Bride Of Convenience

Bride Of Convenience Susan Fox “What about love, Mr. McClain? Isn’t that the most important consideration when two people make a commitment to a relationship that will span fifty or sixty years?” “Look around, Miss Stacey. Lots of folks fall in love, but they just as easily fall out. I’m willing to bet on natural chemistry and deliberate choice. We’ve got the chemistry. All that’s left is the choice.” Now he reached into his inside jacket pocket with his free hand and Stacey saw the small flash when he brought it out. There, circling the tip of his index finger, was a simple solitaire diamond on a gold engagement band. It was simple, but elegant, and she was experienced enough with fine jewelry to know it cost a fortune. “I choose you, you choose me.” A wedding dilemma: What should a sexy, successful bachelor do if he’s too busy making millions to find a wife? Or if he finds the perfect woman, and just has to strike a bridal bargain…? The perfect proposal: The solution? For better, for worse, these grooms are in a hurry and have decided to sign, seal and deliver the ultimate marriage contract…to buy a bride! Will these paper marriages blossom into wedded bliss? Look out for our next CONTRACT BRIDES story, coming soon in Harlequin Romance ! Bride of Convenience Susan Fox www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) For Joanne Anderson CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE (#u7c407965-82fa-50d6-a806-24e36c0c199c) CHAPTER TWO (#u538eac75-8c78-5648-a460-42661df7ff66) CHAPTER THREE (#u7d65b2ec-c822-51b9-91fb-698c0b424b88) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE THE lady was broke. She was dressed just as richly and stylishly as before, but this time in a sleek, shimmery teal designer original that showed off her blond coloring and perfect body. She looked like a million bucks, but she was worth little more than a few thousand dollars. He was here to change that. Oren McClain had taken on a losing prospect or two in the past. Mostly ranches or abused horses. He had a modest gift for spotting potential in some failure or misfit. The right management or backing or retraining might turn a respectable profit or reclaim something of value. Or bring it out. The willowy blonde across the room carried a few of those little potentials that always got his attention. He sensed her quiet desperation as she nursed yet another glass of wine. Everyone else at the crowded penthouse party was too self-absorbed to see the shell-shocked dullness in her pretty blue eyes. None of them would have realized that her talent for regularly getting the waiters to bring the drink tray around for a discrete exchange of empty for full was partly the need to anesthetize herself from the pretentious bores and tiresome elites at this big city soiree. She might be too snookered to let herself realize it, but he knew she would later. He meant to point it out as bluntly as possible, if need be. There was a weary intelligence in those lovely eyes, along with a dispiritedness that could be expected of a woman bored out of her mind with her shallow, aimless life. A life that had spoiled and sucked almost everything worthwhile out of her. That’s what happened when life held no greater challenge than could be met by beauty and a charming smile. Or a hefty tip. And yet it was clear she was in mourning for the shallow privileged life that was rapidly coming to an end. Oren McClain was certain he was one of the few at that stuffy penthouse party who knew Stacey Amhearst’s days of bartering beauty and charm, and bestowing hefty, persuasive tips wouldn’t last another week. But she knew it. Which was part of the reason she looked morose and standoffish. And panicked. He’d learned a lot about her in the past few months, so this wasn’t idle speculation. The lady truly was broke. Her spacious apartment and all the other costly doodads that went with it suddenly had the shelf life of Beluga caviar. All the beautiful, wealthy snobs around her who didn’t already know, would very soon find out the jarring truth. And then the invitations would dry up. Most would stop taking her calls, stop reading her phone messages. Their butlers and maids wouldn’t answer the doorbell or, if they did, they’d recite some polite little fib to deny her entry. She’d be the hot topic of gossip as they nattered to each other in hushed, horrified tones, as if leery of attracting the same unthinkable misfortune. Most would be eager to put her downfall out of their minds and move on. As if forgetting her quickly and pretending she’d never been part of their rarified society might somehow inoculate them against contracting the same terrible fate. Fate like bad luck or bad investments or embezzled fortunes, along with the poverty, and the shame and shock of being shunned by peers. A few of the men, both the single and the unfaithful married who appreciated class and education and beauty, might come her way and offer some sort of arrangement, respectful ones or not, but those would fall through. He’d see to it. Oren McClain hadn’t come back to New York after all these months because of some paltry bit of business. He’d got wind of her trouble weeks ago, but he’d stayed away, waiting for a pampered thoroughbred to lose a few more important races and show up at sale where she could be had for a song. The flashy little high-stepper who’d danced, delighted, and set his blood on fire, then kidded him about his marriage proposal, hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d thought the things he’d offered her were nothing more than the quaint exaggerations of a Texas rube too inflamed by his libido to be telling the truth about what he could provide for a wife. She might see him in a different light now. After all, she’d need someplace to go after next week. Texas would be as good a place as any for a woman who’d had her privileged life stolen and was about to suffer the abandonment of peers. And once he got her to Texas and she learned something about how to live a useful and satisfying life, she might even grow to love him. She was half finished with her latest glass of wine, and had just located one of the waiters to watch for a chance to give him a subtle signal, when Oren McClain started toward her. As a farewell party, it was a crashing failure. Perhaps that was because few suspected it was a farewell party. She might as well have stayed