Family in Progress

There had to be one hundred and one reasons why it would be a bad idea to get involved with Steven Warren.

Still, there was something about the man that tempted Samara to ignore all reason.

“Thanks again for tonight,” she said. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too.” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “Good night.”

She felt a pang of disappointment as she watched him cross the threshold.

“Steven, wait.”

He turned back.

“You, uh –” she felt her heart pounding, her mind racing “ – forgot something.”

He looked at the jacket he carried in one hand and his keys in the other, then back at her. “What did I forget?”

“This,” she said, and tugged his head down to hers for a kiss.

Brenda Harlen grew up in a small town surrounded by books and imaginary friends. Although she always dreamed of being a writer, she chose to follow a more traditional career path first. After two years of practising as an attorney (including an appearance in front of the Supreme Court of Canada), she gave up her “real” job to be a mum and to try her hand at writing books. Three years, five manuscripts and another baby later, she sold her first book – an RWA Golden Heart winner.

Brenda lives in Southern Ontario with her real-life husband/hero, two heroes-in-training and two neurotic dogs. She is still surrounded by books (“too many books,” according to her children) and imaginary friends, but she also enjoys communicating with “real” people. Readers can contact Brenda by e-mail at [e-mail].

Family in Progress

Brenda Harlen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to my nieces.

To Brianna – a beautiful, intelligent young woman who is going to be a top-notch CA.

I hope you know how very proud I am of you.

To Lauren – her equally beautiful and intelligent

sister who isn’t afraid of any challenge. I know you will succeed in whatever you choose to do.

And to Kaylin –

my baby brother’s beautiful new baby.

Welcome to the world.

Chapter One

Life was much simpler for Steven Warren when he worked at Al’s Body Shop, when someone else was in charge and he simply did what he was told to do. But a man couldn’t work twelve-and fourteen-hour days when he had children at home who needed him, which was why the offer to work at Classic magazine in Chicago had been as welcome as it was unexpected.

Steven had long had a passion for classic cars, and the opportunity to work for the magazine, finding vehicles in need of restoration and leading the team through that process, was one he couldn’t pass up.

And if Steven sometimes felt out of his element now that he spent more time in an office than in a garage, he figured the opportunity to make a desperately needed new start with his family was more than adequate compensation.

But now he felt trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place. He’d been entrusted with the responsibility of hiring a new features photographer for the magazine and he was determined to find the perfect person for the job. Except that—on the basis of the applications he’d received in response to his ad—the perfect person had yet to apply and he was running out of time.

And then, just last week, his sister-in-law sent him an e-mail that offered a solution to his dilemma. Or so he hoped.

He found a bottle of Tylenol in his desk and shook a couple of pills out of the bottle to ward off the headache that had been lurking behind his eyes since breakfast.

The morning had not got off to a great start. His twelve-year-old daughter had been in a mood—again. It seemed Caitlin had given him nothing but attitude since they’d moved to Chicago at the end of the summer.

He wondered if she would ever understand that he’d done it for her and not to spite her. Since her mother’s death almost three years earlier, Caitlin had fallen in with a questionable crowd and Steven hadn’t known how to tear his daughter away from their negative influence. So he’d uprooted his fractured family and moved them to Illinois.

He swallowed the pills with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and scanned his sister-in-law’s e-mail once again.

Hi Steven,

Richard told me that you’re looking for a new photographer—someone who can breathe new life into the magazine—and it just so happens that I have a friend who would be perfect for the job. Her name is Samara Kenzo. We went to college together then were coworkers and roommates in Tokyo before I married your brother.

Anyway, Samara has recently moved to Chicago and is looking for work. I’m not asking you to hire her, of course, just to meet with her. (Though I’m sure you’ll agree that she’s exactly what you need once you’ve had a chance to interview her and look at her portfolio!) I suggested that she drop off a résumé at your office so that you can contact her directly if you think she might be a suitable candidate. Thanks, Jenny

PS. Don’t forget about the dinner party we’re having on the fourth. It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you and I won’t accept any excuses this time:)

Steven winced as he read the last line, He’d been making a lot of excuses to avoid spending time with his brother and sister-in-law over the past few months. Richard was the only brother he had and he’d liked Jenny from their first meeting, but seeing them together was just too painful a reminder of everything he’d lost.

The buzz of the phone interrupted his melancholic thoughts. He closed his e-mail as he picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“There’s a Samara Kenzo here to see you,” his assistant told him.

