Found: One Secret Baby
Nancy Holland
Uncovering her secret…LA lawyer Rosalie Walker will do whatever it takes to protect her adopted son. She promised his mother before she died that she’d look after him and keep him safe from his paternal family. So when delectable Morgan Danby walks into her office in search of his nephew, she must keep the baby in her care a secret—even if one look from Morgan makes her want to share everything with him…As a favour to his step-mother— the woman who actually raised him, unlike his real mother who abandoned him as a child—successful businessman, Morgan is searching for the son of his incarcerated step-brother. He can tell Rosalie is hiding something and the temptation to seduce her for her secret is strong, but will he be able to handle the consequences once all is revealed…?
Found: One Secret Baby
NANCY HOLLAND
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016
Copyright © Nancy Holland 2016
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008127381
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Table of Contents
Cover (#ue4f466f8-ecb6-57f8-814a-dd271297bb74)
Title Page (#u0ff8aa1a-613b-5293-87b0-b413acad40fc)
Copyright (#u82366765-6f30-5826-9d52-337a5915f220)
Dedication (#u420fcfe7-dc60-553f-83dd-ac74ab8cae38)
Chapter One (#u7822b30f-5e83-5730-8f1e-609b7320f65e)
Chapter Two (#u4d8dece8-e286-5489-a02f-8237678c7230)
Chapter Three (#u5c07f475-cbe7-513c-96af-aaa3e71ae94a)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Nancy Holland (#litres_trial_promo)
Nancy Holland (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u8760f581-e77f-597b-b8f2-e2cba0bdcc94)
The usual flicker of nerves made Rosalie Walker stand up straighter as the receptionist opened the door to show her visitor in. The appointment had been made this morning and she’d been too busy to Google this new client. Would Morgan Danby be a man or a woman?
She looked up, far up, into blue eyes fringed with thick, black lashes.
Definitely a man. A man she could have sworn she’d dreamed about.
The spark of interest she saw in his eyes filled her mind with images of naked bodies intertwined on white sands along sun-sparkled seas. She allowed herself one second to feel like a woman before the lawyer took over.
She extended her hand. “Rosalie Walker.” An involuntary purr shadowed her words.
But the spark in his eyes had burned itself out. He engulfed her hand in his, his no-nonsense expression just a step short of downright cold. “Morgan Danby.”
His voice was deep, and as sexy as the rest of him, but like his face, it held no warmth. Only for that one moment had his eyes shown any sign of a flesh-and-blood man hidden behind the mask.
“Sit down, Mr. Danby.” She gestured to the chair across the desk and sat in hers.
What would bring a gorgeous man in a hand-tailored suit and diamond cufflinks to a family law practice miles from Los Angeles’ center of glamor and wealth?
“How can I help you?” The tell-tale purr lingered, but luckily he didn’t seem to hear it.
“I’m here to learn more about the late Maria Mendelev.”
The way he mispronounced Márya’s name froze Rosalie’s breath in her chest.
“What is your interest in the late Ms. Mendelev?” she managed in a neutral tone once her heart began to beat again.
He made a dismissive gesture with one aristocratic hand. “I’m not interested in her.”
Anger closed Rosalie’s throat, but she forced her lips to keep a smile of polite interest.
“I’m interested in the child she may have left behind.”
The world spun away, then fell back into place on a less stable axis.
Rosalie fought to keep her eyes fixed on Mr. Danby’s face without even a glance at the small photo stuck to the edge of her computer monitor.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to talk to the man who would be this supposed child’s father?” Her voice sounded almost normal, but the rest of her body echoed with shock. “I understand he can be reached at San Quentin for the next thirty years or so.”
“I’ve talked to him, but he insists he never got Ms. Mendelev pregnant.”
It was hard to believe the man who murdered her friend would say the right thing for the right reason.
“Doesn’t that settle the matter?”
Mr. Danby shook his head. “I suspect he’s worried that if he admits he fathered a child, money will be taken out of his trust fund to support it.”
That sounded more like her friend’s killer.
“Why don’t you contact Child Welfare Services?” Contempt colored her voice. “They would be responsible for a child with a deceased mother and an incarcerated father.”
“It’s unclear which county would be responsible for the child, given the Mendelev woman’s wanderings in the last months before she died.”
The Mendelev woman. How could he talk about Márya like that?
Rosalie stood up. “I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Danby. I’m sure there are many other lawyers in Los Angeles who could find the information you want.”
He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the only lawyer who was a witness at the hearing on Ms. Mendelev’s order of protection against her alleged abuser.”
Rosalie closed her eyes against the mounting panic. Too much was at stake to let this man bait her into losing control. She put her hands on the desk and leaned into his personal space. The musky scent of his body distracted her for half an instant before she pushed it out of her mind.
“That ‘alleged’ abuser is the man who murdered her.”
Something dangerous lit in Morgan Danby’s dark blue eyes. Staying so close pushed Rosalie’s courage to the limit. His gaze dropped to her breasts, now at his eye level. Her mind cringed, but she didn’t move.
“He’s also my brother,” Danby said.
A burst of pure panic made her blink. The monster’s family had finally shown up.
Morgan shifted in his chair. Claiming Charleston Thompson as a brother always made him feel as if he’d stepped in something vile.
The anger radiating from the woman who loomed over him didn’t help. He might have found her attractive under other circumstances. Brains always impressed him, although his tastes ran to tall, slender blondes, not chest-high brunettes with more attitude than charm.
He distracted himself from that inappropriate train of thought by glancing around the sleek, efficient office, straight out of a mid-range office-furnishings catalog.
Ms. Walker looked efficient too, but not quite as sleek. Wisps had escaped from the smooth cap of her hair to curl around her face, and a mysterious small white spot marred the shoulder of her suit jacket.
When she sank back into her chair, he could breathe more easily, but the flowery scent of her perfume lingered and kept his adrenalin, or some other stimulating hormone, at full force.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.
She was a cool one. Her face and body were frozen in the professionally appropriate attitude of polite attention. Only her fisted hands hinted at the anger he sensed boiling underneath the frosty façade, and she quickly dropped those to her lap, out of his sight.
An ice princess to match Lillian’s ice queen. He wished he’d let his stepmother fight this battle for herself.
But he’d promised Lillian he would find her grandchild before Charlie’s father did, and no small-time lady lawyer was about to freeze him out.
“Sorry my brother is a murderer, or sorry he’s my brother?”
“Take your pick. You know him better than I do.”
“You don’t know him at all. But that didn’t stop you from testifying against him.”
“I didn’t testify against him. I testified in support of Márya’s—Ms. Mendelev’s—petition for a court order to protect her from him.”
Márya. That explained the brief flash of fire in those green eyes when he called the dead woman “Maria.” But that was what Charlie called her. Why wouldn’t he know how to pronounce the woman’s name? Given Charlie, he probably called her whatever he damned well pleased.“How long had you known her when you testified?” he asked
“About four months.”
“That isn’t very long to determine the dynamics of a violent relationship.” The words left a nasty taste in his mouth, but he needed to break through Ms. Walker’s icy façade.
“I determined that as soon as I saw her broken arm. The yellowed bruises from the last time he’d beaten her pretty much backed up that conclusion.”
Morgan swallowed a bolt of anger at Charlie’s brutality. “So you took it upon yourself to intervene.”
“She begged me to help her.”
