The Cowboy and the Angel
Marin Thomas

Renée jumped inside her skin at the deep, throaty rumble.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a sheepskin jacket and a cowboy hat, the stranger joined them. Her gaze traveled the length of his long jean-clad legs, stopping at his snakeskin boots.

The cowboy grinned. “Duke Dalton.”

Duke? What kind of a name was that?

His large hand swallowed hers, and she held on longer than necessary, soaking up the heat from his calloused fingers. “Why don’t we discuss this over dinner?”

There were worse things than sharing a meal with a citified cowboy. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no harm. But she feared she’d need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.

’Tis the season for miracles.

Who knew? Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be her Christmas miracle.

Dear Reader,

When one thinks of Detroit, Michigan, they think cars. Motown. Sports. They also think poverty, economic depression and crime. If one looks beyond the troubled car industry and foreclosing homes, the Motor City is a community of rhythm and passion. You will discover in this book that Detroiters of all ages are strong, resilient survivors—there’s no better backdrop for a Christmas story.

I’ve teamed up an unlikely pair—a corporate CEO, Duke Dalton, and a Detroit social worker, Renée Sweeney. Together they must figure out how to pull off a Christmas miracle for those who deserve it most—children. And in the process Duke and Renée will discover their very own happily-ever-after.

This season may the holiday spirit fill your heart with the joy of giving. Let us not forget the children in our communities who are waiting to experience the miracle of Christmas.

For information on my upcoming books, please visit www.marinthomas.com or contact me at marin@marinthomas.com.

Happy Holidays!

Marin

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Typical of small-town kids, all Marin Thomas, born in Janesville, Wisconsin, could think about was how to leave after she graduated from high school.

Her six-foot-one-inch height was her ticket out. She accepted a basketball scholarship at the University of Missouri in Columbia, where she studied journalism. After two years she transferred to University of Arizona at Tucson, where she played center for the Lady Wildcats. While at Arizona, she developed an interest in fiction writing and obtained a B.A. in radio-television. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments.

Her husband’s career in public relations has taken them to Arizona, California, New Jersey, Colorado, Texas and Illinois, where she currently calls Chicago her home. Marin can now boast that she’s seen what’s “out there.” Amazingly enough, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Her heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.

To my former college basketball teammates

from the University of Arizona in Tucson:

Kirsten Smith-Cambron, Yolanda Turner,

Alicia Archie, Angie Dodds-Seymour

and Dana Patterson. What a privilege it was

to run the court with you ladies.

Thanks for the memories!

Go Wildcats!!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Renée Sweeney stood defiantly in front of the ten-ton wrecking ball and glared at the crane operator inside the cab. The man’s mouth twisted from side to side, but she couldn’t hear a word over the rumbling engine—probably a good thing. No doubt he was spewing cuss words.

Too bad. If she had her way the 1892 Screw & Bolt Factory Warehouse along the historical Detroit Riverfront would stay standing—long enough for her to come up with a plan for the six little problems taking refuge inside the marked building.

The brisk December wind shoved her off balance, but she locked her knees and managed to remain upright. A moment later, the squeal of the machine’s grinding gears ceased and an eerie silence reverberated through the air. Thank goodness.

The operator climbed from the cab and jabbed a meaty finger in her direction. “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing?”

Wasn’t it obvious? She stared at the man without answering.

“I’m calling the cops,” he raged, pulling a cell phone from his coat pocket, then trudged out of hearing range. If his wild arm gestures were any indication, the 911 operator was receiving an earful.

Renée snuggled deeper into her white ankle-length goose-down coat. In her rush to reach the Riverfront, she’d grabbed her scarf but had forgotten her gloves. The day’s high of thirty-eight was losing ground fast against the projected overnight low of ten degrees. She hoped she’d accomplish her mission before all ten of her digits blackened from frostbite. At least the scarf prevented her ears from curling up and dropping off her head.

With watery eyes she searched for a windbreak, but the few barren trees that called the concrete parking lot home were useless. She was tempted to take shelter in the giant holly bushes that hid the first floor of the building, but feared the crane operator would set the ball swinging at her retreat. Once in a while her job as a social worker required creative action to protect children at risk, but challenging a wrecking ball was a bit extreme and Renée doubted her boss would approve.

Across the parking lot a handful of construction workers huddled inside their vehicles, smoking cigarettes while their boss dealt with this latest interruption. A hot coffee from the men would have been a nice thank-you for shortening the end of their workweek.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch. She glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. In a few minutes the cops would arrive. Hopefully by the time the police sent her on her way with a warning, it would be too dark to proceed with the demolition.

The crane operator snapped his cell phone shut, tossed a furious look over his shoulder, then proceeded to make another call—probably the fire department in the event Detroit’s finest were engaged in more important activities such as apprehending real criminals. She wiped her runny nose on the back of her coat sleeve and stared at the river across the street. This time of year few boats navigated the chunks of ice floating on the water, turning the Riverfront into a nautical ghost town. The Screw & Bolt building sat in the middle of the warehouse district among several turn-of-the-century structures.

The area was desolate, and she questioned the sanity of the fool who’d purchased the derelict property between the Renaissance Center and Belle Isle. A short while ago she’d chatted with her brother, a Detroit police officer, and he’d mentioned seeing the demolition equipment as he’d patrolled the area. In a panic, she’d rushed to the warehouse, praying she’d arrive before disaster struck.

Rocking forward on the balls of her feet, she added another inch to her five-foot-five height and braced herself for round two as the crane operator marched toward her, the stub of an unlit cigar bobbling between his fleshy blue lips. Eyes narrowed, he paused several feet away. His yellow hard hat left his ears exposed and they glowed the same bright red color as the bulbous tip of his nose.

“I don’t know what your cause is, lady. Don’t much give a shit. I’ve been paid to demolish this building and haul the rubble away by the end of next week. If I miss that deadline, I lose a lotta money.” He motioned to the group of idling trucks. “You wouldn’t want those guys going without pay, seeing how their kids are expecting gifts from Santa under the tree in a few weeks.”

Renée had a soft spot for children—why else would she do a fool thing like take on a construction crane in the bitter cold? If the workers went without a paycheck, their kids might not receive every item on their Santa wish list, but at least they’d have a roof over their heads and a warm meal on Christmas day—which was more than she could say for the kids she hoped to protect from Bob the Builder and his demolition crew.

Police sirens whined through the air, saving her the trouble of responding. A squad car screeched to a stop and two officers stepped from the vehicle. Drat! Her brother, Rich, and his partner, Pete, had taken the call.

“Hi, guys,” Renée said when the cops drew within hearing distance. She wanted to offer her brother a reassuring smile, but feared her bottom lip would split open and drip blood onto her white coat.

Pete’s gaze swung from the crane to the construction foreman to Renée. Rich leveled a what-have-you-gone-and-done-now glare at her, then stood sentry at her side. A silent laugh shook her chest when the cigar tumbled from the foreman’s mouth and bounced off the top of his steel-toe work boot.

Over the years, she’d developed friendships with several Detroit policemen. Often she required their assistance in removing children from abusive homes and placing them into protective custody. The officers understood and turned a blind eye when Renée bent the rules to do what was best for the child. She prayed her brother and his partner would cut her some slack this afternoon.

As dusk shrouded the parking lot like a heavy cloak, concealing the water, piers and moorings along the river, a chorus of revving truck engines erupted and the work crew left.

“What’s going on?” Pete asked.

Grabbing at straws, she said, “I’m not sure this gentleman has obtained the proper permit to demolish this building.”

Rich gaped at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Pete came to her rescue. “Mind if I see the paperwork?”

