He sent her a dark look, then strode past her and out of the room. He was halfway down the stairs when he realized he’d forgotten to put on a shirt. But it was too late.
Althea was standing in the foyer, a black tote slung over her shoulder. Her hair looked like it had been scraped back hastily into a ponytail. Her long, glorious legs were bare beneath her belted cashmere trench, and she wore a pair of sneakers.
As he descended the staircase, her dark eyes lifted to his face as if in slow motion. The beginnings of a soft, apologetic smile touched her mouth.
It faded a moment later.
He soon realized why.
Angelique was trailing him down the stairs. When he glanced over his shoulder at her, he saw that her hair was tousled and she’d unbuttoned her shirt to reveal an ample amount of cleavage. And then he glanced down at himself—at his bare chest and his unsnapped fly—and inwardly groaned. He didn’t have to see the stunned look on Althea’s face to know what conclusion she had reached, nor could he blame her.
If he could have strangled Angelique without leaving their daughter scarred for life, he would have.
Gladly.
When Althea set out for Damien’s house that morning, she had no idea what surprises were in store for her.
The first surprise came when his daughter answered the door, looking at Althea as if she were a vagrant who had wandered off the street and somehow found her way into the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood with manicured green lawns and lovely brick townhouses.
“Uh, hello,” Althea said, belatedly realizing that her unkempt appearance probably didn’t help her cause. She offered a friendly smile. “You must be India.”
The girl’s thick-lashed dark eyes, so much like her father’s, narrowed suspiciously on Althea’s face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Althea Pritchard. I work with your father.”
India just looked at her.
Althea shifted from one foot to another. “Is he here?”
India hesitated, then called over her shoulder, “Daddy! There’s a lady here to see you!”
“Thanks,” Althea murmured.
India’s gaze returned to her, and after a moment she said reluctantly, “It’s cold outside, so I guess you can come in.”
Not the most welcoming invitation she’d ever received, Althea mused, but at least the girl hadn’t slammed the door in her face.
She stepped into the wide foyer and swept an appreciative glance around, taking in the two-story ceiling, beautifully painted walls, and gleaming hardwood floors. The second surprise of the morning: Damien did not live in a typical bachelor pad, as she’d expected. This place could have easily doubled as a model home.
“My dad wasn’t up yet,” India informed Althea. There was no mistaking the hint of reproach in her voice.
Althea smiled easily. “I know it’s early. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t really important.”
India frowned, folding her skinny arms across her chest and openly staring at Althea, who calmly returned her appraisal. The girl wore a purple Bobby Jack hoodie, Baby Phat jeans, and—unless Althea’s eyes were deceiving her—a soft shade of pink lipstick. Her curly black hair had grown longer since the photo in Damien’s wallet was taken. It was parted neatly down the center and hung past her shoulders. Althea marveled that Damien, whose brutally masculine features took her breath away, could produce the feminine equivalent of himself in the beautiful little girl who stood before her.
At that moment, her gaze was drawn to the staircase, where the man in question had appeared.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Damien’s magnificent bare chest, with those impossibly broad shoulders; hard, sculpted muscles; and washboard stomach. Dark jeans hung dangerously low on his lean hips and clung to his powerful thighs as he descended the stairs.
When their eyes met, Althea smiled wanly and opened her mouth to apologize for showing up at his house so early. Both the smile and the apology died on her lips at the sight of Angelique Navarro coming down the stairs behind him. With her dark hair mussed and her shirt unbuttoned, it was perfectly clear what she and Damien had been doing before Althea arrived.
Angelique met her stunned gaze with a cool, triumphant gleam in her eyes.
Althea swallowed and looked away, cursing the stab of jealousy that sliced through her heart. She had no reason to be jealous. What Damien did with his ex-wife, or any other woman, was none of her business.
She found herself shrinking against the wall as Damien reached the landing and came toward the front door, his gaze on hers. “I, uh, I’m sorry for coming over this early,” she said quickly. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“Nah, you’re fine.” He kissed the top of his daughter’s head, murmuring softly, “Hey, baby girl. How you doing?”
India beamed up at him. “Hi, Daddy! Were you surprised to see me and Mom?”
He affectionately tweaked her pert nose. “You could say that. But you know I’m always happy to see you.”
She gave him an adoring grin. “Guess what? I’m going to make you breakfast. Blueberry pancakes, just like Grandma taught me. She said you used to love them when you were a little boy.”
“I sure did. Used to ask for them every morning.”
“That’s what Grandma told me. So she showed me how to make them so you can have blueberry pancakes whenever I stay with you.”
“That’s great, sweetheart. But I don’t have any blueberries.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I brought some!”
He smiled. “Good looking out.” Eyes narrowing, he cupped her chin in his big hand and gently angled her face toward the ceiling light. “My eyesight must be getting bad, baby girl. It looks like you’re wearing lipstick, but that can’t be right, since we agreed you can’t wear makeup until you’re sixteen.”
India gulped visibly. “M-Mom said it was okay.”
“Did she now?” Damien’s voice was remarkably mild. “Mom must be getting old, too. That’s probably why she forgot our agreement. Why don’t you go wash off the lipstick, then you can get started on those pancakes. My mouth is watering just thinking about them.”
