A Proper Wife

Devon stared at him. It was easier now, marshaling her thoughts without Ryan leaning over her, standing so close that she could see the faint stubble on his firm chin, the thin black lines that rimmed his green irises.

“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “Your grandfather decided that the daughter of a woman he despises will make you a good wife because she can embroider Bless This House on a tea towel and trade insults with you at the same time?”

“I know it sounds strange—”

“It sounds demented.”

“Look, there are other factors.”

“Name one.”

“My brother, Gordon. He said he wanted to provide for your welfare—”

Devon forced back the almost overwhelming desire to break into hysterical laughter.

“Don’t you think trying to marry me off to you is taking the concept of ‘welfare’ just a little too far?”

“Yes,” Ryan snapped, “I sure as hell do!”

“So?”

“So,” he snarled, jumping to his feet, “I’m stuck with this stupid promise I made the old man, to carry out whatever last wish he asked of me.”

She couldn’t help it. This time, a strangled bark of laughter burst from her throat. Ryan glowered at her, his eyes blazing.

“You think this is funny?” he growled.

“No. No! It isn’t funny at all. It’s... it’s incredible. It’s like a play written by a madman and directed by an idiot.”

“It’s not a play,” Ryan said grimly. “It’s real life. My life, dammit. And unless we work something out, we’re going to find ourselves cornered into riding off on a honeymoon Friday afternoon.”

Devon’s giddy smile faded. She felt behind her for a chair and sat down carefully, her eyes on Ryan’s.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“What can we do about it?”

It was, Ryan thought, one hell of a terrific question. He sighed, flexed his shoulders, and sat down across from her.

“Let me think.”

The minutes ticked away while he sat there, his head in his hands. Then, slowly, he looked up and began to smile.

“What?” Devon said breathlessly.

“I think I’ve got an answer. Did you ever hear of a leasing agreement?”

The hope that had begun to shine in Devon’s eyes faded.

“A what?” she whispered.

“A leasing agreement.” Ryan yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, flipped through the files, yanked out a sheaf of papers and dropped them on the blotter. “Here,” he said, “take a look at this.”

Devon rose slowly and came around to his side of the desk. Ryan watched her as she bent over the papers and began scanning them. Her hair spilled forward over her shoulders like skeins of silk.

Ryan’s nostrils flared. No L’Air du Temps today. She smelled instead of something more subtle. Lilies of the valley, maybe, or roses. Whatever it was, the scent was soft and delightfully feminine.