More Than Words by Diana Palmer, Emilie Richards, Susan Mallery, Carla Neggers, Brenda Novak

From the Publisher

Somewhere, at this very moment, a woman's caring and commitment is changing a life in her community...and changing the world. Five of these compassionate, dedicated women have been chosen from nominees across North America to become Harlequin's More Than Words award recipients. Now five bestselling romance authors celebrate these recipients in the More Than Words short story collection -- fiction inspired by the lives and efforts of these real-life heroines... Because of their dedication, handmade quilts wrap needy children in warmth and love. Hand-painted memory boxes comfort mothers grieving the loss of a newborn baby. Abused women can reach for help online, and families are brought closer through literacy. One woman even found a way to feed the needy when she was homeless herself. We hope More Than Words will touch your heart and inspire you to reach out in your community. You've already helped -- proceeds from the sale of this book will be reinvested into the Harlequin More Than Words program to support causes that are of concern to women.

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Table of Contents

Read an Excerpt

Diana Palmer
The Greatest Gift

Chapter One

The car lights passing by the side road kept Mary Crandall awake. She glanced into the back seat where her son, Bob, and her daughter, Ann, were finally asleep. Sandwiched between them, the toddler, John, was sound asleep in his little car seat. Mary pushed back a strand of dark hair and glanced worriedly out the window. She'd never in her life slept in a car. But she and her children had just been evicted from their rental home, by a worried young policewoman with a legal eviction notice. She hadn't wanted to enforce the order but had no choice since Mary hadn't paid the rent in full. The rent had gone up and Mary could no longer afford the monthly payments.

It was Mary who'd comforted her, assuring her that she and the children would manage somehow. The order hadn't mentioned the automobile, although Mary was sure that it would be taken, too. The thing was, it hadn't been taken today. By tomorrow, perhaps, the shock would wear off and she could function again. She was resourceful, and not afraid of hard work. She'd manage.

The fear of the unknown was the worst. But she knew that she and the children would be all right. They had to be! If only she didn't have to take the risk of having them in a parked car with her in the middle of the night. Like any big city, Phoenix was dangerous at night.

She didn't dare go to sleep. The car doors didn't even lock . . .

Just as she was worrying about that, car lights suddenly flashed in the rearview mirror. Blue lights. She groaned. It was a police car. Now they were in for it. What did they do to a woman for sleeping in a car with her kids? Was it against the law?

Mary had a sad picture of herself in mind as the police car stopped. She hadn't combed her dark, thick hair all day. There were circles under her big, light blue eyes. Her slender figure was all too thin and her jeans and cotton shirt were hopelessly wrinkled. She wasn't going to make a good impression.

She rolled the window down as a uniformed officer walked up to the driver's window with a pad in one hand, and the other hand on the butt of his service revolver. Mary swallowed. Hard.

The officer leaned down. He was clean-shaven, neat in appearance. "May I see your license and registration, please?" he asked politely.

With a pained sigh, she produced them from her tattered purse and handed them to him. "I guess you're going to arrest us," she said miserably as she turned on the inside lights.

He directed his gaze to the back seat, where Bob, Ann and John were still asleep, then looked back at Mary. He glanced at her license and registration and passed them back to her. "You can't sleep in a car," he said.

She smiled sadly. "Then it's on the ground, I'm afraid. We were just evicted from our home." Without knowing why, she added, "The divorce was final today and he left us high and dry. To add insult to injury, he wants the car for himself, but he can't find it tonight."

His face didn't betray anything, but she sensed anger in him. "I won't ask why the children have to be punished along with you," he replied. "I've been at this job for twenty years. There isn't much I haven't seen."

"I imagine so. Well, do we go in handcuffs . . . ?"

"Don't be absurd. There's a shelter near here, a very well-run one. I know the lady who manages it. She'll give you a place to sleep and help you find the right resources to solve your situation."

Tears sprung to her light eyes. She couldn't believe he was willing to help them!

