Meghan gave an inward laugh and followed her aunt inside.

  Curling his fingers around the old-fashioned phone on the desk, Atlas lifted the receiver and poked a nail into the circular dial, drawing it down and releasing it. It retracted, whirring back into place, and he repeated the action through all seven numbers. The tone on the other end pulsed four times before anyone answered, and it wasn’t the voice he expected.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Mother? What are you doing in Dad’s office?”

  Atlas reclined in his chair, tossing his feet up on the top of the barren desk surface.

  “Being nosy, of course.”

  He grinned at her response. If she was in there, then his dad would be nearby, probably flustered by her presence. Face rigid, that one lock of hair that always fell out of place, waving between his eyes.

  “Anything new?” he asked, egging her on.

  “Well, he lost ten grand in that last stock fiasco, but I told him he could make up for it by investing in pharmaceuticals. Plus, then I can call him a drug lord.”

  Her laughter pealed into the distance, and his father promptly claimed the telephone. “Son.”

  Atlas dropped his feet to the floor, dignity recapturing him. Talking to his father was distinctly different from talking to his mom. Somehow, though his dad couldn’t see him right now, he felt like he could.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” Atlas asked.

  His father’s voice deepened. A bad sign.

  “Two things. First, your grandfather’s trust fund for you …”

  Grandfather Bellamy had been an eccentric sort, loveable, but apt to spill his millions into the hands of people who, to Atlas’ thinking, didn’t need it so much. He was generous to a fault, and always wanting to make a point. The fact that he hadn’t outright given his possessions to his offspring when he died was a prime example. Instead, he’d shared it amongst, of all things, several zoos and conservation societies, a historical group dedicated to preserving the heritage of the town of Littlefield, then bundled the rest up into a tidy package labelled “grandson,” written affectionately in his own rough hand.

  So far, Atlas had yet to see a dime of it. He didn’t need the money to live on, though he did feel it belonged to him.

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “Prospero called me. He wants a meeting, so I’ve told him to set up something for Monday. You will, of course, have to be there, so I’ll text you the time.”

  Atlas released his held breath. “Very well. You said there was something else?”

  “Yes.” His dad cleared his throat. “I hope you haven’t any engagements tonight …”

  Tonight? He hadn’t. Nor did he want to make plans. In fact, after his encounter with Dr. Moralez, he had no interest in smiling to the masses.

  She’d gotten to him. The idea that in her eyes he was nothing but a wastrel bothered him, especially since it was partially true. After college and despite the thousands of dollars his dad had invested in his education, he’d not pursued anything. Why bother when he had enough of an allowance from his dad’s investments to live off of comfortably for the rest of his life if he so desired?

  He hadn’t felt the least bit guilty about that either, until today. Today, he’d met the most beautiful woman who actually looked down at him for that, and he had no idea what to do to correct the problem. Get a job? Right. That’d be more laughable than his not working. The entire upper crust would guffaw.

  “I’m kind of busy,” he replied to his dad’s remark.

  His dad once again cleared his throat. “I’m sure nothing you can’t rearrange.”

  Atlas frowned.

  “Besides, it’s a charity dinner, a good cause. I’ve promised a representative and know you’ll do a fine job filling in for me.”

  A charity dinner. He attended those all along. Why was this one any different? Worse, why did it make his dad nervous?

  “What charity?” he asked.

  His dad pulled in a deep breath. “Cancer Research. Put on by a group of ladies who auction off items for funding. Will take only a couple hours of your time.”

  A couple hours of his time, smiling and schmoozing. Not like he could refuse. But his dad’s mannerism still bothered him. There had to be more to the story.

  “Fine. When and where and how do I dress?” he asked.

  His father hesitated a minute too long. “The … uhm … Ladies’ Auxiliary building and … wear a tux.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Meghan swept across the parking lot outside the Auxiliary building, her arms overflowing with auction items, her purse sliding off her shoulder to the crook of her elbow. She paused outside the door to adjust her handhold and somehow pull the heavy glass doors open with her pinky. She bobbled, the uppermost donation diving toward her chest where a hand caught it smoothly.

