The ball was most definitely in Marc’s court—along with everything else. But then, she’d known that the minute he’d walked up the stairs to the bakery’s second-floor apartment and discovered he had a son, hadn’t she? Her only option now was to play nice and hope he would continue to do the same.

Marc’s hand was on her elbow as they left the restaurant, guiding her along the carpeted passage toward the lobby. Old fishing nets and decorative life preservers lined the walls and she suddenly realized how odd the decor must seem to outsiders.

Those who were familiar with Summerville never gave it a second thought, but anyone coming into town for the first time must wonder at the hotel’s name and decor without a significant body of water nearby to back them up. Especially since the hotel’s dining room didn’t even particularly specialize in seafood dishes.

“Come upstairs with me,” he murmured suddenly just above her ear.

Tearing her gaze from a large plastic swordfish caught in one of the nets, she flashed Marc a startled, disbelieving look, only to have him chuckle at her reaction.

“That isn’t a proposition,” he assured her, then waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated attempt at flirtation. “Although I wouldn’t be opposed to a bit of after-dinner seduction.”

At the lobby, he steered her to the left, away from the hotel’s main entrance and in the direction of the wide, Gone with the Wind-esque stairwell that led to the guest rooms.

“I have something to show you,” he continued as they slowly climbed the stairs, her heels digging into the thick carpeting, faded in places from years of wear.

“Now that sounds like a proposition. Or maybe a bad pickup line,” she told him.

He slanted her a grin, digging into his pocket for the key to his room. Not a key card, but an honest to goodness key, complete with a giant plastic fob in the shape of a lighthouse.

“You know me better than that. I didn’t need cheesy pickup lines with you the first time around, I don’t need them now.”

No, he hadn’t. He’d been much too charming and suave to hit on her the way ninety percent of guys did back then. Which was only one of the things that had made him more appealing, made him stand out from the pack.

When they reached his door, he unlocked it, then stepped back to let her pass into the room ahead of him. She’d visited the Harbor Inn before, of course, but had never actually been in one of the guest rooms, so for a second she stood just inside the door, taking in her surroundings.

Even if the large brass plaque on the front of the building hadn’t identified the hotel as a historical landmark, she would have known it was old simply from the interior. The elaborately carved woodworking, the barely preserved wallpaper and the antique fixtures all would have tipped her off. Certain things had been updated, of course, to keep the hotel functional and modern enough that guests would be comfortable, but a lot had been left or restored to maintain as much of the original furnishings and adornments as possible.

Marc’s room was blissfully lacking in the oceanside motif. Instead, the walls boasted tiny pink roses on yellowing wallpaper, and both the single window and four-poster bed were covered in white eyelet lace. Very old-fashioned and grandmotherly.

It was almost funny to see tall, dark, modern businessman Marc standing in the middle of all the extremely formal, nineteenth century finery. He looked completely out of place, like a zebra in the dolphin enclosure at the zoo.

But looking out of place and being out of place were two different things, and Marc didn’t seem to feel the least bit out of place. Closing the door behind them, he shrugged out of his charcoal suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a burgundy brocade wing chair on his way to the brass-plated desk against the far wall.

While he lifted the lid of his laptop and hit the button to boot up the computer, Vanessa stood back and enjoyed the view. Shallow of her, she was sure. Not to mention inconsistent, considering how vehemently she protested—to herself and anyone else who would listen—that the divorce had been a blessing and she was over him. Completely and totally over him. Being his ex-wife didn’t keep her from being a living, breathing, red-blooded woman, however. And every one of the red-blooded cells in her body appreciated the sight of a healthy, well-built man like Marc walking away.

His broad shoulders and wide back stretched the material of his expensive white dress shirt as he moved. Dark gray slacks that probably cost more than she made at the bakery in a week hugged his hips, and more importantly, his butt. A very nice, well-rounded butt that didn’t seem to have changed much since they’d been together.

Lifting a hand to her face, she covered her eyes and silently chastised herself for being so weak-willed. What was wrong with her? Was she crazy? Or catching a bug? Or were her hormones still dreadfully out of whack because of the pregnancy?

