At The Millionaire's Request. Teresa Southwick
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chest tightened, as if a hand had reached inside and squeezed her heart. The crushing pain made it a struggle to catch her breath. Her son would have been six now.
She sucked in air. “I already told you, I don’t work with children.”
“The other day you said teens are children, too.”
This was a bad time to learn she’d been right about him collecting information to store up and use against her.
“High school doesn’t count,” she said defensively. Then she watched his dark eyebrows go up questioningly. She huffed out a breath. “Okay, technically they’re children until eighteen. But high school kids are more like adults with impulse control issues.”
“Look, let’s stop splitting hairs. You need the work.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she countered.
He stood and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. “Here’s what I know. You have a reputation as a gifted children’s speech pathologist. Sean’s teacher and his doctor tell me you’re a miracle worker and have a proven track record in getting results from children like my son. But you turned your back on a career—”
“You don’t have any idea—”
“I don’t have to.” He held up a hand. “I’m a father. I’d slay dragons and storm fortresses if it would return my son to the way he was before the accident. I can’t help him, but you can.”
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t buy that. You got positive results in the past. Why not now?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No. That’s true. But the fact is I’m not giving up until I get one.”
M.J. recognized the determination on his dark features. How dare he back her into a corner? Why wouldn’t he just take no for an answer? Anger blazed through her. She was furious that he was putting her through this. She wanted him out of her house. And he might even leave. This time. But he’d be back. He had determination written all over him or he wouldn’t be here now. Somehow M.J. was aware that he wouldn’t leave her alone until he knew the reason she could no longer handle the job she’d once loved.
“An explanation?” She took a deep breath. “It’s called survival, Mr. Spencer. I simply can’t get wrapped up in a child. And that’s what it takes to reach them. It’s about dedication and focus. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have the heart. My son took it with him when he died.”
Chapter Two
G avin had no idea what he’d expected her to say, but that wasn’t it. Now he didn’t know what to say. Looking at the suffering in her eyes was like staring into a bottomless pool of pain.
If the antique oak table wasn’t between them, he was afraid he’d have taken her in his arms. “Look, M.J., I know how you feel—”
“No, Gavin.” Her voice was brittle, as if she could shatter at any moment. She gripped the curved back of the oak chair in front of her until her knuckles turned white. “You couldn’t possibly understand how I feel because you still have your son.”
She was right. Sean’s accident had opened a very small window into what it would have been like to lose him, but fortunately it slammed shut and he still had his boy. Any comfort he could offer seemed pathetically inadequate, however sincere.
So he didn’t offer any. “What happened to him?”
“Brian,” she said. “His name was Brian.”
“Brian.” He nodded. “Tell me about him.”
A small smile touched her lips. “He was a sweet boy. Quiet. Sensitive. Smart.”
“Was he ill?”
Something in her expression said that would almost have been easier. “He was hit by a car. He ran out into the street after his ball. The driver couldn’t stop in time.”
Gavin nodded as the thought hovered in his mind.
Who was watching him? But he couldn’t ask. It was an accident. And he’d bet ever since it happened she’d been asking herself enough questions when she wasn’t torturing herself with “if onlys.”
That was something he could understand. If only Sean hadn’t fallen on the rocks. If only he hadn’t hit his head. If only… Sean could be his normal, active self.
But he couldn’t. That’s why Gavin was here. “It must be a comfort to have your mother. And Brian’s father—”
For an instant her mouth tightened and something hot and harsh flashed through her eyes. “My husband died less than six months later. He wasn’t ill, either,” she said. “Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out before he could stop them.
Fate really had her in its crosshairs and her expression said sorry didn’t begin to help. It also made him think that there was much more she wasn’t saying. Any or all of which was none of his business. Not that he didn’t care. He wasn’t a heartless bastard. But he wasn’t here to rub her nose in the pain or to make her feel bad about the devastating losses she’d endured. His purpose was to secure the help his son needed to get his life back.
“Look, M.J., you’re right. I have no idea how you feel. I can’t begin to understand. And, to be brutally frank, I don’t want to know. I came dangerously close to losing my son and that was enough.”
“I’m sure that was difficult.” Her grip on the chair eased.
“The time he spent in a coma was hell. Not knowing if he would live or die was torture.”
“I can imagine.”
And he knew she could. He could imagine that she wished to be in his shoes right now—to have the chance with her own child to bring him back from an injury. Maybe empathy would help him get through to her.
“Sean needs your help,” he said simply.
“My answer is still the same. I’m sorry.”
He was right about the words being pathetically inadequate. “I’m sorry” was the polite thing for her to say, yet it made him irrationally angry. Frustration gathered inside him and threatened to blow the lid off his temper as he tried to figure out what it would take to get through to her.
He glanced around the kitchen as if he’d find the answer there. The white appliances were spotlessly clean, but not very new. Old in fact. Wooden oak cupboards showed bare wood yellowed with age and in urgent need of refinishing. Faded yellow paint covered the walls and in the nook where the table sat, he could see chipping.
When he’d driven up to the front door, the Victorian had charmed him with its wraparound porch and turret. Then he’d looked closer and noticed shingles missing from the peaked roof and a loose section of railing that could use repair as well as a new coat of white paint.
Gavin looked at M.J. Her hair was pulled up, away from her face and fastened with a large clip, revealing a long graceful neck and good cheekbones. Again she was wearing slacks—black this time, with a long-sleeved cotton blouse, inexpensive and serviceable.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, if it’s about money…”
The term “got her back up” entered his mind. Her reaction was nearly imperceptible, but he’d swear her spine turned to steel. Or maybe he was just watching carefully because money had made him a target more than once. But the word “money” had definitely put a defensive look in her eyes, just for a moment, and her chin inched a bit higher. But she didn’t respond.
“I can pay you well.” He heard the guarded note