by Milly Taiden
He remembered the day he’d stumbled on the concept of a factory cleaning the water it used; returning it to the surrounding watershed in better condition than when it entered the plant. He’d been in college, his growing awareness of the damage his family’s holdings were doing to the environment piling up on him like so much trash in a dump, and the idea that it could be different—that industry could help the environment instead of hurt it—fueled him to study engineering and put his family’s money to good use.
Nate thought he was crazy, but while there might be money in oil and natural gas, Evan was sure there was money in green technology, too, and it was the kind of innovation that could put Americans back to work. He saw himself as part of a new breed—both environmentalist and capitalist. He intended to make his money work—for himself, his family, his company, and the rest of the good ol’ U.S. of A.
This Bella person was an idiot if she’d let her brother push her out of the most lucrative segment of her business. But most people were idiots when it came to money. He’d realized as a teenager that his grandfather and father didn’t have any special characteristics that set them above the crowd; they were just willing to think about money morning, noon and night. “What you focus on is what you get,” Grandpa always said. By the time he was fifteen he’d decided to focus on his dual loves of cash and nature. A shy child, and an awkward teenager, he was never happier than when he was either alone in the wilderness, or supervising experiments.
“I don’t know about that. What I do know is Bella isn’t a businesswoman. I managed to get a hold of her tax returns for the last five years—she’s losing money fast.”
“Losing money?” He wrinkled his nose. “A vet should turn a profit, even if her specialty is pets—what’s the problem?”
“A tender heart,” Amanda said sarcastically. “People bring her strays, but she won’t euthanize them.”
“Can you blame her? Putting down kittens doesn’t sound like a fun time.”
“Maybe not, but it’s part of the job,” Amanda countered.
Evan shrugged. She was right. “So she keeps every stray she sees, feeds them all, provides medical care….”
“And the money going out tops the money coming in. Her bank account’s nearly empty. She’s got a couple more months and it’s good-bye clinic, good-bye trailer, see you later, cowgirl,” Amanda finished for him.
“Trailer?” Evan rolled his eyes. He owned a five-bedroom, five bathroom luxury home in the San Jose hills, complete with a pool. Who the hell lived in a trailer?
“Trailer—at the back of the same lot her clinic is on. We’re talking white trash here, Evan.”
“Doesn’t matter. In fact it’s for the best.”
“Seriously? You’re going to marry this Betty Bumpkin?”
“I’ll do what I’ve got to do to keep control of the company, you know that.”
Evan’s great-grandfather, Abe Mortimer, was a Bible-thumping, stiff-necked, pain in the ass by all accounts, but he started Mortimer Innovations and set up the corporation so that the family’s shares could only be held by one family member at a time—the oldest male, who was required to be married or forfeit control to the next in line. If the oldest male family member was under twenty-five, the stock would be held in trust for him until he reached his twenty-fifth birthday, at which time he had a year to find a wife. If he was older than twenty-five, but unmarried, he had six months from the moment he inherited to get hitched. Evan’s grandfather had already been married when he took the helm, as had his father. Now that his dad had passed away five months ago, Evan was running out of time to find a wife.
Trouble was, he didn’t want one.
After a whole lot of looking, he’d found a loophole within all the legal gobbledygook that was going to save him from that fate—the marriage requirement only lasted a year. Evidently women in Abe’s time often expired early due to complications of childbirth, and Abe had taken that into account. He wasn’t required to stay married, therefore. No—all Evan had to do was find a woman whose time he could purchase for one year, or better yet, win for free. Betty Bumpkin might not know it at the moment, but she was doomed to be Mrs. Evan Mortimer for at least twelve months, right after he beat the pants off her on this stupid reality TV show.
“Yes, Amanda—I’m going to marry her.”
“Thank God for prenups.”
He’d made sure Hammer Communications, the parent company of the network that ran Can You Beat a Billionaire, knew there was no way he would expose half of Mortimer Innovations assets to some TV contestant. They’d fallen over themselves to agree—thrilled they’d managed to catch one of the West Coast’s richest bachelors.
