The Dragon's Revenge Read online

  All of the Smiths had more heart than sense. He didn't like his job, but someone had to do it, and he just happened to have inherited more responsibility at nineteen, when his father had died, than anyone should have had to handle. Though he had always wanted to do more than just investigate the causes they dove into, someone had to straighten out their messes, to administrate. And he was good at it. The way Amanda schemed to throw her money away, he'd had to be.

  Not for the first time in his life he wished he could get more involved. He'd seen more than his share of tragedy in the world, things that would make a stone weep, but he had to remain objective. Charly had been given choices in her life. He hadn't.

  Lord, she was beautiful, he thought. Fury and accusation whirled in her blue eyes, stubbornness tightened her lips. Against his better judgment, his voice softened. "Charly, I admit it's a worthy cause. But all the good intentions in the world don't change facts."

  Her nostrils flared, but she just nodded. "Go on."

  J.D. fought the urge to kiss that defiant mouth. She wanted the truth? Unfortunately, she'd get it. "All right." He crossed his arms. "David's project is sloppy, and it would take more money than we have free at this moment to fix all the problems. We'd have to hire an administrator. There is no central controlling power, just a group of concerned citizens under an umbrella organization, and that is inefficient. His aim is laudable, but he has no focus. He has no way of tracking his money, and the funds he's applied for aren't necessarily used in the area where they're most needed."

  "Which, in your expert opinion, is where?"

  The edge of sarcasm in her voice stung. He'd lived with idealists far too long not to know the symptoms, and it aggravated him. "Why don't you try cleaning up your own act before tackling the entire community?" Relieved to see her expression harden, he went on. "Both the dropout and illiteracy rates at Rucker are still far above the national average. Do you have any kind of internship program? Job training? Remedial reading?"

  "Of course we do!"

  "But they're not effective. You could do far more with far less money right here in this school. You really want to help these kids? You want to give them a real chance? That's where you start. Not with a consolidation of existing programs, but an enhancement"

  "What kind of ivory tower do you live in, Mr. Smith? Have you ever been into one of their homes to see the neglect? Your programs sound wonderful in theory, but they just don't cut it in the real world."

  “They have cut it. Many times." J.D. could see the light of battle in her incredible blue eyes, and he sensed that she would defend David to the bitter end. "Let's just drop It, okay? I'm not closed-minded, but I refuse to argue about this. The decision has already been made."

  "You are so stubborn!"

  "I'm a realist, Charly."

  "You're a pain in the—neck." She shoved her chestnut hair from her brow. "I'm not going to give up."

  "Why?" He waved his arm. "This isn't even your fight. You're not involved at all."

  “This is my school! These are my kids! It's clear that you don't know the first thing about this neighborhood."

  "And you do?"

  "I coach them, for heaven's sake!"

  "Which doesn't explain why you're so interested. The sports program wasn't mentioned at all in the reports."

  "I teach history too. I care about these kids."

  Suddenly he saw old pain in the cloudy blue depths of her eyes. "It's more than that," he whispered. "Isn't it?"

  Her gaze wavered, then dropped. "I owe David. I owe him more than you could ever understand."

  "Are you and he—" He couldn't even voice his thought, and it stunned him that he'd even mentioned it.

  She glared at him. "And you're dirty-minded on top of everything else! David Bakker is one of the most decent men I know. The only decent man it seems." Regret flashed in his eyes just for a moment. "He came to Rucker to fight a war that you'd never understand in a million years. He ended the gang wars that had plagued this neighborhood, and he did it single-handedly. But not by force. He" —her voice broke and she cleared her throat—"he outsmarted a seventeen-year-old girl into going to college by challenging her to an arm-wrestling match and winning. He talked a judge Into sending a gang member into the army rather than jail. He stepped into more fights that I can count to take bloody kids to the hospital. He got Involved. People do that, you know. They leave the paperwork behind them, and they give of themselves."

