What a Rich Woman Wants

He knows she's out of his reach. Until she reaches out to him.

Braddock Brotherhood, Book 4

Right about the time Lesley Robinson's father's stroke left her in charge of his Fortune 500 company, she adopted her housekeeper's sick baby and divorced her philandering husband.

She's survived the past six years by building an impenetrable wall around her emotions. But when a hunk of a sheriff's deputy turns up at her office to apply for a grant from the company's foundation, her distrust of men and relationships takes a direct hit.

Niko Morales clawed his way out of gang life to build a new one grounded in law enforcement and a passion to help disadvantaged youth. So, Lesley needs a companion for an upcoming social occasion? He's no gigolo, but for his community center, and maybe for her, he'll wear the monkey suit.

Without any apparent effort at all, Niko sneaks under Lesley's cool façade, shaking up everything she believed about herself. But when their relationship is threatened by the sins of others, they'll both have to step up—and out of their comfort zones. Or they'll lose the one thing they want most: each other.

Warning: Contains a sexy cop in a tuxedo who lets a powerful businesswoman entangle him in more than just her bedsheets.

What a Rich Woman Wants

Barbara Meyers

Dedication

To the beautiful and inspiring city of Naples, Florida,

my home for more than thirty years.

Chapter One

Niko Morales navigated the interlocking brick driveway, lavishly landscaped on both sides, and parked his six-year-old, slightly battered black Acura under the porte cochere of the Robinson beachside estate.

Releasing his seat belt, he stepped out into the evening air, still hot this time of year this close to the gulf, but it wouldn't last much longer. In another month or so the humidity would lift and the daily rainstorms would cease. The breathtaking heat that created near swamp-like conditions would give way to balmy breezes and cool nights. The sticky summer, complete with vicious mosquitoes and various other annoyances full-time residents of Willow Bay had to live with, would give way to “season”. Full-blown tourist season, with its influx of snowbirds and vacationers, doubled the year-round population, overcrowding the roads, hotels, restaurants and beaches. The local economy thrived while the residents groused.

The majority of the highly affluent in Willow Bay, people like the Robinsons, had homes “up north”, probably bigger and more impressive than the ones like this used primarily for escape from snow and cold.

This particular neck of land, not large enough to be called a peninsula, more of a wide finger, extended nearly two miles out into the Gulf of Mexico, forming a bay behind its mile-and-a-half width. It had been dubbed Royal Cove, and for good reason, since it comprised some of the priciest real estate in southwest Florida and boasted some of the most lavish homes as well.

Like this one,
he mused, schooling himself to be unimpressed by the distinctive architecture, leaded-glass windows, peaked roofline and wide marble staircase leading up to ten-foot-high, paneled oak double doors.

He liked to think he'd inured himself to the ostentatious displays of wealth he came into contact with nearly every day as a sheriff's deputy in Willow Bay. For those who had it, money provided insulation from traffic tickets, DUIs and the like. He'd learned that some deputies were happy to take the cash and look the other way. He wasn't one of them and swore he never would be. He wrote the tickets and let the system do the rest. If a judge decided to alter the charges, reduce the penalty or waive the fine, that had nothing to do with Niko. He did his job the best way he knew how and left it at that.

Still, a home like this was so far from his own humble beginnings on the outskirts of Jacksonville that he had to remind himself not to be intimidated. Wealthy people were still people with weaknesses and faults and problems like everyone else. Knowing this helped him behave as if he were on equal footing with potential sponsors, such as the woman he was about to meet.

Lesley Robinson ran her family's charitable foundation. She also, from what he knew, ran her family. Although this impressive estate belonged to her parents, she was the one in charge of a vast fortune. Her father had suffered a stroke that had debilitated him several years ago. Richard Robinson was cared for 24/7 by a legion of private-duty nurses. His wife Mitzi remained the social butterfly she'd always been, perhaps more so now, unencumbered by her husband's presence.

None of that mattered, however, because Lesley was the one he needed on his side. She held the purse strings, and her support of the community center he dreamed of, one that would keep underprivileged young men off the streets and out of prison, would be the big push he needed. Lesley Robinson held sway in this tight-knit enclave of retired Fortune 500 CEOs, professional athletes and self-made millionaires.