The woman paused, but her face yielded no clue to what might be going on inside her head. She’d be murder to face in a courtroom, a talent clearly wasted in this one-step-up-from-a-storefront family law practice.
“And she was pregnant.”
He allowed himself a thin smile. “So the investigator was right. There is a child.”
Ms. Walker lowered her eyes to the desk and shook her head. “She was three months’ pregnant and bleeding heavily.”
Damn. How could he tell Lillian that Charlie had managed to kill his own kid?
Morgan took out his smartphone and opened a file. “What hospital did you take her to?”
Ms. Walker was still staring at the desk. “Merced County General.” She spoke slowly, as if she needed to make an effort to remember, but that was ridiculous. All this had happened less than two years ago. Had her encounter with Charlie’s lady friend really been that traumatic?
“Why there?”
Laser-green eyes snapped back to his, brown specks turned to gold. “I found Márya hiding in a campground at Yosemite, which is in Merced County. Since your brother forced her to quit school and her job when he invaded her life, she didn’t have medical insurance.”
“But she filed for the order of protection in Los Angeles County.”
The tiniest shift in the woman’s ramrod posture. What didn’t she want him to know?
“It’s easier to hide in L.A.,” she said.
Rosalie hated to be reminded of those last months of Márya’s life. Her friend had lived in constant fear that Charlie would find her. She’d moved every week from one homeless shelter to another. If only she’d accepted Rosalie’s offer of a place to live until they got Márya’s visa straightened out so she could get a job.
If only … The words echoed through the silence left behind by her friend’s death.
Rosalie shook the memories off and refocused on the man who sat across from her.
How could Charlie Thompson have a brother who oozed wealth and power the way Morgan Danby did? Mr. Danby must have been four or five years younger than Charlie, and he didn’t look at all like the stocky, red-haired murderer.
But her visitor had said something about a trust fund. And someone had had enough money to hire the best criminal defense lawyer in L.A. to represent Charlie. The investment had paid off. They’d plea-bargained down to life with the possibility of parole. The idea that Charlie would ever walk free again tightened Rosalie’s stomach one more notch.
Another if only—if only she could have claimed attorney/client privilege and refused to answer Mr. Danby’s questions. But she’d known from the start she couldn’t be Márya’s friend and her lawyer at the same time. And given her situation now, she didn’t dare openly obstruct the efforts of Charlie’s family to find out whether he had a child.
“Ms. Mendelev had no permanent address in Los Angeles,” Mr. Danby said. “So apparently you weren’t a good enough friend to give her a place to hide, as you put it, after she ended her relationship with my brother.”
“Relationship?” Rosalie’s temper finally snapped. “Like the one between a boxer and his punching bag?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. No doubt he was pleased he’d broken through her self-control. She softened her face to assume a professionally neutral expression again.
“I offered to let Márya live with me, but she was a proud woman. And once she had the protection order, she thought she’d be safe. Her attorney, the staff at the shelters where she lived, and I all tried to tell her otherwise, but in her home country defying a court order was something done only by the very brave or the very stupid.” She paused. “Given how viciously he murdered a defenseless woman, I’d guess bravery isn’t your brother’s problem.”
Mr. Danby had the decency to flinch. “I’ve read the police report on the incident.”
She swallowed another jolt of anger. A woman’s death was much more than an “incident.” At least, it was in Rosalie’s world. She wasn’t so sure about Morgan Danby’s.
“Where did you get your information?” she asked him.
“A private investigator.”
Maybe she could use that somehow. “A private investigator who worked for you?”
He glanced away. “For my stepmother Lillian, Charlie’s mother.”
So this man didn’t share a gene pool with Charlie Thompson. A tightness in her chest she’d scarcely been aware of loosened and she could breathe freely again.
“You must know it’s not necessarily in the P.I.’s best interest to tell his client everything he knows.” She let that sink in. “But it is in his interest to find leads he could be paid to follow.”
She might have struck a nerve. After all, Mr. Danby was here himself, which meant someone had had enough sense to fire the P.I. She’d bet it had been Danby.
“Why should I doubt the investigator’s integrity?” he asked her in a slightly bored tone.
“Did he provide your stepmother with a copy of the coroner’s report on Ms. Mendelev?”
Morgan Danby flinched again. “I assume the investigator didn’t think that was something she needed to see.”
“A smart move on his part. But you see my point.”
“You’re suggesting the P.I’s claim that a child had survived was a ruse to squeeze more money out of Charlie’s mother.”
“Did he find any documentary evidence Ms. Mendelev had given birth?”
She held her breath, outwardly calm, inwardly hollow with fear.
Danby shook his head.
“The P.I. found a few people who thought she’d been pregnant when she’d arrived at the homeless shelter in Fresno, and one woman at an L.A. shelter who said she’d seen Ms. Mendelev with a baby shortly before Charlie … before she died.”
“Staff members at the shelters or residents?”
“Residents. Staff members always claimed confidentiality when the P.I. talked to them.”
“As they should, of course. They need to protect their clients from unwanted intrusions into their private lives.” She gave him a pointed look, but he shook it off.
“Were Ms. Mendelev alive, I would have complete respect for her privacy.”
Which probably meant he’d have refused to give Márya a dime of Charlie’s money.
“But if she left a child behind,” Danby continued, “well, of course, that child’s grandmother has a keen interest in its welfare.”
Rosalie couldn’t stop another grimace at the “its”, but emotion was her enemy here.
“The operative word being ‘if.’ Without any proof such a child exists, I hope you will do as you suggested and respect the late Ms. Mendelev’s privacy.”
“Of course.” He stood up.
She stood too, but didn’t extend her hand until he did, then shook his with a distaste she didn’t bother to hide. “Goodbye, Mr. Danby.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Walker. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”
Under other circumstances, she might have smiled at that exit line. The man was witty as well as drop-dead sexy. He was also a major threat to everything that mattered in her life.
She showed him to the door, closed it behind him, and walked back to her desk on legs that barely held her. She sank gratefully into her chair, her whole body shaking.
After he left Rosalie Walker’s office, Morgan did some quick research on his laptop at a nearby coffee house before he drove the rented Porsche past a house not far away.
Nothing unusual about the place or about anything he’d been able to dig up on the Walker woman, except that she owned the house free and clear. Given the location in a solidly middle-class L.A. neighborhood, it was hard to know how she’d managed to buy it without a mortgage. Maybe she’d inherited it. Or maybe she wasn’t the one who’d paid for it.
Could the lady lawyer have a “sugar daddy,” as his father would have said? For some reason the idea rankled. Still, it fit the contrast between the low-profile law practice and the high-priced house. She was an attractive woman, if you ignored the pit-bull personality, and she probably kept that leashed around the man who’d paid for the cozy little bungalow. If she did have a sugar daddy, though, it didn’t look as if he lived in the house. Too many flowers in the garden. Two black-and-white cats lounged on the back of a flowered sofa in the front window. If Morgan didn’t know better, he would have thought the house belonged to some little old lady. But he’d spent an uncomfortable part of the afternoon trying not to stare at Ms. Walker’s breasts, so he knew for a fact that she was no old lady.
He reminded himself he didn’t like short, curvy women. Or lady lawyers. He especially didn’t like lady lawyers he didn’t trust.
Rosalie wasn’t able to escape her office for another three hours. As she crossed the lobby on the way to the parking lot, she ran into her friend Vanessa, who was headed back in with a latte and muffin from the local coffee house.
