Rory hitched his chin toward the river. “We’ve got whatever office equipment you need right down at the landing. Help yourself anytime, though cell phones don’t work for spit in these parts.” He grinned. “The crew will sure appreciate having you around, give them something nice and pretty to look at and brighten their day. Hope you don’t mind a wolf whistle or two. They don’t mean nothing by it, just a little appreciation for the finer things in life.”
Did Effie blush? Ryan had never seen her do that. Made her eyes greener, her hair blonder, her skin shimmer. No way was he letting her go to any damn docks.
Okay, this great idea to bring her along so they could work together was not his best lifetime idea. In fact, it sucked. He’d thought things would be the same as in the office; he could handle Effie in a suit and buttoned up. Except she sure as hell wasn’t buttoned up now. He had to get rid of her, just like he told Rory he would. “Afraid she won’t get that far, Dad. Effie’s leaving in the morning.”
“lam?”
“There’s no need for you to be here. I’ve reconsidered.”
She folded her arms and glared at him. “Well, bully for you.”
“I can take care of everything.”
“Like designing the mall by yourself.” Her foot nudged the luggage by his feet. Cute toes with dark red painted toenails. “I don’t think so, and I didn’t haul all this crap across the continent to just pack it up again and leave without using it.”
She tied together her shirttails with a decisive yank, showing her narrow waist and giving Ryan a quick peek at her navel—her navel pierced by a little gold ring—as she made the knot.
His mouth went dry; his head wobbled on his neck. He had to swallow before he could speak. How could she make a baggy shirt of Thelma’s look like this? “What happened to ‘I’m a businesswoman, a California girl?’ What about your cat and sushi?”
“What happened to me owing you for the shoes and the mall plans?”
Rory’s eyes widened a fraction. “Ryan, this Ryan, bought you shoes?”
Effie nodded and did a mischievous wiggle with her eyebrows. “And they’re Italian.”
Thank God she didn’t wiggle anything else.
“My mom has Wally, so the cat issue is solved. I met Bonnie and she’s darling.” Effie grinned at Rory. “She looks like you. She has your dimple. She definitely has Ryan’s temper.” She turned her attention back to him. “I can get along without sushi while I’m here.” She smiled hugely. “Thelma introduced me to her pecan pie.”
“Pie?” Dread raced up Ryan’s spine, competing with basic lust. “You had pie?”
“Last two pieces. You can have some tomorrow, when she bakes another one.”
Ryan’s stomach growled in protest, and Rory laughed deep in his throat. He slapped Ryan on the back and said to Effie, “Oh, I’m thinking you should definitely stay at the Landing, Effie Wilson. I could stand a little fun about now, and I think you’re just the ticket to stir things up.”
“Effie is not fun,” Ryan called after Rory as he ambled his way toward the house. At least for him she wasn’t. Suddenly she was a tempting delectable morsel driving him more nuts than ever before. “She’s an employee, a working partner. She can be a real pain in the butt, Dad.” Like now!
Effie tossed her head. “I am so fun, and I am not a pain in the ass. That would be you.”
“You can get a flight out tomorrow. I’ll work on the plans here, and you can set up dates with the contractors.”
She gave him a bug-eyed look. “I can’t do anything with contractors ‘til the plans are approved, and we both need to work on them, like we agreed. You’re not thinking too clearly. What happened? Did you get some bad peanuts on the plane?”
He ignored her because he didn’t have an answer. He just wanted her gone so he could regain his sanity. That gold ring made him a little loony. He said, “I have to stay here, and it’s going to be a longer visit than I’d planned. I can use the office equipment you brought, and we can fax plans back and forth and work off each other’s ideas.”
He rushed on before she could protest again. “Dad and I talked. I am Bonnie’s father.” He held up his hands to stop her from interrupting. Best to get this over with all at once and get rid of her. “I know I said I wasn’t, but I was wrong and I can’t just up and leave now. I’ve got to take care of things here.”
