“I’m not afraid of you.”

He did another one of those slow, lingering perusals of her face and her cheeks burned under his gaze. “Maybe you should be.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she should be afraid. But she wasn’t. She straightened her spine and the action closed some of the distance between them, bringing her breasts to within a micrometer of his chest.

“Maybe,” she said. “But none of the Cains have power over me anymore. I’ve made sure of that.”

Of course, that was a bald-faced lie, because if he found out the truth, then he most certainly would have power over her. A lot of it.

Dear Reader,

Usually I use this space to talk about the book you’re about to read, but today I wanted to talk about something else. The people who help make my books possible—my editors.

I’ve written seventeen books so far. In that time I’ve worked with eight editors, all of whom have their own strengths and all of whom have made me a better writer. Brenda Chin bought my first book, a Temptation. She taught me so much about how to tighten a story and layer in conflict and emotion. MJ, the editor who brought me from Temptation to Desire™, eased that transition for me. She taught me how to write the big emotional, high drama stories of the Mills & Boon® Desire™ line. Stacy Abrams (my editor at Walker Books) helped me refine my language and tighten up the relationships between characters. And then, there’s Charles, my current editor for Desire, who is perhaps the most fun to work with. Perhaps that’s because I’ve always felt like he really got me as a writer. Plus, he is the most fun at conferences, which makes me the envy of all my writer friends.

All of my editors have worked so hard to make my books better. I cannot imagine my life as a writer without them. Editing is so much more than merely tweaking language. Editors bring an impersonal eye to the story. They point out inconsistencies in character and story that a writer is simply too close to the story to see. They find the things we miss. They see what we cannot.

For all the editors I have worked with, as well as all the other behind-the-scenes folks, thank you!

Emily McKay

About the Author

EMILY MCKAY has been reading romance novels since she was eleven years old. Her first romance book came free in a box of Hefty garbage bags. She has been reading and loving romance novels ever since. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA® Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.EmilyMcKay.com.

All He Ever
Wanted
Emily McKay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Brenda, Tanya, MJ, Diana, Krista, Stacy, Michelle,

and—perhaps most important!—Charles.

None of my books would be possible without you!

Prologue

By all appearances, Hollister Cain—at sixty-seven years old and recovering from his third massive heart attack—was an inch from death, but it was an inch he clung to with the same ferocity with which he’d ruled the Cain empire for the past forty-four years.

It wasn’t love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons—two legitimate, one bastard—and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them.

Six weeks before, when his health had taken such a drastic turn for the worse, the first-floor study of his house in the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood of Houston had been converted into a state-of-the-art hospital room. Hollister’s ornately carved mahogany desk had been removed, along with the leather wingback chairs and the Edwardian demilune bar.

Undaunted by three heart attacks, double bypass surgery and a failing liver, he still felt a long-term stay in the hospital was beneath him. The arrogant fool.

Though Dalton let himself into the room as silently as he could, Hollister’s eyes flickered open. He released a slow, rasping breath. “You’re late.”

“Of course I am. I was at a board meeting.”

His father would have known this since Cain Enterprises’ board of directors had met every Monday morning at eight for over twenty years. Sometimes it seemed Hollister delighted in forcing Dalton to choose between familial obligations and the company, as if Dalton needed reminding that running Cain Enterprises was a life-consuming endeavor.

Hollister gave a slight but satisfied nod, confirming what Dalton’s gut had already told him. His father was still testing him to make sure his first and only loyalty lay with the company.

“Very well.” Hollister reached for the bed’s controller with a frail, trembling hand. He seemed barely strong enough to press the button to raise the head of the bed.

The bed itself moved slowly, as if echoing Hollister’s strain, and in the moments it took for Hollister to adjust it, Dalton scanned the room again. His mother sat on the chair immediately at his father’s side, her posture stiff, even for her. Griffin Cain, Dalton’s youngest brother, stood just behind their mother, looking understandably tired since he’s just flown in from Scotland the day before. On Hollister’s other side stood Portia, Dalton’s ex-wife, seemingly more at home within the family than Dalton himself had ever felt. Portia was one of the few people both Hollister and Caro liked, which was why she was still a fixture in their lives so long after the divorce. And finally, off in the corner, gazing out the window, as far removed as ever, was Cooper Larsen, Hollister’s illegitimate son.

Cooper did not even glance in Dalton’s direction—or Hollister’s for that matter—but rather lounged negligently against the window’s frame, his expression bored, his attention elsewhere. Cooper’s disinterest didn’t surprise Dalton nearly as much as his actual presence did. Cooper had drifted around the edges of their family for years. For Hollister to have summoned him—and for him to have actually answered the call—the situation must be dire indeed.

By the time the head of the bed was raised, the heart monitor on the medical cart was beeping in a quick rhythm, as if the effort had strained Hollister, but the man’s gaze remained steady and unwavering. He reached for something on the table beside his bed. Caro Cain snapped to attention and offered up the insulated mug of ice water, carefully positioning the straw toward her husband’s mouth, but Hollister swatted it away impatiently. Instead, he grabbed the item that had been resting behind the water, an innocuous white envelope. His fingers fumbled for a minute, as if he might withdraw the contents himself. When they proved too unsteady, he thrust it toward his wife.

“Read it,” he barked, the order no less direct for the frailty of his voice.

Caro frowned as if momentarily confused by this turn of events, but then she pulled out the contents of the envelope and unfolded a single typed page. The paper was thin enough that Dalton could see the shadow of the printed words through the back of it.

Caro glanced once at her husband, who was lying back, eyes closed, hands folded over his broad chest. Then she read aloud. “‘Dear Hollister, it has come to my attention that you are ill and that it is unlikely you will recover from the deadly turn your health has taken. So at last, the devil will take back his minion here on earth. Before you criticize my choice of words, let me assure you of the tremendous restraint I have shown in not calling you the very devil himself. You see, I am no longer the ignorant twit you once accused me of being.’”

Caro paused, looking up from the letter, confusion obvious on her face. “Is this some sort of joke?” she asked.

Hollister grunted and waved his hand in a keep going gesture.

“‘Perhaps you do not even remember uttering those words, but, again, I assure you, I have never forgotten them. Not for one moment. You said them mere moments after having left my—’”

Caro’s voice broke, and she let the letter drop into her lap.

Griffin edged closer to their mother. “This is ridiculous. Why have you called us here? Just to humiliate Mother publicly?”

“Keep reading,” Hollister commanded without opening his eyes.

“I’ll read it.” Griffin reached for the letter.

“No!” barked Hollister. “Caro.”

Caro glanced first at Griffin and then at Dalton before picking the letter up again. Griffin gave her shoulder a little squeeze.

“‘Your words were spoken with such thoughtless cruelty, and for years I prayed for the opportunity to wound you as deeply as you have wounded me. And now, finally after all these years, I have found it.

“‘I know how closely you guard your little empire. How you like to control everyone under your domain. How you manipulate—’” her voice broke on the word and she had to swallow before continuing “‘—and control all those within your fami—’”

Dalton had had enough. He strode forward and snatched the letter out of his mother’s hands. Perhaps Hollister didn’t realize the strain he was placing on his wife by forcing her to read the letter aloud, but more likely, he just didn’t care.

Dalton scanned the letter and then tossed it down onto the bed so that it landed on his father’s chest. He dropped it by instinct, so strong was the hatred and venom in the letter. He was almost surprised that the thing didn’t burst into flames and burn a hole clear through Hollister. It had obviously been crafted to wound him. Since it hadn’t killed him yet, Dalton summed up the contents of the letter for the others, though he assumed they would eventually all read it themselves.