Five-foot-ten and reed-thin, Vanessa could have been a supermodel, but she had a CPA along with her law degree and made her living in the arcane realm of tax law. Friends since college, for the last two years they’d shared an office suite, along with a receptionist and two paralegals, with three other solo-practice attorneys.
“Leaving early?” asked Vanessa. “Lucky you!”
Rosalie smiled. “I’m going home to my guy.”
“Must be true love.” Vanessa winked, took a sip of her coffee, and headed to her office.
Rosalie let herself into her elderly Saab and dumped her briefcase onto the passenger seat. Time to set aside the lawyer part of her life and focus on the part that made it all worthwhile.
Morgan Danby’s face flashed across her mind, but she pushed the memory aside. His face may have stirred up a welter of half-forgotten longings, but she never wanted to see it again.
Ten minutes later she held the man in her life tight in her arms. Her eyes stung with tears of happiness as she kissed his cheek and felt his lips brush hers.
“Were you a good boy today?” she asked.
Joey blinked cornflower blue eyes at her and blew a soft raspberry.
Rosalie brushed a lock of strawberry blonde hair out of his chubby face and hugged his small body so tightly he tried to wiggle out of her arms.
Joey must have had a busy day at day care because he didn’t indulge in his usual protest at being strapped into his car seat and fell asleep as soon as she started the engine. Which left her with nothing to do on the way home except think about Morgan Danby’s visit.
She couldn’t believe he hadn’t questioned her more closely about how many months’ pregnant Márya had been when they’d first met. Rosalie had never been a good liar because she rarely lied. She understood the power of truth.
Her mother had always told the truth about the long illness that had eventually taken her life. Her honesty had made it possible for Rosalie to trust that she always knew the worst. And that, in turn, had given her the strength to move beyond the slow tragedy playing itself out at home and thrive in the world.
She’d only lied today because she’d panicked, but it had worked. Nothing else mattered. Even her mother would have understood that.
Still, Rosalie wished she’d started adoption proceedings when she’d first gotten custody of Joey. She hadn’t because it would have alerted Charlie’s relatives to Joey’s existence. She’d thought they wouldn’t care enough to look for the boy, but she’d been wrong.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at the sleeping child who filled her life with such joy. She’d do whatever was necessary to protect him.
“I don’t care what you have to do,” Márya had told her right before she died, after she signed the papers giving Rosalie custody of her son, “Keep Joey away from Charlie’s family.”
Morgan raised his gaze from the laptop and looked down Wilshire Boulevard, the lights of Los Angeles nothing more than so many colored stars from the twentieth floor condo his company owned here. He took a sip of wine and rolled his shoulders.
When his smartphone beeped he made the mistake of checking to see who it was.
Lillian. He’d have to talk to her some time. Might as well do it now.
He saved the spreadsheet he was working on and answered on the second beep.
“Hello, Lillian. You’re up late.”
“Why didn’t you call me with the report about your meeting with that woman who testified against Charleston?”
He swallowed the familiar irritation. “I told you I’d call when I learned something.”
“You didn’t learn anything at all about my grandchild?”
If she hadn’t sounded more like a major general barking orders than a grieving grandmother, he might have had more sympathy for her.
“We’re not sure there was … is a grandchild, remember? I have a couple of new leads to follow up, but nothing definite.”
“This is taking too long. Are you sure we shouldn’t have kept the private investigator?”
“We can always hire another P.I. if we need to.” Preferably one smart enough not to try to bribe the bleeding-heart workers at some homeless shelter who’d not only refused to give him any information, but had also gotten his license suspended. Morgan disapproved of unethical behavior, but he could not tolerate stupidity.
“If you’re sure.” Lillian’s voice sounded weary, older. “Call me if you learn anything.”
“I will, but it may be a day or two. I have to drive up to Merced to check out those leads.”
“Merced? Is that even in the United States?”
“Yes, it is. Good night, Lillian.”
He needed to get this over with, and soon. Almost daily interaction with his father’s second wife was not good for his mood.
She meant well—most of the time. But the woman pushed buttons and pulled strings she probably had no clue were there. Every time he talked to her he felt drained afterwards, and vaguely angry. He sometimes wondered if his own mother would have had the same effect on him, if she’d bothered to stick around.
Morgan wished he could simply hire another P.I., but he couldn’t shake the image of Charlie’s child in some overcrowded foster home, subject to who knew what kind of abuse from the older kids. Kids could be cruel, especially if their victim couldn’t fight back. And it was often easier for a paid caretaker to turn a blind eye than deal with bullying. He should know.
Besides, Morgan couldn’t ignore the possibility that Charlie’s father might locate the child first and claim custody. A judge could consider the elder Thompson’s young new wife better mother material than Lillian, but two generations of abuse in the Thompson family was enough. More than enough.
Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose to forestall a headache that threatened to knock him off-task. Danby Holding Company needed his full attention if they were going to maximize their opportunities in this kind of market. He rolled his shoulders again and refocused on work.
Two days later Morgan understood the P.I.’s impulse to resort to bribery.
Death certificates were public records, but without a full name or date, the clerks couldn’t tell him if such a record existed.
Medical records might be available to a family member, but since Charlie had never bothered to marry the Mendelev woman and there was no proof he was the father of any child she might have had, Morgan couldn’t get anywhere near those records.
He was reduced to reading back copies of the Merced newspaper from the time when Charlie and the woman had lived in the area, but he found no mention of her or of any child. Only a paragraph about Charlie’s arrest when he’d tried to break into the hospital to get at her.
When he called Lillian to say he’d hit a dead end, she was unconvinced.
“What about the woman lawyer?” his stepmother asked. “If she and that woman were such good friends, she should want to help you find my grandchild. We can offer the little darling a life someone like his mother could never have imagined. Far better than being in foster care with who-knows-what kind of people.”
His thoughts exactly, but what more could he do?
“Lillian, I have a business to run. The same business that supplies most of your income. I don’t have time for this wild goose chase. I need to get back to the office.”
“I don’t ask for much, after the years I spent raising you.”
Paying other people to raise me, he corrected silently.
“But to have Charleston’s child to love in my old age …” She gave an artful sniff.
He sighed. He hated it when she tried to play him like that, but she was the closest thing he had to a family, give or take a mother in Key West he hadn’t seen or spoken to in almost thirty years.
“Okay. I’ll talk to her.” For some reason the idea of seeing Rosalie Walker again made him smile. “But don’t get your hopes up. I doubt I’ll learn anything new.”
“I knew I could rely on you, Morgan. You were always such a good child.”
I had to be or you might have walked out, the way my mother did. He ignored the little boy’s voice inside him and resigned himself to a few days more in California.
Rosalie escaped the overheated courtroom and flipped open her phone. Her heart lurched when she clicked the calendar. Her appointments for the afternoon now included Morgan Danby.
The noisy courthouse lobby swirled around her with the same black panic that had almost overwhelmed her when Mr. Danby first mentioned Márya’s child. After three days, she’d thought the man was gone for good.
She sat down hard on a well-worn wooden bench and forced air into her lungs. Then she punched her office number and tried to act as if her world hadn’t just been turned upside down—again.
“The judge is running late,” she told her receptionist when he answered. “Please tell my afternoon appointments I’ll be there as soon as I can, and reschedule anyone who can’t wait.”
And please, please make it so that Morgan Danby can’t wait and can’t reschedule, she added in silent prayer.
