Authors: Theresa Ragan
Not wanting to upset her by telling her he’d been at the doctor’s office, he said, “Just out running a few errands. What’s going on?”
“I’m pregnant!”
Growing up with four sisters had taught him to think things through before he reacted. He ran his fingers through his hair, a ploy to buy time before he responded. Breanne lived with her boyfriend. They were engaged...worse things could happen.
“Does Joey know?”
Her head fell against his chest. “He says he’s not ready for kids.”
Damn. She was crying. Heat flushed Max’s face as he turned and headed back for his Porsche. “I’m going to go have a talk with Joey right now.”
Breanne grabbed hold of his shirt, forcing him to drag her along as she threatened to disown him if he touched even one tiny hair on Joey’s head.
Max jerked around to face her again and found himself looking into big brown puppy-dog eyes. “Damn! I wasn’t going to hurt the guy. So what do you plan to do about it? Sit here and cry?”
Her cries turned to sobs.
He rolled his eyes. He had never seen her look so pitiful. “Okay, okay,” he said as he put an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go inside and talk this through.”
Max led Breanne back the way she’d come, up the flagstone stairs, through the double doors, across the black and white checkered marble entry and into the sprawling kitchen with its floor to ceiling windows and breathtaking view of Beverly Hills.
He set his keys and wallet on the black-veined granite countertop and turned Breanne about so she had no choice but to look at him. “It’s okay,” he said. “Everything will work out. You just need a plan. Tell me what you want to do about this.”
She sniffled and wiped her nose on the tissue he handed her.
“I want to move in here with you.”
Shit. His body tensed. He had to go and ask. He usually had more time to prepare for these things. He usually got a call from his mother hours before things got out of hand. Reverse psychology might have worked. His sisters were all stubborn as hell. If he had been the one to come up with the idea to have her move in with him, she never would have agreed to it; she would have been horror-stricken by the idea.
Despite his unease, he found himself telling her she could stay as long as she needed to. Anything she desired—it was hers. All she had to do was ask. What else could he do? His mother and sisters had come to depend on him emotionally and financially. By the time he was contracted with the Los Angeles Condors his salary had hit seven figures. He’d been lavishing expensive gifts on all the females in his life ever since.
Why not?
It wasn’t as if he needed to save for the future...for Max Dutton there was no future.
CHAPTER 2
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The next morning, Kari Murphy pulled her Jeep Grand Cherokee in front of the gated driveway leading to Max Dutton’s house. She paused to take a deep breath and remind herself that she was a professional. She could do this. She could work with Max without emotion. And yet her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She closed her eyes.
You are no longer the insecure teenager from your past. You are an intelligent, well-respected woman in your community. You are strong. You can handle this.
She leaned out her car window and punched in the gate code Dr. Stone had scribbled on a piece of paper along with Max’s home address. She drove up the driveway and parked her car next to a ridiculously large cast stone water fountain. The house looked just like Max...grandiose, overdone, a big stone structure without feeling.
She sighed. Of all the men in the world who could have been standing in that examination room yesterday, why did it have to be Max Dutton? Conceited and bull-headed were two words that popped into her head whenever she caught him giving an interview on television. If she had to guess, she’d say the man hadn’t changed much since high school. He still thought he was God’s gift to womankind. And yet somehow he’d succeeded where many others hadn’t. He’d obviously invested wisely. If luck stayed with him, because she couldn’t imagine it being anything else, Max Dutton would be able to retire before he reached forty.
As she collected her things and climbed out of the car, she couldn’t help but think that one huge dose of humiliation was about all a woman could take from one man in one lifetime. But what choice did she have? Dr. Stone was a friend and mentor. He’d done nothing but help her with her career and now he was asking her for one small favor. It was the least she could do. All she had to do was put aside the fact that Max Dutton was a partier, a womanizer, a conceited, egotistical bastard who happened to be the father of her child.
No problemo.
She inhaled some expensive Beverly Hills air that didn’t smell any different than the air in Burbank and headed for the front entrance. For the next few weeks, she would concentrate on giving Max Dutton healthy-eating advice. She would fill his head with facts about carbohydrates, protein, and fat, and give him the rundown on cooking and shopping smart. She would be professional at all times, and she would, under no circumstances, allow Max Dutton to get under her skin.
After making her way up the stairs, she pushed the doorbell, straightened her shoulders and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Max opened the door. His large chest and well-worked biceps threatened to burst through the seams of his blue button-down shirt. His thick, dark hair scattered across his tanned forehead, giving him a sexy, windblown look. She’d been too upset yesterday to notice, but this morning he appeared taller than she remembered. Her eyes were level with the V of his shirt where dark curly hairs swirled about as if to tempt and entice before disappearing into a great big vortex of vanity.
