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“Darling, I hate to tell you, but that is never going to happen. Gerry had the misfortune of being born well after Christina ceased being your father’s wife. Old Dunleavy left her perfectly well-off, but it was peanuts compared to what you’ve got as a Hunt.”
What he would keep as a Hunt only if he solved his wife and child dilemma, Gray amended silently.
Justin, J.T. and Alex had all held up their ends of the bargain. But if Gray failed now, they’d all lose. His brothers, his new sisters-in-law and scores of HuntCom employees who depended on the company for their livelihood. “Thanks for keeping on top of it, Marissa.”
“It’s what you pay me for,” she said smoothly. “I’m having breakfast with Birchman tomorrow. I should have the papers on your desk by nine.” She rang off without fanfare.
Despite that positive assurance, the results of the evening had definitely left a sour taste in his mouth.
He still had several reports to read in preparation for the following morning, but he had no patience for them just then.
He dragged the list of telephone numbers in front of him and studied the name that he’d circled.
Daphne Mason. The name on the phone listing.
One call to Marissa and he knew she could have a dossier on his desk within twenty-four hours that would tell him everything he ever wanted—and didn’t want—to know about Amelia White and her sister, presumably Daphne Mason.
He drummed his fingers on the desktop. Turned to his computer and ran a search on both women’s names, coming up with a plethora of useless matches from nuns to rock singers.
He pulled out his cell phone and hit J.T.’s number, only receiving his brother’s voice mail in response. He disconnected without leaving a message.
What would he have said?
He’d put off toeing Harry’s line for so damn long, that he had them all in danger of losing everything they’d ever worked for.
The phone vibrated in his palm. “Figured you were playing newlywed with your bride,” he answered.
“I beg your pardon?”
The voice was female. Smooth. Lilting.
Definitely not J.T.
“Amelia.” There was no baby crying in the background this time. No television that he could hear. No other voices at all—childish or adult. “Sorry about that. I thought you were my brother.”
“Oh. Well, I—”
“I didn’t mean to scare you off earlier. About dinner.”
“You didn’t.”
She was a poor liar. He could hear it in her voice. And now that she’d called, he was going to make darn sure not to take another misstep. “Okay. What can I do for you?”
She hesitated so long he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. And then, when she did answer, it was in one heck of a rush. “Wecouldmeetforcoffee.”
Fortunately, he was a native Seattleite. Coffee flowed in his veins, and he understood any sentence containing that magic word just fine. “Sure. Sounds good.” Better than good, if his lightening mood was any indication. “You said you’re new to the area. Do you have a place in mind?” He’d prefer to name the place so that he could pick the setting and be assured that nobody would blow his cover. But he was treading carefully—an act that did not come naturally to him.
She named a coffeehouse that he’d never heard of, though, taking the decision out of his hands. “It’s near the running park,” she told him. “The, um, the day after tomorrow? Around seven? In the morning, I mean,” she added hurriedly.
He didn’t have to guess hard to tell that she was not in the habit of asking men to meet her. Not when she was practically tripping over her words in the process. “Perfect.”
She hesitated again. “Really? You won’t be running at that hour or something?”
He didn’t bother reminding her that it had been well before 7:00 a.m. when he’d tripped over her on the running path. Nor did he have to look at his calendar to know that two days from now, he had a breakfast meeting at five, followed by departmental meetings starting at exactly seven. “Really,” he assured her. “Seven is ideal.”
In this instance, everyone else would have to work their schedules around his.
“Okay then. I’ll…I’ll see you then. Matt.”
He looked out the window again, seeing his reflection and the faint smile playing around his lips. “I’m looking forward to it. Amelia.”
The fact that the words were true wasn’t something he was going to delve into too deeply.
Chapter Four
By the time she was to meet Grayson Hunt at Between the Bean, Amelia had worked out in her head a dozen times over exactly what she would say to the man.
The first, being that she knew just exactly who he was.
