At The Millionaire's Request. Teresa Southwick

take long as she barely reached his shoulder. Her hair was fine and straight, a center part sending the silken strands to frame her small face. Her too long bangs caught in the thick, dark lashes framing her big blue eyes—eyes that tilted up, catlike at the corners, which was the only striking thing about her. She was slender, delicate and almost fragile-looking.

      He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but when a woman was a man’s first, best hope, he wanted someone more…more something. Wings, a halo and the ability to walk on water would be a definite plus. He’d figured taller, too. Then he noticed the red mark just forming below her eye and anger surged through him all over again.

      He cupped her cheek in his palm and gently probed the area beginning to swell. “This needs ice. Are you really all right?”

      Her beautiful eyes widened as she quickly backed away. “I’m fine,” she said. “And grateful that you were here.” Then she stared at him. “Why are you here?”

      “I’m looking for M. J. Taylor.”

      “You found her. And you are?”

      “Gavin Spencer.”

      She looked puzzled. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Do you have a student in one of my classes?”

      He wanted to ask if he looked old enough to have a child in high school but decided he didn’t want her to confirm it. What he’d been through with Sean had most certainly aged him. Instead he let his gaze wander over water stains in the acoustical ceiling and numerous desktop carvings in the thirty or so desks lined up in rows. This classroom was pretty grim.

      “The real question is, why are you here? From what I just saw, tax money would be better spent on pepper spray and self-defense lessons than books and computers.”

      She laughed and it was a lovely sound. The shadows disappeared from the depths of her blue eyes.

      “It’s really not that bad. I like working with teenagers. They’re funny and spontaneous. Today was just one of those days. An argument over a girl. Something happened at lunch.” One slender shoulder rose in a shrug. “Teenage passion mixed with an abundance of hormones is not a pretty sight. Most of the time those two are actually quite pleasant and bright,” she said, glancing at the door where the teenagers had disappeared.

      “You sub for them a lot?”

      “I’m a permanent substitute. I know. It’s an oxymoron. I’m taking over the class for a teacher who recently had a baby.”

      Suddenly the sparkle was gone and the shadows returned, and he wondered why.

      “What frightens me the most is that those two will be making the decisions about our welfare when we’re in our declining years,” he said.

      “One hopes not those two in particular,” she said, the corners of her lips curving up.

      “You should do that more often.”

      “What?”

      “Laugh. Smile.”

      Again the amusement disappeared and she was all seriousness. And sadness. “Training the next generation—our caretakers—is no laughing matter.”

      “So why do you do it?”

      “I have to make a living.”

      Everyone did. But he’d learned the hard way that if you had a lot of it, you became a target for the unscrupulous and morally challenged who wanted it. “You don’t have to make a living like this,” he said, glancing around again.

      “That’s presumptuous.” Her gaze narrowed warily as she studied him. “You never answered my question. Are you here about a student?”

      “I’m here because you’re a speech pathologist.”

      “How did you know that?” she asked sharply.

      “Dr. McKnight gave me your name.” Gavin saw recognition in her expression, which told him she knew the neurologist.

      “I was a speech therapist. Now I’m a teacher.”

      “A substitute,” he pointed out. “Why?”

      “I got burned out. This is less intense.”

      “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that fight was pretty intense.” He looked around her classroom, then met her gaze. “Playing referee is better than helping children?”

      “I believe I’m still helping children. But none of that is any of your business. So, Mr. Spencer, unless you have a student in my class that you want to discuss, I think we’re finished—”

      “I want to discuss a student. But he’s not in your class. He’s my son and he’s in Kristin Hunter’s first-grade class.”

      “I know her reputation. He’s in good hands and couldn’t be in a better school.”

      Gavin knew that. It’s one of the reasons he’d bought his central California estate, Cliff House. He didn’t want his son in private school as he’d been. And all his research about the area had confirmed that Northbridge Elementary was the best. There were things he couldn’t give Sean—like a mother—because he’d taken steps to make sure the scheming opportunist who’d borne him a son would be out of their lives forever. But Gavin had grown up without benefit of maternal influence and he’d turned out okay. Sean would, too. There was no doubt in his mind. Because his boy had been doing great, until that terrible day—

      “It is a good school,” he agreed, pushing away the painful image.

      “He’s a lucky little boy.”

      Not so much, Gavin thought. If luck were involved, Sean would have been undamaged by the accident. But he was damaged and he needed therapy. Gavin intended to see that he got it.

      “My son suffered a fall that resulted in traumatic brain injury. It changed him. He needs therapy, Miss Taylor, and you come highly recommended. From all accounts, you’re the best.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer—”

      “Gavin.”

      “I don’t do that anymore. I can’t help your son.” She turned away and walked over to the desk. After opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder.

      Before she could walk out the door, he curled his fingers around her upper arm to stop her. “Wait. You’ve made up your mind? Just like that?”

      Surprised, she looked up at him, then at his hand, and he removed it. “Not just like that. There’s no decision to make. I’m retired from the profession. Goodbye.”

      “I don’t get it.”

      “School is over for today. I’m leaving now. It’s customary to say goodbye.”

      “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m told you have a gift for connecting with children. But you’re turning your back. And you won’t explain why?”

      “I don’t owe you an explanation.” But there was sympathy in her expression when she added, “I’m sorry about your son. I truly hope you find someone for his therapy and that he makes a full recovery.”

      “I’ve already found someone,” he pointed out.

      “Not the right someone. I can’t help him.”

      “That’s not what I heard.”

      “Then you heard wrong.”

      M.J. had been fine, making real progress putting her life back together. Until Gavin Spencer. Two days ago she’d seen the sorrow and anguish in his eyes when he talked about his son. Sorrow and anguish. She knew them well, along with gut-wrenching grief. At least Gavin Spencer’s son was still on this earth. Pain tightened in her chest when she thought about her own son. Her Brian. Her sweet boy. She missed him terribly.

      Still.