At The Millionaire's Request

“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.