* * * *
“Resigned?” Tyler James stared at his assistant. “She can’t resign. I just hired her.”
“Can and did. Sorry.” Barry Baker shrugged his polo shirt clad shoulders. Normally he’d be wearing a custom-tailored Italian suit, but things were more casual on the “Ranch.” He dropped Gladys Patton’s resignation on the mile-long mahogany desk and sank into the cream-colored leather armchair across from his boss.
Any other James employee would have waited for permission to sit, but Barry wasn’t just Tyler’s personal assistant. He was his best friend. Maybe his only friend.
That didn’t save him from an evil-eyed glare.
“She has a contract, damn it.” Tyler shoved the paper aside without even glancing at it. He wanted to feed it to the shredder. No, scratch that. He wanted to feed Patton to the shredder. She’d picked one hell of a time to quit.
Barry answered with another shrug. “Her contract had an escape clause written in. It was contingent on her final approval of the assignment, after she’d met the kids. You know that. The agency that sent her said she’s the best in the business. She can afford to pick and choose where she works.”
“So why wouldn’t she choose here?” Tyler flung out his arms. He paid top dollar with full benefits and built-in bonuses, gave his household staff luxurious living accommodations. What more did the woman want? “I’m the best, aren’t I?”
“You?” Barry snorted. “Frankly, Ty, you’re a pain in the ass to work for. Stubborn, demanding, impatient—”
“You left out egotistical and overbearing.”
“I was just getting to them. Also, unreasonable, ill tempered, and a real fussbudget,” Barry added.
Fussbudget? There was a new one.
Tyler’s spine stiffened. “Since when have I been a ‘fussbudget’?”
“Since when have you not? You’re the only person I know who lines up his asparagus spears in military formation before eating them.”
“I do what? I never line up my… Hell, I don’t even like asparagus.”
“You’re so anal-retentive you—”
“If you don’t like your job, Beanpole, you know where the door is.”
Beanpole Barry—not a very original nickname, but it suited his build—leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and crossed them at the ankles. “Shoot, would I do that to you?”
“No.” Tyler sighed. “I’m not that lucky.”
“Hey, man, if you don’t like my performance, you can always fire me.”
“I have. Several times.”
“More like dozens,” Barry corrected. “Or hundreds—”
“But you refuse to go away,” Tyler finished.
Barry beamed him a broad grin. “Only because you’d be lost without me, good buddy.”
“Yeah, probably.” Tyler shot him a wry grin back. Barry was usually right about most things, even his assessment of his boss-buddy’s character flaws. Not that Tyler had any intention of correcting those flaws. He liked himself just the way he was.
The traits that made him difficult to live with were the same ones that made him successful. Since his father’s untimely (but not exactly unwelcome) death thirteen years ago, he’d built the old man’s investment firm into a multi-billion dollar business empire. At thirty-six he had more money and power than some heads of state. He hobnobbed with royalty and gobbled corporate conglomerates whole.
So why did he feel panic stricken at the thought of three little boys?
Like a magnet, a small gold frame on the desk drew his gaze. The frame was a new addition to the room’s décor, but the snapshot inside it was old, a faded view of two other boys, two opposites in coloring and temperament. The older one, devil-dark and tall for his ten years, stood in stark contrast to the six-year-old blond cherub beside him. Both wore shabby clothes. They looked poor, but they weren’t—just born to a cold, miserly man with a heavy hand. Scrooge’s sons.
The older one also wore a black eye, but it didn’t seem to bother him. It wasn’t his first, after all. But it would be his last, he’d decided that day. He stared out of the frame, grim and defiant, and had a protective arm slung around the shoulders of the cherub whose bright smile said that he, at least, felt loved—and God knew he had been. The tall boy would have died for his little brother.
The man no longer had that option.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
A faint scar ran lengthwise down the center of the photo from where it had once been ripped in half. Tyler had taped it back together—carefully—the night he learned Steve was dead. That had been a week ago, and his brother had already been cremated by then. He’d never have the chance to patch up their torn relationship the way he’d patched this little picture. Sleep had been a scarce commodity ever since.
Wearily, he leaned back and closed his eyes. The inside of his lids felt like sandpaper.
“You look like shit,” Barry said pleasantly. “But I guess you’ve noticed that.”
“Um, yeah. But it’s still nice of you to remind me.”
“Anytime, my man. I live to serve.”
“Good. Then make yourself useful and nab Patton before she leaves. See what she’ll take to stay just until we find a replacement. Offer her—”
“Can’t. She’s gone.”
Tyler’s eyes popped open. “So soon?”
“Like a bat outta hell. Just grabbed her bags, signed her resignation, and flew.” Barry flapped his arms to illustrate. “I told Rick to take her wherever she wanted to go on the jet, but she refused to wait for it to be cleaned.”
Cleaned? Why did it need cleaning?
Never mind. Tyler decided he’d be better off not knowing. He had enough worries.
“She said she’d feel safer on a commercial flight,” Barry continued. “Karl’s driving her to the Lubbock airport in the Bentley.”
Tyler rubbed his throbbing temples while he digested the news. Shit. Now what was he supposed to do? The boys were here waiting to meet him, and he had no one to look after them.
Or…maybe he did?
