Awe-Struck Preview

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-Teacher, Teacher-

Chapter 1

Cate realized a half-second too late that she'd pulled down more than the roll of posters. A cardboard box teetered on the edge of the top shelf, then lost its balance. Muttering under her breath at the pack rat teacher who last used the walk-in storage closet, she cringed against the inside wall before a dozen pint-sized tambourines landed on her head.

The box burst apart on impact with the hardwood floor and the scattered contents filled the cramped space with a clangor that shot straight through her head. The last of the racket died away slowly. As she stared down at the mess, her mouth hanging open in silent protest, Cate wasn't sure if the ringing in her ears was the tambourines or the office bell alerting her that this session of evening parent-teacher conferences was finally over.

She checked her watch in the naked glare of an overhead bulb. It hadn't been the bell. She still had a full hour to go.

Not that it had been a hectic afternoon and evening, she decided as she hunkered down for a better look at the damage. Spring conferences were little more than a formality, even for the classroom teachers. By March, most parents had a fair idea of their children's progress. As music teacher, she had marked grades and written her report cards nearly two weeks ago. In the three sessions set aside for conferences, she'd had parents stop by to say hello, or offer their help with the spring fine arts program. But only one had wanted to discuss a child's progress.

And that parent, Mr. Thomas Flannery, should have shown up over an hour ago.

"This is all Flannery's fault," she grumbled as she picked up the tambourines and tossed them into the battered box. "I could have gotten down to the photocopy machine if... Oh, for heaven's sake!" She had found a rotted wooden rim, minus most of its tiny cymbals. "How long have these things been in here?" she wondered in disgust.

Probably since Mrs. Meyer, the previous music teacher, started her career forty years ago. She duck- walked across the narrow closet tracking down loose metal disks.

Something glimmered to her left. She bent over and reached, and felt a draft as her one-piece knit dress rode up her thighs. She grabbed the hem and yanked down hard, nearly choking herself as the neck seam caught her throat.

"Okay, let's try that again," she muttered.

Once again, she felt the draft. This time, she ignored it. After all, no one was around to see her fanny stuck in the air.

Muttering nasty words, she didn't hear the footsteps until they stopped behind her. The muffled sound didn't bother her since Rosemary had gone to get her a soda moments before the box did its somersault. She smiled and deposited the last disk into the box and brushed her hands on the front of the apron. The flurry of dust motes made her cough. Kneeling, she rested her hands on her thighs and swung her head to let Rosemary know she'd really earned that can of soda.

"Ms. Munro?"

A breath caught in her throat at the sound of a deep, smooth, male voice. A tall, dark-haired, startlingly handsome man stood where she expected to find the stout, graying art teacher. The man fixed her with a steely gaze and cocked his head.

"Ms. Munro?"

"Yes, yes, I am. Catherine Munro, that is."

Riveted by the intense, narrowed blue-gray eyes, she felt her head swim, like she'd gotten up too fast.

"I'm Thomas Flannery. Megan Flannery's father."

"Thomas Fla... Megan?"

"Yes, Megan Flannery."

His patient reply broke whatever spell his sudden appearance had cast on her. She felt a wash of vulnerability as she knelt in front of this man who peered at her as if she were slightly dotty. Feeling heat rushed to her cheeks, irritation overran her mortification.

She lifted her brows. "I didn't expect you anymore today. You're an hour late."

His expression hardened. "I had some last minute business to attend to in Chicago and was delayed by heavy traffic on the expressway. I called the school office from my car around 6:00 to reschedule my conferences with you and Miss Erickson. The secretary said that there would be no problem."

Actually, there wasn't a problem, except that he'd caught her on her hands and knees, backside hanging out of the storage closet. To top it off, a loose curl tickled her cheek, escaping from the clip behind her ear.

"I didn't expect you, that's all," she repeated and brushed her hands again. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have started this project."

He scanned the closet, then settled his eyes back on her. Only now, amusement teased the corners of his mouth.

The slight play of muscle and flesh, the lengthening of fine lines on his rather angular face, the hint of a twinkle in his otherwise cool gaze fascinated her.

"In that case, I am sorry to have driven you to such...ah...measures," he said mischievously. "May I apologize by helping you up?"

Her attention focused on the tiny groove in his well-defined chin, she almost missed the question. "No," she snapped. "I mean, I'll manage."

No way did she want his rather condescending help, thank you very much.

Only she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to get off the floor without humiliating herself further. Her legs were already half-numb. Swallowing what was left of her pride, she cast him a sheepish smile over her shoulder. "On second thought, maybe I could use your arm for a moment."

He seemed to be expecting it. He tossed his black cashmere overcoat across a student chair and moved inside the closet. The warm, cramped space filled with his spicy scent. Charcoal gray, worsted wool filled her vision. His legs seemed to go on forever.

Eyes level with his thighs, she dared not look up any further. The throb at the base of her neck and the heat that fanned her face warned her that if she did, her gaze might linger on some part of the man's anatomy that it shouldn't.

What was happening here, anyway? She'd been close to most of her students' fathers and she'd never reacted like this, even when the men were as good-looking as Thomas Flannery.

Well, maybe none of them had been quite this good-looking.

"Ready, Ms. Munro?" He sounded smug. She willed her eyes to stay even with the charcoal-gray trouser legs.

"Yes, Mr. Flannery."

She lifted her right arm, flailed until she found his. The wool of his suit scratched her palm and wrist.

"Ms. Munro?" he asked, his voice smooth and silky.

She lifted her head in spite of herself. "What?"

At the same moment, he bent down until his nose practically touched hers. Past the heat pulsing in her cheeks, she felt the shimmering warmth of his skin. Past the spicy after-shave, she smelled his warm male scent. In that fleeting second, she realized that his dark lashes were long and slightly curled.

"Do you want both of us to end up on the floor?"

Cate reared back her head. "Certainly not!"

"I didn't think so." He gripped her arms just past the elbows, straightened and hauled her up.

She gasped at the suddenness of the action, then gasped again when she realized she'd come up close and personal with that part of his anatomy she hadn't dared so much as glance at.

"Didn't you learn anything about the physics of balance in teacher's college?" he asked, letting the edges of his mouth lift into a faint smile.

She didn't much care about balance right then. It was off-balance that he'd taken her. And he had the gall to stand there and gloat about it.

Cate decided to control her temper if she couldn't quite control the situation. "I don't know what I was thinking. Of course, you're right. Thank you for helping me up."

He didn't let go, only stared down at her. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," she answered, though her legs stung with the renewed blood flow. "I'm fine. Thanks." She shrugged him off.

For a moment, she was fine. Then her legs wobbled and went to jelly. She pitched forward, right back into his arms, her face hard against his chest. He absorbed the shock easily, as if he'd been waiting. His tie lay cool and soft against her lips. His lapel scratched her cheek and temple. She wondered fleetingly if the man were not like the contrast of the materials he wore - smooth and sensual, but too darned prickly to put up with for long.

She stepped back and looked up into his steel blue eyes. "I must have been on the floor too long. I think I'm all right now."

He lifted one dark brow and released her. She would have walked stiff-jointed if it had meant getting out of the closet without any more of his help. Fortunately, her knees seemed to bend properly. She smiled her most confident smile and squared her shoulders, gathering her shattered poise.

"Shall we have a seat?" she offered, and extended her arm toward her desk.

The corner of his mouth quirked again before he gave a curt nod.

Cate led the way into her classroom, praying to every power in heaven that Thomas Flannery didn't hear the slamming of her heart against her ribs.

Tom watched her exit the closet, shoulders thrown back, spine straight. The last thing he expected to greet him when he barreled into the music room was a sexy little backside sheathed in a clingy blue knit.

When Megan had told him that Ms. Munro was a 'pretty old' person, it occurred to him that his daughter considered him 'old' at thirty-six. He therefore conjured an image that resembled his ex-wife, Lara - long, fluffed blonde hair, heavy make-up, a sleek body stuffed into a short black skirt and a low cut V-necked blouse. Just in case Megan really did mean 'old', his backup image was of a wizened schoolmarm with mousy hair pulled back into a braided bun. Being the thoroughly prepared man, he had practiced a different speech for each image. But Catherine Munro wasn't at all what he had expected. Neither tirade fit.

Instead, he had flirted with her. He couldn't remember the last time he had teased a woman and not just with words, but with close, physical contact. More amazing still, he had enjoyed the heat of her satiny skin against him, the faint fragrance of flowers and sweetness overlaying her woman-scent, and the crush of her slender, supple body on his.

For a moment as he held Ms. Munro, staring down into her wide hazel-green eyes, he once again felt wholly male again after too many years of celibacy. Instinctively, he knew that her reaction had been the same. Knowing that he was somehow responsible for the bright pink flush across her pretty face swelled his ego. Now, as he watched her slip out of the ridiculous ruffled apron and shift that perfect little backside gracefully as she headed for her desk, he felt completely unprepared. Worse, he realized that he was grinning.

But he couldn't back out now. He was here for Megan's sake, not to give his libido exercise.

Tom forced his mouth into a straight line and pulled the light chain. It seemed the environmentally right thing to do, as Megan often reminded him. Well, the schools were doing some good, he thought with mild irritation. They'd turned his little girl into a seven-year-old eco-fanatic.

There was a smell of chalk, disinfectant and floor wax, mingled with the scent of Ms. Munro's perfume when he stepped into the classroom. Memories flashed as he snatched his coat from the back of the miniature chair and glanced around at the child-level shelves full of songbooks. They were good memories. Memories of his own small town school, of reading, writing and 'rithmetic, chaotic recesses and good-hearted teachers. Though none of his teachers had looked anything like Catherine Munro.

She rounded a slate-gray metal desk that looked three times too big for her and motioned to one of the adult chairs beside her desk. "Shall we get started?"

To Tom's amazement, she looked him straight in the eye. A streak of bright pink across her cheekbones remained the only indication of her earlier discomfort. Behind the desk, her podium of authority, she appeared poised and professional. He strode to the chair and sat down. She sat, folded her hands on the desk blotter and waited.

"I want to speak to you about the spring program," he began, just as he had planned regardless of the images he'd conjured. "I have some grave concerns."

Cate tilted her head. The honey-colored curl that had worked loose from the clip behind her ear bothered the gold loop hanging from her pierced lobe. It momentarily bothered him, too.