The second, that she was Daphne’s sister and well aware of his threatened lawsuit against her if she hadn’t dropped her claims about Timmy.
There were many things that Amelia wasn’t good at, and lying topped every list, so it was definitely time to stop it.
Unfortunately, second runner-up to things that Amelia was not good at were confrontations.
If only Jack hadn’t been within earshot. She could have gotten everything out within the safety of a non-face-to-face telephone call.
And would probably have had the man hang up on her the second she’d done so.
Face-to-face was definitely a better option, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.
She’d failed plenty of times in her thirty years, but not this time.
“Not this time,” she repeated under her breath as she paid for two tall coffees and two oversize cranberry muffins.
Armed in her favorite iron-gray suit with her hair smoothed back in a sleek knot, at least she felt far more herself than she had wearing the running togs of Daphne’s that she’d been borrowing. On top of that, she’d arrived a full twenty minutes early only to find herself too nervous to sit still at the little round corner table that she’d procured in the bustling shop. There were a few umbrella-topped tables on the sidewalk outside the coffeehouse, but rain or shine, Amelia had yet to see them ever empty.
So she’d waited in the line that waxed and waned, sometimes snaking out the door, and gone ahead and ordered for them both.
The purple-haired girl at the counter made no comment as Amelia counted out change to pay for her order. After several visits of Amelia’s since she’d discovered the place, the clerk—Suki—had gotten used to Amelia’s coin method. “You extra hungry today?” Suki dropped the change in the aging cash register and added several napkins to the thin cardboard box containing the muffins.
“I’m meeting someone.”
“A man?”
Amelia carefully balanced the cups and the cardboard container. “Yes.”
Suki’s brows shot up, disappearing beneath her spiky bangs. “Well, you go, girl.”
Not knowing whether to laugh or be insulted, Amelia started to head back to the table. Only her feet stopped dead still at the sight of Grayson Hunt turning his wide shoulders slightly as he entered the narrow doorway.
His sharp gaze spotted her immediately—not hard considering the miniscule dimensions of the shop—and she swallowed past the hard knot that formed in her throat.
She’d come armed in a suit, while he’d donned a loud crimson-and-lime Hawaiian-print shirt that hung loose over well-worn blue jeans. A Seahawks ball cap was pulled close over his forehead.
To shield his looks? Or protect that thick brownish-blond hair of his from the rain?
All the things she’d heard and read about the man told her that last was pretty unlikely.
But then, so were the jeans. In all the articles she’d seen about him, all the photos she’d amassed, all the arcane video sound bites she’d unearthed, she’d never once seen the man photographed wearing such casual attire.
Pity, a devilish brain cell noted.
The man, devil or not, looked seriously good in jeans.
He reached her in two steps, and his hands—seeming as long and lanky as the rest of him—took the coffees from her. “Morning. You look different.”
“I don’t wear sweats to work,” she pointed out and nearly winced at the way her voice sounded breathless. She cleared her throat. “I saved that table over there. The one with the satchel on top.”
He looked over his shoulder and nodded, setting off ahead of her and cutting a swath for her to pass through the line that had stretched out the doorway all over again. She followed and with her hand freed, wrapped it around the cardboard container.
It had to be nerves causing the tingling from where his fingers had grazed hers. It had to be.
Not even her fiancé had caused sensations like that when he’d touched her. Not that there had been a whole lot of touching going on between John and Amelia. He’d been more interested in touching Pamela.
She’d seen that with her own eyes.
She moistened her lips and set the muffins on the table, pulling her briefcase off the chair and setting it on the floor. She realized with a start that Grayson wasn’t taking the chair closest to the window—he was standing there, holding it out for her.
That knot was back in her throat again, threatening to choke her. She managed a smile and slipped into the seat, painfully aware of their proximity as she did so.
Even above the pervasively aromatic scent of coffee, she could smell him. Not piney. Definitely not flowery. Indefinable, almost. But fresh. Clean.
Memorable.
