Find. Wife. Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

Every time the soles of Gray’s running shoes bounced against the narrow tree-lined path, the words seemed to echo in his head.

“Shut. Up. Shut. Up,” he said under his breath.

“Find. Wife. Find. Wife,” his footsteps answered.

He muttered an oath and picked up speed.

Everything that Gray had ever wanted to accomplish in life, he had. He was successful in every endeavour, because that’s who he was.

But in this one…damned…thing…he was – barrelling straight for a runner squatting in his path.

He tried slowing down, but momentum had him in its grip. “On the left,” he barked, hoping the girl – oh, yeah, definitely a girl – would heed his warning and move to the side.

Instead, he got a glimpse of fair skin, wide dark eyes and flying dark hair as she rose and took the impact with a gasping “Oomph!”

ALLISON LEIGH

started early by writing a Halloween play that her primary school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.

She has been a finalist in the RITA® Award and the Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night’s sleep while reading one of her books.

Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She began writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church, and she currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

The Bride and the Bargain

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Prologue

July

Of all the things he might have foreseen, never in his life could Gray have imagined this.

No, he’d been more annoyed with the command performance his father had requested. In the month since Harry had suffered a heart attack, the man had been increasingly unpredictable. And the last thing Gray had needed was a trip out to the family’s high-tech estate on Lake Washington when he had fifty million things to attend to back at the office in downtown Seattle.

Not that the distraction of his work was any excuse.

He was Grayson Hunt, president of HuntCom.

Whether or not he and his three younger brothers had been summoned to the shack—as they’d wryly dubbed the opulent family compound when they were young—he was supposed to be able to juggle any number of responsibilities. God knew that Harry had never let anything set him off track for any length of time. The only child of a storekeeper and his homemaker wife, Harrison Hunt had invented the computer software that had made HuntCom a household word. He’d turned an offbeat, fledgling company into a multinational, multibillion-dollar juggernaut that had set the computer industry on its ear.

Gray was forty-two, Harry’s firstborn and supposedly just like him. The knowledge was as much a curse as a blessing.

Gray biffed another shot at the antique pool table and shook his head, surrendering the table to his youngest brother, Justin.

“Does anybody know why the old man called this meeting?” Without hesitation, Justin began pocketing balls, easily showing up Gray’s less impressive attempts.

“He left a message with Loretta,” Gray said. “Didn’t give her a reason.” When it vibrated silently, he pulled out his cell phone, glancing at the display. Another text from Loretta, his secretary, keeping him apprised of his ever-evolving schedule. He’d canceled six meetings in order to answer Harry’s summons.

“Harry called you himself? Me, too.” Alex was working his way through a bottle of Black Sheep Ale from his position in one of the leather armchairs arranged around the spacious library. At thirty-six, he headed up the company’s philanthropic arm—the Hunt Foundation—and had probably canceled his own share of meetings, as well. “What about you, J.T.? Did you get the message from his secretary, or from Harry personally?”

A tumbler of bourbon in his hand, J.T. looked beat. An architect by training, he was in charge of all HuntCom properties and construction and was more often on the road than not. “From Harry. I told him I’d have to cancel a week of meetings in New Delhi and spend over half a day on the corporate jet to get home in time, but he insisted I be here.” He peered wearily at Justin, the baby of the brothers at thirty-four. “What about you?”

“I was at the ranch when he called. He told me the same thing he told you. I had to be here. No excuses.” Justin slowly rolled the pool cue between his palms. “He refused to tell me what the meeting was about. Did he tell any of you why he wanted to talk to us?”

“No.” Gray was plenty irritated about it, too. Harry knew they were all busy. So what the hell was he calling family get-togethers for? And then to leave them cooling their heels in the library?

He looked at his vibrating phone again. Dammit. Another hiccup with their latest buyout. He started for the door. If he had to call and ream out somebody, he wanted some privacy. But before he could make it to the hall door, it flew open and their father entered.

“Ah, you’re all here. Excellent.” Harry waved his hand toward his massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room that faced the French doors overlooking their private beach. “Join me, boys,” he invited, as if he did so every day.

Which he didn’t. One thing Gray could not say about Harry was that he’d been a doting, hands-on kind of dad.

He faced Harry across the desk, ignoring the chairs situated in front of it. His brothers took no interest in the chairs, either.

Harry eyed the empty seats through his horn-rimmed bifocals. Despite hitting seventy on his last birthday, his dark hair was barely marked by gray. And his blue eyes were definitely looking peeved.

Gray could relate.

Harry shrugged impatiently. “Very well. Stand or sit. It makes no difference.” He did sit, however, which was good because Gray would have told him to if he hadn’t.

His father drove him around the bend, but that didn’t mean Gray had no concerns for the old man’s health.

“Since my heart attack last month,” Harry began, proving yet again that Gray’s mind often tracked along his father’s, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this family. I’ve never thought a lot about my legacy—”

At that, Gray’s lips did twist, but he remained silent when Harry glanced at him.

“—nor about having grandchildren to carry on the Hunt name,” the old man continued. “But the heart attack made me face some hard truths I’d ignored up until then. I could have died. I could die tomorrow.”

Gray still had a hard time imagining that. Harry seemed too vital. Too stubborn. Still, though Harry was a machine in many ways, he was an aging one.

His father rose, pressing his fists against the desktop. “I finally realized that left to your own devices, you four never will get married, which means I’ll never have grandchildren. I don’t intend to leave the future of this family to chance any longer. You have a year. One year. By the end of that year, each of you will not only be married, you will either already have a child or your wife will be expecting one.”

Gray stared, uncharacteristically nonplussed.

“Right.” J.T. finally broke the stunned silence.

Harry ignored their general lack of response. “If any one of you refuses to do so, you’ll all lose your positions in HuntCom and the perks you love so much.”

“You can’t be serious,” Gray finally said, focusing on the bottom line. Harry held controlling interest in HuntCom. Not even if everyone else on the board—Gray and his brothers, Harry’s oldest friend Cornelia and Corny’s four daughters—voted in accord against Harry could they outweigh his votes. He could do pretty much whatever he wanted, but that didn’t mean Gray believed the old man would actually follow through with unseating them.

They were all too good at what they did for HuntCom and the family interests, and Harry—affected by his heart attack or not—knew it.

“I’m deadly serious.” Harry’s eyes didn’t waver.

“With all due respect, Harry, how will you run the company if we refuse to do this?” J.T. asked. As often as Gray thought like Harry, J.T.’s thoughts were on the same wavelength as Gray’s. “I don’t know what Gray, Alex or Justin have going on right now, but I’m in the middle of expansions here in Seattle, in Jansen and at our New Delhi facility. If another architect has to take over my position, it’ll be months before he’s up to speed. Construction delays alone would cost HuntCom a fortune.”

“It wouldn’t matter because if the four of you refuse to agree, I’ll sell off HuntCom in pieces.”

Gray went still, ignoring his vibrating phone. Sell HuntCom? Where the hell did that idea come from?

“The New Delhi facility will be history and I’ll sell Hurricane Island,” Harry warned, his voice edged with steel. The isle was J.T.’s treasured escape and the idea of losing it probably hit J.T. harder than the idea of losing the company.

Then Harry turned his painfully serious gaze on Justin. “I’ll sell HuntCom’s interest in the Idaho ranch if you don’t marry and have a child.” Without waiting for a response, he looked at Alex. “I’ll shut down the foundation if you refuse to cooperate.”

The weight of the brothers’ fury filled the room.

Then Harry finally looked at Gray, delivering the only possible remaining blow. “HuntCom won’t need a president because there will no longer be a company for you to run.”

He was Harry’s second in command. Harry had started HuntCom, but Gray was HuntCom.

Selling the company itself—the very root of everything they had—was a fine threat. One that Gray wasn’t about to let himself believe. He had only to look at Harry’s behavior since the heart attack. He’d scaled back only some of his workload since then. To Gray, that looked like plenty of proof that even Harry couldn’t part ways all that easily with the company he’d built. He’d never sell.

