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Mila Brightman.
The woman who’d almost become his wife.
The woman who’d barely escaped that particular fate.
Thank God she had.
He didn’t bother to respond to his sister’s text. They both knew he was here, so there was no point. How, exactly, his sister had talked him into this arrangement he had no idea. The Hollywood Hills Clinic had been gliding along just fine without another addition to their efficient little family.
Except this was Freya. And Mila. Two women he’d always had trouble saying no to.
Sucking down a resigned breath and dragging a hand through his hair, he waited for Morgan and then he headed up the walk, stopping short when he spied a ragged square of cardboard taped to the outside of one of the clinic’s windows. He was so used to the pristine opulence of his own medical center that the squat building huddled on the corner of a busy street seemed as foreign as the relief work Mila had once done. But the sign painted at the top of the clinic was bright and cheery, a bevy of colorful handprints forming an imaginary sidewalk that led to an artist’s rendition of the building—only whoever’d painted it had had quite an imagination because although the edifice was the same shape, the painted version was a welcoming place. And there were no cardboard patches in sight.
The photographer raised her camera, aiming it right at the broken window. James wrapped his fingers around the woman’s, stopping her short. “No. Not that.”
Morgan frowned at him but lowered the camera. “So you only want the positive stuff?”
His eyes were still on the brown square in the window as they reached the front entrance. “That’s what we’re here for.”
Bright Hope Clinic. The painted lettering on the glass door matched the colors of the handprints on the sign. And the glass doors were spotlessly clean. His glance went back to the cardboard patch.
A sliver of unease worked its way through his gut. Not about Mila’s safety. Of course not. About the soundness of his decision to allow a branch of this clinic to open inside his own. Freya’s doing. Not his. But his damned board of directors had put him in charge of overseeing the opening of the facility. Which was why he was here, pricey photographer in tow.
The woman took a few shots of the sign and the door, dutifully avoiding the window. “We can go inside anytime you want.”
Before he could even reach for the door, however, it was flung open and Freya stood there. “Come on, James, what’s taking you so long?”
“What happened to the window?” He nodded toward the offending cardboard, not sure he even wanted to know the answer.
Although he couldn’t see Mila, she was just inside the dark entrance of the clinic. The growing pressure in his chest told him that. Schooling the rest of his body to mimic the bland mask he wore on his face, he made no move to go inside.
“Oh...um...” Freya glanced behind her. “It’s nothing. Probably just a stray baseball.”
James turned his attention to the busy street behind him. Cars clogged the asphalt as they waited for the light to change and allow them to head on their way. Baseball? He didn’t think so. Not on this road. He lowered his voice, to avoid Morgan hearing him. “Tell me you weren’t here when it happened.” His sister was seven months pregnant and did not need any stress at this point.
“No, it was sometime last week.” She waved off his concern, a frown appearing between her brows.
Biting back his next words, knowing his sister wouldn’t welcome any brotherly advice, he sighed, hoping she’d catch his drift.
“It’s perfectly safe, James.”
Safe? With Mila somewhere inside? He didn’t think so.
But he was here. And the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could be on his way. The space they’d set aside in The Hollywood Hills Clinic was on the other side of the building from where his office was, so it wasn’t like he’d see her every day. And he was pretty sure she would split her time between this facility and the new one.
With that bracing thought, he motioned the photographer and Freya inside and then followed them.
The interior of the clinic was as cheerful as the sign. Bright colors were splashed on every available surface, as if a painter had opened his cans and tossed the contents onto the walls and countertops.
“Wow,” Morgan said, already snapping shots of the interior.
Wow was right. The place was so very...Mila that it made him smile.
His gaze came back, zeroing in on her at last with a swallow.
Her hair was much longer than it had been when they’d been together. Back then, it had been cropped into short waves above her ears, allowing the delicate bones of her face to shine forth. Not that they didn’t still. But unlike the easy-care locks of days past, the new Mila appeared cool and polished, the curls tamed into long sleek strands that ended just below her shoulder blades.
He swallowed again and extended his hand in a fake formality that would make the PR department proud. “Mila, nice to see you again. Thank you for letting the clinic do some publicity shots.”
Right on cue, the camera clicked multiple times, reminding him of how often he’d been caught unaware on the streets of LA. During his parents’ ugly divorce, he’d barely been able to go anywhere without some member of the paparazzi lying in wait, hoping to get him at the worst possible moment. He tensed, before forcing himself to relax his muscles.
He didn’t ask how Mila was doing, and for a split second he thought she’d refuse his greeting. Maybe it would have been better if he’d kept his hands in his pockets, but then she reached forward and curled her fingers around his.
