That'll Be the Day Read online

  What if the only person to depend on was your worst enemy?

  Ian Muldaur is floundering, and knows it. Since his wife's death, he spends all his time at his job, earning him the hatred of his fourteen-year-old son. But at least Ian is strong. He's reliable. Then even this illusion shatters the day he collapses in his construction management office.

  Maggie O'Connell considers her life in good order. She has her own business, her own house, and doesn't need a soul to complete things. Then she gets a call at her garden nursery that her former brother-in-law—a man she's loathed as a tyrant since their first meeting—has suffered a heart attack. As the only adult 'relative' Ian has, Maggie rushes to the aid of his family. Suddenly she's no longer a commitment-free single woman, but a surrogate mother and wife—for a man she doesn't even like.

  Or does she?

  It isn't long before all of Maggie's cherished prejudices are shattered: about Ian, about herself, and about love.

  THAT'LL BE THE DAY

  by Alyssa Kress

  Published by 4 Dolphins Press at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Alyssa Kress

  Originally copyright 2005 as From the Heart

  Cover Design Copyright 2014

  by http://coversbykaren.com

  Discover these and other titles by Alyssa Kress at her webpage, http://www.alyssakress.com

  Marriage by Mistake

  The Heart Heist

  The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

  Asking For It

  Love and the Millionairess

  Working on a Full House

  Your Scheming Heart

  I Gotta Feeling

  The Fiancée Fiasco

  If I Loved You

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit http://www.alyssakress.com to find licensed retailers from whom you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious, even those referring to actual or well-known entities. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank everyone who has given immense support and help in creating this and other stories: Julie Woolley, Kathy Bennett, Jenna Ives, Leigh Court. Many thanks to Jeff Morlok, who graciously allowed me to give Ian credit for the job Mr. Morlok did on the Center for the Performing Arts in Orange County. I am also indebted to Dr. Les Eber, cardiologist, for information regarding heart attacks and their treatment circa 2004. Any mistakes are my own.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books by Alyssa Kress

  Preview of A Perfect Knave (Historical Romance)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ian woke to the sound of whatever was the latest heavy metal band, blasted at about a hundred thousand decibels.

  "Holy!" He jerked up in bed. After a few heart-pounding seconds, he realized he was at home. This wasn't some freak fire alarm going off at a hotel in Dallas or Little Rock or...where had he been last night? Raleigh.

  Ian groaned and swiveled to check the time. Seven a.m. Hell, he'd probably end up thanking his son for cranking up the stereo loud enough to wake him. He had to be at the office in an hour.

  Ian took three more seconds to bemoan his exhaustion, then stumbled out of bed. Andy's music made a cacophonic counterpoint to his hasty shower, shave, and dressing.

  By the time he got downstairs, the music was off, but other loud noises could be heard. An argument was well under way in the kitchen. Unfortunately, this was an all-too-familiar ritual.

  "There are dishes in the sink, Andy," a young, female voice complained. "Last night it was your turn to wash."

  Andy's voice drawled, "I didn't feel like it."

  "You didn't feel like it! You didn't feel like it! So now I have to do your dishes, because you didn't feel like it?"

  "Hey. Chill."

  "Chill? Chill?" Kathy's voice was rising. Ian could hear the frustration he often felt toward Andy being expressed with an eleven-year-old lack of reserve.

  Both kids stopped talking the instant he walked into the room.

  "Good morning." Ian sounded equable—he hoped. He finished tying his tie. Now, what? Did he try to solve their argument, even mention it? And what about Andy's music? He watched his children watching him and felt a familiar sense of incompetence. He was not a good parent, he'd be the first to admit it. How market conditions would affect prices, that he understood. How to make two dozen subcontractors work around each other and end up with a completed, on-budget shopping mall or resort hotel—these things he could do with astonishing flair.

  But figure out how to get his own kids to get along, or even do the dishes? Forget it. Without Sophia, he was lost.

  Nevertheless, the tension on Kathy's face disappeared. "Dad!" she cried and threw herself at him.

  Ian caught her embrace and felt his own tension ease under the force of her unfettered affection. She was a petite little package mixed of girl and as-yet-unfurled woman. As always, she made a smile spread over his face.

  But over Kathy's shoulder, Ian could see fourteen-year-old Andy glowering. Ian's smile faded.

  "You're back," Andy said.

  "I told you I'd be back Thursday." Inwardly, Ian winced. The truth was that by the time the plane had landed, he'd grabbed a cab, and opened his front door, it had been well into Friday morning.

  Kathy drew back from her father's embrace. Her gaze went from Ian to Andy, concern flitting over her features. "Anyway, you're home for the weekend," she said, obviously trying to smooth things over.

  "Yes." Ian smiled at her. "The whole weekend." Though he had a ton of papers to go through, pursuant to his recent trip to Raleigh.

  As if he could hear Ian's thoughts, Andy snorted. "Yeah, right. The whole weekend with Dad—and his laptop."