“Amen to that,” Evan said, leaning back in his chair.
“Why don’t you just buy some prostitute? They’re a dime a dozen.”
Evan rolled his eyes. They’d been over this before, too. “And let the newspapers have a field day when they figure it out? Nope—not into it.”
The TV show gave him a bizarre, yet legitimate, excuse to get a wife no one had ever heard of before—someone his competition couldn’t possibly have tainted beforehand—and dump her a year later. The network assured him no one would care what actually happened to the couple once the show was off the air.
“What if she refuses to divorce you?”
“First of all, no court will make a couple stay married these days if one person wants out. Second, look at her résumé—the one time she left Montana it was for school, after which she made a beeline back home. She’ll hate it out here in California. The minute I let her go, she’ll be gone!”
“If you say so—not many women will walk away from a lifestyle like yours.”
“I’ll give her a nice donation to start her clinic back up again. I’ll give her some business tips, too.”
“Like—you can’t save all the kittens in the world?” Amanda said dryly.
“Something like that. What’s she look like, anyway?”
“I told you about the hat, right?” Amanda laughed. “I’m sending over her photo right now.” She hung up on him and he turned to his computer and clicked the refresh button on his email. He clicked again on the image Amanda attached to her message and stared at Bella Chatham.
Hello.
A golden-haired beauty stared back at him. Well, maybe beauty was too strong a word. She was fresh, wholesome, wore little makeup that he could see. She stood in a yard filled with large enclosures, surrounded by dogs, cats, rabbits and other animals. She held a puppy in her arms that was obviously squirming and she was laughing—all bright eyes, thick, wavy hair, legs that went on for a mile, and a cowboy hat perched atop her head. She could be the poster child for middle-America—a healthy, happy, well-adjusted country girl.
His total opposite.
He’d never dated anyone like her, not that he’d dated much. When your family was worth billions a certain amount of suspicion crept into your personality. His mother, especially, thought they were surrounded by vultures ready to rip them apart at the slightest sign of weakness. She’d practically hand-picked Nate’s wife from the children of her small circle of friends. While Nate and Brenda seemed happy enough, Evan had no interest in marriage to a woman like that.
His own attempts at dating had been disastrous. A few girls back in college who made it clear they expected a steady stream of expensive gifts, and called him cheap when they weren’t forthcoming. Several more women in his twenties who didn’t mention money at all, but talked frequently of their friends’ impending weddings, all the while shooting him furtive looks from gleaming eyes that he swore held the reflection of dollar signs.
He never got past a few weeks of dinners, dancing and trips to museums or concerts before he broke it off. A constricting feeling would build in his chest until the idea of seeing them again made him physically ill. He was ashamed to admit he broke up with most of those women over the phone, several by texting, but that feeling of being caught—of being trussed up wi
th no way to escape… He couldn’t bear it, and couldn’t take the risk that if he met with them in person, he’d end up running away.
That had happened once—only once—but he’d never forget it, and he’d never put himself in that position again.
He shook his head and dragged his thoughts back to the present. His money was a blessing. No way Evan would feel sorry for himself because it hampered normal relationships.
Bella was nothing like the sophisticated, calculating women who’d given him so much trouble in the past. He’d have no problem keeping her at arm’s length and controlling the outcome of the show.
She’d do fine for his wife.
Just fine.
CHAPTER TWO
“Here she is,” Hannah blurted when Bella came through the front door of the clinic for the second time that day. She had raced home to the trailer to shower, pluck her eyebrows, throw on a little lipgloss and smooth her wild hair back into a barrette, but she was still shaking with anger that Hannah had done this to her—set her up on a show whose outcome was fixed, for all they knew. Sure, she might win the five million dollars and solve all her problems, but she might just as well end up some city slicker’s wife. The sick pit of fear in her stomach grew a little deeper. What if she lost? What if she had to give up her clinic and shelter—and had to leave Chance Creek and everyone she knew to marry a stranger and live in California for a year?
