Читать книгу: «Amazing Love»
“I didn’t get asked out a single time in high school.”
“Oh, please. A girl as beautiful as you didn’t date?”
“My looks were just one more strike against me. The girls were jealous, so they never included me, and the boys figured they wouldn’t have a chance, so they didn’t bother asking.”
Luke stopped walking and stared down into her questioning eyes. “Well, this boy’s gonna bother. Claire Savage, will you have dinner with me?”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“Well, no—you don’t have to sound so shocked by the possibility. Friends do occasionally spend time together, you know.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for asking. Sure, I’ll go to dinner with you…friend.”
But before her heels could even touch the ground, he brought his lips down to meet hers….
MAE NUNN
grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman who lived in Atlanta, Mae hung up her spurs to become a Southern belle. Today, she and her husband, Michael, and their two children make their home in Georgia. Mae has been with a global air express company for twenty-seven years, currently serving as a Director of Specialty Services. She began writing four years ago. When asked how she felt about being part of the Steeple Hill family, Mae summed her response up with one word—“Yeeeeeha!”
Amazing Love
Mae Nunn
MILLS & BOON
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Dedication
This book is for Sunny.
7/28/49–1/1/05
Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord does not count against him and in whose spirit is no deceit.
—Psalms 32:1–2
Acknowledgments
I owe my gratitude to so many who impacted this project, whether they knew it or not.
To my Crossroads Church family in Newnan, Georgia, (especially the Williams/Worhola/Zauner Community Group) where “Being and Building Disciples of Christ” is a way of life.
To the readers who gave me so much positive feedback on Hearts in Bloom and encouraged me to take the faith in my writing to a deeper level.
To my daughter, Maegan, my sunshine.
To my son, Paul, for planting a seed that grew into the character of Luke Dawson.
To my darlin’ Michael—you make it all worthwhile.
And to three incredible women who prove it’s never too late to become biker babes. My amazing sister Pam Hruza has never let me down, not even once. My gifted critique partner, Silhouette author Dianna Love Snell, makes me a better writer. And my precious friend Sunny Rigsby inspired me with her “Ride it like you stole it!” enthusiasm for life.
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 Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
Claire Savage gripped the wooden knob of the stick shift and dropped the limited-edition pink pony into low gear for the steep climb up the bridge that spanned the Houston ship channel. On a Saturday morning when the worst driving hazard should have been glare from the relentless Texas summer sun, something just beyond the crest of the high, arching bridge interrupted the progress of weekend traffic.
As a chain reaction of red taillights flashed, she jammed a foot on the brake of her 1967 coupe. Her gaze flew to the rearview mirror and she pleaded aloud with the truck on her tail not to collide with the recently rechromed bumper. The driver struggled but managed to control his heavy-duty pickup and the fully rigged boat that fishtailed behind him. Within moments, everything ground to a standstill.
Claire switched off the finicky air conditioner and cranked the window down. She pumped the clutch with her left foot and accelerated with her right as the traffic crept forward, inching up the sharp incline along with the other vehicles. Rubberneckers turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the nuisance that dared to delay their interstate progress.
Curious like everybody else, she sat tall in the seat and craned her neck to see beyond the sedan in front. When a long-legged, yellow Lab pup lumbered between the cars up ahead, her hand flew to her face to cover the gasp that escaped her mouth.
Horns blared and the bewildered animal darted in one direction, then another. Panic ballooned in Claire’s chest for the poor dog that was surely moments from tragedy. She punched the emergency flashers, shifted the manual transmission into neutral and pulled the hand brake. As she reached for the door handle, another flash of movement caught her eye.
A male figure in faded jeans and a black T-shirt wove between the vehicles, alternately appealing to the dog and then waving thanks to the drivers for their patience. The scene was as charming and heroic as it was dangerous and foolhardy.
Who was she calling foolhardy?
