Page 5 of Takes Two to Tango

CHAPTER TWO

RAYNE SLAMMED THE GATE and stood a moment, trying to stop her insides from quivering.

Brent Hamilton always did that to her. She'd been eleven when it had first happened. She'd spied him doing push-ups from over the fence. It was the first time she'd even noticed a boy's muscles, and she'd stared for about ten minutes before he'd caught sight of her sprawled in the tree watching him. She'd scrambled down and disappeared, much too embarrassed to confront the boy who'd been her friend from the day she'd climbed out of her parents' VW van, tripped up the front steps of her aunt's house, and noted a boy her age throwing acorns at wind chimes.

Brent was still a good-looking son of a gun with a rippling body and overt masculinity. But the emphasis should be on the son-of-a-bitch part.

She wasn't a silly little girl, so she willed her quivering knee to behave as she marched toward the peeling porch.

Henry stood there, arms crossed, brow wrinkled. He opened his mouth. "Mom,I want-"

"Don't start, Henry. You violated a big rule, buster. Haven't we talked about this before? You climbed into a stranger's backyard."

"I didn't think anyone was home. Besides, you know him. You said so," her son said, kicking the rail, causing the rooster planter to teeter.

"Stop before you make the planter fall. It's my starter of cilantro," she said, climbing the steps. She peeked into the pot. The sprouts had given birth to the fan shapes that would become the flavorful herb. "And it doesn't matter thatIknow the neighbor.Youdon't, and to do what you did is dangerous."

"You said this town is safe. That I could run around and play and stuff. Can I go back and throw ball with him? Please?"

''Absolutely not," she said, surprised her normally cautious son would want to go. It was the baseball that pulled him. But she didn't want Brent influencing her son in any way. Brent was a lot of things. Charming. Egotistical. Unreliable. Things she didn't want Henry to glean from a man who'd once had the town wrapped round his golden arm, and who would no doubt do the same with her impressionable son. "Every place has dangers. From now on, you consult me before you leave this yard. Got it?"

He made a face. "Okay, but can I go throw? Please. Please. Please."

"Did you hear me?" She shook her head in wonder. Were all males born with selective hearing? "No. Now up you go to tackle that reading. I want you to make a good impression tomorrow."

''I hate that dumb book. It's about stupid cats and mice. You know I don't want to read that stuff." He kicked at the rail again. The planter tottered. She caught it with one hand.

She gave him the evil eye. He immediately stepped away from the rail and dumped his glove on the pew that sat to one side of the porch. ''The book I bought for you is on theaccelerated reader list. It's a Caldecott book. They're always good."

Henry tugged open the door of the bed-and-breakfast. “I don't see how a book about mice can win awards. Everyone knows mice can't really talk. It's absurd."

He disappeared into the house before she could say anything else. And he'd left his glove again. He kept forgetting they were not at home. They were at an inn and he couldn't leave his things lying about.

Rayne placed her hands over her face and blew out a breath. Then she picked up the glove and sank onto the old wooden pew. Round one for the day went to Henry. Or was it now Hank? Jeez. What would round two hold?

She'd give her life for her son. She loved him with a passion that rivaled all others, but the boy was as alien to her as a Moroccan desert …and she didn't speak the language.

He'd been that way since he'd turned nine months old and said his first word. Had it beenmamaordada?No. It had beenball.

And thus his obsession with sports had begun.

And ever since he'd learned to throw, run, hit and kick, he'd reminded her of the boy who'd grown up next door to her aunt. The boy who'd climbed trees with her, studied stars with her, and shared his dreams with her. He was near about the spitting image of Brent.

But Brent was not his father.

Rayne hadn't even seen her childhood crush in over fifteen years. Not since the day she'd shaken the dust of Oak Stand from her Birkenstocks and headed for a new life in New York City. She'd locked up the memory of Brent and told herself not to think of him. But her heart hadn't been good at following her head's directive. She still thought about him at the oddest times. Such as when a baby bird fell out of its nest at the house inAustin. Or when Henry had hit his first grand slam. Or when she lay lonely in her bed staring out at a harvest moon.

She'd always been drawn to Brent Hamilton.

Even on the day she'd kissed Phillip Albright in front of the preacher and all their friends, she'd been half in love with the boy who had once sung Elvis songs to her while twisting her hair around his forefinger. She supposed it had been horribly unfair to Phillip to harbor tender feelings for a boy who'd never been hers to begin with, but she suspected Phillip didn't mind. Their marriage had never been a head-over-heels, can't keep-our-hands-off-of-each-other kind of thing. More of a mutual respect, burning desire to succeed, quiet love kind of thing. Maybe that had been wrong, but she'd been happy with Phillip. He'd been the right man at the right time for her. And she'd tried to be the same for him.

God, why is life so complicated?

The only answer was the banging of the screen door.

It jarred her into the present.

"Reckon it's going to get warm today." Aunt Frances said, stepping onto the porch and shading her eyes as she perused the tangle of her yard. Rayne followed her gaze. The lawn boy had been let go in the fall, and spring had taken advantage of the free rein.

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