“Okay, Daddy!”
Damien watched his daughter take off down the hall to the powder room before his eyes met Angelique’s, who’d witnessed the entire exchange from where she stood at the bottom of the staircase. He gave her a look that said he would deal with her later, when they had more privacy. Her eyes glinted with subtle challenge.
Althea had never felt more like an interloper than she did at that moment. Clearing her throat, she edged toward the door. “Look, I should probably go. I didn’t mean to—”
Damien turned, capturing her wrist to halt her retreat. Heat flooded her veins at his touch, and she silently cursed her body’s traitorous reaction to him.
When is he going to put on a damn shirt?
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, a gentle but firm command.
She tugged her wrist free. “Damien—”
Those dark, probing eyes searched her face. “Is everything okay?”
She bobbed her head quickly. Too quickly. “Of course. I just thought since we’re going to the same place this morning, we could commute together. You know, save gas, save the environment.”
His eyes narrowed on hers. He wasn’t buying it for a second.
Neither, apparently, was Angelique. She snorted, then muttered under her breath, loud enough for Althea to hear, “Yeah, right.”
Althea bristled, her hand curling into a tight fist at her side.
Damien threw a dark frown over his shoulder. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
“BWI is only twenty minutes away,” Angelique pointed out. “I’ve got plenty of time. Besides, I want to spend as much time as possible with our daughter before I leave.”
Damien clenched his jaw. “Then why don’t you join her in the kitchen?” he suggested.
Angelique wavered, then shrugged and star
ted toward the kitchen. Halfway down the hall she turned, her lips twisting in a venomous smile as she looked Althea up and down, from her messy ponytail to her beat-up sneakers. “By the way, girl, that’s quite an interesting look you’re sporting this morning. I didn’t realize the Bureau had lowered its dress code.”
Althea smiled narrowly. “Oh, they haven’t, sweetie, but thanks for your concern. By the way, you might want to button up your shirt before you reach the airport. Wouldn’t want those airport screeners thinking you actually want to be strip-searched.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you do.”
Angelique’s face pinched with fury. “You b—”
“Angelique.” Damien’s tone was flat, hard. “Inside the kitchen. Now.”
After skewering Althea with a glare that promised retribution, the other woman turned and stormed off down the hall.
Left alone with Damien, Althea gave him a rueful look. “Sorry about that. I probably should have taken the high road, but after the morning I’ve had, I’m not in a very charitable mood.”
His gaze sharpened on her face. “What the hell happened?”
She shook her head. “It’s probably nothing,” she muttered irritably, pinching the bridge of her nose as a headache threatened. Damn intruders. Damn ex-wives.
Damien scowled. “Let me be the judge of that.”
“All right, but would you mind if I tell you after I’ve had a shower? I got up to work out this morning, and I’m pretty funky.”
“You wanna take a shower over here?” He sounded surprised.
“If it’s okay with you.”
“Of course. You can use the guest bathroom. Third door on your right. The spare towels are in the closet. When you’re finished, you can get dressed in the guest bedroom—it’s right beside the bathroom.”
“Great,” Althea said, starting up the stairs. “Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
When she had reached the second floor, she glanced down and saw Damien still standing at the bottom of the staircase, gazing up at her with an indecipherable expression.
She gave him a teasing grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t steal anything. Not that I won’t be tempted, though. You have a beautiful home.”
His answering smile was somewhat distracted. “You’re eating breakfast with us.”
She arched a brow. “Was that an invitation or an order?”
He flashed a crooked grin. “A little of both.”
“In that case,” Althea drawled, “you’d better get in there and supervise the cooking. I’m afraid Angelique might poison one of the pancakes and feed it to me. And after everything I’ve survived, I’m not about to be taken out by a vindictive ex-wife.”
Damien chuckled as he started away. “We definitely can’t have that.”
Twenty minutes later, Althea, freshly showered and dressed in a V-neck sweater and boot-cut jeans, made her way downstairs. Passing the spacious living room, she took in the tasteful contemporary furnishings and oil on canvas paintings that captured a mosaic of themes, from wildly lush African landscapes to a jazz quartet taking center stage in a smoky Harlem club.
Spotting a row of framed photographs on the fireplace mantel, Althea, unable to resist, wandered over for a closer inspection. Predictably, most of the photos were of India, chronicling her growth from an adorably chubby infant to a pigtailed gymnast sporting a wide, gap-toothed smile as she held up a silver medal. Althea’s heart melted at a photograph of Damien cradling his baby daughter in his arms, his dark eyes shining with the love and wonderment of a proud new father. A beautiful sepia-toned portrait, taken more recently, revealed father and daughter lying on opposite ends of each other, shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent together as they gazed up at the camera with meditative expressions, an effect ruined by the laughing mischief twinkling in their eyes.