Her hand was still poised to push the door open so she could call the dog to safety herself. Beaten to the punch, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Three foster pets at one time were enough. She needed to find permanent homes for Buck, Tripod and R.C. before she took in any more animals.
God’s grace was clearly with the Good Samaritan as the otherwise aggressive Houston drivers became amazingly cooperative with the rescue attempt. Claire’s heart melted over the loving way he coaxed the terrified Lab, now paralyzed with fear.
“Come here, buddy,” the man urged, as he crept closer. “It’s okay, Luke’s gonna take good care of you.”
Shuddering from head to tail, the pup cowered on the hot pavement and hung his chin. He flinched the moment a gentle hand made contact with his dirty coat, but then lifted huge, pleading eyes in gratitude. The man squatted, scooped the dog into his long arms and held it securely to his chest.
Claire swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking of the lost sheep parable. But the thought was immediately erased when the man turned about-face to carry the dog away from the traffic. She was glad for the dark shades over her wide eyes as she studied him.
Where his face was Bruce Willis attractive, the flesh on the left side of his neck, from his jawbone to the collar of his shirt, bore an angry scar.
She sucked in her breath, ashamed to be staring.
“Thanks, everybody,” he called but seemed to avoid any particular eye contact.
“God bless you for what you just did,” she said aloud, though he was out of earshot.
As traffic began to inch forward, she kept an eye on his progress until he made it to the side of the bridge, where she lost sight of him.
Savage Cycles was only minutes away as the crow flies, but the drive seemed much longer with the memory of the rescue scene on constant replay. Claire viewed the mental picture of the man in black from every angle. The close-cropped dark hair and clean-shaven jaw packed a masculine punch. The muscular arms that embraced the pup belied the gentle nature of the stranger. The long legs encased in denim gave him a casual air. The ruddy scar tissue.
An unforgettable image.
Arriving at her destination, she found the parking lot of Savage Cycles already a hub of activity. It was no surprise since most serious bikers were gearing up for the annual Black Hills Rally. The regulars lived for these weekend get-togethers at her dealership, giving it a constant party atmosphere.
That was just one of the reasons she had been determined to become a partner, after observing the thrilling and unfamiliar sport of motorcycling as Sam Kennesaw’s business manager. When the former owner married and moved back to East Texas to resume his teaching career, Sam sold his pride and joy to Claire. She’d come to love this wild business, as he had. Now the hectic job was her sanctuary from the painful nightmare that couldn’t be counseled away, the memory of the abuse that couldn’t be buried deeply enough.
She thrived on the fact that every chopper sale was a new challenge, each customer a unique discovery about human nature. The sport offered a never-ending supply of interesting characters who were more concerned with her knowledge of product and finance than her personal history, physical features or local celebrity.
“Good morning, Claire,” Justin called from behind the counter.
She waved a greeting to her parts manager and the leather-clad customer being assisted. En route to her office she stopped to survey the showroom with a critical glance. A half-dozen new bikes were angled before the windows, beckoning to passersby.
Angled the wrong way.
She ground her teeth.
The employees had followed her instructions without question when she’d managed the business for Sam. After signing the papers and taking control, she’d overlooked the occasional incident when someone would “do it the old way” in spite of her instructions.
Sam had warned her there would come a time when she’d have to put her foot down and make it clear who ran the show.
Claire crossed to the display, muscled the first chopper into the correct position, tilted the handle-bars just so, then stepped back to admire the effect.
“You need help, ma’am?” Justin joined her.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She smiled patiently. “I left specific instructions for all the bikes in this display to have the front wheels point west. Why didn’t that happen?”
Justin crossed his arms and tilted his head as he studied the bikes. “Well, I reminded Don of that this morning but he seemed to think Sam’s old way was better.”
“Last time I noticed, I was signing the checks around here now. So, which way do you think we should set these bikes?” Claire widened her eyes expectantly, sure Justin could deduce the correct answer.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he held back a grin. “I think they’re gonna look real fine set up the way you want them.”
