Meghan released her pent up frustrations in an explosive breath.

  Question was, how to respond? Did she trust herself enough to keep an arm’s length and walk away? No. She didn’t, and she suspected, he’d known that, too.

  “That blasted man,” she mumbled on her way out the door.

  The nurse caught her eye. “Amen to that.”

  Meghan smiled and snatched a patient folder from the wall. But, once again, Atlas distracted her from her work and, come noon, her anger having come to a boil, she decided to deal with it. Directly. Hopping in her car, she drove to Atlas’ mansion, slowing her car to a crawl at the entrance, as overwhelmed by the size and scope of it as ever.

  The drive to the front door was like a grand avenue. Evenly spaced oak trees held graceful arms over the pavement for half a mile, then changed to fruit trees, oranges, and a magnificent garden that must have its own crew of workers. She drove around the curved drive, parking at the entrance, and climbed eight, wide concrete steps.

  The doorbell chimed loudly inside the foyer and, minutes later, the door cracked. Navy looked out. “Miss Meghan,” he said.

  “Hey, Navy. I need to speak to Atlas.”

  His face was curiously anxious then.

  “He is here, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am, although …” Navy paused. “You’ll have to go out back. He’s rowing.”

  Rowing? She buried her surprise with a smile. “If it’s okay, then point me the right direction. I really need to speak with him.”

  He bowed his head, crisp. “Of course.”

  Widening the door, he motioned her inside, then led her through the living area she’d met Atlas in previously and out a pair of arched glass doors into a magnificent tropical garden. The air was thick and moist, the heat clinging to her skin.

  The sound of running water increased as they walked and the garden fell away to a swimming pool, stretching east, and lush, green lawn the likes of which she’d never seen. To the right stood a curious narrow building some hundred feet long.

  Navy pushed open the door and pointed toward the figure seated in one of three rowing tanks. She squeezed his shoulder with one hand and walked inward, coming to a halt at an angle where Atlas wouldn’t see her right away.

  He was magnificent, all coiled muscles on his legs and arms, beads of sweat running down his temples and over well-tanned flesh.

  Her body reacted to the sight, a certain energy springing upward, and a burn formed in her gut. She breathed it in and for the briefest second indulged her physicality. The meaning of this trip reemerged, as well as her lack of time, so she continued forward, circling around to the front.

  His eyes met hers, registering surprise, and he slowed.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” she said.

  A certain smugness rose on his face. He climbed out, reaching for a towel, and sponged himself with it. Hanging it around his neck, he approached, and her legs quivered, the scent of a well-oiled male temporarily numbing her.

  “To what do I owe this visit?” he asked.

  She licked her lips, conscious of his gaze following the action, and shook herself awake. “Money.”

  He tilted his head. “If we might …?” He jerked his chin toward a seating area.

  She stepped ahead, waiting while he fished water from a small fridge. Head tossed back, his Adam’s apple bobbing, he emptied the bottle in seconds and tossed it in the trash. He pulled her out a chair, and she seated.

  “Money, you say,” he continued, taking his own seat. “You’re in need?”

  She smiled, tight. “No, the opposite. Suddenly, I’m curiously free of a huge debt. I’m a little baffled by who would do such a generous thing.”

  “Generous indeed,” he said. “I’m happy for you.”

  His lack of response silenced her. That’s the way he wanted to play this? He was smart. After their argument Friday night where she’d made it plain she didn’t need his charity, he was going to take a back seat, knowing she couldn’t counter it.

  “You needn’t come all this way to tell me about it though,” he continued. “I’m sure whoever paid the debt has no regrets in doing so. It’s a joy to relieve another’s burdens.”

  “It’s a joy to be relieved. I simply wished to thank the benefactor who did so.”

  This brought the barest nod of his head, the only acknowledgement she’d receive that it was him. She stood to her feet, hooking her purse over her shoulder. “I’m on my lunch hour, so I must go.”

  “Of course.” He stood to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She didn’t protest but took a place at his side. He held the door for her to leave the building and took her down a different path through an enormous bank of flowers, their perfumed scent filling the air, and out a gate. The drive was only a few feet away.

  He paused. “Have a good day, Miss Moralez.”

  She faced him and drank in his perfection for one moment before turning away. She was a fool to think she could ever surprise him or somehow shake his confidence. It was too practiced, and he was too determined. That part concerned her. If he’d paid her bills to make a point, then it seemed he’d made a decision where she was concerned.

  But where her body went one way, her mind still went another. She simply couldn’t afford to indulge herself in any fantasy with Atlas Bellamy. He’d find he was rapidly losing this battle, no matter how many dollars he spent on her behalf.

  Her heart heavy, she cranked and began the long drive back to the office.

  Atlas gave Meghan only a glance as she drove away, turning his steps toward the house. Entering through a side door, he wended his way to his room, stripping and climbing in the shower. The ice cold temperature did very little to cool the ardor staring at her had created, every inch of him set aflame, greatest of all his mind.

  She was the meal he couldn’t partake, and he was a man starving, emaciated, yearning for its delectable delights but not allowing himself even one sample in favor of protest for some cause or another.

