She knew Bobby Joe had a burning desire to succeed, driven to do so largely because of his intense rivalry with his brother. Confiding in her was about Bobby Joe’s only way to let off steam on the subject. He resented the fact that Parr had supported him almost all his life, had paid for his college education, and even backed his fledgling real estate enterprise. At twenty-seven, Bobby Joe seemed to think time was running out. Parr had founded his own company, a diversified construction business, and turned a healthy profit within months. And he’d been the same age. In the ensuing five years, Parr had done very well indeed.

She wanted to be supportive and helpful as his fiancée, and later as his wife, but she couldn’t help resenting the insane schedule Bobby Joe was trying to adhere to. She didn’t want to be neglected or forgotten. If things were like this now, would they improve or worsen after marriage?

She wanted children, but not if their father was never around to share their lives. What kind of dad Bobby Joe would be was an open question. He was a gentle, loving man who had a genuine affection for little Carrie.

But when Mary Beth imagined her own baby cradled in its father’s arms, those were the strong, muscular arms of Parr Weston. As hard as she tried, she could not shake the image.

“What are you doing all alone?” A deep, masculine voice erased his image with the reality of his presence. “Where’s Mother and Bobby Joe?”

Taken off guard by his unexpected reappearance, Mary Beth gazed longingly at the big man silhouetted in the doorway. His dark eyes drank in the sight of her soft, receptive face. She looked happy to see him, almost eager to welcome him.

“Ah—hello. Your mother’s gone to her room and Bobby Joe got an urgent business call from Jack Quinn.” The part of her brain that was functioning told her to run as fast as she could, to get away from the danger facing her.

But the dreamy, unreasoning part was listening to her fantasizing heart. “You didn’t stay with Gail.”

“Never planned to,” he hastily responded. “There’s nothing between us. I had no reason to stay. She works for me. We’re friends.”

The thought of the gorgeous brunette in close contact with Parr most of the week was disheartening. “Is she, um, a friend with benefits?”

“No.”

“Your lover?”

“Definitely not.”

Mary Beth persisted. “But she was once?”

“Strawberry . . .”

“She was, wasn’t she?”

Reluctantly he admitted the truth. “Yes. But it was nothing special. I didn’t love her.”

Mary Beth watched him come into the room, his tall, virile body clad in faded jeans and a plaid shirt. She wondered where he’d ditched the sport jacket he’d worn earlier. His shirt, unbuttoned by a few, stretched tautly across the massive muscles in his broad chest. A sexy dusting of black hair curled where she could see it, tempting her fingers to explore.