Читать книгу Everything but a Husband - Karen Templeton - Страница 9

Where was Cora?

Swallowing down yet another surge of the nausea that had plagued her since the plane left Pittsburgh, Galen scanned the waiting room, already filling with passengers for the next flight out. She felt like a pack mule. Her purse strangled her diagonally from left shoulder to right hip, her carry-on bag and winter coat crushed the fingers of her right hand, while a beleaguered whimper floated up from the small plastic pet carrier clutched in the other. Amazing, how heavy it was, considering the animal in it weighed about as much as a hoagie. A small hoagie. A hank of hair had slipped out of its clip to torment her cheekbone, but if she put everything down, she’d never figure out how to pick it all up again. Underneath her five-year-old black sweater, she shivered. And not from cold.

All around her, winterized bodies swarmed and jostled each other, the cacophony of voices drowning out intermittent PA announcements and tinny music. Heavens—she hadn’t actually seen Cora in something like twenty years. Tears bit at Galen’s eyes as something close to panic tangled with the queasies. Baby whined again; Galen automatically offered some vague reassurance, as if the thing could hear, let alone understand, her.

She shut her eyes, hauled in a lungful of air. She’d been cloistered even more than she’d thought if a simple trip could throw her this much. True, she’d only flown once before—with Vinnie to St. Thomas for their honeymoon—but she was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake. Not a little kid. Her stomach heaved again; sweat broke out on her forehead, trickling down the side of her face.

“This is crazy,” she muttered to herself, beginning to re-think dumping at least some of her load before her fingers fell off. One corner of her lower lip snagged between her teeth, she craned her neck, her eyes darting around the terminal. Okay, Volcek. Get a grip. You’re just stressed and woozy. She’ll be here—

“Galen? Galen Granata?”

She jumped a foot at the sound of the deep masculine voice a foot away, whirled around to find herself face-to-chest with a ’63 Buick of a man, nicely packaged in plaid flannel and navy blue nylon. Her gaze drifted upward over a thick neck, a squared chin, a smile both tentative and cocky, and a pair of heavy-lidded, thickly-lashed, puppy-dog brown eyes that all but screamed Latin or Mediterranean or something equally threatening.

And then—oh, my—there was that headful of nearly-black hair at least three weeks past needing a haircut.

This was not Cora.

“I’m sorry,” rumbled the voice again. The kind of voice that, when you hear it over the phone, immediately conjures up, well, someone who looks like this. Except, in real life, you discover, eventually and with profound disappointment, the person attached to the voice really looks like Barney Fife. “I must have the wrong person…”

There he went again. Talking. Galen shook her head at the not-Cora, not-Barney-Fife person, which turned out to be a huge mistake. Served her right, she supposed, for holding everything down for two hours. But losing her cookies into a barf bag at thirty-thousand feet was just so…public. She wobbled for a second, both grateful and irked when a firm, large hand grasped her elbow. She caught a whiff of aftershave, and everything heaved inside her.

“Whoa—you okay?”

Reflex jerked her elbow from the man’s grasp, which was another mistake. Her coat and bag slithered and thunked to the floor as she clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide. The next few seconds were a blur as whoever-this-was scooped up her belongings, clamped one arm around her waist, and propelled her down the hall to the ladies’ room. She shoved the carrier at him, grabbed the carry-on, then lurched inside, narrowly missing a mother with toddler twins just coming out.

“I’ll wait here,” she thought she heard as the door whooshed shut behind her a split second before she catapulted into the nearest stall.

Well, that wasn’t a moment too soon. Del let out a sigh of relief, leaned against the wall outside the restroom door. He’d never seen anyone actually turn green before.

A redhead, Cora had said. Check. Caribbean-green eyes. Pretty girl. Can’t miss her. Check, and check, and hoo-boy.