Hell, he had a full staff on this estate. There must be someone…
His eyes met Barry’s over the desk, and he smiled. “Hey, you like kids, don’t you?”
“Oh, no.” Barry held up his hands and shook his head. “You’re not gonna pin that one on me. I have enough to do taking care of you.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’ll only be for a few days.”
“No. They’re your nephews, Ty. You wanted them. Now you deal with them.”
Tyler fought an infantile urge to slink under his desk and hide. Barry was right—as usual—but Tyler had never been so scared in his life. These were Steve’s kids. Kids he hadn’t even known about.
Because you never bothered to find out. Because you were too angry, and then too proud to contact your only sibling. Because you expected him to make the first move.
He’d wanted Steve to come crawling home like the Prodigal Son, admitting the error of his ways. He’d never even known that for the last six years little brother hadn’t been able to crawl anywhere. Steve had been flat on his back or in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the chest down.
Dear God…
The dull ache inside him became a sharp pain—a knife twisting in his heart, a cold fist squeezing his gut. His gaze held Barry’s, and he knew he must look desperate. Him. Big tough Tyler James, cringing like a whipped dog.
“I don’t know what to say to them. How can I explain…” Shit, he sounded pathetic.
“Well, ‘hello’ is always a good start.” When the quip fell flat, Barry blew out his breath, rose and strode around the desk.
Warily, Tyler watched his approach. Beanpole wasn’t going to hug him, was he? Tyler really hated that touchy-feely “real men do cry” crap his assistant spouted sometimes.
“Put your arm around me, and I’ll break it,” he warned. “I don’t want comfort.” He didn’t deserve comfort. He’d let Steve suffer when he might have done
so much to help. “I deserve to have my ass kicked,” he muttered.
Barry’s warm hazel eyes gazed down at him, sympathetic but firm. “I’ll be happy to oblige if it’ll make you feel better.”
Tyler flipped him a bird. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”
The buzzing of the private in-house phone interrupted them. Tyler stared at it in sudden horror.
Barry reached past him to answer it. “Yeah?… Hey there, Rick, what’s up?” He listened a moment. “Uh-huh.” He listened some more. “Well, is anyone hurt?”
Hurt? Tyler tensed.
“Chill,” Barry mouthed to him, silently. “I meant are the kids okay?” he said to Rick. “The crew are grown men. Surely they can tolerate a few scratches. It’s only a house cat, right? Not like they were mauled by lions.”
Barry’s brows pulled together into a frown. “What do you mean, I haven’t seen the cat yet? How big can it be?” His eyes widened. “Really? Wow… Hey, watch your mouth. I don’t care what the security team says. If they didn’t want to spend the flight chained to the toilet, they shouldn’t have let the boys play with their handcuffs… Yeah, I realize they didn’t expect the dog to eat the keys.”
Impatiently, he drummed the fingers of his free hand on the desk. “Look, calm down, we can have the jet hosed out later, okay? Just catch the bird, put it back in its cage, and send them up here.” The drumming stopped, and the frown returned. “Don’t tell me ‘easier said than done.’ Use a butterfly net if you have to… No, on the bird, you moron, not the kids… Right, and have Hanson bring them to the poolroom. At least there we won’t have to worry about replacing the carpet if the dog has any more accidents.”
The conversation continued another moment while Tyler listened with the fist in his stomach gripping tighter and tighter. Three boys and their pets… What had he been thinking bringing them here? He was way out of his element with this scene, and Barry was right. Again. Tyler was a fussbudget. He liked things clean, neat, orderly. Kids and animals usually meant the opposite. Already he could hear the clatter of his well-structured world toppling around him. He was in deep doo-doo, and he knew it.
He looked at the photo on his desk—saw the smile of a blond angel—and knew also that he had no other choice. Tyler wanted these kids, whatever the cost. They were all he had left of Steve.
The end of the phone call brought his gaze back to Barry. “So…” He was almost afraid to ask. “Is everything okay?”
Barry gave his characteristic shrug. “Could be worse. It seems your nephews, um, redecorated the jet, but nothing that can’t be fixed. They’re creative kids, invented a new game on the way. ‘Hijacker,’ they called it. Took Ms. Patton hostage and demanded the pilot change course for Disney World.” He chuckled.
Tyler didn’t. Naturally the boys would prefer a trip to the Magic Kingdom over an uncle they didn’t know from Adam. He couldn’t possibly have hoped they’d be looking forward to meeting him, now could he?
“Well, at least that explains why she quit.” He forced a smile. “What else?” There had to be more.
“Not much.” Barry leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just a little excitement in unloading. One of the twins let the Myna bird out of its cage. Fluffy chased it, then Fang chased him and ended up taking on all comers when they tried to stop him. Everything’s cool now though. No real damage done.”
Thank God…
Tyler rubbed his temples again. His headache was rolling into overdrive. “It’s a miracle no one was killed. That’s a big dog, isn’t it? A St. Bernard? And with a name like ‘Fang’…”
Chills ran down his spine. Was it too late to send the beast to obedience school? He was damned if he’d risk his nephews with a vicious dog. Why had anyone let the kids have an animal like that anyway?
And why the hell was Beanpole laughing so hard? Tyler glared at him, and the man laughed harder.
“No, no, you got it wrong,” Barry choked out between guffaws. “Fluffy is the