by Dorie Graham
“Dixon was the name my dear late husband, Albert, gave me, but my maiden name is McKinney.”
“Oh, like the university?” Alex asked. So Mrs. Dixon had the good breeding to go with her money.
“Yes, like the university. My great-granduncle was one of the main founders.” She frowned at Chase. “Why are you two hiding way back here? I had to circle three times before I found you.”
“We’re not hiding,” Chase said with the sweetest smile. “We have a good view of everyone from here.”
Did he always paste on that sweet smile for Mrs. Dixon? She was no doubt an important benefactor of the college and possibly the museum.
“You never got back to me.” The woman’s gaze slipped to Alex and then back again to Chase. “About that matter we discussed the other day.”
“Do you mean the matter of the newest artifacts you showed me?”
Her gaze slid to Alex again. “Maybe we should discuss this in private. We need to talk about your schedule for next month, as well. I was thinking you should look at some of the North Carolina university museums.”
“We don’t need to discuss this in private. I don’t have any secrets from Alex. She’s a very significant other in my life and I’d like to share everything with her.”
Alex glanced at Chase. Though he kept his attention on the older woman, his fingers curled around hers.
The woman frowned. “But this is business—”
“That we don’t need to discuss, not here or anywhere else, private or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that as far as the artifacts go, I don’t feel that the provenance is sound enough to prove the authenticity of those items.”
Her eyes rounded. “Why, those artifacts are from West Africa, as sure as I’m standing here.”
“Mrs. Dixon, I don’t doubt they are authentic. I doubt that they were obtained legally. Prior to your involvement with them, that is. I’m guessing you didn’t actually find those artifacts in a crate your husband left lying around, though. Did you?”
She opened her mouth, but then frowned and shook her head.
“It was an online auction, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible above the crowd.
“And the seller gave you such a deal you bought the items without first seeing the provenance.”
“Yes, but I did see the artifacts in a good webcast. As you could see they are very authentic.”
“Which does you no good if you can’t prove they weren’t obtained via looting, after such actions were specifically outlawed.” Chase placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dixon, I’d love to help you out, but I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you.”
“Balls,” the woman said, pink tingeing her cheeks. “I can’t believe I let myself get taken like that. I was hoping to use them as a sort of investment.”
“If you want any kind of financial advice, Alex here is an expert. She was responsible for helping with the budget for her last company.”
Warmth filled Alex’s cheeks. “I’m not an expert on investing, but I do understand budgets and finance. Granted, I also put together a budget analysis that convinced my senior team and board they needed to lay off a bunch of people, myself included. It was kind of short-sighted of me, actually. I’m not sure that falls under the ‘expert’ category.”
“So you don’t currently have a job?” Mrs. Dixon turned to her. “If Chase vouches for you, that’s good enough for me. I’m in a little bit of a pickle with my finances. I admit my Albert handled all of that and I haven’t carried on his good work in that department since he’s been gone. I tried talking to a financial planner, but I don’t trust just anyone with my money.” She straightened. “With my family’s money.”
“Alex, can you find some time to do a little consulting with Mrs. Dixon?” Chase asked.
Alex looked from him to the woman. “I suppose I could work something out, though my schedule is going to be very difficult starting next week.”
“And she’s not cheap,” Chase said to Mrs. Dixon.
“Of course, I’d pay her top dollar.” She turned to Alex. “I will work around whatever is best for you. Chase can give you my number and you just call when you find the time. I’ll make myself available.”
She turned then to Chase. “Thank you so much. The news on the artifacts is disappointing, but since you’ve found me such a better solution I’ll let that slide.”
She started to leave, and then stopped. “So, we’ll talk schedules on Monday.”
“No, I’m sorry, that was the other part of this,” Chase said. “The donor agreement was made between the university museum and Albert. He always deferred to you as far as control over the collection and we’ve continued—I’ve continued—to honor that, but my schedule will no longer support the amount of travel required by recent requests, so, per the legally binding document your late husband signed, control of the collection now falls to the museum.”
The woman drew back and stared at Chase for one long moment, before a slow smile spread across her lips. “Oh, my, you are very attractive when you assert yourself, young man.” She turned to Alex. “You hold on to this one. He looks like a keeper to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alex said. “I plan to.”
And with that, Mrs. Dixon turned and faded into the crowd.
“Do you?” Chase asked, his smile warm.
“Do I what?”
“Plan to hold on to me?”
Heat again filled Alex’s cheeks. “Yes. What was all that?”
“All what?”
She gestured with her hand. “That, with Mrs. Dixon. It was almost like watching a showdown.”
“Yes, that was me taking back my life.” He turned and pulled her into his arms. “Good. That was the rest of my plan. To take back the rest of my life. You said yes. Yes, you plan to hold on to me.”
