The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée

by Sandra Marton

  She folded her hands and did her best to ignore him. But it wasn’t easy. How could she ignore him when each time the plane took a bone-jarring bounce—something it was doing with unsettling frequency—his shoulder brushed against hers? The scent of his cologne was annoying, too, that clean, outdoorsy aroma of leather and pine forests. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His profile might have been sculpted in granite. That chiseled forehead. That straight nose. The firm, full mouth and the strong, square chin.

  His chin had stubble on it. So did his jaw. Her fingers curled into her palms. She could almost imagine the feel of that stubble under the soft stroke of her hand…

  Stephanie sat up straighter.

  “There must be an empty seat somewhere on this plane,” she said angrily.

  “No.”

  “No? No? What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. The plane’s as full as a can of sardines.”

  “Wonderful.” Stephanie folded her arms.

  “Look, we’ll be in Washington soon. And then we’ll never have to set eyes on each other again.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “rm not going to argue, Scarlett.” David shot her a quick look. “Frankly, I can hardly wait to be rid of you.”

  “Oh, do be frank, sir,” Stephanie said coldly. “Considering that you’ve spent the afternoon being the soul of discretion, I imagine that a little frankness would be soothing.”

  David gritted his teeth. What in hell had he done to deserve being saddled with such an impossible woman? She was gorgeous, yes, maybe even more now than before, where their surroundings demanded she at least try to maintain a civilized veneer. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks red, and her breathing had quickened so that her breasts rose and fell in a way a man couldn’t possibly ignore. She was clever, too, and more than willing to stand up to him despite her look of fragility.

  But she was impossible. Stephanie Willingham was a short-tempered, sharp-tongued, opinionated hellion. She wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, but she reminded him of a wild mare he’d brought down from the high summer pastures a couple of years before.

  The filly had been a beautiful animal, with fine bones, a soft, silky mane and tail—and the disposition of a wildcat. His men had tried everything to gentle her, but nothing had worked. They’d have to break her spirit, his foreman finally said…but David had refused to let that happen. He’d wanted the horse to accept the saddle, and him, not out of fear but out of desire.

  So he’d taken up the challenge. He’d talked softly to the filly, offered her treats from his hand despite the sharp nips she’d given him. He’d stroked her neck, the rare occasions she’d permitted it. And at last, early one morning, instead of greeting him with wildly rolling eyes and bared teeth, the mare had come slowly to the fence, buried her velvet muzzle in the crook of his shoulder and trembled with pleasure as he touched her.

  “Well?”

  He looked up. Stephanie was glaring at him in defiance. Somewhere along the line, her dark hair had begun to escape its neat, nape-of-the-neck knot. Strands of it curled lightly against her ears and throat.

  I could tame you, he thought, and he felt the swift surge of hot blood race through his veins.

  “Well, what?” he said very softly.

  Something in his voice, in the way his blue eyes were boring into her, made Stephanie’s pulse beat quicken.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Come on, Miss Scarlett, don’t chicken out now.” David smiled silkily. “You were going to tell me something, and I’d like to hear it.”

  Don’t say anything, a tiny voice within Stephanie’s head whispered. He’s baiting you, and he’s dangerous. You’re playing out of your league here….

  A tingle of excitement danced over her skin.

  “Only,” she said, carefully and very deliberately, “only that you’re the most arrogant, ill-mannered, self-centered male I’ve ever had the misfortune to—”

  She gasped as his hand closed around her wrist.

  “Am I?”

  His voice was low and rough. Stephanie felt as if she could hardly breathe. Her thoughts flew back to when her grandmother had still been alive. She’d been sent to live with her one summer. She was three, four, too young, anyway, to know the difference between honey that came from a jar and the stuff that oozed from a broken, bee-laden comb lying beneath Gramma’s old pin oak.

  “Leave it be, child,” Gramma had cried as she’d reached for the comb, but Stephanie had already brought it to her mouth. The moment was forever frozen in time: the candied kiss of the welling honey, and then the fierce, painful sting of the bee.

  She thought of it now, that dizzying combination of sweetness and danger, as David bent toward her. Should she force herself to face him down…or should she leap from her seat and run for her life, never mind that the plane was dipping and rising like a roller coaster, or that the flight attendant would probably call ahead and have the men in the white coats waiting.

  No. Why should she run? There was nothing to be afraid of. What could happen here, in this public place?

  Anything. The word whispered through her like a hot wind.

  David’s eyes smoldered with heat. She could almost scent his anger on the air. No, she thought, her heart giving another giddy kick, not his anger. His masculinity. His awareness of her not as a foe but as a woman.

  The plane was carrying them into a velvet darkness. As if from a great distance, she heard the disembodied voice of the captain requesting that all passengers be sure they were buckled in. The cabin lights blinked on and off, on and off, and she caught a glimpse of lightning zigzagging like flame outside the window.

  Somewhere in the cabin behind her, a woman’s voice rose in fear. Stephanie knew she ought to be afraid, too, of the storm raging just beyond the fragile shell of their aircraft, but the only storm she could think about was the one that had been building between David and her from the moment they’d met.

