If the walls of Stockwell Mansion could talk…

…we’d spill our guts—no matter how ferociously “Big Daddy” Caine Stockwell blustered! You must remember his little conscience-cleanser—where he let slip that his wife may not have drowned all those years ago after all…! Understandably, his children have launched a full-fledged search for their mother. So far, their devoted efforts have unearthed divorce papers dated six months after Madelyn’s supposed death, confirming that Caine’s sickbed ramblings are tinged with truth. Well, we’ve seen a certain out-of-town address where secret bundles of cash are mailed each month—let’s just say the Stockwells are hot on Mumsy’s trail….

Speaking of hot, we’ve fixed our attention on family darling Kate Stockwell and her former flame, Brett Larson. Their engagement crumbled years ago, but the chemistry between them has never stopped simmering. Now he’s a crackerjack investigator determined to find the elusive Madelyn. But his plan requires that Kate act the part of Mrs. Larson. Will the “princess” agree to the scheme? Heck, yes—and in less time than it takes to say “I do!”

Mercenary Jack Stockwell wrangles with a lovely mother of two in The Millionaire and the Mom, SE #1387, by Patricia Kay, available April 2001 only from Silhouette Special Edition.

Dear Reader,

While every romance holds the promise of sweeping readers away with a rugged alpha male or a charismatic cowboy, this month we want to take a closer look at the women who fall in love with our favorite heroes.

“Heroines need to be strong,” says Sherryl Woods, author of more than fifty novels. “Readers look for a woman who can stand up to the hero—and stand up to life.” Sherryl’s book A Love Beyond Words features a special heroine who lost her hearing but became stronger because of it. “A heroine needs to triumph over fear or adversity.”

Kate Stockwell faces the fear of knowing she cannot bear her own child in Allison Leigh’s Her Unforgettable Fiancé, the next installment in the STOCKWELLS OF TEXAS miniseries. And an accident forces Josie Scott, Susan Mallery’s LONE STAR CANYON heroine in Wife in Disguise, to take stock of her life and find a second chance….

In Peggy Webb’s Standing Bear’s Surrender, Sarah Sloan must choose between loyalty and true love! In Separate Bedrooms…? by Carole Halston, Cara LaCroix is faced with fulfilling her grandmother’s final wish—marriage! And Kirsten Laurence needs the help of the man who broke her heart years ago in Laurie Campbell’s Home at Last.

“A heroine is a real role model,” Sherryl says. And in Special Edition, we aim for every heroine to be a woman we can all admire. Here’s to strong women and many more emotionally satisfying reads from Silhouette Special Edition!

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

Her Unforgettable Fiance
Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For all who have been blessed with true love,

and for all who are still searching.

ALLISON LEIGH

started her career early by writing a Halloween play that her grade-school class performed for her school. 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 for the RITA Award and the Holt Medallion. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from readers that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep 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 has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighborhood church, and currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at P.O. Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772.

Silhouette Special Edition is delighted to present

Where family secrets, scandalous pasts and

unexpected love wreak havoc on the lives of the

infamous Stockwells of Texas!

THE TYCOON’S INSTANT DAUGHTER

Christine Rimmer

(SE #1369)

SEVEN MONTHS AND COUNTING…

Myrna Temte

(SE #1375)

HER UNFORGETTABLE FIANCÉ

Allison Leigh

(SE #1381)

THE MILLIONAIRE AND THE MOM

Patricia Kay

(SE #1387)

THE CATTLEMAN AND THE VIRGIN HEIRESS

Jackie Merritt

(SE #1393)

Available at your favorite retail outlet.

Visit Silhouette at www.eHarlequin.com

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 Seventeen

Chapter One

He’s here.

That was Kate Stockwell’s first thought when she heard the faint sound of the door closing to the entry of Stockwell Mansion.

God help me.

That was Kate Stockwell’s second thought.

She drew in a long breath and slowly set the cordless phone that she’d been clutching with a white-knuckled grip on the nightstand. She stared blindly at the full-length mirror lining one wall of her spacious bedroom suite. The fact that her breath was unsteady was something she chose to blame on the phone conversation she’d just had.

It certainly couldn’t be because of him.

“Kate!” The yell drifted up the stairs and along the spacious hallway to her bedroom. That was Cord. Blunt, straightforward Cord. Cord’s twin, Rafe, would never bellow that way. He was too controlled. And Jack, well, her third and oldest brother simply didn’t raise his voice to Kate. Ever.

“Hustle it up!” Cord yelled again.

Kate sighed and looked at her reflection again. Really looked. Her ice-blue silk suit screamed “Woman Power.” Unfortunately, as she smoothed her hand down the perfectly tailored jacket, her hand trembled. Badly.

She touched a finger to the corner of her lips that she’d already glossed carefully with a pinkish hue. Her hair gleamed, grazing just below the shoulders of her suit, adding just the right touch of casual.

She knew she was taking too long. They were waiting for her. But he would be with them.

Kate swallowed, needlessly adjusting the drape of her delicate, silver necklace. She jiggled her knees in the narrow silk slacks, making sure the fabric fell just so.

What was she doing?

Her clothes were fine. Her makeup was fine. Even the matching pale blue lace bra and panties that she wore beneath the jacket and slacks were fine.

Gracious. Was anything more pathetic than a mature, thirty-year-old woman dithering over her appearance just because she had to go down to a room filled with her dominating big brothers…and an old lover?

Not just an old lover, her mind whispered.

Him. Brett Larson.

It wasn’t like it was the first time she’d seen him recently, either. It seemed that every time she turned around, he was at the house for one reason or another. To go over some detail with Cord or Rafe. So it wasn’t as if she was bracing herself for that first shock of seeing him after eight years.

Eight long years, her mind whispered.

She frowned. “Hush up.” The only reason she was so uneasy was that phone call.

The excuse didn’t convince her any more this time around than it did the first time. Yes, she was upset about the young patient who’d just been yanked from her program. But the true culprit was him.

She straightened her shoulders, dashed her fingers through the freshly cut and styled ends of her hair and strode out of her bedroom.

She was a Stockwell. Dealing with life’s curveballs was part and parcel of her existence.

So why did she feel as if every nerve inside her was frayed to the point of unraveling?

She could hear them talking before she entered the study and a fresh wave of nerves rippled uneasily down her spine.

Oh, really. Why was she torturing herself like this? She didn’t have to go in there. Didn’t have to put herself in this position where she felt awkward and useless and—

“Kate.” Jack spotted her hovering like a ninny outside the doorway and his lips stretched into a rare smile.

No escape, now. She focused on Jack—avoiding Brett—and walked into the room, going straight to him for a hug. “So, my favorite world traveler has returned yet again,” she said in a voice that was a little too husky.

Jack wrapped his strong arms around her, lifting her right off her feet and she swallowed hard, clinging a little too fervently. And realizing it, she pressed a smacking kiss lightheartedly to his hard cheek as he set her back on her feet.