Big mistake. The contact scattered images through his head that were every bit as vivid as the paint on the walls. Memories of Mila’s head nestled deep in his pillow as she’d slept, of making love into the early hours. Laughter. Late-night texts. And finally the tears.
Damn it.
As if plagued by the same thoughts, Mila snatched her hand free and turned away. “Nice to see you as well. And it’s fine about the publicity. You’re used to it by now. Besides, I’m sure your clinic wants to show off its newest investment. So how about a quick tour? I didn’t schedule any patients this morning, but you should be able to see—”
He touched her arm to slow the torrent of words. It worked. She swung around, but he noticed she took a step back, the distance just enough that he couldn’t touch her again.
“The window. What happened?”
Freya broke in. “James, it’s fine. Don’t go all protective big brother on us.”
Not very likely. The last thing he felt toward Mila was brotherly affection. But he did feel a niggle of worry.
He narrowed his eyes on his sister. “I think we have a right to know the risks involved in taking on this little venture.”
He glanced toward Morgan, but she was ignoring them, still exploring the waiting room, where brightly colored plastic chairs perched on top of acid-stained concrete that had been polished until it gleamed.
“Little venture?” If Mila’s voice had been cool before, it had now dropped to well below freezing. “Afraid you might lose some of your high-dollar clients if they spot a pair of humble flip-flops cruising down the fancy halls of your clinic?”
His jaw tightened. Not at her words but at the disdain in her tone. And the fact that she had hit a nerve. The board had discussed at length how to handle their newest addition.
The voting members had made a motion to add a separate entrance so that Bright Hope could be accessed directly from the parking lot, instead of its patients coming in through the huge double doors at the front of the clinic. The decision stuck in his craw because putting in another door made it seem a little too much like a service entrance for comfort.
He’d gone along with it only because if he hadn’t, the vote to allow the opening of the clinic might not have gone through—and Freya had her heart set on it. It had only passed by a slim margin as it was. And the financially challenged kids of LA did need access to what The Hollywood Hills Clinic could offer.
Telling Mila any of that, however, would not make her feel any better. If he knew her, she had only agreed to Freya’s idea because his sister had insisted.
Which meant Bright Hope was not doing as well financially as she had made it seem.
“Let’s just say we’d rather not have a gang war break out in one of our hallways.”
Mila’s eyes flitted sideways away from his.
Damn. He’d been joking about the gang war. Had that broken window been caused by a hail of bullets? “Do you have security?”
“Yes. There are cameras, and a security guard is here during business hours.”
But only during those hours. Did Mila come here when there was no one else around? The question tickled the back of his throat, but he ignored it. He didn’t want Morgan going back to the board with any tales that weren’t true. He took another tack instead.
“Did the police catch whoever broke your window?”
“Not yet, but I’ve turned the surveillance video over to them. Hopefully they’ll find the culprits.”
Culprits, plural. “Do you keep drugs on the premises?”
She threw him a stormy glare that he recognized all too well. “Of course not. Nothing stronger than over-the-counter pain medication. There’s a pharmacy around the corner, if we need something stronger.”
That was smart. “Was anything taken?”
“They didn’t try to gain entry.”
Strange. Maybe she was right. Maybe it had just been a stray ball from a kid.
And from her curt answer, that was all he was going to get out of her. “Well, then, let’s take that tour, so Morgan can shoot some pictures, and I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.”
“So she does have a name.” His ex-fiancée leaned closer with an amused smile, one brow raised.
What was that supposed to mean?
Oh, hell. He’d seen the women shake hands but he’d forgotten to introduce them. Bad manners on his part, but he didn’t exactly think straight when Mila was around.
Well, even if she thought there was something going on between him and the photographer, who cared? She’d been dating Tyler, that brawny firefighter, until recently, hadn’t she?
With the same fixed smile, Mila indicated for them to follow her down a small hallway to an exam room.
This space was decorated in tropical island hues. Ocean-blue walls and sand-colored linoleum were a smart choice. As was the artist’s rendition of a palm tree painted in the corner. The same beige from the flooring flowed up onto the bottom half of the wall, meandering across it, giving the lone tree a place to root and thrive. Individual grains glimmered under the overhead lights, much as they would beneath the sun. A few painted conches dotted the surface of this imaginary beach.
All in all, it was a tropical paradise any child would love and not a cold, sterile exam room. This was a place of adventure, not of fear and pain. And as skillful as Morgan might be, there was no way she was going to capture the feel of this room.