“She claims to have given birth to a daughter of Hollister’s—the missing heiress, she calls her. She refuses to tell Hollister anything other than that. She intends for it to be a form of torture for Hollister, going to his deathbed, knowing that he will never find this daughter of his.”

Dalton looked first at his mother and then at Griffin. Griffin’s hand had tightened on their mother’s shoulder, and she seemed to be summoning the kind of strength that had served her so well through the many years of her marriage. Of course they all knew about Hollister’s philandering: Cooper was living proof of it.

Cooper pushed himself away from the window frame, speaking without even glancing in Hollister’s direction. “So the old man has even more bastard children. I hardly see what that has to do with us.”

Personally, Dalton was inclined to agree. Didn’t he have enough on his plate running Cain Enterprises?

Before anyone else could comment, Hollister opened his eyes again. “I want you to find her.”

“You want me to find her?” Cooper asked.

“All of you,” Hollister wheezed. “Any of you.”

Perfect. This was exactly what Dalton needed: more responsibility. “I’m sure we can find a private investigator who specializes in this sort of thing.”

“No P.I.s,” Hollister barked. “Against the rules.”

“Rules?” Griffin asked. “You want us to find her. Fine. We’ll find her. But this isn’t some sort of game.”

Hollister’s cracked lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Not a game. A test.”

Cooper let out a bark of bitter laughter. “Of course it is. Why else would you have asked me to come if it didn’t involve me having to somehow prove that I was worthy of being your son?”

“Don’t be ridic—” Hollister broke off as a series of body-wrenching coughs seized him “—ridiculous. The test is—” more coughing “—for all of you.”

“Regardless of the rules, I have better things to do with my time than to jump through your hoops,” Griffin said. “So you can count me out. I’m not interested.”

“Me neither,” said Cooper.

“You will be.”

Hollister said it with such absolute conviction a chill went through Dalton. Their father may be weak—he may even be dying—but Dalton had learned long ago that Hollister never spoke with conviction unless he knew he could back it up.

As if he’d read Dalton’s thoughts, Hollister turned his rheumy blue gaze to Dalton. “You will all be interested, because whichever one of you finds this missing heiress will inherit all of Cain Enterprises.”

Well, that certainly changed things.

Dalton had always known his father was a jerk, but this? He’d never imagined his father was capable of this.

Dalton had devoted his life to Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. “And what happens if no one finds her?” he found himself asking.

A hush seemed to fall over the room as Hollister sucked in one rattling breath after another before finally whispering, “My entire fortune will revert to the state.”

One

“He’s not really going to do it,” Griffin said, as he unlocked the door to his condo and stepped aside to let Dalton in. “Cain Enterprises means as much to him as it does to any of us. He’d never let the state sell off his share of the company.”

“If it was any other man, I’d agree.” Dalton waited until Griffin had flipped on the lights before walking into the living room. “But he doesn’t bluff. You know that.”

Griffin owned the penthouse condo of the downtown high-rise where Dalton also lived. When Portia had asked for a divorce, Dalton had purchased the condo two floors down from Griffin’s. The building was close to work but overpriced. Its main appeal was that because he’d been to Griffin’s condo, he could buy it without having to waste a day following around some Realtor.

Griffin’s condo was decorated in sleek cream leather and a lot of chrome. It was expensive and modern and, Dalton also thought, overly stark. On the other hand, his own condo was still decorated in mid-century-kicked-out-of-my-house-style, so he had little room to criticize.

Dalton headed straight for the sectional that dominated the space in front of the TV. Griffin gestured toward the wet bar tucked into the corner. He nodded to the row of bottles. “What’ll you have?”

Dalton glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon.”

“Right. After Dad’s little bombshell, I think a drink is called for.”

“Fine.” Who was he to argue a point like that? And maybe a stiff drink would steady the rug that felt like it had been jerked out from under his feet. “I’ll have a scotch.”

Griffin rolled his eyes as if to say he thought Dalton was an idiot. Then he pulled out several bottles—none of which contained scotch—and started pouring splashes into a cocktail shaker.

“Do you have any idea if he can legally do this?”

“Unfortunately, I think he can.” Dalton ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Mother will still get all of their co-mingled assets—the houses, cars and their money. But all of his Cain stock is his to do with as he pleases. It would have been split evenly between the three of us. Now, who knows what will happen.”

“I figure you have the most to lose here. What are you going to do?”

Dalton slipped out of his jacket and draped it over the arm of the sofa. Sighing, he sat down and scrubbed a hand down his face. When it came to this crazy scheme of his father’s, he undoubtedly had the most to lose. He’d devoted his entire life to becoming the perfect future CEO of Cain Enterprises. Every choice he’d made from the time he was ten—from his hobbies as a child to his extracurricular activities in high school, to his college education, to the woman he married—had been about Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to let his father piss it all away on a whim.

“One option is to wait until the bastard actually dies and then take the matter to court.”

Griffin popped the top on the silver shaker and then gave it a vigorous jiggle. “At which point, all Father’s assets will be tied up in litigation for a decade or so. Good plan.”

Dalton leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “If he wasn’t already on his deathbed, I’d kill him for this.”

“I’d help.” Griffin chuckled as he scooped ice into glasses and then covered the ice with whatever concoction he’d mixed up. “On the bright side, the board loves you. Even if Father’s assets did revert to the state, all his Cain stock would be sold, right? He alone doesn’t even have a controlling majority. The board would most likely keep you on.”

“And then you could keep your job as VP of international relations as well.”

Griffin gave a little chuckle. “Yes. That would be ideal.”

They both knew Griffin’s job was a cushy one and not the kind he was likely to find anywhere else.

Griffin sliced a lime into wedges, squeezed one into each glass and then tossed another on top. “Sure, you’d be less insanely rich, but you’d still be CEO of Cain Enterprises.”

“That would be the best-case scenario, yes.” Dalton took the glass his brother handed him and eyed the pale green concoction. “This isn’t scotch.”

“Two years as a mixologist in college. I think I can do better than pouring you a scotch. This is me broadening your horizons.”

Dalton took a hesitant sip. It was surprisingly good, less sweet than a margarita and with enough punch to knock a grown man on his ass—especially one who’d already been knocked on his ass once that day.

“Yes, the board might keep me on.” In his experience, best-case scenarios were little more than daydreams. Reality was rarely so convenient. “It’s far more likely that one of our competitors would snatch up all that Cain stock and make a bid to take over the company. Sheppard Capital is ideally positioned right now to do just that. In which case, I would most likely be fired and Cain Enterprises would be dismantled bit by bit.”

For once, Griffin’s characteristic charming grin was pressed into a grim line. He raised his glass and said bitterly, “To our loving father.”

Dalton tapped his brother’s glass and then downed a sizable gulp, almost hoping that this drink would do him in. He and Griffin had never been particularly close. Hollister had fostered too much rivalry between them for that. Even now, though they were united in their mutual disgust for their father’s stunt, he had still pitted them against each other.

With the heat of the liquor still burning down his throat, Dalton voiced the question he had to ask: “Are you going to try to find her?”

Griffin made a face like he was about to spew cocktail across the room. “God, no. What would I want with Cain Enterprises?”

“Just had to check.” Another thought occurred to Dalton. “There’s one possibility we haven’t considered. Cooper could find the girl.”

