As she drove between long, flat fields of row crops with the scent of water a hint on the breeze through her window, she dreamed of one day moving to such a place. Country lanes and tractors. A view of the bay and boats.
She'd need to save up, to plan, but one day she hoped to manage to buy a little house outside of town. The commute wouldn't be so hard, not when driving was one of her greatest personal pleasures.
The CD player shifted, the Queen of Soul to Beethoven. Anna began to hum the "Ode to Joy."
She was glad the Quinn case had been assigned to her. It was so interesting. She only wished she'd had the chance to meet Raymond and Stella Quinn. It would take very special people to adopt three half-grown and troubled boys and make it work.
But they were gone, and now Seth DeLauter was her concern. Obviously the adoption proceedings couldn't go forward. Three single men—one living in Baltimore, one in St. Chris, and the other wherever he chose to at the moment. Well, Anna mused, it didn't appear to be the best environment for the child. In any case, it was doubtful they would want guardianship.
So Seth DeLauter would be absorbed back into the system. Anna intended to do her best by him.
When she spotted the house through the greening leaves, she stopped the car. Deliberately she turned the radio down to a dignified volume, then checked her face and hair in the rearview mirror. Shifting back into first, she drove the last few yards at a leisurely pace and turned slowly into the drive.
Her first thought was that it was a pretty house in a lovely setting. So quiet and peaceful, she mused. It could have used a fresh coat of paint, and the yard needed tending, but the slight air of disrepair only added to the hominess.
A boy would be happy here, she thought. Anyone would. It was a shame he'd have to be taken away from it. She sighed a little, knowing too well that fate had its whims. Taking her briefcase, she got out of the car.
She hitched her jacket to make certain it fell in line. She wore it a bit loose, so it wouldn't showcase distracting curves. She started toward the front door, noting that the perennial beds flanking the steps were beginning to pop.
She really needed to learn more about flowers; she made a mental note to check out a few gardening books from the library.
She heard the hammering and hesitated, then in her practical low heels cut across the lawn toward the back of the house.
He was kneeling on the ground when she caught sight of him. A black T-shirt tucked into snug and faded denim. From a purely female outlook, it was impossible not to react and approve of him. Muscles—the long and lean sort—rippled as he pounded a nail into wood with enough anger, Anna mused, enough force, to send vibrations of both into the air to simmer.
Phillip Quinn? she wondered. The advertising executive. Highly doubtful.
Cameron Quinn, the globe-trotting risk-taker? Hardly. So this must be Ethan, the waterman. She fixed a polite smile on her face and started forward. "Mr. Quinn."
His head came up. With the hammer still gripped in his hand, he turned until she saw his face. Oh, yes, the anger was there, she realized, full-blown and lethal. And the face itself was more compelling and certainly tougher than she'd been prepared for.
Some Native American blood, perhaps, she decided, would account for those sharp bones and bronzed skin. His hair was a true black, untidy and long enough to fall over his collar. His eyes were anything but friendly, the color of bitter storms.
On a personal level, she found the package outrageously sexy. On a professional one, she knew the look of an alley brawler when she saw one, and decided on the spot that whichever Quinn this was, he was a man to be careful with.
He took his time studying her. His first thought was that legs like that deserved a better showcase than a drab navy skirt and ugly black shoes. His second was that when a brown, that beautiful, she probably got whatever she wanted without saying a word.
He set the hammer down and rose. "I'm Quinn."
"I'm Anna Spinelli." She kept the smile in place as she walked forward, hand extended. "Which Quinn are you?"
"Cameron." He'd expected a soft hand because of the eyes, because of the husky purr of her voice, but it was firm. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm Seth DeLauter's caseworker."
His interest evaporated, and his spine stiffened. "Seth's in school."
"I'd hope so. I'd like to speak with you about the situation, Mr. Quinn."
"My brother Phillip's handling the legal details."
She arched a brow, determined to keep the small polite smile in place. "Is he here?"
"No."
"Well, then, if I could have a few moments of your time. I assume you're living here, at least temporarily."
"So what?"
She didn't bother to sigh. Too many people saw a social worker as the enemy. She'd done so once herself. "My concern is Seth, Mr. Quinn. Now we can discuss this, or I can simply move forward with the procedure for his removal from this home and into approved foster care."
