She’d wanted to tell him.

But she decided there was no point telling him before the child was born, and then decided to wait until Ethan was sleeping through the night so she had a clear head, and then … The longer she left it, the harder it became.

‘Pack your bags.’ Max surged from his chair, strode back to the window. ‘My son will know me. He’ll grow up with his father. I’m seeing to that today.’

Gillian gripped the table as though that could anchor her. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘I’m saying,’ he said quietly, ‘that we’re getting married.’

Dear Reader,

I love continuity series—six or so individually terrific books linked so that one teases you for the next, and the next lets you revisit the characters you grew to know and love in the previous one.

This is the first continuity book I’ve had the pleasure of writing and it’s been a fabulous experience working with the authors who’ve written the other five books. I’m really looking forward to reading all of the stories to see how everything finally plays out.

As for Max and Gillian, whose story this is, it was fun getting to know them. Gillian tried so hard to make best decisions for the best reasons, even if that reasoning was one Max vehemently disagreed with. And as for Max—a man used to being in absolute control of his life—he never expected a family of his own. Even less did he expect to fall so hard and so completely for Gillian.

Sometimes having our expectations thwarted is the perfect solution.

Enjoy!

Sandra

About the Author

After completing a business degree, travelling and then settling into a career in marketing, SANDRA HYATT was relieved to experience one of life’s eureka! moments while on maternity leave—she discovered that writing books, although a lot slower, was just as much fun as reading them. She knows life doesn’t always hand out happy endings and figures that’s why books ought to. She loves being along for the journey with her characters as they work around, over and through the obstacles standing in their way. Sandra has lived in both the US and England and currently lives near the coast in New Zealand with her high school sweetheart and their two children. You can visit her at www.sandrahyatt.com.

Don’t miss a single book in this series!

The Takeover

For better, for worse. For business, for pleasure.

These tycoons have vowed to have it all!

Claimed: The Pregnant Heiress by Day Leclaire

Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin by Emily McKay

Revealed: His Secret Child by Sandra Hyatt

Bought: His Temporary Fiancée by Yvonne Lindsay

Exposed: Her Undercover Millionaire by Michelle Celmer

Acquired: The CEO’s Small-Town Bride by Catherine Mann

Revealed:

His Secret Child

Sandra Hyatt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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One

This time she’d gone too far.

Max Preston looked from the newspaper spread before him to the glittering sea beyond the window and made up his mind. This time he wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to ignore his calls. To ignore him.

His chair scraped across the parquet flooring of the Beach and Tennis Club’s breakfast restaurant as he stood from his table. Leaving a tip for his waitress and his just delivered omelet untouched, he took one last sip of his coffee and left.

So much for the first Saturday off he’d had in months.

He hadn’t known he was going to fill his morning. He did now.

A search on his phone as he strode to his car turned up her address. Tossing the parochial, two-bit rag she worked for—the proverbial thorn in his side—onto the passenger seat, he slid into his seat and eased the Maserati out of the club’s parking lot.

The first time he’d seen Gillian Mitchell’s picture and byline in the Seaside Gazette and realized that she was here in Vista del Mar, he’d felt an unexpected surge of pleasure and triumph, like when he found something he didn’t realize he’d lost and was missing. A hundred-dollar bill in his coat pocket—but better.

It only took the seconds he’d needed to read her first biting paragraph for those feelings to vaporize.

Since that moment, he’d been trying to view her presence here and her articles with purely professional detachment.

Clearly, she wasn’t doing the same. Her attacks on Cameron Enterprises and, in particular, Max’s boss, Rafe Cameron, might, to the uninformed reader, appear objective, but they were personal and directed at Max. He was sure of it.

On the seat beside him, her opinion piece lay face-up. At the first set of lights he flipped the paper over so that he didn’t have to see the one-sided article that constituted her opinion.

A call came through on his cell. “Max speaking,” he said into his earpiece.

“Have you seen it?” Rafe wasted no words.

“I’m dealing with it.” As head of PR for Cameron Enterprises it was Max’s job to smooth the waters, to make sure the people of Vista Del Mar saw Rafe’s takeover of Worth Industries—a microchip manufacturer and one of the town’s biggest employers—in the best possible light.

And Gillian, it seemed, was doing everything in her power to achieve the opposite result.

“Is it libel?” Rafe asked.

“It’s close. I’m on my way to see her now. I’ll let her know how seriously we’re taking this. That our lawyers will be examining this piece as well as every word she’s written to date, and every word she will write in the future on anything related to this subject.”

“Good.” Rafe rang off.

At one time, Max had nothing but the highest respect for Gillian’s doggedness. But when she started making his boss the repeated target of her campaign, that doggedness looked a lot more like intransigence and plain old sour grapes.

Because she and Max had history.

But the way he remembered it, it had been good history. And it had ended cleanly. Six months into their relationship, when she’d casually dropped the words children and marriage into a conversation, he’d known he had to end it. It was only fair. He didn’t do marriage and kids, they hadn’t been in his plans. Still weren’t. And till that moment he hadn’t thought they’d been in hers.

So he’d broken it off with her. On the spot. It was the only honest thing to do. And he’d thought she’d taken it well. There had been no drama. She’d calmly agreed with him that they clearly had different needs from a relationship, and walked away without so much as a backward glance.

He hadn’t heard from her or of her in the three and a half years since then. Till these opinion pieces and her supposed factual, objective articles. So now he was thinking maybe she hadn’t taken it well. Maybe she had merely bided her time till the opportunity to strike back arose.

The ten-minute coastal drive gave Max time to calm down so that by the time he reached her place—an older Spanish-style home set several blocks back from the beach—he was only annoyed instead of furious.

She was nothing he couldn’t deal with.

And, if he was honest, he was just a little curious, too. They’d had some good times. Had she changed in the intervening years? Were her eyes as green as he remembered?

He strode the path to her door, knocked firmly and waited, standing where she’d have a clear view of him through the glass bordering the door. He could just make out the beat of the rock music she used to enjoy and had a flash of memory, of Gillian swaying and sashaying around her L.A. apartment. The music stopped.

Beyond a row of orange flowering bushes, a blue hatchback with tinted windows sat in the driveway. Max paused before knocking again. She used to drive a sporty, two-door soft top.

Had she married, as she’d been so clearly keen to do? The thought gave him pause. The fact that she hadn’t changed her name didn’t mean she hadn’t gotten her wish. The hatchback had a definite family-car aura to it.

It didn’t matter. The only thing that concerned him was the paper he held and the inflammatory words she was writing in it. As he lifted his hand to knock again, the door swung open halfway.