"In accordance with standard school policy, I sent home a permission slip with every child in kindergarten and first grade two weeks ago," she told him. "I assure you it explained everything we have planned. Our district is sensitive to the fact that there are families from various religious and ethnic backgrounds, and some parents might object to their child's participation in certain activities. If I remember, Megan was one of the first children to bring back her signed permission slip."

"Yes, she did," he agreed, and rubbed his damp palms on his trouser legs. "But, you see, I was out of town at the time. My Aunt Myrtle signed for me."

Her gaze was warm if uncertain. "Our office records indicate that your Aunt has the right to act on your behalf. But if you have concerns, I'll be happy to review the matter with you."

"I don't have reservations about the program itself." He suddenly wanting nothing more than to state his argument, solve the issue, and be gone. "It's Megan's role in the program that concerns me."

Cate sat back in her ancient leather swivel chair. Then she smiled brilliantly, showing lovely white teeth. "Megan is the perfect Velveteen Rabbit," she told him, obviously believing he'd come for nothing more than reassurance. "She has such a clear, sweet voice. Even the children who tried out with her agreed that she should have the part."

His pride at this praise almost surpassed his worry. Almost.

"I'm well aware of her talents," Tom replied, pitching his voice low.

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Flannery. Many parents don't recognize talent in their own children. I'm sure you're aware then, that Megan has a stage presence rare for someone her age. You've truly done a wonderful job developing her self-esteem."

He didn't want her praise. He wanted only her cooperation. "I warn you, Ms. Munro, I don't respond to flattery the way children do."

Her back and shoulders went rigid. The lingering blush across her cheek dulled. "I've never resorted to flattery with either children or adults," she informed him in a 'teacher' voice he hadn't heard in years. "I give honest, professional evaluations."

Tom knew when to shift tactics. That instinct had been partially responsible for his financial success. Now seemed the time to apply it. "I didn't mean to question your judgment or professionalism."

But hadn't he when he'd marched down the hallway toward the music room? From her skeptical expression, Tom decided that she didn't believe him. That irritated him more than it should have. "My point is, Ms. Munro, this entire situation seems too manufactured."

She puckered her light brown eyebrows into a frown. "Manufactured in what way?"

Now he didn't believe her. "You must know I've made my position clear at almost every School Board meeting."

Her brows smoothed, but her eyes widened. "Your 'position?'"

She feigned innocence well, he'd give her that much. But if she insisted on a synopsis, he'd supply it. "At most meetings since January, I've expressed my concerns about interruptions in educational instruction. I don't believe music and art should be given as high a priority in the curriculum as this district has historically afforded them. Given my opinions, it seems more than coincidental that my daughter was chosen for the lead in your spring program."

There, he said what he came to say. Why didn't he feel purged? Maybe it was the way she pressed her small hand to the base of her throat and inhaled sharply, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. It might have been the sight of her face, blanched clear of color, leaving her hazel-green eyes appear twice as large. Whatever the reason, he felt less like an aggrieved father than a big toad who just startled the fairy princess halfway into next week.

"Mr. Flannery, I assure you, I had no such intention!"

Damn, if he didn't want to believe the breathy denial! He held his tongue, afraid that if he started speaking again, he might babble an incoherent apology for his reasonable suspicions.

"I...had no idea..." Then she collected herself and stared at him in accusation. "I'm new to the district. I moved to Illinois to take this position in December, just before the semester began, and I haven't attended a Board meeting yet."

He eyed her carefully. She damned well looked and sounded honest enough. No one he knew could turn chalk white on a whim. Had he been a little too paranoid? The twitch in her jaw alerted him that she had found her composure. The steady rise of new color to her face brought him reflexively to the edge of his chair.

Catherine Munro clenched her hands on top of the desk and pinned him with a glare.

"Forgive my ignorance, Mr. Flannery," she began softly. "The truth is, your name meant nothing to me except that it identified you as Megan's father. Your personal opinions concerning the value of the art and music programs in this district had no bearing whatsoever on my decision to cast Megan as the lead in our program. I let the children volunteer for the different roles and then try out for them. Everyone is subject to the same criteria. She leaned forward, as if to spring from the chair. "Frankly, I take offense at your insinuation that I've somehow tried to influence you through your daughter. I've never known a teacher in my professional experience who would take such an underhanded approach."

Though slightly ashamed, Tom didn't look away from her glare. Again he found himself backing down. "Maybe I've made a hasty assumption."

"Yes, you have."

He blinked at her boldness. He shouldn't have judged her by the sweetness of her face and the tender curves of her body. This lady had brass knuckles encased in a silk glove, and he had just received a whack. On the verge of having to excuse himself for the third time, her glare softened into a frown. Her next words stunned him.

"You don't intend to pull Megan out of the program, are you?"

"Of course not!"

She looked at him, unconvinced.

Well, maybe he had come off like a hard-hearted bastard. So what? Why should he care about this music teacher's opinion of him? He dropped his left arm on the desk and slid toward her. Cate sat up straighter, but didn't move, though the flat of his hand lay close enough that she felt his heat.

"I wouldn't yank the rug out from under Megan like that, regardless of my opinions," he said, his voice grating in his own ears. "I've never seen her so excited about school. She's dressed and ready a half-an-hour early on the days she has practice."

Cate allowed herself a cautious smile. It reached her eyes and made them sparkle. Tom liked her like that, liked to see a bit of joy to her expression; liked knowing that he had made her a little happier.

"But that's not the point," he told her, told himself.

Her smile withered. "And the point is?"

He had to make her understand; he had to make somebody understand. "Megan's excited about school for the wrong reason. She wants to come here to sing songs and pretend that she's some floppy-eared rabbit, not to learn her basic subjects. I don't want her education negatively impacted by all this time spent out of class."

In a wink, everything about Catherine Munro changed, from the rigid tension in her jaw to the pinch between her brows. "I see."

"Do you? Do you really see?"

She opened her mouth to answer his anger. He didn't let her speak. "Megan can hardly read. She still uses her fingers to add five and one. On the advice of her teachers and the principal two years ago, I held her back in kindergarten. But that hasn't made a difference. She's been tested for learning disabilities, motor deficiencies, and physical impediments I didn't even know existed. There's nothing out of order. But she still isn't reading the way she should. And don't tell me it's a matter of maturity. I've heard that already from people who actually teach reading."

The beginnings of an empathetic smile flattened. "My area of concentration is reading, Mr. Flannery."

"You teach music," he pointed out, realizing that it sounded like an accusation.

"In my first three years of college, I majored in music and piano," she explained calmly. "When I went back for my education degree, I took a minor in music but specialized in reading." Her voice turned to flint. "In fact, when I applied to this district, I had a choice between this position at Stewart Elementary and one teaching in an early intervention reading program."

"If you're a reading specialist, why did you opt for music?" he asked, unable to hide the old bitterness inside.

"I wanted to stay at one school," she replied evenly. "The Bridge Reading Program position would have required that I travel between two schools on opposite ends of the city. I made the decision based on convenience, but I made the right decision."

He shook his head, not understanding her. "You'd rather not practice in your field of expertise?"

"I was informed that because of budget cuts the School Board made two years ago, the criteria for admitting children into the Bridge Reading Program have been narrowed. In schools like Stewart the program has been eliminated altogether. Megan would have benefited from the one-on-one attention BRP instruction offers, but the Board members didn't believe that children like her would be 'negatively impacted', as you put it, by the cutback."

Tom bristled. "My concern is with extracurricular activities, not basic subject matter. I don't deserve your sarcasm."

She lowered her chin an inch. "No, you don't. I'm sorry. But you have to understand that there is a purpose for the subjects we teach. Nothing at the elementary level is truly 'extracurricular.'"

"I expected you'd try to justify the time spent on this program."

Cate rubbed the arch of her nose, then drew her fingers through the fringe of bangs on her forehead. "I'm trying to give you a reason to feel good about Megan's excitement."

"I can't feel good when I believe she should be in a classroom learning to read, instead of on a stage learning silly songs."

"Have you or your wife helped her study her lines?"

He withdrew his arm from the desk and shifted in the chair. He didn't like discussing personal matters, but she had asked a valid question. "I usually read with Megan at bedtime, but the last two weeks, I've been home too late. As for my wife..." He cleared his throat. "I'm divorced. Lara lives in..." Where had that last letter been posted? Some ski resort. "Colorado. That's why my Aunt lives with us and has the right to act in my stead. Myrtle is the one who practices with Megan."

"Oh. I'm...I thought perhaps...I didn't know you...I didn't mean to pry..."

He swallowed a curt reply as she rose and walked to a tall file cabinet. When she opened the top drawer and reached inside, the knit dress molded to her curves, outlining her trim waist and gently rounded hips. Her hair curled at the nape of her neck, just past the edge of her turtleneck collar. Against the sky blue of her dress the strands appeared more golden than brown. He wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through those silky strands, then down her slender neck and narrow shoulders. He knew with simple male certainty that his touch would bring another bright flush to her smooth cheeks.

The fleeting fantasy infused him with pulsing heat. He shifted in the chair to loosen the tightness in his stomach and chest. She turned and walked back to the desk.

"This is Megan's script, Mr. Flannery."

She handed him a thin, spiral-bound booklet. Inside, Tom found the manuscript for "The Velveteen Rabbit". After scanning the first three pages, he shrugged and glanced up.

Cate took her seat and peered at the script upside-down. With her index finger she drew his attention to several lines on the first page. "Notice the simple words, the repetition and the pattern to these sentences. Many of the parts are in this sort of rhyme, and these are the elements of pre-reading and language fluency."

"Megan's classroom teacher gave me a capsulated lesson in educational buzzwords during my conference with her," he informed her brusquely.

Her chin went up again. "Then Miss Erickson probably also told you that practicing the patterns and repetitions and rhythms of reading will eventually bear results. Mr. Jordan, our media center director, practices every day with the children who are in the play. Megan sees the words over and over again. She hears the sounds and the cadences. Eventually, she'll begin to associate more and more the words with the sounds. Megan wants to read the lines," she pressed, as if afraid he would interrupt. "The play is a hook, something to draw her in, show her how much fun reading can be. Don't you sometimes enjoy reading a good novel just for fun?"

She caught him off guard. He let himself become too entranced by the sparkle of enthusiasm in her hazel- green eyes.

"Ah...yes, sometimes." He gazed back to the pages of the script, cutting his contact with the warm sincerity that she exuded. "When I have the time."

