The Last White Knight (7 page)

Morning came much too soon for Lynn’s liking. She awakened with gritty eyes and a head that felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Her usual migraine hangover. It hadn’t helped that she’d gotten precious little sleep, or that what sleep she’d gotten had been plagued with visions of Erik Gunther. She’d spent most of the night lying on the mattress on the floor of what would be one of the resident rooms, staring at the ceiling and trying to will herself not to dream about that kiss. But even now, as she cracked open her eyelids and squinted against the morning light pouring in through the window, she could still feel Erik Gunther’s body against her,
still feel his enveloping warmth and strength, still taste his mouth on hers.

Grumbling, she pushed herself into a sitting position and raked her hair back out of her eyes. According to her watch it was nearly seven and, while she would have liked nothing better than to crawl back under the blanket and sleep for another day or two—or better yet, magically transport herself to her own bed in her apartment across town and sleep for another day or two—there was a long day and a lot of work ahead. The girls would be living in this house by nightfall. How long they would be able to stay here was anyone’s guess, but they would definitely be sleeping here tonight.

How would the girls react to the hostility in this neighborhood? Lynn wondered as she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor in search of her overnight bag. Her jeans lay where she’d stepped out of them the night before. She hadn’t had the energy to do more than that, and had slept in her panties and T-shirt. She dug a fresh T-shirt from her suitcase and changed with a minimum of fuss, her mind on her girls.

There were currently five residents, ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen. Barbara Wheeler and Michelle Jenner were from Rochester, both from dysfunctional, single-parent families, both
fresh from a substance-abuse rehab program at St. Mary’s Hospital. The other three girls—Regan Mitchell, Tracy Brogan, and Christine Rickman—were from other parts of the state. Christine was fifteen and pregnant. Tracy had a history as a runaway and a background with an abusive father. Regan was the newest challenge. It was Regan who worried Lynn the most.

From the outside Regan Mitchell appeared to have everything going for her. She was from a “good” family. Her father had an important position at Honeywell in Minneapolis. The family lived in the affluent suburb of Minnetonka. Regan had been given every advantage. What she hadn’t been given was love. Her father was a cold, demanding man, her mother caught up in charity work and social life. The Mitchells had more or less expected their children to raise themselves, to automatically grow up to be perfect and productive and responsible. But that hadn’t happened with Regan. She had grown up feeling empty and unloved, and she had filled that emptiness with anger, bitterness, resentment, rebellion.

She had been in and out of trouble for the last three years, and at sixteen was in danger of being declared a lost cause. She had run away, dabbled in drugs, shoplifted at every major department store
in the metro area. Her friends had been a familiar crowd at juvenile hall. Regan herself presented a tough I-don’t-give-a-damn facade, but Lynn was convinced it was just that—a facade to hide the vulnerable, lonely girl who was so desperately in need of a real friend.

Regan would be the most sensitive to Elliot Graham’s brand of disapproval. She had trouble fitting in, resisted fitting in, daring people to like her in spite of her terrible attitude. To date, few people had cared enough to go through the hassle. She had made the rounds of the “better” juvenile homes in the Twin Cities, and had finally been shipped down to Horizon House. Now Horizon House itself was being shuffled around, rejected, and disapproved of. Lynn doubted the situation would do anything to help Regan settle in.

She stepped into a clean pair of worn-out jeans, pulled on her battered canvas sneakers without undoing the laces, and yanked open the bedroom door, determined to face the day, ready or not. Sitting on the floor just outside the room was a plate with a fortune cookie on it. The cookie had been cracked open and the end of a strip of white paper stuck out of the shell, beckoning the curious to look and see what the future might hold in store.

Lynn scowled at it, stepped around it, took a
backward step toward the bathroom, eyeing the cookie as if it were bait in a trap. She told herself she didn’t care what it said. She wasn’t some sap ready and willing to believe an arbitrary sentence stuffed into a cookie at a factory a thousand miles away. Still, she hesitated. Her gaze darted up and down the hall. The coast was clear. Cursing her own curiosity, she bent and snatched the message out of the shell.