Then a sardonic smile twisted his mouth. Yeah, right… Cora’s car skidded on the ice, she was stuck at the service station, she just couldn’t get anyone else to answer the phone…

Woman was about as subtle as Ru Paul’s makeup.

Of course, all the women he knew—and half the men—had been trying to fix him up ever since he moved to Spruce Lake, three years ago. Thus far, he’d been able to deflect everyone’s good intentions with either a grin or a glower, depending on his mood. But like the slow, torturous shift and grind and upheaval of the earth’s plates, so Del’s thoughts had begun to shift over the years, leading him to think that, mmm, well—he scrubbed a palm over his chin, hardly believing he was admitting this to himself—he might actually be open to the idea of marrying again.

Well. He’d finished the thought and his heart was still beating. But it was true. He was tired, dammit. Tired of trying to figure out his precocious, inquisitive, hyper daughter by himself, tired of having nothing but the TV to keep him company after she went to bed, tired of waking up alone. Not that he didn’t love his daughter with everything he had in him, mind, but…

But.

He let out a sigh loud enough to make some woman coming out of the ladies’ room give him a funny look.

Yeah. But.

What did he think, he could order up a wife from Spiegel’s or something? Criminy. Look how long it had taken him to find one woman willing to hitch herself to a guy smart enough to get a college education but not smart enough to use it, who clearly preferred living in near poverty—but, hey, calling the shots—than sucking up to some boss just for some minor thing like, oh, security. Like there was actually another woman on this planet that crazy?

One willing to take on, besides the promise of continued financial instability, the exhausting, often thankless task of raising someone else’s child?

Especially one as strong-willed and independent as Wendy.

Find another wife? Sure, why not? Piece of cake.

Let’s see…if Wendy was four and a half now, and she left home at eighteen, that meant…only thirteen and a half more years of celibacy.

That brought the old mouth down into a nice, tight scowl.

He jumped each time the restroom door opened. Three women gave him the eye, one looked as though she was willing to give him far more than that. Galen finally emerged, slightly less green but still frighteningly pale, hugging her carry-on to her stomach like a drowning woman a log. He thought she might have run a comb through her hair, splashed water on her face, if the damp tendrils hugging her temples and clumped eyelashes were any indication. Those incredible turquoise eyes met his; a flush swept up from underneath the baggy, high-necked sweater—black, severe, a startling contrast with her fair skin, the dark red hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered, a smile flickering over almost colorless lips.

“Rough flight?”

Her gaze darted to his, vulnerable and embarrassed. A breath-stealing urge to put his arm around her swamped him again; he handily fought it back.

She nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Even without makeup, her complexion was flawless, the skin as clear and fine as a teenager’s. Only the hairline creases bookending her mouth hinted that she was older. And yes, Cora, there were freckles. Just a few, nicely arranged.

“We hit—” she swallowed “—turbulence over the lake.” Another smile played peekaboo with her lips. Nice mouth, even if a bit on the anemic side. Geez…how long had it been since he’d noticed a woman’s mouth? Hell, since he’d noticed a woman’s anything? Or, in this case, everything.

At first glance you’d say, okay, sure, she’s pretty—definitely pretty—but in an ordinary way for all that, y’know? Just…average. Average height, average weight, averagely clothed in sweater and jeans. Very average hair, except for the color. Straight, parted in the middle, clipped back. Strictly utilitarian, right? On second glance, however, you’d say, “Hmm.”

On second glance, you’d notice the delicacy of her bone structure, the way one tawny eyebrow sat slightly higher than the other, that the loose sweater, the no-frills jeans, really didn’t hide what he suspected was a spectacular figure as much as she probably thought it did. That her ears were absolutely perfect. If red rimmed.

She held out her hand for the carrier. Short nails. No polish. No rings. “Here, I’ll take that back—”

“No, it’s okay, I’ve got it.” He lifted it up, peeked inside for the first time. Managed not to wince. Huge, batlike ears, buggy eyes, hairy—the thing looked like a Furby. Before they perfected the prototype.

