by Gail Dayton
“Mike, Will You Please Marry Me?”
“Come again?” Surely he couldn't have heard her right.
“Will you marry me?” Sherry started to pace. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only way.”
“The only way to what? Look, honey—”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“Why not? You just asked me to marry you. Honey.” Now he was pacing. She’d rubbed off on him.
“Because you don’t mean it. Besides, I didn’t really ask you to marry me.”
“You didn’t? What did you say? ‘Mike, will you marry me?’ That sounds like a proposal to me.”
“If you’ll just calm down and let me explain. Mike, please.”
The plea in her voice made him stop. He turned to face her, arms crossed. She couldn’t possibly have any explanation that would make sense. Even if the idea of snuggling up every night to Miss Sherry Nyland’s sweet curves had him breaking out in “want-to” hives, he couldn't do it, precisely because the idea held so much appeal….
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Our compelling yearlong twelve-book series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES continues with Where There’s Smoke… (#1507) by Barbara McCauley, in which a fireman as courageous as he is gorgeous saves the life and wins the heart of a Barone heiress. Next, a domineering cowboy clashes with a mysterious woman hiding on his ranch, in The Gentrys: Cinco (#1508), the launch title of THE GENTRYS, a new three-book miniseries by Linda Conrad.
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Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Her Convenient Millionaire
GAIL DAYTON
Books by Gail Dayton
Silhouette Desire
Hide-and-Sheikh #1404
Her Convenient Millionaire #1512
GAIL DAYTON
has been playing make-believe all her life, but didn’t start writing the make-believe down until she was about nine years old because it took her that long to learn how to write coherent sentences. She married her college sweetheart shortly after graduation and moved to a small Central Texas town where they lived happily for twenty years. Now transplanted to an even smaller town in the Texas Panhandle, Gail lives with her Prince Charming, their youngest son and Spot the Dalmatian, where they are still working on the “ever after” part. The “happily” they have down.
After a checkered career with intervals spent as a mommy, the entire editorial staff of more than one small-town newspaper, a junior college history instructor and legal assistant in a rural prosecutor’s office, she finally got to quit her day job in favor of writing love stories. When she’s not writing or reading other people’s love stories, she sings alto in her church choir and writes the “gossip” column for the local newspaper.
Gail would love to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 176, Clarendown, Texas 79226.
To Bob and Celia Young, who always believed I could do anything I could set my mind to, and taught me to believe it too. Thank you, Mama.
Thanks, Daddy.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
One
“Hey, Big Mike, there’s a blonde at the bar.” The night bartender at La Jolie shared the information as his boss descended the stairs from the office into the controlled chaos of the club’s back area for his midnight “stroll-through.” Micah Scott did stand over six feet tall. But more important, he was the boss. Little Mike, the five-foot-six busboy, wasn’t.
Micah smiled. “There’s always a blonde at the bar, Bruno. Usually more than one. Why should I be interested in this one?”
“Because according to the day shift, she’s been here since noon.” The slim young man lifted a case of Crown Royal and started back to his post.
“Drunk?” Mike picked up another box and followed. The local rich drank this stuff like water, when they weren’t drinking Dom Perignon champagne, and keeping sufficient stock at hand was a continual task.
“Not that I can tell. She’s had one glass of white wine since I came on at seven.”
Mike stowed the box in the space under the bar and straightened, frowning. “Where is she?”
Bruno pointed. The blonde in question sat alone at the back corner of the U-shaped bar, staring straight ahead as she twirled her glass back and forth by the stem. The inch or so of wine still in the bottom spun and splashed with every motion. Her sunshine-bright hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, and her girl-next-door beauty appeared to be unenhanced by cosmetics. It probably meant she used stuff far more expensive than that found on department store counters.
“Is she looking for a sugar daddy?” Micah thought it likely, and it left him cold.
Beautiful young women flocked to Palm Beach, Florida, looking for rich men ripe for a middle-age crisis. Or an old-age crisis. Or youthful idiocy. Pick one. Of course, “more money than brains” could describe a good half the population of this town, which made it easier for those with brains to make money off the rest.
But Micah’s club thrived because he protected his clientele from the predators. Obvious gold diggers, male or female, were promptly escorted from the premises. Locals looking for that kind of companionship went to the Leopard Lounge at the Chesterfield Hotel or elsewhere. They didn’t come to La Jolie.
“I don’t know, boss.” Bruno looked doubtful as he mixed a champagne cocktail. “Maybe she’s looking. Maybe not.”
Mike checked the order and started building the next drink, a simple gin and tonic. “Why do you say that?”