  He undid his seat belt, his gaze never leaving her face. A soft whimper rose in her throat and it took all her strength to suppress it.

  “Do you like playing games, Scarlett?” He moved closer; his thumb rolled across her bottom lip, the tip of it just insinuating itself into her mouth. He tasted of heat, of salt. Of passion. “That’s what we’ve been doing all day, isn’t it? Playing games.” His gaze fell to her mouth; she felt the hungry weight of it, like a caress, before his eyes met hers again. “No more games, Stephanie,” he said gruffly, and he kissed her.

  She made no sound, moved not an inch. But the moan she’d managed to hold back moments ago slipped through the kiss. She felt a tremor pass through him and then he thrust one hand into her hair, tipped her head back, and parted her lips with his.

  There was no time to think. All she could do was react—and respond. Stephanie whimpered softly, wound her arms around David’s neck, and opened her mouth to his kiss.

  The lights in the cabin blinked out. Blackness engulfed them. The plane lifted, then dropped as if there were a hole in the sky. They were alone on the dark, wild sea of the heavens, and at its mercy.

  Stephanie wasn’t afraid. She felt the strength of David’s arms as they encircled her, felt the racing pound of his heart against hers, and when his hand slid under the jacket of her suit and cupped her breast, she cried out in pleasure.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  She felt the nip of his teeth. Her head fell back as he pressed his lips to her throat and when he brought her hand to him, settled it against the powerful thrust of his arousal, she arched against him.

  This was wrong. It was insane. She knew that, knew it well. But to stop what she felt, what David was making her feel, was impossible. His hunger was fierce, but so was hers. She had to assuage it, had to give in to it, had to touch and be touched….

  The lights in the cabin blazed on. The plane rocked one last time, then settled onto a steady course.

  It wa
s all Stephanie needed to return her to reality.

  She gave a muffled cry and tried to break free, but David wouldn’t let her. He clasped her face between his hands, his mouth hot and demanding on hers…and despite everything, the cabin lights, and the voice of the captain assuring the passengers that they were okay, despite all that, she almost gave herself up again to the passion, the intoxication of this stranger’s kiss.

  “No!” Stephanie slammed her fists against his chest, tore her mouth from his. “Stop it,” she said, her voice trembling, and David blinked his eyes, like a man awakening from a deep dream.

  He drew back and stared into the flushed face of this woman he’d met only hours before. Her eyes were huge and glazed; her mouth was swollen from his kisses and her hair had come undone so that dark strands curled lightly around her face.

  “You’re despicable,” she hissed as she twisted away from him, as far as she could get.

  A muscle knotted in David’s cheek. He sat back, his hands curled tightly around the armrests of his seat. Despicable? Crazy might be a better word.

  “Mrs. Willingham…” he said.

  Mrs. Willingham? He really was crazy, addressing a woman he’d damn near ravaged with such formality. And what was he going to say to her? I’m sorry? Hell, he was not Not sorry, not apologetic, not any of those things because she’d wanted what had happened as much as he had.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The amplified voice of the flight attendant interrupted his thoughts. “The captain has asked me to tell you that we are on our approach to Dulles and we should be on the ground in just a few minutes.”

  A thin cheer of relief rose from the passengers. David felt like cheering, too, but it had nothing to do with having survived the storm. He’d survived something else entirely.

  He was a man who’d known his fair share of women. Okay, more than his fair share, some would say. He was not a stranger to the fever that could flare like wildfire between two consenting adults.

  But nothing like this had ever happened to him before. If the lights hadn’t come on, if Stephanie hadn’t stopped him, he’d have taken her there, in the darkness. In the hot little universe they’d created. He’d have ripped off her panties, buried himself deep in her heat until—until…

  He’d been out of control, and he knew it. And it scared the hell out of him.

  Life—his life—was all about control. Control of the self. It was how he’d gone from being a kid enduring life in a foster home to a man with a law degree and a well-regarded practice. He’d only made that one slip, when he’d let himself think he was in love, let himself trust a woman who wasn’t to be trusted….

  The plane touched down with a thump. There was scattered applause, a few whistles, but David was already on his feet, reaching for his garment bag, making his way up the aisle to the door.

  “Sir? Mr. Chambers?” The flight attendant smiled and sent a darting look over his shoulder. “Isn’t your wife—”

  “She isn’t my wife,” David said fiercely. “She isn’t anything, not to me.”

  He left the flight attendant’s voice behind him, left everything behind him. Whatever it was that had happened to him in that airplane cabin was over. And he sure as hell was never going to think about it again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE were few certainties in life.

  Stephanie knew that. It was, in fact, the very first certainty.

  The others ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous.

  For instance, she knew that a pair of cardinals would rebuild the old nest deep within the shelter of the rhododendron outside the back door, come every spring.

  They were there now, on this bright, warm morning, the male in his bright plumage chirping encouragement to the female as she flew off for more twigs.

  “I don’t know that it’s the same pair, ma’am,” the gardener had said when he’d found her watching them that first spring, seven long years ago. “Might be younguns of the first two what built that nest.”

  It didn’t matter. If it was a new generation doing the building, that only made what was happening all the sweeter. Somebody, even if that somebody had wings and feathers, believed in home and family.