He was big and broad and so dear to her. She loved all three of her brothers, but Cord and Rafe were twins and they shared a special closeness. It was Jack who’d been Kate’s rock when she’d needed him. After her breakup with—

“Hello, Kate.”

Jack gave her an imperceptible nudge of encouragement, and she swallowed past the growing knot that seemed determined to strangle her. Then she turned to face the other man.

Him. Her ex-fiancé.

“Brett,” she greeted smoothly. “How are you today?” Polite, meaningless words said across a bookcase-filled room to a tall, brown-eyed man whom she’d once thought she’d known as well as the back of her hand.

Now, after all these years, he was just a stranger.

A six-foot-three-inch stranger, with thick, dark messy waves that her traitorous fingers still remembered stroking back from his hard, long face, away from his chocolate-brown eyes as he leaned over her….

“Fine,” the “stranger” replied, a little twist to his lips. “You?”

That chocolate gaze was anything but melting and warm now, Kate noticed, and told herself she was glad.

“Touching as this is,” Rafe drawled, saving her from answering. “Why don’t we get down to business?”

“Yes,” Cord agreed. “I left Hannah with Becky waiting at the pediatrician’s office and I want to get back to them.”

Kate held her breath, embarrassingly grateful when Brett finally looked away from her, to focus on the others. She wished Hannah was here. The woman who’d become Kate’s friend, then Cord’s wife, after she’d brought sweet little Becky into the Stockwell home, would have provided some badly needed moral support.

“Guess that means I’m on,” Jack was saying, and Kate realized she’d been staring at Brett’s back. She mentally shook herself and focused on her brother. He’d propped a flat wrapped parcel across the arms of a wing chair and was peeling away the brown paper to reveal the whirls and curls of a fussy, gilded frame and the corner of a painting.

“I found this in France,” he said as he tore away the rest of the paper and let it drift to the floor beside his feet. He pointed at the artist’s signature in the lower corner. “Painted by Madelyn LeClaire.”

But Kate wasn’t looking at the signature. She stared at the portrait, feeling as if all the oxygen in the room had disappeared.

“Good Lord,” Rafe finally breathed, breaking the shocked silence that had filled the room.

“It looks just like Kate did when she was a girl,” Cord murmured.

“Yup.” Jack looked at the painting along with the rest of them, as if even he couldn’t believe it. And he’d been the one to find it. He’d been the one to call the rest of the family from France and tell them he’d picked up the trail of Madelyn’s from France to New England and that he was bringing back something astonishing that they all had to see. “I about fell over when I saw it.”

“You think we ought to take it to the old man’s room and show it to him?” Rafe didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about his suggestion.

“Shove it in Dad’s face as proof of the lie he raised us to believe?” Cord grimaced. “He’s so doped on pain meds for the cancer, it wouldn’t faze him.”

“Even if he is coherent, it wouldn’t faze him,” Jack murmured without emotion. His blue gaze settled on Kate. “Feel like you’re looking in a mirror, kiddo?”

She heard the words through a fog. “How—” Words wouldn’t come. She shook her head.

Jack seemed to understand, though. “It was hanging in a tiny art gallery outside of Paris. Cost a fair piece, too.” He stepped away from the painting, allowing room for his siblings to move in for a closer look.

Standing behind them, Kate listened to her brothers go off on the outrageous price of art until she wanted to scream. Then Brett slowly turned his head, his gaze pinning hers.

It was too much. Her eyes suddenly burned and she turned away, walking hurriedly out of the study.

Madelyn LeClaire had painted that portrait that uncannily resembled Kate.

Madelyn LeClaire…aka Madelyn Johnson Stockwell. Her mother.

Her mother who had supposedly died in a boating accident years ago.

Her father, Caine, who lay bedridden in his room in this very house had told them so. Until a few months earlier when, apparently in some attempt at cleansing his conscience that had to be weighted down with a lifetime of sins, he’d divulged that Madelyn may still be alive. And that, when she’d left her home and her children still in it, she’d been pregnant with another man’s child.

Since that moment, Kate’s brothers had been turning over heaven and earth trying to find out if it were true. And where she was now.

Had Madelyn had another daughter? A daughter who was the true subject of that painting? It made sense, considering Caine’s claim of her pregnancy, but so much of what Caine said these days was pure delusion.

Kate walked blindly through the house, her arms clasped around her body as if to hold her shakiness at bay. Well, she could keep the shakes at bay, but the tears flooding her eyes were another matter.

“Kate. Are you all right?”

She stiffened. Oh God. Why did he have to follow her? She swiped her fingers across her cheeks and dashed her hair away from her face, realizing she’d wandered into the sunroom. “Of course,” she answered airily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She reached out to adjust the angle of a small fern, but her shaking hands knocked it askew and it tumbled from its narrow perch, sending rich soil cascading across the antique rug. A sob caught in her chest and she crouched down, furiously scrabbling the clumps of dirt back into the small pot.

“Kate.” Brett crouched down beside her, then closed his big hands over her shoulders, urging her to her feet. “Leave it.”

“I don’t want to leave the mess,” she whispered thickly. But his broad shoulder was so close and before she knew what she was doing, her face was pressed against it and his arms—oh, his strong, warm arms—had closed around her, pulling her against him.

Horrified, she scrambled backward, scattering the dirt even more. Vision glazed, she tried scooping it back into the pot.

“For God’s sake, Kate. I said leave it. Mrs. Hightower will have it cleaned up. God knows she has plenty of staff under her thumb,” he added flatly.

Kate dashed the dirt hurriedly into the pot, then brushed her fingers together. “You always detested Mrs. Hightower,” the words came without volition and her ears felt like they were on fire.

“She detested me,” Brett countered smoothly. “Here. Stop blubbering.”

Shock propelled her to her feet. “I don’t blubber.”

“Spoken with all the dignity of the princess of the manor.” Brett’s glance flickered over her as he returned the more-or-less restored pot to the shelf. “Except you’ve got mascara running down your face.”

Her stomach ached. “You’re hateful.”

He shrugged, his disinterest plain. “Wipe your eyes, Katy.”

Katy. The name that only Brett had ever called her. She closed her eyes. For an aching moment, time seemed suspended. Bittersweet and filled with the ghosts of the past.

She turned away from the memories. And from his eyes that had always seen too much, yet not enough.

Then he pushed a soft, white handkerchief into her hand, and the aching moment passed. “Trust you to have a handkerchief,” she murmured thickly. He’d always carried one. Even when they’d both been only thirteen years old, tearing up the schoolyard with their antics.

“My mama may have been a servant in a big old house not too far from here, but she did raise me with some manners.”

His oh-so-smooth voice grated. “And I’m sure all the women whose tears you’ve tenderly mopped throughout the years have greatly appreciated it.” She scrubbed her cheeks. Hating him. Hating the situation that had brought him back into her life.

