Winning His Heart: The Millionaire's Homecoming / The Maverick Millionaire. Melissa McClone

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СКАЧАТЬ person she needed to be to rise to this challenge and more: embrace it.

      * * *

      David was so grateful that Kayla was there with him. It took his mind off what he was about to do. As they drove to Toronto she was the most pleasant of diversions—the way the wind caught in her hair with the top down, how childish she was in her wonder about the car, her lemony scent—what kind of ice cream stain was she trying to get rid of now?—tickling his nostrils.

      He wanted to take her for lunch at a place he favored downtown, which was coincidentally close to the “retirement” home, but she took one look at his face and knew he was not up to even the rudiments of ordering a meal.

      Instead she had him stop by a food truck, got out and ordered for both of them, and they sat in his car and ate.

      “I’ll try not to spill, Duh-veed,” she said, but quickly saw he was not even up to teasing. She put out her hand and he took it, and it seemed after that he would never let go.

      He left the car—she insisted he put the roof up, otherwise he was so distracted he might have left it down—and they walked to Graystone Manor. David knew from the video that it was a converted sandstone house that had belonged to a lumber baron at the turn of the century. It had a specialized wing for dementia and Alzheimer’s patients.

      The director, Mark Smithson, met them at the door. He was kind and soft-spoken, but nonetheless it reminded David of consulting with a funeral director over his father’s ceremony many years ago.

      It was a beautiful facility. The rooms were like good hotel suites, the colors were warm and muted, the quality of the furniture and art was exquisite.

      As Mr. Smithson talked about their programs for patients with all forms of dementia—people first, illness second, life maps and memory boxes, gardening and crafts—David knew he had come to the right place. He wondered if he should have made this decision long ago.

      Still, it was with great sadness that he made the deposit and filled out the forms for his mother.

      “We could have a vacancy very quickly,” Mr. Smithson warned him, kindly. “You will only have forty-eight hours to make up your mind.”

      A vacancy. David realized his mother could come here when someone else died. He could not trust himself to speak.

      Again he was aware of his hand in Kayla’s, and that that alone was giving him the strength to do the unthinkable and unspeakable.

      When they left, she remained silent. She did not try to reassure him, or comment on the visit.

      Fifteen minutes later, Kayla led him past the uniformed doorman into the lobby of his building. David felt as if he were the Alzheimer’s patient, dazed and disoriented.

      His condo was Yorkton—arguably Toronto’s most affluent neighborhood—at its finest. His company had bought an aging hotel and completely gutted and refurbished it into condos. The lobby, with its Swarovski crystal chandelier, artfully distressed leather furniture and authentic Turkish rugs, could easily compete with the best five-star hotels in the world.

      Each condo took up an entire floor of the building; their size was part of the reason they had commanded the highest prices ever paid in Yorkton for real estate.

      The elevator, using the latest technology, was programmed to accept his fingerprint. He touched the panel and it began to glide upward to his penthouse.

      “But what about company?” Kayla asked, her voice hushed as if she was in a church.

      “I can give them a code.”

      “Oh.” She seemed subdued. As the elevator doors whispered open, Kayla looked like a deer frozen in headlights. Her eyes went very wide and David saw his living space through her perspective.

      “This is like a movie set,” Kayla said.

      “Feel free to look around,” he invited.

      Kayla glanced at him and then moved into his space, her mouth a little round O of astonishment and awe.

      The space the elevator opened onto was large and open. The original plank flooring had been restored to distressed glory, stained dark, and it ran throughout.

      Low-backed and sleek, two ten-foot white leather sofas, centered on a hand-knotted carpet from Tajikistan, faced each other over a custom-made coffee table, the glass top engineered around a base of a gnarled chunk of California Redwood.

      Floor-to-ceiling windows—the window coverings could darken the room by remote control if needed—showed the skyline of Toronto, lights beginning to wink on as dusk fell.

      Outside the windows was a generous deck with invisible glass rails. There was a good-sized pool—for a private pool in a condo, anyway—the infinity edge making it seem like the water cascaded off into the city lights. The pool lights on sensors were just beginning to come on, turning the water into a huge turquoise jewel.

      The kitchen, open to the living room but separated from it by an island with a massive gray-veined granite countertop, was as sleek and modern as his living room furniture.

      “Copper?” she said of the double ovens mounted into the cabinetry. “I’ve never even heard of that.”

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