“Good things are coming to you in the due course of time,” she read aloud. Giving a snort of disbelief, she stuffed the note into her pocket and headed down the hall to try to restore some order to her hair.

The sound of Father Bartholomew’s voice led the way to the kitchen.

“Shredded bran, oat bran, bran nuts, that’s all the woman will buy. I tell you, my breakfast bowl usually looks like something you should feed to a workhorse. Bless her heart, I know Mrs. Ingram means well, but all that bran can put a real dent in a man’s morning, if you know what I mean. I try to tell her. Why, just the other day I said to her, ‘Agnes, when I preach that we should purge ourselves, I mean it in a spiritual sense!’ ”

Warm, husky laughter rolled out of the kitchen, stopping Lynn in her tracks just outside the door. She had been half hoping Senator Gunther would have been off to some essential breakfast meeting with his staff or teeing off with some grand pooh-bah. No such luck.

He was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, looking very much at home in his rumpled white polo shirt. His golden-blond hair looked finger-combed, slightly tousled, much too sexy. The hair, combined with the morning beard that shadowed the strong planes of his cheeks, made him look like a rock star, some teen idol just waiting for a herd of adoring young girls to hurl themselves at him. He sat with his elbows on the table, big shoulders hunched, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and a Twinkie in his hand.

The Twinkie got her. She could have steeled herself against the screen-star looks and the man’s-man aura, but how could she fight against a Twinkie? How could she maintain her cool against a white knight with a weakness for junk food?

“Oh, dear! Good morning, Lynn!” Father Bartholomew twisted around in his seat to give her a bright smile. As usual, his glasses were askew. He had obviously made an effort to glue his hair into submission with something that smelled like motor
oil, but one recalcitrant section still stood up in a little fan of spikes at the crown of his head. “I didn’t hear you come down.”

“Good morning, Father.” She nodded in Erik’s direction but avoided looking right at him, keeping her eyes on his half-eaten Twinkie. “Senator.”

“Senator Gunther went out and got us some treats for breakfast.”

“I see that. Twinkies. This is my lucky day.” Lynn made a beeline to the coffee maker and filled an empty mug.

“I’d put them on my grocery list,” the father said, “but Mrs. Ingram wouldn’t buy them. She’s worried about my cholesterol and fat intake. I’d go out and get some for myself, but I don’t do well in these big supermarkets. I don’t have a very good sense of direction, I’m afraid.”

“For letting us use this house, Father, I will gladly keep you supplied with Twinkies,” Lynn said, leaning back against the counter.

“Horizon House is a worthy cause, dear,” he declared, a rare gleam of stubbornness coming into his dark little eyes. “I won’t let anyone tell me different.”

Lynn thought the bishop might have something to say on the subject after he met with Elliot Graham, but she held her tongue. It was too early in the day
to be contentious. There was no point in it anyway. She would only upset Father Bartholomew, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. He was such a sweet, dear man. The only person who’d been willing to step forward and help them—until Erik Gunther.

“I’d better be going,” the priest said, pushing his chair back from the table. He rose and reached for the Twinkies, stuffing three into the pouch on his sleep-wrinkled sweatshirt. “If I don’t get to morning mass before the ladies finish the rosary, I’ll be in the doghouse, I can tell you. I’ll stop by later to see how things are going.”

Lynn bid him good-bye and watched with a sinking heart as he let himself out the back door and scuttled across the yard, headed for the rectory. Their chaperon was gone. Almost instantly the level of sexual tension thickened in the air like a sudden fog.

“How’s the headache?” Erik asked.

“Gone thanks,” she murmured, burying her nose in the steam from her coffee cup.

It wasn’t quite the truth. There was still a kernel of pain lodged above her right eye like a glowing ember waiting for fuel so it could burst into flame again. It might stay there for days, haunting her with the possibility of another full-fledged migraine,
but she had no desire to share that information with Erik.

She could feel that incredibly magnetic blue gaze on her, searching, assessing. She just barely resisted the urge to check her hair. This was not good. She didn’t have time to be worrying about her appearance, wondering if he would think she was a slob because he’d only ever seen her in holey jeans and college T-shirts. That was her usual uniform, because it was comfortable and unthreatening to her girls. What did she care if Senator Gunther thought she was underdressed?

