature never changes,” he commented. “There will always be reckless people.”
“Yes. I guess so,” she replied quietly.
“Did you ever have a decent job, before you got mixed up with the bunch of losers you’re hanging out with in the Percell bar?”
Now, how had he known that?she wondered. But she couldn’t afford to react to the sarcastic comment.
“I have my reasons,” she said.
“Number one would be money, I suppose?” he drawled. “Quick riches, at the cost of lives?”
“Why would you assume it cost lives?” she replied.
“Fast money always costs lives, no matter what the job entails.”
“Learned that from your brother, did you?” she asked, tossing the sarcasm right back. “He worked as a mercenary, I believe?”
“Intelligence,” he corrected. “But yes, he did merc work occasionally.” He glanced at her. “To save lives. Not to risk them.”
