[The Sons of Lily Moreau 03] - Capturing the Millionaire

by Marie Ferrarella

  But Mick shook his head. “Sorry, can’t leave my shop. Too much work to do,” he explained. Alain couldn’t see much money being made in a small town like this, or the neighboring vicinity. “I’ll pay you twice whatever it is you’re making working on the cars.”

  Instead of jumping at the chance the way he thought the mechanic might, the older man shook his head. “That wouldn’t be right. I’d be robbing you.”

  Alain had never run into honesty as a stumbling block before. In his line of work, the opposite was usually the case. Stunned, he looked at Kayla. “He’s serious.” “As a thunderstorm,” she replied simply. She picked up Nine and stroked him as she spoke. “Is there anyone you can call to come pick you up—once the phone lines are back up?”

  He sighed, frustrated. There were his brothers and several cousins he could call—if he could call. Which he couldn’t in this backward town. He was stuck, he thought. Alain didn’t think that anyone would miss him until some time next week, when he had to file papers regarding another case he was handling. He doubted that Rachel would call either of his brothers to say he hadn’t shown up for their date, or that anyone from his office would think to check why he had missed the meeting and wasn’t in the office today. Which left him as stranded as the Prisoner of Zenda.

  “Yes,” he finally said, “there are several people I could call—if I could call,” he repeated. “How long before the lines are back up?”

  Kayla shrugged casually. “Hard to say. On the average, it’s not more than a few days.”

  A few days. That translated to an eternity in his world. As if sensing his agitation, Winchester hobbled next to him, planted himself on his rear and looked up at him adoringly while his tail moved back and forth like a deranged metronome.

  “If I were you, mister, I’d just relax and make the best of it,” Mick suggested. And then he followed his words with what sounded like a wicked laugh.

  Alain couldn’t help noticing that the man with the dirt-stained fingers had deliberately looked toward Kayla as he tendered his advice.

  Chapter 7 Outside, it was growing dark. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky looked ominous, as if another storm was in the making. And the power still had not made an appearance.

  Alain was stranded, which ordinarily would make him agitated. Not having control over something usually did that to him. Yet as he sat at the kitchen table with the candles casting elongated shadows about the room, he felt calm inside. Since he couldn’t do anything to change the situation, he’d come to terms with it.

  After all, the power outage couldn’t last forever. At least he hoped not. And rather than get frustrated because he couldn’t do anything about it, he made himself relax and take in the moment.

  And the woman who was so much a part of it. Right now, Kayla was busy getting their dinner ready. He’d offered to help, but she had told him just to sit and relax, that too many people milling about the fireplace would get in each other’s way. He assumed that “two” constituted “too many.”

  So here he sat, watching her.

  And he liked watching her. Alain’s mind drifted back to his situation. He doubted if he’d be replaced on the case he was currently assigned to at the firm. Bobbie Jo Halliday liked him, and money talked. Besides, it really hadn’t been that long. Maybe by tomorrow the power would be restored, and, more importantly, the phones lines would rise up from the dead.

  Periodically he’d take his cell phone out of his pocket and check to see if it was finally receiving some sort of signal. Every time he flipped it open, the tiny screen gave him the same message: Searching for a network.

  Obviously the network had decided to take a holiday. The mechanic that Kayla had brought back with her was long gone. Mick had taken Alain’s BMW back to “the shop,” wherever that was.

  It occurred to Alain that he was placing a great deal of trust in this woman he hadn’t even known existed seventy-two hours ago. Maybe that was a mistake.

  He thought of some of the mysteries—his favorite form of entertainment—that he’d read. What if this Mick character was really stealing his car? And he was stripping it in order to sell the vehicle for parts. Kayla could be in on it, she could even—

  Alain reined in his thoughts. The woman was not the devious, mastermind type. She was— Suddenly he felt something wet and rough against the back of his hand and fingers. He looked down to see that Winchester had made his way over again and was licking his hand.

