Anger returned with the strength of a lightning bolt. “Like hell I will.” She stalked closer, now the hunter rather than the hunted. “I’m not going to pay you a dime, Vera. I’ve paid enough for being your child. I’ll just go to the police—you know blackmail is a federal crime, don’t you?” Ziara wasn’t sure whether it was or not, but her mother wouldn’t know the difference.
Vera paled, backing toward the door. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, I can and I will. Who do you think they’ll believe, Mother? Me or you?” Securing Vera’s arm with a firm grasp, Ziara led her off the porch and around to the driveway. A beat-up Chevy Cavalier rested at the curb, looking barely capable of going twenty miles, much less the eighty-five between Macon and Atlanta.
“Just remember this.” Ziara turned Vera to look at her. Staring into those brown, sad eyes, Ziara felt her heart softening but forced steel into her voice. “I will not be manipulated. Neither will Sloan. So get back in your car and drive south. I don’t want or need a mother anymore. I never did.”
She waited until Vera pulled away before returning to the house. Once inside with the door firmly locked, she rested her head against the solid wood. She wouldn’t cry—Vera had lost that hold on her a long time ago. She wouldn’t worry—surely her mother wouldn’t risk prosecution in order to get money from her. She wouldn’t relent—Vera had made her bed a long time ago.
It would just be nice if she didn’t have to stand her ground all alone.
Then a warm heat covered her back as Sloan brushed her hair aside to rain quick kisses across the base of her neck. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he whispered against her skin. Her entire body came alive under his touch. “Did I hear you talking?” Ziara’s heart started to pound, a dragging thud, thud that physically hurt in her chest. No matter how much bravery she could manage to Vera’s face, telling Sloan the truth wasn’t what she wanted. If he never knew her dirty, rank secrets, he would never look at her with pity or indifference or judgment. Even she wasn’t that brave.
“A neighbor,” she mumbled. “Just a neighbor who dropped by. Want some coffee?”
He growled, teeth scraping her skin this time. “I want something—but the coffee can wait until later.”
“I think I’ll head back to the office until you finish throwing your little temper tantrum.”
Sloan winced as Ziara’s words rang throughout the design floor, then turned to watch her dramatic exit, her body moving with the grace of a runway model and the irritation of a woman putting up with a difficult man. He’d snapped yet another order at her, one time too many, and apparently she’d had enough. He knew he took on bearish qualities the closer he got to a deadline. It hadn’t bothered him before now.
But it wasn’t simply the pressure that had him up in arms.
Ziara had been distant since their night here at the office. As he turned to Patrick to discuss the finer points of an orange flame pajama set, he remembered again the pure rightness of having her sleep in his arms before tearing himself away. A sense of inevitability colored every intimate moment they spent together. He couldn’t decide if he was sinking fast or had already drowned—which only upped his grizzly bear aura of the moment.
Hell, there wasn’t time to examine his life. He had a show to put on. Looking up, he found Patrick watching him. “What?” he demanded, not bothering to mitigate his irritable tone with his closest friend.
Patrick’s face cleared. “Showing her the designs, huh? I thought you weren’t big on anyone seeing them until they were done?”
Sloan shrugged, wishing Ziara hadn’t let that little tidbit slip. “She was working late with me.” He cringed at once again sounding like an uncaring ass, but he didn’t have to explain himself.
“Does Vivian know?” Patrick asked, though his tone said he already knew the answer.
“Hell, no. I don’t have to report my love life to her.”
“Not about you, maybe,” Patrick said, his tone unconvinced. “But she’d be interested in Ziara. You’re poaching on her territory, professionally speaking. And she could make Ziara’s life mighty uncomfortable after you leave.”
“She already has, though Ziara admitted nothing.”
“Please tell me you aren’t going to leave her to face the old dragon alone when all this is over?”
“Who says I’m going anywhere?” he asked, then walked away without waiting for an answer. He knew he’d woven a complicated web. And he knew staying away from Ziara wasn’t an option.
There would be plenty of time to fix all that after the show. Ziara’s job was important to her, but he could always find her another one if he needed to keep them together. But he worried, deep down, that the approaching show was the reason behind Ziara’s slowly rising wall. Was she afraid he would dump her after she was done being useful?
Deciding a quick exit was best for everyone involved, Sloan headed straight for the door instead of back upstairs to his office. He could get things done just as well from home and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with interruptions. A brisk walk to his car would help with the thoughts crowding his brain.
The voice calling his name didn’t register at first as the list of everything he needed to handle this afternoon ran through his mind. When he finally heard it, he turned back but didn’t see anyone he recognized on the lightly populated sidewalk. A woman detached herself from the background to approach, but she wasn’t familiar.
Her shaky smile revealed yellowed teeth from cigarette smoking if the bitter smell was any indication. Her clothes would have been indecent on a woman thirty years her junior, but on her... He kept his gaze trained on her face to spare them both any embarrassment.
“Are you the Sloan Creighton?”
Great. Media coverage could benefit a project, but it could also bring out the crazies. “Yes. How may I help you?”
The preening seemed instinctive for her, but it had Sloan shifting in his suede shoes. He glanced around—was he being pranked?
“My name is Vera, Vera Divan. I wanted to talk to you about my daughter.”
Daughter? Surely not— “You mean—”
“Ziara? That’s the one! She’s turned into a right pretty thang, hasn’t she?”
A part of him frowned in disbelief, though he made sure it didn’t spread to his face. Judging by how she measured up against him, she was probably a couple of inches shorter than Ziara and the distinctly exotic flair was definitely missing. Maybe Ziara’s father had been Indian, because it certainly hadn’t come from her mother, whose thin, mousy-brown hair lacked her daughter’s vibrant color. But a glance at her clothes revealed that they’d seen better days, sparking a moment of sympathy.
“Did you want to see Ziara, Mrs. Divan?”
“Oh, it’s Miss. I’m not married, never have been—and I’m definitely available.”
Sloan had been in many uncomfortable situations over the years, but this was one he doubted he’d forget.
“No, I didn’t come to see Ziara. I came to see you after I found this.” Reaching into a flashy, bright pink tote bag, she pulled out a newspaper clipping. Yet another article about their interview, but not from a newspaper that he recognized. He examined the photo. The look on his face as he talked to Ziara had him choking. They stood in the background, but the camera had still captured what was obviously a very intimate exchange.
“I’m pretty sure you get why I’d want to have a little chat, right?”
That caught his attention