  Andy's blatant disrespect shot a spurt of anger through Ian. The work I do puts a roof over your head—and paid for that stereo you play too loud! But before Ian could voice the retort, he was stopped by a sudden twinge, an odd pinch of discomfort in the center of his chest. Huh? For a moment, he lost his train of thought.

  The discomfort vanished, and Andy's face clicked back to the forefront of Ian's attention. He took a deep breath, recalling that he had to remain the cool-headed one around here. Not to mention the kid was right. Ian would be spending most of the weekend with his laptop.

  "Uh..." Perhaps the wisest course was to change the subject. "I see the sink is full of dirty dishes." He gave a pointed glance in that direction.

  Andy shrugged. "Yeah?"

  Ian took in another deep breath. Odd. Either that action or the continued effort of leashing his temper caused another twinge in his chest. "Mrs. Granby is coming this afternoon,"
he told his son, carefully atonal. He felt the twinge fade away again. "I'd hate to have her walk in to a dirty kitchen."

  Kathy turned to shoot her brother a triumphant look, but Andy only had eyes for Ian. "So tell her not to come," he said. "We don't need that fussy biddy."

  "You're not old enough to be on your own all afternoon."

  "Bull. Brandon does it. And Troy, too. They think it's dumb I have a babysitter. Anyway," Andy added, smug, "I was in charge all of last night, wasn't I?"

  "You were in charge...for a few hours last night," Ian corrected.

  Andy waved the statement aside. "Even Aunt Maggie. She says I'm plenty old enough to be on my own."

  "Aunt Maggie?" Ian's eyebrows arched.

  "That's right. She says you're overprotective."

  "Hm." Ian pressed his lips together. He often had to reach down to the depths of his self-control to avoid expressing how he really felt about the children's aunt, Sophia's overblown earth-mother sister, Maggie. The woman had a natural gift for irritating the hell out of him. She was abrasive, to put it mildly: the complete opposite of sweet Sophia. To make matters worse, Maggie seemed to think Sophia's absence gave her a place to step in when it came to the kids.

  Step in? Splash down. She was the one person on earth who could move Ian to thoughts of murder.

  "Fortunately," Ian said to Andy, letting his self-control slip a little with the word, "Aunt Maggie is not in charge."

  "Fortunately?" Andy's eyes turned into slits. "I'd say 'too bad.'"

  Ian frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means— Oh, screw it. You wouldn't understand if I spent a week trying to explain it to you."

  Ian lifted a finger. "Watch your language, young man."

  "Watch my language?" Andy's eyes widened. "Fuck you."

  "Andy—!"

  But the boy was already gone, brushing past Ian to bang through the kitchen door. If the door hadn't been a swing, it would have slammed. As it was, it swished back and forth while Ian and his daughter stood there and stared at it.

  Well, I certainly handled that well.

  "He's such a turd," Kathy at length remarked, and pointed. "You notice he managed to get out of doing the dishes?"

  The discomfort in Ian's chest briefly flared.

  He tried to clear his mind of it all once he'd dropped off the kids at their various schools and headed toward the office. It was far easier to concentrate on problems he actually could solve, like zoning and planning codes, recalcitrant politicians, or a critical shortage of steel during a bidding war.

  In fact, as the elevator stopped at the top of the three floors occupied by Brockton Construction, Ian already knew where he would start with the Raleigh problem. Brockton's corporate lawyers, he'd get them on the phone first thing.

  "Good morning, Eileen." He paused in the streamlined elegance of the secretary area outside his office door. Already, he could feel himself relaxing.

  "Mr. Muldaur." Eileen gave him a congenial smile.

  Ian smiled back. At the office everything was under control, no matter how wild it seemed to get. While he was here, he could forget about his parental deficiencies, including his deteriorating relationship with his son.

  "I'm going to be on the phone most of the morning, Eileen. Could you take messages on my incoming calls?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Muldaur."

  Still smiling, Ian went into his office and closed the door. He was going to have to work magic to get around the political hurdles in Raleigh. He'd be spinning multiple plates in the air for the next six months. There would be dicey moments, but in the end...he'd be successful.

  Ian tossed his briefcase onto a padded visitor chair and loosened his tie as he dropped into the large chair behind his cherrywood desk. He could feel the adrenaline rising, readying him for the task. But as he pulled forward the Rolodex to find the number for the lawyer's office, he felt another pain, a tightening around the upper part of his chest.

  Ian's fingers paused on the cards in the Rolodex. His brows drew down. Weird. He concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his chest and took several deep breaths. It worked. The pressure lightened, the mild pain receded.

  Shaking off any further thought of the matter, Ian found the phone number, dialed, then leaned back in his chair.

  "Dunbar, Creston, and Winchell," purred a polished, female voice in Ian's ear. "How may I direct your call?"

  "This is...Ian Muldaur, from Brockton." Ian frowned and rubbed one hand over his chest. "I'd like to speak to Bill Dunbar."

