The Millionaire's Wish (8 page)

“I just need something to wear to afternoon tea. How hard can that be?”

Rachel sighed. “Do we have time to go shopping?”

“He'll be here in half an hour.”

“I wish I'd known about this date before I came for brunch. I could have picked something up on my way over.”

“It's not a date. And I don't want to buy anything new for a nondate. I don't want to go out of my way, you know? That would make it seem too…”

“Real?”

“Well, yes.”

“I know it's not a real date—technically, anyway. But
you're going out with a guy you like, and if you tell me you don't care how you look I just won't believe you.”

“I don't
like
like him.”

“My God, how old are you? And you know that line in Shakespeare about protesting too much? I'm thinking it applies here. Look me in the eyes, Allison Landry, and tell me you don't give a single damn what Rick Hunter thinks of you. And I don't just mean your mind or your heart or your bright shiny soul. You care what he thinks when he looks at you, too.”

Allison opened her mouth to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat. She felt her face turning red, as if she'd just admitted something shameful. She slumped down on the edge of her bed, and Rachel sat down next to her.

“Don't look so tragic,” her friend said gently. “This isn't a bad thing. It's a good thing.”

Allison shook her head slowly. “How can you say this is a good thing? I have a crush on Rick Hunter! Just saying it out loud sounds ridiculous. You saw that article in
People
—you know the kind of women he typically goes out with. He's only spending time with me because I'm a means to an end. And because he thinks I'm not attracted to him.”

She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Why
am
I attracted to him? It doesn't really make sense. He's so different from me, so—”

“Are you kidding? Maybe you're attracted to him because you're not blind.”

“You think I'm that superficial?”

“I think you're that human. And maybe you like him
because
he's different from you. Because he challenges
you. And you haven't been on a date in more than a year. What's wrong with cutting loose a little?”

“Nothing, I guess. It's just…I don't want to make a fool of myself.”

“You won't.” Rachel smiled as she reminisced. “Back in college, I had a huge crush on one of my professors. He was twenty years older and happily married, and I never even thought about acting on it, but boy, did I love going to that class. Why don't you just let yourself enjoy what you're feeling? Rick never has to know. Sometimes feeling attracted to someone can be an end in itself.”

An end in itself. That was a new idea, something that had never even occurred to her.

Rachel got up from the bed and went over to the closet, where she pulled out a pair of khaki pants and a blue cotton sweater.

“Here,” she said. “The pants are boring but the sweater is exactly the color of your eyes. And it's lightweight enough for the warm weather.”

Glad to have the decision taken out of her hands, Allison put the outfit on. Then she and Rachel studied her reflection in the mirror that hung on the closet door.

“It'll do,” Rachel said after a moment. “I know I won't be able to talk you into full makeup, but how about a touch of something? A dab of concealer under your eyes, maybe some lipstick?”

“I suppose I—”

“Great,” Rachel said briskly, grabbing a couple of tubes from her purse. She told Allison to look up as she applied the concealer with practiced ease, and then let her friend put on the lip gloss herself. It was a soft rose shade and wasn't obvious, Allison noted with relief
when she looked at herself in the mirror. Just a little extra shine, a little extra color.

“You look great,” Rachel assured her, and Allison smiled at her in the mirror. “Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. And now I should be heading home.”

“I'll walk you out.”

The spring day was so gorgeous that Allison decided to wait outside for Rick. He arrived at three o'clock exactly, and despite her best efforts to remain unfazed, she couldn't control the sudden pounding of her heart or the smile that spread across her face when he got out of his sleek black car.

He was smiling, too, but his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than her secondhand truck. They exchanged hellos as he came up to her.

“How was your week?” he asked.

“Busy, but good. How was yours?”

“The same.”

He took off his glasses, tucking them in a pocket. Allison felt a little inward shiver when his green eyes met hers.

He took a step closer, his eyes tracing over her face.

“You're wearing lip gloss,” he said suddenly.

She cursed Rachel silently. “Um, yes.” His gaze was directed at her mouth, and she licked her lips nervously. “It's flavored,” she blurted out, realizing it for the first time as she tasted strawberries.

His gaze traveled up her face to her eyes. “What?”

“I—” She'd completely lost her place in the conversation and could only stare back at him, at the intense green eyes under dark brows and tousled hair, at the
almost imperceptible twitching of a muscle at the corner of his jaw, and at his mobile, sensitive mouth.

