The Goodbye Groom - Ellen James Mills & Boon American Romance

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why,” she mumbled, “did Mom divorce us?”

      His daughter could get to him in a second. He put his arm around her, wishing he could protect her from every hurt.

      “She didn’t divorce you, honey—just me. She loves you.”

      Kaitlin blinked hard. She pulled away, her feet coming out of the pool with a splash. Her toes burrowed toward the pink flip-flops as if seeking refuge.

      “We’re not making any progress at all,” she said, her voice trembling dangerously.

      “You’re doing fine—”

      “You know I’m not. What’s the point of lying?” She stared at him accusingly. Where had she learned to be so hard on herself? And why didn’t he know how to comfort her?

      She marched across the patio and disappeared inside the house. Eric knew that she’d find some measure of solace with Mrs. Braddock in the kitchen. But that wasn’t good enough, not by far. A daughter should be able to count on her dad.

      Eric debated following her, but lately the pattern had always been the same: he tried to be a good father; she pushed him away.

      So he wasn’t trying hard enough, dammit. He had to come up with something better, and soon. Pacing to the table, he stared broodingly at the files scattered there. He was supposed to be working on the Garrett buyout. If he couldn’t be the right father, at least he should be focusing on business.

      Instead he sat down and took another folder from his briefcase. He opened it and gazed at the rough sketches he’d made not so long ago. With a finger he traced the lines of his dream. His fantasy.

      It would remain a fantasy, of course. He was too much a realist to believe anything else. But for now he could escape the problems confronting him: a family business that had begun weighing all too heavily upon his shoulders; a daughter who ran from him; a brother who’d ditched a fiancée.

      Right now Eric could forget all that as he gazed at the pages before him.

      He could dream.

      Chapter Two

      Jamie stirred, opening her eyes slowly. At first she couldn’t remember where she was. Albuquerque…anticipating her wedding day…

      Reality brought her fully awake. There’d been no wedding. She was on the small island of Saint-Anne, Washington, trying to find the reluctant groom.

      Jamie swung her legs over the side of the bed. With a heartfelt sigh she padded to the window and gazed outside. The first shadows of evening had begun to drift over the patio below. Eric Sinclair sat at the poolside table, legs stretched out comfortably. Instead of his too-severe business attire, he wore a bathing suit. Jamie could see the breadth of his shoulders, the dark hair curling across his chest, the well-proportioned muscles along every inch of his body.

      She drew back—but only a little. Something obliged her to remain where she was, hidden by the curtains, staring downward with a half-guilty fascination. The man, after all, was her fiancé’s brother.

      Ex-fiancé, she told herself acidly. Nonetheless, it seemed wrong to study Eric Sinclair when he was so unaware of her scrutiny. His attention centered completely on the sheaf of papers he held. A smile played across his mouth, all sternness vanished.

      A scuffling noise made Jamie turn her head. She saw a young girl peering at her from the hallway, a child with dark tumbled hair and curious brown eyes.

      “Come in,” Jamie said encouragingly.

      The child slid inside the room—but only just. She wore shorts and an oversize shirt emblazoned Seattle Mariners. As she folded her arms, her stance suggested fragility and defiance all at once.

      “Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”

      For one crazy, absurd moment Jamie wondered if there was something else she didn’t know about her ex-fiancé. Good Lord, did Shawn have a daughter he’d neglected to mention?

      The dark-haired little girl seemed to lose her resolve and began inching back toward the hallway.

      “Hmm… I don’t know who your dad is,” Jamie remarked, “but I imagine he’s someone very important. Someone like…the president of the United States.”

      The child paused. She gave Jamie a speculative glance.

      “Okay,” Jamie said. “Let me guess. He’s more like…the king of Spain.”

      The child remained perfectly solemn, her large brown eyes intent as she studied Jamie.

      “Maybe,” Jamie said, “he’s more like…the emperor of Japan.”

      The little girl pressed a finger to her mouth as if to keep a smile from escaping. She slid toward the window and gazed downward. Jamie followed the direction of her gaze to Eric Sinclair, who was still oblivious to the summer’s beauty surrounding him. Still absorbed in the papers he held.

      “So that’s your dad,” Jamie said very seriously. “I was right—he is someone important.”

      The child watched her father for another moment, her expression grave. She seemed absorbed by her thoughts, and Jamie did not try to interrupt. Then, elusive as quicksilver, the little girl slipped away from the window and out of the room.

      At the very last moment the child peered back at Jamie. The unspoken message was understood: Jamie could follow if she chose.

      The little girl led the way down the hall to another room. Here was a lively clutter: toys scattered across the floor, stuffed animals sprawled on the bed, books piled haphazardly on shelves. The child knelt beside a wicker basket. She reached inside and gently scooped up a kitten—all black except for its white left front paw.

      “This is Isabel. You can hold her if you want.”

      “Thank you,” said Jamie. She sat down on the floor beside the little girl and cradled the scrap of fur, listening to it purr. “Isabel…quite a lofty name for someone so cute. Where’d you get her?”

      “My dad.”

      Jamie tried to picture Eric Sinclair choosing this adorable little kitty as a gift for his daughter.

      “I’m Jamie, by the way.”

      The little girl glanced away as if suddenly unsure again. “I’m Kaitlin,” she offered after a second. Then she jumped up and went to her desk, where a set of watercolors was prominently displayed. She brought a few pictures to place silently in front of Jamie.

      “Here,” said Jamie. “I’ll trade.” She handed over the tiny Isabel so that she could take a closer look at the pictures. “Hmm…a good likeness.” The kitten was depicted rather larger than life, with so much black paint that the paper had crinkled. “And who’s this?”

      “My dad.”

      His daughter had placed him on the very edge of the page, in a business suit with lopsided tie.

      “I’ll bet,” Jamie said, “your father’s the one who gave you these paints.”

      Kaitlin didn’t answer, simply ducked her head over the kitten. Jamie studied another picture.

      “Can you tell me about this one?”

      “That’s our pool,” Kaitlin said, her voice so soft that Jamie had to strain to hear. Then the child lifted her head, and the expression in her big, dark eyes was surprisingly mournful. “That’s me,” she said almost in a whisper. “That’s me…hating the water.”

      After this bleak statement, Jamie gave the picture a more thorough perusal. It depicted a small solitary figure huddled to the side as if to escape the threatening expanse of dark blue.

      Kaitlin seemed to have run out of words. She sat down on the carpet but at some distance from Jamie. Her head bent over the kitten

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