Daddy Warlock (14 page)

As for the dog owner stepping on a sharp object, Chance had a suspicion his son had arranged it. Well, he couldn't blame the boy, but it would be important for Harry to grow beyond seeking revenge.

When Tara reached them, she slipped one arm around his waist without thinking. The contact sent a quiver of delight up his spine until, startled, she moved away.

“Come spin around with us!” called Harry, shifting his weight on Chance's shoulders.

“Not me! I'd get dizzy.” She braced herself to resist the pull of the surf.

Beneath the calmness of the day, the ocean maintained its steady roar, loud enough that they had to shout to be heard. But it wasn't necessary to talk. Just being together was enough.

Chance swung his son down, and they moved farther out in the water to practice diving under the waves. Losing the fear of water while maintaining a healthy respect for it was vital for proficiency at swimming.

Beside them, Tara cut through the surf with natural grace. In the water, she lost any trace of awkwardness, moving with the sinuousness of a seal.

Whenever Chance glanced away from Harry, his gaze was drawn to Tara. He would catch the glint of her smile, or the flick of her gently rounded rump as she dived, or. a tantalizing hint of breast as she curved onto her back.

Then his attention returned to his son. The day's activities must be catching up with the boy, who paddled with short, tired strokes.

“Time for lunch.” Chance boosted Harry out of a large wave and turned him toward shore.

“You're doing great,” Tara told her son. “You've got a real feel for the water.”

He gave a grimace that was half appreciation and half dismissal. “Can I do a few tricks on the beach, Mom? Like put our sand castle back together?”

When she shook her head, he pouted until she reminded him that they'd brought sandwiches and chips, with chocolate cupcakes for dessert.

“Cool!” He headed for shore with renewed energy.

The boy wouldn't always be so easy to control, Chance reflected. He wondered if Tara had given any thought to what would happen when Harry hit adolescence.

His powers would multiply at the same time that he was experiencing a natural drive toward independence. By suppressing him so rigidly now, she risked inciting him to rebel later.

Surely, in time, Tara would soften her stance. Chance would do his best to persuade her, but until then, he intended to abide by their agreement.

A shriek from near the surf line grabbed his attention. Turning, he spotted a young woman treading water, her screams nearly swallowed by the ocean's roar.

Farther out, a young man, evidently her companion, struggled as a strong current yanked him along a course parallel to shore. From the sediment-filled swirl of the water, Chance judged it to be a riptide.

These churning currents were common along the coast. Experienced local swimmers knew enough to let themselves be carried along, gradually working their way to the edge of the riptide and then out of it.

But this couple, judging from their pallor, were tourists. The woman appeared safely outside the current, but
the man was wasting his energy struggling to break out at a ninety-degree angle. Judging by the way he thrashed about, he would soon exhaust what was left of his strength.

“Get Harry out of the water!” Chance ordered, and Tara hurried to comply. With his son headed for safety, he focused on trying to reach the swimmer's mind.

He summoned an image of peace, of smoothness, of easing toward the edge of the current. But the man's panic blocked him. The man was too far-gone to benefit from mind control.

On shore, people ran in the direction of a distant lifeguard tower, but the riptide was swiftly yanking its victim away from shore. By the time help could arrive, it might be too late.

Cutting through the water, Chance headed toward the distressed swimmer, but even as he swam, he could see it was useless. The flow carried the man away from him much too swiftly.

The man went under, bobbed to the surface, flailed around and sank again. There was no time to waste.

Holding himself a safe distance from the roiling river within the sea, Chance pitted his mind against the ocean, trying to calm the current for even a moment. His consciousness filled with a darkness that pulsed with immense power against which his skills were useless. It did not yield, not even slightly.

Grimly, he turned his attention back from the sea to its victim. There was only one course left. It threatened to reveal his use of wizardry in front of dozens of onlookers, but Chance could see no other choice.

Beneath the swimmer, he visualized a clear hard surface. Straining in concentration, he raised it to the surface
of the waves. Tricks with umbrellas and splashing puddles had never required this degree of concentration.

Chance felt unsuspected reserves of strength pushing to the fore, lifting and easing the surface until it floated free of the riptide. A lifeguard, halfway to the victim, stared in disbelief.

The man lay suspended atop the waves, unnaturally straight as if sprawled on an invisible platform. Slowly Chance dissolved the support.

The man coughed and sputtered as he folded into the waves, but, clear of the current, was able to stay afloat. Catching him from behind, the lifeguard towed him landward.

Turning toward shore, Chance saw people standing along the beach staring at the water with varying degrees of confusion and amazement. He'd never done anything so dramatic before, certainly not in public.

It had violated his agreement with Tara, as well. But he knew she wouldn't have wanted him to let the man drown.