Not that she had much hope of that. For all his casual air, Mr. Danby didn’t strike her as a man who would give up easily or be a gracious loser. But she had to win this one for Joey’s sake.
When she reached her office building four hours later, the expensive black sports car in the parking lot warned her that her prayer had not been granted.
Mr. Danby stood in the reception area outside her office, staring at one of the paintings that decorated the wall, an impressionistic hibiscus in brilliant red with broad strokes of yellow, green, and black.
“Are you an art critic, Mr. Danby?” she asked, in lieu of the polite greeting she couldn’t force out.
He scanned her wind-blown hairdo and crumpled linen suit. She ignored the urge to straighten herself the same way she’d ignored the flutter in her chest when she first saw him.
“Rough day in court?” he asked with one sexily raised eyebrow.
“Rough day on the freeway. I won in court.”
“Congratulations.” He turned back to the painting. “I didn’t have a chance to look closely at this when I was here before. It’s quite good. They both are.” He gestured to the painting on the other wall, a golden poppy with the same bold strokes of contrast.
“Thank you.”
“You painted them?”
She allowed herself a smile at his surprise. “My mother.”
“She’s very talented.”
Her smile faded. “Was very talented. She’s deceased.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His tone was more calculating than sympathetic.
“It’s been a few years,” she told him as she crossed to her office and gestured him in.
He gave the hibiscus another look before he followed her.
She went to her desk and set down the bag that held her tablet computer. Mr. Danby had his back to her, intent on the painting of a flower garden on the wall across from her desk.
“Your mother again?”
She nodded, fighting to ignore the tingle his gaze sent through her.
“And that one?” This time he pointed to the painting of a child in a sandbox that hung behind her. “Is that you?”
She refused to let him see the sudden flash of grief. “Yes.”
“Your mother had a remarkable talent for that kind of middle-brow art.”
Middle-brow art? Rosalie stiffened and gestured toward the chair across from her.
“Did she sell many of them?” He lowered his long, lean body into the chair.
Why should he care, if it was middle-brow art? She sat down and jiggled the mouse to turn on her computer monitor. “No. It was a hobby. She gave a few to friends.”
He crossed his legs and leaned back to watch her face. “I came up blank in Merced.”
Irritation morphed into dread. She sat up straighter and gave him an empty smile.
Chapter Two (#u8760f581-e77f-597b-b8f2-e2cba0bdcc94)
The ice princess was back in place as soon as Morgan reminded Ms. Walker why he was here. He missed the very different, very attractive, person she had become when she smiled, but he couldn’t undo what needed to be done.
“I’m not surprised,” she said blandly.
“Because you lied to me?”
“Because privacy laws protect people like Márya, Ms. Mendelev, from people like you.”
“People like me?”
“People who want access to someone’s medical records so they can use the information for personal gain.”
He leaned forward. “I have absolutely nothing to gain from this. I’m here on behalf of my stepmother, who only wants what’s best for her grandchild, if she has one.”
“What’s best for the child—or what’s best for her? Does she really care about this supposed grandchild, or does she see it as a chance for a do-over on motherhood, since she didn’t exactly do a great job the first time around? You’ll forgive me if I remain unconvinced it’s Márya, or any child she might have had, that interests either you or your stepmother.”
It rankled to hear his own worries about his stepmother’s motives echoed by this sanctimonious lady lawyer, but Morgan bypassed an angry reply.
Instead he tried to do as Lillian suggested and play to the woman’s friendship with Márya Mendelev. “Do you think your friend would want her child to be shuffled through the foster-care system when it has a grandmother, a wealthy grandmother, who’s eager to love it and raise it as her own? Would she want to deny her child the chance to have the best of everything?”
Ms. Walker scowled. Apparently Lillian’s wealth didn’t impress her.
“You must be aware, even if your stepmother isn’t, that the odds a healthy baby will remain in foster care for long are slight these days, given the high demand for adoptable infants.”
“Before the child could be adopted, there would have to be a good-faith search for any living relatives. Given Charlie’s criminal record, we wouldn’t be hard to find.”
A flash of some strong emotion crossed Ms. Walker’s face before the professional mask dropped back in place.
“Which is one more reason to believe there was no child. Or, if there was, that it might have been claimed by relatives on Ms. Mendelev’s side of the family.”
Was that who she was protecting? He made a non-committal sound, clicked open his smartphone and scanned the file of emails from the P.I. No, he remembered correctly.
“According to Ms. Mendelev’s application for a student visa, she had no living relatives. Her family was wiped out in the civil war in her home country. Unless she lied to the immigration people.”
The woman across from him licked her lips, drawing his attention to their soft fullness, reminding him of that fleeting smile. He gave a silent sigh and refocused on the business at hand.
“How did you gain access to that information?”
“The private investigator …” had better luck bribing the staff at the college the Mendelev woman had attended than he’d had bribing the staff at the homeless shelters, but Morgan wasn’t about to tell the lady lawyer that. “… accessed her records online.”
“Be that as it may, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept the fact that this supposed child was a figment of your P.I.’s imagination.”
He leaned in, temper tightly reined. “You said yourself Ms. Mendelev was pregnant when you first met her.”
She leaned forward as well, green eyes fixed on his. “Do you want to know how many times your brother had kicked her in the belly before she managed to get away from him?”
He couldn’t help but flinch as he settled back in his chair. “You’re saying categorically that she was no longer pregnant by the time she arrived in Los Angeles County?”
No hesitation, no shifting of her eyes. “Yes.”
So it was over.
He dreaded telling Lillian, but at least he could get back to Boston tomorrow. And Charlie’s mother didn’t need to know all the unpleasant details.
His eyes slid to the colorful painting over Ms. Walker’s head.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe he could stay here over the weekend and do the icy lady lawyer a favor. After all, she had helped the Mendelev woman get away from Charlie and taken her to a hospital, so in a way she’d tried to save Lillian’s grandchild.
Now they’d gotten all that behind them, maybe he and Ms. Walker could start over again, without any ulterior motives to interfere with the magnetic hum of attraction he felt for her, an attraction he’d bet his last million she felt as strongly as he did.
Rosalie made a show of gathering up the few scattered papers on her desk, but Mr. Danby didn’t take the hint. Instead, he crossed his long legs and gave her a calculating look.
“Have you and your father considered selling your mother’s work? You could get several thousand dollars apiece for them.”
Obviously a man who put a cash value on everything.
“My father has been out of the picture since before Mother … before she started to paint seriously,” she told him with as thin a veneer of politeness as she could manage. “And even if I wanted to sell any of her work, I wouldn’t know how.”
“I might be able to help you. I’m not an art critic, as you put it, but I do have a private collection that has allowed me to develop relationships with several very successful art dealers. I know of one in Beverly Hills who specializes in the kind of paintings your mother did.”
“I’m surprised you’d buy anything from someone who deals in, quote, middle-brow art.”
“Not my usual taste, but I bought something for a friend who enjoys that sort of thing.”
“Why would I want to sell my mother’s paintings?” Especially on the recommendation of someone with so little respect for her work. “I don’t need the money.”
“Of course not. How many of them do you have?”
She thought of the cluttered, sunlit studio at home.
“Dozens, I’d guess.”
“Wouldn’t your mother want people to enjoy her work, instead of having the paintings stashed away in some spare room?”
