The Bride and the Bargain Page 11

  “My secretary.”

  “Marry her.”

  “Her husband might have something to say about it.” He reached over the counter and slid the bottle from her fingers, lifting it to his lips.

  Amelia’s mouth ran oddly dry.

  She realized she was staring at his mouth and hurriedly flipped on the faucet, wet the dishcloth and needlessly began wiping down the spotless countertop, carefully giving the jewelry box a safe berth.

  “It has to be you, Amelia.”

  The rag bunched in her hand. “Why? Certainly not because you feel compelled to help my sister’s situation.”

  “That’s your goal,” he agreed. “And it’s one that I’m not above taking advantage of. Like me or not for it, but we both need something that the other can provide. This is simple expedience.”

  “Please don’t insult me by pretending that I’m your only hope where a wife is concerned.” He’d probably been carrying around that ring ready for dropping it on some unwary soul whenever it suited him.

  “You’re the one I believe can convince my father and my aunt that you chose me without knowing who I really am,” he said equably. “Untrue though it is, your acting skills are…formidable. And through no one’s fault but my own, I find I’m up against a rather tight deadline.”

  She winced. The observation was not a compliment. “How tight?”

  “The ceremony needs to be this weekend.”

  She absorbed that, managing not to choke. “Why do they need to think I didn’t know who you were?”

  He shoved his hands through his hair, the first sign that he might not be quite as confident as he appeared. “I told you my father is in poor health.”

  She chewed the inside of her lip. “I saw on the news that he’d been in the hospital again. I’m sorry.”

  He lifted his fingers, as if dismissing the sentiment. “He’s home again, fortunately. But he’s made it clear to my brothers and me that in the time he has left, he wants to see us happily married. To women…unlike our mothers. My brothers have all succeeded in that.”

  Harrison Hunt’s health was that precarious? She hadn’t seen that in the news at all. She recalled stories about the man’s ex-wives, though. They’d all profited aplenty at the demise of the relationships. “Your brothers hired wives, too?”

  He looked vaguely chagrined. “No. They went about things in the more usual way. They’re besotted with their brides, believe me.”

  “And these brides didn’t know they were marrying a Hunt.” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. Grayson was the president of HuntCom, but she knew that the other three sons of Harrison Hunt were involved in the family’s holdings in one way or another, though photographs of them had been extremely scarce.

  “Pretty much.”

  She had the feeling he was glossing over quite a lot with those two words. “What about the children?”

  “You’ll have to get rid of them.” He let out a short laugh when she just stared in shock. “Good Lord, Amelia. You do have a low opinion where I’m concerned. You’re their caretaker. That’s not going to change. There’s plenty of room for them at the shack.”

  “Shack?” Her voice was faint.

  He just shook his head, dismissing it. “There are entire wings at the family house that aren’t in use. You’ll have a lot more space than you do here, that’s for certain.”

  “The, um, the family house. Your father lives there.”

  “So do I, unless I’m staying at my place downtown. Once we’re married, I’ll have to show more inclination to be at the house, though. With you.” He crossed his arms on the countertop, nudging the jewelry box toward her. “You should be happy about this, Amelia. As my wife, you’ll be getting what you wanted without having to drag anyone’s name through the mud.”

  “The only name that was going to be dragged anywhere was yours.”

  He shook his head, that discomfiting mask of gentleness that he seemed able to don at will crossing his face. “Those types of things never work that way. Surely you realize that, if you’re thinking sensibly. Trying to tar and feather me would far more likely end up with people believing your sister was just out for what she could get. There’s no lack of gold-digging women where my family is concerned. All that research you claimed to have done surely told you that. Even your sister’s current condition wouldn’t change what people would say about her.”

  “They wouldn’t say anything because her claims are true.”

  He set the juice bottle down. “I was never with your sister, Amelia. Never.”

