Underfoot

      Leanne Banks

      This book is dedicated to all of you who have stepped up to the plate to help a child or a parent or a sibling when it was inconvenient, difficult or painful for you to do so. You make the world a better place.

      If you’re going to walk down a primrose path,

       make sure you’ve got a great pair of shoes.

      Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Thank you to my readers, great friends and family who encouraged me to write and finish this book. Cindy, Rhonda, Cherry and Pam, thank you for being there for me. Special acknowledgments to other people who inspire me, my sisters Janie and Karen, my husband, Tony, and my children, Adam and Alisa. And always, the best parents in the world—mine! Thank you, Mom, for not being like Trina’s mom and for teaching me common sense, and Daddy, for the gift of persistence.

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS LATE when she sank onto the barstool. Still wearing her best dressed-to-kill sexy tuxedo dress, Trina Roberts had received immediate attention from the bartender.

      “Hot night?” he said. “What’ll you have?”

      Hot didn’t cover it. Train wreck didn’t cover it. Nuclear explosion didn’t cover it. “Mojito, please.”

      “Coming up,” he said.

      While she waited, she took a deep breath and glanced around the bar. The crowd had thinned out. Her gaze stopped on a man seated at the other end of the bar, his head bowed over a squat glass of amber-colored liquor.

      His tux tie was unfastened along with the top buttons of his shirt. She knew that profile, the hard jawline, straight nose and dark hair uncharacteristically mussed over his forehead.

      Walker Gordon.

      Her heart clenched for him. He looked miserable, desolate, destroyed. She couldn’t blame him. After all, he’d just been publicly dumped at the altar by Brooke Tarantino, the great-granddaughter of the founder of Bellagio Shoes. That was bad enough, but the dumping had been conducted on live television with millions of witnesses.

      Trina had attended the wedding because she worked for Bellagio in PR. In fact, she’d worked with Walker, an advertising contractor that Bellagio had hired several years ago. From the beginning, she’d liked his combination of quick intelligence and sense of humor. And it didn’t hurt that he had a great body and sexy eyes.

      The bartender returned with her drink and she paid her tab, sipping the mojito and trying not to look at Walker. Her gaze, however, kept wandering toward him. She’d never seen him missing an ounce of confidence. He oozed solid assurance and even though she hadn’t totally understood his relationship with Brooke Tarantino, he’d once revealed part of the attraction. Brooke was entirely too self-involved to ever want children. That suited him fine because he didn’t want children, either. Being a father, he’d confessed, would be a surefire path to failure for him. He’d made a joke in that way that people did when they weren’t completely joking, that he’d come from a long line of bad fathers and he was determined not to continue the trend.

      His broad shoulders were folded forward. He leaned against the bar, his gaze vacant.

      Pity mixed with anger. Why had Brooke done this? Especially this way. With a sigh, she picked up her mojito and wandered to the stool beside him.

      He glanced at her and closed his eyes, but gave a nod of recognition.

      “Sorry,” Trina said. “Sucks to be you.”

      His mouth twitched slightly and he opened his eyes, taking a sip from his glass. “Can’t disagree.”

      “I saw one reporter get you. Did anyone else—”

      “I didn’t move fast enough. Two more caught me before I left the church.”

      She winced. “Sorry.”

      “Can we talk about something else?”

      Trina nodded, another surge of sympathy sliding through her. “Sure,” she said, searching her mind for a neutral topic. She took a few sips and swallowed the last of her mojito. “So, what’s your favorite game show?”

      “Jeopardy,” he said taking a sip. “What about you?”

      “Wheel of Fortune.”

      “You’re a word person,” he said.

      “And you’re a fact person,” she said.

      “Pretty much.”

      Silence fell between them. Trina felt the urge to fill it. “There was another old game show I liked. I only saw it in reruns. Name That Tune.”

      “Oh, yeah. I think I saw it a couple of times when I stayed home from school because I was sick.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and lifted two fingers toward the bartender, indicating he wanted a refill for both of them. “What kind of music do you like?”

      “A little of everything. Back then I liked whatever my mother hated,” she said with a smile.

      His lips tilted in a half smile. “Teenage rebel?”

      “Some. I just couldn’t do the Stepford debutante thing. I dug in my heels and made my mother crazy. What about you?”

      “My father hogged all opportunities for rebellion. He left my mother and moved to the Cayman Islands, started a financial service and married a woman down there.”

      Trina winced. “That doesn’t sound like fun for the wife and kid he left behind. Did you ever visit him?”

      “Kids, plural. I visited him once.” He paused. “I come from a long line of terrible fathers. There are just some men who shouldn’t reproduce. I thought marrying Brooke was a good idea because she said she didn’t want any children, and she was so focused on herself that I knew…” He broke off and took a long swallow from the drink the bartender had placed in front of him.

      Trina couldn’t help thinking about the huge differences between Walker and Brooke. He’d probably always been studious and responsible, levelheaded to a fault. Brooke, on the other hand, was rebellious, daring and fun. She supposed it hadn’t hurt that she was beautiful and her father was loaded.

      What a night, she thought, feeling the mojito ease the rough edges. She took a sip of the fresh drink the bartender had placed in front of her.

      “Not