  J.D.'s mouth hardened. "You have absolutely no concept of what I do for a living, lady."

  "I know you care more about papers than you do about people. I know you worry about balance sheets and fiscal reports when you could do something."

  His voice lowered to a dangerous purr. "I'm not going to defend myself to you, Charly. To you or anyone else."

  "Because you can't!" She appraised him, her stance hostile. "You want to know what I owe David?" She jerked her T-shirt up. "This, Mr. Smith, is what I owe him."

  Parallel to her waistline ran the faint etching of a scar. J.D. nearly cried out. "How—" He swallowed hard. "What did that?"

  "A knife," she said bluntly, and turned to give him a better look. "I was in a gang once. A long time ago." She snapped the shirt down. "So you see, Mr. Smith. David saved my life. Because by making me go to college, by helping me get a scholarship, David gave me the chance you're denying them."

  "You were that girl," he whispered, his heart aching for her.

  She nodded. "I know these kids, J.D., because I was there once."

  He reached out his hand and ran it over her ribs, feeling the imprint of her scar on his fingertips. Her skin warmed his palm, even through the fabric of her shirt. "Is this why you chose teaching?"

  "That's part of it." Her eyes widened at his touch. "I wanted to help them somehow."

  His gaze met hers, her pain almost visible between them. He slid his hand around her and pulled her close.

  He hadn't meant to kiss her, but he had to wipe the accusation from her eyes, to comfort and protect her from the nightmare she had lived. His lips brushed hers softly, driving the shadows from her face, and he found he couldn't stop there. With a sigh, he pressed his mouth to hers.

  She shuddered and parted her lips. He accepted the Invitation and touched her with his tongue, his pulse racing. His blood roared to his ears as he heard her tiny moan, as he felt her body melt against his.

  She stiffened suddenly and tore herself from him. "Stop it! Don't you dare think you can ease your conscience by kissing me! I'm not one of your charities!" She spun on her heel and flew to the door.

  "Charly!" J.D. fought with the chaos of emotions within him. He had not imagined his response, nor hers, but he didn't want it. He didn't want it!

  He heard a slam and strode into the short hallway. Charly kicked the door again, growling in frustration.

  With a cry, she pulled at the knob with all her might, and miraculously the door jerked open.

  "Freedom!" he said, and returned for his jacket. Remembering his suspicions, he hurried back, expecting to see the door closed again. When he saw Charly lounging against the jamb, a hint of amusement curving her slightly swollen mouth, he relaxed. For a moment.

  "Don't get too complacent. Mr. Smith," she told him. "I'm going to try and change your mind."

  "You won't."

  "But I’ll keep trying."

  J.D. wished things could be different between them. In another lifetime they might have been friends—or more. But now they were adversaries. He drew on his jacket and smiled wryly. "In fencing this would be called a standoff."

  "In football we might go for sudden death."

  He raised one brow and acknowledged her hit. "Right now I just want to go home."

  "Down that hall," she said, and pointed. "All the way to the end."

  He nodded and walked past her, resisted the urge to glance behind him. She was watching him. He could feel it.

  "Watch your back," she called. "Now I have time to pla
n my strategy."

  He didn't like the sound of that, he thought as he found the correct door. No, he didn't like the sound of that at all.

  Three

  "Mr. Smith?"

  J.D. glanced up from his paperwork at his no-nonsense secretary, who stood just inside the doorway. "Yes, Miss Pickles?"

  "The security guard has just informed me that your mother is on her way up." She smoothed her steel-gray hair in a nervous movement and flared her nostrils. "She's wearing a—" She cleared her throat, her mouth working as if she were trying to spit out a piece of gristle. "She's wearing a parachute, sir."

  J.D. managed to keep his face blank. "Thank you. Miss Pickles. Show her in as soon as she lan—arrives."

  Her chin lifted, and she glared down her bulbous nose. "Yes, sir."

