Читать книгу Romancing The Teacher - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 6

There were times when Lisa Kittridge wondered what she was doing here. And why for the last eighteen months she continued to return to Providence Shelter, week after week, when she really didn’t have to. At least, not because of some court order, the way so many others who passed through here did.

God knew it wasn’t because time hung heavily on her hands. Absolutely every moment of her day was accounted for, what with thirty-one energetic third graders to teach and a five-year-old and a mother to care for.

Not that Susan Kittridge actually needed looking after, despite the bullet to the hip that had taken her off the police force and brought a cane into her life. Her mother was one of the most independent women Lisa knew. But every so often, Susan’s soul would dip into that black place that beckoned everyone, that place that called for surrender and apathy. During those times, Lisa was her mother’s cheering section, drawing on the endless supply of optimism that she’d somehow been blessed with.

Optimism that saw her through her own hard times.

Optimism she felt obliged to share here at the homeless shelter, to pay back a little for the personal happiness she had in her own life. Working at the shelter also accomplished something else. It made her too busy to think about Matt. Very much.

But then, there were days like today, when her cheerfulness seemed to go down several levels. She worked harder then. Longer.

Her work wasn’t excessively difficult. Not that she minded hard work. She thrived on it, her late father liked to boast. And if all that was required of her to help out here was a strong back and endless energy, then working at the shelter would have been a piece of cake.

But it wasn’t all. There was more. A great deal more.

Every so often, the hurt she found herself facing grew to such proportions that it became too much for her to endure emotionally. Looking into the faces of the children sometimes tore at her heart so badly she didn’t think she could recover, certainly not enough to come back.

But she always did.

She’d initially volunteered at Providence Shelter in order to make a difference in these people’s lives. Instead, the people she interacted with had made a difference in hers. They made her humbler. More grateful. And more determined than ever to help.

Help people such as the little girl on the cot.

Lisa had walked into the long, communal sleeping area with an armload of fresh bedding that needed to be distributed. She saw the girl immediately—there was no one else in the room and the little girl was a new face. A new, frightened face.

She was sitting on the cot, her thin arms braced on either side of her equally thin body, dangling her spindly legs as if that were her only source of entertainment, the only thing she had any command over.

As Lisa came closer, the little girl looked up suddenly, suspicion and fear leaping into her wide, gray eyes.

Oh God, no child should have to look like that, Lisa thought. Her son was around this girl’s age.

The mother in her ached for the little girl. For all the little girls and boys who’d found themselves within the walls of homeless shelters because of some cruel twist of fate.

Very carefully, Lisa laid down the bedding she was holding and smiled at the little girl. “Hi, what’s your name?”

The wide eyes continued to stare at her. There was no answer.

Lisa sat down on one edge of the cot. The girl quickly moved to the opposite corner, like a field mouse frightened away by the vibration of footsteps.

“You don’t talk to strangers,” Lisa guessed. The little girl nodded solemnly, never taking her eyes away. “That’s very good. You shouldn’t. I’ve got a little boy just your age and that’s what I tell him, too.” She smiled warmly at the child. “My name is Lisa,” she told her. “I’m a volunteer here.” Lisa extended her hand toward the small fingers that were clutched together in the little girl’s lap. “I help out here at Providence when I can.”

Lisa had an overwhelming desire to wash away the smudges on the small, thin face and brush the tangles out of the thick, brown hair. But first she had to win the girl’s trust and, depending on what the child had been through and what she had seen, that might not be very easy.

“If you need anything,” she told the girl, “just ask me.”

The small hands remained clasped together.

Lisa rose to her feet. She didn’t want the child to feel crowded or pressured in any way. “Remember, if you need anything, my name’s Lisa.”

Picking up the bedding, she began to distribute the folded, freshly laundered sheets. She’d just placed the last one down when she heard a small voice behind her say, “Daddy.”

Lisa turned around, not completely certain whether she’d actually heard the word or imagined it. “Did you say something, honey?”