No one noticed when he emerged from the water, except the woman and boy who came running to meet him. Everyone else was watching, far down the shore, as the lifeguard helped the swimmer onto the sand.

“You were great, Dad!” Harry skipped back and forth along the waterline. “Wow!”

“Are you all right?” Tara took his arm, and Chance was surprised to find himself drained. He leaned against her until they reached the blanket, where he sank down.

“I could use some lunch,” he said. Tara wore a thoughtful expression as she set. out the sandwiches, chips and soda. By the time she and Chance were ready to eat, Harry had already wolfed down his meal along with a cupcake.

Two of the children who had helped build the castle were taking turns burying each other in the sand nearby. Harry ran to join them, brimming with enthusiasm.

“He doesn't seem to realize that man nearly died,” Tara said.

“I hoped you would approve, even though I did break my promise.” Chance felt his strength returning as he finished one sandwich and reached for another.

“Of course!” Tara pushed back a hank of hair. “That was miraculous.”

“I suppose it was.” He thought of the little girl he had saved from being run over, long ago. “That's not the first time I've been able to preserve a life. I tend to forget what a special gift this is.”

She nibbled at her cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. “Do you think Harry could learn to do that?”

“That and more.”

Her gaze turned to her son, now half-buried in sand, his face smudged with peanut butter. He didn't look like a miracle worker.

Tara plucked a slice of cucumber from her sandwich and studied it as if it held the secret of life. “Seeds.”

“What?”

“There are seeds here. Maybe we should save them and plant them.”

“Are you speaking metaphorically or literally?” he asked.

“What?” Her startled glance met his. “Oh, metaphorically, I guess. I mean, when we plant a seed, we never know exactly what will grow, do we?”

“Like with kids?”

“Yes, I suppose. We think that they'll be like us, but sometimes they aren't. Then how much should we try to
steer them, and how much do they have a right to choose their own direction?”

Chance didn't answer. He could tell that Tara needed time to reconcile her conflicting impulses.

Finally she ate the cucumber slice. “There are plenty of seeds at the store. But there aren't any other boys like Harry. All right, Chance. You can train him. But only for emergencies like this. No more making people step on sharp objects, even if they deserve it”.

“I'll do my best”.

He knew the day would come when, regardless of his parents' wishes, Harry would insist on spreading his wings. But that day, he hoped, was still far away.

Tara was transferring data from Chance's business calendar onto his personal calendar for the month of June when she saw the conflict.

“Uh-oh,” she said, which was probably not the most professional response but the first thing that came to mind.

“What?” Looking up from his computer, he wore the glazed expression that comes over men's faces, and sometimes women's, when they've been hovering in cyberspace too long!

Sitting at the auxiliary desk he'd installed for her in the home office, Tara grimaced at the calendars. “Would you believe the Powers Financial Corporation's annual dinner is the same night as the dance competition?”

“The one Rajeev and Vareena have been practicing for all this time?” Chance shook his head. “What a shame.”

There could be no question of shifting the date of the dinner. The hotel ballroom had been reserved months ago, and printed invitations had gone out last week.

Not only staff members and their spouses but many clients would be attending. Chance was planning an elaborate
event that would be a combination annual report, pep rally and big blast.

Nibbling at her pencil eraser, Tara tried to figure out a way around the dilemma. “Harry could still go, but I'd hate to miss being there to cheer them on.”

“My staff and clients are pretty straitlaced,” Chance said. “If experience serves, they'll bail out by eleven. Any chance the dancers will still be at it?”

“I'll check with Rajeev.”

As it turned out, the winners in the dance competition wouldn't be announced until midnight. The event was scheduled for the Green Friars Country Club, a typical Southern California hybrid that rented meeting rooms to the public while maintaining a private golf course.

“It's about a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel,” Tara told Chance after filling him in on the timing. “With luck, we can at least get there for the finale.”

He tapped some information into the computer and logged off. “Sounds good. Now, if you don't mind, we've got a two o'clock appointment we're almost late for.”

Tara hadn't seen anything on his calendar for today. “Did this come up suddenly?”

“No.” A hint of mischief quirked at Chance's lips, then vanished so quickly, Tara wasn't sure she'd interpreted correctly. “It's more of a surprise.”

Her first impression was that he planned something of a personal nature, but that seemed unlikely. In the weeks since she and Harry had returned to the yet-unnamed house, she still hadn't learned to read Chance's moods. Perhaps she never would.

She could tell that he enjoyed his occasional practice sessions with Harry, which left the boy eager for more. And Chance always treated Tara with courtesy and charm.

But there'd been no more suggestions of nocturnal visits to his whirlpool bath, and no more trips to the beach, either. She knew he was acting wisely, but she missed the closeness.

