The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  "He's a fine, big boy, isn't he? How old are you, Adam?"

  He held up his fingers. “Almost six."

  Gwyn's face turned pink and she avoided all contact with Mike as she calculated.

  "Interesting.” One word. But at least she had a smile for his son.

  "Yes, well. I was debating on the proper time, and now...” He shrugged.

  She chewed at the inside of her lip, then answered in clipped formal tones, “How nice that someone took care of it for you. After all, you've had two whole days."

  "Just waiting for the right time ... and circumstances."

  "Don't bother.” She brushed away his excuses. “I'm sure it's a thrilling story, but it has nothing to do with me, now does it?"

  "I think it does.” Shifting Adam around to rest on his hip, Mike tried again. “We have an audience. Try to behave."

  Gwyn gave a soft sigh. “I don't think I'm the one with behavior problems."

  Together, the three of them walked to the front entrance. Damn. The entire family had lined up to greet them, his mother standing beside his father's wheelchair. And alongside them was the reason for his stomach's sinking to his knees—Adam's mother, Marina.

  Standing before a rat squad panel would be easier than facing all of them at once.

  Sweet, little Marina, attempting a brave smile which failed to hide her disappointment at seeing Gwyn with him. Naturally his father wore a fierce scowl—difficult to tell which of the two was more disappointed.

  "Mother,” he acknowledged, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

  "Father.” Mike nodded, but didn't extend his hand.

  "Hmph.” His father averted his gaze—not that Mike expected his father to respond any other way.

  "Marina.” Marina smiled, then found sudden interest in her open-toed sandals.

  "This is my friend and client, Gwyneth Wells.” He turned to introduce Gwyneth. “My mother, Elinor, and my father, George Carlton."

  "Gwyneth, my dear, I'm delighted to meet you. I do hope you'll find our quaint customs not too tiring."

  "I'm very pleased to meet you—uh, Lady Elinor."

  "Oh, my dear, Michael is such a tease. I don't use my title here in the States. Please call me Elinor."

  "You can bloody well call me Mr. Carlton.” Mike's father glared at Gwyn, his nostrils flaring.

  Her eyes widened a bit, but she swallowed and managed an agreeable, “Of course, Mr. Carlton."

  "More British than the British,” Elinor chided him. “Don't mind my husband. He's been quite a grump every since he had his stroke. Personally, I think it addled his brain. Once upon a time, he was quite pleasant."

  God, it's starting already. Mike turned to Marina. “How are you? Adam looks wonderful."

  "We've been fine. Adam has missed you."

  "I just saw him last weekend. Don't make it sound like it's been months."

  Marina's face darkened with a flush. “Oh, I didn't mean to sound like that, really, Michael."

  "Well, if my son had made an honest woman out of you, my only grandchild could see his father every night,” Mike's father insisted.

  "Well, why don't we air all the family secrets at once? Get everything out in the open,” Mike blustered. No telling what Gwyn thought. She was probably ready to run and hide—he sure as hell wanted to.

  His mother could've warned him. Having Marina and Adam there to greet him and Gwyneth was his mother's idea of an interesting weekend. He'd have a choice word or three with her later.

  Never at a loss, his mother placed an arm around Gwyneth's shoulder. “Let's go inside, dear. I'm sure you must be exhausted from your drive."

  "Yes, thank you."

  "Can I spend the night in your room, Daddy?"

  "If it's all right with your mom.” Mike glanced at Marina who nodded her assent.

  "Good. Daddy, come see my new pony. Grandpapa Carlton and Grandpapa Vadim bought him for me. His name is Pete. I know ‘cause he told me,” Adam finished with a whisper of a giggle.

  Thanking heaven for his son's diffusing the difficult moment, Mike smiled and set the boy down. “All right, let's see this new pony of yours. Have you ridden him yet?"

  "Oh, yes. Grandmama says I have a good seat."

  "I'm sure you do.” Mike agreed, distracted. While he and his son walked around to the stables, he glanced back over his shoulder, but Gwyn was no longer in sight.