“Daddy,” the girl whispered again in the same soft, timid voice.

Lisa’s mind raced. Either the little girl was telling her that she was afraid of her father—so many women and children here had been abused—or that she wanted her father. She couldn’t tell by the girl’s expression, which had not changed. Lisa took a chance and focused on the fact that she had used the word “need” when she’d spoken to the little girl.

“Do you want me to find your daddy for you?”

The dark head bobbed up and down. “Yes.”

Was the man here somewhere at the shelter? Or had he abandoned his family before they ever found their way to this place? She needed more input, but right now, there was no one else to ask for details. “Can you tell me what your daddy looks like, honey?”

Before the little girl could answer, a tall, thin woman with premature lines etched into her face entered the room. She looked relieved to see the little girl sitting there. And then she looked angry.

Crossing to her, the woman wrapped her arms protectively around the child’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. She pressed the girl to her, as if to absorb her. Or at the very least, keep her out of harm’s way.

“There’s no sense in you looking for him,” the woman snapped at Lisa. Her anger at the invasion, at being stripped of everything, even pride, pulsated in the air between them like barely harnessed electricity. “Monica’s daddy left us almost two years ago. Couldn’t stand watching us do without anymore. Like leaving helped.” Bitterness twisted the woman’s pinched mouth. “He’s the reason we’re here. Monica thinks he’ll come back even though I keep telling her he won’t.”

Lisa knew all about hanging on emotionally even when logic dictated otherwise. “Everyone needs to be able to hope,” she said, gently touching the little girl’s cheek.

“What everyone needs is to be prepared for disappointment,” a deep male voice rumbled behind her.

There was no malice in the voice, no overwhelming cynicism. Only resignation to the facts.

Swinging around, Lisa found herself looking up at a tall, darkly handsome man with intense ice-blue eyes. The sensual smile never reached his eyes or any other part of him.

She’d never seen him before.

He was dressed casually, but the dark-blue pullover and gray slacks looked expensive. The man seemed as out of place here as a genuine pearl necklace in a drawer full of costume jewelry.

Here comes trouble.

She had no idea where the thought had come from, but it flashed across her mind the second she saw him. The second his eyes touched hers.

“Who are you?”

Her voice sounded a little sharp to her own ear, but she didn’t like his philosophy. Liked even less that he expressed it in front of a child.

Behind her, she heard Monica and her mother leaving the room. She made a mental note to bring a small doll with her for Monica the next time she came.

If Monica was still here. Every little girl deserved to have a doll.

She looked at the stranger, still waiting for an answer. Was this some kind of a game for him? She was aware of his scrutiny. As if she was someone he needed to evaluate before answering. Just who did he think he was?

“Well?” she asked.

She had a temper, Ian thought. Probably helped her survive what she had to deal with in a place like this. “Ian Malone, at your service.”

He waited a moment to see if there was a glimmer of recognition. He didn’t write under his own name, but it wasn’t exactly a state secret that Ian Malone and B. D. Brendan were one and the same.

But there was nothing in the woman’s face to indicate that the name—or he—meant anything at all to her. Good. Even though writing was the only lifeline that he still clung to—and even that had been failing him for the past nine months—there were times when fame got on his nerves. It made him want to shed his skin, a snake ready to move on to the next layer.

She wasn’t saying anything, so he added, “I was told to report to you for instructions.” Marcus had dropped him off here, promising to be by later to pick him up. Marcus had made it seem like a feather in his cap, getting him this community service gig. Looking around, he was beginning to think a little jail time wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. “You are Lisa Kittridge, right?”

“Right,” she fired back at him. She didn’t like his attitude, she didn’t like him. One of the privileged who’d come here, slumming, to atone for a social transgression. She’d seen his kind before. “Who told you to report to me?”

“A little bird-like woman at the front desk.” He turned in that general direction. “British accent, bad taste in clothes.”

