A Proper Wife

“Sir,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’re a bit confused. I’ve met Bettina before, remember?”

James slapped his hands against the arms of his chair.

“Don’t patronize me, boy. I am not senile. It’s my body that’s failing, not my brain. I am not talking about Bettina. It’s Devon I want you to meet.”

“Devon?”

“Don’t look so blank, for heaven’s sake. Yes, Devon. Bettina’s daughter. Your brother’s stepchild.”

“But why? Look, if you want to do something for her... give her money, whatever—”

“What I want, Ryan, is that you promise to honor the request I shall make of you.”

“I will. I’ve already told you that, sir, but what does it have to do with—what’s her name?”

“Devon,” the old man said. “And it has everything to do with her. You see, I’ve thought of a solution to all my problems.”

“What problems?”

“The ones I’ve spent the last hour enumerating,” James said testily. “Haven’t you been listening? My concern that you settle down with the right wife.”

“That,” Ryan said with a wave of his hand.

“Yes. That. And now this other thing that’s come up, your brother’s wish that his stepdaughter be provided for.”

“Grandfather,” Ryan said patiently, “I fail to see what one thing has to do with another.”

A sly smile curved across James’s mouth.

“They have everything to do with each other. You need a wife and the girl needs to be taken care of.” The old man chuckled. “It’s quite simple, Ryan. I have found you the proper wife and I want you to marry her.”

The words seemed to echo through the library. Behind him, in the fireplace, Ryan heard the pop of a damp log as the heat drew the last bit of moisture from its core.

That’s how I feel, Ryan thought dazedly, as if the last bit of air were being pulled from my lungs.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I’ve never been more serious. And I will remind you that you gave me your word. You will marry Devon Franklin.”

Franklin? Ryan thought. His heart slammed against his ribs. Franklin?

“Grandfather,” he said in a strangled voice, but James shifted suddenly in his chair and peered beyond Ryan, his eyes lighting with pleasure.

“Devon, my dear. Please come in. I want you to meet my grandson.”

Even before Ryan turned, before he saw her, he knew.

There, standing in the doorway, was the same gorgeous, evil-tempered blonde who’d slugged him six hours earlier in Montano’s.

CHAPTER THREE

RYAN had heard it said that in moments of danger, time seemed to stand still.

That had never been his experience. He liked danger: it was one of the things that had made him so successful in business. When things got dicey, when other men blinked, Ryan only felt his heartbeat quicken. And then time would seem to speed up. Events, words, gestures would clip by at a lightning-quick rate, so that afterward he’d have to sit down and sort them all out.

Now, as he confronted the demure, sweet-tempered, old-fashioned girl his grandfather had hand-selected as his bride, Ryan knew for the first time what people meant when they spoke about a moment frozen in time.

He could feel each beat of his heart, hear each breath as he drew it. He could see Bettina, standing just beyond the girl, her blood-red lips moving so slowly that the words were undecipherable.