“Thanks, Carrie.” He was both excited and wary about meeting his sister-in-law’s friend. Excited because the résumé she’d dropped off was more than impressive, and wary because he knew that if the interview went well, he’d have to attend that dinner party—if for no other reason than to thank Jenny for the referral.

Samara Kenzo was uneasy even before she stepped into Steven Warren’s office. Though she appreciated Jenny’s confidence in her abilities and was aware of her own talent, she wasn’t convinced her friend’s brother-in-law would be impressed with her credentials. She’d taken a lot of pictures in the past six years and even won several awards for her work, but she had her doubts as to whether she belonged at a car magazine and she worried about how she might convince Jenny’s brother-in-law of something she wasn’t even sure of herself.

As she glanced around the space, she was even less sure, but she strode confidently across the room to shake his outstretched hand.

Steven hadn’t come to Tokyo for his brother’s wedding so she’d never had occasion to meet him before now, but he looked enough like Richard that she had no doubt of his identity.

Tall, dark and absolutely yummy.

She shoved that thought aside impatiently. She wanted this job. She did not want to feel the first stirrings of a physical attraction after more than two years of not feeling anything at all.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Warren.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he responded politely.

“Is it?” she wondered.

He seemed startled by her response, and she smiled to soften the words as she handed her portfolio to him.

“I’m guessing that this interview is more in the nature of an obligation than a pleasure,” she explained her question. “But I’m hoping that, by the time we’re finished here, you’ll be glad you took the time.”

He considered her words as he thumbed through the pages of her portfolio, pausing once or twice but otherwise giving no hint of any reaction to the contents.

“Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Usually.”

“And do you find that outspokenness an attribute or a detriment?”

“It can be both. But I’ve found that the best way to get what I want is to communicate what I want clearly.” She met his gaze. “I want this job, Mr. Warren.”

“Why Classic?” he asked. “What is it about this magazine that intrigues you?”

Samara knew she should have been prepared for that question and had an answer at the ready. But her tendency to speak her mind aside, she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth about this—that she needed a job and this one seemed as good as any.

She didn’t really care about cars—classic or otherwise. As far as she was concerned, they were just a means to an end, a form of transportation. But she could hardly tell that to the man whose office was decorated with framed photos of polished vehicles and who had every available surface covered with scale models of classic machines.

“I like a challenge,” she said at last. “I’ve worked at several different jobs, taking pictures of everything from fashion models to fine cuisine, but I’ve never worked with the automotive industry. I thought this job would give me an opportunity to expand my—” she scrambled to find the right word in English “—horizontal.”

Steven frowned, and she wondered what she’d said wrong. Then his eyes cleared and his lips curved slightly. “I think you mean ‘horizons.’”

She shrugged. It wasn’t the first time her grasp of the English language had slipped and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“I also thought it would be a great opportunity for you,” she told him.

He lifted a brow. “How so?”

“Because your magazine will benefit from my creative energy and enthusiasm.”

He flipped through several more pages in her portfolio before he spoke again.

“You might be right,” he agreed.

But then he stood and offered his hand, and her blossoming hope withered.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Kenzo. I have some other applicants to interview, but I’ll be in touch by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, Mr. Warren.” She forced a smile as she shook his hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

And she left his office, resigned to checking the employment listings in the local newspaper when she got home.

But first, she was meeting Jenny for lunch.

Steven watched Samara walk out of his office, noting the way her slim hips swayed in the frilly camouflage skirt that swirled several inches above her knees and showed off legs that were trim and toned. Over it she wore what looked like a man’s oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the tails knotted at her waist.

He didn’t think he’d formed an opinion of Samara from anything his sister-in-law told him, but he must have had a mental image in his mind because her appearance had blown his preconceived notions apart. Her longtime friendship with Jenny had made him think that she would have the same professional, reserved demeanor as his sister-in-law, but Samara definitely made a more artsy and unique impression than his brother’s wife.

Now that he’d met her, he remembered having seen her in photos from Richard and Jenny’s wedding, though she had a much greater impact in person than in pictures. She was maybe five feet four inches tall in the chunky heels she wore, and yet there was a huge energy around her for someone so petite. Her hair was black and shimmered down her back like a silk curtain. Her eyes were almost as dark, bright with humor and intelligence. Her lips were shiny with some kind of gloss, a trio of silver hoops hung from each of her ears, and though her fingernails were short and unvarnished, her fingers sparkled with an assortment of rings.

She didn’t look as if she was long out of high school, though he knew she had to be around his sister-in-law’s age since they’d gone to college together.

