“What are you looking for, Logan, a quick tumble to satisfy your basic urges?”
“I wasn’t looking for someone like you,” he admitted.
“Then what are you doing here?”
He looked around, and seemed almost surprised by the setting. “I don’t know,” he said at last.
“I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“I know,” he admitted. “And I thought I could stay away. But I can’t. You’ve got me all tied up in knots and I don’t know what to do about it.”
As far as poetry went, it was somewhat lacking, and yet his words touched something inside her. Or maybe it wasn’t the words so much as the frustration evident in his voice. He didn’t want to want her, but he did. The realization soothed her bruised pride, empowered her fragile heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “Why don’t we just forget about that little outburst and start over?”
“Sure,” Riane agreed, wishing it would be half as easy to forget the unwelcome feelings he’d stirred inside her. She folded her arms against the wooden fence. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
Everything. She wanted to know everything there was to know about Joel Logan, especially what it was about him that had her so enthralled. Through her charity work and her parents’ political connections, she’d had occasion to dine with millionaires, dance with movie stars, discuss international relations with heads of state. She’d never been flustered by the mere presence of a man—until Joel had shown up at her ball.
But that was hardly an admission she was willing to make, so she opted to start with something more simple. “Where did you grow up?”
He seemed surprised by her question, almost relieved. “Philadelphia.”
“Is that where you live now?”
He shook his head. “No. I moved to Fairweather, Pennsylvania, a few years back.”
“Is that where your family is?”
“I don’t know that I have any family left.”
“What do you mean—you don’t know?”
“I haven’t seen my mother since I was six years old. She left me with my grandmother and took off for parts unknown. My grandmother died five years later.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling unaccountably saddened on his behalf. Her mother often teased that the kids who came to her camp were her surrogate siblings—the brothers and sisters she never had. Riane couldn’t deny that there was probably some truth to that. But if she felt there was something missing from her life, she also knew how fortunate she was to have always had the unquestioning love and support of her parents. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be well and truly alone.
“What about your father?” she asked.
“I have no idea who my father is.”
“You never knew him?”
“I don’t know if my mother knew him,” he said dryly.
Her brow furrowed; Joel laughed.
“Not everyone has had the life you’ve had,” he said.
Riane felt her back go up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You were raised in a perfect little family, in a cozy mansion on the hill. Between your private school education and ballet lessons and horseback riding, you probably never imagined that there were kids who went to bed hungry at night—or kids who had no bed to go to.”
Riane’s eyes narrowed on him. “Do you think I don’t realize how lucky I’ve been? I may gave grown up in a home of wealth and privilege, and I’m grateful that I’ve never had to worry about my next meal, but I’m not oblivious to what goes on in the rest of the world.
“My parents were in the Foreign Service when I was born. We lived in various places in Central America, Eastern Europe, Africa. It was an incredible opportunity, and it was incredibly disheartening at times. I saw things most people don’t want to hear about.
“I went to visit orphanages with my mother—dirty, overcrowded, unsanitary buildings where most of the children weren’t just orphans but were sick or dying. There was one little girl—” Even after so many years, her throat tightened at the memory. “She was about three years old, but she weighed no more than fifteen pounds. She wasn’t just malnourished, she had AIDS. Both of her parents had died of AIDS a few months earlier, her older sister only days before I met her.
“There was something about her, this child more so than any other I’d seen, that tore at my heart. Maybe it was the way she so simply and quietly accepted her fate. Knowing it was only a matter of time before she died.
“For almost three weeks, I went to that orphanage every day—to see her, to read stories to her. She loved fairy tales. As she listened, she’d smile and get this faraway look in her eyes, as if she was imagining herself inside the story—a life so much better than the one she was living.
“So don’t you dare compare my life to yours and say I don’t understand. Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself for five minutes and compare your life to hers?”
Riane was out of breath by the time she finished, and a little ashamed by her impassioned outburst. It wasn’t like her to go off so easily. She was used to people making judgments about her, treating her commitment to the underprivileged like a hobby or, worse, a stage she would outgrow.
Even Stuart had once suggested that she was too involved with the kids, that she needed to detach herself from their problems. He’d only said it once.
Still, Joel couldn’t have known the depth of her feelings, and she shouldn’t have taken her annoyance out on him.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” She was more embarrassed than angry now.
“I guess I’ve spent so much time being bitter and resentful about my childhood that I never considered the others who were less fortunate. My grandmother might have bitched and grumbled every time she put a plate in front of me, but she never let me starve.”
She felt his hand on her arm, his touch gentle but firm, forcing her attention back to him. “The little girl in the orphanage, is she the reason you have the camp?”
Riane nodded. “She died just a few weeks after we got there. That was when I resolved to do something to help children like her.”
“How old were you?” he asked.
She looked away again. “Twelve.”
“That’s a hell of a commitment for a twelve-year-old to make.”
“It’s a hell of a way for a three-year-old child to die,” she replied sadly. Then she shook her head, shook off the melancholy mood that had stolen over the moment.
“We were talking about your childhood,” Riane reminded him.
“I think you got the gist of it.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head. “I had a sister. She was a few years older than me, took off on her own when she was fifteen and died on the street of a drug overdose less than a year later.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. As an only child, she couldn’t imagine what it was like to grow up with someone, to lose that someone, to be left alone to remember. For so many years she’d wished for a sister—would willingly have settled for a brother—but her parents hadn’t been able to have any more children. Riane knew it had to be easier to have never had a sibling than to have shared such