"Now, don't cry," he ground out. "If you cry, I'll cry, and just imagine how it will look to my superiors if it gets around? They'll call me a sissy!"

That amused her. She laughed, lighting up her thin face.

"That's better," he said, liking the way she looked when she smiled. "Okay. You follow me, and we'll get you situated."

"Yes, sir."

"Hey, I'm not that old," he murmured dryly. "Come on. Drive safely. I'll go slow."

She gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks. I mean it. I was scared to death to stay here, but I had no place I could go except to a friend, and she lives just two doors down from my ex-husband. . . . "

"No need even to explain. Let's go."

He led her through downtown Phoenix to an old warehouse that had been converted into a homeless shelter.

She parked the car in the large parking lot and picked up the baby carrier, motioning to Bob and Ann to get out, too.

"Dad will probably have the police looking for the car by now," Bob said sadly.

"It doesn't matter," Mary said. "We'll manage, honey."

The police officer was out of his own car, having given his location on the radio. He joined them at the entrance to the shelter,grimacing.

"I just got a call about the car . . . " he began. "I told you Dad would be looking for it," Bob said on a sigh.

"It's all right," Mary told him. She forced a smile. "I can borrow one from one of the ladies I work for. She's offered before."

"She must have a big heart," the policeman mused.

She smiled. "She has that. I keep house for several rich ladies. She's very kind."

The policeman held the door open for them as they filed reluctantly into the entrance. As she passed, she noticed that his name tag read Matt Clark. Odd, she thought, they had the same initials, and then she chided herself for thinking such a stupid thing when she was at the end of her rope.

Many people were sitting around talking. Some were sleeping on cots, even on the floor, in the huge space. There were old tables and chairs that didn't match. There was a long table with a coffee urn and bags of paper plates and cups, where meals were apparently served. It was meant for a largely transient clientele. But the place felt welcoming, just the same. The big clock on the wall read 10:00 p.m. It wasn't nearly as late as she'd thought.

"Is Bev around?" the policeman asked a woman nearby.

"Yes. She's working in the office. I'll get her," she added, smiling warmly at Mary.

"She's nice people," the policeman said with a smile. "It's going to be all right."

A couple of minutes later, a tall, dignified woman in her forties came out of the office. She recognized the police officer and grinned. "Hi, Matt! What brings you here at this hour?"

"I brought you some more clients," he said easily. "They don't have anyplace to go tonight. Got room?"

"Always," the woman said, turning to smile at Mary and her kids. She was tall and her dark hair was sprinkled with gray. She was wearing jeans and a red sweater, and she looked honest and kind. "I'm Bev Tanner," she said, holding out her hand to shake Mary's. "I manage the homeless shelter."

"I'm Mary Crandall," she replied, noting the compassionate police officer's intent scrutiny. "These are my children. Bob's the oldest, he's in junior high, Ann is in her last year of grammar school, and John's just eighteen months."

"I'm very happy to have you here," Bev said. "And you're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

Mary's lips pressed together hard as she struggled not to cry. The events of the day were beginning to catch up with her.

"What you need is a good night's sleep," Bev said at once. "Come with me and I'll get you settled."

Mary turned to Officer Clark. "Thanks a million," she managed to say, trying to smile.

He shrugged. "All in a night's work." He hesitated. "Maybe I'll see you around."

She did smile, then. "Maybe you will."

Phoenix was an enormous city. It wasn't likely. But they continued smiling at each other as he waved to Bev and went out the door.

Carla Neggers
Close Call

Chapter One

A dirt-encrusted mountain bike. A battered kayak. Free weights loose on the floor. Gym clothes and squash rackets hanging from a pegboard. Street and ice hockey sticks leaned up against the wall.

Brendan O'Malley's idea of how to welcome guests to his place.

As she stepped into the foyer, Jessica Stewart told herself there were no surprises. It wasn't as if she'd expected feng shui or something out of a decorating magazine. She loved the guy. She really did. She didn't know if she was in love with him, but that was a problem for later -- right now, she had to fight her way into his apartment and find out what he was up to.