“Are we going to see a client?” Tara asked as she fetched her purse.

“We're going to make some preparations for the annual dinner.” He held the door for her.

Although the firm's public-relations director was in charge of the event, Tara knew Chance took a keen interest in everything from the items on the menu to the presentation itself, which had a theme of “Up, Up and Away.”

Were they going to rent a hot-air balloon? Would he be buzzing the ballroom with model planes? Tara wouldn't put anything past her boss.

It seemed odd, though, when they parked on a side street near ritzy Rodeo Drive. Women in designer suits clicked by on high heels, carrying shopping bags emblazoned with the names of famous shops. What sort of dinner preparations could they possibly make here?

Chance hadn't spoken on the way. His gray eyes had an opaque cast, but his mouth kept curving with amusement.

In a business suit woven of subtle shades of blue, with a hand-screened silk tie, he radiated sophistication. It was hard to picture him as the powerful swimmer who had plunged through the surf.

Well, not that hard. Actually, Tara's imagination outdid itself when it came to picturing Chance in a state of undress.

The firmness of his hands on the car door as he opened it reminded her of the way he had stroked her that night in the tower. The swing of his lean hips, angling out of
the low seat, brought back sensations so achingly sweet that Tara had to force her thoughts away.

The heat of the sun helped dispel her traitorous imagination, and she concentrated on the shop windows as they passed. She saw no prices displayed, and guessed the elegant handbags, shoes and ensembles cost more than she could hope to afford.

Tara took only a casual interest in fashion. She knew she was probably wearing last year's colors and the previous year's shoes. Even in her crisp business suit, it would be hard not to feel dowdy on Rodeo Drive, where pencil-thin ladies swirled along the sidewalk with the remote air of models on a runway.

For once, she was glad she'd inherited height and a lean frame, but she wished the Loveliness Fairy had zapped her with a bit more grace. It didn't help to realize that the leather on the backs of her heels showed multiple scrape marks.

“Whoa!” She was nearly past the small boutique when Chance caught her arm. “This is where we're going.

“Here?” There were no clothes in the window, only a bouquet of exotic flowers in a Chinese vase, set against a draped cloth. “Is it a florist's shop?”

“Not exactly. It's called Fleur's.”

Tara recalled seeing the name in one of the magazines at Denise's salon. A former designer for a Paris couturier, the woman now custom-fitted her creations to a select clientele, by appointment only.

Tara wondered when Fleur had begun designing for men. She also wondered why Chance wanted her opinion of his new clothes, since he had such unerring taste.

Inside the shop, they found themselves in a plain waiting
room. A receptionist asked their names and announced them through an intercom.

They had barely sat down when Fleur herself emerged. Strong-boned and graying, she introduced herself to Chance and Tara in a softly accented voice.

If she hadn't met Chance before, that meant he hadn't yet selected his clothes. Tara wondered how this aristocratic designer would react on learning her creations were to be evaluated by a woman in a discount-store suit and scraped heels.

Fleur led them to an inner room, more spacious and better lit than the waiting area. On a side table sat a silver coffee service and a selection of pastries.

“Not knowing mademoiselle's tastes, I made a few selections from my collection.” The designer indicated a half dozen exquisite creations displayed on mannequins.

Even though she knew a mistake had been made, Tara couldn't help staring longingly at the array. In addition to a rainbow-hued formal gown with a high collar and plunging neckline, there were floating dresses and suits of varying lengths. She also noticed a clingy pantsuit styled like a tuxedo but made of an opalescent fabric so delicate, it might have been cut from a cloud.

“What do you think?” Chance asked in a low voice, his head tilted toward Tara.

“They're incredible,” she said. “But these are women's clothes.”

Fleur raised one eyebrow. “Indeed,” she said. “That is what I design.”

“But I thought—” Tara shifted her attention to Chance, and saw his suppressed amusement bloom into a grin. “We're shopping for me?”

“As my personal assistant, you need to be properly
attired at the dinner”, he said. “Naturally, I will absorb the cost.”

Objections flew in and out of Tara's brain like gnats at a picnic. She couldn't possibly accept. These clothes must cost a fortune. If anyone heard about this, they would jump to the wrong conclusion.

Of course, if people heard—which they surely would, sooner or later—that she was the mother of his child, they were going to jump to those conclusions anyway.

“Oh” was what came out, barely audible.

“If I may say so, mademoiselle has the perfect figure for fashion.” Fleur lifted a soft, midcalf-length suit with a scarf-collared jacket from the display and held it close to Tara. The fabric had pink overtones glimmering with hints of blue and yellow. “This is very flattering. Also, I would suggest trying the tuxedo. These are the new colors for the season. A veritable rainbow,
n'est-cepas?”