The foreman stomped his boot like a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum and demanded, “Who the hell is this woman?”

“Watch your mouth, mister,” Rich warned.

Sputtering, her adversary returned to the crane, crawled inside the cab, flung things around, then stormed back across the pavement. Hot air spewed out of his nostrils, forming a misty cloud above his head. “Work orders.” He shoved the papers at Pete.

A twinge of empathy for the irate man caught Renée by surprise, but she pushed it aside. She needed the warehouse more than the foreman needed to swing his wrecking ball.

“Appears official,” Pete said.

“Then she’s gotta haul ass and get out of the way, right?” A fleck of spittle at the corner of his mouth froze into a white ice ball.

“Depends…”

“On what?” The man’s gaze dropped to Pete’s gun holster.

“Whether the permit is on file at city hall.”

“How the heck should I know? That’s the property owner’s responsibility. My job is to demolish this hell-hole.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Rich cut in. “City hall is closed. We’ll verify the permit first thing Monday morning. Until then you’ll have to shut down.”

“What seems to be the problem here, Mr. Santori?”

Renée jumped inside her skin at the deep, throaty rumble and spun. Tall, broad shouldered, wearing a sheepskin jacket and a cowboy hat—a ridiculous choice of headgear for freezing weather—the stranger joined the group. Her gaze traveled the length of his long jean-clad legs, stopping at his snakeskin boots. He was no ordinary cowboy who’d wandered in off the range. This roper reeked of money. Renée immediately disliked him.

“Mr. Dalton, this broad—”

Rich cleared his throat nosily, and Mr. Santori amended, “—this lady planted herself in front of the crane and refused to budge. What was I supposed to do? Bean her in the head with twenty-thousand pounds of steel?”

The cowboy grinned and Renée wished she had an object to bean him with. “No, we certainly don’t want any harm to come to…?” His sexy voice trailed off and a few seconds passed before she collected her scattered wits.

“Renée Sweeney.”

“Duke Dalton.”

Duke? What kind of name was that? Sounded like a moniker one would give a bulldog or porn star.

Mr. Dalton’s large, bare grip swallowed hers, and she held on longer than necessary, soaking up the heat from his calloused fingers. After he shook hands with Pete and Rich, a tense silence followed.

Disgusted, Mr. Santori nodded at her. “This one’s all yours, Mr. Dalton. Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll be back with my crew bright and early Monday morning.” Muttering under his breath, the grumpy man headed for his truck.

Renée turned to Mr. Dalton. “You are aware this is Detroit?” The hair peeking out from under his cowboy hat was a rich brown color with a few auburn strands thrown in for contrast. “Texas is west of the Mississippi.”

Pete and Rich chuckled.

Stone-faced, the cowboy ignored her sass. “What organization are you representing?”

Organization? “I’m not. This building—” she pointed behind her “—has historical value and shouldn’t be touched.” In truth several of the warehouses along the river had historical significance, but that didn’t guarantee they’d stand in place forever.

“There’s not much left of the building worth saving,” Mr. Dalton said. “I investigated the possibility of restoring the structure, but the cost was prohibitive. Cheaper to build new.”

Surprised the man had done his homework, Renée struggled to respond. She suspected the bitter temps had caused the neurons in her brain to misfire, impeding her ability to speak. Pete nudged her shoulder. Neither cop would depart until she did. Time to end the standoff. But how? A blast of wind seared her chaffed face and caused her teeth to clatter.

“Why don’t we discuss this over dinner,” Mr. Dalton suggested.

There were worse things than sharing a meal with a citified cowboy—like becoming a human Popsicle. “The Railway Diner is a few blocks over. Let’s meet there.”

Ignoring her brother’s we’ll-talk-later look, she shuffled on numb feet to her car. Once inside the wagon, she cranked the engine and blasted the heat, which made her nose drip like a faucet. While Rich detained Mr. Dalton—no doubt to impart a warning to behave himself around her—she pressed her hands against the air vents until her knuckles thawed enough that she was able to bend her fingers and grasp the steering wheel.

Although she appreciated her brother’s concern, she trusted her instincts. Reading between the lines and deciphering truth from lies was a necessary skill in her line of work. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no ill will or harm.

He may be decent, but he’s not a pushover.

Renée feared she’d need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.

’Tis the season for miracles.

Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be Renée’s Christmas miracle.

DUKE WATCHED Renée Sweeney drive off in her 2005 silver Ford Focus station wagon—not the kind of vehicle he’d have expected a woman with a feisty personality to drive. He pictured the spitfire in a red Mustang.

When Santori had phoned about a disturbance at the work site, Duke had expected to find a group of protesters chained to the building door, not a pint-size woman going toe-to-toe with a wrecking ball.

“She’s one of our city’s most popular social workers,” the cop named Pete boasted.

The blonde was a social worker? She’d looked more like an avenging angel in her long white coat and matching scarf. The woman intrigued Duke and he was eager to learn her reasons for delaying the demolition of his building.

“Renée’s special.” The gleam in the other officer’s eyes told Duke to mind his manners. The cop had to be in his fifties and the social worker hadn’t appeared to be a day over thirty. Were they a couple? Duke hadn’t made friends since moving to Detroit a month ago. He would have enjoyed becoming better acquainted with Ms. Sweeney, but he refused to trespass on another man’s territory.

“You mess with Renée, you mess with us. Got it?” the old guy threatened.

“Understood.” Duke hustled across the lot, eager to escape the cold. The below-freezing temps that had blanketed the state the past week had him second-guessing his decision to move his business from Tulsa to Detroit. He’d take an occasional paralyzing ice storm any day over the below-zero temperatures of this Midwest meat locker.

Once inside his truck, he revved the engine and flipped on the heat. Even though the policeman had made it clear that Renée Sweeney was off-limits, anticipation stirred Duke’s gut. Having eaten alone since arriving in the Motor City, he was ready to engage in conversation with someone other than himself. And he expected the social worker had plenty to say. He’d caught the way she’d summed him up with a cold, hard stare and he anticipated changing her uncomplimentary opinion of him.

When Duke pulled into the parking lot of the Railway Diner he recalled his Realtor suggesting the burger joint months ago when he’d been in town signing the closing papers on the warehouse property. He parked three spaces away from the silver wagon. Leaving his hat in the truck, he hurried toward the entrance where Renée stood inside the door.

“How long for a table?” He leaned closer to hear her response in the crowded waiting area and detected a hint of perfume in her hair—a nice change from the smell of fishy river water and wet decay that saturated the air along the Riverfront.

“Five minutes or less.”

He slipped out of his coat, then offered to help Renée with hers, but she scooted aside and shed her own jacket. If she was averse to his touch, why had she shaken his hand in the parking lot? Better yet—why had her fingers clung to his so long?

The hostess rescued them from further awkward conversation, and they ascended the steps to the dining area. Halfway through the car, grilled onions and frying beef assaulted his nose. He’d have to send his clothes off to be laundered tonight if he hoped to prevent his hotel room from smelling like fried hamburger.

Duke waited for Renée to scoot into the booth, then he sat across from her. A waitress named Peggy arrived with menus and water glasses. “Half-price burgers on Fridays,” she announced. “Coffee?”

“Please.” Renée’s smile knocked the wind from Duke. The woman had dimples in both cheeks and beautiful, straight white teeth.

Peggy cleared her throat and his neck warmed at having been caught gawking. “Make that two coffees.” When the waitress disappeared, he said, “Smile.”

Renée raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I want to see your dimples again.”

She rolled her eyes, then complied—not a sweet smile, but a bite-you-in-the-ass smirk. Darned if those tiny pits in the middle of her cheeks weren’t the sexiest, most impudent dents he’d seen in a long time. His gaze traveled from her cheeks to her mouth, then to her electric-blue eyes. Renée Sweeney was a very pretty woman.