He swallowed, then took a step back to open the passenger door for her. “Ready to go?”

“Sure,” she said quickly, avoiding his eyes as she stepped into the car, settling into the soft leather seat and buckling her safety belt with shaking hands.

What the heck was that? It had almost seemed like he was going to kiss her, or wanted to kiss her, or something. And she'd practically asked him to.
It's flavored
, she'd said—a moment destined to become one of those that stick with you for all time, never losing its ability to make you squirm with embarrassment.

Rick slid into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. “Any music preferences for the ride?”

She loved music, but at the moment she couldn't think of a single artist or album or genre. “What's in your CD player right now?”

He hit the play button, and Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald started singing a duet. “How's this?” he asked, pulling away from the curb.

“Perfect,” she said, surprised. She wouldn't have figured him for an Ella Fitzgerald fan.

He smiled at her, and her tension started to ease away. “Okay, I know you like the classics. Big band music and old movies. What about the modern era? What have you seen this year that you liked?”

As they talked, she let herself look at him, a move made easy since Rick kept his eyes on the road most of the time.

He was wearing a short-sleeved white polo shirt, and she found her gaze lingering on his arms. The exact point his deltoids gave way to the swell of his biceps and
triceps…the play of hard muscle beneath smooth skin…the flex and release of his forearms as he drove.

She noticed other things, too. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he laughed. The faint scent of his aftershave. The warm, deep voice that seemed to vibrate somewhere in her chest.

There was a kind of doubling in her awareness. She was interested in their conversation, entertained by Rick's agile intelligence and original mind. But she was conscious of him physically, too. Her nerves tingled. Every inch of her skin felt sensitized. And the left side of her body, the side nearest to him, felt warm, as if he were radiating heat.

The drive gave her time to get used to the awareness. As she and Rick continued to talk, she felt more confident that she could hide it. Not that she could submerge it completely, but that she could keep it at bay—enough, at least, to keep from blushing like a teenager every time their eyes met.

Maybe Rachel had been right. Maybe she could enjoy this feeling, as long as she kept it buried deep, where it belonged.

Their discussion veered toward politics. At one point Allison was arguing so fiercely against a position Rick had defended that it took her a few minutes to notice a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing. I agree with you, that's all.”

“What? Then why did you say—”

“I like hearing you argue,” he said. “I like how committed you are. When you're all riled up like that I feel like I can see right into you.”

Exactly what she wanted to avoid. “What do you mean?”

She saw him reaching for words, his dark brows drawing a little closer together. “When you talk about something you care about, you don't hide who you are. You just put yourself out there. You don't give a damn what anyone else might think.”

When it came to things like politics, maybe he was right. But she didn't want more credit for honesty than she deserved. “There are plenty of things I keep to myself.”

“I'm sure there are. But the things you do tell me are honest, and that's what I like. Most of the women I go out with are so busy trying to figure out what I think, and then agreeing with me, that I never have a clue what they actually believe in—if anything.”

She stared at him. “Why would anyone do that? Hide their real opinions that way?”

He shrugged. “Believe it or not, there are actually women out there who only want to marry a millionaire. And they'll do whatever they can to make that happen.” There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, and Allison felt an unexpected rush of anger.

“That's disgusting. Women shouldn't go out with you because you're rich. They should go out with you because you're—” She paused.

He looked at her. “Because I'm what?”

“Because you're nice.” Her cheeks felt hot.

He waited a moment. “Just nice?” he finally prodded, one eyebrow raised.

She rolled her eyes. “I can't believe you're fishing for compliments. And, anyway, you just told me how
honest and forthright I am. Don't expect any help from me in the ego-stroking department.”

“Honest and annoying. Did I mention annoying?”

“Nope, you left that one out.”

They'd left the highway several minutes ago, and now they turned into a long, curving driveway that ran through a belt of oak trees. Allison sat up straighter in her seat, curious for her first glimpse of Hunter Hall. When it came into view as they emerged from the woods, she took a deep breath.

“Oh, Rick. It's beautiful.”

And it was. The ivy-covered stone blended into the landscape of old growth trees, spring flowers made a splash of color here and there, and she could tell that in the full flush of summer the surrounding gardens would be absolutely glorious.