"Megan needs to read for enjoyment, too," she concluded. "She needs to have a purpose, especially if she's having some difficulties. Surely Miss Erickson told you as much."

"Who? Oh, yes, Miss Erickson. She did say something like that."

Cate blinked, appearing uncertain, then clasped her hands primly on her lap. Tom tried to disregard the pull of blue knit across her shapely thighs.

"I think that you have the wrong impression about these programs," she said. "They aren't separate from the curriculum, they're a part of it. These activities give Megan a chance to shine at something." Her face glowed from within as she grinned. "She does shine, Mr. Flannery."

Tom knew that she wasn't shoveling bull. With her words, with her expression, with the inflection of her voice, Catherine Munro had convinced him that she really did care about Megan's reading progress. Moreover, he'd seen the excitement in Megan's face, heard it when she chattered on about her bunny suit, or the new song she had learned. Yet, when Megan boasted so innocently about her talents, he could barely conceal his dread. In those moments, Megan not only looked, but also sounded like a miniature version of her mother.

He banished Lara's image, snapped the thin manuscript closed and tossed it on the desk. "I know you mean well and I'm grateful that you've taken the time to recognize my daughter's talents. But, I know my daughter and what is ultimately in her best interest."

Cate's smile dissolved into a grim line.

"In the future, I'll thank you to give lead roles in your programs to children whose parents are more eager to see them perform."

Her eyes went wide, but she quickly recovered her poise. "Of course. I'm glad that you told me your concerns so that we can avoid this situation in the future."

That was it. He did what he intended to do, said what had to be said. Yet something, an odd unwillingness to leave just then, held him to the chair. Finally, he extended his hand. "Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Munro."

Heat pooled beneath his starched collar when she only stared at him for a good five seconds before rising and accepting the gesture. Her grip startled him. Though his palm dwarfed hers, and his long, blunted fingers appeared awkward closing around her more delicate bones, she clasped his hand firmly and shook it with snap.

"You're welcome, Mr. Flannery."

When she pulled away, he found himself reluctant to let go. Her sweet flower scent lingered on his damp skin. Aware that the heat under his collar had started to push its way up, he dipped his head curtly, collected his overcoat from the back of the chair and turned to leave.

"Mr. Flannery?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Cate fixed him with an intent gaze. "For Megan's sake, you will come to the performance, won't you?"

The question hurt more than it angered him. She really did think the worst of him. "I'll be there," he replied, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice. "In the first row, with my camera, clapping the loudest."

Her mouth quivered a moment before she gave a shy grin. "Thank you. Good evening."

He whirled and left the stuffy classroom as purposefully as he'd entered it. He couldn't wait to get out into the cool, crisp March night and take in gulps of air.

Her stomach quivered, her legs felt unsteady, and the pulse in her throat thrummed. Cate pressed her hands flat on the desktop, braced herself and shut her eyes. Thomas Flannery was brash, snide, cocksure, and probably conceited. Anyone that handsome and sartorially suited had to be vain. But he made her nerve endings vibrate. His electric touch had pulsed through her, igniting a thousand tiny fires that still tingled along her arms, not to mention deep in a place that had lain dormant for years.

She shook her head to clear the overwhelming sensations. Had his presumptuousness not distracted and angered her, heaven only knew what kind of an idiot she would have made of herself. And over a man who criticized her for giving his daughter the lead in a school program!

Footsteps in the hallway brought her upright, as if someone had jerked a string attached to her head. Cate inhaled sharply, drew in the familiar smells of the classroom along with the scent of Thomas Flannery. Rosemary stuck her head around the door, and narrowed her warm brown eyes.

"Is it safe to come in?"

Cate lifted her head in an 'all clear' signal.

As she hurried to the desk, Rosemary held out a can of diet soda. "You didn't tell me your conference was with Thomas Flannery."

Cate grabbed the soda, relishing the painful cold can against her hot, sweaty palm, and popped the top. "It didn't seem important enough to mention."

"Not important? Cate, do you know who Thomas Flannery is?"

Cate wrinkled her nose. "Yes, sweet little Megan Flannery's father, poor child." Closing her eyes, she gulped a mouthful soda and let the effervescence refresh her body if not her fried nerves.

"Poor you," Rosemary countered just as Cate tried to swallow. "Thomas Flannery is the man who wants to eliminate your job."

Chapter 2

Cate swallowed and gasped. Fizz backed up through her nose, leaving a trail of needle-sharp pain. She sputtered. "He what?"

Rosemary slapped her between the shoulder blades. "Gosh, I'm sorry. You all right?"

"I'm fine," Cate managed to whisper as she wiped fat tears from her eyes. "But what about Flannery? He's trying to eliminate my job?"

Eyeing Cate with motherly concern, Rosemary eased into the chair Thomas Flannery had vacated moments before. "That's been the gist of his proposals since before he sat on the School Board."

Cate raised her hand and cut Rosemary off. "His proposals? He's a member of the School Board?"

Rosemary nodded. "He was elected to the Board in November. He's new, but influential."

Cate massaged her forehead with both hands. "That explains why he acted so paranoid."

"About what?"

Letting her hands fall away, Cate toyed with a rivulet of condensation on the side of her can. "He literally accused me of giving Megan the lead role in an attempt to manipulate his opinion about the music curriculum. But he never said anything about having a seat on the Board."

"He probably figured you were aware of it," Rosemary guessed. "You really have to take time to read the local paper. Or maybe even come to a union meeting."

Cate rolled her eyes. "We've had this conversation before. I don't have time. I give piano lessons until 8:00 almost every night, not to mention the fact that I still don't have half my belongings unpacked."

Rosemary sniffed. "You have more excuses than a kid who forgot her homework."

"Look, I pay my union dues. I vote in the elections. That's as much as I want to participate."

"I know, I know. 'We, as teachers, will be considered true professionals the day we are no longer represented by a union,'" Rosemary quoted her in a sing-song voice. "You stick to that story, Cate. But it won't mean two licks and a holler when the Board votes to consider you and me expendable."

A ripple of fear coursed through Cate. A lay-off was the last thing she could afford right now. As an untenured teacher, she had little or no job security. Though shaken, she smiled indulgently at Rosemary's melodrama. "I can't believe the Board would do that. There's tremendous parental support in this district for the fine arts curriculum at all levels."

Rosemary spread her hands. "That's exactly the justification our illustrious Board president, Lenore Kemper, used at the last month's meeting. She claimed that parents in River Bend were financially able to give their children private music and art lessons."

Cate tapped her fingernail against the desk blotter. "Obviously she didn't take a look at my bank account."

"Mine either," Rosemary agreed. "At least my kids are through the system. You have another four years to stick it out with your son. And I know how much you're hoping Jon can get some sort of music scholarship for college."

Cate shook her head. "Too bad Jon's not a super jock. I doubt the Board would tolerate cuts in any athletic programs."

"Just to be on the safe side Cate, have him take a little more batting practice."

Cate sank into her chair. "The Board won't do it," she decided.

"Some of the smaller school districts around us already have," Rosemary said. "The best the Board seems likely to offer us at contract time is a cutback. That means part-time schedules for most fine arts teachers."

Cate winced. "The Union won't let that happen, would it?"

"The previous Union leadership let the administration open the ironclad contract we negotiated two years ago to allow for some minor benefit changes," Rosemary reminded her.

"Most everyone, including the teachers, seemed satisfied with the compromises."

Rosemary crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. "But we've set a precedent. Just watch out. We might be compromised right out of our jobs."

Though aware that Rosemary had valid points, Cate decided to sidestep the issue. "I guess I'm just glad to have a job with a steady income in a district where Jon can walk the school halls without being harassed or injured."

After taking a sip of soda, Rosemary frowned. "I'm sure Lenore Kemper would be pleased to hear you say that."

Too restless to stay in her seat, Cate grabbed the script Thomas Flannery had left on her desk, sprang out of her chair and headed for the file cabinet. "I may not know much about School Board politics, but I do know Lenore Kemper can't be all powerful. She's only one person out of five."

"One very forceful person," Rosemary corrected her. "Jack Shrader was the only counterbalance to her slash-and-burn budget cutting agenda. When he resigned last year, he left behind three dedicated fence-sitters and the newly elected Thomas Flannery with his less-is-more philosophy. Not good odds for those of us in the trenches."

Cate chuckled softly as she turned back to her desk. "You should run for union rep next year. You almost have me believing Armageddon is upon us."

"It may be," Rosemary insisted.

"Then consider that Thomas Flannery may be swayed by public opinion."

"You've got it backwards," the art teacher warned. "He isn't swayed by public opinion. He sways it. He's handsome, well spoken, seemingly reasonable, a young single-parent father. I consider him the enemy, but even I can't remember the names of the two candidates who ran against him, and I voted for one of them."

Cate laughed at that. "Thinking with your hormones, Rosie?"

"Don't tell me you didn't notice him. I mean really notice him."

Warmth sprung to Cate's cheeks as she indeed remembered how fully she had noticed Thomas Flannery. Embarrassed that she blushed like a star-struck girl, she spun around and walked toward the tall window to peer into the dark evening sky.

"What I noticed, Rosemary, was an insensitive, overbearing, overconfident boor, who thinks I'm negatively impacting his daughter. I must be the first music teacher in history chewed out by a parent because I gave his child a part, not because I didn't. All I can say is that I feel sorry for Megan. Her father must bully and pressure the poor child within an inch of her life."

Even as she harangued, Cate shivered. Her skin tingled as it had when Thomas Flannery gripped her arms and hefted her up off the floor of the closet. The hair on the nape of her neck bristled with the memory of his solid, strong body pressed against her as they stood toe-to-toe in the tight, intimate space. Rosemary, it seemed, wasn't the only female in the room thinking with her hormones.

Angered with Thomas Flannery all over again, angered with herself for reacting so foolishly to the simple memory of his touch, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "You may be right, Rosie. That man may be the enemy."

"Professionally or personally?"

Startled by the question and the amused lilt in Rosemary's voice, Cate forgot about the burning heat suffusing her cheeks and turned on her heel.

Rosemary took one look at her and pressed her fingers to her mouth to stifle a grin. "Personal, I see."

Cate stomped over to the desk and gripped the back of her chair so hard that her fingers hurt. "Of course, it's personal. Flannery questioned my integrity. He accused me of manipulating the situation with Megan for my own purposes. Worse, I don't think he believed me when I told him his name meant nothing except that it identified him as Megan's father."