Jess stuffed the key that O'Malley's brother Mike -- the firefighter brother -- had loaned her. Brendan was one of the cop brothers, a Boston homicide detective. The other cop brother, the youngest, was just starting out. There was also a carpenter brother and a marine brother. Five O'Malley brothers in all. At thirty-four, Brendan was smack in the middle. A guy's guy.

There was, in other words, no logical reason Jess should have expected anything but hockey sticks in the foyer.

Brendan and Mike owned the triple-decker and were renovating it as an investment property. Brendan had the first-floor apartment to himself.

Jess had rung the doorbell. She'd pounded on the door.

Taking Detective O'Malley by surprise wasn't a good idea under any circumstances, but today it was really a bad one.

He'd almost been killed yesterday.

She hoped the kayak and mountain bike were a sign that he was still in town. Even his brothers didn't want him going off on his own so soon after a trauma.

Using the toe of her taupe pumps, Jess rolled the dumbbells aside and entered the living room. It was her first time inside his apartment. Their on-again, off-again relationship over the past two months had been at theaters, restaurants and her condo on the waterfront. They hadn't had so much as a candlelight dinner at his place.

No wonder.

It wasn't that it was a pigsty in the sense of trash and garbage all over the floors and furniture. He didn't live like a rat -- or with rats. His apartment simply reflected his priorities. He had a flatscreen television, stacks of DVDs, an impressive stereo system, a computer, shelves of books on the Civil War and more sports equipment. In the living room.

He wasn't much on hanging up his clothes, either.

Mike had warned Jess when she talked him into giving her the keys to his younger brother's apartment. Brendan had lived on his own for a long time. His apartment was his sanctuary, his world away from his work as a detective.

Inviolable, and yet here she was.

She walked into the adjoining dining room. The table was stacked with car, sports and electronic gaming magazines and a bunch of flyers and guidebooks on Nova Scotia -- another sign, she hoped, that he hadn't already left.

He needed to be with his family and friends right now. Not off on his own in Nova Scotia. Everyone agreed.

Jess continued down the length of the apartment to the kitchen. A short hall led to the bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom door was shut, but she knew she'd never have gotten this far if he were on the premises. It was only five o'clock -- she'd come straight from the courthouse -- but he'd taken the day off.

No dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, none in the dishwasher.

Not a good sign.

The house was solid, built about a hundred years ago in a neighborhood that wasn't one of Boston's finest, and had a lot of character. Brendan and Mike were doing most of the work themselves, but they were obviously taking their time -- both had demanding jobs. They'd pulled up the old linoleum in the kitchen, revealing narrow hardwood flooring, and scraped off layers of wallpaper. Joe, the carpenter brother, had washed his hands of the place.

Jess peeked out onto the enclosed back porch, stacked with tools and building materials, all, presumably, locked up tight.

Brendan had mentioned, over a candlelight dinner at her place, that a couple of jazz musicians lived in the top floor apartment, a single-mother secretary with one teenage daughter in the middle floor apartment. He and Mike had fixed up the upper-floor apartments first because they provided income and allowed them to afford the taxes and mortgage.

Taking a breath, Jess made herself crack open the door to his bedroom.

It smelled faintly of his tangy aftershave. The shades were pulled.

The telephone rang, almost giving her a heart attack.

So much for having a prosecutor's nerves of steel.

She waited for the message machine.

"Stewart?" It was O'Malley. "I know you're there. I got it out of Mike. Pick up."

No way was she picking up.

"All right. Suit yourself. I'm on my way to Nova Scotia. I'm fine."

She grabbed the phone off his nightstand. "You left your bike and kayak."

"Don't need them." She could hear the note of victory in his tone now that he'd succeeded in getting her on the line. "Place I'm going has its own bikes and kayaks."

She noticed his bed was made, not that neatly, but he'd put in the effort. "Why sneak off ?"

"I didn't want a lot of grief from everyone."

"Brendan -- come on. You had a bullet whiz past your head yesterday. You need to be with family and friends."