She could understand why Rick loved this place so much. The neo-Gothic architecture appealed to the imagination, and the man who'd designed “Magician's Labyrinth” had imagination to spare.

As he came around to open her door—she waited for him this time—she pictured the house and gardens filled with kids and their families. This was the kind of place she wanted for her center. A place to spark the imagination, a place full of beauty.

“You really like it?” Rick asked her as she got out of the car and stood beside him. The two of them stood looking up at the house for a moment, at the turrets and gables and the windows that sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

“Are you kidding? Of course I do. This place is definitely worth bribing a woman to be your fake girlfriend.”

He nudged her with his elbow, catching her in a ticklish spot, and she giggled. “It wasn't a bribe, it was a negotiation.”

“If you say so. Which reminds me…do we need to get our stories straight, or anything like that? Before we meet your grandmother.”

“Not unless you're going to exercise your talent for fiction like you did with Shirley.”

She smiled. “Nope, no tall tales today. Actually, I don't see any reason why we can't stick pretty close to the truth. We met because of Julie's wish, and because you made a big donation to the Star Foundation. After we visited Julie in the hospital, you asked me out. End of story.”

“Makes sense,” Rick agreed.

They were quiet for a moment, looking at the house. Allison turned to ask Rick when it had been built, but the question stuck in her throat when she saw him looking at her.

“Ready to go in?”

She nodded. He held out his arm the way he had in her apartment, and she only hesitated a moment before she slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

This time, though, he was wearing short sleeves, and her fingers tingled where they touched his warm bare skin. And as they walked side by side up the stone walkway toward the house, she prayed he couldn't hear the sudden pounding of her heart.

T
he heavy front door opened just as they reached it. And there was Gran, elegant in a Chanel suit and a cloud of expensive perfume, a welcoming smile on her face.

Rick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his grandmother at the door like this. Meredith, her long-time housekeeper, usually met visitors and let them into Hunter Hall.

It was because of Allison, he realized with a twinge of guilt. Gran was excited to meet her.

“My dears, how wonderful to see you!” She gave Rick a brief smile and turned immediately to Allison. “You're as lovely as your picture in the paper,” she said, giving her a quick peck on each cheek. “Now come inside, you two. We'll have our tea in the south parlor, but I thought Allison might like to see Hunter Hall first.”

“I'd love that,” Allison said, and Gran smiled at her
again before ushering them inside and launching into the tour Rick had heard her give a hundred times before.

He fell in behind the two women as they went through the house, through the nine bedrooms, the upstairs and downstairs parlors, the game room and music room, the library and gallery, the conservatory, the dining room, the ballroom—and he let the old, familiar magic of Hunter Hall settle over him as his thoughts wandered, and as he watched Allison talking and laughing with his grandmother, who insisted she call her Evie.

They made an unlikely pair. His grandmother was such a…finished product, her suit accessorized with jewelry and a Hermès scarf, her white hair exquisitely styled, her high heels clicking busily on the marble floor of the upstairs gallery.

And then there was Allison, slim and graceful, a diamond in the rough with her khaki pants and blue cotton sweater and scuffed ballerina flats, no jewelry, no accessories, and the short, no-nonsense haircut that left her neck enticingly bare.

They paused in front of a painting by John Singer Sargent, a portrait of his great-great-grandmother that had been commissioned after her marriage to Cyrus Hunter. Gran was talking about the family connection to the artist while Allison studied the painting with her hands in her pockets, nodding every so often as she listened.

He was standing behind them, but he wasn't listening to the lecture and he wasn't looking at the portrait. His eyes were on Allison, on the nape of her neck, and he drifted closer without realizing it, breathing in her fresh, sweet fragrance, like soap and shampoo and sunlight.

Close enough to touch her.

He wished he had the right to do that. He longed to run the tips of his fingers lightly over her bare skin, to feel her shiver in response.

He took a deep breath and tried to get a grip on himself.

I want her.

It had been building up all week, a week of not seeing her but thinking about her, looking at those pictures in the
Gazette
and reading her book, full of love and grief and anger and hope and all the raw, naked emotions he'd packed away so long ago.

And then he got to her apartment and saw the shimmer of lip gloss on that perfect mouth, and thought for a second that she felt attracted to him, and had highlighted those already tempting lips in a feminine effort to appeal to a man. To appeal to
him.
And in that same instant, he'd realized how much he wanted it to be true.

