The Trouble with Andrew (3 page)

“Oh, God!” Katie gasped. She tried to look into the driving wind and rain. The world was spinning, everything flying, moving. It was so dark, so wet, and she was cold, shivering, terrified.

Then she saw a light.

“There! Jordan, there—that way.”

She struggled onward. Inch by sodden inch. Things hit them. Jordan cried out once. “Don't look, don't look, just keep moving!” Katie warned.

“I can't breathe, Mom!” he cried out. “I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I'm not going to make it—”

“Oh, dear God!” she cried. She rose, dragging him with her. She tried to run, tried to see the light, tried to run toward it.

She stumbled and fell. Her foot was trapped in something, she couldn't tell what.

“Mom!”

“Go!” Katie ordered him. “Go to that light! You can get help! Go now.”

“I won't leave you!” She could hear the tears in his voice. She could barely see her son's precious face, but she knew that tears joined with the rain sliding down his cheeks.

“Jordan, get help,” she began, but then she screamed, for something big and dark was looming over her son.

Her scream abruptly halted. It was a man. A towering man in a huge slicker, coming around Jordan. His hair seemed ink black, slicked back by the rain. He was fairly young—in his thirties, Katie thought—with a strong face and handsome features. Stern features, she decided. She trembled.

She might well be dying, she thought, and she was staring at her rescuer and analyzing him.

He started to reach for her. His eyes were gold, she thought.

Wonderful. She was being rescued by the devil.

She was losing her mind.

“I'll get you up!” he said, his voice deep, harsh, thundering against the wind and rain.

“My foot!” Katie cried.

It was a root, she realized. She had tripped over the stretching root of a fallen banyan, and now she was caught by another root.

He reached down. She noted his hands, long-fingered, broad, very powerful.

He wrenched the root out of the ground.

Katie tried to stand. She started to fall again. He let out an impatient sound and swept her off her feet, pointing across the darkness and grass and uprooted trees and flying debris. “That way, boy! Careful, hurry!”

Jordan turned as he was commanded.

And Katie was carried by her strange, rescuing demon, through the blinding, driving wind and rain and tempest.

Chapter 2

T
he door to the stranger's house nearly blew from its hinges as he struggled to hold Katie and open it. He shouted a warning to Jordan to watch out as the door slammed hard against the side of the house. Jordan scampered into the house quickly, ahead of the man and Katie.

The man followed Jordan, set Katie down and reached in the blinding wind and pelting rain to get his hands on the door. With an enormous effort, he managed to push it closed.

Her ankle still somewhat sore, Katie stood in his entryway, dripping. Jordan was directly in front of her, dripping as well, and she set her arms around his shoulders, shivering as she waited for their unknown rescuer to turn to her again.

After sliding the bolts on the door, he asked, “Anyone behind you?”

She shook her head.

“I saw others.”

“They were ahead. They must have made it to another neighbor's house. They had come to mine when they lost their roof, and then mine began to go, too,” Katie told him.

Jordan stepped forward suddenly, causing Katie's arms to fall from around his neck. He offered a hand to the man. “Jordan Wells, sir, and this is my mother, Katherine. Thank you very much for coming to our rescue.”

Somewhat humiliated that her ten-year-old son would have thought of such a courteous statement when she still felt herself doing nothing other than staring blankly and shivering, Katie echoed the sentiment swiftly. “Yes, thank you. Thank you so much. You might have saved our lives. I had thought we were safe. We bought a Hunnicunn home…” Her eyes widened as she looked around for the first time.

This house was similar to hers, but different. It was a beautiful house, with cathedral ceilings. A Mexican-tiled, expansive living room was to her left, and across the entry, next to the upper landing on the stairway, was a loft, with a boarded skylight above it. The picture windows in the front of the house were covered with automatic shutters, but the living room was bright, lit by powerful, battery-operated lanterns, one set in the center of a glass-topped coffee table before a deep brown sofa and one on the floor just within the doorway.

