A Proper Wife

by Sandra Marton

  A little shudder went through her and she drew away from him, until her spine was tightly pressed against the back of the chair.

  “I—I’m not very good at reading legalese, Ryan. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “It’s only pseudo-legalese,” he said with a little laugh. “It’ll take a couple of attorneys to change this into truly indecipherable jargon.”

  Devon breathed a quick sigh of relief as he picked up the pad, turned and leaned back against the desk. It was easier to think without him close to her. She still couldn’t make sense of what he was saying, except to know that it was about trust funds and lump-sum settlements and deeds and tax payments.

  “Tax payments?” she said, interrupting him.

  Ryan looked up, his eyes cool. “All right, I’ll push it to three years. But not a day more than that. Bettina will have to find a way to maintain the place on her own by then.”

  Devon stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Dammit,” he said angrily, “haven’t you heard a word I said?” He tossed the legal pad on the desk and bent over her again. “I’m talking about a contract,” he said, slapping his hand against the pad. “One that leaves nothing to chance.”

  “What kind of contract? And how would it prevent our... our—marriage from taking place?”

  “It wouldn’t. But it would define its terms so there’d be no surprises. All the arrangements of your settlement would be spelled out—”

  “Are we back to that? I told you—”

  “—and the transfer of the deed of Gordon’s house to Bettina—”

  “Dammit,” Devon said, jumping to her feet, “you’ve missed the point. I am not—”

  “And we will both agree,” Ryan said calmly, “that we will review our situation at the end of a six-month trial period.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I would never...” Devon’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean, a six-month trial period?”

  “I mean just that,” he answered. “Six months from Friday, my bank will automatically transfer the monetary settlement we agree upon into your private account. And then we’ll sit down and decide if there’s any reason to sign on for another half year.”

  “You mean, if James is still...if he’s still...”

  “Alive,” Ryan said bluntly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Surely, he wouldn’t agree...”

  “He doesn’t have to. I want him to be happy, Devon, but there’s no way I’m going to lock myself into a nightmare for the rest of my life.” He smiled tightly. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think you’re as crazy as your grandfather! First you make it sound as if there’s some gilt-edged morality in keeping an impossible promise to him. Then you turn around and come up with a way to turn the promise into a farce.”

  “It’s a perfectly logical escape clause.” Ryan’s lips twitched in a cool smile. “What’s the matter, baby? Did you really think I’d let this go on forever?”

  “Only fools believe in forever, Ryan. And whatever you think I am, I promise you, I am not a fool.”

  “No. No, I don’t think you are. Which is why I’m so certain you’ll see the benefits to our marriage. Everybody comes out a winner. Bettina gets her house, James gets what he wants, and neither you nor I have to feel that we’re signing our lives away.”

  Devon looked down at the legal pad again. What he’d outlined was all so reasonable—assuming you could agree in the first place that it was reasonable for two people who despised each other to marry at all.

  Not that what he’d described would actually be a marriage. It would be a contract. A... a leasing arrangement, subject to renewal after six months.

  She cleared her throat. “There’s nothing in this about—about sex,” she said.

  His expression didn’t change. “No. There isn’t.”

  Why did it suddenly seem too difficult to draw breath?

  “Well, there should be. I mean, if I were to agree—if you and I went through with this...”

  “The deed to the house, the trust fund, the final monetary settlement I’ll make on you... all of that can be written into a contract.” Lazy laughter suddenly glinted in Ryan’s eyes. “But I’ll be damned if I can think of a way to define the terms of a man and woman’s sexual relationship in a legal document.”

  “You mean, their lack of a sexual relationship,” Devon said, forcing her gaze not to waver from his. “I wouldn’t sleep with you, Ryan. You’d have to understand that.”

  An insolent smile curled across his mouth. “Wouldn’t you?”

  He moved toward her with the grace of a jungle cat. Devon felt her blood drumming in her veins. But you never ran from a predatory beast; you stood your ground and faced it, no matter what it took in courage.