Because he wanted her. He wanted her with an intensity that had almost overwhelmed him as he stood there on the sidewalk, staring at that sweet, soft, tantalizing mouth, wanting to kiss her so badly his own mouth had gone dry. Then she'd said something, he wasn't sure what, and when he'd met her eyes she'd looked like a deer in the headlights, terrified he was going to act on the desire she must have read in his face.

He knew what an invitation to a kiss looked like, and it sure as hell wasn't that. And so he'd controlled himself, and pulled back, and her obvious relief was further proof she didn't feel the same way. That however much he might want to believe it, she hadn't put on lip gloss today because of him.

And that was okay, he told himself. If he was desperate for a kiss there were plenty of women out there
who'd give him one. He and Allison had a business arrangement with clear boundaries and a clear goal. And unlike a relationship, Hunter Hall could be counted on to last forever.

He was telling himself all these things as he stared at her, his hands itching with the need to touch her, when his grandmother must have finished her lecture on Sargent. Allison took a step back and bumped right into him, and he put his hands on her shoulders without thinking, to steady her.

“Sorry,” she apologized, twisting her head around to look up at him. “I didn't realize you were there.”

“No problem,” he said, his voice sounding a little harsh in his own ears. He cleared his throat, but instead of releasing her, his hands tightened.

“Well,” his grandmother said, “that concludes our tour.” She was beaming at them, and Allison probably noticed, because instead of jerking out of his grasp she pulled away gently.

Lesson learned, he thought, his hands still tingling from the brief contact. He'd better not touch her like that again, because there was a good chance he might not let go.

Now his grandmother led the two of them down the main staircase and into the sun-drenched south parlor.

“I brought out some old photo albums I thought you might enjoy,” she said to Allison, waving her over to the cream-colored sofa by the French windows. Allison went, and Rick followed, shooting daggers at his grandmother when she met his eyes.

“Don't give me that look,” she said. “There's no harm in letting Allison see what a cute little boy you were.
You can look through these while I tell Meredith we're ready for tea.”

She went briskly out of the room again as Allison sat down. Rick sighed in resignation and sat down beside her, noticing how the late afternoon sunlight picked out the gold strands in her hair.

“I can't believe she dragged those out,” he muttered as Allison lifted up one of the albums from the coffee table.

Allison grinned at him. “She doesn't do this every time you bring a woman over?”

“I try to avoid bringing women here. And when I do, my grandmother doesn't like them. That's how we ended up in this situation, remember?”

“Hmm. So, are you going to look at these pictures with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Coward,” she said, her blue eyes laughing at him.

“Have I mentioned lately how annoying you are?”

“Yes,” she said, settling back against the armrest and opening the album. She held it so he couldn't see what she was looking at. “Oh, that's
adorable
,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That's the cutest expression I've ever seen on a naked three-year-old.”

He tried to swipe the book away from her, but she snatched it out of his reach.

“Ooh, here's one in the bathtub. Your butt is even cuter in this one.”

“So help me, Allison—”

She grinned at him over the top of the album. “Why don't you look at them with me? I promise we'll skip right over the naked ones.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. It'll be fun.”

When her eyes glinted with mischief like that, she was just about irresistible. “Fine. I'll do it if you'll reciprocate.”

“Reciprocate? How could I do that?”

“By letting me see your childhood pictures. Preferably at your family home, with at least one relative telling me what an adorable little girl you were.”

“You're actually volunteering to meet my family?”

“As long as I get to look at your photo albums.”

She shook her head at him. “There aren't any albums of just me. You'll have to sit through pages and pages of group shots, and pictures of Megan, my brother Jake and my sister Jenna, not to mention aunts and uncles and cousins. You'll beg me to let you off after five minutes.”

He grinned. “Twenty bucks says I last longer than you do.”

“It's a bet,” she said, scooting over next to him. They weren't quite touching, but she laid the photo album down so one side rested on her leg and one side on his.

He was distracted by how close she was until he saw the pictures. “I hoped you were kidding about the bathtub shot. Grandmothers have no shame.”

“Did she take all these?”

“Most of them. I came to visit a few times a year, and my grandmother always went crazy with the camera.”

“I like her,” Allison said thoughtfully.

“She likes you, too.”

