Games of the Heart. Pamela Yaye

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      “Can I help you?”

      Groaning inwardly, she slipped her keys back into her pocket. Things were not off to a promising start. Marshall was supposed to be impressed with her, not growling at her. Standing ruler-straight, Sage fed him her friendliest smile. “I’m sorry about that, but the buzzer got stuck. You should get that fixed.”

      Marshall looked peeved and Sage sensed that he was about to slam the door in her face. “I was hoping to speak to you for a few minutes, but I can come back if now’s not a good time.”

      To her surprise, he said, “It’s all right. Go on.”

      Sage could tell that he was trying not to be rude. Good, he did have a soft side. That would make her job that much easier. Moving her clipboard aside, she pointed to the World Mission logo on the pocket of her sweater. “My name is Sage Collins and I’m a volunteer for World Mission International. Might I speak to you for a minute about our life-changing sponsorship program?”

      His lips relaxed into a grin. There was that dimple again. Today he didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he had two days ago. Sage didn’t drool over brawny-looking men, but there was something about Marshall Grant that made her heart pitter-patter. He had a powerful chest, big man hands and a voice deeper than the Grand Canyon. Dazzled by the warmth of his smile, she stared up at him, utterly captivated.

      “Sure, I have a few minutes to spare.” Leaning against the door frame, he folded his arms across his chest. “You were saying?”

      “I…was…ah,” she sputtered like a fish out of water. This was a first. Men didn’t leave her flustered. She left them tongue-tied fools, not the other way around. But the more she tried to focus, the more delicious Marshall Grant looked. Soulful eyes, and a cleft chin that softened his facial features and detracted from his imposing height, he was as cool as he was fine.

      Leo’s image flashed in her mind, yanking Sage out of her lustful haze and back to the present. Collecting her thoughts, she glanced down at her clipboard. “Thank you so much for your willingness to make a difference in a child’s life. Six thousand children lose a parent to AIDS every day. At World Mission, we believe that we can make a difference.” Sage held up a picture of Chibu, a seven-year-old Haitian boy with sad eyes. She didn’t know anything about the child, but from what she’d read online, he was an orphan, living in a center with hundreds of other kids. Moved by his story, she had filled out the sponsorship application and committed to paying forty dollars a month to maintain his care. Now Chibu would receive medical care and she would use this real-life story to reach Marshall.

      “AIDS ravaged Chibu’s family and left him to fend for himself. He’s been living at the Center of Hope Orphanage, and though his basic needs are being met, he’s unable to attend school. His reading and writing skills are poor, but at World Mission International we believe that with you and the help of others like you, we can bring hope not only to the village of Jacmel, but to the entire country.”

      “I can tell by listening to you that this organization is near and dear to your heart.” Admiration filled his eyes. “You’re very passionate about what you do. That’s commendable and I wish there were more people like you.”

      “You do?” Reading Chibu’s story had stirred some powerful emotions in her too. She was supposed to learn more about Marshall and Khari, not prattle nonstop about the problems plaguing Haiti, but she couldn’t help herself. “As citizens of the world, it’s important that we all do our part, don’t you think?”

      “I do. It’s not easy going door-to-door, especially during the winter.” His voice was awash with nostalgia. “The first job I had was signing people up for the Indianapolis Post. It’s a very difficult job, isn’t it?”

      “You’re right. It is.” Or at least she imagined it was. After Sage left Marshall’s house, she wouldn’t be knocking on any more doors. It was back to the Four Seasons to work on the second half of her plan.

      “I remember this one elderly woman who lived in Stanford Park. She took one look at me and slammed the door in my face!” Chuckling, he shook his head at the memory. “I had ID, but some homeowners still wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

      Thankful she’d had the foresight to go to the World Mission office, she smiled inwardly. A quick trip downtown had put a small dent in her sign-Khari-Grant fund, but it was money well spent. The supervisor, Ms. Pittney, had beamed as she scooped up T-shirts, pens and other merchandise bearing the World Mission logo.

      “I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been thinking about doing something like this for a while, but never got around to it.”

      Her eyes danced over his face. His skin was a rich, creamy shade of brown, and he had a strong, defined chin. Policing her thoughts, she blinked hard, and quickly regained focus. Enough lusting. It was time to make her move. She had done her good deed for the day, now it was time to do something for herself. And nothing would make her happier than signing Khari Grant. “Do you have any children, sir?”

      “Sir?” Marshall shook his head in disapproval. “I know I’m old, but I’m not that old,” he teased, his tone rich with humor. “How old do you think I am?”

      “I don’t know. Thirty?”

      He rewarded her guess with a smile.

      “You’re not going to tell me?” she asked, liking how quickly he had changed from the snarling homeowner to the grinning neighbor. Attractive in a long-sleeve, collared black sweater and slacks, he looked more relaxed than he had at Westchester Academy. But then again, he wasn’t trying to stop her from beating up on the school vending machine. Today, she was a humanitarian. Feeling flirtatious, and enjoying their playful banter, she cocked her head to the right. “If you tell me your age, I’ll tell you mine,” she promised.

      “Only if you come inside for a quick drink.”

      He didn’t have to ask her twice. “I’m right behind you, Mr. Grant.”

      One look inside Marshall’s house and Sage knew he was a momma’s boy. Everything from the dainty glass tables, plush, luxurious rugs and frilly cushions was a doting mother’s handiwork. From the outside, the house was no showpiece, but the three-story home boasted lofty ceilings, gigantic picture windows and polished floors. The house felt lived-in and had obviously been decorated with tender, loving care.

      “Would you like something to drink?”

      “A glass of water would be great,” she said, holding her clipboard to her chest. “Walking around all day is exhausting.”

      “I bet,” he agreed with a sympathetic nod. “Has there been a lot of interest in the sponsorship program?”

      Remembering what Ms. Pittney said about last year’s Christmas campaign, Sage shook her head regretfully. “Not as many as we would have liked. More people sign up during the holidays. I guess it pacifies their guilt for buying things they don’t need, but by the time the New Year rolls around most sponsors have had a change of heart.”

      “That’s terrible.”

      The solemn expression on his face squeezed her heart. He really did care about the orphaned kids in Haiti. And there was no doubt in her mind that she’d be leaving with a financial contribution for World Mission International. An image of Ms. Pittney flashed in her mind, assuaging her guilt and bolstering her spirits. “It’s СКАЧАТЬ