Prologue
According to the headmaster’s speech at the alumni event earlier that evening, they were the Granger Home for Boys’ biggest success stories, multi-millionaires, supposedly role models. The role-model comment still got under Michael Hawkins’s skin. They were Dylan Barrow, Justin Langdon and himself, Michael Hawkins. Uneasily connected by their prosperity, the three men somberly toasted each other’s success at O’Malley’s bar.
“Congratulations, Dylan,” Justin, a stock-market wizard, said, lifting his beer. “I bet you were surprised to find out your father was the Archibald Remington, CEO of one of the biggest pharmaceutical firms in the world.”
Dylan nodded, his dark eyes glinting with cynicism. Of the three of them, Michael thought Dylan pulled off the wealthy-man image with the most ease. If one didn’t look too closely, Dylan gave the appearance of sophisticated wealthy satisfaction. Dylan hid his rough edges fairly well, but Michael could see them just beneath the surface. Easy for Michael to see. He possessed those same rough edges.
“My father was a very wealthy, highly successful coward,” Dylan said, downing his glass of Scotch. “He didn’t claim paternity of me until he died. He left me a lot of money, a seat on the board of a company that doesn’t want me and siblings that are horrified by the scandal I represent. Everything has its price.”
Michael couldn’t blame Dylan for his attitude. He couldn’t recall one boy he’d known at the Granger Home for Boys who hadn’t longed for a father. It was one more bitter thread that united the three of them. None had had fathers. He threw off the depressing thought. “How did you celebrate when you made it?” he asked Justin, knowing the man had started out trading penny stocks and advanced to dollars. Nowadays, he only traded in blocks of a thousand or more.
Justin gave him a blank look. “I’m not sure I celebrated. For years, I lived on a shoestring so I could trade stocks and I didn’t live in the best area of town. When I first hit seven figures, I didn’t do anything. When I hit the second million, I moved to a neighborhood where the windows don’t wear bars. What about you? How did you celebrate when your Internet company went public?”
According to the press and the headmaster’s speech, Michael was a computer genius who’d founded an Internet business. When his business went public, he’d become, well, rich. According to the press, this seemed to have occurred overnight, but Michael knew years of his life had passed in non-stop work mode.
“I slept for eight hours straight, first time in three years.”
Dylan shook his head and spun his shot glass around. “I thought having money would take care of everything.”
“It takes care of a lot,” Justin said.
“But there’s gotta be more than this,” Dylan said. “Didn’t you feel like a fraud when that headmaster went on and on about what great examples of success we are?”
Michael felt the same emptiness and dissatisfaction Dylan expressed echo inside him. Money had bought him publicity he didn’t want, IRS bills and the sense that he would never find what he’d been looking for. Whatever the hell that was. “For all the good it’s doing, we might as well dump it all.”
Justin choked on his beer. “That’s rash.”
Dylan tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s not a bad idea. Vegas or Atlantic City?”
Justin looked at Michael and Dylan. “What have you two been drinking?”
“Michael’s got a point. There gets to be a time when adding zeroes isn’t fun anymore. The most fun things that I’ve bought so far are a house and car for my mother. None of us is married or has much family.”
“Marriage is the giant vacuum cleaner of finances,” Justin said ominously.
Michael felt the same avoidance to the big M for different reasons. He’d earned the nickname Tin Man honestly. Although he didn’t place his trust in anything emotional, he felt the insistent nudge of an outrageous idea. “Instead of Vegas, we could be the benefactors we always wished we’d had when we were scraping by.”
Dylan glanced at him for a long moment and his lips curved in a slow gambler’s smile. “If we pool our resources, we could do some big things.”
“Wait a minute,” Justin said, clearly alarmed. “Pool our resources?”
“Are you sure your name isn’t Ebenezer?” Dylan asked. “As in Scrooge?”
“You don’t know how many cans of Beanee Weenees I ate.”
“It would be tax-deductible,” Michael said, and Justin’s frown lifted.
“Tax-deductible,” Justin repeated, warming to the idea. “Capital gains tax eats into my profits like a killer shark.”
“We could make it a sort of club,” Michael said, warming to the idea with a wry grin. “A secret millionaire’s club.”
“A secret millionaire’s tax-deductible foundation,” Justin clarified.