  * * * *

  Marina watched the confident swing of Michael's shoulders as he strolled away with their son—her only hold on a man who couldn't be held except by love. And he didn't love her. He never had.

  From the very first second she'd seen him leaning over the tall blonde, she knew Michael was in love. Every plane of his face softened when he looked at his so-called friend.

  It just wasn't fair. She had known Michael and his family for years. Their fathers had planned a match between them—a marriage of two important families. But that was before he fell in love with Tamiko. After Tamiko died, Marina thought surely her chance would come, that he would turn to the mother of his child for comfort, but no.

  And now, it certainly appeared that Mike was more than ready to move on, it was with a snippy blonde who looked more like a super-model than the hot-shot attorney she was reputed to be.

  To add insult to injury, Michael's mother had already taken Gwyneth under her wing. None of it was fair. Her only consolation: Michael was a good father to Adam, and that was all that was important. Her son had a father who loved him and spent time with him.

  What more could a mother want?

  * * * *

  "The house is lovely,” Gwyneth murmured politely, not knowing what else to say while she struggled to process the happenings of the last few minutes.

  Mike had a son—who was not his late wife's child. And where did Marina fit in his scheme of things? If Gwyneth were any judge of character—and as an attorney she needed to be—Marina was in love with the rascally P.I. from New York. But what did Mike feel for the lovely, olive-skinned mother of his child?

  Dammit. Just when she thought she had Mike all figured out, something would happen and the entire equation changed.

  "I suppose by today's standards, it's old-fashioned and formal, but it does so remind me of the home where I grew up."

  The sound of Elinor's well-modulated, cultured voice jerked Gwyneth out of her bout of Twenty Questions. “Do you return to England often?” she asked for want of anything better.

  "Several times a year. I confess I miss it more as I grow older, but now my life is here with George. He needs me."

  "He hasn't adjusted well to his disability, has he?"

  "No, he's still quite angry. You see, he was such an active man. Golf—he absolutely loved it—but now refuses to go to the club. Can't bear to be reminded of his limitations."

  "What about his work?"

  "He's still able to accomplish a bit, but nothing like the level before. Luckily, his verbal and cognitive skills have returned, but he'll never have full recovery of his motor coordination. Or at least, that's what we've been told. I must confess that George has been very determined to regain what he has,” Elinor continued as she led Gwyneth upstairs.

  She noted the highly polished floors, the muted tones of antique, Oriental rugs, and the dark, oak woodwork, gleaming with a beeswax finish. The atmosphere of the entire house made her feel like she had stepped back in time. She could almost see herself descending the grand staircase in a long dress, dripping with jewelry. Silly thought.

  "Here you are, dear.” Elinor stopped in front of a door, then opened it. “I hope you'll find it suitable."

  Gwyneth walked into the rose-hued room. Long, silk draperies hung at the leaded-glass windows. The walls had been covered in the same silk damask. A massive Elizabethan bed with heavily carved, bulbous posts dominated the room. “It's lovely.” For a museum.

  "Gemma will bring up your luggage, unpack for you and draw your bath."

  "Really,” Gwyneth protes
ted, “I can unpack and draw my own bath. I'm used to being on my own."

  "But a little pampering never hurts. Enjoy it, my child,” Elinor replied.

  Gwyneth smiled. “Thank you. You're so kind. I might as well take advantage of your gracious offer.” Yeah, a little pampering just might offset what was bound to be a screwed-up weekend, if the first fifteen minutes of her visit were any indication.

  * * * *

  Watching his son ride, Mike allowed himself to forget the scene at the front door. The absolute joy he experienced while spending time with Adam was the upside of what would, no doubt, be a totally fucked-up weekend.

  He looked at the boy, who was a veritable spitting image of Marina with his dark eyes and hair, and wondered if there was anything of himself in his son. True, he was intelligent and spirited, and more than once, Mike had regretted that he simply couldn't learn to love Marina. Together, they could've given Adam a two-parent home. But a man's heart didn't always follow the lead of his head.

  And he knew, without a doubt, that his mind, body and soul belonged to Gwyn. He would win her, despite his mother's manipulations, his father's disapproval and Marina's sad, but resigned, face.