Still, he shouldn’t be concerned about how she looked or dressed. If he hired her, she would be working behind the camera, not in front of it. But he was concerned because she was an undeniably attractive woman who would be working in a predominantly male environment at Classic. Of course, most of the men were gearheads who were more likely to get turned on by V-8s than G-strings, but it was another factor to be taken into consideration.

Not as significant a factor as her portfolio, though, and that had been more than impressive. Since leaving the Tokyo Tribune almost two years earlier, she’d been doing mostly freelance work, traveling around the world to take pictures of everything from spiritual ceremonies in Tibet and orphaned children in Afghanistan to beach resorts in the Caribbean.

He wasn’t sure that any of that experience qualified her for the job at Classic, though, except insofar as it proved she could work magic with almost any subject through the lens of her camera. Which should have been enough to tip the scales in her favor, but there was still something about the woman that gave him pause. A sense that she was maybe holding something back?

He shook his head. He’d never been accused of being particularly insightful, so he wasn’t sure why he had the feeling there was more to his sister-in-law’s friend than she wanted him to see. He only knew that he wasn’t going to rush into making any decisions. As anxious as he was to have the matter settled so they could get to work on the next issue of the magazine, he wanted to be sure he hired the best candidate. He didn’t want to go through the arduous interview process again in another three months.

He flipped through the other résumés on his desk, then pushed the meager pile away and bit back a sigh as the phone on his desk buzzed again.

This time he punched the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“The principal of Parkhurst School is on line two,” Carrie said.

Calls from his daughter’s principal had been all too frequent in the last year—and were a major factor in Steven’s decision to take the job in Chicago and move what was left of his family to Illinois. He’d thought—hoped—that the change would be good for them. But the kids had been in school less than a month and apparently Caitlin was up to her old tricks already.

The pounding in his head that had begun to lessen roared to life again.

He braced himself and connected the call. “Steven Warren.”

“Mr. Warren. It’s Louise Crawford from Parkhurst Elementary. I’m calling about Tyler.”

“Tyler?” He was stunned.

His nine-year-old son had never given him a moment’s trouble. When he’d announced that they were moving halfway across the country, Caitlin had kicked and screamed from that moment until they’d arrived in Chicago. Tyler, on the other hand, hadn’t been happy but had accepted the move with a mature stoicism that belied his years. Or maybe he’d only thought his son accepted the move.

“What did he do?” Steven asked wearily, even as he wondered, What have I done?

Samara stood at the corner of East 60th and Dorchester with the Chicago Transit Authority schedule in her hand. People complained about Tokyo being a difficult city to navigate, but she’d grown up there and had no trouble finding her way around. Chicago, on the other hand, was a maze of the unknown crisscrossed with various bus, train and subway routes that were seemingly indecipherable.

She glanced at her watch, then at the convoluted public transportation schedule again, and decided she would indulge—just this once—and take a taxi. She had less than twenty minutes before she was due to meet Jenny on the other side of town and she wasn’t sure the bus or train or any combination of the two would get her there on time.

The cab driver whizzed through the streets, depositing her at the restaurant fifteen minutes later—and twenty-seven dollars poorer. She refused to think about her rapidly dwindling savings account as she paid the fare and added a small tip for the driver, but she couldn’t help but wonder why she’d thought it would be a good idea to start her life over halfway across the world.

She’d had a good job in Tokyo, friends and family there. She missed them sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. Her four sisters and their families, even her father. And she missed Izumi, her great-grandmother, most of all.

It had been Izumi who encouraged her to follow her heart, wounded though it had been at the time, and find her own path rather than continue to walk along the one that had been laid out for her. Since she’d embarked on her journey to do so, she’d returned to Tokyo only once—for Izumi’s funeral seven months earlier.

Jenny and Richard had flown over for it, too, which had meant the world to Samara. And it was then she’d started thinking about returning to the States, though several more months passed before she actually did.

Initially, she’d only planned to come for a visit. But a few days had somehow turned into one week and then two, and Samara found she wasn’t anxious to leave.

Jenny and Richard both insisted she could stay with them as long as she wanted to, but they both had busy lives—even busier now that they were preparing for the arrival of their baby in only a few more weeks. So when Samara heard about a furnished apartment for rent near the Lincoln Park area, she’d jumped at it.

She’d traveled and lived economically over the past couple of years and had managed to save a fair amount of money, which meant she didn’t have any trouble paying the required first and last months’ rent, but she did need to find a job soon if she was going to continue to put food on her rented table. She’d tried waitressing, responding to a sign in the window of a little café just down the street from her apartment, but that experience had been brief and unfortunate.