For a moment, as they looked at each other, the world stopped. For just that moment, he forgot why he was here. Sunlight caught her chestnut-brown hair, brought a luminescence to her creamy skin. She was so hauntingly familiar, and yet, not.

“Max?” She blinked, regrouped. “What are you doing here?” Her words, the shock and the underlying reluctance in them, got the world spinning nicely again. He hadn’t expected or wanted warmth, but he also hadn’t expected fear, and that was definitely what he saw in her wide, green eyes and heard in the catch in her throaty voice. She didn’t want him here.

“We need to talk.”

“If you want to talk to me, phone.” She swung the door.

Max put his hand and foot out to halt its momentum. “You’ll see me now. I tried phoning last week, remember? That didn’t work. This is what you get when you don’t answer my calls.”

“I was going to call you Monday. We can make an appointment. I’ll see you during normal working hours.”

Her eyes were just as green as he remembered. It was the emotion he read in them now that was different. Perhaps the defensiveness was caused by conscience about the things she was writing. “And since when have you kept normal working hours?”

“Since …” A look he couldn’t interpret stole over her face. “Since I realized that work isn’t the be-all and end-all of everything. Which means that, unlike yours, my weekends are sacred. I like to relax, to devote my time to … other things. It most definitely means that you’re not a welcome intrusion.”

Max stayed precisely where he was. He remembered her as being direct but beneath this morning’s directness he couldn’t help but feel that she was hedging. She was on the defensive. Which worked for him. “You’re not the only one who values their weekends,” he said, “so let me come in, we’ll talk, straighten a few things out and then I’ll leave. But until we’ve talked, I’m not going anywhere.”

Gillian glanced at the slim watch encircling her wrist then over her shoulder as though deciding. “Five minutes, Max. That’s all I can give you.” She stepped back from the door, opened it just wide enough for him to enter.

It was a decision that pleased him. “Five minutes is all we’ll need. So long as you see reason.” He stepped inside, got his first proper look at her. A white tank top clung gently to the curve of her breasts. The press of her nipples against the soft fabric advertised the fact that she wore no bra, diminishing the available oxygen in the room and threatening to distract him absolutely. For the first time Max reconsidered the wisdom of catching her unawares, first thing in the morning, in her home.

Drawstring yoga pants rode low on the flare of her hips. Her pale feet were bare. He was guessing she wasn’t long out of bed. And he was not going to follow that train of thought any further, because combining the words Gillian and bed even if only in his mind would almost certainly derail his thought process.

Though still slender, she was maybe a little curvier than he remembered. There was a new softness to her body that was most definitely missing from the guarded expression on her face.

She bit her lip, something he’d only ever seen her do when she was nervous, then gestured to a room just off the entranceway. She stood blocking any view he might have had of any of the rest of her house while he stepped into the formal living room she’d indicated. How did she manage to look so unyielding and yet so tempting?

A sofa and two comfortable-looking floral armchairs surrounded a coffee table that was bare except for a flowering peace lily. The curtained window overlooked a private, palm-filled garden.

“Sit down.” She pointed to one of the armchairs. “I’ll be back in a moment.” She headed for the door.

“One thing.”

She hesitated.

“Are you married?” He hadn’t meant that to be the first question he asked her.

“No.”

He shouldn’t feel relief, he had no right, and he was no hypocrite. Not normally. Business. This was purely business. That was all there would ever be between them.

She left the room and Max had to drag his gaze from the sway of her hips in the soft draping fabric and turn back to the living room. The door shut with a firm click behind her.

He looked about the room that seemed both a little old-fashioned and far too tidy, in an almost sterile way. The Gillian he remembered used to have half-read newspapers, magazines and books stacked and stashed around any and all of her living spaces.

Seemed she’d changed. Or that this was what his grandmother used to refer to as her company room. It certainly wasn’t where the music he’d heard or the scent of coffee he’d caught as he’d stepped into the house had been coming from.

He placed his copy of the Seaside Gazette on the coffee table so that her opinion piece was uppermost, reminding him to refocus on his sole reason for being here. Not to speculate on Gillian’s life.

True to her word she was back in just a few moments, once again shutting the door carefully behind her. The soft tank top and yoga pants had been replaced by hip-hugging, multipocketed cargo pants and an olive-green T-shirt. Thankfully, for the sake of his focus, it seemed she wore a bra beneath the T-shirt. She’d pulled her lush hair back into a high ponytail.

She looked like the heroine from one of the computer games they used to play—ready for combat.

The subtle charge of anticipation swept through him. “This morning’s opinion piece.” That was why he was here. Not to find out if she was married or how she’d been doing in the past three and half years, or … if she wanted to go out to dinner tonight. There was, after all, more than one way to skin a cat.

No. Not going there again. Max pulled himself up short.

Her kick-ass demeanor had beguiled and fooled him once into thinking it meant she didn’t want those things he shied away from, that she wasn’t looking for emotional intimacy and a future together. And Max was a man who learned from his mistakes.

Gillian perched on the edge of the second armchair, as though ready to leap back to her feet. Her expression was shuttered. Still, just because they were on opposite sides of this issue didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy locking horns with her. “It’s libelous,” he said quietly, leaning toward her.

“No, it’s not.” She shook her head, smiling. “It’s an opinion piece. And every opinion is backed up by cold, hard facts.”

“You call labeling Rafe Cameron an angry teenager who’s grown into an angry man with an ax to grind and the money to grind it well, a fact?”

“I didn’t call him that. It’s a direct quote.”

“From a real person?”

“Of course.” He’d pushed a button with that one. “As real as Emma Worth was.”

And she pushed a button right back. Max’s jaw tightened. Emma Worth’s father, Ronald, had founded Worth Industries and was revered in the town. So when Gillian had quoted his skeptical daughter in a piece two months ago, the townsfolk had sat up and taken notice. And not in a good way. In the interim, Max had brought the focus back round to the good work Rafe was doing in the town, specifically the charity, Hannah’s Hope, he’d founded to improve the literacy skills of the town’s workforce, many of whom were migrant workers with limited formal education.

He had scored something of a coup in using Rafe and his half-brother Chase’s connections to secure the involvement of superstar musician Ward Miller. The community was justifiably enthusiastic, almost excited. And interest in the upcoming fundraising gala was strong and building. Negotiations with a number of other celebrities were proceeding nicely.

But celebrities were notoriously sensitive about their public images. They were rightly cautious about what and whom they were linked with.

Gillian and her opinion pieces could end up scaring some of his best prospects off for no good reason. “You at least gave Emma a name. I had no doubt she was real. Today’s source …” He shrugged to express his doubts.

“Emma insisted I use her name because she knew it would give weight and credence to her comments. The source I used for today’s piece didn’t feel the same way. And I agreed with him. But that doesn’t mean he’s not real or that he didn’t have specific, verified examples to back his opinion up.”

