THIRD DOOR ON the left. Why the hell hadn’t he given in to his original instinct, phoned the hotel with a refusal, then binned the short letter hand-delivered to his office? He’d never heard of Alina Fletcher—didn’t have the time or energy for enigmatic invitations.
Except one phrase, vaguely referring to his family, had captured his interest five weeks after his sister and brother-in-law had died in Barcelona, less than two since his second trip to Spain regarding their estate.
He felt drained. Flying overseas and coping with local authorities while handling the glitches regarding his latest hotel acquisition had been exhausting. The basic Spanish he’d acquired on other trips had helped; deprivation of sleep didn’t. He desperately needed a break to enable him to grieve for Louise, and for Leon, who’d been his best friend since primary school. Any additional angst was definitely unwelcome.
The open doorway allowed him a clear view of the woman facing the window. Slim build. Medium height. Short dark brown hair. His gaze slid rapidly over a sky-blue jacket and trousers to flat shoes. Unusual in this time of killer heels.
‘Ms Fletcher?’ He was curter than he’d intended, influenced by a hard clench low in his abdomen.
She turned slowly and his battered emotions were rocked even more. Pain-filled eyes underlined with dark smudges met his. Widened. Shuttered. Reopened, clear and steady. Whatever had flickered in their incredible violet depths had banished his lethargy. His dormant libido kicked in, tightening his stomach muscles, accelerating his pulse.
Inappropriate. Inexcusable.
‘Ethan James? Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’
No welcoming smile. Did he detect a slight accent? He’d have to hear more—wanted to hear more.
He cleared his throat. ‘Did I have a choice?’ Moving forward with extended hand, he frowned at her hesitation. She was the one who’d requested the meeting.
After a cool, brief touch she gestured to the seating. ‘Coffee? Black and strong?’
His eyes narrowed at her assumption of his preference, flicked to the wedding ring she wore. Married. Why did he care? The perfume she wore didn’t suit her. Too strong. Too exotic. He wasn’t thinking clearly—hadn’t been since that devastating early-morning phone call.
‘What do you want?’ No games. Either she told him the reason they were here or he walked. ‘You’ve got two minutes to convince me to stay.’
She met his glare unwaveringly. ‘Then you’d better start reading.’ Perching on the front of an armchair, she pushed a buff-coloured folder along the low table before pouring coffee into a cup.
His muscles tensed. She appeared confident, was counting on him thinking he’d always wonder if he left without an explanation. He grudgingly picked up the unnamed folder and sat, stretching out his long legs.
Once she’d placed the drink in front of him she took a book from the bag by her side and settled into the chair to read.
He pulled the file out, glanced at the front sheet—and his already shattered world tilted beyond reality. He flipped the pages, studied the signatures. Scowled at the seemingly composed female ignoring him. A fist of ice clamped his gut. His heart pounded. Not true. Not believable. Though the signatures were genuine. He’d seen enough of them in the last few weeks to be absolutely certain.
Why? There’d been no indication.
He reached for his coffee, drained the hot liquid in one gulp while glancing at Alina Fletcher. Not so serene on further scrutiny. The fingers on her left hand were performing a strange ritual. Starting with the littlest, they curled one by one into her palm, with her thumb folding over the top. Dancelike, the movement was repeated every few seconds.
Nervous? She damn well ought to be, hitting him with this out of the blue. He gave a derisive grunt. He’d have been blindsided however she’d informed him.
Reverting to the opening document, he meticulously perused every paragraph.
Alina automatically flicked the blurred pages of her book, her fingers trembling. Her thoughts were in turmoil. This encounter ought to have been straightforward. She’d come to Sydney, acquaint the brother with the situation, and then they’d discuss options in a businesslike fashion. Instead she’d tensed at the timbre of his formal greeting, been slow to take his hand, shaken by her quickening heartbeat.
Please, please, let it be hormonal.
The best scenario was that he’d concur with the logical solution. She’d return to Europe and they’d communicate amicably via email or phone. Living alone would be no hardship. She only shared accommodation when it was required by an employer and rarely maintained friendships, even those forged from seasonal reunions. No roots. No ties. Liking co-workers was a plus. None had been able to break through the wall staying sane had compelled her to build.
She still wasn’t sure what had drawn her to Louise on their early irregular meetings. Perhaps an empathy that had enabled her to see behind the sparkling personality and glimpse the hidden sorrow? A feeling that she was a kindred spirit? Seeing the loving relationship Louise had shared with Leon? She’d often thought of them while travelling. Four months ago fate had brought them together at a critical time for Louise, a soul-searching one for her.
She’d stayed away from the funeral service in Barcelona for her own sake, needing time to decide what to do. Contacting Ethan James while he was arranging for his relatives to be transported to Australia for burial would have been insensitive. It was, however, the honourable thing to do now. In the end the only thing she believed would ensure her future peace of mind.
Until she’d looked into those cobalt eyes with their thick black lashes—so like Louise’s, except dulled with sadness and fatigue. Unwarranted, almost forgotten heat sensations had flared low in her belly. Immediately squashed. Never again. She’d barely survived before—sometimes felt she hadn’t.
During the last year she’d slowly, so slowly, begun to open up a little to people. Now she was caught in a different nightmare, with far-reaching consequences. It all depended on the man intently scanning the papers she’d given him.
She approved of his neatly trimmed dark hair, his long fingers with well-shaped clean nails. His no-frills attitude to her letter. Leon had described him as astute, pragmatic, and extremely non-sentimental in business. Personally reserved. The very qualities she needed right now.
She sipped her mint tea, praying her guest would agree to her suggestion. Her skin still prickled from his oh-so-fleeting touch. A hint of earthy cologne teased her nostrils every time she inhaled. Unusual and unfamiliar. Definitely not one of the brands she’d sold working in a department store in Rome last summer.
The tension in the room heightened. She looked up, encountered cold, resolute scrutiny, a grim mouth and firmly set jaw. Did he intend to dispute her claim? In October he’d have all the proof he’d require.
Ethan saw fear chase the sadness from her eyes, swiftly replaced by pseudo-cool detachment.
‘You’re carrying their child.’ He didn’t doubt the validity of the documents. They were legal, watertight contracts—somewhat alien to his carefree relatives. ‘Why?’
‘Three early miscarriages with no medical explanation. No trouble with conception. Surrogacy offered them a way to have a baby of their own.’ She spoke precisely, as if she’d rehearsed every word.
He swore quietly, fervently. Why hadn’t they told him? There’d been no hint of a problem on any of his visits. Or had he been too focused on his growing business empire to notice?
Anger at lost opportunities gnawed at him. Guilt at missing any change in Louise’s demeanour flooded him. The