“That would be Muriel.” She took offense for the other woman. Muriel ran the shelter and had a heart as large as Dodger Stadium. “And for your information, I think she dresses rather well.”

“Can’t help that,” he murmured under his breath, then asked, “Is she a friend of yours?”

He asked a hell of a lot of questions for someone who’d been sent here in lieu of jail time, she thought. She felt her back going up even more. “We don’t go on retreats together or braid each other’s hair, but yes, you could say we’re friends.”

“Then I’d clue her in if I were you. Better yet,” his eyes washed over her and there was a glint of appreciation in them, “you could take her shopping with you the next time you go.”

She wasn’t flattered. She was annoyed. “Is this an effort for you, or does being obnoxious just come naturally?”

The smile gave no sign of fading. If anything, he looked even more amused. “It’s a gift,” he told her dryly.

“One you should return,” she countered. Because she was short of funds and long on work, Muriel had gotten to the point where she relied on Lisa heavily, so Lisa knew she had to make the best of this conceited misfit they’d been sent for however long he was here. “Let me guess, community service, right?”

Ian inclined his head, giving her the point. “The lady gets a prize.”

The shelter saw its share of first-time offenders whose sentences were commuted to volunteering a number of hours working for either the city or a charitable organization. Most of the time, the men and women came, did what was required of them and left without any fanfare, wanting to get it over with as quickly, as quietly as possible.

This one was different. This one had an attitude. Terrific.

“And just what was it that they found you guilty of?” she asked.

The answer came without any need for thought. “Living.”

“If that were the case, the shelter would never be shorthanded. What did the judge say you did?” she pressed. The sooner she got him to admit accountability, the more readily he would move on. Or, at least she hoped so.

He shrugged carelessly. He’d never liked giving an account of himself. It reminded him too much of being grilled by his grandfather. “My car had a difference of opinion with a tree. They both wanted to occupy the same place. The tree won.”

Her eyes swept over him. There were no signs that he’d even been in an accident. He had one small scar over his left eye, but that had long since healed and grown faint with time, so she doubted that he’d sustained it in an accident. “You don’t look any the worse for it.”

His mouth twisted in a semi-smile. “Too bad my car can’t say the same thing.”

Her eyes darkened like a sudden storm sweeping over the horizon. “You were drunk.”

He watched, fascinated by the transformation. She looked as if she would have thought nothing of grinding him into the ground. “Kitty, what I was—and am—is my business.”

“Lisa,” she corrected coldly. “My name is Lisa. Or, in your case, Miss Kittridge. And since you’re here, you’ve become my business.”

The smile was warm, disarming. It startled her how quickly it all but filleted her clear down to the bone. “Sounds promising.”

Lisa mentally rolled up her sleeves. “Okay, Malone, the first thing you’re going to have to understand is that this isn’t a game and that you’re not slumming. After your time here, you get to go home at the end of the day. For most of these people, this is home. You will treat it—and them—with respect and do what you can to make the experience of being here less painful for them.”

She was almost barking out the orders. “You a drill sergeant in your spare time?”

Her eyes narrowed again. Damn, but they were scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one. “No, a human being.”

“Ouch.”

She didn’t return his smile. She meant to get a fair amount of real work out of him. The shelter was always in need of some sort of repair. The boiler didn’t sound as if it was going to make it through another winter and there were holes in the roof the size of well-fed rats. The rainy season was just around the corner, right after Thanksgiving. That didn’t give them much time to get into shape.

Lisa glanced down at his shoes. “Your Italian loafers are going to get dirty here.”

Their eyes met as she looked up again. She found his smile really unsettling. “You know quality.”

Lisa looked at him pointedly. “Yes, I do.” The way she said it, her meaning was clear.

Ian laughed. Most of the time he dealt with people who fawned over him. People who wouldn’t know an honest emotion if it bit them.

She, obviously, did not fall into that category. “I like you, Kitty.”

She started to correct him again, then decided it wasn’t worth it. Maybe if she just ignored his attempt at familiarity, the man would eventually give it up. He didn’t look as if he had much of an attention span. “How are you with a hammer?”