home. Stacey Amhearst quickly changed her mind about that. It was depressing at home. She couldn’t pretend anymore that it was cook’s night off, or that her butler had gone out to see his ailing mother. She’d come here for comfort and edible food. There was little comfort to go with the food. What had she expected? That her pedigree-obsessed friends would crowd around sympathetically and offer to help her raise money with a charity auction? She really would throw herself in front of a limousine if anyone but her closest confidants found out about her outrageous misfortune before her lease was up on Thursday. Was it better to live in an embarrassed state in financial exile somewhere, or let everyone think she’d tragically died rich? The fact that they’d only find out later that she was a pauper had helped her to squelch that fleeting thought of limo-cide. Actually, she’d been half hoping for some conveniently rich man to sweep her off her feet tonight and fly her to Vegas for a quickie marriage. Her reputation for spending money would have made it easy to conceal a ploy or two that would funnel funds into her accounts. After all, she had plenty of expensive clothes she’d never worn publicly that hung in her closets, and some off-the-rack things still sported tags. With a little imagination, it would be easy enough to pass those off as new purchases. If her conscience allowed her pride that much. But one of the problems of the sophisticated set was that for the few people in her circle who did marry at her age, an ostentatious ceremony with all the pricey traditions was a requirement for a first marriage. And there was no unattached single man here tonight whom she hadn’t already mentally crossed off her list of potential husbands, so there could be no quick trip to Vegas. Bad nerves and depression had left her with little more ambition tonight than to fill her stomach with rich goodies and numb herself with vintage wine. She didn’t care for alcoholic drinks of any kind, and rarely imbibed. Until tonight. Tonight was her farewell party. The last fling on her social calendar before she ran out of money and lost her place among the only people she’d known. And then she saw him. At first, the very tall, brutally masculine rancher from Texas seemed merely a phantom that fear and desperation had conjured up to haunt her. She deserved to be haunted by her memory of him. She’d not treated him particularly well at the end, but she’d been so disrupted by him, so very threatened by his earthy masculinity and the shock of the things he’d made her feel, that she’d been compelled to protect herself. She’d regretting rebuffing him almost right away. She’d tried to smother her guilty feelings by telling herself that he was too honest and straightforward—too real—for her. A real man like him would find out soon enough that she was too frivolous and inept for his way of life. How would a man like him react when he found out? She couldn’t bear his bad opinion. She’d rather be thought a snob than a failure. Even worse, he owned a cattle ranch somewhere in a dusty corner of Texas! She’d be useless and lonely and bored out of her wits. The only thing they’d really had going between them had been the explosive physical attraction that had so frightened her. None of her friends knew that she wasn’t at all as sexually sophisticated as they were. In fact, she was so sexually unsophisticated that she was still a virgin at twenty-four. She’d been quite happy waiting for the man of her dreams and her wedding night, though most of her friends would have laughed at that old-fashioned notion. Then she’d met the cowboy, and he’d overwhelmed her so badly she’d been terrified. She’d never told a soul about him, because she’d known she would have been tittered over and teased about it. Either because he was a rancher from Texas or because he was so macho and rabidly masculine and unrefined—or because she’d been so turned on that she’d panicked. Hadn’t she met him here at another of Buffy’s parties? It had been months ago now, and she’d almost made herself forget. That’s why it was such a surprise to think about him now. He’d been someone’s guest, but she doubted she could remember who because she hadn’t paid attention when the introductions were made. Her brain had short-circuited and she’d had eyes only for the macho beast. Everyone else had vanished from awareness. As Stacey watched her delusion, appreciating the beautiful cut of his elegant black tuxedo, she felt her pulse begin to accelerate and realized it was the first time in a long time that her heart was beating fast because of excitement rather than fear. McClain—yes, she still remembered his name—wasn’t handsome, but he was striking, with a charismatic masculinity that a lesser male could only dream of having. It was such a pleasure to watch her delusion walk toward her in the safety of her imagination that she delayed the sip of wine she’d been about to take. And then her delusion stopped in front of her and neatly plucked the wine flute out of her cold fingers to sit it with absent aplomb on the tray the waiter had just brought. His other hand settled hotly on her waist and she felt the jolt that told her this was real. The cowboy was here. He was so tall, built so tough and hard, that his lean frame was solid with muscle. She realized again that he wasn’t at all handsome, and noted afresh that his rugged features had the kind of weathered tan that hinted at Native ancestry as did his overlong black hair. His eyes were a glittering black that went perfectly with his coloring and the costly cloth of his tuxedo. His low voice was a gravely drawl that called up images of a sexy night in bed. “I’ve been waiting to dance with you, darlin’.” Stacey felt the room tilt a little as he expertly eased her into a private corner nearer the door. It didn’t matter a whole lot that they were the only ones dancing to the soft notes of Unchained Melody that the pianist on the other side of the room was playing. Suddenly, just like before, they were the only two people in the universe, and Stacey felt her head spin with the idea. Was she tipsy or had the pressure and upset finally caused her to snap? The heat of him was scorching, and the rocky hardness of his big body made her knees tremble. The hand at her waist rested boldly low on her back, and the shivery pleasure of being wedged snugly between that hand and his