He leaned his hip against the doorframe. “Well, well. If it isn’t Ms. Kari, the athlete-hater.”
Deep breath. “I never said I hated athletes.”
“You said football players were needy and full of themselves.”
“True.”
“Okay, darling, have it your way. Let’s get this over with.”
“I wish it could be that easy.”
He raised a questioning brow.
“I’ve been instructed to give you full-time counseling for the first two weeks we’re scheduled to work together. After that, we’ll see each other less often.”
Panic crossed his gorgeous features. Obviously he hoped she would be eager to sign his papers and let him off the hook altogether.
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means,” she said, “that from eight to five every day for the next two weeks, six days a week, I’ll be your shadow. Wherever you go...I go. For two weeks after that, we’ll meet an hour or so a day to make sure you’re staying on top of things.”
A small tic set in his jaw, making her smile.
Stepping into the foyer, she lifted her chin as she swept past. An impressive two-story entrance hall, a large open living room, faux-painted ceilings, and marbled floors greeted her.
“I plan to take a few days off next week to spend time with my family when they come,” Max told her. “We’ll have to skip those days.”
“Not likely,” she said with a shrug. “You wanted me. You got me. But don’t worry, Max, you’re going to learn a lot. Which way to the kitchen?”
A scowl covered his face as he pointed to his right. “You’re going to visit with my family?”
She nodded. “Should be fun.”
“This is crazy.”
“Sundays are all yours,” she added over her shoulder as she headed in the direction he’d pointed, “although I might drop by for a surprise visit to make sure you’re incorporating the basic nutritional tools I’m going to teach you over the next few days.”
The kitchen was easy enough to find, all granite and limestone and tall windows; a vast room with a restaurant-size refrigerator and a large island in the center with an assortment of pots and utensils dangling from the ceiling. Although her growing clientele included high-profile professionals, fashion models and even a few athletes, she’d never seen anything quite like Max Dutton’s kitchen.
What sort of man lived all alone in a house this size?
Before she finished the thought, a young woman scantily dressed in nothing but a loosely tied, knee-length silk robe, ambled into the kitchen. She tossed her long, blonde hair to one side before she noticed she wasn’t alone. “Oh! Hi. Max didn’t tell me he had company.”
Max crossed his arms. “That’s because I didn’t think Ms. Kari would be paying me a visit after informing me yesterday there wasn’t enough Advil in the world to get her to work with me.”
Kari scoffed. “I didn’t say that.”
The woman’s laughter helped Kari relax a little.
“I’m Breanne,” the young woman said, nudging Max out of her way so she could offer Kari her hand.
Kari reached around Max and shook her hand. “Hi. Kari Murphy.”
“The same Kari Murphy who was just named the best nutritionist in Los Angeles?”
“I haven’t won the honor yet,” Kari said, “but I was nominated.” She smiled, despite herself. “Where did you hear? I only found out about the nomination last week.”
“I bought your book on
Simple Advice for Pregnant Women
. The lady at the check stand mentioned the nomination. And now here you are.”
“You’re pregnant?” Kari asked, unable to detect even the slightest bump.
Breanne nodded and rubbed her belly. “I’m not very far along yet, but I am excited...and nervous.”
“Understandable. Nothing compares to carrying a baby...except, of course, motherhood.”
“Do you have children?”
“One,” Kari said, inwardly scolding herself for saying too much.
Max, Kari noticed, was gazing at the young woman as if he were the proudest man on earth. Something twisted deep inside. Fourteen years ago she would have given anything to have Max look at her like that while she carried his baby.
Kari swallowed. “I could talk about babies all day,” Kari said, “but I’d better get to work. Max and I have a long day ahead of us.”
Kari opened the refrigerator and stared blankly inside as she tried to regain control of her emotions. For a moment, she just concentrated on breathing, but then Max stepped up close behind her and reached for a cube of butter.
She slapped the top of his hand. The butter dropped from his grasp and fell to floor with a plop.
“Ow! What are you doing?”
“It was nice meeting you,” Breanne said, laughing as she headed back the way she came.
“Nice meeting you too,” Kari said through the small space between Max’s armpit and rock-hard chest. She strained her neck upward to look at Max since he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move out of her way. Other than a few character lines around the eyes, he still had the same boyish charm. Why couldn’t he at least have a receding hairline or the beginnings of a beer belly? “You can’t eat butter,” she told him when he refused to drop the scowl, obviously intending to use his size as a means of intimidation.
She took all the butter from under the plastic dome, ducked under his arm again, and promptly dumped the cubes of fat in the garbage pail under the sink. Bagel slices popped up in the toaster. No wonder the NFL franchise was worried about him. The man needed serious nutritional help. She took the slices of bagel and tossed them into the garbage with the butter. Next, she reached around him for the package of hot dogs and held them in front of his face. “These frankfurters are made from muscle meat. They have all the essential amino acids, B vitamins and iron, which is good, but they’re loaded with saturated fats and cholesterol.” She shook her head. “A definite no-no.”
