Barbara Wallace - The Billionaire's Fair Lady

“Mommy’s back!” Steffi jumped from her seat and ran toward the door. Mike followed behind. At this point he wasn’t sure who was happier to see them return. That is, he was eager to see how his investment paid off.

The main office door opened and— wow! Mike had to grab hold of the reception desk to keep his balance. The woman walking through the door with Sophie was… Was…

He’d lost his ability to speak. Her red mane had been tamed into thick strawberry plaits that tumbled about her shoulders. The skinny jeans and sweater were gone. Tossed in favor of a black and white wraparound dress and cardigan sweater that subtly showed off her curves. The hint of flesh dipping to a V between her breasts was as enticing as any low-cut camisole. And her legs… Discreetly, he stole a look at her bottom half.

Her eyes found his, looking for his reaction. Had her skin always looked this luminescent or was it the expertly applied make-up?

“You look amazing,” he replied.

“Then I guess the transformation is complete.”

A shadow flickered across her face…

Dear Reader,

When I finished writing Mr Right, Next Door! my editor and I agreed the hero’s brother, Mike Templeton, needed a story. It had become apparent to both of us that this supposed stuffed-shirt attorney had some secrets of his own to share. He needed his own heroine to help him shed that tightly wound exterior.

Growing up, I was fascinated by the story of Anna Anderson, the woman who claimed to be Anastasia, the daughter of Tsar Nicholas. What if, I asked myself, Mike Templeton found himself in the middle of a reallife Anastasia story? And what if the woman concerned forced him to look long and hard at the choices he had made in life?

Thus Roxy O’Brien was born. If anyone deserves an Anastasia type of story it’s Roxy. As far as she’s concerned her life has been the polar opposite of Mike’s: full of bad luck and bad decisions.

What this lawyer and this single mum are about to discover is that they aren’t so different after all. In fact they might actually be made for one another.

It was a lot of fun writing this story. By the way, I apologise in advance for the legal fudging that takes place. I confess, I let Mike’s and Roxy’s happy ending take precedent over… well, over legal precedent.

I hope you enjoy Mike’s and Roxy’s story. Please let me know what you think. Getting feedback from readers is always one of the highlights of my day. You can reach me at Barbara@barbarawallace.com.

Happy reading and best regards,

Barbara Wallace

BARBARA WALLACEis a life-long romantic and day-dreamer, so it’s not surprising that at the age of eight she decided to become a writer. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full time—she couldn’t be happier.

Barbara lives in Massachusetts, with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.

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To the fabulous Donna Alward,

who talked me off ledges and pushed me to get this story on paper. You’re the best!

To Flo, the best editor a woman could ask for.

To the real Fran and Alice for providing the legal background information. Thanks for the help.

And, as always, to my boys Pete and Andrew,

who put up with an awful lot so I can live my dream of writing stories for a living.

HE DIDN’T believe her.

Color her not surprised. You’ve got to go uptown to fight uptown . Minute the thought entered her brain, she should have shoved it aside. After all, bad ideas were a Roxy O’Brien specialty. But no, she opened the phone directory and picked the first uptown law firm whose ad mentioned wills. Which was why she now sat in her best imitation business outfit—really her waitress uniform with a new plaid blazer—waiting for Michael Templeton, attorney at law, to deliver his verdict.

“Where did you say you found these letters?” he asked. His gold-rimmed reading glasses couldn’t mask the skeptical glint in his brown eyes. “Your mother’s closet?”

“Yes,” she replied. “In a shoe box.” Tucked under a collection of seasonal sweaters.

“And you didn’t know they existed before then?”

“I didn’t know anything until last month.”

That was putting it mildly. Her head was still reeling.

The attorney didn’t reply. Again, not surprising. He’d done very little talking the entire meeting. In fact, Roxy got the distinct impression he found the whole appointment something of a trial. Something to get through so he could move on to more important, more believable business.

To his credit, disbelief or not, he didn’t rush her out the door. He let her lay out her story without interruption, and was now carefully reading the letter in his hand. The first of what was a collection of thirty, all lovingly preserved in chronological order. Her mother’s secret.

You have his eyes .

The memory rolled through her. Four words. Fourteen letters. With the power to change her life. One minute she was Roxanne O’Brien, daughter of Fiona and Connor O’Brien, the next she was… Who? The daughter of some man she’d never met. A lover her mother never—ever—mentioned. That’s why she came to Mike Templeton. To find answers.

Well, maybe a little bit more than answers. After all, if her mother told the truth, then she, Roxy O’Brien whoever, could be entitled to a far different life. A far better life.

You have his eyes .

Speaking of eyes, Mike Templeton had set down the letter and sat studying her. Roxy’d been stared at before. Customers figured ogling the waitress came with the bar tab. And they were the polite ones. So she’d grown immune to looks long ago. Or so she’d thought. For some reason, Mike Templeton’s stare made her want to squirm. Maybe because he’d removed his glasses, giving her an unobstructed view of what were really very intense brown eyes. It felt like he wasn’t so much looking at her as trying to see inside. Read her mind, or gauge her intentions. A self-conscious flutter found its way to her stomach. She recrossed her legs, wishing her skirt wasn’t so damn short, and forced herself to maintain eye contact. A visual Mexican standoff.

To her relief, he broke first, sitting back in his leather chair. Roxy found her eyes drawn to the black lacquered pen he twirled between his long, elegant fingers.