body was almost erotic. “H-how did you get here?” Her brain was so fuzzy that she wasn’t completely certain he was really here, but somehow his first name came out of the fuzziness: Oren. It was a Southern name. A good one for a cowboy, but hopelessly out of fashion. His stern mouth curved faintly. “The usual way. A pickup, two planes, a taxi and a taxi.” Her soft, “How did you get in?” sounded dazed. Again, he obliged, and her gaze fixed on his mouth. “Just like last time. The visiting guest of a guest.” Stacey’s brain somehow seized on the notion of second chances, and she almost missed what he said next. That was because she was looking up at him and they were dancing slowly, which made the dizziness worse. “I came to New York to see you.” The words struck sweetly for a few seconds, but then turned bitter. What would have happened if she’d accepted his crazy proposal months ago? She wasn’t clearheaded enough to catalog all the horrors and disasters she might have been spared, but she knew if she’d married him then, at least the loss of her fortune wouldn’t have caused a fraction of the shame she was in for now. At least she wouldn’t be six days away from homelessness. “Oh, why?” It came out sounding forlorn because it was the start of the questions that were suddenly revolving in her mind: Oh, why didn’t I marry you? And, Oh, why was I such a fool? “I had to see if things had changed for you.” His words made her heart give a sickening lurch and her head was suddenly heavy. She let her chin go down and her gaze fixed on the snowy white between the facings of his jacket. Her eyes were stinging and she bit her lips together to hold back the emotion that was coming up like sea swells. He went on speaking as if he hadn’t noticed her reaction. “I thought I might spend a few days, take you out, see what you think now. Unless your answer is still no.” Stacey realized she’d placed her hands on his chest and that they’d slowly stopped dancing. It felt for all the world as if they were still moving, because the room was moving. “I think I’m not feeling well,” she got out. She couldn’t get her brain to come up with anything else. Mostly because it was the truth, but partly because she should have told him “no.” No, I haven’t changed my mind, or No, because I’m no better suited to a life with you than I was before. Either would have let him off the hook. It would have been kinder to disappoint him for the second time now, rather than later. But she’d felt too desperate for some kind of reprieve or deliverance for too long to automatically reject this potential lifeline. That was the moment, despite all the fuzziness from the wine, that she began to feel guilty. Her guilt wasn’t immediately acute, but it promised to be. Particularly since some survival instinct had kicked in and she suddenly realized that she might agree to almost anything to be spared financial disgrace. The cowboy had said he was rich. That he had a big ranch and oil wells, plenty to keep her in jewels and designer duds… Oh God, she remembered suddenly that he’d said that. He’d called them “duds.” That had touched her then, and the memory touched her now. Touched her so much that she wanted to cry over the artless simplicity of a big, rough, macho man who’d seemed to be sincerely smitten and had made such a sweet, homespun offer to provide whatever it took to make her happy and choose him. Jewels and designer duds…as if he was offering his best to a woman he revered like a queen, but a woman who was so far above him socially that he’d never understand that a pretentious snob like her wouldn’t be caught dead in a dud of any kind. Or married to a cowboy. She couldn’t seem to keep from remembering that he’d treated her delicately and deferentially, as if she was worthy of respect and pampering and perhaps even worship. She hadn’t deserved a speck of those things from him then, and she certainly didn’t now. He was too good-hearted and sincere for her, too sweet and artless. He was too honorable and too deserving of better than to be stuck with a useless ninny like her. As tempting—sorely tempting—as it was to grab for this lifeline and let him think she might change her mind about accepting his marriage proposal, Stacey realized she hadn’t sunk quite low enough to do that to him. She couldn’t use an honestly decent man like him to save her own skin. She’d be the lowest of the low if she did that. Particularly now, when she had even less to offer him in return. “Oh, Oren, I’m s-sor…” The room had taken a hard turn that time. Her choked, “Not feeling weell,” was little more than a jerky whisper, but he heard it as if she’d spoken in his ear. The room continued to spin dangerously and she found herself clinging to him and pressed against his side as he led her along the edge of the crowd. Her knees barely held her up, but his strong hand at her waist kept her anchored safely to him, so no one paid much attention. At least, she didn’t think they had. They’d just reached the relative quiet of the foyer when he stopped. “Are you gonna be sick?” It took her several moments to decide, but her belated, “No,” was belated enough that he’d already ushered her into the private elevator by the time she got it out. The moment the doors closed, he had her in his arms. He spared a moment to take her tiny evening bag off her wrist and tuck it in his cummerbund, but then his arms went back around her and she was pressed comfortably against him. “Am I gonna have to carry you, or can you make it to a cab?” Stacey leaned her cheek against his hard, warm chest because her eyelids were amazingly heavy. She was distantly aware when the elevator stopped, and that she remained on her feet only because he turned so she could cling to his waist. He held her up enough to foster the illusion that she was able to walk under her own power. She wasn’t particularly drunk but she was dizzy and sleepy and slow, yet even so, she didn’t want to be carried out. She didn’t want everyone’s last sight of Stacey Amhearst to be of her being carried out of a building because she’d had too much to drink. It was bad enough that they’d find out in a few more days that she was almost penniless. At least leaving the party with a tall, rugged stranger would be a plus in their eyes. Until they found out where he was from and what he did for a living. The warm city night cleared her head a little. McClain led her along the