"You didn't!"

"I did. I'm sure it came as quite a blow to his pride. But I grovel to no one, not even handsome, opinionated School Board members who want to eliminate my job."

Realizing how shrill she'd become, Cate paused and shut her eyes. With his verbal sparring and physical presence, Thomas Flannery quickened responses in her that she thought had been put to permanent rest. Part of her rejoiced that she could still react as a woman. Part of her dreaded the reawakening of destructive fears and resentments. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout," she murmured. "Mr. Flannery just touched some raw nerves."

"I'll say." Rosemary tilted her head. "Care to talk about it?"

"No. Let's just say that I've known men like Thomas Flannery, who need to control everything and everyone around them. You don't compromise with men like that or they walk right over you."

"Men? Or was it just one man in particular?"

Cate let out her anger in a long sigh and found herself smiling at her friend's mild invasiveness.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Rosemary guessed.

"I have to finish cleaning my closet. Want to help?" Cate answered.

Rosemary threw up her hands. "Sure, why not. I've got nothing better to do with the rest of my conference time."

Relieved that she was temporarily off the hook, Cate grabbed her soda and made for the closest. The art teacher trailed behind her.

"What happened here?" Rosemary wondered when Cate snapped on the overhead light.

"It's a long story." A long, embarrassing story, she said to herself. Yet, as much as she tried to focus on the mess of tiny cymbals, her mind's eye filled with the image of Thomas Flannery.

"Were you burning incense in here?"

About to drop to a crouch, Cate instead turned sharply to find Rosemary sniffing the air. "Huh?"

Rosemary took another whiff of the air. "Smells like sandalwood."

Thomas Flannery's aftershave lingered in the stuffy confines of the closet, making the fine, blonde down on Cate's arms stand up.

"Yes, definitely sandalwood."

"You're just having a flashback," Cate suggested, knowing too well her smile was forced.

"At my age, kiddo, it's hot flashes, not flashbacks," Rosemary quipped.

"Then the smell is probably something Mrs. Meyer left in here for me to discover," Cate dismissed the subject, eager to finish and be out of the closet, away from the disturbing scent and the memories it triggered.

Rosemary slowly bent down. "Could be. Leah never threw anything away. I see you found the Gypsy tambourines."

"A couple dozen at least," Cate answered as she got down on the floor to help.

"The fifth graders did a cute little song and dance with them," Rosemary recalled as she snatched up the dusty disks. "Probably wouldn't be politically correct today."

Cate stopped and glanced at her friend. "Today? When was that program?"

"Oh, about twenty years ago."

A giggle bubbled up in Cate's throat and forced its way out. The sudden release of emotion felt so good that she found herself helpless to stop it even though Rosemary eyed her warily.

"I'm sorry," she finally gasped, grateful that the fit had somehow drained most of the tension from her body. "I guess I just knew as much. It...you had to be there, Rosie."

"Seems so," Rosemary replied, then resumed her chore. "Tell me, do such insignificant things always set you off like that?"

Cate sobered in an instant. No, it was Thomas Flannery who had set off her emotions like that.

And Thomas Flannery certainly wasn't an insignificant thing.

"Here, Daddy, let's read this one."

Megan grabbed the top book of five stacked on her nightstand and thrust it into her father's hand.

Tom glanced at the bright pastel-cover. "Meggie, we read this last night."

The little girl peered up at him with sharp, crystal-blue eyes. "I know. But we're learning about reptiles in class and crocodiles are reptiles, so I want to learn about them."

In that moment, with her tumble of corn silk-yellow hair framed against the peppermint pink pillowcase, her voice teetering between a sweet cajole and a whining demand, Megan appeared the mirror image of her mother. A flash of anger and resentment momentarily blinded him to the reality of the child lounging in the circle of his arm. He forced his gaze away, fixed it on the book jacket without seeing it and tamped down the rise hostile emotion.

Meggie is not Lara, he reminded himself. I will not let her become Lara. That much is within my power...

"Daddy?"

Tom shook himself and realized that he was gripping the edges of the school library book so hard that the protective Mylar cover gave a brittle crunch. "This isn't a real story, Meggie," he objected, trying to keep the untoward emotion out of his voice. "Look, the pictures are cartoons. And you know crocodiles can't really talk like people."

"I know, but Miss Erickson says that in Africa there really is a little bird that sits inside a crocodile's mouth and cleans his teeth and the crocodile doesn't eat him," Megan argued all in one breath. "The little bird is like the crocodile's toothbrush."

Yes, he knew the birds called plovers really existed and they cleaned the crocodiles' teeth. He also knew, because Miss Erickson had explained to him in some detail, that the district's emphasis on an integrated curriculum meant language arts overlapped with math and science to make learning a seamless process and a more meaningful experience for the children. In theory, Megan learned scientific facts about symbiotic animal relationships by reading a fictional story about a cute, cartoon crocodile and the friendship that develops between him and his little bird toothbrush.

In theory.

"Besides, I like the book, Daddy," Megan insisted, pulling the book from his grasp and flipping to the first page. "And I can read some of the words."

As she struggled to sound out some letters, Tom's heart wrenched. He sensed Megan understood his concern about her inability to read like most other first graders. Her questions and observations about the battery of tests he'd had her undertake inferred as much. She really did try hard, if for no other reason than to please him. Now, she wanted to mollify him by reading some of the words so he'd share her favorite story before bedtime.

"Here, Meggie, I'll read," he gave in, and gently took the book from her. "You follow along and help out when you recognize a word."

"Okay!"

Fearing he capitulated too easily, Tom gave her a no-nonsense look. "But this Saturday, I'll take you to the public library and we'll find some books about real crocodiles. How does that sound?"

"Sure, Daddy," she answered as if he'd asked her to give up ice cream for a year.

It's for your own good, Megan, he told her silently as he gazed down at the perfect, oval face crinkled with a pout. Someday you'll thank me. Someday when you have children of your own.

Megan needs to read for enjoyment, too.

Catherine Munro's clear, soft voice inside his head gave him pause. Her words pushed up into his consciousness, unwelcome and unbidden, just as did the image of the sparkling hazel-green eyes set in the pretty face. She invaded his thoughts, and not for the first time since he'd left her standing behind her desk earlier that evening. He really did need to get a life, if the glimpse of a woman's backside and the brief press of her body against his made him obsessive about her. When his lower body pulled in sensual warning, Tom was suddenly glad he held the silly crocodile book in his lap.

A tug on his pant leg jarred him out of the reverie. Megan stared up at him, concern creasing her forehead. "Are you all right, Daddy?"

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand to exorcise Ms. Munro's face from his mind. "Sure, honey. I was just thinking."

"You must have thunk hard because I pulled at you three times and you didn't answer."

Tom decided not to correct her lapse in grammar. At this stage, he'd most likely just trip over his tongue anyway. "I was thinking about seeing your teachers today."

And remembering one of them over and over.

"Daddy, I only have one teacher," Megan informed him archly.

"Yes, one classroom teacher. Miss Erickson."

Her mouth split into a somewhat toothless grin. "I like her."

"I know you do. Miss Erickson likes you, too."

The little girl beamed.

"I...ah...I also spoke with your music teacher," he stammered, too aware that Megan's smile had begun to glow.

"You did!" Megan squealed. "Isn't she nice?"

"Yes, Meggie, she's nice."

"She has pretty eyes, too."

Tom held his breath. "Yes, I suppose so."

"I like the way she smells. Like flowers."

Yes, Catherine Munro smelled like flowers. But Megan's childish sensibilities hadn't detected the other subtle fragrances of spring and fresh air and warm soft skin begging for a caress. Tom's lower body tightened to the point of discomfort.

"You're doing it again, Daddy."

Megan called him back into reality. "What am I doing?"

"You're zoning out."

"Huh?"

"My friend Blake says that," she explained. "It means you can't keep your mind on what you're saying."

Tom cleared this throat, glad that Megan couldn't guess in what direction his mind had wandered. "True enough. What was I saying?"

"That you talked to Ms. Munro," Megan reminded him, stretching her arms in a melodramatic gesture of impatience.

"I did, yes." Tom narrowed his gaze at her. "You like her a lot, don't you?"

Megan nodded three times. "She likes me, too. She lets me hug her every time I see her."

"She does?"

Megan nodded again. "Ms. Munro says hugs make her happier than anything in the world. She says she never gets enough of them."

Tom found that hard to believe. Surely a young woman as attractive and intelligent as Catherine Munro had someone to hug her.

"She said I make a perfect Velveteen Rabbit," Megan pressed on.

The earnest appeal for approval in Megan's eyes made him smile in spite of his misgivings about the program. Tom put his hand against the child's face, amazed as always that his palm cupped her entire chin and cheek. How fragile she felt beneath his caress. How innocently she trusted his judgment.

"You feel good about that, don't you, sweetheart?" Tom asked, knowing the answer. Catherine Munro had said Megan would shine. He saw a hint of just that in Megan's bright blue eyes.

Megan nodded, then leaned into him and encircled as much of him as her short arms allowed. "Maybe if I'm a really good Rabbit, Mommy will come see me."

A lump rose in his throat, cutting off his air and voice. Glad that Megan couldn't see the ache for her twist his face into a scowl, Tom folded his arms around the child and stroked her silky hair.

Damn, he didn't need this! The stupid program threatened not only Megan's valuable classroom time, but also the stability he'd tried to create for her since Lara had left. He couldn't let her dream that Lara would suddenly reappear and play the good mother. But how could he dash Megan's hopes with the plain truth? Though he tried to clear away the emotions lodged in his throat, his voice sounded tight when he finally answered.

"Meggie, your Mom is pretty busy singing in her own show."

Megan snuggled in closer. Tom felt the movement of her face against his breastbone and rested his cheek on the crown of her head.

"I know," Megan answered in a wee, quiet voice so unlike her. "But maybe if you tell her that even Ms. Munro thinks I'm a good Rabbit..." Her voice cracked. "Sometimes I don't remember very much about Mommy."

The pitiful loneliness of Megan's complaint cut at his heart, grazing old scars. Tom closed his eyes against the sudden, angry tears that he'd realized long ago were wasted on Lara. He'd taught himself not to dwell on the pain. He had to teach Megan the same.