“Let’s do it,” Michael said. He hadn’t felt this right about something since he’d started his business and hired his assistant Kate Adams. She was one of the few people on the planet in whom he could trust, and if he were a different man, a man with a heart, their relationship might have been more than business. One night it had been, but thank goodness Michael had come to his senses in time the next morning to salvage their business relationship.
“I’m in,” Dylan said and nodded to the bartender. “A round of Scotch.”
A long silence followed as Michael and Dylan looked expectantly at Justin. “Okay, okay. But if I get stuck eating Beanee Weenees because of this, I’m coming after both of you.”
“Cheers,” Michael said, lifting his glass. An odd sense of anticipation raced through him. “To the Millionaires’ Club.”
One
K ate Adams stared at the man she’d developed a monster crush on three years ago and felt her stomach dip and turn. Kate hadn’t fallen for Michael Hawkins at first sight. Although she’d been attracted to him immediately, her passion, care and, heaven help her, her heart had taken a deceptively slow slide into the pit where they now resided. It wasn’t love, she insisted, but it was something very strong.
The leather chair beside his huge gleaming walnut desk sat empty as usual. Instead he propped his tall, masculine frame against an upright desk with a tall chair to accommodate his need for movement. Michael wasn’t the type of man to sit. His blazing topaz eyes belied his detached demeanor. His fierce intelligence and unswerving tenacity challenged her creativity in ways she’d never experienced. They’d worked together closely, and, after a time, she began to long for his low-voiced words of appreciation, the gentle, fleeting touches of approval. Every once in a while she’d felt his gaze on her, and the attraction had shimmered between them, but he’d always been quick to snuff it out.
She had waited for him to look up from his work, see her and realize that she was the woman for him. She’d thought Michael had done that two months ago on that fateful night when he’d looked at her and reached for her.
Kate felt a rush of heat as the memory sizzled through her. It could have been yesterday. They’d both been giddy from lack of sleep over an ongoing project. When Michael had received word of a new contract from a large company on the west coast, he’d pulled a forgotten bottle of champagne from the refrigerator in his executive suite and insisted they celebrate.
He’d opened the bottle and accidentally sprayed her with the cold champagne. She shrieked, he apologized, and they both laughed at her damp blouse. No flutes in sight, so they drank from mugs. One drink turned into two, and Kate couldn’t say which intoxicated her more—the wine or the way Michael’s gaze had remained focused on her, hungry.
He’d tipped his mug against her lips, spilling once more.
“I’m going to end up wearing more of this than I drink,” Kate had told him, laughing and pulling at her blouse. She’d glanced up at him and the look in his eyes stole her breath. Her laughter died, and a lump of fear and exhilaration had formed in her throat. She had longed for him to look at her this way.
His gaze had dropped to her lips. “I can’t help wondering how champagne tastes on your mouth.”
Still unable to breathe, Kate had licked her suddenly dry lips. She felt as if she were on a precipice, and what she did in the next moment would determine which way she would go. Her heart hammered so hard she knew he must surely hear it. “Maybe,” she said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, “you should find out.”
His gaze holding hers, he’d lowered his head and kissed her. His mouth was seeking, yet sure, inviting and aggressive enough to keep her off-balance. One kiss turned into two, and three, and after that, Kate lost count. Her damp blouse was discarded, and she grew hot beneath his touch. His hands seduced and demanded, and there was no place on her body he left untouched. The night had turned into a haze of repeated passion. Deep inside her, a tight bud of hope bloomed that Michael wanted her as far more than his secretary.
By the following morning, however, her dream had shattered: Michael had apologized profusely for stepping beyond the bounds of their professional relationship. He’d been so clearly upset that she couldn’t hate him. She didn’t know that she could ever hate him anyway.
Even at this moment, she felt the sliver of seductive hope that he would look up and realize he wanted her. The time had come to find out, she thought, and felt her stomach jump with nervousness. She took a calming breath. Time to lay it on the line. Win or lose, she couldn’t afford to wait any longer for Michael.
She approached him and opened her mouth.
Michael glanced up with a piece of paper in his hand. “Would you mind doing some research on this home for unwed teenage mothers?”
Kate’s heart stopped. Did he know? She worked her mouth, but no sound came out.
“I need you to keep it quiet,” he said in the same low voice that reminded her of the night they’d shared together, the night he’d shown her with his body and words how much he could want her. “It’s a favor for a friend.”