“There is one last thing, Ryan. I saw my doctor this morning.”
Ryan froze. The old man’s voice had softened in a way that suggested what came next would be something of a shock.
“And? What did he say?”
James fairly cackled with glee. “He said it was a miracle, that I look like a man with a new lease on life. The charlatan is taking credit for it, of course, but I know the truth. It’s your agreeing to this marriage that’s made all the difference.”
Ryan’s mouth opened, then shut. He groaned softly and closed his eyes.
“Let’s see... Have I left anything out?”
“Nothing,” Ryan said miserably, “not a damned thing.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you Friday.” James cleared his throat. “Ryan? Thank you, son. You’ve made an old man’s last days very, very happy.”
The phone went dead.
For a second or two, Ryan sat frozen at his desk. Then he yanked the phone from his ear and stared in horror at an instrument that seemed to have suddenly metamorphosed into a tarantula.
“Hell,” he snarled. “Bloody hell!”
“What’s wrong?” Devon said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. And I didn’t hear you say one word to your grandfather about this insane plotting and scheming of his.” Ryan didn’t answer and she leaned over the desk and jabbed her finger at him. “Call him back. Tell him not to contact my mother again. Tell him—”
She jumped sky-high as Ryan gave a roar of rage. Leaping to his feet, he pulled the phone from the wall, tossed it on the floor, and pointed an accusing finger right back at Devon.
“Which one of you put this idea in his head?” he snarled. “You? Or your mother?”
“What idea?” Devon tried not to shrink back as he stalked around the desk and towered over her. “What are you talking about?”
“I hope you’re proud of yourself, lady. I hope you’re damned proud! It’s not every day a mother-daughter act as bad as yours has a chance of succeeding!”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Ryan took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” A smile was curling across his mouth, one so coldly feral that Devon felt her heart stop beating. “Give the ring back to your Martian boyfriend,” he said. “Friday afternoon, you’re going to become my blushing bride.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DEVON tried to speak but at first she couldn’t manage anything more than a strangled croak.
Finally she licked her lips, swallowed hard, and choked out a sentence.
“Wha—what did you say?”
The terrible smile vanished from Ryan’s face. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, walked to the window, and stared out into the street.
“I said, there’s no way out of it. The marriage is on.”
The marriage is on? His marriage, to her? Her marriage, to him? Was he crazy?
“The ceremony’s Friday at four o’clock.”
Ryan’s voice was hard and clipped, his tone almost matter-of-fact. There was no longer any question about it. He was crazy!
Devon marched to where Ryan stood and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, she jammed her hands onto her hips and glared at him.
“I don’t want to ruin this for you,” she snapped, “but you’ve left out one minor detail.” Her chin lifted and she pounded her fist into her chest. “Me! Me, dammit! Marriage takes two, or had you forgotten? I am one of the principal parties in this lunatic scheme, or had you overlooked that?”
“How could I possibly overlook it? It’s not every day a man has his bride handpicked for him.”
“Stop calling me that,” Devon said fiercely. “I am not your bride!”
“Not yet, you aren’t. But you will be, come Friday afternoon.”
She watched him, waited for him to laugh in derision or explode in fury. She waited for him to curse, march to the phone, call his fruitcake of a grandfather and tell him what he could do with his off-the-wall matchmaking.
But Ryan didn’t do anything. He just stood there, his face looking as if it were made of granite, and it was that stony acceptance that finally made her start to tremble.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said unsteadily, “but if you think I’d ever really go along with this...”
“The idea of marrying you thrills me as much as it thrills you.”
“Then call your grandfather! Ryan, the longer you let this go on—”
“It’s too late.”
“What do you mean, it’s too late! Get on that phone, dammit! Tell that insane old man that there can’t be a wedding without a bride.”
“There’s a bride,” Ryan said grimly. “A sweet, apple-cheeked, demure, old-fashioned slip of a girl with a hard right, a tough mouth, and a disposition that would make a rhino blush.”
“Get this into your head, Ryan Kincaid. I will not marry you.”
“You have no choice.”
“What do you mean, I have no choice?” Devon stamped her foot. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is not the Middle Ages! Kings don’t tell their subjects who to marry, and when.”
“Devon, calm down and listen.”
“No. No, you listen! Maybe you’re in the habit of letting Grandpa tell you not just when to jump but how high, but—”
“I’ve never let him tell me anything,” Ryan said wearily.
“But you’re going to let him tell you when—and whom—to marry?”
Ryan took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated. “My grandfather is dying.”
“Oh.” Devon chewed on her lower lip. “That’s...that’s too bad.” Her brows drew together. “But making human sacrifices out of us isn’t going to change that, now is it?”
Ryan sighed and turned toward her. “Sit down, Devon,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
“If I were you, the only person I’d discuss anything with is a good shrink. And I’d climb onto his couch as soon as I could manage it.”
She started toward the door, her walk brisk, but she hadn’t gotten very far before Ryan reached out and clapped a hand on her shoulder.
