Taking Home The Tycoon. Catherine Mann

decor. A vintage map of the world was sprawled above the four-poster bed, and other travel accents—an old camera, repurposed suitcases—punctuated the room.

      He glanced at his watch and was shocked. Somehow the setup of his mobile workstation had taken him a few hours—it was nearing midnight. He needed to stretch.

      Pacing around his room, he made his way to the far corner to the window. He scanned the area, noting the play of shadows in the yard...and someone on the wrought iron bench beneath the oak tree.

      Natalie.

      Natalie beneath the tree with a glass of wine looking as relaxed and natural as a wood sprite.

      There. That was his opening. She sat under the oak, her strawberry blond hair soaking up the moon glow. Serene and unguarded. Filled with an urgency to talk to her, he started down the stairs.

      Careful to close the door behind him without a sound, he strode toward her, his feet drawn to her before he even figured out what the hell he was doing here. “Do your guests get wine?”

      A smile formed on his lips as she turned to find the source of his voice.

      She tilted her head back and forth, an exaggeration that exposed the length of her neck and the grace of her movements. Eyebrows raised, she looked at him and lifted her glass. “I’m not sure my grocery-store vintage is up to your elite standards.”

      “How do you know what my vino standards are?” he returned, just as playfully, taking a seat next to her.

      Natalie pursed her lips, folded her legs into the lotus position and turned to face him on the bench. “Seriously? Someone with your income?” She took another sip and held her glass up to the moonlight as if to examine its nuances. “You wouldn’t pick this.”

      “Maybe it wouldn’t be my first choice, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy a glass. Well, unless maybe you have beer instead.”

      She laughed softly, lowly. “I guess I did offer you a place to stay as my part of thanking you for helping with this cyberwacko.” She started to push herself up from the bench. “I have four left from a six-pack of beer in the fridge. It was for Tom Knox when his family visited.”

      He put his hand on her wrist. “You don’t need to wait on me. I can get my own beer. If you don’t mind me reaching around in your fridge, that is.”

      She sank back down. “I’m more than happy to rest my feet.”

      Max went back inside to the kitchen. The cabinets were painted white, a vibe reminiscent of the 1970s. A beautiful orchid was placed on the kitchen table—vibrant violet.

      He made his way to the stout yellow fridge and popped it open. An array of juice boxes and snacks covered the shelves. After some shuffling, he found a beer and headed back outside.

      Earlier today, covered in flour, Natalie had been enchanting. Sitting beneath this tree, drenched in starlight and moonlight, she was ethereal. Her hair, loose, natural, rested elegantly on her slender shoulders.

      Damn. He should have gotten two beers. No going back now. Opening the bottle, he sat down next to her. She lifted her glass and he clinked his bottle against her drink. “Cheers, Natalie. To solving a mystery.”

      “To altruistic millionaires.” She laughed, then sipped her wine.

      Billionaire. But he didn’t think that would do much to advance his cause of getting closer to her.

      Was that what he was doing?

      Hell, yes, he wanted to taste her. Right now he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted...anything.

      He took a swig of his beer, the hoppy flavor settling on his palate.

      In this moment, underneath the stars and tree limbs, Natalie seemed so easygoing, so much less guarded than she had that afternoon. “Glad you found your brew.”

      “It was tough at first, tucked behind the juice boxes.”

      She laughed, choked a little on a sip of wine, then pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth. “Sorry about that. I should have warned you.”

      “Not a problem. You’re a mom. I figure juice boxes come with the territory.” Natalie just nodded in response, staring out toward the road.

      A night orchestra filled the space between them. Low chirps of active crickets, the occasional rustle of a slight autumn wind through the branches. In the distance, he could hear car tires rolling over the mixture of dirt and pavement. No wonder she liked this time of night. “Your kids are cute. Your daughter sure is a little chatterbox.”

      “I think sometimes she is filling in the blanks for her brother.” She stared into her glass, lightly swirling the wine along the sides of the crystal. “My son’s been diagnosed on the spectrum for autism.”

      “I’m sorry.” Her sudden desire to share this private moment struck a chord with Max. As if by instinct, his hand went to hers and he squeezed it reassuringly, noting the way she squeezed back. Max brought his hand back to his side, aware of the absence of warmth.

      “I’m just glad we got the diagnosis. Early intervention is key to giving him the most life has to offer. Actually, that’s true for any child. Proactive parenting.”

      “And you’re doing it alone.”

      “I am, which doesn’t leave me any free time. You need to understand that.”

      “You’re a superb mother. You don’t need to ever apologize for that.” Another swig of beer. As he swallowed, he tried to push his own childhood back to the dark morass of his mind. When he was six, his mother had abandoned him. No explanation. Just gone. He became yet another child of the foster care system, cycling through homes, but never finding a permanent place. Never finding a family of his own. Unadoptable. All these years later, the label and reality still stung.

      “We’re training Miss Molly to help Colby in a number of ways.” She combed her fingers through her hair as she turned to face him.

      He shifted to face her, closer, as if the rest of the world was outside their pocket of space here. “Like a service dog?”

      “Eventually. Right now she would qualify as an ESA—emotional support animal. However, there’s no public access with that, but Colby’s doctors can quantify how she helps ease his panic attacks. With training, we hope to hone that to where she can assist him in school, the store, and make so many more places accessible to him. My son is also quite the escape artist, so it helps having Miss Molly stick close to him. She barks when we call, even if he won’t answer.”

      “I don’t mean to sound dense, but why not just get a dog that’s already trained?” Parenting, along with the world of disability and service animals, felt like a foreign language to him, but he was eager to learn more.

      “The waiting list for most agencies is one to two years, if they’ll even partner a dog with a child as young as Colby. Few groups will. We didn’t have a lot of options left to us in this arena.” He took in the slump in her spine, her downcast eyes and the pain pulsing in her tight-lipped smile.

      He scooted closer to her, raised her chin. Shining emerald eyes met his, and a deep exhale passed from her lips to his receding hand. “But you investigated. You found answers.”

      Natalie the fighter. Natalie the woman who didn’t quit. He admired that.

      “Of course. We worked with the trainer and with Megan at the local shelter. They were fantastic in identifying a dog with potential for the job.”

      “That’s impressive.”

      She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “There’s always the chance Miss Molly won’t be able to complete the training to the level we hope. That’s a risk with any dog in training. But we’re already getting some help with Colby now in the way she offers comfort and sticks close to him. And we’re committed to keeping her regardless of how far she progresses in her ability to learn.”