The Baby Gamble. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      “You call me the second you hear from Blake,” her friend demanded, closing the back of the Tahoe.

      “I’m not going to hear from him.”

      Becky’s expression was firm as she stood there, shoulders back. “You might, Annie. You need to be prepared for that.”

      No, she didn’t. But she’d be fine, either way.

      “Have you thought about what you’ll do if he says yes?”

      “He’s not going to say yes.”

      Becky’s keys dangled from her fingers as she put her hands on her hips. “I hope you’re right.”

      Annie knew what Becky was trying to do here. She wanted Annie’s eyes wide open so she wouldn’t be blindsided—and get hurt. “Remember last New Year’s Eve?” she asked.

      Shane had been at a party hosted by the town council for all the local teens. They’d been locked in at the high school. And Becky and Annie had spent the night in Annie’s newly empty house, grilling steaks, drinking wine and thinking positively about the life ahead of them.

      “Yeah,” Becky said slowly.

      “We said we were going to keep our thoughts on the things we want. And that we weren’t going to worry about things that haven’t happened—most particularly, when they probably won’t happen.”

      “We were talking about getting cancer or being hurt or…”

      “Blake saying yes to fathering my child.”

      “Oh, honey, bless your heart,” Becky said, as she saw the tears in her eyes.

      “He did that once, you know.” Annie’s voice was little more than a whisper.

      And then he’d left the country on business, even though Annie had begged him not to go, and she’d miscarried, and he hadn’t come back….

      CHAPTER THREE

      “THANKS FOR SEEING ME, Mr. Smith. I brought a copy of my résumé for you.” The twentysomething, smartly dressed young man seemed to have enough energy for the two of them Friday morning. A damn good thing, as Blake had slept little in the two nights since his ex-wife’s invasion of his life.

      “I’m sorry if Marta gave you the impression I’m hiring,” he said now, taking the linen-covered portfolio he’d just been handed. “I’m a one-man show in here and my secretary’s got all of the administrative duties covered.”

      “She did relay that information,” Colin Warner said, his slightly spiky hair bringing an inward grin to Blake’s rather bleak state of mind. He tried to picture any of the Wild Bunch showing up at the poker table with similar hair—or any kind of styling, for that matter. “I’d still like to speak with you, if I may.”

      Better that, Blake told himself, than think about friendships and impossible requests from determined women.

      “Marta said you have a proposition for me.”

      “I do—an investment.”

      Eyes narrowed, Blake shifted in his chair. “Go on.”

      “Just not your usual sort.”

      “How do you know my usual sort?” If he had one, he didn’t know about it.

      “Everyone has his or her own unique signature, a personal collection of habitual actions, with which he leaves an individual mark on the space he occupies.”

      In theory, Blake agreed.

      “You, for example, tend to buy based on three things—global use, word of mouth and thorough financial analysis. You’ve been in business for two years, you’ve dealt mainly in real estate and insurance, though there’s the half interest in Cowboy Bob’s….”

      A steak franchise that one of his uncle’s former clients had brought his way.

      “Land, peace of mind and food—things everyone needs. You buy only when you’re approached, and you’ve made a profit on every single transaction to date.”

      Did this kid know Blake was set to clear close to a quarter of a million this year, too?

      Did he know what kind of toilet paper Blake used?

      Because he prided himself on giving everyone a shot—and was in need of a diversion —Blake continued to listen.

      “What I have to offer you fits only one of those three models.”

      “What do you have to sell?” Blake asked, wishing he’d taken a moment to look over Warner’s résumé. The kid was entertaining, if nothing else.

      “Me.”

      “You.” He’d just said he wasn’t hiring. The income he’d earned this past year could just as easily be cut in half if he made a bad choice. But Blake could take that risk when he had only himself to consider.

      And Marta. While most of Smith Investment’s profit went back into the business, Blake could afford one decent salary.

      One. Not two.

      “I’ve got a bachelor of business administration in finance from Texas A & M, with a specialization in investment analysis and valuation.”

      Blake wasn’t surprised.

      “In two years you’ve more than doubled your initial investment, Mr. Smith,” the younger man said, leaning forward, almost as if his eagerness might launch him across Blake’s desk. “You’re ripe for growth. Yet you wait for people to come to you with opportunities.”

      Blake didn’t like the way that sounded. He chose to do business as he did for two reasons, he reminded himself. First, because he was still, after four years locked up in a hole, rediscovering his financial legs. A lot had happened with the Internet, and with the economy, in the time he’d been gone. And second, with his and his uncle’s old business contacts, there were enough opportunities to keep him busy.

      “I have no money to invest, but I have the skills and interest required to seek out potential buys—to do all the tedious research needed to put you in the driver’s seat on any deal you choose to pursue,” Colin continued, apparently undeterred by Blake’s silence.

      Which kind of impressed Blake. Or maybe he was just grateful to the kid for interrupting his life. A life that had suited him fine until he’d gone to play Texas Hold’em the other night.

      “I can’t afford another salary yet.” He figured Colin already knew that—it wasn’t hard to figure out if he’d followed Blake’s investments and knew the profit margin on them. “I started with a chunk of money I inherited, and I’ve done well enough, but I’ve not been at this long enough to be certain that my good luck will continue.”

      “Your decisions rest on more than luck, Mr. Smith. That much is obvious.” Colin’s sincerity was beginning to verge on hero worship.

      And СКАЧАТЬ