The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride (Texas Cattleman's Club: The Last Bachelor Book 1)

by Dixie Browning

  “Which may be relevant in this case.”

  “I don’t think so.” Robert shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  Instead of answering, the young private investigator had shoved his hands in his pockets. Blue eyes twinkling, he’d changed the subject. “How’s married life?”

  “Keep your prying eyes off my marriage, okay?”

  “So where’s the bride? How does she like having her honeymoon interrupted by a little financial hanky-panky?”

  “I left her at the ranch,” Will said, but hell—this was Robert. The two men had been friends for years. “She drove herself back to town. At the moment we’ve agreed to put our relationship on hold until I can get a handle on this business at the company.”

  “Smart man. The way I hear it—not that I have any firsthand experience with wedded bliss, you understand—these things are tricky. Takes a man’s full concentration.”

  “Which things, marriage or embezzlement?”

  “Both,” Robert had replied, grinning broadly.

  “You got that right,” Will muttered.

  It was a few minutes past nine when Diana arrived at the Wescott Building the next morning. Not too early, not too late. Just right, in fact. Only the thing was, she didn’t know where to report. She could just show up in the pool room, as the secretaries who worked there called it, or she could ask at personnel if she should report upstairs, and if so, to which particular office in which department. Maybe someone was going out on maternity leave and she could fill in until something else opened up.

  After due consideration, she decided against just showing up in the pool room, where her cubicle was already occupied by someone else. It would be awkward at the very least. She had no idea how many people there knew she’d had an affair with Jack, but they probably all knew by now that she was married to the CFO. It would make a difference. She was hardly naive enough to believe it wouldn’t.

  Which was why she had a backup plan all ready in place. Not an ideal one, but any plan was better than none at all.

  Twenty-five minutes later she sat in her car in the employees’ parking lot and stared at the bug smears on her windshield. “I don’t believe it,” she said softly. She could not believe that Will would do such a thing. Had he deliberately set out to humiliate her? Presenting herself at the personnel office, she’d been offered smirking congratulations along with her severance pay. Severance pay!

  “Well, we’ll just see about that, boy-o,” she muttered. Backing recklessly out of her slot, she came within inches of plowing down a fire hydrant.

  The Royal Diner might look like a typical greasy spoon, but she hadn’t lived in Royal long before she realized that everyone in town ate there at one time or another. At the moment, however, there was only one patron inside. It was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch.

  Diana recognized the woman only in the way you would someone you’d seen several times but never spoken to. Passing the long Formica counter with the empty vinyl-covered bar stools and the row of booths, she headed for the door at the back with a sign that said, Office. No Smoking. And rapped sharply. She was still seething.

  “Come in, come in, whatcha want, for Pete’s sake, cantcha see I’m busy?” someone yelled from inside.

  Anger was replaced by an impulse to flee, but before she could move, the door was opened and she was trapped. “Yeah?” said the woman with the neon-red hair and the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

  Diana glanced quickly at the sign over the door, and the woman said, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Days like this don’t count. You selling or collecting?”

  “No—that is, I saw your sign on the window. The one that said Waitress Wanted?”

  Six hours later she staggered into her apartment and collapsed on the sofa. Cursing the damned sprung spring, she shifted her position slightly, then leaned back and closed her eyes. Whoever thought being a waitress was easy work needed their head examined.

  Slipping off her shoes, which had never been designed for waitressing, she rubbed her feet and thought longingly of easing them into a tub of hot salt water. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a tub, only a shower.

  Too much trouble. Just sitting would have to do for now.

  The diner had indeed been in need of help. One waitress had left three days before to be married, another had called in sick that morning, and the one who had showed up for work had left with a severe case of cramps mere moments before Diana arrived.

  Which was probably why the manager had handed Diana a clean apron, stuck a pad and pencil in her hand, and said, “You’re hired. We’ll do the paperwork later. Her over there.” She’d nodded toward the sole patron. “See if she’s ready yet to order. Been sitting there moping long enough to take root.”

  That’s when Diana had learned that a waitress’s duties included more than merely transporting food from kitchen to table and dirty dishes from table to kitchen.

  The woman in the third booth was relatively new in town. She’d admitted as much when she’d placed an order for a Mexican omelet, a croissant and cappuccino. “I’m celebrating,” she confided. “I just bought the flower shop—just now signed the final papers, in fact. Now I’m starting to have second thoughts.” Her voice wavered, and her blue eyes looked suspiciously bright.

  “You’ll love it here,” Diana said encouragingly. “I’ve been here less than a year, myself, but the people are so nice. What are you going to call your flower shop?” If the manager complained that she was wasting too much time listening to the customers, Diana might even rethink her impulsive decision to work here. She wasn’t about to be rude to a woman who obviously needed reassurance.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said the woman, who had introduced herself as Rebecca Todman. And then she burst into tears. “Sorry. Don’t mind me, I’m just—it’s sort of an…an anniversary.”

  “Oh.” Tears of joy? The poor woman didn’t exactly look overcome with happiness. “Should I offer my congratulations?”

