An Unlikely Family. Cynthia Thomason

      Evie sat up and bumped her head on the drawer.

      “Police officer,” the mean-sounding man said. “Come out of there.”

      Police officer? Evie curled her fingertips around the top of the desk and said, “OK, I’m coming out.” She sounded like the lone hold-out in a hostage crisis. Slowly rising to her knees, she stopped when her nose was level with the desk blotter, and stared across the top.

      The gruff voice belonged to a tall, formidably built man whose face was set in a scowl. He was definitely a cop – blue uniform, lots of stuff attached to the belt, the whole package. And he didn’t look happy. Clearly he wasn’t welcoming her to town with a big ole Heron Point grin.

      She spoke into the middle of the lap drawer. “You don’t have your gun drawn, do you?”

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances as well as a historical mystery series. She has received the National Readers’ Choice Award, nominations for Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice Award and the Golden Quill Award. She and her husband own an auction company in Davie, Florida, where she is a licensed auctioneer. They have one son, an entertainment reporter, and a very lovable Jack Russell terrier. Learn more about Cynthia at www.cynthiathomason.com.

      Dear Reader,

      An Unlikely Family is a story about a hapless island cop who searched for years but couldn’t find the right woman.

      This book is about how the most unlikely folks come together and, through struggle and perseverance, form a true family, complete with all the caring and love that defines such a special bond. And it’s about one unique little girl who needs everyone in her thrown-together family and on her quirky island, to support and cherish her.

      I hope you enjoy Billy and Evie’s journey. And if you want to see Heron Point for yourself, just follow Florida’s Route 19 and take 24, a narrow two-lane road, west to where the cedar trees blend with the Gulf.

      I love to hear from readers. Please visit my website, www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at [email protected] or write a letter to PO Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355, USA.

      Wishing you the warmth of the Heron Point sun,

       Cynthia Thomason

      An Unlikely Family

      CYNTHIA THOMASON

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      This book is dedicated to those hardworking

      faculty members who educate our children.

      Having been a teacher, I know it takes much

      more than a textbook to do the job right.

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE PAVEMENT ahead of Evie Gaynor’s Chevy Malibu shimmered hot in the sultry Florida sun. Two days after leaving Detroit, she’d clocked thirteen hundred miles and experienced a twenty-degree spike in the temperature. Since entering the state, she’d gone from her air-conditioned automobile to a chilled fast-food restaurant and a convenience store to pay for gasoline. And with each stop, she’d removed another article of clothing until now she wore only a camisole, capris and sandals.

      The road she was driving was nearly deserted, but Evie had expected that. Claire Hogan, the town mayor, had told her Heron Point was a weekend tourist destination. On Friday afternoons the population swelled with Gulfside visitors who came to sample the fine food and browse the upscale gift shops. Since this was only Thursday, the influx had yet to begin.

      Once she’d turned off the main highway onto the thirty-mile stretch to Heron Point, Evie had enjoyed a lush, green landscape. Taking advantage of the quiet drive, she picked up her cell phone and punched in the number from her notebook, propped open beside her. A woman answered on the first ring. “The Pink Ladies Cottages,” she practically chirped.

      Evie introduced herself as the new principal of the elementary school and confirmed her reservation for one of the cottages which she assumed would most probably be pink.

      “Oh, yes, dear, we’re expecting you.” The woman gave directions and verified Evie’s assumption by adding, “You can’t miss us. Our buildings are true baby-girl pink, just like our delightful beds of impatiens.”

      Evie disconnected and rolled down her window, fully expecting another blast of steaming air to hit her face. Instead, an undercurrent of cooler, salty freshness promised a respite from the stifling heat. She ran her fingers through her hair and enjoyed the feel of it whipping against her cheeks.

      After a few miles, the panorama changed. Dense hummocks of cedar trees dotted the horizon and the ground rolled with gentle hills identified as Indian Burial Grounds. She crossed a narrow bridge spanning a wide inlet. At the end a placard announced her arrival in Heron Point, population just over two thousand.

      She passed a marina, a tavern and a small grocery before turning onto Gulfview Road. She had every intention of driving straight to her pink-painted destination. But when she saw a sign pointing down a road that read Heron Point Elementary School, she simply couldn’t resist. She drove by the entrance of the clean, freshly painted parsonage-turned-schoolhouse. The dazzling white exterior had just enough sage-green Victorian trim to give the building an air of whimsy. And Evie fell in love with it.

      She pulled around to the parking lot in back and got out of the car. She didn’t have a key, but she walked up to the rear entrance and gave the knob a firm twist. The door opened with a subtle creak. Stunned, since no one seemed to be on the property, Evie looked around, waited a few seconds and then stepped over the threshold.

      The back foyer smelled of old books, cleanser and something unmistakable to buildings where children gathered. Evie called it the smell of learning, and it varied according to the age of the student body. In this school, it was a pleasant mixture of crayon and pencil shavings.

      She walked down the central hallway and looked into rooms identified with numbers on the doors. Desks were scattered haphazardly, waiting for a maintenance crew to finish the summer spruce-up and set them back in rows. The last door before the front entrance made her feel at home. The sign on the panel read Principal. There was no name under the title, but she anticipated seeing her own in a few days.

      She entered her office much as a new student might enter his classroom for the first time, with an exhilarating rush of uncertainty. Reaching up to her ear, she twisted the diamond stud earring in her left lobe, a habit she’d developed over the years whenever she felt apprehensive. The smooth metallic finish of 14-carat gold and the slightly rough edges of the rose-cut stone were familiar, and she relaxed. She took a deep breath, comforted by the realization that she belonged right here in this eclectic hodge-podge of bookshelves, supply cabinets and wooden chairs.

      The principal’s position she’d seen advertised a few months ago in an educational journal had been