She loved her house—had loved her house, she corrected herself—but this one was grander, not more elegant, because there was something very masculine and comfortable about what she had seen so far, but grander. It was a spectacular yet warm and inviting home.

“This must be a Hunnicunn home, too,” she said with alarm. “We should get mattresses and hurry into a bathroom.”

“This roof isn't going,” the man said firmly.

“But—”

“My house will stand.”

Katie straightened her shoulders. “That's exactly what I would have said about an hour ago,” she informed him with dignity.

He tensed, and she found herself staring at him, frightened by the anger she seemed to have aroused in him. She forgot the house and assessed the man. He was six feet two or three, at least, she thought. Broad-shouldered and probably well-muscled—he was still dripping in a big trench coat. His slicked-back hair was very dark, and his features were arresting, handsome and rugged. His chin was firm and squared, his cheekbones were set wide, and his eyes were not gold but hazel—they merely seemed to burn with a golden fire. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties—perhaps he was closer to forty.

Her words seemed to linger on the air for several moments, then he replied firmly, “My house will stand.”

“But how—”

“I was here every day while it was being built,” he said. “It will stand.” His eyes roamed up and down the length of her, and she realized she was wearing a nightgown. It was white cotton, and although feminine, it was extremely chaste—when it was dry.

Now the garment was sticking to her like a second skin, and the material that had once seemed opaque was all but sheer.

She reached for Jordan again, drawing him against her so she could protect him, or he could protect her, she wasn't sure which. But the hazel-gold eyes of her new acquaintance didn't linger on her body long. They met her eyes again almost immediately.

“I'll find something for you two to put on,” he said softly and started toward the stairway, plucking up one of the battery-operated lanterns. Then he paused and turned back. “Perhaps you'd like to come up. The electricity is gone, but there's probably a little hot water left. You—you may want to shower.”

Maybe that was why his inspection of her had been so fleeting, Katie thought. She wasn't just covered in water—she was covered in mud. Her hair was plastered against her face, her once-white nightgown was dirty brown, and, of course, she wasn't just dripping on his floor—she was making a filthy mess of it.

Yet, in this storm, who could care about such things? Her host obviously did not. He didn't seem to notice that his floor was being mud slimed. And yet he had noticed her discomfort and shivering. He might have the eyes of a devil and a temper to match, but at least he was courteous.

Katie kept her hands firmly on Jordan's shoulders. “I'd love to—rinse off,” she admitted awkwardly, starting up the carved wood stairway with him. “But—” She broke off, wincing as the wind suddenly rose again, shrieking with a greater vengeance than it had before. She heard the pelting of the rain against the house. “I'm not sure such a thing would be wise. The storm is getting worse and worse. We must be right in the height of it.”

“Mrs. Wells, I assure you again, this house isn't going anywhere. And I wasn't suggesting that you jump into the Jacuzzi and run the jets for an hour, but the storm may last some time, and you both must be very uncomfortable. I think you'd be safe hopping quickly in and out of the shower. But you certainly must suit yourself. I'll show you to the guest room and bath, and you may shower or take your mattress into the bathroom. Truly, it is your choice.”

He listened, Katie thought. He had remembered her name from Jordan's quick introduction. And his confidence was contagious. She could still hear the awful howl of the wind, but oddly, she felt protected here. She felt safe. Why should she? Her house had crumbled. He said he had been here every day when his house had been constructed, and that implied he knew something about building. She could hear the drone of a battery-operated radio or television from somewhere, so he had to be aware of the extent of the storm.

“Come on, Mom.” Jordan started to step away from her. Not at all sure of what her bedraggled gown and mud still covered of her body, Katie hurried behind him up the stairway, following their host as he led them to the first door off the loft landing.

The lantern illuminated an exquisite room. The floor was hardwood, with a beautiful Persian carpet set at the foot of the bed. There were all kinds of intricately carved built-in cupboards, an entertainment center, bookcases and curio stands.

