A Weaver Wedding

by ALLISON LEIGH,

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  Their Second-Chance Child by Karen Sandler

  Rebecca had anticipated a difficult reunion with Tony. She’d expected that storm cloud of anger in his face, the hardness in his usually soft brown eyes. As much as she wished otherwise, she’d come here knowing she might be escorted from the property the moment Tony realized that Rebecca Tipton was actually Becca Stiles.

  But she hadn’t been prepared for the heat that sizzled inside her, the throbbing low in her body. It had been more than eleven years since they’d last made love, since they’d been man and wife, but her body remembered his touch, his scent, every intimate word whispered in her ear.

  His dark brown hair was shorter, but just as thick. His shoulders were broader, almost too wide for the Hawaiian shirt he wore, his arms more muscular. His hands were the same, blunt-fingered and strong, but like everything else about him, they spoke of power and competence. During their marriage, their lives had been filled with unknowns. Now it looked as if he’d found some answers.

  As she gazed up at him, he leaned toward her, still angry but maybe pulled by the same memories. He almost reached for her; she could see his fingertips stretching toward her. Then he strode past her and put his desk between them.

  “Sit,” he said sharply, then bit out, “please.”

  Was he going to give her a hearing after all? Rebecca lowered herself back into the secondhand office chair.

  “You remarried,” he said.

  “I hear you did as well.”

  Something dark flickered in his face. “I can’t possibly offer you this position.”

  Rebecca dug in. “You know as well as I do that I’m perfect for the job.”

  “You’re married. This is a live-in position, and I don’t have accommodations for a couple.”

  “I’m divorced.”

  A long, silent beat as he took that in. Then his gaze narrowed on her. “Estelle didn’t say a word when she recommended you.”

  “You wouldn’t have even considered me if you knew. Even if no one else with my qualifications has applied.”

  “I may have named the program after Estelle, but she isn’t the one that hires and fires here. I am.” His gaze fixed on her, his dark eyes opaque.

  She shivered, blaming the chill fingering down her spine on the gust of cool air spit out by the window air conditioner. Wrapping her arms around herself in self-defense, she considered the arguments she’d prepared, knowing in advance she’d have to fight for this job.

  But did she really want to? Maybe he was right—she ought to return to her car. Head back down Highway 50, don those same imaginary blinders she’d worn on her way here as she passed the off-ramp to West Hills Cemetery. Take Interstate 5 south and drive back down to L.A.

  Except what waited for her there was just more despair. In the two months since Rebecca’s foster daughter, Vanessa, had been returned to her mother, Rebecca had been hollowed out with grief. One moment social services was dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on Rebecca’s adoption of Vanessa, the next they were calling to notify her that Vanessa’s mother had regained custody. Now the five-year-old girl was lost to Rebecca forever. Just as her son was.

  She had to at least plead her case with Tony. Hands linked in her lap, she tipped up her chin in challenge.

  “You won’t find anyone to match what I can offer. You know from my résumé I have impeccable credentials as a baker. I’ve volunteered teaching cooking classes for two years at a local Boys and Girls Club. And you know as well as I do that my understanding of what these kids have been through in the foster system isn’t just academic.”

  She’d spent a year in foster care when her parents were badly injured in a freak accident and required extensive rehab to get back on their feet. Estelle had lavished loving care on the frightened nine-year-old that Rebecca had been, becoming a second mother to her in that short time.

  Tony’s hands curled around the arms of his chair, the skin over his knuckles taut. “You’d be living here full-time. We’d be in each other’s faces practically twenty-four/seven.”

  “It’s been eleven years. We can put the past behind us.”

  “Some pasts shouldn’t be forgotten.”

  That stung, although she probably deserved it. “I know I’d do a good job.”

  He almost seemed to consider it, then shook his head. “I have to think of the kids. They’ve all just been emancipated from foster care, and they’re anxious enough about their futures. I can’t increase their tension by adding you into the mix.”

  “Don’t you think I deserve a chance?”

  He shoved his chair back and pushed to his feet. “Damn it, Becca, these kids need some constancy in their lives. They need someone who will commit their heart and soul to them for the entire five months of the session. I can’t let you get involved with them and then have you leave them in the lurch if the going gets tough.”

  He might as well have punched her in the gut. “I was nineteen years old, Tony. Young and confused. I’m not about to walk out on these kids the way I…”

  The way I walked out on you. The silent words seemed to echo in the small space. On their heels came the harsher indictment—The way I walked away from our lost son.

  He started past her, moving toward the door. Rising, she put her hand on his arm to stop him.

  A mistake. Her palm fell on his biceps, just below where the wildly colored sleeve of his shirt ended. His skin was hot, the musculature under it rock hard. She yearned to move her hand along the length of his arm, from biceps to forearm to wrist, then lock her fingers in his.

  His dark gaze burned into her, the visual connection sending a honeyed warmth through her. Her heart thundered in her ears, so loud she thought he must hear it, would know her self-control was slipping away.

  Then he covered her hand with his. To break the contact, she thought, to get free of her. But his fingers lingered, his thumb stroking lightly across the back of her hand.

  He pulled his hand back with a jolt, putting space between them at the same time. “You should go.” His voice scraped across her nerves like rough silk.

  © Karen Sandler 2009

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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  Published in Great Britain 2010

  Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

  Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

  © Allison Lee Davidson 2009

  ISBN: 978-1-408-92045-9

  Allison Leigh, A Weaver Wedding