him.
Whoa.
When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere around six-three. As lean as he was, he should have looked lanky; instead, he was perfectly proportioned.
The rebel in her said, Come to mama. But the logical Rowena, the mature adult, knew from experience that powerful, sinfully attractive men were the worst kind of trouble. And unfortunately, the best kind of fun. Until they took what they wanted and moved on to greener pastures. Or, as had happened with her son, Dylan’s, father, knocked her up and abandoned her. She punched in her code, opened the gate and let them in.
“Sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Colin Middlebury,” the senator said—sweetheart being a term he only used when he was milking his family-man image. “Colin, this is my daughter, Rowena.”
The man leveled those remarkable eyes on her and flashed her a grin that was as much smirk as smile, and her heart went pitter-patter.
“Miss Tate,” he said in a silky smooth voice punctuated by a crisp accent that, if she were still the type to swoon, would have had her fanning her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me. She glanced over at her father, who was wearing his behave or else look.
“Mr. Middlebury, welcome to L.A.,” she said.
“Please, call me Colin.” His grin, the slight lift of his left brow, made it feel more like a dare. And when he shook her hand, she felt a delightful little tingle.
Wow, it had been a really long time since a man had made her tingle. Most of the men her father brought around were stodgy old politicians with clammy hands, roaming eyes and greedy smiles. The kind whose power in politics made them believe they were irresistible to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts.
“Colin will be staying here at the mansion while we iron out the details of a treaty I’m sponsoring,” her father said. “Two or three weeks.”
This was usually the worst part of being a politician’s daughter—having to play the role of the polite hostess, when on the inside she was grinding her teeth. But when the guest looked like Colin Middlebury? Well, he could be the world’s biggest jerk, but at least the view was nice.
Looking in the direction of the playground, her father asked, “Where is my grandson?”
“He’s upstairs with his speech therapist,” she said. The main floor of the building served as the day-care center, while the upper floor was set up to accommodate a variety of physical, speech and occupational therapy equipment. That way her son, Dylan, could receive all the therapy he needed and she could run the day care without interruption. Her father’s idea, of course. Only the best for his grandson.
“When will he be finished? I’d like Colin to meet him.”
She glanced at her watch. “Not for another thirty minutes. And he shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Another time,” Colin said, and asked Rowena, “Will you be joining us at Estavez for dinner tonight?”
Heck yes. She would love to. But a stern look from her father made the correct answer to that question more than obvious.
“Maybe some other time,” she told Colin.
“Colin,” her father said, “why don’t you and I take a quick tour inside.”
“Fantastic,” Colin said, and maybe it was just the accent, but he sounded genuinely excited.
“I started this project two years ago,” the senator told him proudly as they walked to the building, not mentioning—he never did—that the initial idea had been hers.
“Hey, Row!”
Rowena looked across the playground to where Patricia Adams, the assistant manager—and also her best friend—stood watching the kids on the monkey bars. She fanned her face and mouthed the word wow.
No kidding.
Only a few minutes passed before her father and Colin reemerged from the building, and she could see instantly that the senator was in a huff about something.
“It would seem that someone left paint on the edge of one of the tables and it’s gotten onto Colin’s pants,” he told her, and while his tone was reasonable, his jaw was clenched and his eyes had that if-I-get-any-angrier-I’m-going-to-pop look about them.
Colin, in contrast, seemed unfazed, despite a rather large magenta smudge on his left pant leg. “It’s really no problem,” he said.
“It’s a water-based, washable paint,” Rowena told him. “A little soap and water should take that right out. I’m sure Betty, our housekeeper, can take care of it for you. But if for whatever reason they’re ruined, I’ll replace them.”
“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Colin said.
“Well, we should let you get back to work,” her father said, flashing his plastic smile. “Colin, would you excuse me and my daughter for a moment? I just need a quick word with her.”
Oh boy, here we go.
“Of course. I’ll start back up to the house.”
She followed her father into the building, then, he turned to her and said, “Rowena, all I ask when I bring a guest in is that you have the center clean and presentable. Was it too much trouble to wipe up a paint spill? Colin is royalty, for God’s sake, an earl, not to mention a war hero. What possible reason could you have to be so rude?”
If he was a war hero, he’d probably had a lot worse than paint spill on his pants, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it.
Like so many times before, she swallowed her pride—and even managed not to gag at the bitter aftertaste— saying, “I’m sorry, we must have missed some when we cleaned up. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“If there is a next time. If you can’t manage something as simple as wiping up paint, how can you be expected to adequately care for children?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.
“After all I’ve done for you and Dylan…” He shook his head, as if he had no words to describe her audacity and selfishness. Then for dramatic effect, he stormed out in a huff.
She slumped against the wall, angry and frustrated and yes, hurt. But not defeated. He could keep knocking her down, but she would always get back up again.
“Hey, Row?”
Tricia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “You okay?”
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced what probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. “No big deal.”
“I heard what he said about the paint. That was my fault. I asked April to wipe the tables down and I guess I forget to check if she’d missed anything. I know how picky he is when he brings people in. I should have been more careful. I’m so sorry.”
“Tricia, if it hadn’t been the paint, it would have been something else. You know that he always finds something.”
“It’s not right the way he treats you.”
“I put him through a lot.”
“You’ve