  She peered around the chin high stack of things at the well-dressed female smiling back at her. “Mrs. Koontz.”

  “You look like you need a hand, dear. Allow me.” The donation she’d captured still clutched in her polished nails, Mrs. Koontz took hold of the door and held it open.

  Grateful, Meghan entered, making a beeline for the folding tables assembled at the front.

  Her aunt waved her toward a bare spot at the end. “Over there.”

  Meghan deposited the items and stepped back, allowing the other ladies to assemble them. They’d done a fine job with the place, though the building was old and distinctly out of date. Somehow, they’d even managed to mask the strange musty odor you ordinarily encountered on the way in. The tiles, though scuffed, were polished, and the bandstand nicely decorated. Maybe they could have invested in something better than paper streamers though.

  She kept the remark to herself. They’d poured their energies into the place. The dining tables were spaced evenly, a sprig of store-bought flowers spurting from mismatched vases in the center of each one.

  She moved her gaze further along the wall to the bandstand at the end. A boy not more than twenty tuned an electric guitar.

  “Whose grandson?” she asked.

  Her aunt halted, one hand around a gold-wrapped package. “Clara’s.” She leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “He’s not the best, but he’ll do. His friends should be here sometime …”

  In other words, free music. Yet another sign of a low budget.

  Meghan passed over the thought and focused instead on staying busy. That was her plan. Stay busy, try not to eat too many of Gloria’s homemade snacks, maybe sneak in a dance with someone handsome, and go home afterward to sleep off the weekend.

  She was glad she’d changed her mind about coming. Sitting at home with nothing to do would only have caused her to think that much harder about the day, and she was determined not to do that. Plus, her mom would have been disappointed if she didn’t go. She herself wasn’t able, which made her own presence here more important.

  She clapped her hands. “Okay, where do you need me?”

  Aunt Joyce faced her, her over-makeupped face a shade clownish in the fluorescent lights. “You can start by putting on that dress you brought. Nellie hung it in the bathroom ’round back. I’m going to need you to be hostess tonight.”

  “Hostess, right …” Circulate, smile, make pleasantries, and hope her feet didn’t give out. “I’m on it,” she said, pointing herself toward the back exit.

  Her sneakers squeaked as she stepped through the aged metal door and a rush of cool air blew in her face. Smoothing her hair with one hand, she turned left down the corridor toward the bathroom at the end.

  Its walls glowed mint green, adding to the tightness of the space. Wedging herself in between the toilet and the wall-hung sink, she shut the door and reached for her dress. Her fingers stroked the elegant black fabric. It was too much, and she shouldn’t have bought it. She had no one to impress. But standing in the dressing room at the department store, she’d known it was made just for her.

  “Shame it has to be seen at the charity dinner though.”

  It was made more for an elegant evening out on the arm of someone special. Atlas’s face rose in her mind’s eye, and her stomach quivered.

  Why did she always return to him? She shouldn’t kid herself. He hadn’t spent one minute after she’d left thinking about her. In fact, he’d probably called up one of his many lady friends, prepared to spend the night.

  Her face warmed. Spend the night. With … with him. Her legs gave way, and she sank down onto the toilet lid, the dress sliding through her fingers.

  She had no right to entertain that thought, shouldn’t entertain it. She wasn’t like those type of girls, and no matter how suave and sophisticated he was, no matter how charming, or … heaven, help her … handsome he was, she would never lower herself to that level.

  Impossible. And not what she wanted. She simply had to stop this because Atlas Bellamy was the last … last … last man who she should ever consider being interested in.

  Meghan sucked in a breath and rose from the toilet. She changed into the dress, adding a simple jeweled necklace from her purse, and spent a few minutes on her hair. Folding her clothing and tucking it under her arm, she snagged her heels from their place on the floor.

