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THANKS TO A FATAL plane crash in the Andes, Yank Morgan had been raising his sister's children for the past two years, and as a result, even his chest hair had turned prematurely gray. Ages fourteen, twelve and ten, the girls were independent little scrappers and didn't hesitate to tell him exactly what they thought. Which was why Annabelle, the oldest, stood before him, hands on her hips, her breasts pushing against the cotton of her too-tight shirt. When the hell had she developed boobs? he wondered and ran a hand through his wiry hair.

At the moment though, his niece's face concerned him more than her chest. Black eyeliner was smudged around her bright blue eyes and though normally he didn't mind letting the girls make their own mistakes, her raccoon-like appearance was too humiliating to allow, so he'd decided to step in.

Keeping Lola's words in mind, he opted to tread gently with the girl. "Dang it, Annie, you look like Jim McMahon getting, ready to throw a pass."

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