  "See, Daddy, I can ride."

  Adam's shrill voice pierced the quiet of the stable yard. The only other sounds Mike heard were the soft knickers of stabled horses. That and the familiar, ripe stable smell brought back memories—of another boy and his father. He'd been the boy, and his father had stood to the side, yelling for the young Mike to sit straight, to hold the reins properly. He'd always failed his father. No matter—he was a man now, and how he treated his son was more important than his father's failings of twenty-five years ago.

  "You're doing a great job, son,” Mike called as Adam took another round in the ring.

  "Have a pair of Wellies, sir,” one of the grooms offered.

  "Thanks, Jack, I will.” Leaning against a fence post, Mike bent over and pulled on the green boots, then stepped into the ring. A second groom handed him the pony's lead rein. “You ready, son?"

  "Yeah, I want to go fast.” The child executed an encouraging “get-along,” rocking movement in the saddle.

  "All right, here we go.” Mike picked up the pace—not much, but enough to make Adam feel like he was racing around the riding ring. His delighted squeals filled the air ... Music to Mike's troubled mind—the best kind, the healing kind.

  Mike spent another twenty minutes leading his son and pony around the ring before coming to a breathless halt. Sweat ran down his forehead, and he definitely smelled of horse. “Time to get cleaned up. You know how your Grandmother is about cleanliness."

  "Yes, sir.” Adam swung his leg over the pony's head and would've fallen, had Mike not caught him.

  Adam threw his arms around Mike's neck. “I love you, Daddy."

  "I love you, too.” As it always did, Mike's heart filled with love—and a familiar disbelief that anyone could love a child as much as he did.

  Twenty-one

  Gwyneth stepped out of the tub and grabbed a thick, white towel sheet. She wrapped it around her body, then snatched another towel from the rack, winding it around her head turban-style.

  The mirror showed her too clearly that her nose was as red as a certain, unfortunate reindeer's. She guessed her usual sun block wasn't up to the task of riding all day in a T-Bird convertible with the top down. Not much point in riding around in a convertible with the top up, was there?

  Leaning forward, she checked to see if any dreaded crow's feet had dared to show their little claws at the corner of her eyes. Nope, not yet. Well, truthfully, she did have one tiny line so minuscule that it hardly counted. She reached for a jar of moisturizer, but stopped. She heard voices in the hall—Mike's low rumble and Adam's high-pitched, childish one. Tugging the bath sheet tighter around her, she headed from the bath to her bedroom door. She leaned her ear against it and listened.

  A sharp rap sounded, and she jumped back.

  "Gwyn-eth?"

  She just loved the way Mike said her name, when he drew it out so playfully. She eased the door open to two sets of eyes—one pair of amused green and the other of curious brown. “Yes?"

  Mike's gaze traveled up and down her body quickly, as if he couldn't help it. “Hi."

  "Hi yourself,” she replied. Okay, so she wasn't very original, but he did have her at a disadvantage, since she was damned near naked, while he was fully clothed and redolent of horse or was it pony?

  "Hi, Gwyn,” piped Adam.

  "Hello. Did you show your Daddy your pony?"

  "Yes, and Daddy can run almost as fast as my pony.

  Mike chuckled. “Can't you tell? I must smell to high heaven."

  "That's wonderful,” she told Adam, then gave an impolite sniff and gazed into Mike's eyes, telling him, “Actually, you do, but I wasn't going to mention it."

  "May we come in?"

  She snuggled her towel a little tighter as she stepped back from the door. “Uh, do you think you should? I mean, I'm—"

  "Irresistible, I assure you."

  "That's not what I meant.” She shot a glance at Adam.

  "I'm going to sleep in my Daddy's room,” Adam volunteered.

  "Yes, I know, and I think that's wonderful."

  A wistful expression danced across Mike's face. “You do?"

  Let him wonder, she decided and arranged her face into what she hoped was an enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile.

  "Son, sometimes it is best to know when to make a strategic retreat. Our bath beckons. We don't want to offend the lovely Gwyneth with our manly selves."

  Adam turned to walk down the hall, and Mike reached over and kissed the tip of her nose. “You need a better sun block, counselor."