  How convincing he could be. So convincing that the niggle of doubt that she possessed wanted to break loose and run around free as a bird. She went over to the narrow bookshelf that stood beside the television and yanked down a framed photograph. “Are you saying she’s not beautiful?” She thrust the frame into his hands.

  He looked at the snapshot of Daphne that Amelia had taken herself one summer at the beach a few years earlier. Her sister, long legged and lithe, her deep red hair spinning around her head in the breeze grinned back at the camera, full of life and vitality.

  “She’s very beautiful. She still is.” At her sudden stare, he set the frame on the countertop. “I visited her. And before we start arguing about it, I can assure you that it was the first time I’d ever been in her company. In any way.”

  “My sister wouldn’t lie.”

  He sighed faintly. “I can arrange a DNA test, Amelia. Is that what you truly want?”

  What she wanted was to keep Timmy. What she wanted was to know that Daphne had at least a fighting chance to regain some portion of her life.

  Gray had no interest whatsoever in claiming Timmy as his own. Without proof that the baby was his, she could walk away from their so-called marriage knowing the baby would remain with her. Or with Daphne if, miracle of miracles, the rehabilitation program at Jackson-Whitney helped.

  Without proof, they’d never have to wage a fight for the baby if Grayson ever decided he needed a ready-made heir, after all.

  “No,” she said huskily. “I don’t want there to be a DNA test.” She knew what he’d believe she was admitting.

  That there was no chance Timmy was his, after all.

  “Then we have an agreement?”

  “What if I can’t convince your father that I’m, um, you know—”

  “In love with Matthew Gray?” His gaze dropped to her lips for a brief, burning moment. “That you had no clue who I was when you agreed to be my wife?”

  She moistened her lips. “Yes.”

  “As I’ve said, you’re a convincing woman, Amelia.”

  And again, she felt certain that assessment wasn’t a compliment. “You mean you think I’m a good liar.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s say that you actually had me wondering—briefly—what I was doing and with whom I was doing it about a year ago. However, the British prime minister could never be mistaken for a pretty female redhead.”

  She squeezed the rag, controlling the anger that wanted to rise inside her. Whether at his seeming callousness, or at that niggling doubt, she didn’t know. “D-don’t you have to be in love with me?”

  “There are some things that even Harry knows he can’t force.” He smiled faintly. “Don’t take that personally, though.”

  Oh, sure. Right. Not personal at all.

  They were only discussing marriage for profit.

  “What if there is something I want changed in that agreement?”

  “Where is it?”

  She silently went to her bedroom and retrieved the envelope from its place where it was still buried deep inside her briefcase. Molly didn’t stir, but as Amelia turned back to the doorway, she could see Timmy’s wide eyes following her. He made a protesting sound and she stopped and picked him up so that he wouldn’t wake Molly. Cradling him in her arm, she closed the door behind her as she returned to the living room.

  Gray didn’t exactly ignore Timmy, but he didn’t gape with re
cognition, either, as he took the envelope from her, extracted the sheets and flattened them on the counter. Then he uncapped his pen and handed it to her. “Just mark your changes where appropriate.”

  Montblanc, she noticed. Too fine of a writing instrument to merely go by the name of pen. She took it, balanced Timmy against her shoulder and scratched through the clause specifying the settlement of money she would personally receive at the conclusion of the agreement’s “term.”

  Quite a euphemism for what was really a divorce.

  The thought gave her pause and she lifted the pen from the paper. Divorce implied more than the end of marriage; it implied that there was a real marriage.

  Why not an annulment? She desperately wanted to ask, but like the ninny she was, couldn’t push the words out. There was no way the man would want conjugal visits. Not with her. She was much too ordinary for a man like him.

  “You want more?” His voice was sardonic.

  She dragged her thoughts out of the gutter. Money. He was referring to money.

  “Ironic, isn’t it,” she said softly. “Evidently your father is determined for you not to marry gold diggers, as he’d done. And here you are, thinking to enter a binding agreement with that very purpose in mind. Well. They say that many men want to marry women just like their mothers.”