row of cabs waiting at the curb. She was becoming steadier with each step, but when they reached the cab at the head of the line, they walked on past. Stacey searched ahead for some other cab he must have been aiming for, but there were no other vehicles in the line, so then she looked for a limousine. After several more steps it dawned on her that there were no limos ahead either. She slowed, perplexed. “Where are we going?” “The walk’ll be good for you,” he said, and she glanced up at him, dismayed. “But it’s six blocks. And it must be after midnight.” “It’s a nice night.” His naivet? was a shock. “We could be mugged.” Now he smiled a little, blatant evidence that he was far too macho to give a thought to the perils of big city crime. And maybe he was right. McClain was a big man, and he looked rugged and harsh, the quintessential tough-guy, even in an elegant tuxedo. And there was a “don’t mess with me” aura about him that most muggers would choose to pass up. There were easier targets. “But it’s six blocks,” she reminded him, then felt heat flash into her cheeks. She’d sounded whiney and a little put upon, and she had just enough sense left to be a little ashamed of that in front of a man like him. It’s what she would have said to anyone else and not thought a thing about it, but she’d said it to Oren McClain. A man whose fit, work-hardened body would see a paltry six blocks as laughably light exercise. “You outta walk off some of that wine,” he said gruffly. She heard the hint of disapproval and was embarrassed that she’d been drinking like a fish. He’d caught her at a bad time, and what pride had survived everything else was under sound assault. “Maybe you’re right,” she said, then submitted as he again slid his arm around her waist. Her arm went hesitantly around his, and they started. Hopefully, the effects of the wine would numb a little of the ache of walking six blocks on concrete in her heels. They’d only gone two blocks before her head cleared more and her feet began to hurt enough that she reconsidered her pride in favor of trying to hail a taxi. But because she wanted to behave well while McClain was still around to witness it, she refrained from complaining. Or begging. By the time they reached her building, got past security and took the swift silent elevator to her apartment, Stacey was abysmally clearheaded, and was already vowing to never again use alcohol to escape her problems. All it had done was make them worse, though something told her that her notion of worse was about to be revised downward. That little inkling seemed downright prophetic by the time they reached her door and she tried to tell Oren McClain good-night. “I’d like to see you inside,” he said. “Make sure you’re all right.” The genuineness in his tone told her he wasn’t angling for more than that, though she couldn’t actually be sure. He’d been completely trustworthy before, but people were rarely what they seemed on short acquaintance. And, it was kinder to him to stop things before she gave him any false hopes. Not that she assumed that every man who came in range was instantly lovesick, but because she couldn’t overlook that he’d said he was here to see if she’d changed her mind about him. He’d have to be more than a little smitten to do that. Besides, she didn’t want to give herself the opportunity to grab whatever rescue he could provide. It would be wrong to use him, and she wasn’t sure how long she could be noble if she spent even a few more minutes with him. And it was a disturbing fact that her body was still reacting to the masculine pull of his, and she still tingled everywhere they’d touched on the walk home. She made herself say, “I’m all right. Really. I’m just tired now…and embarrassed that I made a fool of myself.” One side of his stern mouth curved slightly. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself, Miss Stacey. You’re the same proper lady you always are. Just a little thirsty.” Stacey so liked the gently scolding tone in his gravely voice—as if he thought she was too hard on herself—but his kind words hurt. He was so gallant. Too gallant to string along or exploit. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Good night, Mr. McClain.” She turned toward the door. “You might need this,” he said, and she glanced back. Seeing the tiny handbag, she took it, fumbled with the catch, then got out her key. Her hand was steady enough to unlock the door. She felt her body tingle again as he reached past her to push open the door, so she stepped quickly inside and turned. “I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he said. “Take you to lunch somewhere.” Stacey knew he meant to try to court her again, and she couldn’t allow that. It took almost more will than she had to tell him so. “I’m…sorry. I’m truly sorry, Oren. It wouldn’t be…right.” She almost bit her lip again for calling him Oren. Using his first name after she’d called him Mr. McClain seemed far too personal, and maybe even a little inviting. As if he hadn’t noticed anything but her refusal, a stoniness came over him. Had she hurt his feelings or merely made him angry? Though he couldn’t know she no longer had a house staff, she was very aware that they were the only two people here. If he was a threat to her at all, she might be in trouble more serious than losing her fortune. She was afraid of him—he was so big and tough that he could hurt her with very little effort—and yet she wasn’t afraid of him at all. He might not pass muster with the etiquette police, or know which fork to use, or how to properly greet royalty and important guests in a receiving line, but he was a complete gentleman. “All right then, Miss Stacey,” he said, and his rugged face seemed merely solemn. He lifted his hand to an inside pocket and withdrew a business card. He held it out to her. “I wrote the name of my hotel there, and the room number. I’m stayin’ till Thursday. After Thursday, you can get hold of me at any of those numbers.” Stacey made herself take the card because he didn’t deserve rudeness, and he was perceptive enough not to need a strong rebuff. Proof of that was when he turned and crossed the short distance to the elevator. Stacey literally had to press her fingers over her lips to keep from calling him back. She managed to step farther into her apartment to let her door go shut before he could get into the elevator and turn so she could see his