Her Unlikely Family. Missy TippensЧитать онлайн книгу.
Her Unlikely Family
Missy Tippens
MILLS & BOON
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To my husband, Terry, who has read every word
I’ve ever written.
To my children, Nick, Tyler and Michelle,
who have cheered me along on this journey.
To my parents, Frank and Cellia Conley; my sister,
Mindy Winningham; and all my extended family
who love me no matter what.
And to God for giving me the stories.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Ted Kohn, Joni Kost, Kerry
Lipscomb and Beth McLear for research
assistance.
I owe so much to my critique group, Belinda
Peterson, Maureen Hardegree and Meg Moseley,
for hours of work on this manuscript.
I’m grateful to Georgia Romance Writers—
especially Anna DeStefano for lessons in
persistence and Sandra Chastain for first
recognizing my stories as inspirational romance.
Thanks to The Seekers for encouragement and
laughter. And to FHL, W.O.R.D. and the F.A.I.T.H.
bloggers for prayer and support.
Special thanks to Emily Rodmell and
Krista Stroever for making my dream
of publishing come true.
Chapter One
If there was one thing Josie Miller knew, it was the smell of a rich man. And whoever had just walked into the diner smelled like Fort Knox.
She sniffed the aftershave-tinged air once again and, following her nose, popped up from behind the counter with the half-filled straw dispenser in hand. She spied the man leaning into a booth, wiping the seat with a napkin. When he sat, she got a glimpse of his face and nearly dropped the straw holder.
Black hair, black golf shirt and black mood—if the slant of his brows meant anything—said he might very well be trouble.
“I’ll be right with you,” she said as she spun around and hurried through the swinging door into the kitchen.
“Bogey at table one,” she warned the girl at the dishwashing sink.
Lisa, up to her elbows in suds, gave Josie a typical teenager roll of the eyes. “Huh?”
“I think it’s your uncle.”
Genuine fear replaced Lisa’s insolent expression. “No way!”
“Tall, dark, smells expensive?”
Lisa shook the bubbles off and dried her hands. “That could be anyone.”
“Not my regular clientele.”
“Does he have black hair and blue eyes?”
“Yes on the hair. I’m not sure on the eyes.”
“All the girls at school say he’s too gorgeous for words.”
Josie opened the door a crack and took a quick glimpse. “Definitely gorgeous. In a stiff, formal kind of way.” The kind of man who had never interested her. “Hurry, look. He’s thumbing through his wallet.”
Lisa peeked, then groaned and began to chew on her black-polished fingernail. “What am I going to do?”
Josie was wondering the same thing. She’d let down her guard after two weeks and had assumed the guy would never show up. “Go tell him you’ve found a job and want to stay.”
“He won’t let me. He’ll make me go back to that school.”
“I thought you said you got kicked out,” Josie said.
“I did. But his little donations to fund new buildings can work wonders.” She started pacing, running her fingers through her spiky green hair. “I’ll die if he sends me back there.”
“Calm down, Lisa. If the man’s as bad as you say, surely he’ll leave without a fuss.”
“You don’t know my uncle Michael.”
No, but she knew his kind. Work and money meant everything. She could also hear the snob alert clanging in her head. “You’re dealing with a pro, here.” Josie smoothed her hands down the front of her uniform, then grabbed a piece of bubble gum from the shelf over the sink. “I’ll give him a taste of what he’d expect from a small-time waitress, and he’ll be out of here in a flash. Leave the man to me.”
Michael H. Throckmorton III leaned his arms on the table, then thought better of it. He’d already had to wipe crumbs and grease off the cracked vinyl seat of this fine eating establishment, Bud’s Diner.
A bald old man—Bud?—covered in sweat, wearing a filthy apron, squinted at a blaring TV perched precariously on a shelf in the corner. When a commercial came on, he turned and began raking a metal spatula across the sizzling surface of the grill.
The air, thick with the overpowering smell of grease, nearly choked Michael. A fly buzzed on the window ledge. He couldn’t imagine how the place had passed health-department inspections.
Tuning out all but the task before him, he examined the outdated photograph of Lisa he always carried in his wallet. She was only fourteen at the time. A time when she used to laugh and tease him. When she used to hug him.
No time for nostalgia. It’s unproductive.
Besides, Lisa’s generous hugs were a lifetime ago, and so much had changed.
“What