“She was my grandmother’s,” Galen said on a sigh, as if that explained it. Which, in a weird sort of way, it did. “Now she’s mine, I guess.”

Del lowered the carrier. “Lucky you.”

That got a tiny smile. And another blush. “Well. Talk about your inauspicious beginnings,” she said, traces of blue-collar Pittsburghese tingeing her speech patterns. She jerked her head back toward the restroom door, cleared her throat. “So. You know I’m Galen. And you are?”

Del snapped to, now tried to take her bag as well. Wariness flared in her eyes as she inched away, choking it more closely to her. He swallowed a grin. The dog, he immediately surmised, he could have. Whatever was in that bag, though, she’d fight to the death for. “Del Farentino. I’m the contractor doing some work on Cora’s new house.”

“Oh. The one that’s costing her way too much money?” She flushed even brighter. “Th-the house, I mean. Not the contractor…”

“I think she’d probably agree with you on both counts,” Del said with a grin, wondering what it was about this woman that was making him feel…good. Like something remotely human, even. “Well, we might as well get a move on.” Del started down the concourse, assuming Galen would follow.

She didn’t. Del turned around, got bumped from behind by a foreign tourist. He frowned at the not unwarranted suspicion in Galen’s eyes. “What?”

“Why couldn’t Cora pick me up?”

Del took a step back to her, resisting the urge to glance at his watch. “Well, the story is, she went to do some shopping, her car skidded off the road, messing up the muffler or something, so she couldn’t pick you up. And I was the only person to answer the phone. Can we go—?”

She stayed put, squinting at him with an expression caught neatly between guarded and nervous. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

Ah, hell.

“Oh, I’m telling the truth, honey, trust me. It’s whether Cora’s telling the truth we have to consider.” He gave her the reassuring smile he’d given Mrs. Standish earlier. She didn’t smile back. Del took a step closer. The dog yipped. Del’s hand streaked through his hair as minutes ticked by like race cars. “You afraid to get in the truck with me, what?”

“Uh, yeah.” Caution stiffened her features, shadowed her eyes. But not, he thought, from experience as much as…lack of it. That’s what it was, he realized. She was like a child on the first day of school, excited and fearful all at once. She shifted the bag, which was clearly heavy. “Kinda got that drummed into me by the time I was three. It stuck.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand—he hoped his daughter would grow up to be half this streetsmart, which he doubted, which he decided he did not need to think about just now—but he still had a lot of work to do and it was Thanksgiving week and he had to pick Wendy up from the sitter’s at four and, frankly, he wasn’t in the mood. Hadn’t he just explained who he was? Did she really think he made all that up, somehow? Still, he plastered on another smile. “Honey, I just got you to the john before you threw up all over the terminal floor. You can trust me to get you to Cora’s with both your reputation and body parts intact, okay? I mean, come on, already—do I look like someone you should be afraid of?”

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, color pinking her cheeks. Shook her head. But that was it.

Del huffed out a sigh. “Okay, here’s the deal. Trust me, and I’ll get you to Spruce Lake in just under an hour, no hassles, and for free. Otherwise, take your chances with a taxi. And remember. It’s two days before Thanksgiving. And the weather sucks.”

He pivoted on his heel, started to walk away, figuring if this tactic worked at least fifty percent of the time with a four-year-old, he might have a shot of it working with a grown woman.

Five seconds later, he turned back, undecided whether to throttle or comfort the basket case in front of him. Then he lifted both hands, the carrier dangling like a suspended Ferris wheel basket. “For crying out loud, I know who you are, I know who Cora is, I didn’t run off with your dog when I had the chance—” he jerked the carrier to prove his point, which he noticed did provoke a small, startled reaction on her part, not to mention the dog’s “—so why are you so afraid of me?”

