Amazing Love
Authors: Mae Nunn
“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, noâyou 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 youâ¦friend.”
But before her heels could even touch the ground, he brought his lips down to meet hersâ¦.
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 wordâ“Yeeeeeha!”
MAZING
L
OVE
M
AE
N
UNN
Dedication
This book is for Sunny.
7/28/49â1/1/05
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.
â
Psalms
32:1â2
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' Michaelâyou 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.
C
laire 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'Malleyâ” he paused, seemingly for a reaction “âof
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 beâ¦?” 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 âOut 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?
Â
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.