The Billionaire’s Handler (8 page)

Downstairs, one of the hotel restaurants served breakfast in the open patio overlooking the bay. The tables were dressed as elegantly as last night, with gleaming silver and crystal, accenting an impeccably perfect day. Guests milled everywhere, all ages, many looking glamorous and foreign, some dressed casually, fresh off their boats—or yachts, as it were.

Personally, Carolina thought she was appropriately dressed for a hot sunny morning, in a linen skort and shimmery-cool tank top and, of course, her red shoes. So did Maguire, judging from the way he kept looking at her.

But he kept her talking about serious issues as if the sky might fall if he let down his hair. There
was no way he was stepping off the mentor role this morning. Even when he sipped the delectably tangy OJ. Bit into the lightest, softest, richest omelet ever made. Lingered on bites of toast dripping with hot, wild blueberries.

“So, we're going to talk about some of the things you want to do,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Part of your stress load was so many people asking you constantly for things. Everyone in your life wanting something from you. So let's start with your parents. Are there some things you actually do want for them?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” She could love up Maguire with her eyes and still do this serious-talk stuff. She valued his advice and ideas, besides. “I want to make their lives easier. Give them security. I loved setting my mom up with a new kitchen, giving my dad the car of his dreams. I would have loved to give them treats like that forever…”

“But then it wasn't so easy. Instead of giving, they started having expectations. Until there seemed no end to the expectations.”

When she reluctantly nodded, he went on. “So here's the deal, Cee. You want to give your parents security? Do it. Pay for great health insurance, if they don't already have it. Pay off their mortgage if you want. Then, set up a trust. Establish the trust to
supplement their retirement income. And then that's it. You're done.”

Reluctantly she leaned away from the plate. If she ate any more, she'd turn into a balloon…but damn, the food was good. “Only in theory, Maguire. Because that's what I was discovering. No matter what I do, it seems like it didn't stop them from asking for more—”

“I get that. Trust me. But what you have to get straight in your head is what you want to do for them, then do it. And then you draw the line in the sand. You need to know, in your heart, that what you set up is generous and fair and right. So you know, absolutely, there's no reason to feel guilty.”

All right. Maybe she felt loverlike and cuddly and turned on. But nobody seemed to reach her like Maguire. This stuff mattered. She frowned. “That isn't how I'm used to thinking about things.”

“Yeah, I know. You don't think ‘selfish.' And you're a lousy student at learning selfishness, if you ask me.”

“Hey! I'm plenty selfish! Look at the shoes!” She lifted a leg, just to illustrate.

“Okay, okay, I admit it. You did good on the shoes. But we have to work a little harder on your getting tougher with the rest of it.”

“Like with what?”

“Well…” Maguire leaned forward, poured them
both fresh coffee from the carafe. “You said that your father wanted to handle your money.”

Her stomach instantly knotted. “And his feelings were terribly hurt when I didn't leap to say yes. In fact, I cried—”

“Hey. No. No crying. Listen to me.” For a second his voice almost took on a panicked tone. “Your father is no more capable of handling big money than you are. That isn't an insult. It's just a fact. Would you go to a plumber for brain surgery?”

“No.”

“Repeat after me—No, of course not.”

“No, of course not.”

“Would you go to a brain surgeon to fix a leaky faucet?”

She knew her line. “No, of course not.”

“Exactly. So you get people to help you with the money who are, so to speak, brain surgeons with money. Reputable brokers. Finance people with established reputations. If your dad can't understand that, he'll have to get over it. That's not on you. It'd be stupid to let the plumber to do the brain surgery, remember? You can't make your parents' lives easier if all that money goes down the drain because of poor management.”

“Look, I'm getting sick and tired of your being right, Maguire. I'm starting to feel like a dunce.”

“You're not a dunce. You're ultrabright. Just not
about big money. How could you be? And why should you expect yourself to be brilliant about everything? See…I'm way better at being selfish than you are. That's why I'm the natural teacher in this.”

