Читать книгу A Proper Wife - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
AT A few minutes past four every Friday afternoon, end-of-week celebrants from Wall Street’s financial offices began pouring out into the streets. Lounges and bars filled up with regulars intent on getting the weekend off to a quick start.
Ryan and Frank, who had made a ritual of toasting the week’s end together since their university days, snagged the last pair of empty leather stools at the mahogany bar at The Watering Hole and exchanged friendly greetings with Harry, the bartender.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Harry said. “The usual?”
“Yes,” Frank answered, but Ryan shook his head.
“I’ll have a Coke.”
“A Coke?” Frank said, lifting his eyebrows. “What’s the matter, pal? Did that dame’s right hook rattle your brain?”
Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “It was a good shot,” he said grumpily. “Is there a mark?”
“A little shadow, maybe, right there—”
“Ouch!” Ryan drew a sharp breath just as the bartender put an ice-filled glass and an open bottle of Coke in front of him. He took an ice cube from the glass, wrapped it in his handkerchief and held it gently against his jaw. “Maybe this will help. I don’t really feel like trying to explain a lump on my jaw to my grandfather.”
“Ah,” Frank said, “now I get it. No booze because you’re making the long drive out to see the old man, right?”
“You’ve got it.” Ryan waggled his jaw carefully from side to side. “Can you believe that dame? She walks around, shows off damned near everything she’s got, then gets ticked off when a guy notices. Whatever happened to decorum?”
“Decorum?”
“Yes. Decorum. You know, less cleavage, less leg, less of everything on display.”
Frank’s brows rose just a little. “This from the man who once dated Miss November?”
True enough, Ryan thought with some surprise. When had he ever cared how much a woman showed? If she was good-looking, the more, the better.
His eyes met Frank’s. “It was Miss December,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you remember those little bells?”
Frank chuckled. “Man, do I ever!” Frowning, he peered at Ryan’s jaw. “That bruise is turning color. You’d better run up a tale Grandpa will buy.”
Ryan sighed. “The hell with it. If he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. He’ll probably tell me the girl gave me exactly what I deserved.”
“The old man hasn’t changed, huh?”
“Unlike the female of the species,” Ryan said with a fond smile, “my grandfather is always predictable.”
So was an evening in the Kincaid house, Ryan thought as Frank excused himself and headed for the lavatory.
Drinks first, in the old-fashioned sitting room. Bourbon for Ryan, seltzer for James since he’d given up whiskey on orders of his doctors. Then Agnes Brimley, his grandfather’s prune-faced housekeeper would call them into the dining room for a medically approved dinner of gritty brown rice, mushy vegetables and stringy chicken. Dessert would have the look, smell and texture of pulverized soap.
Then the old man would shut the door on both logic and the disapproving Miss Brimley, light up one of the ropy cigars that were his sole remaining vice, fix Ryan with a rheumy eye and deliver The Lecture of the Month.
The World and How Much Better it Had Been Seventy Years Ago was always the choice opener. Second would come Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated—even though in the five years Ryan had been running the development firm his grandfather had founded, he’d built it from being an east coast success to a national conglomerate.
But those were only warm-ups to James’s favorite lecture, which always began with the words, “Time is passing, my boy,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-two soon and that it was time he settled down.
Ryan smiled. And he would sit through it all without more than token protest. What would the pundits of high finance make of that? Ryan Kincaid, the man Time magazine had dubbed The Lone Raider, would endure the lectures for the simplest, most complex of reasons—because he loved his grandfather and his grandfather loved him, even if the old man would sooner eat nails than admit it.
His grandfather had raised him and Gordon both, after their parents’ messy divorce. Now, with Gordon gone, neither Ryan nor the old man had anyone else to care about.
“So, what about Sharon?”
Ryan looked up as Frank eased himself onto the stool again.
“What about her?”
“She can’t be thrilled to be without you this evening, considering how she fusses over our weekly boys’ night out.”
Ryan grimaced. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not talk about Sharon.”
“Problems?”
“Well, I forgot her birthday.”
“Which is why we ended up in Montano’s.”
“Yeah, but there’s more.” Ryan sighed. “I thought we understood each other. She didn’t want anything permanent and neither did I. Now she’s starting to talk about how all her friends are getting married and having babies.”
“I hope you told her you’re too young to end your life.”
Ryan lifted his glass, brought it to his lips, gazed into the dark liquid and then put it down again, untouched.
