She opened the folder on her lap, withdrew a sheet of paper, and held it out to him. “This explains the effort in detail, but topline, we’ll establish a fund to support efforts that protect life in all its stages. One example would be providing financial assistance to abortion alternatives, like paying expenses for women who agree to carry their babies to term and linking them with adoption agencies. We may also get involved in issues like capital punishment.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your beef with capital punishment?”
She met his gaze square on. “Killing is killing.”
“Putting a guilty person to death is called justice. And it keeps that person from taking other innocent lives.”
“A lifetime prison sentence does too.”
“At a huge expense to taxpayers.”
“How do you put a price on a life?”
“There are practical considerations.”
“Also ethical ones.”
Squelching the temptation to continue the debate, he skimmed the sheet she’d handed him. This wasn’t a subject on which they were going to agree, so why argue on his birthday . . . or extend an encounter that was going south? This day had been depressing enough.
“Let me think about it.” He folded the sheet into a small square, tucked it in the pocket of his jacket, and stood.
She gave a slow blink at his abrupt dismissal—but after a slight hesitation she rose too.
And almost lost her balance.
Again.
He took her arm in a firm grip. “Steady.”
“Sorry. I’m a landlubber through and through.” She flashed him a shaky smile.
That could be true—but it didn’t explain her equilibrium issues.
The same kind Patrick had on occasion.
Yet this woman, with her clear hazel eyes, didn’t strike him as the type who would struggle with his brother’s problem.
Appearances could be deceiving, though. That’s why you had to fact find, then make decisions using the evidence you uncovered . . . always keeping the greater good in mind.
At least that’s how he’d justified some of his choices in the past.
As Holly tugged free of his hold and turned to disembark, he shifted gears. “Let me go first.”
Without waiting for a reply, he hopped onto the dock and held out a hand.
After a nanosecond’s hesitation, she took it and climbed up onto the seat. Swayed. Stabilized after he tightened his grip.
“One more step.” Steven gave a little pull, and she heaved herself up.
He maintained a firm grip until she was on the dock beside him and wiggled her fingers free.
Although the lady still didn’t appear to be all that sure-footed, he relinquished his hold—but stayed close.
She tucked the folder tight against her chest again. “I appreciate your time today. If you decide to donate, you can contact Helping Hands at the number on the sheet I gave you.”
“Could I call you instead?”
The instant the words spilled out, he frowned. Where in blazes had that come from? Why would he want to have any further contact with a woman who’d run the other direction if she knew his history?
Her raised eyebrows indicated she was as surprised by the query as he was. “I, uh, suppose I could give you my phone number and email.”
No backtracking now.
He pulled out his cell. “Ready whenever you are.”
As she recited them, he tapped in the phone digits and the professional rather than personal email address. “You work for the school district?”
“Yes.”
She offered nothing more.
Fair enough. He was a stranger, and she was smart to be cautious.
But he was no threat to her.
Nor was there much chance she’d ever hear from him again. Willing as he was to support charitable causes, this particular endeavor didn’t fit with his history.
He motioned toward Dockside Drive. “I’ll walk you to solid ground.”
“No.” She edged away, leaving a faint, pleasing floral scent in her wake. “I’ve delayed you from your chores too long already.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, but I can manage on my own.” Her chin rose a notch. “I may not have perfect balance, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing on your boat.”
With that, she pivoted and wobbled down the dock toward Dockside Drive.
Steven folded his arms, reining in the urge to follow along behind her in case she started to tumble. The lady had made it clear she didn’t want an arm to hold.
All she wanted was a donation.
Too bad he couldn’t accommodate her.
But after everything he’d done, God might smite him with a bolt of lightning if he tried to contribute to a pro-life cause.
Don’t fall! Don’t fall! Don’t fall!
Holly concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she traversed the wooden planks.
While walking on firm surfaces posed few problems, a slightly undulating platform could be dicey.
Despite all the falls she’d taken in her life, for some reason doing a face-plant with Steven Roark watching would be the ultimate humiliation.
And the man was definitely watching her. That intent gaze of his was drilling a hole in her back.
Just a few more feet, Holly, and you’ll be on terra firma. You can make it.
She focused on her destination, exhaling in relief as the soles of her shoes made contact with the concrete sidewalk.
From here, getting to her car was a stroll in the park.
She picked up her pace, furrowing her brow at a sudden urge to glance over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the charter fisherman.
What was that all about? Why would she want to see Steven Roark again?
It wasn’t as if he’d gone out of his way to be charming, after all. Yeah, he had decent manners—but he’d gotten downright argumentative during their brief exchange about capital punishment.
That was a hot-button issue for many people, though—and both sides had compelling arguments.
Given his abrupt end to their conversation, however, he wasn’t open to continuing the debate. He couldn’t have hustled her off his boat any faster.
No wonder she was flustered—and unsettled.
On top of all that, Steven Roark was nothing like she’d expected. There wasn’t a lick of similarity between the taciturn man and his amicable six-year-old nephew. Nor did he resemble—in appearance or manner—the boy’s sandy-haired, low-key father who’d come to the recent first-grade parent-teacher conference with his wife.
Yet the temptation to look over her shoulder remained.
Holly skirted two gulls that stared at her from the middle of the sidewalk and held their ground.
There could be only one explanation for her reaction.
Brusque dismissal aside, the man exuded magnetism—and no one with his commanding presence had ever entered her orbit. Certainly none with a tall, toned physique, strong jaw, wind-mussed brown hair, and piercing chestnut-colored eyes.
He was the type who would appeal to women attracted to tall, dark, and dangerous men.
But that description didn’t fit her. Steven Roark was one-eighty from the romantic hero of her dreams. There was nothing about him that should set off a buzz in her nerve endings.