"It'd be a mistake to try that, Miz Spinelli. Seth isn't going anywhere."
Her back went up at the way he drawled out her name. "Seth DeLauter is a minor. The private adoption your father was implementing wasn't finalized, and there is some question about its validity. At this point, Mr. Quinn, you have no legal connection to him."
"You don't want me to tell you what you can do with your legal connection, do you, Miz Spinelli?" With some satisfaction he watched those big, dark eyes flash. "I didn't think so. I can resist. Seth's my brother." The saying of it left him shaken. With a jerk of his shoulder, he turned. "I need a beer."
She stood for a moment after the screen door slammed.
When it came to her work, she simply didn't permit herself to lose her temper. She breathed in, breathed out three times before climbing the half-repaired steps and going into the house.
"Mr. Quinn—"
"Still here?" He twisted the top off a Harp. "Want a beer?"
"No. Mr. Quinn—"
"I don't like social workers."
"You're joking." She allowed herself to flutter her lashes at him. "I never would have guessed."
His lips twitched before he lifted the bottle to them. "Nothing personal."
"Of course not. I don't like rude, arrogant men. That's nothing personal either. Now, are you ready to discuss Seth's welfare, or should I simply come back with the proper paperwork and the cops?''
She would, Cam decided after another study. She might have been-given a face suitable for painting, but she wasn't a pushover. "You try that, and the kid's going to bolt. You'd pick him up sooner or later, and he'd end up in juvie—then he'd end up in a cell. Your system isn't going to help him, Miz Spinelli."
"But you can?"
"Maybe." He frowned into his beer. "My father would have." When he looked up again, there were emotions storming in his eyes that pulled at her. "Do you believe in the sanctity of a deathbed promise?"
"Yes," she said before she could
stop herself.
"The day my father died I promised him—we promised him—that we'd keep Seth with us. Nothing and no one is going to make me break my word. Not you, not your system, not a dozen cops."
The situation here wasn't what she'd expected to find. So she would reevaluate. "I'd like to sit down," Anna said after a moment. "Go ahead." She pulled out a chair at the table. There were dishes in the sink, she noted, and the faint smell of whatever had been burnt for dinner the night before. But to her that only meant someone was trying to feed a young boy. "Do you intend to apply for legal guardianship?"
"We—"
"You, Mr. Quinn," she interrupted. "I'm asking you if that is your intention." She waited, watching the doubts and resistance sweep over his face.
"Then I guess it is. Yeah." God help them all, he thought. "If that's what it takes."
"Do you intend to live in this house, with Seth, on a permanent basis?"
"Permanent?" It was perhaps the only truly frightening word in his life. "Now I have to sit down." He did so, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger to relieve some of the pressure. "Christ. How about we use 'for the foreseeable future' instead of 'permanent'?"
She folded her hands on the edge of the table. She didn't doubt his sincerity, would have applauded him for his intentions. But… "You have no idea what you're thinking of taking on."
"You're wrong. I do, and it scares the hell out of me."
She nodded, considering the answer a point in his favor. "What makes you think you would be a better guardian for a ten-year-old boy, a boy I believe you've known for less than two weeks, than a screened and approved foster home?"
"Because I understand him. I've been him—or part of him. And because this is where he belongs."
"Let me lay out some of the bigger obstacles to what you're planning. You're a single man with no permanent address and without a steady income."
"I've got a house right here. I've got money."
"Whose name is the house in, Mr. Quinn?" She only nodded when his brows knit. "I imagine you have no idea."
"Phillip will."
"Good for Phillip. And I'm sure you have some money, Mr. Quinn, but I'm speaking of steady employment. Going around the world racing various forms of transportation isn't stable employment."
"It pays just fine."
"Have you considered the risk to life and limb of your chosen lifestyle when you propose to take on a responsibility like this? Believe me, the court will. What if something happens to you when you're trying to break land and speed records?"
"I know what I'm doing. Besides, there are three of us."
"Only one of you lives in this house where Seth will live."
"So?"
"And the one who does isn't a respected college professor with the experience of raising three sons."
"That doesn't mean I can't handle it."
"No, Mr. Quinn," she said patiently, "but it is a major obstacle to legal guardianship."
"What if we all did?"
"Excuse me?"