And he’d been warned away from her.

The mental prompt didn’t stop him from ogling as she perused the menu. Her bulky coat had disguised her figure, but her pink cable-knit sweater flaunted her femininity, clinging to the gentle swells of her breasts. Dainty fingers sported neatly trimmed nails painted in a frosted-pink color to match the sweater. Every inch of the woman shouted cuddle me. Too bad the cop had already claimed snuggling rights.

“You’re staring.”

“Sorry. I’m in awe—” of your beauty “—that such a small woman took on an entire construction crew.”

“I won, didn’t I?” she boasted.

Laughter boomed from his chest. “Yes, you did.” Beauty and pride—a winning combination in his book. Too bad she didn’t act the least bit interested in him.

Waitress Peggy delivered their coffee, then flipped open her order pad.

“I’ll have seven plain cheeseburgers and seven servings of fries,” Renée said.

The pencil tip broke against the pad. “I’m sorry. How many burgers did you say?”

“Seven burgers. Seven fries. And six of those orders will be to-go.”

“Okaaay. Sir?”

“One burger. One fry.” He handed Peggy his menu. As soon as she left, he teased, “All that fresh air gave you an appetite.”

“Hardly.” Then she not-so-subtly changed the subject. “You aren’t a Michigan native.”

“I was born in St. Louis. My mother and I moved to Oklahoma when I was thirteen years old.” Under protest from Duke. He’d hoped his workaholic mother would make more time for him after his father had died, but he’d been sadly mistaken. Within a year of his father’s death, his mother had accepted Dominick Cartwright’s marriage proposal and suddenly Duke had had to share his mother with two stepsiblings.

“Thought I detected a twang.” Renée smiled.

He grimaced. He prided himself on having dropped his Okie accent when he’d attended college at UCLA.

“What are your plans for the warehouse property?” she asked, ending polite conversation.

“I’m relocating my company, Dalton Industries, from Tulsa to Detroit. I intend to flatten the warehouse and erect a new building, which will house company offices and condos.”

“What does Dalton Industries do?”

Was she genuinely interested in his company or working up to some…point she intended to make? If he wasn’t careful he’d forget Ms. Sweeney’s agenda interfered with his. Still, it had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity to share his dream with anyone other than business partners, Realtors, construction crews and architects. “Dalton Industries is a player in the information and technology arena.” When she stared at him expectantly, he continued, “My company will lead the way in the city’s efforts to revitalize the warehouse district along the Detroit River.”

She snorted.

Startled, he demanded, “What?”

“Nothing.” She shifted her attention from his face to the napkin holder at the end of the table.

“Tell me.”

Her dainty chin lifted and her facial muscles pulled into a pinched glare. “The wealthy businessmen I’ve had run-ins with in the past convinced me that their goals rank higher in importance than doing the right thing.”

What gave her the impression Duke was wealthy? “The fact that I own a business doesn’t mean I’m drowning in money.” To tell the truth one of the reasons he’d moved his company had been to escape the influence of his stepfather. Dominick’s offer to invest in Dalton Industries had been heartfelt, but Duke needed to prove he could stand on his own two feet without the aid of Cartwright oil money. Like hundreds of other businessmen, he’d taken out bank loans to finance his venture.

A pink-tipped finger flicked at his head. “Your haircut alone probably cost a hundred bucks.”

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving several previously immaculate layers mussed. “Thirty-five dollars and that included a five-dollar tip.”

She frowned. “Snakeskin boots?”

“A gift from my mother.” The last birthday present he’d received from her before she died in a car accident two years ago.

“Your name.”

“What’s wrong with Duke?”

“Sounds stuck-up. Like royalty.”

“I was named after my maternal grandfather, Duke Weatherford. He was a science professor at Cambridge University.” Duke didn’t appreciate being deemed unacceptable because of his name, but damned if he’d defend himself.

Then she slapped him with another stinging question. “Why bring your company to Detroit when it’s obvious you don’t fit in here?”

Maybe he stood out now, but with time he intended to become a true Detroiter. And Michigan was the farthest thing from ranches, oil and his stepfather’s influence—he doubted anyone this far north had heard of the multimillionaire. “The city made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You mean steep tax breaks.”

“Yes, tax breaks. But my company will contribute to the general revitalization fund to improve the Riverfront.” What he didn’t confess was that Detroit was the only city whose financial incentives enabled him to transfer his company without having to accept a handout from his stepfather. His turn to change the subject. “Your boyfriend informed me that you were a social worker.”

“Boyfriend?”

“The older cop seemed pretty possessive of you.”

“Rich? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

Siblings? They looked nothing alike. Renée had beautiful blond hair and the cop was a carrottop. Relief pulsed through Duke’s body, and he grinned like a fool. He had no qualms about ignoring an older brother’s warning. If Duke had his way, tonight’s dinner would be the beginning of his getting-to-know-Ms.-Renée-Sweeney-better campaign. But just in case…“Any other boyfriends or big brothers in the picture?”

“No, I’m unattached at the moment.”

Unattached was good. Very good.

“The Screw & Bolt factory has been a part of the Riverfront for a long, long time,” she argued, showing no interest in pursuing a personal conversation with him.

“I’m aware of the building’s significance. I read up on the area before I put in an offer.”

Her soft huff claimed she didn’t believe him. Time for a history lesson. “The factory was established in 1877 on Lafayette before moving to Atwater and Riopelle in 1892.” He paused, expecting an apology—nothing. “The company erected a new building in 1912. They manufactured cap screws, nuts and automobile parts, then went out of business before World War II. From then on the building was used as a warehouse for various companies until it became permanently vacant.”

“Okay, you did your homework,” she conceded. Peggy arrived with the burgers and a large to-go bag. Renée thanked her, then proceeded to devour her meal.

Why the rush? He’d hoped to discover if they shared a common interest besides an old warehouse. “How long have you been a social worker?”

“Six years.”

“Born and raised in Detroit?”

A single nod. “What does a social worker want with an abandoned building?” he prodded.

With great care, she set her burger on the plate and finished chewing. “What if I asked you to hold off destroying the warehouse for a month?”

Nice try. “You didn’t answer my question.”

A stare-down ensued. He gave in first. “No.” He didn’t dare delay construction. The lease on the current office building in Tulsa expired in September of next year, leaving nine months to complete his new headquarters. In truth, there wasn’t enough money in the coffers to pay additional rent in Oklahoma.

“A few weeks won’t make a difference,” Renée argued. “Besides, it’s freezing outside. No one pours cement in the middle of winter.”

Unwilling to be swayed, he remained silent. Her eyes flashed with irritation, their blue color brightening. Then she blurted, “Give me one week.”

Obviously she had no intention of coming clean with him. Duke didn’t want any part of whatever scheme this woman was involved in. For all he knew, she might be breaking the law. Dinner had been a disappointing waste of time. Too bad they hadn’t met under different circumstances. Renée was the first woman he’d encountered in Detroit who intrigued him and he balked at the idea of never seeing her again. Blaming indigestion for the churning feeling in his gut, he slid from the booth, leaving his half-eaten burger on the plate. “I can’t agree to a day, much less a week.”

Renée’s mouth sagged. “You’re going to leave before we’ve finished discussing the subject?”

He wouldn’t label their conversation a discussion—more like a one-sided argument. He removed a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it on the table, then grabbed his coat. “As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing more to say.” Hoping she’d change her mind, he paused with one arm shoved inside his coat sleeve. Her mutinous glare vowed she wasn’t budging from her position. He fished a pen and a business card from his pocket, then scrawled the name of his hotel and room number on the back.