“The thing of it is, I’m not.”
Frank recoiled in horror. “What?”
“We’re pushing middle-age, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“At thirty-two?” Frank began to grin. “I get it. You’re anticipating Grandpa Kincaid’s lecture about Getting Married, Settling Down, and Producing Little Kincaids to comfort him in his old age.”
“There are times I almost think he’s right.” Ryan’s mouth twisted. “After all, my brother’s dead, and heaven knows his marriage didn’t produce any heirs.”
“Yeah. That was a fiasco, wasn’t it?”
“What else could it have been? Gordon got himself hitched to San Francisco’s own version of Jezebel.”
“Bettina Eldridge, right? I remember.” Frank sighed. “Look, pal, this is America. Kingdoms are not lost because the Prince Royal has yet to take himself a bride. Tell that to the old man, why don’t you?”
Ryan ran his finger along the edge of his glass. “My grandfather’s gotten very old,” he said softly. “Time passes, you know.”
“Tying on the ball and chain won’t stop the clock from ticking,” Frank said bluntly, “but if you think it will, there’s always Sharon.”
Ryan grinned. Even back in their undergraduate days at Yale, Frank had had a way of bringing things back to basics.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Marriage just isn’t man’s natural state.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Hell, just look at the Kincaids. My mother celebrated her fifteenth anniversary by asking my father for a divorce so she could go off and become an anthropologist. My father fell for his secretary a year later and disappeared into parts unknown. My brother married a woman who saw dollar signs whenever she looked at him...”
“Marriage sucks,” Frank said agreeably.
“My grandfather’s always telling me that his marriage was a joy, but why wouldn’t it have been? The rules were simpler. My grandmother was an old-fashioned woman. Pleasant, sweet-tempered, eager to please.”
Frank sighed. “That’s how women were raised in those days, pal. A girl was raised to be a lady. To play piano, serve tea and embroider doilies, to bring a man his slippers and his newspaper...”
Ryan’s brows lifted. “We’re talking about a wife,” he said gently, “not a cocker spaniel.”
“And with it all,” Frank said, ignoring the interruption, “she’d be gorgeous and more than willing.”
An image suddenly swept into Ryan’s mind. He saw the blonde from Montano’s, saw himself stripping her of that velvet cape. He saw her naked under his hands, all tanned, silky skin, high, sweet breasts and gently curved hips...
Damn! Ryan reached for his glass and drank the last of the chilled Coke.
“If I could find a babe like that, I’d marry her myself,” Frank said emphatically.
“Who wouldn’t?” Ryan grinned, glanced at his watch, and stood up. “You’re describing a proper wife. But they haven’t made a model like that in years. And that’s exactly what I’m going to point out to my grandfather.” He took out his wallet and tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Thanks for the talk, friend. It was just what I needed.”
Frank smiled modestly. “My pleasure.”
“This time when the old man launches into the Why Don’t You Settle Down speech, I’ll sing him a chorus of I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Grandad. Then I’ll fold my arms, sit back, and smile.”
As he had since childhood, Ryan sat to James’s right at the Kincaid dining room table. But tonight was nothing like those childhood dinners. It was nothing like the hideous dinners of the past several years, either.
Ryan frowned. What in hell was going on?
Prepared for the sort of awful meal he’d described to Frank, he’d come close to falling out of his chair when Miss Brimley had come marching in with the first course.
“Ah,” James had said happily.
“Ah,” Ryan had dutifully repeated, and prepared for the worst. But when his grandfather had uncovered the tureen, a wonderful scent had wafted to Ryan’s nostrils.
“Lobster bisque?” he’d said incredulously.
“Lobster bisque,” James had replied.
Agnes Brimley had glared.
The bisque had been followed by well-marbled beef, baked potatoes slathered in sour cream, and tossed green salad with Roquefort dressing.
“And a good claret to wash it all down, of course,” James had said.
Now, with the meal ending, Ryan cleared his throat.
“Are we ... celebrating something, Grandfather?” he asked carefully.
James looked up from his plate. A strange little smile skimmed across his mouth.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, my boy, but yes, I suppose you might say that we are.”
Ryan nodded. “And what would it be, sir?”
James smiled and shook his head. “No more questions for now, Ryan. We’ll talk after dessert, I promise.”