“But that’s insane,” Alex said, clearly trying to sound reasonable and not quite making the mark. “What do you hope to accomplish by doing this, Harry?”

“I mean to see you all settled, with a family started before I die. With a decent woman who’ll make a good wife and mother.”

Gray swallowed an oath. That was rich. In the four marriages that had resulted in the four Hunt brothers, Harry had never managed to make one with a decent woman.

“The women you marry have to win Cornelia’s approval,” their father concluded.

“Does Aunt Cornelia know about this?” Justin demanded. Cornelia Fairchild was the widow of Harry’s best friend. Like Gray, Justin obviously found it hard to believe that she was a willing accomplice to Harry’s fit of madness.

“Not yet,” Harry allowed.

Justin looked relieved. Gray understood why, but he couldn’t say that he was as confident that their honorary aunt would have any sway in derailing Harry from his plan. She was more a mother figure to them than their own mothers had been, but that didn’t mean her allegiance wouldn’t stick with the old man. Cornelia and Harry went way back. She, along with her husband, George, and Harry had been friends since childhood.

Harry lifted his hand. “She’s a shrewd woman. She’ll know if any of the women aren’t good wife material.”

Too bad she hadn’t chosen Harry’s wives, Gray thought. Their lives would have been considerably different.

Unaware of Gray’s dark thoughts, Harry went on, making the situation even more surreal. “You can’t tell the women you’re rich, nor that you’re my sons. I don’t want any fortune hunters in the family. God knows I married enough of them myself. I don’t want any of my sons making the mistakes I made.”

Then none of them should be courting real disaster by walking down an aisle, Gray thought. Much less trying to procreate.

Justin was still trying to pin down Harry. “So Aunt Cornelia has to approve our prospective brides and they can’t know who we are. Is that all?”

Harry hesitated long enough to make every nerve at the back of Gray’s neck stand at suspicious attention. “That’s all. I’ll give you some time to think about this,” he added into the thick silence.

Not likely, Gray thought, reading his brothers’ faces.

“You have until 8:00 p.m., Pacific daylight time, three days from now,” Harry continued with an infuriating confidence. “If I don’t hear from you to the contrary before then, I’ll tell my lawyer to start looking for a buyer for HuntCom.”

And with that, he left the library.

J.T.’s lips twisted derisively. “I don’t see it happening. He’ll never sell HuntCom.”

“He can’t possibly be serious,” Justin concluded.

Gray shrugged into his jacket. Enough time had been wasted at the shack. He hadn’t known what to expect when Harry’d called him, but he damn sure hadn’t expected this. “We’re in the middle of a buyout. There’s no way he’d consider selling the company until it’s finished and that might be months away. He’s bluffing.”

“How can you be sure?” Alex asked. He freely eschewed the wealth and privilege that came with being a Hunt, but Gray knew that he tolerated the Hunt duty because it allowed him to satisfy his mile-deep humanitarian streak. He would be happy never to have a Hunt dime—only that would mean he couldn’t give it away to someone who did need it. “What if you’re wrong? Do you want to take that chance? Lose everything you’ve worked for over the past eighteen years? I know I sure as hell don’t want to see the foundation shut down…or run by someone else.”

“The only baby Harry’s ever cared about is HuntCom,” Gray said. “There’s no way he won’t do what’s ultimately best for the company. He always does.”

“I sure as hell hope you’re right,” Justin muttered. “Where did he get the idea it was time we all went hunting for brides?”

J.T. made a face, shaking his head. “Just so we’re all agreed. None of us are caving in to his crazy ultimatum?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Gray muttered.

For him, it was the end of the discussion.

Chapter One

Ten months later

Find. Wife. Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

Every time the soles of Gray’s running shoes bounced against the narrow tree-lined path, the words seemed to echo in his head.

He picked up speed, pushing harder as the path rose sharply beneath his feet.

“Shut. Up. Shut. Up,” he muttered under his breath.

Find. Wife. Find. Wife. His footsteps answered.

He made it to the peak of the hillside and looked out over the horizon that would have been nearly obscured if not for the footpath cut through the trees. He propped his hands on his hips, hauling in long breaths, feeling his heartbeat charging in his chest. The sweat soaking his shirt felt cold.

He spent precious time driving most mornings to this particular park because it was far enough away from his digs near the waterfront that he’d never once run into someone he knew.

The park wasn’t a fancy place. It didn’t have paved paths. It didn’t have riding stables, or formal picnic areas or art displays. And often, he seemed to have the hilly tree-congested expanse to himself, but even when he didn’t, it was rare to encounter more than one or two other runners.

Pretty much the way he liked it since his time was generally used up dealing with others. That was just one of the prices he paid for being president of a major corporation. A price he’d gladly pay many times over since—according to those who knew him—he’d been aiming for the helm of HuntCom since he was in the womb.

Until lately, Gray had never doubted that he would someday succeed his father as chairman of the board.

Until lately.

He set off down the hillside, oblivious of the slim rim of golden sunshine working its way into a sky that was unusually clear.

Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

He muttered an oath, and picked up speed.

Nearly a year had gone by since Harry called him and his brothers into his library and issued his damn marriage decree. Nearly a year since his brothers—and he, he admitted reluctantly—came to the consensus that they had to fall in line with their father’s wishes or lose everything that mattered.

Everything. Not that giving in had been easy. Hell, no. In fact, Gray’d had his attorney come up with the flipping contract he and his brothers had all signed—as well as Harry, after some serious arm-twisting of their own—that detailed everything from marital deadlines and requirements of intent to procreate on one side to transfers of HuntCom voting shares on the other. But he’d only done it when it had become clear that Harry was not going to come to his senses.

Harry was a literal-minded soul. Not good with relationships of any sort, pretty much. He was more like the early computers he’d once programmed. Want results of X? Then do A. Then do B. Then do C.

He hadn’t been successful in his marriages and family life and didn’t want his sons ending up like him. So the answer?

Do what Harry hadn’t done.

Marry the right woman. Resulting in the right kids. Resulting in an existence unlike Harry’s.

Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

Gray gritted his teeth, moving even faster down the sharply curving trail, muscles warm and fluid from years of running, even though his brain felt uncommonly cold and tight. He’d thought that Harry would realize the error of his ways before it came down to the crunch.

But Harry was immovable. And he’d started talking to those in the industry who could possibly buy out portions of HuntCom.

Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

Everything that Gray had ever wanted to accomplish in life, he had. He was successful in every endeavor, because that was who he was. What was the point of wasting his time if he didn’t plan to succeed?

But in this one…damned…thing…he was—

Barreling straight for a runner squatting square in his path.

Cursing a blue streak, he tried slowing up, but momentum had him in its grip. “On the left,” he barked, hoping the girl—oh, yeah, definitely a girl—would heed his warning and move to the side. But the path was too narrow and Gray’s speed was too fast and maybe if she hadn’t decided to straighten from her crouch, he could have hurdled over her—

Instead, he got a glimpse of pale skin, wide dark eyes and flying dark hair as she rose and took the impact with a gasping “oomph!”

He cursed again, reaching to catch her in the same moment that he’d been trying to avoid her, and managed to miss the mark as completely as he’d managed to plow over her.

His shoes skidded on the dirt as he finally succeeded in slowing enough to turn around and run back to her.

She was flat down, sprawled across the rocks that lined the edge of the path.

“I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously.” Her voice was muffled as she gingerly pushed herself to her hands and knees. The gray sweatpants she wore were as utilitarian as the ones he had on, but she’d rolled the waist over a few times and as her rear pushed off the ground, the skin between the nearly threadbare sweats and the hem of the thin T-shirt she wore gleamed smooth and pale in the dawn.

His lips tightened, as much from noticing that band of skin below the white shirt as from her husky sarcasm. “I tried to warn you,” he reminded.