Cooper was definitely a wild card in the equation. Dalton and Griffin had been seven and four, respectively, when Hollister brought home the then five-year-old Cooper and introduced him as his other son. He spent summers with them until Cooper’s mother passed away when Cooper was sixteen. Cooper had lived with them for nearly two years, raising as much hell as he could, before going away to college. They hadn’t exactly bonded.

Griffin tossed back the last of his drink. “Cooper could dismantle the company just as easily as Grant Sheppard could.”

True enough… Dalton stared at the murky green dregs of his drink. If Cooper found the heiress, Cain Enterprises wouldn’t be Dalton’s—not the way it was meant to be.

Griffin dribbled the last bit of the drink from the cocktail shaker into both of their glasses. “So how are you going to find this mysterious sister of ours?”

“That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” Hollister had been a philandering jerk for his entire married life. “It’s not an issue of finding the mother so much as it is narrowing down the possibilities.”

Griffin gave a bark of laughter. “Who did he meet that he didn’t sleep with?”

“Exactly. When we look at it from this direction, the list of potential mothers has to be—” Dalton just shook his head, not even wanting to imagine how many women his father could have slept with. Hollister had had at least one long-term mistress when Dalton was a child, but he was afraid Sharlene was just the tip of the iceberg.

Griffin must have remembered as well. “She could be from anywhere. Any woman, in any bar, in any state in the country.”

“Or from any number of foreign countries as well.”

Cooper had been raised in Vale, but when Dalton had done the math—which he’d been very curious about at seven—he’d figured his father hadn’t been anywhere near Colorado at the right time. However, he had been skiing in Switzerland. Since Cooper’s mother had been an Olympic-caliber skier, Dalton figured they must have met there.

Thinking aloud, Dalton said, “It would be impossible to track down every woman he might have slept with during the right time, even if we could narrow down the time frame.”

“Did you happen to notice the postmark on the letter?” Griffin asked.

“Yes. No return address, postmarked from the local mail station. Which is pretty smart, if she doesn’t want to be found. Maybe it means she lives right around the corner. Maybe it means she lives in Toronto and paid someone to mail the letter for her.”

Dalton swirled the last of the drink around the bowl of the glass as he considered their predicament. “No, the question isn’t who did he sleep with. The question is, which one of those women hated him enough afterward to do something like this?”

Griffin pretended to consider, then shrugged as if giving up. “I’d guess all of them.”

But Dalton shook his head. “No. Say what you will about him, but our father was a charming bastard. So that eliminates all the one-night stands and casual hookups. Someone had to really know him to hate him this much.”

Dalton stood and picked up his suit coat.

Griffin raised his eyebrows. “I take it you’ve had an inspiration.”

“Of a sort. If there’s someone who hates Father that much, there’s one woman who would know about it. Mrs. Fortino.”

“Our former housekeeper?”

“Exactly. She knew everything that went on in that house. She’ll be able to tell me what I need to know.”

“She retired five years ago,” Griffin pointed out. “Are you sure you can find her? Maybe she’s traveling the country in a mobile home.”

“She’s not the one I’m worried about finding.” Dalton tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s not the type to travel, and she was set in her ways even when we were kids. I’m sure she’s still in Houston.”

“Hey, you know who would know how to find her?” Griffin asked just before Dalton walked out the door.

“Our mother,” Dalton stated the obvious.

“Sure, maybe. But I was thinking of Laney.”

Dalton turned and looked at his younger brother, keeping his expression carefully blank, hiding the way his heart had leaped at the sound of her name.

“You remember Laney. Mrs. Fortino’s granddaughter. Lived with her for a while when we were in high school.”

“Yeah. I remember her.”

“She moved back to town a couple of years ago. I ran into her at a fundraiser for Tisdale. Did you know she teaches there now?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah. Weird, huh? I can’t imagine a firecracker like Laney teaching first grade at a Catholic school.”

“Guess things have changed.”

Again he tried to leave, but before he made it out the door, Griffin said, “I’m surprised you didn’t know she taught there. Aren’t you on their board?”

“Sure, but it’s a position in name only since we donate so much to the school.” Dalton pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced down at it, as if he’d just gotten a text. Then he gave the phone a little waggle to indicate he needed to go handle something. “I’ll see you later?”

This time, he didn’t give Griffin a chance to answer but beat a hasty retreat to the elevator.

He could have gone back in to work—he certainly had plenty to do—but instead he headed back to his condo so he could start the search for Matilda Fortino. Logic—as well as his gut—told him it was the first step in finding the missing heiress.

But for the first time in a long time—maybe in his life—he was questioning both. Was he seeking out Mrs. Fortino because she could lead him to the missing heiress or because she could lead him to Laney?

Of course, he knew where Laney was; at least, he knew where she worked. He hadn’t yet gone so far as to hunt down her home address. That alone said volumes.

It said almost as much about him as the lie he’d told to Griffin. Not only had he known when Laney applied at Tisdale but he’d been the one to step in and make sure she got the job. At the time, he’d told himself it was just because she was an old family friend. Of course, at the time he’d been married to Portia. Any fantasies he’d had about Laney had been distant blips from his youth.

But now, nearly a year out from his divorce, with his entire future on the line, he had to wonder. He wasn’t used to questioning his gut. But he also wasn’t used to lying. So which was it: Was he looking for the missing heiress or for Laney?

At 3:00 p.m., Laney Fortino stood in front of Tisdale Elementary School cursing the hot sun, the parents who were late for pick up, Dalton Cain and the lack of specificity of fortune cookies.

Her fortune with last night’s takeout had read: “Change is in your future.”

Then today, she’d gotten a note from the school secretary saying Dalton Cain was coming by to talk to her after school.

It was the first accurate fortune she’d gotten in her entire life, and it had done her absolutely no good. Why couldn’t it have said, “Dalton Cain is going to call” or even “Change is in your future, so tomorrow would be a great day to wear some kick-ass heels and that Betsey Johnson dress you bought on eBay. And your Spanx.”

Of course, she would never wear Spanx or heels to teach in—too much bending—and if the fortune had referenced Cain directly, she probably would have booked a flight to… oh, say, Tahiti, and been halfway around the world by now.

So instead, here she was, waiting for the last of the parents to pick up their kids, sweating in the blazing October sun in her vintage sundress she’d picked up at the thrift store and her bobby socks and Keds shoes. She was dressed like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

She didn’t actually care how she was dressed for Dalton Cain. It was just costuming, really. She might not care about how she looked, but she cared desperately what he thought about how she looked. She needed to make the right first impression.

Because there was only one reason why one of the richest, most powerful men in Houston was coming to see her. He must know her grandmother had stolen nearly a million dollars from the Cains.

Money that Laney hadn’t known anything about before she’d been granted power of attorney the year before.

Ever since discovering the extra funds in Gran’s trust, Laney had been racked with guilt wondering what to do about it. There was no way Gran had come by the money honestly. Laney knew roughly how much Gran had had when Laney had graduated from high school. No amount of frugality or clever investing could turn her meager savings into well over a million dollars in a decade.

Gran must have stolen the money from the Cains.

Laney couldn’t very well go to the authorities. It seemed unlikely they’d prosecute an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s, but what if they did? Laney couldn’t risk it. She certainly couldn’t go to the Cains and explain. Hollister was brutal and vindictive to his enemies and Caro was little better. Every time Laney tried to think of a way out of the conundrum, she pictured Gran being led away to jail in handcuffs.

She couldn’t even just give the money back. It was in an irrevocable trust, which Gran had set up to pay for her care at the assisted-living center. Laney couldn’t touch it. Her power of attorney extended only so far. So there she was trapped with the knowledge of a wrong she had no way to right. And terrified that Dalton Cain had somehow discovered the truth.