Max leaned back in his chair and studied her, trying to gauge just how sure of her position she was. “You’re skating on wafer-thin ice, Gillian. Our lawyers will be taking a good hard look at each and every word you’ve written.”

“They can look as hard as they want.” Defiance lifted her chin. And he found he was the one doing all the “looking.” Her hair, her skin, her figure, the fire in her green eyes that picked out flecks of amber. He cataloged her features, remembered how he’d liked so much—everything, in fact—about her, but it had been her eyes, the intelligence and passion they hinted at, that captured his attention most.

He wouldn’t be distracted by the battle light in them now, although he could admit it stirred reactions in him that he’d had no intention of allowing. But there was no denying she was beautiful, all the more so when the passion for one of her causes was stirred.

Once, he’d had no trouble making passion, of an altogether different kind, stir.

He’d never met anyone quite like her, either before or after their time together. And he so didn’t need to be going down that track now. He tapped his fist on the newspaper. That was why he was here. “You’re unnecessarily inciting uncertainty, fear and anger. Cameron Enterprises is putting a lot of resources into Hannah’s Hope and the upcoming gala, with the aim of giving something back to the community. The charity can do a lot of good for the town, but not if you scare people off it.” He deliberately didn’t try to tell her his boss’s takeover of Worth Industries would ultimately be good for the community. Or that Rafe was behind the charity for any reason other than to improve the public image and perception of his business till his plans for the future of the business were finalized.

Rafe could still jump either way with those plans.

“I’d say it is necessary to give voice to the opinions in that piece,” she said. “The citizens of Vista del Mar ought to be uncertain. They ought to be angry and afraid. They ought not to trust in the goodness of Rafe Cameron’s heart.”

“Seems to me you’re letting personal animosity impact professional integrity.” Even if she was right.

For a second, her jaw dropped. “There’s nothing personal about this.”

“You’re not using this as an opportunity to get back at me?”

Her laughter was short but the amusement real. “You flatter yourself, Max.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. I call it as I see it. If I suggest some questions that the people of Vista del Mar might like to ask your Mr. Cameron then that’s just doing my job, regardless of who he employs as his spin doctor.”

“And if our lawyers have some questions they want to ask you and the paper’s owners, they’ll just be doing their job.”

“I have the complete backing of the paper’s owners.”

“Nobody likes to be sued,” he said quietly. “It’ll be easy enough to call them off. All you have to do is to stop writing such aggressively provocative pieces. Stick to the truth and the facts.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just letting you know what you’re getting into. Giving you the facts.”

She shook her head slowly. “Have you forgotten that much about me, Max? Do you really think threatening me, because that was a threat, not a helpful passing on of information, is going to make me shirk my duties as a voice in this community?”

“I am trying to help you. You need to know how things stand. Rafe Cameron doesn’t let people get in the way of what he wants and he doesn’t mess around.” He hoped, for her sake, that she believed him.

“Can I quote you on that?”

“No. This is a visit between old … friends.” Any other word was too loaded. “I can, however, get you quotes on and from Rafe himself. An interview if you’d like.”

A smile spread across her face. It seemed, in fact, to brighten the whole room. “Do you mean like the type of information you’ll be putting across at your upcoming press conference, or the whitewashed press releases out of your office? Like that one that came across my desk last week full of glowing praise for Hannah’s Hope and the gala?”

That was precisely what he’d been thinking of. Only he could hardly admit that now.

“As if it wasn’t obvious from the—” A sound—something soft hitting the floor upstairs—stopped her midsentence and wiped all trace of amusement from her face. She glanced at her watch. “Your time’s up, Max. I’ve heard you out. I’ll think about what you said. Really, I will.” She was suddenly reasonable, her tone conciliatory. “I promise.” She stood and walked to the door, opening it. “Just go.”

Max rose slowly. Something had thrown her off her stride, put that fear back into the eyes that were now fixed on him as she waited for him to move. Willed him to move? Watching her, he walked toward her. She turned and headed out of the room. By the time he caught up to her she was standing at the front door, holding it wide to reveal the morning sunshine.

He paused.

She opened the door wider still.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Gillian.”

“Yes it does.” Her words were clipped. “I do my job as I see fit.”

“I wasn’t talking about your job. I was speaking … personally. We were rivals once and still managed—”

“I learned my lesson and now I keep my personal and my professional lives separate. So, please, just go. Now.” She reached for him, her fingers closing around his arm, as though to urge him through the doorway.

Max stayed where he was, her desperation making him curious. Something wasn’t right here. Did she have a man back there, someone she didn’t want him to see?

Another soft thump and he looked deeper into the house to where it had come from.

“Max,” she hissed his name and tugged his arm. “Not now.” Panic tightened her voice.

Max gave it up and took a step. He wasn’t going to care. Either about what she was trying to hide or about unsettling her by lingering or about how that simple touch, her hand on his arm, had resonated through him.

“Mommy,” a happy singsong voice called. She let go of his arm and her hand fell to her side.

“Mommy?” he asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice. She closed her eyes and her shoulders sagged. The pieces dropped into place—the hatchback, her softer curves, her haste to get rid of him—it suddenly made sense. She might not be married but she certainly hadn’t wasted any time in replacing him in her bed, in finding someone to give her the child she’d talked about. “When did that happen?” Max was no expert on children, he had no idea how old the child might be. Anywhere less than three but old enough to talk. So, not a baby.

“Go. Please,” she repeated, but this time the authority had gone from her command. A bleak resignation filled her eyes. “I need to talk to you. But not now. Not here.”

“Sure.” Definitely time to go if there was a child here. He barely knew how to be in the room with his own nieces. And he was still processing the fact that Gillian had had a child.

“Mommy.”

One glance. That was all he’d allow himself to satisfy his curiosity. Max turned back to see a little, curly-headed boy, clutching a faded blue blanket, standing at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m hungwy.”

A little boy, who was the spitting image of Max and his brother in the picture his parents still had on their hallway wall, taken when he was two.

Shock swamped him. He, not Gillian, was the one who’d been skating on thin ice. And he’d just fallen through into a paralyzing new world.

Max looked from the boy to Gillian. Her skin, always pale, had faded to ashen, her knuckles as she gripped the door handle were white.

“Mommy?” He echoed the child’s word, not taking his eyes from her. “Mommy?” And for a second he wished that he, too, had the door handle to hold on to, to steady himself. The boy was Gillian’s. The boy who looked like Max. He didn’t need to do the math to know the child was his.

