A Proper Wife

He didn’t know which and he didn’t care. He only knew he wanted no part of her, a decision his grandfather had no choice but to accept, thanks to Devon’s Friday night performance.

Ryan’s jaw knotted. All he had to do now was forget he’d ever laid eyes on her.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be easy.

He shut his eyes as the shower beat down on him. Last night, Sharon—who was stunning, by any man’s standards—had put everything she had on display. But for sheer impact, none of it had compared to Devon’s slow, sexy stroll down the stairs at Montano’s.

Hell, the truth was that even dressed in that prim-and-proper suit, with her hair pulled back and her face devoid of makeup, Devon had managed to stir his senses.

Ryan groaned, opened his eyes, and looked down at himself. It wasn’t only his senses she’d stirred, he thought grimly.

Dammit! This had to stop.

Angrily, he jammed the shower control knob all the way to the right, shuddering at the sudden rush of icy water that spewed over him. He stood beneath it without flinching while he counted to two hundred, and then he shut the water off and stepped briskly onto the mat.

So what if he’d overslept? He was going to take the time for his morning workout anyway. An hour in his basement gym—thirty minutes on the Nautilus, thirty in the lap pool—another cold shower and whatever cobwebs were still in his head would be gone.

His stomach clenched, and he groaned and put his hand against his belly.

The effects of Sharon’s chicken Marengo would, unfortunately, take a little longer to fade.

The workout turned out to be just what he’d needed.

By the time he reached the glass tower that housed Kincaid, Incorporated, on its highest six floors, Ryan’s mood had considerably improved. Devon and Sharon were both memories. What was Frank doing tonight? he wondered as he rode the elevator to the fortieth floor. Maybe they could take in a game at the Garden.

The receptionist gave him her usual dazzling smile. Ryan smiled back, gave a wave of the hand to one of the mailroom clerks, and paused beside his secretary’s desk.

“Good morning, Sylvia. How was your weekend?”

Sylvia looked up. “Probably better than yours,” she said. “What’s that on your jaw? Did somebody slug you?”

His hand shot to his face. “No,” he said abruptly, “of course not. Why would you even ask such a...”

Ryan frowned. The door to his private office was standing partly open, which was unusual. His frown deepened as he caught a swift glimpse of a pair of boot-clad feet pacing across the Berber carpet.

“What the hell? Sylvia? Is somebody in my office?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? What do you mean, yes? You know better than to let anyone—”

“I kn

ow sir, but I was sure this would be OK. It’s your niece.”

Ryan went very still. “My what?”

“Your niece.” The smile fell from his secretary’s middle-aged face. “Well, that’s what she said, Mr. Kincaid. She said her name was Devon Kincaid and—”

“No calls for the next half hour,” Ryan said sharply. He strode into his office, slammed the door shut behind him, marched to his desk and punched the off button on the telephone.

Devon, who was standing at the window, swung toward him.

“It’s about time,” she said tightly. “I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

Ryan tossed his briefcase on his desk, undid the buttons on his jacket, and glared at her.

“What are you doing here?”