MIA: Missing In Atlanta. Debby Giusti

stress everyone is under. Contributions are down, and the foundation’s trying to hold Hope House together.”

      “Aren’t you overexaggerating the situation?”

      “Unfortunately, no. If a couple of our major contributors get wind of mismanaged funds, even if the story is unfounded—” Winton sniffed “—the consequences would be devastating. I’d hate to see Hope House close its doors because of a simple accounting error. So, you tend to the kids and let the foundation handle the money. Understand?”

      Sarah’s cheeks burned from the chastisement. “Of course.”

      “No need to mention this to the other board members tomorrow night at the Charity Ball. I don’t want to spoil their evening. Plus, the last thing we need is bad PR. You know how the press loves to stick its nose where it doesn’t belong.”

      “I hadn’t planned to talk to anyone else about the situation, sir.”

      “Excellent. After dinner I’ll invite you to the stage for the presentation. Accept the donation, then say a few words to the contributors.”

      “I understand.”

      “What about the application for the orphanage referral position? Have you submitted your paperwork?”

      “It’s in the mail.” Sarah hesitated. “If the donations are down, won’t that affect the project in South America?”

      “Not at all. My wife, Elena, still has family in Colombia where she was raised. They’re funding the project and insist their contributions remain separate from Hope House’s resources. No matter what happens in Atlanta, they want the orphanage referral agency established so more South American children can be adopted by American families. Bottom line, the program will remain on schedule.”

      The stability of the Colombian project didn’t make Sarah feel any better. As acting director of Hope House, her first priority was the kids in Atlanta.

      She hung up the phone and sighed. If she hadn’t noticed the discrepancy—

      Well, she had noticed and look where it had gotten her. On the losing end of a verbal squabble with Mr. Cunningham.

      The sound of a car door slamming pulled her from her thoughts. Shoving the curtain aside, she peered through her office window at the man in uniform walking purposefully toward the house.

      Not the usual visitor by a long shot, with his black army beret angled over his forehead, squared shoulders and a determined look plastered on his chiseled face.

      She tucked the curtain back in place as three knocks resounded though the house.

      “Patience is a virtue,” she muttered as a second repetition echoed like machine-gun fire. Obviously, the man didn’t like to be kept waiting.

      Stepping into the foyer, Sarah opened the front door to the extent of the chain lock and regarded the visitor.

      Crystal-blue eyes, straw-blond hair cut in a military buzz.

      When he turned those blue eyes toward her, a feeling stirred deep within her. She swallowed, having difficulty finding her voice.

      Not what she needed at this point in her life. Get a grip, Sarah.

      “May I help you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Polite. She’d give him that much. Probably six-two, he had a thick neck, broad shoulders and biceps that bulged beneath the digital pattern of his uniform.

      He glanced down at a photograph he clutched in his hand and held it up to where she could see the woman’s image. Expressive round eyes, slender nose, shoulder-length black hair framing an oval face.

      “Ma’am, I’m looking for Nicole Valentine.”

      No doubt the person in the photo. Sarah raised a questioning brow. “And you came here because…?”

      He let out a quick breath. “One-fourteen Rosemont. That is your address, isn’t it?”

      “That’s right, but—”

      “Nicole Valentine lives here,” he stated before Sarah could continue. Then he paused, probably noticing the perplexed expression on her face. “I just returned from the Middle East. Nicole and I…” He glanced again at the photo. “You see, ma’am, she sent me this address.”

      Sarah could read people, and everything about the man standing on her front porch said he was legit. Maybe a little mixed up as to where his girlfriend lived, but the guy didn’t seem to pose a threat to either Sarah or the kids at the shelter.

      “Just a minute.” She slipped off the chain lock, opened the door wide and walked onto the porch.

      He took a step back. Had she crowded him?

      “Look, Major—”

      His gaze warmed momentarily. “Hate to turn down a promotion, but it’s captain, ma’am. Captain Jude Walker.”

      She nodded and tried to offer him what she realized must have seemed a halfhearted smile. But she did have work to do and kids to take care of, so…

      “Captain Walker.”

      “Call me Jude, ma’am.”

      “And I’m Sarah Montgomery.” The guy seemed sweet in a rugged sort of way, like a cocker spaniel in a rottweiler body.

      “I’m afraid you have the wrong address, Jude. This is a shelter for teens. Your girlfriend doesn’t live here.”

      “But—”

      He hadn’t corrected her when she called the beautiful woman his girlfriend. For half a heartbeat, Sarah envied the woman in the photo.

      “A teen shelter? Are you sure?”

      His question sounded like one the kids would ask. “Yes, I am sure, Captain. I’m well aware of who finds lodging within this house.”

      He tilted his head, a flash of irritation evident in his eyes.

      She’d been too abrupt. Sarah sighed. Despite the phone call with Winton Cunningham and the financial reports that didn’t add up, this man—this Jude Walker—deserved a few minutes of her time.

      “Look, I’m sorry. That was harsh. It’s been a rough day and…”

      She stopped her explanation. No reason to tell the captain about the problem she’d uncovered.

      Reaching for the picture, she gave it a long look. “What’d you say her name was?”

      “Nicole Valentine.”

      A memory niggled at the back of Sarah’s mind.

      She glanced into his blue eyes, now hooded, as if her hasty comment had lowered a shield over the open heart he’d exposed earlier.

      “Why don’t you sit down for a minute?” She pointed to the wicker rocker. “I’ll check the roster. I’ve worked here for about six months. Seems to me when I first arrived there was a girl named Valentine.”

      A flicker of hope flashed over his face. “Thank you, ma’am.”

      His sincerity touched her.

      She started to step inside and then hesitated, noting the way he sighed with relief as he settled his body into the rocker.

      “How long have you been back in the States?”

      The sun played over his haunting eyes, and for the first time she saw the fatigue that lined his face.

      “Seven days.” He stretched his legs out in front of him.

      How had all that length of man managed to stay contained in the crowded seat of an airliner for the long trip back from overseas?

      “I don’t know if anyone’s told you yet, but a lot of people in the United States appreciate