As if on signal, Miss Brimley banged open the service door, the very briskness of her step an indication she disapproved of whatever it was she carried on the oval silver platter in her hands.
“Dessert,” she said coldly.
Ryan stared at the platter as she extended it to him. He hadn’t seen such an assortment of goodies since childhood. Tiny golden creampuffs, bite-size chocolate éclairs, chunky squares of shortbread....
He raised shocked eyes to Miss Brimley. “Are those white-chocolate brownies?”
She sniffed. “Indeed.”
He started to reach for one, thought of the workout he put himself through each morning, and drew back his hand.
“I, ah, I don’t think so, thanks.”
The housekeeper’s expression softened, if only slightly. “At least someone’s still using his brain as God intended!”
James wheezed out a laugh. “If you are trying to ruin my appetite, Brimley,” he said, helping himself to one of everything, “it will pain you to know you are not succeeding. Bring in the coffee, if you please. Real coffee, not that decaffeinated swill you’ve been pawning off on me all these years. Then shut the door and leave us alone.”
When she’d done as ordered, James sighed, reached inside his vest, took out a cigar—an act that only recently had seemed daring but which now was all but fraught with innocence, Ryan thought dazedly—and bit off the end.
“Excellent meal, my boy, don’t you think?”
Ryan rose and took his grandfather’s old-fashioned cigar lighter from its place on the mantel.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of excellent,” he said, his tone wry. He held out the lighter and flicked the wheel. “Julia Child would probably agree, but I suspect your doctors would take a different view.”
“Doctors,” James said dismissively. “Shamans, you mean, beating their drums and dancing around the fire when we all know the best they can hope to do is delay the inevitable.”
Ryan grinned. “Your diet may have changed but I see your disposition is still as sweet as ever.”
The old man chuckled, then drew on the cigar until the tip glowed bright red.
“So,” he said, blowing out a wreath of smoke, “what’s new in your life, young man?”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s new in yours first?”
James’s lids drooped down over his eyes. “What could be? I spend my days taking pills and eating pablum.”
“Not tonight.”
“No.” James smiled. “Not tonight.”
“You said you’d explain that cholesterol-laden feast once we’d finished it.”
“You don’t mind if we have a chat first, do you?”
Ryan frowned. His grandfather’s tone was light. Why, then, did he feel so uneasy?
“No, of course not. What would you like to talk about?”
“I told you. What’s new in your life?”
“Well, let’s see... We’ve decided to bid on that property in Santa Fe, and the subdivision we’re developing outside Vegas will—”
“How did you get that bruise on your jaw?”
Ryan grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I bumped against the shower door, reaching down for the soap?”
“No,” James said, his eyebrows lifting. “I would not. Did some irate husband give it to you?”
“Grandfather!” Ryan shook his head. “I’m surprised at you,” he said, trying not to smile. “You know I believe in the sanctity of marriage.”
The old man got a strange look on his face. “I’m counting on that. And I’m still waiting to hear how you came by that bruise.”
“Suppose I said a woman gave it to me?”
James chuckled. “I’d say you probably more than deserved it. All right, don’t tell me how it happened. I don’t suppose it matters.” He tapped his cigar against the rim of an ashtray. “What else is new?”
“Well, that Vegas subdivision—”
“Yes, yes,” James said impatiently, “I’m sure Kincaid, Incorporated, is doing fine. You’ve made an enormous success of the company, more than I ever did, and we both know it.”
Ryan laughed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This is too much for one evening. First that meal, then flattery—”
“I meant,” James said, his voice overriding Ryan’s, “what’s new in your private life?”
“Ah.” Ryan smiled and sat down. “We go straight to the bottom line. You want to know if I’ve proposed marriage to anyone between now and the last time I saw you.”
“Not to ‘anyone,’” his grandfather said without smiling back. “To a woman who would make a good wife.”
“A proper wife,” Ryan said, and chuckled.
“I see nothing amusing here, young man!”
“I was just thinking of a conversation I had with Frank Ross—you remember Frank, don’t you, sir?”
“I do. I take it he has not settled down yet, either.”
“I’m not sure you appreciate how the world has changed,” Ryan said gently. “Women aren’t what they were.”
“They are precisely what they were. There have always been women men should marry. The trick is to find them.”
“Well, when I find one-”
“When, indeed,” James said sharply. “At the rate you’re going, it will be never. And time is passing.”