“It’s not that…”

He sighed. Mightily. But he walked back, dumped the carrier and her coat, then fished his wallet from the vest’s inside pocket. As what seemed like the entire population of the Great Lakes region milled around them, he flipped it open to his driver’s license, which happened to sit opposite a picture of his daughter. “Okay, here. I don’t know what this will prove, but what the hell.”

She never even noticed the license, he could tell. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, a soft “Oh” falling from her lips. “Is that your little girl?”

Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so ticked with her. Suddenly, he was aware of her shiny, fragrant hair, the way the part wasn’t quite straight, that she was just the right height to fit neatly under his chin, if he were to hug her.

That this feeling-like-a-human business could easily get out of hand.

After a stunned moment or two, Del angled his head to look at the shot, one of those a-thousand-photos-for-fifteen-bucks JC Penney specials. Wendy’s fourth birthday portrait, all deep brown eyes and dimples. A twinge of something like fear hobbled through his gut, as images of strapping, hormone-sodden teen males—guys just like he had been, once upon a time—popped into his head.

God, she looked so freaking much like Cyndi, although the dark eyes were definitely Farentino stock. And everytime he saw Wendy, or even a photo of her, it socked into him how long it had taken him, was still taking him, to come to grips with her mother’s death. Yeah, Cyndi had been the most bullheaded woman he’d ever known, but he’d loved her from the bottom of his heart, and her death had damn near devastated him. He and God were still on the outs about that one. In fact, he pretty much figured if he did get married again, it would be more for companionship—and, okay, sex—than for love. It wasn’t that he was saying he’d never love again, exactly, as much as he just wasn’t sure he could. Not the way he’d loved Cyndi, that was for sure.

But then, the next Mrs. Farentino—should there ever be such a creature—would be nothing like Cyndi. She’d be…

Demure. That’s it.

Did women even come in demure anymore? Or had that concept gone the way of avocado kitchen appliances?

He glanced at Galen.

Huh.

“Uh, yeah,” he finally said before she wondered if he’d fallen in a hole or something. “Wendy. She’s four and a half. All we’ve got is each other.”

Now why the hell did you say that?

He could feel Galen’s gaze dust his cheek, sweep back to the photo. “What a sweetheart.”

“She has her moments.”

Seconds passed. Del wondered if you could get drunk from just smelling someone. If letting too many hormones flood the bloodstream too fast could give you the bends.

“She has your eyes,” Galen said at last, softly, which, for some odd reason, seemed to settle things in her mind, as they decidedly unsettled things in his. Without warning, she took off, leaving Del grabbing for the carrier, then double-stepping to catch up.

He switched everything to one arm, then took her bag from her; she actually didn’t protest. “You got any other luggage?”

She shook her head, her russet hair gleaming in the overhead lights as she walked. “I’m only here for the weekend. Oh!”

She swayed again, as if being tossed on a wave. Del reached again for her elbow; she moved away. “I’m fine.”

“What you are, is full of it.”

“Not any more.” She bobbled again, but the hell with her. She didn’t want him to touch her, he wouldn’t touch her. Well, unless she listed more than twenty degrees, in which case, he was there.

“You didn’t eat before you boarded, did you?”

A herd of teenagers, all talking and laughing at the top of their lungs, swarmed past, forcing Galen to step closer to him or risk being trampled. Close enough to catch another whiff of her hair. Of her. Floral-scented pheromones. A few more hormones surged forth, like an army determined to breach the enemy’s stronghold.

The throng of kids passed, Galen reclaimed her space, and the hormones ebbed.

“No, really. I’m okay.” Except she went all wobbly again, coming damn close to passing the twenty degree mark.

His hand shot out, grabbed her elbow. “Come on,” he said, steering her toward a coffee shop. What the hell—the day was blown, anyway. As long as he was back in time to pick up Wendy, it wasn’t as if the guys couldn’t cope without him. “You need a cup of tea, something to settle your stomach—”

“Don’t tell me what I need!” She squirmed away from his touch, yet again, digging in her heels. Perplexed, Del was startled to see something almost like fear glittering in those turquoise eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.” Criminy—they were talking a lousy cup of tea. What was with this woman? “If you don’t mind, Mr…. Farentino, was it? I’d really just like to get to Cora’s.”