With Rosalie’s home office crammed into one corner of her bedroom after she’d moved Joey into the smaller bedroom, her mother’s studio wasn’t exactly a spare room anymore. Rosalie remembered how happy it had always made her mother to give a painting to a friend. She’d spend hours to find the right one for that particular person, and was so happy when she saw any of her work in someone’s home. But to sell her paintings …
“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Danby.”
“Morgan.” His smile upgraded from charming to dazzling.
She ignored the slow burn that lit in her belly, the forgotten dreams it rekindled.
“I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to sell them.”
“I didn’t take you for a selfish woman, Ms. Walker.”
He emphasized the last two words in unspoken invitation, but she couldn’t invite him to call her Rosalie. Not when his words sent a wave of doubt and shame washing over her.
Was it selfish to keep Joey’s existence a secret from his grandmother? Would Márya really want her to go that far? She needed to think about that. She’d already spent the last few nights thinking about nothing else, but now Mr. Danby, Morgan, had given up his search, she needed to be certain, once and for all, that she’d done the right thing.
But this wasn’t a good time to rethink things, not while Morgan’s thousand-watt smile dazzled her, his navy blue eyes fascinated her, and the musky scent of his expensive cologne filled the air around her. Right now she needed to get the man out of her office.
She shuffled more papers around her desk. “Selfish?”
“If I were you, I’d want to celebrate my mother’s talent. Would she have turned down an opportunity like this?”
Rosalie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way.
He pressed his advantage.
“I’d be glad to take a few of her paintings to my friend’s gallery. I’m sure he’d be happy to show them.”
“Why would he want to show the work of an amateur painter?”
“Your mother may not have sold any of her work, but she was no amateur. She must have studied art somewhere.”
She pushed the flow of pink-tinted memories away. “In college. Then after … when she first began to paint again, she took more classes.”
“Not at the local community center.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. UCLA. She was in a couple of student shows up there, but her paintings didn’t sell.”
“Too conventional for that crowd. But not for the patrons of my friend’s gallery. These paintings are exactly what they want to decorate their winter homes in Palm Springs.”
The memories swirled into a rainbow-colored dance in Rosalie’s head. Her mother would have been so thrilled by an offer like this. And the money could go into Joey’s college fund.
“I’m not sure …”
“What if I came by your house this evening to look at the other paintings you have? I could pick two or three and show them to my friend tomorrow to see what he has to say.”
“No!”
Panic pushed the word out before Rosalie could think, could even breathe. Had he guessed her secret? Was all this talk about the paintings a ploy to get inside her house? What would he do if he found out she’d lied to him?
Then she realized her sharp response and flushed face might make Morgan suspicious.
She forced her voice back to normal. “Tonight isn’t convenient.”
“What about tomorrow?”
There had to be a way to protect Joey without passing up this chance to honor her mother’s memory. Maybe …
“I could bring a few paintings to your hotel.”
Morgan shook his head. “I’d need to see more than a few. If you aren’t familiar with the art market, you might not know which ones would sell well, and this art dealer won’t want to waste his time with anything but your mother’s most saleable work.”
Her mind went into overdrive. She hated to let this incredible opportunity slip by.
She could set up a playdate for Joey. It wouldn’t be hard to hide all the toys and other signs he lived there if she kept Morgan out of the back part of the house. She’d just have to display the paintings somewhere other than the studio, which was right next to Joey’s bedroom.
She took so long weighing the pros and cons that Morgan shifted impatiently in his chair.
“Would tomorrow around lunchtime work?” she suggested.
“Eleven-thirty?”
“That would be fine.”
They stood and said goodbye with another hand shake. If this one sizzled through Rosalie’s system a little too long, stirred needs and feelings best left unfelt, she ignored it.
As soon as Morgan Danby was out the door, she let out a long breath, sat down and spun her desk chair around in a slow circle of celebration.
He’d given up trying to find Joey. She grinned at the tiny picture stuck on the computer monitor. Her little boy was safe!
When Morgan parked in front of Ms. Walker’s Spanish-style bungalow at precisely eleven-thirty the next day, his mouth lifted in an inexplicable smile, although he couldn’t have said why. The paintings weren’t worth that much money. The finder’s fee Morgan had turned down wouldn’t have paid for one day’s rental on the Porsche.
The unfamiliar need to smile certainly couldn’t have anything to do with seeing Ms. Walker again. Any woman who lived in a cozy house like this could only lead him into the kind of emotional morass he’d spent his entire adult life running away from.
The stone path to the house ran between artfully random beds of brightly colored blooms. A patch of tall, pink flowers on bare stems stood by the front door like dainty sentinels, but gave off a sweet perfume that screamed “female territory”.
He’d take that as a warning. He knocked on the door, then noticed the doorbell. Before he could decide whether to ring, the door opened.
It took him a full minute to recognize the woman on the other side as Rosalie Walker, lady lawyer. Gone were the dark-colored suits, high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.
In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.
The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.
“Hello. Please come in.”
In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.
“Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.
“I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”
She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.
The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.
The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.
Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.
The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.
He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.
Was the creature purring?
“Smudge!”
The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.
The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.
“I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”
Aaron? And the cat was only familiar with one man? Morgan’s mood went sour again.
“Guys.” Both cats looked at her. “Off the sofa.”
They both jumped down and sauntered away, tails high.
“Smudge and Sylvester. Rescue cats. Brothers. Neutered.”
“Where did you set up the paintings?” he interrupted gruffly. “In your mother’s studio?”
A shadow flickered in her eyes. “You can only display one or two at a time in there. I picked out a dozen and put them in the dining room.”
She led him across the tiled entry to where she’d leaned the larger paintings on the chairs that went with the undistinguished dining table and split the smaller ones between the buffet and sideboard. He could see at once that the prospect of selling dozens of these paintings would make the art dealer’s heart pound with avaricious delight.
Rosalie stood in the archway between the entry and dining room while Morgan Danby wandered from painting to painting, occasionally picking one up to hold it to the sunlight.
With an effort, she managed not to fidget with the stress of having this man within yards of Joey’s bedroom, despite the fact that Joey himself was safely down the street on his playdate.
At least she wasn’t afraid of Mr. Danby, even if he did claim Charlie for a brother. Maybe it was because the change from suit and tie to a blue shirt that accented those killer eyes and jeans that hugged his admirable physique made him look like the proverbial guy next door.
If the guy next door was a movie star. Too bad such an attractive package was wasted on such an arrogant, and for her, dangerous man. When he’d tried to be friendly, to act like the careless charmer he appeared to be, the effect had been pretty devastating.
At the same time, the melancholy she sensed under all the charm made her want to know more about him. He’d tolerated her cats, who tried even Aaron’s patience. Mr. Danby seemed to care about his stepmother. And he’d understood how Rosalie felt about her mother’s paintings.
Reality jolted her back a step. Being physically attracted to Morgan Danby was bad enough. She didn’t dare allow herself to like the man.
Finally he picked out one of the smaller paintings, an iris in vivid purple. “This will be a good sample, and that.” He pointed to one of the larger ones, a hillside of poppies and lupins with a single scrub oak to one side. “Do you have any more with children in them?”
She shook her head. “Just the one in my office. My mother gave it to me as a Christmas gift one year. She wasn’t interested in people as subjects. She thought it was intrusive to try to show what someone ‘really’ looked like. She preferred flowers.”
“Luckily flowers sell well.”
“I’m not doing this for the money.”
He nodded absently and handed her the smaller painting. “Would you mind carrying this out to the car for me while I get the larger one?”