Either he was going to prosecute her defenseless eighty-three-year-old grandmother or he was going to make her return the money.

Neither option was acceptable, which meant Laney had to consider very carefully how she wanted to play this.

Her default reaction to any of the Cains—especially Dalton—was bravado and indignation. Ten years ago—when she’d last seen Dalton—she’d been a completely different person. That girl would have dressed up in her most provocative outfit, dared him to call the police and then hurled insults and cuss words at him as they hauled her off to jail. But she wasn’t that brash, rebellious girl anymore.

The previous decade had taught her moderation and restraint. She was an elementary-school teacher, for goodness’ sake. So maybe it wasn’t a bad thing she looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid, all soft, cuddly and compliant.

No sooner had the thought passed through her head than a sleek cream sedan turned the corner onto Beacon Street and headed for the school. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she knew instantly that Dalton was driving that car. Maybe it was because she was familiar with most of the cars the parents drove. Or maybe it was the way the car practically oozed down the road.

The cream car slid into one of the visitor parking spots, and sure enough, out climbed Dalton. She recognized him instantly, even though the last time she’d seen him had been more than a decade ago when she’d moved out of her grandmother’s apartment right after she turned eighteen. Today he was dressed in tan slacks and a white oxford shirt. He paused and slipped his sunglasses down to look at her over their top, as if not quite sure he recognized her. She gave a little half wave, and then he walked toward her.

Beside her, Ellie—the last of her car-pool kids—squirmed. “Ms. Fortino, you’re hurting my hand.”

“Huh?” Laney glanced down. “Oh, sorry.” She loosened her grip then gave Ellie’s hand a little rub.

Ellie frowned as she nodded suspiciously toward the parking lot. “Who’s that strange man over there? He’s been waving at you. We should go tell Principal Shippey.”

“No!” Jeez, that was just what she needed. Ellie’s mom’s Buick finally—finally!—pulled to a stop in front of the school. “He’s an… old friend of mine.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Next time, karma, okay?” she muttered as she handed Ellie into her mom’s car. Just once, she’d like to meet Dalton Cain on even footing. But instead, she was meeting him in ruffled bobby-socks footing.

Stupid, comfortable Keds shoes.

Even though he hadn’t seen her in years, Dalton instantly recognized Laney Fortino. There was no mistaking the ink-black hair that tumbled around her shoulders. She still moved with the sort of slinky sensuality that should have been at odds with her schoolteacher clothing but somehow wasn’t. She had the same alabaster skin and same wide, smiling mouth.

She was dressed in a floral sundress that hit her midcalf and fluttered as she moved. A small girl stood by her side, her hand wrapped in Laney’s. The girl chattered, pointing down the street at a car pulling slowly to the curb. Though a few kids were still loitering at the edges of school property, most of the students seemed to have cleared out.

For a second, the sight of her standing there stopped him dead in his tracks. A jolt of pure desire shot through him. Laney had been one of those girls who had skipped over the awkwardness of adolescence and gone straight from girl to sex goddess—a role she’d reveled in because it irritated her strict grandmother and her benefactors, his parents. It had irritated him as well, though he’d tried not to let it show. Now, womanhood had softened the raw edges of her sexuality. Her sensuality was more subtle but more attractive as well.

Before now, he questioned whether he’d done her any favors when he’d helped her get this job three years ago. He wondered if she could temper her rebellious nature enough to teach first grade—in a wealthy, conservative private school, no less. The Laney he’d known as a teenager had scorned the wealthy and despised their hypocrisies. Now she was teaching their kids.

Watching her today, he’d have never guessed that flowing dress camouflaged her defiant nature—until she bent to speak to the little girl by her side. Then, the strap of her sundress slipped to reveal the swirling line of a tattoo on her shoulder. That was more like it.

She looked at him, the full lines of her mouth flattened into disapproval. Well, one thing hadn’t changed. She still hated him. He couldn’t really blame her after the way he’d treated her.

Laney said something to the girl, giving her hand a pat. There was something intrinsically feminine and graceful about her appearance but certainly nothing refined or elegant. For some reason, he thought of his ex-wife then. Portia wouldn’t be caught dead in a fluttery floral sundress and… were those sneakers Laney had on? He’d been married to Portia for eight years, and he wasn’t even sure she had sneakers. For that matter, Portia wouldn’t be caught dead standing outside a school, holding a child’s hand.

Only after Laney had helped the little girl into the Buick and turned to face him with a sort of stalwart determination did he wonder why he was even thinking about Portia and Laney in the same thought. The two women were nothing alike. He’d been intimately and emotionally involved with Portia, but with Laney… He hardly knew how to describe his relationship with her. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what he was doing here.

As Dalton stepped up onto the sidewalk, he pulled his glasses off and slid them into his shirt pocket. “Hello, Laney.”

“Um. Hi. Dalton.” Her words came out choked and awkward, as though she’d forgotten how to talk altogether. Jeez, between the sneakers and being suddenly struck nearly mute, this was so not her day.

She knew it was nerves—and fear—that had tied her tongue into knots. It had nothing to do with the fact that Dalton had grown into a man of such arresting attractiveness that she could hardly pull air into her lungs when he looked at her.

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” he asked, nodding toward the building.

“Yes. My classroom.” But instead of walking inside, Laney found herself just standing there, trying not to stare at Dalton. His face was still lean, his lips still full. His dark hair still curled slightly, as if in rebellion against the relentless structure he imposed on his life.

Then, unexpectedly, she found herself looking into his eyes, as if he’d been studying her in return. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she jerked her eyes away from his.

He kept his gaze on her. She could practically feel it. “You look good, Laney.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She did not look good—not standing here in her thrift-store dress and her bobby socks, at the end of a long day of working with children. She’d once come home to find a Cheeto stuck in her hair. So she knew for a fact that she did not look good—at least not the way he looked good.

However, his relaxed greeting calmed her. Maybe he didn’t know about the money. If he did, wouldn’t he have started with that? But if he wasn’t here about the money, then why was he here?

Flustered, she turned and headed for the building. “I should warn you that I can’t talk long. I teach an afterschool theater class.”

At the door, Laney paused before swiping her card past the electronic lock, only to find Dalton right behind her. She jerked back a step, and he reached out a hand to steady her.

She looked up from his hand to his face. He was standing closer than before, and she sucked in a sharp breath. How had she forgotten how blue his eyes were? They were such an unusual shade of blue too. The color of the sky—not the rich, deep sky-blue you saw when you looked straight up but the muted, almost sea-blue of the sky at the distant horizon. Cain blue, Gran had always called it.

Dalton Cain—with his Cain blue eyes. She couldn’t let herself forget, even for a moment, who this man was—or that he had the power to crush her and Gran, if he ever had reason to do so.

Jerking her arm away from him, she asked, “What is it you want from me?”

“Why do you assume I want something from you?” he asked, his tone all innocence.

“Because when a Cain comes to visit, they always want something.”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of us.”

“No. I don’t suppose I do.”

And she knew it was ironic that she didn’t trust him. Of the two of them, she was the one who was aiding and abetting a thief. But what was she supposed to do? Let him cart Gran off to prison?

And suddenly, with that simple reminder, she didn’t want to let him into the school with her. She wanted to do this quick and dirty, to find out what he wanted from her and get out fast. She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking the key card under one arm in an act of silly defiance. “Don’t forget, I grew up in the Cain household. I would describe my opinion as accurate rather than low.”

