Ordinary Girl, Millionaire Tycoon. Darlene Gardner

she caught her breath.

      It was nearly five o’clock, and the proverbial shadow darkened his jaw. She had the insane urge to rub her cheek against the stubble, to touch his slightly fuller lower lip with her fingertips to see if it was as soft as it looked.

      Because she wore a pair of clunky black dress shoes, there was no more than two or three inches difference in their heights.

      If he lowered his head, or she raised hers, their lips would meet. Their eyes locked. His were a light brown that reminded her of caramel. If he tried to kiss her, she’d let him. He exhaled, and she felt his breath warm against her mouth. Her breath snagged in her lungs.

      “Have dinner with me this weekend,” he urged.

      She didn’t have to think about her answer. “Yes.”

      His lips curved, and his mouth, with that sensuous lower lip, moved closer.

      The horn of her car blared. She jumped, banging her forehead against his nose.

      “Ow,” he said, his hand going to the offended body part.

      “Sorry,” she said, rubbing her forehead.

      They both turned toward the sound. Joey sat at the steering wheel, a playful grin on his face. She waved an admonishing, unsteady finger at him. He crawled into the passenger’s seat and pressed his face flush against the window so his features looked distorted.

      Tony laughed his intoxicating laugh. “That must be your son’s way of making sure we don’t forget about him. He’s invited to dinner, too, by the way.”

      The magic had gone out of the moment, allowing Kaylee to think more clearly. She could easily make an excuse, begging off dinner on the grounds that she’d come to her senses.

      “When?” she asked.

      “How’s tomorrow night? At about six o’clock.”

      “To be safe, we should make it a little later. I’m going to call a Realtor in the morning. Hopefully Joey and I can spend the afternoon looking for a place to live.”

      “Why don’t you hold off on making that call and let me help you find a place?”

      She blinked in surprise, then realized how little she knew about him. “Are you a Realtor?”

      He shook his head. “I run a company called Security Solutions.”

      “You’re a private eye?”

      He laughed, touching her arm. Her body leaned toward his, seemingly of its own accord. “It’s online security. I developed a protocol that verifies the identity of remote users.”

      “What does that mean in plain English?”

      “It means the businesses that use my protocol can be sure the information they exchange online is secure, whether it be a transaction or a business plan.”

      “And in your spare time, you help single mothers find places to live?”

      He grinned, showing even white teeth. “Exactly. I already told you, I grew up here. I’ve got connections. You can’t afford to house hunt without me.”

      “You already know of a place for rent?” she guessed.

      “I know the owner, too. Why don’t I pick you up tomorrow around ten and I’ll show it to you?”

      The corners of his dark eyes crinkled, and she nearly staggered under the power of his smile. She could come to depend on a man like this in a hurry. Even though that would be unwise, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse his help. Not when she wanted it so very much.

      “All right. But I’d rather pick you up,” she said. That way she’d have her car and some vestige of independence. “All I need is an address.”

      He gave it to her, and she committed it to memory. The horn blared again. Joey sat in the passenger seat doing a terrible job of looking innocent.

      “I think the native is getting restless,” she said and went around the car to the driver’s side. She opened the door, then looked at him over the roof of the car and smiled. “This is crazy, but I don’t even know your last name.”

      He smiled back. “It’s Donatelli.”

      She might have staggered if she hadn’t been holding on to the door frame. She felt like her body was on autopilot as she lowered herself into position behind the steering wheel and tried to process the new information.

      Donatelli was a common Italian surname. Just because Tony shared it with Sofia Donatelli didn’t necessarily mean he was the stepson she’d mentioned on the television broadcast.

      But when she cross-checked the address Tony had given her in the white pages of the phone book, Kaylee already knew that Sofia’s name would appear.

      That meant Tony Donatelli wasn’t merely a hot guy she’d met at a restaurant. He was a hot guy who could very well be her stepbrother.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      TONY WHISTLED to himself as he turned his rental car into the middle-class neighborhood where he’d grown up, already looking forward to seeing Kaylee and her son the next day.

      He’d briefly considered asking her to dinner tonight before remembering that Sofia was planning a special meal. His stepmother seemed to think she had to make up for serving takeout fettuccini alfredo the night before, even though Nunzio’s made the dish with a recipe she’d invented.

      No matter. Tomorrow was soon enough.

      He drove by modest brick houses with shingle roofs and yards that looked amazingly like they had twenty years ago. The Stewarts still needed to prune their trees, the Walkowskis’ house could benefit from a paint job and the Pagiossis still had the best-kept lawn in town.

      He didn’t stop whistling until he drew even with the Medfords. Something was wrong. He did a double-take. The For Rent sign he’d seen yesterday was no longer there.

      “Aw, hell,” he said.

      It figured that his friend Will, who happened to be a real estate agent, was out of town on a long weekend. But Sofia had contacts. Maybe she knew of another place for rent.

      He parked, walked up the sidewalk and stepped over the automated doormat before unlocking the door and punching in a code to disable the new security system Sofia had installed.

      All the while, he tried not to let the old memories blindside him. It was no use. They came rushing at him like a powerful wave, the same way they did every time he entered the house.

      It was probably because of the silly doormat his father had invented. An elevated contraption with ground-level machinery, it was supposed to suction dirt off the soles of shoes through tiny holes in the mat. Most of the time, the holes were clogged.

      Anthony Donatelli, Sr., had been dead for two years, but a part of Tony still expected him to appear and excitedly fill him in on his latest idea that would make them all rich.

      The majority of the time, his father’s ideas had been clunkers, but Tony had to concede his father had the seeds of a few ideas that had turned out to be moneymakers. For other people.

      His father’s predictions of striking it rich had been nothing but bluster. He’d always failed, either in the developing or marketing phase.

      Tony used to wonder how Sofia could listen to his father blather about the Next Big Thing. He never understood why she’d cheerfully supported them while his father had dreamed away his days.

      Tony rubbed at his forehead, trying to banish the memories.

      “Sofia. I’m ho…here,” he called.

      “You don’t have to break my eardrums, dear. I’m right here.”

      Sofia was descending the staircase dressed in a short-sleeved red sweater that complemented her Mediterranean coloring.