face. Stacey listened to the latch on her door catch securely, then heard the elevator doors close. Had she just done Oren McClain a kindness, or had she just cut off her last chance for an easy rescue? CHAPTER TWO THERE was nothing noble about the ghostly pale face in the mirror late that next morning or the self-pitying thoughts she was wallowing in. Stacey forced herself through the motions of a hot shower and the numbing discipline of doing her makeup and hair before she wandered into one of her closets to decide what to wear for the day. The almost military precision of the spacing between the hangers of clothes on one side of the huge closet mocked her. Angelique had taken meticulous care of her clothes, hanging them just so and stuffing them here and there with rumpled tissue paper to prevent wrinkling. Every shoe and boot had been placed with equal precision in their slots according to color in one of the sections, and Stacey knew her underthings were laid away with the same obsessive neatness and attention to color that had made Angelique a neurotic’s dream. But the simple fact was that in less than a week Stacey had already proven a failure at maintaining the rigid order that had come so effortlessly to her maid. The left side of the closet was a mess, with wads of tissue here and there on the carpet. Her inability to maintain order, like her every other little incompetence over trivial things, had further undermined Stacey’s secret lack of self-confidence and left her feeling increasingly inept and adrift. Though she’d been raised by an elderly grandfather who’d seen women as social ornaments whose chief aims should be to marry well and be an asset to a wealthy husband, there was really no excuse in this day and age to not have pursued some kind of career that could at least support her. But the truth was, she’d been petted and cosseted and spoiled until she was fairly useless. Yes, she’d filled up her time with charities and social activities and a political cause or two, but not much of that could be converted into the kind of cold cash that might keep her in her wealthy lifestyle of ease. She really would make a good wife to some hard-driven millionaire who was looking for a trophy with a pedigreed background, but she’d be a zero at going it alone. Anything in life that hadn’t come easy or she’d not enjoyed, she’d been free to walk away from. And had. But there was no walking away from the fact that in a few days, most of her beautiful things would be hauled off to storage in a warehouse somewhere, and she’d be living in a less exclusive section of the city. She’d be learning how to make her way around on buses and subways while she continued to search for a job she could do that would pay enough to keep a roof over her head. It would also have to pay the storage bill until she could bear to part with her things. If she’d taken over her own finances three years ago when her grandfather had passed away instead of blithely continuing with the latent crook who’d slowly embezzled her money to invest in several risky financial schemes, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Her only hope was that investigators could locate both him and what might be left of her money, and somehow get it back. The thief had fled to South America somewhere, so the hunt was not only complicated by distance but by the difficulties of cooperation between law enforcement agencies that often had more pressing crimes to solve than embezzled funds. Her brain made another edgy circuit around every problem and frustration, and when it had replayed each one, a mental review of possible catastrophes began their inevitable parade through her thoughts. Her head had been pounding before she’d gotten out of bed that morning just after eleven, but even after a hefty dose of aspirin, it continued to thump. Whether the thumping was solely from the headache or merely the punishment of tortured thoughts, the pain was the same, as was the queasy anxiety she felt. When she’d finally chosen something to put on and got dressed, Stacey walked out into her bedroom. Her gaze fell to the ivory carpet and fixed on the business card McClain had given her. She thought she’d tossed it in the wastebasket but she must have missed, and it had ended up on the floor. The sight of it was a profound irritation. She couldn’t even throw something away and do it successfully. Aggravated, she picked up the card and started to toss it away again before she suddenly froze. The bold scrawl on the back of the card gave the name of one of the most beautiful and exclusive hotels in New York. Seeing how he’d written the letters gave her a swift sense of McClain himself: bold, masculine, decisive. His handwriting wasn’t something spidery or refined-looking or difficult to read. It was as blunt as he was, as unpretentious, but the letters seemed confident. The pressure he’d put on the pen fairly shouted guilessness; he’d not needed to dither over what to write, he’d just done it. He was a man who said what he meant and meant what he said, and there’d be no mistaking him because he was too straightforward. Holding that card in her fingers seemed to calm a little of the anxiety that made her feel so sick. No one would cheat or steal from a man like McClain, if for no other reason than the fact that he looked like he could beat the daylights out of anyone foolish enough to trifle with him. If he were in her place, he certainly wouldn’t be moping around his house wondering how he’d survive or where he’d live. He probably wouldn’t care that his closets weren’t tidy or feel incompetent because he couldn’t cook for himself or do his own laundry. He wouldn’t be afraid to look for a job. If his friends shunned him, he’d probably say “To hell with them,” and he’d put all his energy and strength into making his own way in the world, even if he’d need to find some new way to live. That was her impression of Oren McClain. Because of that, she wondered again what a man like him could possibly see in someone like her. Or was he the kind of man her archaic and chauvinistic grandfather had raised her to marry? The kind of man so driven and taken up with his wealth or position or his business life that he’d choose a wife as an accessory and make certain he selected one with breeding who could provide him with handsome and/or beautiful heirs? Stacey supposed some Texas ranchers and oilmen might