Читать книгу The Bravo Billionaire - Christine Rimmer - Страница 9

Emma Lynn Hewitt could see that the lawyer was worried for her. And maybe he had good reason to be. It was probably plain crazy for her to volunteer to be alone with Blythe’s scary, overbearing son right then.

But come on. What could the man do to her, really? If looks could kill, she’d have keeled over stone dead when he walked in the room and spotted her sitting there.

He was probably going to say some ugly things. He might even throw something—that big crystal water pitcher on the credenza over there, or maybe even a swivel chair or two. She had heard he sometimes threw things. But to the best of her recollection, she hadn’t heard that he threw things at people.

No. She didn’t believe he would do anything to physically hurt her. He would just use words to try to beat her into submission. Well, sticks and stones, as her aunt Cass used to tell her all the time. Words, even the mean, hard words of Blythe’s big, scary son, could not hurt her unless she allowed them to.

This was not her fault, whatever Jonas Bravo chose to believe.

The lawyer coughed. “Ms. Hewitt. Are you certain about this?”

Emma reached out and gave the lawyer’s sleeve a nice little pat. “I’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry ’bout me.”

“Well. If you’re positive…”

She beamed him a giant-sized smile. “I am.”

Mr. McAllister picked up his glasses and stood. Emma watched the tall, kind-faced lawyer walk down the length of the big conference table and go out through the double doors. It was a lot easier looking at the lawyer than at the man who sat beside her with tension radiating off him like steam.

As soon as the door swung shut behind the lawyer, Blythe’s son spoke in that arresting voice of his, which was soft and deep and just a little bit rough, like velvet when you rub it against the grain.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?”

Emma sucked in a big breath through her nose. One of her best groomers and dearest friends, Deirdre Laventhol, was real big on yoga. In yoga, you always breathed through your nose.

It was supposed to be calming.

Emma slowly let the breath back out the same way she’d sucked it in. It didn’t help much. She still felt angry and confused and a little bit afraid of the man who was so determined to blame her for something she had not done. Her heart was beating too fast. Just racing away in there. And her hands felt clammy. She had to resist the urge to rub them on her skirt.

Oh, Blythe, she thought miserably, why did you do this? I told you I plain don’t like him. And he never liked me. I told you that.

But Blythe hadn’t listened. She was like that sometimes, once she got an idea in her head.

Emma would say, “I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me, either. He always gives me that narrow-eyed suspicious look, like he’s waiting for me to grab the silver and run—or to cheat you out of every last penny you own.”

And Blythe would say, “You’re wrong, Em. You don’t understand him. Naturally he’s hostile with you. He doesn’t want to admit the attraction. But you’re the woman for him. And he’s just right for you.” And then Emma would groan and order her friend to forget that idea. Blythe would always drop the subject about then, which left Emma assuming that her friend had gotten the message.

To assume, Aunt Cass used to say, makes an ass out of u and me, too…

Emma made herself look at him again. It wasn’t that he was so hard to look at. He was a big, muscular man in a high-dollar suit with a burning look in eyes that sometimes looked blue—and sometimes looked black as the darkest part of the night.

Not handsome. No. His features were too blunt, too…basic for that. Not handsome, but masculine. Emma had always thought that the air kind of vibrated with male energy whenever Jonas Bravo was around—even when he wasn’t ready to chew nails like he was now.

Women were supposed to be drawn to him “like moths to a dangerous flame.” Yep, she’d actually read that about him somewhere. Blythe had told her that his “playboy phase” had come to an end around the time he turned thirty. But during it, he’d dated the most beautiful and charming women in the world. Famous actresses. The stunning youngest daughter of one the nation’s oldest and wealthiest families. Not to mention a long string of starlets and showgirls from both the good old U.S. of A. and abroad.

Blythe had often mentioned oh so casually to Emma that in the past few years, Jonas had hardly dated at all. Blythe had said she considered that a good sign. She thought he was ready for the real thing, for the love of his life.

In fact, looking back now, it seemed to Emma that Blythe was constantly bringing up Jonas whenever she and her friend spent time together. It seemed, looking back, that she should have been warned that Blythe might do something crazy like this—something bizarre and extreme, something just next door to desperate, to try to get her and Jonas hooked up.

But then, Aunt Cass’d had a saying for that, too—the one about hindsight always being twenty-twenty.

“Don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent look,” the Bravo Billionaire growled. “Admit it. You set this up.”

Emma folded her clammy hands in front of her, yanked her shoulders up tall and looked him dead in the eye. Think bold, she told herself silently. Think one hundred percent completely unconcerned about the mean things this awful man is saying to you.

“Didn’t you?” he taunted.

She answered truthfully—as if the truth was going to do her a bit of good with this wild man. “I most certainly did not. I didn’t know a thing about it until I walked in here today.”

One side of his mouth curled lazily into a sneer. “Fine. Then get out of the way.”

Now, what did that mean? She was not in his way. If he wanted to leave, he could get right up and go. “Pardon me?”

