Amy Frazier - Family By The Bunch

As Hank returned to a sitting position, Neesa lowered a small canvas bag to the pool deck, then spread a towel on the lounge next to his. Kicking off sandals, she perched, ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, on the very end of her chair. “Well!” Her voice became breathy. Despite the pool paraphernalia, she didn’t look as if she came here often.

In fact, with her creamy smooth skin and delicate build, she didn’t look as if she was much the outdoors type at all.

The kids in the pool had taken up a raucous Marco Polo chant. Water from a particularly messy belly flop lapped its way along the decking toward their chairs. They both reached out at the same moment to rescue her canvas bag; their hands touched. Hank felt a fool as his heart began to hammer like a schoolboy’s.

“Sorry!” they said together, both recoiling.

The trickle of water edged closer.

Again, at the same time, they reached for the bag.

This time Hank gripped her hand firmly, then with his free hand scooped the bag to safety. He grinned. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

She blushed.

Must be the heat, because he’d never considered himself a smooth operator.

To his surprise he found he still held her hand. Within his grasp her fingers were long and slender. Fragile. Her skin was warm and incredibly soft. Never before had he understood his parents’ constant hand-holding. Now he did. He could, quite simply, hold Neesa Little’s hand from now ill Georgians lost their drawl. It felt that good.

Glancing pointedly at their clasped hands, she cleared ier throat. Reluctantly he released her.

He wished she weren’t wearing those sunglasses. Eyes reflected much of what a person felt deep inside. As long is she kept hers covered, he felt at a disadvantage.

With abrupt businesslike gestures, she unzipped the can-was bag, then withdrew a laptop computer.

“Excuse me?” He couldn’t help himself. The hardware ooked so out of place amid the trappings of sun worship.

She gave a sheepish little shrug. “I thought I should get out and get some fresh air. But I was right in the middle of something.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business. But the fulfillment of it gives me pleasure.”

He found himself intrigued.

She flipped up the computer screen. “I’m creating Web rites for our hardest-to-place children.”

“Whoa!” He held up his hands. Our hardest-to-place children? “You’re going to have to back up for me.”

Slowly removing her sun glasses, she looked long and lard at him. The blue of her unshaded eyes took his breath away.

“Would you really like to hear about it?” she asked. “It’s a little complicated.”

He was struck then by how vulnerable she looked, even with her hands hovering efficiently above the high-tech keyboard. There was a quality of wistfulness that played about her pretty features. He suddenly felt an unaccountable but overwhelming urge to protect her.

“I really would like to know about the children,” he answered, fighting the attraction he felt for her.

“I work for a private agency called Georgia’s Waiting Children. We help government agencies find foster homes and adoptive homes for children with special needs.”

“Special needs?”

“These aren’t your healthy babies typically associated with adoption. These kids are older. They may have phys. ical, mental or emotional disabilities. Or they may be broth. ers and sisters who want to stay together.”

And she worked to help these children. Neesa Little rose in his estimation. “How exactly do you fit into the pro. cess?”

“I’m an idea person.” She lowered her gaze modestly “I think of programs to support the kids who may never leave state care. Programs like—” She frowned. Setting her chin resolutely, she looked him in the eyes again. “I try to think of new and innovative ways to make these children who need families visible to the public.”

“How?”

“You have to use every tool at your disposal. And lately I’ve been creating Web sites on the Internet.”

Hank shook his head. “I know I’m from a different era but the Internet?” Computers, to him, meant the games the Russell kids played or the business records he kept at the ranch. Period.

“It’s a natural.” She beamed, obviously warming to the subject, and in the process, warming the far reaches or Hank’s heart. “Anyone with access to a computer and connection to the Internet can learn about waiting children through color photographs and descriptions.”

“But this isn’t like casual shopping on-line at a clothing store. These are living, breathing kids.” Genuine concert crept into his words. He hoped the hell she saw them as children and not as some product.

“Believe me, we don’t treat the process as if it were casual shopping for a child.” She looked faintly horrified He took comfort in her reaction. “Very often this is the final recourse to finding good homes. After we’ve explored all other options. Our overriding motivation is our belief that every child deserves a loving home.”

“You said some of the kids have special needs.”

“Yes, and the Net surfer who is more than merely curious can go beyond instant profiles of the children. At the click of a mouse, they can also learn more about a child’s disability or special situation. We provide an extensive reference library.” Her eyes widened. “Of course the real identities of the children are well protected. The prospective parents must go through our agency or a government agency before they ever meet the child in person. Our screening process is stringent.” There was a fierce, protective pride in her eyes. “Our first concern is always the welfare of the child.”

Damn. He’d heard of everything now. The lovely, delicate-looking lady who sat before him was certainly made of stronger stuff than he’d first imagined. And what a coincidence: in a grander sense, she did with children what he did with his Noah’s ark animals. Her caring nature made the attraction he felt for her all the more difficult to fight. This weekend was not working out at all as he’d anticipated.

Neesa watched the color of Hank’s eyes change from dark midnight blue to a warmer cobalt. He seemed genuinely interested in her job. In the children.

Interested, yes, but when he finally found out about her proposed Kids & Animals program, would he be interested enough?

“So what do you do?” she asked brightly. She needed a more solid footing—a little voluntarily shared history—with him before she asked her enormous favor.

A large, colorful beach ball blew out of nowhere and into her lap. Casey Russell came running up, breathless. “Hank! We’re playing a game. But we need a very big person to be the goal post.”

Hank chuckled. “How flattering! No skills required. Just stand there, dumb as a post.”

Casey scooped up the beach ball. “Will you, huh?”

He gently tapped her on the nose. “Will you, please?”

“Pretty please, with whipped cream and a cherry on top!” The little girl batted. her eyelashes.

“How can I resist?” With a grin to set a heart aflutter, he rose from his lounge chair, laid the Stetson on his towel, took Casey by the hand, then followed her to the shallow end of the pool.

Neesa sighed. Would he ever tell her in his own words that he ran a ranch? She felt awkward now, coming out and explaining that she’d heard it through the grapevine. For some inexplicable reason she felt as. if this man wouldn’t like prying of any kind, either early or late.

Then, too, maybe Claire’s information wasn’t accurate. Maybe he wasn’t even a rancher.

Maybe she sat here, risking sunstroke and worse—risk—ing letting her hormones run amok—for a very attractive man who couldn’t offer her anything professionally and could only offer her the wrong things personally. Goodness, but she didn’t even know if he was married. She hadn’t noted a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean a fig....