“Well, well, Kate. Jealous?”

She very nearly snorted. Only a lifetime of minding her manners prevented it. “Hardly. I’m not the jealous type.” That was a bald-faced lie and she was grateful that he didn’t challenge it. She had been jealous. Jealous of the one great love in Brett’s life. And she’d had no one to help her deal with it.

She’d needed a mother.

But Kate had been raised to believe that her mother had drowned in Stockwell Pond nearly thirty years ago. Caught between pond and lake, it was thirty feet deep in some places, two miles across at its widest point. Willows and oaks crowded along its jagged coves and inlets.

She wiped her eyes. She may hate the situation—hate him even—but there was a purpose to his presence. One she’d do well to remember. He was supposed to be a crackerjack investigator, after all. And that was his only purpose there.

“It can’t be a painting of me,” she said, forcing herself to think straight. “It’s just…a coincidence. It has to be her…other child.” A child who would have been only a year or so younger than Kate. A child who’d grown up with a mother.

Brett’s silence spoke volumes and her fingers tightened around his handkerchief. “Why would my father lie all these years about my mother?” The question that had plagued them all for weeks, months, burst from her. “I never knew her because of him. I knew he was a cold, cruel man. But this—” She couldn’t continue.

“That’s why you and your brothers hired me,” Brett reminded. “To help you find your mother. To get the answers that Caine can’t, or won’t give.”

“I didn’t want to hire you,” she said, perturbed at the way he still managed to unsettle her.

His shoulders moved. Amused? Annoyed? She’d given up trying to figure his thoughts long ago. “No kidding.”

“But I’m told that you do own the best private investigative agency in the entire Dallas area.”

“Not just in the suburb of Grandview?” Brett commented dryly. “I’m wounded.”

“Jack suggested it some time ago. Then Caroline.” Caroline Carlyle Stockwell. Rafe’s brand-new wife. The mother of Rafe’s brand new child.

“I get the hint. I’m here to find your mother. To do a job.”

“Make sure you remember that.”

His expression didn’t change. “What’s the matter, Kate? You afraid I can’t keep my mind on the job what with being back amongst the exalted Stockwells?”

“Nobody knows better than I do that nothing distracts you from your work. I’m just curious why you accepted this case in the first place.” Her lips felt dry. “Considering everything.”

“You mean considering you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His gaze drifted over her. “You don’t trust me,” he said softly.

Her lips parted “I—”

“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t believe I’ll do my best for your family.”

“My brothers wouldn’t have brought you in on this if they thought that.”

“We’re not talking about your brothers.”

“No,” she said after a long moment. “We’re not.”

“Well, well,” he mused. “Score one for fierce Katy Stockwell.” His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted a little. Just enough to make him look even more saturnine. “It’d have more effect if you weren’t in tears, I’m afraid.”

“Stick to the case, Brett. Find Madelyn LeClaire.”

“And stay away from you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She cursed the tears that still insisted on leaking from her eyes. “Jack didn’t come all the way home from Europe with that…that painting, and call you here today just so I could cry on your shoulder.” Her voice was flippant. Better that, than anything else. She couldn’t bear it that this man, of all people, should see her weakness.

“I’ll consider it my perk for the day.” He didn’t look any more delighted about it than she felt. “Look,” he said after a moment. “You don’t have to pretend that this hasn’t been rough on you. First you learn that your father’s cancer is terminal, then that your mother may be alive. And now, to see that portrait— Katy, it would shake anyone. You don’t have to hide it. Hell, it shook me.”

“Nothing shakes you.”

His lips tightened. “You’d be surprised. Besides. I remember you at that age. You were a holy terror, and the girl in that painting looks as serene as a lovely country pond.”

“Go away,” she said flatly. “I need to fix my face.”

“Is that a dismissal, princess?”

She shot him a look, prepared to give him a stinging reply, but the words died as she looked at him. “I don’t imagine any one dismisses you,” she said instead. Not anymore. He was too commanding. Too self-sufficient. And the cynical tilt of his lips was just a little bit fearsome.

The teenager who’d earned spending money working in the same house where his mother was the live-in cook for Judge Orwell and his perfectly coiffed wife, Bitsy, was long gone.

Now, Brett, in his beautifully cut summer-weight suit looked as if he might have a host of servants in his home at his beck and call. Which reminded her that, aside from knowing about Brett Larson, owner of a very well-respected private investigation and security firm, she knew very little about Brett Larson, the private man.

A fresh knot tied itself in her stomach. “I—”

“Don’t sweat it, Kate. We’ll both forget this tête-à-tête ever happened. No one will ever learn from me that Kate Stockwell possesses tear ducts.”

Kate’s tears ceased. “Remind me why I ever wanted to shackle myself to you. Oh, wait. I remember. It was that scintillating sense of humor.” She listened to the cutting tone of her voice with something akin to horror. That wasn’t her talking. She wasn’t a cold, cutting woman.

She was an art therapist, for pity’s sake. She spent her life helping people. Troubled children, most specifically. She didn’t engage in verbal warfare with others.

Brett leaned over and looked in her face.

It took everything she possessed not to back away. “What are you looking at?”

He straightened and shrugged, disinterested. “Just seeing if that bit of vulnerability ran off your face along with the mascara and makeup.” Then he smiled humorlessly and walked out of the sunroom.

Kate’s hands curled. She angled her chin and glanced around the sunroom. It was filled with carefully tended plants, antiques, comfortable furnishings. The Texas sun shafted diagonally in through the windows, golden and bright and warm.

One might actually think the house she stood in was filled with that same warmth. But she knew differently. Her cold and cutting father had seen to that.

“Damn you, Caine Stockwell,” she murmured under her breath. He was her father. She knew that a part of her loved him, despite everything. But another part, a part she felt guilty in admitting to, detested him. For his coldness and abusiveness to his family. For his manipulations. For his lies.

The biggest lie of which had brought Brett Larson back into Kate’s life.

Her hands were shaking again. She drew in a long breath and went into the hall, stopping to check her reflection in one of the framed mirrors that hung on the wall, along with an extensive collection of paintings. Stockwell ancestors. Oils. All originals. Her father would never have settled for anything less hanging on the hallowed walls of his mansion.

Her eyes looked a little red-rimmed, but she didn’t have mascara running down her face.

Other than that, she looked much like she always did. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes. A face that was too narrow, a nose that was too long. Overall, she guessed she was presentable. There had even been a time when Brett had called her beautiful, and she’d believed it. Felt it.

But that time was past. Long past.

Now, she was just a woman who tried to help other people’s children deal with their problems. She was successful enough at it, found it fulfilling and rewarding enough that, usually, she managed to forget what she really was.

A useless shell of a woman.

