One thing he felt was nervous, which was understandable; he never had been real comfortable around beautiful women. Pretty, okay. He liked flirting with a pretty woman as much as the next guy. But knock-your-eyes-out, movie-star gorgeous? Uh-uh. Women like that made him feel like he'd forgotten how to breathe. With that dark red hair and pale-as-milk skin of hers, what she reminded him of more than anything was paintings he'd seen of the Madonna. Except the thoughts he'd been having about her... Well, he would have been ashamed to think them in church--put it that way.

On the other hand, beautiful or not, she was damn well ticking him off by the way she was acting, driving across the country all by herself, taking chances with that baby she was carrying. Which was also understandable; having lost one child because of a woman's pure selfishness and irresponsibility, he had a low tolerance level for that sort of behavior.

What had him confused, though, was that now that she was sitting right there across the table from him, and he could see in her eyes how tired and scared she was, it was real hard for him to stay mad at her. Although he did mean to try. For one thing, it made it a whole lot easier for him to overlook how beautiful she was.

"Hi," she said as she settled herself, in a kind of breathless and sheepish way that for some reason made her seem more likeable than she had up to now. Then she stuck her hand out and, in a more forward and businesslike way than most of the Southern women he was used to, added, "I'm Mirabella Waskowitz."

And he decided he liked that, too.

"Jimmy Joe," he said, as he took the hand she offered.