At The Millionaire's Request. Teresa Southwick

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      “My wife, Lenore, is the housekeeper. She’s watching over the boy in the family room.”

      M.J. nodded as she glanced around. The entryway ceiling must be twenty feet high. Twin staircases curved up to the second floor. As she followed Henderson through the house, she had a fleeting impression of elegant furniture in serene shades of celery and hunter green. In the artwork and glassware there were splashes of red, gold and orange. Beige tile gave way to plush carpet as they moved through the house.

      Just off the kitchen with black granite-covered island and countertops, they stopped in the family room. A large sea-foam green sectional filled one corner with a huge flat-screen TV across from it.

      An older woman sat on the sofa. Beside her, a recliner built into the sectional was pushed back with the footrest extended. Beneath it, a boy lined up little plastic dinosaurs, then set two pterodactyls on the footrest above, poising them to swoop down on the tyrannosaurus rex and the triceratops. She knew the names because Brian had loved them and constantly begged her to read him dinosaur books.

      Emotion tightened in her chest and spread into her throat.

      Henderson walked farther into the room. “Lenore, Sean, this is Ms. Taylor.”

      A petite, brown-eyed brunette, Lenore smiled warmly. “Welcome to Cliff House.”

      The polite thing to say would be that it was nice to be here. But it wasn’t nice. At this moment she’d give anything if she hadn’t been raised to be polite. M.J. wanted to turn and run from toys that were scattered on the floor, little cars small enough for little hands. A small boy in blue jeans and long-sleeved, striped T-shirt. His white sneakers were scuffed because active boys were hard on shoes. It was all so familiar, and looking at it produced a physical ache.

      “Ms. Taylor?” There was concern in Henderson’s voice.

      “Yes.” She let out a long breath as she slid her hands into the pockets of her sweater and looked at them. “Lenore. Sean. Hi.”

      “Sorry I’m late.” Gavin rushed into the room and Sean smiled, then instantly jumped up and raced to his father.

      Brian used to do that when she got home from work. Tears burned her eyes and she held her breath, waiting for the squeal of delight when Gavin swung his son into his arms. But it never came.

      Gavin took the boy’s weight on his forearm and their faces were close together. There was no question of paternity. Sean was the image of his father. “Hi, buddy. Did you have a good day?”

      Sean nodded.

      “You met Ms. Taylor? M.J.”

      This time the boy pointed at her and nodded.

      “Good. She’s going to help you talk again.” Gavin bent to set him down and the boy clung for several moments.

      When his father straightened, Sean looked up at him, dark eyes wide and questioning. He was a beautiful little boy and would grow into a handsome man, just like his father. She wondered if he’d also inherited Gavin’s intensity, determination and charm. All of that would help him be successful in the weeks of therapy ahead.

      Gavin ran his hand over the boy’s dark hair. “Daddy needs to talk to M.J., son. You stay with Lenore.” When Sean pointed to his dinosaurs, Gavin said, “That’s right. Have fun with your toys.”

      The boy shook his head, then pointed to Gavin and his dinosaurs.

      “I can’t play right now, buddy. Later.” He looked at her. “We can talk in my office.”

      She didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on the child’s face before Gavin put his hand at the small of her back and urged her from the room. She accompanied him down a hall and into an office that was as elegant as it was masculine. The walls were oak-paneled, with a matching desk dominating the center of the hunter-green carpet. One wall was entirely windows with French doors looking out on the ocean.

      Two leather wing chairs were in front of the desk and he indicated she should sit.

      Gavin took off his suit coat and draped it across the high back of the desk chair. He sat across from her, loosened his red tie and rolled up the long sleeves of his white dress shirt to just below the elbows. As if that wasn’t masculine enough, she noticed that his jaw was dark with five o’clock shadow. It gave him a dangerous look that set off a fluttering sensation in her stomach. Again her survival instincts were telling her to run, but this time for a different reason.

      “So,” Gavin said, folding his hands on the desk. “Thanks for coming. Can I ask what changed your mind?”

      She wanted to tell him he was free to ask, but she didn’t have to answer. Except, given her firm, outspoken objection to his offer, it was a fair question. That didn’t mean he was entitled to the whole truth. “Let’s just call it a moment of weakness.”

      He studied her for several seconds, then shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. The point is you’re here. And I’m grateful.”

      Don’t be, she wanted to say. “Sean’s injury was to the left side of his brain,” she said, getting straight to the point. They had no reason to do small talk.

      “Yes. How did you know?”

      “That’s where language function is controlled.”

      Gavin nodded and his expression was grim. “He used to be a chatterbox.”

      “With TBI, or traumatic brain injury,” she added, although probably he’d heard the term more than he wanted, “the jolt to the head disrupts brain function and it isn’t just language that’s affected.”

      “The doctor told me.”

      “Did he also make you aware that reading, social skills such as impulse control, gauging consequences for a behavior and acting out because of frustration can also be affected by the injury?”

      He nodded. “Medically, Sean’s come as far as he can.”

      “Do you have a prognosis?”

      “The neurologist feels that with cognitive and physical therapy, Sean has a good chance to regain brain function lost due to the trauma.”

      “Good. I’ll need to do a series of tests on Sean to see where he is, then work up a treatment plan.”

      “Okay.”

      She knew a therapist was the driving force in treatment. But, like a general, she needed to martial all the forces at her disposal. She needed to know who she could count on. “Gavin, clearly you’re dedicated to Sean’s care. What about Sean’s mother? Will she—”

      “She won’t be involved,” he snapped. M.J. almost shivered at the ice-cold tone of his voice. “You should know that TBI kids typically progress faster when both parents become involved in the process.”

      “Sean’s mother doesn’t have any contact with him.”

      “I see.”

      “I doubt it.” His gaze narrowed.

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