The Millionaire's Wish. Abigail Strom

      “Won’t you at least think about what I’ve said? It wouldn’t kill you to date a woman of character for once.”

      Rick smiled at the old-fashioned phrase. “And what would a ‘woman of character’ want with me?” He’d meant it as a joke, but his voice sounded a little bitter in his own ears.

      His grandmother sighed. “If you don’t know the answer already, it won’t do any good to tell you. I’m sorry about Hunter Hall, dear, but I need to believe that this house will echo with the voices of children someday.”

      Rick looked at the opposite wall, where the original advertisement for “Magician’s Labyrinth” hung in a mahogany frame. He’d modeled the magician’s house after Hunter Hall, and the image had been part of the game’s cover art ever since.

      “It’s your house, Gran. You can do whatever you want with it.”

      “I just wish you’d consider—”

      “Yeah. I have to get back to work, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

      But he didn’t get back to work. He leaned back in his chair, frowning at his spreadsheet without really seeing it.

      Maybe this was for the best. Wanting something you couldn’t achieve through your own efforts was a weakness, and Rick had never tolerated weakness.

      His paperweight was a replica of the magician’s house carved out of stone, a gift from his gaming programmers a few years ago. He picked it up now, feeling the smooth, compact weight of it in his palm.

      The thought of losing Hunter Hall made something clench inside him, as if his internal organs were being put through a wringer. His grip tightened. The peaks of the roof cut into his skin, and he knew this one childhood dream still had a hold on him.

      His private line lit up. He set the paperweight back down on his desk and put his assistant on speaker. “What is it, Carol?”

      “I’m sending a woman in to see you.” She sounded irritated, but then she always did. After six years, he still wasn’t sure if the irritation was for the world in general or him in particular.

      He frowned. “You know I’m preparing for the product review tomorrow. Who is it you want to send in?”

      “Someone from that foundation. The one that runs the Wish Upon a Star program.”

      He felt a twinge of guilt. That girl—Jenny or Julie or something. She was undergoing cancer treatment, and she wanted to meet him. Her request had come in a letter from a nonprofit agency, explaining who they were and what they did, and asking if they could arrange a hospital visit on the girl’s behalf.

      “I told you to decline their request and send them a check.”

      “Which I did, mon capitaine. But someone has come in person to speak with you about the matter. A Ms. Allison Landry.”

      “Ms. Landry is out of luck. Send her on her way.”

      “No.”

      His eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean, no?”

      “Look, boss. There may be assistants out there who could turn away a righteous woman trying to help a girl with cancer, but I am not one of them. I’m sending Ms. Landry in.”

      Rick felt another twinge of guilt, but he refused to give in to it. He had no desire to visit a cancer ward and his reasons were no one’s business. And he’d had it up to here with righteous women today, between his grandmother and Carol and now this latest interruption.

      He pictured her as a woman with iron gray hair and an iron gray demeanor, and the thought of her invading his inner sanctum and scowling at him in disapproval was too damn irritating to deal with.

      “I’m in a bad mood. If she comes in here I’ll just snarl at her.”

      Carol snorted. “This one can take it. She’ll snarl right back.”

      Definitely iron gray.

      Rick sighed. “Fine. Go ahead and send her in.”

      He barely had time to rise to his feet before his door opened and Allison Landry stepped into his office.

      Never in his life had a preconceived image been so off the mark. The woman coming toward him was hardly more than a girl—a girl whose short, silky haircut made her look like an angry pixie.

      She had a pixie’s body, too—at least what he could see of it. Her slender, understated curves weren’t exactly showcased by her jeans and flannel shirt.

      This was not a woman who used her appearance to get what she wanted. She didn’t even wear makeup, he noted as she came to a halt in front of his desk, her eyes blazing and her cheeks flushed.

      Not that she needed it. She had perfect skin—so clear and smooth he found himself wondering if it could possibly feel as soft as it looked.

      Her eyes didn’t need any help, either. They were the color of—what was the name of that stone? Lapis lazuli? And fringed by eyelashes so thick they were like tiny black fans.

      Her mouth … her mouth was pretty good too. Wide and full and sweet, even with the corners turned down as she registered her obvious dislike of everything about him.

      She looked mad as hell. And the fact that he was a rich and powerful CEO was not going to stop her from telling him about it.

      Allison rode her wave of anger right into the executive office. And there was Rick Hunter, rising to his feet to meet her, every hair in place and with no hint of stubble along his jaw.

      He was all business, exuding the same power and sophistication as the mahogany and leather furniture that had probably set him back what Allison paid in office rent for a year. She couldn’t even imagine what the suit cost. She’d always thought that computer executives had a more casual look, but Rick Hunter obviously preferred formality.

      Probably because it kept people at a distance.

      “Mr. Hunter,” she began coldly. “I came here to—”

      He came around to the front of his desk, and she backed up a pace or two before she could stop herself. He was tall, about eight inches taller than her five foot six, and the difference made her feel at a disadvantage. “You’re from the Star Foundation?” he asked.

      “I’m the director. And I—”

      “The director?” He leaned back against his desk. “You look about eighteen.”

      “I’m twenty-seven,” she said in a voice like ice. “Want to see my driver’s license?”

      A corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s all right. I believe you.” He studied her for a moment, his green eyes appraising. “You’re here because I turned down that girl’s request. I suppose you think I owe you an apology.”

      Her spine stiffened. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, and I’m not interested in an apology. I’m only interested in knowing when you’re going to visit Julie. I know you’re a busy professional with demands on your time—” she didn’t even try to curb the sarcasm in her voice “—and that the request of a stranger doesn’t loom large on your to-do list. Especially when it would involve spending an entire hour devoted to something other than business or your own pleasure—”

      He raised his hands, palms out. “Slow down, Ms. Landry. I don’t—”

      “And I’m sure you’re not used to sacrificing even that much time to make someone else happy. But if you had any idea what these kids go through on a daily basis—the hell their families live through—”

      “I do,” he said roughly, and when she stopped in surprise, staring at him, he looked away. That was actually a relief, as she found herself strangely distracted by those green eyes, which the photographer, good as he or she had been, hadn’t done justice to.

      “I