She looked down and realized she still held Brett’s handkerchief crumpled in her fist. She pressed it to her cheek for a moment. Smelling the seductively male scent of him that clung to the folded, pressed-edged, square.

She was also a member of the Stockwell family, she reminded herself silently. She’d been part of the decision she and her brothers had made to right as many of the wrongs committed by their father as they could. And part of that meant finding their mother. If she really was still alive, as their findings suggested.

She sighed and turned toward the study once more. And nearly jumped out of her skin when Mrs. Hightower appeared silently behind her.

Kate cleared her throat and slid the handkerchief into the hidden pocket of her slacks. “Did you need something, Mrs. Hightower?”

The woman’s smooth expression didn’t indicate in the least whether she recognized the vestiges of tears in Kate’s eyes. “Your office is calling,” she said.

Kate’s mind shifted to the calls she’d made earlier. She thanked the housekeeper and turned back to the sunroom and the phone extension there.

With any luck at all, the call would bring good news for her young patient, who was so close to a breakthrough if only his father would stand firm against his controlling family who seemed to want nothing more than to shut the boy in his bedroom and pretend he didn’t exist.

She didn’t want to fail little Bobby.

She knew it was unwise to become so emotionally vested in a patient, but there was something about the dark haired, sloe-eyed little boy that had stolen her heart.

Yes, as a woman, Kate was pretty well useless.

Which meant being a therapist was all she had left.

Chapter Two

Was there ever a woman put on this earth who drove him nuts the way Kate Stockwell did? If there was, Brett didn’t want to meet her.

He ran his hand down his face and battled down the annoyance inside him before walking back into the Stockwells’ study where Kate’s brothers were still discussing the portrait. If they’d even noticed his and Kate’s absence, they made no sign of it.

Then he realized that Jack was watching him. Kate’s oldest brother had noticed all right. But then Jack had always seemed to have an extra dose of protective instincts where his sister was concerned.

And even though Brett had once been as comfortable around her brothers as he’d been around her—when he’d been just one more of the gang—he knew those times were gone.

He was the ex-fiancé of their baby sister and he had no doubts that Kate hadn’t left any question in her brothers’ minds about who was at fault for the “ex” part of that particular equation.

He wasn’t part of their group any longer, if there even was a group. Jack seemed to spend most of his time in Europe, as far as Brett knew. Rafe was a Deputy U.S. Marshal now, and Cord had taken over the family business interests. And Kate. Well, Kate had returned from Houston a few years ago, after her divorce from a man who’d once been Brett’s friend.

Brett remembered the exact day he’d heard she was back in Grandview. That she’d moved back into Stockwell Mansion. He’d blown his cover on a case he’d been investigating and it had taken two solid weeks to regain the ground he’d lost that day.

No. Brett definitely wasn’t here because of his former ties to this family. He was only the investigator they’d hired to follow the leads they’d already discovered regarding their mother. And since that’s the way he liked it, he needed to stop thinking about his past and focus instead on Madelyn Johnson Stockwell’s past.

“Were there other paintings of hers in the gallery where you found this one?” he asked Jack.

The other man shook his head. “Not anymore. I’d just missed a seascape that he’d had for a brief time. Beyond that, what there was had already been sold. Her work seems to be in fair demand over there.” His lips twisted. “And has been for years. The only reason this portrait hadn’t been sold to a private party was that the gallery owner, Roubilliard, didn’t want to part with it.”

“Then why did he?” Cord asked.

“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Bought him off, you mean,” Rafe translated.

Jack shrugged. “It doesn’t belong hanging on an art gallery wall in France. It belongs hanging on the walls of this house, along with the other portraits of the Stockwells.”

“It would’ve been, too, if we hadn’t been fed that garbage about Mom drowning with Uncle Brandon,” Rafe said grimly.

Brett watched Jack’s face. He was the eldest and naturally would remember more of that day when Caine Stockwell had planted the seeds of a lifelong deception. But Jack’s expression didn’t change. He merely reached for a pile of brochures and held them out to Brett.

“Here,” he said. “Madelyn LeClaire’s work is listed in several of these catalogs. Private shows. Group shows. A couple of estate auctions.”

Brett took the items, fanning through them. Some dated back fifteen years. He suddenly knew Kate had entered the room behind them, but kept his attention front and center, where it belonged. On the job.

That lasted about half a second. He looked back at her. Frowned a little at the drawn expression on her face. She looked even worse than she had when he’d left her in the sunroom.

Dammit.

He didn’t want to care how all this was affecting Katy Stockwell. He deliberately looked down at the catalogs in his hand and paged through them once more. The job. Remember the job. “Quite a collection,” he murmured.

“People tended to hang on to them. And I think the owner of that—” Jack lifted his chin toward the portrait sitting against the wing chair “—had a bit of a crush on the artist. He’s the one who said he was certain she was living somewhere in New England and that she was being represented by a dealer in Boston. But that information is a few years old, at best.”

“But it proves something, at least,” Rafe said flatly. “Our mother is alive. She didn’t die in a boating accident. Not here. Not anywhere. Just like we figured after what Caroline and I found in her father’s papers. Did your smitten gallery owner happen to say what she looked like, since Caine saw fit to get rid of any photographs of her?”

“No. But we’ve all heard often enough from other people who knew our mother how much Kate resembled—resembles—her.”

“Well,” Brett said, “since you’ve brought me in on this, I’ve had my people checking the usual sources to locate a Madelyn LeClaire living anywhere in the New England area. No luck. If she is living there, she’s doing it very quietly. Most people leave some footprints of their life. Driver’s licenses, mortgages, property taxes, library cards. Something. But there’s been zilch, so far.” And in his experience, when people lived that quietly, it was for reasons they generally didn’t want to advertise.

He looked at Jack. “Are you sure your Roubilliard in France was certain of his facts?”

“The guy had a major case for her. I’m sure,” Jack answered.

“Then it’s time for a road trip to Boston. Check the art dealers in person,” Brett said. Although each of the brothers had done a lot of legwork, amassing enough information from the sketchy details they’d been given by their father in one of his rare lucid moments, he knew they had lives to lead. While his life was his work.

Which was why he’d been hired. The Stockwells had insisted that he personally take the case even though he had a half-dozen investigators on his staff who could’ve handled what was, essentially, a missing persons case. Even though it would have been easier, wiser, all the way around for someone else to deal with this family other than he.

“My office has already gathered information on the most likely galleries to be dealing with your mother. It’d be an easier task, except that she worked in so many mediums. Painting. Pottery. Sculpture.”

He’d hoped, actually, to accomplish more without having to make the trip. God knew he had no desire to go to Boston ever again. But they’d met with one dead end after another. It was as if the artist named LeClaire was protected by some unspoken shroud of discretion. Dealers knew of her, but nobody would offer more information than that.

“You can handle the trip, right?”