  Alain didn’t bother restraining the smile that rose to his lips. He’d even begun to feel a small measure of affection for the injured dog—one injured creature relating to another, he mused.

  The stew she’d put together had been simmering nicely and, if the dissolving diced potatoes were any indication, it looked as if it was finally done. Time to eat.

  Kayla glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen and Alain. She smiled fondly at Winchester. Her smile took in Alain, as well. “He’s just trying to get you to pay attention to him.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Alain raise a quizzical eyebrow. “He thinks you’ve been won over by Nine and his crew.”

  “I haven’t been ‘won over’ by anything,” Alain protested, although, reflecting back, he had to admit that saving the last puppy had been a rather emotional experience. Kayla moved away from the fireplace, dusting off her hands on the back of her jeans. The grin on her face as she spared him another look told Alain that she knew otherwise.

  She made her way to the cupboard and took down two large bowls. “Oh, I think you have. Nothing wrong with having a soft spot in your heart for animals—dogs especially.”

  She began to ladle out equal portions of stew. Taylor and Ariel took an extreme interest in her every move, anticipating a handout. She deliberately avoided making eye contact with the dogs.

  Kayla brought both bowls to the table and set them down. Turning, she went to another cabinet and retrieved a bottle of wine, then two glasses.

  “Didn’t you have a favorite pet when you were growing up?”

  He waited for her to sit down opposite him before picking up his fork. The stew smelled incredible and he could feel his appetite spiking.

  In more ways than one, he thought, watching as she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. He took a sip of wine.

  “I didn’t have a pet,” he answered, “favorite or otherwise.”

  She raised her eyes to his. Even in this dim light, he thought they were mesmerizing. “You’re kidding.” Alain forced himself to look down at his dinner and not at her. He took another sip of wine before responding. A warm, mellow feeling began to slip over him. “Why would I kid about that?”

  When she gave no answer, he raised his eyes to her face. She was looking at him as if she’d suddenly realized how deprived he was.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him softly.

  He wasn’t sure he followed her. “Sorry you thought I was kidding?” “No, sorry that you didn’t have a pet.” He’d missed out on a lot, she thought. “Everyone should have at least one pet in their lives.” She looked over to where Ginger was lying, her puppies in a semicircle around her. Kayla’s sweeping glance took in the other dogs, as well, ending with Winchester, who was standing at Alain’s left like a small, furry bodyguard. “There’s nothing like the feeling of having a set of adoring brown eyes looking up at you.”

  Alain laughed before he could think better of it and stop himself. Her description pretty much summed up the way Rachel always looked up at him—he was almost a foot taller than she was. The woman had to have the softest eyes he’d ever seen. That is, they had been until he’d looked down at Winchester.

  “You’re thinking of your girlfriend, aren’t you?” Kayla asked. The knowing tone, breaking into his thoughts, took him by surprise. Without thinking, he dropped his left hand and began to stroke Winchester’s head. A peacefulness seeped into him.

  “How did you know what I was thinking about?” he challenged.

  That was easy, she thought as
she swallowed another forkful of her stew. “You smirked.” “No, I didn’t,” he protested, then realized he was becoming defensive when there was no reason to. He liked Rachel, but there wasn’t anything lasting between them. Just as there had never been anything lasting between him and any of the other women he took out. He couldn’t get serious about a woman. He wouldn’t allow it. “And besides, I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend.”

  So there was a “her” in his life, Kayla thought. Finding that out shouldn’t have made a difference, one way or another. The fact that it bothered her both intrigued and worried her.

  She did what she could to bank down her feelings.

  “Then what would you call her?” she asked mildly, aware that she was marginally flirting with him and enjoying it. He shrugged his shoulders. It felt a little strange discussing his personal life with this woman. Especially since he was having difficulty drawing his eyes away from her. “Rachel.”

  Rachel. Pretty name. Probably a very pretty girl. Why did that even matter? “Does this Rachel know she’s not your girlfriend?” “Yes,” he answered firmly. In case Kayla was casting him in the role of some heartless womanizer, he added with feeling, “I don’t make a secret of how I feel about relationships.”