What would the man expect of her?
There was no way she’d go through with this if it wasn’t for the sad smile Hannah had flashed at her as she left the clinic to go get changed. Desperate times called for desperate measures. If she won, she’d save Hannah, too—the woman who’d worked for her for years at slave wages because she loved the animals as much as Bella did.
She’d do it; she’d go on this crazy show and she’d give it her best shot. At least then if she lost she’d know she’d done everything she could to save her business and her home. She now wore a sundress she’d found in the back of her closet and a pair of sandals, which were slightly dressier than her cowboy boots. Behind the reception counter, Morgan gave her a thumb’s up. Bella’s heart sank when she noticed three more cowboys had popped up in the waiting room. Rob’s best friends Ethan Cruz, Jamie Lassiter and Cab Johnson sat near him on the stark, plastic seats. Hmm, maybe she was closer to that inner circle than she’d thought.
“Hi,” she said to them.
“Don’t mind us, we’re just providing local color,” Ethan said.
“Doesn’t get much more colorful than a county sheriff,” Cab added, pretending to polish his badge.
Bella turned to Hannah for an explanation.
“Bella, this is Madelyn Framingham, the director of Can You Beat a Billionaire, and her assistant Ellis Bristol. They arrived a few minutes ago,” Hannah said, waving to a woman who was just emerging from the corridor that led back to the shelter.
“Ten minutes ago.” Madelyn stepped forward and offered her hand, although everything about her radiated displeasure. The woman was intimidating. Tall, bony, with ebony hair pulled back into a sleek chignon, she wore scarlet lipstick, a dark power suit with a skirt that stopped just above her knees and three-inch-high stiletto heels. No one dressed like that in Chance Creek. The cowboys in the waiting room watched her as curiously as if she were a leopard in a zoo.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Bella said and shook her hand.
“So this is your…clinic.”
“It is. We’re very proud of our facility,” Bella said. She didn’t like Madelyn’s attitude one bit. The director was now making her way around the room checking out the furniture, shelves—even the paintings on the walls, done by the local artist Ingrid Deck.
“If you’re interested in the artwork,” Bella began. “I can…”
“I’m not.” Madelyn turned to her. “Tell me why you became a vet.”
“Uh…I…” Bella struggled to recite her usual pat answer to this question. It didn’t help that she had an audience of cowboys as well as Madelyn and her assistant waiting to hear what she had to say. “A family pet died when I was ten after being hit by a car. As you might expect, I was quite saddened by the experience. I guess I decided then and there to learn to care for hurt animals.”
She didn’t add that Caramel’s death had been her fault. Or that the incident had also nearly bankrupted her family. She’d been playing with the dog back behind the house near the stables and corrals where her father and his hired hands worked. She’d been told a hundred times to skedaddle when the men were handling the horses, but she hadn’t listened that day. Truth was, she rarely did. As the baby of the family and the only little girl on a ranch full of men, she was spoiled, which drove her older brother Craig wild with resentment. That day Craig was helping the men, though, and he’d lorded it over her that he was big enough to join in while she had to keep away.
Cyclone was a new horse; a thoroughbred stallion her father mortgaged the ranch to purchase with the hope that he could charge exorbitant stud fees and breed new generations of thoroughbreds to sell. Her father was thrilled that he’d landed his first customer, and his voice rang out as he called directions to the rest of the men helping to load the horse.
She’d been far too young to realize how precarious the family’s finances were. The ranch had been owned by Chathams for generations. Chance Creek was her whole world. As she ran and played with Caramel she felt just as safe and loved and carefree as she’d ever felt growing up there.