She tossed back her head, giving him a severe look that not even the half-light could dim. “If you’d given me more than a microsecond, it might have helped.” She drew her knees up farther beneath her, which only caused that shapely derriere to round even more.

He grimaced again, well aware that she was right. “Let me help you up.” He closed his hand around her arm and felt her instantaneous recoil. He let go, backing up a step. “Relax. Just trying to help.”

“Well…don’t. I can do it myself.” She ducked her chin, and her hair slid over her shoulder. Muttering under her breath, she finally pushed herself to her feet and faced him, only to sway unsteadily.

His hands shot out and caught her shoulders. “Easy there.”

She hitched her shoulder, clearly wanting him to let go again.

Which he did.

She leaned over, plucking at the knees of her sweatpants and he realized they were both torn right through.

“You’re hurt.”

She gave him a quick “you think?” look that made him grimace all over again. This time at himself.

A preoccupied bastard is what he was.

Just like Harry.

He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Are you parked in the lot?”

“No.”

Which could mean anything, he knew, but most likely that she lived within close proximity. “Can you make it to the bottom of the hill?” His cell phone was in his car. It would be a simple matter to call for assistance whether or not she could make it there under her own steam. He’d get her bandaged up, make sure there were no lasting effects that would come back to bite him or HuntCom in the butt, and on their way they’d go.

She nodded and started to move past him, only to gasp again, hitching forward to grab her left knee.

He caught her around the shoulders. “Don’t put any weight on it.” She’d stiffened again, but this time he ignored it. “If you want to sit, I’ll go down and call for help.”

“No.”

“Then you can let me help you walk down. Your choice.” He realized her hands were scraped, as well, when she pressed them gingerly against her thighs, leaving behind a smear of blood. “Something tells me you’re not going to let me just carry you down.”

Her head ducked again. “That won’t be necessary,” she assured stiffly.

He eyed the top of her head. The brightening sunlight picked out glints of gold among the soft brown strands. She was a bitty thing next to him, even with the shapely curves that pushed against her running clothes. And he was not bitty at all. “I am sorry,” he said quietly.

She hesitated, then looked up at him. He couldn’t quite tell the color of her eyes. Just that they were dark and rimmed with long, curling lashes.

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “I am, too,” she finally said. “I, um, I stopped to tie my shoe.” She wiggled her left foot, drawing his attention.

The lacing of her shoe—definitely not custom-made as his own were—lay untied and bedraggled against the dirt path.

“Hold on.” He cautiously let go of her shoulders and, once certain that she wasn’t going to tip over, crouched down at her feet.

She made a soft sound and he glanced up as he tied the shoelace. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head slightly. “No. It’s just…I…it’s been a long time since I’ve had my shoelaces tied for me.”

His head was on a level with her thighs. He made himself keep his eyes on her scraped knees and lower. To his chagrin it was harder than he’d have thought.

He tugged the bow tight, then double looped it. “Next time, use a double knot,” he suggested wryly.

He rose and caught the twitch at the corner of her lips. But the second she took a step, the barely there smile was replaced by a definite wince of pain.

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

Her eyes widened. “No. Really, that’s not necessary.”

“You might have a sprain. A fracture.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Just bumps, I promise.”

“Bumps and gravel and blood,” he pointed out. “At the very least I need to make sure you get cleaned up, and clearly, you can’t walk on that ankle.”

She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. “I don’t need medical care.”

And sad to say, he didn’t need a nuisance suit for personal injury, either. Not to say that she’d instigate anything of the kind, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was without learning a thing or two about human nature.

People were greedy beings. And though Gray knew he wasn’t any particular exception to that trait, he also knew painfully well that the Hunt family and HuntCom made a particularly enticing target even to people who would ordinarily never think such things.

That was reality.

But so was the sight of her bleeding knees that made him wince inside. She was hurt and he was responsible. She hadn’t untied her fraying shoelace on purpose, after all.

“I insist,” he told her.

Her eyebrows rose, nearly disappearing into the tendrils of hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. “Is that so?” She seemed about to say more, only to press her lips together again.

“We can work it out when we get you off this path,” he suggested. He’d simply call Loretta. She’d arrange everything with her usual minimum of fuss. Gray could be assured that this girl wouldn’t suffer any ill effects from their collision and he could get back to the matters at hand.

“You mean you think you’ll get your way,” the girl murmured. “Once we’re off the trail.”

He almost smiled. Fact was, Gray nearly always got his way, as she put it. “Do you have something against doctors?”

“Only their bills,” she assured, looking a little too solemn for her wry tone. She lifted her shoulder. “I’m in the insurance void and, well, to be honest, I can’t afford yet another bill.”

“Void?”

“I, um, just started a new job here. My health insurance won’t kick in for another few weeks.”

All new employees of HuntCom had to wait out their probationary period of ninety days before receiving insurance benefits. Simple business practice, he knew, yet this was the first time he’d ever personally encountered someone in the “void” as she called it. “Where do you work?”

He could feel her withdrawal again like a physical thing. Who’d she think he was, anyway?

The thought had him looking more sharply at her smooth, oval face. There was no question that she was pretty. But she had a wide-eyed earnestness about her that was disconcertingly disarming. “Are you new to the area, too?”

“Pretty much.” She swiped her hand over her forehead, leaving her bangs in disheveled spikes, and another smear of blood in its wake.

“Then as a Seattle lifer, I can’t have you thinking we’re hogs on the running trails.” He put his arm around her again, and this time she didn’t protest. He took part of her weight as they laboriously stepped along the path. It would have been much more expedient for him just to tote her entirely, but this time he kept his mouth shut on the reasoning.

“On the left.”

He looked over his shoulder at the runner bearing down on them and moved the girl out of the way with plenty of time as the young guy trotted past.

“Worked for him,” Gray pointed out.

She gave a soft half laugh, as if she couldn’t quite prevent it, even though she wanted to. “He also wasn’t going eighty in a thirty-mile zone.”

He knew he’d been putting on the speed. Trying to outrun the problem hanging over him. “You should visit the hospital,” he said again. “The bill won’t be a problem,” he assured somewhat drily.

“I suppose you’re another one of those guys who made a fortune in the dot-coms or something.” She flicked him a glance from beneath those long, soft lashes.

“Or something,” he murmured, giving her another measuring look. It wasn’t arrogant of him to say that he was somewhat well-known, particularly in the Seattle area. Either she was a master of understatement, or she hadn’t recognized him. Once he told her his name, though, she undoubtedly would. “Where’d you say you moved from?”

Her eyebrow arched. “I didn’t.”

They rounded another curve in the path. It was beginning to level out. Another quarter mile, he knew, and they’d be back at the lot where his BMW was parked. “If you won’t let me take you to the hospital, at least let me get you to a clinic. You need some first aid, here. Even you must admit that.”

She stopped her laborious limp of a walk and gave him a searching look. “Why are you doing this?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“Why?”

“I plowed over you.”

“Well—” she looked slightly discomfited “—I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“Big is a relative term,” he countered. “I could fit you in my pocket.”

“Or your trunk.”

He frowned at the flat statement. “Believe me, honey, you’re safe with me.”

She looked away again.

“And if you’re so wary of strangers, why do you run at this hour of the morning? It’s just now getting light and there are hardly any people here.”

“I fit it in before work.” She still sounded stiff. “Why are you here at this hour?”

“I fit it in before work,” he returned.

Her lips compressed. “Well, there you go, then.” She began limping along again, faster this time, but no less awkwardly. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really…well, I really don’t need your coddling. And I have things to do before I go to work.”

He could see the parking lot. There was only one car.

His.

“You plan to walk back home, then, do you?”

“That’s how I got here.”

There was no question that she’d decline if he suggested he drive her there. It was an odd position for him. There were people who liked him for who he was, and who didn’t for the very same reason. But he’d never once been looked at with such wary distrust by another person.

He didn’t know whether to laugh at himself for his own surprise at that, or whether to applaud her caution.