“What’s this?” She held the card between her fingertips as if it was contaminated with germs.

“For whenever you’re ready to confess the truth. Unless I learn what you’re really after, Renée, the wrecking ball swings on Monday.”

Chapter Two

A click-click-clicking sound greeted Renée when she let herself in the door of her mother’s two-bedroom cottage on Church Street in Corktown—Detroit’s oldest neighborhood. “Hey, Mom, it’s me!”

“In here, honey.”

Renée stowed the half-gallon of ice cream she’d brought over in the freezer, then dropped her purse on the gold-flecked Formica countertop in the kitchen. After ditching her coat, she joined her mother in the living room. As expected, seventy-nine-year-old Bernice sat in the recliner watching COPS on TV, her knobby, arthritic fingers moving a pair of knitting needles at lightning speed. Row after row of gray yarn piled high in her lap. The almost-empty wicker basket next to the chair served as a reminder that Renée needed to take her mother yarn shopping.

Bernice Sweeney knitted afghans and sweaters, which she donated to city shelters and the neighborhood Most Holy Trinity Church’s winter clothing drive.

Expelling an exasperated breath Renée dropped onto the couch. She hadn’t been able to purge Duke Dalton from her mind since their dinner date—correction, dinner meeting—Friday. The quick meal with the cowboy had been the closest to a date she’d come in months.

Peering over the rim of her bifocals Bernice asked, “Anything wrong?”

“No.” Yes. Why did the new owner of the Screw & Bolt Factory have to be handsome? Mannerly? As stubborn as she was? Renée offered a smile, not wishing to worry her mother—a woman who’d spent her entire adult life glancing at clocks and waiting for the phone to ring with bad news.

Gun shots exploded from the TV and for a moment Renée watched the drama unfold. She’d stopped second-guessing her mother’s addiction to COPS long ago, figuring the series provided a therapeutic purpose. Bernice’s husband had been a Detroit cop killed in the line of duty thirty-one years ago. Renée was sad that Bernice had lost her husband at a young age and in such a violent manner, but if not for the tragedy Bernice would never have adopted Renée. And she couldn’t imagine her life without Bernice and Rich in it.

As soon as the suspect on TV had been apprehended, Renée’s mother spoke. “Something’s bothering you.”

Not something…someone. “I’m fine,” Renée fudged. While running her usual Saturday errands she’d agonized over Duke Dalton’s warning. She feared the man hadn’t been bluffing when he’d threatened to destroy the warehouse Monday.

The clickity-clack stopped and a thick gray eyebrow arched. “You were just over here last night.”

Renée’s home sat next door to her mother’s. She’d purchased the two-bedroom, one bathroom cottage three years ago. With the help of her brother she’d scraped together enough cash for the down payment. “Can’t a daughter spend time with her mother?” It ticked off Renée that her encounter with Duke had unnerved her to the point where she acted like a wimpy kid in need of mommy’s hug.

Darn the cowboy. Not only did he worry her…he excited her. When she’d sat across from him in the booth the previous night, every pore in her body had opened wide and absorbed his appearance, his smell, his voice…his sophistication. But it was his gentle brown eyes that caused her the most grief. They begged her to trust him.

A bad, bad idea.

“Go be bored in your own house.” Although a loving smile accompanied the command, Renée believed Bernice used her stubborn independence as a shield against the fear of becoming a burden to her children. “No hot date tonight?” her mother teased.

“I’m thirty-one. Hot dates are for hormonal teenagers.” Duke’s face flashed through her mind and she decided he could easily make her hormonal if he cared to.

“I brought ice cream.” Renée sprang from the couch and gave her mother an impulsive hug, breathing in the almond scent of Jergens lotion before skipping off to the kitchen.

Out of sight, she slumped over the counter and rubbed her fingers against her forehead in rhythmic circles. She hadn’t been able to shake the headache that had chiseled away at her frontal lobe all afternoon. After shoveling Rocky Road into two bowls, she and her mother enjoyed their treat in silence. Bernice finished first. “If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, I can’t fix it.”

How Renée wished her mother had the power to mend the predicament Renée had gotten herself into. She changed the subject. “Have you agreed to go out to dinner with Mr. Morelli yet?” Mr. Morelli was the self-appointed block warden. The old coot marched along Church Street leaving notes on the front doors of homes in violation of the neighborhood beautification program.

“Roberto’s too young for me,” Bernice sputtered.

“There’s only five years difference between the two of you.” After seventy did age matter?

“He has bad breath.”

“Tell him to try a different denture cream.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “What makes you an expert on men, young lady?”

Touché. Bernice made no bones about the fact that before she strolled up to the pearly gates, she wanted her daughter married with children. With Renée’s nonexistent dating life, the likelihood of fulfilling her mother’s wish was equally nonexistent.

“What about that nice young man Rich introduced you to a month ago?”

Disaster. Renée had warned Rich that she didn’t care to date cops. She loved her brother and supported his choice of careers, but marry a police officer? No way. She fretted enough over the children under her care. She didn’t need the added angst of worrying that her husband might not live through his next shift. “Ben and I didn’t click.” No sense stating the particulars—like Ben had a potty mouth and a habit of denigrating the women who worked the street corners in Detroit’s less reputable neighborhoods. Or that Ben had been married before—twice. Renée wasn’t interested in becoming strike number three.

“Rich says he’s a good cop,” Bernice persisted.

Time to fess up before her mother recited a list of eligible men from church or the nephews and grandsons of her Bunco friends. “I met a man. His name is Duke Dalton.”

“Duke…? Is he from England?” Her mother chuckled at her own joke.

“I don’t believe there are any members of the royal family living in Oklahoma. Duke moved here from Tulsa.”

“An Okie.”

“What do you know about Okies?”

“Dated one when I was a young gal.”

Renée snapped her fingers. “I forgot your parents were migrant workers in Oklahoma before moving to Detroit.”

“Daddy sure was excited to build cars. Life was good once he started putting on bumpers.” Life had been better than good for many in Detroit before the downturn in the automotive industry.

“Duke owns a software company and he intends to knock down one of the warehouses along the Riverfront and erect a new building in its place.” If Renée confessed the truth about why the warehouse needed to remain intact, her mother would volunteer to help and Bernice was too old to foster children anymore. “I can’t go into detail, but I asked Duke to hold off demolishing the building for a week and he refused.”

The knitting needles froze. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you, young lady?”

Even though Renée had the best of intentions, she had a history of becoming involved in situations that usually caused problems for her boss. She wiggled a finger into the tear in the couch cushion and protested, “Not at all.”

“Then use your God-given gift to change his mind.” Her mother believed all her daughter had to do was flash her dimples and others would gladly do her bidding.

“I tried,” Renée muttered.

“And?”

“And he won’t budge.”

Bernice’s expression softened. “Then you best leave well enough alone.”

Not the advice Renée had hoped for.

Saved by the ringing doorbell, Renée bolted from the couch, pressed an eye to the peephole, then swallowed a groan and opened the door. “Hey, Rich.”

The yellow glow of the porch light bounced off her brother’s russet-colored hair, sparking a fireball above his head. Renée grinned. “It’s Saturday night. Don’t you have a date?” Like Officer Ben, her brother was divorced with no kids and always on the hunt for the next Ms. Perfect.

“Brat,” he muttered, tugging a strand of her hair as he brushed past her into the room. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, son.” The needles clicked faster. Bernice was becoming agitated at having her quiet evening disturbed. “Imagine that, a visit from both children in one night.”

Rich caught Renée’s eye and nodded toward the kitchen.