He’d built his own sailboat once. Actually, he and Marcus had. Marcus had talked him into it the summer before they graduated college. Marcus from Yale, he from NYU. But this woman looked like she’d probably consider that bragging, so instead, he shrugged. “I know which end to use.”

She sighed. Not handy, either. This was just getting better and better. “It’s a start,” she allowed.

“That it is,” he responded.

Ignoring the comment, or the chipper way he delivered it, she made a quick assessment of his body. He was muscular and lean, although she doubted he’d actually ever done any physical labor. He didn’t seem the type. Too bad, but he’d learn.

She thought of the most pressing repair item on her list. “Do heights bother you?”

His eyes slid over her body. She had the impression of being weighed and measured. It surprised her that there was a part of her that wondered, just for a moment, what his conclusions were.

“That depends on what I’m doing,” he finally answered.

Why did she feel as if she’d just been propositioned? “Nailing shingles,” she bit off.

His smile just widened. And burrowed into her despite her resistance. “Any chance of that being a euphemism?”

“None whatsoever,” she replied evenly.

“Didn’t think so.” It would feel good to do something physical for a change, he thought. Something to work up a sweat. “I can give it a try.”

“You need to do more than ‘try,’” she informed him, barely hanging onto her patience.

This wasn’t going to work, she thought, not with the attitude she saw. Granted she didn’t draw a salary here and her time was limited, but she felt part of something at Providence, something that went beyond a paycheck. And these people deserved better than having some bored blight on society doing halfhearted penance because he’d gotten caught going too fast after parking his judgment.

“Look, Malone, you either take this job seriously or have your hotshot lawyer get you reassigned to something else.”

The term made him laugh. If there was anything that Marcus wasn’t, it was a hotshot. “Marcus would really get insulted by that last remark.”

“Marcus?” Who the hell was Marcus? Or was he just trying to distract her?

“My lawyer. My friend,” he added. “He’s really a very dedicated person.” Ian’s mouth curved. “Not like me at all.”

She’d heard his voice soften, just for a moment, when he’d mentioned the man. Maybe this Marcus he mentioned really was a friend. If so, that meant that he was capable of maintaining a relationship with something other than his own photograph. Maybe there was hope for him.

Maybe all this was just bravado because being around the homeless and downtrodden made him nervous. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.

“He’s as solid as a brick wall,” Ian continued.

“And he’s as far from a hotshot as you are from possessing a sense of humor.”

He’d had her going there for a minute, thinking that maybe she’d been too hard on him. First impressions were usually right. And her first impression of him—good looks or no good looks—was far from favorable.

Ian watched in fascination as he saw her eyes flash. They turned from a light green to something he had once seen during a squall. He had a feeling that when she really got going, she was something else. The part of him that dissected and explored, that looked inside of every word, every sensation, every feeling, experienced a curiosity to discover what the woman before him was like when all of her buttons were pressed.

“I don’t laugh very much here, Mr. Malone.”

The retort just came out. It was, in actuality, a lie. Whenever possible, she tried very hard to bring laughter into these people’s lives. If not laughter, then at least a smile. But somehow, with Malone, that laughter seemed synonymous with a joke. And there were precious few jokes here.

“I don’t suggest you do, either,” she added. Lisa drew herself up, painfully aware that she was at least a foot shorter than this annoying man. It made her feel as if she were at a severe disadvantage and she didn’t like that. “Now if you’re through making observations, I’ll take you to that hammer.”

She turned on her heel and began to walk quickly from the room. Taking a second to admire the view from where he was, the way her hips subtly moved with each step, Ian fell into step with her. Because of his longer stride, he caught up within a moment.

“Looking forward to it,” he told her.

And she was looking forward to his hours of community service being over, she thought. Absently, she wondered just how many hours he owed the city. At the same time, she thanked God that she wouldn’t have to be here for most of them.