"The bullet didn't whiz through my head. Big difference. It just grazed my forehead. A little blood, that's it. I get banged up worse than that playing street hockey. A couple days' kayaking and walking on the rocks in Nova Scotia, and I'll be in good shape."

"Did you bring your passport? You know, they don't just let you wave on your way across the border these days -- "

"Quit worrying. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," Jess said. "You sound like you're trying to sound fine."

"What are you now, Stewart? Ex-cop, hard-ass prosecutor, or would-be girlfriend?" She stood up straight, catching her reflection in the dresser mirror. Chestnut hair, a little frizzed up given the heat and humidity. Pale blue suit in an industrial-strength fabric that didn't wrinkle, repelled moisture, held its shape through the long hours she put in.

Definitely a former police officer, and now a dedicated prosecutor.

How on earth had she become Brendan O'Malley's would-be girlfriend?

"Don't flatter yourself, Detective. Just because we've seen each other a few times doesn't mean I'm mooning over you -- "

He laughed. "Sure you are."

"I've known you forever."

"You haven't been sleeping with me forever."

Emilie Richards
Hanging by a Thread

Chapter One

Tracy Wagner pretended not to notice the baby girl in the pink striped coverall who was crawling determinedly in her direction. Little Liza Thaeler seemed to think that "Aunt" Tracy was the top pick in any room, the woman most likely to bounce a baby on her knee or play interminable games of peekaboo.

Tracy could only hope that as Liza grew, her instincts about people improved.

Janet Thaeler intercepted her daughter before she could reach Tracy, then immediately held her away. "Phew! Give me a break!"

"Don't look at me," Tracy said, although Janet never would have. She knew Tracy was not a baby person. Janet understood Tracy better than almost anyone in the world, except, of course, Graham, Tracy's husband. And even that was up for grabs sometimes.

"When was the last time you changed a diaper?" Janet checked to be sure her olfactory senses were working correctly. She screwed up her face at the evidence.

"Let me think." Tracy rested one sensibly manicured finger against her cheek. "I think it was the day I left home for college. By the time I went back the next summer, Mom had finally declared a childbearing moratorium, and my youngest sister was wearing ruffled training pants."

"Sometimes I'm surprised you even speak to me. I'm recreating your childhood." Janet abandoned the room with a giggling Liza tucked under one arm.

While she waited for her friend to return, Tracy gazed around. Janet was right. Tracy had grown up in a house like this one, if a shade more rustic. Toys piled in every corner. Building blocks and stuffed animals strewn across the floor. Strollers in the hallway, high chairs pushed against the dining-room table, shouts and squeals and demands rending the air.

Janet had four children and another -- the last, she swore -- due next spring. She claimed she was so used to being pregnant that morning sickness felt normal, and a visible belly button seemed grossly obscene.

Tracy was the oldest girl in a family of eight. She had grown up in Washington's Wenatchee Valley, the daughter of hardworking apple growers. Even now if she looked in the mirror, a farmer's daughter smiled back at her. A healthy round face with pink cheeks and clear blue eyes. Glossy dark hair that was bluntly cut to her collar. A little too plump, a lot too ordinary and much too busy to be worried about any of it.

Her role in the family had been clear as soon as she was old enough to hold a bottle. Tracy was in charge of the babies when her mother was called on to do other things, which was much of the time.

The family was a happy one, and her parents had been as fair as time allowed. But Tracy had gotten her fill of babies by the time she escaped to Oregon State. She loved her brothers and sisters, particularly now that they were more or less grown. But if she never opened a jar of baby food, washed a load of receiving blankets, or walked the floor with a feverish infant, it would be too soon.

Janet returned with a giggling, sweet-smelling Liza. "Thank heaven for Molly." She plunked Liza in the corner with a stack of blocks. "If she weren't here, we wouldn't be able to finish a sentence."

Tracy wasn't sure how many they'd finished anyway. "Molly Baker? The girl across the way?"