She motioned with a crook of her finger for him to follow her across the room. She placed her back to the window. Justin mimicked her position, now standing where he could view the display as a customer would. The morning sunlight flashed on the spokes of the wheels like thousands of finely cut diamonds.
“There’s more chrome on the carburetor side. That’s what catches the customer’s eye when they walk through the door, don’t you think?” She watched for his reaction, wanting him to see the reason behind her request, but she’d have it her way whether he did or not.
He bobbed his head and gave her a two-fingered salute of understanding and approval.
“Consider it done,” he confirmed.
“Thanks.” She nodded, then continued down the narrow hallway to her office.
Claire dropped into the comfortable leather chair behind her desk for a quiet moment. Touching the ever-present cross at her throat, she reflected on the drama of her morning commute and the face she could not purge from her thoughts. Neither could she shake off the despair and terror of the innocent puppy.
Refusing to give in to the somber mood that threatened to settle over her heart, she swiveled to the credenza behind her desk and flipped the percolator’s “on” switch, and began poring over Sam’s computer programs. For the umpteenth time she marveled at the simplicity of what he had created when he’d turned his hobby into a thriving business.
“There’s a visitor for you at the front counter,” Justin’s low Texas twang rumbled through the intercom speaker.
“I’m on my way.”
She rolled the chair back as she stood, smoothed her hands down the front of her crisp, linen slacks and tugged the hem of her jacket. Her heels clicked a staccato beat on the terra cotta tiles of the showroom floor as she crossed the room. She paused to refold a T-shirt and position it directly atop the stack, then straighten the hangers on a display rack.
Justin acknowledged her approach with a nod of his head and the man before the counter turned her way.
A polite smile curved his mouth and then the look of recognition she’d come to know spread to his eyes. The year of public display as Miss Texas and ensuing product endorsements would always be a business asset, even if the road to the title had been paved with her innocence.
“Claire Savage, I’d know you anywhere.” His smile broadened. “It’s great to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, sir.” She accepted the stranger’s outstretched hand. “Are you interested in a chopper? We’re accepting deposits for the Southern Savage,” she said, always promoting her dealership’s soon-to-be-released signature bike.
“Actually, I’m interested in you.” He released her from his grip to fish a business card from the coat pocket of his expensive designer suit. “The name’s Arthur O’Malley—” he paused, seemingly for a reaction “—of Today’s Times magazine.” He emphasized the New York publication’s name as he handed her the card.
Claire gave the response he obviously expected.
“The Arthur O’Malley? What an honor to have you pay my little store a visit.”
His gaze swept the spacious area that warehoused several million dollars worth of dealer and aftermarket products, covering any biker’s need.
He chuckled appreciation for her understatement.
“Could I interest you in dinner this evening to discuss how you came to be the proprietor of this little store?”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I have music rehearsal at my church tonight,” she declined politely, having no intention of spending the evening deflecting the charm of a man old enough to be her father.
“And the name of that church would be…?” he probed like any good reporter should.
“My private business, if you don’t mind.” Claire refused his request. “What brings you to Houston?”
He got straight to the point. “I’m here doing some preliminary work for next month’s international trade summit.”
“At Savage Cycles we sell only American-made products, so I’m not certain we’d be of interest to you.”
“Hmm, I was not aware of your policy, but it certainly lends a unique appeal to your philosophy of doing business, and might actually have more relevance than you know.” He graced her with a practiced smile. “For my purposes anyway.”
“Well, Mr. O’Malley, what are your purposes?”
“Please, call me Art,” he requested, with a modest tilt of his head. “I’d like to interview you for an upcoming issue. Our ‘Out of the Spotlight’ editor is interested in doing a piece on the beauty queen turned motorcycle entrepreneur. You have to admit it’s quite an unusual story.”
Claire mentally flinched. That particular feature was usually reserved for has-been celebrities who’d dropped off the face of the earth after their fifteen minutes of fame. The final cut was often unflattering, turning up the heat on subjects to see what dirty secrets boiled to the surface.