There were French doors at the rear of the room-boarded over now—but she was sure they would look over a pool and patio area. And there was another door, leading to the right, off the room.

Their host led them to an elegant guest bathroom, much like the master bathroom in her own home. There was a huge, black sunken tub with whirlpool jets and gold fixtures. The floor was red, black and white tile, and the commode and sink were also black. There was a shower in the corner to the left of the tub, and bloodred towels and washcloths hung from a rod nearby.

He set the lantern on the floor between the bedroom and bath and strode to one of the dark wood doors of a walk-in closet. He pulled out two terry robes, both adult sized, and tossed them on the bed, which was covered with a plush comforter that continued the colors of the bath—red, black, gold and white—in plaid.

“Sorry, I haven't anything smaller,” he apologized to Jordan, and Katie decided she liked him for the first time as she watched him talk to her son. He seemed different. Not angry, not hard. His mouth curved into a smile, and she realized that he was really an attractive—very attractive—male. An uneasy chill seized her, but he ruffled Jordan's tawny hair and turned to leave the room. “I'll be downstairs. I have a small battery-operated television down there, if you'd like to see what's going on. And,” he continued, almost as if offering an added inducement, “I have Sterno and hot coffee.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

“Wow!” Jordan gasped. “What a house!”

“Yes, but it doesn't matter what it looks like,” Katie said quickly. “Our house was great.
Was,
Jordan. I think we ought to be in a bathtub with a mattress over our heads—”

“Mom, you have mud all over your face.”

Mud on her face shouldn't have meant a damned thing at this moment. And it didn't, really. Yet she found herself heading into the bathroom and looking into the huge mirror above the sink. The lantern light wasn't bright, but it was enough to show her that she was covered with mud.

Without thought she turned on the faucets and began to splash water at her face.

“Mom,” Jordan said.

“What?” She paused.

“Listen.”

She did listen. The wind still howled. Viciously. It was somewhere between four and five in the morning, she thought. The storm was at its worst.

“It's awful—”

“It's awful, yes, but you know what you don't hear?” Jordan asked her.

“What?”

“No boards ripping off—he has good shutters on this place. No ripping sounds—his roof is staying on. Mom, please, will you let me hop under the shower for just a minute?”

She hesitated. “For just a second.”

Jordan happily shed his wet, muddy clothes, and Katie realized that her son had been shivering. It was summer, and the days had been wickedly hot, and their host must have been running an air conditioner full blast until the electricity had gone. The house was cool, almost cold. This strange, wild night was cool, as well, so wet, so wind-tossed.

That would all change soon enough, Katie thought. The promise of summer days with no air-conditioning in Miami was frightful.

If they survived. If they just survived the night.

But Jordan was right. Nothing was ripping from the windows. And nothing was ripping from the roof.

“All right, hop in, quick,” she told Jordan.

Jordan wasted no time. At ten, he was becoming a modest individual, and she tried her best to respect his privacy, but at the moment, he didn't seem to care. He whipped off his clothes, his back to her, then jumped into the shower stall.

“Wow! There's hot water left!” he cried.

“Save me some then,” she heard herself say.

A few seconds later, Jordan was out, wet and squeaky clean, reaching for one of the bright red towels. Katie handed one to him, noting that they were embossed with the initials AGC.

He still hadn't introduced himself. Actually, he hadn't even said that it was his house.

It had to be. Why else would he have been so concerned with details while it was being built?

“Mom, there's still hot water,” Jordan said. Wrapped in the red towel, he headed for the bedroom and one of the oversize robes.

“Don't go far!” Katie called out, alarmed. Jordan was all she had in this world. Maybe this house was safe, but she still didn't want to take any chances with Jordan.

She stepped quickly into the shower stall and stripped off her sodden and muddy garments. She planned on turning the water on and off, but there was a bottle of shampoo and conditioner in one of the little gold soap stand, and she could have decent hair in a matter of seconds. And the water was still delightfully hot.