“Get out of the way. Refuse to marry me and decline to assume custody of my sister. If you won’t marry me and you won’t take Mandy, either, there’s no problem. She’ll go to me.”

The wild man had a point. Nothing said she had to go along with Blythe’s crazy scheme. Mr. McAllister had said the same thing a few minutes ago, hadn’t he?

If Ms. Hewitt is unwilling, then these changes become meaningless….

Emma could just…do what Jonas Bravo wanted her to do. Get out of the way. Mandy would go to him and—well, wasn’t that the right thing, anyway?

Emma opened her mouth to tell him she’d do what he wanted: step aside. Make no claim on Mandy.

But the words got caught in her throat.

A little over five years ago, right after her aunt Cass died, Emma had first come to L.A. She’d brought nothing but a few cheap clothes, a battered Ford four-door, a degree from a two-year business college in Odessa and a burning will to succeed, to make a mark upon the world. She’d taken a job at a famous deli/restaurant on Fairfax—just until she could figure out what kind of business she intended to make her mark in.

She’d met Blythe Bravo the second morning on the job, when Blythe had dropped in good and early for a black coffee and a plain bagel to go. It was immediate, the feeling of connection between them. It didn’t matter that, on the surface, they had nothing in common. Emma had looked in Blythe’s eyes and known that things were going to be all right, that she didn’t have to be secretly terrified anymore. She had lost her dear aunt Cass and she was starting all over. But she had found a rare friend. That gave her confidence, made her certain that she really was going to make it in L.A.

“When can you take a break?” Blythe had asked the third time she walked into the deli and found Emma behind the register. “We’ll do lunch.”

After that, they met two or three times a week—for lunch, to take in a movie, sometimes just for coffee and serious girl talk. Within a month, Emma was telling Blythe her idea of creating a special kind of “pet retreat.” And Blythe was offering to be her backer….

Emma owed Blythe so much. She did want a chance to repay her—not only for giving Emma her start, but also for holding out her hand in true and binding friendship.

Some people—like the man who was trying to push her around right now—would say that Emma came from nothing. Her daddy and her mama had both been dead by the time she was five. She’d been raised by a good-hearted, sun worshipping, platitude-loving aunt in a double-wide in a dinky, dusty west Texas town called Alta Lobo.

So yes. Some folks might say she was a nobody from nowhere.

But in Alta Lobo, in her aunt Cass’s double-wide, Emma had learned a number of important lessons. One of them was that if you can possibly give a friend what she wants, you do it.

Emma longed to do just that, to grant her dear friend’s dying wish.

But, oh, Blythe, she thought miserably. Oh, Blythe, why this? Anything but this, to get myself hitched up to this awful man.

Emma was not sure she could bring herself to do it—even for the very best friend she had ever known.

The awful man in question was still watching her through those blue-black angry eyes, waiting for her to give in and say she’d do what he demanded.

Well, she wouldn’t do what he demanded.

Not right yet, anyway.

He would just have to wait a little longer, because she needed time to think.

Emma slid the strap of her bright orange purse high onto her shoulder. She closed the folder on her copy of Blythe’s will and tucked the folder under her arm.

Jonas said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out of here.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not yet.”

Emma pushed back the big leather swivel chair and stood. “This is a lot to think about. I’m not makin’ any snap decisions, Mr. Bravo. I need a little time.”

He looked at her as if he’d like to pick her up and toss her through that big window behind her. And probably all he’d do was smile in satisfaction when she hit the pavement ten stories below. “Time, Ms. Hewitt, is the thing we don’t have much of. You’ve got to marry me in the next two weeks—or you’ve got to prove to my satisfaction that you do not intend to try to claim custody of my sister.”

“Excuse me,” Emma Lynn Hewitt replied. “I do not have to marry you. And I do not have to prove a single thing. I have to decide whether or not I can bear to grant my dearest friend’s dyin’ wish. And if I decide I just can’t make myself do that, since to do it I’d have to marry up with you, then I have to figure out whether or not I want to fight you for custody of sweet little Mandy. Those are the things that I have to do and they are all that I have to do. And in order to do them, I need some time.”

She turned for the door, thinking as she headed for it that maybe refusing to marry him would be the best way to go. She could refuse—and then fight to get Mandy put in her care. Maybe that would satisfy her obligation to her friend. After all, the little sweetheart would certainly have a better chance at a happy, normal life with her than she ever would with Jonas Bravo.

“I’ll see you in hell before I let you have Mandy,” the billionaire said before she got out the door.

Emma paused, turned to face him again and gave him her sweetest, brightest smile. “I’m sure you know just where you’re headed, Mr. Bravo. But whether I’ll be there to meet you remains to be seen.”

“We are not finished here.”

“Oh, yes we are. I told you. I need a little time to think.”

“How much time?”

“A few days. Then I’ll get back to you.”

He started to stand. She didn’t stay to watch him come at her.

She darted through the door, yanked it closed behind her and headed for the exit as fast as her three-inch heels would carry her.