  “You’re not in my mother’s league,” he assured evenly. “You’d have to work a lifetime to get close. And the difference between me and Harry is that I’m not blind to what I’m getting into. So how much are we talking?”

  “Zero.” She smoothed her hand over Timmy’s warm back. Just holding the baby gave her comfort. Strength.

  “Zero,” he repeated, looking disbelieving.

  She squelched the screaming meemies thundering inside her stomach. “The only thing I want is for Daphne to receive the best medical care that money can buy.”

  Eyes narrowed, he studied her face for an uncomfortable moment. “Quite the bargain.” He took the pen from her, initialed the deleted portion and handed the pen back to her.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she scratched her name at the bottom, right next to where his signature already resided.

  She carefully set down the pen, staring at the document. Against her, she felt Timmy’s tiny body heave a huge sigh.

  She rubbed her cheek against his little cue-ball-bald head.

  “All right, then.” Gray folded the papers and slid them back inside the envelope. He glanced at his phone. Pressed a few buttons on it before jamming it in his pocket. “So, about the dress?”

  She rocked Timmy back and forth, feeling hot and cold all at once. “Whatever is easiest.” Thinking too hard about what she was doing made her feel vaguely nauseated.

  “I’ll make arrangements.” He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “Loretta will be in touch. Be available.”

  She smiled weakly. So this was what it was like to be engaged to Grayson Hunt. What would marriage be like? The person who should be wondering these things was her sister. And Amelia felt more wretched than ever. “Sure. Whatever.”

  He paused, hand on the door. His gaze drifted over the baby for only a moment. “It will be all right, Amelia.”

  She couldn’t have responded to save her soul.

  And then he was gone and the only thing that Amelia could think was that she might not have a soul to save.

  Not if she’d just sold it to the devil.

  Chapter Nine

  If she’d thought it was surreal to bargain away the next few years of her life in exchange for Daphne’s health, it was nothing compared to the days that followed.

  First, even before she had a chance to take Timmy to Paula’s before work the next morning, a courier was at her door, delivering the papers that would effectively transfer Daphne from her present convalescent hospital to the Jackson-Whitney Institute where she’d be under the direct care of Dr. Sloane Jackson.

  Amelia wanted to hug the documents to her chest, sit down and cry because, no matter how it had been brought about, the transfer was a miracle.

  But the courier was waiting. Not to mention Molly and Jack, who were sitting at the table finishing their cereal, and would have probably thought she’d lost her marbles. Particularly since she had no idea what she was going to tell them—even after a sleepless night worrying about it.

  “I’m supposed to deliver the papers right away, ma’am,” the courier told her, glancing at his clipboard. “To Biggs-Tolley.”

  Her vision blurring, she quickly signed them.

  “What was that?” Jack asked the second she’d closed the door on the departing courier.

  “Good news, actually.” She’d simply focus on Daphne, and let the rest of things land where they might. “Your mom is being moved to that rehabilitation center I told you about.”

  “You mean the one that we can’t pay for.”

  “I was able to work out something.” Her nerves squirmed.

  Jack’s brown eyes narrowed. “Because of that guy, huh.”

  Trust his twelve-year-old self to be suspicious. And accurate. “I’ll tell you about it later. I am going to have to ground you, you know. It’s not like I’m going to forget the stunt you pulled last evening.”

  “I told you. I didn’t steal anything.”

  She badly wanted to believe him, but just as badly didn’t want to fail him by falling too easily for a lie. “You asked for permission to go to Heller’s. Not that electronics place. So what am I supposed to think, Jack?”

  His gaze dropped, his lips turning down.

  Molly suddenly burst into tears.

  Amelia crouched next to her niece. “Honey, what is it?”

  “I don’t want you and Jack to fight.”

