At The Millionaire's Request

“An explanation?” She took a deep breath. “It’s called survival, Mr. Spencer. I simply can’t get wrapped up in a child. And that’s what it takes to reach them. It’s about dedication and focus. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have the heart. My son took it with him when he died.”

Chapter Two

G avin had no idea what he’d expected her to say, but that wasn’t it. Now he didn’t know what to say. Looking at the suffering in her eyes was like staring into a bottomless pool of pain.

If the antique oak table wasn’t between them, he was afraid he’d have taken her in his arms. “Look, M.J., I know how you feel—”

“No, Gavin.” Her voice was brittle, as if she could shatter at any moment. She gripped the curved back of the oak chair in front of her until her knuckles turned white. “You couldn’t possibly understand how I feel because you still have your son.”

She was right. Sean’s accident had opened a very small window into what it would have been like to lose him, but fortunately it slammed shut and he still had his boy. Any comfort he could offer seemed pathetically inadequate, however sincere.

So he didn’t offer any. “What happened to him?”

“Brian,” she said. “His name was Brian.”

“Brian.” He nodded. “Tell me about him.”

A small smile touched her lips. “He was a sweet boy. Quiet. Sensitive. Smart.”

“Was he ill?”

Something in her expression said that would almost have been easier. “He was hit by a car. He ran out into the street after his ball. The driver couldn’t stop in time.”

Gavin nodded as the thought hovered in his mind.

Who was watching him? But he couldn’t ask. It was an accident. And he’d bet ever since it happened she’d been asking herself enough questions when she wasn’t torturing herself with “if onlys.”

That was something he could understand. If only Sean hadn’t fallen on the rocks. If only he hadn’t hit his head. If only… Sean could be his normal, active self.

But he couldn’t. That’s why Gavin was here. “It must be a comfort to have your mother. And Brian’s father—”

For an instant her mouth tightened and something hot and harsh flashed through her eyes. “My husband died less than six months later. He wasn’t ill, either,” she said. “Car accident.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out before he could stop them.

Fate really had her in its crosshairs and her expression said sorry didn’t begin to help. It also made him think that there was much more she wasn’t saying. Any or all of which was none of his business. Not that he didn’t care. He wasn’t a heartless bastard. But he wasn’t here to rub her nose in the pain or to make her feel bad about the devastating losses she’d endured. His purpose was to secure the help his son needed to get his life back.

“Look, M.J., you’re right. I have no idea how you feel. I can’t begin to understand. And, to be brutally frank, I don’t want to know. I came dangerously close to losing my son and that was enough.”

“I’m sure that was difficult.” Her grip on the chair eased.

“The time he spent in a coma was hell. Not knowing if he would live or die was torture.”

“I can imagine.”

And he knew she could. He could imagine that she wished to be in his shoes right now—to have the chance with her own child to bring him back from an injury. Maybe empathy would help him get through to her.

“Sean needs your help,” he said simply.

“My answer is still the same. I’m sorry.”

He was right about the words being pathetically inadequate. “I’m sorry” was the polite thing for her to say, yet it made him irrationally angry. Frustration gathered inside him and threatened to blow the lid off his temper as he tried to figure out what it would take to get through to her.

He glanced around the kitchen as if he’d find the answer there. The white appliances were spotlessly clean, but not very new. Old in fact. Wooden oak cupboards showed bare wood yellowed with age and in urgent need of refinishing. Faded yellow paint covered the walls and in the nook where the table sat, he could see chipping.

When he’d driven up to the front door, the Victorian had charmed him with its wraparound porch and turret. Then he’d looked closer and noticed shingles missing from the peaked roof and a loose section of railing that could use repair as well as a new coat of white paint.

Gavin looked at M.J. Her hair was pulled up, away from her face and fastened with a large clip, revealing a long graceful neck and good cheekbones. Again she was wearing slacks—black this time, with a long-sleeved cotton blouse, inexpensive and serviceable.