When Jenny told her about the opening at Classic, Samara had been thrilled and relieved to think that she might actually have the opportunity to stay in Chicago and do something that she was good at. If she convinced Steven Warren she was good at it—and she wasn’t certain she’d managed to do that.

But she pushed the worries and concerns aside as she entered the restaurant.

Jenny was already seated and waiting for Samara, but she stood up and hugged her friend as best she could considering the baby bump in her belly.

“How did it go?” Jenny asked, lowering herself into her chair again.

Samara tucked her backpack under the table. “I think it went well enough.”

Jenny’s eyebrows rose. “You think?”

Samara shrugged, not wanting to give voice to her doubts or her friend any reason to pressure her brother-in-law. “He’s not an easy man to read.”

Easy on the eyes, a little voice in the back of her mind taunted, but not at all the type to give away what he was thinking.

“Well, what did he say at the end of the interview?” Jenny asked.

“He said he’d let me know.”

Her friend frowned at that as the waitress came to take their orders.

“Cheeseburger and fries,” Samara said. Not having looked at the menu, she fell back on what she knew was a staple in most American restaurants.

“What kind of cheese?” the waitress asked. “Cheddar, Swiss, Monterey Jack?”

“Cheddar.”

“Gravy on your fries?”

“Sure.”

Jenny looked at her with undisguised envy. “Chef’s salad with light dressing.”

Then, after the waitress had gone to place their orders, she confessed to Samara, “I have to pick and choose my calories carefully these days, and I want a huge slice of banana cream pie for dessert.”

“I didn’t think you liked bananas,” Samara said.

“I don’t,” her friend admitted. “This baby, on the other hand, seems to love them. Bananas and ice cream. I have six different flavors in my freezer at home right now. Actually, it was seven before I finished the butter pecan last night.”

“Then I would think a banana split would be more satisfying than pie.”

The expectant mother laughed and laid a hand on her belly. “Junior certainly thinks so.”

Samara watched her friend’s hand move over the curve of her expanded tummy as if to soothe the baby. Her eyes were lit with joy and soft with emotion, and Samara felt a tug of something that might have been envy deep within her own heart.

“We were talking about your interview,” Jenny reminded her.

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Maybe I should talk to Steven, to get his perspective on it.”

“No,” Samara responded quickly. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but if I get this job, I want it to be because I deserve it—not because the man doing the hiring is my best friend’s brother-in-law.”

“You will get the job because you deserve it,” Jenny assured her.

Samara wished she could share her friend’s certainty. Instead, she said, “You never did tell me why he was looking for a new photographer at the magazine.”

“Did you look at the back issues I gave you?”

“The pictures were good,” she said. “Uninspired, maybe, but technically good.”

“Definitely uninspired,” Jenny said. “But Steven has some great ideas for the magazine, so when he realized he had to replace Erik Hendriksson, he decided to look for a photographer who could implement them.”

“Why did he have to replace Hendriksson?”

“Off the record?”

Samara rolled her eyes. “I’m a photographer not a reporter, and your best friend, so ‘off the record’ is implied.”

“Professional hazard of having been a journalist in a previous life,” Jenny explained. “But to answer your question, the managing editor found out Hendriksson was taking more than pictures of the vehicles. He was pilfering parts and fencing them to support a gambling habit.”

Samara winced sympathetically. She understood betrayal. But even if she wasn’t a scrupulously honest person, there was no fear of her stealing anything on the job. She didn’t know the difference between a spoiler and a spark plug and was counting on her skill with a camera making up for that lack of knowledge.

The waitress brought their plates to the table then disappeared again.

“Speaking of previous lives,” Samara said, picking up the thread of the conversation as she reached for a fry. “Do you really not miss being a reporter?”

Jenny shook her head as she stabbed her fork into a wedge of tomato. “I thought I would, but being the media communications coordinator for the newest division of TAKA-Hanson is such a challenge. Not to mention that I have the pleasure of working with my handsome husband now, as well as continuing to build a relationship with Helen and her extended family.”

Despite her friend’s easy response, Samara knew she’d had some difficult moments when it had been made public that she would be working for the new TAKA-Hanson Hotels, a branch of the corporation that would ultimately and directly compete for business with Anderson Hotels, owned by Jenny’s adoptive parents. But the Andersons had always been—and continued to be—supportive of their adoptive daughter. In fact, they were the ones who had encouraged Jenny to reach out to her biological mother when she’d come into her life only a few years before.