hall to the door slightly ajar. “It’s okay, Heather,” she began softly.
“Higher. More singsongy.”
Of all the— She gritted her teeth and did as he instructed. “Mommy’s heeeere. Just go back to sleep, sweetie.”
She paused, letting Heather mutter again before adding gently, “Time for sleepy, sweetie. Baaaaaack tooooo sleeeeeep.”
She held her breath, waiting. After a second or two of baby mumbles, silence fell.
No. Way. She slowly turned to Chase, staring at him incredulously. “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I spent a lot of time with kids when I was younger. It seemed to work for them.”
When a sudden wail pierced the air, Chase added wryly, “But obviously not for Heather.”
Vanessa shot Chase a look then went swiftly into the girls’ room. The soft glow of the night-light spread across the walls and ceiling, highlighting Heather in the cot, flat on her back with eyes screwed up, ready to throw herself into her usual crying jag. Vanessa began the routine: a low gentle croon, slowly flipping her to her side, then rubbing her back, all the while scanning the mattress then the pillow.
Aha! She grabbed the pacifier and wrapped Heather’s fingers around the plastic handle. Almost instantly, Heather shoved the rubber nipple in her mouth and started to grumble, sucking furiously.
So very angry. Vanessa smiled. Erin couldn’t care less, she was so laid-back. But Heather—her fierce little warrior girl—couldn’t sleep without one.
With a quick check on the still-sound-asleep Erin, Vanessa made a silent exit, shaking her head as she padded back to the living room.
Chase was standing in the middle of her space, hands behind his back and legs apart. It was such a typically male stance, one that indicated control and command, that she felt her defenses go on full alert.
“Heather only wakes up when she loses her pacifier,” she said, trying to ignore the authority he radiated.
“Ahhh.”
“Erin could sleep through a bomb blast.”
He gave her a wry smile and for just one second, Vanessa wondered what it’d be like if he put everything into it. Devastating, most probably.
“You have kids?” she began.
“No. Look, I should apologize and—”
“Would you like a—” she said simultaneously. They both stopped, waited a second, then started again.
“…go.”
“…drink?”
Again, silence descended, but this time, Chase’s mouth curved and suddenly all Vanessa could hear was her heartbeat as it picked up the pace.
Mr. Million-Dollar Smile. Wow.
“I—I have coffee,” she said faintly, hating the way she stumbled over those three simple words. She quickly attempted to drag back the tattered remnants of composure, but his smile told her she was fooling no one with her straight back and square shoulders.
In fact, that smile only brought out a dimple. A dimple, for heaven’s sakes! As if he didn’t have enough money and looks in his corner already.
Well, deduct a few points for arrogance.
“Vanessa, let’s be honest here. I know why you were bidding on that manuscript.”
And a few more for impropriety.
He had no idea what the real story was and she had half a mind to tell him where to go. She even drew herself up, bolstering her mental strength while the cutting words formed on her tongue.
Yet as he silently stood there, waiting for her response with a look of—was that sympathy?—on his face, she chickened out at the last minute.
“Mr. Harrington—”
“Chase.”
“Chase,” she repeated, trying to ignore the intimacy of his name on her lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t discuss my personal life with complete strangers—even if that stranger probably hired someone to dig into my background.”
He blinked, scrutinizing her in a most disturbing way before he said, “I think I will have that coffee, thanks.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You did offer coffee, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“I can help if you show me where—”
“No! No,” she repeated more calmly. “How do you take it?”
“Black with one sugar.”
She nodded then whirled to the kitchen, her mind one big hot mess. Coffee. He wants coffee. She strode over to the cupboard below the sink, opened it to grab the box of Nespresso pods and began to prepare two cups.
The familiar task did nothing to settle her sudden disquiet. Cups from the stand… What was he up to now? Spoons from the drawer… Is he fishing for more information, maybe to go to the press with? Sugar from the cabinet…
You could try to convince him to sell you the manuscript.
She eyed his broad back through the archway as she warmed the first cup with hot water. Possible. She may not have Juliet’s stunning looks and killer negotiation skills but she was still a Partridge. Persuasion ran in her veins.
She dropped the coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Yeah, but how much “persuading” would he need?
The brief memory of their first meeting and that weird anticipatory…thing that had passed between them suddenly flared. The scent of his cologne. The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her head. The moment when he realized how close they were, the exact second his eyes had dropped to her lips…and lingered.
She sucked in a breath, held it for an eternity then exhaled with a snort. Her entire relationship with Dylan had been a secret, sordid affair designed to bolster his fragile ego. And prior to that, she’d been popular because of who her parents were. For once, it’d be nice if a man wanted her just for her.
So Chase Harrington thought he knew why she wanted that manuscript? He had no clue. He had no idea how Dylan’s rejection of her—of his children—had cut so deeply that it had only now just started to heal. No idea that she’d chosen this new life rather than spend a moment longer in her parents’ poisonous silent judgment. No idea how desperately she needed some kind of bond, some tangible proof that Erin and Heather’s father had been a living, breathing person to her.
As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, she took a second to think—really think—about her situation. One—she still wanted that manuscript and all it represented. Two—Chase was a businessman, and businessmen lived to make money, right? If she could make him the right offer—
Yeah, but with whose money?
She dropped sugar into his cup then started on hers. By the time she’d finished and returned to the living room, Chase had made himself comfortable.
He’d removed his coat, and it was now draped over the back of the couch. He sat, ankle crossed over knee, looking perfectly relaxed amongst the girls’ toys and her comfortable possessions, and her first thought was: he’d make a great portrait subject. Her second: that internet search had done nothing to appease her intense curiosity.
Hedge funder extraordinaire Chase Harrington was worth billions, which was not exactly a selling point given the current financial climate. Yet he was no high-profile Donald Trump: he didn’t spend money on expensive cars or private jets. And except for that one standout purchase of a beleaguered midtown office complex, no multibillion-dollar property deals either. For all his connections and wealth, her rudimentary search had come