The Love Child Read online

  He knew Jeannie loved him, that she’d accepted him, but he also knew she hadn’t had a choice. His other aunt hadn’t really been an option as a single mom herself. Taking him in had been the honorable thing for Jeannie and Charles to do.

  He owed the Mikkelsons more than he could repay. They’d saved him from an overburdened system where he likely would have ended up in a group home. They’d given him a place in their family. They’d treated him every bit as equally as their three biological children. Now, most people didn’t even know or remember he was adopted. Some days he could almost believe he was really one of them rather than a cast-off cousin.

  Other times, like now, he was reminded of that debt.

  As if she could feel his gaze, Isabeau glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you couldn’t be a rancher, what would you do with your life?”

  “Why does that matter?” A shrug. No other future mattered, only the present he lived in. That was his life. Walking to the wet bar, Trystan grabbed a beer and twisted the top off. He tipped the bottle’s neck to her, inquiring.

  A faint smile dusted her lips, but she shook her head, holding up a hand. “No, thank you. And as for the question, I’m just trying to get to know you better, beyond our brief meetings in the past and an internet search on the history of your family. The more I understand you, the more authentic I can be in the choices I make for your image makeover. I truly do want you to be pleased with the decisions. If it’s fake, that will show in your demeanor. People will sense it’s a facade.”

  “Then we’re screwed because I’m never going to be a smooth-talking, tuxedo-wearing dude.” He took a sip of the beer—his favorite summer ale from his family-owned brewery, Icecap Brews. The crisp, medium-bodied flavor settled him, the aftertaste of wheat drawing out memories of late nights working on the ranch. His sanctuary.

  “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She gestured toward the binders—toward the organized checklists, charts and measures that ought to transform him from rugged recluse to the face of Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.

  “Well, then, how would you feel if you couldn’t do your job? If someone thrust you into a role you weren’t comfortable with?” He took another swig as he leaned against the wall, noticing her confident posture, the way her brows lifted in answer to the challenge he threw at her.

  A sassy smile set the corners of her mouth up, reaching those bright blue eyes. “This isn’t about me.”

  “That’s a cop-out answer.”

  “Fine, then. I would search for help. Like how I have my dog here to help me adapt to the curveballs life has thrown my way.”

  He walked toward where she leaned against the desk, his fingers tracing the corners of the beer bottle’s label. Each movement, every step, sparked more static crackling in the air between them. Stopping beside her, he leaned against the desk to her left, aware of the lilac perfume on her skin. “Then what would you do if this profession hadn’t worked out for you?”

  “I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the felt lightly. Was she subconsciously drawn to it?

  Awareness tumbled through him as he drank in her slender features—the tipped nose, the confidence.

  “Fine.” He nodded. “You first.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Testing the trust issue. Okay, I would go back to school and study clothing design. Now your turn.”

  “Archeology. I can see myself sifting through the earth at an excavation site.” He brought the bottle to his lips, imagining what it’d be like to be immersed in an excavation pit in some remote location. No press. Few people. Yeah, he could live like that.

  “So you’re a patient man with an attention to detail.”

  His brow raised and he tilted the bottle, which caused the ale to slosh slightly. A contained wave. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Nice to know. The ideas are churning in my mind already.”

  She was sure learning a lot about him, and he wasn’t finding out a damn thing of importance about her.

  He set aside his beer and strode toward the yellow Lab. “Tell me about your dog.”

  Isabeau’s spine went straight and she closed her notebook slowly, her eyes averted. “She’s a Labrador retriever, she’s three and a half years old, and her name is Paige.”

  Obvious. But if she didn’t want to talk about the fact that Paige wore a service dog vest with patches and lettering, then he wasn’t going to be rude. He’d just been trying to make conversation.

  Not his strength.

  Turning, she flashed an overbright, tense smile. “You can ask. I was just messing with you by giving those obvious answers. Take it as a tip on how to avoid questions you don’t want to answer.”