  After the door closed behind her, J.D.'s mouth widened in a grin that would have appalled the poor woman. In the last few days he'd found it difficult not to chuckle every time he said her name, and that had never happened in all the eleven years since his father's death. She looked like a pickle, he thought irreverently, all sour and lumpy. He seemed to remember his mother making a similar comment long ago, but as usual his father had shot her down with a disapproving scowl, and it had never come up again. But the long-standing feud between the two women had begun that day.

  His smile faded. Three days ago he would never have indulged in such memories. He would have staunchly defended his father instead of seeing Amanda's side of it. But since then, he'd met Charly.

  J.D. eased back in his leather chair, slipped his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. Sleep had eluded him lately, and it was beginning to affect his work, his attitude. Charly's beautiful, paradoxical face had haunted his dreams since their night together. He wanted to hold on to his anger, but he couldn't. He wanted to remember his last glimpse of her, furious and stubborn, but he didn't.

  Every time he closed his eyes he saw her impish expression, her vitality. And the previous night, to his horror, he had awakened in a sexual lather for the first time since he was fourteen. She had changed everything outrageously, and he had the sinking feeling that nothing in his life would ever be the same again—until he had purged her from his system.

  And he would! He had to. He had seen firsthand how a woman like her could twist a man like him into knots. He knew exactly what he wanted in a wife, and the earthy Charly wasn't a candidate.

  That he had even thought of her in terms of marriage disturbed him intensely. Anger he could hold on to, use to push her away. But those vulnerable blue eyes had gripped him as nothing else ever had. He had to clear her out of his mind once and for all. The question now was—how?

  And why did he have the feeling she was just waiting for the perfect opportunity for a riposte, for her own attack?

  He swore softly under his breath and found himself wondering if he had a dollar to cover it, then swore again out of sheer defiance. The woman was driving him crazy. His gaze drifted over his office, over the oak-paneled walls, the plush cream carpet, the priceless china vases filled with nothing but their own self-importance, and then he thought of battered lockers and potholed fields. And the laughing woman who had not only managed to take it all in stride, but to make it lovely.

  With a mental shake he picked up his glasses and shoved them onto the bridge of his nose. Objectivity, he told himself firmly. It was none of his business anymore. But the tiny stack of papers in front of him only made him wish he wasn't so good at delegating authority. He was going to organize himself out of a job. He longed for a nice, meaty crisis to force his mind from thoughts of her rounded body.

  As if some twisted fairy had decided to grant his wish, Amanda flung his door wide open at that moment. The oil paintings on the walls rattled.

  "That woman," she muttered darkly, and slammed the door closed with equal intensity.

  J.D. didn't raise his gaze from his work. "Hello, Mother."

  "She had the audacity to offer to check my parachute at the door!"

  "I should fire her immediately." he agreed with a nod.

  Amanda hesitated. That would be a little harsh, darling. After all. she's been working here since before you were born. What would the poor woman do with her time?"

  J.D. tried not to grin. “I wish you'd stop dating that general. Mother. He's a bad Influence."

  "Isn't he, though?” she said happily. "But I can't, not yet. He's teaching me Jodies. "

  He glanced up. "Jodies?"

  "Marching songs, dear. Some of them are quite racy." Her gray-green eyes twinkled. "Would you like to hear one?"

  "Maybe later." He eyed his mother's dainty form without so much as a flinch. Amanda could look like the perfect society matron when she wished—blue-white hair expertly coifed, white gloves, the air of superior indifference. But looks were deceiving; he knew that from experience. At the moment, clad in a khaki jumpsuit and bright orange helmet, she looked like the Queen Mother during the Blitz. He raised one brow. "Skydiving?" he ventured blandly.

  She nodded. "The General has absconded with a cargo carrier, or some such thing. I've been practicing my falls for weeks."

  His stomach lurched, but he knew Amanda, though eccentric, was no fool. "Happy landings." he said.

  "Thank you, dear." She stepped forward and sat gracefully in the chair facing his desk. "Actually, I didn't come here to tell you about this."

