Cynthia Thomason - An Unlikely Match

“Oh.” Jane picked up the end of the boa and twirled it around. “She can go.”

“Not so fast, Jane,” Claire said. An idea occurred to her, one that had the advantage of easing her anxiety immensely. “There is the little matter of my nine-year-old daughter. Of course, if Jane can go with us…”

“Mommy, no,” Jane said. “Did you forget again? I’m going to make bags of potpourri with Aunt Pet to give to girls for Halloween. We’re putting in lavender and lemongrass, and…”

“That’s right. I did forget. You can stay with Aunt Pet.”

“Then you’ll go?” Jack asked.

“I guess so. Since you said it’s important.”

“Good.” He smiled down at Jane. “But I have a question. If you’re giving the girls nice smelly things, what are you giving the boys?”

“Aunt Pet says we’re going to give them little bottles of toad juice, and they can all get warts.”

Claire started to reprimand her daughter, but she was suddenly engrossed in watching Jack’s attempt to hide a smile.

“Remind me not to trick-or-treat at your house,” he said.

Dear Reader,

I’ve often been asked where I get the ideas for my stories. I am most often inspired by unique or off-the-beaten-path locations. A year ago, while scouting out fertile locations for my husband to do some deep sea fishing, we came upon a remote, laid-back island community about two hours north of Tampa on Florida’s west coast.

This island, which boasts great seafood restaurants and charming art galleries, does not have even one chain restaurant or name brand motel. Every business is unique to this location only. It’s a quirky, sit-a-spell place where visitors can enjoy Gulf breezes and wandering minds. And so, Heron Point, my fictional representation of this place, was born in my imagination and populated with characters I hope you will find memorable. Like me, the hero and heroine of this story never expected to end up here. And they never expected to find love here either, but that’s the wonderful thing about love—you never know where you’ll find it.

I hope you’ll visit Heron Point again in my next book from Harlequin Superromance, An Unlikely Father, available in 2006.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.cynthiathomason.com, or e-mail me at Cynthoma@aol.com. My address is P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my two “moms,” Barbara Brackett, who gave birth to me, and Elsie Thomason, my mother-in-law. Voracious readers, both ladies read every one of my books and always offer encouraging words. Thanks, Moms.

And a special thank-you to my friend Nan Carter, whose expertise in tracking down the bad guys helped me realistically portray the illegal activity mentioned in this book. Thanks, Nan, for ALL you do.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

“MOMMY, YOU’RE COMING to the school zone.”

Claire Betancourt glanced over at her nine-year-old daughter and automatically raised her foot off the accelerator. The Lexus sedan slowed to fifteen miles per hour before proceeding under the blinking yellow light. “Thank you, Jane, for your infallible back-seat driving,” Claire said.

“You were speeding, weren’t you, Mommy?”

“No.” At the girl’s pointed stare, Claire relented. “Maybe a little. But we’re late.” Still, it wouldn’t look right if the mayor was caught doing a reckless twenty miles per hour through Heron Point’s only school zone. Especially when she had an elementary student in the passenger seat.

Jane sat forward, straining against her seat belt. “Look, Mommy, isn’t that Mrs. Hutchinson?”

Claire groaned. “Oh, no. Not again.” This was the second time in two weeks that the regular crossing guard hadn’t shown up for duty. And the second time Heron Point’s most conscientious citizen and self-proclaimed mother-of-the-year had taken it upon herself to guide the town’s children safely across the street to the school building. Claire slowed to a crawl, lowered her window and spoke to the woman whose short arms were flailing about in an exaggerated attempt to direct Heron Point’s youngest citizens. “Hi, Missy,” Claire said. “I guess Bella didn’t show this morning?”

“You guessed right,” Missy answered. “Really, Claire, you must do something about that woman. We can’t have our children subjected to the dangers of a busy school crossing without competent adult supervision. And I can’t be expected to step up every time Bella Martingale is too hungover…” She stopped speaking when she realized Jane was listening to every word.

Busy school crossing? Claire checked her rearview mirror. There were two cars behind her, and only one had passed going the opposite direction in the last minute. And this was Heron Point’s rush hour. But Missy was right. Even if there were only seventy-six children enrolled in the elementary school, it was the community’s responsibility to provide them with adequate crosswalk protection.

“I’ll speak to Bella,” Claire promised.

“Are you going to fire her?” Missy asked.

Claire flinched. She really liked Bella. “Yes. But in the meantime, I’ll ask Aunt Pet to fill in at the crosswalk this afternoon, and I’ll be here tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to make permanent arrangements over the weekend.”

“What about now? I have to open my gallery in exactly ten minutes.”

“You go on,” Claire said. “I’ll take over until eight o’clock.” She pulled to the curb, got out and waited for Jane to pick up her sweater and lunch box from the floor of the front seat. “Have a nice day, sweetheart. I won’t pick you up. Aunt Pet will be here this afternoon, so you can ride home with her.”

Jane looked up at her with the doe-brown eyes that were so like her father’s, like all the Betancourt men’s. Beautiful, heart-stopping, warm, Latin eyes. “Is Mrs. Martingale drunk again?” she asked.

“No, I’m sure she isn’t,” Claire answered. Bella had sworn to Claire just yesterday that she hadn’t had a drink in over a month, since school had started the fall term. But she might very well be high on something. Claire had insisted the woman mow the trio of marijuana plants blatantly growing under a bright green awning in her backyard. But Claire had never gone back to see that the job had been completed. And now she had to admit that Bella had used up all her chances for leniency. She would have to relinquish her post as crossing guard and the small salary she earned.

Claire escorted the remaining half dozen children to the parsonage-turned-schoolhouse. The two-story clapboard structure had served as the minister’s residence for more than a hundred years. When the last of the reverends had died, twenty-five years ago, the citizens had decided they could manage without a bona fide religious leader. They’d elected to modify the parsonage to serve as a schoolhouse for Heron Point’s elementary children. Seven state-certified teachers, a principal and a guidance counselor had been hired, and the youngest children were no longer bused thirty miles to the Micopee school district on the mainland.