Stay (Dunham series #2) by Moriah Jovan

stared at him in wonder. “You— But Ma—”
    “She don’t know about Vittles , about
Whittaker House. It’s my own little secret,” he confided. “You an’
me. I can . . . pretend . . . I had a hand in raisin’ you, but I
know who really raised you an’ I’m ashamed o’ that. I wouldn’t take
your charity now ’cause I don’t deserve it.”
    “You don’t deserve to be abused the rest of your
life, either.”
    “Won’t be much longer,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’m just waitin’ to find out if heaven’s as purty as that place
you got. Just to know you—my little girl— built that. It’s
all I need to die happy, Nessie.”
    She found herself walking around the town square at
midnight because she couldn’t sleep with her father’s fatalism
echoing around her head, and she couldn’t get the cigarette smoke
out of her expensive clothes. How had she forgotten that
little detail?
    Sunday. She’d leave Sunday. She would’ve left the
next day and been home in time for dinner if she hadn’t promised
Nephew—dammit, what was that kid’s name, anyway?—she’d go to
his program. None of the rest of his family would be there.
    Her attention was caught by the glint of glass panes
reflecting the street lamps when the courthouse doors opened. A
tall man with short black hair, in black pants and a loose black
kimono-type jacket locked the door behind him. He rolled his head
one way, then another. He rolled his shoulders over and under, then
cracked his neck. He seemed to have some sort of black strap slung
around his neck. He turned and walked slowly, rather bowleggedly,
across the lawn—away from her.
    Again.
    And she wouldn’t go begging for . . . what? Exactly?
A “thank you”?
    Kinda makes you wonder why you’re sitting here
pining over a small-time prosecutor when you could be sleeping with
a funny, handsome man who happens to be a country star, huh?
    With a choked sigh and a shake of her head, she went
back to her motel room and stripped off her smoke-saturated
clothes, stuffed them into a plastic bag, wondered if her
housekeeping staff could get out the stink—the same stink that
wafted from her hair. She got under a stream of hot water as fast
as she could and scrubbed her zebra hair until her scalp was
raw.
    Her hand swept down her chest, over her breast, and
stopped, her thumb playing with her hard nipple and she closed her
eyes, caught her breath, wondering how and why she had let so many
years pass before taking a second lover.
    Had she been that busy? That focused?
    Let’s just call it the fish that got away.
    Or had she simply been pining?
    It was easy to say that her first lover had spoiled
her for other men, because it was true; no one else had approached
his level of sheer sensuality. Unfortunately, the kinds of men who
attracted her were intimidated by the fact that she had been a
famous artist’s model—with the nude proof hanging in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was easy to refuse those who
couldn’t match Sebastian and even easier to ignore those who let
their intimidation get the better of them.
    It was easy to claim that she was busy and she was
young yet, because it was true. Knox had set her up for early
success and financial independence for a reason. Sebastian had
calculated his grand unveiling of Wild, Wild West to
coincide with her last four months of culinary school to make
Vanessa a hot commodity the minute she graduated. Still, she hadn’t
yet reached that point in the process where she could just let go
for a while. She had a grand vision for Whittaker House and not
only was she far from attaining that, she’d just gone into a heap
of debt to effect the next phase in her plan. If all went well,
she’d have to go to the bank next summer for the final phase and it
would take her years to climb out of that hole.
    It was easy to fall back on years of religious
training, both Catholic and Mormon, catechism class and Young
Women’s. Giselle—the closest