Max snatched the package of hotdogs out of her hand. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He let out a hearty chuckle.
She grabbed the hot dogs and tossed them into the garbage before he could protest further. “Do you want to live a long and healthy life, or do you want to keep eating hotdogs?”
“I don’t have a chance in hell of living past forty either way. You’re wasting your time.”
She let out a huff. “Who says?”
“It’s in the male Dutton gene.”
“In the what?”
“It’s in the male Dutton gene,” he said again. “My grandfather keeled over before he reached forty.” Max snapped his fingers. “Dad, too. Just like that. Medical records show they both had clear arteries and a healthy heart.”
“Strange.”
He nodded. “The Dutton females call it a family curse.”
He looked serious...and relaxed, as if he’d had plenty of time to think about his early death and had fully come to terms with the idea of dying young. The thought of Max dying without ever knowing he had a daughter struck a nerve; a nerve she didn’t think she possessed until that moment.
Wait a minute, girlfriend. His story is absurd.
He’s a player, and players play. Max Dutton was trying to pull a fast one, playing with her sympathies, the oldest trick in the book. She looked him in the eyes and tried to see if he was playing her for the fool.
He brushed her chin with his thumb. “Don’t look so down, sweetheart, I have a few good years left in me.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed his hand away. “We’re all going to go sometime,” she said before she went back to work cleaning out his refrigerator, figuring he was making the whole dying thing up in hopes she’d lay off on giving him any more nutrition advice. Yesterday he told her he wanted her. Well, he had her, and now she was going to get her revenge—one hot dog at a time.
Kari reached inside the refrigerator, seized a small tub of cream cheese and a loaf of garlic bread and tossed them into the garbage.
“Hey!” Max said. “That was my lunch. Food costs money. And don’t forget all the starving children in the world.”
“Nice try.” She plucked a bruised apple from the ceramic bowl nearby and handed it to him. “Eat this.” Then she pulled a sheet of paper from her purse and handed that to him, too. “Here. It’s the USDA Food Guide Pyramid. Memorize it.”
“If you think I’m going to eat little green apples for the next few weeks, you’re crazy.”
“Call me all the names you want, but the bottom line is we’re stuck together whether we want to be or not. I won’t clear you until you know everything there is to know about soluble fiber and eating whole grains over refined.”
He grunted. “I have a better idea. How about I write you a big fat check right now, you certify me as nutritionally sound, and nobody need ever know otherwise.”
“And jeopardize my career, my reputation?” She shook her head. “Not in this lifetime.” She was having fun now. Max Dutton obviously thrived on control, and she’d bet her good standing with the National Heart Association that this was the first time in his life he didn’t have the upper hand. “Don’t worry about the little green apples. You’ll get great big juicy red ones and yellow ones, too. Lots of variety...just like you’re used to.”
He looked her over with those ocean-blue eyes of his. “Now how would you know I liked variety...unless,” he said, pointing the apple at her, “you were one of the girls in Las Vegas.” A smirk appeared. “You may have dyed your hair since then, but that’s it, isn’t it?”
She snorted and quickly busied herself with pulling cheddar cheese and cartons of cream from the refrigerator, all of which she dropped into the already half-full garbage.
“That would explain my failure to remember our close encounter,” he went on. “Because contrary to popular belief, other than that one time in Vegas, there’s never been a woman I slept with whose face I couldn’t remember.”
She flung a bag of salami and some bacon into the garbage. Then she turned his way and plunked a hand on her hip. “To tell you the truth, after thinking about it some more, I realize now that I was mistaken. It wasn’t you after all, although you do resemble the man from years past.” She gave Max a long hard look. “Sometimes I, too, find it difficult to keep them all straight.” She forced a laugh. “A little embarrassing I admit, but at least now the mystery has been solved and you won’t have to spend another moment worrying about that so-called ‘close encounter’ between the two of us because there wasn’t one, plain and simple.”
One big arm of his came up high as he rested his elbow against the freezer door. His other hand brought the little green apple to his mouth. He took a bite, chewed, then swallowed before saying, “I don’t believe you.”
After three decades of being downright forgettable, it had taken her years to gain confidence. Her own mother usually forgot to call her on her birthday, and whenever she talked to her father he called her by the name of one of his ex-wives. The fact that Max Dutton couldn’t remember what she considered to be the most unforgettable, glorious nights of her life ate at her insides, no matter how hard she tried not to care. She just couldn’t seem to let it go. “It’s the truth,” she finally said.