Other than one piece of closely guarded information, there was no skeleton to rattle out of her closet. The name Claire Savage was synonymous with a squeaky clean reputation.
Still, the offer held appeal. Forced for most of her life to carefully manage every expense against her mother’s small income, Claire’s affinity for numbers kicked in to high gear. She considered the enormity of her professional debt.
Why not take advantage of the free publicity she could never afford otherwise?
“I can’t deny the diversity of my accomplishments.” She offered him the Mona Lisa smile and soft laugh that had charmed many a judge.
“Then you’ll agree to the interview?” He seemed determined to close the deal.
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer you today, but if you’ll give me until Monday I’ll consider it.”
“Monday will be fine. I’m in town for a few days and then I’ll be back next month for the summit. My private cell phone number is on the back of my card. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”
She made a show of glancing at his number, then tucked the small card into her jacket pocket.
“And if you get hungry tonight after rehearsal…”
“I’ll call you during business hours on Monday.”
“I look forward to hearing from you, Claire.”
He seemed to accept that their conversation had ended.
Through the showroom window she watched his rental car leave the lot and pull onto the interstate access road.
The advertised release date for her signature line was less than a month away. The timing of the Today’s Times article couldn’t be better. The prototype was complete and if all went according to plan, the release of the Southern Savage would secure her future in the custom design business. The opportunity seemed heaven-sent. How could she afford to pass?
Other than the canine rescue effort on the interstate that had delayed Luke Dawson’s arrival at Abundant Harvest Church, the day was going according to plan. He drew a customized contract from his battered backpack and slid it across the low table that separated him from Pastor Ken Allen.
“Praise Productions will meet your expectations and those of your youth band or my services are free,” Luke explained. “Our project will be considered complete when I’ve recorded your group, delivered your master CD and y’all are one hundred percent satisfied with the content and quality.”
The senior pastor accepted the document and flipped slowly through the pages. As Ken made his initial scan of the contract, Luke studied the welcoming church leader, finding it easy to imagine why someone would pour his heart out to this charismatic man.
An act Luke was not tempted in the least to do.
“The conditions I mentioned are all spelled out in the agreement. My work history is attached, and I’m happy to answer any questions.” He paused again to give the pastor time to read.
Luke had spent the past hour pitching the services of Praise Productions, his mobile one-man recording company. His offer of a free two-day rehearsal and subsequent audition normally sealed the deal. As a rule, once the pastor and his council checked Luke’s references and observed his work, they were anxious to secure his services. Luke prayed the usual process would work once again, and that he wouldn’t have to reveal his personal reasons for coming to Abundant Harvest.
“I don’t accept deposits or ask for any portion of my fee up front,” he explained. “Full payment will only be expected after you approve of the master. If you have a valid complaint within the first year, I guarantee a full refund. I’m proud to say that’s never been necessary.”
The pastor glanced up and Luke continued.
“There’s a list of duplication houses attached to the contract. I try to include some local referrals, but sometimes you have to go out of state to get the best deal. I always leave that choice up to the decision makers at the church.”
Pastor Allen narrowed his eyes as he fixed Luke with an assessing stare. “I’ve read about production companies in Nashville and Los Angeles. Seems to me, staying in one spot would be simpler for a growing enterprise.” He paused to level Luke with a curious gaze. “Why do you spend your life on the road, son?”
Luke smiled and relaxed in his chair.
“I love the industry, but it’s competitive and cutthroat. I don’t care to live in any of the U.S. production meccas and I don’t want a big company choosing my projects for me. So, I opted to be portable and stay independent. I research and select my own clients, manage the process from start to finish, and when the work is done I move on to new challenges in a new part of the country.”
The trim pastor reached into a large candy dish in the middle of the table and withdrew a bite-size chocolate bar. He offered one to Luke and took two for himself.