"Just look at her picture on your night stand when you want to remember her," Tom whispered. "Think about that day at the zoo, when you took your first pony ride."

"Okay," Megan whimpered.

Don't remember all the broken promises and the missed holidays and the final abandonment, Tom warned his daughter silently as he kissed the top of her head. Don't remember the six months you cried every night because she wasn't there anymore to sing you to sleep. He had to stop the drift of bitter memories before both of them lapsed into melancholy.

"Hey, Megan, why don't we study your lines for the program."

Megan backed away just enough to look up at him. "Aunt Myrtle already helped me this afternoon."

He crimped the corner of his mouth. "Even a perfect Velveteen Rabbit can't have too much practice."

She rallied instantly. "Sure, Daddy! I'll go get the book!" Distracted out of her sadness, Megan scampered off her bed, out the door and into the hallway in search of her script.

When he no longer heard her running footsteps, Tom slumped against the bedpost and rubbed his aching eyes hard. Had he really volunteered to practice the lines of that damned play with Megan? Had he been that desperate to lift them both out of the doldrums?

Yes, the answer came back at him, loud and clear. And desperate men do desperate things.

A knowing laugh, light, sweet and clear, skittered from some corner of his mind. The sound fused with an image shimmering in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. A hazel-green gaze emerged from the gloom first. The pretty face that had invaded his thoughts all evening winked into being a moment later.

He didn't even try to fight it. He had no strength to do it. As Catherine Munro's image danced in his mind, he decided as obsessions went, she wasn't half-bad.

For a music teacher.

Myrtle sat in profile, facing the television. Her cross-stitch hoop rested forgotten on her knees. Congressional hearings, Tom guessed as he lounged in the archway between the kitchen and the family room.

Myrtle leaned forward and moved her lips in a silent stream of words. Four letter words, Tom guessed. Why did she risk sending her blood pressure into the danger zone like that? But since she'd come to live with him and Megan three years ago and discovered the wonders of cable TV, Myrtle had become a news junkie. She even had her favorite 'boys and girls' of the news media.

Tom smiled ruefully when she muttered again through set teeth. Obviously she wasn't listening to one of her darlings.

"It's rude to stand there in the doorway spying on me, Tommy. Don't you remember any of the manners I taught you?" Myrtle snapped, never once letting her gaze leave the screen.

Tom grinned wider. "I didn't want to bother you. I didn't even think that you heard me walk in."

She cast him a quick glance, the kind that had once a long time ago frozen him in his tracks. "I'm old, not deaf. Plant yourself or say good-night."

Tom straightened. "Yes, ma'am."

He ambled over behind her forest green reclining chair, rested his hands on her bony shoulders and brushed his lips to her temple. His stiff five o'clock shadow caught a few strands of her short, wiry white hair and he smoothed them down as he backed away. She smelled, as always, like violets.

"You get crankier every year," he teased.

She sniffed. "I'm seventy-five-years-old. What's been your problem lately?"

Tom dropped onto an ottoman next to Myrtle's chair. "I know. I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for the way I reacted last night."

She stared at the television, but a muscle in the line of her narrow jaw twitched. A good sign.

"You're not going to make this easy are you?" Tom asked.

Myrtle fished the remote control out of her sewing basket and hit the mute button. The room went uncomfortably quiet as she shifted in the leather chair and pinned him with her iron glare. "The last time you back-talked me, I sent you to your room for three days."

Tom bit back a grin. "I was twelve, then. I'd go along with you this time, Myrt, but my clients might start to miss me."

She waved her thin index finger at him. "Don't be sassy on top of it."

Tom captured her finger and encased her entire hand inside both of his. "All right, I give up. I know I hurt your feelings."

"You gave me permission to use my judgment where Megan's concerned," Myrtle griped, though he detected a catch in her voice. "I did what I thought was best and signed that permission slip. I still think it was best."

"I know you do."

"If you don't trust me anymore, fine. But don't give me the responsibility with none of the authority."

"I do trust you," Tom assured her, and lightly squeezed her wrinkled hand. "It's just that this whole situation..." He paused, searching for the right words. "You know how I feel about the school curriculum. If I didn't have concerns, I wouldn't be spending my time sitting on the School Board."

Myrtle's gaze softened and she squeezed his hand in return. "This is about more than the school curriculum and Megan learning to read. This is about Lara."

Irritated that she had pegged him so easily, he started to pull away. "Blunt as usual."

She held him in place with her glare. "A family trait you share, young man."

He glanced away, but nodded.

She let his hands slip from hers and settled back in the recliner. "When are you going to let it go, Tommy?"

"What?"

"The anger. The blame," she prodded.

"When I know that Megan can't be hurt by Lara's neglect anymore," he ground out.

Myrtle tilted her head, her eyes mirrors of age and wisdom. "You know that'll never be. Even if Lara saw her twice a week and three times on weekends Megan would miss her. You can't protect a child from that. She'll learn to deal with it herself."

"Then I can make sure that Megan becomes a responsible adult and doesn't repeat her mother's mistake," he argued.

"Lara's was a mistake of youth," Myrtle reasoned. "She's not a bad person. Good heavens, you loved her once enough to marry her. But you married someone who hadn't grown up yet, who didn't know her mind." Myrtle found his hand again and patted it. "You expected something of her that wasn't in her nature. And when she found her true nature, she had to follow it."

"Even if it meant abandoning her family?"

"Sometimes it's a matter of self-preservation."

Tom yanked his hand from her grasp. "I thought you were on my side."

"I am," Myrtle answered with her usual vinegar. "I don't approve of what Lara did. I'm not sure I'll ever understand it. But I've forgiven her. You haven't. And look what it's doing to you."

The reprimand raised his hackles. "I've been a good father."

"The best," Myrtle agreed, then smiled impishly. "After all, you had the good common sense to ask me to come live with you."

He ignored her humor. "Then what do you mean?"

"I mean, Thomas Patrick Flannery, that you still blame and resent Lara so much that you won't admit that there's good in her. She's a beautiful, talented woman." Myrtle arched a salt-and-pepper brow. "I think it scares you that Megan is beautiful and talented in the same way."

Tom lifted his arms in exasperation. "No big news there. It scares the hell out me."

The old woman pressed her cool, weathered hand against his stubbly cheek. "Then here is the big news, Tommy. Megan is not Lara. Megan is a different person, with a different temperament, from a different background. She won't break your heart." Myrtle paused and let her hand fall away. "Unless you drive her to it."

Fear and anger sent his pulse hammering. "Me? I've given her everything she needs and wants."

"What about the freedom to be who she wants to be?"

He clenched his fists, reining in emotions that seemed to push out from deep inside his chest. "I never denied Lara that freedom. I tried to make it work."

"Lara didn't know what to do with that gift," Myrtle explained. "She abused it. As Megan's father, you can see to it that this doesn't happen again by teaching your daughter how to use her freedom wisely."

He recognized the wisdom of Myrtle's advice, but wasn't ready to capitulate. "Megan's too young to understand such things."

"But she understands enough about herself to have tried for that part in the school program," Myrtle pointed out. "That took guts. Another Flannery trait both of you have in spades."

Right, Tom answered silently. I'm so brave that the thought of Megan performing in a school program sends me into a cold sweat.

"Still and all," Myrtle went on, lowering her eyes to her cross-stitching, "next time, I won't be signing a permission slip until I've discussed it with you."

She actually looked contrite, a rare occurrence. If she had wanted to stir guilt in him, she'd done an ace job of it.

"You did what you thought best," he caved in, no doubt as she had expected. "In any case, there probably won't be a next time."

Myrtle lifted her head and squinted her eyes. "Why?"

Tom stood up and strode to the bay window. Night enfolded the back yard, obscuring Megan's swing, her sandbox and the winter fallow rock garden at the edge of the property. He peered into the darkness, wondering why he suddenly felt so uncertain of his direction. "I went to see Megan's music teacher this evening after my conference with Miss Erickson. I explained my concerns to her and asked her not to choose Megan for any more lead roles."

Behind him, Myrtle snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

He spun around. "Ms. Munro agreed to abide by my wishes."

Myrtle smirked, an expression he'd mastered at her knee. "I'm sure you were at your most charming self when demanding it." She knew which buttons to push and she'd hit every one of his hottest.

"I was professional and forthright."

"Hah! You probably scared the poor little thing half to death!"

Crossing his arms, he stared at his aunt. "I'd hardly call Ms. Munro a 'poor little thing.'"

Suddenly, Myrtle's eyes were glittering. "She stood up to you?"

"We discussed the matter rationally," he temporized.

Myrtle chuckled as if she hadn't heard him. "My, my, I didn't think that the little slip of a girl had it in her. Must have been quite some 'discussion.' You don't usually turn red like that."

"That's anger, Myrtle," he insisted, though the heat racing through his body had a different, more primal source. He had to be careful. He didn't have Megan's book to use as a fig leaf. "Sometimes you go too far...Wait a minute. What do you know about Catherine Munro? Have you met her?"

Myrtle nodded, grinning with pure glee. "At open house in January, while you stayed in the cafeteria making political points with the president of the Home and School Association." She held up her hand when he started to protest. "You were politicking, don't deny it. Anyway, Meggie dragged me upstairs to meet her Ms. Munro. And a nice young lady she is. I can see why the child adores her. Cate and I had a nice long chat about Meggie's talent in music."

Tom blinked. "Cate?"

"Yes, that's her name. Cate, Cate Munro."

His aunt's familiarity with the teacher annoyed him. "She introduced herself as Catherine Munro."

"Well, she's Cate to me. And I imagine to anyone else who's even marginally civil to her."

"I was civil to her!" Except for the part when I questioned her motives, he recalled silently.

Myrtle clucked her tongue. "Oh, Tommy, this is me, the woman who raised you. I know how you get when you have a single-minded purpose, especially where Meggie is concerned. I'm surprised that you didn't leave Cate in tears." Myrtle squinted. "Or did you?"

"No, Myrtle, I did not leave her in tears. My impression of Ms. Munro, or Cate as you call her," he added sarcastically, "is that it would take a hell of a lot more than one serious discussion with a dissatisfied parent to bring her to tears. For your information, she thanked me for sharing my concerns, promised her cooperation in the future and shook my hand."

"Probably glad to get rid of you," the old woman mumbled.

"I heard that."

Myrtle grinned. "She's a pretty one, isn't she?"

"What?"

