Page 4 of Doyle

Not anymore.

He didn’t care what Tia said. He planned on finding homes for every one of these kids. It was the least he could do for the woman he’d once loved. Still loved, but... he was moving on.

Trying.

Tia leaned against a lime-green 1960 F-100 pickup, the straps a jumble in the middle. She glanced at her watch. “Twelve minutes.”

He shook his head. “Let me drive, and we’ll make it up.”

She rolled her eyes and walked around to the driver’s side.

He took a breath. Exhaled.

Maybe it wasn’t so much trying to start over as it was focusing on something new.

He forced a smile and got in.

Like not strangling his codirector.

* * *

She refused to listen to fear.

No. fear.

It helped to have Doyle sitting beside her. For all his annoying, too-easygoing, charming ways, Doyle was built, and she’d seen him pop back up after Kemar had slammed into him.

Not a guy who stayed down easily.

Even if he should back away from his big, unrealistic dreams.

But if Sebold and his S-7 crew showed up at the port, having Doyle around might... what?

Yeah, she should have brought Keon. Their security guard had about fifty pounds on Doyle, and sure, he possessed the personality of a Brahman bull, but maybe that’s what she needed.

Power over personality.

Tia blew out a breath as she bumped down the dirt road on the way to Esperanza, the town at the base of the massive volcano, dormant for centuries now, just a few ridges of black lava that spilled into the sea.

The village sat in a pocket between ridges, largely protected from hurricanes—although they’d taken a direct hit some five years ago, according to her research.

It had devastated not only the village but also the sugar and cocoa plantations northeast of town. And birthed the S-7 gang.

Namely, its leader Sebold Grimes.

She blew out a breath, gripping the steering wheel of the old Ford. Hope House needed a fleet of new vehicles, starting with a supply truck that didn’t have gears that slipped and fought her as she downshifted.

“Easy on the clutch?—”

She shot Doyle a look. He’d put out his foot, held on to the handle over the door. There were no seatbelt laws in Mariposa, but she guessed he wouldn’t wear one anyway.

Doyle Kingston followed his own rules. Like playing soccer with the kids when they needed to prepare the grounds for the upcoming Hope House fundraising weekend. It wasn’t every day that twenty or so multimillionaires showed up to tour their facilities and consider taking on their tiny project.

“Listen, this weekend has to go well. Just a few big donors could change the entire outlook for these kids. Give them education beyond what the nuns at the school can provide.”

“The nuns are fantastic.”

“They are. But they also teach in giant one-room classrooms. They can’t possibly prepare these kids for colleges like St. George’s University in Grenada or even the School of Medicine in Sint Maarten.”

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