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, if it’s about money…”

The term “got her back up” entered his mind. Her reaction was nearly imperceptible, but he’d swear her spine turned to steel. Or maybe he was just watching carefully because money had made him a target more than once. But the word “money” had definitely put a defensive look in her eyes, just for a moment, and her chin inched a bit higher. But she didn’t respond.

“I can pay you well.” He heard the guarded note in his own voice. He’d paid off a woman once. She’d deliberately gotten pregnant. Oh, he’d been a willing participant, but she’d lied about taking the pill. She’d threatened to terminate the pregnancy unless he paid her. He had because the life she carried was part of him. How such a mercenary, devious witch had produced a sweet-natured innocent like Sean he would never understand. But he’d fallen in love with his son at first sight and would do anything, pay anything, to bring him back. “Name your price.”

“It’s not about money, Gavin.”

“In what fantasyland? It’s always about money. Anyone could see I’m desperate. Why wouldn’t you manipulate the situation to get more out of me?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Everyone has a price,” he snapped.

“That’s quite a cynical attitude you’ve got there.” She folded her arms over her chest as she observed him with her cool blue eyes.

“I earned it. School of hard knocks. You should know all about that,” he said, looking at her shiner.

“I’m going to make an educated guess.” Absently she touched her fingers to her cheekbone. “Your wife took you for a bundle. Frankly, instead of trying to tempt me with more money, you’d be better off channeling those bucks into better legal counsel. Next time get a prenuptial agreement.”

“There were no nuptials so an agreement was never an issue. But I don’t intend to let my guard down again.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that I can relate to.”

He had no interest in relating to her and didn’t give a damn whether or not she would trust again. That hinted at problems with her husband and the man was gone. The two of them wouldn’t get a chance to work out their issues. Gavin wasn’t unsympathetic. He simply didn’t have time to waste. All he wanted was to hire her for his son’s therapy.

He let out a long breath and willed himself to patience. “It doesn’t take a mental giant to see that you need the money. I have lots of it. I can pay you extremely well for your expertise.” God, it sounded like he was begging, but if that would change her mind, he’d do it. “Just say the word, M.J.”

“I can’t.”

Two words, yet it sounded as if her heart was being ripped out. She’d told him that Brian had taken her heart, but Gavin didn’t understand why that kept her from doing the job that, by all accounts, she was extremely good at.

“Why can’t you? I would think your loss would motivate you, that you’d want to help injured children.”

“You arrogant, pigheaded idiot. How dare you?” Anger flashed in her eyes and it was better than the sorrow. “What gives you the right to judge me?”

“I’m not judging—”

“The hell you aren’t.” She glared at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s too painful to be around young children.”

“So it’s self-protection?”

“Partly. But there’s a clinical basis for my decision.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple really. I hold back emotionally. It’s a response to pain, like pulling your hand away from fire. I can’t connect with kids anymore—” She swallowed hard. “Whatever made me a good SLP is broken.”

SLP. Speech language pathologist. Gavin had done his homework on the subject. And Sean’s doctor had said she was the best. He needed her.

Correction: Sean needed her.

Gavin had seen her in action with teenagers. She’d found something positive to say about the two antisocial rebels. Whatever made her good with kids might be damaged, but he’d bet it wasn’t broken.

But he noticed she was even more pale than that day in her classroom and more shaken up than she’d been after going a couple rounds with Evil E and hardware face. Her mouth trembled and her eyes were haunted, the bruise on her cheek standing out starkly against the fair skin. He’d stirred the pot of her feelings and should regret it, but guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Still, desperate as he was, it was clear that he’d pushed hard enough.

For now.

“I’d like to see for myself whether or not you’ve lost your edge.” He slid his wallet from his back pocket and saw her gaze narrow as she frowned. After pulling out a business card, he dropped it on the oak table.

“Do me a favor. Just think about it.” He walked past her and started toward the doorway.

“Do you ever say please, Gavin?”

“If it would change your mind I’d say it in a second.”

“It wouldn’t,” she said. “I just wondered. Goodbye.”

For now, he thought again.

M.J. set her steaming mug of green tea on the kitchen table, then sat down, unable to suppress a tired sigh. “It’s good to be home.”

