Читать книгу Bride Of Convenience - Susan Fox, Susan Fox P. - Страница 8

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.