She studied him for a moment. “Oh, really.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Tell me, who’s Bonnie’s mother?”
Uh oh. Maybe he should have planned this better before he opened his big mouth. “I’m not sure.” He couldn’t implicate anyone or this scheme could blow up in his face. “She just dropped off the baby and left.”
“And I suppose she just left a note to you saying you were the father?”
Okay, that sounded pretty good. Believable. Why not? “Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”
She pursed her lips as if she knew something he didn’t, making a twinge of apprehension snake up his spine. “You’re no more Bonnie O’Fallon’s father than I am, so now tell me what’s really going on around here.”
Chapter 3
Conrad Hastings pulled the Ferrari to a tire-screeching stop in front of the home that had been in the Hastings family for the last one hundred and fifty years. The stately columns on the front porch never ceased to impress him. No one else on the Landing had a house as impressive as Hastings House.
Seemed a pity he was the only one left to enjoy the place, but that’s the way it was and not likely to change since bachelorhood suited him to a tee. In his estimation it was the quintessential lifestyle for a male, and he lived it to the fullest.
He grinned as he slid from behind the wheel, thinking how he’d passed that white car a few moments ago as if it were standing dead still. A Chevy was no match for a Ferrari.
“Arthur,” he said as he strode into the living room and headed for the mahogany sideboard for a drink. “What an unexpected pleasure. A visit from my favorite attorney.”
Conrad splashed whiskey into a crystal glass and nodded to the drink already in Arthur’s hand. “I see Denise has taken good care of you.”
“Your housekeeper is most efficient. And sometimes I think she’s the only one in this house who is.”
“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Conrad said on a low chuckle. “You worry too much. Life is meant to be enjoyed.” Conrad saluted his friend in greeting and sipped. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Need my membership to the country club to take a client golfing? No problem.”
Arthur wagged his head and sighed. “Conrad, old friend, you have great whiskey, flawless manners, superb taste in women and cars and you’re broke as a virgin whore.”
Conrad’s stomach clenched, and a bead of sweat popped out across his upper lip. He knew things were ... tight, just not this tight. Keeping his composure—Hastingses were very good at that—Conrad sat in the wing chair next to Arthur’s and leaned slightly forward. “What the hell do you mean, I’m broke?”
So much for the Hastings’ composure.
Arthur Billings nodded to a folder on the antique cherry table beside them. “As in no money, as in you’ve maxed out three credit cards, as in Hastings Dry-dock can no longer support you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed. As in—”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Conrad stood and walked to the window, peering beyond the white-columned porch and his car to the perfectly landscaped yard and Mississippi River rolling beyond. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing. And that’s the problem. You can’t keep taking from a business and not put back into it. You’ve bled the place dry, Conrad, and now it’s on the verge of bankruptcy.”
Conrad downed his whiskey in one gulp, not his style at all, and faced Arthur. “I hired managers.”
“You hired your friends, and they don’t know the bottom line from a fishing line. You hired your gambling buddies and paid them too much to do nothing except run up expense accounts and
take boondoggles to Vegas. There is no tugboat business in Vegas, Conrad. It’s a damn desert.”
Conrad went to the sideboard and poured himself a third whiskey. “Fine. I’ll sell the damn company.”
“Who the hell’s going to buy it? It’s in downright pitiful circumstances. The buildings are falling apart; the machinery is unsafe. No welder worth diddly-damn’s going to work under those conditions.”
Conrad gave his friend a mock salute with his whiskey. “Thank you very much, Mr. Optimist.”
But Arthur didn’t look chagrined. In fact, he suddenly looked smug and a bit pleased with himself. Conrad asked, “There’s more?”
“I think I may have a way out. But you might not like it much.”
He arched his brow and leaned against the sideboard. “If it’s better than living on the streets, I’m going to like it plenty.”
Arthur crossed his legs, ankle to knee, not a hint of bare skin in sight. His damn dress socks must have gone clear up to his armpits.
