Trust Fund Fiancé (Texas Cattleman's Club: Rags to Riches 4)

Oh God. His determination slowly thawed the ice that surprise had encased her in, permitting panic to creep through. He’d lost it. He’d finally cracked under the pressure from the trouble at Wingate. What other explanation could there be?

“Ezekiel...”

“I’m not crazy,” he assured her, apparently having developed the talent of reading minds. Or maybe he’d interpreted her half rising from the couch as a sign of her need to escape. He held out a hand, stalling the motion. “Reagan, hear me out. Please.”

He sounded sane. Calm, even. But that meant nothing. The man had just proposed to her—if she could actually call his demand a proposal. Who just commanded a woman to marry him? As if she were chattel—hold up. Now she was the one losing her mind. Demand, ask, send a freaking telegram... Nothing could change the fact that she’d suddenly plummeted into an alternate universe where Ezekiel damn Wingate had ordered her to become his wife.

All manners flew out the window in extreme circumstances like this.

“What the hell, Zeke?” she breathed.

The man nodded, still cool. Still composed. “I understand your reaction. I do. But just let me explain. And if you say no and want to leave, I won’t try to stop you. And no hard feelings, okay?” She couldn’t force her lips to move, and he evidently took her silence as acquiescence. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation at the cemetery for the last couple of days. Your situation with the will and not wanting to give in to your father’s matchmaking campaign.”

“Siege is more like it,” she grumbled.

A corner of Ezekiel’s mouth quirked. “Yes, we’ll go with that. Siege.” Once more, his face grew serious, and she barely smothered the urge to wrap her arms around herself. To protect herself from the words to come out of his mouth. “The stipulation in your grandmother’s will is you have to marry a suitable man in order to receive your inheritance. You also said you didn’t want to marry a man you didn’t know. A man who would try to control you.” He released a rough, ragged breath. “We’ve been acquainted, been friends for years. And I have no interest in overseeing you or your money. As a matter of fact, I’m willing to sign a contract stating that your inheritance would remain in your name alone, without any interference from me.”

“Wait, wait.” She held up a hand, palm out, silently asking him to stop. To let his words sink in. To allow her the time to make sense of them. “Are you telling me you want to marry me just so I can access my grandmother’s money?”

“Yes.”

“But why?” she blurted out.

Unable to sit any longer, she shot to her feet and paced away from him. Away from the intensity he radiated that further scrambled her thoughts. Striding to the huge picture windows on one wall, she stared out, not really seeing the large stables or the horses in the corral in the distance. This time, she surrendered to the need to cross her arms over her chest. Not caring if the gesture betrayed her vulnerability, her confusion.

“Why?” she repeated, softer but no less bemused. In her experience, no one in this world did something for nothing. What did Ezekiel want from her? How did he benefit from this seemingly altruistic offer? “I’ve had no indication you were even interested in marriage.” Only forty-eight hours earlier he’d been holding a vigil over the woman he’d wanted to pledge himself to for life. “Why would you voluntarily tie yourself to a woman you don’t love?”

“I’m not looking for love, Reagan.” She sensed his presence behind her at the same time his words reached her.

The quiet finality in that statement shouldn’t have rocked through her like a quake, but it did. She wasn’t looking either; that often deceptive emotion required too much from a person and gave too little back. But hearing him say it...

“I don’t want it,” he went on. “Love isn’t included in the bargain, and you should know that upfront. Because if you need that from me, then I’ll rescind the offer. I can’t lie or mislead you. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t need it,” she whispered. “But that still doesn’t answer my question. Why?”

His sigh ruffled her hair, and as he shifted behind her, his chest brushed her shoulder blade. But rather than feel cornered or smothered, she had to battle the impulse to press back into him, to bask in the warmth and strength he emanated.

So she stiffened and leaned forward.

“Would it be advantageous for the world to believe that you, a member of the upright Sinclair family, are in my corner during this WinJet shit storm? Yes. Do I find the thought of companionship appealing? Yes. Is it hard admitting that not only am I sometimes lonely, but that it’s an ache? Yes. They’re all true, but not the biggest reasons for my proposition,” he said.

Proposition, she noted, not proposal. Yet, she didn’t latch onto that as much as him being lonely. God, she knew about the hole loneliness could carve. And how you might be willing to do anything to alleviate it.

“Freedom,” he said. “That’s what you whispered. Maybe you didn’t mean for me to hear it, but I did. You long to be free. I don’t know of what, and I won’t pry and ask if you don’t want to enlighten me. But it doesn’t matter. I can give it to you. If you accept me, you’ll have access to your inheritance and all those dreams and goals you mentioned won’t remain stagnant for four more years.”

She closed her eyes, a tremble working its way through her body before she could prevent it. He’d listened to her. That was a bit of a lark. Having someone pay attention, consider and not dismiss her needs, her desires. Her.

“I still don’t think it’s fair to expect you to legally commit yourself to me. Marriage isn’t something to be taken lightly,” she maintained, although, dammit, her arguments against this idea were weaker.

“It won’t be forever,” he countered. “A year, eighteen months at the most. Just long enough for you to receive the money. Then we can obtain an amicable divorce and go our separate ways, back to being friends. Ray.” He cupped her shoulders and gently but firmly turned her around to face him. He waited until she tipped her head back and met his unwavering but shadowed gaze. “Besides the obvious reasons, I understand why you might be hesitant to agree. I might be related to the Wingates, but with the fire and the bad press, our reputation isn’t as clean as it used to be. And you might very well be dirtied by association—”

She cut him off with a slice of her hand between them. “As if I care about that,” she scoffed. “No, my concern stems from this smacking of something out of an over-the-top TV drama. And that no one will believe it since we’ve never even been seen together as a couple. Or that all of this will seem like a stunt and only have more aspersions thrown your way.”

“You let me worry about appearances and spinning this. I’m a VP of marketing, after all,” he said, a vein of steel threading through his voice. “The only person we

need to convince and impress is your father since he holds the reins to your inheritance. If he approves, we can have a quick wedding ceremony and start the ball rolling toward him releasing your money.”

Reagan studied his beard-covered jaw. Jesus, she was really considering this propo—no, proposition. This was more akin to a business arrangement. Complete with a contract. Except with a ring. And a wedding.