  She waited until he was a breath away before tilting her head up and meeting his smile with her own.

  “Poor Ryan,” she said softly. “Is that what this is all about? Do you need Grandpa to get you a bed playmate?” Her smile vanished. “Because if it is, you’re out of luck. I’d sooner sleep with a snake.”

  She thought, at first, he was going to strike her. She could see the sharp, swift blaze of anger that turned his eyes a green so dark it was almost black. Then, at what seemed the last instant, a muscle in his jaw twitched. A smile worked its way across his lips again; he reached out and ran the tip of one finger over her slightly parted lips.

  “If it makes you feel safer to think that, then go right on fooling yourself.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said sharply, twisting away from the tormenting stroke of his finger.

  Ryan laughed softly. “I wouldn’t have to coerce you into my bed, Devon. We both know that.”

  “You mean, you couldn’t coerce me into it.”

  He shrugged. “Phrase it any way you like, lover. The bottom line is the same. I’ve never had to force a woman into my bed. And I’m sure as hell not about to start with you.”

  “Good. Because there’s no other way you’d get me there.”

  His arms slipped around her. She didn’t struggle, nor did she yield as he drew her closely against him.

  “Is that a challenge, Devon?”

  Was it? Devon’s heart began to race. She thought of how he’d kissed her a little while ago, of how it had felt to have his hands on her and his tongue in her mouth.

  “No,” she said, just a little breathlessly. “It’s not a challenge, it’s a certainty.”

  Ryan smiled. “In that case,” he said softly, “you might as well agree to this marriage. What have you got to lose?”

  She didn’t answer but he could read her thoughts in the darkness of those huge violet eyes. He knew she was thinking that there was really no way out of this and suddenly he wondered what her eyes would look like if they were shining with happiness, if he were a man she loved and wanted, a man whose kisses she longed for.

  His arms fell away from her. He turned, walked to his desk, and sat down.

  “Well?” he said brusquely. “What’s it going to be, Devon? Are we on for Friday or aren’t we?”

  He sounded as if he were talking about a golf date, she thought, and then she took a deep, deep breath and did the only logical thing.

  She said yes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS, as a wise man once said, déjà vu all over again.

  Ryan was standing at the head of a flowe-rbedecked aisle with Frank just behind him. Music was playing softly in the background and a smiling justice of the peace was waiting patiently for events to begin.

  “Frank?” Ryan whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Frank, what am I doing here?”

  Frank lifted his second Scotch and soda to his lips. “A good question,” he said, “to which I have an even better answer. It’s your life, pal. Why ask me?”

  Right, Ryan thought. It was his life. And, just about now, it was time for him to wake up and find out that this was all a bad dream.

&
nbsp; Except it wasn’t. It was all frighteningly real. He was about to be married, to a woman he didn’t know, didn’t trust, didn’t like...

  “Ryan?”

  Ryan blinked. Agnes Brimley, decked out in a flowered dress and tiny veiled hat, had sidled up beside him.

  “Would you like me to go and see what’s keeping your lovely bride, dear?”

  “Dear” was a word new to Miss Brimley’s vocabulary but everything about her today was new. Different, anyway. She was fairly bubbling with excitement, but then, she seemed to be the only person in the room who didn’t know this whole damned wedding was a farce.

  The old witch had smiled more today than in all the years Ryan had known her.

  He thought of how quickly that smile would vanish if she went searching for Devon and found her curled somewhere in a corner, refusing to let Bettina drag her out, and he sighed.

  “Thanks,” he said, and forced a smile to his lips. “I’ll go and get her myself.”

  “Are you sure, Ryan, dear?” Brimley’s lips twitched. “Some say it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”

  Ryan’s mouth thinned. “There’s no danger of that for Devon and me, Miss Brimley,” he said.

