The Billionaire's Fair Lady. Barbara Wallace

shot him a glare. Not for long. “Because you can hear it at the elevator.”

      “Turn it down, Wayne.” Carrying a laundry basket on her hip, his sister, Alexis, came down the hallway. “No one wants to hear that noise.”

      With a roll of his eyes, Wayne reached for his remote.

      Alexis greeted her with a nod and dropped the basket on the dining room table. “Some guy came by looking for you. He find you?”

      “Dude wouldn’t stop buzzing,” Wayne said. “Woke me up.”

      Poor baby. “Yeah, he found me,” she told Alexis.

      “New boyfriend?”

      “No. Business. He’s a lawyer who’s going to be helping me with some stuff of my mother’s.” She flashed back to five minutes earlier, in the close confines of his car. Better get used to my company. You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together. Against her will, a low shiver worked its way to the base of her spine. Immediately she kicked herself. You know, Roxy, your outbursts of moral outrage might carry a little more weight if you didn’t find the man attractive.

      “What kind of business?” Wayne asked. “You getting money?”

      “I thought you said your mother didn’t leave you anything?” Alexis said. She paused. “Is this about that stuff your mother said?”

      “What stuff?” Wayne asked.

      Roxy ignored him. In a moment of extreme loneliness and needing someone to talk to, Roxy had shared her mother’s last words to her roommate. In fact, it was Alexis who first suggested she might have money coming to her.

      “Yeah.”

      “He going to help you?” Her roommate’s eyes became big brown saucers. Roxy swore the pupils were dollar signs. It made her reluctant to answer.

      “Maybe.”

      She could have answered no and it wouldn’t matter. Alexis had already boarded the money train and was running at high speed. “Get out. We’re talking Kardashian kind of money, right? I read those Sinclairs are loaded.”

      “We aren’t talking any kind of money.” She especially wasn’t talking money with the two of them. “He said he’d look into things. That’s all. I have to put Steffi down before she wakes up.”

      It was a wonder the little girl hadn’t woken up already with all the noise going on. She really must have had a busy day. Knowing her daughter had fun should have been a relief. Instead she felt a stab of guilt. She should have been the one providing the fun, not the elderly grandmother downstairs. The one who read her stories and fed her dinner. So many things she should be doing. What happened if she couldn’t? Would she fade into the background like her mother, there but not there, a virtual stranger in a work uniform?

      She lay her daughter in the plastic princess bed and pulled the blankets over her. Almost immediately Steffi burrowed into the mattress, Dusty the horse still gripped in her fist. Roxy brushed a curl from her cheek, and marveled at the innocence. Mike Templeton better realize how much she had riding on his ability to climb legal mountains.

      “Tell me everything you can about your mother.”

      It was the next morning, and Roxy was sitting with her new best friend for their nine-thirty meeting. She half expected another lecture about her overreaction the night before, but he behaved as if it never happened. He even provided breakfast. Muffins and coffee, arranged neatly on his office conference table. Like they were having an indoor picnic.

      “Standard client procedure?” she’d asked.

      The question earned her an odd, almost evasive look that triggered her curiosity meter. “Figured you could use breakfast,” he’d replied when she remarked on it.

      Now he sat, legal pad at the ready, asking her about her mother. “There’s not much to tell.” Her mother had always been an enigma. Thanks to those letters, she was now a total stranger. “She wasn’t what you’d call an open book, in case you couldn’t guess.” More like a locked diary.

      “Let’s start at the beginning. When did your parents get married?”

      “June 18. They eloped.”

      She watched as he wrote down the date. It was barely legible. How could a man who moved his pen so fluidly have such horrendous penmanship?

      “Seven months before you were born.”

      “Yup. To the day. I always figured I was the reason they got married.”

      “And you were their only child.”

      “One and only. I used to wish I had brothers and sisters, though. Being the only one could be lonely sometimes. Now that I think about it, that’s probably one of the reasons I became an actress. I did a lot of pretending.”

      “Trust me, siblings aren’t always great to have around,” he replied.

      “You have brothers and sisters?”

      “One of each. And before you ask, I’m the oldest.”

      She wasn’t sure why, but the idea he had a family intrigued her. Were they all as smooth and refined as he was? She pictured a trio of perfection all in navy blue blazers. “Are they lawyers, too?”

      “No, I’m the only one.”

      “Tough act to follow, huh?”

      Voice flat, he replied, “So I’m told.” Another unreadable expression crossed his face. Sounded like she’d touched a nerve. Sibling rivalry or something else?

      She wanted to ask more, but he steered the conversation back to being one-sided. “Your father—the one you grew up with—is he still alive?”

      “Looked alive at the funeral.”

      Like she figured he would, he stopped writing and looked up, just in time to witness the shame creeping into her cheeks. “He took off for Florida when I was little. Guess he figured once he made a legal woman out of my mother, his job was done.”

      “They’re divorced then.”

      “Good Lord, no. They were Irish Catholic. They stayed married.” Instead they lived separate lives in separate states. Chained to one another by a mistake. Her.

      Wonder what he’d think when he learned that he might not have had to marry her mother at all.

      Mike scribbled on his notepad. “Interesting.”

      “What is?”

      “That neither sought an annulment. If your father knew about Wentworth, he’d certainly have grounds.”

      “Oh.” She popped a piece of muffin into her mouth, swallowing it along with the familiar defensiveness that had risen with the conversation. Her mother’s story always cut so close to home. Reminded her too much of choices she did or didn’t make. She always wondered which path would have been better. Hers or her mother’s?

      “Maybe he didn’t care,” she said, as much to herself as aloud. “I always figured he wanted out as easily as possible. My mother was—I’m not sure what word I’d use.”

      “Quiet?”

      Too simple. “Absent.”