He had a million things on his schedule that day, not least of which was a meeting with Harry about the upcoming release of their latest operating platform. But he couldn’t deny his reluctance at letting the girl just walk away.

And not only because of the whispering inside his head that hadn’t ceased even when he’d stopped running.

Why else would he have noticed that this woman who didn’t seem to know him wore no rings on her slender fingers; showed no evidence of having recently taken any off?

It was expedience that motivated him.

Not the way those wide eyes beckoned. Soft. Deep.

“Can I call someone for you? Your husband? Boyfriend?”

“Don’t have one.”

He let that settle inside him.

“Since you won’t go the doctor route, will you at least let me stock you up with antiseptic and bandages?”

She looked torn, confirming his suspicion that she hadn’t been exaggerating about wanting to avoid another bill. Even one so minor as first aid supplies. “It’s the least I can do—” He lifted his brows, waiting.

“Amelia,” she provided after a moment. “Amelia White.”

Brown, he determined, now that the sunlight was breaking over them in earnest. Her eyes were brown with a mix of golden flecks. “Nice to meet you, Amelia. I’m—” He barely even hesitated, which just proved he was as manipulative as people said. “Matthew. Gray,” he tacked on.

“I suppose that’s yours.” She nodded toward the BMW. “Matthew Gray.”

There was denying, and there was denying. “Company car.” Could it really be so easy to meet a woman who didn’t know who he was?

Thankfully oblivious to the devil inside his head that laughed uproariously at his piqued ego, she made a soft humming sound. “What kind of company?”

“Sales,” he improvised.

“Sales must be good.” She said it so mildly and seriously he wasn’t certain whether he imagined the sarcasm or not.

“They’re not bad. Are you going to make me call a cab for you? Never mind. I can see by your expression that I am.”

She shrugged a little. “Just yesterday I told my niece, Molly, not to talk to strangers, even when they seem friendly. What kind of example would I be setting if I don’t follow my own advice?”

Niece. Not daughter.

“When you put it that way, how can I argue?” He helped her across the lot and she waited, shapely seat propped against the hood of his car while he retrieved his cell phone and called for a cab. It was a salve to his conscience that he actually called information himself to get the number, spoke with the cab company himself. Ordinarily, he would simply have made one call to Loretta and let her deal with the details.

Task accomplished, he joined her at the front of his car. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the hood. “How old is your niece?”

“Ten.” She peered at her scraped palms, slowly picking out small pieces of gravel. “Do you have kids?”

“No.” He’d made sure of that. Now it was just one more complication.

Her eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.

“You look surprised.”

She shrugged and pressed her palms carefully together. “No. Just most men your age—” She broke off, flushing, when he couldn’t contain a snort of laughter.

“You’re hell on my ego, Amelia. I don’t quite have one foot in the grave yet.”

Her cheeks went even pinker, which just made him wonder how long it had been since he’d encountered a female who could still blush. Nobody that he’d dated in the last twenty years, that was for damn sure.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, patently lying.

“That I’m old enough to have kids as grown as you?”

She shook her head. “Hardly. Not unless you were very precocious.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.” She shot him a look from the corner of her eyes as if realizing how her comment might—just might—come across to a man.

“What’s it going to take before you decide I’m not such a stranger?”

She turned her head when they heard a car.

It was the cab, inconveniently and firmly disproving the theory that they took forever to arrive.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to let you know.” She straightened from the car and limped toward the distinctive, yellow taxi.

Gray easily beat her to the cab’s door, opening the rear one for her. While she settled herself inside, he leaned in the driver’s open window and settled enough cash on the driver to take Amelia to the nearest drugstore and then home—wherever that might be. Then he begged a business card off the guy and wrote his personal cell phone number on the back of it. The only people who had the number were his family, his attorney and Loretta.

He went around to Amelia’s side again and handed her the card. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.”

She took the card from him, being careful not to brush his fingers.

More stranger-danger, or was it caution of a different nature?

“The driver said he’ll stop at the drugstore for you.” He handed her the smallest bills he’d had left in his money clip—two fifties. “If this doesn’t cover what you need, you call me.”

She waved away the cash, looking annoyed. “This isn’t necessary.”

He folded the bills in half and leaned in over her.

She clamped her lips shut, pressing herself solidly back against the seat.

He smiled faintly and deliberately tucked the bills at her hip, right beneath that rolled-over waistband. He ignored the way her skin felt—cool and warm all at once.

And silky.

Definitely silky.

“Believe me, Amelia,” he told her softly. “It’s very necessary.”

Then he straightened and closed the cab door, taking her wide-eyed expression with him as he headed toward his own car.

Find. Wife. Find. Wife.

“Maybe,” he murmured under his breath and watched the cab slowly turn out of the lot, carrying the blushing Amelia White away.

Of course in his case, finding a wife was only part of his problem. He also needed a child.

Chapter Two

The moment the parking lot was out of sight through the cab’s windows, Amelia’s shoulders collapsed with relief.

Dumb, dumb, dumb, Amelia, she thought silently. You had your chance to confront the man in person!

And what had she done?

Gotten into the cab, alone.

Matthew. She shook her head at the name he’d given her, looking blindly out at the park where she’d been running now for the past several weeks.

What a liar.

Not that she’d expected anything else of the man given his treatment of Daphne.

“Miss, I don’t mind driving around until the meter hits the roll your fella gave me—” the gray-haired cabbie shot her a grin over his shoulder “—but it might be easier if you’d just give me your address.”

“He’s not my fella,” she assured, suppressing a shiver. It appalled her that it was a shiver, though, and not a shudder.

In the flesh, Grayson Hunt, aka, Matthew Gray, hadn’t been quite what she’d expected.

He was supposed to be the devil incarnate. He’d toyed with her sister, only to toss Daphne aside when she’d needed him. To this day he continued to deny the child he and Daphne had created together. Amelia had expected to feel nothing but revulsion for the man who wielded his power like some despot over the lesser beings he used as playthings.

But what she had felt was not so easily defined.

She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, but winced at even that mild contact against her abraded palms. She lowered them to her lap only to snatch at the money he’d slid beneath her waistband.

How easily he’d dropped the cash on her, even when she’d tried to avoid it.

Too bad he didn’t take his other, far more important responsibilities so seriously.

She rolled the bills into a tight cylinder. If she’d ever hoped to make an impression on the great Grayson Hunt that she was a serious adversary, she’d definitely shot that right down into the dust.

Typical, typical Amelia.

She never had been any good at confrontations. Why should she be, when it was ever so much easier to be the world’s doormat?

“Miss?” the driver prompted.

She jerked, feeling foolish for letting Grayson Hunt distract her so deeply, and gave the driver the address of Daphne’s apartment. She’d moved into it to be with the children when it had become apparent that Daphne would not be returning to her home anytime soon.

“There a pharmacy close by?”

“I’m sorry,” she admitted. “I just don’t know.” The only pharmacy she’d been in was the one at the hospital where Timmy had been born. “There’s a corner grocery, though. That ought to do.” She didn’t often shop at Heller’s, because she’d realized right off that the prices were higher than the larger shopping center that took two buses to get to.

The cabbie grunted, whether in agreement or not she didn’t know, nor did she particularly care. He was taking her home, and her aching knees were glad of it.

Of course, she ought to know more about the businesses surrounding the apartment, considering she’d been living in Seattle for three months now. But her time had been spent dealing with the disaster of Daphne’s life. Disaster caused by none other than Grayson Hunt.

Medical bills. Doctors. Hospitals. Lawyers. The red tape of being named the children’s guardian and more red tape. And of course, there were the children to care for.

Jack was twelve and alarmingly self-sufficient given the situation with his mother. Two years younger was Molly, who only spoke in whispers these days. Finally, there was Timmy. Three months old and as sweet and warm as a ray of sunshine, and never once held in the arms of his mother, Daphne.