“Luke, it’s not my place to question your financial practices, but I’ve already put some research into recording costs and your rates are significantly lower than any I’ve seen. I’d almost feel guilty, like we were taking advantage of you.”
“Sir, I assure you there’s no need to feel that way. Earning a fortune at this isn’t my goal and I have resources that allow me to be flexible.”
Luke referred to his dependency upon the dwindling earnings of the heavy metal band he put together during his boarding school days. As the infamous and outrageous Striker Dark, Luke was the front man on lead guitar and vocals. His out-of-control life as Striker drove the final wedge between Luke and his rigidly conservative parents, who wouldn’t forgive their son’s choices, even today.
In the early years a staggering amount of money had allowed him to make a clean break from his folks and never look back. Before signing with an unscrupulous agent he’d lived like a prince, but Lisa Evans had managed the band out of a fortune that should have lasted a lifetime. The loss of Luke’s income to a money-hungry woman was now at the top of a long list of mistakes he never intended to make again.
Fortunately, all these years later a new generation of rockers found the old albums. The royalties steadily trickled in for the band that had held the attention of the American public and the music industry for six years.
Until tragedy split them up.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your private business,” the pastor’s voice interrupted Luke’s thoughts.
“No apology necessary, sir.” Luke unwrapped his candy and popped the sweet confection into his mouth.
“Then that leaves the question of why us? You said you were in California the past year. How did you hear about Abundant Harvest Church?”
“Like I said, I do my research. I’ve been exposed on one level or another to the recording industry since I was a kid. I’ve seen a lot of talent destroyed by the trappings of the business and I believe God’s called me to help young people avoid some of the dangers. I watched this year’s Battle of the Bands review online and came to see if the Harvest Sons are as promising as they seem.”
Absolutely true, but not the whole story.
The real draw was the young man who played lead guitar for the Harvest Sons. A ringer for Luke at that age, obviously filled with startling promise and easy prey for a gold-digging agent. The boy’s image had haunted Luke, who was impressed to the point of distraction during the hours he’d studied the video. He’d been drawn to Houston by a force too big to fight. He was on a mission to satisfy himself that the kid named Eric would not suffer the same fate as Striker Dark.
Pastor Ken looked at his watch, stood and motioned for Luke to follow. “The band uses the main sanctuary to practice before the evening service. Let’s go see if the Sons live up to their reputation.”
“Sir—” Luke paused before standing “—I should warn you about my no-nonsense style. I don’t mince words and I’ve been known to step on more than a few toes. But it works for me and I’ll pit my results against anybody’s any day.”
Ken smiled, grabbed another bite of candy and tossed one to Luke. “As I recall, Jesus was a pretty direct communicator.”
“Yeah, and look how popular He was with the Pharisees,” Luke quipped, and the two men chuckled as they passed through the doorway.
Saturday afternoons were always a time of bustling activity at Abundant Harvest. Claire made a habit of being on-site each week whether or not she’d signed up for volunteer work. By all standards this church had a large congregation with a perpetual need for unscheduled help. Arriving early, she parked at the outer edge of the lot, collected her purse and book bag and began the hike toward the main sanctuary.
She stopped short at the sight of an unmarked black truck and matching gooseneck trailer that stretched across a half-dozen parking spaces. The combo would be commonplace at Savage cycles, however, in the church parking lot it was an unexpected and imposing sight.
Shrieks of obvious delight and the excited yapping of a dog drew her thoughts from the black rig. Claire changed her course and followed the sounds to the temporary classrooms positioned behind the youth center known as the Hangar.
“Hi, Miss Claire!” a gaggle of girls called. Three high school seniors perched with legs swinging on the tailgate of a friend’s muddy pickup. Their attention was immediately diverted by barking and laughter.
“What’s all the fuss?”
“The guys are teaching this puppy to play Frisbee,” one of them explained. “He’s a natural but he doesn’t want to give it back after he catches it. Brian and Eric will be too tired to play for the service tonight if they keep this up.”