She opened her mouth to say something sassy and clever…it was about time she put him in his place. He was mighty comfortable in the role of ‘Fixing Carolina.' Not so comfortable when she turned the tables and made him talk about himself.

She was about to direct a raft of questions at him…when a commotion across the patio diverted her attention. Although most of the tables were filled, most conversations were desultory, natural to guests enjoying a leisurely morning and fabulous food. But at the far table near the aqua pool, voices suddenly raised.

Carolina glanced over, and saw what looked to be a father and teenage daughter. Although they weren't fighting in English, she could easily get the gist. Likely similar arguments took place in every household on every continent, when a daughter was trying to grow up before her daddy thought she was ready.

Their voices kept rising. The daughter snapped back, sassy, from her tone. The father's retorts became colder, sterner. It was just an argument. Just a personal fight.

There was just a moment…when the blond-haired
girl stopped looking defiant and strong. She…caved. Whatever her dad said…hurt.

Crushed her. The lips trembled. The eyes welled. Her so-pretty face looked full of pain, beyond hurt.

Carolina could feel her pain. Could remember feeling as if she was breaking from all the people yelling at her, not hearing anything she said, until the words wounded beyond bearing. And just like that, she suddenly lost it. The sound of their voices. All their voices. All sound.

The stupid hysterical deafness was back. She shook her head, but it was like trying to shake water from her ears after swimming. Any sound that came through was just a pale blur, nothing with any decibels.

Maguire saw the change in her. She knew from his expression.

He couldn't know what triggered the problem this day—Carolina wasn't sure she could explain it to herself—but Maguire didn't need all the answers to act.

He just turned into her hero again. Anger steeled his expression—but not anger at her. He swept her up and out of there, an arm around her shoulder, steering her past people, past doors, past everything. Carolina sensed that he'd battle off a few armies if they tried getting near her.

He steered her through his room, to get to hers. Coaxed her to lie down. Put a warm cloth on her
forehead. Came through with tea. And a foot rub. American newspapers to read.

She must have napped, because when she woke up, she found her red shoes on a pillow in her sight—a picture that was guaranteed to make her smile.

The short nap seemed to fix the hearing problem this time, because she could hear bursts of laughter and splashing from the pool below. Sweet sunlight pooled in the windows, and she heard Maguire's voice, quiet, talking on a phone from the balcony. He was using his “making arrangements” voice.

When he stopped talking, she assumed he'd finished the call, and spoke up. “So where are we going, Maguire?”

Faster than the spin of a dime, he charged in, studied her face with the fierceness of a scientist—not a lover. His stiff shoulders eased. “You're hearing again.”

“Yup. And I'm sorry. Angry at myself. That was stupid. The whole deaf thing is stupid. I'm strong now.”

“You are strong, Carolina. You're just not tough. There's a difference.”

“I'm both.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pushed a hand through her hair. “I've had it with this weakling business. So I had some stress. Everybody has stress. They don't just cave. I'm through being a wuss.”

“You were never a wuss, Carolina.”

Arguing with him was useless. She should have known. “I heard you making some kind of travel arrangements, or that's what it sounded like. So where are we going?”

A smile finally broke through that austere frown. “First, we've got a few hours before our flight. So…we're getting you another suitcase, and you've got two or three hours' worth of a shopping spree to fill it. After that…we're headed to one of the places on your list. And I'll admit, you gave me a real challenge coming through on this one. You're going to love it.”

She didn't plan on loving anything. She'd found a lover last night—an unforgettable lover. But because she'd done the stupid hysterical-deafness thing again, he had a chance to push away. He had a great time doing his fix-Carolina thing…but no one was getting close enough to fix Maguire.

Truthfully she didn't want to fix anything about him. She just wanted to show him that someone could be there for him, too. That it wasn't always one-sided.

So far, she'd flunked that course completely.

W
ell, hell. Maguire fixed things. He was good at fixing things—not to be egotistical, but personally, he thought he was downright outstanding at fixing things.