Amelia stared out the window, weeks beyond tears now. She’d shed plenty in the past few months. First, when she’d stood in the hospital emergency room to hear that her sister had suffered a stroke during labor. Next during the three weeks it had taken before Daphne regained consciousness. It soon became clear that she didn’t recognize her own children, much less her only sister. Amelia had cried at night when she knew the children were asleep because for as long as she could remember it had just been her and Daphne against the world.

She ought to have been able to protect Daphne against what had happened.

She should have come to Seattle earlier when Daphne had admitted she’d gotten pregnant during her ill-fated and not-brief-enough affair with Grayson Hunt. Particularly once he’d made it clear to Daphne that he was not going to acknowledge their child.

Amelia had wanted Daphne to take the matter to court, but Daphne wouldn’t do so then—and couldn’t now.

She could hardly blame her, though, considering the way they’d grown up. Their father had only grudgingly acknowledged them because the courts had forced him to pay child support to their mother, not because he’d loved them.

Daphne had grown up always searching for love and the kind of family she’d wished they’d been.

Amelia, on the other hand, had resisted those very same things. Oh, she’d had a marriage planned, certainly. To a man who’d seemed to be on the same career-oriented, nonbaby track that she’d chosen.

“This the grocery store you meant?”

She realized the cab had stopped at the curb alongside the small neighborhood store. “Yes, it is. Thanks. You really will wait?”

“Told your fella I would.”

“He’s not—” She shook her head, dropping that battle just as she dropped most battles. “I appreciate it.”

She reached for the door and laboriously climbed out. Much as she’d have preferred to head straight to the apartment, she knew there wasn’t much there in the way of first aid supplies, except plastic bandage strips decorated with Molly’s favorite cartoon character and the baby Tylenol that had come home from the hospital with Timmy. And whether or not she wanted to admit it, the only cash she had to her name was tucked in her purse back at the apartment and it had Food for the Children written all over it.

Grayson Hunt had given her more than enough to cover her needs for now and her pride would just have to suffer using it.

Her pride had taken quite a few lumps since she’d moved to Seattle. Priorities in her life had been dramatically reordered to focus on the children. On Daphne’s care.

Inside the shop, there was one miserly shelf filled with bandages and ointments. Mindful of the prices that were as ridiculously high as she’d remembered, she selected the bare minimum, and added a loaf of fortified bread and an enormous jar of peanut butter—Jack never seemed to get enough of the stuff. She left the store with her bag and change that would be better used at her usual shopping center.

The cabbie was still waiting, and she must have made a pretty pathetic sight, for he actually met her on the sidewalk to take her purchases from her.

He helped her into the backseat of the cab again, tsking under his breath. “Girls these days,” he said. “Taking all kinds of treatment.”

Amelia flushed. “I fell while I was running.”

He looked skeptical as he closed the door on her and got back behind the wheel. “Your fella rich?”

“He’s not my…yes. I guess he’s rich.” She held the bulging sack on her lap.

The cabbie shrugged. “Lotta rich guys here. You can do better. Find yourself a nice young man that does an honest day’s work.”

Despite herself, Amelia felt a sharp pang. She’d had a nice young man who did an honest day’s work.

He just hadn’t wanted to keep her. Not when her coworker Pamela had offered more tempting treats.

Passion.

Kids.

She pushed aside the thoughts. John had fallen way down the list of things she needed to be worrying about.

She left the cab a short time later when the driver stopped in front of her building, and she figured there was one bright side to the events of the morning. She obviously didn’t have to worry about the cabbie having recognized Grayson Hunt’s face. The man would probably have said something if he had.

She pushed through the squeaking door of the building, only to come face-to-face with the Out of Order placard affixed to the center of the dented elevator doors. She’d gotten so used to seeing it that she’d stopped noticing it.

But now, with her entire body feeling like one big, scraped-up bruise, she looked from the inoperable elevator to the narrow staircase on the opposite side of the small vestibule. Sighing, she put her foot on the first step.

Only six more flights to go.

By the time she made it to her floor, her stomach was pitching with nausea and the thin plastic loops of the grocery bag were cutting into her wrist. Three doors down, she stopped and leaned her forehead wearily against the doorjamb. Jack would be waiting inside, she knew. Capably in charge of Molly and the baby, even though Amelia always had her neighbor, Paula, on alert to watch out for the children, too. Not that Jack appreciated that. He considered himself too old for such supervision. She finally lifted her free hand and tapped her knuckles against the woefully thin wood.

Sure enough, Jack must have been waiting and watching through the peephole, because she immediately heard the slide of locks and he yanked the door open almost before she’d stopped knocking.

His eyes, as dark a brown as his mother’s and already on a level with Amelia’s, took in her disheveled appearance without expression. “What happened?” He didn’t comment on the lateness of her return. She was ordinarily back an hour earlier.

“I tripped. I’m fine.” It was easier than explaining what had really happened. He just believed that she was an avid runner. Not that she’d been staking out that park, hoping for an opportunity to run into Grayson Hunt.

He stepped back and took the bag when she handed it to him. He looked inside. “Bread’s kinda squashed.”

“I’ll make bread pudding out of the worst of it,” she told him. The dessert would be a treat, for once.

Now that she was inside the apartment, she realized how cold she’d gotten outside, and she pulled an aging cardigan off the coatrack by the door and swung it around her shoulders. “Timmy?”

“He’s still asleep.”

It was a small miracle. The baby had only recently begun sleeping through the night, though she’d have to get him up quickly enough when she went to work. “And Molly? Is she ready for school yet?” Jack was already dressed in his uniform of tan chinos and navy-blue sweater, though his feet were bare.

He shrugged, poking through the items in the bag. “She’s still in the bathroom.”

Amelia took the gauze pads and antiseptic cream from Jack and headed into the kitchen that opened off to the left of the door.

Her niece and nephew had obviously eaten breakfast, because there were two cereal bowls and spoons sitting in the sink basin, already rinsed. A tall tin of baby formula was on the counter, too, and when she opened the refrigerator door, she saw several prepared bottles stacked neatly inside.

One less task to do. She closed the refrigerator door, eyeing her nephew. “You didn’t have to do that. But thanks.”

He shrugged again, and hitched his hip onto one of the simple wooden stools that were lined up at the breakfast counter opposite the tiny kitchen. “If you’re fine, why’re you limping?” He opened the peanut butter and peeled back the protective seal, then lifted the jar, sniffing at it slightly.

“I just scraped my knees. Don’t worry about it. Here.” She pulled out a spoon and handed it to him. He almost smiled as he took it and dipped it into the pristine contents. With the spoon full, he tucked it in his mouth and fit the lid back on the jar.

Another thing he’d gotten from his mother. The kid loved peanut butter.

“Are you ready for your math test today?” She ran her hands under the faucet, wincing as the warm water hit her scraped palms.

He pulled the spoon out of his mouth. “Gonna fail it, anyway.” He leaned over the width of the counter and dropped the silverware into the sink with a clatter.

“Jack—”

“I’ll get Mol.” He headed through the short hallway that broke off into the hall bathroom and the two bedrooms the apartment possessed before she could deliver the pep talk forming on her lips.

He was back in minutes, Molly trailing in his wake. She wore her school uniform, too, a navy skirt and matching cardigan over her tan blouse. Her long blond hair was brushed and shiny and her eyes—as dark as her brother’s—widened when she saw Amelia’s appearance.

“I’m fine,” Amelia assured hurriedly. Not unnaturally, Molly worried so easily these days. “I tripped over my shoelace.” She waggled her foot with the lace that Grayson Hunt had securely tied. “Just like you did the other day in the park.”

Molly nibbled her lip for a moment, absorbing that. When she wordlessly held out two bands and a comb, Amelia was relieved. She managed not to wince as she wrapped her fingers around the comb and deftly parted her niece’s silky hair. “Ponytails today instead of braids, okay?”

“Okay,” Molly whispered.

Amelia finished the simple hairstyle and dropped a kiss on the child’s head. “All set.”

“Will we visit Mommy today?” Molly’s voice never raised above the whisper.