“In the mood for ice cream?” Renée asked.

“Sure.” He followed her out of the room.

“What’s up?” she whispered, understanding full well why her brother had dropped in.

When she reached for an ice-cream bowl, Rich caught her wrist. “No, thanks.” Her brother had been dieting since his fiftieth birthday, hoping to lose the extra ten pounds he’d put on over the years.

“What the hell were you thinking standing in front of that crane yesterday?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want the building demolished.”

“First, you asked me and Pete to increase our drive-bys along the Riverfront, then I discover you’re interfering with a construction crew. What kind of trouble are you stirring up?”

He breathed deeply through his nose—a sign he was about to blow his lid. “Your nostrils are flaring,” she teased.

“This isn’t funny, especially if you’re breaking the law.”

“It’s always about the law with you, isn’t it?”

He scowled.

“I can’t tell you, Rich. Not yet anyway. Promise you’ll maintain your patrols a little while longer.”

“Hell, Renée, if there were any criminals hanging around the Riverfront, they’ve all fled by now. The area’s a graveyard.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re breaking the law, I risk losing my job for helping you.”

“I’m bending, not breaking.”

Her eyes must have conveyed sincerity, because he changed topics. “What did you and that Dalton guy discuss at the diner?”

“Mr. Dalton is relocating his computer software company from Tulsa to Detroit.”

“And…?” Rich rested his palm against the butt of his gun.

Good grief. “The man didn’t threaten me.” At least not directly.

“Is he interested in dating you?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question.”

“C’mon, Renée. Mom’s on my case every day of the week to find you a husband. There’s a new cop at the precinct. He transferred in from Cleveland.”

“No. No. And no.” Every cop in Detroit knew Renée was Rich’s little sister and most had heard the circumstances surrounding her adoption. The last person she intended to date or become serious with was a man who felt sorry for her. Too many damned people still treated her with kid gloves. Maybe that’s what made Duke Dalton so intriguing. He wasn’t from Detroit. He had no idea that she had a past. A very public past.

“Too bad. Dalton seemed okay.” Rich peeked into the living room, then warned, “Stay away from that warehouse.”

“But—”

“If you make trouble for Dalton, he’ll lodge a complaint with the police department, then I’m caught in the middle.”

The last thing she wished was to create problems for her brother. She’d have to find a way to stall Duke without resorting to drastic measures. Crossing her fingers, she followed her mother’s suggestion and flashed her dimples. “I promise I won’t get in the man’s way.”

LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON—right in the middle of the Lions-Bears football game, Renée entered the Detroit Marriott. The hotel was located downtown in the General Motors Renaissance Center, which housed businesses, restaurants, bars, retail shops and a five-story atrium with river views. Across the street and accessible by a skywalk sat the Millender Center with additional stores and businesses.

Both the Renaissance Center and the Millender Center had station stops for Detroit’s elevated light rail, the People Mover. The train traveled a three-mile loop around the area—not that Renée had much use for the mode of transportation in her line of work.

She rode the elevator to the hotel lobby on the third floor. Halfway to the front desk she changed her mind and backpedaled to the elevator bank. Rather than call ahead and notify Duke of her presence, she’d catch him off guard in his room. When it came to the corporate cowboy Renée needed every advantage.

Even though Duke’s confidence and stubbornness irritated her, he was a man that stuck with a woman long after they’d gone separate ways. The sticking part had to do with his handsome face. But it had been the mellow glow in his dark brown eyes that had sucked her in like quicksand. Even if they worked out a solution to the Screw & Bolt Factory she and Duke were from different worlds and had nothing—save a little physical chemistry—in common.

Inside the elevator, she confirmed the number scrawled on the business card and punched the button for the sixty-second floor. In less than a minute she exited the elevator lightheaded from the slingshot ride. A few steps later she stood in front of Duke’s door chewing her lip. When the coppery taste of blood met her tongue she swallowed a curse and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“It’s open. C’mon in,” he called.

Had he been watching her through the peephole? Cautiously she turned the handle and entered the room, then gasped. Duke stood in front of a flat-screen TV wearing nothing but a white towel slung around his waist. Water from a recent shower dripped from his head and several droplets rolled down his smooth, hairless chest. Peeking out from beneath the terry cloth were masculine hairy calves and two big bare feet.

“Renée? What are you doing here?”

She forced her gaze from his chest to his face. It was four in the afternoon and he’d yet to shave. The dark stubble along his jaw added a swashbuckler element to his cowboy image, taking the guise to a whole new level of sexiness—a cowboy pirate.

The words I’ll return later stuck to the sides of her throat, as she grappled for the doorknob.

“Wait.” He stepped forward, the towel slipping to his hips. He clutched the knot at his waist and flashed a sheepish grin. “I was expecting room service. Make yourself comfortable while I dress.” He retreated to the bathroom, leaving her a clear view of the unmade bed. A fantasy of her and Duke fooling around on the mattress was cut short by the sound of a throat clearing behind her.

A room-service waiter stood in the doorway. She stepped aside. The man rolled the cart past her and arranged service for two at the cocktail table in the corner, then left without pausing for a tip.

Drat. Duke had a date tonight. What rotten timing on her part.

Ignoring the zap of jealousy that pricked her at the idea of him and another woman enjoying a cozy meal and whatever else that followed, she decided to get right to the point.

Her attention rotated between the food, the football game and the bathroom door. Purely by accident her eyes landed on the bathroom door as Duke walked out, wearing jeans and a maroon turtleneck sweater. His big feet remained sock free and she forced her attention from his hairy toes—the whole bare feet thing impossibly intimate for having met the man two days ago.

He’d shaved. A sliver of disappointment pricked her as she studied his clean profile. He checked the game, then paused in front of her. Eternity. The subtle scent of the men’s cologne enveloped her and she breathed deeply. Eternity for Men was one of her favorites. She’d given her brother a bottle for Christmas a year ago.

One side of Duke’s mouth lifted and she caught herself before responding to his smile. This was a business meeting, not a social call. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—” she pointed to the table “—your dinner date.”

He padded closer, his scent intensifying. In addition to cologne, her nose detected soap and shaving cream.

“I don’t have a date,” he said. “They always prepare the table for a guest. Will you join me?” He crossed the room, stopping on his way to straighten the bedcovers. “Sorry the place is a mess. I don’t bother with maid service on the weekend.” He held out a chair and waited.

The pull of his brown eyes tempted her to forget her mission. “I’m here to talk business.”

“Share this pizza with me, then we’ll discuss anything you want.”

What could it hurt? Nothing but laundry and paperwork waited at home. She laid her coat across the end of the bed as she passed by and joined him at the table. He rewarded her with a sexy half smile and her heart flip-flopped inside her chest.

The man’s lonely, that’s all. He’d left family and friends behind in Tulsa. Maybe a lover. Well, Renée wasn’t family. She doubted she’d leave today his friend. And becoming his lover…dream on.

He pushed her chair in after she sat. Duke had manners. Class. Style. She struggled to envision him mixing with Detroit’s working-class. And you’ll never fit into his world. Regardless, it was nice to pretend for a while that they had more in common than a crumbling warehouse.

“Are you a Lions fan?” she asked, as he poured two glasses of red wine, which probably cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries.

“I intend to be.” He served her a slice of pizza.

She sipped from her wineglass, waiting to see if he used silverware. He picked up the pizza slice with his fingers. His casual manner put her at ease. A bite later, she said, “This is delicious.”

“Barbecue.”

“An Oklahoma favorite?” she guessed.

“My stepfather’s housekeeper’s family recipe. I passed it along to the chefs in the kitchen. They loved it, so they added the pizza to the room-service menu.”

