How To Marry A Millionaire (For Richer, For Poorer)

by Charlotte Maclay

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She pictured him slouched in a phone booth somewhere nearby, maybe even feeling rejected. He probably hadn’t had that experience often. She might have even hurt him, she thought with an uncomfortable prick of conscience.

  It’d be easy to invite him back to share the meal he’d provided, she rationalized. It would be the kind thing to do. But she didn’t dare do that. Not when being around Curt sent her thoughts off in forbidden directions.

  “You do understand my position about our... relationship?” she asked. “Strictly business?”

  “Sure, pretty lady,” he drawled. “Whatever you say.”

  Liar.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Tom came into Kathryn’s office almost before she had a chance to tuck her purse away in the filing cabinet. A double row of furrows creased his forehead.

  “What’s up?” she asked, shrugging off her suit jacket and slipping it onto a padded coat hanger.

  “Your office mate called, or rather his wife did. He’s got the flu.”

  “Really? Clarence seemed fine yesterday.” Her fellow paralegal was a man in his forties who had attended law school some years ago but had never quite managed to pass the bar exam. His best talents lay in investigative work, which kept him out of the office a lot.

  “His wife says he woke up with a nasty cough and a temperature.”

  “Will I have to cover for him?” That was the usual procedure. If cases were coming up on deadline, everyone pitched in where they were needed. The office staff was good that way, a very cooperative group.

  Tom ran one finger around inside his starched, button-down collar, an uncharacteristically self-conscious gesture, as if his shirt were too tight, or he had something troubling on his mind. “We’re okay with most of his cases.”

  “Most?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It’s the Creighton case...”

  She stifled a groan. She should have known. She wasn’t going to be able to escape that bachelor millionaire.

  “We’re going to have to file a preliminary response in the next couple of days. I need someone to go out to his place and take a look around to give me a feel for the veracity of the plaintiff’s case.”

  “And the defendant’s credibility?” A man to whom perjury would no doubt be a minor offense.

  “Curt’s okay, Kathryn. Sure, he’s had his wild moments. And he does like women, I admit. But I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think you’d be—”

  “Safe?” she provided.

  “He won’t attack you. That’s not his style.”

  No. Seduction was. A technique a lot more difficult to resist than physical force, as far as Kathryn was concerned. “I really don’t want to get involved,” she said. “Can’t you ask someone else?”

  “Who? I’d go myself but I’m in court all this week on the Rettorri matter. Lyman and Garcelli are tied up, too. With Clarence out sick, that leaves you.” He lowered his voice to his most persuasive tone, the one he used to convince juries to give his clients a break. Nine out of ten times, it worked. “I hate to ask this of you, Kathryn, but we need the Creighton account. It’s a big one because the corporation is so visible and has so many interests worldwide. The retainer alone will keep us going so we’ll have lots of room in the budget to do our pro bono work.”

  He certainly knew how to push her button. The firm of Weston, Lyman and Garcelli spent a lot of their time helping single mothers get child-support payments, all at no charge. Forcing men to take responsibility for their actions happened to be a cause close to Kathryn’s heart.

  She blew out a sigh. “All right, Tom, I’ll do it. But if Curt tries anything funny...well, the deal’s off. You’ll have to find some other patsy.”

  “Understood.” She detected a trace of relief in his smile. “He’ll be here about ten to take you out to his place.”

  Her eyes widened. “He’s coming here? To pick me up?” Why couldn’t she drive herself?

  “Yeah. He had some business in town this morning and thought that would be best.”

  She just bet he did. This whole thing—Clarence suddenly coming down with a mysterious flu, the need for her to visit Curt’s Hollywood Hills mansion and the man himself driving her there—smelled of a conspiracy to Kathryn.

  Her stomach knotted. She’d very much have to be on her guard.

  Chapter Three

  She hated being stared at.

  Apparently that was not an issue for Curt Creighton. Why else would a man drive a gold Ferrari convertible, a car so sleek and sexy looking it drew the attention of every other driver on the road? Rather like how its owner caught the eye of every passing female. The way his cable-knit sweater tugged across his broad shoulders and the fact that he’d shoved the long sleeves up to reveal muscular forearms were no doubt factors causing the women to gawk.

  Then, of course, the smile he generously bestowed on each pedestrian wearing a skirt was enough to raise a woman’s morale for days.

  Gritting her teeth, Kathryn slid a little deeper into the rich leather upholstery that molded to her body like a soft glove. She supposed she ought to be grateful he hadn’t picked her up on his motorcycle.

  “You don’t look pleased to be assigned to my case.” With an expert flick of his wrist, Curt shifted the car and they sped across the intersection when the light turned green.

  Kathryn squinted against the bright sunlight, shading her eyes with her hand while at the same time trying to keep flyaway strands of her hair from blowing in her face. “I find it an interesting coincidence that Clarence Middlebury, who should have handled the job, is out sick today.”

  “My good fortune, I guess.”

  She frowned. Bribery was a definite possibility, though she hated to think her office mate would be in cahoots with Creighton. “You’re taking it well that I conned you out of a Chinese dinner last night.”

