Page 3 of The Playboy and the Widow
Unfortunately the malfunctioning sink didn’t heal itself, and after Diana picked up Joan from baseball practice, disaster struck.
“Mom,” Katie cried, nearly hysterical. “The water won’t stop!”
When Diana arrived, she found that the pipe beneath the sink had broken and water was gushing out faster than it would from a fire hydrant.
“Turn off the water,” Diana screamed.
Katie was dancing around, stomping her feet and screaming. By the time Diana reached the faucet, the water had reached flood level.
“Get some towels, stupid,” Joan called.
“I’m not stupid, you are.”
“Girls, please.” Diana lifted the hair off her forehead and sighed unevenly. Either she had to call George or wipe out any semblance of a budget by hiring a plumbing contractor. Given that option, she reached for the phone and dialed her neighbor’s number.
The male voice that answered sounded groggy. “George, I hope I didn’t wake you from a nap.”
“No...”
“Did Shirley mention my sink?”
“Who is this?”
“Diana—from next door. Listen, I’m in a bit of a jam here. The pipe burst under the sink, and, well, Shirley said something about your being able to help. But if it’s inconvenient...”
“Mom,” Katie screamed. “Joan used theSword.”
“Just a minute.” Diana placed her hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “Joan, what’s the matter with you?” she asked angrily.
“I’m sorry, Mom, it just slipped out.”
“Are you going to wash out her mouth with soap?” Katie demanded, hands on her hips.
“I haven’t got time to deal with that now. Both of you clean up this mess.” She inhaled a calming breath and went back to the phone, hoping she sounded serene and demure. “George?”
“I’ll be right over.”
Ten seconds later, a polite knock sounded on the front door. Diana was under the sink. “Joan, let Mr. Holiday in, would you?”
“Okay.”
“Mom,” Katie said, sticking her head under the sink so Diana could see her. “How are you going to punish Joan?”
“Katie, can’t you see I’ve got an emergency here!” She raised her head and slammed her forehead against the underside of the sink. Pain shot through her head and bright stars popped like flashbulbs all around her. She blinked twice and abruptly shook her head.
“Mom,” Joan announced. “It wasn’t Mr. Holiday.”
Pushing her hair away from her forehead, Diana opened one eye to find a pair of crisp, clean jeans directly in front of her. Slowly she raised her gaze to a silver belt buckle. Above that was a liberal quantity of dark hairs scattered over a wide expanse of muscular abdomen. A cutoff sweatshirt followed. Diana’s heart began to thunder, but she doubted it had anything to do with the bump on her head. She never did make it to his face. He crouched in front of her first. His blue eyes were what she noticed immediately. They were a brilliant shade that reminded her of a Seattle sky in August.
“Who—who are you?” she managed faintly.
“Are you all right?”
Diana was ready to question that herself. Whoever this man was who had decided to miraculously appear at her front door, he was much too good to be true. He looked as though he’d stepped off the hunk poster hanging in Joan’s bedroom.
Diana knocked the side of her head with her palm to clear her vision. “You’re not George!” It wasn’t her most brilliant declaration.
“No,” he admitted with a lopsided grin. “I’m Cliff Howard, a friend of George’s.”
