only dated a few times, but he’d sparked a depth of emotion in her that was both immediate and frightening. Terrifying for its intensity, Romi had had no doubts that she wouldn’t survive a breakup down the road with her heart intact.
Walking away after their short, almost platonic association had been painful enough. Almost being the operative word. Max had given Romi her first taste of sexual pleasure with a partner.
Awed by the sensations he evoked, she’d been close to giving in to Max’s offer.
Ultimately, she’d had no choice, though. Not with his attitude.
For all her “free-spirited” ways, Romi was a traditionalist at heart. She wanted a home, a family and the man she loved to be looking at the future, not the expiry date on their relationship.
That same man had been prepared to marry Romi’s sister-by-choice, Madison Archer.
For a payoff!
Shares in Archer International Holdings and the prospect of taking over when Jeremy Archer retired had tempted Maxwell Black to break his “no commitments” rule.
The mercenary cad.
It was an old-fashioned word, but man, it fit.
“Ramona!” Her dad’s wavering call came from the den he spent most of his time in these days.
He only made it into the office about two days a week, his longtime director of operations running Grayson Enterprises in everything but name.
Some might have expected Romi to take over the family business, but not her dad. Harry Grayson had always made it clear he expected his daughter to follow her own dreams.
Filtered sunlight from the single window on the north side cast the den in gray light. Her father sat on the sofa facing the dark screen of a wall-mounted big-screen television. The highball glass in his hand was empty but for a couple of ice cubes. Bloodshot, red-rimmed hazel eyes testified to the fact it hadn’t been empty for long, or often in the past hours.
She walked forward and took the glass from his unresisting fingers. “It’s only afternoon, Daddy. You don’t need this.”
There was a time when he hadn’t picked up a drink with alcohol in it before the cocktail hour. He’d drunk steadily from that point so that he went to bed every night so inebriated, walking up the stairs was a danger.
But the drinking hadn’t gone on during the day.
Over the past few years, the drinking had gotten worse while she was away at school. Her father now started at lunchtime with a glass of wine that often became a bottle.
But drinking hard liquor this early in the day was still something new.
Recognition took seconds to register in his rheumy gaze. “Ramona.”
“Yes, Daddy. You called me.” Something he never would have done sober.
Graysons did not do common things like shout through the house for one another. They used the intercom system.
But Harry Grayson didn’t look in any shape to cross the room to the intercom. His brows drew together in an exaggerated effort at concentrating. “I did?”
“Yes, Daddy, you did.”
He looked with confusion around the room, like the answer might leap out at him. “I think I lost the remote.”
Romi bent down and picked up the small electronic device from the floor at his feet. “Here it is.”
“Oh, thank you.” He frowned. “It’s not working.”
She swiped her hand on the screen and spoke the command to turn the TV on. The sound of afternoon news commentary filled the room from the surround-sound speakers.
“It’s working just fine.”
“Wouldn’t turn on for me,” her father slurred.
She wasn’t surprised. The remote was programmed to take voice instruction with recognizable commands, not speech blurred by alcohol.
“You look upset, kitten.”
That was the thing about her dad. Even with his brain pickled by too much drink, he cared about her. He paid attention. She had no trouble remembering that even drunk, her dad was twice the father than a man like Maddie’s dad could ever hope to be.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.” He was careful to enunciate every word.
And for some reason that made Romi feel like crying. “It’s nothing, really.”
“No, I know it’s something.” For just a moment, her dad wasn’t a drunk bent on destroying his liver.
He was the man who had loved her mother so much, he’d married her against his own family’s wishes. He was the guy who raised Romi from the time she was three, refusing the easy road of allowing other family members to take on her care.
“It’s an old story.” And she’d fallen for it.
“Tell me.”
“I fell for a man.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Romi ignored that, incapable of coming up with a response that wouldn’t hurt one of them. “He told me he didn’t do commitment.”
“And you found out he’s married?” her dad asked, looking as angry as emotions dulled by overimbibing would allow.
“No, but I did find out he’s willing to get married. For the right price.”
“The cad!”
She couldn’t help smiling at how her father’s word echoed her own thoughts just a few minutes before. “Exactly.”
“You’re better off without him.”
“Of course.” If only she could convince her heart as easily as her head.
* * *
Maxwell Black was bored. Attending these functions rarely provided anything but a few mind-numbing hours interspersed with brief moments of useful networking.
Oh, he believed in the cause. Tonight’s gala was dedicated to raising funds for and awareness of the plight of hunger among school-age children.
Considering the focus of the evening, he might have an opportunity to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes. Watching Romi Grayson.
Touching her was more satisfying, but she’d turned down his offer of a liaison in no uncertain terms.
In a rare show of restraint, he hadn’t continued the pursuit.
There was something different…almost special…about the old-money San Francisco heiress, a vulnerability he was unwilling to exploit.
A first for him—he’d stayed away from her as much out of self-preservation as anything else.
He felt protective toward her in ways he did not understand, ways that could be manipulated if she knew about them. So, she would never find out.
Even so, plans and intentions changed and he was coming to the conclusion that he and Romi might have a future after all. So long as Maxwell dictated the terms.
The soft scent of jasmine and vanilla he always associated with the heiress activist reached him before she did.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Maxwell Black, master tycoon.”
Squelching the urge to turn quickly, he slowly faced her.
Black, silky chin-length hair framed Romi’s pixie-like features, her bow-shaped lips set in an uncustomary flat line. Her makeup was dramatic tonight, bringing out the gentian blue of her eyes. Eyes that snapped with accusation he did not understand.