  "I didn't think you had."

  Her expression was serious. "I wanted an update on Rucker High School."

  J.D. lounged back. His father might have underestimated her, but he had learned that beneath her scatter-brained Image was a very determined woman, one who could still deal from the bottom of the deck, and he never pulled his punches with her. "It's a mess, and you know it."

  "Yes, I do. But I also know we have at least two people on staff who could straighten it out with a little direction. That's why I sent you out there, dear. You have a marvelous way of cutting to the heart of matters."

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "You didn't send me, Mother. I outsneaked you with a surprise visit." He had no doubts on that score, not any more.

  She inclined her head regally. "If you say so. What are we going to do about it?"

  "I'm not sure yet." He should be, he told himself, but Charly had done something to him. He hadn't changed his mind about the project, but he felt the need to help, if only to assuage his guilt over his accusations to her. "I might check back on them in six months or so."

  "I see. And what—or should I say who?—is causing this uncharacteristic indecisiveness, dear?"

  Her perception continued to astonish him. "No one.”

  "A woman?"

  "Mother ..."

  She nodded sagely. "You want to jump her bones."

  The fleeting realization that Charly and Amanda would get along perfectly made him squirm in his chair. "That's a frightening thought," he muttered.

  "What is, dear?"

  "Nothing." He shook off his mood. He shouldn't even think of changing his mind. "I'm going to recommend to the board that we forget Rucker. Mother." He didn't want to admit how much that hurt.

  "Why not just fund the project and supervise closely?"

  "Because we cannot give money to every stray dog on the planet. They have to help themselves too. We can't afford it now."

  "I think you inherited too much responsibility too early," she mused. "All of this dust has affected your brain cells." She sighed and stood. "Sometimes you sound exactly like your father, dear.”

  “Thank you."

  "If only he hadn't chosen to tie up the money in that silly trust"

  "If only you hadn't given your diamond earrings to that poor little panhandler," he echoed.

  She grinned. "Yes, I do seem to bring these things on myself, don't I? Well," she said, briskly pulling a pair of gloves from one of the multitude of pockets in her jumpsuit, "I suppose I'd better hustle myself down to the car before the General decides to do any reconnaissance. He bellows like a
bull when he's thwarted, and I can't see Miss Pickles allowing him past her bastion." She waved happily and turned, but before she could touch the door, it was pushed open.

  Miss Pickles stepped in, ignoring Amanda completely. "Mr. Smith? There is a female here who insists that you are expecting a delivery."

  The disdainful way she stressed the two words made J.D. glance at Amanda in accusation. She shook her head. He rarely received anything unless brought by bonded couriers, and Miss Pickles would hardly react this way normally. But if his mother didn't arrange it. . .

  "Accept it, and send her on her way. Miss Pickles."

  "Yes, sir." She began to back through the door, but a small woman shoved past her before she could stop her. "Ma'am!" cried the secretary. She lunged for her but missed.

  "Mr. Smith? These are for you!"

  Startled, J.D. suddenly realized that for some reason he had expected Charly, and this slender young woman dressed In a shirt that proclaimed marinas messages—we go anywhere! wasn't her. The girl leapt forward and wrapped a handful of strings around his wrist.

  "Have a nice day," she said with a grin, then spun on her heel and walked out. Amanda gaped. "What in the world?" J.D. stared upward in astonishment at the six Mylar balloons bobbing with his every movement. A card was taped to one of them. "Miss Pickles?"

  She flushed beet red. "Yes, sir?"

  "Do something with these." He held out the strings, and as she took them, he peeled off the card. She bolted from the room in the wake of "Marina."

  J.D. opened the card and stifled a groan, wondering what horrible crime he'd committed in his previous life to deserve this. "Since I didn't change your mind," it read, "why don't you make good on your lofty words? If you think you can do a better job, prove it!" It was signed simply, "Charly."