  “Touché. I apologize if I shouldn’t have asked about your working dog. I was just trying to fill the awkward silence. I should have asked about your favorite vacation spot or what made you pick this job or something.”

  “Those would have been good conversation starters. But I’m comfortable discussing Paige with you. It’s more the strangers approaching me with questions that are bothersome. I’ve even had people accuse her of being a fake working dog since I don’t ‘appear’ disabled.” She shook her head, that spiral of red hair sliding along her shoulder. “Paige alerts to my diabetes.”

  “How did I not know that about you?”

  She stacked her binders. “It’s not like you and I are besties.”

  He took another step closer, setting the beer on the desk, the tempting scent of her perfume swirling around him again. “But I know you. Or rather, I’ve noticed you and for some reason I didn’t notice your dog.”

  “That’s a good thing. If she’s drawing attention to herself, she’s not doing her job. Well, unless I were to be in some kind of health crisis, then she would get help or bring my medication. But she’s very good at what she does. Since I’ve added her to my life, she’s kept me from getting so distracted I miss drops or spikes in my glucose level.”

  “So I shouldn’t pet her.”

  “Not while she’s wearing her cape.” That tight-lipped, tense smile returned as her head gave a curt, dismissive shake.

  “Cape?”

  “Vest. She understands that when she’s wearing it, she’s working. When it’s off, she can play like any other dog.”

  “Ah, okay. Does it bother you that I’m asking about this?” An intrusion into his own life would’ve been met with some resistance if the roles were reversed. And the last thing he wanted to do was make Isabeau feel isolated.

  “Actually, no. It’s good to have something to talk about while I work.”

  “How does she detect your blood sugar?”

  “She senses it by smell.”

  “Like a drug dog?”

  “Or hunting dog, or search-and-rescue dog. Same premise, but fine-tuned. Not all service dogs can do it. Some do tasks like get help if there’s a problem or bring medicines or steady the person if they’re feeling faint. But she’s got that something extra.” With a stretch, Isabeau’s spine arched back, drawing his eye as she settled against the desk again. “There. I have all I need to order your new wardrobe. Some of it has to be special-ordered, but I can pick up what you’ll need for your sister’s wedding.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. But I hope you know that clothes aren’t going to change the core of who I am or what I say.”

  There. He’d thrown down the gauntlet.

  He’d enjoyed this fitting session a helluva lot more than he ever would have expected. And he knew without question that the woman in front of him had made all the difference in the day. Already he looked forward to their next sparring match.

  So why not make the most of this month of jumping through social hoops?

  His hand whispered against her impossibly soft skin, tension mounting as their eyes locked. “The best way to
keep my rogue mouth in line is to stay right by my side. Be more than a media consultant. Be my date for my sister’s wedding.”

  Two

  When she’d been a kid, Isabeau, like other little girls, had dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding of her own. Her mother had even spun those fantasies with her. Except her mom’s prince charming had walked out, and even though her mother kept telling the stories, Isabeau stopped believing. She wasn’t sure she even knew what a healthy dating relationship was, between her mother’s experiences and her own.

  So how had she let herself get talked into being Trystan’s date at a family wedding? She’d said yes before she could think, her mind somehow losing its edge around this man.

  A dozen times over the past two days she’d planned to tell him it was a silly idea.

  And every time, she’d found a reason to delay until here they were, together, at a Mikkelson-Steele wedding.

  Sure it was a small ceremony at the Steele family compound by the water, but still. Simple to these people still involved big money and security guards.

  She wasn’t his date, not in the romantic sense. Although Trystan was playing it to the hilt, his arm draped over her shoulders as the bride and groom exchanged vows.

  Trystan leaned closer, whispering against her ear, “Do you feel okay?”

  “I’m fine, just fine,” Isabeau insisted quickly, then caught herself up short. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Your face is all scrunched.”

