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“Laugh. Smile.”
Again the amusement disappeared and she was all seriousness. And sadness. “Training the next generation—our caretakers—is no laughing matter.”
“So why do you do it?”
“I have to make a living.”
Everyone did. But he’d learned the hard way that if you had a lot of it, you became a target for the unscrupulous and morally challenged who wanted it. “You don’t have to make a living like this,” he said, glancing around again.
“That’s presumptuous.” Her gaze narrowed warily as she studied him. “You never answered my question. Are you here about a student?”
“I’m here because you’re a speech pathologist.”
“How did you know that?” she asked sharply.
“Dr. McKnight gave me your name.” Gavin saw recognition in her expression, which told him she knew the neurologist.
“I was a speech therapist. Now I’m a teacher.”
“A substitute,” he pointed out. “Why?”
“I got burned out. This is less intense.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that fight was pretty intense.” He looked around her classroom, then met her gaze. “Playing referee is better than helping children?”
“I believe I’m still helping children. But none of that is any of your business. So, Mr. Spencer, unless you have a student in my class that you want to discuss, I think we’re finished—”
“I want to discuss a student. But he’s not in your class. He’s my son and he’s in Kristin Hunter’s first-grade class.”
“I know her reputation. He’s in good hands and couldn’t be in a better school.”
Gavin knew that. It’s one of the reasons he’d bought his central California estate, Cliff House. He didn’t want his son in private school as he’d been. And all his research about the area had confirmed that Northbridge Elementary was the best. There were things he couldn’t give Sean—like a mother—because he’d taken steps to make sure the scheming opportunist who’d borne him a son would be out of their lives forever. But Gavin had grown up without benefit of maternal influence and he’d turned out okay. Sean would, too. There was no doubt in his mind. Because his boy had been doing great, until that terrible day—
“It is a good school,” he agreed, pushing away the painful image.
“He’s a lucky little boy.”
Not so much, Gavin thought. If luck were involved, Sean would have been undamaged by the accident. But he was damaged and he needed therapy. Gavin intended to see that he got it.
“My son suffered a fall that resulted in traumatic brain injury. It changed him. He needs therapy, Miss Taylor, and you come highly recommended. From all accounts, you’re the best.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer—”
“Gavin.”
“I don’t do that anymore. I can’t help your son.” She turned away and walked over to the desk. After opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder.
Before she could walk out the door, he curled his fingers around her upper arm to stop her. “Wait. You’ve made up your mind? Just like that?”
Surprised, she looked up at him, then at his hand, and he removed it. “Not just like that. There’s no decision to make. I’m retired from the profession. Goodbye.”
“I don’t get it.”
“School is over for today. I’m leaving now. It’s customary to say goodbye.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m told you have a gift for connecting with children. But you’re turning your back. And you won’t explain why?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” But there was sympathy in her expression when she added, “I’m sorry about your son. I truly hope you find someone for his therapy and that he makes a full recovery.”
“I’ve already found someone,” he pointed out.
“Not the right someone. I can’t help him.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Then you heard wrong.”
M.J. had been fine, making real progress putting her life back together. Until Gavin Spencer. Two days ago she’d seen the sorrow and anguish in his eyes when he talked about his son. Sorrow and anguish. She knew them well, along with gut-wrenching grief. At least Gavin Spencer’s son was still on this earth. Pain tightened in her chest when she thought about her own son. Her Brian. Her sweet boy. She missed him terribly.
Still.
Always.
And, God help her, she couldn’t put her heart and soul into another child. She just couldn’t.
Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away.
These troubling thoughts were all Gavin Spencer’s fault. If he hadn’t come to school the other day, all this would be buried as deep inside her as she could get it. But he’d brought it to the surface again.
She was tired when she guided her small, clunky compact car into the long drive leading to the house. As always, it came into view after she passed the tall cypress trees lining the road. She loved the big old Victorian where she’d grown up. More importantly, her mother and aunt loved the house that had been in the family for three generations.
And M.J. didn’t want to be the generation that lost it. Since it was her fault ownership was in jeopardy, it was her responsibility to make sure it stayed in the family.
Frowning, she pulled up behind the sleek, shiny black Lexus sedan parked in the circular drive. When she shut off her ignition, the little car shuddered for several moments before going still. To the best of her knowledge, her mother and her aunt didn’t know anyone who drove an expensive car like this. Their bingo, bunco and bridge-playing buddies zipped around in small compact cars—in better condition than hers.
As M.J. crossed the wide porch that wrapped around the house, she glanced once more at the black car and wondered if the sleazy bank official twirling the ends of his oily black mustache might be waiting inside to take her house away—in the very finest tradition of the Perils of Pauline. But that was silly and paranoid. She was making the payments on the mortgage her mother knew nothing about.
Inside, she proceeded to the kitchen, picking up the sound of voices. As she got closer, she realized one of them was masculine and disturbingly familiar. She stopped in the doorway and saw her mother sitting at the oak table with Gavin Spencer. Apparently he was a man who couldn’t take no for an answer.
There was always a first time, M.J. thought, walking into the room. Two pairs of eyes—one blue, one very dark brown—stared at her.
“M.J., you’re home. Finally. I was starting to worry.” Evelyn Taylor fiddled with the china floral-patterned teacup in front of her. “After that incident at school the other day—Well, I worry that you’re not going to come home at all.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
Evelyn glanced at the man across from her. “M.J., you remember Gavin Spencer. He tells me he helped you break up the fight in your classroom.”
