CHAPTER ONE

      Present day

      BZZZZZZ...

      No matter how many different ringtones James tried—and it seemed like he’d tried them all—he still hated receiving text messages. The flat sound of his current tone was no different. His pulse sped up and his throat went dry, even though he knew it wasn’t from Mila.

      Losing the fun, sexy messages they’d used to exchange had been one of the hardest adjustments he’d had to make after calling off the wedding, and his no-texting rule was his way of trying to deal with that.

      He shook himself from his stupor. Six years had changed nothing. No matter how right he’d been to break off their engagement, he couldn’t blot out the image of the horror in his ex-fiancée’s gorgeous hazel eyes when she’d realized it was over.

      So were the intimate texts. All texts, in fact, since everyone around him was aware that he preferred actual phone calls to typed messages.

      Besides, Mila had taken off to parts unknown soon after he’d skipped out on her, going back to Brazil, where she’d been doing relief work among indigenous people.

      Until now.

      He’d had a damned good reason for leaving her at the altar: a panicked phone call from a former girlfriend telling him she was pregnant. And an unexpected betrayal by his father.

      It didn’t matter now that the whole thing had been a setup. That deception had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Mila had been saved from being dragged into the reality that was his family, with its arguments and its never-ending scandals. His famous parents had been the darlings of the paparazzi for that very reason—even after their divorce years ago.

      Mila might not have seen it at the time, but surely in the years since then she’d come to realize the narrow escape she’d had.

      He’d never tried to contact her, even after he’d discovered what Cindy had done.

      The phone sent him a reminder buzz.

      He forced himself to look down at the screen as he exited his car along with the damned photographer the clinic had made him bring along to this meeting. The text was from Freya. The no-text rule had become a running joke with her. She would text him just because she knew how much he hated it. To try to provoke him to answer. It never worked. He always responded with a phone call. Or not at all.

      It would seem she was still at it. And under the circumstances it was in extremely poor taste.

      We saw you pull up. Waiting just inside.

      We. That could only mean one thing. Freya wasn’t alone inside that tiny building. Although he’d known she wouldn’t be.

      Hell. He’d hoped to have a moment or two to get his thoughts together, although he’d had plenty of time to prepare for this photo shoot. Over two months to plan his words down to the final punctuation mark.

      Had he done that? No. He had not. Even during the twenty-minute drive out of the more secluded Hollywood Hills and into the city of Los Angeles itself he’d done no advance planning.

      Morgan, the photographer the PR department had contracted, had been more than happy to keep up a steady stream of conversation. She might have been fishing, but James didn’t care. He was no longer biting. He was fresh out of yet another superficial relationship, which the paparazzi had followed with glee. He was definitely not ready to test the waters again. Especially not with this meeting with Mila hanging over his head.

      He’d avoided thinking about that particular woman. He’d decided that if he kept his head in the sand long enough, this whole damned situation could have just dissolved into nothing.

      It hadn’t.

      And he knew exactly who’d be on the other side of the door once he walked through it.

      Mila Brightman.

      The woman who’d almost become his wife.

      The woman who’d barely escaped that particular fate.

      Thank God she had.

      He didn’t bother to respond to his sister’s text. They both knew he was here, so there was no point. How, exactly, his sister had talked him into this arrangement he had no idea. The Hollywood Hills Clinic had been gliding along just fine without another addition to their efficient little family.

      Except this was Freya. And Mila. Two women he’d always had trouble saying no to.

      Sucking down a resigned breath and dragging a hand through his hair, he waited for Morgan and then he headed up the walk, stopping short when he spied a ragged square of cardboard taped to the outside of one of the clinic’s windows. He was so used to the pristine opulence of his own medical center that the squat building huddled on the corner of a busy street seemed as foreign as the relief work Mila had once done. But the sign painted at the top of the clinic was bright and cheery, a bevy of colorful handprints forming an imaginary sidewalk that led to an artist’s rendition of the building—only whoever’d painted it had had quite an imagination because although the edifice was the same shape, the painted version was a welcoming place. And there were no cardboard patches in sight.

      The photographer raised her camera, aiming it right at the broken window. James wrapped his fingers around the woman’s, stopping her short. “No. Not that.”

      Morgan frowned at him but lowered the camera. “So you only want the positive stuff?”

      His eyes were still on the brown square in the window as they reached the front entrance. “That’s what we’re here for.”

      Bright Hope Clinic. The painted lettering on the glass door matched the colors of the handprints on the sign. And the glass doors were spotlessly clean. His glance went back to the cardboard patch.

      A sliver of unease worked its way through his gut. Not about Mila’s safety. Of course not. About the soundness of his decision to allow a branch of this clinic to open inside his own. Freya’s doing. Not his. But his damned board of directors had put him in charge of overseeing the opening of the facility. Which was why he was here, pricey photographer in tow.

      The woman took a few shots of the sign and the door, dutifully avoiding the window. “We can go inside anytime you want.”

      Before he could even reach for the door, however, it was flung open and Freya stood there. “Come on, James, what’s taking you so long?”

      “What happened to the window?” He nodded toward