"I started paying her to come over every afternoon to play with the kids and keep them out of my hair for a while. They're wreaking havoc in the playroom right now. She's so good with them. She's a gem."

Janet's expression didn't match her enthusiastic words. An ebullient blonde, pixie-ish, freckled, Janet was almost always smiling. She wasn't smiling now.

"Some problem?" Tracy probed. "Don't tell me you're feeling guilty because you need a little help."

"Good grief, no." Janet frowned at her, as if Tracy had lost her mind. "I'm an earth mother, not a martyr. No, it's Molly I'm worried about. You know she's a foster child?"

Tracy knew that Molly had lived with the people across the street for most of a year. She was a quiet, self-contained teenager or preteen, Tracy wasn't quite sure which. She was a pretty girl, brown-haired, dark-eyed and slender, and showed the promise of greater beauty to come. During their few conversations, Tracy had been impressed with her manners and a little worried about the caution in her eyes. Molly seemed to weigh every word, as if she needed to be certain Tracy got exactly the right impression.

"What's the problem?" Tracy asked. "Some issue with the courts?"

"No. The Hansens are moving to Europe for a year, possibly longer. He's taking over his company office in Paris -- or something like that." Janet lowered her voice. "They can't take Molly, or they won't. But I do know she's free for adoption, and for whatever reason, they've decided not to pursue it. So in three weeks, she'll have to move. And there aren't any foster homes available in this school district. At least not at the moment, and not one for a fourteen-year-old girl. And she's been at the same middle school since sixth grade."

Tracy tried to make sense of this. "So what happens to her?"

"The social worker's talking about placing her in a group home. In a different school district. From what I can tell, the other kids are there because they've had problems in traditional care. Molly's never caused anyone a problem."

"The foster parents told you all this?" Tracy was pretty sure that Molly hadn't confided these details. It was contrary to everything Tracy knew about her.

Janet inspected a fleck of lint. "A neighbor told me the family was moving without Molly. I called social services and talked to her social worker."

Tracy was surprised the agency would have confided so much in a phone call. Then her eyes narrowed. "You didn't call for information, did you? You called to volunteer to take Molly."

Her friend looked faintly chagrined. "She's such a great kid, Trace. And here we are, right down the street from her school."

"And?"

"The social worker visited. We have too many kids, and too few bedrooms. And with the new baby coming in the spring . . . " She shook her head. "I'm afraid she's right, as much as I hate to say it. At Molly's age, she shouldn't be sharing a bedroom with preschoolers, or competing for our attention with so many little children."

Tracy fell silent, mulling over this sad turn of events.

Molly chose that moment to appear in the doorway. She had a blond Thaeler girl on one hip and an even blonder boy in the crook of her arm. She was wearing faded jeans and a gold sweatshirt that was at least three sizes too large.

"We finished our third game of Chutes and Ladders," she told Janet. "Alex is still building a city out of Lego in the playroom. I have to get going. I have to practice saying the prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Middle English for extra credit."

"Still?" Tracy was surprised. "They still make you do that?"

Molly didn't exactly smile, but her expression lightened a little. "I chose it. We'll study it next year, and I kind of like it. It sounds so pretty."

"Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote . . . " Tracy quoted.

"You remember that?" Molly sounded surprised.

"That's about it. And, hey, I'm not that old. I remember liking it, too. Maybe you can recite it for me once you have it all learned."

The girl tossed back a lock of her shoulder-length hair and looked appropriately embarrassed. "I'd better go."

The Thaeler kids began to chatter at the same time. Janet got up and took the girl in Molly's arms, soothed the boy, who was trying to tell her how he'd beaten Molly at their game, and simultaneously handed Molly some cash from her pocket.

"Can you come tomorrow?" she asked when there was a lull.

Brenda Novak
Small Packages

Prologue

Yuba City, California

This was his dad. At least that was what his mom had just told him. Two seconds ago, Rosie Ferello had brought their old Buick to a screeching halt, jammed her finger out the open window and said, "There he is, Harrison. You happy now? You've hounded me all your life to meet your pa. Well, that rotten son of a bitch is your daddy."

