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from you,” he murmured.
    She shrugged, embarrassed at the praise as they moved outside to the sunshine.
    “It’s a lot of work and I can’t do it all, so I appointed one of the women as the manager. Collette is good at motivating the staff. I’m the director who tries to let them alone and give guidance as they need it.”
    “This is real nice, Lace. You’ve done a lot.”
    Pride filled her at his acknowledgment. She had taken an abandoned farm and turned it into a thriving charity. Jarrett gazed around the compound, but she could tell his mind was working. Quiet, efficient. The man never stopped working, either at home or on the job. Always looking out for threats.
    She glanced at her watch. “School’s out and the compound’s children will be home soon. I want to be here to greet them.”
    Lacey hurried down the stairs of the building, back to her house and the porch with its pots of colorful tropical flowers. The sun burned bright overhead in the brilliant blue sky. Even though it was February, it was warm.
    She only hoped the heat would remain with the weather, and not with the people growing tired of a president who ignored their plight.
    Jarrett followed her and stood on the porch. “You always greet the children when they come home?”
    Her chest tightened with emotion. “I try to, if I’m not working.”
    A door beside the compound gate opened, admitting three little girls, all dressed in red-checked uniforms and carrying backpacks. Two waved at Lacey and called greetings, skipping past them to the mango processing building. But the third child headed for them.
    She was tiny, her skin the color of coffee with cream poured into it. Lemon-yellow ribbons were tied into her braided hair. Her bright yellow jumper and white short-sleeved shirt with its Peter Pan collar seemed almost too big on her small frame. The pink backpack she carried was nearly as big as her body. Her black shoes were patent leather and her white socks were cuffed.
    She was so tiny and sweet, with a heart-shaped face. But she did not smile.
    Lacey put a hand on the girl’s thin shoulders. “This is Fleur.”
    Jarrett squatted down and smiled. “Hello, Fleur,” he said in French.
    The child’s large, dark eyes regarded him. She said nothing. Jarrett glanced up.
    “One of your charges here on the compound?”
    Her insides squeezed tight at his words. “Fleur isn’t one of my charges. She’s the reason I can’t leave St. Marc. She’s my daughter.”

CHAPTER 4
    I f his ex-wife had punched him in the stomach, Jarrett knew he couldn’t have felt more shocked. He stared at the little girl, her solemn dark eyes too big for her face. His throat tightened and his chest hurt.
    He’d always wanted a little girl. A daughter in pigtails, with a cheeky smile who’d giggle when he tickled her stomach or swung her around. A little girl who looked like Lace. When Lacey lost the baby, part of him died, as well. But he had learned to hide his emotions.
    Get a grip, he told himself. Jarrett forced a smile, sensing the child’s unease. “It is very nice to meet you,” he said in French.
    She said nothing, only kept staring at him. Lacey wrapped her arms around the child, holding her tight. Jarrett straightened, anger surfacing at his ex. Had to control it, didn’t want to frighten the child. There was a story here in the little girl’s dark eyes and solemn expression.
    He’d seen the same ancient weariness in the eyes of children he’d met overseas. Adults with a kid’s skin, a kid’s body and the experiences no human being should ever endure...
    Lacey hugged the child. “Fleur, this is Mr. Jarrett Adler. He’s an American. I used to be married to him.”
    Her expression wary, the little girl looked up at Lacey. Lacey smiled and spoke in French. “It’s okay. He’s a good guy.”
    Jarrett felt his throat tighten more. At least the child had a safe place to live, and he could tell from the way Lacey hugged her that Fleur meant