An ambush, of that Maggie was certain.
She had never been a morning person. Everybody knew that. Dad knew that when he insisted she meet him at eight a.m.
She turned on Ocean Avenue and stopped at a white and blue, ten-story tower. At least this time, she planned to get something in return. But was anything in the world worth walking into this house again?
The doorman greeted her, bringing her thoughts to a temporary halt.
She took off her sunglasses, straining to pop her eyes wider. “Morning.” Her boots echoed on the marble tiles as she ambled to the elevator. Eyes on the prize, Maggie. Eyes on the prize.
She slid her hand into the inside pocket of her leather jacket, pulled out a key card, waved it over the keypad, and ascended to the penthouse.
Loretta, the housekeeper, opened the door with a grin on her fifty-year-old face. “Good morning, Maggie.”
There was something kind about this short, plump woman that always made Maggie smile.
“Is she up?” Maggie whispered, taking off her jacket.
Loretta made a funny face as she stowed the jacket away in the coat closet. “I’m afraid so.”
Maggie’s shoulders slumped. “And Dad?”
“He’s waiting for you to join him for breakfast on the terrace.”
Maggie stalked across the living room, heading toward the stellar view of the ocean, Dad smiling at her behind the floor-to-ceiling window.
“Maggie.” A firm voice rang behind her followed by the sound of heels clicking on the floor.
The ambush.
Maggie took a deep breath and spun around. “Andrea.”
It never got old calling her mother by her first name. If she wanted to be called Mom, she’d better earn it. And Andrea had given up that right long ago.
“You cut your hair?” Her mother eyed her from head to toe, her mouth turned down in disapproval. “And what are you wearing?”
Here we go. “What, you don’t like my outfit?” Maggie adjusted the metallic belt against her little, black dress and smirked.
Andrea furrowed her thin eyebrows. “Someone with thighs like yours should not parade them like that. What size are you now? Ten?”
Ignore her. She’s not worth it. You promised yourself. “No. I’m still a six. Same as the past five years.”
Dad stepped into the living room, holding a cup of coffee, a cautious smile on his lips. “Good morning, girls.”
“Daddy.” She hugged him.
He pecked her on the cheek and handed her the cup. “Here, have some coffee.”
She shook her head. “I’m planning to go back to sleep.”
Andrea folded her arms across her chest. “Agreeing to show up here at eight in the morning means you want something really bad. What is it this time?”
Maggie heaved a sigh as she stared at her mother’s hazel eyes. “I don’t want anything from you, thank you very much. I’m here to see Dad.”
“So you ran out of money, and now you need Daddy’s help.” Andrea chuckled. “What do you need the money for? Another one of your aesthetic projects?” She smoothed her skirt as she sat on the couch.
Maggie bit the inside of her cheek, looking at her father. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. We can talk on the way to your office.”
“No, Maggie, wait.” He placed the cup on the glass coffee table, glaring at Andrea. “I’m sure your mother doesn’t mean anything. She hasn’t seen you in a year and is just…interested in knowing what you’re up to these days.”
Maggie’s gaze fell on the hardwood floor. “Yeah, right.”
He lifted her chin with his finger and smiled at her. “I’ll get my things, and we’ll head to the office.”
Andrea grabbed a gossip magazine from the stack on the coffee table and hid her face behind the glossy paper, while Dad climbed the stairs.
On the cover, there was a bare-chested picture of Mike Gennaro. The taupe brown curls of his hair flowed down to his naked shoulders. His dark brown eyes held a mischievous gaze. A scruffy jaw complemented his strong cheekbones and sculpted lips.
Heat spread under Maggie’s skin as she traced down the lines of hairless, chiseled chest and killer abs of the thirty-three-year-old actor. Her eyes landed on the title under the picture.
Mike Gennaro back in L.A.
She stared back at the half-naked superstar, her thumb brushing against her smiling lips.
“He’s too old for you,” Andrea said. “Nine years too old to be exact.”
Eight years and nine months. Maggie cleared her throat. “Who?”
Andrea’s head popped from behind the magazine. “Really?”
“I have a boyfriend.” Maggie jerked her head in the other direction. “Mike’s my friend.”
“No, he isn’t. He’s my friend, and my client. That makes him an acquaintance to you. Don’t mistake him for anything else.”
She darted a baleful look at her mother. A snide comment flashed in her head and almost made its way out of her mouth, but she swallowed it when she glimpsed her father coming down the stairs.
Finally.