“Well, there’s the obvious solution. You could work. You have an Ivy League education. Engineering and business, I believe.”
“Christ Almighty, that’s your great idea?”
“Actually, it’s not. We’re friends, so I know you pretty well. Work is a nasty four-letter word that doesn’t suit you, but I thought it worth a try. People do change.”
“Hell, man, not that much.”
“You’d be surprised. But I do have another idea that’s more up your alley. Marry for money. Women do it all the time.” He shrugged his slim shoulders under his polo shirt. “Actually, men do too, they just don’t admit it.”
“M . . . Me married?” Conrad coughed and felt shaky. The thought made it hard to breathe, and more sweat formed across his lip. “Fuck-a-duck, Arthur, that’s worse than working. Well, not really but sure-as-hell damn close. Not only is marriage something that doesn’t appeal to me at all, but can you say prenuptial agreement? Any rich woman and her merry band of attorneys will insist on that. And even if I agree and resign myself to just living off her, these same attorneys will investigate, know I’m butt-ugly broke and bet I’m up to something.”
He ran his hand through his flawless hair, knowing the perfect hundred-dollar cut would fall back into place as if never touched. “I’m a forty-eight-year-old self-proclaimed playboy and proud of it. Why would I suddenly marry now unless it’s for money? Everyone will know what I’m up to.”
Arthur tossed back the rest of his drink. “Unless you found the perfect pigeon. Someone who’s inherited a nice tidy sum and doesn’t know it yet. That’s the key. You marry her before she finds out about the inheritance. No one suspects you of gold-digging, and you automatically get half at the divorce. But you have to play your cards right and charm the pants off her—so to speak—and get her to put the money in joint accounts right away. If she keeps it separate, you’re finished.” Arthur winked. “We’re talking two million bucks here.”
Conrad put his glass on the sideboard and cocked his head. “Two million is a lot of charm.”
“Not if the pigeon isn’t all that bright and, most important, has never been married and the only time she was in love she got dumped. Wooing her would be a snap for a man of your expertise. Wine her, dine her and she’s yours.”
“And this pigeon would be . . . ?”
“Thelma McAllister.”
Conrad scoffed. “The heat’s done broiled your brain like a big old peanut, boy. The woman’s destitute. If it wasn’t for the O’Fallons’ taking her in and giving her a job helping with the twins when they were babies and keeping her on, she’d be a bag-lady somewhere. Her family’s nothing but drunken river trash. And how do you know she got dumped.”
“’Cause my cousins did the dumping. Like you said, she’s river trash. But there’s another side. Who does everyone around here call to help them out if they get sick or have a crabby baby that needs tending or to look in on an ageing parent? Thelma McAllister, that’s who. She even looked in on Clyde Pierce these last three or so years. Fixed his food and tended his needs.”
“So what. Clyde Pierce was a penniless old hermit who lived in a shanty, and if Thelma took care of him, she’s as stupid as he is. . . was. And how do you know about that anyway?”
“Clyde Pierce was a multimillionaire recluse who left his money to Thelma. And the kicker is she doesn’t know it yet because the old goat wrote his will in his own hand and the will’s being authenticated as we speak before it becomes public.”
Conrad slowly righted himself, taking in this last bit of information. He pulled his monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his upper lip. “And just how do you know all this?”
Arthur’s smug look deepened. “I’ve been seeing this friend in Memphis, a legal aide for—”
“You’ve been stepping out on Dolores?”
“Dolores plays bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I play something else. Anyway, this friend told me about an eccentric client of theirs who died and happened to live in my neck of the woods.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Conrad said in a low, good-old-boy Tennessee drawl as he gave his attorney a slow grin. “And your reason for telling me this is . . . friendship?”
“And I get a cut of your take when you divorce. All you have to do is lure Thelma, get your name on that inheritance, then kick her to the curb. In one year you get a cool mil. Not a bad salary for something that’s second nature to you, and it sure as hell beats working for a living.”