From the passenger seat he picked up the folder he'd prepared, filled with information about the Challenge Project. A mission statement, a cost estimate and a site development plan. As requested he'd also included projections for annual operational costs once the center was complete and compared that to the cost of keeping the same number of individuals in prison for a year. His goal was to develop these rather lost young men into law-abiding citizens, to give them the skills needed to hold down a job and raise a family. To be contributing members of society instead of a drain on its resources.

He was well aware of the fact that it was a noble, idealistic goal and that others had attempted the same thing in a variety of ways, but he remained undeterred. He'd pulled himself out of a childhood steeped in poverty. He'd been sucked into a gang in his early teens, and he'd seen the damage such involvement did. He'd given up too much, including his own son, because at the time he hadn't had a choice. That's what he hoped to give other young men. Choices. One way or another, he'd get Lesley Robinson on his side. With her help he was confident there was no end to what his vision could accomplish.

He approached the front door, hearing a deep, melodic chime echo from inside once he'd pushed the bell.

In less than a minute one of the doors swung inward to reveal a compact Hispanic woman wearing a uniform of sorts, consisting of a white polo shirt, white cotton slacks and white sneakers. Her dark hair was secured in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She regarded him neutrally, neither welcoming nor repelling.

He greeted her in Spanish, introduced himself and asked for Lesley Robinson. She returned the greeting, gestured him inside and closed the door behind him. She showed him to a small reception area consisting of two brocade chairs flanking an ornate table, over which hung a gilded mirror.

Niko took in the larger foyer, the sweeping staircase to the second floor with landings leading off in two directions. More marble and polished wood, the odd, echoey feeling of an excessively large home with few occupants.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, reassured that the business casual clothing he'd chosen was appropriate for the surroundings. He'd shunned the one suit he owned for a long-sleeved white dress shirt and a navy-blue sports coat paired with gray slacks. He was not and would never be a suit-and-tie kind of guy, and one thing he'd learned in his thirty-three years was never to try to be something he was not.

He'd been blessed in many ways and tried not to take any of those blessings for granted, including his appearance. Due to his mixed race, or so he'd always thought, he was taller than many of his Latino peers. From the father he'd never met came not only his height, but his long limbs. He kept himself in shape with regular workouts. From his mother he'd inherited his olive complexion, dark hair—which he kept short and messily spiked—and brown eyes.

He had a small scar below his chin from his time with the gang. Dressed as he was now, that was the only one visible. There were others, though, along with a number of tattoos which were on display occasionally in settings other than this. They were part of who he was, part of his history. He didn't go out of his way to hide them, but he didn't flaunt them either.

In moments the housekeeper returned. “This way,” she said simply, and Niko followed her down a hallway to the right. She tapped once, opened the door and gestured him inside.

From behind a massive desk a woman rose and came toward him, her hand outstretched in greeting. “Deputy Morales. Lesley Robinson. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

He took her hand, noting her long, slender fingers unadorned by jewelry, the nails her very own, neatly manicured and covered with clear polish. She was too slender, he thought, in her black pencil skirt that almost skimmed her knees and a long-sleeved, silky-looking blouse in a shade of teal that brought out the unusual bluish-green of eyes framed by unflattering glasses. Her hair was a mix of blond and sandy brown, swept up in a clip at the back, leaving a side sweep of bangs across her forehead.

“Come in, please. Have a seat.” She gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk. Niko chose one and made himself comfortable. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I'm fine. Thank you.”

“That will be all, Lita.” After Lita closed the door, Lesley indicated the folder. “You've brought some information for me?”

All business, he thought. No artifice. He liked that. Liked her, though he'd met her a mere thirty seconds ago. He handed her the folder.

She'd barely given him a chance to speak since he'd walked in the room. He didn't know why but that amused him. Maybe because he didn't particularly care for small talk, didn't see the point of it. He much preferred to cut to the chase. But it surprised him when others did the same, especially women.

She opened the folder and studied the contents, which gave him more time to study her and her surroundings. The desk was made of beautifully burled dark wood. Mahogany maybe, though he had no idea. It was fairly neat, although there were some file folders and papers in a tidy stack. The other usual accoutrements. A multiline phone. A lamp. A computer.