His body was warm and firm against hers. Her heart thudded. “Yes, I plan to do that, if you’d like me to, that is.”
“You’re like, happy with your family these days, aren’t you? Running to appointments with Robert, planning a shower for Becky with Megan. You’re just one big happy family, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no, we’re still pretty dysfunctional. I share a bathroom with Robert and he can’t remember to put the toilet seat down.”
“I’ll put the seat down for you.”
Happiness filled her. “That’s pretty big, putting the toilet seat down. That’s pretty enticing stuff.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ve got other stuff. I can be pretty damn enticing.”
“Really?” she asked, pulling back to look at him.
“Really.”
She held his gaze, full of heat and promise. “Show me.”
Without another word, he pulled out a key and unlocked the knob of the closest French door and then opened it just far enough for them to slip through. He led her through the second exhibit room, full of artifacts from the Holocaust, then down a short hall to another room, this one smaller than the last, with a padded circular bench at the center, looking out over the inset shelves of African artifacts that circled the room.
“This exhibit is still under construction,” he said as he led her to the bench. “It hasn’t been opened yet to the public.”
She glanced around at the shelves of items. “It looks wonderful to me.”
He pulled her close. “I didn’t bring you here to look at the art.”
Smiling, she moved away from him and then slowly hiked up her gown before straddling the bench. “That’s right. You were going to show me your stuff.”
He straddled the bench, as well, facing her. He again pulled her close. “Before I show you anything. I want to get something completely clear. This is a date date.”
Again, she smiled, unable to contain her joy. “I think I got that.”
“Good,” he said and then he kissed her.
The kiss wa
s at first soft and gentle, but then he urged her mouth open with his and his tongue found hers, swirling and stroking with a possessiveness that left her breathless. He kissed her long and deep, stroking his hands up her back, then down, kneading her bottom in a way that had her pressing against him, trying to get closer.
He drew back and started fumbling with his bowtie. She stilled his hand. “You should know if the tie comes off, the dress will have to go.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I really like you in that dress.”
“Really?” She stood and stripped off the dress so she stood wearing nothing but a thong and her shoes. “You don’t like this any better?”
“Shit, woman,” he said as he continued to fumble with his tie. “Help me get out of this damn penguin suit.”
Laughing softly, she moved behind him and untied the tie while he unbuttoned his shirt. In mere seconds he spun toward her, bare-chested, and captured her mouth in another searing kiss, pressing her close, her breasts rubbing against him.
He groaned softly as he kissed his way down her neck and cupped her breast. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, right before he took her nipple into his mouth.
She sank her fingers in his hair and gasped with pleasure as he suckled hard, sending waves of heat through her. She bit her lip and moaned. His breath warmed her wet skin and then he moved back up and lifted her in his arms.
His gaze was dark and serious. “Be my family, Alex. I love you. I always have. I want you to be mine, truly mine.”
Her throat burned and tears pricked her eyes. “Yes, I will, Chase. I’ll be your family. I’m yours, truly yours. I love you so much.”
He kissed her again and laid her on the bench, covering her with his body, taking her with a love and commitment she’d always dreamed of with him. She’d come home.
* * * * *
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CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS WET and dark and cold. At first she didn’t know where she was, then she realized she was in the car, the wipers working overtime, the road a shiny black ribbon stretching in front of her. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, but it felt rubbery and insubstantial beneath her hands. Panic welled inside her. She knew what was coming next. What always came next.
Then she saw it, the dark mass of rocks blocking the middle of the curving mountain road. Her scream was swallowed by the explosive crash of glass breaking and metal crushing as the car hit, then there was nothing but pain and the realization that she was going to die out here on this godforsaken stretch of road....
Mackenzie Williams bolted upright, heart racing, sweat cold and clammy on her body. The bedclothes were a heavy tangle around her legs and for a few disoriented seconds she fought to free herself before reality reasserted itself.
She was alive. She was at the beach house in Flinders. And she ached. God, how she ached. Her hips, her shoulder, her back...
She scrubbed her face with both hands, then let out her breath on an exhausted sigh. It had been almost two months since she’d had a nightmare and she’d hoped they were a thing of the past. No such luck, apparently.
She threw off the covers then swung her legs to the floor. Her joints and muscles protested the action, as they always did first thing in the morning or when she’d been sitting in the same position for too long. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet anyway. If she waited till the pain stopped, she’d never get anything done.
It was still dark outside and the floor was cool beneath her feet. She shuffled forward a few steps until she found her slippers, then reached for her dressing gown.
She could hear the skitter of Mr. Smith’s claws in the hall outside her bedroom and she smiled as she opened the door.