She instantly regretted her words. This was so not the dialogue of the demure damsel in distress.

But then he winced with such exaggerated pain. “Ouch.”

She very nearly smiled, but she stopped herself just in time. She would not let herself be charmed by him. She knew all too well that Dalton could act like her best friend in the world one minute and not even know her the next. There was no way she would let herself get sucked into his mind games again.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be wounded,” she grumbled. “I haven’t spoken to you in nearly a decade. If you’ve shown up in my life after all this time it’s because you want something,” she said honestly. “So why don’t you stop trying to charm it out of me and just tell me what it is?”

The corner of his mouth bumped up. “You find me charming?”

She rolled her eyes. “I think we both know you can be very charming when there’s enough at stake. After all, you are your father’s son.”

His smiled faded, along with the spark in his eyes. “Okay. You want to know why I’m here? I need to talk to your grandmother.”

Damn. All the electric awareness vanished as quickly as though a circuit breaker had been blown. If he wanted to talk to Gran, then he must know.

Maybe he didn’t have proof. Maybe that was why he wanted to talk to Gran. Maybe he intended to badger the truth out of her. Laney couldn’t let that happen.

On a good day, Matilda Fortino barely knew who she was. As for the bad days… well, those were the days she spent trapped in her own mind, trapped in the memories of the distant past, filled with recriminations and regrets.

If Dalton went to see her, who knew what might come pouring out? She might confess to everything, assuming he didn’t already have proof.

Suddenly Laney—who’d never backed down from a fight in her life—felt like running. She waved her key card across the pad and the door into the school beeped. Just as she reached to open it, Dalton placed a hand on her arm. “Will you bring me to see your grandmother?”

Laney gave Dalton what she hoped would be one final look. She slipped back into the cool sanctuary of the school as she answered, “No.”

Two

Dalton shoved his foot between the door and the jamb seconds before it closed and locked him out.

Laney had her hand on the inside brass handle, and he felt her give it a tug before she glanced down to see his black leather shoe wedged there.

“Just hear me out.”

Time seemed to stretch as he waited for her response. She wasn’t going to listen to him. She’d slam the door in his face, he was sure of it. After all, they both knew she was right to be wary of him. Despite the difference in their ages, they’d been friends when she’d first moved into the Cain household when she was eleven. For two years, she’d shadowed him like an eager puppy. Then, abruptly and without explanation, he’d cut her out of his life the summer before her freshman year. He’d given her plenty of reasons to hate him now.

Her gaze darted all around the empty school hall before returning reluctantly to his. He saw her jaw clench and her mouth pinch in annoyance before he felt the pressure on his foot let up.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” He opened the door the rest of the way and stepped out of the mid-afternoon sun into dimly lit air-conditioning. This was obviously a side entrance, leading into a broad hall with classroom doors branching out on either side. The walls were covered in murals painted by clumsy childish hands. The few blank stretches of wall were plastered with the kids’ art “framed” by construction paper. Despite the obvious attempts to brighten the atmosphere, the building showed its age.

Laney all but trotted down the hall, passed the occasional open doorway. “My classroom is over here.”

She moved with a speed and efficiency that belied her frilly dress and perky ruffled socks. All traces of the warmth she’d shown to the little girl in the car line had vanished.

Dalton considered himself something of an expert on reading business opponents. He was a master at the subtle art of analyzing someone’s mood and temperament based on their body language and facial expressions. It was a skill that came from many years of studying people.

He needed none of those skills to read Laney today. His presence here had her freaked out. Something he’d said or done had spooked her. But what?

By the time he caught up with her, she was pushing open the door to one of the classrooms. Like the rest of the building, the room was neat and well maintained but obviously showing its age. It had been years since Dalton had been in an elementary school—twenty-one years, to be exact, since his own stint as an elementary student. He’d forgotten how undersized that world felt. The tables barely reached his knees. The chairs looked sized for dolls rather than people. There were bookcases in one corner with a cluster of beanbag chairs. Caddies of art supplies sat at each trio of desks. One adult-sized desk sat in the corner.

Laney turned when she reached that desk. An owl stuffed animal sat beside the computer monitor. She ran her fingers across the toy’s white fluff, then blew out a breath before turning back to him.

“The afterschool class I teach has an assistant that oversees snack time. But I’ll need to be there when the class starts in fifteen minutes, so you’d better tell me why you’re really here.”

Her tone was terse, and she looked as though she could barely squeeze the words out through her clenched jaw. Again, he wondered what had her so freaked out. He didn’t remember Laney being a naturally nervous person: feisty, yes, jittery, no.

“My father is ill,” he began.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, but he could tell the condolences were by rote.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Pretend to be sorry that his health is declining.” His words came out stiffer than he meant them to be. He was trying to let her off the hook, to create a common ground between them. She may not have as many reasons to hate his father as he did, but she surely had plenty.

Instead, his words ended up sounding slightly accusatory—and cold… something his father would have said. Why was it that he could talk to almost anyone except Laney?

“I…” Her frown deepened as her mouth pressed into a line of confusion. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

Shoot. He was making this even worse than it was. “I know.” Why did it feel like there were many things he wanted to say to her and none of them were the right ones?

Instead of fumbling through any more explanations, he pulled out a copy of the letter and handed it to her. “A week ago my father received this.”

Laney looked from him to the paper he held out. “What does it have to do with my grandmother?”

Was it his imagination, or did her voice tremble slightly? “Please read the letter. Then I’ll explain.”

She nodded. Her frown only deepened as she read. She glanced up after a few seconds. She must have been disconcerted at how closely he was watching her, because she turned away to finish the letter, her hand fluttering nervously by her hair as she read.

She was a quick reader, and soon she looked back at him and said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t see what this has to do with Gran.”

“Hollister Cain wants this girl found.”

Laney extended the letter back to him with a sigh that sounded almost relieved. “And the girl’s mother seems rather determined to keep her hidden,” she pointed out with an arched little smile.

Dalton found himself smiling back, despite the bizarre circumstances. “Yes, but this is Hollister we’re talking about. Little things like other people’s wishes don’t bother him much.”

“Hold on a second,” Laney said abruptly. “You don’t think…” She physically recoiled. “You don’t think my mother wrote the letter? You don’t think I’m the missing heiress?”

The expression of disgust on her face was so strong he nearly laughed. “No, of course not. Anyone who’s seen a picture of your father couldn’t mistake you for anyone’s daughter but his.”

She chuckled—and again he wondered at the relief he heard in the sound. Then she gestured to her nose. “Right. The Fortino nose. It is hard to miss.”

Her nose was distinctive—a little larger than most women probably preferred and with a patrician bump—but it fit her face, blending seamlessly with the rest of her features. He’d grown up in a world where a woman’s facial imperfections were stamped out like cockroaches. He loved that she’d never had her nose done, which wasn’t exactly the smooth segue that would lead them back to the questions he needed answers to. So he went for direct instead.

“No, it never occurred to me that your mother might have written the letter. But your grandmother was the Cain housekeeper for nearly thirty years. I thought she might know something.”

“About your father’s romantic indiscretions? I can’t imagine why she would. That hardly fell under her purview.”

“No. She wouldn’t have time to manage the house if it had.” He quickly explained his reasoning. “She worked for my father longer than most Cain Enterprises employees. If my father had any secrets, she knew them. If my parents fought, she overheard it. If there’s anyone with dirt on my family, it’s your grandmother.”

As he spoke, Laney looked down at the owl again. She ran her hand over the pretend feathers and gave the wing a little tug.