“The coffee is decaf,” he said. “People who suffer from migraines should avoid caffeine. I was just reading up on it this morning in
Newsweek.”

Lynn wrinkled her nose at the coffee and his concern. She didn’t want him reading up on migraines or making her special coffee, even if it did seem like an awfully sweet thing for him to do. The kiss had been a mistake, a moment of weakness. Now, in the bright light of day, she could see it for what it was: sheer foolishness. She couldn’t have a relationship with Erik Gunther. There was no point in pursuing something that could only end in disappointment.

“Have a seat,” he invited, gesturing magnanimously toward the chair to his right.

She gave the chair a suspicious look, wrapped her
hands around her coffee mug, and held it against her chest. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

A muscle in Erik’s jaw tightened. “You know,” he said with a bright, square smile, “I think I’ll stand too. I like standing. I don’t get to do enough standing in my day-to-day life.”

He pushed his chair back from the table and rose, Twinkie in hand. He kept his gaze on Lynn, letting her know he wouldn’t be so easily daunted. She was trying to put distance between them, physically and emotionally, trying to ease the effect of the kiss they had shared. He had no intention of letting her get away with it. He was a grown man with his share of experience, but he’d never felt anything like what he’d felt in that kiss. If she thought he would blithely walk away from that, she had another think coming.

She scowled at him as he took up a stance beside her, leaning casually back against the counter, ankles crossed, coffee cup in one hand, Twinkie in the other. He half expected her to scoot over to the table and sit down, but she held her ground. Stubborn. Erik fought a smile. He couldn’t remember ever finding stubbornness an attractive trait in a woman. With Lynn it was all but turning him on. He wanted to turn and corral her against the counter as he had the night before and give her a
good-morning kiss that would have her thinking about going back to bed—and taking him with her.

He was falling like a rock. He’d known her all of twelve hours and he was feeling as besotted as a teenager. Instead of being disgusted with himself, Erik wanted to laugh. He’d waited a long time to feel this way. It felt pretty good, even though the lady in question was reluctant. He had faith in his ability to win her over. If there was one thing his father had taught him before his death, it was that if he set his mind to it and worked hard enough he could have anything he wanted.

He wanted Lynn Shaw. No question about that, he thought, letting his gaze drift down from her thick, unruly mane, over the delicate features of her face to the small, proud breasts that gave a delightful dimension to her gray Purdue T-shirt. For just a second he indulged himself in the fantasy of lifting the hem of that T-shirt and giving his full attention to those breasts—stroking, teasing, tasting …

“Did you get your fortune cookie?” He glanced at her sideways and took a bite out of his breakfast, forcing the fantasy and the heat it had generated from his mind.

Lynn squeezed her hands around her coffee mug as she watched him lick a fleck of cream filling from the corner of his mouth and cursed herself inwardly
as her nipples tightened and tingled. “Oh, yes,” she replied in a dry tone. “I must be in store for something. Why, just last week I got a letter from Ed McMahon telling me I might have won ten million dollars. Now this. It’s too weird.”

“You don’t believe in fate?”

She thought about that for a long moment, staring across the room at the dented refrigerator. She had seen too many ruined lives, too many heartbreaks. If there was such a creature as fate, it had an exceedingly wide sadistic streak. It was less painful to think that life just happened. Some people screwed up and some people didn’t. Some people grew up to be Erik Gunthers and some led lives like she had led.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

“I do. I might never have met you if Horizon House hadn’t lost its lease. I’d call that fate.”

Lynn gave a derisive little sniff. “I call it a pain in the butt. You’ve obviously never had to move a houseful of teenage girls plus the accumulated junk from three offices.”

“Pessimist,” he accused with a good-natured chuckle.

She tipped her head, wincing a little at the sudden nip of pain above her eye. “That’s me.”

“Yeah, and you’re a fibber too,” Erik said, turning
toward her. He leaned a hip against the counter and stared down at her, his eyes narrowed in speculation and concern. “You’ve still got that headache. I can see it in your eyes.”