by Ginna Gray
The Bride Price
Ginna Gray
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
The first inkling of trouble occurred about twenty miles northwest of Houston on a lonely country road.
The sound was no more than a slight knock—enough to bring Wyatt Sommersby’s black eyebrows together for an instant, but no great cause for concern. The high-powered Aston-Martin was notoriously temperamental. Merely keeping it tuned required almost constant attention from a master mechanic who had the fine touch of a surgeon and the hourly rates to match.
That’s what came of driving a vintage, fireball car in Houston traffic. Wyatt knew it was a foolish self-indulgence, but some things were worth the price, no matter how high. From the moment he’d seen the silver antique sports car he’d known that he had to have it—and Wyatt Sommersby was a man who always got what he wanted.
One moment he was driving along the country highway, his agile mind miles away, sorting through various business matters. The next moment a loud eruption of coughs and wheezes from beneath the hood jarred him from his thoughts.
“Aw, damn. Not now,” he groaned. He pumped the gas pedal, but the classy little car continued to lose speed, knocking and shuddering ominously. Wyatt pounded the leather-covered steering wheel with his fist and cursed.
“Great. Just great.” He was in the middle of nowhere. On either side of the two-lane country road an impenetrable forest of tall pines grew right up to the shoulder. There wasn’t a house in sight.
Since passing through the town of Tomball he had encountered few other cars. It was Saturday afternoon. Back in Houston the traffic would be bumper to bumper, but this road was empty.
His mechanic’s shop was closed for the Memorial Day weekend. He wouldn’t be back until Tuesday.
“Dammit to hell. Now what?”
He supposed he could use the car phone and call Asa’s place for assistance, but he didn’t relish that idea. With preparations for the party underway, it was probably bedlam out there.
More important, where Asa Hightower was concerned it never paid to show the slightest weakness.
Most of the guests would not be arriving until much later, not even the ones who would be staying overnight. Wyatt had come early to try once again to negotiate a deal to buy into Asa’s company. The wily old coot was one of the shrewdest businessmen Wyatt had ever run up against. Asa could turn any situation to his advantage, even something as minor as his opponent being stranded in a stalled car.
A sardonic half smile twitched Wyatt’s mouth. Still...he couldn’t help but admire the crusty old bastard. Hell, at times he actually liked him. Maybe, Wyatt mused ruefully, because they were so much alike.
Over the next ten minutes a few cars zoomed by. Each time, Wyatt flashed his headlights and honked, but no one so much as slowed. “Great,” he muttered. “Where are the Good Samaritans when you need them?”
By the time Wyatt made it to Magnolia, the town closest to Asa’s country place, and spotted the service station, the car was sputtering along at about three miles an hour and the noise coming from under the hood sounded more like a thrashing machine than a precision-made automobile.
He coaxed the car into the station and brought it to a stop. A man wearing greasy overalls and a baseball cap turned backward stood in the doorway leaning against the jamb, watching his approach. His homely face resembled a sleepy hound dog’s and showed about as much animation.
On the raised area next to the door, a teenage girl with a mane of wildly curling red hair sat on an old-fashioned chest-type soft-drink machine, swinging her legs and sipping an orange soda out of a can.
Not trusting the engine to start again, Wyatt left it running and climbed out of the car. “Good afternoon. As you can see, I’m having some trouble.”
“Yep. Sure sounds like it,” the man said. He rolled the toothpick he held between his lips to the other side of his mouth and hooked his thumbs under the straps of his overalls. “You want me to take a look-see under the hood? I ain’t never worked on one of these fancy Ass-tin Martins, but I ’spect they’s pretty much like any other car.”
Wyatt barely suppressed a shudder. The thought of this hick mechanic touching his vehicle made him break out in a cold sweat. But what choice did he have? “Yes. I’d appreciate it. And if you would, please hurry.” Wyatt glanced at his watch. “I’m running late.”
The girl perched on the soft-drink machine took in every word, her amused gaze bouncing back and forth between him and the mechanic. Wyatt ignored her.
“Sure thing.” The man hitched up his overalls and ambled out to where the silver Aston-Martin sat shaking and wheezing.
Wyatt followed right on the man’s heels. “You don’t need to worry about doing a major overhaul. If you can just patch it together enough to last a few days, I’ll take it to my mechanic on Tuesday.”
“Hmm” came the laconic reply from under the hood. The sound did nothing to calm Wyatt’s anxiety. Peering over the mechanic’s shoulder, he watched him pump the throttle linkage. Wyatt grimaced when the car wheezed and coughed even more.
The next several minutes he stood helplessly by, while the man tinkered with the engine and muttered under his breath.
Perspiration beaded Wyatt’s upper lip and forehead, and his shirt began to stick to his back. According to the large thermometer hanging in the window of the service station office, the temperature was ninety-seven. The humid air made it feel more like a hundred and ten.
A sluggish breeze wafted through the bay, swirling the sand and grit on the concrete into little dust devils and intensifying the pungent scents of gasoline, diesel fuel and motor oil.