Her mother set out three floral placemats followed by plates, napkins and utensils. While Evelyn set the table, Aunt Lil stirred something on the stove.

“Rough day?” her mother asked.

“Yes.” M.J. saw the frown and regretted her honesty.

“You look tired, sweetie.” Evelyn’s mouth tightened with disapproval.

“I am.” And not all of it was about the energy drain of educating teenagers. Some of it had to do with not sleeping well, and that was Gavin Spencer’s fault.

How dare he dredge up all the painful memories? She’d worked hard the past two years, not to forget because that wouldn’t happen, but to make herself remember the good things. To keep Brian alive in her heart. But it wasn’t just about her memories. The dashing Mr. Spencer was disturbing, his intensity unsettling. He was alternately challenging and charming. But she refused to be charmed.

Her mother set a trivet in front of her on the table. “M.J., I don’t know why you refuse to take a less stressful, permanent position. It’s not like the school district has an abundance of teachers.”

“There’s a need for educators on every level,” M.J. admitted.

She remained on the substitute list because the per diem scale actually netted her more money. The downside was a different classroom every day. Except she was a permanent sub until the teacher she’d replaced returned from maternity leave.

“But sometimes I think the kids would learn just as well from a Sumo wrestler.” She remembered Gavin saying she needed pepper spray and self-defense lessons. Today she agreed with him.

“What did the little stinkers do this time?” her mother asked.

“The usual. Not turning off cell phones. Someone with a camera phone trying to take a picture underneath an unsuspecting girl’s skirt.”

“Today’s technological equivalent of sticking pigtails in the inkwell?” her mother asked wryly.

M.J. grinned. “Sort of. But what pushed me over the edge was the boy who jumped on his desk and let out a Tarzan yell during a test.”

“It’s too bad they won’t let you smack knuckles with a ruler anymore. There’s something to be said for corporal punishment and the old days.” Evelyn nodded sagely.

“Now we send them to the dean of discipline,” M.J. explained, feeling inadequate for not being able to deal with the situation. “But it’s not fair to the other students when a teacher can’t teach because one bozo disrupts the entire class.”

Evelyn frowned. “I suppose. But I can’t help wondering if you took a job in a different school things might be better.”

M.J. was grateful when she was spared the need to lie because Aunt Lil walked over with a big container of split pea soup. She was older than her sister, a shorter version with blond hair and hazel eyes. Both were technically spinsters since neither of them had ever married. But unlike Evelyn, Lillian had never had children. She’d been like a second mother to M.J., a more diplomatic, less judgmental version.

“It’s soup weather. March comes in like a lion, out like a lamb,” Aunt Lil said. After setting down the large tureen, she automatically rubbed her wrist.

“Is your arm bothering you, Aunt Lil?”

The older woman smiled, a spunky look in her eyes as she held up her arm. “I could predict a cold front with these bones.”

“I’m sure it’s arthritis,” her mother said.

“You should have let me know you wanted the soup on the table,” M.J. said. “I’d have carried it over for you.”

Guilt squeezed M.J. because she was responsible for the injury that had resulted in the arthritis. Years ago her aunt had tripped over something M.J. hadn’t put away as ordered, and fell, breaking her wrist. M.J. had never seen her mother so angry and still remembered the lecture.

Good girls always clean up their messes. M.J. was doing just that as a substitute teacher. It was the best solution to her current financial mess because she simply couldn’t go back to her career. And she was getting tired of explaining herself. A little over a week ago, she’d had a similar conversation with Gavin Spencer regarding her substitute teacher status. He’d been curious about why she refused a permanent assignment, too.

“There are advantages to a permanent teaching position, sweetie,” her mother said, without missing a beat in picking up the thread of the conversation. “I should think knowing the good, bad and ugly about your students would take the edge off some of the stress.”

“I’m fine, Mom. There is no edge.”

Gavin had stood right here in this kitchen and said he’d like to see for himself whether or not she’d lost her edge as an SLP. She couldn’t help admiring his determination to move heaven and earth to help his son. And she’d half expected him to show up again either here or at the high school. At the very least she’d figured he would phone her to renew his demand. But she hadn’t heard a word.