  Exiting the bathroom, she deposited her clothes in a pile of the other ladies’ things left on a worn couch in the backroom and stuffed her toes in her shoes, hopping a bit on one foot on her way back into the performance hall.

  Her spirits perked at the trickle of music filtering through the old walls and the rise of voices in greetings and laughter. She was glad to be here, and Aunt Joyce and her friends, at least, would appreciate the dress. She’d have a good time.

  She pulled the door inward, stepping into a group of early arrivals. Swinging into hostess mode, she smiled and nodded, saying thank you again and again.

  A half hour passed and the crowd increased to some one hundred people. Aunt Joyce, Gloria, and Nellie directed yet another group of newcomers to their assigned tables, and she stepped forward prepared to introduce herself.

  But stopped cold. The tossing of her stomach began again and heat flashed into her face. Briefly panicked, she dashed away from the people, snagging Aunt Joyce’s sleeve.

  “Who … who is … is that?” she asked, nodding toward the doorway. Though she knew the answer and could not believe her eyes.

  Aunt Joyce glanced that direction, emitting a coo. “Oh, that must be my surprise.”

  “Must be?”

  Why would her aunt not know he was coming?

  Aunt Joyce patted her arm. “Yes, and you can thank your mother. She spoke to that friend of hers …”

  “Navy Powell?”

  His name fitted itself in her thoughts. Navy had acted funny earlier, being strangely reticent, but she’d figured it was his demeanor when on the job.

  “Yes, him,” her aunt continued. “He said he’d see if one of the Bellamys would agree to come. It’s marvelous. Isn’t it? And he’s so handsome.”

  Handsome. And here. And this could not be happening to her. She could not be expected to stand near Atlas Bellamy twice in one day. But Aunt Joyce’s firm grasp dragged her forward, and the truth sunk in. She was, and this time, there wouldn’t be any quick escape.

  “Welcome, young man,” Aunt Joyce said. “I’m Joyce Dodge. You must be …” She paused.

  He turned from contemplation of the room, and his eyes lit on Meghan’s face. They widened a fraction, and a smile emerged. He gave a sharp bow. “Atlas Bellamy ma’am, and I believe this is Dr. Moralez.”

  The overdressed seventy-year-old at Meghan Moralez’s side acted more than surprised he knew Meghan’s name. But then, he was surprised his dad sent him here and, until the woman had spoken, tryed not to show it. This was not the charity functions he typically attended. Those were distinctly high-end, with the jewelry the women wore worth more than the money they donated.

  He’d known, of course, where the Ladies’ Auxiliary Hall was, but had never been in. It was, once again, not somewhere he usually went. Gazing around at the pathetic effort to decorate the place, he didn’t regret that at all. Whatever historical charm the building had was completely lost in light of its dilapidated appearance. He knew some had protested its being closed permanently, but standing there, staring inward, he didn’t know why. He did, however, feel grateful to his dad for sending him here because Meghan Moralez in a black evening gown was stunning.

  Atlas kept a professional smile on his lips and, capturing the old woman’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. The action flustered her.

  Cheeks red, eyes bright, she spit and sputtered. “Oh my! Good gracious.”

  He shifted his gaze to Meghan, whose hands appeared pasted to her side. “Good to see you, Doctor,” he said.

  She tilted her head slightly left. “Please, call me Meghan.”

  “Meghan.”

  “Well … isn’t this lovely,” the old woman buzzed. “I didn’t know you knew any of the Bellamys, and yet you do. Just perfect.”

  Atlas flicked a glance at her, trying to recall her name.

  “Aunt Joyce is my mother’s sister,” Meghan said, supplying the answer. “She oversees the event, and I’m her sidekick.”

  “A beautiful one,” he returned.

  Aunt Joyce twisted her neck to and fro, much like a stork watching a tennis competition. “Mr. Bellamy,” she said, when their conversation paused. “We have a table up front just for you. We’ll sit you right next to Meghan, since you’re friends.”