“Okay, honey,” Gillian said, her voice soft, “go on into the kitchen. I’ll come get you some cereal.” The boy looked steadily at her and Max for the longest time then trotted through a doorway.

The depth of her deceit stunned him.

And to think he’d attributed her defensiveness to conscience over the piece she’d written. That wrong didn’t even register on the same scale as the deception she’d practiced on him for the past three and a half years.

“I don’t suppose we can talk about this later?” Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, and her throat moved as she swallowed. She knew there was no way he was leaving now.

He took hold of the door and swung it shut.

The fury was back in full force as he followed her to the kitchen. Overlaying a deep and utter shock. Shock that he couldn’t process and fury that he couldn’t give vent to now, not with a child here.

A boy.

His son.

Two

Gillian’s stomach churned. What was going to happen now? She knew only one thing. She knew it the instant Max recognized himself in Ethan.

The carefully protected bubble of her life was about to be blown apart. She followed Ethan through to the kitchen. Every slow deliberate step of Max’s Italian-loafer-clad feet sounded like an ax fall behind her.

But underneath her anxiety she recognized a flicker of relief. The relief a condemned man might feel on his way to execution. If nothing else, the agony of anticipating the inevitable was over.

She’d known Max was head of PR for Cameron Enterprises. She’d known, therefore, that her articles had the potential to bring her into contact with him. And that perhaps the time had come to tell him about Ethan.

But not in her own home. She’d never thought that. Not where he could see her son. Not without her first doing the impossible and preparing Max for the news.

In the center of the kitchen she stopped as Ethan climbed onto his booster seat at the table. So much about her kitchen and its cozy dining area advertised the fact that a child lived here. Which was why she hadn’t brought Max to this room in the first place.

Her half-drunk coffee sat on the opposite side of the table from Ethan. The same newspaper that had brought Max to her door lay folded to reveal the crossword, reminding her that a mere ten minutes ago her biggest problem had been finding an eleven-letter word for incident.

Her day had stretched out, relaxed and pleasant, before her.

She needed to move, to be doing something. Keeping her back to Max and Ethan, she poured a bowl of cereal. With hands that weren’t quite steady, she sliced banana into the bowl and added milk, but there was only so long she could drag the preparation out. Eventually, she had to turn from the counter and face the music. Or in this case the absolute silence.

Max sat in the chair she’d vacated earlier, opposite Ethan. They were staring at each other—from perfectly matched blue eyes—with unabashed curiosity. Ethan could outstare almost anyone. She now realized where that ability had come from.

Gillian set her son’s bowl in front of him, milk slopping over the side as she did so. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails dug into her palms. She had to calm down, take control, of herself and of the situation.

Ethan, having looked his fill at the stranger, picked up his spoon and began eating, his breakfast now more important than the man at the table. Gillian found a cloth for the spilled milk.

And Max … watched.

He still hadn’t spoken a word and his silence may not be affecting Ethan, but every second of it ratcheted up the tension in her stomach. “Do you want coffee?”

He shook his head. A single abrupt movement.

She’d known her son looked like his father, but seeing them here together for the first time, the resemblance was even stronger than she’d realized. Seeing them here together was both her greatest wish and her greatest fear.

“What’s your name?” Ethan had stopped spooning cereal into his mouth long enough to ask the innocent question.

Max opened his mouth.

“His name’s Mr. Preston,” she said before Max could supply anything confusing or startling, because she’d suddenly had the terrifying thought that this man, who’d had no intention of ever being a father, had been about to say “Daddy.”

“Pweston.”

“We’ll find something else for you to call me,” Max said, the piercing blue of his arctic gaze firmly on Gillian. He looked back at her son. “What’s your name?”

“Ethan. An’ I’m gonna be three soon. How old are you?”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. Clearly he wasn’t used to the directness of a child’s questioning. He ought to be, he was pretty good at it himself. A smile lifted the corners of his lips, momentarily smoothing the deep lines that had furrowed his brow. “I’m thirty-two. Nearly thirty-three.” His gaze swung to her. “Which means I was thirty when you were born.”

Not here. Not now. Gillian tried to telegraph the silent message to him. Not in front of Ethan. “His birthday is the same day as yours,” she said quietly. Max jerked back as though she’d hit him.

“Do you wanna see my twain?”

“Yeah,” he said, to all outward appearances calm and back in control, “I’d like that.”

Max stood and father and son left the table, Ethan trotting ahead, Max tossing aside his leather jacket and modifying his stride to follow. Gillian couldn’t bear to follow but knew she had to. She had to be there in case Max said anything to upset or confuse Ethan.

As calmly and as quietly as he’d sat at the table, she could tell he was livid. But that anger was for her. She didn’t think he’d let Ethan see it—after all, he was better than any man she’d ever met at controlling his emotions.

With dragging footsteps, she followed. She stood in the doorway and watched as, for twenty minutes, Max lay on his side, propped up on one elbow on her family room floor, his long legs stretched out and his shirtsleeves rolled up, playing trains with his son. The sight was as surreal as if James Bond had waltzed in and done the same thing. With an obedience that had to be alien to him, he pushed engines and carriages around a blue plastic track, taking garbled advice from the expert on the trains’ names and what they carried and the appropriate noises to make. The two of them spun stories and orchestrated derailments.

It broke her heart.

She thought she’d done the right thing.

She was so sure she’d done the right thing. For everyone. For Max because he didn’t want a family, for Ethan because he deserved better than a father who didn’t want him and for her because she hadn’t wanted to trap, or be trapped with, a man who didn’t love her, who didn’t open up emotionally, who would always put his career ahead of anything else in his life. Who would ultimately, in the ways that counted, reject her and their son.

She’d thought she could provide all that Ethan needed.

But now? A chasm had opened and uncertainty flooded in.

For the first time since they’d come into the room, Max looked at her. The light, the softness, the pleasure that had been in his eyes, dimmed and hardened. In one swift movement he stood. “Are you all right here, son, if I go and talk to Mommy?“

“Son” Gillian went cold. It was just an expression. He wasn’t the first man to call Ethan “son.” It didn’t mean anything. Despite the fact that he was the first man for whom it was truly more than just an expression.

Ethan didn’t look up from the train he was pushing toward a tunnel as he said, “Uh-huh.” She hadn’t had any daddy questions from him yet. She’d known they’d come one day but she’d hoped that day was a long way off.

A tendril of fear snaked through her. What if there was more to Max’s reaction than anger over the secret she’d kept? What if he wanted to claim Ethan? Max, because of his nature and his profession, chose words carefully. And if he’d called Ethan “son”…

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Two long strides had Max at her side, his fingers gripping her elbow as he spun her and led her back to the kitchen. Three years and he still used the same cologne. Eternity. The one that made her think of him whenever she’d smelled it. The scent reassured her. He was a creature of habit. He didn’t change his ways for anyone. He wouldn’t want a son. There would be no room in his life.