First he couldn’t get her to leave, now he couldn’t get her to stay. Del stared her down, ignoring—or so he told himself—the odd prickling sensation in various parts of his body when their gazes locked. “Okay, answer me one thing.” The higher of the two slender brows lifted in question. “If you’d just about upchucked all over Cora and she’d suggested getting a cup of tea, would you be giving her a fight about it?”

She looked away, and Del felt like she’d just broken an electrical connection. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, her words coming out on a long breath. “I know you mean well. It’s just…” She flushed, color staining her pale cheeks. “Please?”

Something slammed into him, although he couldn’t have put a name to it. Something about the way she said “Please,” as if she’d had to beg one too many times for things she shouldn’t have had to. Ten seconds ago, he’d been damn close to lusting after this woman—at least, he thought that’s what it was, since it had been so long he wasn’t all that sure he recognized the signs anymore—and now he felt like girding those errant loins of his and going to battle for her, slaying dragons or jerks or whatever had put that apprehension in her eyes.

With a nod, he shifted everything to one arm, then reached out to take her elbow; she flinched again. He lifted his free hand. “Sorry.”

There went the fear again, flickering across her features. But a smile, too. Shaky, insecure, but a smile. “You’re just one of those touchy types, aren’t you?”

“What can I tell you? I’m Italian.”

The poor little grin petered out. “Oh, that much I know,” she said softly, then hitched her purse up onto her shoulder, took a deep breath and headed down the concourse, leaving him once again to follow.

She should have taken her chances with the million other passengers and gotten a taxi. Getting in a confined space with this man was pure lunacy. Not because she was afraid he’d murder her or anything quite that dramatic, but because…

Because…

Spit it out, Volcek.

Because only once before had she been this sexually attracted to a man, and look how that had turned out.

But it made no sense. Not just the part about her blood zinging to parts of her body she’d pretty much decided would need shock treatment to be brought back to life—over a man she’d just met, no less—but because…

Trotting along behind Del through the parking garage, she told herself the flight, the stress of the past few days, had left her addle-brained.

There was no reason Del Farentino should remind her of Vinnie. None. Vinnie was suits and ties. Vinnie was never a hair out of place, manicures and pinky rings, expensive men’s cologne and an accent carefully culled of any hint of its working-class roots. Vinnie was culture and class and money, the quintessential product—like his three older brothers—of the American dream. His grandparents might have come to the States on the great immigration tide at the turn of the century, but they worked their fingers to the bone so their children would have it better than they did, their grandchildren better than that. The four boys, like their parents before them, may have been restaurateurs, but they could hold their own in a conversation anywhere and with anyone.

Del Farentino, on the other hand, was solid blue-collar stock, as average as any other guy she’d ever known in her grandparents’ working-class neighborhood. The guys her grandparents wouldn’t let her date, the guys they declared weren’t good enough for her. Yet, despite what she knew were surface differences, there was…something—a quality? an attitude?—that made her husband and this ordinary, slightly disheveled enormous man striding beside her more alike than different. She just couldn’t put her finger on it. And then there was this crazy, unwarranted attraction. To a complete stranger. Sure, he was good looking. And nice, if a little full of himself. And, granted, she’d lived like a nun for three years. Longer, since she and Vinnie hadn’t been intimate for some years before his death. But still, it wasn’t as if she’d been languishing from sexual frustration all this time. She’d never really thought all that much about it, frankly. Sex ‘n’ that.

Until about twenty minutes ago.

Caution hummed through her, warning her she needed to…what?

Protect herself.