Behind her was a credenza beneath a window that looked out over the front of the property, including the driveway. She might have seen him drive up. Maybe she'd studied him before he approached the house. It didn't matter. He had nothing to hide.

There were built-in shelves on two of the walls, some holding books, others displaying framed photographs or art. He noted a wet bar as well, with a small array of glassware along with decanters partially filled with amber liquid.

“Tell me about yourself.”

He swung his gaze back to Lesley. She maintained a rather rigid posture as if she wasn't quite comfortable in her own skin, even as she pretended to relax back into her chair. He wondered how long she'd been studying him while he'd been taking in his surroundings.

“I believe it's all there.” He nodded toward the folder. “There's a copy of my resume as well.”

“Yes. Why don't you tell me what's
not
in the bio. Or the resume.” Her gaze was direct.

“What is it you'd like to know?”

“Why this project of yours is so important to you. What motivates you. Why you care.”

Wow. Cut to the chase. He'd raised some funds already from a few other sources. He didn't remember ever being asked why he cared or why this was important to him. Everyone assumed, as they were meant to, that he simply wanted to help his fellow man just as they did by donating money. No one asked about his history, how close he'd come to being one of those hard-core gang members if he'd stayed on the path he'd started down as a teenager. Chances were good that if he hadn't gotten out when he did, he'd be dead or in prison by now.

“I was in a gang when I was younger. I didn't think I had a choice at the time. I want to give young men who are in the same situation a choice.”

“Elaborate on how you to plan to do that.”

“Most of it's there.” He indicated his carefully prepared folder filled with information, wondering now why he'd bothered. “Catch them young. No later than middle school. Keep them out of trouble and, keep them in school. Offer after-school programs, help with homework, athletics, a place to go where they'll be supervised. Counselors available. Teach them manners, basic job skills, conflict resolution. Include life skills training, personal finances, parenting. Help them learn how to be successful.”

She regarded him steadily for a few moments. He stared back, oddly at ease. She'd either use her family's charitable foundation and her influence to help him or she wouldn't. He could only do what he could do. He'd learned long ago he could control his own choices, no one else's.

“How did you escape the gang?”

“I testified in a trial against one of the other members. After that they rolled up the welcome mat.”

“Why?”

“Because one member testifying against another is generally considered bad form.”

A corner of her mouth lifted briefly. He noted her full lips and wondered what she'd look like if she relaxed completely. Smiled. Took off her glasses. Undid a button or two on her blouse.

She made no comment about his joke. “Why did you testify against another member?”

He shifted in his seat. Cleared his throat. Very few people knew the details of his testimony against Carlos or that he'd had to give up his son Fletcher in order to keep him safe. He preferred to keep it that way. By the time Carlos was sentenced to prison, Niko knew the best thing for Fletcher was for Hayley and Ray to adopt him.

“Why is that important?”

Again a corner of her mouth lifted. “Deputy Morales—”

“Niko.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Deputy Morales, my family's foundation supports a variety of programs, as I'm sure you know. I decide which programs are worth presenting to the board of trustees. I don't work with people I don't trust. I won't see the foundation's funds misused. Building trust means gathering information about those who apply. So you can either answer my questions about your background, or I'll have Lita show you out.”

“Haven't you already done a background check on me?”

“Of course. Do you want to answer my questions or not?”

“I testified against Carlos because he hurt a lot of people. He was going to hurt a lot more if he wasn't stopped. I was in a position to stop him.”

“You were a gang member. Didn't you hurt people?”

“I was a minor player in a loosely organized gang of street kids. Carlos Mariano used intimidation tactics to keep the kids under his control. I'd grown up with Carlos. I wanted to believe he listened to me, that I had some influence over him. Mostly I tried to keep Carlos in check.”

“But you couldn't?”

“No.”

“I thought gang members took an oath of loyalty to one another.”

How, Niko thought, could he ever explain his past to a woman like this? Money insulated people like her from the harsh realities of the world. Private schools and limousines and yacht races were so far from the pothole-filled, drug-running, violent streets he'd been born into. How could he explain the loss he'd felt when the mother of his child overdosed on heroin? Or that fear of his own child growing up in that environment had driven him to testify against Carlos, to make sure his son had a better start in life?