Her legs unsteady, and needing some kind of barrier in front of her, she sat at the table. She traced a scar in the old wood with her fingernail as he paced her too-small kitchen, tension and anger radiating off him in waves.

He’d always been passionate—about his career, his life and at one point about her. She could still vividly remember their lovemaking. But now that passion was channeled into anger. The fact that he hadn’t yet given vent to it gave her a clue as to how powerful it was.

If he decided he wanted visitation rights she’d give him that, but only if he could guarantee that it would be permanent, that. Gillian threaded her fingers into her hair. Where was she going with this?

He was still pacing and turning. Gillian kept her gaze on the table but she heard his step, felt his presence surrounding, suffocating her. If only he’d say something. Anything. Finally, the footsteps stopped.

“He’s my son.”

Anything except that.

The controlled, quietly spoken words, that simple statement of fact, contained a wealth of emotion. But they hadn’t been a question so Gillian said nothing.

“How dare you?”

That, however, was most definitely a question. She looked up. He stood with his back to her looking out the window above the counter and she was grateful she didn’t have to meet his gaze. “I did what I thought was best.”

He spun back to her. “Best?” He ground the word out, ice in his gaze.

She had to force herself to meet that anger, feel that wintry animosity. “You didn’t want children. You broke up with me because I mentioned the word just once.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You were pregnant then?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Do you remember that week we both caught a stomach virus?”

“The one I picked up on a trip to Boston and passed to you?”

“I didn’t think I’d been that sick.” She lifted her shoulder. “But it interfered with the pill and I got pregnant.”

“And you didn’t—” He turned back to the window. “I’m that boy’s—”

“Ethan’s.”

He crossed to the table, leaned on his fists, his face close to hers. Her heart thundered but she wouldn’t back away from his intimidation.

“I’m Ethan’s father.” His voice was lethally calm, but a bluish vein pulsed in his temple. “And you never once thought I had a right to know that.”

She’d thought it a million times but common sense had always prevailed.

“Are you my daddy?”

Gillian’s heart plummeted at her son’s happy, singsong question. Inquisitive and bright with the hearing of a bat, he never missed a thing.

For an instant, Max’s gaze fixed on hers and for the first time there was something other than anger in it. Was he looking for her permission? She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Not now.”

His gaze hardened. “If not now, then when?” Max pulled out the chair next to Gillian, spun it so it faced Ethan, and sat leaning his forearms on his knees, putting himself closer to Ethan’s level. “Yes. I’m your daddy,” he said gently.

So much for needing her permission.

She watched her son for his reaction. Ethan frowned, stared at Max for a few seconds, and then smiled. “Come play.”

Max glanced questioningly at Gillian. If he’d expected Ethan to be as stunned by the discovery as he’d been, he was very much mistaken.

She stood. “How about I put your favorite movie on, honey?” Normally, Gillian discouraged the watching of TV. Today was not normal. “The one about trains.”

“Okay.” Ethan headed blithely for the family room.

When she got back, Max was exactly where she’d left him, sitting in the chair, staring at the doorway, forearms resting on splayed knees. “Did you have to tell him that?”

He jerked upright. “I was hardly going to leave it to you,” he said quietly. “He deserves to know before he turns eighteen.”

“He’s never asked.”

“Well, he did and now he knows. And at least now he doesn’t have to call me Pweston.” And for just a second a wry smile lifted a corner of his lips and amusement passed between them. Then vanished. “I had a right to know, too, before he came looking for me wanting to know why he’d grown up without his father.”

“You didn’t want children.”

“I didn’t want to do jury service last year, either, but I did, and I coped and I think I did a good job.”

“Ethan deserves better than a father who’s only there because he has to be.”

“It’s better than no father at all.”

“Is it? I didn’t think so.” She’d had a reluctant, resentful, part-time father for her early years. It had taken her many more years to realize that his attitude and actions and eventual desertion were not a reflection of her worth. Even so, his rejection of her had shaped who she was.

“Clearly. But family is important. Having a mother and a father, that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“Only if that mother and father both want to be there. Only if neither of them is resenting the child for its very existence.”

His gaze was cold on her face till finally, after a silence that stretched and hardened like a wall between them, he spoke.

“I had a right to know, and you denied me that right. You denied me two years and ten months of my child’s life?”

Gillian said nothing. She’d made the best decision she could with the facts she had at the time. And the fact was that Max had wanted nothing permanent in his life. Not a relationship and certainly not a child. For all the grueling and lonely time over those years, they had also been the best, most satisfying times of her life. She’d seen her son grow from a baby, his personality developing. It had been a privilege and a delight and she’d denied Max that opportunity. High-flying, career-driven, workaholic Max Preston who wouldn’t have time in his life for a child. Who’d said he didn’t want children. Ever.

High-flying, career-driven, workaholic Max Preston who’d just spent half an hour on her family-room floor playing trains. She wanted to weep. “If you’d called just once, just once, after we broke up …”

He shook his head. “Don’t you dare try to blame me.”

“I’m not. I’m just …” She didn’t know what she was. Confused? Anxious?

Max surged from his chair, strode back to the window.

“This changes everything.” He turned back to her. “Pack your bags.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean pack your bags. My son will know me. He’ll grow up with his father as part of a family. I’m seeing to that today.”

Gillian gripped the table as though that could anchor her. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying,” he said quietly, “that we’re getting married.”

Three

Married?

Surely she had misheard him.

She’d never been good at reading his face but there was no mistaking the implacable seriousness of his voice.

And it terrified her.

But now was not the time to give in to, or even show, her fear. She thought frantically. This Max was not the man she’d thought she knew. “Maybe I owe you something.” Gillian spoke calmly, surprising herself with her composure. Deliberately, she released her grip on the table and rested her hands in her lap.

Where they clenched into fists as she struggled to find her center in a world that was spinning, threatening to spiral out of control.

“Damn right you do.”

“And yes, maybe we need to work something out but—”

“There are no maybes and buts, and there’s no we. I’ve already worked it out.”

She remembered that about him, how decisively he acted. She used to like that confidence, that absolute certainty, but what she needed from him now was compromise and recognition that there would have to be negotiation. So it was up to her to be the reasonable one.

He’d see sense.

He had to.