Brett answered Rafe’s question with a terse nod. “I had my secretary juggle my schedule for the next few weeks, just in case something like this came up. I can leave tomorrow morning.”

The other men nodded, satisfied. Cord, after another look at his watch, excused himself to rejoin his wife.

“Surely it won’t take that long? Weeks?” Kate moved nearer, bringing with her that faint feminine scent that was uniquely hers.

Brett shrugged, ignoring the surge in his bloodstream. “Probably not. But there are dozens of galleries and art dealers in Boston alone.”

“And you don’t just handle contacting them by phone?”

He looked at her, keeping his temper with an effort. “I’ve already said we’ve done as much by phone and the internet as we can. Now it’s time to personally visit the galleries. Don’t worry, Kate. All expenses will be accounted for in detail when the case is concluded.”

“I wasn’t implying anything.”

He raised one eyebrow. He knew better and it rubbed him wrong how little she trusted him. “Really?”

Her lovely blue eyes suddenly snapped at him. “It is our mother you’re searching for.” She waved her elegant, long-fingered hand to encompass her brothers. “Is there some reason why we shouldn’t be interested in how you intend to find her?”

“Kate.”

“No, Jack. I want to know.” Her gaze stayed on Brett.

“While you two kids battle this out, I’m gonna go steal my wife away for a hot afternoon date,” Rafe drawled, amused. He nodded sympathetically at Brett and gave his sister a wide berth as he left.

Jack, Brett noticed, just leaned lazily back against the bookcase, apparently prepared to enjoy the show.

“First of all, I’ll continue weeding out galleries and dealers who clearly don’t handle Madelyn LeClaire’s type of art.” He forced himself to remain patient. He’d never before been annoyed at explaining the manner in which his investigations were conducted. Which meant it was just her questions that annoyed him.

“Well, I could do that,” she pointed out smoothly. “What else?”

“Then I’ll take a photo of that portrait sitting there and these catalogs—” he held them up with exaggerated patience “—and personally canvass the remaining list.”

“Okay, enough.” Jack apparently recognized that Brett was speaking through his teeth by now.

“But—”

“Enough, kiddo. Brett’s the best at what he does. And it’s time to let him do it. Agreed?”

Her lips tightened. “Except for one thing.” Her gaze returned to Brett. “I’m going with you to Boston.”

“What?” Jack stared at Kate.

Brett shook his head. “No.”

“I can help you,” she said and he was painfully aware of the edge of desperation in her voice. “You said there were dozens of galleries,” she reminded needlessly.

“I work alone.” It was close enough to the truth. “If I didn’t, I’d take someone from my office. Not you.” He didn’t want to go to Massachusetts at all, much less with her on his heels. Not even if he had to check out fifty galleries.

“I don’t think it’s up to you to make that decision.”

“Listen up, princess.” He saw her chin lift at the name. “You’re not gonna tell me how to run my case. If that’s the way you want to proceed, find another investigator, because I’m outta here. Understand?”

She moistened her lips. Turned to her brother. “Jack—”

“Brett’s right.” Jack pushed away from the wall. “His case. His job. His way.”

“But—”

“You wouldn’t want someone coming in to one of your sessions and telling you how to do your job, would you?”

Brett watched Kate’s expression falter and couldn’t help but wonder at the cause. A Kate who argued and laughed was a Kate he knew. A Kate who looked stricken and uncertain was another thing altogether. Nor did he need Jack to enforce Brett’s rules, but he did find it enlightening to watch Kate.

Or maybe, despite everything, he just liked watching Kate.

She was stubborn and contrary and bossy as hell.

She was also a tall, blue-eyed beauty, and standing there—her slender body clad in that silvery blue suit that clung to the high curves of her breasts and the completely female curve of her hips—she was completely distracting. The vulnerability barely hidden by the passion vibrating from her was enough to make a man want to sit up and beg.

Another man. Not him. He’d already ridden that ride, thanks.

“No, I wouldn’t want someone interfering with one of my therapy sessions,” she admitted, her voice husky.

“Okay, then,” Jack said, as if that settled the matter. Then his expression seemed to soften a little as he studied his sister. “You sure you want to do this?”

Kate nodded, and it seemed to satisfy Jack, because he turned to Brett. “Brett. Good luck. Keep in touch.”

Brett nodded, still watching Kate, and the other man left the room, too.

Kate’s blue gaze slid to Brett and he leisurely adjusted his focus from her hips. Her cheeks were flushed when he finally looked at her face.

But at least she’d nearly lost that lost look.

“Must be nice to be able to call the shots with your schedule,” he said. “Most people don’t have the luxury. Particularly psychologists.”

“I’m an art therapist,” she said flatly. “I work in partnership with psychologists and psychiatrists. And you control your schedule, too. So don’t stand there and act as if it is something to be ashamed of.”

“Feeling a little defensive, are you?”

To his secret relief, the last bit of lost disappeared from her eyes.

“Not in the least,” she assured coolly. “But at the moment, I am between patients. And I do intend on going to Boston.”

“Because you don’t trust me to do my job.”

“Will you?” Her voice was husky and it made his nerves tighten. “You hate me. I can see it in your face.”

“You overestimate yourself, Kate. And as you’ve said, nothing gets in the way of my work.”

She seemed to wince a little. “Then I’ll go to Boston by myself.”

“And do what?”

“I can talk to gallery owners just as easily as you can.”

“You’re right. Go hunting through the art world yourself. Spread that mighty Stockwell name of yours as far and wide as you like. And if your mother doesn’t want to be found, which seems kinda likely if you ask me after nearly thirty years, once she hears a Stockwell is looking for her, she could well go to ground and you and your brothers would be lucky to pick up her trail ever again.”

She blanched and swayed.

He swore and pushed her down on a chair, summarily pushing her head down. “I don’t need you passing out.”

She scrabbled at his hand. “Get your hands off me. I am not passing out.”

He was perfectly happy to remove his hand from the slick silk of her hair.

She shot out of the chair, her hair tossing about. Almost as if she was afraid he’d have the gall to put his hands on her again. “I’m going to Boston,” she insisted.

“Why?” Because she didn’t trust him to do his job. The knowledge sat like a bitter pill. “Or maybe you really are enamored of my company once again,” he needled.

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. If you must know, it’s because…because my brothers have all done something to help find our mother, and I’ve done nothing!”

“Come again?”

She pushed her fingers through her hair and walked over to the portrait, her expression telling him that she already regretted her flash of honesty. But she surprised him when she didn’t clam up the way he expected her to.

“Cord was the one to discover that Daddy was sending huge sums of money to one of his attorneys and had been every month since our mother supposedly died when I was a baby.” She recited the details without emotion. “He’s also the one who found a letter from my mother’s side of the family, the Johnsons, in Daddy’s personal records implying that the Stockwell side had once swindled the Johnsons out of land on which the Stockwells eventually discovered oil. And he’s been looking into that so we can make it right again, if it is true.”