For a moment her body quivered with relief that he was leaving. She took the painting and followed him out to the shiny black sports car.
Mrs. Peterson across the street was making a show of raking her already perfectly manicured lawn, eyes fixed on the stranger’s expensive car.
“Nice day,” she called with a wave.
Rosalie waved back. Once Morgan clicked the car’s locks, she opened the door and bent to set the smaller painting on the passenger seat.
“How’s Joey?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
Rosalie straightened so quickly out of the car’s narrow doorway that she hit her head hard enough to make her ears ring. “He’s fine.”
Morgan’s face twisted for a moment, then went bland and cold.
She didn’t dare do anything that might lead to a conversation between him and her neighbor, so she stood there, holding her breath.
Mrs. Peterson gave her a long look. “Well, give Joey a hug for me,” before she gave up the pretense of raking and disappeared around the side of her house.
“Joey? I thought his name was Aaron.”
Ordinarily the disdain in Morgan’s voice would have annoyed Rosalie, but under the circumstances she could have kissed him for his mistake.
Relief slumped one hip against the car. Or maybe it was the idea of kissing Morgan had made her knees so wobbly.
“Mrs. Peterson gets confused,” she said.
“Humph.” He put the larger painting behind the seat, slammed the passenger door shut, and went around to the driver’s side.
She stepped away from the car. “Thank you for showing the paintings to your friend.”
“I’m an art lover, what can I say?”
His smile made her heart want to burst into sappy, sentimental songs.
This man was the enemy, she reminded herself. Even if he was a spectacularly gorgeous enemy.
“I’ll let you know what the dealer says.”
She sighed when he drove off, unsure whether it was from relief or longing.
Morgan realized too late it was a mistake to call Lillian from the condo that afternoon before he called Rosalie to report back on his visit to the art dealer.
“You’re not giving up?” his stepmother asked plaintively.
“I’ve run out of leads, and I need to get back to work.”
“You believe what that woman told you?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. I’m sure she was telling the truth.”
“Men can be so stupid when it comes to a pretty face.”
He started to say Rosalie’s face wasn’t pretty, but it was. Very pretty. Maybe beautiful. When she forgot to be wary and angry.
“If you couldn’t get anywhere with the sympathy angle, have you tried the famous Danby charm to get her to tell you where my grandchild is?”
“Lillian, there is no grandchild.”
“Without a death certificate, you can’t be sure of that.”
“But I can’t get a death certificate if I don’t know the child’s name, or when or where it may have died.” Or was born.
He sat up straighter in his chair.
Damn. Why hadn’t he realized that there could be more than one reason Márya wasn’t pregnant when she came to L.A.? The blasted lady lawyer might have tricked him after all.
“Morgan, talk to her one more time.”
He would definitely talk to Ms. Walker one more time. The sexy, scheming little …
Sexy? How could he still think of the lying lady lawyer as sexy?
“All right, Lillian.”
Luckily, the art dealer’s enthusiasm for the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother gave Morgan a perfect pretense for seeing her again. He said goodbye to his stepmother and punched in Ms. Walker’s number. A few minutes later he disconnected with a smile. An appointment for Monday afternoon was perfect.
The first thing Rosalie noticed when Morgan walked into her office on Monday afternoon was that he didn’t have the two paintings with him.
Well, that was the second thing she noticed, after taking in how good he looked in designer black jeans, white shirt, and brown suede jacket. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. She gestured him to a chair and sat down, expecting a report on his visit to the art gallery.
Instead she got a sucker punch to the gut.
“How many weeks’ pregnant did you say Márya Mendelev was when you first met her?”
“Three months’.”
He watched her face carefully as she answered, but it was the truth. That was what she’d said. She knew she was a bad liar, so she’d made a mental note of her exact words.
Still, her heart beat a jerky rhythm from the surprise attack she’d barely managed to deflect. What had happened to make him suspicious again?
“And she filed for protection in L.A. three months later?”
Rosalie remained frozen, afraid any move, the slightest change in facial expression, might give her away. “Approximately. I’d have to check the exact date.”
“Which means that the child could have been born in the meantime. A six-month pregnancy isn’t all that unusual.”
“It’s rare enough.” She thanked her legal training for the ability to focus on the facts, not the rush of adrenalin speeding through her system. “Rarer than a miscarriage due to a violent attack on the mother. You’re clutching at straws, Mr. Danby.”
“But if Charlie beat this woman …” Rosalie flinched. “If his attack on Ms. Mendelev resulted in the death of an unborn child, why wasn’t a police report filed?”
On firmer ground, she took a deep breath. “The assault occurred in Yosemite, on federal land. The death would be reported in the city of Merced. Ms. Mendelev and her attacker lived in rural Merced County. Even if she hadn’t been grief-stricken and justifiably frightened to death of Charlie, to whom would she report it? Feds? Police? Sheriff?”
“Wouldn’t the hospital report it to the police in Merced?” he asked with a nasty smile.
“They might have if she hadn’t lied and told them she fell.”
“The hospital believed her injuries were due to a fall?”
“Of course not. But as long as she stuck to that story, they had no option.”
He leaned forward, the nasty smile now a nasty glare. “What about you, Ms. Walker? You obviously didn’t believe her story. Why didn’t you report it to the proper authorities?”
“Márya was too afraid of Charlie.”
“Wouldn’t she have been safer with Charlie in jail?”
“Until he got out. How much do you know about family violence, Mr. Danby?”
“Too much.” His curt answer seemed to surprise even him. “But that’s beside the point. As an officer of the court, you had a duty to see the crime was reported.”
“Not if the victim and only witness refused to cooperate.”
“It was your duty to persuade her to cooperate. You practice family law. You must have dealt with domestic assault before. Why was this case any different from those?”
Rosalie had tried not to say too much about Márya’s legal situation, partly to protect her privacy, partly to deprive Morgan Danby of a potential weapon. But now she had no choice.
“I’m surprised your P.I. didn’t discover that Ms. Mendelev’s immigration status was, shall we say, uncertain. She had a student visa, but your brother persuaded her to leave school. Once she was dependent on him, he told her they’d send her to prison for being an illegal. She was terrified of police and prisons. That’s why she stayed with him for as long as she did, and why she didn’t file for a protection order until he found her again here in L.A.”
Morgan’s stomach twisted with disgust. Damn, but Charlie was scum.
He’d been so sure Ms. Walker had lied to him, still wasn’t one thousand percent certain she hadn’t, but she was a better lawyer than he’d given her credit for. She’d have convinced any jury in the world beyond a reasonable doubt that Márya Mendelev had miscarried after one of Charlie’s beatings. If he wasn’t convinced, it was because his doubts weren’t reasonable. Or because he dreaded telling Lillian.
Ms. Walker’s rigid posture showed how much his accusatory tone must have angered her. He wanted to apologize, but wasn’t sure how.
Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than apologize. He wanted to bring back the smile she’d greeted him with. He wanted to watch those bare toes wiggle in her sandals.
He was in deep trouble here.
“Are we finished, Mr. Danby?” Rosalie’s anger added an extra degree of chill to the words.
“There’s still the matter of your mother’s paintings.”
She’d forgotten about them. “You don’t have them with you.”
He smiled, but she ignored the illusion of interest in his eyes. He wouldn’t fool her again.
“They’ve been sold,” he told her.
“What?”
