Thread of Deceit by Catherine Palmer

By Catherine Palmer

Whatever used to be extraordinarily unsuitable with the shy, scared little lady. on a daily basis, she got here to Haven, Sam Hawke's inner-city formative years heart. however the former marine could not get flowers to open up. So he became to newspaper reporter Ana Burns, hoping that her ability at asking nosy questions on him and his undertaking should be placed to raised use.

Flora fast captured Ana's center. As did Sam and his dream of offering a haven for kids with nowhere else to move. Ana's questions have been quickly answered—and worst fears confirmed—about little plants. And maintaining her and the guts from a strong predator might take all their love and religion mixed.

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So, Miss Ana Burns had a chink in her armor. She didn’t want to go into his office. His turf. Seeing an advantage, he seized it. “I’d like to sit down,” Sam told her. “Been on my feet all day, you know. ” “But…” she tried. “But I…” Ana matched his stride as Sam headed across the room. Unusually long legs, he noted. Most women barely reached his shoulder, but a tilt of this one’s head would put her face disconcertingly close to his. Military training had taught Sam the art of inspection, and instinct took over despite his determination to ignore the pesky reporter.

Look, I’m getting nervous. I can’t have anyone poking around here. My wife…she wouldn’t understand at all. She’d leave me, and I couldn’t handle that. She’d take the house and the car. I’d have nothing left. ” “You want me to have a pity party for you, Stu? If you did what I told you to do, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be fine. ” 66 Thread of Deceit He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. Of course he shouldn’t have relied on Stu to do things right.

She hoped so. She turned a faucet and let the cool water trickle over her hands. Hope. This was all any of them had. A thin stream of water. A dusty glint of sunlight. A stranger’s hand in the darkness. Ana dried her fingers on a tissue from her purse and 64 Thread of Deceit shouldered her bag. If she hurried, she could get back to the newspaper building before Carl left. She would tell the editor about her interviews and fill him in on her plans for each of the articles. And she would mention the child—the many lost children—who straggled into Haven, put on their white T-shirts and found a place to play or rest for a few hours each day.

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