  “Jeez, Mol.” Jack looked disgusted. He bolted from the table only to return after a few steps to get his empty cereal bowl, which he carried into the kitchen and rinsed in the sink.

  “We’re not fighting,” Amelia soothed, trying to staunch Molly’s tears without letting herself give way to them, too.

  “I don’t want you to go away like Mommy.”

  “Oh, Molly.” Amelia hugged the girl even more tightly. “I am not going anywhere. I promise you.”

  “B-but Jack and her were fighting, too. Before she—”

  The bowl Jack was rinsing clattered noisily in the sink. “Yeah,” he yelled suddenly, “blame Mom’s stroke all on me.” He grabbed his backpack from the counter and darted out the door.

  Amelia scrambled after him. “Jack!” His steps didn’t slow an instant. “Jack! Wait.”

  He pushed the call button for the elevator and the doors slid open. They closed just before she reached them and she smacked the call button.

  The elevator doors remained firmly closed. There was no hope that she’d beat it to the lobby by the stairs and she ran back to the apartment. “Hurry up, Molly. Get your backpack, right now.” She grabbed the fabric carrier and went into the bedroom to get the baby. He was none too happy to be yanked from his sleep and bundled into the sling, but it couldn’t be helped. But when she turned to hustle Molly along, because she wasn’t about to let Jack race off like that, he was standing in the doorway again.

  Amelia hesitated, her heart slowly climbing back down from her throat. “I’m glad you came back.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Hurry up, Mol, or we’ll miss the bus.”

  “Wait for me,” Amelia added. “I just need to get my briefcase.” She headed for her bedroom. “Molly, grab the bottles from the fridge and put them in the diaper bag, please.” She’d already packed everything else for Timmy’s day with Paula.

  “I thought you were quitting.”

  Amelia froze. She slowly turned to face her nephew, who was standing just inside the opened doorway, looking as tense as a tree in the face of a storm. “Why would you think that?”

  “I heard you last night. You and that…that guy.”

  Of course he had. The walls were paper-thin. She pressed her fingertips
to her forehead, running a mental transcript in her head to recall just exactly how bad her conversation—negotiation—with Grayson must have sounded to him. “Then you also heard that I told him I wouldn’t resign from Brandlebury.”

  “And I made it clear why you’d need to.” Grayson stepped up behind Jack, clapping a hand over his shoulder.

  The jolt that shot through her at his unexpected arrival was only surprise, she told herself. It couldn’t be pleasure. “What are you doing here?”

  “You haven’t seen the papers, obviously.”

  She realized he had a newspaper folded beneath his arm. This time, the jolt she felt was tainted with dread. “What about them?”

  He reached down and picked up a parcel from the hallway and stepped past Jack. “Sit tight for a few minutes, Jack.”

  “But the bus—”

  “I’ll make sure you and your sister get there on time.” Gray dropped the enormous parcel on the floor and flipped open the paper where he’d obviously folded it to one of the interior pages and extended it to her.

  Ignoring her curiosity over the package, she warily took the newspaper, holding it out of Timmy’s grasping hands, only to groan at the photograph of her climbing into his vehicle outside the police station. There was no accompanying article. Just a caption that pondered the identity of Grayson Hunt’s jean-clad mystery lady.

  “At least it’s in the leisure section.” The humor was weak, but she made the effort.

  “It’s problematic,” Gray said. He shut the door behind him. “And not very brilliant of me to have used my own vehicle that evening. My father will, unquestionably, see the photo. I’d hoped to get through the wedding before springing him and Cornelia on you. But if the paper has already snagged a shot of us together, he’ll know you can’t be unaware of my identity for long. We’ll have to make a preemptive strike.”

  “Wedding?” Molly’s face was still tear streaked, but she’d stopped crying. She leaned against Amelia’s side. “Are you getting a wedding, Aunt Amelia?”

  So much for discussing “it” later when she’d had a chance to figure out just how she would explain “it” to the kids. “Yes.”