Amelia’s heart ached. “After school,” she promised. She took the kids at least twice a week to the convalescent center. Daphne, unfortunately, didn’t react to their presence when they did visit. She was alert, but her own children might as well be strangers. Amelia looked over Molly’s head at Jack. “You two can’t wait for me to go to school this morning or you’ll be late. You’ll be all right catching the bus by yourselves?”

The corner of Jack’s lips turned down. “We always did before.”

She couldn’t help herself. She reached forward and brushed her fingers through the reddish-blond hair falling across his forehead. Before meant before Timmy was born, she knew. Before his mother had become incapacitated and the aunt he’d barely known had come to take over. “I know, sweetheart.” She smoothed her hand down his cheek even as he was stepping away, too grown at twelve years old to suffer such displays of affection. “And you’ll do fine on your math test. Just take your time, Jack.”

He made a face. Math was the only subject in which he really struggled. “Get your pack, Mol.”

But Molly didn’t go for her backpack. Instead, she slipped her hands around Amelia’s waist, hugging her tightly. “Are you staying home today?”

Amelia had counted herself fortunate that she’d found a librarian position with the very school that Jack and Molly attended on scholarship. It didn’t pay as well as her old job at the university library in Oregon, but her schedule was in sync with the children’s. “I’ll just be a little late,” she assured, and hoped Mr. Nguyen, the headmaster, didn’t quibble over the matter. In addition to insurance benefits, she wasn’t yet entitled to sick leave, either. “You have your lunch money?”

Molly’s head bobbed and she finally let Amelia loose to take the backpack that Jack held out for her. She slid her arms through the loops and followed her brother out the door.

Amelia stood there in the silent apartment for a moment. The furnishings were simple but cheerful, seeming to carry Daphne’s personality even after all these weeks without her presence. The beige walls were covered with an eclectic collection of travel posters. Places that Daphne had always dreamed of visiting, but hadn’t. The woven blanket tucked over the couch carried the same brilliance, as did the pillows scattered among the two threadbare armchairs.

No, the apartment wasn’t fancy. It was an aeon away from the type of digs that Grayson Hunt occupied. The research she’d done about the man over the last three months had told her just how great an aeon. Not only did he have his place at the family home on Lake Washington, but he occupied a stunningly modern penthouse near the waterfront that, according to the spread done in an architectural journal, included a rooftop garden that rivaled a forested park.

Unlike the Hunt’s mansion, Daphne’s apartment did not possess walls of windows that afforded its occupants the finest views that money could buy. Nor were Daphne’s furnishings custom-made by the world’s greatest designers, but her sister’s apartment was a home because Daphne had made it so.

Now, Amelia’s sister languished in a facility that provided only the medical care for which she could qualify. Adequate, but definitely basic.

Amelia’s knees ached as she crossed the tidy beige carpet and flipped the locks back into place.

If only she’d been able to convince Daphne to bring the kids and go stay with her in Oregon where they’d both grown up.

Everything would be different.

She put Molly’s comb away and called the school and her neighbor Paula, who minded Timmy during the day, to let them know she’d be late, then carried the first aid supplies into the bedroom that she shared with the baby and his crib.

Timmy was still sound asleep, his soft lips pursed together, his fists curled. Three months now, Amelia couldn’t help but marvel. Three months that had passed in a blink.

She’d cared for the baby since she’d brought him home from the hospital. Without his mother. Three months focusing on everything she’d ever convinced herself she didn’t want in this life. Not after the way she and Daphne had grown up.

How quickly a lifetime of belief had spun on its ear. Just because of this tiny, small being.

She chewed the inside of her lip, resisting the urge to touch the sweet boy. Just because she wanted the comfort of cuddling Daphne’s baby was no reason to disturb his sound sleep.

If Daphne hadn’t left Oregon at all, this beautiful baby wouldn’t even exist and there would have been no reason whatsoever for Amelia to take on Grayson Hunt.

Less than an hour later, bandages on her knees hidden beneath her gray slacks, Amelia was handing Timmy and his diaper bag and extra bottles over to Paula Browning. The woman wasn’t only their neighbor; she was about the only person Amelia considered a friend in Seattle. She was ten years Amelia’s senior, widowed, and her only child was already away at college. If it weren’t for Paula, Amelia wasn’t quite certain how she would have managed. It was Paula who’d volunteered to watch the children. To mind Timmy during the day, and Amelia had been so far out of her depth, that she’d gratefully accepted. Not only was Paula unfailingly reliable, but she was a font of practical advice about babies.

And on that subject, Amelia had needed all the advice she could get.

Paula’s green eyes were nothing if not sharp, though, and there was no hope of her failing to notice the bandages Amelia had taped to her palms as she transferred Timmy to the woman’s arms. Timmy’s fingers twined around her hair and she worked the strands free, kissing his soft little fist as the other woman took him.

“I figured there must be something wrong for you to be running late,” Paula said now, smiling into Timmy’s bright eyes. “What happened?”

“I tripped when I was running. Nothing major.”

Paula looked knowing. “That’s what happens when you run before the sun even comes up.” She shook her artfully blond head. “Not like you need the exercise, either. You’re even thinner now than when you arrived in Seattle.”

Amelia frowned down at herself. She supposed it was true that her clothes hung a little more loosely on her frame these days.

“Any luck spotting the great one, himself?”

Amelia flushed. Before she’d gone into labor, Daphne had confided in Paula about the identity of her child’s father. She knew that Amelia’s choice of running trails had far more to do with him than anything else. “He was there, actually,” she admitted. “I couldn’t believe it, at first. I’ve never even spotted him before. And—” She broke off.

Paula’s eyebrows rose. “And?”

“And…nothing.” Amelia was still kicking herself. “I mean, I did nothing.” Except get run over by the man, and that truly had been unintentional. Until it had happened, she wasn’t even aware that Grayson Hunt was on the trail at all.

And then when he was there—helping her, even—she hadn’t told him who she was, hadn’t told him that if he didn’t come to some terms over his responsibilities, she was going straight to the media.

She had done absolutely nothing.

“Well, at least you know all the interviews you’ve been poring over for the past month haven’t been wasted,” Paula consoled.

Grayson hadn’t announced to the news outlets that he chose to run in a small, hilly park over an hour away from his waterfront home. That comment had been strictly off-the-cuff, captured only in a live feed moments before he’d addressed the graduating class at MIT over a year earlier. But the close proximity of the park to the restaurant where Daphne had waitressed and met Grayson had been enough reason for Amelia to try her chances there.

Goodness knows her efforts at obtaining a meeting with the man in person had been utterly futile. Regular people just couldn’t get in to see him without good reason, and she knew the second she mentioned her sister and paternity, she’d be shuffled off to his attorneys. As it was, then, the closest she’d been able to get was an appointment with some underling of his—and that was set for six months down the road.

Amelia didn’t have six months.

More importantly, Daphne didn’t have six months. If her sister’s condition was going to improve, it would take a miracle. A miracle by God, or a miracle by money.

Amelia wasn’t taking her chances, either way. She went to bed at night praying, and she started her day running in the park on the off chance that she just might encounter him.

And when she had, what had she done besides end up with her nose in the dirt?

Paula watched her. “So what are you going to do now?”

Amelia curled her fingers, feeling the bandages on her palms. It was fine to envision herself tackling Goliath head-on. But she’d never before been good at confrontations, never been good at fighting battles.

That had been Daphne’s strong suit, and even she had chosen not to fight for her child’s rights. If it hadn’t been for the way she and Amelia had been raised, that fact would have had Amelia wondering if Daphne could somehow be mistaken. Her sister had never lacked for male company, even though she’d kept her companions away from her children and her home.

But Amelia did remember how it had been for them as children. Both she and Daphne knew what it felt like to be acknowledged by a father only because the law had forced it, so it wasn’t surprising that Daphne had shied away from forcing that issue herself.

“The only answer I can still think of is to go to the media if he does threaten me with a lawsuit like he threatened Daphne,” Amelia admitted.