But he was rotten when fate threw him a curveball that he wasn't prepared for.

“We're just going back to Washington for a couple of days,” he told Carolina. The interminable overseas flight was…well, interminable.

“You told me. It's fine.” Carolina, curled up in the window seat, looked sleepy and content.

Maguire wanted to claw the walls. “That wasn't the plan.”

“I know. And I get it, you're stressed about this. But whatever you have to do, just do, Maguire. You told me Tommy was coming over tomorrow. I couldn't be more delighted to see him.”

He could see she meant it. Her eyes lit up at the idea of seeing his young brother—so unlike the rest of the world, who looked at Tommy and tended to see disabilities.

The change in plans had a good side, he told himself. They were going to be around people for a couple of days, rather than alone together. She'd have a block of time to forget that wild night, to get things back in perspective. He'd keep her way, way too busy to think about…well, to think about sex. At least sex with him.

By the time the jet finally touched down in Seattle, they were both blithering tired. Maguire didn't usually suffer from jet lag, but he hadn't slept. How was he supposed to sleep, when the damn woman had put down the barrier between the seats and snuggled next to him?

She made out like his chest was her pillow. Like his arm belonged tucked around her. Like it was okay that her hand had drifted between his legs when she fell asleep. That her hand had been there for ages and ages. That the damn woman had reached up to brush her lips against his neck in her sleep, for Pete's sake.

Was that fair? Was that reasonable? How much could a man be expected to endure?

He'd arranged a limo to pick them up in Seattle, which saved him having to drive when he was bleary-eyed. Once they got back to the lodge, she poured into bed almost as easily as liquid Jell-O, only spoke up when he took off her sacred red shoes.

He had no memory of stumbling into bed, but he must have, and then woke up early in spite of himself. Maybe he was brain-dead tired, but he still figured the rise-and-shine thing was a good idea—he'd have a chance to mentally prepare before Carolina was up.

The rain started at dawn, beginning as a sleepy drizzle and turning into a silent gush. Even inside, the pines seemed to smell more verdant, the air steamed with freshness. By the time Carolina bounced downstairs, in jeans and an oversize sweatshirt, he had a table loaded with papers and information for her—and he was on the nice, far distance of the other side.

He poured her coffee, urged her to sit and started in. “I've got a list for you…”

He had a plan, beyond keeping her busy with coffee and thick slabs of French-bread toast. He was going to give her lots to do. Lots to think about. And no time to think of anything personal about him, or them, for damn sure.

“First, here's a list of good lawyers. Then another list of financial and bank people. Before going with any, you should interview them, talk to them, make sure you're comfortable communicating with them. It doesn't help to have smart, good people if they're speaking Russian to your French. And then…”

She made several hmm sounds, verifying that she was paying attention, listening. But she didn't stay sitting long. She got up, pressed a hand on his shoulder, started a fresh pot of coffee.

No one had told her where stuff was in the kitchen, but she seemed to guess that spoons would be in the drawer by the sink, mugs in the cupboard above. Maybe women were born knowing this stuff.

And maybe she'd forgotten about that other night, Maguire thought. It didn't seem possible, when the sex had been so earth-shattering. But she was walking around the kitchen, her hair a little tangled, her face with no makeup, barefoot, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

She opened a bottom cupboard in the pantry, found a box of brownie mix, lifted it to read the back.

Her fanny was probably the finest he'd ever seen. The sweatshirt completely concealed her figure, but that was the thing. She moved, with that light lithe grace, and there it was—a hint of her breast when she turned, the curve of her hip when she bent down.
Promise. Every damn thing about the woman was a capital
P
promise.

For the right man.

Not him.

But for the right one.

“Every time I've seen you lose your hearing, Carolina, it's clearly because you hit a stressor. The last couple of times, it seems the stress trigger was seeing someone emotionally hurt, or feeling beat up on, or being yelled at. So that's what we're working on next. We're going to set up life situations where no one can do that to you.”