  This was getting very, very interesting. “And how do you feel about relationships?”

  Alain narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “What are you, my shrink?”

  She countered with another mild question. “Do you have one?”

  His question had been intentionally sarcastic, not intended as some sort of revelation. He didn’t believe in baring his soul to a stranger.

  Then what the hell are you doing right now? Alain frowned. “No.”

  “Then, no,” Kayla replied whimsically, looking back at her dinner, “I’m not.” Winchester was nudging him. Alain fished out a bit of meat from his bowl and offered it to the dog. No sooner was it in his hand than it was gone. Winchester’s teeth had never even touched his skin.

  “Why all the questions?” he asked. Kayla’s expression when she looked up at him was innocence personified. “It’s called conversation, Alain. You might have noticed, the radio and TV are out and talking is the only form of entertainment that’s left to us at the moment. We did it last night over cards. Why can’t we do it over dinner?” She shifted slightly in her seat, ignoring the begging animals on either side of her. The other dogs knew better than to beg, but Taylor and Ariel were her newest charges, and they were still hopeful. “Now, unless you’d rather just sit there like a statue, it’s your turn to answer.” She could see by his expression that she’d lost him in the maze of words. “You were going to tell me how you felt about relationships.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  She leaned forward a little, and a soft, sensual fragrance tickled his nose. Moved his soul. “Humor me. I saved your life.”

  Alain made a show of trying to hold his ground, all the while knowing that he’d answer her in the end. “People don’t die from cracked ribs.” “They do if the rib punctures a lung,” she countered, growing serious for a moment. “Now you really have me curious,” she admitted, still sitting on the edge of her seat. “You’re obviously against relationships. Why?” Could it be for the same reason that she’d been steering clear of men these last couple of years? “Did someone hurt you, Alain?”

  The woman was getting way too personal, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. Maybe because there was something almost surreal about being trapped here like this, in the middle of a storm, he allowed himself to purge his soul. This place would be in his past soon, as if it had never existed.

  “No,” he told her and it was the truth. He’d never allowed anyone the chance to hurt him. Because his mother had taught him that, by example.

  Kayla wasn’t sure if she quite believed him. “Then you’re just a carefree, confirmed bachelor?”

  Finished eating, Alain moved the bowl away from the edge of the table and Winchester’s wistful gaze. “Something like that.”

  She paused for a moment, studying his face. And then she shook her head. “You’re too young to be a confirmed anything.”

  She kept surprising him. “How do you know how old I am?”

  Kayla shrugged carelessly, avoiding his eyes. “Your driver’s license.”

  “You looked at my driver’s license?”

  She raised her head, looking at him as if she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary.

  “While you were unconscious. I like knowing who I’m dragging into my house.” Then, because he was still frowning, she added, “You could have been a serial killer.” “They don’t put that on driver’s licenses,” he pointed out.

  “True,” she allowed, “but I did learn your name. And if you were wanted for anything, I’d know.”

  He didn’t see how. “Are you one of those police program junkies?” Watching Cops was a guilty pleasure she allowed herself, but judging from his tone, he looked down on things like that. So she said, “I wouldn’t go so far as calling myself a junkie—I just like being informed, and I make myself aware of who’s wanted for a crime.”

  He decided there was no point in arguing about what Kayla had done. Instead, he turned it to his benefit. “Okay, so you know my age. How old are you?”

  “A gentleman never asks that of a lady,” she countered smoothly.

  The woman had more moves than a welterweight champion. “I’m just looking for a trade of information here.”

  She reconsidered. “Fair enough, I suppose. I’m twenty-seven.”

  She looked younger, he thought. “Ever been married?”

  “No.” Her eyes held his as she asked, “You?”

  He thought they’d covered that when she asked about relationships. Was she intentionally trying to trip him up? “No. Siblings?” “None. You?” He thought of Philippe and Georges, both now settled. Unlike him. It seemed to him as if the dynamics in his life had changed rather quickly. “I’ve got two brothers.”

