Except him. “Thank you. I really will think about it.”

Of course she couldn’t accept the offer. It was beyond ludicrous. She’d already moved in once with a man she’d barely known, and that had been a disaster. She couldn’t compound her mistakes.

She backed out of her parking space and drove to the nearest exit. While she waited for a break in traffic, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Luke stood by a gleaming black Jaguar convertible, watching her with those arresting eyes.

She shivered. No wonder the women flocked to him. Just being near him had a devastating effect on her nerves.

And he was wrong about the media. Even if she agreed to the fake engagement, they would never buy it. She spotted a break in the traffic and gunned the car, anxious to leave Luke behind. She’d seen photos of his dates in the tabloids—gorgeous, voluptuous women, the kind who wore designer clothes, shoes that cost more than most people’s mortgage payment. A-list women who vacationed on exotic beaches and sunbathed on yachts.

Whereas she was a high school history teacher. A single mother with a three-year-old child. And she couldn’t forget that fact.

She sighed, changed lanes, then worked her way through the city streets toward home. That was the mistake she’d made with Wayne. She’d been flattered when he’d asked her out, impressed that a rich, charming man had showered attention on her. She hadn’t cared about his money, but it had been so darned nice to have someone pamper her for once. All her life she’d worked to put food on the table, to keep sanity in their unstable lives. Wayne had made her feel sheltered, cared for. She’d even admired his selfcontrol.

Big mistake. One she couldn’t afford to repeat.

She turned into her sister’s street, pushed thoughts of the past from her mind. She neared the house and slowed the car, and every cell in her body tensed. She inhaled, blew out a long, slow breath, trying to stay calm. But what if Wayne was nearby? What if the killer was here? Her knuckles turned white on the wheel.

She pulled into her driveway and idled the car, hardly able to breathe. She scanned the neighbors’ bushes and yards, watched for movement around her house. Nothing. She pried her hand from the wheel, hit the button on the remote to open the garage door, checked the street in the rearview mirror.

Everything was fine. No one was there.

The garage door swung open, and she drove inside, her pulse flaying her skull. God, she hated this fear, this constant anxiety, the need to listen, watch, run. She cut the engine and set the brake. Still scanning the garage, she unlatched her seat belt and opened her door.

The side door burst open. A masked man lunged toward her, a crowbar in hand.

She shrieked, slammed her door shut and hit the locks. Her heart rioting, her hands fumbling, she jammed the key back into the ignition. But the man leaped around the car and smashed Claire’s window.

Claire wailed. Amanda’s heart went berserk.

She cranked the engine, rammed the gearshift into Reverse, shaking so hard she couldn’t think. She yanked off the brake, slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car rocketed out of the garage backward, shot down the driveway into the street—and crashed.

Amanda screamed, her voice merging with the din of twisting metal and shattering glass. The car jumped forward from the impact, hurling her against the steering wheel, and she gasped at the sharp jab of pain.

The car rocked backward again, then stopped. The sudden silence rang in her ears. Stunned, she looked up. The man in the garage ran off.

She swiveled around in panic. Claire still sat in her car seat, sobbing, clutching her bear, her face streaked with tears. But she was all right. She was all right. They’d both survived.

But who had she hit? She looked out the rear window. A cop emerged from his crumpled car.

She closed her eyes, rested her throbbing forehead against the steering wheel, ignored the blood trickling down her cheek. The cop banged on her door. She gestured for him to wait.

And the horror of it all washed through her. She’d nearly lost Claire. That man had tried to abduct her. She’d nearly failed to protect her child.

She sucked in her breath and knew she no longer had a choice. Whether she knew Luke or not didn’t matter. They were moving into his mansion tonight.

Chapter 4

Luke had a reputation for being ruthless in business—a reputation he deserved. He crushed all opposition, never let emotions interfere with a decision and never lost sight of his goals.

Which didn’t at all explain the turmoil now roiling through him, this odd hesitation to involve Amanda in his plans.

He prowled across his sunny patio toward the pool, the Italian tiles warming his bare feet. He watched Amanda steer her daughter through the sparkling blue water, the kid’s arms buoyed by inflatable wings.

Bringing Amanda here made sense. She needed security, which he could provide. In exchange, she would lend him an air of stability, help pacify the consortium until they voted on the project next week. It was a logical arrangement, mutually beneficial—vital now that he’d read the morning news.

He scowled, skirted one of the twenty-foot Canary Island palm trees ringing the pool, tossed the offending newspaper onto a chair. He needed her help, all right. His project’s success hinged on this plan.

Hell of a time for a crisis of conscience.

She glanced up from the pool just then and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Luke.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not. Come on in.” She steered her daughter to the side of the pool.

He dropped his towel on the chair and dove in, then swam underwater to where she stood in the shallow end. He surfaced near the others, shook the water from his eyes. The kid giggled and ducked behind her mother’s back.

“Say hello to Mr. Montgomery,” Amanda told her.

“Luke,” he corrected.

Amanda smiled, her blue eyes warming, and his heart made a sudden lurch. “Say hello to Luke then.”

The kid peeked out. “Luke then,” she whispered and giggled again.

Luke grinned back and gently splashed her, and she squealed with delight. Claire was a miniature version of her mother with that angel-white hair and big blue eyes. A little shy, cute as hell.

Her mother wasn’t cute. She was a knockout. Thick, dark lashes framed her dazzling eyes. Her hair was wet from the swim, slicked back, emphasizing the feminine lines of her face. Water glistened on her lips and shimmered in the hollow of her throat.

He looked at her shoulders, over the tantalizing cleavage bared by the scoop-necked suit. Water lapped over her breasts, bringing them in and out of focus like a desert mirage, tempting him to peel down that con-servative suit, lick the sparkling drops from her skin.

Aware that he was staring, he jerked his mind to why he was here. “I’ve got news.”

Her full lips pursed, and she glanced at Claire. “Let me get Claire settled down for a nap. It won’t take long.”

“Take your time. I’ll swim some laps.” He watched her maneuver her daughter to the steps. Water streamed from her shoulders and back as she climbed from the pool. His eyes followed in the water’s wake, skimming her naked back, her perfect butt, the taut, creamy skin of her thighs.

She picked up a towel and quickly wrapped it around her waist. The modest gesture amused him, piquing his interest even more.

But it was an interest he couldn’t indulge in right now. He plunged back into the water and began counting laps, relying on the exertion to settle his mind. A mile and a half later, his arms and shoulders tired, and the tension pounding in his temples eased. Feeling more controlled now, he touched bottom and waded to the side of the pool.