When she didn’t meet his gaze, he continued, “I visited the assisted-living center she’s at. They wouldn’t even let me in without your approval. I need to talk to her. You have to let me see her.”

Laney’s shoulders stiffened. “I no longer have any connection to your family. I don’t have to do anything.”

It was his turn to clench his jaw. He wasn’t Hollister’s son for nothing. He knew when to grovel. “Will you please grant me access to your grandmother?”

“No.” She held up a hand, warding off the arguments she could see percolating. “She doesn’t know anything. She can’t give you any information.”

Finally, she turned and met his gaze. Her own was clear and determined, but he didn’t let that bother him.

“I can make it worth your while,” he said.

“Of course you can. You’re a Cain. You Cains are experts at making lavish promises.”

“I may be a Cain, but I’m not my father. I plan on keeping any promises I make.”

“Kudos to you for knowing the difference between a promise made and a promise kept.”

“We’re not all heartless bastards,” he reminded her.

“That remains to be seen.” She gave the owl another pat on the head and turned to face him fully. “However, it’s immaterial. I’m not keeping you from Gran on a whim. She can’t help you.”

“Let me talk to her. Let her decide that.”

“It’s not that simple. Gran has Alzheimer’s. Even if she did know something, she’d be unable to tell you. If she ever knew the answers to your questions, the information is locked away in her head.”

Laney’s words sank slowly into his brain. Their meaning was almost incomprehensible. “Alzheimer’s?” he repeated stupidly.

Laney didn’t meet his gaze, and he thought there might have been a sheen of tears in her eyes.

His mind flitted through his memories of Laney’s grandmother, Mrs. Fortino as he’d always called her, because his own mother had always insisted on maintaining that level of formality with the staff. Matilda Fortino had been a battleship of a woman. Serious and stern, she’d been a rock in his childhood. Where his own mother had been mercurial and temperamental, Mrs. Fortino had been stalwart and consistent—a steady force in a tumultuous household.

Suddenly he felt Laney’s hand on his arm. He looked up to realize she’d crossed to stand beside him. Shock had rocked him back so he leaned against the corner of one of the bookcases.

“Didn’t you know?” Her words cut through the fog her news had cast over his brain.

“No.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed the assisted-living center told you why she’s not allowed visitors.”

“They didn’t. Only that you’d have to come with me if I wanted to see her.”

Laney ran a hand up and down his arm. It was a gentle gesture, meant to soothe and calm. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “If I’d known that you didn’t know, I wouldn’t have been so harsh.”

He looked from her hand to her face and found her studying his expression. Her unusual amber eyes were wide, concern crinkled her brow. She stood close enough that the front of her dress brushed against his legs and her breasts were mere inches from his arm. He sucked in a deep breath.

This wasn’t why he was here—no matter how tempting Laney Fortino was.

But all the deep-breathing exercises in the world wouldn’t help—not when the scent of her filled his lungs with every inhalation. She smelled like crayons and Elmer’s Glue. The unique combination should have been unappealing but wasn’t. And underneath that was the smell of her soap or maybe her shampoo—something fruity and simple, clean and uncomplicated.

He nearly laughed at the thought. Laney may smell uncomplicated, but there was nothing uncomplicated about the way she made him feel.

He straightened away from the bookcase, which only brought her closer. She snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned and skittered away from him, retreating to the desk.

“Strangers upset her. Gran, I mean. Of course, you’re not a stranger. But that’s why the assisted-living center doesn’t let people visit her. Her doctor thinks it’s for the best.”

He felt himself crumbling under the weight of her words. When he forced his gaze back to hers, it was to see her watching him with an emotion he rarely saw directed at him—an emotion he never thought he’d see in her eyes… certainly not after he’d spent so much of their teenage years treating her with disdain and scorn.

He’d known from the time he was thirteen that Laney Fortino could be his downfall. He’d known she alone had the power to bring him to his knees. He’d fought against it with every tool in his juvenile arsenal. He’d been rude, condescending and—occasionally—downright mean.

Laney had looked at him with the sting of pain, feisty rebellion and with downright anger. But until now, she’d never looked at him with sympathy.

Three

Given their troubled history, she should have enjoyed seeing defeat flicker across Dalton’s face. Maybe time had mellowed out her dislike of him. Or maybe it was just that… jeez, they were talking about Gran. How could she be upset with anyone—even Dalton—who got this choked up about Gran?

So often she felt as though she was all alone in caring for her gran—no father, no siblings. Yes, the staff at the assisted-living facility took care of her grandmother, but they didn’t care about her. And they didn’t offer Laney the emotional support a loved one would. So maybe it was natural that she went all gooey inside when she saw Dalton openly devastated by the news.

“I’m so sorry, Dalton. I had no idea Gran meant so much to you.”

He glanced up, surprise flickering across his features.

Instantly, she knew she’d guessed wrong. She blew out a huff of annoyance as she walked over to the nearest cluster of tables and began picking stray crayons off the floor. “Never mind.”

He watched her for a moment in silence, then said, “You’re annoyed with me.”

She set aside a picture book with a sigh. “No. I’m annoyed with myself. For a minute there, I actually felt sorry for you. I forgot you’re a Cain. Heartless and cold, just like the rest of them.”

She frowned at her own words. She was heartless and cold—glacial, practically. Except for the moment when she’d touched his arm. He’d looked up at her with genuine heat in his gaze. She’d swear it. What was she supposed to do with that?

Before she could find any answers, he spoke. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Shaking her head, she shoved a few crayons into one of the buckets before moving on to the next cluster of tables. “What else am I supposed to think? I tell you my grandmother has Alzheimer’s, and you feign sympathy to manipulate me?” She looked up at him, half expecting him to dodge her gaze in shame. He didn’t. “I didn’t expect even you to be that much of a jerk.”

“You don’t think I’m sorry your grandmother has Alzheimer’s? Your grandmother was really important to me.”

She snorted, snaking her foot under a desk to nudge a marker out into the open. “Don’t overplay your hand. Polite condolences would be believable. But a Cain would never display actual grief over the hired help.”

“You think I’m such an ass I couldn’t muster any emotion for the woman who kept house for us for nearly three decades?” His tone was flat and cold.

“No. I just think you’re most upset that you won’t get to grill her for information.”

She paused as she said the words and it hit her. He was here to grill Gran for info regarding his father. That meant he didn’t know about the money. She should be relieved. She was. But she was also annoyed with him for trying to manipulate her.

Hoping to dislodge her contrariness, she shook her head and said, “I don’t believe Gran was important to you. She was neither caring nor attentive. She didn’t inspire gushing feelings of warmth and affection, even from me.”

Dalton opened his mouth as if he might protest, but then he shut it again with a fair-enough shrug.

“My grandmother was efficient and competent. She ran the Cain household like it was inside of a Swiss pocket watch. But she was not the kind of woman people love. People tolerate her, mostly because they like her cooking. But they don’t love her.”

She straightened, crossed back to the desk and grabbed her school keys. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my afternoon class starts in five minutes.”

She plucked her purse and tote bag from the corner behind her desk and marched toward the door, holding it open for Dalton with something of a dramatic flair.

She couldn’t help wondering if she’d pushed too far. Dalton straightened, his expression impossible to read. His mouth was set in a humorless line, but mischief danced about his eyes.

He walked toward her slowly, without ever taking his hands from his pockets. Instead of preceding her out the door, he stopped, close enough that she inched back a step until the doorknob pressed into the small of her back.

