The Tycoon and the Townie. Elizabeth Lane

pattered down the hallway to her room, tossed the towel on the bed, and finger-combed the tangles out of her hair. Forget Jeff Parrish, she admonished herself. The man was a hopeless, hidebound snob, and she pitied any woman addlepated enough to give him a second glance.

      As for his ridiculous family tradition—

      A knock at the front door, faint but insistent, shattered her train of thought. Kate hesitated; then, remembering she’d remanded Flannery to her room, she knotted the sash on her robe and hurried down the hall. As she raced across the living room, the weak tapping, like the peck of a stormtossed bird, grew more urgent, more frantic.

      She flung open the door to find a small, forlorn figure trembling on the stoop.

      “Ellen!” She swept the little girl inside. Jeff Parrish’s daughter was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, all soaked with rain. Water dripped off the end of her nose and streamed down her hair to puddle on the floor.

      Kate seized a knitted afghan off the couch and flung it around the shivering little body. There would be time for questions later. Right now she had to get the child warm and dry.

      Racing back down the hall, she snatched an armful of towels from the bathroom shelf. She returned to find that Flannery had come out of her room. “Get Ellen some dry clothes,” Kate ordered, letting the violation pass for now. “Something warm. Then, young lady, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

      “Can Ellen stay here? Please—”

      “Flannery, you’re really pushing it!”

      “I only drew her a map to our house,” Flannery said. “I didn’t know she’d be coming here tonight, in the rain.”

      “Go on,” Kate sighed. “Get the clothes. We’ll deal with what you did later.” She took the thickest towel and began blotting rainwater from Ellen’s long, black hair. The child’s father and grandmother were probably frantic. As soon as she got Ellen dried off, Kate resolved, she would hurry to the phone and call them.

      Ellen had begun to respond to the warm blanket and vigorous toweling. The color had returned to her cheeks. Her shy, gray eyes explored the room, lingering on the plump, orange tabby curled among the sofa cushions.

      “What’s his name?” she asked, her teeth still chattering a little.

      “Her name. It’s Mehitabel. She’s named after a cat in a book of poems.”

      “Can I pet her?”

      “As soon as you’re dried off.” Kate tugged the neck of the soggy, pink T-shirt over Ellen’s ears. “I don’t suppose your father knows where you are, does he?”

      Ellen shook her head, rosebud lips pressed tightly together as the shirt pulled free of her head. Her eyes, when she looked at Kate, were large with wonder.

      “Are you…the clown?”

      Kate chuckled in spite of herself. “That’s right, dear. This is the real me. Or maybe it’s Jo-Jo who’s the real me. After a day like this one, I’m not so sure.”

      “And do you believe in mermaids?”

      A warning flickered in Kate’s mind. “I believe in the gift of imagination,” she said, tucking the afghan around Ellen’s bare chest and shoulders. “Hang on a sec, and I’ll see if Flannery’s found you some dry clothes. Then you can pet Mehitabel while I call your—”

      The rap at the door was fierce and urgent. Kate froze, her mouth suddenly dry, her pulse jumping like a beached pompano. There was no need to wonder who was outside, or to question what was going through his mind. Any way you looked at it, the next few minutes were not bound to be pleasant.

      Steeling herself for the confrontation to come, Kate squared her shoulders and marched across the room to answer the door.

      

      Kate’s house had not been difficult to find. Jeff remembered it, in fact, from the summers of his boyhood—a lowslung structure that clung to the rim of the beach, its clapboard exterior so weathered that the house looked more like an outsize hunk of driftwood than a dwelling place. An elderly man had lived here back then, Jeff recalled, a salty, reclusive old codger he’d often seen shuffling along the edge of the tide with his two mongrel dogs.

      But never mind the past—it was Kate Valera who lived here now. Through the drizzling curtain of rain, he could see her Jeep parked in the makeshift carport. He could see the faint glow of light through curtained windows—and as he raised his hand to knock again, Jeff could only hope to heaven she would know something about Ellen.

      The door opened before his knuckles could strike again. The woman who stood before him, haloed by the lamplight behind her, was even smaller than he remembered. Her damp, reddish curls spilled around a sharp little fox face that seemed to be mostly eyes. Her hands tugged nervously at the sash of a thick green bathrobe that looked about four sizes too big for her.

      “Ellen’s here,” she said calmly. “Come on in.”

      Jeff stepped across the threshold, dimly aware of the light and warmth that enfolded him as he did so. Relief jellied his knees as he spotted his daughter huddled in the corner of a flowered sofa, her arms embracing an immense, mustard-colored cat.

      Fear dissolved into anger as he took a step toward her. “Young lady, do you have any idea what—”

      “Please don’t be mad, Daddy.” Her sad-eyed gaze tore at his heart. “It’s so lonesome in the house. There’s nobody there but grown-ups. I just wanted to play with Flannery for a little while.”

      “And how did you know where to find Flannery?” Jeff demanded, but more gently this time. He knew how much his daughter needed a friend her own age. He’d seen it that afternoon, from the window.

      “I can answer your question,” Kate said. “Flannery drew her a map.”

      “So, Ellen just showed up on your doorstep in the rain?”

      “Of course she did.” Kate glared at him as if he’d just accused her of kidnapping. “I was about to phone your house when you knocked.” She walked away a few steps, then turned to face him again. “And now that your daughter’s safely found, I suppose you’ll both be going.”

      Jeff’s eyes measured her where she stood, poised like a gazelle beside an open cabinet that overflowed with books. Her small, square chin was thrust defiantly upward. Her eyes blazed wounded pride. Still hugging the cat, Ellen watched them in expectant silence.

      No, Jeff realized, he couldn’t be so monstrous as to grab his daughter and walk out. He couldn’t do that to Ellen. He couldn’t do it to Kate—or to himself.

      “I—uh—think we need to talk,” he muttered, suddenly aware that his clothes were dripping water onto her faded Persian rug.

      “All right.” Her body relaxed but her eyes remained guarded. “Flannery, dear, I know you’re listening.”

      The child materialized from the hallway.

      “Take Ellen to your bedroom for a little while, okay? And make sure you get her into something dry.”

      “Yes!” Flannery’s grin lit the room like a flash bulb. “Come on, Ellen!” she exclaimed, bounding over to the couch. “You can wear my purple sweats, and I’ll show you my sea glass collection!”

      “Cool!” Ellen struggled off the sofa, clutching the afghan to her chest. “Can we take Mehitabel with us?”

      “Sure.” Flannery scooped up the cat. The placid creature hung over her arm like a limp Salvador Dali watch as the little girls scampered down the hallway, leaving the two grown-ups alone.

      “Uh—can I make you some hot tea?” Kate spoke almost too swiftly as she scrambled to fill the awkward silence.

      “No, that’s all right.” Jeff’s gaze explored the room, taking in the lush, green jumble of houseplants,