tion>
“You have a reputation as a gifted children’s speech pathologist. But you turned your back on a career….”
“You don’t have any idea!”
“I don’t have to.” Gavin held up a hand. “I’m a father. I’d slay dragons and storm fortresses if it would make my son the way he was. I can’t help him, but you can.”
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t buy that. You got positive results in the past. Why not now?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No. That’s true. But the fact is I’m not giving up until I get one.”
M.J. recognized the determination on his dark features. “An explanation? It’s called survival, Mr. Spencer. I simply can’t get wrapped up in a child. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have the heart. My son took it with him when he died.”
At The Millionaire’s Request
Teresa Southwick
TERESA SOUTHWICK
lives with her husband in Las Vegas, the city that reinvents itself every day. An avid fan of romance novels, she is delighted to be living out her dream of writing for Silhouette Books.
To speech-language pathologist Christine Rosenthal who patiently and in great detail answered all my questions about what she does.
To my friend and middle school teacher, Connie Howard, who reminded me that her niece Christine is an SLP.
To my friend and kindergarten teacher, Marilyn Tobin, who was at dinner with Connie and me when grateful parents stopped to thank her for her dedication to their son.
The encounter inspired this book. The three of you are an inspiration to me and all your students in spite of the way it sometimes feels.
Teachers rock!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
G avin Spencer would make a deal with the devil if it would help his son.
And this just might be hell, he thought, staring at the high school kid with his red-tipped, spiked Mohawk and so many piercings it looked like he’d fallen face-first into a tackle box.
“In the office they said I could find M. J. Taylor here,” he said to the teen sprawled in a student desk.
“Who?”
“Your teacher.”
“You mean, the sub?”
“If M. J. Taylor is your substitute teacher, then yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, that’s who I mean,” Gavin answered, barely holding on to his temper.
He didn’t have time for this. Every minute he wasted was a minute of normal that his son Sean wouldn’t have.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Gavin asked.
“Why do you want her?”
In two seconds he’d grab this skinny, disrespectful spiky-haired worm and shake him till his piercings fell out. Huffing out a long breath, Gavin counted to ten. Manhandling a kid was most likely not the way to get what he wanted.
“It’s none of your concern why I want her. I just do. Where is she?”
Spike shrugged. “Took Evil E to the office.”
Evil E? Gavin really was in hell and it was getting more difficult by the second to believe M. J. Taylor was the angel he’d been promised by his son’s doctor.
At that moment the door opened and a woman walked in accompanied by a male student. To Gavin’s immense relief her blond hair was perfectly normal, worn straight to just past her shoulders. Her only piercings were silver hoops in her ears where piercings were supposed to be. She looked very young, but her navy slacks, long-sleeved white cotton blouse and sensible low-heeled shoes told him she wasn’t a teenager. He couldn’t say the same for the white-faced ghoul dressed in black beside her.
Gavin stared at the newcomer. “This must be the infamous Evil E.”
The kid glowered more, if possible. “Famous? Is that good?”
“Infamous,” she corrected, frowning at Gavin. “His name is Eveleth, you fill in the blanks.” Then she looked at the kid. “Your homework is to look that word up in the dictionary.”
“But I’m suspended.” The tone was just this side of insolence.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have homework. It simply means you have several days of time out to think about your behavior and figure out how to make it acceptable in the classroom before coming back to school.”
“I didn’t start it. He did.” Lifting a finger, he pointed at Spike.
“You were supposed to be gone, Sullivan,” she said to hardware face.
“I was waiting for him to come back for his stuff.” The languid teen instantly jumped up and went for the ghoul, shoving the sub out of the way.
Recovering quickly, she got between them and tried to break it up. “Knock it off, you two,” she grunted, pushing against ghoul’s chest.
For all the attention they paid her, she might have been an ant between two chihuahuas. But the stubborn look on her face said she wasn’t giving
