and sneakers will be fine.” Her laugh sounded strained. “I don’t suppose your grandson will care what I’m wearing.”
“My grandson. Lord, don’t remind me. I’m still getting used to that idea.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about an innocent baby who’ll need a world of love—and a young girl learning to be a mother. You’ll need to be there for both of them.”
Isn’t that where you come in? Wyatt knew better than to voice that thought. Leigh had expressed some strong notions about family responsibility. But wasn’t he doing enough, taking Chloe and her baby under his roof, buying everything they needed and hiring a nanny to help out?
Back when he was married, Tina had complained that he was never home—but blast it, he’d been busy working to support his wife and daughter. He’d been determined to give them a better life than he’d had growing up.
Even after the divorce he’d taken good care of them. He’d given Tina a million-dollar house, paid generous alimony and child support and always remembered Chloe’s birthday and Christmas with expensive gifts—gifts he’d never have been able to afford if he hadn’t poured so much time and energy into the resort.
Hadn’t he done enough? Was it fair that he was expected to finish raising a spoiled teenager with a baby so Tina could run off with her twenty-seven-year-old husband?
“There’s my car.” Leigh pointed to a rusting station wagon parked outside the office he’d used for the interviews. One look was enough to tell him that the car would never make it up the canyon on winter roads. He would need to get her something safe to drive before the first snowfall.
Wyatt pulled the Hummer into a nearby parking place. Steeling himself against her nearness, he climbed out and opened the door on the passenger side. Leigh was waiting for him to boost her to the ground. She leaned outward, her hands stretching toward his shoulders. Wyatt was reaching for her waist when her high heel caught on the edge of the floor mat. Yanked off balance, she tumbled forward on top of him.
He managed to break her fall—barely. For a frantic instant she clung to him, her arms clasping his neck, her skirt hiked high enough for one leg to hook his waist. But his grip wasn’t secure enough to hold her in place. Pulled by her own weight, she slid down his body. Wyatt stifled a groan as his sex responded to the delicious pressure of her curves pressed against him so intimately.
Her sudden gasp told him she’d felt his response. He glimpsed wide eyes and flaming cheeks as she slipped downward. Then her feet touched the ground and she stumbled back, breaking contact. They stood facing each other, both of them half-breathless. Her hair was mussed and one of her shoes was missing. She tugged her skirt down over her thighs.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Wyatt tried his best to laugh it off. “No, I’m fine. But that maneuver could’ve gotten us both arrested.”
Her narrowing gaze told him she didn’t appreciate his humor. It appeared that, despite her naughty little skirt, Miss Leigh Foster was a prim and proper lady. All to the good. He’d be wise to keep that in mind.
“Excuse me, but I need my shoe.” She teetered on one high-heeled pump. Wyatt retrieved the mate from the floor of the SUV, along with her brown leather purse. She took them from him, wiggling her foot into the shoe.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked her.
“Fine. I’ll be going straight to Baby Mart from here, then home. I should be knocking on your door by nightfall.”
“Plan on dinner at the house, with me. And remember you’re to say nothing about Chloe and her baby. All the people at Baby Mart need to know is who’s paying for the order and where it’s to be delivered.” He fished a business card out of his wallet and scribbled his private cell number on the back. “Any questions or problems, give me a call.”
“Got it.” She tucked the card in her purse, pulled out her keys and walked away without a backward glance. He watched her go, her deliberate strides punctuating the sway of her hips. Her clicking heels tapped out a subtle code of annoyance. Could she be upset with him?
Wyatt watched the station wagon shudder to a start, spitting gravel as it pulled into the street. No, he hadn’t read her wrong. The woman was in a snit about something.
Maybe she thought he’d pushed her too hard, giving her orders right out of the starting gate. But since he was paying her salary, it made sense to let her know what he expected. After all, he was her employer, not her lover.
And that, he mused, was too damned bad.
Returning to his vehicle, he pulled into traffic and headed toward the road that would take him out of town. He’d gone less than two blocks when he saw something ahead that hadn’t been there earlier. City workers were digging up the asphalt to fix what looked like a broken water main. Neon orange barricades blocked the roadway. A flashing detour sign pointed drivers to the right, down a narrow side street.
He’d made the right turn and was following a blue Pontiac toward the next intersection before he realized where he was. A vague nausea congealed in the pit of his stomach. He never drove this street if he could help it. There were too many memories here—most of them bad.
Most of those memories centered around the house partway down the block, on the left. With its peeling paint and weed-choked yard, it looked much the same as when he’d lived there growing up. Wyatt willed himself to look away as he passed it, but he’d seen enough to trigger a memory—one of the worst.
He’d been twelve at the time, coming home one summer night after his first real job—sweeping up at the corner grocery. The owner, Mr. Papanikolas, had paid him two dollars and given him some expired milk and a loaf of bread to take home to his mother. It wasn’t much, but every little bit helped.
His mouth had gone dry when he’d spotted his father’s old Ranchero parked at the curb. Pops had come by, most likely wanting money for the cheap whiskey he drank. He didn’t spend much time at home, but he knew when his wife got paid at the motel. If she gave him the cash, there’d be nothing to live on for the next two weeks.
Wyatt was tempted to stay outside, especially when he heard his father’s cursing voice. But he couldn’t leave his mother alone. Pops would be less apt to hurt her if he was there to see.
Leaving the bread and milk by the porch, he mounted the creaking steps and pushed open the door. By the light of the single bulb he saw his mother cowering on the ragged sofa. Her thin face was splotched with red, her eye swollen with a fresh bruise. His father, a hulking man in a dirty undershirt, loomed over her, his hands clenched into fists.
“Give me the money, bitch!” he snarled. “Give it to me now or you won’t walk out of this house!”
“Don’t hurt her!” Wyatt sprang between them, pulling the two rumpled bills out of his pocket. “Here, I’ve got money! Take it and go!”
“Out of my way, brat!” Cuffing Wyatt aside, he raised a fist to punch his wife again. Wyatt seized a light wooden chair. Swinging it with all his twelve-year-old strength, he struck his father on the side of the head.
The blow couldn’t have done much damage. But it hurt enough to turn the man’s rage in a new direction. One kick from a heavy boot sent the boy sprawling. The last