His daddy . . .  A man he couldn't remember . . .

Harrison scrambled out of the back seat to see a pair of work boots sticking out from beneath an old Chevy pickup sitting on blocks in the driveway across the street. He'd longed for this day, but the shabby house and tall weeds in the yard worried him a little. The place wasn't any nicer than where he and his mom lived . . .

Hesitating near the back bumper of the Buick, Harrison bit his fingernails into the quick while waiting to see what his father might do.

The stranger beneath the truck slid out and sat up on a wheeled dolly. His gaze locked with Harrison's, then traveled to the car and Rosie. When recognition dawned, he stood up so fast the dolly rolled down the drive and crashed into the gutter.

Rosie stuck her head out and waved Harrison forward. "Go on," she said. His mother was trying to punish him for stealing that candy bar from the Quick Stop a couple of hours ago. He'd known she'd be angry about it. He'd done it to make her angry. He was angry, too. Most days. He just couldn't explain why . . .

When Harrison didn't move, she frowned and lit a cigarette. "You've always had so much to say about your beloved daddy. Well -- " the smoke curled from between her lips as she exhaled " -- there he is. Let's see what you think of him now."

Obviously he wasn't expected to think much.

Forcing his hands to his sides, Harrison dried his fingertips on his jeans and drew a deep breath. It was June and blistering hot so late in the afternoon, but Harrison couldn't quit shaking inside.

He cast a hesitant glance in his mother's direction. The rumbling engine reminded him that she could drive off any second. He was afraid she would. She threatened to give him to his father every time Harrison caused her any trouble -- and Harrison caused her plenty of trouble.

"This is your big chance," she said. "Don't stand there all day."

For the better part of Harrison's nine years, he'd pictured his father to be like his best friend Jimmy's step-dad. Henry Spits wore glasses and suits, and smiled vaguely as he talked on the cell phone. But Harrison's dad didn't look anything like Mr. Spits. Dressed in a pair of grease-covered jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt that barely stretched over his round belly, Duane Ferello was one of the biggest men Harrison had ever seen. He had hair the same toffee color as Harrison's, thick dark whiskers, and eyes that seemed as cold as a rainy day in January. He smoked, too. Harrison could see a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve.

"What're you after now, Rosie?" his father called out, squinting at her.

Harrison's heart beat faster as he waited for his mother's response.

Cigarette dangling from her mouth, she ran a hand through the dark roots of her hair and rolled her eyes. "God, it's been eight years since we broke up. Is that all you can say to me, Duane?"

His father grabbed a towel off the top of the red toolbox at his feet and leaned against the truck, making a show of wiping his hands. "What'd you expect? That maybe I'd write you a check?" He spit on the lawn. "Well, you can forget about that. You're not gettin' any more than the state's already takin' out of what I earn."

"You're only givin' me a hundred and fifty bucks a month," Rosie retorted. "Is that the best you can do?"

"I just told you, it's all you're gonna get."

Harrison's mother made a noise of disgust. "I didn't drive out to this dump to get another few bucks from a tight-ass like you. I didn't come for me at all." She hitched her thumb at Harrison. "There's someone here who wants to meet you."

Harrison knew he should speak, show his father that he wasn't as dumb as he probably looked, hovering there on the side of the road. But he couldn't think of a single thing to say. As soon as his father's attention swung back his way, he could've sworn someone had punched him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him.

"What're you starin' at, huh, boy?"

The gruffness of his father's tone did little to invite an answer, but Harrison had waited too long for this moment to let fear get the better of him. Maybe if he showed his dad that he wasn't as small and unimportant as he appeared, Duane would be happier to meet him. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he lifted his chin, adopting the tough-guy attitude he'd learned from the older boys in his neighborhood. "So you're my dad?"

His father tossed the towel onto the toolbox. "That depends on what you mean by 'dad.' You're not gonna get another dime out of me, neither."

Harrison hadn't seen Duane since his parents split eight years ago, since he was only a baby . . . ."I'm not asking for money," he said.

