No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,66

more embarrassment than he displayed. He accepted the offerings in a low detached voice. Considering his philosophy of noninvolvement, he would certainly back away from any growing fondness for the kids, just as he’d backed away from his feelings for her. Indignantly, she wondered how long it would be before the humble, heartfelt tokens ended up in Lucas’s trash.

She glimpsed him as he headed from the barn toward the house. He’d said nothing to her. No goodbye. No smile. Not even a scornful nod of good riddance. He’d simply walked off and disappeared into the darkness.

A rectangle of golden light appeared in the distance—the broad, black silhouette of Lucas’s familiar torso, signaling the fact that he was entering his mansion. As the door closed, extinguishing the glow framed within it, Howie started the van. More depressed than she’d ever been in her life, Jess sank low in her seat, rubbing her pounding temples. She winced as the vehicle lurched forward.

“MR. BRAND,” LUCAS’S secretary called loudly near his ear.

Surprised that he hadn’t heard her before she’d had to resort to shouting, he swiveled around from his discussion with Sol and Fletch. “What is it, Debbie?” he asked. “If it’s Takahashi again, tell him we can make the meeting in Tokyo on Friday.”

“Yeah,” piped in Fletch, a big smile on his weary, freckled face. “Finally the glove responds, and we’re one-hundred-percent on track. With only Mega-Tech left in the running, I can almost smell that contract.”

Sol, who’d been wearing the head-mounted display and working the glove, took the equipment off, started to stand, stuttered something, then slid off the chair onto the carpet.

Lucas, Debbie and Fletch stopped their conversation and stared at the chubby man, crumpled in a heap at their feet. “He looks a little flushed,” Fletch said, more to himself than anyone.

“Hell, he looks dead,” Lucas muttered, stooping to check his friend’s pulse. “Sol, what is it?” The fallen man blinked as Lucas felt his face. “Damn, you’re burning up.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Debbie cried, rushing from the room.

“Could be that new flu,” Fletch put in. “Sol’s been working pretty hard. Probably let his resistance get low.”

Lucas frowned. “I’m surprised we’re not all dead. Let’s get him over to the couch.” He raised Sol up so his friend could lean heavily against him. “Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

Sol groaned, stumbling. “I’m fine—just a little tired….”

“Blast it, man,” Lucas ground out as he and Fletch half dragged Sol to the couch situated behind the computer equipment. “People who’ve been hit by trains look healthier than you.”

As Sol collapsed on the sofa, Debbie hurried back in, looking more upset than Lucas had ever seen her. “Ambulance is on the way,” she reported, her expression stark with concern. “And—Mr. Brand, there was another call for you, a young lady—Miss Ann Smith-”

“I don’t know any Ann Smith,” he interrupted, preoccupied with his friend’s condition.

Debbie nodded, turned to leave, then stopped and added, “It’s only that she asked for Mr. Niceguy, sir. But I’ll tell her you’re busy.”

Lucas had knelt beside Sol to find out if he was breathing regularly. But something Debbie had said nagged at his brain. Ann Smith? Mr. Niceguy? “Annie?” he intoned, thinking aloud.

JESS PEEKED INTO THE children’s hospital ward. It had been four days since the retreat ended, and she’d never expected that the next time she saw the kids, they’d be crowded around a hospital bed, and sweet, shy Molly Roberts would be lying in it with a broken leg. Molly’s bed was the one nearest the door in the ten-bed ward. Only four beds were occupied. Jess was glad Molly had friends around her, considering that her foster-home situation was far from ideal. It appeared the kids from the retreat had bonded into an extended family.

“Hi, Mrs. Glen,” Annie called in a loud whisper. “Join the party.”

Jack was there, a bit apart, as usual, but not quite frowning. “Hi, everybody.” She checked her watch. Four-thirty. “What did you all do, come here right after school?”

Moses said, “No sweat. Bus stops in front. But man, this place freaks me out. Too many sickos.”

Jess laughed, turning to Molly. In the hospital bed, with her cast raised up in a pulley contraption, the young girl appeared thinner, more fragile. “Annie told me you took a header down the school steps,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

Molly’s big, gentle eyes looked sheepish. “It was dumb. I dropped my glasses and—” she shrugged “—I was trying to