She stood and crossed to him. The cold fury he radiated stopped her from getting too close. But she knew there was a reasonable man inside there. Once he’d let her see glimpses of a loving side that had enamored her. “You can see Ethan as much as you want. You can have visitation on the weekends, I won’t argue with that. Of course, initially, I’ll have to be there at all times, to reassure him, but as he gets used to you—”

“You have no idea, do you?” Max closed what remained of the gap she’d left between them, drawing himself up to his full six feet, using every tactic, and none of them subtle, to dominate. “I’ve already missed out on two years and ten months of my son’s life.” He spoke quietly. “I’m not settling for visitation on your terms on the weekends. But I can be reasonable.”

Gillian dared to hope.

“I’ll give you two options. You come to Vegas with me right now and marry me—giving Ethan a father who is married to his mother.” His gaze raked over her. Such coldness where once there’d been such heat. Once just a look between them and passion combusted. “And don’t worry,” he said as though he’d read her thoughts, “I won’t be claiming any marital rights. Anything I felt for you is long dead.”

Gillian held herself utterly still, showed no reaction. If he was lashing out now, it was no more than she expected. All she needed from him was a glimmer of reasonableness. “And my second option?” She held tight to her faint hope.

Ethan’s gurgling laughter drifted through from the living room. Max glanced that way before training his hardened gaze back on her. “Or we face off in court. And it’ll be you who’s fighting to get weekend visitation rights.”

That faint hope withered. “You wouldn’t.” But she didn’t believe her own assertion. “You wouldn’t take him from me.”

“Just try me, Gillian. You had no qualms about taking him from me.”

Cold dread seized her. He would do it. He was ruthless enough and furious enough. And rich enough.

She had her salary from the newspaper, and she could sell this house she’d inherited from her grandmother, and she even had a small nest egg—for a rainy day. It was no insurance against the storm of the century that Max could call down on her shoulders. He’d use the Preston millions to fight for custody of her son. Make sure he got his way. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

He slid his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling my lawyers. It’s your choice as to whether I instruct them to start proceedings for a custody suit or to draw up a prenup and fax it through to the jet before we land in Vegas.”

Gillian stared at him. He held her gaze, unflinching, unbending. Finally, she spoke. “You know my choice.”

Max smiled. Perfect white teeth, cold blue eyes. “Pack your bags while I make the call. We’re leaving in ten minutes and won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“No. We’re not.”

“Changed your mind already?” His thumb hovered over a button on his phone.

“No. I’m providing you with a demonstration of why you didn’t, don’t, want children. Ten minutes isn’t enough. It’s not a case of throwing a few things into a bag anymore. I’ll need food for Ethan, his music, his favorite books, clothes and his blanket. I haven’t showered yet myself. I’ll need an hour. At least.”

“I’ll give you half an hour. We can buy whatever we need.”

“We can’t buy his favorite blanket.”

“That’s why I’m giving you half an hour, not ten minutes.” He pressed a button on his phone, lifted it to his ear. “Tristan.” He smiled at something the other man said then glanced at Gillian. “Yeah. It’s important.”

Dimly, she heard him talking while she made her way upstairs. This couldn’t be happening. Numbly, she showered and changed and then packed.

Max said nothing when she reappeared forty-five minutes later. She stood at the doorway to the family room, two cases behind her, surveying Ethan and Max as they played trains on a completely redesigned track that now appeared to be under attack by rampaging dinosaurs.

Max scanned her from head to toe. He didn’t look at his watch and he didn’t say anything. She had no idea whether his lack of comment on her timekeeping was due to forbearance because of Ethan’s presence, or because he’d lost track of time.

“Daddy,” Ethan said, “look.”

Max’s eyes widened and he looked sharply back at Ethan.

She’d seen his shock. Felt it herself. “Daddy.” Her son had called him “Daddy.” As though for him it was the most natural thing in the world. But she knew that single word had rocked both Max’s and her world to the core.

He’d never wanted children. At all, he’d said. And now a little boy was calling him “Daddy.” Already making demands on him. It wasn’t too late for Max to back out. Gillian held her breath.

Far from backing out, Max reached across and ruffled Ethan’s curls. “Come on, tiger.” Ethan seemed to swell with pride at the power of the nickname. “Mommy’s waiting.” He watched Gillian for her reaction. She was too numb to show any.

Out on the driveway he looked from his two-door Maserati coupe to her hatchback.

“There’s not a lot of room in the back of yours for Ethan.” She stated the obvious. “And his car seat and CDs are already in my car. And wipes for sticky hands.” She wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. This situation was of his own making. The sacrifice of driving to the airport in L.A. in her car was nothing compared to what he was asking her to do.

He shook his head. Resignation? She wasn’t sure.

Lulled by the noise and the motion, Ethan was sleeping by the time the jet landed in Las Vegas. As it taxied to a halt, Max and Gillian both stood looking at him. His face and the cream leather armchair his car seat was strapped into were smudged with peanut butter, his head was tipped to one side, long lashes curling on his cheeks. Max reached for the buckles. “You take the bags,” she said. “I’ll take Ethan. If he wakes in someone else’s arms he might get upset.” Max shrugged, acquiescent now that he’d gotten his way where it counted. Or wary of getting covered in peanut butter?

Gillian crouched in front of the armchair, gently releasing the buckles. Ethan slowly opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw her and her heart swelled as it always did. “Where’s Daddy?”

Gillian closed her eyes at the stab of hurt. “He’s right here, sweetheart.” She moved so that Ethan could see Max. She looked up at him expecting to see gloating, but what she saw was worse, and she looked away from the pity in his gaze.

In the chapel’s waiting room, thoughtfully equipped with a toy box, Ethan played. Max, now wearing the dark suit he’d changed into on the jet, relaxed in one of the armchairs calmly sending emails and making and taking calls on his phone while Gillian paced the red carpet.

The door to the waiting room opened and the celebrant’s assistant beckoned them. Gillian and Ethan packed up the toys. She kept hold of a book for Ethan to look at during the service, and walked to the door. She held her son’s hand, hoping that he didn’t sense she was, for the first time in their almost three years together, the one needing reassurance from the contact.

The assistant smiled at Gillian and patted her shoulder as she stopped in front of her. “Don’t worry. Most brides are a little nervous.” Gillian wasn’t nervous so much as in shock. Just this morning she’d been deciding between cleaning the fridge and finishing her book. The fridge had been looking like the loser. Now the loser was her—marrying a man because of an ultimatum.

She squared her shoulders. She just needed to get through this. Max would have what he wanted—his name on a marriage certificate beside hers—and they could go home and get on with their lives.

“And you do look beautiful,” said the assistant.

She glanced down at the dress that at the last minute she’d decided to bring. A silver shift dress she’d bought a couple of months ago to attend a work cocktail party with her friend Maggie. If she was going to get married, then she was going to look at least halfway decent doing it. If nothing else came of this, Ethan would have a picture of his parents marrying. She wanted to create the most realistic illusion she could. Max came to stand beside her.