“Not bad, not bad at all.” Conrad winked at Arthur. “You’re right. I could turn this marrying-for-money idea into a career. Do it for a couple of years and retire. Fact is, this is one profession I might actually be good at.”
Arthur chuckled. “No one will suspect a thing because you’re marrying before she inherits. Then after you have the money, no one will suspect you’re just marrying for more. For Thelma you’ll have to make it seem as if you’ve changed your ways, your taste in women, and suddenly realized what you’ve been missing by not settling down and blah, blah, blah. You can figure it out. But you’ve got to do it quick and you’ve got to be convincing. The handwriting experts should take about ten days or so, and after that the cat’s out of the bag and it’s too late. Someone will suspect what you’re up to.”
Conrad studied his reflection in the mirror and smoothed back his hair. “Thelma McAllister? She’s such a nothing. ‘Course the O’Fallons think she’s Mother Theresa, but they’re a bunch of goody-two-shoes, what would you expect?”
“They’re not all that goody. Ryan’s got himself a baby with no mother and no marriage license.”
Conrad pulled in a deep breath and scoffed, “That’s plenty true enough. But right now I have my own problems. I guess the question is can I really marry Thelma McAllister?”
“The question is, old boy, can you afford not to? And there’s another hitch.”
Conrad cut his eyes back to Arthur. “Good Lord, now what?”
“You’ll have to add some money to the joint account you two open from the get-go. You have to do this for two reasons. First, when she gets the money she’ll be inclined to put it in joint name just like you did. The second reason is that the more you intermingle your monies, the more inclined the divorce court is to split the assets down the middle. Buy stocks in joint name, real estate in joint name, cars. Whatever.”
“But you just said I was broke. Where the hell’s this joint money supposed to ...”
Arthur nodded out the window, and Conrad’s eyes bulged as he shook his head hard. “Not the Ferrari. I’m not selling it for some bag lady. I love my Ferrari.”
“Bet you like eating three square meals a day more. Also, if you get rid of it and go for a Ford, it will—”
“A Ford? Dear God in heaven, Arthur. You really expect me to drive a Ford?”
“It will add to your sincerity of changing your ways, seeing the light, wanting to settle down and get married. That you’re maturing.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t want to mature. I want my Ferrari.”
“It’s a car, Conrad. Get over it.”
He leveled his friend a narrow-eyed look. “A Ferrari is not just a car.”
“You’re such a snob.”
“I know, and I like it that way. I work hard at it.” He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his shirt. “A Hastings and a McAllister? My father will be flipping in his grave.”
“What he’s flipping over is you ruining his company that he and his daddy and his daddy before him worked their asses off to build.”
“So I’m better at spending money than making it.”
Arthur grinned. “Until now. Come on, you can do this. Buck up. Think of it as a new profession. And just because you marry a rich woman ... or rich women . . . that doesn’t mean you can’t fool around a little on the side.”
“That’s true enough.” Conrad felt marginally heartened. “You have your gal, and I never would have expected that.”
“Who said it was a gal?”
Conrad’s gaze fused with Arthur’s, and Conrad dropped back down into the wing chair, nearly knocking it over. He couldn’t speak. Hell, what would he say if he could?
“There are all kinds of changes, Conrad.” Arthur stood and splashed whiskey into his empty glass, then Conrad’s. He sat and handed Conrad his glass, then tapped it with his own. “To marriage and joint accounts.”
Conrad shook his head. “To change?”
Arthur grinned. “Works for me.” They downed the whiskey, and Arthur stood and placed his empty glass back on the sideboard, then headed for the front door. “You have less than two weeks, Conrad.” He nodded to the folder of papers on the table. “And put those financial reports away. We don’t need anyone suspecting anything ‘til you’ve bagged your pigeon.”
“Got it,” Conrad managed to get out. He followed Arthur to the door as his lawyer said, “I’ll be in touch.”
“Arthur,” Conrad said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe you ought to tell Dolores. She’s been a good wife to you. She deserves that much.”
Til There Was U Page 3