  What the—? The pressure in his chest was back, mild, but disturbingly viselike. As he sat there, waiting for the receptionist to get Bill Dunbar, Ian could feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

  Jesus Christ, what is this? I'm in perfect condition, do my exercises every morning—even when I'm on the road. This could not, repeat not, be a heart attack. Besides, it just didn't feel impressive enough. It barely met the threshold of pain.

  "Ian!" Bill Dunbar's voice boomed deep and jovial over the phone wires. "What can I do for you?"

  For a moment Ian couldn't say anything. He was feeling out of breath, even dizzy. "Um. It's a political situation. Delicate." He paused to struggle for air. "But my secretary just buzzed me...a call I've been waiting for. You don't mind—?"

  Dunbar hesitated. Sounding not quite as ebullient, he said, "Of course not. Call back when you can."

  Ian set down the phone. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply. But he couldn't shake the dizziness or get rid of the pressure over his chest. This was ridiculous. Outrageous. This feeling simply had to go away.

  But as Ian sat there, concentrating on breathing, the feeling didn't go away. Instead, and to his considerable alarm, the pressure got worse, along with a sensation of impending doom. Dread had Ian getting to his feet. He watched as his hand lifted, and one finger pressed down the intercom. "Ei—leen?"

  The whispery quality of his voice shocked him. It seemed to make an impression on Eileen, as well, who didn't bother replying over the intercom. The next instant she opened the door of Ian's office.

  Her face contorted as she looked at him. "Mr. Muldaur!"

  Ian barely had to time to admit he was in real trouble before the floor came up to meet him.

  ~~~

  It was a slow Friday. Maggie had only had one customer, who'd sauntered leisurely through the rows of alyssum and impatiens, her lips pursed, her expression disapproving. The lady had left without purchasing a thing.

  Okay, no sale, but everything would still be okay, Maggie assured herself, tramping back outside with her pruning shears. The sun beat down with a pleasant warmth. Overhead a hawk circled. Maggie's nursery was on the very edge of the midsize town of Palmwood. Beyond her wire fence, the California desert stretched proud and lonely: hard-packed dirt, clumps of pungent sage, and a few precious spears of yucca.

  Maggie should have been experiencing the peace and tranquility usually produced by this setting. Instead, she cursed as she stabbed her finger on a rose thorn.

  Not the rose's fault, Maggie knew, shaking her hand and then sticking the bleeding spot in her mouth. The flowering bush was only protecting itself. Meanwhile, she should slow down and stop worrying. Her biggest customer, Corporate Edges Landscaping, would send her their balance due. All would be well. Besides, even without their check, she'd scrape together enough for the rent.

  But it wasn't only money concerns that bothered her as she walked back to the sales building to wash off her wound. It was Ian.

  Inside, a well-fed calico cat lifted its head from its position curled up on the counter. Oh, it's you, the cat seemed to say, then yawned and lowered its regal head again.

  "Well, who were you expecting?" Maggie asked the feline. "Your fairy godmother, perhaps?"

  The cat didn't answer, but Maggie didn't let that bother her.

  "No fairy godmothers here," she told the animal and huffed. "I'm not even allowed to play babysitter."

&nb
sp; The cat closed its eyes.

  Maggie stuck her tongue out at it. She'd liked to have made the gesture toward her former brother-in-law. She'd asked Ian so sweetly, so politely, repressing every biting, sarcastic—and true—epithet she'd liked to have expressed.

  Couldn't she take the kids that weekend? she'd asked Ian. She didn't add what they both knew: he was a negligent parent, hardly ever around, while she was almost always available. Instead she'd merely pointed out the happy opportunity she had of a friend with a cabin at Lake Tahoe. She'd explained to Ian that the kids could have a ball—swimming, fishing, maybe even horseback riding. Meanwhile, he wouldn't have to worry about rushing home from his business trip in Raleigh. Everybody would win.

  Had he listened? Had he given her idea one iota of thought? Ha! Did the great and mighty Ian ever give anything Maggie said his serious attention? Ha!

  Maggie did an angry wiggle dance in the hall as she moved past the cat and toward the tiny, utilitarian bathroom. She was pushing her finger under the faucet when the phone on the counter rang.

  "Damn," Maggie said, but without heat. A phone call could mean an order, and an order would mean money. It could also mean a bill collector, true, but why borrow trouble? She turned off the water and hurried to the phone.

  "Hello?" She hoped she didn't sound breathless. "Country Garden Nursery. Can I help you?"

  "Hello," said a thin female voice on the other end of the line. "I'm—that is, I'm looking for a...Maggie O'Connell?"

  "That's me." Maggie admitted the fact cheerfully. It wasn't a bill collector. They only used first names.

  The woman on the other end of the line cleared her throat. "I don't quite know how to...You see, it's Mr. Muldaur. I'm Eileen, his secretary."

  Maggie's brows jerked down. Why would Ian's secretary be calling her? "Yes-s-s?" she asked.

  "Um. Your name was on his emergency card, the one in the company's file."

  "Emergency?" Maggie's initial apprehension expanded.