A car whizzed by on the highway, adding a blast of hot exhaust fumes to the oppressive mugginess. Wyatt wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and looked around. He wondered what kept Magnolia alive. As far as he could tell, the town consisted of a school, a church and a hodgepodge of small businesses and houses strung out for a few blocks, mainly along one side of the highway. On the other side, train tracks ran parallel with the paving. Whether or not they were still in use was difficult to tell.
As Wyatt finished his inspection of the little burg his gaze met that of the girl’s sitting on the soft-drink chest. Instead of looking away, as he expected, she continued to study him, her bright blue eyes wide with curiosity.
He raised one eyebrow, but the imperious gesture did not intimidate her. To his astonishment, she flashed him a grin and winked, and he felt a tiny shock zing through him.
Before he could analyze the reason for the reaction, the station attendant straightened. He wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from the rear pocket of his overalls and shook his head. “Sorry, Mister, but there just ain’t no way I can put a Band-Aid on that engine. What you need is a new fuel pump.”
“Can you install one?”
“Yep. That is...I could if I had one. I don’t stock parts for these fancy foreign jobs.”
Wyatt gritted his teeth. Patience was not one of his virtues, and he was holding on to what little he had by a thread. “I see. How long would it take you to get one and do the job?”
“Well, let’s see now.” The attendant fished an old-fashioned pocket watch from a small slot in the bib of his overalls and flicked open the top with a grease-encrusted thumbn
ail. “Ain’t nobody here but me right now, but if I can run down that boy of mine and send him over to Houston to pick up a pump I could have ‘er ready by say...ohhh...nine or ten tonight.”
“Nine or ten!”
“‘Fraid so. That is, if Billy Ray can make it to the auto parts store before they close.”
“Great. Just great. I’m suppose to be at the Hightower place by three. Is there anywhere around here where I might rent a car? Or any other vehicle that runs,” he added, remembering where he was.
“Nope.”
“I thought not. I don’t suppose this town has such a thing as a taxi service, either?”
“Nope. But as it happens, you’re in luck. Maggie here is on her way out to the Hightowers’ herself. She just stopped in to chat and have a cool drink.” He turned to the girl perched on the soft-drink chest. “You wouldn’t mind givin’ this here feller a ride, would you, Maggie?”
Wyatt’s gaze turned sharply on the girl. This child could drive an automobile?
Tipping her head to one side, she pursed her lips and had the temerity to give him another thorough once-over, as though deciding whether or not he might be a serial killer. Finally she shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
She chugalugged the last few swallows of orange soda, lobbed the can into a trash barrel with a casual overhand shot Michael Jordan would have been proud of, and hopped down from the cooler, cocky as you please.
She was a tiny thing. Even tinier than he’d thought. Perhaps five feet tall—five-one at most—and she couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked about fourteen.
However, her trim little figure was perfectly proportioned, he realized a bit uneasily. She looked like a pint-sized Venus with the pixie face of a mischievous child.
Silently he questioned the wisdom of going off alone in a car with a minor.
“C’mon. Let’s go.” Sticking her fingertips in the back pockets of her tight jeans, which molded a disturbingly enticing heart-shaped bottom, the saucy teenager sauntered across the concrete drive toward the most battered pickup Wyatt had ever seen. At one time it might have been brown, but now it was mottled with so many different shades of primer and paint and rust it resembled a camouflaged army vehicle. One fender was missing and so was the outside handle on the passenger door. From front to back scratches and dents covered the body.
Wyatt rolled his eyes. Of course. What else? It was too much to ask that this impudent child would drive a respectable vehicle.
She glanced back over her shoulder and cocked her auburn eyebrows. “Well? You coming, or not?”
Wyatt hesitated, weighing his options.
Oh, what the hell. “Yeah, I’ll be right with you. Just give me a minute to get my things,” he called after her.
“Okay, but shake a leg. I’ll catch hell if I’m late.”
“Look, my name is Wyatt Sommersby,” he told the attendant as he snatched his case from the car. “Here’s my card. I’ll be out at the Hightower place for the next couple of days.” He stopped and patted his shirt pocket. “Now where’d I put that phone number?”
“That’s okay,” the man said. “I know the number at the Hightowers’. I’ll give you a ring when the car’s ready.”
“Thanks, I—”
The dilapidated truck started up with a roar. The girl gunned the motor and blasted the horn.
Wyatt scowled at her over his shoulder, but the attendant laughed. “You’d better hurry if you’re gonna catch a ride with Maggie. When that little gal decides to hit the road, she goes, and she don’t wait for nuthin’ er nobody.”
Wyatt snatched up his cases and sprinted for the truck.
He swung his things into the back, reached inside the open window to unlatch the door and climbed into the cab. Before he could close the door completely she took off, peeling out of the station as though she were being pursued by a division of state troopers.
“Holy—” Wyatt ground his teeth and held on.
In moments they reached the other end of town where the highway ended at a T intersection. She didn’t even slow down. Executing a sharp right, she bumped over the railroad tracks and hung a left just beyond. Wyatt bounced so high he hit his head on the roof then slammed into the door.