Spreading her fingers a few brief centimeters, she peeked through and knew exactly what her problem was.

Number one—she knew what lay beneath all that cotton and wool. She knew the strength of his muscles, the texture of his skin. She knew how he moved and how he smelled and how he felt pressed up against her.

Number two—her hormones probably were out of whack—and not just the pregnancy variety. The regular ones seemed to be turned all upside down, as well.

Which was no surprise. She’d always been a total pushover where Marc was concerned. One smoldering look and her bones had turned to jelly. One brush of his knuckles across her cheek or light touch of his lips on hers and she’d been putty in his hands.

Given how long it had been since they’d been together—how long it had been since she’d been anything more than a human incubator and a first-time mommy—it was no wonder, really, that her mind was wandering down all sorts of deliciously naughty garden paths.

And no doubt if Marc knew, or even suspected, he would take full advantage of her vulnerability and inner turmoil, so it would be wise of her not to do or say anything to give him the wrong idea. Or any ideas at all, for that matter.

Through her fingers, Vanessa watched him undo the top couple of buttons of his shirt and loosen his collar. Such a familiar habit. She remembered him doing the same thing almost every night when he got home from work. He would usually spend a couple of hours in his home office, but taking off his jacket and tie, loosening his collar and rolling up his sleeves were the first steps toward relaxing for the evening.

She lowered her hands from her face just before he picked up the laptop and turned back around. Crossing the room, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, set the laptop beside him, and then patted the pristine white coverlet.

“Come sit down for a minute,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

Vanessa raised a brow. “That sounds like another bad pickup line,” she told him.

Marc chuckled. “Since when did you become so cynical? Now, come here so I can show you some of these plans I worked up for The Sugar Shack.”

That got her attention, allaying some of her suspicions and fears—and giving rise to new ones. Moving to the bed, she sat down, tucking the skirt of her dress beneath her to keep from flashing too much leg.

He clicked a couple of buttons, then turned the screen so she could see it more easily. “You said you want to expand into the store space next door, right? Use it for a possible mail-order division of the business.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Well, this is a quick prospectus I worked up before dinner for what I think it would cost to renovate the space, what your expenses and overhead would be, et cetera. Of course, there are a lot of aspects to the bakery business I’m sure I’m not familiar with, so it will need to be adjusted. But this gives us a rough estimate and an idea of where to start.”

He got up for a second and stretched to reach the bureau, grabbing a large yellow legal pad before returning to the bed, sending the mattress bouncing slightly.

“And this is a rudimentary sketch of a possible layout for the expansion. Counters and shelving and such.”

She pulled her attention away from the document on the computer screen to the tablet he was holding out to her. She studied the drawing for a minute, picturing everything exactly as it would look next door to The Sugar Shack.

It was good. Encouraging, even. And the idea that something so simple might one day soon be a reality caused her heart to leap in her chest.

There was only one problem.

Lifting her head, she met Marc’s gaze. “Why did you do all this?” she asked, passing the legal pad back to him.

“Nothing is written in stone,” he murmured, setting aside the tablet and turning the laptop back toward him. “And it won’t be cheap, believe me. But the expansion is a good idea. I think it’s a smart move and has the potential to really pay off in the long run. Especially if you do well enough to start that Cookie-of-the-Month Club thing you mentioned.”

Her heart jumped again, making her palms damp and her throat tight. It was so nice to hear someone sharing her enthusiasm about branching out with the bakery and actually supporting her ideas.

But in this case, there were strings attached. So many strings.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said softly. And then she asked again, even though a part of her was afraid of his response. “Why did you do all this?”

He sat back, clicking the lid of the laptop closed and moving the computer to the nightstand, along with the legal pad.

“You need a partner to pull this off, Vanessa. You know that, or you wouldn’t have gone to Blake and Fetzer for help.”

Her pulse slowed and the temperature in the room fell ten degrees. Or maybe it was only her own internal temperature that dropped like a stone.