“Grandfather,” Ryan said firmly, “I really have no wish to discuss this tonight.”
The old man gave him a searching look. Then he sighed and stubbed out his cigar.
“This room is drafty. Let’s go into the library.”
Ryan rose to his feet. “Let me help you, sir,” he said as James put his hands on the arms of his chair. It was an offer he made each time he saw James struggling to stand. The response was always the same. “I’m not in my grave yet,” the old man would say.
But not tonight.
“Yes,” his grandfather said, “I suppose you’d better.”
Ryan’s eyes shot to the old man’s face, but it gave nothing away. He eased him to his feet, led him across the hall to the library where a fire blazed in the hearth despite the mildness of the fall evening, and settled him into a leather wing chair.
James sighed. “That’s better. Now pour some cognac.”
Ryan started to object, then thought better of it. Why not cognac? Compared to dinner, cognac was small change. He poured drinks, handed one snifter to his grandfather, then drew a chair to the fire and sat down.
“All right, Grandfather,” he said, “let’s have it.”
“Have what?” James assumed an air of innocence.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve pushed me as far as I’m going to go. Now I want some answers. What’s going on?”
“Why are young men always so impatient?”
“Grandfather...” Ryan said, his tone a warning.
“All right, all right. I suppose you know that my eighty-seventh birthday is fast approaching.”
“So you gave yourself an early gift? A meal that would make your doctors tear out their hair if they saw it?”
“This is my life, not theirs.” James’s eyes met his grandson’s. “Do you remember any of what you learned in Sunday school, my boy?”
“Well,” Ryan said carefully, “that depends.”
“I’m referring to the biblical injunction that a man is entitled to live three score years and ten.” James smiled. “I’ve done a bit better than that.”
Ryan smiled, too. “You always managed to get a good return on your investments, sir.”
“I went on that hideous no-fat, no-sugar, no-taste regimen seven years ago at the urging of my doctors. They convinced me that a man of eighty, who’d survived the sort of surgery that kills men half that age, might improve his lot by eating wisely if not well.”
“It was good advice.”
“It was—until now.”
“Come on, Grandfather. You’re not going to throw in the towel just because you’re turning eighty-seven in a couple of months!”
“I had my semiannual checkup last week.” James’s tone was brisk. “The doctors suggested I make certain my affairs were all in order.”
Ryan’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that not even a diet of pap can keep a man living beyond his time—which is as it should be. No one should take up room on this overcrowded planet forever.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“It is absolutely logical, and you know it. And before you ask... yes, I have sought a second medical opinion. It confirms the first. It’s time to tally up the books.”
Ryan felt his gut twist. He loved his grandfather fiercely. James had been his surrogate father and his professional mentor. He’d been everything, all the family Ryan had ever known. The years had passed—of course they had. Still, in a way that had nothing to do with rational thought, he’d expected to have more time.
“There’s no reason to look so bleak, boy. I’ve enjoyed my life. Truly, I have no regrets.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “What about seeing another doctor? A specialist?”
“I told you, I already have. A battery of them. They’ve all muttered their magical incantations and read their chicken bones—and they’re in complete agreement.”
Ryan got to his feet and paced across the room. “There’s got to be something you can do.”
“There isn’t.”
“Something I can do, then!”
“There is.”
Ryan swung around. “What? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“Will you?” James said softly. “Can I count on you to do something that may, at first glance, seem...difficult?”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Have I ever let you down, sir?”
The old man smiled. “No. No, you have not.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll take care of it.”
James hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“I had a visitor last week,” he said. “Two visitors, actually. Your brother’s widow—and his stepdaughter.”
Ryan frowned at the abrupt change in topic. “Bettina came to see you?”
“Yes. With her daughter, the offspring of husband number one, Gordon’s unlucky predecessor twice removed.”
“But why? I mean, Gordon’s been dead more than a year.”
“Oh, Bettina babbled on and on about family for a while but eventually she got down to basics.”
“I’ll bet.” Ryan’s tone was harsh. “What did she want?”
“Money. Not that she said so. Whatever else she is, Bettina’s not stupid. She’d never be so obvious.”
“She’s obvious enough. The only one who never saw through her was Gordon.”
“Evidently he did, at the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“He not only left Bettina, he cut her out of his will.”
Ryan’s eyebrows angled in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. He left his money to charity and his house in San Francisco to me.”