But his father didn't beckon him closer. He didn't tell him he seemed like a fine boy or ask if he played sports. Duane pinched his neck and muttered, "Yeah, right. You think I'm dumb enough to believe it ain't gonna come down to that eventually?"

Suddenly Harrison's stomach hurt. His whole life he'd believed it was Rosie's fault his father never came around. She smoked too much, yelled too much, slept in too late. She bragged about naming him after Harrison Ford, as if that connected them to someone important. She didn't behave like the other mothers. But now he knew she wasn't entirely to blame. His father didn't want him, pure and simple. Probably never had.

A lump the size of a baseball rose in his throat. Hunching into himself, he hurried to get back in the car. He wouldn't let his father see him cry. He wouldn't let anyone see him cry.

But he couldn't blink the tears away quickly enough to fool his mother. Craning her head around, she took one look at him and cursed under her breath. Then she got out and called his father every cussword Harrison had ever heard -- even more. She told Duane Ferello he was a boil on the butt of humanity and didn't deserve to know his own son. She told him that she and Harrison had never needed him and that they didn't need him now.

When she finished, she got in the car and peeled away, leaving behind only the echo of her words and some flying dust and gravel.

The hot wind from the open window rushed against Harrison's wet cheeks as the miles passed. He sat silently, waiting for his mother to say, "I hope you learned your lesson back there." He was in trouble often enough that she always wanted him to learn a lesson. But today she didn't say anything. She kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, sniffling as she drove, and strangely enough, Harrison felt as though he had learned something. Even if she wasn't perfect, his mother was all he had. And it was time to make some big changes, because he was never going to look himself in the mirror and see a man like his father staring back at him.

Susan Mallery
Built to Last

Chapter One

Marissa Spencer liked to think she preferred quiet, average men who were kind and funny, and that she never found herself attracted to brooding hunks. But in this case, she was willing to make an exception.

Aaron Cross had the body of a male centerfold, the face of an angel -- fallen, of course -- and dark eyes so filled with pain they could rip out her heart at fifty paces. Her friend Ruby would say that a man like Aaron was nothing but trouble, and in this case Marissa would have to agree. Still, she indulged herself in a lookfest while he completed his phone call.

She'd arrived a few minutes early for their 10:00 a.m. appointment. Based on what she'd heard about the amazingly talented and reclusive Mr. Cross, she'd expected a cranky old man. Sometimes surprise was a good thing, she thought when he hung up and turned to face her.

"Ms. Spencer," he said as he moved toward her, holding out his hand.

He was tall and she was a woman used to looking men in the eye. He wore his dark hair long and shaggy and walked with a grace that nearly took her breath away.

When she shook hands with him, she felt sparks that were so predictable, she nearly giggled. Of course, she thought, holding in a grin. With Joe, the sensible guy who ran the hardware store and kept asking her out, she felt nothing. But with danger-guy, she was all aquiver. So went her life.

"Marissa," she said when she could catch her breath to speak. "Thanks for seeing me."

He glanced at her, taking in the long wool skirt, cropped jacket and boots. It might be spring in the rest of the country, but here in Wisconsin, there was still snow on the ground.

"You said you had something unusual to discuss with me," he said, motioning to a leather chair in the corner of his showroom.

She'd already looked around and admired the amazing furniture he made. The hand-carved pieces were both strong and elegant. The fabrics he chose were distinctive, while much of the leather was reworked from older pieces.

As she sank into the seat, she wished her budget allowed for this kind of indulgence. But alas, her needs were more easily met at the local thrift store.

He perched on a stool, forcing her to look up to meet his gaze. As their eyes locked, she felt a definite shiver low in her belly. Was her attraction to this stranger really that intense, or was it just her second Danish of the morning talking back to her?

"I'm here to beg," Marissa said happily. "I could pretty it up for you, but that's the unvarnished truth. I'm on the acquisitions committee for a charity auction. We're raising money to buy books for our Motheread/Fatheread® program."