  Water running down his back, he curled his fist, fingernails biting into his palm, and leaned forward, mashing his forehead to the cold tile.

  What was his “cause”? What thing was great enough he’d continue to torment himself with her? Sex? It had gone beyond that. Sex in itself was meaningless without it being with someone you had feelings for. So what then? Love?

  His eyes opened, water running off his lashes.

  Did he want to love her? Or was he being selfish and this was strictly about possession? To have her look at him and he be the entire world in that moment.

  She fought the same battle he did inside. It’d been written on her face … desire overrode by some need for control. They were two sparks that if united would create a flame consuming all in its path, and perhaps that was the greater issue. Not his or her private fight against themselves, but what would happen when they were together.

  A chill raced down his spine, and he switched the water off. Wrapped in a towel, he wandered across his bedroom and grasped his cell phone.

  “Hello, this is Atlas,” he began. “Meghan Moralez. Her aunt’s car and house. Send me the bill.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Dry lips dusted his cheek, and Atlas straightened, smiling at his mother’s friendly face. She curved one hand, long nails painted fiery red, over his coat sleeve.

  “You’re looking well today,” she said.

  He didn’t comment on this because his father had entered the room and with him a retinue of lawyers and accountants. Curious, he counted heads before taking a seat.

  His mother seemed to sense his confusion. “All will be explained,” she said.

  His dad met his gaze with the steely-eyed confidence he’d worn as long as Atlas could remember and sat in the thick leather chair on the backside of the desk. It was less a desk and more a throne with his father as king. That said, they got along well enough, but he’d learned to toe the line. No man garnered more respect than Evander Bellamy.

  No man garnered less than his maligned grandfather, who was the reason for this meeting, and Atlas suspect, would get the last laugh.

  His father tented his hands, tapping his fingers together. “I regret we have to discuss this,” he began. “But my father has played the ultimate joke.”

  And was laughing from his place on the other side.

  “When he passed, I confess to being less grief-stricken and more alarmed because deep in my gut I knew he’d done something to get at me.”

  “Your father was a dear,” his mother said. “Kind-hearted, loving …”

  “Antagonistic toward his son.”

  His mother laughed, the sound trickling through the atmosphere. “That’s your perception of it. He loved you, but you’re such a stuffed shirt in comparison.”

  “You married me.”

  His mother accepted this with a wave of her hand, and his dad refocused. “Back to today’s meeting.” Wiggling his fingers toward his lawyer, Prospero, standing nearest him, he captured a file, laying it flat on the desk and flipping it open. “As we all know, he left the greater portion of his fortune to a number of … needy … charities.”

  His father’s distaste showed in the line of his lips, more aimed toward his grandfather, however, than the thought of giving to charity. They certainly did plenty of that as well.

  “It’s what he left for you …”

  His father gazed at him.

  “That we’re going to deal with today.” His dad stared downward, reading for a moment, then raised his gaze. “He specifically asked for this date on the calendar for this to be dealt with. I have no idea why, though I’m sure in his mind there was a reason, and he found it funny. That said, I will read his words and then we’ll discuss it.”

  He cleared his throat. “Evander and all else assembled. I will be sure to include all the legal riffraff that’s required as pertaining to the actual gifting of this money, but simply cannot stand speaking as if I was dead and gone. Therefore, I leave this note. The trust I have set up for my grandson, Atlas Franklin Bellamy, is some twelve point seven million dollars. Somewhere in with the legalese you’ll find the true amount, and I’m sure by the time he receives it, it will have grown.”

  His father looked up. “I believe it’s at fourteen million now.”

  Atlas raised a brow.

  His head dropping again, his father continued. “No man needs that amount of money. I don’t need that amount of money. I have lived my life, I hope, as an example to others that prosperity of one’s person is only given in order for you to pay it forward. By way of example, Evander, you will remember the refrigerator.”

  “Refrigerator?” His mother broke into the reading.

  His dad actually smiled. “Old fool saw a woman’s refrigerator tossed out the window of a seven story building. Smashed to smithereens on the pavement. He was curious … nosy … so he stopped and asked her what it was about. She said it didn’t run anymore and she didn’t see the need to stare her poverty in the face.”

  “I take it he bought her one?”

  “Six, actually.”

  “Six? What did she need six for? She could feed an entire neighborhood with that much storage.”

  His father reclined, one hand draped over the arm of the chair. “That’s precisely what he said. She put one in her apartment and the other five in the basement. He then filled them with food and told her to give it away as she saw fit. She was so grateful, she hung a plaque inside the apartment house door with his name on it, called him ‘grandfather’ from there on out.”

  “As I said, he was a dear,” his mother finished.

  His father nodded and returned to the page. “Therefore, I am willing this money to my grandson with a condition and an expiration date. All the points of it must be carried out within a year or every dime goes to the specified list of charities in with the rest of the documents.”

  “Dear me, can he do that?” Atlas’ mother asked.

  Prospero gave a solemn nod. “Can and has.”

  “What exactly do I have a year to do?” His curiosity taking over, Atlas broke into the conversation.