“Do you like your brownies with nuts or not?”

“I like homemade brownies any way I can get them. Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir.” Another squeeze on his shoulder, just a whisper of contact, but by the time he whipped around, she was fussing around the kitchen again.

So he started talking faster. “One of the things you've been clear about is wanting to share your wealth. Wanting to use some of your money to just plain give away—”

“Darned right I do.” Just for a second, there was a flash of fire in those soft blue eyes. “There are so many causes and people with huge needs.”

“I know, buttercup.” The stupid “buttercup” word just slipped out, but Maguire stayed firmly on course. “That's exactly the point. You need a way to handle
that, where people aren't battering down your door all the time. So here's what you do. Decide how much you want to give away to worthy causes in a year. Put that money into a type of account or trust. Then hire someone—part-time, you can make it a single mom or someone who needs to work from home, so you'll get to do your do-gooder thing that way, too. That in-between person hears all the direct requests, studies the causes, then reports to you—you and you alone decide which ones to give to. But you're able to stay separate from the people making demands of you. No hounders get to you directly. So…”

He'd been lecturing great guns, until she suddenly turned around. She'd been pouring the brownie mix into a pan, was still scraping the bowl with a spoon. But she had chocolate—just a tear—on her cheek.

She walked over, with that dripping spoon and the chocolate kiss on her cheek, and kissed him on the forehead. Just like that. Got chocolate on his brow. On his knee. She didn't even notice.

Hell. He didn't either.

“Maguire,” she said gently, “I'm not telling you often enough how much I appreciate all this. You're teaching me tons. Giving me ideas I would never have had without you. You really get it. That I wasn't doing a good job of protecting myself. That I didn't know how. But I keep wondering…”

“What?” His tone came out snappy for no reason at all.

“Do you ever let anyone protect you?”

The question was ridiculous. Why would he need protecting from anyone or anything? He didn't know what she was getting at, only that she was increasingly starting to…worry him. He felt like a cat in a thunderstorm who couldn't sit still, just wanted to restlessly prowl and snap and worry.

She was messing with his head. He just wasn't sure how. Thankfully the strange moment ended abruptly with several exuberant knocks on the front door. Seconds later, Henry—looking beleaguered—piled in along with Tommy, Maguire's ex-sister-in-law, Shannon, and Tommy's dog. The dog was named Woofer, a disreputable cross between a St. Bernard and a Newfoundland—which meant that it stood table high, shed hair in buckets every hour, produced ropes of drool, and weighed in somewhere around two hundred pounds.

Tommy and Woofer both galloped straight for Carolina. “Miss Cee! It's
me! Tommy!
”

“I can see that! I'm so excited to see you again!” As if she was used to horse-size dogs, she gave Woofer a kiss and Tommy a monster-size hug. The dog aimed promptly for the brownie mix, which Carolina swooped out of reach just in time. The pan went in the oven, and Carolina settled on the floor
with Tommy, the dog, and quickly abandoned jacket and gloves and shoes. “I think you've grown a foot since last summer.”

“I did! Everybody says. Miss Cee. Do you remember saving my life?”

“I remember being in that big noisy ambulance with you.”

“I remember that, too!”

“I remember your telling me that you didn't like doctors. Or shots. And I don't either. So it's a good thing we could do that together, huh?”

“Yeah. I remember that whole day.”

“Me, too.”

Henry gave a shudder as he passed the dog, honed in on the coffeemaker, filled a mug and retreated to the library, as far away from dog hair and confusion as he could get.

Maguire's ex-sister-in-law beelined straight for him. “I'm glad you could spare the time,” Shannon said.

Since Shannon only called him about problems with Tommy—and she knew he'd move heaven and earth for his brother—she had no reason to be surprised. He didn't like interrupting his plans with Carolina, but there was no answer he could have given except “of course.”

