Big-city Bachelor. Ingrid Weaver

and stepfather still live in Packenham Corners?”

      “Junction,” she corrected. “Packenham Corners is on the other side of the county line.”

      “Sorry.”

      “That’s okay,” she said generously. “Lots of folks get them mixed up. Anyhow, my stepfather, Warren Pedley, still lives on the family farm about ten miles from town, but my mother died the year after she married Warren.”

      He sat forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs as he cradled his cup between his hands. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

      She shook her head, not wanting to remember those dark years of her adolescence. “The Pedleys were wonderful. They always made me feel like one of the family.”

      “And in return, you tried to pay them back by being helpful,” he said.

      The accuracy of his insight startled her. They had met less than two hours ago, yet he had zeroed in on one of the major reasons her life had taken the direction it had. She studied him over the rim of her cup. Maybe there was more to him than a pretty face.

      Of course he was more than a pretty face, she thought, exasperated with herself for dwelling on his appearance. The success exhibited by the luxury of the Whitmore and Hamill offices, as well as the famous ads and slew of awards that were displayed on the walls, made it obvious that there had to be plenty of intelligence behind those brown bedroom eyes.

      “I suppose you’re right,” she continued. “I still like to help them out, but instead of baby-sitting them, I baby-sit their children. Except for my youngest stepbrother. He’s a long way from settling down and raising a family of his own.” She heard the wistful note in her voice and shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, with so many nieces and nephews to love, he could be happy just the way he is.”

      “You sound as if you’re still very close to your family.”

      “Oh, yes. We’re not blood relatives, but we’re still close.” Her gaze strayed back to the photo of the twins. “You’re very fortunate to have two sons. They look like fine children.”

      “Thank you.”

      Suddenly she realized what should have been obvious at her first glance of Alex’s children. It had taken two people to produce those boys. That meant they had a mother, too.

      She glanced at the large, capable-looking hands that clasped his coffee cup. There was no sign of a gold band on any of those long fingers, but that was no guarantee these days.

      Was Alex married?

      Not that it should make one whit of difference to her, of course. So it was simply polite curiosity, from one business partner to another, that prompted her to ask the next question. “Does your wife take care of the children while you work?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “As a day care provider myself, I was simply wondering who’s taking care of Jason and Daniel.”

      “My housekeeper, Mrs. Gray. She’s been with us for the past few months.”

      Simple curiosity, she told herself again. “I know several working couples who would prefer to have someone in their home like that.”

      “Mrs. Gray certainly keeps things running smoothly.”

      “What kind of work does your wife do?” she asked, abandoning her attempts at subtlety.

      “I’m not exactly sure what Tiffany does these days. Right now she’s in Europe.”

      Well, that answered her question. Sort of. “I see.”

      “We divorced three years ago, Lizzie. She’s on her honeymoon with her new husband.”

      She felt a blush warm her cheeks. Darn. He’d probably known what she was angling to find out all along. “I’m sorry.”

      He lifted his shoulders in a shrug that would appear casual if it weren’t for the way his knuckles whitened on his coffee cup. “These things happen. One learns from one’s mistakes.”

      She felt a stirring of sympathy for him, coupled with a strange urge to reach out and cover his hands with hers. Instead, she placed her empty cup on the table beside her and laced her fingers in her lap. “So,” she said in a blatant attempt to change the subject, “how did you get into the advertising business, Alex?”

      The flash of white knuckles disappeared as if it had never been. His charming smile was firmly back in place. “The art of persuasion has interested me from the time I finished college. After my first position with an advertising firm evaporated when the company failed, I decided to establish my own agency.”

      “Is that when you met my uncle?”

      “Yes, we met through a mutual acquaintance. Roland and I formed a partnership and the rest, as they say, is history.”

      She suspected there was probably a lot more to the story, but before she could form her next question, there was a quiet knock on the open door.

      Alex glanced over his shoulder, then rose to his feet. “Hello, Jeremy.”

      The man who walked into the room looked exactly as Lizzie would have expected from hearing his voice on the phone. At least this wasn’t a surprise, she thought wryly.

      Jeremy Ebbet was a few inches short of six feet and a few pounds shy of filling out the shoulders of his pinstriped suit. His hair was dark blond and thinning and his face bore the long-suffering worry lines of a farmer in a drought. After shaking hands with Lizzie and exchanging a few stilted pleasantries, he sat on the edge of the chair beside Alex, set his briefcase on his knees like a grasshopper with a wheat husk and clicked open the lid.

      “We appreciate your willingness to clear up this situation so promptly, Miss Hamill,” he said, adjusting his steel-rimmed glasses with a poke of his index finger.

      Alex crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair while he listened to Jeremy set the second phase of their plan into motion.

      As Alex had advised him, Jeremy emphasized how Roland hadn’t been involved with Whitmore and Hamill for years, and how the company had been running profitably under Alex’s sole control. Lizzie nodded, already prepared for this by the carefully chosen comments Alex had made during their tour.

      “Your uncle was in the process of negotiating the sale of his shares when he met with his tragic accident,” Jeremy said, withdrawing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and passing them to Lizzie. “Here’s a copy of our offer.”

      She nibbled on her lower lip as she concentrated on reading, drawing Alex’s attention to her mouth yet again. Her generous, ready-to-break-into-a-smile mouth. Alex had been distracted by it unexpectedly throughout the course of the afternoon. Especially when it had curved with a touch of wistful sweetness while she’d been looking at the picture of his sons.

      Damn. She might be going about it in a completely different manner, but if he didn’t maintain control of his thoughts, in her own way Lizzie might prove to be as disruptive to the smooth course of his life as her uncle had been.

      Yet another reason to close this deal and get her on a plane back to Packenham Corners. No, Junction. Whatever.

      “As you can see,” Jeremy continued, “we have substituted your name for Roland’s, since you are now the sole owner of his fifty percent.”

      She stopped nibbling and pursed her lips in a whispered whistle.

      The pucker made Alex think about kissing. He shifted in his chair and focused on her hand, the one that would hold a pen.

      “Is that what my shares are worth?” she asked in a voice that approached a squeak.

      “It’s an excellent offer,” Jeremy said.

      “Lord love a duck.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I