He stood and pushed away his chair, nearly shoving it against the file cabinet. “I was just trying to help. To make life easier for my mom.” He paused, drilled his gaze into hers. “And for you, too. But I don’t keep mistresses. I don’t reward my lovers for sleeping with me.”
She didn’t say anything, so he leaned forward, bracing his hands on her desk. “I can’t believe you think so little of me. Don’t you get it, Tamra? Don’t you see why this matters to me?”
“No, I don’t. Mary and I can take care of ourselves.”
“I know. But my mom’s car looks like it’s on its last leg and you’re lending money to friends, cash you can barely spare. I don’t want to go home and worry about you.”
She sighed, wishing she hadn’t provoked an argument. Walker was confused, she thought. And he was comparing his life to hers. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being rich.”
“Easy for you to say, Miss Do-Gooder.”
She rolled her eyes, trying to ease the tension, to make him stop scowling. It was the best she could do. Other than fall prey to his machismo and touch him. Kiss him. Tug his stubborn mouth to hers. “Listen to you, Mr. Write-a-Check.”
He smiled in spite of himself. Grateful, she flicked a paper clip at him. He grabbed the worse-for-wear chair and parked his butt down again.
“You should see my office at Ashton-Lattimer,” he said. “And my condo. Not to mention the apartment I have on my family’s estate in Napa Valley. It’s inside the mansion, on the second floor with a spectacular view.”
She couldn’t even fathom his lifestyle. Edward had been wealthy, but not compared to the Ashtons. “Those are the kinds of things Mary wanted you to have.”
“Will you talk to her about the account?” he pressed.
“No, but you can. If you want to help your mom and she’s willing to accept your offer, then it’s okay with me. But I don’t want to be part of it.”
“Because you’re not comfortable taking money from me?”
“Edward used to give me gifts. He used to buy me trinkets.”
“That jerk who hurt you? It’s not the same thing.”
“When it ended, when he broke up with me, I felt cheap.” And for her, it had been the worst feeling in the world. “I don’t want to go through that again. Not ever.”
“Don’t compare me to him. We’re nothing alike.”
She almost reached across the desk to hold his hand, but she curled her fingers, keeping her distance, recalling the ache that came with being in love. She couldn’t bear to fall for Walker, not like that.
“Will you at least accept a check for your charity?” he asked.
She looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. And then she realized how foolish she was, refusing to hold his hand, to touch him. She knew they were going to sleep together again. Sex was inevitable. “You already wrote one, didn’t you?”
“Yep.” He removed it from his pocket and handed it to her.
She glanced at the denomination. “That’s a generous donation.” And sex wasn’t love, she told herself. There was nothing wrong with continuing their affair.
“It’s tax deductible.” He picked up the paper clip she’d tossed at him. Toying with the metal, he altered the shape, bending it back and forth. “Besides, it’s for a worthy cause. I know the Oyate Project will put it to good use.”
“Thank you.” She wrote him a receipt, and when she gave it to him, their eyes met and held.
An intimate look. A deep, heart-thundering stare.
“Will you come home with me, Tamra?”
“Home?”
“To Napa Valley. To the estate.”
Panic, instant anxiety, leaped to her throat. His family’s mansion? The winery? The place where he grew up? She shifted her gaze, breaking eye contact, dragging air into her lungs. “What for?”
“Because I want to take you and Mary there. It would be the perfect place for my mom to meet Charlotte. And you and I could spend some time together.”
“What about the rest of your family? Spencer’s wife? Your cousins?” When she and Mary lived in Northern California, they used to scan the society pages for tidbits about the Ashtons, and they’d come across their names quite a few times. “They might not like us staying there.”
“Spencer is dead, and he’s the only one who would have forbidden it. The others won’t interfere.”
“That’s not the same as welcoming us.”
“Fine. Whatever. If I tell them to welcome you, then they will.”
His bulldozing did little to ease her mind. “I’m not sure if I can get the time off.”
“I’m only asking for a week. Seven measly days. You don’t take vacations?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
Tamra fidgeted with the paper clip he’d bent. What could she say? That she was nervous about being thrust into his world? That she didn’t belong there?
“I’m sure Mary would be more comfortable if you came with us,” he said. “And so would I.”
“Would this include a trip to San Francisco?” she asked.
“Definitely. It’s only fifty miles from the estate. And it’s where I live most of the time, where I work.”
“How often do you commute to Napa Valley?”
“On the weekends mostly. But I’ve been spending more time at the estate since Spencer was killed. I can’t help but miss him.”
She glanced out the window, felt the cloud of death that floated between them. “I’d like to visit Jade.” To kneel at her baby’s grave site, to whisper to her little girl.
“We can visit her together. We can take her the flowers I promised.” He released a rough breath. “We can do other things, too. Just the two of us. But we’ll have to tell my mom what’s going on. We can’t keep sneaking around.”
“I already told her.”
“That we’re lovers?” He sat back in his chair, frowned a little, pulled his hand through his hair. “How’d she take it?”
“She said we needed to be careful. That this is all so new.”
“But it won’t be.” His gaze sought hers, holding her captive. “Not after we get to know each other better.”
“Then I’ll go with you. I’ll arrange to take some time off.” To be with him, to meet his high-society family, to discover who Walker Ashton really was.
Walker sat on the steps of his mother’s porch. Tamra was still at work, and Mary was inside, puttering around the kitchen, doing whatever domestic things women did. She’d returned from her job about an hour ago, giving him the opportunity to talk to her, much in the way he’d spoken with Tamra earlier. And just like her non-Hunka daughter, she’d left him with mixed emotions.
Good and bad, he supposed.
“You’re not brooding, are you?”
“What? No.” He turned to look at Mary, who’d come outside with a glass of lemonade in her hand.
She