She rubbed her fingertip along the frame of the portrait. “Rafe, now, he followed the money. To Clyde Carlyle’s office. And between him and Clyde’s daughter, Caroline, they found the divorce papers between my parents which were dated months after Madelyn supposedly died. They’re the ones who learned that Madelyn, and Uncle Brandon, too, most likely, spent a considerable amount of time in France, moving here and there. And that, somewhere along the way, she’d apparently changed her last name to LeClaire.”

“And Jack, being the most familiar with Europe because of his travels, picked up the reins at that point,” Brett concluded. He’d heard it all before from her brothers. But he’d never really thought how Kate may have felt about not having as active a role in the discoveries as her brothers.

Then he reminded himself that he was no longer interested in what went on inside her pretty head. Which mattered not at all considering the way her oddly false calm gnawed at him. “You think you’ll be holding up your end by traipsing around Boston with me.”

She nodded silently.

Brett swore inwardly. He still didn’t know why he’d accepted this case in the first place. It was gonna be one huge headache. Not only did she not trust him, but she was trying to salve her conscience. “Kate. You and me…it’s not a good idea.”

Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Because we used to be engaged.”

Because you drive me nuts. “Because I’m used to working alone.”

“I wouldn’t get in your way.”

No, you’d just be a constant distraction. Things might be dead and gone between them, but he was still a man. And she was a beautiful woman. A woman who didn’t trust him, no matter what her other reasons were. “No.”

She made a soft sound, her gaze still on the portrait. And he made the fatal mistake of moving around from where he stood, so that he could see her face.

Confusion. Hurt. Longing.

All of that was written on her perfectly oval, perfectly formed face. It was in her eyes and in the soft lip that she’d caught between pearly teeth.

In the days since he’d become embroiled with the Stockwells’ case, Kate had consistently been cool and controlled whenever they’d encountered each other.

And now, in one day—hell, in one hour—he’d seen her blue eyes swimming in tears, her aching so clear on her face that it beat his better sense into dust.

Swearing a blue streak in his mind, Brett knew he was making a mistake. “All right,” he said, sounding anything but gracious. “We leave in the morning. I’ll have my secretary, Maria, call you with the time.”

Now her blue eyes were glistening again. And she was looking at him as if he’d just saved a kitten from the jaws of a rattlesnake.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He slapped the catalogs he still held against his palm. “Be ready on time,” he said abruptly. “And don’t go packing a dozen suitcases, either, princess. We’re going there to work, not so you can walk around looking like a fashion show in progress.”

Her expression changed. Her lips parted, furious.

But he was already walking out of the room, satisfied. Her fury he could handle. Her tears, obviously, he couldn’t.

Chapter Three

She was late.

Brett would be by soon and Kate had yet to finish packing.

Yet where was she? In her room packing?

No.

She was standing in the wide arch of her father’s bedroom, struggling with the urge to turn around and leave. The room was dark, the heavy velvet drapes at the windows drawn against the morning sky.

She shouldn’t have left this task so late, she thought. Visiting her father when she felt so uneasy about going to Boston with Brett was probably not the wisest course, but he was her father. She was a Stockwell. And Caine, for all of his many faults, had drilled into his children the fact that Stockwells looked after their own.

She moistened her lips and entered the room. She quietly greeted Gunderson, her father’s primary nurse, and approached the hospital bed that was situated in the center of the cavernous room. Caine lay back against the white bedding. The muscular, wide-shouldered build that he’d passed on to his sons was wasting away on Caine; he looked much older than his sixty years.

She sat down on the chair beside his bed. His eyes were closed, but when she tentatively touched his hand, his head moved and he looked at her. “Hi, Daddy.”

If Caine recognized her, he gave no indication. She’d visited him every day—except when he’d still been strong enough to tell her to go away. She’d told herself that his actions then had been because his pride didn’t want her seeing him in his condition; but a part of her knew it was just as likely because he didn’t want to be bothered with her.

“Gunderson?” She looked over her shoulder at the man. “I’d like to be alone with my father for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

He looked as if he did mind, but he nodded after a moment and left.

Kate turned back to face her father. “I’m going to Boston this morning,” she told him. “With Brett Larson.”

She saw Caine’s lip curl, still managing to communicate his derogatory feelings without a word. He’d always treated Brett as if he weren’t fit to step foot on Stockwell property. He’d been appalled when, at only twenty years of age, Kate had announced flatly to him that she was planning to marry Brett.

She swallowed and gathered her thoughts. This wasn’t about Brett. It was about Caine’s lies. About finding their mother. “We’re going to find Madelyn,” she continued, and at that, Caine’s eyes flickered.

Though she’d promised herself that she was finished with tears, they burned, threateningly near. She’d cried more in the past twenty-four hours than she had in years. And now she struggled with tears and the need to escape. She’d always felt a sense of fearsome awe for her father; now she felt pity and a hundred other emotions too tangled to define. “We’ve been a disappointment to each other, Daddy. You and I, both. But I—”

Beneath her hand, his fingers curled. “Madelyn? You came back to me.”

She bit her lip, dropping her forehead onto their hands, praying for strength. It wasn’t the first time Caine had mistaken her for her mother. She heard a rustle behind her and knew that Gunderson had decided that she’d used up her allotment of privacy. She lifted her head and looked again at her father. “I just wanted to tell you about my plans.”

“Leave.” The word was an order, despite the sigh that shuddered through his frail form.

She wondered if it was because, in his delusions he’d taken her for Madelyn, or if he knew it was his daughter he was ordering away. Sadly, it mattered little. She rose and began to walk from the room. Yet when she reached the archway, she paused. Looking back at him. There were so many things she wished had been different.

She drew in a shuddering breath and walked back to Caine’s bedside. She gently smoothed his sheet over his chest. Then leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodbye, Daddy. I do love you.”

She realized she was waiting for a response from him that would never come. Not even if he’d been physically able. Particularly if he’d been physically able.

Swallowing, Kate straightened and walked blindly from the room, stopping short at the sight of Mrs. Hightower.

“You have another call,” the other woman said, handing Kate a cordless phone, then turned on a silent heel and glided away.

Kate held the phone, feeling rather like a child who’d been caught receiving phone calls after curfew. She’d been fielding calls all morning, taking care of last minute details with her associates.

She sighed, glancing at her watch. Brett would be arriving any minute, and she still had to complete her packing.

She hurried to her bedroom, pushing the button on the phone as she went. “This is Kate Stockwell,” she greeted, half afraid it would be Brett, calling to tell her he’d changed his mind after all. But hearing the voice of Bobby Morales’s father, Kate knew that the garment bag, open and empty on her bed, would have to wait a little while longer.

She was late.

Brett looked at his watch again and climbed out of his car. He looked up at the set of windows on the second story that overlooked the front grounds.

Kate’s windows.

