A Billionaire's Redemption. Cindy Dees

demeaning like “squirt.”

      But that had been a long time ago. She wasn’t that innocent kid anymore. And he—he wasn’t that impetuous, up-and-coming geologist who dared to challenge the established rules for how oil was explored.

      He was standing with one elbow propped on the mantel, staring down into the cold, gray ashes of the fireplace. A half-consumed glass of bourbon dangled in his other hand. In this unguarded moment, he looked sad. Worried. Lonely, even.

      Her heart went out to him before her conscious mind registered the irony of this man’s presence in her father’s inner sanctum. Gabe Dawson and John Merris had been like matter and antimatter. Any time they crossed paths, they erupted in a fiery explosion that consumed everything and everyone around them.

      She stepped farther into the room, clearing her throat as she did so. Gabe turned sharply to face her with the barely contained energy she remembered. Being in the same room with him was still like standing next to a hurricane.

      She registered a few changes, though, as he met her in the middle of the spacious library. His clothes were more expensive, and fit better these days. His hair was shorter but still looked tousled like someone had just run a hand through it. His eyes… oh, my. They were still that dark, mysterious shade of green that looked right through her. Although at the moment, she saw reticence in them.

      An urge to stutter and blush like a schoolgirl nearly won out over a lifetime’s worth of ingrained manners, but she only fought it off by dint of long years of concealing her true thoughts and feelings.

      “Gabe Dawson. What a pleasant surprise,” she said smoothly. “Can I get you a refill on your drink? Is it still Kentucky bourbon, neat?”

      He waved off the drink offer and set down his glass on a side table. His gaze slid down her body to her toes and back up to her face quickly enough not to be offensive, but with enough thoroughness to send a wave of heat coursing through her—and a shiver of apprehension. He always had skirted the edges of impropriety in the most delicious way. Rhett Butler, move over.

      “How are you doing?” he asked, his voice every bit as potent as she remembered. The passing years had given it a richness, a maturity, that tasted good on her tongue. Oh, my.

      She sank onto the edge of one of the big leather wing-back chairs and gestured him into the matching one. He leaned forward in it, propping his elbows on his knees to study at her intently. It was unnerving being the subject of such intense scrutiny. But then he’d always had that effect on her. She restrained an urge to pat her hair and tug at the neck of her sweater. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and nearly crushed her own fingers.

      The monstrous impropriety of his being here occurred to her. How dare he intrude upon her family on this day of mourning and loss? He’d hated her father. Done his damnedest to ruin John Merris. Abruptly, his presence grated like sandpaper on her skin. He had no right to be here.

      She gritted her teeth, her training in being polite to everyone in all cases rubbing raw against an urge to scream and rail at this man. Although truth be told, her need to scream at the top of her lungs wasn’t all about him. She risked a glance at him, and felt awkward heat bloom in her cheeks. Lord, this man discombobulated her.

      She stared down at her tightly twined fingers and very belatedly answered his question. “My mother and I are doing as well as expected after such a shock,” she said automatically, for the hundredth time. “Thank you for coming.”

      “You don’t have to put on a show for me, Willa.”

      Her gaze snapped up to his. “I beg your pardon?”

      “I’m not here to pay my condolences. I wouldn’t insult you or your mother by pretending to be sad your father is gone.”

      She leaned back hard, shocked at his bald honesty. This was the deep South. Old-school Texas. People didn’t admit to being delighted that their archrival had kicked the bucket. The rules of polite behavior were observed. Leave it to Gabe Dawson to flout even the most basic societal convention.

      “I need to speak to you and your mother about a business matter. Is she up to joining us?” he asked.

      Minnie Merris had been so doped up on tranquilizers before the funeral, it was a miracle she’d been able to stand. Willa had no doubt her mother had added a handful of sleeping pills to the cocktail of medications by now and was passed out cold in her bed.

      “I’m taking care of all business decisions at the moment,” she answered smoothly.

      “Minnie dumped it all on you, huh?” he asked sympathetically. “She never was much for taking care of herself.”

      Willa’s spine went rigid. He might be absolutely correct, but she didn’t need this man pointing out her mother’s flaws to her. “If you’ve come to gloat over our loss, Mr. Dawson, you can leave now.”

      He threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

      Willa noted wryly that he didn’t apologize for calling her mother weak and unable to care for herself; he’d merely apologized for saying it aloud. She waited, irritated, as he took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

      “No matter what your family thinks of me, I am sorry your father was murdered. Even he didn’t deserve an end like that.”

      She pursed her lips. “Even he? Mr. Dawson, are you bent on offending me?”

      He exhaled hard and shoved a hand through his hair, standing it up in a sexy mess all over his head. An urge to reach out and smooth it crossed her palm. She dismissed the impulse with dismay.

      He swore under his breath. “I’m going about this all wrong. Please let me start over.”

      She settled deeper into the embrace of the leather chair, waiting to see where Gabe was taking this. She kind of enjoyed watching him squirm. She’d had to spend most of the past decade listening to her father rant about how this man had stolen Merris Oil’s future, and done his best to run her family into the ground. And while her father had been a hothead, prone to making generalizations, he also got things right, sometimes.

      “Willa—Miss Merris. I truly am sorry your father has passed away. No matter what our disagreements might have been, I did not wish the man ill personally.”

      She blinked, studying him anew. His sincerity surprised her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

      “I do have another reason for coming to see you today beyond expressing my sympathy for your loss.”

      “Indeed?” Curiosity stirred in the midst of her caution. What on earth could he want here? She flashed back for a second to her teen years when she’d nightly dreamed of him sweeping her into his arms and eloping with her. The absurdity of the notion now almost made her smile. Gabe Dawson was a well-known playboy and self-avowed bachelor. He’d been divorced for many years, in fact. Plenty of time had passed for him to find a wife if he was planning on having another one. Not the marrying kind, obviously. Just as well. He’d probably be a completely insufferable control freak in a relationship.

      She tuned back in to what he was saying so earnestly. “…tried to speak to your father about a sensitive business matter a few weeks ago, but that conversation… didn’t go well. Unfortunately, the underlying issue remains unresolved.”

      A snort escaped her. The way she heard it, the two men had engaged in a violent shouting match that ended with her father throwing a punch at Gabe in the middle of the prestigious and private Petroleum Club in Dallas. What on earth could have provoked her father so horribly? John Merris had been a highly intelligent man, and he knew darn good and well not to make such a scene in the middle of a tough re-election campaign.

      Gabe continued doggedly, “As you may recall, I started life as an oil geologist. And as such, I have more than a working knowledge of assessing oil fields.”

      Her brows knit in a frown. Where was he going with this? Assessing oil fields? “Mr. Dawson, I have nothing to do with the