Peals of laughter rose from the growing crowd of high schoolers. Claire navigated the parking lot to the edge of the grass, where lively activity was in full swing. At the sight of a yellow Lab pup, a stab of anguish shot through her heart as she remembered the scene only hours earlier. But this well-groomed dog sported a red bandana around his neck, brandished a white Frisbee in his mouth and proudly ran the boys a merry chase.
Brian dived for the animal’s skinny hind legs and missed by a long shot. The dog whirled about, trotted back to where Brian lay facedown in the grass, dropped the Frisbee on the boy’s head and woofed in chorus with the kids’ laughter.
Claire took in the relaxed scene, wondering if these youngsters had any idea how fortunate they were to be so carefree. At their age she’d had precious little time for weekend afternoons of games and laughter. There were voice lessons and costume fittings, rehearsals and rounds of competition.
Even in the quiet of her room at night she never forgot that one small mistake could cost her everything. After her father left to chase his dreams, the life she and her mother salvaged depended upon vigilance and dedication. To secure her tuition at the acclaimed private school she had to have scholarships. She had to win pageants.
She had to look and sound perfect.
Light glinted through the trees as the sun dipped toward the western skyline, reminding her the afternoon was winding down. Her chance to practice in the sanctuary was slipping away. Tomorrow morning’s solo would challenge her vocal range and she wanted one final sound check, so she headed toward the main auditorium.
By design, every aspect of Abundant Harvest Church was contemporary. Shunning the traditional redbrick chapel with a long center aisle, the church founders had opted to invest their building funds in an economical and practical 70,000 square foot warehouse-style structure.
The facility known as the worship center served as a sanctuary for weekend services. When the hundreds of folding chairs were stored away, the expansive room became a double-sized gymnasium for after-school activities. Each week visitors made notes on their welcome cards expressing approval of the spacious accommodations, including a stage with state-of-the-art audio/visual equipment.
Familiar with the Saturday evening sound crew, Claire waved to the figures, barely visible through the darkened window of the control booth, and climbed six steps that led up the right side of the stage.
“Good afternoon, Claire,” the pastor’s voice boomed from the speakers.
She raised her hand, palm outward, against the glare of lights being set for the evening service.
“Hi, Pastor Ken.” She waved a response into the darkness.
The band’s self-appointed stage manager, Dana Stabler, positioned a microphone before Claire. The petite brunette was a quirky teen who tried on personalities like other girls experimented with nail color. Today she was hip-hop, all decked out in baggy jeans and a football jersey.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Give me a minute, Dana.” Claire turned her back to the mic. After practicing some warm-up scales, she dropped her chin and offered up a silent prayer. Then she turned toward the light and removed the microphone from its stand.
She inhaled through her nose and opened her mouth to begin. Before the first note rushed across her vocal chords, a voice intruded.
“One moment, miss.” A polite command, not a suggestion.
With her mouth gaping open in surprise she felt and probably looked like a hungry guppy. Her lips clamped together with a small “umph” as she waited for some cue to continue.
“Go ahead, please,” the voice instructed.
Claire closed her eyes to concentrate and recall the note to be sung a cappella, without accompaniment. Once again she filled her lungs, parted her lips and began to breathe the high C. The note started softly, low in her chest, then crescendoed over the course of several seconds into a force of sound that filled her head and resonated in the open hall.
She’d tilted her head back from the mic allowing the sound to float heavenward. A high-pitched squeal pierced the moment. Her head and eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.
“Sorry about that,” was the curt response from the booth.
“Is there a problem?” Claire asked, knowing her voice held a hint of the annoyance she was feeling after the back-to-back interruptions.
“There’s a new guy in the sound booth.” Dana’s pierced eyebrows drew together apologetically.
“I noticed.” Claire curved her lips into a wry smile.
“Take it from the top,” the male voice suggested.
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