Roz Fox - A Mom for Matthew

“Ma’am,” he said politely, shading his eyes. “I’m explaining to your partner why you can’t go on doing whatever it is you’re doing in this part of Galveston Bay. Within the week, I’ll have a dozen tugs hauling in underwater drill equipment on flatbed barges. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught in that mess.”

Grace Stafford accepted a towel handed her by Jorge Boudreaux, who pronounced his name Horhay Boodrow. She realized the gentle old soul whose boat she’d rented was practically quaking in his sisal flip-flops. That immediately raised her hackles. She didn’t know who this tall, slightly shaggy, melt-your-socks-rugged guy thought he was, but she couldn’t afford to let anyone intimidate the only person in Galveston whose boat she could afford to rent by the hour. She’d barely begun her quest. She couldn’t give up now. Especially not to please the kind of snake-charmer Grace had, for the past twenty-nine years, done her level best to avoid. For good reason. She imagined the father she’d never known as just such a smiling, fast-talking stinker. To say nothing of the fact that she’d recently had personal experience of a jerk just like this.

“I appreciate your concern for my safety, but…this is exactly where I need to be,” she said, pausing to prop her air tanks against an open sea chest before she joined Boudreaux at the break in the railing.

The handsome stranger kept shaking his head.

Grace explained again, deciding that a more formal approach might be the way to go. “After seven months of online sea chart study, combined with detailed analysis exchanged with naval and Coast Guard underwater explorers, I’ve got reason to believe my grandfather’s Grumman Duck, J2F-6, was blown off course here in a hurricane. That he went down near this very spot. The plane is an historic relic, Mr.—sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Not that exchanging names matters. In the interests of being neighborly, though, let me introduce myself. I’m Grace Stafford. From San Antonio,” she added, wringing out her wet ponytail. “Back at my hotel, I have documents issued by the naval department, giving me exclusive rights to excavate the ocean floor within a half-mile radius in any direction from where Jorge is currently anchored. In other words, my search is government sanctioned. I’m prepared to raise the plane as soon as I locate her. But I have no idea when that will be. Could be a week, a month or with luck—tomorrow,” she said, smiling sweetly down at the face now scowling up at her.

Zeke mulled over not only the woman’s too-smooth explanation, but the content of her statement. He hated the words historic and environmentally unsound almost as much as he hated women who camouflaged hidden agendas with sweet-as-pie smiles. Either could cause a man massive headaches. Zeke had learned both of these things the hard way during his wildcatting days in West Texas. And back then, few things rattled Zeke Rossetti. Those were his footloose, fancy-free years, when he followed his slightest whim—something he definitely couldn’t do these days. Now he had obligations. To his son, his mom and to Pace Kemper, who had faith that he’d excavate a string of productive wells.

“Look, Ms. Stafford,” Zeke began again, attempting equanimity. “I’m sure this salvage is important to you. However, my company stands to lose up to a quarter mil per day in various fees if you persist in your little venture.” Zeke figured he wouldn’t get anywhere being totally unreasonable. He’d especially hate to be accused of badgering a fragile, bean-pole, city gal, who obviously had no idea how drilling operations worked.

He thought if he appealed to her sense of fair play, they’d get somewhere—if women grasped a concept such as fair play. Zeke knew that to some women the term was foreign— Trixie Lee, his ex-wife, being a prime example. He forced himself not to think about how Trixie had suckered him into marriage and continued to sucker him with her sporadic custody threats.

He made an effort to appear relaxed and friendly toward the dripping woman on the rickety tub.

Grace considered her response as she smoothed back flyaway strands of red-gold hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Those same strands were beginning to dry, curling in the corkscrews she detested, curls she’d never been able to tame. Her hair gave the wrong impression; men tended to see her as young and flighty. And the teacher in Grace wanted everything orderly. “Be that as it may, uh…sir. I have clearance from the U.S. Navy to proceed. I’ve got letters from two departments at the Pentagon, if you’d care to have me fax you copies from my hotel—provided my historic hotel has a fax. Plus I have a personal interest in raising the plane. So I must insist you let me get on with it.” She ended abruptly, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the personal part. Men took advantage of women when things became the least bit emotional.

If ever Zeke had seen determination oozing from anyone, Miss—or more likely, Ms.—Stafford’s sea-colored eyes hardened with just such resolve. Clearly, he needed to go back to his office and make a few calls to find out how solid her claim was. And now he was starting to worry about why his permit wasn’t in the mail stacked on his desk.

Cursing roundly under his breath, Zeke yanked twice on the rope coiled around his outboard. The motor roared to life, enabling him to swing the runabout in such a tight turn he slammed a series of waves broadside against the boat. Too bad if the damn thing capsized. He’d happily see Ms. Uptight Stafford and her war documents join her supposed wreck at the bottom of the bay. He sped on, quelling an instinct to glance back.

Shading her eyes, Grace rode out the sway from his back-wash while following his retreat. He was irritated—and decidedly irritating. There was no mistaking his frame of mind, and Grace wasn’t foolish enough to think a man like this would give up easily. Anxiety brought pangs to her chest and knots to her stomach. Why had she been rude to him, letting him get under her skin based on nothing but a sexy appearance? Making enemies of locals wasn’t in her best interests. She seemed to have a habit of dealing poorly in face-to-face negotiations with men.

Grandmother Nell was always chiding her about that. But excellent teacher that Grace was, there were some traits she’d simply never been able to change. And this salvage was so important. She’d launched the exploration with the sole intent of easing her grandmother’s mind in what could well be the last days of Nell Dugan’s life. Grace didn’t have the luxury of time with which to bargain.

Grace’s grandmother had raised Grace by herself after Nell’s only child, a daughter, turned out to be too irresponsible to raise the kid she’d brought into the world. Vanessa Stafford was beautiful, but vain and totally selfish. Grace had only glimpsed her mother twice. And for all she knew, her father didn’t exist, since her mother didn’t bother to marry him or anything else.

But there was nothing Grace wouldn’t do for her grandmother, a woman who’d sacrificed much of her own life to give Grace a home, solid roots and a good education. A woman who’d already raised her daughter alone.

Admittedly, Grace knew very little about ocean salvage. Just what she’d gleaned online and from books checked out of the San Antonio library—yet this was a mission she was committed to completing.

“Jorge, will you refill my air tanks? I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the last of that gentleman. And I use the term loosely,” Grace said, shivering in spite of the sun’s heat.

“His company is powerful,” the old Cajun muttered. “They have jobs and a lotta dough. Shrimpers lost many off-loading docks when Kemper moved in. Maybe you’d better do as he says. I’ll motor us around the point.”