“Damn,” Ryan said softly. A slow grin crept over his mouth. “Now Bettina wants you to do something about it.”
“What she wants, as she so delicately put it, is for me to remember that she is one of us.”
“The hell she is!”
James nodded. “I agree. But there are other considerations.”
“What other considerations? The woman’s no good. She must have slept in a hundred different beds before she set her sights on Gordon.”
“Including yours?”
Ryan swung toward James. “No,” he said harshly, “not including mine—but it wasn’t for lack of effort. She made that clear enough.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
James smiled. “I was only seventy-nine when she married Gordon,” he said wryly. “A man in his prime can always read a woman like that.”
“Gordon couldn’t,” Ryan said, his expression still stony.
The old man sighed. “This isn’t about your brother’s inability to see the truth, it’s about responsibility.”
“Are you saying you feel sympathy for this woman?”
“I’m not talking about sympathy. I’m talking about responsibility. And family obligation. Those things are important, Ryan. Surely you know that.”
Ryan looked at James’s lined face, at the hand holding the cognac glass and its slight but perceptible tremor, and he forced himself to swallow his anger.
“You’re right, so if you’re about to tell me you’ve decided to deed Bettina that house in San Francisco or include her in your will, you needn’t worry. What you do with your estate is your business, sir. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But you wouldn’t approve.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
James laughed. “Direct, as always.”
Ryan smiled back at the old man. “I wonder where I could possibly have picked up such a trait?”
“Believe me, my boy, I have no intention of giving Bettina anything. I’d never countermand Gordon’s desires.”
“Well, then, I don’t see—”
“Did I mention that her daughter was with her?”
“Yes.” Ryan crossed the room and poured himself some more cognac. “She must be...what? Seventeen? Eighteen? The last I saw her—the only time I saw her, come to think of it—was the evening before Gordon moved to the coast. He brought Bettina and the girl here for dinner.”
“Your memory is better than mine. I didn’t remember the girl at all.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to remember. The child sat like a lump. She was a gawky-looking thing, all bones and knees, decked out in frills that didn’t become her.”
James smiled. “You’ll be glad to hear she’s improved somewhat,” he said dryly.
“Well, I suppose she’s past the awkward age.”
“Indeed,” James said, holding out his empty glass and nodding toward the cognac bottle.
Ryan looked at the glass in the old man’s hand, hesitated, then gave a mental shrug. What did it matter now?
“Meaning,” he said as he poured the cognac, “she’s a chip off the old block?”
“Like her mother? No, not at all. They don’t even look alike. The girl must take after her father. She’s very fair.” James smiled. “Bettina was all got up in some purple thing like a pair of Doctor Denton’s, only two sizes too small and without attached feet.”
Ryan laughed. “A catsuit, I think it’s called.”
“But the girl was dressed as if she were going to have tea with the Queen. Demure little suit, white blouse with a bow at the throat, yellow hair skinned back in a bun.”
“Probably as much a costume as Bettina’s,” Ryan said with a shrug. “Maybe they figured you’d be an easier touch if the girl looked sweet and innocent.”
“It’s possible, but somehow I don’t think so. The girl was very quiet. Bettina kept trying to involve her in the conversation but she just sat there, quiet as a mouse.”
“Still a lump, it would seem.”
“Well, Bettina certainly did all the talking. She says Gordon cut her out of his will in a fit of temper.”
Ryan snorted. “She only wishes!”
“I didn’t believe it, either. So after they’d left, I phoned my attorney and had him do some checking.” James smiled coldly. “Cutting Bettina out had been deliberate, all right. Seems Gordon had found her in bed with some man.”
Ryan finished his cognac, put down his glass, and folded his arms over his chest.
“I hope you phoned Bettina and told her that.”
“I haven’t told her anything, Ryan. I wanted to speak with you first. You see, my attorney learned something quite unexpected. It seems Gordon had intended to make another change in his will.”
“What kind of change?”
“The week before his death, he stopped by to see his lawyer. He said he’d been thinking about the girl.”
“Bettina’s daughter?”
James nodded. “He said Bettina had shuttled her off to boarding school as soon as they were married because she didn’t want a child underfoot and he felt guilty, not having done anything to stop it. He said he’d never paid her enough attention or fulfilled the obligations of a stepfather.”
Ryan sighed. He was beginning to see the picture.