“I told you, Marc, I won’t take your money.”

Shoulders going back, his spine straightened almost imperceptibly, and his jaw went square and tight. A clear indication he was about to get stubborn and lay down the Law According to Marc Keller.

Mouth a thin, flat line, he said, “And I told you, Vanessa, that I’m not going anywhere. Not for a while, anyway.”

A beat passed while the tension seemed to leak from his stiff form and jump across the bed into her. The last thing she needed was a reminder of Marc’s refusal to leave town now that he knew about Danny, and all the fears and concerns his presence brought to the surface.

“So as long as I’m sticking around,” he continued, “we might as well use the time wisely. Why not get started on the expansion and put you one step closer to your goal?”

Oh, he was smooth and made so much sense. She’d always hated that, because it put him entirely too close to being right.

Of course, he usually was right, at least where business issues were concerned, which was even more annoying. Especially since he knew it and often came across as just this side of smug in that awareness.

“I don’t want your help, Marc.”

Rising from the bed, she linked her arms around her middle and paced across the room. When she hit the closed door, she turned and paced back, keeping her gaze locked on the worn and faded carpeting beneath her feet.

“I don’t want to be tied to you, to owe you for anything.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

She stopped, lifted her head to meet his eye. One dark brow was raised, his lips curled in a wry half smile.

“We have a child together. I’d say that ties us together more strongly than any business plan or partnership ever could.”

She blinked. Dammit. There it was again. He was right and being smug about it.

For better or worse, they were tied to each other now until the end of time through their son. Birthdays, school events, extracurricular activities, chicken pox, measles, puberty, girlfriends, his first tattoo or piercing…

She shuddered. Oh, God, please no piercings or tattoos. That might actually be the one parental matter she’d happily delegate to Marc for a good old-fashioned father-to-son heart-to-heart.

But given how ugly and heartbreaking—at least on her part—their separation had been, it was no wonder she wasn’t looking forward to sharing any of that with him. And no wonder she’d tried to keep Danny a secret to begin with. It might not have been the right thing to do, but it sure made life a lot less complicated.

“That’s different,” she said quietly.

He inclined his head, though whether in agreement or simply acquiescence, she wasn’t sure.

“However you feel about that,” he said slowly, “it doesn’t change the facts. I’m going to be in Summerville, getting to know my son and make up for lost time, for several weeks, at least. You might as well take advantage of that—and of my willingness to invest money into your bakery.”

Pushing up from the bed, he came to stand in front of her, cupping his hands over her shoulders. His slightly callused palms felt rough against her bare skin, his warmth seeping into her pores.

“Think about it, Nessa,” he murmured barely above a whisper. His eyes, as green and lush as summer moss, bored into hers. “Use your head here instead of sticking to stubborn pride. The smart and savvy businesswoman in you knows I’m right, knows this is an opportunity you’d be crazy to pass up. Even if it is coming from your despicable ex-husband.”

He said the last with a quick wink and a self-deprecating quirk of his full, sexy lips.

It was that wink and the fact that he knew how badly she didn’t want him around but apparently wasn’t holding it against her that made her stop and think, just as he’d suggested.

Think through his offer logically and reasonably, and with the level-headed, straightforward intelligence that had convinced her to take the risky financial plunge of opening The Sugar Shack with Aunt Helen in the first place. Weigh her options. Weigh her desire to expand the bakery and accept a much-needed infusion of cash and support against her desire to keep Danny to herself, keep miles upon miles of distance between her and Marc—both figuratively and literally—and maintain complete control over her business rather than sharing it with a third party who may or may not be as genuinely committed to its growth and success as she and her aunt were. Or worse yet, had the power to crush her and her business at the slightest provocation.

And there would be provocation, wouldn’t there? There already was, in that she’d kept first her pregnancy and then Danny’s existence from him to begin with.

For all she knew, he could be hiding his true feelings from her, being kind and considerate and generous in an effort to lull her into a false sense of security. Then the minute she agreed to take his money, to let him partner with her in the bakery and to be a part of Danny’s life, he would spring the trap, taking everything from her.

