said there was good in every situation. Bailey didn’t quite believe that; what was so good about having a stroke take a parent out at age thirty-five? But Bailey did believe in never giving up. Her mother would have wanted her to stay strong and believe in herself, even now when she’d never felt more alone.
In the busy city center, with traffic and pedestrians grinding by, she’d pulled out her bus timetable and had found a suitable link when a familiar voice drew her ear. Masculine. Tense. The tone sent simultaneous chills and familiar warmth racing over her skin. She hadn’t heard that voice in over a year. Back then it had told her not to come home begging.
Her heart beating high in her throat, Bailey looked carefully over her shoulder. Her father stood on the curb, phone pressed to his ear, announcing his displeasure over a jury verdict gone wrong.
In an instant, Bailey couldn’t draw enough breath. She had the bizarre urge to run—both toward her father and away from him. Never would she have simply waltzed up to his door and thrown out her arms, and yet now—with him available such a short distance away—she couldn’t help but relive those much earlier days … times when her dad had taken her horseback riding, or suffered answering inane questions from an eight-year-old while he worked on depositions. When she’d come down with tonsillitis he’d rushed her to the doctor. He’d even taken time off to nurse her back, complete with spoon-fed antibiotics.
And that was a full year after her mother had died.
Bailey’s throat convulsed at the same time her eyes misted over.
He was right there.
A now-or-never feeling fell through her middle as she moved one foot forward, and another. Maybe he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. So final. Maybe he wouldn’t turn her away. She was his only child, after all. Perhaps he’d cry out in surprise and wrap his arms around her. Tell her that he’d missed her and ask that she come home with him now. Straight away.
An uncertain smile quivering on her lips, she’d cut the distance separating them by half when a cab swung into the curb. Before Bailey could think to call out, Damon Ross had flung open the door and, phone still at his ear, slid into the backseat. Her hand was in the air, a single word on her tongue, when the cab cut into a break in traffic and shot away.
Her hand lowered and stomach dropped. Blinking furiously, she fought back the bite of rising tears and disappointment. But, no matter how much it hurt, that bad timing was probably best. The cab swerving in at that exact moment had saved her from herself. Her father had said she’d regret dropping out of school and while that was one thing he’d been right about, there was a whole lot more that had never needed to be said. But it was too late for those kind of regrets. Nothing could be done about the past.
Determined, Bailey walked a straight line to the bus stop.
Now the future was all that mattered.
She’d told him five, but Bailey didn’t get back to Mateo’s mansion until six. Answering the bell, he threw open the door, took in her appearance and frowned. Bailey drew herself up, entered the foyer and fought the impulse to ease the sandals off her feet, grimy with city dirt. God, she must look like an urchin in need of a warm meal and a bath.
He closed the door. “No luck on the job front?”
“There are a few possibilities.” She firmed the line of her mouth and almost succeeded in squaring her shoulders. “I’ll be out again tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know I haven’t skipped town. I have every intention of going through with my end of the deal.” Taking up his offer of a loan and signing a contract that would legally commit her to paying every penny back, the sooner the better. She wanted this episode of her life over as much as Mateo must, too.
But then she stopped to take in his attire—custom-made trousers and a black jersey knit shirt that covered his shoulders and chest like a dream. His scent was hot and mouth-wateringly fresh. His shoes were mirror polished.
“Are you on your way out?”
Seemed she was destined to show up on his doorstep whenever he was about to head off.
“I spoke with a friend today,” he said. “We went to university together. I delivered his baby boy.”
“Having an obstetrician friend must come in handy.”
He conceded a smile. “Alex’s wife worked in real estate,” he went on in that rich deep voice that resonated like symphony base chords through the foyer. “Rental properties. Natalie still works a couple of days a week to keep her hand in.”
“Smart lady.”
And you’re telling me all this … why?
As if reading her thoughts, he explained. “Since my trip’s been delayed, I suggested we catch up for dinner. Alex thought you might like to come.”
At the same time a muscle in his jaw flexed, a wave of anticipation, and apprehension, rippled between them and Bailey fought the urge to clear her ears.
“Your friend doesn’t know me. You barely know me and, call me paranoid, but I have the impression you don’t like me much.”
His closest shoulder hitched and dropped. “We have to eat.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Since when had “he” and “she” become “we “Unless you have other plans,” he finished.
Her only other plans entailed checking into an affordable hotel. The more interesting question was, “How did you explain me to your friend?”
“I told him the truth.”
“That I took money from your grandmother and you don’t mean to let me out of your sight until I’ve paid back every cent?”
“I said you were a friend of Mama’s returned to Australia.”
Bailey held that breath. His expression was open. Given she’d kept her word and come back today, were his suspicions about her character being unfavorable starting to wane? Not that his opinion of her should matter … only, if she were completely honest, for some reason they did.
He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. “Of course, if you’re not hungry—”
“No. I mean, I am.” In fact, now that food had been mentioned, her empty stomach was reminding her she hadn’t eaten since a muffin several hours earlier. But … wincing, she looked down and felt the day’s dust on her skin. “I’ll need a shower.”
“Table’s not booked till seven-thirty.”
Bailey nibbled her lower lip. There was something else. Something any female would be reluctant to admit. “I, um, don’t have another dress.” From the look of Mateo’s crisp attire, jeans and a T-shirt wouldn’t cut it.
When his gaze skimmed her frame, her eyes widened. She’d felt that visual stroke like a warm slow touch.
He gave a sexy slanted grin. “What you’re wearing,” he said, “will be fine.”
Twenty minutes later, showered and somewhat refreshed, Bailey followed Mateo to the garage. She was determined not to drink in the way the impression of his shoulder blades rolled beneath that black shirt or recall how delectable that back had looked so bronzed