  Ignoring Frank’s faint, indelicate snort of laughter, Ryan went in search of his future wife.

  Bettina snapped the top on her lipstick, popped it into her purse, and frowned at Devon, who was standing stiffly on the opposite side of the enormous first floor powder room.

  “I just wish you’d bought something new to wear, darling. You don’t look terribly festive.”

  Devon turned slowly and looked into the mirror.

  No. She certainly didn’t look festive. Ryan’s secretary had telephoned two days ago to tell her that Ryan had opened accounts for her at Saks and Henri Bendel and Galleries Lafayette; she had carte blanche to buy whatever she wanted. And for her mother, too, if she wished.

  Bettina had given a whoop at the news but her exhilaration had changed to disbelief and then irritation when Devon had refused to go off on a shopping spree.

  “You’re marrying a very wealthy—and, I might add, very generous—husband,” her mother had said crossly. “The least you can do is show him the courtesy of accepting his generosity.”

  Devon hadn’t bothered commenting on the flawed logic, she’d simply said she had her own clothing and jewelry and didn’t need anything from Ryan.

  “Surely, you can at least buy a wedding dress,” Bettina had insisted.

  Devon had suddenly thought of how thrilling it would be to choose a gown if she were marrying Ryan because he truly loved her, a gown that would make his incredible green eyes light with admiration, a gown he would later strip slowly from her body while the look in his eyes went from reverence to passion.

  She’d wondered how it would be to let him finish undressing her; how it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts. She’d imagined the heat that would flare between her thighs, the fevered moment when he slipped his hands beneath her hips, lifted her to him and joined his body to hers...

  For no reason at all, her eyes had filled with tears.

  “I’m not buying a wedding dress,” she’d said fiercely, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Bettina had flounced out of the hotel to shop on her own.

  Now, Bettina was dressed to the teeth in a hot pink silk suit with a matching hat and snakeskin pumps. New bracelets jingled on one wrist; a jeweled watch winked on the other. Heavy gold earrings glinted at her ears and clouds of Chanel No. 5 wafted into the air as she waited impatiently for her daughter.

  Devon gazed into the mirror. She was mouselike by comparison. Except for the almost feverish glow in her cheeks, her face was deathly white; her eyes, and the shadows beneath them, looked funereal. Her hair was drawn back and secured with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple blue dress with no accessories.

  Devon’s mouth trembled. No, she didn’t look festive, but why should she? There was nothing “festive” about realizing you’d agreed to sell yourself into a sham of a marriage.

  What a fool she’d been, letting Ryan badger her into agreeing to this! How could she have let it happen? She’d known it was a mistake within minutes of having said she’d become his wife and she’d tried to tell him so, but by then it had been too late.

  He had already made phone calls—to his attorney, to James’s attorney, to James himself, and finally to Bettina.

  “It’s done,” he’d said, his face cold, and Devon had thought suddenly of how a fly must feel as the final bit of the spider’s silk wraps tightly around it.

  Then he’d smiled politely and said he hoped she understood but he had tons of work to do. A beaming Sylvia had whisked her into the elevator, out the front door, and into a taxi. And when the cab reached the hotel, Bettina had come racing out, dizzy with excitement.

  There’d been no further calls from Ryan, no visits. Nothing. The only reminder of the terrible bargain she’d made had been Sylvia’s phone call informing her that she was free to spend his money, now that she’d agreed to become his wife.

  A chill swept along Devon’s spine. She could feel it penetrate the marrow of her bones.

  “I can’t,” she whispered to her reflection. “Oh, I can’t!”

  “Did you say something, darling?”

  She swung toward Bettina, who was sitting on the edge of a chair, carefully smoothing her stockings.

  “I said that I can’t go through with this.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Devon.”

  “I must have been out of my mind, agreeing to marry Ryan Kincaid!”