“Sit down, Devon.”
“What for?”
“I told you, we have things to talk about.”
Devon shook free of his hand. “We have nothing to talk about,” she said coldly.
“My grandfather’s going to set up a trust fund in your name.”
“Thrilling news. Unfortunately, I don’t want a trust fund. I don’t want anything but to go back to California and forget I ever laid eyes on you or him.”
“I’ve decided to match it with a second lump sum payment, one that comes due after an appropriate length of time.”
“Even more thrilling. Dammit, Ryan—”
“That’s the good news,” Ryan said smoothly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “The bad news is that you also get a wedding ring.”
“I don’t want a wedding ring. I don’t want you. And I won’t have you. The very thought of marrying you is...is—”
“Believe me, there’s nothing you can say about the idea that I wouldn’t agree with.”
“You’re wasting your breath, telling that to me. Tell it to your grandfather.”
“I did.” Ryan shrugged his shoulders. “He disagrees.”
“Dammit all, how can you stand there and say that so calmly?”
“What I really want to do,” Ryan said with icy precision, “is punch my fist straight through the wall. It sure as hell might make me feel better—but it wouldn’t change a damned thing.” His hands closed on her shoulders and he shoved her, none too gently, into a chair. “Now take a couple of deep breaths so you can think straight, and maybe between us, we can come up with something to get us out of this mess.”
Devon watched as he began pacing back and forth. She could see that he wasn’t anywhere near as calm as she’d thought. Well, that was so
mething. At least she wasn’t standing out on the edge of this cliff alone.
“Is your grandfather senile?” she asked.
Ryan laughed. “He’s about as senile as a fox.”
She nodded. “Is he bored, then? Maybe if you...if you could arrange for him to do something to occupy his time—”
“He is not senile. He is not bored. He’s just decided to meddle in my life, dammit.” Ryan paused, his back to her. She saw his shoulders rise and fall as he took several deep breaths. “I have to keep telling myself that he means well.”
“He means well?” Devon echoed hysterically and shot to her feet. “What good does that do me? He means well, indeed! So did the guy who tied Joan of Arc to the stake!” She took a deep breath and turned toward the door. “Goodbye, Ryan. You’re in a fix, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”
Ryan got to the door just as she did. He slapped his hands on either side of her, imprisoning her between his arms.
Trapped, she swung around to face him.
“Get away from me or I’ll scream.”
He laughed softly. “You’d be wasting your time, baby. After the little scene Sylvia walked in on a few minutes ago, she’d take the sound of you screaming as a vote of feminine satisfaction.”
Color flew into Devon’s cheeks. “What a bastard you are!”
“Let’s stick to the subject, if you don’t mind.”
“There is no subject. Not that involves me, at any rate.”
His smile was quick and chill. “No?”
“No.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell Mama?”
It was a shot that hit home. Devon fought to keep her expression from giving anything away.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come on, Devon. Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. James decided you and I would make a perfect pair. He told that to your mother. And I’ve told you I see no way out of the situation. Now, what do you think Bettina’s going to do when you tell her that you said ‘no’?”
Devon swallowed, and Ryan smiled coldly.
“Cat got your tongue? When you tell her you turned your back on this once-in-a-lifetime offer, she’ll explode with a bang that’ll make Krakatoa sound like a firecracker. To put it succinctly, she’ll go bananas.”
Devon stared up at him, her eyes huge and dark.
“She’ll call you every kind of fool, and she’ll keep at it day and night.”
Bettina would do more than that, Devon knew. She would sob out stories of a life of struggle and sacrifice. She’d accuse Devon of turning her back on her the way her father had.
“And she’ll never let you forget that the house she and my brother lived in in San Francisco would have been deeded over to her, if you’d married me.”
“No,” Devon whispered, “you can’t—”
“She’ll never let you rest or forget what you’ve denied her. And, sooner or later, just to get her off your back, you’ll give up the fight and agree to become Mrs. Ryan Kincaid.”
Devon’s mouth trembled. “All right,” she whispered. “Suppose, just for the sake of argument, my mother did want me to... want me to...” She swallowed hard. “I suppose...I suppose I can think of reasons why she might...might encourage me to...to accept your grandfather’s offer. But...but why would your grandfather do this? I know what he thinks of my mother. Why would he want me—her daughter—to marry you?” She tried to smile. “Maybe he’s read Pygmalion one time too many.”
“It’s that school of yours. He thinks it taught you to be a good wife.”
“It taught me everything I’d need to know if they decided to turn the clock back a couple of hundred years,” she said bitterly.
“He finds that part of your charm.” Ryan’s mouth twisted. “He thinks the perfect wife is one who’s never noticed that the twentieth century’s almost over.”
“Well, tell that old reprobate he made a mistake. He wanted a woman who was brainless, opinionless, and compliant.” Devon’s head lifted in defiance. “I am none of those things.”
She was other things, though, Ryan thought as he looked down at her. She was sexy and beautiful, and whether it was one hell of an act or some unbelievable truth, there was an innocence to her that made him want—that made him want...