Shannon was one of the few things his older brother had done right—and divorcing Jay was one
of the things Shannon had done right as well. She looked like an expensive socialite, from the crown of her red head to her designer socks—but she had heart. Staying with Jay any longer could well have killed it. And although she liked living high—which caretaking Tommy enabled her to do—she'd loved the boy from the start and vice versa. “He really wanted to see her,” Shannon said, referring to Carolina. “But I sure didn't expect this.”

Neither did Maguire. Tommy hung back from people outside his household. Especially in the last few years he'd become aware that he didn't talk “right,” so in public he tended to keep silent, not wanting others to realize he was different.

With Carolina, he turned into a babbling brook. When he was excited, his speech became more incoherent, but Carolina just slowed the pace of her own conversation, and seemed to understand his excited gibberish just fine.

Tommy had grown ten inches since the summer before, was taller than Carolina now, looked like a normal all-American kid of twelve. His blond hair was styled with cowlicks. He was all arms and legs, with huge blue eyes and a smile that'd win over anyone, anything, any time.

Maguire had known for a long time that he could kill anyone who hurt his vulnerable brother, but he'd
never met anyone who related to him as naturally as Carolina.

Shannon said, “I can't believe it. She's just great with him.”

In spite of the chilly, rainy afternoon, Tommy wanted to run around outside—with Carolina and Woofer. Maguire thought the idea was insane, but he had business issues to discuss with Shannon, the more private the better.

They both stood at the window, watching Carolina and Tommy in the yard.

“Wow,” Shannon murmured again. “You know what? From what I'd heard about her, she's exactly what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

“A sweetie. A do-gooder teacher. Someone softer than a pansy, real good with kids, nothing cynical or jaded about her.” Shannon pivoted on a high-heeled boot. “Which makes her the last woman in the universe I expected you to fall for.”

“That's a pretty amazing conclusion to reach, considering you just met her two seconds ago.”

Shannon smelled the brownies, marched over to give them a peek, then reached for a hot pad and pulled the pan out to the stovetop. “There's nothing wrong with falling, Maguire. It happens to the best of us. I guess I just expected you to fall for…I don't know…a grad from a fancy East Coast school, maybe
a pissy lawyer in stilettos, the kind of woman who'd been breaking glass ceilings from the get-go.”

He didn't answer. As fond as he was of Shannon—and he was—he didn't talk about his personal life, with her or anyone else. If and when he got around to marrying, he might have envisioned someone like she'd described. But that was a totally different issue than…falling.

“I'm not sure I really see a need for marriage.”

“You never saw a need for people putting themselves in a trap where they're likely to strangle each other and cause lasting scars,” Shannon retorted.

“Yeah. Isn't that what I just said?” Truthfully, he'd always wanted kids. He just never bought into the fairy tale. If children came into the picture, he expected to marry, expected to be a damn good partner, faithful, supportive, that whole experience. He just never wanted to put love in that frame. He'd grown up seeing exactly what “love” could do, how twisted a relationship could become because of money. It never even entered his mind as an option.

“Maguire.” Shannon stood inches from the brownies as if they'd cool faster if she hovered that close. “It's in your face. The way you look at her. I've never seen you before—”

He cut her off. “We really don't have time for chitchat. Carolina and Tommy'll be back any min
ute. When you called, you said there was a financial crisis.”

She looked away. “I'm afraid you'll yell at me.”

“Have I ever yelled at you? Even once?”

“No, but…”

“Just get it said. We'll deal with it.” Maguire suspected he didn't really need to hear the story. The refrain was always the same.

When their father died, Jay had gotten primary custody of Tommy for two reasons—one was that he was the eldest son, and second, because he'd asked his father for it. Jay had wanted the living allowance set up for Tommy in his own pocket…. but Jay had never really wanted to give his brother time or attention.

Shannon was no relationship to any of them, but she'd loved Tommy from the day he was born, and Tommy revered her. So she'd taken on the maternal role, by her choice—by everyone's choice. Maguire had guaranteed a generous allowance to maintain his brother's housing and welfare in every way, knowing that Jay would run through Tommy's money faster than a forest fire.