The disappointment trickling through her was a surprise and made her feel particularly stupid. She should be relieved. Especially because memories of the intensity in his dark eyes gave her an odd, tight feeling around her heart. He was charismatic and persistent, a combination that would get him what he wanted with most people—women especially. But not with her.

However badly she needed the money, she simply couldn’t do what he wanted. Her life was a leaky rowboat and she was bailing as fast as she could. So far, she was staying afloat. Barring another disaster, she could meet her financial obligations and no one would be the wiser. She’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass than have her mother and aunt find out the only home they’d ever known was always one paycheck away from being snatched out from under them.

Her mother rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. “M.J., I just don’t understand why you’re making things harder—”

“Dinner’s ready,” Aunt Lil interrupted. M.J. shot the older woman a grateful look. “This smells wonderful, Aunt Lil. I love your soup.”

“Your aunt is a good cook,” Evelyn agreed. She sat across from M.J. “I never had time to nurture my inner chef.”

M.J. felt another twinge. Her mother was a single mom before the needs of single moms were commonly recognized. It wasn’t M.J.’s fault, but she felt guilty that her mother had worked so hard to provide for her. The only thing Evelyn hadn’t worried about was the roof over their heads because the house had been in the family for so long. M.J. intended to see that didn’t change.

“It takes more than time to be a cook, Ev,” her aunt said gently. She sipped from her spoon and nodded with satisfaction. “Yagottawanna.”

M.J. laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You have to want to do it. You’re a teacher, dear. You should understand. Some people go through the motions because they have to. Others just have the desire to be successful. Any fool who can read can follow a recipe. But a good cook has a calling, a need to experiment, a love of working with food.”

“I suppose I didn’t get that gene,” her mother admitted.

“Me, either,” M.J. said. She looked down at her empty bowl and realized she’d scarfed down the contents. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d write down everything you put in this soup so this fool could have a recipe to read.”

“I’ll do that as best I can. And thank you, dear. I’m glad you like it.”

After dinner, the sisters cleaned up and M.J. was shooed out of the kitchen to rest. Since she had papers to grade, that wasn’t going to happen. She grabbed the backpack with her work and started up the stairs to her room when she noticed the mail on the sofa table in the entryway.

Scooping it up, she headed upstairs. Her room was just above the kitchen and had the same bay window, with a chair and ottoman filling it. On one wall sat her queen-size bed, the pink chenille spread neatly covering it. Her desk sat just inside the door and she set the mail down there.

The top envelope caught her eye when she noticed the official-looking return address from a mortgage company. She’d learned to loathe official-looking letters. It was never good news. Her stomach knotted and her hands shook as she opened the envelope.

M.J. read through it several times, hoping she was getting it wrong, then realizing she wasn’t that lucky. The words second mortgage, balloon payment, six months and enough zeroes to make her eyes cross just put a gaping hole in her leaky little rowboat. This was the disaster she’d been afraid would sink her and it was a beaut.

After Evelyn’s mild heart attack three years ago, her mother and aunt had put the title in M.J.’s name because they weren’t getting any younger. M.J. hadn’t known about her husband’s compulsive gambling. Only after his death had she learned that he would do anything, use anyone, to get the money to fund his obsession. Some methods were more underhanded than others. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed the first mortgage let alone this one. The bill was due and payable in six months, she didn’t have the money, and she was liable. In addition to borrowing against the house, he’d maxed out numerous credit cards, some of them in her name, all of which she was responsible for. Thanks to him, her credit was ruined and she couldn’t borrow a dime.

M.J. dropped into her desk chair before her trembling legs gave out. What was she going to do?

She wasn’t sure how long she sat staring at the letter before dropping it on the desk blotter. Tucked into a pocket was the card Gavin had given her. She picked it up and stared at the no-nonsense black block letters. Gavin Spencer, CEO, Spencer Technology, Inc.

“I hate that you were right, Gavin. But everyone does have a price.”

M.J. picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card.