“Damnation!” He shot her a dark look, but the girl merely grinned and drove blithely on. “Are we going to a fire?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“What? Oh. Sorry. If you recall, though, I did say I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“A hurry to get us killed. Did anyone ever tell you that you drive like a maniac?”
“A few,” she said with maddening unconcern. “I’ll stop, if you want to get out.”
He fixed her with a narrow-eyed look. “Cute.”
They rode in silence for several minutes after that—he with his jaw set, her with that damned, cheerful half smile on her pixie face.
“You don’t have to worry, you know,” she said out of the blue.
Wyatt turned his head and looked at her. That amused smile still hovered around her mouth. “Excuse me?”
“About Lester. I could tell you would’ve sooner swallowed a rotten egg than left your Aston-Martin in his care. But don’t worry, he’s a top-notch mechanic. Actually, I’m not bad myself, and he taught me everything I know about engines. I do most of the work on this truck, and what I can’t handle, I take to Lester.”
One corner of Wyatt’s mouth curled as he glanced around the interior of the shabby pickup. “I wonder why I don’t find that comforting.”
She chuckled, not in the least offended. “Ahhh, His Nibs is embarrassed to be seen riding in this old truck, is he? Well, too bad. Beggars can’t be choosers, me old granny used to say.”
Wyatt blinked at her, stunned. “Are you implying that I’m a snob?”
“No, not at all.” She flashed him a guileless grin. “I’m telling you so straight-out.”
“Now, look here, just because a person has certain standards, that doesn’t mean he’s a snob.”
“Och, forget it. From the look of you, you were born to money. You can’t help it if you don’t know any better.”
“Now wait just a damned min—”
“But do yourself a favor and take a piece of friendly advice. Don’t be lettin’ appearances fool you. This machine may not look like much to a man of your obvious means, but she runs like a top, she does.”
Why, the impertinent brat. Wyatt was so stunned he could not reply for a moment. No one, no one, had ever talked to him the way this presumptuous child had.
Glancing sideways, he noted she had to sit on a pillow to see over the steering wheel, and she had her seat scooted all the way forward in order to reach the pedals. He frowned.
“Do you have a license to drive this thing?”
She sent him another grin. “Of course. I’ve had a driver’s license since I was sixteen.”
“When was that? Two days ago?”
He expected adolescent indignation, but he got laughter. Not the inane giggle of a girl, but a low, husky sound that reminded him of smoke and honey. It feathered over his skin like a caress, raising a host of unwelcome and inappropriate sensations, most of which were located below his belt. Annoyed with himself, and with the audacious teenager, Wyatt gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. He didn’t see what was so damned funny.
When her laughter subsided, she replied with a chuckle, “There you go, judging by appearances again. Don’t you be letting my size fool you. I’ve had my license for ten years.”
Wyatt’s head whipped around. “Ten years! You mean you’re twenty-six? I don’t believe it.”
She shrugged. “Believe what you like. ‘Tis no difference to me.”
He stared at her. He tried to tell himself that she was lying, but her disinterest was more convincing than vociferous insistence. In spite of himself, he was intrigued.
In profile, her delicate features had an almost angelic clarity. Freckles dotted her little tilted nose and spread out over
pink cheeks. And those eyes. Lord, if they didn’t make a man believe in innocence nothing could. They were big as saucers and the brightest blue he’d ever seen. The auburn lashes that surrounded them were so thick and long they almost looked fake. Her stubborn little chin had a hint of a cleft in the center, and when she flashed that impudent grin, twin dimples dug holes in her cheeks. The whole picture was one of angelic impertinence.
Yet, there were signs of maturity—subtle and slight, but visible if you looked hard enough; the finest tracery of lines at the outer corners of her eyes, the firm ripeness of her mouth, the ease with which she handled herself. And, of course, that lush little body.
“You must have a helluva time getting a glass of wine at a restaurant.”
That smoky laugh flowed out once again, raising gooseflesh along Wyatt’s arms, much to his annoyance. “Sometimes, but it’s not that much of a problem. Lucky for me, a burger and a Slurpy are more to my taste, anyway.”
What the devil was a Slurpy? Wyatt wondered, but he refused to ask.
“You said you’d be in trouble if you were late. I assume you work at the Hightower ranch.”
Her lips twitched. “No, not really.”
“I see. Then you’re just helping out because of the party?”
“You could say that.”
She fell silent again, but that amused smile still hovered about her lips. Wyatt gritted his teeth.
“By the way, my name is Wyatt Sommersby.”
“Sommersby? Of Sommersby Enterprises?” At Wyatt’s yes, she nodded. “Ahh, well then...that explains a lot.”
“What, exactly?” Wyatt demanded with an edge to his voice.
“Just that your family is not only as rich as nabobs, they’re the cream of Houston society.” She gave him another once-over out of the corner of her eye. “You must be Daphne’s soon-to-be fiancé.”
“Good God, no! That’s my younger brother, Eric.”
Not that Daphne and her grandfather hadn’t tried to hook him. When Wyatt had first approached Asa about Sommersby Enterprises buying into his chain of discount stores the old rascal had made it clear that he would consider the proposition only if there were a family connection between them. Then the sly old dog had introduced his granddaughter.