Paula looked uncertain. “It’s pretty rare for anything unflattering about the Hunts to make it into the news.”

Which left the gossip rags, they both knew, who’d lap up anything salacious about the wealthy man. “I hate the idea. I don’t want the world looking at Daphne. Or the children. But I have to do something, Paula. He’s my last hope where my sister is concerned. Even the attorney I hired has told me that Daphne’s case is at a standstill. She has no health insurance and unless it’s privately financed, there is no hope of her receiving the kind of care and therapy that could improve her condition.”

“Honey, I hate to say it, but even if you find a way to get her into that rehabilitation institute you found, Daphne might not improve. I know it’s tragic, but she did have a major stroke the likes of which many people don’t even survive.”

The doctors—all but one—had claimed the same thing. “She’s my sister,” Amelia said quietly. “She and the kids are all I have. I have to try.”

“Even if it means going against Grayson Hunt? Once that lawyer of his threatened Daphne with that lawsuit when she notified him of her pregnancy, she vowed never to acknowledge his existence again.”

How well Amelia knew that. Daphne was a fighter, but she’d had her pride, as well.

“I have to try,” she said again.

It was the only thing she could do.

Chapter Three

It wasn’t all that easy tracking down Miss Amelia White, Gray learned later that day. Not even for him. It would have been much easier if he’d delegated the task to someone else, but something kept him from doing so.

Stubborn pride, probably.

Hell. His brothers had managed to find wives without calling out the HuntCom dogs to help. The fact that Gray had to force himself not to do just that seemed to point out the difference between him and Harry’s other sons. They’d all been prepared to sacrifice their HuntCom ties for the women that they’d chosen. Women that they’d—amazingly enough—convinced themselves they’d fallen in love with.

Gray was happy enough for his brothers, even though he figured it was just a matter of time before the happy fog cleared from their heads.

They were Harry’s sons, after all.

What did any of them know about making a marriage work?

But what Gray did know was that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—sacrifice HuntCom for anything. He might as well stop breathing. So he’d tackled the task of finding Amelia, himself.

Even though he’d given her his private number, he wasn’t going to wait around on the chance that she might phone him. Not when he considered her wariness where he was concerned. It would take a miracle for her to use that number.

And Gray wasn’t a big believer in miracles.

Fortunately, the cab company had a record of the address where that particular fare had been dropped. And when money hadn’t provided the impetus to release the data, some computer hacking had.

Now he sat at his desk in his downtown apartment that evening, his earpiece tucked in his ear, and worked his way down the list of phone numbers assigned to every apartment inside Amelia’s building.

Unfortunately, none of the phone numbers belonged to an Amelia White, so it was a matter of calling every number.

Call, after call, after call. “Amelia White, please. Wrong number? Pardon me. Sorry for the interruption.”

Most times, he didn’t even get to the “pardon me” part.

He recited the next number. “Amelia White, please,” he said automatically when the call was answered.

“She’s busy right now. Who is this?”

He almost missed it, so accustomed was he to failure. He sat up straighter, eyeing the display on the desk unit of his voice-activated telephone.

The voice that had answered was male. Young. Maybe on the verge of puberty considering the way it seemed to crack.

“This is Gray.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose again, stifling an oath. “Matthew Gray,” he corrected. “Who is this?”

“Jack. What do you want?”

The kid didn’t lack nerve, that’s for certain. “I want to talk to Amelia.”

“What for?”

“Do you always give her callers the third degree?”

“My aunt doesn’t have callers,” the boy returned.

Aunt. The nugget of information made Gray smile. So Amelia had a niece and a nephew. “I’m calling to see how she’s feeling after her tumble in the park this morning.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I was there.”

The boy sighed a little. “She’s in the bathtub,” he supplied grudgingly.

Every nerve inside of Gray tightened at the image that immediately jumped into his head of Amelia’s curves glistening with water.

Was she a bubble bath kind of girl?

Or was she strictly in it for the Epsom salts route, given the way he’d plowed into her?

He pinched his eyes shut. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never lacked for feminine company when he wanted it, but his reaction was more like a man who’d gone hungry for it for about a decade too long.

“Could you tell her I’m on the phone?” Decency should have had him leaving a message with the boy, but Gray didn’t have time to pussyfoot around with the good manners his all-about-appearances mother had tried to drill into him during their infrequent visits. Besides, he didn’t expect that Amelia would return his call.

“Yeah. I guess. Hold on.” A clatter blasted through Gray’s earpiece and he winced, pulling it off even as he hit the speaker on the desk unit and waited.

“H-hello?”

For some reason, she sounded even younger when she finally came on the phone line. “How’re the knees?”

She exhaled softly. In his mind’s eye, he saw the soft purse of her lips, the sweep of her lashes hiding her brown eyes from him. “Sore. I was, um, soaking them.”

And everything else. “Epsom salts?”

“I…what? Oh. No, I don’t have any of that.”

“Should have picked some up when you stocked up on bandages. Good for taking the pain out of sore muscles and stuff.”

“I have heard of it,” she said, sounding slightly affronted. “And you seem awfully certain that I did stock up on bandages. Maybe I used your money for—oh, I don’t know—a manicure.”

He was reasonably confident that she hadn’t. Her slender fingers had been entirely natural, the nails trimmed short and neat. The women he knew paid ridiculous sums to keep their hands looking unnaturally natural. “Did you?”

She sighed a little. “Not exactly. How did you find this number, anyway?” Her voice was suspicious.

He glanced at the list. The phone number belonged to some woman named Mason. The mother of the niece and nephew? “I’ve called nearly every number listed for your building.”

“And you knew which building, because—”

“Because the cab company said that’s where you were dropped.”

She was silent for a moment as if she were trying to figure him out. “Why would you go to such trouble, Mr. Gray?”

“Matt.”

“Fine.” Her voice sounded suddenly tight. “Matt.”

“Because I’m that kind of guy.”

Her silence was loud.

He tried again. “Because I’ve thought about you all day.” There was more truth than he liked in the admission.

“I can’t imagine why.”

“There is the small matter of your bloodied knees and hands,” he reminded. “How old is your nephew?”

“Jack?” Her soft voice lifted again with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious. You mentioned your niece. Didn’t mention a nephew.”

“He’s twelve,” she supplied. “Look, I really have to be going.”

“Bathwater getting cold?” Evidently he was developing a masochistic streak. Why else punish himself with the vision of her delicately placing one foot into the tub, followed by the other. Steamy water lapping at her calves, then her thighs as she lowered herself. Sank back against the side, water climbing higher, tickling the base of her throat, the point of her slightly triangular chin.

“If you must know, yes, it is getting cold.”

He eyed the speakerphone, as if he could see her face, instead. “Did you think about me today?”

Silence reigned again, broken only by the background noise of that tinny television. “You have no idea,” she finally answered.

“Don’t sound so solemn.”

She made a soft sound. He couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or something else. “Look, Mr. Gray. Matt. I…I appreciate your efforts in making certain that I’m okay, but I think it’s best if we just—”

A sound broke out that made the hair on Gray’s nape stand on end.

A baby’s cry.

“That’s a baby.” He stated the obvious. Another nephew? Or hers? She’d said she wasn’t married. But women had babies all the time these days without benefit of marriage.

“My nephew,” she said. “Timmy. And I have to see to him, as you can plainly hear.”

“Are you playing babysitter or something?” he asked, speaking a little more loudly to be heard above the wail that was drawing closer to the telephone.

Either she’d gone to pick up the baby, or someone had brought the baby to her. Jack, maybe. Or the other one. Molly.

“Or something.” Her voice was short. “I’m watching them for my sister. This is their place.” She neatly satisfied Gray’s speculation. “He’s three months old,” she said suddenly.

What he knew about babies would fit on the head of a pin and his ignorance hadn’t been without design. “Sounds like he’s got a healthy set of lungs.”

“He’s hungry.”