be the same on that score as some of the moneyed eastern elites. She turned the card over and read down through the list of phone numbers. There were six of those. She felt a spark of hope. If Oren McClain was looking for a trophy wife, he might not be disappointed in her. She took good care of her skin and her body, and she had personal taste and a refined style that would never be an embarrassment to him. Surely he wasn’t looking for a woman who could outride, outrope and outcowboy him, because he could have found a woman like that in Texas. Before her hope could rise very far, Stacey got a swift mental picture of a Texas cattle ranch. How did anyone survive socially and culturally so far from a city? Did McClain have a maid? A cook? He’d talked like he had money, but how much money did he actually have? And how did he spend it? Did he spend it all on cows and land and pickup trucks and cowboy hobbies, or would he spend some on household help? How big was his house? Was it a cabin or something with some real size to it? She thought again of his remark about jewels and designer duds. Her impression of him was of honesty and straightforwardness. Maybe he hadn’t exaggerated the things he could provide a wife. If anything, McClain might be the kind of man who understated things to avoid appearing a braggart. Stacey’s hopes rose a little more as she considered all that. He’d said he’d come to New York to see her, to find out if she’d changed her mind, but she couldn’t just take him at face value. She needed more information, but she needed a means to get it that wouldn’t cost very much. An Internet search got her started. Going by McClain’s business card, she found out which part of Texas he was from and managed to find newspaper coverage that mentioned McClain Ranch and McClain Oil. A social page in a San Antonio newspaper mentioned an Oren McClain in an article about an area fund-raiser weeks ago, but something else that had gotten her attention was the fact that a TV Western mini-series had been shot on location on McClain Ranch. Stacey began to feel a little more at ease about Oren McClain. He apparently wasn’t a social outcast, he was well known in the area of Texas he was from, and she hadn’t seen his name associated with anything criminal. She gave a self-deprecating groan. Her grandfather would have had the background of any potential husband investigated at least as far back as three generations, and he would have had to know to the penny how much the man was worth. Stacey was reduced to doing an Internet search to rule out a criminal background and reading through a society page and business directory to see if the man had enough resources to support a spoiled wife. Disgusted that she’d gone this far toward the idea of marrying a stranger for his money, she got up and started to pace. Though her apartment was large it seemed to grow more oppressively small by the hour. She thought about the money she’d had over the years. Or rather, the money she’d spent. What she’d give for a year’s worth of the money she’d spent on clothing and jewelry alone! And now she couldn’t buy much of anything. What little she had left would have to fund a new, painfully modest life. And what if she couldn’t find a job? She’d already waited two months for something she could live with. The grim future she pictured for herself made it nearly impossible to contemplate the wait between now and Monday, when she could again call the employment agency she’d consulted in hopes of finding something she was qualified to do. Saturday night loomed before her like lonely shadows in a long dark hall. She was already sick of the deli food in the refrigerator. A fine, hot meal would go a long way in calming her jitters and helping her shore up what little actual courage she had. Stacey glanced over at the business card propped up on the computer keyboard and realized she was in serious danger of sinking low enough to take advantage of Oren McClain. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful to at least find out if he’d like to take her to dinner. Maybe he wasn’t really serious about marriage. After all, he said he’d come to New York to see if her answer was still no. Perhaps if he took her out once or twice, he’d realize that he didn’t really want her to say yes. She might be doing him a favor if she let him spend enough time with her to become disillusioned. Stacey didn’t let herself think about how far she’d twisted things around to make her selfish motives—and her craving for a hot meal—seem noble. Not until she’d made the call to McClain’s hotel and let him know she’d changed her mind about seeing him. Once they’d made plans for the evening and she’d hung up the phone, she felt so heartsick over her cowardly scheme that she almost, almost called him back. The lady was as jumpy as a flea on an old dog. He could almost smell her guilt over their date tonight, and he was satisfied by that hint of character. A little aristocrat like Stacey Amhearst was probably terrified of being poor, and she was no doubt close to the point where she’d do just about anything to save herself from the horrors of being broke. She might even marry a rough old Texas boy like him. She’d secretly studied him all through dinner as if she was judging a horse she might buy. He knew she liked the way he made her feel because he couldn’t mistake the way she’d melted when he’d escorted her across the restaurant with his hand at the back of her waist. Or earlier, when he’d picked her up at her place and taken her arm to go downstairs to get in the taxi. And again when they’d arrived here and he’d taken her hand for the short walk from the taxi into the restaurant. The lady was like a choice sweet in a kid’s warm grip, and he liked that her cool grace and polite reserve was about as thin as a cellophane wrapper. Months ago, she’d behaved as if she hadn’t quite known how to handle him—or herself—when he got close. She still behaved that way, but he couldn’t tell if that was because she liked him more than she wanted to or if she just didn’t have much experience with men like him. At least she seemed to enjoy being with him. He probably came off like a brute compared to the men she was used to. Hell, he was no peacock. His skin had been burned brown by the sun and weathered by the elements, his hands were big and scarred and thick with calluses, and the only truly fragile and