“Look, Grandfather, if you want to continue paying the girl’s tuition—”
James chuckled. “She’s twenty-three, Ryan. She’s been out of school for four years. And I can see why Gordon was concerned about her. She’s not at all like the young women one sees today. There’s no hard edge to her, no sophistication. I suppose it’s the boarding school that did it. It’s one of those old-fashioned places that hardly exists anymore, where young women are taught to be proper ladies. According to Bettina, the girl plays piano, embroiders, even knows how to serve a proper tea.”
Ryan laughed. “Maybe we should introduce her to Frank.”
“This has nothing to do with Frank,” the old man said sharply. “Are you paying attention to me, Ryan?”
“Certainly, sir. And she sounds...charming.” She sounded either simpleminded or dull as dishwater, but there was no need to say that to his grandfather.
“At first, I was surprised Bettina would have chosen a school that emphasized such things but then I realized she’d hoped her. daughter would make the right friends, perhaps meet the brother of some rich classmate and marry him.”
“But she didn’t?” Ryan grinned when James shook his head. “I see. She’s not awkward anymore, she’s just homely. Poor Bettina. Her scheme backfired.”
“I wouldn’t call the girl ‘homely,’” James said thoughtfully. “It’s just that she’s without artifice. Quite proper and demure.”
“Well, then,” Ryan said, trying to mask his impatience, “I’m sure she’ll find a good husband sooner or later.”
“I’m certain of it,” James said, and smiled.
“Look, Grandfather, haven’t we gotten off the subject? We were discussing—ah, we were talking about—”
“My death, that’s what we were discussing, and what you can do to make its approach easier. I’m getting to it, if you’ll—” There was a knock at the library door. “Yes?” the old man said irritably as it opened. “What is it now, Brimley? Can’t you bear to leave me in peace for a moment?”
“You have guests, sir,” the housekeeper said, her voice fairly humming with disapproval.
“Is it nine o’clock already?” James sighed. “No wonder you were getting impatient, my boy. I lost track of the time. I thought we had at least another hour before Bettina and her daughter arrived.”
Ryan stared at his grandfather. “What do you mean?”
“I asked them to come by this evening, after dinner.”
“What in hell for?”
“So you could meet her, of course.”
Ryan thrust his hand into his black hair and scraped it back from his forehead.
“Sir,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’re a bit confused. I’ve met Bettina before, remember?”
James slapped his hands against the arms of his chair.
“Don’t patronize me, boy. I am not senile. It’s my body that’s failing, not my brain. I am not talking about Bettina. It’s Devon I want you to meet.”
“Devon?”
“Don’t look so blank, for heaven’s sake. Yes, Devon. Bettina’s daughter. Your brother’s stepchild.”
“But why? Look, if you want to do something for her... give her money, whatever—”
“What I want, Ryan, is that you promise to honor the request I shall make of you.”
“I will. I’ve already told you that, sir, but what does it have to do with—what’s her name?”
“Devon,” the old man said. “And it has everything to do with her. You see, I’ve thought of a solution to all my problems.”
“What problems?”
“The ones I’ve spent the last hour enumerating,” James said testily. “Haven’t you been listening? My concern that you settle down with the right wife.”
“That,” Ryan said with a wave of his hand.
“Yes. That. And now this other thing that’s come up, your brother’s wish that his stepdaughter be provided for.”
“Grandfather,” Ryan said patiently, “I fail to see what one thing has to do with another.”
A sly smile curved across James’s mouth.
“They have everything to do with each other. You need a wife and the girl needs to be taken care of.” The old man chuckled. “It’s quite simple, Ryan. I have found you the proper wife and I want you to marry her.”
The words seemed to echo through the library. Behind him, in the fireplace, Ryan heard the pop of a damp log as the heat drew the last bit of moisture from its core.
That’s how I feel, Ryan thought dazedly, as if the last bit of air were being pulled from my lungs.
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
“I’ve never been more serious. And I will remind you that you gave me your word. You will marry Devon Franklin.”
Franklin? Ryan thought. His heart slammed against his ribs. Franklin?
“Grandfather,” he said in a strangled voice, but James shifted suddenly in his chair and peered beyond Ryan, his eyes lighting with pleasure.
“Devon, my dear. Please come in. I want you to meet my grandson.”
Even before Ryan turned, before he saw her, he knew.
There, standing in the doorway, was the same gorgeous, evil-tempered blonde who’d slugged him six hours earlier in Montano’s.