A comfortable silence settled between them while they ate and watched the game. “Do you like football?” he asked when a commercial aired.

“Usually I don’t have time to watch the games. Too busy responding to one crisis or another.”

He stopped chewing. “You work seven days a week?”

“Sometimes. I’m on call Saturday and Sunday. Most of my coworkers are married and have families, so I cover weekend emergencies.”

“You must rake in the overtime.”

She shook her head. “I’m on salary, but the station wagon I drive is sort of a company car.” Rich and several fellow officers at the precinct had organized a fund-raiser to purchase the car for Renée. People who had the least donated the most—as they always did when Detroit’s Little Darling was involved.

“What’s it like to pick up stakes and start over in a city where people don’t recognize you?” She’d dreamed of doing that exact thing, but felt beholden to her mother and Rich for the blessed life they’d provided her. Now she was too entrenched in her job to ever consider leaving.

“Not as difficult as I’d imagined. I like Detroit.” At her eye-roll he insisted, “There’s a lot of energy here with the younger generation taking over the older neighborhoods and restoring them. I hope the Riverfront experiences the same revitalization sooner rather than later.”

“Difficult to picture a cowboy fitting in with automotive workers.”

“I’m not really a cowboy.”

The rogue smile…the muscular body…the self-assured attitude…yeah, right. “So the boots and hat are for show?”

“The hat became a habit. And I told you the boots were a gift from my mother. She gave them to me shortly before she passed away, and you can’t beat a sheepskin jacket in this bitter cold.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Ready to discuss the warehouse?” he asked, ignoring Renée’s condolence. His mother must be a touchy subject.

“Let’s not beat around the bush. I need you to hold off on the demolition for a week.”

“Give me a reason.”

Suddenly she lost her appetite and left the table to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the suite. The lights of Windsor, Ontario twinkled across the river. “Can’t you trust me?”

“Trust you? I don’t even know you.” He joined her at the window, shoving his fingers through his dark hair, mussing the recently combed strands. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than trust me to convince me to halt anything.” When her gaze remained trained on Canada, he clasped her shoulder—his fingers firm, yet gentle. “Maybe I can help. I’ve got some pull with the—”

She stepped aside, breaking contact. The wealthy assumed they had the answer to every problem, when in fact, their interference usually made things worse. Right now she was battling a community development board comprised of local businessmen. She needed their approval for a recreation center for at-risk kids, which she hoped to open in the Warehouse District.

A year ago she’d acquired funding for the project and had approached the board for permission to purchase a deserted building that had once housed a dry cleaners and a food market. The board members denied her request citing that a center for undesirable kids would have a negative impact when they were trying to attract new businesses to the area.

For over a year Renée had worked tirelessly on the project, believing at-risk kids deserved a safe space to hang out and socialize after school. Instead, the children were left in the cold—like those she was attempting to assist now.

“What’s it going to be, Renée?”

Dear God, she hoped she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. “I can’t tell you. I’ll have to show you.”

Chapter Three

A night sky of sparkling stars greeted Renée and Duke when they left the hotel. “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow,” he suggested. “It’s dangerous along the Riverfront after dark.”

“If you’re concerned about safety, why are you moving your company there?” She marched toward the visitor parking lot.

Picking up his pace, Duke followed. “My office building will have surveillance cameras and a security guard 24/7.”

“Not to worry. I doubt even criminals are foolish enough to venture out in these frigid temps.”

The fact that Renée had grown up in Detroit and knew the area did nothing to ease his anxiety. “Should I follow you?”

“We’ll take my car.”

When they reached the wagon, he held open the driver-side door for her, then skirted the hood and hopped into the passenger seat. He fumbled with the lever then shoved the seat as far back as possible, which still left his knees pressed against the glove compartment.

She eyed his scrunched frame. “Would you rather drive your truck?”

“I’ll manage as long as you don’t slam on the brakes.”

They made the short trip in silence. She turned into the Screw & Bolt Factory parking lot and drove past the construction crane to the far end where the gloomy outline of the building materialized. His muscles tightened with dread as he unfolded his long legs and got out of the car. A sixth sense warned he’d be better off never learning what Renée wanted with the warehouse.

“This way.”

Duke walked at her side, his cowboy boots dragging across the brittle pavement. Hands fisted, his eyes fixated on the shadows, ready to protect Renée from whatever evil lay in wait.

As they drew closer to the building, he spotted the rusty sign: Industrial Public Warehouse. Renée paused to pull a flashlight from her coat pocket. She switched it on and they entered through a side service door. The yellow beam splashed across the chipped brick walls displaying the tags spray-painted by a local graffiti artist. Duke indicated the image of a bear-shaped man surrounded by smaller bear women. “The drawings are pretty good.”

“I’ve encouraged Troy to apply to art school.”

“You’ve met the kid who vandalized this property?” Duke’s eyes prowled the area as they crossed the first floor. The popping and cracking of glass beneath their shoes echoed through the emptiness.

“Troy’s nineteen. Doesn’t have a job. Runs around with a group of troublemakers.”

The kid should put his talent to better use than defacing public warehouses. Duke imagined his colleagues’ astonishment if he commissioned the delinquent to sketch bears on the walls of the lobby in the new Dalton Industries building.

“Watch your step,” she said as they entered a stairwell.

When they reached the third floor, light from the full moon spilled through a gaping hole in the wall, illuminating battered parts of thirty-year-old cars used for spray-painting practice. A skateboard ramp claimed the fourth floor. Someone had put in a lot of effort and time hauling large planks of plywood up four flights to construct the ramp.

They continued to the fifth and final floor. Duke and his Realtor hadn’t bothered to investigate the top floor, assuming they’d find more of the same—debris and trash. She knocked on the door. Once. After a long pause she added two more knocks.

Was that a signal? What or who occupied the fifth floor?

Flashlight aimed in front of her, Renée opened the door.

Piles of newspapers and empty food containers littered the area. After several steps, she held up a hand and he stopped. The beam of light skirted across a maze of cardboard boxes that connected to form a tunnel. A towel concealed the opening at one end.

“It’s me. Everyone okay in there?” Renée spoke in a hushed whisper.

Seconds ticked by and no sound. Finally a small hand pushed the towel aside and a face popped into view. A kid’s face. Although the temperature in the building hovered below freezing, Duke’s forehead broke out in a sweat. Images of a wrecking ball slamming into the side of the brick wall and children falling to their deaths flashed before his eyes.

One face turned into two. Three…four…holy, hell. A gang of kids had set up camp in his warehouse.

Renée ignored Duke’s sharp indrawn breath, focusing on the children in front of her. “Hey, everyone. I brought a friend.” Duke Dalton wasn’t a friend by a long shot, but she didn’t wish to frighten the children. Renée had discovered the clan a few days ago thanks to a tip from a transient woman in one of the city shelters. The elderly lady had overheard teenagers whispering about a group of kids hiding in a building along the Riverfront and had reported the news to shelter personnel.

The kids, save one, were familiar to Renée—most had been in and out of the foster-care system for years. Timmy, a shy, petite boy, slipped from the tunnel first. “Did you bring food?”

Oh, shoot. Guilt pricked her that she’d lounged in Duke’s hotel room enjoying pizza while the kids had waited for supper—which she’d forgotten.

“Ms. Sweeney wanted to ask what everybody’s hungry for.” Duke’s masculine voice sent Timmy scampering inside the tunnel.

Renée shot Duke a startled glance, surprised he’d come to her rescue. Flustered, she said, “Mr. Dalton won’t hurt you.”