His stance was vaguely threatening—there was something in the way he stood too close. Or maybe it was just that, for her, he was always too close. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her, his gaze steadily taking in every one of her features and imperfections.

When he spoke, it was slowly, as if each word was meant to build her dread, but foolish girl that she was, she didn’t feel the threat, only the thrill.

“Laney, if you are so convinced I’m the bad guy here, then I’ll play the bad guy. I’m more than happy to be the big bad wolf to your industrious little piggy.”

Refusing to back down from him, she bumped up her chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He did another one of those slow, lingering perusals of her face, and her cheeks burned under his gaze. “Maybe you should be.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She straightened her spine, and the action closed some of the distance between them, bringing her breasts to within a micrometer of his chest.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I’m not a little girl anymore and—”

“Thank God.”

She ignored his muttered interruption. “And none of the Cains have power over me anymore. I’ve made sure of that.”

Of course, that was a bald-faced lie, because if he found out about the money, then he most certainly would have power over her—a lot of it.

She pushed past him, even though it meant brushing her chest against his, even though it made heat stir in her belly and her nipples tighten against the cloth of her bra.

She was three steps down the hall when he asked, “Just how sure about that are you?”

She kept walking.

Ten steps later he said, “How’s that theater camp of yours?”

Her steps slowed, even as her heart rate picked up. He didn’t know what he was talking about. He couldn’t. He must just be guessing based on what she’d said earlier.

“The Fairyland Theater or something, isn’t it?”

Damn it!

She stopped, pressing her eyes closed. If he’d really been guessing, he wouldn’t have come so close.

She turned around to glare at him. “The Woodland Theater.”

Dalton, damn him, stood right where she’d left him, hands in his pockets, smirk on his face.

It took a great deal of restraint—restraint she would not have had just a few years ago—not to stalk down the hall and slap that smile off his face. She was not a woman of violence, but it had been a trying day.

“Cut to the chase, and stop wasting my time. What exactly do you know about the Woodland Theater?”

“I know it’s your pet project. It’s the class you teach after school. I know you spend two hours every day after normal school hours running this enrichment program and that it’s mostly underprivileged kids—some who are scholarship kids here at the school, others who are bused in from other neighborhoods. Thirty kids total. And I know the program is funded entirely by donations.”

He knew more than she wished he did.

True, not all of his information was correct—it was thirty-two kids, and nearly half the kids were not, strictly speaking, “underprivileged.” Though that was a term she had problems with. All of the kids in her program had a hard time of it. She wasn’t sure the emotionally neglected kids from wealthy families had it any better off than the poor kids.

“I see you did your research,” she said flatly. Sure, of all the secret knowledge he could have, she should probably be glad this was it. On the other hand, Woodland was hers. She didn’t want his sticky Cain fingers anywhere near it.

Dalton’s smirk twisted into a smile but not a pleasant one. “Did you really expect any less of me?”

“No.” She’d just been blindsided, because he’d stuck his finger in a different pot than one she’d been expecting. “Of course I’m not surprised. This is what Cains do, isn’t it? You find someone’s weakness and exploit it.”

For just an instant, Dalton’s smile faltered. “Maybe I don’t want to be that kind of Cain.”

“Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t be threatening my theater program.”

“Maybe I’m not.” He stepped away from her classroom door, letting it close behind him as he walked toward her. “I don’t think the Woodland Theater program is your weakness. It seems like a great program. Exactly the kind of thing I’d expect you to be involved in.”

She eyed him warily. “And…”

“And it should continue. I’m sure finding funding is difficult in this economic climate.”

“So you are threatening me.”

“Not at all. Think of it as promising. If you help me, I can make sure your afterschool program has enough funding for years.”

“Aah. So you’re not threatening. You’re bribing.”

“Exactly.”

“How much money are you talking about?”

“How much do you need?”

“I’m serious, Dalton.”

“So am I. You want me to fund the whole program. I’ll fund it. You’ll never have to write another grant proposal. You’ll never have to go brownnosing for money again. All you have to do is let me talk to your grandmother.”

For a long moment, Laney stood there, frozen in the hall, considering his offer. The ticking clock on the wall seemed overly loud, giving the impression that she and Dalton were all alone in the school, even though Laney knew the other teachers must still be working in their classrooms.

She didn’t want to say yes. She didn’t want Dalton anywhere near her grandmother. She didn’t want him in her life at all. But the offer he was making her was far too tempting to walk away from.

It wasn’t even that she couldn’t resist the money he was offering. She could. Money was just… money. If funding got tight, she’d find a way to make it work. She always had in the past.

No, she couldn’t resist the offer because he’d made it so tempting. Not many people would walk away from that kind of promise. So if she did, it would look suspicious. A Cain would never understand someone turning down money. He’d want to know why she’d done it. He’d get curious. He’d start digging. And there were secrets she didn’t want him to know.

No, if he was going to be unearthing any skeletons from the past, they needed to be his father’s skeletons, not her grandmother’s. She needed to keep him focused on that mystery, even if it meant helping him.

“Okay.” She turned and started walking again, trusting that he’d catch up with her. “Let’s talk numbers.”

She heard the rhythm of his steps as he jogged a few steps and then fell in line beside her. “How much does it cost a year to run this program?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.” She threw out a number.

His pace faltered. “For thirty kids? You’re joking.”

“No. If you’re paying, then I’m giving myself a raise and hiring someone else to help.” This wasn’t actually about the money. She just wanted a number big enough to scare him off. “Besides, this way we can double enrollment.”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Hey, this isn’t a golden ticket, you know.”

“Are you sure? Because you sure made it sound like it was.”

Despite her resolve, she could hardly keep a quiver from her voice. It might be a cliché, but she felt like she was playing with fire here. As much as she wanted to believe it was about protecting her grandmother, or even about the money, she worried that it was something more—that she was looking for his buttons to push just because it had always been so much fun to push them.

In all those years they’d lived under the same roof—Dalton the stoically perfect, obnoxious rich kid, Laney the trashy poor girl—she’d never actually gotten a rise out of him. But, dear Lord, trying to had been her favorite pastime. Why hadn’t she grown out of it?

She looked down at his hand on her arm and then back up at him. She tried to forget how much fun it was to needle him, to remember the part she had to play. The Cain family had typecast her a long time ago, just as much as she had typecast them.

“Look, you need something from me, and it’s not a small thing either. I’m not doing this to be greedy. I’m just trying to protect my grandmother.” Well, that at least was true. “Letting you see her is going to upset her. It’ll be hard, and sometimes it takes her weeks to recover from a single bad day.”

She expected some kind of reaction from him there. Most people—nearly everyone—didn’t like to talk about her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s. When the topic couldn’t be avoided, usually there was a lot of awkward hemming and hawing. But Dalton just looked at her.

So she continued. “Besides, it’s not like the Cains can’t spare the money. Cain Enterprises is worth billions. You could probably trim this much from the corporate-office floral budget without anyone blinking an eye.”

“We don’t actually have a corporate floral budget.”

“Don’t pretend you can’t afford it.” By now they’d reached the doors to the cafeteria. She could hear the kids on the other side. The Tisdale kids were finishing up their afterschool snacks. The kids who were bused in from Houston Independent School District had arrived. She could hear the eager gurgle of noise bubbling out through the door. This was her real life, she reminded herself. This was where she belonged. Pushing Dalton’s buttons might be fun, but her obligations lay beyond this door with the children she taught.

“Do we have a deal?”

“We do.”

“A hundred thousand dollars for the chance to speak with my grandmother?”

Chagrin flickered across his face, and she could have sworn his jaw was spasming. “Yes.”

