Swept Away. Gwynne Forster

at having raved about a man. “Haven’t you met the guy? If he doesn’t send your blood rushing the wrong way, you haven’t got any. I’m fifty-four, but just looking at that man from a distance of twenty feet made me pray.”

      “Pray?”

      “Yes, honey. If I hadn’t prayed for self-control, I’d have gone straight up to him and said or done something stupid.”

      Thank God it wouldn’t be a jury trial, and with luck, the judge would be a forty-year-old ladies’ man. “I’ve seen him on TV, but I never got the impression that he was irresistible.”

      “Same here, but Mr. Henderson in person is an all ’nother cut of cloth. Those eyes! And, Lord, that million dollar charisma. Whew!”

      Veronica leaned back in her chair, picked up a pencil, twirled it, put it down and shuffled some of the papers on her desk. Restless and impatient. “All right. I get it. That only means I’ve got work to do and plenty of it. He’s used to getting his way, no doubt.”

      Laughter spilled out of the woman sitting beside her desk. “If he told me what his ‘way’ was, I’d see that he got it.”

      At Veronica’s icy stare, Enid threw up her hands. “Just kidding. Just kidding. See you later.”

      Veronica watched her leave. She trusted Enid, but she didn’t care to do battle with a male heartthrob. Competence she could handle, but she didn’t relish being the generator for a man’s ego trip. She read and reread the information in Natasha’s file. The agency hadn’t made a single mistake with the girl. Who knew why an eleven-year-old would run away. A sudden chill stole into her. A child wouldn’t run away from a warm, loving and happy home, would she? If indeed that was what had happened. Lord forbid Natasha had been a victim of foul play.

      She mused over the problem and, on impulse, asked her secretary for Schyler Henderson’s phone number. She couldn’t plan if she didn’t know precisely what the charges were.

      “Schyler Henderson. Good morning.”

      His warm, caressing tones gave her a mental picture of a perfectly proportioned male lying supine on a bed of dewy grass with a warm breeze kissing his bare skin. She reined in her thoughts.

      “Hello, Mr. Henderson. This is Veronica Overton.”

      “What may I do for you, Ms. Overton?”

      So he didn’t engage in small talk. She held the receiver away and stared at it. She respected professionalism. She told him she’d learned of his charges through the media.

      “It seems to me that if you were seriously concerned about our placement practices, you would at least have spoken with me before you made your public grandstand.”

      “I considered it, but since I didn’t know you or how you operated, I decided against it.”

      “Well, I want you to know that I had no idea Natasha wasn’t in that home until one of my staff told me about your press conference.”

      “Ms. Overton, that home is unsuitable. The child has disappeared, and no amount of discussion will change that. The only way we’ll stop this…these tragedies is nip them at the source.”

      “That home has served more than a dozen children over the years without one unpleasant incident. Furthermore, my agency has an impeccable record, and we provide the only service of its kind to West Baltimore. If you destroy us, what can you put in our place?”

      “I’m not out to destroy your agency. We need it; you and that agency have been a good thing for this community. But we must protect and preserve every child, every little life, Ms. Overton. No mistake is tolerable. My aim is to make sure that our children get the best possible service. From the information available to me, it appears that Natasha Wynn didn’t get that so, much as I’d rather not move against you, I have to do what I believe is right.”

      Schyler hung up, got the file and read it through again, assuring himself that he hadn’t misrepresented the woman or her agency. Still, an uneasy feeling settled in him. He’d never met her, but he knew her reputation and he was loathe to sully it. Women, and especially African-American women, had a hard enough time getting executive jobs and receiving the support they needed after they got them. He didn’t want to knock her down, but when he remembered his own travails in first one foster home and then another, he had to stay his course for the child’s sake. He called the district attorney’s office to lodge his complaint.

      Brian Atwood answered the phone. “Man, Overton has a spotless record. You asking me to dethrone that icon?”

      Schyler sat down, put his feet on his desk, crossed his ankles and leaned back in his swivel chair. “I know who she is, and I don’t want to hurt her, but it’s my job to act when a child is endangered.” He could imagine that he’d worried Brian, the coward of their college class.

      “I hope you know what you’re doing, man. She’s rock solid.”

      Fishing with Brian could be fun, but working with him tried his patience. “Was rock solid. I’m sending the file over by messenger.”

      “Okay,” Brian said, a tad slowly, Schyler thought. “I’ll get back to you.”

      Three hours later, Schyler lifted the receiver hoping his caller was not Veronica Overton and breathed deeply in relief when he heard Brian’s voice. “What do you think?”

      Brian didn’t hesitate. “I’ll check this out and if I find cause, I’ll bring charges.”

      A week later, AFTC’s charges against Veronica’s agency were aired in Family Court.

      Schyler strode into court, certain of his grounds but unhappy about the damage he might inflict on a woman of commanding stature and singular achievement. She had rescued Child Placement and Assistance from irrelevancy and made it a force in the community. He knew about her, had heard her on radio and seen her on television, but he’d never met her. A half-smile settled around his mouth. She always sounded so correct, perfect, like Miss Betts, his fourth-grade teacher. He hadn’t liked Miss Betts, he recalled, because she never gave him credit for what he did. Sometimes, he wished she could see him now. He’d grin at her and show her his thumbs up sign, the way he always did when she was mean to him. He laughed to himself, because he knew he was procrastinating. Much as he hated it, he had to present this case.

      He walked away from his side of the aisle, greeted an acquaintance and shook hands with him, still postponing the inevitable. Then he sat at the table provided for him and looked across the narrow aisle that separated him from Veronica Overton, intending to bow graciously, and did a double take. Right straight to the marrow of his bones. An arrow with his name on it. She’d looked at him and his heart had taken off and sped unerringly to her. Get ahold of yourself, man. This spelled trouble, because she’d reacted to him as surely as he had to her. Quickly, he focused his attention on the papers in front of him. She’d been looking at him again and had diverted her gaze when he caught her at it. He ran his fingers through the thick black wavy hair that disputed the purity of his African heritage. Now, what was that all about?

      Veronica glanced up just as the tall, distinguished-looking man entered the far side of the chamber. Schyler Henderson. A giant of a man. At least six feet five inches tall, though trim as an athlete. She’d never realized he was so tall and, for reasons she refused to examine, imagined that he’d dwarf her five feet ten inches. Not that she wouldn’t like it; she enjoyed being with a man who made her feel soft and feminine. She settled her gaze on him. She wouldn’t say he was a knockout, but…He looked at someone in front of her, smiled, and long strides brought him to within a few feet of where she sat. His smile claimed his whole face as he shook hands with the man before going to the table reserved for him and sitting down.

      The bottom dropped out of her belly, and she knew what Enid meant about blood flowing backward. She stared at his back while something leaped within her, quickening her insides. She couldn’t move her gaze from him. He sat alone, without a lawyer, leaning back, as relaxed as a marathon