  “Win some, lose some.” He slanted her a glance from behind his wraparound dark glasses. “I plan to give you a chance to make it up to me later.”

  She read that comment as both a threat and a promise. “I’d rather just pay you for the meal.” At the moment, she felt a little less clever than when she’d shut the door in his face. This was not a man you should cross, she suspected.

  “Oh, I never take money from a lady,” he drawled. “Against my principles.”

  “I’m glad to hear you have some principles,” she mumbled under her breath.

  Curt’s low chuckle let her know he’d heard her nasty comment. “I suspect you’ve been reading my press clippings. Just because you see something in print doesn’t make it true.”

  “You mean you don’t have a half-dozen beauties living on your estate?”

  “Well, yeah, that part’s true. At least, most of the time.”

  “And you don’t have swinging parties that the police have to break up?”

  “Occasionally things get out of hand,” he conceded. “But it’s not what it seems.”

  Of course not. The shots she’d seen on the six o’clock news of screaming women running half-clad through the shrubbery were all figments of some cameraman’s imagination.

  “So you’re claiming orgies aren’t your style?”

  “Absolutely not.” He beamed one of his famous smiles in her direction. “Done correctly, a man can only handle one woman at a time.”

  Somehow she didn’t feel in the least relieved by the sincerity in his low, husky voice.

  They’d left the busy commercial streets of Century City and West Hollywood behind and were now cruising a winding road that led up into the hills. The car took each turn easily, riding as smoothly as a much larger vehicle but lower to the ground. Though she didn’t think they were exceeding the limit, there was a definite sensation of speed. The wind in her face, a man who moved fast sitting behind the wheel, both added to the experience—an experience that produced a fair amount of anxiety somewhere low in Kathryn’s belly.

  M
assive oaks and giant jacarandas lined the street. Huge houses, some three stories high, hid behind hedges and wrought iron fences covered in carefully pruned ivy. From time to time, Kathryn caught a glimpse of immaculately manicured lawns and flower gardens still bright with color, although it was fall.

  Forcing herself to relax, she leaned back in the seat and simply enjoyed the view. Shadows cast by tree branches crisscrossed her face. The air smelled fresh, cleansed by the lush growth and removed from the busier, smoggier streets. What a contrast between this neighborhood and her crowded street filled with apartment houses, she mused. No rusting cars with permanently flat tires parked at these curbs.

  She smiled to herself. Adjusting to this kind of living would be easy. Not that she’d ever have the chance, unless a private law practice was a lot more lucrative than even she had imagined. But the ambience was definitely seductive.

  She shifted her gaze to Curt, eyeing him with newfound suspicion.

  Darn it all! This leisurely drive through his exclusive neighborhood was all part of the plan—his plan to weaken her defenses.

  Well, she’d have none of it. She was here on business, and under duress. Straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders, she resolved not to be lulled again by Curt’s subtle and very experienced seductive skills.

  The wrought iron gates to the Creighton estate parted the instant before Curt wheeled the car up the curving drive.

  Opulent consumption, Kathryn told herself, even as she took in the expanse of beautifully trimmed lawns and elegant, formal flower beds. The antebellum house could have graced a hillside in Georgia before Sherman’s march through the state. The scene literally took her breath away.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Curt said, responding to her audible sigh. He pulled the car to a stop in front of the expansive porch. “I’ve always thought it was a bit much, but my mother was from the South. Since she was raised in a sharecropper’s shack, she figured she deserved this.”

  “Really?” The end of the word rose on Kathryn’s question.

  “Yep. She ran away from home at sixteen and worked her way west by waitressing. Finally got herself a modeling job. That’s how she met Dad. Wouldn’t give him the time of day at first. To hear him tell it, Mom was cussedly independent.”

  “Good for her.”

  “The end result was the beginning of Seduction Incorporated. Dad tried everything he could think of to get her into his bed. She’d have none of it.”

  In spite of herself, Kathryn smiled. “So what finally worked?”

  A frown stitched across his forehead. “You know, I don’t think either one of my folks ever told us.” He shrugged. “Anyway, my mom used to keep a plot of ground out in back where she raised corn and beans and stuff. Claimed it was good to remember her roots, particularly when she made me and my sister help her do the weeding.”

  The laugh that swept up her throat was irrepressible. “I hope I get to meet your mother.”

  Curt’s hand, warm and slightly rough, palmed her cheek, brushing back her blow-away hair. “I wish you could. But she died in a plane crash when I was ten. I still miss her.”

  A band tightened around Kathryn’s chest in response to his grief. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her cheek more fully into his palm. She rested her hand on his wrist, acutely aware of his strength, the masculine texture of his flesh and the fact that they had shared the same kind of shattering childhood experience.

  * * *

  SUCKERED. Again.

  Kathryn stood in the middle of what Curt called the guest bedroom—white carpeted, French Provincial furniture and scarlet drapes. She stared down at the large, circular bed, the purported scene of the plaintiff’s back injury, then shifted her gaze up to the matching mirror on the ceiling. The scene reflected there left little doubt in her mind. It took no imagination at all to fill in the blanks.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Curt protested.

  “If this case goes to trial, you’re dead meat,” she told him grimly, “and so is your bank account.”