When Althea’s gaze landed on an old photo of Damien and his older brothers, she grinned and whistled softly under her breath. With their rich mahogany skin, piercing dark eyes, and strong, chiseled features, the Wade brothers were the epitome of a triple threat. With muscles flexing in sleeveless white undershirts and wearing Timberland boots and baggy khaki pants that hung low off their waists, Damien and Garrison stood with their legs braced apart and their arms folded, while oldest brother Reginald slouched on a chair in the middle, wearing the bored, superior expression of a king. The picture could have easily graced the cover of Essence under the heading “Too Much Fineness in One Family.”
Chuckling softly to herself, Althea forced herself to step away from the mantel before she yielded to temptation and snatched the photograph—as well as the sepia-toned one with Damien and India.
As she neared the kitchen, drawn by the wonderful aroma of fresh blueberry pancakes, she could hear hip-hop music interspersed with laughter—the low, husky rumble of Damien’s laughter mingled with India’s girlish giggles. Althea hesitated, wondering if she should just wait in the living room until breakfast was ready. She didn’t want to intrude upon Damien’s time with his daughter.
And don’t forget his ex-wife, who just tumbled out of his bed before you arrived.
Althea was the outsider, and as such, Angelique would do everything in her power to make sure she didn’t forget her place.
Another burst of laughter spilled from the kitchen. Hopelessly intrigued, Althea continued walking until she reached the doorway. The sight that greeted her brought a wide, startled grin to her face.
India and Damien, who had finally put on a T-shirt, were doing the Soulja Boy to the hit song “Crank That,” which was blasting from a built-in speaker on the wall. Althea didn’t know what shocked her more. The fact that Damien actually knew the steps to the popular dance or that he looked so good—so natural—executing them. They’d only slow danced at the club, but watching him shuffle and move across the floor as he did the Soulja Boy, Althea realized he might have put her to shame that night, and she considered herself a pretty good dancer.
She couldn’t help wondering just how many other surprises Damien Wade had up his sleeve.
India was the first to notice Althea standing in the doorway. She froze midstep, cupping her hand over her mouth as if she’d been caught misbehaving. Althea grinned and winked at her, and the girl’s dark eyes twinkled with merriment.
“Um, Daddy,” she said over the loud music. “I, uh, think we have company.”
She pointed toward the doorway, and Damien turned his head. When he saw Althea, his face broke into a boyishly dazzling grin that made her heart catch.
And just like that, she realized how easily she could fall for this man.
Oh God. Please help me.
“Hey, Pritchard,” Damien called, not missing a step. “Stop holding up the wall and come dance with us.”
She laughed. “Uh, no, thanks. The two of you seem to be doing just fine.”
“Ah, come on, girl,” he cajoled, straightening from a move and sauntering toward her with his hand outstretched. “Don’t be such a spoilsport.”
Althea laughed and shook her head, skirting around the center island to evade him. He was quick, but she was quicker. Once when he almost caught her, she let out a squeal that made him laugh.
Leaning against the massive stainless steel refrigerator, India, watching their antics, doubled over giggling.
As the song ended, Damien gave up the chase and walked over to the wall to turn off the speakers. “You’re no fun,” he grumbled good-naturedly.
Althea laughed in protest. “Hey, that’s not fair! I don’t know the steps to the Soulja Boy. I would have looked like an idiot trying to keep up with you guys.”
He chuckled. “India and I could have taught you. That’s how I learned last year. Right, baby girl?”
India nodded vigorously. “Daddy learned really fast,” she told Althea proudly. “But he’s already a great dancer. All my friends think so, too. Did you know my dad could dance, Ms. Pritchard?”
Meeting Damien’s am
used gaze, Althea murmured, “Oh, I knew he had some moves.”
His mouth curved in a wicked grin, and he winked at her.
“It’s time to eat!” India announced, carrying a platter piled high with blueberry pancakes over to the round oak breakfast table.
“Your pancakes look amazing, India,” Althea said with warm sincerity. “They came out perfectly.”
India beamed with pleasure, and Damien mouthed over her head to Althea, Thank you.
She shrugged, eyeing him curiously before mouthing back, I meant it.
I know.
They smiled at each other.
It was only then that Althea realized Angelique was nowhere in sight. The other woman must have left for the airport while Althea was in the shower, a thought that brought her a wave of relief. She was a tough cookie and could hold her own in any verbal sparring match, but she simply wasn’t in the mood that morning to fend off Angelique’s barbed attacks. And she honestly didn’t think she could have handled watching Damien and Angelique exchange intimate looks over the breakfast table. It was one thing to suspect they’d slept together before her arrival; it was quite another to have it thrown in her face.
Althea helped Damien and India set the table, and as they sat down to eat, she told herself she was crazy for enjoying the sense of togetherness. It felt natural to be sitting there, in the large sunny kitchen, sharing the first meal of the day with Damien and his daughter. It felt . . . right.
Don’t go there, her conscience warned. That’s some dangerous territory you’re venturing into. You’ve already established all the reasons you can’t become involved with Damien Wade. And for all you know, he might not be over his ex-wife. If they’re still sleeping together, there’s a very real chance they might get back together. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of that. Don’t let yourself get hurt!
“Something wrong with the pancakes, Ms. Pritchard?”
Snapping to attention, Althea realized that India and Damien were staring at her with identical expressions of concern.
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