“I expected her to be…colder. After all, she did threaten to leave your family home to someone else,
just because she doesn't like the women you date. That seems awfully judgmental to me.”

Rick shrugged. “Yeah, she can be judgmental sometimes. But I'll always love Gran. Three times in my life she's taken me in, no questions asked.”

“What times?” Allison asked.

He glanced down at her. “What do you mean?”

“What times in your life did she take you in?”

He hesitated. “The first was when I was ten,” he said after a moment. “My father had taken off, and my mother and I needed a place to stay while she got on her feet.”

“Evie's your maternal grandmother? You have the same last name, so I assumed—”

“My mom went back to her maiden name after we came here, and I changed my name, too.”

He remembered the day he'd put his father's name behind him forever. He also remembered living here, that first year. It had been like paradise. The first time in his life he'd ever felt safe. The first time he hadn't lain awake at night worrying about his mom, wondering when he'd be big enough and strong enough to protect her.

He shrugged away the memory. “The second time was when my mother got sick. I was sixteen, and I lived here while she was in the hospital. She died when I was seventeen, and I stayed here until I went away to college. The third time was after I came back from Afghanistan, before I settled in Des Moines and started Hunter Systems.”

He glanced down at Allison again. She was looking at him with the quiet, thoughtful expression he remembered from the day at the hospital.

“Was it hard on you when your father left?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

There was a foul taste in his mouth…the bitter flavor he associated with thoughts of his father. He wished the topic hadn't come up.

“Have you seen him since?”

“No.”

On the other hand, maybe it was good to have a reminder of why he wasn't cut out for a real relationship. With his father's poison inside him, he didn't have any business getting serious with a woman.

Especially a woman like Allison.

He took a deep breath and looked away from her. There was silence between them for a moment, and Rick wasn't sure how to fill it.

“You two haven't gotten very far in that book yet.”

He turned his head and saw his grandmother coming toward them with Meredith just behind her, carrying the Georgian tea tray.

“Allison, this is my grandmother's housekeeper, Meredith Bowen.”

Meredith smiled at them both as she arranged the tea things with swift efficiency and drew up a chair for Gran.

His grandmother lifted the teapot and poured the amber liquid into three delicate china cups. “I hope you enjoy China black, Allison. Milk or sugar? Both? A girl after my own heart. Please help yourself to sandwiches and the miniature scones. We have Devonshire cream for those. And now you must tell me what you think of Hunter Hall.”

“I think it's wonderful. I can see why Rick loves this place so much.”

Gran smiled at her grandson. “I was always so happy whenever Richard came to stay. A house doesn't feel like a home without children. Speaking of children—” Oh, no.

“What would you do if you lived in a place like Hunter Hall? Would you have a big family?”

“If I had a house like this?” Allison's eyes lit up, and Rick wondered what she was envisioning. He was pretty sure it wasn't giving birth to his children.

“If I had a house like this, I'd fill it with kids. Not my own, though,” she added.

His grandmother looked startled.

“It's a dream of mine to open a retreat center for families dealing with childhood cancer,” she explained.

“A retreat center?” his grandmother asked.

Allison nodded. “It's something I've thought about for years. A place that would provide services, and also create a sense of community for families. It's easy to feel isolated when you're struggling with cancer, because it's hard to explain what you're going through to people who've never dealt with it, and because hospital stays and treatment schedules don't leave you much free time. Megan's House would be a refuge. A place to go where everyone understands, because they're going through the same thing.”

His grandmother looked interested. “What sort of services would you provide?”

Allison took a quick sip of tea and set her cup down again. “Families who live far away from Des Moines or other major hospitals could stay at the center while their children are in treatment, so they don't have to go to a
hotel. There'd be day programs, too. Music and crafts and games for the kids. Therapy and counseling for the entire family. Massage and spa days for the moms…the dads too, if they need it. Parents forget to take care of themselves when their children are sick.”

Her face was illuminated. “And there should be gardens. I grew up on a farm, and there's a kind of magic in being around growing things. Planting seeds and seeing them sprout, eating tomatoes right off the vine… I'd love for kids to be able to have gardens of their own, and lots of outdoor play spaces, too. Tree houses and clubhouses and—”

She stopped suddenly, blushing. “And that was me taking over the conversation to talk about myself. Wow. Sorry about that.”