The Last White Knight by Tami Hoag Page A

on the first step. His eyes were level with hers, as blue as the sky on a cloudless fall day. They seemed to catch her in a tractor beam that made it impossible to move or look away.
    “Something already has,” he whispered, that gentle, knowing smile curling the corners of his lips. “Here’s to what comes next.”
    He brushed a soft, sweet kiss on her cheek and stepped back down. “Good night, Lynn.”
    “Good night, Senator.”
    He chuckled at that and sauntered back to the living room. Lynn stood on the stairs and watched him go, her head throbbing at the idea of what might come next.

Morning came much too soon for Lynn’s liking. She awakened with gritty eyes and a head that felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Her usual migraine hangover. It hadn’t helped that she’d gotten precious little sleep, or that what sleep she’d gotten had been plagued with visions of Erik Gunther. She’d spent most of the night lying on the mattress on the floor of what would be one of the resident rooms, staring at the ceiling and trying to will herself not to dream about that kiss. But even now, as she cracked open her eyelids and squinted against the morning light pouring in through the window, she could still feel Erik Gunther’s body against her,still feel his enveloping warmth and strength, still taste his mouth on hers.
    Grumbling, she pushed herself into a sitting position and raked her hair back out of her eyes. According to her watch it was nearly seven and, while she would have liked nothing better than to crawl back under the blanket and sleep for another day or two—or better yet, magically transport herself to her own bed in her apartment across town and sleep for another day or two—there was a long day and a lot of work ahead. The girls would be living in this house by nightfall. How long they would be able to stay here was anyone’s guess, but they would definitely be sleeping here tonight.
    How would the girls react to the hostility in this neighborhood? Lynn wondered as she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor in search of her overnight bag. Her jeans lay where she’d stepped out of them the night before. She hadn’t had the energy to do more than that, and had slept in her panties and T-shirt. She dug a fresh T-shirt from her suitcase and changed with a minimum of fuss, her mind on her girls.
    There were currently five residents, ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen. Barbara Wheeler and Michelle Jenner were from Rochester, both from dysfunctional, single-parent families, bothfresh from a substance-abuse rehab program at St. Mary’s Hospital. The other three girls—Regan Mitchell, Tracy Brogan, and Christine Rickman—were from other parts of the state. Christine was fifteen and pregnant. Tracy had a history as a runaway and a background with an abusive father. Regan was the newest challenge. It was Regan who worried Lynn the most.
    From the outside Regan Mitchell appeared to have everything going for her. She was from a “good” family. Her father had an important position at Honeywell in Minneapolis. The family lived in the affluent suburb of Minnetonka. Regan had been given every advantage. What she hadn’t been given was love. Her father was a cold, demanding man, her mother caught up in charity work and social life. The Mitchells had more or less expected their children to raise themselves, to automatically grow up to be perfect and productive and responsible. But that hadn’t happened with Regan. She had grown up feeling empty and unloved, and she had filled that emptiness with anger, bitterness, resentment, rebellion.
    She had been in and out of trouble for the last three years, and at sixteen was in danger of being declared a lost cause. She had run away, dabbled in drugs, shoplifted at every major department storein the metro area. Her friends had been a familiar crowd at juvenile hall. Regan herself presented a tough I-don’t-give-a-damn facade, but Lynn was convinced it