"I said Ms. Munro's a pretty one, isn't she?"

He suddenly felt the urge to bang his head against a wall. "Did we change the subject here? I'd really like to finish the first argument before we start another."

She put her hand to her heart. "You mean you don't think she's pretty?"

He threw up his hands. "I give up. All right, yes, she's pretty. Yes, I could have been more tactful with her. And yes, I am truly, truly sorry I ever questioned that your judgment about signing that permission slip. Can we call a truce and get on with our lives now?"

Myrtle straightened her shoulders, smiled sweetly and nodded.

Tom wanted to be mad as hell at her. Unfortunately, all Myrtle had done was jostle the truth out of him with her verbal sparring. After all these years, he'd never developed a defense against her. Truth was, he had probably never wanted to develop one. As he stared at her, sitting so prim and proper in her easy chair, he felt a laugh tickle his throat.

"You know, Myrtle, you wasted your youth taking care of me. With your set of interrogation tactics, you should have signed up with the CIA."

"I'm sure you were much more of a challenge than hardened KGB agents, Tommy. And," she added with a wink, "you were certainly much more important to me."

Her words melted his anger. Had she been a different woman, one impressed by displays of affection, he would have kissed both of her wrinkled cheeks soundly. But his father's sister had never been an outwardly affectionate person. She gave her love by giving herself, by being the voice of guidance and discipline in his youth, by never failing in her support of him. Whatever he learned of physical caressing and touching, he had learned as an adult. Whatever he learned of integrity, trust, loyalty, and self-discipline, he had learned as a child from his aunt.

Myrtle must have seen the tender musing on his face. She cast him a narrow, suspicious glare and lifted her chin. "Don't you go to mush on me. You know I only say what I mean and mean what I feel."

Her warning forced a laugh from him. "I'll show you mush, Miss Flannery." Despite her squawks, Tom dropped to his knees, circled her with his arms and planted a kiss smack dab in the middle of her forehead.

Myrtle shooed him away. "Oh, for pity's sake! You shouldn't be wasting your kisses on me!"

Tom shook his head and chuckled. "I have no one but you and Meggie to waste them on."

Myrtle scowled. "And a sad state that is. A handsome young man like you should be out with a different lady every night, not sitting here listening to a cranky old woman rant and rave."

Tom pulled the ottoman closer to Myrtle's recliner and plopped into it. "Shhh! I want to hear this speech on farm price parity."

Myrtle waved her hand at him and laughed.

He set his attention on the screen, though he barely heard every tenth word. His thoughts dipped and whirled as he tried to organize the day's events - the office, the new contract, the lawyers, the tie-up on the expressway, the conference with Miss Erickson, his confrontation with Catherine 'Cate-to-everyone-else-but- him' Munro.

Not surprisingly, his mind paused on the music teacher, on his first sight of her crouched inside the small, musty closet. He replayed his tense conversation with her, made all the more awkward because of his inability to concentrate on anything but her soft, firm teacher's voice, her shimmering golden brown hair, and her trim figure. He recalled the clasp of her hand in his, how it had left his palm damp, the collar of his shirt suddenly a half-size too tight.

"Tommy?"

Caught in the middle of his reverie, he jerked his head around. "What?"

She stared at the television as if mesmerized. "I forgive you."

He started to grin.

"And I know that you won't mind that I wrote on the permission slip that you'd be happy to help with the school program."

"Myrtle!"

Chapter 3

Cate rapped on the polished, oak doorframe and stepped into the classroom. "Do you have a second to chat, Marlie?"

The first grade teacher didn't pause as she wrote 'March 10' in big, square letters on the chalkboard. "Sure, Cate. I've got fifteen minutes before chaos."

Cate chuckled and wended her way down a narrow, crooked row of munchkin-sized desks. "Well, I have only ten minutes or I lose my place at the laminator. I have a few questions about a student."

"Megan Flannery."

Cate settled her hip on the edge of Marlie's desk. "How did you guess?"

Marlie tucked a long strand of thick, black hair behind her ear. "Let's say that after last night, I didn't need psychic abilities to figure it out. Frankly, when my conference with Mr. Flannery was over, I had the distinct impression that he'd prefer to see you and the entire music curriculum drawn and quartered."

Cate folded her arms under her breasts. "He did seem irritated."

"I'd say hostile."

Cate frowned. Thomas Flannery had been direct, abrupt, even arrogant. But she didn't remember hostile. Or did she simply recall the confrontation differently after a night's sleep? Rather a lack of a night's sleep. The embarrassment of his untimely entrance and his cocksure challenge to her integrity had cost her precious rest. Neither had she been able to forget his cool, keen assessment of her.

"Did he yank Megan from the program?"

Marlie's question cut into her rambling thoughts. "Oh, no. From the way he began, I thought that he might. But he said he wouldn't do that to her."

"Well, the man has some sense of compassion, I guess. Megan needs that program more than the program needs her."

"I agree. In fact, I told him as much."

"Maybe he figured if two teachers said basically the same thing, it must have some validity."

"Not quite," Cate said. "He asked that I never again choose Megan for the lead in a program. He assumed I'd given her this role to appease him into softening his opinions."

"You? Cate, you're about as political as a box of rocks."

Feeling slightly hurt, Cate slid off the desk. "Thanks, I think."

Marlie massaged the right side of her face. "Well, don't feel bad. He's not happy with the results of my teaching, either."

Cate saw her opening. "I suppose that's why I came to see you this morning. I laid awake until about two o'clock plain furious with the man. By four, I found myself sympathizing with him."

Marlie looked confused.

"Hey, I'm just as amazed as you are," Cate went on. "But I realized, annoying as he is, Mr. Flannery really has honest concerns about Megan's progress in school. He wants her to succeed."

"Then he should let Megan succeed in her areas of talent," Marlie insisted.

"He obviously doesn't consider those areas important."

Marlie stared at Cate, yet past her. "Or maybe too important."

"Meaning?"

Marlie narrowed her eyes in concentration. "Something I read in Megan's folder. Mr. and Mrs. Flannery divorced when she was three-and-a-half. When Mrs. Flannery left, Megan had an overwhelming sense of abandonment and guilt. She repeated kindergarten. During those two years she had several sessions with the school psychologist."

The words hit Cate like a fist. If anything, she understood abandonment and guilt.

"Megan spent most of her first year in kindergarten huddled in a corner, sucking her thumb," Marlie continued, unaware of Cate's inner turmoil. "The psychologist intervened toward the end of the year, but by then Megan had blocked out too much instruction and she had to repeat. I think that's about the time Mr. Flannery's aunt came to live with them."

Clearing her throat, Cate dislodged bitter emotions of her own. "The aunt signed Megan's permission slip."

"The poor woman probably felt Flannery's wrath, too. And she's such a nice lady."

"I know. I met her at open house," Cate recalled with a genuine smile of delight. "She's full of sass and a little rough round the edges, but she loves that little girl dearly."

"Well, her coming to stay with the Flannery's must have made a difference, because Megan hasn't seen the psychologist this year."

"That's wonderful." Cate thought a moment. "What about Mrs. Flannery? Have you met her?"

"No, and this is the interesting part. The telephone number we have for her in our records belongs to her talent agent in New York. I'd guess she's in show business and on the road."

Cate picked up immediately on Marlie's reasoning. "Talented mother. Talented daughter. One scared father."

"Dad's probably bitter, too."

"Maybe he has a right to be bitter," Cate murmured, more to herself. "But Mrs. Flannery could have had a career and a marriage, too. I wonder why she divorced him?"

"You've met Mr. Flannery and you can ask that?"

When Cate glanced up, she noted the honest question in Marlie's eyes. But then, Marlie hadn't met Thomas Flannery as she had met Thomas Flannery. Last evening gave a whole new meaning to first impressions and sizing up a person by his handshake. He had sent currents of sexual energy through her. But then, marriages didn't survive on sexual appeal alone. How well she knew that.

"There are two sides to every story," Cate reminded her friend.

The first grade teacher waited for her to elaborate, but Cate offered only a weak smile. "Mr. Flannery's assumptions about me weren't even in the ballpark. I'm not going to turn around and pass judgment on him before I understand more about this situation."

Marlie took the lecture in stride. "Well, good luck figuring him out. Eileen Seeger couldn't the entire two years she had Megan in kindergarten. I'm past trying. Megan's my concern."

Yes, Megan, Cate reminded herself. After all, she came knocking on Marlie's door to find out about the child, not the father. "Exactly how is Megan doing?"

"She's approximately six months behind my average readers," Marlie replied. "But, in Megan's case, it isn't for lack of ability. In other areas she's perceptive, creative, and highly verbal."

"So why can't she read?"

Marlie lifted a dark, winged eyebrow. "My opinion? I think someone at home does everything for her. I see a sweet, relatively intelligent girl who is quite possibly overprotected, and very likely exempt from any real expectations. Here at school, she literally charms the other kids into doing the mundane chores like reading and adding for her. She had to learn that behavior is acceptable from somewhere else, because she didn't learn it in this classroom."

Cate mulled it over. While Marlie Erickson might have looked like the ideal image of a sweet-tempered first grade teacher she was no pushover for excuses. Still...

"I don't disagree with what you're saying," Cate replied carefully. "But that's not the Megan Flannery I have in my class."

"Music comes naturally to her," Marlie pointed out. "She believes you're the greatest thing since scented neon markers."

Cate chuckled at the comparison. "Really?"

"Really. You've made quite an impression on her."

On her father, too, Cate thought dourly before she asked, "What's the solution then?"

Marlie chewed her bottom lip. "I've never been one to suggest outside tutoring, especially for a child as young as Megan. But in this case, it might be the answer."

"Did you mention that to Mr. Flannery?"

Marlie sniffed. "He was in too much of a hurry to go rattle your cage."

He'd done more than rattle Cate's cage, that was certain.

The bell rang. Aware that inside one minute Marlie's overcrowded classroom would be a riot of first-graders scrambling for their seats, Cate rose.

"Goin' while the goin's good?" Marlie asked with a skewed smile.

"I think the laminator just freed up."

"Coward."

"You can write it on my headstone."

"That may be sooner than you know if you don't clear the door in the next ten seconds."

Cate laughed. "Thanks, Marlie. You really helped."

Marlie opened her mouth, but a banshee rush of little children cut her off. Cate heeded the warning and went for the door.