Crystal, the Goth thirteen-year-old, emerged. Dressed from head-to-toe in black, she wore bell-bottom cargo pants with silver chains attached to the waistband, a T-shirt and clunky combat-style boots. Eyes rimmed with dark shadow and mascara, the teen had dyed her eyebrows and hair to match the ebony polish on her nails. Her menacing gaze fixated on Duke and she snarled, “Who’s that?”

“This is Mr. Dalton. He’s offered to buy supper tonight.” When no one else came out, she said, “I need to make sure everyone is okay. If you don’t come out, you don’t eat.”

“You heard Ms. Sweeney,” Crystal called over her shoulder. “Hurry up. I’m starving.”

One by one, five children crawled from the crude shelter. “José, where’s your jacket?” The oldest in the group at fifteen, the boy jutted his chin defiantly. “It’s hot in there.”

“Well, it’s not out here.” She locked eyes with José, refusing to allow him to gain the upper hand. Thin and gangly, the shaggy-haired teen stood several inches taller than Renée. He had severe acne and she guessed his long bangs were meant to conceal the pimples across his forehead. After a tense few seconds he retrieved his coat.

Evie, Crystal’s seven-year-old sister, shuffled forward. “Can I have milk tonight?” The cherub’s cheeks glowed bright pink. Renée brushed aside a limp hank of blond hair and pressed her fingers to the child’s forehead, relieved her skin felt cool. “Yes, you may have milk.”

José exited the tunnel wearing a jacket with sleeves that ended above his bony wrists. She presumed he’d begun a growth spurt. The possibility frustrated Renée. The children shouldn’t be living in cardboard boxes in an abandoned building with temperatures well below freezing at night. Every child was entitled to a warm bed and three square meals a day. Plus hugs. Kids needed hugs, which reminded her…she held out a hand toward Timmy. He hobbled closer, dragging his left foot behind him. The boy had been born with a clubfoot and had never received medical treatment for the deformity.

“Doing okay?” she asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. After the quick hug she directed the flashlight at Timmy’s freckled face, searching for signs of injury, illness. He smiled, exposing a gap between his teeth.

“When did you lose your front tooth?”

“This morning. Ricci pulled it.”

“Maybe Ricci should be a dentist when he grows up.” Renée winked at the eight-year-old.

“No way,” the boy protested. “I’m gonna race cars.” She might have found his answer amusing if not for the fact that the Hispanic boy had been picked up twice by police for participating in illegal street racing. He’d been a passenger in the vehicles, but Renée feared one day Ricci would slide behind the wheel. If Renée didn’t secure him a decent foster home soon, he’d end up in the state juvenile detention center before his twelfth birthday.

“I’m gonna fly airplanes,” boasted Willie. Arms extended like wings, the six-year-old African American boy circled the group, making loud obnoxious engine noises. Willie was a crack baby. His cognitive development was a little slow, but not worrisome. It was his hyperactivity and emotional outbursts that had gotten him kicked out of every home he’d been sent to. Most foster parents weren’t equipped to handle his behavioral issues.

While the kids engaged in good-natured bantering, Renée hugged each child in turn. She made sure they all felt the touch of a loving hand.

“Does that guy—” Crystal motioned to Duke “—have anything to do with the big crane we saw earlier?”

“Yes.” She wouldn’t lie to the children, but she refused to reveal the entire truth for fear the kids would panic and scatter. “Mr. Dalton owns this building.”

The kids huddled close—José and Crystal standing guard in front of the younger ones.

Duke winced at the group’s reaction and Renée wished to reassure him that he’d done nothing wrong. Street kids trusted no one. And even though she considered Duke’s height and build, his square jaw and dark eyes attractive, the children no doubt found him formidable. “Mr. Dalton, I’d like you to meet your temporary tenants.

“This is José.” To her pleasure, Duke extended his hand. To her displeasure José refused the handshake.

Ignoring the rebuff, Duke said, “Nice to meet you, José. Looks as if you’re taking good care of everyone.”

The boy’s slim shoulders straightened, but the mutinous glare remained in his eyes. Renée wanted to hug Duke for complimenting the teen.

“This is Crystal and her sister, Evie.”

Again Duke offered his hand. Crystal followed José’s lead and kept her hands shoved inside her coat pockets. Evie giggled, burying her face in her sister’s jacket.

“And our resident pilot is Willie.” The boy marched over to Duke and shook his hand, pumping Duke’s arm like a circus clown. “What’s up, dude?” He laughed at his own joke.

“Hello, Willie.” Duke didn’t seem bothered by the rambunctious boy.

“Then we have Timmy and Ricci.”

Ricci stayed put, but Timmy wandered closer, his twisted foot scraping against the cement. If Duke noticed the boy’s deformity, he showed no sign.

“Nice to meet you, boys.”

After the introductions, Timmy asked, “What are you gonna do to our building?”

Renée cringed at the word our.

“I intend to—”

“Mr. Dalton hasn’t finalized his plans for the warehouse,” she interrupted.

“We’re not stupid,” Crystal spouted. “You’re gonna knock it down.”

“Not yet,” Renée assured the girl.

“Aw, man. Are we gonna have to find a new home?” Ricci whined.

Renée had been involved in social work too many years to allow her emotions to get the best of her, but the fact that Ricci considered a vacant building a home made her eyes burn with anger—anger that these and many more kids had been left to fend for themselves by the system.

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she assured them.

Duke stirred uneasily and Renée regretted that she’d introduced him to the kids. But darn it, he’d forced her back to the wall. She had to prevent him from demolishing the warehouse while she attempted to line up foster homes for the children—not an easy job when the kids’ files had been flagged as troublemakers.

“Are you and the others safe at night, José?” Duke asked, glancing at Renée.

She balled her hands into fists. Clearly the man believed she’d failed in her job as a social worker to meet the needs of these kids.

Haven’t you, Renée? She blamed bureaucratic red tape for not being able to help all of Detroit’s children in crisis. When a child slipped through the cracks, she asked herself if there was anything more she could have done. Had she missed details that might have made a difference in placing the kids in foster homes? She hated that Duke made her doubt herself. She’d only met him two days ago, but for some stupid reason the cowboy’s opinion of her mattered.

“We’re safe here,” José mumbled. He looked at Renée before adding, “Two drunks sleep in the building next door, but they leave us alone.” The teen indicated the Detroit United Railway Company powerhouse. The shell of a building would make an interesting view from the window of Duke’s executive office.

“Glad to hear you’re watching out for strangers,” Duke said.

Crystal rolled her eyes. “We don’t go out after dark.”

Before the conversation lost its amicableness, Renée inquired, “How are you doing with supplies?” This past Wednesday when she’d discovered the group, she’d collected hand wipes, toilet paper, Kleenex, food and water.

She’d offered to escort the kids to a shelter to shower, but they’d refused, understanding that they’d be required to give their names and then be detained by the Department of Child and Family Services until an investigation into their situation had been conducted. These kids weren’t new to the system.

“We need another blanket.” José spoke up.

“Did one of the covers get ruined?” Renée had given them a car-trunkful of bedding from a local church.

“Not exactly.” José’s gaze skirted her face.

Renée deduced that the teen had traded the blanket for a pack of smokes. He had a habit of stealing from his foster homes and swapping the items for cigarettes. “Are you smoking again?”

“What if I am?” The words would have sounded more threatening if his pubescent voice hadn’t cracked.

Renée narrowed her eyes, held out her hand and dared the teen to defy her. After a tense standoff, the teen withdrew an almost empty pack of cigarettes from his pants’ pocket and handed it over. “Thank you.” Then she spoke to the group. “What about breakfast foods and snacks?”

“We’re good,” Crystal answered.