  Meghan’s happy expression, he suspected, belied her true emotions about that arrangement. Though she didn’t protest, the distance she kept between them spoke loudly enough.

  Hands clasped behind his back, he strolled across the poorly lit room to an enormous circular table more fitting for a boardroom than dinner. The chair was spindly and uncomfortable, but he acted like it wasn’t. He’d been raised to appear confident and at home no matter what environment he entered.

  You will act fitting, his mother always said.

  As their only child, he’d gotten all the reprimands, as well as all the attention. What areas she doted on him, letting him have what other kids did not, she also watched stringently. He should appreciate their fortunate lot in life she stressed.

  In a way, the byplay of that had given him a drive to complete things. He’d finished college with a master’s degree in business administration simply to prove to his father he could. He didn’t use it like he should have, but wasn’t entirely ignorant of his father’s investments nor as lazy as people believed him to be.

  Nor was he a complete cad who would make a scene at a middle-income charity function simply because there were no diamond tiaras or thousand dollar shoes.

  He took his seat, watching the sway of Meghan’s backside as she continued around the room. Entrancing. What was it about her that fascinated him? Was it simply because, unlike the other women he was usually around, she seemed determined to ignore him? If that was the case, she didn’t know him at all. She’d most likely formed a judgment based on news reports and entertainment rumors without giving him a chance to sway her otherwise.

  A chance to sway her. That’s what he needed, and maybe closer to the truth about why he felt drawn. She was attractive, but any woman he spent time with was that. That in itself wasn’t enough. No, it was that Meghan Moralez was a challenge. She didn’t like him and didn’t want to like him, though—

  The kiss they’d shared returned to his thoughts and with it, a small smile formed.

  Though if she didn’t want to, there was no way she could deny one part of her … one very sexy, tasty part of her … definitely did.

  She disappeared in the crowd, and he faced forward. She wanted to keep her distance? He’d make it a point to prove to her exactly how wrong she was about that and consider tonight a stepping stone toward something greater, more private, and hopefully more intimate.

  He tented his fingers. Navy had said she wouldn’t compromise, but wouldn’t it be fun if she did?

  Meghan avoided seating herself for as long as she could, despite considerably throbbing toes, but finally, the food being served and her aunt glaring at her, she returned to the table. Her eyes were on him the entire way there, the span of his back, his close-cropped blond hair, and as she approached, his profile.

  He was fantastic. Sat in a dark room with one dim bulb, he’d be intimidating. He had an intensity to him that demanded respect. Dressed in a tuxedo in a room full of older women and men, he drew every eye. He was captivating, polished. Seated in the bathroom, half-dressed, his fine physique in front of her, he’d been overwhelming. She could only imagine how he appeared in candlelight, the flame flickering in his eyes and across his smooth skin.

  She ducked her head to avoid his gaze on her heated cheeks, but just the same, was conscious of his rise from the table and short polite bow when she sat. Minutes later, a waiter’s hand lowered a plate brimming with food into her view, forcing her to look up.

  Capturing her fork, she poised it over the plate. “I’m sure this isn’t the fare you’re used to,” she said.

  His reply was instantaneous. “What do you think I’m used to?”

  He was making no effort to eat, but rather, eyeing her, his body relaxed, his hands in his lap.

  She shrugged and poked her fork into the seasoned vegetables on one side of the plate.

  “No, now, you made the comment,” he said, “and I want to know. What does Meghan think Atlas eats?”

  She chewed her bite slowly, washing it down with a swig of iced tea. “Something expensive,” she said at last. She shouldn’t have made the remark. Sure, he probably didn’t eat boxed snack cakes, but that didn’t mean he consumed caviar at every meal.

  “Expensive,” he repeated. “Lobster for the masses.” He waved one hand outward.

  She offered an apologetic smile. “My apology. I didn’t mean to imply …”

  “Of course, you did, and I accept the remark for what it is.”