Tom's footsteps made hollow thuds as he walked down the deserted hallway. The muted recitation of the pledge of allegiance and the dry scratch of chalk on blackboards spilled out of the classrooms he passed. Only minutes before the deafening clang of slamming locker doors punctuated by shrill laughter and an angry wail or two had echoed off the walls. The office secretary had warned him to wait until the pandemonium cleared. She didn't want him literally cut off at the knees by the over exuberant juvenile crowd.

Though he'd loitered impatiently outside the office door, he was glad he'd taken the advice. He had clear sailing to the workroom where the secretary said he was likely to find Ms. Munro when intercom calls to the music room and the teachers' lounge went unanswered. The sooner he got there, he told himself, the better.

Contrarily, he slowed his brisk pace as tension settled in his stomach. He didn't enjoy the idea of backing down. Though, that wasn't quite what he intended to do. If only Myrtle had minded her own business for once. On the other hand, if his aunt had minded her own business thirty years ago he'd have grown up without her tough but fair guidance and unconditional love. He didn't even want to think what he'd have done had the old woman not agreed to come and live with him after Lara had left. Megan might be in private psychotherapy by now.

The rhythmic 'shush' of a photocopier spewing out paper caught his attention, and turned his thoughts to more immediate matters -- Catherine Munro. His pulse shivered, then picked up the tempo as he neared the workroom. A prickle ran up his spine and spread across his scalp. He put down the urge to smooth his hair, unwilling to succumb to last minute preening before he faced the pretty music teacher.

Instead, he hooked his index finger around the knot of his suddenly too-restrictive tie and loosened it a notch. He hadn't relished the idea of confronting her again, but it had been a condition of the uneasy truce that he had reached with Myrtle. As he approached the doorway, he wished that he had negotiated a better deal for himself. He sucked in a breath of air, tugged at the lapel of his jacket, braced himself, then stepped directly into the open archway.

She stood in the center of the tiny room, facing him, but too focused on whatever she was feeding into the roller jaws of an ancient, squawking laminate-sealing machine to notice his presence. Her shiny, golden-brown hair hung loose, almost touching the collar of the tailored, pale orange blouse she wore. A deep pink glow suffused her cheeks. Her slender neck was exposed by the modest V-neck of her blouse. He dragged his eyes away from the 'V' in time to catch her backhand a wispy curl from her brow. The heat of the laminator had brought the rich color to her skin, he decided.

Standing better than two yards away from her, he knew the warmth that suffused his limbs had nothing whatsoever to do with the machine. He realized with a jolt that the mere sight of this particular woman sent his nervous system into overload. Perspiration beaded along his hairline, his palms itched and his fingers drew reflexively into loose fists. Amazingly, the coil in the pit of his stomach had relocated itself to the lower region of his anatomy. He had to stop his body's automatic response to Catherine Munro.

She switched off the laminator and turned to the photocopier without looking up. Tom used the moment to command his hormones off red alert and remind himself of the purpose of his visit. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember a word of the speech he'd prepared.

Catherine Munro, 'Cate' to her friends, had turned his memory to mush. He rapped softly on the wooden door jamb.

"Ye-ess?" she sang a reply.

One word. Two tones: soft, melodic and sensual. He braced himself and put on a congenial smile. "Hello, Ms. Munro."

She jumped and pressed herself against the photocopier. "Mr. Flannery!"

Her breathless, almost panicked greeting, amused and irritated him at the same time. She gaped at him as if he'd caught her counterfeiting hundred dollar bills.

Trying not to let his smile degenerate into a Flannery family smirk, he glanced down at the official 'Visitor' name badge clipped to his breast pocket. "I must be." He brought his eyes level with hers. "Sorry if I startled you."

She put her hand to her throat, covering much of the 'V' he found so intriguing, leaving an erratically beating pulse at the base of her jawline. For a fleeting second, he magined feeling that pulse beneath his fingertips.

"No...I...I didn't expect anyone," she stammered. "I thought you were one of the children...when you knocked..." She cleared her throat and pushed away from the copier. "Quite frankly, you were the last person I expected to see this morning."

Her voice trembled slightly, but her honesty was clear. Her lack of guile pleasantly surprised him.

"Probably true," he agreed, and stepped into the small, over-equipped workroom. Was he fated always to meet her in such cramped spaces? "I wanted to follow up on our conversation last night."

A good beginning line, he thought. He even widened his smile. Why did she appear so wary?

Cate smoothed her expression into the bland mask of professionalism he'd seen a thousand times when dealing with clients and colleagues. "Certainly. I'm always available to answer parents' concerns. But you could have saved yourself time and called. I'd have gotten back to you as soon as possible."

Was she telling him never to darken her classroom doorway again? Or was she merely being polite? Tom decided that she was being polite. Oddly, he didn't want to believe that she found him repulsive.

"It's no trouble," he assured her with a slight wave of his hand. "I dropped Megan off this morning and thought I'd come to see you. It seemed a better option than playing telephone tag for the next two days." He could have called. He had no critical appointments today and was never far from a telephone, even in his car. He'd weighed his options while shaving, nicked himself twice under the chin in the process.

She narrowed her eyes. Was he offering her a half-truth?

Standing there, breathing in her faint scent of flowers and femininity, watching her hazel eyes shift ever so slightly to green, he understood on the most basic of levels why he had opted to come in person. He felt compelled to see her again.

"The office secretary said you didn't have a class until 9:00," he said hopefully.

"No, ah, yes, at 9:00." She glanced at the materials stacked next to the laminator. "I have to finish this work before then."

He spread his arms. "Go ahead. You won't distract me." And that was an outright lie. Every move she made distracted him. From the purse of her coral-tinted mouth, he got the impression that he had distracted her as well, though probably not for the same reason.

She thought for a moment, then nodded crisply. "As a matter of fact, your coming here this morning gives me a chance to follow up on something with you, too."

"Really?"

"Yes, give me moment, please."

He watched her retrieve papers from the copier. The fluid shift of her hips beneath the straight-cut, beige skirt she wore fascinated him. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He tried to appear casual, in direct contradiction to the unsteady tattoo of his heart.

She stepped to the counter, keeping a good four foot distance between them. As she divided the larger stack into four smaller ones, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. "You seemed so concerned about Megan's reading progress last night, that I took the liberty of talking with Miss Erickson this morning."

Tom flexed his jaw in response to the new tension her admission triggered.

She noted his reaction and looked back on the papers. "As I explained to you last night, Mr. Flannery, the curriculum in the elementary schools is more integrated than it is at any other level. The teachers at Stewart work as a team to assure a child's educational success. If I learn that any one of my students is having difficulty in another area, I try to work out strategies with the classroom teacher to help improve that child's achievement."

She fixed him with her open gaze. "I want you to understand that this so you don't think I'm intruding on your privacy, or that I spoke to Miss Erickson only because you registered objections to the music program."

Tom forced himself to relax. "Fair enough. I take it, then, you and Miss Erickson devised a 'strategy' for Megan?"

Though he had spoken a bit tersely, she didn't flinch. "More like a different approach to instruction."

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, obviously unaware how provocative that was. Tom leaned against the counter and clutched the edge to stay concentrated.

"Last night, do you recall my mentioning the Bridge Reading Program?"

When he nodded, she continued to collate the four stacks of paper. "Miss Erickson thinks, and I agree, that Megan might benefit from such individualized tutoring. That's not to say that the time you and your aunt spend reading with her isn't valuable. But children sometimes respond better and more eagerly to instruction from someone other than their parents or classroom teachers. I'm sure it has something to do with a new set of expectations."

"Something along the lines of a change of scenery?"

The spontaneous smile she flashed him lit up her face. "Exactly."

She made sense. Her sweet, hopeful expression also made him uneasy. He'd long ago stopped believing that anyone did anything solely for the benefit of another. Even Myrtle, who raised him after his mother died and now helped him raise Megan, had admittedly traded the time and energy of her middle years for the security of a family and a permanent roof over her head. Tom had to believe that this music teacher, as attractive as she was, only wanted to change his mind about the worth of the arts curriculum. He didn't want to believe it. And that troubled him more than his unexplainable attraction to Ms. Catherine Munro. He should have been able to maintain an intellectual distance. Instead, he found himself questioning his own fatherly instincts, and worse, barely keeping his distance from Cate. He didn't want to make a rash promise just to humor her. Neither did he want to appear to be dismissing her suggestion.

"Do you know of anyone who might be willing to tutor Megan?"

"Not offhand," she replied, her voice eager. "I do know, however, that the public library sponsors tutoring sessions three nights a week. I'm sure they'd have a list of certified teachers and their fee scales if you requested one."

"All right. I'll look into it."

Her smile softened. "Thank you, Mr. Flannery."

That surprised him. "Shouldn't I be thanking you for the suggestion?"

She went back to her collating with renewed vigor. "It seemed the least I could do in light of the worry I've put you through."

He tried to detect a note of sarcasm in her voice and heard none. "You've explained yourself and the program well, Ms. Munro. I..." he hesitated. The inside of his mouth went suddenly dry. "If last night I offended you with some of my inferences, I apologize."

Though she kept her attention riveted on her papers, her cheeks pinked. "Apology accepted."

The soft, demure reply made him feel generous. "There is something else," he added, since she made confessing so painless.

She finished her job and turned to him. "And that is?"

Tom pushed himself away from the counter. As serious as he wanted to be, he felt a smile threaten the corner of his mouth. "When my Aunt Myrtle signed Megan's permission slip, she also volunteered my services for the program."

"I see." She let her gaze wander to the floor a moment before she looked him straight in the eye. "I wasn't aware of that. I haven't gone through the slips to make a list of volunteers. I'll be sure to disregard yours."

"No!"

She blinked at his sharp reply, and he didn't quite believe the insistent quality of his voice.

"I mean," he went on more calmly, "I knew after our discussion last night that you'd probably disregard the offer. I came to ask you not to do that."

She seemed bemused. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to speak, but she closed it again and frowned. "Mr. Flannery, this isn't necessary. I really do understand."

"My Aunt Myrtle doesn't."

Something in the way he said that, or maybe the way he wrinkled one side of his face into an expression of mock pain, struck her as funny. She bit her lip to keep from grinning.

Tom smiled as he watched her try to hide her amusement. "Myrtle said she met you, so you understand what I mean."

"Your aunt seems a kind and caring person," she replied, letting the grin slip out.

