The Mummy Proposal. Cathy Gillen Thacker

fine brow arched. “When my work at your place is done, I’m done with the whole situation.”

      Nate lifted his hands in surrender. “No problem.”

      Her pert chin angled higher. “Two, if the boys don’t get along, they won’t be forced to hang out together.”

      Nate agreed readily. “All right.”

      “Three. My son, Cole, is already enrolled for the summer in a prestigious academic day camp that focuses on computer skills, and he’s going to go.”

      Nate had been involved in organized activities—mostly academic—every summer when he was a kid, too, and always enjoyed them. “That might be good for Landry, as well.”

      “If you can get him in, it probably would be great for him,” Brooke agreed. “And four, I make no guarantee how this will all work out. Except to say that you will be pleased with how your home looks when the redecoration is complete.”

      Nate admired her confidence. Curious, and more than a little intrigued by the beautiful and accomplished woman in front of him, he asked, “How do you know that?” She hadn’t even seen the property or heard what he had in mind.

      Brooke’s radiant smile lit up the room. “When it comes to my work, I never give up until the customer is completely satisfied.”

      Chapter Two

      “Not exactly child-friendly, is it?” Brooke observed, walking through Nate Hutchinson’s multimillion-dollar residence an hour later.

      The ten-thousand-square-foot abode had a postmodern edge to it. Everything was black or white. Glass tables and lamps abounded, as did expensive statues and paintings. The overall impression she got was sleek, cold and sterile.

      Nate shrugged. “It’s an investment. I bought it as is. It can all be changed.”

      He glanced over at Landry and his great-grandmother. The teen was glumly inspecting the marble-floored foyer and sweeping staircase. Jessalyn was sitting wearily in the formal library, off to the left. Cane in hand, she kept a worried gaze on the boy. Probably wondering, Brooke thought, if Landry was going to be able to accept his new living arrangements.

      “Obviously,” Nate continued, oblivious to the concerned nature of Brooke’s thoughts, “we’ll set a budget that is appropriate for the scope and scale of this house.” He paused, close enough now that she took in the fragrance of his soap, cologne and heady male essence. “I’m going to need it done as quickly as possible. Two weeks, at the outside.”

      Brooke shook off the tantalizing fragrance of leather and spice. “That’s a tall order.”

      He eyed her with lazy assurance. “I’m not worried. You have a reputation for providing your clients with the home environments they always dreamed of having, in record time.”

      Brooke could not contest that. She was good at what she did. She worked hard to keep at a minimum the chaos and disarray that went along with redecorating. Usually, however, the homes were not nearly this large. A feeling of nervousness sifted through her. “It’s going to require a lot of time on your part, as well,” she warned.

      He regarded her with maddening nonchalance. “I don’t move furniture.”

      Famous last words, Brooke thought. No one got through a major upheaval of their personal belongings without eventually having to heft or slightly reposition something. It didn’t matter how many professionals were hired. At the end of the day, there was always something that wasn’t quite right. Something that begged the owner to reach out and touch and, in the process, claim it as his or her own. But figuring Nate wouldn’t understand the need to put his own signature on the place if it were truly to become his home, she let it go for now.

      Giving him the smile she reserved for her most difficult and demanding clients, she tried again. “I meant you’re going to have to sit down with me—pronto—and talk about what kind of style you envision having here.”

      Brooke turned as she saw Landry heading up the staircase.

      Nate lifted a staying hand. “It’s okay. He’s going to have to explore the place sometime.”

      Meanwhile, Brooke noted, the seventy-nine-year-old Jessalyn appeared to be drifting off to sleep …. “So when can we get together to do this?” she asked.

      “How about tonight?”

      If only that were possible, she mused, as anxious to get a head start on this task as he. “I have to pick up my son at summer camp.”

      “Bring him, too. Say around seven? We’ll all have dinner. If you want, you could even move your things into the caretaker’s house at that time.”

      Brooke had heard Nate moved fast. His indefatigable drive had turned his solo financial advising practice into a firm with six thousand top-notch certified financial planners, and a national reputation for excellence.

      She gazed up at him. “I know you want to get this done,” she began.

      “It’s important for Landry that this feel like a home instead of a museum,” Nate said.

      Brooke couldn’t disagree with that. “But there’s such a thing as moving too fast. Decorating decisions made in haste are often repented in leisure.” And she had her own problems to triumph over, starting with her promise to reconfigure her priorities and bring balance back into her life.

      Nate brushed off her concern with a shrug. “I’m counting on you to help me avoid that.”

      The doorbell rang before she could answer him.

      Nate moved to get it.

      A stunning ebony-haired woman in a Marc Jacobs suit strode in, cell phone and briefcase in hand. She was in her mid-thirties, of Asian-American descent.

      “Brooke Mitchell, my attorney, Mai Tanous. Mai, this is Brooke Mitchell.”

      Mai nodded briefly in acknowledgment, then leaned toward Nate. “We need to talk.”

      NATE HAD AN IDEA of what Mai was going to say. He also knew she would be much more circumspect if they weren’t alone. He motioned for Brooke to stay put, and regarded Mai steadily. “I presume you brought the papers?” he asked in a voice that tolerated no argument.

      Mai cast an uncertain look at Brooke, as unwilling to talk business with an audience as Nate had presumed she would be. “Yes,” she said politely. “I did. But—”

      He held up a hand, cutting off her protest. “Then let’s sign them so Jessalyn can go home. She’s exhausted.”

      Exhaling in frustration, Mai frowned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

      He nodded. For a moment Mai seemed torn between doing her job and being his friend. Finally, she pivoted and headed for the library, where Jessalyn was seated. As Brooke and Nate entered the room, the elderly woman roused.

      Mai extended a hand and introduced herself. “Mrs. Walker, are you sure you don’t want to have your own attorney present?”

      Jessalyn waved off the suggestion. “I trust this man every bit as much as my late granddaughter did. If Nate says he’ll do right by Landry, then he will.”

      “I would still feel better if we slowed down a bit,” Mai said. “Perhaps began the process with a simple visit.”

      Nate gave his attorney a quelling glance. “I told you it wasn’t necessary,” he stated firmly. “Now, if you have the Power of Appointment papers …”

      Her posture stiff, her expression deferential, Mai opened up her briefcase, extracted the documents. “Basically, this agreement states that Landry will live with Nate now. It gives Nate the power to take him to the doctor, and to school or camp while he is in Nate’s care. In the eyes of the law, however, Landry’s great-grandmother, Jessalyn Walker, will remain his legal custodian