Sheltered by the Millionaire. Catherine Mann
“And the doctors still don’t know who the father is?”
Did this qualify as gossip? Megan wasn’t sure, but if the talk could help find the father, that would be a good thing. “I’ve never met her, but I heard a rumor Skye ran off with the younger Holt brother despite their parents’ protests. So I assumed he was the dad.”
Beth tucked a stray curl back into her loose topknot, scrunching her nose. “I recall hearing mentions of an age-old feud between the Holts and Taylors. Abigail, do you have any idea who started it?”
“I haven’t a clue. Quite frankly, I’m not sure they do either, anymore.”
Beth shook her head slowly. “How sad when feuds are carried on for so long.” She stared pointedly at Megan. “So what’s this with Whit Daltry coming to the shelter to see you? And you actually spoke to him rather than running out the back exit?”
“Running out the back? I wouldn’t do that.” Okay, so maybe she had avoided him a time or two but hearing it put that way made her sound so...wimpy. And she didn’t like that one damn bit. “I think we’ve all done some reevaluating this past month. If he wants to offer his private plane to transport homeless animals to new homes, who am I to argue?”
Beth laughed softly. “About that flight... Look how neatly he tied in a way to see you again. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
Not even having a clue how to respond to that notion, Megan clasped her daughter’s hand and retreated to her office. The second she closed the door, she realized she’d done it again. Run away like the coward she’d denied being.
But when it came to Whit Daltry and the way he flipped her world with one sizzling look, keeping her cool just wasn’t an option.
Whit parked his truck in the four-car garage of his large, custom-built home in Pine Valley. With a hard exhale, he slumped back in the seat. He’d spent the whole day at work thinking about seeing Megan at the shelter when he’d brought in the cat. Knowing he’d locked in a reason to see her again pumped him full of excitement. Life had sucked so badly the past month. Feeling alive again was good. Damn good.
He reached for the door and stepped out into the massive garage, all his.
Growing up, he’d lived in apartments half the size of this space, which also held a sports car, a speed boat and a motorcycle. He liked his toys and the security of knowing they were paid for. Since the day he’d left home, he’d never bought anything on credit. His college degree had been financed with a combination of scholarships and two jobs. Debt was a four-letter word to him.
His father had showered his family with gifts, but too often those presents were repossessed or abandoned as the Daltry family fled creditors yet again. His parents had passed away years ago, his dad of a stroke, his mom of a broken heart weakened from too many years of disappointment after disappointment.
Every time they’d moved to a new place, his mother wore that hopeful expression that this time would be different, that his father wouldn’t gamble away the earnings from his new job, that they could stay and build a life. And every time she was wrong. Most times that hope would fade to resignation about a week before his dad announced the latest cut-and-run exit for the Daltry family. Whit came to appreciate the advance warning since it gave him the opportunity to tuck away some things before the inevitable pack-and-dash.
He’d built this house for himself as a tribute to leaving that life behind. But he’d waited to start construction. He’d refused to break ground until he had the money to pay for every square foot of it. People viewed him as lighthearted and easygoing—true enough, up to a point. No way in hell was he sinking himself into debt just to make a show of thumbing his nose at the past. He knew the pain of losing everything as a kid and he refused to go through that again. He’d been damned lucky his home in Pine Valley hadn’t sustained any damage from the storm.
As he stepped from the garage into the wide passageway, he thought of all this empty space. He made a point of donating to charities, even throwing in elbow grease as well when called for, like pitching in with the never-ending cleanup after the tornado.
And now working with the animals? Except he wasn’t. He’d left that cat at the shelter. He’d meant everything he said about not having time for a pet, but Megan had asked about temporary fostering and he’d rejected that out of hand. He knew he’d disappointed her with his answer. Or rather confirmed her preconceived negative notions about him.
Maybe if he got a couple of cats to keep each other company. Cats were more independent, right?
As he opened the door to the kitchen, his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and the caller ID showed...Megan Maguire?
His pulse kicked up a notch at just the sight of her name. Damn, he needed to get a grip. Pursuing her was one thing. Giving her this much control over how he felt? Not okay. He needed to keep things light, flirtatious.
He answered the phone. “Hello, pretty lady. What can I do for you?”
“Seriously?” she asked dryly. “Do you always answer the phone that way?”
“Megan?” he answered with overplayed surprise. “Well, damn, I thought it was my granny calling.”
She laughed, her voice relaxing into a husky, sexy melody. “You have a granny?”
“I didn’t crawl out from under a rock. I have relatives.” Just really distant ones who had cut ties with his branch of the family tree long ago because of his father. “Actually, my grandmother passed away ten years ago. My cheesy line was totally for your benefit, I just didn’t expect it to fall so flat. So let’s start over.”
That might not be a bad idea: to call for a do-over in a larger way, erase the past three and a half years.
“Sure,” she said. “Hello, Whit, this is Megan Maguire. I hope I didn’t disturb your supper.”
“Well, hey there, Megan.” He opened the stainless-steel, oversized refrigerator and pulled out an imported beer. “What a surprise to hear from you. What do you need?”
He sat in a chair at the island where the cooking service he’d hired left a dinner in a warmer each night. He couldn’t cook. Tried, but just didn’t have the knack for more than grilling and he worked too late to grill. He twisted open the beer and waited for her to answer.
“I was just loading my dishwasher, and this weird panic set in that maybe you weren’t serious earlier.”
“About what?” He tipped back a swig of the imported brew.
“Did you really offer your plane to transport animals?”
“Absolutely. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” His father was the king of broken promises, all smiles and dreams with no substance.
“Whew,” she exhaled. “Thank goodness. Because I asked a contact in Colorado to check out the rescue. I also spoke with the veterinarian the rescue uses and everything appears perfect. So I called them and they can still take a dozen of our cats, a huge help to us and to local animal control. Am I being pushy in asking how soon we can transport them because I would really like to see them settled before Thanksgiving?”
“Not pushy at all.” This was Thursday, with turkey day only a week away. He had a meeting he couldn’t miss on Friday, but the notion of spending the weekend with her was enticing as hell. He’d hoped this would work out. He just hadn’t realized how quickly the plan would come together. “Glad they have space to accommodate. I could see you’re stuffed to the gills.”
“Feeding and caring for so many animals is depleting our budget in a hurry.” Her voice was weary, tempting him to race over to her house with his pre-cooked dinner. “We try our best to plan for disasters, but having just built the new shelter, we’re stretched to the max.”