"She must have had her mask of civility. She doesn't pretend with me. Besides, she likes you, probably because Meggie likes you."

Her amusement faded. "I'm pleased to hear that. But really, you don't need to do this because your aunt insists."

"I've taken orders from her since I've been six," Tom replied with a resigned shrug. "The habit's hard to break. More than that," he added seriously, "Myrtle had a good point. Because of the traveling I do for my own business, I haven't had much time to get involved with school activities. She convinced me that this would be a good place to begin."

Cate wasn't convinced. "She's right, but I warn you. Volunteering for one of these programs is time consuming. The week before the actual performance can be frantic. If you own a business, how will you have time?"

"I'll make time."

He hadn't meant his words to have a double meaning. But the idea of making time with Catherine Munro made his heart thud a little harder. For that matter, her eyes widened with chagrined surprise. Had the same notion flitted across her mind?

"I'm handy with a hammer and a saw," he told her, changing the subject enough to put the conversation back into the neutral zone.

"You are?"

He glanced down at himself, then back at her. "Don't let the jacket and tie fool you. I worked construction jobs with my dad every summer to put myself through college."

A smile flickered across her face as she glanced toward the laminator, then moved toward it. "Well, I'm not sure how much set construction we'll have."

"Then I can paint or move props." He grinned, wanting badly for her to accept him, though he'd originally bridled at the idea. "Maybe I could just ride herd on the kids backstage."

She chuckled softly as she stuck the edges of a large poster featuring symphonic instruments between the laminator's narrow rollers and flipped on the machine. "An interesting possibility."

He stared at her profile, head slightly bent, hair hiding most of the pink stain on her cheeks, long, darker brown lashes a startling contrast to her creamy skin. In that instant, numerous interesting possibilities bounced around his head. None of them had anything remotely to do with school, children, or floppy eared rabbits.

"How about it, Ms. Munro?"

Though her attention was on the laminator, he sensed her thoughts were focused elsewhere. After a few seconds, she looked at him. "You make a generous offer, Mr. Flannery, considering your opinions about the fine arts programs. I truly do sympathize with the way you must feel."

She stopped abruptly. Tom swore she bit her tongue before she took a deep breath. "Maybe this experience will show you how music really does enhance the curriculum."

He doubted it, but Myrtle hadn't left him an option. She'd stopped his arguments cold by appealing to his deep sense of fatherly duty. Still, Ms. Munro didn't know that.

He lifted a brow. "Then I've passed try outs?"

She laughed. "I take volunteers when I can get them. No try outs necessary."

He enjoyed the lilting sound of her laugh and the fine tiny crinkles that appeared around her eyes. As she stepped around the laminator table to inspect what had come through the rollers, he ambled to the place she'd vacated.

Still looking down, she was unaware that he had braced his hands on either side of the machine and was leaning forward. The top of her head lay only inches from his face. Her hair smelled as shiny clean as it looked. The heat from the laminator intensified her floral perfume.

"I'd like to prove I'm not the uncooperative jerk I pretended to be last night," he said softly.

Her head came up and she gasped, startled at his nearness. She drew in a shaky breath. "That...isn't necessary."

"Yes, Ms. Munro, it is necessary."

Tom, too, had trouble taking in air. This woman did strange things to his insides. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to act with bold recklessness. He felt himself pulled inexorably toward her. The shimmering heat of the laminator was the only wall between them. As he inhaled the warm air, his throat tightened. Her face came nearer as some force pulled him closer...

"Oh, no! Mr. Flannery!"

He saw her hand come up as she cried out. Good grief, he'd lost himself trying to make a pass. He didn't blame her if she smacked him one. But she didn't strike him. Instead, he felt her grip his tie just below the knot and give a yank.

"Oh, no!" she gasped again.

Tom tried to look down and couldn't. Neither could he bend up. "What the hell!"

He could barely croak as something slowly cut off his air.

"You're stuck in the laminator!" Cate cried in alarm and gave one last tug on his tie. At the same moment, Tom pushed with all his might against the machine, but couldn't stop the forward pull.

"Your tie! It's caught in the machine!"

That was it! The damned machine was devouring his tie and slowly garroting him.

"Move your hand!"

He did.

"The other one!"

She grabbed his right hand and tore it away from the machine. He heard a snap and his forward motion stopped.

"Mr. Flannery, are you hurt?"

"No!" he gasped.

She laid her hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him to look at the damage. Her warm breath wafted across his face. She turned to him, bringing the tip of her nose less than a thumb's width from his. He might have enjoyed the accidental intimacy had he been able to move without the risk of breaking his neck.

"I don't think I can pull your tie out, Mr. Flannery. It's gone through too far. I'll have to cut it."

He nodded and her floral scent left with her. A moment later, she reappeared at his side. In his peripheral vision, he saw her wield the longest pair of shears he'd seen in all his thirty-six years.

"Hold still," she cautioned.

He could have told her not to worry. He didn't dare make any sudden moves with that weapon so close to his face.

She moved in on him, but quickly stepped back. "Ah, Mr. Flannery...ah...I can't quite reach over you far enough. You'll have to put your arm down so I can get closer."

He dropped his arm and held it rigid at his side.

Once again she moved in on him and leaned forward, bracing her thighs against the edge of the table to steady herself. "I just have to be a little closer."

Then he felt it, what had to be the real reason for her regret. Catherine Munro laid her arm across his back and flattened her negligible weight against him. Her body from shoulder to thigh was as soft and yielding as it had been in his arms the night before when he hefted her off the closet floor. He stared down at the malicious looking blades she positioned on either side of his tie, trying to ignore the crush of her breast against his upper arm and the currents of electricity it sent through him. If Catherine Munro could have read his mind, seen the erotic images that flashed through it, she no doubt would have turned the laminator back on and let his entire carcass roll right through it. Luckily, he could reasonably blame the fire in his face on the idiotic situation.

The scissors blades meshed with a creak. Instantly, he snapped backward and reached for his throat. He found Cate's hand already there, clawing at the knot of his tie. Their fingers entwined frantically, managing to undo the remnants of the silken noose. He whipped out the tie and held it at arm's length as he gulped air.

"Mr. Flannery, are you all right?"

He heard her concern and nodded.

"Your face is so flushed. Would you like some water?"

The unexpected press of her cool palm against his cheek jarred him. The movement startled her. She fell back two steps and pressed her fingers her lips, still clutching the monster shears in her other hand.

The place where she had touched his cheek stung with the imprint of her fingertips. Every nerve in his body crackled with tension that had little to do with his narrow escape from the jaws of the laminator. He could do nothing but gape and wonder at the keen effect this woman had on him.

They faced each other like opponents squaring off before a duel, except that Cate held the one weapon between them. The blades were nearly as long as her forearm.

Tom let out a deep breath and dropped his arms. "I'm glad you had your wits about you, Ms. Munro," he said and gestured weakly to the scissors. She glanced at them and slowly let her fingers trail down her chin to rest on the 'V' of her blouse.

"Do you need a license to carry those things?" he asked, feeling the corner of his mouth itch with the makings of a giddy smile.

She let her puzzled gaze drift back to him. "A...what? License?" She blinked, then giggled, a tiny, self- conscious sound like the tinkling of wind chimes.

"This really...isn't...funny," she tried to excuse. "You might have been hurt." She cleared her throat and deposited the scissors on the laminating table. "I'm afraid your tie is ruined."

The new flush of pink in her cheeks, the effort she made to hide her laughter, the way she looked at him through her long lashes in amused apology sent his already fluttering gut into gyrations. Partly to cover his bemusement, partly because he couldn't hold it in, he threw his head back and laughed. Startled, she laughed with him. The release felt as good as it was unfamiliar, and reminded him that it had been awhile since he found side-splitting humor in a situation so ridiculous. And it had been far too long since he shared such a warm, unlikely moment and honest emotion with a lovely woman. He basked in the moment, unwilling to let it fade. He had lost his dignity, lost his tie, and almost lost his capacity to breathe. But the price he'd paid to discover the sweet, genuine trill of Catherine Munro's laughter somehow seemed worth it.

"I really am sorry about your tie," she finally said, gaining control.

Tom took a last, longing look at the remnants of his tie, then made a wad of it and heaved it into the wastebasket. "My fault. I've been a computer networking consultant for so long that I've lost all sense of caution around moving parts. A hard drive has yet to devour any part of my clothing."

He caught a glimmer of question in her eyes. Then Cate laughed again and his belly tightened.

"But now you have no tie to wear," she pointed out. She lifted her gaze, letting it linger on his mouth before she met his eyes.

What had she imagined in that brief moment, he wondered, his imagination crowded with carnal musings. He shrugged, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. "I always keep a spare at the office. I try to be prepared for anything."

She bit her lip, then grinned as she glanced at the laminator. "Anything?"

"Anything."

Except you, Ms. Catherine, Cate-to-your-friends, Munro, he added silently, peering into her eyes. I'm never quite prepared for you.

Amazingly, that insight didn't bother him. In fact, he found the notion a bracing challenge. She shifted her gaze to the clock overhead. Only then did he realize how much time had passed.

"I've kept you too long," he told her politely, though he didn't feel in the least bit guilty. He'd enjoyed the fleeting minutes with her; knew that the rest of the day would be dull in contrast.

"No, not at all," she hurried, then shook her head. "I mean, I'm pleased that you'll be helping us with the program." The color in her face deepened. "Even if your aunt did coerce you into it."

He let his grin fall askew. "I hate to admit it, but Myrtle usually knows what's best for me." Even if I don't know what's best for me, he decided, realizing that he should leave and wanting too much to stay. "Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Munro. I'll seriously consider your suggestion about tutoring for Megan."

Her smile sent a ripple of pleasure through him. Tom extended his hand. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Flannery." She wrapped her fingers around his and pumped his arm once.

Then he froze, unable for the next five, long seconds to release her. Her warm, silken skin felt right folded inside his hand. He knew her scent had imprinted itself there, that he'd catch wisps of it during the day, that the memories would distract him as keenly as her touch distracted him now.

She stared at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and curious. Yet, she didn't pull back. She hardly seemed to breathe. Some inner alarm clanged. He had to leave. It was late. Way too late. He willed his fingers to splay and relax. She stepped back immediately and lifted her chin. With a terse nod, he turned and left the workroom.

He was in his car, seat belt buckled, key in the ignition before he realized that his hands shook and perspiration had soaked his shirt.

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