refined thing in his life was her. But she might marry him anyway, because he had money and she knew he wanted her. She’d be torn up with guilt over it because she’d be marrying him for something other than love. How he knew that was more because of what he’d sensed about her than any bit of gossip he’d been able to ferret out. Though he could be wrong, his instincts were usually on target. They told him Ms. Stacey Amhearst knew right from wrong. She just didn’t have enough confidence in herself—yet—to do right and damn the consequences. He meant to benefit from that while he could. Oren leaned back to watch as she picked up her last spoon and dug into dessert. Though he knew from months ago that she’d been raised to pick and fuss daintily over her food, she’d gone after her meal tonight like a half-starved cattle crew at a cookhouse table. The reason was obvious. She’d lost weight she couldn’t spare, and that was because she couldn’t do for herself in the kitchen. How the hell her grandfather could have raised her to be so helpless was a marvel to Oren McClain. No daughter of his would be dependent on anyone. No wife of his would either. His only real criticism of Stacey was that she’d stayed helpless and dependent, though he meant to see that change. There was no reason in the world that she couldn’t have class and beauty and grace along with a hefty dose of can-do independence and the self-confidence that went with it. “So tell me, Oren,” she began after she’d mostly finished the artsy dab that passed for a big city dessert. He enjoyed the sound of his name when she said it. She made it sound dignified and upper crust. “About your ranch. Is it just outside San Antonio?” Oren smiled. “It’s about three hours outside, give or take.” He noticed she picked up her cloth napkin and touched it to her lips as if to think about that. Or to cover a rush of dismay. “What do you do so far out? For entertainment.” “We’ve got dances, church socials, barbecues, rodeos, school events. There’s a county fair and an occasional parade. Several small town celebrations and events, a couple honky-tonks for nightlife and weekends, a golf course, a lake, and we have our own doings at the ranch. Buyers and business folks fly in. I sometimes drive out or fly out to other places when something interests me or work takes me away.” He could tell she was mentally trying to picture all that—and whether she could tolerate it or not—so he added, “Most folks in town or on the land are good people, lots are family folk and real friendly. Salt of the earth.” The down-home, plain-folk descriptions must have rattled her a little because she made a big production of returning her napkin to her lap and then kept looking down as she fiddled with it. When she finally looked up, the smile she gave him looked a little too strained to be as serene as she must have meant. “They sound…very nice,” she said, then reached for her water glass and took a delicate sip that made him stare at the way her lips handled the task. As if catching him staring at her mouth unsettled her, she quickly put down the glass and offered him a self-conscious smile. She casually pushed her dessert plate a little away, and he guessed she was finished with it. Oren lazily returned her smile. “How do I get the waiter to bring me the check so we can get out of this place?” He was as much as declaring to her that he was a country hick, and as he’d hoped, she took it kindly. Now she smiled a little less tensely. She lifted her napkin to the table and laid it neatly beside her plate, and her voice was low enough to not be overheard. “They’re very good with subtleties here. You might try doing this.” She discretely lifted a slender index finger then immediately put it down. McClain grinned over at her and Stacey watched as he glanced away and went solemn. The momentary glitter that flashed in his dark eyes was as effective as a shout and immediately their waiter was at his side with a small silver tray. McClain tossed a couple large denomination bills on the tray with a low, “Keep it,” that made the waiter murmur his thanks and vanish as quickly as he’d appeared. Stacey realized she hadn’t seen McClain take out his wallet, and she wondered how long he’d been waiting for her to finish dessert. He’d declined one for himself, but she’d been too impolite to deny herself when he’d encouraged her to choose a dessert. Or rather, she’d been too selfish and greedy to pass up what was surely a last opportunity for a decadent treat. Now he winked at her. “You’re right about these folks. They understand subtle.” And then he stood up, and it wasn’t necessarily her imagination that his size and his masculine presence caused the murmurs at the tables nearby to pause a moment, as if a giant had suddenly stood up among them. Oren came around to her side of the table and casually pulled her chair back for her to rise. And then he took her elbow with hard, strong fingers that were absolutely gentle and almost scorchingly hot. And magical. Never had she felt the things Oren McClain made her feel. Every time he touched her, the tiny shocks and shivery tingles he set off rapidly gathered in places she’d not known could feel things like that. It was part of what had overwhelmed her about him before. Every time he’d touched her and she’d felt like this, she’d gotten the very strong sense that if he ever did more than touch her a little or kiss her, she’d lose control of herself and somehow be lost. For someone who’d kept herself remote from all but a friend’s casual touch or occasional hug, the whole issue of physical intimacy was unknown territory. Or maybe it was because Oren McClain was such a physical man with such a virile presence. A reserved woman like her had little enough experience, but with a man like him it was difficult to know what to expect when it came to delicate sexual matters. She, of course, knew all about the mechanics of sex, but knowledge was worlds away from actual experience. And instinct warned that even if she’d had a bit of experience with sex, an intimate encounter Oren McClain would be completely unique. He was too elemental, too completely male, and too supremely confident in himself not to be dynamic and possibly quite primitive in bed. Why had a man like him chosen her? Did he want a meek woman to dominate? He was a man who could naturally dominate anyone, including most men, but she sensed that