“Doesn’t she, sir?” The assistant looked to Max for his agreement.

“She’s always looked lovely,” he said, as though the fact bothered him.

“The two of you make a very handsome couple,” the assistant continued, oblivious to the tension between them. The other woman had to be delusional if she thought they made a good couple, but maybe it helped her get pleasure from her job.

The three of them, Max, Gillian and Ethan, walked into the chapel itself. Music, a tune she didn’t recognize, wafted from unseen speakers. Her heels tapped out her reluctant progress on the pale terra-cotta tiles as they made their way up the aisle between rows of white wrought-iron chairs.

“Mommy, you’re holding too tight.”

She eased her hold on her son’s hand. “Sorry, sweetie,” she whispered. If she had a bouquet she could squeeze the flowers instead. Max reached for her free hand, held it firmly. She flicked a glance in his direction, saw his frown, saw a muscle working in his jaw. But oddly, there was a strange comfort in his clasp.

She’d never been the sort to dream about her perfect wedding, but if she had, this certainly wouldn’t have been it.

The marriage celebrant, a dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, stood at the front of the room between wisteria-twined columns. “At least she’s not an Elvis impersonator,” Gillian murmured. The corner of Max’s lips lifted.

At the front of the chapel she sat Ethan on one of the chairs, crouched in front of him and whispered for him to be good and very quiet for just a few minutes. “Why?” he asked loudly.

“I’ll explain soon, okay?” She patted his knee and straightened. Her heart thudding, she walked back to Max, standing facing him. At a signal from the celebrant, the music quieted. And into the silence a little voice piped up. “Mommy, I’m hungwy.”

Gillian looked at Max. The glacial blue gaze thawed to reveal suppressed amusement. “We’ll get you something to eat real soon, tiger,” he said. And that was enough. If it had been Gillian, the assurance would have been questioned. What? When? But I’m hungry now. Ethan’s attention shifted to the small board book in his lap.

“We are gathered here today …” As the celebrant began to speak, Gillian tuned out the words. They meant nothing to her. She trained her gaze on the column beyond Max’s shoulder.

“… on her left hand and repeat after me.” Those words cut through snapping her attention back to Max.

He reached for her hand and slipped a wedding band on to her finger. He’d had the ring sent out to the jet. Born to privilege, he was the sort of man who made things happen the way he wanted.

For example, her presence here.

He passed another ring, similar but larger, to her. This ring was one of her few victories today. If she could call it that. When Max had paused during a phone call that she’d been paying no attention to, to ask her if she had any preferences in rings, she’d insisted that if she was going to wear a ring then he ought to, too. With a nod, he’d ordered two rings. A small concession on his part, but a concession nonetheless.

She repeated the words the celebrant spoke and slid the ring in question onto his finger. A part of her recognized her relief at the fact that he would be wearing a ring, too. He’d be marked as married. To her. It wasn’t all one-sided.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

For the first time since he’d realized Ethan was his, the hard edge of tension that had seemed to grip him softened.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Max’s gaze met hers. Met and held. Her husband. The thought threatened to overwhelm her.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Holding her hands, he leaned forward.

Too numb to do anything else, she accepted the gentle brush of his lips across hers. The memory of his capacity for tenderness surfaced.

And for just a second she closed her eyes and her own tension eased.

It was done.

His wife and son.

Max walked with Gillian and Ethan from the chapel and out into the Las Vegas sunshine.

A wife he’d married only to give their son a lawful family and to guarantee an instant part in their life.

A wife he’d expected to feel nothing for. A wife whom he’d had to restrain himself from taking in his arms and holding, because Gillian—always confident, always certain—had looked so … lost.

They crossed the cobblestone courtyard to the limousine. She held the pictures taken by the chapel’s bored photographer loosely in one hand. Neither of them had looked at the photos.

He prided himself on his efficiency, on how much he managed to achieve in any given day. But finishing the day with a family, when he’d started it as a footloose, career-focused bachelor, was a major accomplishment even for him. And one he wouldn’t have seen coming in a million years. He’d never intended to have a family of his own. He’d wanted to avoid the commitments and bonds that came with family. But just because it wasn’t what he wanted for himself didn’t mean he didn’t absolutely believe in its importance.

And Ethan—his son—would have it.

He looked at the boy trotting at his side.

Without a long drawn-out battle, he’d secured a permanent and legal place in his son’s life. And he’d served notice to Gillian that he wasn’t going to let her shut him out.

A driver stood at the waiting vehicle and handed Gillian and a chattering Ethan into the back. Max followed. She eased herself over to the far side of the wide leather seat. The bulky car seat between them provided a physical barrier, Ethan’s presence a barrier of another kind. It was probably for the best.

He was still in no mood to make nice to the woman who had deceived him, but he was getting there. There were moments, even aside from the kiss, when he forgot what lay between them and remembered the connection they’d shared, saw a glimmer of possibility for something new.

They were in this together now, and he was going to make it work.

On his terms.

She pulled a small box of raisins from her handbag and passed it to Ethan along with a slice of cheese. She looked up and caught him watching her. “You want some? I have more in my bag.” She almost smiled.

Worse, he almost smiled back.

They’d had good times once. “Do we need to stop somewhere for food, or can Ethan wait till we’re on the jet? There’s a fully stocked galley on board.”

“This will tide him over. And, Max.” The way she spoke his name brought back memories. “Thanks for asking.”

Max lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. “I’ve only had close-up experience of one child’s meltdown due to hunger and tiredness. But it was more than enough. Trust me, it’s not something I’m in a hurry to repeat.” For the time being he would have to take her lead on all things relating to parenting. He adapted quickly to most any situation, but this one was so far out of left field that it was going to take some time.

Max pulled his phone from his pocket. He’d taken the first step to ensure he’d be a part of their lives. And now he had to integrate them into his.

There was one call he had to make.

He pressed speed dial. “Hi, Mom. Are you home this evening?” She started to tell him about her day. But there’d be time enough for that tonight. “If you don’t have plans I thought I’d stop by for dinner.” She always said he didn’t come by enough, especially that he now lived back on the west coast after a stint in New York. They claimed they still barely saw him. An exaggeration. They also claimed that they didn’t know what was going on in his life. Maybe not such an exaggeration.

He glanced at the seat beside him. “Oh, and I’ll have a couple of people with me I want you to meet.” While his mother gushed at the prospect of him bringing guests and mused over possible menus, he watched the boy studiously picking raisins from the box and chewing them one at a time. Surely it would take hours to eat that way. His gaze found Gillian, watching him, her eyebrows raised. “Don’t do anything too fancy, Mom. At least one of them likes his food fairly plain.” Gillian did smile then, albeit briefly. “Oh, yeah, and the other one’s a woman. And yes we’ll be staying the night.” He finished the call.