  Before she could respond, Mike turned to follow his son. She watched father and son, so alike in their mannerisms, open the bedroom door next to hers. She heard Adam ask Mike, “Were those bumps under her towel, boobies?"

  "Adam, where did you hear such a word?"

  Gwyneth strained to hear the boy's answer.

  "School. Mommy has them, too. Did you know that?"

  Only the firm shutting of the door kept Gwyneth from hearing Mike's reply. Giggling, she collapsed weakly against the jamb, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Mike's son was adorable, but the same question still plagued her—just how did Mike feel about Adam's mother? And would she ever get the man alone long enough to find out?

  * * * *

  Mike shut the door behind them, biting the inside of his lip to keep a straight face. Once he felt he'd regained sufficient control, he said matter-of-factly, “All grownup women have them, son."

  "Oh,” Adam replied with a solemn nod, then a wide grin replaced his expression of curiosity. “Neat."

  This time, Mike nearly bit through his lower lip to keep from laughing and gave himself a mental shake as well. It's just the beginning. The kid is growing up, and heaven help us, he's taking after me.

  Mike hadn't been able to keep his eyes off Gwyn's bumps, either. A towel was all she held between him and the sweetest set of pink-tipped breasts he'd ever had the pleasure and honor of addressing.

  His pants grew snug as the image of her lying beneath him formed in his mind. Damn. If he was going to make it through the weekend, he'd better summon a modicum of self-control. Gwyneth right next door—his mother's doing, of course.

  "Adam,” he began.

  "Yes, Daddy?"

  "You—uh, let's get your clothes off."

  "Can I take a shower like you do?"

  "Sure. Just get a move on."

  Mike slipped Adam's shirt over his head.

  "Boots, Daddy.” Adam plopped down on the floor and stuck his feet up in the air.

  Mike bent over and tugged off the boots, then the boy's jeans. “Now, ready to get clean?"

  "Sure.” Adam skipped into the bathroom. Mike followed, reaching in and turning on the shower. “Wait till I get the water right."

  * * * *

  After A
dam had been given his dinner and settled for the evening, Mike stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his black tie. Dressing for dinner? Foolish nonsense, but if it made his mother happy, it was little enough to do. The small things were simple. Big things like career choice, whom he married—now those were altogether different.

  "Can I stay awake until you come to bed, Daddy?” Adam asked from his spot on the corner chaise.

  "If you want to.” Mike was sure, or at least he hoped like hell, his son would conk out long before.

  Whether or not Gwyn would give him the time of day remained to be seen. At least she hadn't screamed or fainted on learning he had a son. But if he knew anything about her, he knew she had a million questions. And sooner or later, he owed her the answers. Truthful answers—no matter how uncomfortable they made him.

  * * * *

  Gwyneth pulled her hair back and up, then turned her head from one side to the other, assessing the effect. Dissatisfied, she let the hair fall to her shoulders. Maybe she should just wear it down. Mike seemed to like the Veronica Lake look, so why not?

  No, she was not going to start wearing her hair to suit Mike Carlton.

  Absolutely not.

  Maybe she should cut it. Long hair was so out. Marina had long hair—long, silky, black hair. Obviously she didn't care about being a fashionista. And if she were an exotic, olive-skinned, dark-eyed beauty like Marina, she wouldn't have to worry about style either. Classic beauty made its own statement, although Gwyn had to admit, Marina didn't seem to be aware of her beauty. If anything, the other woman was on the shy side of reserved.

  Maybe she would leave her hair down after all. She stepped back from the mirror and smoothed the line of her dress over her hips. The simple, asymmetric, off-the-shoulder, white sheath had a band of black across the left shoulder to the right breast, then down to the hem on the right. It was slit to mid-thigh on the left, for no other reason than she was inordinately vain about her legs.

  How they'd managed to grow long and shapely, she hadn't a clue. It had to be genetics because she'd been a bookworm in high school. Except for years of gymnastic lessons as a pre-teen, she'd never seen the inside of a gym. And now, of course, she was too busy to go to the gym and work out.