“What about you? Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

She made a strangled sound that not even the baby’s crying could disguise. “I’m sorry, Mr.…Matt. I have to go now.”

The crying was cut off midwail to be replaced by the soft buzz of the dial tone.

Dammit.

He jabbed the phone with his finger and the dial tone went silent. He pushed at his desk, his chair swiveling around to face the windows behind him. But he didn’t see beyond his own frustrated reflection, glaring back at him.

Smooth, Gray. Really smooth. He hadn’t been turned down so flatly, so abruptly, in well…ever.

His phone buzzed softly and he glanced at the caller ID. He grimaced and jabbed the speaker. “What’s up, Marissa?”

“Hello to you, too,” his attorney drawled, sounding amused. “You’re sounding rather tense, darling. Anything I can do to help?”

If only it were that simple. Marissa Matthews was a beautiful, leggy redhead who’d make the perfect wife for him. Independent, never demanding, perfectly accustomed to the requirements of being a Hunt. If he could have made a bargain with her to become his wife, he would have. Only she already knew who he was; and had made it plain all the way back when they were in school together that she’d be happy to marry only money.

“Not this time,” Gray told her. “You get the paperwork from Birchman signed?”

“Not yet. But don’t worry. I will. He’s got no choice. He either sells his little operation to HuntCom at a very tidy sum, or he goes under. It’s a slam dunk. You made sure of that, remember?”

He had. Tying up every possible venue for Edward Birchman to market his so far barely noticed software.

It was something Gray was good at. HuntCom hired the best developers in the world as a general rule, but Gray still kept his eye on what was going on outside of HuntCom walls. And when he spotted something that was going to be good, going to be big, he usually managed one way or another to bring it into the fold.

To everyone’s profit, except HuntCom competitors.

“That’s not why I called, though,” Marissa said. “Unless you went out and purchased a yacht this afternoon—when I know you were supposed to be meeting with your father—I’m afraid that Gerry’s up to his tricks again.”

Gray grimaced. Gerry Dunleavy was Gray’s half brother on his mother’s side. Christina had married two more times after she’d been given the boot by Harry when Gray was still a tot. She’d only produced one other child, though, Gerry, from husband number three. And considering old Dunleavy was a contemporary of Moses when he’d married Christina, that was pretty much a medical miracle.

Gerry was ten years younger than Gray, and a royal pain in his backside given his proclivity for using Gray’s name whenever it suited his purposes. And one of Marissa’s tasks in life for Gray—for which he paid her handsomely—was to keep on top of Gerry’s activities and keep him out of the news.

Personally, Gray avoided dealing with Gerry himself. Not hard, since they detested one another. He simply didn’t want Gerry’s behavior to reflect poorly on HuntCom.

“What the hell does Gerry need with a yacht? Christina’s already got one courtesy of Daddy Dunleavy. He left it to her in his will.” And Lord knew there was nothing that Christina ever denied Gerry.

Of course she conveniently left it to Gray to clean up whatever messes resulted from that particular habit.

“I guess a three-year-old yacht isn’t good enough for Gerry. How do you want me to handle it?”

He’d like to launch Gerry off the nearest pier and never see his hide again.

There was no affection lost between them. As it was, Gray saw their mother only when he absolutely couldn’t avoid it. But Gerry was fully aware that Gray didn’t want their family laundry aired in public, despite the distance between them.

Not when there was already enough Hunt family business bandied about. “How much did he spend?”

Marissa told him.

Gray winced. “If I’m buying it, find out where he’s planning to dock it, and make damn sure it’s insured.” The last time Gerry had acquired something in Gray’s name, it had been a sports car that he’d totaled within hours of driving it off the lot, and they hadn’t been so quick.

The only miracle was that Gerry hadn’t hurt anyone. Not even himself.

The roadside diner down near Portland that he’d slammed into, however, had gotten itself rebuilt, bigger and better than ever, courtesy of a quiet meeting that Marissa had arranged with the owners within hours of the accident. Gray had been out of the country, but Marissa had acted promptly. Gerry hadn’t even turned a hair when Gray had later laid into him for his carelessness. The expense of it all was covered from Gray’s personal account, and Gerry had been happy to remind Gray that he’d never even miss the chunk.

It was true, but that had hardly been the point.

“Look at the bright side,” Marissa said. “It’s been an entire year since Gerry pulled a stunt like this.”

“Yeah. A year when I’d stupidly let myself think he’d outgrown being jealous of me.”

“Darling, I hate to tell you, but that is never going to happen. Gerry had the misfortune of being born well after Christina ceased being your father’s wife. Old Dunleavy left her perfectly well-off, but it was peanuts compared to what you’ve got as a Hunt.”

What he would keep as a Hunt only if he solved his wife and child dilemma, Gray amended silently.

Justin, J.T. and Alex had all held up their ends of the bargain. But if Gray failed now, they’d all lose. His brothers, his new sisters-in-law and scores of HuntCom employees who depended on the company for their livelihood. “Thanks for keeping on top of it, Marissa.”

“It’s what you pay me for,” she said smoothly. “I’m having breakfast with Birchman tomorrow. I should have the papers on your desk by nine.” She rang off without fanfare.

Despite that positive assurance, the results of the evening had definitely left a sour taste in his mouth.

He still had several reports to read in preparation for the following morning, but he had no patience for them just then.

He dragged the list of telephone numbers in front of him and studied the name that he’d circled.

Daphne Mason. The name on the phone listing.

One call to Marissa and he knew she could have a dossier on his desk within twenty-four hours that would tell him everything he ever wanted—and didn’t want—to know about Amelia White and her sister, presumably Daphne Mason.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. Turned to his computer and ran a search on both women’s names, coming up with a plethora of useless matches from nuns to rock singers.

He pulled out his cell phone and hit J.T.’s number, only receiving his brother’s voice mail in response. He disconnected without leaving a message.

What would he have said?

He’d put off toeing Harry’s line for so damn long, that he had them all in danger of losing everything they’d ever worked for.

The phone vibrated in his palm. “Figured you were playing newlywed with your bride,” he answered.

“I beg your pardon?”

The voice was female. Smooth. Lilting.

Definitely not J.T.

“Amelia.” There was no baby crying in the background this time. No television that he could hear. No other voices at all—childish or adult. “Sorry about that. I thought you were my brother.”

“Oh. Well, I—”

“I didn’t mean to scare you off earlier. About dinner.”

“You didn’t.”

She was a poor liar. He could hear it in her voice. And now that she’d called, he was going to make darn sure not to take another misstep. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

She hesitated so long he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. And then, when she did answer, it was in one heck of a rush. “Wecouldmeetforcoffee.”

Fortunately, he was a native Seattleite. Coffee flowed in his veins, and he understood any sentence containing that magic word just fine. “Sure. Sounds good.” Better than good, if his lightening mood was any indication. “You said you’re new to the area. Do you have a place in mind?” He’d prefer to name the place so that he could pick the setting and be assured that nobody would blow his cover. But he was treading carefully—an act that did not come naturally to him.

She named a coffeehouse that he’d never heard of, though, taking the decision out of his hands. “It’s near the running park,” she told him. “The, um, the day after tomorrow? Around seven? In the morning, I mean,” she added hurriedly.

He didn’t have to guess hard to tell that she was not in the habit of asking men to meet her. Not when she was practically tripping over her words in the process. “Perfect.”

She hesitated again. “Really? You won’t be running at that hour or something?”

He didn’t bother reminding her that it had been well before 7:00 a.m. when he’d tripped over her on the running path. Nor did he have to look at his calendar to know that two days from now, he had a breakfast meeting at five, followed by departmental meetings starting at exactly seven. “Really,” he assured her. “Seven is ideal.”

In this instance, everyone else would have to work their schedules around his.

“Okay then. I’ll…I’ll see you then. Matt.”

He looked out the window again, seeing his reflection and the faint smile playing around his lips. “I’m looking forward to it. Amelia.”

The fact that the words were true wasn’t something he was going to delve into too deeply.

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