  “It’s just bridal jitters. I remember when I married the first time—”

  “Bridal jitters? Mother, what are you talking about? I’m not a bride, I’m a... a puppet, with you and the Kincaids pulling the strings.”

  “Stop that! You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I don’t even know this man,” Devon said, her voice rising. “And what little I do know, I don’t like.”

  “Nonsense. Ryan is handsome, he’s wealthy—what more do you need to know?”

  “Marriage is supposed to be about love, not—not promises and contracts.”

  “Marriage is always about promises and contracts,” Bettina said coldly. “The only difference in this arrangement is that everything’s out in the open. Ryan’s told you what he expects of you and what you may expect of him. You should be grateful for his honesty.”

  “It’s not honesty, it’s manipulation!” Devon flung out her arms. “How did I get myself into this mess?”

  “Devon! Devon, you listen to me—”

  “No. I’m not listening to anybody but myself this time.”

  “Will you stop being such a fool? Who could have dreamed we’d come away with all this? A bit of cash, perhaps. That was the best we could have hoped for. Now we’ve got the house, a trust fund, a marriage that could last long enough to be profitable, if you play your cards right, and suddenly you’re panicking.”

  “No,” Devon cried, “no—”

  “Listen to Mama, Devon.” Devon spun around. Ryan stood just inside the doorway, his face looking as if it had been chiseled in granite. “You know she’s right. This is no time to turn tail and run, not with the brass ring just within your reach.”

  Devon wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she’d anticipated nothing from him or from James, but the denial stuck in her throat. He would never believe her; she would only end up sounding as if she were groveling and she’d sooner ride to hell on horseback than do that.

  As if on cue, the soft sounds of “Oh, Promise Me” drifted softly into the room. Ryan smiled coolly.

  “We’re on,” he said, and held out his arm.

  “Go on.” Bettina practically hissed the words. “Just do it and get it over with.”

  And with those tender words ringing in her ears, Devon put her hand on Ryan’s arm and let him lead her down the steps to become his wife. />
  It was not the sort of ceremony that made for fond memories.

  Bettina, her mouth drawn into a determined line, positioned herself just behind Devon as if to block her exit should she suddenly decide to bolt and run.

  Frank, still looking shell-shocked at the news that had been dropped on him two days before, positioned himself close beside Ryan.

  “To help you get out the door,” he muttered, “when you come to your senses.”

  Agnes Brimley broke into sobs midway through the ceremony, surprising everyone, especially the judge, who’d started things off with a pleasant homily about man and woman and the joys of wedlock before looking into the faces of the couple standing before him. Then he’d cleared his throat and delivered the brief words of the civil code that ended with Ryan and Devon being pronounced man and wife.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the judge said.

  Ryan turned to Devon. The look on her face was unbelievable. Her lips were curled with disdain; her eyes flashed a message that only a fool would misunderstand. Hands off, it read; you’re not permitted to touch me.

  It was the way she’d looked at him the day they’d met in Montano’s. But Ryan knew better now. Whatever she thought of him or he thought of her, he could drive that icy look from her pale, beautiful face in a heartbeat. All he had to do was take her in his arms, part her lips with his and she would make that little sound of surrender that drove him crazy. Her hands would lift and link behind his neck; her eyes would glaze with desire.

  He could have her whenever he wanted her, and she knew it.

  “You have to kiss your bride,” James said with a soft chuckle, “so that I can kiss her, too.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth and put his arms around Devon. He drew her toward him, feeling the tension in her body. The look in her eyes changed, going from icy contempt to dark apprehension. Her mouth—that soft, rose-petal mouth—uncurled and began to tremble and all at once, he remembered what she’d said about this not being the Middle Ages, when marriages were arranged.

  Was this how a bride would have looked at her groom all those centuries ago, with the terrifying fear of the unknown in her eyes? A woman would have known that the end of the marriage ceremony was only the beginning, that she had yet to face the night and the moment when her lord and master came to her in their bridal chamber and locked the door behind him.