At least they used to belong to her bedroom suite, he amended silently, remembering the day when he’d climbed up there and sneaked through her window just to leave her a rose on her pillow. For all he knew now, she could be occupying one of the pool cabanas out back.

But as he watched the windows, he saw a shadow pass by them and knew by the tightening at the base of his neck that it was Kate. Probably packing stuff she’d never need, he thought, as impatient with himself for agreeing to let her go to Boston as he was with her for being late.

He glared at the upper-story windows. Very nearly reached over the car door to lay on the horn. He had no particular desire to go up into the house to collect her.

House.

The place was called Stockwell Mansion. And a mansion it was. An enormous, cold mansion inhabited by a coldhearted man.

There were few people that Brett could say he truly hated. But Caine Stockwell headed the list. And because of it, Brett knew he probably shouldn’t have accepted this particular case. He also knew that, because of it, he did accept this particular case.

He looked at his watch again then headed for the door. He didn’t bother ringing the bell. He’d had to stomach enough glares from Emma Hightower across the threshold over the past few days to last him a lifetime. She’d made it abundantly clear that she figured he should still be using the servants’ entrance in the rear.

Maybe it was high-handed, but Brett just pushed open the enormous door, and headed straight for the central staircase.

At the top, he turned unerringly toward the suite that Kate used to occupy. The door was opened and he could see her pacing back and forth across the thick carpet.

He also noticed the opened—but empty—suitcase sitting on the foot of her bed.

“Some things never change,” he said, halting in the doorway.

She whirled, clearly startled as she pressed the phone clutched in her hands to her chest. “And some things do,” she said, her tone frosty. “I should have locked my door.”

“You oughta know that locks don’t keep me out.”

“Breaking and entering. Sneaking up on people. Well, I suppose that’s what a professional snoop does.”

“Don’t turn up your pretty nose at that, princess,” he said smoothly. “My snooping is going to lead you to your mother.”

She frowned and turned away, tossing the phone onto the blinding white spread. “Mrs. Hightower didn’t tell me you were here already.”

“I didn’t see Mrs. Hightower.” He frowned at the way Kate was carefully arranging one thing at a time inside the suitcase from the neatly folded pile beside it on the bed. He walked over and joined her, reaching for the entire stack.

She gaped at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

In answer, he plunked the clothing, stack intact, right into the case. “It would take all day at the rate you were going. What else goes in here?” He glanced around, expecting to see a stack of suitcases sitting somewhere already. The occasional trips they’d taken together years ago had always been accompanied by a minimum of three suitcases too many. All he saw, however, was one soft-sided tote sitting atop the white upholstered chair near the French doors. Shoes and makeup, he’d bet. “Well? What else? This can’t be all.”

“Why can’t it?” She countered.

He eyed her and she huffed, striding into the dressing room. She came out a bare minute later, diligently avoiding his gaze as she dropped a bundle into the case. All he caught was a glimpse of pastels and lace and silk before she quickly jerked the flap into place and yanked the zipper around, closing it.

“All right, I’m ready. Satisfied?”

“I would be if you weren’t thirty minutes late.” He grabbed up the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder.

She picked up a small purse that matched the coral-colored dress she wore and retrieved the smaller tote from the white chair. Then it was she who waited for him. “Well? I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Where’s the rest?”

“Rest of what?”

“Your suitcases.”

She gave her tote bag an exaggerated jiggle, raising her eyebrows expressively. “Hello?”

“Come on, Kate. We don’t have time for this.”

“Then stop standing there, wasting more of it,” she said, sugar sweet, and glided past him in a tantalizing swish of fragrance. “Like I said, Brett. Some things have changed.”

He followed, thinking he’d be a helluva lot happier if he could count on that fact on every front, not just her apparent packing habits.

Outside the mansion, Kate stopped short at the sight of Brett’s car parked in the driveway at the base of the wide entry steps.

Naturally, she thought. Gleaming black, long, low and wicked, the car was everything that he’d long ago vowed to own. He took the tote bag from her and she watched him dump the bags into the minuscule back seat. With his black-brown hair, shadowed jaw, and dark glasses that he slid into place before opening the passenger door, he looked wholly unfamiliar to her.

Dark. Dangerous. A perfect complement to the powerful car he drove.

Unsettled at the thought, she sank into the passenger seat and busied herself with retrieving her own sunglasses from her narrow purse. The top of the car was down, and the sun was killing despite the early hour.

“Fasten your seat belt.”

Her lips tightened at the sharp pain that knifed through her. As if she needed a reminder? She shoved her sunglasses on her nose and snapped the safety belt into place. But still, Brett didn’t start the engine. She looked straight ahead through the windshield. “What are you waiting for now?”

“You’re awful edgy this morning.”

She propped her elbow on the sun-warmed door beside her, unable to prevent a quick glance his way. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He still didn’t reach for the ignition.

“Well,” she said flippantly, “don’t blame me if we miss the flight.”

“We’ve got time,” he said as he finally started the car and drove away from the house. “I told Maria to tack on an extra half hour since I know you’ve never been on time for anything in your life.”

She sat back, stung. “I had a few calls. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Need to cancel your next manicure and pedicure?”

Her jaw ached. “As a matter of fact, yes. I also called my personal trainer and my masseuse. Made sure they knew I wouldn’t be available for my daily sessions.”

“Are you going to be this difficult from here on out?”

“Only if you’re going to insult me every time you open your mouth.” She exhaled wearily. What was it about this man that made her lose all semblance of civility? “I didn’t mean to be late,” she admitted reluctantly. “The father of a patient phoned.”

“I thought you said you were between patients.”

“I am.” And she wasn’t at all pleased about failing.

Fortunately Brett didn’t pursue that point. She was still filled with frustration over the Morales case. She didn’t need Brett digging at it, making it worse.

The wind rushed around them as Brett drove down the long driveway. The impeccably manicured grounds of the estate seemed to stretch out forever, as green as green could be. Grass groomed. Oaks and sweet gum trees towering. She rarely paid the grounds much heed, and probably wouldn’t even today if it weren’t a far safer subject to study than Brett and his low-slung, edgy car.

Not even Cord, who changed cars nearly as often as he changed his shirt, had a car like this one, she thought. And it was as different from her sedate, hard-topped sedan as it could be.

It also ate up the miles to the airport. It seemed barely minutes had passed when Brett pulled into a small lot where he parked under a numbered awning. He pushed a button and the car’s top smoothly lifted into place.

“You always said you’d have a car like this one day,” Kate murmured, smoothing her hand along the seat. “Is it new?”

“Had it a few years, now.”

He came around and opened her door, then pulled out her luggage as well as his own bag.

She took her small tote from him and slid the strap over her shoulder as he locked the car. “How long is the flight to Boston?”

He shrugged. “A few hours or so.”