She started at the thought, not comprehending. For heaven’s sake, she was only going to be here for a few days. She probably wouldn’t even see him again. Yet, as she watched him lope to the truck, his strides sure and strong, yet oddly reckless, she was again struck by the differences between Vinnie and this man. She couldn’t even imagine him in a suit. Not that there wasn’t a certain grace to his broad movements, like the movements of a wild beast. But the word “elegant” was not the first word that came to mind when you looked at Del Farentino.

Actually, the first word that came to mind was “hot”.

Oh.

Oh, my.

While she stood there, mulling over why her brain had run away with her libido, like the dish with the spoon, Del opened the door to the extended cab, settled all her things, and the dog, in the back, then hooked a hand on her elbow to usher her up to her seat.

His heat sizzled right through her sweater, dancing along her skin clear up to her ears, which must be downright glowing. She told herself she was still feeling the aftereffects of her upset tummy.

He strode around to his side, yanked open his door, climbed in. Yup. Just as she expected. This cab was much too small.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he growled, and she shot him a look.

He looked back, heavy black brows dipped. They’d only been outside for a minute, but the sharp, biting wind had done a real number on his shaggy hair. He shoved it back off his forehead. It fell right back. “What?”

She yanked on the belt, drawing it across her chest to ram it into place. There it was. What had reminded her of her husband. The one thing that should easily negate whatever this physical business was. “I’m not a child, Mr. Farentino,” she said quietly, directing her gaze out the window. Away from those intense eyes. “I don’t need to be told what to do.”

His sigh seemed equal parts frustration and contrition. She risked a quick peek at the side of his face as he put the truck into reverse, started to back out of the parking space. His mouth had thinned, but the corner was tilted into kind of a smile. “Sorry.” She flinched when his long arm suddenly slammed across the back of the seat, his hand landing right behind her head, as he shifted to see behind him. “Force of habit. Hey…” The truck lurched to a stop, half-in, half-out of the space. “You okay?”

She gasped. The parking garage, redolent with exhaust and gasoline, combined with the tension of unwelcome feelings and even less welcome memories had threatened the fragile peace with her stomach. But she would have been fine had Del not jerked to a stop like that. “I was.”

“Ah, hell—you’re white as a sheet. You gonna lose it again?”

She couldn’t tell if he sounded more annoyed or worried. She sucked in a slow, steadying breath. “No,” she said tightly. “I’ll be okay as soon as we get out of here and into some real air.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” she bit out, hot, dumb tears needling her eyes. “I just need some air, okay?”

His skepticism practically vibrated between them, but he slowly completed the maneuver, carefully driving the truck out of the garage and, within a minute or so, onto the highway. At the moment, despite the heavy, solid clouds still crouched overhead like a huge cat waiting to pounce, the bad weather had called a truce of sorts. She cracked the window, breathing in the damp air. Willing herself to feel normal again.

To feel safe.

“You can open it more, if you want. I don’t mind.”

She did, afraid to speak, to admit the air wasn’t helping at all. To admit she felt, again, like a helpless child, alone and ill in a stranger’s truck.

She heard Del chuckle, which she might have enjoyed, actually, were it not for the fact that she really felt like yesterday’s garbage and that she had the definite feeling the chuckle was aimed at her. But the words that followed couldn’t have been more gentle.

Like Vinnie’s used to be.

“Okay, since my pointing out that you’re being stubborn would probably only make you feel worse, I’m just gonna say that anytime you want to stop, you only have to say the word, okay?”

Her stomach heaved. How, she didn’t know, because there wasn’t a blessed thing inside it. She rolled down the window some more.

“How long did you say until we get to Spruce Lake?” she managed, inexplicably angry. At her body, for betraying her in a hundred ways. At herself, for feeling petulant. At Del, for reminding her of Vinnie.

The Vinnie she’d thought she was marrying, anyway.

“Little less than an hour.”