“A woman came into the gallery while I was showing them to my friend, fell in love with them, and insisted on buying them both.”
Rosalie ignored the little burst of pleasure at the idea of a total stranger loving her mother’s work and leaned back to give him an icy stare.
“Neither you nor your friend were authorized to sell them.”
“We explained that to the lady. My friend agreed to hold them for her until you can sign the appropriate contracts.”
“What if I don’t want to sell them?”
Chapter Three (#u8760f581-e77f-597b-b8f2-e2cba0bdcc94)
“Then you’re a more spiteful person than I thought,” Danby replied. “Why deny this woman the pictures she wants, and yourself the pleasure of sharing your mother’s work, because you don’t like me?”
He had a point.
“How much did they sell for?” When he told her, she gave a low whistle. Selling even a few paintings at those prices would make a nice addition to Joey’s college fund. “I assume you have the contracts with you?”
A few minutes later Rosalie had made Morgan’s friend the representative for the sale of her mother’s paintings and committed herself to delivering two dozen more to the gallery by the end of the week. Once the paperwork was done, she stood and held out her hand.
“Thank you for helping me find new homes for my mother’s work. I hope you have a safe trip back to …”
“Boston.” He stood too, and took her hand in his.
“Goodbye, Mr. Danby.”
He smiled and released her hand slowly. A sensuous tingle crept up her arm.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Walker.”
She started to say it hadn’t, to echo what he’d said when they first met, but she couldn’t. How sad was that?
She watched him walk out the door, and out of her life, with a mixture of profound relief and regret. She looked down. The picture of Joey on her computer monitor beamed up at her, reminding her of what really mattered. There were other men, although few with the magnetism of Morgan Danby, but there was only one Joey.
Rosalie took the promised paintings to the gallery the next Saturday, but daily life soon pushed them out of her mind. When an engraved envelope arrived in her office mail three weeks later, she didn’t know what it was at first. The return address reminded her. It was an invitation to the opening of her mother’s show.
Her heart danced at idea of seeing others celebrate, and love, her mother’s work. Then she groaned at the thought of having to get dressed up after a long day at work, drive all the way to Beverly Hills, and try to find a place to park.
After a moment, she realized she couldn’t go in any case. The opening was next Thursday. Jill, the teenage neighbor who sometimes took care of Joey, wasn’t allowed to babysit on school nights. Her parents might have made an exception, but the opening didn’t start until eight and, with the drive, it would be past eleven before Rosalie got home.
She put the envelope on her desk and turned back to the rest of her mail.
“What’s this?” Vanessa picked up the envelope after she set the sandwich she’d bought for Rosalie on the desk a couple of hours later.
“An invitation to the opening of that show of my mother’s paintings I told you about.”
“Beverly Hills!” Vanessa sat down and took the invitation out to read it. “Sounds fancy. What are you going to wear?”
“Can’t go.” Rosalie shrugged at her friend’s shocked expression. “No one to watch Joey.”
“Rosie, you’ve got to go. You can’t miss your mom’s big moment. There must be someone who can watch Joey.”
Rosalie shook her head.
“What about that older lady across the street?”
“Mrs. Peterson’s in Omaha visiting the grandchildren.” Rosalie took a drink of coffee.
Vanessa reread the invitation. “This thing starts at eight. Won’t Joey be asleep by then?”
Rosalie almost choked on her coffee. “Asleep or awake, I am not leaving him alone!”
“Hey, calm down. I may not be Ms. Maternal here, but I’d never suggest anything like that. Give me some credit. What I was thinking was maybe I could watch him for you.”
“You?”
“He’d be asleep.”
Rosalie laughed. “Until he wakes up. Then what?”
“If he’s hungry I feed him. If he’s wet I change him.”
“What if he’s worse than wet?”
Vanessa grimaced. “I change him anyway?”
“Not exactly a professional babysitter attitude. Besides, you have to argue in front of the Federal Court of Appeals next Friday, don’t you? You’ll need your sleep the night before, and I may not get back until late.”
“True.” Vanessa slumped back in the chair, then sat up again with a grin. “Did you know Aaron was the oldest of six?”
“What does the size of your husband’s family have to do with anything, other than the decision the two of you have made to remain childless?”
“I’ll bet he changed a lot of diapers once upon a time. Maybe it’s like riding a bicycle, something you never forget how to do. He and I could both come over. If you’re out too late, I can nap on the couch while Aaron takes over with the kid.”
“I suspect Aaron will have to change any diapers that need it, even if you’re awake.”
“Whatever. The point is, now you can go to the opening.”
The happiness that flooded Rosalie’s heart told her how badly she wanted to be there for her mother’s big night.
“If it’s okay with Aaron, I guess it’s okay with me.”
“Great! So …” Vanessa leaned forward as if to say something terribly important. “What are you going to wear?”
The day of the opening Joey woke up with a cold. Rosalie rearranged her schedule so she could stay home from the office to take care of him, but she hated to miss the opening of her mother’s show.
When she called Vanessa to cancel, her friend insisted she could still babysit Joey. “If he’s asleep, it won’t matter, will it?”
“Yes, but there’s still the little matter of what happens if he wakes up.”
“Aaron can handle it. When I asked him about coming with me to watch Joey, he let it drop that one of the jobs he once had between acting gigs was as a nanny. He’s a pro with kids.”
Rosalie couldn’t quite picture Vanessa’s Aaron, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle, as a nanny, but the man had a heart as big as he was, so maybe it would be okay.
“Rosie, you know you want to do this. You have to do this.”
Vanessa was right.
“Okay. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”
“We’ll be there. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
Morgan walked into the crowded art gallery and realized he was in more trouble than he’d thought.
He hadn’t asked himself why he’d shown up here tonight. He was back in L.A. on business, so it had seemed reasonable to see how the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother sold.
He should have known better. As soon as he saw Rosalie on the other side of the room in a high-necked, knee-length black dress that showed off all her curves, a hot flash of need jolted through him. Almost against his will, his eyes tracked down her shapely legs to high-heeled black sandals and those delightful toes. Since when had he ever found toes sexy?
Since when had he ever found lady lawyers sexy?
A waiter wandered by with a tray of drinks. Morgan sighed at the white wine in plastic glasses. Probably Chardonnay, and cheap Chardonnay at that. Still, better than nothing.
He took a glass and sipped it warily. He grimaced at the raw edge of the wine, but his eyes remained fixed on the unfamiliar sight of Rosalie Walker looking happy.
She wasn’t totally relaxed. A thin line between her eyebrows showed the stress of being the center of attention in a room full of strangers, but she was smiling as she chatted with an older woman in a designer gown with huge diamonds at her neck and wrist. While the smile faded after the woman walked away, Rosalie still glowed with pleasure as she surveyed the crowd that oohed and aahed over her mother’s creations.
He wanted to claim her happiness as his doing, but all he’d done was help her mother find the public she deserved, if too late for her to enjoy it in person.
Still, it looked as if Ms. Walker was enjoying it enough for both of them.
No. He could not continue to think of her as Ms. Walker when every unguarded moment brought new visions of the two of them doing impossibly erotic things with each other.
He took another glass of wine off a passing tray and wandered in her direction, but forced himself to pause and look at the paintings as he went.
His body tightened at the surprised delight in Rosalie’s eyes when she saw him, but she quickly turned away. By the time he reached her, the wary look was back.
“Why are you here?” It sounded like an accusation.