  “You’re lucky.” The longing in her voice was hard to miss. He wouldn’t have traded positions with an only child for the world, even though there had been knock-down, drag-out fights in his past, mostly with Georges. “At times,” he allowed.

  She envied his memories. If she’d had siblings, maybe Brett would have never been in her life, would have never had a chance to upend it the way he had. “Parents still alive?”

  The way she phrased it told him that hers weren’t. “Just my mother.” Kayla caught the inflection in his voice. Finished eating, she pushed her bowl away and leaned her elbow on the table, her chin on her palm. Humor curved her mouth. “What is it about your mother that makes you roll your eyes?”

  For a second, he thought of brushing off her question, but then, he was no longer embarrassed by his mother. Certainly not the way he’d been when he was growing up, and her free-wheeling lifestyle had mortified him. As an adult, he could understand his mother’s quest to have someone in her life who would adore her. And he understood her fickleness.

  “My mother is Lily Moreau.” Even as he told Kayla, he had his doubts she would recognize the name. This wasn’t exactly the hub of culture. One look at Kayla’s face told him he’d guessed wrong. A skeptical look had entered her eyes. “Lily Moreau is your mom?”

  He couldn’t tell by her tone if she liked or disliked his mother. Something protective stirred in his chest. All of them had grown protective of Lily.

  “Yes.”

  He was pulling her leg, Kayla thought. But if that was his intent, wouldn’t he have used someone more famous, less controversial? “Lily Moreau, the artist.”

  “You’ve heard of her.” Now that she took offense at. “This isn’t Brigadoon. We’re small, but we’re only about a hundred and twenty miles from L.A. County. We get People magazine around here, and next month,” she told him brightly, “they say we might even get indoor plumbing.”

  He’d insulted her, he realized. “Sorry.” Kayla ignored the apolo
gy, more taken with the information he’d just given her. She’d seen photographs of the famous woman. The handsome blond man at Kayla’s table didn’t look a thing like the raven-haired artist.

  “She’s really your mother,” she said again, disbelief lingering in her voice. “I’ll e-mail you a photograph of the two of us when I get home if you want proof.” And then, because he’d been toying with the thought of seeing her again, he said, “Better yet, if you come down, I’ll introduce you.” He knew he had to qualify that, in case Kayla took him up on the invitation. His mother was nothing if not unpredictable. “Provided that she’s in town. She has a habit of taking off and flying around the world on a moment’s notice.” At least, it had always seemed that way to him. “Though not as much as she used to.”

  Because she admired strong, independent women, Kayla knew more than a little about the famous artist. “What’s it like, having such a famous mother?”

  When he had been very young, it had bothered Alain that his mother was always taking off, that she wasn’t like the mothers his friends had. But over the years, he’d made his peace with that. These days, now that he understood her better, he was rather proud of what she had accomplished. A lot of women would have surrendered in defeat, especially after their husband had practically sold the house out from under them—as Philippe’s father had, to fund his gambling addiction.

  “Apart from sharing her with the world, it has its moments,” he murmured succinctly. He was holding something back, Kayla thought. She tried to read between the lines. “You must have had an interesting childhood, traveling all over the globe, wherever there was an art gallery.”

  He’d wanted to, but Philippe had always been the voice of reason, pointing out that the trips would get in the way of Alain’s schooling. He’d hated his brother for that. And hated his mother for listening. Now, Alain was grateful. He wouldn’t be where he was if it hadn’t been for Philippe.

  “Not really. Most of the time, we stayed home, wherever home was at the time.” Philippe and even Georges had gone through more turmoil than he had. With each new husband, a new return address would appear in the corner of the envelope. As far as touring the different art galleries, he and the others remained home, technically under the care of nannies. But it was really Philippe who took care of them, Philippe who had handled the assignment his mother unwittingly thrust on him: being his brothers’ keeper and surrogate father.