“Okay, then.” She turned her back on him and set off through the cafeteria doors, but he stopped her before she could disappear into her inner sanctum.

“When will you be done here? I’ll send a driver to pick you up, and we can visit your grandmother tonight.”

She let out a scoff of derision before she realized he was serious. “Um… no. Not a chance.”

He gave her a flat look. “You just agreed.”

“Yes. But I didn’t just agree to give away the milk for free.” Then she waved her hand dismissively so he wouldn’t think—okay, wouldn’t know—that she had sex on the brain. “I agreed to help you after you’ve paid me that ridiculous amount of money. Not before. You want access to my grandmother, you pay up.”

“You want me to just give you a hundred thousand dollars? It’s not that simple.”

“Of course I don’t want the money. Don’t just give it to me.” She fluttered her hand around. “Do all that stuff we agreed to.”

“All that stuff we agreed to? Like I should just run off and have my lawyers set up a trust for the charity you work for and drop a hundred thousand dollars into it.”

“Exactly.” Again, she turned to leave, trusting that this was where he’d come to his senses and walk away. Again, he stopped her.

“Come on, Laney. I don’t have that kind of time. I need answers now.”

“And I’m sure that with the full power of Cain Enterprises behind you, you’ll make it happen quickly.”

He narrowed his gaze, but he didn’t contradict her. Just when she was sure he was going to tell her to forget it, he nodded.

It was bizarre, how easily she’d gotten everything she’d asked for. In the end, despite the rumble of kid voices calling to her from the cafeteria, she had one last question she couldn’t let go of.

“Tell me something, Dalton. Why go to all this trouble? I know you’ve always been your father’s go-to guy, but this is crazy. Why are you still jumping through so many hoops for him?”

“Because he still controls Cain Enterprises. If I don’t find this missing heiress, I’m going to lose it all.”

Four

Less than twenty-four hours later, Laney held a nearly half-inch-thick stack of papers in her hand. She ran her thumb over the edges and watched the pages flutter.

“So he really did it?” she asked. “He did everything he said he would?”

Her next-door neighbor Brandon took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. As far as I can tell. Though, I’m no expert, mind you.”

Brandon owned the duplex where she lived. The cottage, in a funky little college neighborhood, was charming, cozy and perfect for her minimalist life, since his half was bigger than hers. She’d always suspected he was gay beneath his button-down lawyer exterior, but he’d never shared so much as a millimeter of his private life with her. She didn’t mind, though, since it was his prerogative. Besides, he was the kind of neighbor one could trust with spare keys, and he’d come over to kill bugs for her on more than one occasion—even big, nasty spiders. And he seemed totally willing to offer legal advice in exchange for wine, which in her mind put him up for some sort of handiest-neighbor-of-all-time award.

Laney tossed the stack of papers onto her coffee table and reached for her glass of wine. “You’re a lawyer.”

“An intellectual-property lawyer.” Brandon leaned forward to pour more wine into his own glass.

“That’s still two years of school and a bar exam closer to being an expert than I am.”

“Do I think he intends to donate the money to Woodland Theater? Yes, I do.”

“Oh.” Laney tried to drown the sick feeling in her belly with a gulp of wine.

She hadn’t really believed he would do it. She hadn’t actually intended to take his money. She’d thought if she made it difficult enough for him to see Gran that he’d back off and leave them all in peace. She should have known better. Cains never backed down from a fight. They were in it until the end. She should have remembered that.

She groaned and dropped her chin into her palm. “I’m in over my head. I should have known better than to try to go up against a Cain.” She looked up at Brandon. “I’m going to get crushed, aren’t I?”

“You make it sound like you’re facing Dalton on the field of battle.”

“Well, in my experience, any dealings with the Cains are like war.” Brandon gave a snort. “You wouldn’t agree?”

Brandon took a long sip of his wine, rolling it on his tongue as though he was quite the connoisseur—or like he was carefully considering his next words. She’d shared enough wine with him to know he wasn’t a connoisseur.

“Come on, Brandon, you know me too well to mince words. If you have an opinion, spit it out.”

He swallowed. “Okay. I think you’re rushing this.”

“You think I’m in over my head?”

“No. It’s not that. It’s just—” He took another gulp of wine, and this time it went down fast. “You’ve got all these opinions about the Cains. Opinions that you formed when you were still a kid. And—”

“You think I don’t know the Cains?”

Brandon held up a hand to stave off her annoyance. “I think you know Hollister Cain. He’s exactly the conniving, back-stabbing bastard you say he is.”

There was a but dangling on the end of Brandon’s sentence just as loud as a shout. “But you think I’m wrong about Dalton.”

Brandon shrugged. “Ever since he took over, the company atmosphere has been different. He’s still ruthless. Still aggressive as hell when it comes to business, but he’s not sneaky and manipulative like his father was. Hollister Cain was the kind of guy who’d steal corporate secrets right out from under your nose and then if you tried to come after him, he’d sue you for infringement of his intellectual property. Then he’d buy off the judge to ensure he won the case. Then he’d take the money from the settlement to buy up your stock and bury your company.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Just what Laney needed—a reminder of how ruthlessly Hollister would go after Gran if he ever found out about the money she had stolen. True, it sounded as if Hollister was on his deathbed, but she didn’t believe for a minute that he would let something as trifling as his own mortality keep him from prosecuting someone who’d done him wrong.

“Dalton isn’t like that.”

“Well, maybe it’s just harder to buy off judges now than it was thirty years ago.”

“No. I don’t think it’s that.” But Brandon still chuckled as he shook his head. “Both times I went up against him, there was no sneakiness. No manipulation. If he wants your company, you know he’s coming for it. Everything out in the open. So honest and fair it’s almost ridiculous. It’s almost like he’s trying to redeem the company’s reputation.”

Laney could feel herself frowning. Suddenly she was aware of how closely Brandon was watching her. Disconcerted, she set her glass down. “So you think I’m wrong about Dalton Cain?”

“I can’t guarantee that he’s not trying to screw you over.” Brandon pushed the document across the table toward her. “But I’d be very surprised if he was.”

Laney nervously tapped her nail tip on the stem of her glass. If Brandon was to be believed, Dalton was not the corporate predator his father had been. In fact, he may actually be a decent human being.

What was she supposed to do with that?

If Dalton really was on the up-and-up, she couldn’t take his money. Sure, the Cains probably donated this kind of money all the time. And, sure, the Woodland Theater was a worthy cause—the kids she worked with desperately needed the extra attention. But she’d still manipulated him into donating it and that felt wrong.

Better to know all this now than after all the papers had been signed.

She lifted her glass in silent toast to Brandon. “Thank you. And thank goodness you were willing to work for cheap wine. I could never afford to hire a lawyer.”

“I’m not saying it’s ironclad or anything,” Brandon said hastily. “If the guy wanted to back out, I’m sure he could find a way. How much do you trust Dalton?”

She considered the question, but since she had no real answer, she was forced to hedge with an indecisive waggle of her hand. “Enough, I suppose.”

“I thought this guy tormented you in high school.”

Dalton had been such an arrogant ass back in school—not brash and pushy, the way jocks always were, but just ice-cold and dismissive. As if he thought the janitorial staff should have put out traps for students like her. His attitude had always pissed her off, so she’d been the brash, pushy one—the one always in his face, refusing to let him forget that even though she was poor they’d once been friends.

“Torment is sort of subjective, don’t you think?” she asked.

Brandon’s eyebrows crept up under his bangs. The silent question was clear on his face.

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