  And then there were the other constants, the ones that were not so pleasant.

  The way the good townsfolk of Willingham Corners looked at her whenever she drove into town. Not that it was very different from how they’d always looked at her, the men with sly smiles that made her skin crawl, the women with condemnation tightening their mouths.

  Well, that was surely going to change, and soon. Smirks would replace the smiles, and the looks of condemnation would be replaced by ones that said morality had, at last, triumphed.

  Stephanie glanced at the dining room table, and the letter lying on it. Oh, yes. Just wait until the town heard about that.

  They’d probably celebrate.

  Stephanie Willingham, Mrs. Avery Willingham, was going to lose the roof over her head and the ground under her feet. She was going to lose everything.

  Everything—including the one thing that mattered, that she had bartered her soul to possess.

  She should have known Avery would renege on his promise. His word had never been any good—another of life’s little certainties, Stephanie thought with a bitter smile, but one she’d only learned after they’d made their unholy bargain.

  There wasn’t even any point in telling herself that the documents Avery’s sister had produced were forgeries. It would have given Avery as much pleasure to have arranged the situation as it had given Clare to hint at it. It was the cruelty of the thing that had convinced her, the “joint tenancy” provisions carefully devised to make Clare Avery’s heir—and to leave Stephanie with absolutely nothing.

  Oh, yes, the documents were legitimate. It was Avery’s final gift—which only emphasized the last certainty.

  Men were a bunch of double-dealing bastards.

  They’d lie to get what they wanted and then fix it so that their promises were worth about as much as they were.

  Stephanie put her hand to her forehead. Except for Paul. Paul was different, and not just because he was her brother. Paul was kind, and caring; he’d always been there for her, when she was little. No one else had been. Not her father, whom she’d never known. Not her mother, who’d wandered out of her children’s lives like a wisp of smoke.

  And not Avery. God, certainly not Avery.

  Stephanie put her back to the window and looked down blindly into the cup of rapidly cooling coffee cradled between her palms. Avery, with his talk of being the father she’d never had. With his compassionate gifts—the food basket on Thanksgiving, the visits to the specialists for Paul, the big box of books she’d hungered for but couldn’t afford to buy. And then the greatest gift of all, the one she’d believed would be the start of a better life, for her and for Paul…a year’s tuition for Miss Carol’s Secretarial School.

  “It’s too much, Mr. Willingham,” Stephanie had said. “I can’t let you do this.”

  “Sure you can, darlin’.” Avery had put a beefy arm around her shoulders in fatherly fashion. “You learn to type, take dictation, an’ I’ll give you a job, workin’ for me.”

  Working for him, Stephanie thought, and shuddered.

  Oh, how he’d hooked her. Set out a lure she couldn’t resist and reeled her in like a fish all ready for the skillet.

  How could she have been so naive? So stupid? So pathetically, painfully dumb?

  Not that the answers mattered anymore. It was true, fate had intervened. Paul had become more and more withdrawn but still, it was she who’d agreed to make a contract with the devil.

  There was no one to blame but herself…

  Just as she was to blame for what had happened two weeks ago, on what should have been a pleasant, peaceful Sunday afternoon.

  Stephanie shut her eyes against the humiliating memory. That she’d let a stranger do those things to her—that she’d let any man do those things to he
r—was inconceivable. None of it made sense. She knew what men were and what they wanted. What they always wanted, whether they were old and fat, like Avery, or young and handsome, like David Chambers.

  Sex. That was what men wanted. And sex was—it was…

  Stephanie shuddered again, despite the warmth of the morning sun on her shoulders. Sweat. Grasping hands. Hot breath on your face and wet lips smothering you, and the feel of bile rising in the back of your throat…

  Except, it hadn’t been like that with David. When he’d kissed her. Touched her. Cupped her breast and made her moan. She could still remember the taste of him, the feel of his mouth, warm against hers, his kiss hinting at pleasures she’d never imagined…

  “Missus Willingham?”

  Stephanie spun around. Mrs. Cross stood in the doorway. The straw hat she wore for marketing days was on her head; her suitcase was in her hand.

  “I’m leavin’,” she said coldly. “Thought I’d let you know.”

  Stephanie nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to pay you the last few weeks, but—”

  “Wouldn’t stay under this roof, money or no money,” the housekeeper said. “Town knows what you are now, missus, what with Mr. Avery fixin’ things for all to see.”

  Coffee sloshed over the rim of Stephanie’s cup and onto her hand, but she didn’t so much as blink.

  “I’ll send you a check for what I owe you, Mrs. Cross.” Her voice was clear and steady. She’d be damned—damned—if she’d break down now. “You may have to wait for your money, but you’ll get it all, I promise.”

  “Don’t want nothin’ from you, missus.”

  Mrs. Cross turned on her heel and marched off. Stephanie didn’t move as she listened to the housekeeper’s footsteps stomp the length of the marbled hall, but after the front door slammed shut, she pulled a chair out from the table and sank down into it.

  “And a good thing you don’t, Mrs. Cross,” she whispered shakily, “because I don’t have anything left to give.”

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She blinked hard, then drew a deep breath.