  Rebecca had laughed through her tears. “Yes…maybe you should.” And then she had told in starkest terms a story that made Diana feel incredibly fortunate by comparison.

  “Hey, you! Bradford! This ain’t no sorority party. If you’re done over there, slice them pies, put ’em on plates and reload the pie case.”

  Several more customers had come in soon after that, and between keeping the dessert cases filled, taking and serving orders and clearing off tables, she hadn’t had a single moment to sit, much less to think about her very first customer.

  Did aspirin work on sore feet? she wondered just as someone began pounding on her door.

  “Well…shoot,” she muttered. In her stocking feet, she hobbled across the room and yanked the door open without bothering to ask who was there. The Lennox Apartments didn’t run to security peep holes.

  Will’s fist was lifted to knock again, making Diana quip, “Déjà vu. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  Nine

  “You want to explain what you think you’re doing?” Will told himself it probably wasn’t the most tactful approach, but she was his wife, dammit.

  “At the moment, I think I’m wondering which would suffer the most if I slammed the door—your nose or your fancy boots.”

  He frowned down at his boots. They weren’t fancy. They were plain custom-made boots, the kind any Texan who preferred comfort over flashiness might wear. Just to be on the safe side, he blocked the door open by placing a hand on it. “We need to talk.”

  “Like I said before, déjà vu. We’ve already talked, Will. I think we settled everything we need to settle. Unless you’d care to explain why you saw fit to blackball me at the office?”

  “Blackball! What the hell are you talking about?”

  She turned away, and he followed her inside, noticing several things about her. Her hair, which always started out the day pinned up in a neat bundle on her head, was, as usual, responding to the laws of gravity. She was limp
ing. “What happened to your feet?”

  “I walked on them.” She plopped down on the only decent chair in the room, leaving him the couch with the feral spring. “Why did you tell personnel I wouldn’t be back?” she demanded.

  “Because you won’t. You know the rules.”

  “I know your rules. It’s certainly not a company policy that employers and employees can’t—that is they aren’t allowed to—”

  “Cohabit?”

  “Yes, well we’re not, are we? I live here. You live at your address.”

  “We’re married, Danny.” She looked so damned bushed he’d almost gotten over being furious with her.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? You like it.”

  “When did I say that?” She was rubbing her left foot. Her ankles were swollen.

  “You didn’t have to say it, I saw the way you looked the first time I called you Danny. Like a little girl who’d been given a kitten and was hoping she’d get to keep it.” He glanced around. “That reminds me, did you bring your cats home with you?”

  “They’re kittens, not cats, and they’re more yours than mine. And no, I left them at your ranch.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that in your condition, you shouldn’t be on your feet all day?” He’d come here mad enough to wring her dainty little neck, but one look at those sagging shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, and he’d lost his priming. How could he tell her that people were already talking about their hasty wedding? That there’d been whispers about the way she’d been whisked out of the secretarial pool to go upstairs and work for Jack? And now the rumor was, with Jack gone, she had set her sights on Jack’s CFO.

  Then, as if that weren’t enough to set tongues wagging, she’d had to go and move out of his apartment and take a job at Royal’s primary rumor mill—the diner. How the devil was he supposed to protect a woman who was so determined to self-destruct?

  Summoning all the diplomacy at his command—which, at the moment, wasn’t much—he said, “Honey, if you did it just to make a point, then you succeeded. Maybe I should have discussed it with you first, but—”

  “Maybe? Just maybe you should have told me you intended to take control of my life? I don’t remember anything in the wedding ceremony that gave you the right to tell me where I could or couldn’t work.”

  She was on a roll now. Will leaned back and admired the glittering eyes, the pink cheeks, the thrust of her delicate jaw. He could have told her she didn’t have what it took to threaten a man of his size, his age and his experience, but hell—he was a generous man. So he let her take the bit in her mouth and run with it for a little while. She obviously needed to vent.

  When she’d gone on some more about being an adult, and about not needing anyone to tell her how to live her life, and that if she wanted to work at the Royal Diner, there was nothing he could do about it, he figured it was time to reenter the conversation.

  “Did the doctor say anything about stress being bad for a woman in your condition?” he asked in his mildest, most reasonable tone.

  “Stress?”

  “Yeah, you know—declarations of independence, shouting, threatening to break noses and toeses, issuing ultimatums?”

  “I did not—” She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “I didn’t…did I?”

  “You did. What’s the matter, didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”

  She glared at him. They both knew neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before.

  “What did you eat today? You need to keep up your strength.”

  She paused. Knowing she could simmer down as quickly as she could come to a boil, he waited with every semblance of patience. It paid off.

  With that quirky little half smile he’d come to look for, she admitted, “At least I got my exercise.”

  “At least? That means you didn’t take time to eat. According to my sources, you worked your pretty little buns off on account of none of the other waitresses showed up for work today.” Will levered himself carefully up from the sofa and stood, trying to look more benign than threatening. Threats didn’t work. He’d learned that much. She just dug in her heels and defied him to do anything about it.

