Teresa Southwick - The Acquired Bride

Lukie stared up at him with a contrite expression that looked awfully familiar. “Sorry, Mr. Mac.”

“Accidents happen, buddy.” He stooped and picked up the pieces of crystal.

When he met Dana’s gaze, he realized she was more fragile than the bell. Her gray eyes shimmered. “I’ll bet that cost at least as much as my monthly grocery bill,” she said.

Close, he thought. But how did she know its value? If she was on a tight budget, would she have any idea what the replacement price was?

She bent and took Lukie’s arm. “Son, that was a no-no. I asked you not to touch Mr. Mac’s things. No cartoons after supper,” she said sternly. “Straight to bed.”

“No, Mommy.” The little boy’s mouth quivered. Then he started to cry.

The next thing Quentin knew, Molly and Kelly were sobbing. Dana looked at him helplessly. “I’m so sorry. Somehow, I’ll make it up to you. I wonder how many cookies I’ll have to bake. I—I have to g-go—”

“Don’t cry, Dana.” Quentin moved toward her and reached out a hand to comfort her.

She backed away. “Please don’t touch me. I have just about enough self-control to make it home with the triplets before I lose it. But if you’re nice to me, that time frame c-could be c-considerably shorter.”

He pulled her into his arms and felt her body shake. He heard a sob before she put a hand over her mouth.

“M-mommy? Sorry, Mommy. Don’t cwy,” Lukie said, burying his face in his mother’s leg. The girls followed suit.

Group hug? Quentin thought ruefully. He disengaged himself from the crying quartet and pressed the intercom for his secretary.

“Yes?”

“Doleen, I could use your assistance.”

“Right away.”

The next moment his door opened and super-efficient Doleen Powell walked in. Short, brunette, and wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, she was a bundle of energy. “How can I help, Quentin?”

“What would it take to coax the children into your office?” he asked.

“Food.” She glanced at her watch and nodded. “It’s after six. They’re probably hungry and tired. Can’t do anything about bedtime, but I could call for a pizza.”

“Pizza?” Lukie said, anticipation chasing the tears from his eyes.

“I like pizza,” Molly said. Kelly nodded enthusiastically.

Doleen smiled. “Do I know kids or what?”

“There will be something special in your Christmas bonus this year,” Quentin said more grateful than he could say.

“There always is, boss,” she answered. She looked at the kids. “You guys want to help me call for the pizza?” When they nodded, she held her arm out toward the door and said, “Come into my office.”

The three children ran to the door. As she ushered them through it, Doleen said, “Your mom is going to talk to Mr. McCormack for a few minutes while we have pizza in here. Is that okay with you guys?”

“Yay,” they said together just before the door closed.

Quentin looked at Dana. Tears streaked her face. Red rimmed her eyes. She sniffled loudly. And God help him, she’d never looked more beautiful. He went to her and pulled her back into his arms. Sobs shook her.

“I—I warned you not to touch me.”

“No guts no glory,” he said as lightly as he could with his heart beating like crazy. She felt so delicate, so fragile—so soft, so warm. Completely wonderful. He didn’t know how, but he knew this breakdown was not her style.

Her tears dampened the front of his blue dress shirt. “There’s never a raincoat around when you need one.”

“Not again,” she said trying to pull away.

“That was a joke, Dana. Lighten up. Cut yourself some slack. You’re a single mom. Three kids would be a handful for two parents.”

Instead of helping, his words sent her into another crying spell. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He rubbed her back and whispered meaningless words meant to comfort and reassure.

When she was finally quiet against him, except for an occasional hiccup, he said, “Now, I think it’s time you told me what’s really going on.”

Dana had never been so mortified in her life. Breaking down like that! Quentin must think she was a raving lunatic. And she couldn’t blame him. But, God help her, she didn’t want him to think that. Maybe there was a way to salvage the situation.

“What makes you think there’s something going on?” she hedged.

She backed away from him and reached into the pocket of her dress for a tissue. A mother of three always had one.

“You’re not the kind of woman who breaks down like this. It’s not your style.”

He was right. But how did he know that? She’d been with her husband over three years and he’d never realized that about her. The last time they’d talked, he’d told her to stop with the tears. A classic female manipulation, he’d called it even though he’d never seen her cry more than once or twice.

“How do you know what my style is?” she asked curiously. “After all, we barely know each other.”

“I size people up pretty quickly. The day Lukie got away from you, you were anxious and frantic. But not—” he met her gaze “—hysterical. This is not your usual unflappable style,” he said again.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his navy pinstripe slacks as he met her gaze. Her tears had blotched his powder-blue shirt, reminding her that he’d held her while she cried. No man had ever held her while she cried. He’d been nothing but kind since they’d met. Correction, kind and sexy. And he was entitled to the same treatment—the kind part, not the sexy. It was her attraction to him that had made her words sharper than she’d intended. She didn’t want to be attracted to him, or any other man.

As much as she’d tried to tell herself that she wasn’t attracted, her body shivered, shuddered or sizzled just because he smiled, spoke or sized her up in his charming, devastating way. But that was her problem and certainly no excuse for her behavior.

He deserved an explanation. She sighed. “You’re right, Quentin. There is something wrong.”

He reached out a hand and curved his strong, lean fingers around her elbow. “Let’s sit down over here and you can tell me about it,” he said leading her to the sofa.

His touch discharged sparks of warmth through her and made her legs as weak as a newborn colt’s. With an effort, she pulled herself together. She would not humiliate herself further by collapsing at his feet.

He saw her to the leather couch and she lowered herself onto the supple cushion, then stifled a sigh of appreciation. Why should it surprise her that it was soft and comforting like everything else in his office? Like Quentin himself. It was also expensive. She’d lived with Jeff Hewitt long enough to know quality when she sat on it, and this was about as quality as it came. Thank goodness the children would be eating their pizza anywhere but here. But she completely trusted his secretary to watch over them. Probably because the woman worked for Quentin aka Sir Galahad.

She met his expectant gaze and wondered where to start her explanations. Best to jump in with both feet, she decided. She sat up straighter. “My husband’s parents are threatening legal action to take the children away from me.”

“What?” His deep voice wrapped around that one word and vibrated with anger. “Why?”

“For starters, they never approved of me. My background and upbringing was very different from their son’s. Jeff came from money and social position. I was raised in a blue-collar, working-class family. There was lots of love but not much money.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he answered.

Dana thought a wary look flickered in his blue eyes, but then it was gone. She continued, “I’m proud of who I am, where I came from. It makes me sad that my parents didn’t live long enough to know my children. Especially since the Hewitts have never accepted me.”