He wandered over and ran a finger across the textured paint that made up one of the palm fronds. “This is pretty amazing, Mila.”
Maybe they should incorporate some of these designs in the new clinic to tie the two centers together. It would be a little different from the posh chrome and Italian marble in the rest of The Hollywood Hills Clinic, but maybe that would be a good thing. It might even give the board a reason to rethink having a separate entrance for Bright Hope. And it would make Mila feel more comfortable with her surroundings.
He knew firsthand she didn’t like over-the-top extravagance. She’d practically cringed every time she’d had to get into his car six years ago.
It highlighted one of the biggest differences between them. Orphaned as a child, when her parents had been killed during a home invasion, Mila had been left a huge inheritance by her famous Hollywood parents. But she didn’t live like it. In fact, she gave her money away whenever she got the chance. James, on the other hand, enjoyed the security that money could buy. Security he hadn’t felt during his childhood years, even though his parents had been just as wealthy as Mila’s, if not more so.
He gritted his teeth until his thoughts were back under control.
Surely by now even Mila could see that he’d done her a favor by breaking off their engagement. They’d been doomed, even without Cindy’s deceit.
“Can we get some pictures of the three of you in front of that mural?” Morgan asked.
Freya gave a horrified snort. “Oh, no. Not me, thank you very much. I’m about to pop, and I’d rather not do it in front of a camera.” She threw her brother a look. “You and Mila should be in it, since you represent what this partnership is all about. It would be good to have some publicity shots of you two, anyway.”
Why the hell hadn’t he thought of the possibility of having to cozy up to his ex in some of the pictures? Because he’d figured Freya would be in them as well.
Nothing to do but get it over with. He gestured for Mila to go ahead of him. She hesitated for several long seconds, then her shoulders dropped in resignation and she trudged over to the mural. James moved in as well, standing a good five feet away from her.
“Can you move closer?” Morgan waved her hand. “You’re blocking part of the tree.”
Was it his imagination, or did the photographer have a slightly “gotcha” smirk to her expression? Maybe he should have been a little less standoffish when she’d been flirting with him in the car because right now it looked like she was enjoying having him at her mercy.
He took a couple of steps to the left, trying to talk his way through his discomfort. “Who did your paint job? It might not be a bad idea to match this look in the new clinic.”
She didn’t get a chance to answer, because Freya grinned. “Mila did it. She painted the clinic signs as well. Aren’t they great?”
His sister’s pride was evident. As was the warning gleam in her eyes that told him not to say anything that would hurt Mila’s feelings. As if he would.
The photographer snapped a couple of pictures right as that news was relayed. Even he could feel the shock on his face. He hated to think what it would come across as on film.
He glanced back to get a closer look at the tree. It was good. Very good. Right down to the smooth green of the coconuts hanging from it. He could have sworn she’d had it done by a professional. But then again she had lived in the tropics of Brazil so it made sense that she would have had learned to improvise and do more than practice medicine. And she had always loved children.
A trait that seemed to be missing from his family tree.
Another area of incompatibility. If only he’d been looking at their relationship with a clinical eye six years ago, he would have seen it. It had taken a shock from an ex-girlfriend and an offer of payment from his dad to make him see the reality of what Mila would be subjected to if he married her.
Another flash of Morgan’s camera, but he was too busy with his thoughts to take much notice.
Mila had survived. Improvised.
Had she improvised with some Brazilian man after he’d broken things off with her?
A thought he had no business dwelling on.
“Can you both turn toward the front? I’d like a couple more in this room before we move on.”
They both swiveled on their heels and faced the photographer.
“So do you think you can replicate this over at my clinic?” he asked.
She threw him a glance, the brow from earlier edging back up. “Beaches and palm trees won’t exactly match the theme you have going on over there, would it? What do you call it, by the way? Moneyed Green? Or are you just hoping artwork like this will highlight the differences between your clinic and mine—your patients and mine?”
The camera went off again.
Damn the woman. A muscle in his jaw clenched. “I was trying to pay Bright Hope a compliment. Forget I asked.”
Fingers landed on his forearm, and her eyes closed for a second before reopening. “I’m sorry, James, that was inexcusable of me. Can we start over?”
It was far too late for that. But if cold indifference was the way she wanted to play this game, then she would find he could match her, ice chip for ice chip. Except she’d never been an ice queen. Far from it. In fact, he’d always liked Mila’s hot temperament. It had matched the places she’d been. Stoked his own internal fires.
But he’d better figure out how to extinguish that particular flamethrower. And soon. First, though, he had to get rid of that damned camera, which seemed to be recording their every expression.
* * *
