Mark returned with the glass of ice water. “Here you go. Can I get you anything else before we start?”
His smile was a bit forced, his tone artificially cheerful, but she didn’t let on that he wasn’t fooling her for a minute. “No, this is fine, thank you.”
Playing the game, she took a sip of the water, then looked around for a place to set the glass. Since there weren’t any tables in the sparsely furnished room, she set it on top of her portfolio. “If you’ll have a seat on the couch, I’ll show you the designs and samples I’ve brought along. If you’re still sure you want to do this now,” she added.
“Absolutely.” He sat on the couch, folded his arms and looked at her easel with such intense concentration that she almost sighed.
He was trying so hard to pretend he had put his problems out of his mind and was interested only in decorating. Once again, she found herself tempted to ask what had happened to upset him so, but she swallowed the question with a firm self-reminder that it was none of her business.
She began her presentation with the same thorough professionalism she would have used with any client. Room by room, she showed him the drawings she had made, the fabric samples and photographs of the furnishings she had selected for his consideration. He watched intently, studying everything she showed him, nodding whenever she paused for breath, fingering the fabric samples she handed him.
He agreed with everything she suggested. He didn’t ask one question. And because he had been eagerly involved in discussions about his decor ever since his first meeting with her, she suspected that he was barely hearing a word she said.
Don’t ask, Rachel, she admonished herself fiercely. Don’t get involved.
“So, you like the cranberry paint for the dining room walls?” she asked him, tapping a crimson paint chip.
He stared blankly at the square of colored cardboard. “Sure. Cranberry. Okay.”
He was breaking her heart. It was something about the look in his eyes. The slight slump of his shoulders. Whatever news he had received the day before, it had obviously hit him very hard. And maybe, she thought with a pang in her overly sensitive heart, there was no one for him to turn to for support or advice. Since he didn’t have any family.
“I know it’s a strong color, but I—” She swallowed. Don’t do it, Rachel. Keep it about the job. “I think you’ll really—”
After several moments of silence, he seemed to realize that she had stopped talking. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”
Oh, give up. Setting down the paint chip, she moved slowly to sit beside him on the worn leather couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“About the red paint?”
She shook her head, resignation in her voice when she said, “About whatever is bothering you. I’ve been told I’m a very good listener.”
So much for staying uninvolved…
Rachel really was intriguing. Fresh-faced, Mark supposed some would call her. She looked younger than her thirty years, with her dimpled pink cheeks, flawless skin and clear gray-blue eyes. Average height, slender physique, light brown hair she tended to wear in an attractively messy low ponytail. Not beautiful, exactly. But darned close.
And speaking of close…
Mark glanced down at the hand Rachel had rested on his knee as she sat only inches away from him on the couch. This was most definitely not a come-on. Without unwarranted conceit, he acknowledged that as a single, young doctor, he’d been at the receiving end of enough insincere gambits to know when someone was pretending to be interested in his problems.
Rachel was different. No hidden agendas here. No self-serving angles. She was the real thing. Or at least, that was the impression he’d gotten of her. He would hate to find out that he was wrong. It actually surprised him a bit to realize how very much he would hate that.
He should politely shrug off her question. Assure her that her concern was appreciated but unjustified. After all, this was a woman he had hoped to impress. Wanted to get closer to. It would hardly help his cause for her to find out what a mess his life had just become.
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” he assured her. “Tell me more about this red dining room.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you should be making decisions when you’re this distracted. You could be surprised to find yourself living in a house you absolutely hate.”
“I don’t think that will happen. I trust your taste. That’s why I hired you.”
She smiled. “I appreciate that. But you made it clear that this project is very personal for you. You said you wanted input at every stage, and I want to make sure you have that. So we’re not going to make any final decisions today. I’ll leave everything with you to go through when you can concentrate. And in the meantime, if there’s anything at all I can do for you—as a friend—I hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”
She really was a nice person, he thought, focusing on her sympathetic smile. Maybe she would understand if he told her about what had happened to him yesterday. As for her offer that he should let her know if there was anything she could do for him…
A glimmer of an idea formed in his mind.
“I had an unexpected visitor here yesterday,” he began slowly. “Two of them, actually. A man and a woman. I’d never met either of them before.”
Proving her assertion that she was a good listener, she merely nodded and waited for him to go on, her gaze focused on his face.
“The woman’s name is Aislinn Flaherty. She claims to be a psychic.” Before this statement could fully sink in, he cleared his throat and added, “The guy’s name is Ethan Brannon. And he says he’s my older brother.”
“Your brother?” she repeated in surprise. “You were raised as an only child, weren’t you?”
He nodded grimly. Being told that he had a brother was actually the least jarring of the news he’d been given during that encounter. “My, um, my mother told me that my father died while she was pregnant with me. She said she had no family of her own and that his family didn’t want anything to do with her or with me. We were on our own during my entire childhood, living pretty much hand to mouth, but generally happy.”
“This man, Ethan Brannon—do you believe what he said? Is there a possibility that he is your brother?”
“More than a possibility. He pretty much convinced me. As convinced as I can be before we get the results of DNA testing, anyway.”
“You’re going to be tested?”
“We both are. Ethan insisted, and I agreed.”
“So he claims he’s your half brother? The result of a relationship your father had before you were born?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Her left eyebrow rose just a little. “Oh?”
“Ethan doesn’t claim to be a half brother. He says he’s my full brother—one of two, actually.”
Rachel looked understandably confused. “There are two of them? And Ethan said you have the same parents?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “According to Ethan, my mother—er, the woman who raised me…”
Stopping abruptly, he shook his head. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear this. I think we should talk about decorating. What did you say you want to do in here? Add tables,