Bruno shrugged. “She’s not paying attention to anybody here, not making any moves. You know, smiling, flirting, that kind of stuff. She just stares—” He flipped back his hair and looked in the same direction as the woman. “I think she’s watching your fish.”
The big fish tank on the wall was a trademark of every restaurant Micah had ever owned as he’d bought and sold his way to success. Sometimes he thought he kept buying restaurants just so he’d have a place to keep Bertha, the oversize angelfish that lorded it over the tank. His condo wouldn’t hold a tank big enough for her dignity.
“Maybe she’s just playing hard to get,” Mike said. “Pretending not to notice them so they’ll notice her.”
“I don’t think so.” Bruno shrugged again. “Mr. Rossiter offered to buy her a drink and she turned him down.”
“Rossiter’s married.”
“Would that matter? If she was looking for a sugar daddy?”
“Probably not.” Mike knew a lot of women who wouldn’t care, as long as the guy was willing to spend money—and ple
nty of it—on them.
“I think she knew him. Rossiter, I mean.” Bruno said. “Before tonight. I couldn’t exactly hear what they said, but there wasn’t any of that ‘Hi, I’m Brandy, what’s your sign?’ kind of stuff.”
Mike lifted an eyebrow. “You think she’s local?”
“Who knows? I never saw her in here before, but that doesn’t mean a lot. She’s just taking up space. The place is pretty slow tonight so she’s not keeping anybody else out. I guess I just thought you ought to know.”
“Sure. Thanks, Bruno. Keep an eye on her. As long as she doesn’t cause any trouble, I don’t guess there’s any reason why she can’t keep sitting there making eyes at Bertha.”
Mike opened a couple of Mexican beers for some touring Texans, stuck lime wedges in the tops and set them on the waitress’s tray before he headed through the arched doorway into the just-closed dining room. Time to tally the day’s restaurant take. By the time he finished that, the bar side of his club would be closing, and he’d have that tally to run before he could head home.
He could hire a night manager to do those things, but Micah hadn’t made his millions by delegating the jobs he considered important. He’d done everything himself in the early days, before he had any millions. He was used to it. Most days his manager opened up and got things rolling during daylight hours. Micah wrapped things up at closing and deposited the day’s receipts himself.
As he worked, he found himself glancing up periodically through his one-way window to see if the blonde was still sitting at her lonely post in the bar. She was still there, always in the same position, not moving except for the back-and-forth spinning of the almost-empty glass. Bruno came twice to offer her a refill or something from the kitchen before it closed. The blonde refused both times, waving him off with a vague smile.
What was she doing here? Why had she been sitting alone in his club for so long? Who was she? What did she want?
Why did he care?
He didn’t. Micah shook his head and turned back to his work. He wanted to get out of here at a reasonable time tonight, or as close to reasonable as after 2:00 a.m. could be. He had no business thinking about Miss White Wine out there. Maybe she wasn’t looking for a sugar daddy tonight, but tomorrow was always another day.
Sherry Nyland stared into the half-inch of wine left in her glass and tried to force her mind to work. The lack of brain function was not due to alcohol, though they said its effects were magnified when one did not eat. Still, she doubted that two glasses of wine in twelve—she turned her wrist over to look at her watch—thirteen hours now, would be sufficient to do the deed, even if said wine was all she had consumed in those thirteen hours.
No, Sherry was pretty sure her stupor could be entirely blamed on stress and shock. She had to shake it off, get past it some way and decide what to do next. She knew what she had to do.
Find a job, a place to live, a new way to live. Here she was, twenty-four years old, and like most of those she grew up with, she’d done nothing with her life. Her father had encouraged her to follow her friends’ example—live the Palm Beach lifestyle—insisting she didn’t need a job since she had a trust fund to live on. Insisting she live at home. No wonder she didn’t know exactly how to go about living like a normal person. She’d thought she would have more time to figure that part out.
If only her father hadn’t come up with his pea-brained idea to restore his fortunes. Sherry had thought the days of selling daughters into marriages as business arrangements had vanished with the robber barons. Or at least with the last world war.
Granted, when she had refused to marry that fish-lipped, pencil-necked creep with the dead eyes, Tug hadn’t locked her in her room on bread and water. Instead, after several days of her father’s threats, yelling, hissing and pleading, she’d gone to Miami for the weekend and come home to discover the locks changed, the housekeeper refusing to let her in. While she was trying to get in, her car was confiscated with her bags still inside.
She had the clothes she was wearing, and fifty-something dollars in her purse. Good thing she remembered Tug had an account here at La Jolie, and that he hadn’t remembered to call until this evening and remove her from the account. Too bad he’d remembered the credit cards.