He frowned, dropped his hands to his sides, and stepped back.
“I’ve told him that,” he said bluntly.
“And?”
Ryan sighed as he made his way across the room. Frank might laugh and say thirty-two wasn’t middle-aged, but hell, right now he felt older than Methuselah.
“And,” Ryan said gloomily, sinking slowly into the chair behind his desk, “he said that was OK, that he liked your spirit.”
Devon stared at him. It was easier now, marshaling her thoughts without Ryan leaning over her, standing so close that she could see the faint stubble on his firm chin, the thin black lines that rimmed his green irises.
“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “Your grandfather decided that the daughter of a woman he despises will make you a good wife because she can embroider Bless This House on a tea towel and trade insults with you at the same time?”
“I know it sounds strange—”
“It sounds demented.”
“Look, there are other factors.”
“Name one.”
“My brother, Gordon. He said he wanted to provide for your welfare—”
Devon forced back the almost overwhelming desire to break into hysterical laughter.
“Don’t you think trying to marry me off to you is taking the concept of ‘welfare’ just a little too far?”
“Yes,” Ryan snapped, “I sure as hell do!”
“So?”
“So,” he snarled, jumping to his feet, “I’m stuck with this stupid promise I made the old man, to carry out whatever last wish he asked of me.”
She couldn’t help it. This time, a strangled bark of laughter burst from her throat. Ryan glowered at her, his eyes blazing.
“You think this is funny?” he growled.
“No. No! It isn’t funny at all. It’s... it’s incredible. It’s like a play written by a madman and directed by an idiot.”
“It’s not a play,” Ryan said grimly. “It’s real life. My life, dammit. And unless we work something out, we’re going to find ourselves cornered into riding off on a honeymoon Friday afternoon.”
Devon’s giddy smile faded. She felt behind her for a chair and sat down carefully, her eyes on Ryan’s.
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“What can we do about it?”
It was, Ryan thought, one hell of a terrific question. He sighed, flexed his shoulders, and sat down across from her.
“Let me think.”
The minutes ticked away while he sat there, his head in his hands. Then, slowly, he looked up and began to smile.
“What?” Devon said breathlessly.
“I think I’ve got an answer. Did you ever hear of a leasing agreement?”
The hope that had begun to shine in Devon’s eyes faded.
“A what?” she whispered.
“A leasing agreement.” Ryan yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, flipped through the files, yanked out a sheaf of papers and dropped them on the blotter. “Here,” he said, “take a look at this.”
Devon rose slowly and came around to his side of the desk. Ryan watched her as she bent over the papers and began scanning them. Her hair spilled forward over her shoulders like skeins of silk.
Ryan’s nostrils flared. No L’Air du Temps today. She smelled instead of something more subtle. Lilies of the valley, maybe, or roses. Whatever it was, the scent was soft and delightfully feminine.
His gaze went to her hand. She’d placed it on the desk to anchor the papers. It was such a small hand. The fingers, though, were long and slender; there was a tiny red line across one knuckle, a paper cut, it looked like, and with dizzying swiftness,
Ryan was almost overwhelmed by the desire to take her hand in his, lift it to his lips, and soothe the tiny, angry cut with his tongue.
He pulled back, his frown deepening, and snatched up the papers.
“Here,” he said irritably, “all you have to really read is this last page.”
She read it. Then she looked at him, her eyes puzzled.
“According to this, you own a Porsche.”
“Dammit, I do not own the Porsche. That’s the whole point.” Ryan stabbed his finger at the document. “I lease it,” he said. “At the end of a year, the car goes back to the dealer. I never have to see it again, it never has to see me.”
Devon gave a little laugh. “I must be missing something here.”
Ryan sighed. He stood, drew the chair from the other side of his desk to where she stood, and motioned her into it.
“Let me try sketching out the details,” he said. He pulled a yellow legal pad and a pen toward him. “My attorney—and yours, if you wish—can flesh it out later, but maybe I can give you the general idea.”
Devon watched as he bent over the yellow pad, scrawling words across it in a wide, loose hand. Her mouth narrowed as she watched him. What an absolutely impossible human being he was. So smug. So self-confident. So damnably good-looking and sexy.
What would have happened before, if his secretary hadn’t come bursting in? Would she really have let Ryan make love to her?
It was crazy but she could still feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his arousal. She could still taste his kiss on her lips...
She jumped as he tossed down his pen.
“That’ll do it,” he said.
Devon licked her lips nervously. “That’ll do what?”
He smiled and pushed the yellow pad toward her.
“Take a look and you’ll see,” he said, but she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, except Ryan’s closeness.
He had risen from his chair and now he was bending over her, his hands resting on the desk on either side of her, his cheek almost pressed against her hair.
Her breathing quickened. All she had to do was tilt her head back, turn her face just an inch toward his. His mouth would be a whisper from hers...
“Well?” he said, “what do you think?”
A Proper Wife Page 7
