The Firebrand by Susan Wiggs

banking offered unexpected challenges.
    He stood behind his desk and waited for Crowe to show her in. She arrived like a small tempest, wrinkled skirts swinging, the feather on her hat bobbing over her brow and the little boy in tow. The lad stared openly at him, then whispered, "He's a giant, Mstma, just like—"
    "Hush," she said quickly. But her manner was all business as she held out her hand. "Mr. Higgins, how do you do?"
    Oh, he remembered that husky, cultured voice from their first meeting that long-ago evening. He remembered that direct, dark-eyed stare, that challenging set to her chin. He remembered how provocative he had found her, how intrigued he'd been by her unconventional ways.
    He remembered that she'd asked him to be her lover. And he remembered the look on her face when she learned he was married.
    As he offered her a chair, he knew he would not have to worry about her being attracted to him now, scarred and dour creature that he had become. She gave his imperfect face, camouflaged with a mustache these days, a polite but cursory glance, nothing more.
    "Very well, thank you," he said, then glanced pointedly at the boy, who boldly peered around the plain leather-and-wood office, looking like mischief waiting to happen. "And this is...?"
    "My daughter, Margaret," said Lucy.
    Margaret stuck out a grubby hand. "How do you do? My friends call me Maggie."
    Rand was thoroughly confused now. She called her son Margaret? Then it struck him—the child in the rough knickers, Short hair and flat bicycle cap was a little girl. He tried not to look too startled. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Maggie."
    "I'm afraid I had no choice but to bring her along," Lucy said. "Ordinarily there's someone to look after her when I have meetings."
    "But today is Grammy Vi's mahjong day," Maggie said.
    She really was a rather pretty child beneath the bad haircut and shapeless clothing. He tried to picture her in a little pinafore done up in ribbons and bows, but she moved too fast for him to form a picture. She darted around the office, spinning the globe and lifting a paperweight so that a breeze from the open side window swept a sheaf of papers to the floor.
    "Maggie, don't touch anything," Lucy said half a second too late.
    "No harm done." Rand bent to retrieve the papers. At the same time, the little girl squatted down to help. Their hands touched, and she caught at his, rubbing her small thumb over the shiny scar tissue there.
    "Did you hurt yourself?" she asked, her face as open as a flower. "Maggie—"
    "It's all right," Rand said with rare patience. He was accustomed to people staring, and to youngsters who didn't know any better asking questions. Some children turned away in fright, but not this one. She regarded him with a matter-of-fact compassion that comforted rather than discomfited. He studied her small, perfect hand covering his large, damaged one. "I did hurt myself," he said, "a long time ago."
    "Oh." She handed him the rest of the papers. "Does it still hurt?"
    Every day.
    He straightened up, put the papers back under the paperweight, then saw Crowe standing in the doorway.
    "Is everything all right, sir?" Crowe asked. "Everything's fine," Rand said.
    "I wondered if the little b—"
    "Miss Maggie would love to join you in the outer office," Rand said hastily, cutting him off. He winked at Maggie. "Mr. Crowe is known to keep a supply of peppermints in his desk, for special visitors."
    "Can I, Mama?" Maggie's eyes sparkled like blue flames, and suddenly she didn't look at all like a boy.
    "Run along," Lucy said. "Don't get into anything."
    After the door closed, Rand said, "Congratulations. You have a very lively little girl."
    "Thank you."
    "You and your husband must be very proud of her." "I'm afraid Maggie's father is deceased," she said soberly. His heart lurched. "I'm terribly sorry."
    "Thank you, but I never knew the man," she replied. Then she laughed at his astonished expression. "Forgive me, Mr. Higgins. I'm