The Rogue's Fortune

“Then why do you care?”

“I…” She had an answer to his question, just not one she was willing to give him. So, she stole from his playbook. “Is that your mother?”

* * *

They were passing the library. His mother’s favorite room in the house. Large and windowless, shelves lined every inch of wall space except for the large fireplace and the life-size portrait of Guinevere Black hanging over it.

“Yes.”

Even though he knew it was little more than a trick of his subconscious, Roark had never been able to shake the sensation that her eyes followed him wherever he went in the room. He’d first noticed the phenomenon when he turned seven and spent long hours studying math, language, geography and history with his tutor. Despite her being elsewhere in the apartment, Roark always felt as if she watched over his lessons.

“She’s beautiful.” Elizabeth glanced his way. “You have her eyes.”

“And her love of books.” To his relief, the scent of coffee reached his nose. “Come on, Mrs. Myott has started breakfast.”

“Why would she do that when you gave her the impression we’d be a while?”

He was growing rather fond of the way Elizabeth’s cheeks turned pink and wondered what accounted for his change of taste. The women he usually dated didn’t blush at the slightest hint of impropriety. When had he lost interest in audacious, free spirits? He appreciated their independent natures. Never worried that they’d grow too attached.

“She knows me.” He wrapped his arm around Elizabeth’s waist and guided her down the hall.

In the eighteen years he’d lived in the apartment, the kitchen had been a big, serviceable room meant to be a functional space with little aesthetic appeal. White subway tile on the walls. Gray tile on the floors. Stainless countertops.

Five years ago when he’d toyed with selling the place, he’d had the room renovated. Now, granite and slate in warm, earthy tones made the gourmet kitchen an elegant space to cook and entertain.

He guided Elizabeth onto a bar stool on the opposite side of the enormous center island from where Mrs. Myott cooked bacon on the six-burner stove and headed for the coffeepot. As he passed the diminutive woman with short, curly brown hair and keen blue eyes, he leaned over her shoulder and peered at the batter resting beside the heating waffle iron.

“Is there any of your famous strawberry preserves?”

“I put up a dozen jars this summer, all for you.”

“That’s my girl.”

Mrs. Myott shot him a dry look. “I think you already have your hands full with the girl you’ve got.”

“You have no idea,” he murmured, fetching two cups of coffee and returning to Elizabeth. “I hope you like waffles. Mrs. Myott makes the best in New York

City. And wait until you taste her preserves.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not one thing. I made this boy breakfast for eighteen years until he ran off to serve his country.”

“She was my nanny,” Roark explained.

“Came to work for Ms. Black two days after this one was born.”

Her husband had been killed during the invasion of Grenada in 1983. Roark remembered photos of her husband in his uniform, and the stories she’d told of the missions he’d gone on. It’s probably where the first seed had been planted that led him to join the marines.

“And she stayed because by the time I no longer needed a nanny, she’d become part of the family.”

“Your mother was a dear.”

Elizabeth’s expression was intent as she followed the exchange. “So, you have lots of stories from when Roark was growing up?”

“I do.”

“That’s not why I brought you here.” His pulse hitched at Elizabeth’s mischievous smile.