Life With Riley. Laurey Bright

the dashboard and parked a briefcase in front of his feet, giving Riley an appraising glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Going somewhere special?” he asked, eyeing the neat skirt and blouse.

      Riley put the car into gear. “Maybe a job interview.”

      “What are you looking for?”

      “Anything, really.” If she didn’t find a second job soon she’d have to give up her car. But without a car she couldn’t make it to the day care center in time after leaving her class, meaning she’d have no job at all and no money. “Something with flexible hours that pays well, if I had a choice.”

      “You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”

      Riley turned to look at him for a moment. “Artist?”

      “Yesterday you were covered in paint. I thought…”

      She laughed. “The artist is three years old. He wasn’t too sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be painting—me, himself, or the paper I’d given him to do his picture on.”

      She slowed at the intersection to look for oncoming traffic, swung out of the cul-de-sac and changed gear again. Benedict was gazing through the windscreen at the oncoming traffic but probably thinking of something else.

      “Are you married?” he asked her as she accelerated.

      Riley threw him a startled look before returning her eyes to the road. “No.” She’d asked him the same thing yesterday, she recalled.

      A car shot out of a driveway ahead of them, and she flattened the brake. Benedict was jerked against his seat belt, the newspaper falling from the dashboard.

      “Sorry,” Riley gasped as the engine stalled.

      “Not your fault. Bloody idiot,” he added as the other car roared off ahead of them.

      “Yes,” Riley agreed. “There are lots of them around.” Restarting the engine, she added, “And please don’t say anything about pots calling kettles black.”

      “Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Benedict assured her blandly. He bent to pick up the newspaper, looking at the headlines. “So…what’s the three-year-old artist’s name?”

      She thought he’d forgotten all about that remark. “Tamati. He’s quite a sweetie.” Her lips curved affectionately. “Bit of a mischief if you don’t keep him occupied, though.”

      From the corner of her eye she saw his swift glance at her. “Tamati…Maori?”

      “Mmm, his father’s Maori.” She slowed at a corner, peering carefully for other traffic before accelerating again.

      “Uh-huh.” Benedict unfolded the paper so he could read the front page. Later he turned to other pages, careful to fold them out of her way. By the time they reached his office building he’d read the main news and was perusing the business section.

      When he made to fold it and gather up the rest, she said, “Do you want the Situations Vacant pages?”

      “No. Do you?”

      “If you can spare them, thanks.”

      “Have the lot, I’ve finished with it.” He placed it on the dashboard again.

      “Thanks. I’ll be here at five-thirty,” she promised. “Okay?”

      “Look, you don’t really need—”

      “I feel bad about your car, and it’s the least I can do, especially since you’re willing to take your money in installments.”

      “All right,” Benedict said at last, but his voice sounded clipped and distant. “If you insist.”

      When she fetched him, he nodded to her as he got in, not commenting on the fact that she was back in jeans and a T-shirt. She had made sure her face was clean and retied her hair but, anxious not to be late again, hadn’t taken the time to change out of her work clothes. Benedict Falkner had already seen how she looked at the end of an afternoon helping to keep twenty children stimulated and happy. And anyway, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she?

      As she merged the Corona into a stream of traffic, he reached for his briefcase, then apparently changed his mind, sitting back and folding his arms.

      “If you want to work,” she said, “it’s okay.”

      For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. “Right. I should.”

      He opened the briefcase and hauled out a folder filled with papers, flipping through it and making notes on the pages with a pencil.

      “What do you actually do?” she asked after a while, unable to stem her curiosity completely. “I mean, what does your firm do?”

      “Telecommunications and electronics, mainly,” he answered, not looking up from the papers on his knee.

      “We import parts, and design and build custom-made systems.”

      “Computers?”

      “Industrial computers and communication systems. Not personal computers.” He made another note on the page before him.

      “And you’re the executive director. Impressive.”

      He gave a crack of laughter. “When you own the company you can give yourself any impressive title you like.”

      Riley slowed for an intersection, then accelerated smoothly. “Is it a family business?”

      He looked a little grim for a second. “You could say that—except I’m the only family I have.”

      “Did you inherit it?”

      “No. I started from scratch.”

      He must have had a family once. Maybe he’d inherited capital. But maybe not. Despite the civilized suits and the expensive car and house, there was an edge to him, a toughness that showed through now and then and that she suspected he hadn’t got from a cushioned life and a cultured education. “So how did you get to where you are today?”

      He laughed again. “Hard work, low cunning and a certain amount of luck. But mainly it’s a matter of setting goals and remaining focused. I knew what I wanted and how to get it, and didn’t allow myself to be distracted by side issues.”

      Or let anything stand in his way, she guessed, a little chilled. “What did you want?”

      “To be a millionaire before I was thirty,” he said calmly.

      He couldn’t be much more than that now. He must have been driven, and she wondered where such single-minded, naked ambition came from. “When did you decide that?”

      “I was eighteen.”

      Riley shook her head in wonder. “When I was eighteen I had no idea what I wanted.” Except her independence from a loving but sometimes annoyingly protective family who had spent years trying to instill caution into her impulsive spirit. Eager to try her wings, see the world and pay her own way, she’d been restless, never settling, not knowing what she was searching for until she landed in New Zealand and knew she’d found her natural home. Or rather, rediscovered it.

      “What about now?” Benedict asked.

      “I’m studying to teach English as a second language.” She had finally settled on a career path that excited her and promised a sense of purpose and usefulness, and the stimulation of interacting with people from many cultures.

      “You didn’t say you were a student when I asked if you had a job.”

      “You didn’t ask.” He’d seemed more interested in whether she was earning enough to repay him for the damage to his car.

      “You must have a busy life. Study and part-time work, as well as—”

      He was interrupted by a low burring sound close