  “That’s rude.” The mutter eked out between her lips, which were lifted in a tight smile. Though to be completely honest, she could feel the vise grip of tension in her teeth and furrowed brow.

  “My apologies.” His voice was low, but the lilt to his tone was light. Teasing. “Your gorgeous face is all scrunched?”

  “Better, slightly.”

  “We’re at a wedding. Pretend you aren’t checking your watch wondering how much longer until the reception, like the rest of us are.”

  “That’s not true. I’m enjoying the view. The sun just made me squint for a second,” she lied through her teeth.

  “Uh-huh, right.” He laughed softly.

  She had to confess, a summer shoreline wedding in Alaska with a mountain range backdrop was nothing less than stunning. She would have enjoyed herself if it weren’t for the nerves in her stomach generated by the man beside her.

  Distracting her.

  The Steele estate loomed in the background, sprawling, like a cedar wood cabin on the scale of a manor house—these clients were beyond the caliber of any she’d had before. The home was nestled into the skinny pines and rugged landscape, the wildness of it all giving Isabeau a small sense of peace even with the mansion housing multiple suites for the Steele family when they were in town. The quarters for each sibling were much like luxurious condominiums. Glenna Mikkelson had even been living in her suite with Broderick for months.

  Having their wedding here also made it an easier location for Jack Steele. The patriarch had only recently been given the okay to stop wearing his neck brace. He was a walking miracle, given he’d fractured two vertebrae in his neck. He’d survived the fall and the surgery that followed.

  He was still an imposing figure, but pale, and she suspected he would be sitting for the duration of the reception. Likely only pride and grit kept him on his feet now. Actually, Jeannie Mikkelson appeared more stressed, worried and frazzled than he was, even with her mother-of-the-bride smile.

  Isabeau glanced up at Trystan to see if he’d noticed his mother’s strain. But no. His gaze slammed right into hers with a spark of awareness that made her all the more conscious of his arm along her shoulders.

  Lord, he smelled good, like spices and musk and man.

  He smiled, which distracted her to the point she almost missed Trystan’s hand sliding down her spine to rest just above her butt. Her skin was on fire in a way she hadn’t felt in a long—a very long—time.

  Why was he doing this? To rebel against the makeover or because he genuinely wanted her? His behavior felt like more than playacting through a simple date. She would need to tread warily to resist getting too involved with him.

  She cleared her throat and hissed, “Pay attention to your sister’s wedding.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Trystan’s hand eased upward to her shoulder again.

  It had to be the wedding ceremony making her go all gooey inside, aching to grasp some of that magic in the air.

  The wedding. Right. She should just pay attention to the proceedings, take in the staging and beauty for ideas for future clients who wanted a down-to-earth, simple ceremony.

  The bride wore a fitted lace dress with long, sheer sleeves and a sculpted bodice, her blond hair swept up in a twist that exposed her regal neck. She held a bouquet of flowing Queen Anne’s lace, white roses and greenery. Simple and elegant, like the bride herself.

  The groom’s tuxedo was a Ralph Lauren design with clean lines, and no Stetson today.

  Unlike the other men, who all wore suits and hats.

  The family resemblance on both sides was easy to spot. The Mikkelsons were blond or had hair a lighter shade of brown. The Steeles were dark haired like their father with a flash of Inuit heritage from their mother.

  Isabeau had done her research on both families. The Mikkelson matriarch and Steele patriarch had both been devastated when their spouses died. She’d sifted through countless press releases to identify possible publicity pitfalls. But there were no hints of scandal in either of their marriages. It was impossible not to root for them now that they were planning their own wedding.

  Glenna Mikkelson and Broderick Steele’s relationship was a bit more...complicated. Rumors indicated they’d had a brief fling in college, but Glenna had gone on to marry someone else. Her husband had cheated and fathered a baby daughter with another woman—who had then abandoned her child.