Chapter Three

M .J. breathed a sigh of relief when her little old car coughed and wheezed, then shuddered off in front of Gavin’s house. When giving directions, he’d said Cliff House overlooked the Pacific Ocean on a bluff, but with everything else on her mind, it hadn’t quite registered that getting there involved a serious incline.

“The little car that could. Barely.” She patted the dashboard approvingly, then got out.

She’d agreed to meet Gavin here at five o’clock and it was getting dark. Late-afternoon clouds had rolled in off the ocean and the large gray house blended in, except for the intricate and elaborate white trim that outlined the roof, windows and second-floor deck. The expanse of lawn was neatly trimmed as were the marguerites and privets bordering it. California cypress grew thick around the perimeter, giving the estate privacy.

She looked around again and knew she was putting off going inside. “Procrastination is a crime. It only leads to sorrow. I can stop it anytime, I think I will tomorrow.” It was a rhyme she recited to her students, teasing them into taking action. It was time to take her own advice. “I hate that rhyme,” she mumbled.

Taking a deep breath, she followed the walkway to the double-door entry. As the mist rolled in, she shivered, feeling like the plucky heroine of a Gothic romance novel. The difference was, she wasn’t plucky. Desperation was her only motivation. If she had a choice, she’d get back in her little car and go as fast as she could back down the hill.

She rang the bell and, through the oval etched glass in the door, she could see lights inside and someone coming. Bracing herself, she prepared to see Gavin again. When a tall, trim, gray-haired man opened the door, she was surprised.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m—”

“Ms. Taylor. I’m Henderson, the caretaker of Cliff House. Mr. Spencer said to expect you. He had planned to be here when you arrived, but was delayed at the office. He’ll be here shortly and sends his apologies. I’ll introduce you to Sean.”

“Thank you.” It was the polite response, but M.J. wanted to tell him not to do her any favors. She dreaded this with every fiber of her being.

“My wife, Lenore, is the housekeeper. She’s watching over the boy in the family room.”

M.J. nodded as she glanced around. The entryway ceiling must be twenty feet high. Twin staircases curved up to the second floor. As she followed Henderson through the house, she had a fleeting impression of elegant furniture in serene shades of celery and hunter green. In the artwork and glassware there were splashes of red, gold and orange. Beige tile gave way to plush carpet as they moved through the house.

Just off the kitchen with black granite-covered island and countertops, they stopped in the family room. A large sea-foam green sectional filled one corner with a huge flat-screen TV across from it.

An older woman sat on the sofa. Beside her, a recliner built into the sectional was pushed back with the footrest extended. Beneath it, a boy lined up little plastic dinosaurs, then set two pterodactyls on the footrest above, poising them to swoop down on the tyrannosaurus rex and the triceratops. She knew the names because Brian had loved them and constantly begged her to read him dinosaur books.

Emotion tightened in her chest and spread into her throat.

Henderson walked farther into the room. “Lenore, Sean, this is Ms. Taylor.”

A petite, brown-eyed brunette, Lenore smiled warmly. “Welcome to Cliff House.”

The polite thing to say would be that it was nice to be here. But it wasn’t nice. At this moment she’d give anything if she hadn’t been raised to be polite. M.J. wanted to turn and run from toys that were scattered on the floor, little cars small enough for little hands. A small boy in blue jeans and long-sleeved, striped T-shirt. His white sneakers were scuffed because active boys were hard on shoes. It was all so familiar, and looking at it produced a physical ache.

“Ms. Taylor?” There was concern in Henderson’s voice.

“Yes.” She let out a long breath as she slid her hands into the pockets of her sweater and looked at them. “Lenore. Sean. Hi.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Gavin rushed into the room and Sean smiled, then instantly jumped up and raced to his father.

Brian used to do that when she got home from work. Tears burned her eyes and she held her breath, waiting for the squeal of delight when Gavin swung his son into his arms. But it never came.

Gavin took the boy’s weight on his forearm and their faces were close together. There was no question of paternity. Sean was the image of his father. “Hi, buddy. Did you have a good day?”