  “That’s the kicker, as they say,” his father replied. He shook the page out and leaned back in his seat. “I would hope by now that my grandson is married. At age thirty, he should be. If not, he’ll find this a strong reason to get on the ball because ten point five million of the money in his trust must be given away to persons or organizations in need.”

  “Gracious. So much?”

  His father waved his mother silent. “It gets worse.”

  “However, it must be given away by his wife.”

  Atlas sat up straight. “My wife?”

  “How, you ask, can I trust a woman I don’t have any knowledge of? That’s easy. I prayed, and I trust God to bring into his life someone with a kind heart and a good head who will do what is right. Should he have been married and she’s passed, the duty falls to the children. If they are not of age, then it will be held for them until they are eighteen when the year will again commence. If there are no children or if he and his wife have divorced, which I don’t believe for one second … I prayed about that, too … then the money again reverts to the list of charities. In short, no one in this family will ever handle one dime of it. It is hers to deal with alone.”

  His heartbeat a siren in his ears, Atlas raised one hand and flattened it to his skull. “I have no wife,” he said. “Nor prospect of one.”

  The words having left his lips, he inhaled, sharp. That wasn’t true. Meghan. She was exactly who his grandfather would trust, the type of woman with a kind heart and good head who would know exactly how to give it away. But—

  “What’s the list of charities?” he asked.

  His father grimaced. Searching in the folder, he pulled out a page and smoothed it on the desk. “The Antique Coffin Emporium.”

  “Antique Coffin …?” his mother blurted.

  “Ladies For Oysters.”

  “Who in the world are they?” Atlas asked.

  His father didn’t answer but continued. “The Deep Sea Initiative, dedicated to the discovery of Atlantis.”

  Laughter burst from Atlas’ lips. His father wasn’t too appreciative, but his mom joined in.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said at the end.

  “I left out one,” his father said. “The Etymological Center of Insect Reproduction.” He dropped the page as if it were infected. “He knew this would gall me, knew that I wouldn’t want Bellamy cash to be known for things that ridiculous, and now, the saving of our good name falls on your shoulders when all you’ve ever done is pick up these loose, half-witted women with English peas for brains.”

  Atlas shot out of his chair. “Why don’t you call me out louder?”

  “Sit down!” his father snapped.

  Atlas glared at his dad for a moment then reseated.

  “You are an intelligent man with much to offer. Somewhere out there is a woman worthy of the Bellamys, and it’s your job to find her. One year, three hundred and sixty-five days is all you have or someone spending their lives watching bugs mate will be very happy.”

  Atlas doused his anger with common sense. It did no good to get angry at his father because he was right about all of it. The women he’d spent time with were exactly that worthless, and he was better than that. Hadn’t he been telling himself that for days? His desire to act that way was gone anyhow. He’d become focused on one person, one gorgeous female who he couldn’t get out of his head.

  “I have someone in mind,” he said.

  His father and his mother expressed their surprise. She reached out and clasped his wrist. “You’ve met someone?”

  He nodded. “She’s exactly who grandfather would approve of. Maybe that’s his prayers … if it was, I only hope he prayed long and hard.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  Atlas made a pained face. “Because as beautiful as this woman is, she hates me … for all the reasons you’ve just described.”

  His father eyed him, his gaze growing thoughtful. He closed the file, his hand curled on top. “Fatherly advice?” he asked.

  Atlas nodded, regret choking him too hard to speak.

  “Change that,” he said.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Aunt Joyce said. “I remember how much you love their potato leek soup.”

  Megan tucked her chair to the table and reached for the cloth napkin, shaking it out and draping it over her lap. “That’s fine. I’m surprised you called me on a weekend,” she said. “You’re always so busy with the girls.”

  The girls—her aunt’s widowed gal pals who regularly entertained each other on Saturdays.

  Her aunt’s smile stretched orange-stained lips. “I told them this was a special occasion, so they forgave me.”

  A waitress swooped by, depositing glasses of water in front of them, and Meghan reached for one, taking a sip. “Mom sends her love,” she said, with a gulp.

  Her aunt sighed. “It’s wonderful to hear her spirits are up. Is she still receiving flowers?”

  Meghan nodded. Every day for the last two weeks. She has so many now, she’s giving them away.

  “It’s a curious thing. Don’t you think? But then, I have a bit of news myself.”

  “Oh?”

  Her aunt’s face brightened. “Happened a week ago, but this is the first I’ve felt free to share it. It’s all confirmed, a done deal.”

  Unsure exactly what her aunt was talking about, Meghan didn’t comment.

  The waitress returned with a basket of bread, and the conversation ceased while they nibbled. Then her aunt clapped her hands. “I simply have to tell you. I can’t wait another minute.” She leaned over the table, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Someone paid all my bills.”

  Startled, Meghan leaped in place. “A-all of them?”

  Her aunt nodded and sat upright. “My car, my house, the remodel, even a tiny bill I had for that mammogram last year. I’m debt free and light as a feather.”

  Atlas. She’d thought about him less since her trip to his house, although he’d reformed in her head twice as a dream, and those had left her feeling odd all day. She hadn’t counted him out, however. He would never simply give up and disappear.