The parishioners of Most Holy Trinity Church had donated granola bars, crackers, cookies and a bottle of chewable vitamins for the children. She hadn’t dared leave the vitamins with the kids or they’d gobble them up like candy and become ill. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a bag filled with the animal-shaped supplements. “Hands out,” she instructed, placing a tablet on each palm.

“Okay, then. Any last requests before Mr. Dalton and I fetch supper?”

Timmy raised his hand. “I finished my math problems.”

“Bring me the workbook so I remember what level to get next time.” A retired teacher in Renée’s neighborhood had dropped off boxes of outdated math and reading materials to area shelters and Renée had confiscated a few for Timmy. “Anyone else need a workbook?”

A mini revolt erupted, and she laughed. “All right, all right.” The last thing on these kids’ minds was learning.

When Timmy handed over his work packet, Renée said, “This is fourth-grade level. I’m impressed.” Out of all the kids, Timmy loved to learn. “I’ll find you a fifth-grade level.” She hugged each child again. Except José—he stepped aside, being too tough for affection.

“Stay safe and warm and—”

“Watch out for each other,” Evie finished for her.

Renée waited until the kids crawled inside the cardboard tunnel. This was the most difficult part—leaving them behind. Then she felt Duke’s hand on her elbow. Drat the man for his solicitous support—he was the enemy. In silence they navigated the stairwell to the first floor.

As soon as they exited the building he growled in her ear, “Why the hell are those kids living in my warehouse? And why the hell are you allowing them to?”

DUKE ESCORTED RENÉE to the station wagon, glancing over his shoulder, worrying that the drunks in the nearby building might follow them. Cold wind whipped his face, but red-hot anger melted the icy sting.

Gut clenched as if he’d been punched by the world’s biggest bully, he forced his fingers to relax against Renée’s arm lest he give in to the temptation to squeeze until he cut off her blood supply. He was on the verge of losing control—both terrifying and humiliating. He teetered on the rim of an emotional cliff unsure how to combat the surge of feelings assaulting him physically and mentally.

Fear. That the kids on the fifth floor might be dead right now if Renée hadn’t arrived at the warehouse in time to prevent the wrecking ball from pummeling the brick walls. Anger. That Renée hadn’t come clean with him Friday night at the diner. Fury. That the children had been deserted and left to fend for themselves like a pack of wild dogs. And lastly, guilt of all things. Tonight he’d sleep in a warm, clean bed while the kids on the fifth floor huddled together in a cardboard tunnel.

When they reached the car, he yanked open the driver’s-side door for Renée, then crawled into the passenger seat. With new clarity, he appreciated the saying ignorance is bliss. Through the years, he’d read newspaper articles and viewed newscasts about the country’s homeless. He accepted that these people inhabited the world. But until tonight they’d never been a part of his world.

“Duke?” The soft, shaky question snuck past his fury.

“I’m thinking,” he snapped. Was he nuts? An idiot to believe he’d relocate his company to Detroit and the process would unfold without a hitch? He envisioned a new glass-and-steel structure replacing the old warehouse—an architectural showpiece standing tall and proud in the middle of blocks of rubble. Had he been so determined to escape his stepfather’s shadow that he’d convinced himself buying that block of rubble was a wise decision?

“Are you okay?” Worry carved a line across Renée’s forehead.

“No, I’m not okay.” He clenched his hands into fists. “And you’d better not be okay with the kids living in those conditions.” She jerked as if he’d slapped her.

Add remorse to the list of feelings gutting him.

“It’s a long story.” Her sigh reached inside his chest and yanked hard. “Sure you want to hear?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

She started the car and left the lot. As she navigated what little traffic there was on a Sunday night, he muttered, “I can’t get their faces out of my mind.” There was something terribly unconscionable about discarded children.

Duke had felt alone when his father had passed away, but he’d had his mother. She might not have spared much time for him, but at least she hadn’t left him to fend for himself the way these children had been.

“I’ve seen more bad than good in my line of work,” Renée said. “Believe me, there are worse dwellings for those kids.”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to stay there,” he argued.

“They aren’t being allowed.” At his fierce scowl, she added, “There’s a reason they’re getting away with hiding out in a derelict building.”

“I’m listening.”

“The city doesn’t have enough foster parents available on a continuous basis for kids in crisis. When a child is taken from a parent or found on the streets they often end up in city shelters while we investigate their situation and attempt to make permanent arrangements for them.” She turned left at the corner and drove along a street lined with fast-food restaurants.

“The holidays are a difficult time to secure permanent care for kids. Most parents are already struggling to put gifts under the tree and a nice meal on the table. Many foster parents refuse to bring a troubled child into the mix during a time when families are supposed to rejoice and get along.”

“Why not put the kids in a shelter until after Christmas? They’ll freeze to death in this weather.” Even though the children wore heavy coats, that didn’t mean their toes and fingers weren’t constantly numb.

“Shelters aren’t safe for young children or teens.”

“Better to take their chances there than die of hypothermia,” he argued.

“Typical comment from someone who doesn’t have a clue.” Renée’s fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white, and Duke figured she’d rather choke his neck than the steering wheel.

“Then give me a clue.”

“Shelters are magnets for child predators and gangs. Kids risk getting raped, molested or beaten in them.” She glanced across the seat. “You’d be wrong if you believed for a minute those children would rather stay in a shelter than out in the cold.”

“Okay, so there are problems with a shelter, but those same problems exist on the streets. What if gang members discover the kids and harass them? Or those drunks who sleep next door suddenly pay a visit in the middle of the night? At least in a shelter they’d sleep on a bed instead of cold concrete. And they’d eat regular meals.”

Renée didn’t comment as she pulled into a drive-through restaurant and ordered eighteen tacos and twelve cartons of milk.

Duke pulled out his wallet. “I admit I grew up with advantages most kids only dream about.” Even before his father had died and his mother had hooked up with her second husband, his family had lived in a nice home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood.

“Put your wallet away,” she grumbled, digging through her purse.

“I insist.” He doubted a social worker made enough money to feed herself let alone six kids. When Renée refused the two twenty-dollar bills he held out, he stuffed the cash into the purse on the seat between them. “At their age I was contemplating my next Little League game. Those kids worry over where their next meal’s coming from.”

“They’re not starving to death.” She drove forward to the order window and paid. “I’m doing my best to care for them until foster homes become available.”

The bright lights of the restaurant flooded the car and Duke swallowed a curse at the unnatural sheen in her eyes. He’d been wrapped up in his own frustration and hadn’t considered how difficult the situation was for Renée. Hell, if he was this upset after only meeting the kids once, he imagined how disturbing it was for Renée to interact with the children on a daily basis.

The pick-up window opened and Duke lost his chance to apologize. Renée set the bags of food on the seat, then drove off. “Tell me about the kids.”

“Crystal and Evie are sisters,” she began. “Their mother’s been in prison the past two years and DCFS hasn’t been successful in locating their father. Until a few months ago, the girls had been living with an aunt, but she became ill and was unable to care for them.”

“And this DC…”

“DCFS—Department of Child and Family Services.”

“Can’t secure the girls a foster family?”

“We found a home for Evie. It’s easier to place the younger ones. But Evie ran away when she learned her sister wasn’t invited to go with her. Crystal lasted a day in a city shelter before she hit the streets. Luckily, a friend of Crystal’s spotted Evie after she’d run off and took the little girl to where Crystal had been living with a group of kids in a city park.”

Duke shuddered when he considered any of a hundred horrible fates the girls might have suffered. “What about the boy with the twisted foot?”

“Timmy’s nine.”

“You’re kidding? I’d have guessed six. Maybe seven.” But what did he know about kids?

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