“How’s your cheek?” Gavin met her gaze.
She resisted the urge to touch the bruise that was in a colorful state of healing—and none of the colors were especially flattering to her skin tone. “It’s fine. And, yes, I remember him.”
It would take a case of amnesia to forget Gavin Spencer. The man was tall and tanned and sinfully handsome. His almost black eyes snapped with intensity and his powerful, muscular body seemed to hum with tension and harnessed energy. His ride-to-the-rescue manner had unnerved her, along with his gentle touch. The heat of his fingers had seared a path clear through her.
Off balance, she’d answered his questions when normally she’d have clammed up. Clearly he had the power to get to her and she didn’t like it. No man would get to her again—and she especially didn’t trust one as glib and charming as Gavin Spencer. Charm and wit hid a multitude of sins. She was still paying the mortgage on that lesson, too.
“That school—” Her mother shuddered visibly. “It has the worst reputation in the district. I worry the whole time she’s subbing.”
“Mom—”
“I don’t know why she insisted on taking an assignment there.”
“Mom, don’t start.”
“It’s no wonder they can’t find subs for that campus.”
“It’s not that bad,” she protested. But when she met Gavin’s gaze, there was something predatory in his dark eyes, something warning that he’d use the information against her if he got the chance.
“Not that bad?” Evelyn heaved a huge sigh as she shook her blond head. “So you like getting between teenage boys with more testosterone than brains?”
M.J. glared at Gavin. Unable to hide it from her mother, she’d glossed over the cause of the cheek bruise. But he’d obviously filled in the blanks and she really wished he hadn’t. “At school kids would call you a narc.”
“Nice.”
“Not so much. You ratted me out to my mother.”
“Don’t be mad at him,” Evelyn protested. “We were simply chatting and he assumed I knew the particulars.”
M.J. realized something bothered her more than the fact that he’d given her mother the ugly details. It was that he was here at all. How did he know where she lived? Why did he think her answer to his offer would be any different this time? She had no illusions that he was here for any other reason. She was an un-remarkable woman, not the sort who inspired to-the-ends-of-the-earth passion in a man like him. He wouldn’t notice her unless he wanted something only she could give. That was annoying enough, but even worse was that on some level it mattered to her.
But that was her problem and she would deal with it as she always did. On her own. All the same, she couldn’t help being the tiniest bit grateful to have her mother here. When he asked again and she told him no again, she wouldn’t be alone with him.
The thought had barely formed when Evelyn looked at the clock on the wall above the table and jumped up. “Good heavens, look at the time. I’m going to be late for the movie.”
“Wait, Mom—”
“I can’t. Mr. Spencer arrived just as Aunt Lil and I were on our way out the door. I sent her on ahead and told her to buy the tickets. You know how she hates to not be settled when the lights go down.”
“But, Mom, I—”
Evelyn kissed her cheek. “See you later, sweetie. Nice to meet you, Mr. Spencer.”
Before M.J. could say “boo,” she was facing him alone. And she didn’t particularly like it. He was too big, too good-looking, too dark and too persuasive. Too everything. And that made M.J. too nervous.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’d like to finish our conversation from the other day.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s finished.”
“I’d like the opportunity to change your mind.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“It’s my time.”
“You can’t change my mind,” she warned.
“I don’t believe that, Ms. Taylor.” M.J. had the uncomfortable feeling that the sheer force of his personality could make people do things against their will. But not in her case. After Brian died, she’d really tried to continue her work in speech therapy. But it simply hurt her heart too much to be around younger children. That made her hold back, avoid connecting. Protecting herself kept her from doing the job the way it should be done. She was no good to the kids now.
M.J. decided to change the subject. “How did you know where I live?”
“I didn’t follow you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He lifted one broad shoulder in a casual shrug. “This is the electronic age. With computer technology you can find anyone with very little information.”
That was true. In this age of technology, it was pretty hard to hide. Not that she was. But still…“This feels very much like an invasion of my privacy. But you don’t strike me as the sort of man who worries very much about breaking rules.”
“A father has to do what a father has to do,” he said, arrogant enough not to deny it.
In spite of his arrogance, she had a glimmer of respect for his parental determination, but then her own protective shields went back up. “And what is it you think you’re doing?”
“Whatever I have to do to help my son. He’s six years old.”
Her chest tightened, as if a hand had reached inside and squeezed her heart. The crushing pain made it a struggle to catch her breath. Her son would have been six now.
She sucked in air. “I already told you, I don’t work with children.”
“The other day you said teens are children, too.”
This was a bad time to learn she’d been right about him collecting information to store up and use against her.
“High school doesn’t count,” she said defensively. Then she watched his dark eyebrows go up questioningly. She huffed out a breath. “Okay, technically they’re children until eighteen. But high school kids are more like adults with impulse control issues.”
“Look, let’s stop splitting hairs. You need the work.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she countered.
He stood and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. “Here’s what I know. You have a reputation as a gifted children’s speech pathologist. Sean’s teacher and his doctor tell me you’re a miracle worker and have a proven track record in getting results from children like my son. But you turned your back on a career—”
“You don’t have any idea—”
“I don’t have to.” He held up a hand. “I’m a father. I’d slay dragons and storm fortresses if it would return my son to the way he was before the accident. I can’t help him, but you can.”
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t buy that. You got positive results in the past. Why not now?”