  The precious little girl was in Broderick’s arms now, her chubby hands wrapped around his neck. Isabeau’s heart squeezed at the beauty of a real fairy-tale wedding. And with unerring timing, Trystan slid his hand down to palm her waist with a warm, subtle strength that sent tingles up her spine.

  God, she needed some space from this sexy “date” of hers.

  The chords of an upbeat song called her back, grounding her in the moment. Head tilting, she watched as the couple walked down the aisle together. Glenna glowed as she passed them, her smile as wide as the horizon and as brilliant as the midsummer sun. She lifted the baby up as Broderick led them all the way down the velvet aisle.

  A family. Complete and ready to face the future together.

  A chord in Isabeau’s heart snapped as the wedding concluded.

  Suddenly, the world seemed to close in on her. The small crowd felt oppressive.

  Space. The desire to bolt surged into her rapidly beating heart. “You know, you’re right after all about the reception. I’m starving.” She gestured to the caterer’s tent on the lawn. “I’m going to check out the spread while you chat with your family. Bye now.”

  She smoothed her silky yellow dress, the hem teasing her knees, and slipped out from beneath Trystan’s arm. Her skin tingled with the lingering feel of his simple touch. Her heels sunk into the grass as she made her way up the hill toward the outdoor party tent. Tables of food were strategically available everywhere she looked, even up to the balcony and sunroom. Waiters walked the grounds with trays of canapés and drinks.

  She didn’t have her dog with her, opting to let Paige play with the other family dogs in a large fenced area. Isabeau had decided that if she changed her mind, she could retrieve Paige quickly. Even now, she could see her yellow Lab loping with a husky, each dog holding the end of a stick not even sparing a glance at the large antlered moose ambling just beyond the fence line.

  Best smile forward, Isabeau dashed away from the amassing family, from Trystan�
��s heat, her eyes trained on reaching the balcony.

  Don’t look back at him.

  Determined to find a moment of solitude, Isabeau headed straight for the mansion, climbing the lengthy stairway up to the balcony. What a breathtaking view of the festivities. And yes, she could find peace here as well, away from the temptation of leaning into Trystan’s touch.

  An elegant, understated spread of high tables drenched in pale lace and lit candles filled the balcony. The candles flickered, contrasting with the deep blue depths of the water lapping against the shore below.

  Navigating her way from the balcony to the sunroom, she paused to lean against one of the sunroom’s many open doors. Pausing to drink in the scene. To collect herself and assuage the mounting anxiety that rumbled in her chest, squeezing around her heart.

  Golden sunlight drenched the room, pouring through the array of windows. An ice carving of a doe and buck glimmered, drawing her toward the spread of food. Casting a glance at the lawn again, she saw the other guests beginning to help themselves to the alfresco meal, with the option of retreating to the sunroom. Thank goodness for the spread out space for mingling or quiet. Because she felt jittery and she knew it had nothing to do with her blood sugar levels.

  Salmon, ahi tuna, crab legs, asparagus, Caprese skewers...all of it made her mouth water. She built a plate of salmon and a plain roll just as a jazz band inside the house launched into their first set.

  Yep. Fairy tale. And yes, a part of her still wanted a moment of magic like this. Not the angst of forever. Just the magic.

  With a sigh, some of the restlessness she’d felt only five minutes ago seemed to dissolve. Making her way outside, she sat on one of the deck chairs, scanning the surreal beauty in front of her.

  Isabeau tipped her face toward the brief warmth of summer, four weeks in late June and early July. Temperatures in the fifties felt balmy after her first winter in the state.

  And while the thought of such cool weather feeling balmy never ceased to amaze her, the wild scenery of this state made her feel humble and small. In her college literature class, she’d been forced to read Thoreau and Emerson. At the time, their musings on nature had washed over her in a blur of words. But here, as she studied the purple of dwarf fireweed peeking through exposed granite along the shoreline, the perceptiveness of those dusty American thinkers resonated. Even with the helicopter parked in the distance.