  “My dad sort of went back to his old ways after Mom died. He was the one who used this room. Not me.”

  “I doubt you could get two jurors out of twelve to believe that.”

  “Well, it’s true.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “It’s your job to defend me.”

  Terrific. Maybe she ought to consider a career change.

  “I don’t know what Tom will say, but my advice is to settle. For any amount she’ll agree to.”

  A muscle rippled at his jaw. “The woman fell out of bed because she was drunk. I wasn’t anywhere near her. And I will not pay blood money to any woman just because she thinks I’m an easy mark.”

  The intensity of Curt’s denial startled Kathryn. He’d make a wonderful witness on the stand—sincere, honorable, determined to protect his name. But one picture of this room and he wouldn’t have a prayer of winning his case...even if she were both defending him and on the jury.

  “I suspect it’s already too late, but you might want to consider redecorating.”

  “Yeah. I already talked to my sister about that. She said she’d take care of it.” He gave the satin spread a tug to straighten a wrinkle. “Shouldn’t we try to re-create the scene, or something?”

  Kathryn battled the blush that crept up her neck. “That’s not really necessary. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?” No way was she going to lie down on that bed while Curt was anywhere nearby. That was one daydream that was better left among her fantasies. “Let’s start from the beginning. Was this Roslyn Kellogg just visiting for the night?”

  “She’d been living here for about three months.”

  “I see.” Perhaps Curt and his lady friend had had a spat, making Roslyn a scorned woman who wanted to get even by filing the suit.

  Curt sat down on the edge of the bed and then stretched out full-length, tucking his hands behind his head on the pillow. He crossed his ankles and smiled up at her in open invitation.

  Swallowing hard, Kathryn took a determined step back. “Your shoes will ruin that white satin,” she said inanely, trying not to think of how indulgent the fabric would feel brushing against naked flesh.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Yes, well...about Ms. Kellogg...”

  “She was from Portland, I think. Like a lot of the girls who end up staying here, she blew into town sure she was going to set Hollywood on fire. You know, an acting class or two under her belt and maybe some modeling experience. It rarely works out like they hope. Mostly they run out of money before they can get themselves established. Then their choices are really limited.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you run a shelter for unemployed models and wannabe starlets?”

  “Sort of. Lucy—that’s my sister—is in the casting part of the business. When she sees a gal in trouble, and assuming she’s a decent enough kid, Sis sometimes invites her home. We’ve got plenty of extra rooms.”

  “And you’re here to chaperon the young ladies who are down on their luck.”

  His cocky grin creased both cheeks. “I admit it’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.”

  Pursing her lips, Kathryn fought the responding smile that threatened. The man was impossible. And irresistibly charming.

  In an amazingly agile move, Curt was on his feet and standing very close to her. “You can do it. Go ahead,” he urged.

  “Do what?” Reaching out to touch one of his tempting, elongated dimples came to mind, but she didn’t dare do that.

  “Smile. You did once in the car—I saw you. You even laughed a little. Now I want to really see you let one loose.”

  “Curt...” she protested, “we’re supposed to be discussing business.” Noting the persistent twinkle in his blue-green eyes, along with the length of his lashes and the well-formed arch of his eyebrows, wasn’t on Kathryn’s agenda. At least, such details shouldn’t have been. But they were, along with the acute awareness of his spicy after-sh
ave and his overpowering masculinity.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.” He ran the back of his knuckles slowly down her cheek to her jaw, then brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Just a little smile. For starters.”

  As a responding heat curled through Kathryn’s body, the voice of her conscience tartly asked where that smile might lead. The answer was all too obvious—to the middle of a king-size, circular bed.

  Run,the voice warned, run as fast as you can.

  Demonstrating considerable self-restraint, she firmly grasped Curt’s wrist and moved his hand away from her face. “Now then, Mr. Creighton, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened the night in question.”

  Curt let his hand fall to his side. This lady was one tough cookie. His usual moves weren’t working at all. Maybe he was simply out of practice. Extended celibacy had a way of making a guy rusty, he supposed.

  “One of the other gals had a birthday that night,” he explained. “Somebody had brought in a few bottles of bubbly and we all celebrated.”

  “You included?”

  “I had a glass or two, I admit. But I had a trip scheduled to New York the next day so I hit the sack early.”

  Her gaze darted suspiciously to the bed. “Your other...houseguests could confirm that?”

  “Probably. Assuming they were sober enough to remember.”

  The grim set of her pouty lips suggested she didn’t believe him.

  “I was in my own bedroom, sound asleep, alone,” he emphasized, “when I heard Roz scream.”

  “And where is your bedroom located?”

  With a flick of his head, he gestured toward the connecting double doors.

  “How convenient. Do you mind if I look?”

  “Not at all.” His temper rising, Curt marched across the room, opened the door and motioned her inside. The lady wasn’t giving him an inch. No woman could be that much of an ice maiden. Or be such a Doubting Thomasina. Unless she’d been hurt by some guy, he realized with a flash of insight. That would account for her effort to be so aloof even when he could detect her pulse racing at that delicate spot on the column of her slender neck. A spot he had an incredible urge to kiss.