“Hello, Smitty. How you doin’?” she asked as he began his morning happy dance, walking back and forth in front of her with his tail wagging madly, his body wiggling from side to side.
“I’m going to take that as a ‘very well, thank you very much.’ Shall we go outside?”
Mackenzie made her way to the living room. The bitter morning chill was like a slap in the face when she opened the French doors, but it didn’t stop Mr. Smith from slipping past her and out into the gray dawn light. Mackenzie followed him, stopping at the top of the deck steps, arms wrapped around her torso as she looked out over the jungle that was her yard.
The air was so frigid it hurt her nose. She inhaled great lungfuls of the stuff and let the last remnants of the nightmare fall away.
It was just a dream, after all. She wasn’t dying. She was alive. She’d survived, against all odds. Better yet, she was on the track to a full recovery and resumption of her former life.
Which reminded her...
She left the door open for Mr. Smith before collecting her iPad from where it was charging on the kitchen counter. One click told her that Gordon hadn’t responded to her email. Again.
This was getting ridiculous. Twelve months ago, her boss wouldn’t have ignored an email from her. Then, she’d been a valuable commodity, the only producer in ten years who had managed to improve the ratings for the production company’s longest-running serial drama, Time and Again. Now apparently she was a liability, an employee on long-term sick leave who didn’t even merit the thirty seconds of his time it would take to respond to her email.
He doesn’t think I’m coming back.
The thought made her blood run cold. She had worked hard to land the job of producer on a network drama. She’d kissed ass and gone beyond the call of duty and even trampled on a few people in her rush to climb the ladder. She’d sacrificed her time, her social life, her marriage...and then her car had hit a landslide at sixty kilometers an hour and flipped down the side of a mountain. She’d fractured her skull, broken her pelvis, her hip, her leg, several ribs as well as her arm, torn her liver and lost her spleen.
And it looked as though she was going to lose her job, too, even though she’d been driving to a location shoot when the accident happened. Gordon had promised that they’d keep her job open for her, filling the role with a short-term replacement. He’d given her a year to recover—a year that was almost up. And yet he wasn’t returning her calls.
Lips pressed into a tight line, she opened a blank email and typed a quick message to Gordon’s secretary, Linda. Linda owed her, and Mackenzie knew that if she asked, the other woman would make sure Gordon called her.
At least, she hoped she still had that much influence.
Mr. Smith pressed against her legs, his small body a welcome weight. She bent to run a hand over his salt-and-pepper fur.
“I’m not giving up, Smitty. Not in a million freaking years.”
She wouldn’t let Gordon write her off. She would walk back into her job, and she would claw her way into her old life. There was no other option on the table. She refused for there to be.
She had a hot shower, then dressed in her workout clothes. Together she and Mr. Smith made their way to the large room at the front of the house she’d converted to hold her Pilates reformer and other gym equipment when she left the rehab hospital three months ago. She sat on the recumbent bike and started pedaling. Smitty reacquainted himself with the rawhide bone he’d left ther
e yesterday and settled in for the duration.
After ten minutes on the bike, she lowered herself to the yoga mat and began her stretches. As always, her body protested as she attempted to push it close to a normal range of movement. Her physiotherapist, Alan, had warned her that she might never get full range in her left shoulder and her right hip. She’d told him he was wrong and was determined to prove it.
The usual mantra echoed in her mind as she stretched her bowstring-tight hip flexors.
I want my life back. I want my job back. I want my apartment and my shoes and my clothes. I want to have cocktails with my friends and the challenge of juggling too much in too little time. I want to be me again.
Gritting her teeth, she held the stretch. Sweat broke out along her forehead and upper lip. She started to pant, but she held the stretch. Her hips were burning, her back starting to protest.
She held the stretch.
Only when pain started shooting up her spine did she ease off and collapse onto the mat, sweat running down her temple and into her hair.
Better than yesterday. Definitely better.
The thought was enough to rouse her to another round. Teeth bared in a grimace, she eased into another pose.
* * *
THE MORNING SUN was rising over the treetops as Oliver turned onto the unmarked gravel road that he hoped like hell was Seaswept Avenue. He was tired and sleep deprived after a long drive from Sydney and more than ready for this journey to be over.
Craning forward over the steering wheel, he checked house numbers as he drove slowly up the rutted road. Not that there were many houses to check. The lots were large, the houses either old and charming or new and sharp edged, and there was plenty of space in between. Aunt Marion’s was number thirty-three, and he drove past half-a-dozen vacant lots thick with bush before spotting a tired-looking clapboard house sitting cheek by jowl with a much tidier, smarter whitewashed cottage. As far as he could tell, they were the only two houses at this end of the street.