Kate hurried to keep up with him as he strode out of the private lot, his long legs eating up the distance. At five foot eight, she wasn’t short, but her stride was nothing compared to his. She finally quit trying, and walked at a more comfortable pace behind him as they entered the terminal.

He was arrogant and annoying and a workaholic.

And just because she’d cried her eyes out in front of him the day before as if she was eighteen instead of thirty, didn’t mean her opinion on that had changed one bit. And just because she’d been unable to find sleep until the wee hours that morning, didn’t mean that she’d been dwelling on it, either.

She quickened her pace again and nearly ran into Brett when he stopped to wait for her. He pointed her toward the check-in and stuck a piece of paper in her hand. “That’s our confirmation number. I need to make a call. Can you handle checking us in?”

She wouldn’t take offense. She wouldn’t. So what if she had to count to ten? At least her voice was even when she answered. “I think I can manage.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then left her with the bags and walked away. She could see that he’d produced a slender cellular phone from somewhere.

Whether he wore a suit as he had yesterday, or looked rangy in blue jeans and a striped rugby shirt the way he did today, he was always at work. That was Brett.

Sighing faintly, she turned around again and waited for her turn. It didn’t take long. She read off the number for the woman behind the desk, absently produced her driver’s license for identification and glanced around the busy terminal. She hadn’t flown anywhere in years. And she’d never been to Boston before.

“All right, ma’am. Your seat assignments have already been made—row thirty-two, with an aisle seat.” She pushed Kate’s bag and Brett’s duffel onto the conveyor belt behind her.

“Row thirty-two?” Kate focused. “That doesn’t sound like first class.”

The clerk blinked. “No, ma’am. You’re in coach.”

Kate shook her head, smiling. “I’m sorry. That won’t do.” Brett would have to wedge his wide shoulders and long legs into a coach seat with a shoehorn. “There must have been an error with the reservation or something. Is there any way we can upgrade to first class?”

“Well, yes, of course, ma’am. But the fare is considerably—”

Kate waved that away. “Here.” She opened her wallet again and pulled out her American Express. “Will that do?”

The woman nodded. And in moments, she handed over a pair of new boarding passes. “I’m afraid you don’t have much time to get to the gate. Enjoy your flight.”

Kate smiled. “Thanks.” She tucked her credit card and the tickets into her purse and turned to find Brett already heading her way. He hustled them through the security check where it was obvious he was well-known, and onward to the gate just in time for the boarding call.

Kate handed over the boarding passes and they walked onto the plane. The smiling, blond flight attendant greeted them, and Kate stepped past her, heading toward their seats. She dumped her tote and purse on Brett’s seat and slid into the one next to the window. Even in the spacious first-class cabin, she knew he’d want the aisle.

“Kate.”

She wriggled in the roomy seat and looked up at him. Then at her tote. She plucked her purse out of his seat and tucked it beside her. “My tote will fit in the compartment, won’t it?”

He sighed. “What did you do?”

She looked at him. His expression was tight. All signs of humor gone. “You mean the seats? I switched them,” she said easily. “You didn’t really intend to sit back in the sardine section.” A wave of uncertainty hit her. “Or…did you?”

He didn’t answer her. He turned instead to the blond flight attendant who’d been looking at him like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream. “We need to switch seats out of first class,” he told the woman.

He was serious. “Brett,” Kate tried to get his attention, but he was seriously ignoring her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the blonde answered as if it was an everyday occurrence for someone to turn down first-class seating. “We’re heavy today. All seats booked.”

“We just gave up coach seats,” he countered.

She shook her head. “Standby passengers have already been boarded. I assure you, sir, we are full. And you’ll need to take your seat now.”

Beneath their feet the plane gave a little lurch as if to agree with her words. “I’ll stow that for you.” She took Kate’s tote and to her credit, her smile didn’t dim a watt at Brett’s grimace.

He sat down beside Kate and fastened his seat belt, then pulled some files from his briefcase before stowing it beneath the seat. Without a word to Kate, he flipped open one of the files and focused on whatever was inside it.

“Brett—”

His arm was resting on the armrest between them, and his fingers lifted. Warning.

She chewed the inside of her lip. Then finally turned and looked out the oval window as the plane backed away from the gate, then smoothly taxied around to join the line of planes awaiting takeoff.

She wondered for a moment if Brett remembered the time that she’d decided she’d wanted to be a pilot. She’d taken ground school classes before their senior year in high school and everything. Of course, that was back when she’d also thought it would be cool to be an actress, or a firefighter, and a dozen other careers that she’d fantasized about.

“Did you take your motion sickness stuff?” Brett suddenly asked.

Her eyes burned. “Before I left the house.” It was already beginning to make her feel drowsy. And it was the motion sickness that she’d learned plagued her only while flying that had put a damper on her teenage enthusiasm for becoming a pilot.

“Good,” he said flatly. “The last thing we need is you heaving your guts.”

“Put ever so poetically,” she murmured. She turned in her seat toward him. “Brett, I thought the seating thing was an error. We always traveled in first class.”

“No, Kate.” His voice was low, his tone flat. “You always did and just took me along for the ride. My clients don’t pay for me to ride around in first class and limousines. They pay me for results.”

Her lips firmed. “Well, I’m the client this time.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England. I have policies and it doesn’t include this. I warned you, princess, not to mess with my job, and already you’re doing it.”

Her lips parted, incredulous. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to cram yourself into a seat with too little legroom for you to be comfortable?”

“Open your eyes, Kate. People do it all the time, every day. Including me.”

“I was thinking of you,” she countered over the sound of the engines revving.

“No, you weren’t. You were taking over, adjusting the scenario until it suited your fancy, just like you always did.”

“That’s what you really think?” The plane was gathering speed as it headed down the runway.

His hard, square jaw tightened. “That’s what I really think.”

“Then it’s a good thing we never made it down the aisle, isn’t it?”

He looked back at his paperwork. “Seems to me you did make it down the aisle. With Hamilton Orwell the third.”

Kate’s stomach dropped as the plane suddenly lifted off the ground, heading sharply into the sky. But it seemed Brett wasn’t through.

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Tell me, Kate. Were you sleeping with the guy who, next to you was supposed to be my best friend, at the same time you were sleeping with me? Or did he really sweep you off your feet into marriage in just those few months after you dumped me?”

Kate sat back like a shot, speechless.

“Nah,” he mused. “Now that I think about it, I don’t care.”

She watched him turn his attention right back to the work spread out in front of him.

Of course he didn’t care. He hadn’t cared eight years ago. Not enough.

Her heart had been breaking because she’d finally acknowledged the truth about her standing in Brett’s life. She’d been raised by a dyed-in-the-wool tycoon; a man who’d put his family last and his work first.

One of the hardest things she’d ever had to do was face the truth that she’d fallen in love with a man whose priorities were a mirror image to her father’s.

For Brett, it was always work first.

Everything else, including her, had been last.

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