Tara wished she could spot a price tag so she would know exactly how much Chance was going to be set back by all this. Then she realized that the idea of a price tag had probably never entered Fleur's mind.

“I suppose I could try them on,” she said.

Chance made himself at home on the couch close to the refreshments. “That sounds like a plan.”

The dressing room turned out to be almost as large as the salon. A seamstress and Fleur assisted Tara, removing her garments with practiced ease and fitting her into the calf-length suit.

It was a bit large, but a few swift tucks by the seamstress made it fit. Tara nearly asked whether alterations were included in the price, then bit her lip. This wasn't the kind of establishment where such things mattered.

She knew Chance put great emphasis on image for his business, but was he really willing to pay—how much?
A thousand dollars? More likely ten times that, Tara reflected with a gulp.

Maybe he could return the outfit for partial credit after the dinner. But she doubted it.

As Fleur added a perky hat that provided an air of casual sophistication, Tara realized the woman reflected in a trio of mirrors would do Powers Financial Corporation proud.

She had high cheekbones and fine skin, with a touch of haughtiness offset by her wide eyes. It wasn't really Tara, but some alternate version whom even Fleur regarded with admiration.

On the other hand, she couldn't stop thinking of the other uses to which that money could be put Ten thousand dollars was enough for a down payment on a condominium. It would make a great start on a college fund for Harry. Or she could back Denise in opening her own salon.

But it wasn't Tara's money, it was Chance's. He had already promised to set up a trust fund for Harry, and as for those other things…well, they weren't going to make his business look good at the annual dinner.

Swallowing hard, she complied with Fleur's suggestion that she model the outfit. Holding her head high and hoping her pink cheeks didn't reveal too much of her inner conflict, Tara strode out of the dressing room.

Chance was setting his coffee cup down when he spotted her. He seemed, for a moment, to stop breathing.

Then his gaze traveled from her jaunty hat down the flowing lines of the suit, touching her shoulders, breasts, hips and legs before returning to her face. Blinking a couple of times as if caught off guard, he gave a small nod of approval.

But did he really like it? Tara didn't know what his
reaction meant. She felt his intensity in every snap of her nerve endings, but maybe she was misled by her own prickly awareness of the man.

She wished, this once, that she could be inside his mind the way she had been when they first met, experiencing his thoughts instead of guessing at them. He was deliberately blocking her, of course, she told herself as she made a turn around the room. That was for the best, to keep each other at arm's length.

If only they hadn't met the way they did, and then come back together with so many issues between them. The pure masculine appreciation shining from his face was something Tara wanted to relish. She wanted them to be simply a man and a woman.

But what good would that do? They couldn't allow themselves to fall in love, she told herself as she retreated to the dressing room. She wasn't convinced it would be dangerous in the way Aunt Cynda believed, but it would certainly threaten her peace of mind.

Never again did she want to make herself vulnerable to a man's disapproval the way she had been to her father's. Her self-reliance had been won at a high cost. As she changed into the cloud-colored tuxedo, Tara wondered if she would ever trust a man enough to marry him.

She cherished every moment she spent with Chance. But the distance he resolutely kept between them was her margin of safety. For different reasons, neither of them dared cross it, and that, she decided, was for the best.

Yet when she stepped into the salon again, and saw the tenderness with which he watched her, she felt less certain. Depths of emotion turned his eyes to silver, and the amusement on his face had been replaced, for one unguarded moment, by yearning.

“Which do you prefer?” she asked.

“They're both amazing.” His voice had a hoarse note.

“The tuxedo is more businesslike,” she said.

Fleur chuckled. Until that moment, Tara had almost forgotten her presence. “How differently people react! One of my customers is purchasing that suit for her wedding.”

“For a bride?” Tara regarded herself in the oversize mirror and realized the slim lines and pale, iridescent material would make an offbeat but charming picture at the altar. “What a clever idea!”

“Is the groom wearing a black gown?” Chance teased.

“He's Scottish,” said the designer. “I believe he's wearing the traditional kilt”.

“That settles it,” Tara said. “I'm wearing the skirt and jacket. No way am I going to the annual dinner as a bride!”

“I have to admit, I did like that outfit better,” Chance admitted. “Or if you prefer one of the dresses—”

Tara sensed that Fleur had instinctively chosen the two creations that best suited her. “No, we've made the right choice.”

The seamstress took additional measurements in the dressing room, and Fleur promised to have the suit delivered within a week. “And the hat, as well?”

“Why not?” Tara said.

“And may I suggest some shoes…”

By the time they were finished, the suit and hat had been augmented by slippers and an evening bag. Tara refused to let herself think about the cost.