was purely accidental because of his size and rugged looks. He’d been anything but overbearing when she’d been around him. But then, he didn’t need to be. As with the waiter who’d responded to a mere gleam in a single, momentary look, McClain needed to do little more than show an inkling of his will to get his way. Stacey thought about that as they stepped out of the restaurant and paused under the canopy at the end of the walk to wait for a taxi. The night was warmer tonight than it had been last night. Then again, heat was pouring off McClain and Stacey felt flushed with nerves and uncertainty. And she had the absurd impulse to cry. She’d let herself down in so many ways that she couldn’t begin to keep track of them all. She was ashamed of being afraid to stand on her own two feet, but shame wasn’t enough to prompt her to overcome her fears. Not even the worry that she might grab the easy rescue McClain seemed to offer and unintentionally jump from the frying pan into the fire, was enough to put some starch in her spine. She never should have come to this; she’d never in her life dreamed of coming to this. But here she was, after months of growing impotence as she’d made one shocking discovery after another, then had failed, time after time, to catch up with the thief or to prevent a single disaster. The rarified life her grandfather had died believing he’d safeguarded for her was nearly gone, except for the trust fund she’d have at age thirty. Not only was her access to it six years away, but she didn’t truly believe it wouldn’t somehow disappear like all the rest, stolen by a financial sleight of hand by some other larcenous predator. And considering her financial circumstances, six years might as well be twenty for all the good the trust fund would do her now. Her grandfather’s attorney had been so “sincerely regretful,” but there was nothing he could do. As McClain opened a cab door and gently ushered her in, Stacey managed a brief smile of thanks. He slid in beside her and lifted his arm to rest it on the seat behind her, effectively distracting her from her unhappy thoughts. Though he didn’t actually touch her anywhere, the heat from his big body seared her from shoulder to ankle, and she couldn’t seem to keep from melting a little. It took quite a lot to keep from leaning into the heat of him. Why was it so natural to want to press close to him? This couldn’t be love, because love was a far more tender and delicate emotion. Wasn’t it? Love surely couldn’t be this craving for the feel of a hard, masculine body or the gentle touch of a callus-rough hand. A craving that had little or nothing to do with high-minded and hazy romantic sentiment but yet everything to do with bodily urges and lust. Yes, that was it: lust. Something that could be powerfully and potently felt, but something too volatile and flesh-driven not to burn up quickly. Love was something pure and tender and sweet, something that occurred in the mind and in the heart, and endured. Lust was primitive and indiscriminate, and involved only baser sensibilities. Lust was all around, but it certainly didn’t make for a better society, and it certainly was nothing to base a marriage on. And neither was the desperate need for money. Stacey folded her hands together in her lap and resisted the impulse to introduce some harmless bit of conversation to help pass the time on the ride home. It was better that Oren McClain realized now how little they had in common. Since many men relied on their women to take care of the social niceties of polite conversation, dropping the burden in his lap might make him realize that a little sooner and he’d lose interest. There were better women in the world who were more suited to him and his rural way of life, and it would be a shame if he wasted any more time or thought on a frivolous ninny like her. CHAPTER THREE THEY rode the elevator in continued silence. It was almost as if the tension between them was building with each floor they passed until, all too soon, they’d reached her floor and were stepping out. There’d be no stiffly polite “Good night, Mr. McClain,” at the door tonight. Something had happened in the cab on the ride back from supper, and Stacey couldn’t discern exactly what it was or how she’d known it. All she was sure of was that she’d sensed that a decision had been made, and that her companion had pledged himself to it. Clinging to her poise, she unlocked her door and led the way into the large apartment. It seemed even more silent and tense here, as if her secrets were lurking, keeping still to avoid discovery and yet just as apt to suddenly spring out of hiding. Of course, there was nothing lurking behind anything. Instead, it was her conscience that was nettling her and making itself sharply felt. And it needed to nettle her because cowardice was having a heyday, and she was all but crossing her fingers in the hope that Oren McClain would repeat his marriage proposal tonight. Because she’d also made a decision in the taxi: to accept his proposal. But then they’d walked into her building and she’d decided to turn him down. When they’d reached her floor, she’d reversed her decision again and decided to marry him. She’d have to keep her desperate financial troubles from him but she had enough money left to keep the true state of her situation a secret, at least for a time. And yet, wasn’t it wrong to hide the truth? Secrets, particularly enormous ones like hers, couldn’t make for a successful marriage. A surreptitious glance at the big man told her she’d be an idiot to cross him. If he was unhappy with her, or she disappointed him too much, they’d have zero chance at anything livable together. Though he was open and uncomplicated and straightforward, that didn’t necessarily translate to being long-suffering or self-sacrificing or easygoing. He’d have expectations of her. Big ones. But what would they be exactly? Common sense told her that she’d disappointed herself too much not to also disappoint him. And marrying a man so different from her, particularly this soon, was asking for trouble. She’d had too much failure and trouble lately to risk landing herself in more, though at the moment she couldn’t think of anything worse than facing what she would by the end of the week. Or what would come after that. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. 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