  So he tried another approach. “Why don’t I make you a fried egg sandwich while you change into something more comfortable?”

  Oh, she was tempted, but Diana knew better than to give an inch. “I’m perfectly comfortable,” she lied. She’d worn tan, midheel pumps, her tan skirt and brown tunic top to the office that morning, then worked all day at the diner wearing the same clothes. The shoes were going to Goodwill first thing tomorrow. The rest smelled of fried food and onions, nothing a good dry cleaning couldn’t take care of. But she knew better than to change into anything now that might signal capitulation. She needed every possible advantage she could muster.

  “Fine. You, uh…do have eggs, don’t you?”

  “Nope.” She smiled, loving the way he suddenly looked less sure of himself. As much as she hated to admit it, he looked almost as tired as she felt.

  It occurred to her that he might be in some kind of trouble. Could the company be in trouble? It was being audited, but that was standard procedure under the circumstances…wasn’t it?

  If she were any sort of wife at all, she would sit him down, bring him a drink and say, “Now tell me all about your day, dear.”

  But she wasn’t, and so she didn’t. Not that she wasn’t tempted, but she knew better than to yield control, even to that extent. “Look, I really, really would like to get a hot soak and go to bed. I’ll eat something later, okay? I’ll open a can of soup and eat the whole thing. I really don’t need a baby-sitter.”

  “It’s not the baby I’m concerned about, Danny—at least, not entirely.”

  “Will, I’m fine, just bone tired. I’m going to work tomorrow at seven for the breakfast shift. Carla will be back by then, so it won’t be like it was today. They’re still hiring—maybe someone else will show up.”

  “And you’ll quit.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No I won’t. They’re shorthanded, and I need the work.”

  “The hell you do. No wife of mine—”

  Knowing she had the upper hand, she smiled. The trick, she was learning, was to stand firm, not to give him any wiggle room. Whatever else he was, Will Bradford was a gentleman in the old-fashioned sense. He might rant and bluster, but he would never resort to violence the way a weaker man might.

  “I hate you working there,” he grumbled, looking tired and rumpled and entirely too lovable. Really, she was going to have to start building up her resistance against this man she’d married, or he’d be able to wrap her around his little finger.

  “I know. And I’m sorry…your reputation and all—”

  “Screw my reputation, it’s you I’m worried about!”

  “You know what they say—a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.”

  “Okay. All right…for now.” He was still frowning, and she wanted nothing so much as to walk right into his arms and kiss away his frown, but they both knew where that would lead.

  No way, José, she thought, echoing a Texasism her new boss at the diner was fond of using. But, oh, how she wished things could be different….

  The next morning, dressed in a gray knit skirt, a navy sweater and her most comfortable walking shoes, she left for work at twenty minutes to seven. The Royal Diner was only five blocks from her apartment, which meant she could save gas, save wear and tear on her car and get a head start on her daily quota of exercise. The stop-and-go kind of walking she did at the diner hardly qualified, but after a day of it, she probably wouldn’t be in the mood for anything more than a shower and bed.

  The shoes helped. Or maybe the job just got easier with practice. Since Carla was back at work, Diana took time for a bowl of chili and a salad at eleven, before the lunch rush began. The morning sickness was gone, but she found that a small meal or a snack every four hours made
her feel better.

  By the time her shift was over, she didn’t particularly feel like walking home. Her feet ached all the way up to her hips. Obviously secretaries and waitresses used different sets of muscles. So when she let herself out and came face-to-face with a scowling husband—her own—she was tempted to take him up on his offer of a ride home.

  “Whose home, mine or yours?” she asked warily.

  “Mine would be better. Big bathtub full of hot water instead of a cramped little shower?”

  He knew exactly which buttons to push. Which was one more reason to resist. She’d gone down that route before. “At least in a shower I won’t be in danger of falling asleep and drowning.”

  “I have a shower, too. I’ll even throw in a lifeguard.” His smile was guaranteed to wear down a marble statue.

  They finally compromised. He would take her to her own apartment to shower and change, then pick her up at seven for dinner, with a promise to return her before his car turned into a pumpkin. “You drive a hard bargain, Cinderella.”

  “I do, don’t I?” she murmured proudly. As tired as she was, she was learning to handle him. The promise of dinner was not without risk, especially if he took her to Claire’s, known for its romantic atmosphere. But it was important that they maintain some semblance of friendship, even she realized that. What was it they called arrangements like theirs? Open marriages? Or was that when both parties were free to roam?

  The thought of Will with another woman made her feel slightly ill, but no more than the thought of herself with another man.

  “Seven,” she said when he dropped her off at her apartment. “Shall I dress?” If he was taking her to Claire’s, jeans and a sweatshirt would hardly do.

  “Strictly casual,” he said, and she yawned and let herself out. He didn’t get out and open her door. He didn’t hint that he’d like to come in for a cup of coffee. Instead, he smiled, waved and left her standing on the sidewalk.