“Staying the night? With your parents? That’s not a good idea, Max.” In fact, she looked like the prospect terrified her.

“We’re going to be in L.A. anyway. May as well stop in and meet them. And let them meet their grandson. They’re set up to have kids from all the times my sister brings her two over. And it saves Ethan an hour and a half more in the car today getting back to Vista del Mar.”

She opened her mouth then closed it again. Whatever she’d been about to say, whatever excuse she’d been about to come up with, she’d realized it wasn’t going to cut it. That any grounds she thought she had for protest were shaky. Instead, a few seconds later she said, “You didn’t warn her. Tell her who, or what …” she lifted a shoulder in a shrug “… you were bringing.”

Ethan held a raisin, which looked suspiciously like it had already been chewed, toward Max. Possibly in child etiquette, if someone offered you some of their food the correct thing to do would be to accept it. Max wasn’t going there. Instead he smiled at his son. “You have it. I’m not hungry.” At which, Ethan offered it to his mother and when she shook her head, popped the mangled raisin back into his mouth.

Max returned his attention to his wife. The one he was going to have to introduce to his family in almost no time at all. “It was enough that I said I was bringing a woman. She’ll already be on the phone to my brothers, ordering their presence tonight. I thought the ‘wife’ news might be best done in person. Besides, if I wait till tonight when Dad and my brothers are there, I’ll only have to explain it once.”

“And how will you explain it?” She looked pale and tense. But he was not going to let himself care.

“Ethan’s not going to need a whole lot of explaining. They’ll know as soon as they see him that he’s my son. There’s a picture of me and my brother at about the same age hanging in the hallway. He’s the spitting image. The hair, the eyes. Although I’m fairly sure I never offered people my half-eaten raisins. And as for you, I’ll think of something.”

She twisted the gold band on her left hand. “I never met your family when we were dating. You scarcely even talked about them.”

“I know.” The omission had been deliberate. He liked to keep the different areas of his life separate. Introducing a woman to his parents could lead to her getting the wrong impression. And vice versa. He’d never brought any of the women he’d dated home to meet his family.

His parents had a good marriage and were keen for their children, and particularly Max, to have that same emotional closeness with someone else. So keen that Max had learned at an early age not to even let on when he was dating someone. Particularly when he’d never had any intention of making it serious. Because as fervently as they wished he’d find that bond, he avoided it. They wouldn’t like the fact that he’d just married a woman that not only had they never met, but who he didn’t love. It would only upset them. “They’re not to know why we’ve married.”

“You mean your ultimatum?”

“Or your willful deception.” That took the wind out of her sails. She looked out the window, seemingly intrigued by their approach to the Las Vegas airport. “I want them to think ours is a real marriage.” He watched the back of her head. He’d always liked her hair, liked running his fingers through it. “A marriage based on love.” Her spine stiffened.

She turned back to him. “And what you want, you get?”

She’d always challenged him. Apparently, unwillingly, he still admired that about her.

“Mommy?” Ethan’s voice was plaintive.

“It’s all right, honey.” She stroked their son’s curls back from his forehead. “Don’t worry, Max,” she said quietly. “You’ll get no argument from me. At least not in public. But just so you know, I’ll be doing it for Ethan’s sake, not yours.”

“I expected nothing more. You’ve made it clear that my feelings aren’t something you take into consideration.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Max, I …”

He waited, curious to see whether she’d go on the offense or defense. He was ready for either.

She took the cheese wrapper Ethan held out for her, took her time folding it up and tucking it into a small plastic bag from within her handbag. She looked back at him, her composure regained. “If your parents are going to think we’re happily married then I need to know something about them. Like, for starters, their names.” She opened the shoulder bag that he was beginning to view as something akin to a magician’s hat. “Because if our marriage is based on love then we’ll have talked about our families.” As she rummaged in its depths, her hair swung forward, glossy and inviting, curtaining her face, hiding the lips he’d so recently kissed. He wanted to brush it back.

Ethan, his thoughts in sync with Max’s, reached for her hair. Ethan’s execution, though, was somewhat different to what Max had been thinking. His little fist closed around a handful of hair and he pulled as he giggled.

“Ethan, no.” Gillian tried to turn her head but Ethan held firm and giggled louder. “Ethan. Let go of my hair.” He giggled some more, his fingers now well and truly tangled.

Max reached over and held his laughing son’s wrist steady while he unwound Gillian’s hair from around his fingers.

“He’s not usually a hair puller,” she said when she was able to straighten. “Thank you.”

“A pleasure.” And it had been, touching her hair again, every bit as soft and silky as he remembered. “Except for the raisiny bits.”

She smiled as she ran her fingers through the recently pulled hair, smoothing it back into place, and something tenuous and beguiling shimmered between them as she held his gaze. He remembered so much more about her than just her hair.

Returning her attention to her bag, she produced a small plastic car for Ethan and then a notebook and pen. She held her pen, poised above the paper. “Your parents’ names?”

“Stephen and Laura. My sister’s Kristan, and my brothers are Daniel, Jake and Carter.”

She looked up, her face paler than it had been seconds ago. “Are they all going to be there?”

Was that apprehension in those earnest green eyes? “Surely the formidable Gillian Mitchell isn’t worried about meeting a few people?”

“Of course not.” She lifted her chin. “It was a simple question. Are they all going to be there? It impacts how much I need to know now.”

“All except Kristan and her family, and Daniel.”

“And your other brothers, are they all like you?”

“In what way?”

“Career-focused, forthright, suspicious, emotionally shut down?”

“You could be describing yourself.”

She frowned and then the creases vanished. “Maybe that’s how I used to be. But I’ve changed, Max. I had to.”

He wasn’t going to ask if the intervening years had been hard for her. Not when she’d denied him the opportunity of helping, of even being there. But he’d noticed some of the changes in her. There was a softer edge to her, a nurturing side he’d been unaware of. Even physically she looked softer, curvier. And he would not think about exploring those changes. Just this morning he’d told her she’d killed any attraction he could have ever felt for her. And he needed that to be true.

He’d married her because he was determined to be a part of his son’s life and that his son would grow up with a father who was married to his mother. And despite his threat to win custody of Ethan, he wouldn’t have been able to do that to the boy. Or even to Gillian.

She shifted in her seat, crossed one leg over the other then tugged the silver skirt of her dress down from where it had ridden up her thighs.

But it was turning out that the attraction he’d once felt was far from dead. Contrary to his efforts and intentions, a heartbeat, faint but steady and insistent, was registering.

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