Maybe if the bartender hadn’t come back every five minutes to ask what he could get her, she might have been able to think of a plan. The guy was probably mad because she hadn’t spent enough money, but if she bought a drink every time he stopped by, she’d be flat on the floor. She could have eaten, she supposed, but she didn’t think she could choke anything down. And she needed her cash for other things.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The deep male voice startled her, so much that she spilled the little left in her glass. Sherry grabbed for the napkins to blot up the mess and found them gently removed from her hands by broad, long-fingered male ones.
“Relax.”
If that had been possible, she’d have done it hours ago.
Sherry looked up into a strong male face, its rough planes and angles softened slightly by the smile curving his lips and twinkling in his silver-gray eyes. A lock of brown hair curled over his forehead in boyish fashion. He wore a black blazer over his crisp, white dress shirt. The red-patterned tie around his neck had been loosened and his top button unfastened, exposing the hollow at the base of his throat. Management, undoubtedly.
“Bruno still has cleanup,” he said, amusement in his voice. “Let him do his job.”
“Bruno?” Sherry blinked at him, trying to assemble her scattered thoughts. If Tug had to sell me off to somebody, why couldn’t it have been to somebody like this?
No. That thought wouldn’t do at all. It could just disassemble itself right now.
He tipped his head toward the bar and Sherry turned to see the young black-haired bartender, the bane of her evening. A less-likely-looking Bruno she couldn’t imagine. Bruno grinned and waved. Sherry looked back at the management.
“Can I get you a cab?” He had an almost-dimple in his chin, not deep enough to be an actual cleft, like Michael Douglas had, but enough to be noticeable and seriously cute.
“A cab?” What was wrong with her? Surely she could do more than just parrot what he’d said. Stress. Had to be stress.
“No.” She smiled, triumphant that she managed to come up with a whole word all by herself. “No, thank you, I’m fine.” Ha! A complete sentence. She was on a roll now.
Sherry frowned down at her empty glass. Could she afford the four bucks for another? She wasn’t used to having to keep track.
“Miss.” Management touched her shoulder. “We’re closing. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
Leave? Sherry looked up at him, unable to disguise her sudden panic. At least this time she hadn’t repeated the word out loud. What would she do? Where would she go? She should have worked that out in all the hours she’d been sitting here, instead of staring off into space.
She would not go home. That was a given. So, this was Florida. It was May. She wouldn’t freeze to death if she slept on the beach. Maybe the solution to her situation would miraculously come to her in a dream.
“Why don’t we call you that cab? Bruno—” He looked at the bartender. Bruno nodded and picked up the phone by the register.
“No.” Sherry slid off the bar stool, her legs complaining from being in the same position for far too long. She formed her mouth into the nearest approximation of a smile she could manage. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t need a cab.”
“You’re sure?” Management studied her, looking almost as if he might actually be worried about her.
Her smile felt a little more real. “I’m sure.”
She picked her purse up off the bar, a beaded satin thing barely big enough for a wallet, keys and lipstick. “I am capable of taking care of myself, you know.” She winked at him—it seemed like the thing to do. “I’m a big girl now. All grown-up.”
Sherry slung the long satin cor
d of her purse over her shoulder, leaving the bag to bounce against her hip as she sauntered out of La Jolie as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
So maybe that was a lie. But whatever worries she had, she would take care of them herself. From here on out, Sherry was all about Sherry.
She’d spent the first dozen years of her life trying to make her mother love her, and the last dozen-plus years being whatever her father wanted, so he would love her. Look how well that had turned out.
She crossed the street to the beach, turning in the direction away from her ex-house. She was through with pleasing others. She was going to do what she wanted to do, be the person she wanted to be. Just as soon as she figured out who that person was.
Somebody who could stand on her own feet. She knew that much. She might not know exactly how to go about it, but she wasn’t stupid. After all, she’d graduated from the local junior college. A lot of the kids she’d grown up with had quit school after flunking out of whatever institute of higher learning had been bribed to accept them. So maybe an Associate of Arts degree, with no particular major, wasn’t the most useful degree in the world, but at the very least it meant she was capable of learning something new on occasion.
She should never have let Tug talk her out of going away to school. She’d been accepted to Brown. But when he claimed to want her nearby, that he would worry if she was so far away, she’d given in. It hadn’t made any difference in the attention her father paid her, though, and she’d lost the opportunity.
Sand sifted into her sandals, and Sherry bent to take them off. She felt a little like Scarlett O’Hara out in the fields gnawing on raw parsnips or rutabagas or whatever those things had been. Not hungry enough to touch either a parsnip or a rutabaga—not yet, anyway—but just as determined as Scarlett. She wanted to plant her feet and shake her fist at the moon and cry out her intent.