An hour? Her eyes burned. How on earth would she make it that long? Oh, why had she let Cora talk her into this? A chill raced up her spine, exploding into a cold sweat at the back of her neck, her forehead.

“Stop!”

Del pulled smoothly up onto the shoulder, was out of the truck and to her side before she even got the door open. Then she was on her knees in the wet winter weeds by the side of the road, Del holding her shoulders as she heaved to the sound of traffic whizzing by them.

Could the gauge on her mortification scale possibly sink any lower?

“Better?” she heard in her ear.

Well, apparently, since she started to bawl, there was indeed another point or two left on the bottom of that scale. About what, she had no idea. Nothing. Everything. Barfing in public and losing her grandmother and having no family and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger and realizing how really, really bad she was at being alone. And how she had no one but herself to blame for getting herself into such a sorry state.

“Hey, hey…c’mere, honey.” Squatting beside her, Del tucked her under his chin, one arm still clamped around her shoulders. “These things happen, y’know? Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”

“Oh, right,” she said on a shaky breath, not liking how much she liked the way his chin nestled on top of her head. How good it felt to have a man’s arm around her again. How this whole man-woman thing was such a crock. “I suppose this kind of thing happens to you all the time.”

“Actually, you might be surprised. I do have a four-year-old, you know.”

At that, she drew away enough to look up into his eyes. And immediately regretted it. Not because she didn’t like what she saw, but because she did. Not just the way the skin crinkled around his eyes when he smiled, or even the profound goodness she sensed behind the smile. No, it went far, far deeper than that, because she suddenly figured out another reason why this man reminded her of Vinnie. Actually, of every man she’d ever known.

Del Farentino, she realized with the force of a thunderclap, was a Protector. Too. The kind of man whose mission, as he saw it, was to take care of all the females in his life, to ensure their health, safety and well-being. On the surface, a desirable enough trait, until the down side of having a man look out for your every need smacks you between the eyes. Until you wake up one day and realize you’ve never made a single important decision on your own.

Heck, that you’ve barely made any little decisions on your own.

And that, because of what you’d allowed to happen, you weren’t considered capable of handling what should have been yours by right.

Vinnie had been a Protector. As had her grandfather. Granted, they had different ways of carrying out their mission, but the message was the same: a woman needed a man to take care of her, to give her what she needed, to guide her through life, to protect her from…herself. Maybe Vinnie had been a kinder, gentler example of the species, using sweet talk and presents to get his way, but get his way, he did. In everything. And how the heck was a completely sheltered eighteen-year-old who’d never even dated another man to know how detrimental such an attitude could be? That her husband’s outdated ideas about men’s and women’s roles, his determination to shield her from the worries and cares of the everyday world—in other words, life—had also created the woman who now couldn’t take a simple little trip without becoming violently ill?

She scrambled to her feet then, throwing off both Del’s concern and his arm. True, she wobbled for a second, but ultimately forced everything to settle down.

Her body hadn’t gone haywire because of the plane, or the exhaust smells or anything else physical. Not really. She was sick because she was petrified. Of being alone. Of being on her own. Of being unable to handle decisions other people—other women—handled without a second thought. With the money her grandmother had left her, she really could do pretty much whatever she wanted…and the prospect of being the only person responsible for her life absolutely terrified her.

The prospect, however, of being sucked into another relationship, of falling under another man’s protection, terrified her far more.

Still, even though the men in her life could be, in large part, credited for the state in which she now found herself, she wasn’t dumb enough or naive enough to consign the entire blame to them. For thirty-five years, Galen Volcek Granata had let men boss her around, one way or another. Strip her of her autonomy, her ability to function as a complete human being. For ill or good, she had made her own choices, all along.

Now she had the opportunity to fix things.

She stomped over to the truck, yanked open her own door before Del could, climbed in on her own steam.

“I guess that means you’re ready to go?” he said at her window.

“More than I’ve ever been in my life,” she said, chin raised, and the nausea simply vanished.