She ducked her chin, busying herself with separating the napkins as he brushed past her to take the other seat.
Devils weren’t supposed to smell as good as he did.
“Are you on your way to work?” she asked, striving for a calm tone.
“I have some meetings later on.” He slid the molded plastic lid from the top of his cup and lifted it, heedless of the steam. His eyes narrowed a little as he took a steady sip, which only seemed to make their blue-green color more pronounced between his black, spiky lashes.
“I, um, I should have waited until you got here to order. I just know what the lines are like, here. Pretty crazy sometimes. But you might have preferred something other than regular coffee.”
His lips twisted slightly. “Like one of those?” He nodded toward a bearded guy departing with a cup overflowing with whipped topping. “I’m more of a purist.” He set down his cup and took the enormous muffin she held out for him, looking slightly surprised as he broke it open. “Cranberry?”
She nodded, tearing her own muffin in half, then quarters. “It’s a nice change from blueberry or bran.” And she’d automatically ordered it, never thinking about the fact that she’d learned of his penchant for the things in a sound bite he’d given during a breast cancer run.
Just tell him, Amelia. Get it all out, so the threatening can begin.
She pulled off the cover of her own coffee and took too hasty a sip. She gasped as the heat singed her tongue and she exhaled. “Oh. Wow. I ought to know better.”
He made a soft sound, was gone from the table and back again with a cup of water before she’d stopped blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. “Here.” He folded her fingers around the cup.
She wanted to stick her tongue out and let it soak in the cool water, but since she was no longer three years old, that hardly seemed appropriate.
She drank slowly, letting the stinging in her tongue abate as she eyed him across the table. How could a man be as solicitous as he’d seemed to be—not just now, but when he’d nearly run over her—and be so callous where his own child was concerned?
She finally lowered the cup. “You probably think I’m accident prone or something.”
He grinned, looking suddenly younger and even more approachable, and the sight made her catch her breath just as surely as the hot coffee had. “Maybe I like rescuing you,” he drawled.
She smiled weakly. Picked at her muffin, doing more spreading of crumbs than anything.
“Not that you let me do much in the way of rescuing,” he went on. He caught one of her hands in his, startling her, and made a deep sound low in his throat as he turned her palm upward, gently spreading her fingers flat. He touched the scrapes that had begun healing over. “Such soft skin to be collecting scrapes.” He didn’t release her hand as his gaze lifted to hers. “And your knees? Probably still sore, I’ll bet.”
She curled her fingers, as if to protect her palms from the warmth of his hand on hers, but only succeeded in folding them over his.
As if they were holding hands.
She yanked her hand away, tucking it in her lap. She cleared her throat. She’d always believed that running really wasn’t her particular cup of tea. She was more a swimming kind of person. But the activity had been growing on her. “I’ll admit that I haven’t been out running just yet.”
“I can believe that.” He picked up the remaining portion of his muffin and polished off half of it in a single bite. “Do I make you nervous, Amelia?” His voice was low. Surprisingly gentle.
She flushed. “Of course not.”
“You’re doing more shredding than eating of that muffin.”
There was no denying the truth of that particular observation. She’d spread crumbs well beyond the borders of the napkin that she’d opened out like a plate.
She delicately brushed her fingertips together, giving up the pretense of eating. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be. Would you, um, like another muffin?” The man easily topped six feet, and though he had a lean body, his shoulders were still massively wide.
He didn’t look away from her. “I’m good, thanks.”
Good?
Anxiety oozed through her bloodstream.
Now, Amelia. Tell him, now.
She could feel perspiration sprouting from her temples. Words jammed beneath her lips.
“What kind of work do you do, Amelia?” His deep voice was still easy. Probably meant to be soothing. He reached across the table for the portion of muffin she hadn’t mutilated. “Do you mind?”
“I know who you are,” she blurted.
He merely plucked the muffin from her napkin and began peeling off the paper wrapping still stuck to the side of it. “What about family? Other than your sister and her kids, I mean. Parents?”