So she hadn’t stayed in the front yard as she’d been told to do. Instead she brought Caramel out back to play catch. She’d been crouched down beside the dog to congratulate her for returning the ball she’d thrown, rubbing her fur, too absorbed in her fun to hear the commotion behind her. She hadn’t noticed the men trying to load Cyclone into the trailer. She hadn’t seen him break free of his handlers and gallop away.
She didn’t see Cyclone at all until he was almost on top of her, rearing high into the air at Caramel’s sudden barks of warning. She looked up to see his hooves above her, the entire weight of the stallion about to crash down on her head.
That moment drew out impossibly long in her memory. People shouting, Caramel barking, the horse wheeling around, and the sickening crack as its leg shattered when it tumbled down to earth. Her father’s bellow. Another sound—sharp as a slap.
Caramel’s bark of pain.
The dog struck out like lightning across the hard-packed earth of the yard, past the house, past the driveway, and toward the country highway.
Bella leapt to her feet and raced after her. She heard the squeal of brakes and Caramel’s anguished yelp of surprise. By the time she reached the road Caramel was shuddering with pain. With the driver’s angry words in her ears, and tears streaming down her face, she held her dog in her arms as Caramel breathed her last.
Even today she remembered that gut-wrenching helplessness—holding Caramel, feeling the life drain out of her, unable to stop it, knowing it was all her fault…
And then the gunshot.
“We’re on a very tight schedule,” Madelyn snapped. Bella blinked, dragged back to the present too abruptly. “This morning we’ll do an interview and your paperwork. The camera crew will be in to get footage for our opening sequence—the contestants in their milieu.”
“Their what?” Still struggling to catch up, Bella caught Hannah’s eye behind Madelyn’s back and frowned. Hannah shrugged, but Morgan waved her hands at the office as if to say, the place where you live and work, dummy. Well, Morgan probably wouldn’t call her a dummy. Out loud.
“Their home environment,” Ellis explained, gesturing at the cowboys in the waiting room. “Hi, Bella—great to meet you. You’re probably feeling a little overwhelmed right now.” Ellis looked young—twenty-five or twenty-six, Bella guessed, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck that must have been hot on this sunny fall day. He gripped a pile of file folders and kept fiddling with his cell phone.
“Of co
urse she’s overwhelmed,” Madelyn said. “What does Bella know about being on television? Nothing. So we’ll teach you.” She put an arm around Bella’s shoulders in what she assumed was supposed to be a friendly hug but felt more like a vise grip, and led her to an empty chair in the waiting area. “Have a seat and I’ll quickly explain the layout of the show.”
As Bella sat down she saw Hannah pull out a small notebook and pen. Thank God—she doubted she would remember any of this. Morgan leaned on the counter soaking up every word, too. The cowboys relaxed in their chairs.
“The whole show is shot over seven days, with two days for travel and five days of filming. Once you step on our private jet you will have no contact with anyone except the show’s personnel. At the show’s conclusion we will either deliver you back here or to the home of Evan Mortimer. If you win, we will shoot additional coverage of us presenting you with your winnings, plus a follow-up show in three months’ time to check in on how the money has changed your life. If Mr. Mortimer wins, we will shoot your wedding, of course, plus a follow-up show in three months’ time to see how your marriage is going.”
“Wait a minute,” Bella said. “There’s a question I’ve got to ask. Why would a billionaire want to marry me?”
Madelyn frowned. “Billionaires are not like you or me, Bella. Who knows why they do what they do? But the terms of our contract state that if you lose the contest you will marry him. Do you understand? There’s no surprise here—we discussed this at length in our emails.”
Bella glanced at Hannah again, who chewed on her pen, a sure sign of nervousness. Madelyn must be referring to emails she’d exchanged with Hannah. A momentary urge to throttle her receptionist swept over her, but Bella remained in control. Barely. “Right. I just think it’s strange, that’s all.”
“Moving on,” Madelyn said.
“Can I see him?” Bella interrupted.
“See who?” Judging by the way she tapped her foot on the clinic floor, the director was getting irritated.