Her business, her security, her son.

Did she really believe that, though? Despite the bitterness involved on both sides of their divorce, he had never been deliberately cruel. He hadn’t tried to hurt her, hadn’t used his powerful influence or family fortune to leave her destitute.

Thanks to the prenuptial agreement his family—or more to the point, his mother—had insisted on before their wedding, Vanessa had left the marriage with not much more than she’d walked into it with, but she was well aware that it could have been worse.

She had friends who had gone through much nastier divorces. She’d heard the horror stories where women who had been married to extremely wealthy men were put through the wringer and kicked onto the street with barely the clothes on their backs, sometimes with their children in tow.

Marc had never been that type of man. He’d always had a very low-key personality, opting for silent fury over angry blow-ups.

Even during their marriage, he might not have been as attentive as she would have liked or taken her complaints about his family or his distance seriously, but he had never resorted to petty arguments or name-calling. A couple of times, she’d even wished for something like that, if only as proof that he still cared enough to fight. With her or for her; back then, either would have translated as caring at all.

But his response to marital conflict had always been to lock his jaw, slip into stony silence and go back to the office to work even longer hours that pushed them even farther apart.

Marc was also one of the most honest men she’d ever met. It would be just like him to compartmentalize their current relationship.

Anything involving Danny would remain strictly personal, and he would deal with her on a personal, father-to-mother level. Anything involving her bakery would remain strictly a business venture and he would treat it as such.

If he pulled out of The Sugar Shack, it would be only his money and professional ties that went with him, not his love for Danny or determination to be in his son’s life. And on the other side of the coin, if they were at odds about something that concerned Danny, he would never pull his financial backing of the bakery just to make her life miserable.

Unfortunately, she’d never been quite as good at keeping her work and her personal life separated. She loved The Sugar Shack. It was a part of her, built of blood, sweat, tears and most of all, heart. If it failed, if something happened to it or she had to close the doors, a very big part of her would die with it.

But even more important than that, and definitely what owned a much bigger portion of her heart and soul, was Danny. She would light a match and torch The Sugar Shack down to the ground if it meant keeping her child happy and safe.

And for better or worse, Marc was Danny’s father, a part of him. He was also probably the only investor she would ever find who was actually willing and able to give the bakery an influx of much-needed cash, and who apparently thought her ideas for expansion held actual merit.

Anyone else would have already jumped at the offer. But there was so much at stake for her—and for Danny and Aunt Helen.

She’d been silent for so long, she was surprised Marc didn’t check her for a pulse. She also suspected she would have the mother of all headaches soon just from the strain of thinking so hard. It was as though a Ping-Pong championship tournament was taking place inside her brain.

But in the end, she didn’t follow her head or even her heart. She followed her gut.

“All right,” she told him, the words nearly torn from a throat gone tight with the strain of her internal struggle. “But I don’t want your charity. If we’re going to do this, then I want it to be completely official and aboveboard. We’ll have Brian draw up investment papers, or make it a legal loan that I will pay back, or however these things are normally done.”

Marc smiled gently, the sort of smile a parent offers a recalcitrant child, almost as though he was getting ready to humor her.

“Fine. I’ll call Brian in the morning and get the ball rolling.”

She nodded slowly, still reluctant, still unsure. Gut or no gut, agreeing to let Marc become a partner in her and her aunt’s business still made her hugely uncomfortable, and there was no guarantee that it wasn’t a monumental mistake.

“So that’s the business end of things. We’ll iron out the details tomorrow,” he said. Then he ran his hands down the bare flesh of her arms from her shoulders to her elbows and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Now on to something a bit more personal.”

Her first thought was that he wanted to discuss Danny again, and her heart dropped all the way to her stomach, only to jump back up and lodge in her throat. Her chest grew tight as she held her breath and waited—for the bomb to drop, for him to demand full custody or announce that he was taking their son back to Pittsburgh with him.

Instead, he tugged her close, lowered his head and kissed her.