He shrugged, vaguely angry at her for being wary, and at himself for apparently bursting the bubble of her happiness.
“My friend sent me an invitation. I was in L.A., so I decided to drop by.”
“Why? You’ve seen my mother’s paintings before and, if I remember correctly, didn’t think much of them.”
“All I said was that they were middle brow art.” He took a sip of the wine. “Middle-brow art has its place.”
“But not in your collection.”
“No, not in mine, but Lillian is quite fond of it. I thought I might find her a birthday gift.”
Something in Rosalie’s face shifted at Lillian’s name.
“I hope you’re successful,” she said abruptly and walked away.
He started to go after her and explain who Lillian was, but realized it wouldn’t help him to remind Rosalie of the whole mess with Charlie.
And, of course, there was Rosalie’s bearded Aaron to take into consideration.
So, Morgan let her go. All the same, his eyes continued to drift in her direction as he wandered through the gallery, the way a compass would drift to true north on a sea-tossed sloop.
Rosalie couldn’t help but be aware of Morgan Danby watching her.
After all, she had to make a conscious effort not to watch him, an effort that became more of a challenge as the evening progressed. Even when she wasn’t looking in his direction, she could feel his eyes on her body, sending an erotic sizzle along her nerves.
Too much wine? Too much celibacy? Too much Morgan Danby.
She was wondering if she could leave yet when she remembered. Lillian was Charlie’s mother. Morgan wanted a painting for his stepmother, not a wife, fiancée, or lover. That didn’t prove the man was unattached, but the evening seemed younger and her jubilant mood returned.
She decided she owed him an apology for her earlier rudeness. If he was still here.
He was. Standing by himself in front of at a small painting of a single orchid in a sensual shade of pinkish purple. An experiment of her mother’s Rosalie had never cared for because its overt sensuality was so out of character, but it had sold for twice as much as the companion painting of a brilliant orange day lily. She scanned the room in hopes he’d move on to something else, but he seemed fascinated by that one painting. When he finally turned away, his eyes went directly to hers. Her heart stumbled at the quirk of a smile he gave her, and her face went hot.
As if on cue, they walked toward each other and met in the middle of the room.
She’d never been good at apologies, but “I’m sorry I walked off like that” came easily, as did the smile she hadn’t planned on. Maybe because he smiled back at her in a way that made the tiny pulse at the base of her throat beat double time.
“No problem, Ros—, er, Ms. Walker. You’ve been under a lot of stress, I’m sure, with all these rich and famous strangers staring at something as personal as your mother’s paintings.”
Disarmed by his empathy, and by the way her body zipped to attention at the sound of his voice and the smell of his cologne, she looked down at the empty glass in her hand and nodded.
A long moment passed. She cursed herself silently for falling back into the shy little girl she usually kept hidden behind the lawyerly façade, but she still couldn’t find anything to say.
When it became clear she wasn’t going to hold up her end of the conversation, he asked, “Have you had dinner, Ms. Walker?”
“Rosalie.” She was rewarded by a smile that sent butterflies right to her core. “And, yes, we … I ate before I left home.”
A momentary frown creased his forehead before he said, “Well, I haven’t eaten. Would you like some dessert and a cup of coffee while I have a quick meal?”
The gallery was emptying out. A bored waiter wandered by and offered them the last of the wine in the bottle he held. She shook her head. She’d had enough already. Maybe more than enough, because coffee and something to eat before she drove home sounded like a good idea.
Except, the invitation had come from Morgan Danby. She should say no. He could take everything that mattered away from her.
But he didn’t know that. He wanted to give her something.
What harm could there be in taking another hour to cherish the evening’s celebration of her mother’s work? To learn more about this man before he walked out of her life. An hour she could remember and smile to herself about when she was back in her real world.
“Sure. Where were you thinking about going?”
He grinned and something twisted deep inside her. “Trust me.”
The expensive sports car the valet brought around when they stepped out of the gallery was bright red this time. The young man gave it a longing look as he handed Morgan the keys.
“I have to work tomorrow, so we can’t go far,” Rosalie cautioned in a wistful voice.
“Oh. I was thinking of a place out on the beach near Malibu. We could walk along the sand afterwards, and …”
“No,” she said with real regret as she climbed into the low-slung car.
By the time he was seated beside her, his grin was back, but he didn’t say anything.
He’d driven around the same block twice in search of a parking place before she realized where he was taking her.
“An all-night deli?” Why would a man with Morgan’s money eat at a deli, albeit a world-famous one?
“Why not? Incredible cheesecake for you, better pastrami for me than any place I’ve found in Boston.”
Why not? The words buzzed through her mind. Why not let all her responsibilities go, for once, and simply enjoy?
Even if it was the wine that made spending more time with Morgan Danby so appealing, that was only more evidence that she needed time to sober up a bit more before she drove home.
She’d worried about going to a deli dressed up the way she was, but she shouldn’t have. Half the women wore dresses fancier than hers, or designer slacks and tops that probably cost ten times as much as her off-the-rack-on-sale best black dress.
The cheesecake was perfect. And after an awkward moment or two, the conversation flowed from topic to topic, light and amusing, although afterwards she couldn’t remember exactly what they talked about.
What she did remember was how happy it made her just to be with Morgan, to have him smile at her as if they shared some wonderful secret. Not that they agreed on everything they talked about, but even arguing playfully with him was a joy.
The mood shifted as they lingered over a last cup of espresso.
“Tell me about your mother,” Morgan said.
Rosalie closed her eyes and smiled. “She was a free spirit. She loved flowers.”
“No surprise there.” He chuckled.
“And she loved me.” That love had been Rosalie’s rock through everything that happened, but the simple words brought a dark shadow to Morgan’s face.
“Did she look like you?”
“She was tall, slender, fair. I look more like the women on my father’s side of the family.”
Morgan’s voice was gentle as he asked, “When did he die?”
She stared at the dark liquid in her cup. “He didn’t. The day the wheelchair arrived, he left.”
Morgan tensed, then let out a long breath. “How long was your mother ill?”
“About fifteen years. That’s pretty average for the progressive form of MS she had.”
“It must have been hard.”
Rosalie shrugged. “We got by. I had to live at home while I was in college and law school, but she made sure my studies came first. We managed pretty well, until …” She cleared the tears from her throat. “Until we didn’t. I hated it when she had to move to a care facility. She loved her flower garden so much. But she made the best of it. She made the best of everything.”
Her tone must have told him she didn’t want to go any further down that road, because he let a long silence fall.
As they’d talked, their bodies had shifted until they sat so close together their shoulders touched. Rosalie didn’t quite know when during their conversation Morgan had put his hand on her knee, perhaps to emphasize a point he was making, but the weight and warmth of it felt right, as if it belonged there. Being with him, sharing her memories with him, felt right, as if she belonged there.
Then he turned more toward her and the hand moved a few inches up her leg. Closeness became intimacy, warmth became heat, heat became need. Her face almost touching his, she became aware that they were alone in their corner of the dining room.
Something inside her melted. It had been so long since she’d allowed a man to hold her, kiss her … Her hands flowed of their own accord to his shoulders and her mind emptied of everything except the hope that he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss him.
Morgan was mesmerized by the woman beside him and the sad story she’d told. This woman might understand the sadness that haunted him. More, she had the heart to care about that sadness. He looked into her eyes, surprised to discover the little specks of brown were gone, leaving a pure sea-green a man could drown in.
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