Aaron didn't blink as she spoke, which made it hard for her to judge his reaction.

"Are you horrified?" she asked.

"I'm listening."

She supposed that was something.

"I shouldn't really be here," she confessed with a grin. "While everyone agrees that your furniture is so amazing as to be brilliant, apparently you don't have a reputation as a joiner."

"I keep to myself," he admitted.

"That's what I heard. Everyone told me I was crazy to even ask, but hey, what's the worst that could happen? You say no. Which would be sad, because the program is amazing. We're teaching people to read -- mostly parents."

She leaned forward and clasped her hands together." You can't imagine how a person changes when he or she learns to read. There's such pride. Watching parents read a story to their children for the first time would totally break your heart. Reading gives them a chance to participate in their children's education -- to be better parents. The purpose of the auction is to raise money to buy books."

The woman kept on talking. Her energy filled the showroom until Aaron half expected to see mini bolts of lightning bounce off the ceiling and walls. Most of the locals knew enough to leave him alone, but not this one. She showed no signs of stopping.

"Who are you?" he asked, interrupting her in mid-sentence.

She frowned slightly. "I told you. Marissa Spencer."

"Not your name. Who you are. Why are you doing this?"

"Oh." She shimmied a little in her seat and smiled. "I moved here about two years ago. I'm a part-time bookkeeper, part-time librarian, and I volunteer a lot."

"So you think you can change the world?"

"Of course."

Figured. He knew the type. Those who still believed in happy endings and miracles.

"I don't think so," he said, standing.

She bounced to her feet. She was tall, blond. Pretty.

"If this isn't a good time, I can come back."

He saw it then, what he'd missed at first glance. Behind the long hair and the easy smile was a spine of steel.

"What can I say to make you go away?" he asked.

"Aside from a donation?"

He nodded.

"We could reschedule."

He was only a few years older than her, but he felt tired and worn by comparison.

"You're going to keep coming back, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "Sorry, but yes. I'm determined. It's a flaw."

She made the statement with a cheerfulness that told him she didn't consider it a flaw at all. Which meant the quickest way back to his solitude was to give her what she wanted and get her out of his life.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

Her blue eyes widened. "You mean you'll donate something?"

"Sure."

"Wow. That's great. Really. I don't know how to thank you."

"Pick something."

He motioned to the contents of the showroom. She walked to a small upright chair and ran her fingers over the carved wood.

He liked the way she took her time to study the piece. She noticed the little details and then stepped back to look at it from a distance. When she turned over the price tag, she went pale, and for a second he thought she was going to pass out.

"Okay, then," she said, straightening. "Maybe something smaller?"

He realized she had no idea who he was. To her he was a local recluse who made furniture. Not a man with a waiting list a year long and thousands of people willing to pay exorbitant prices for something made by him. "

I mean, it's all lovely, but we're talking a charity auction. We thought your piece would go for maybe five hundred dollars."

"I have some shavings out back," he said, holding in a smile.

She pretended to consider the possibility. "If we put them in containers, maybe. How about kindling from your workshop? I could sew up little bags and label them or something."

She was so earnest, he thought, amused for the first time in ages.

"I'll make a bookcase. It's not the sort of work I usually do, so there's no way to compare prices. It will be simple, but a good piece. How's that?"

Marissa clapped her hands together and spun in a circle. "That would be amazingly cool. I don't know what to say." She stopped the twirling and grinned at him. "You'll get a letter for tax purposes, of course."

"I thought I might."

"Maybe I'll bid on the bookcase myself."

He doubted that. She struck him as the type who never had two cents to rub together. No doubt she spent her spare time helping in a soup kitchen or working with sick kids at a hospital.

"Tell me when you need it by," he said, ready to end the conversation.

She pulled a small notebook out of her purse and read off a date. "And then there's the picnic next Saturday."

His gaze narrowed. "What picnic?"

Copyright © 2004 by Diana Palmer, Carla Neggers, Emilie Richards, Brenda Novak and Susan Mallery