by Mia Sheridan
Anger—and a small measure of shame about what she'd heard—speared down my spine, causing me to sit up straight. "You rudely eavesdropped on my appointment at the bank, googled me, and now you think you understand my situation?" What the fuck?
Her expression gentled and her pink tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip. My body reacted lustily to that small movement, and I tamped it down with violence. I was not attracted to the arrogant little princess sitting in front of me. Plus, I'd had a woman last night as a matter of fact—a blonde named Jade who smelled like watermelon . . . or had it been pineapple? She'd been highly energetic. And yet, even so, the whole escapade had left me vaguely dissatisfied . . . and reeking of fruit salad. I focused my attention back to the redhead sitting in front of me. Or was she a brunette? Almost the perfect mixture of both . . . As if her hair was responding to my thoughts, another lock slipped out of her up-do. Kira tucked it behind her ear.
"I'm sure I don't know all the particulars of your situation. But I know that you need cash, and you have few options left, especially considering your . . . record." That blush rose in her ivory cheeks again before she continued, "I need cash as well. I'm desperate, too, actually."
I let out a sigh. "I'm sure if you went to Daddy, all this could be resolved. Things are rarely as desperate as they seem." Except in my situation they actually were.
Her eyes spit fire at me, but her expression remained neutral. "No," she said. "Things will not be resolved with my daddy. We had a falling out over a year ago."
"Uh huh. And how have you been getting by since then?"
She paused as if she was considering her answer. "I've been overseas."
Shopping, most likely. Or sunning herself. I ran my eyes down her legs again—lightly tanned legs. And now her personal funds had run out and Daddy wasn't going to supply her with more. How tragic.
"Do you have something against getting a job? Do you have an education?"
"My college career was . . . cut short. And no, of course I'm not against getting a job if need be. But," she sat up even straighter, "suffice it to say, I came here today believing this was the better course of action for all involved."
My head throbbed again. What did I care about her exact situation anyway? "Okay, can we cut to the chase here? Like you so succinctly pointed out, my vineyard is failing. I've got a lot of work to do today."
"Right. Well, yes. Mr. Hawthorn, you see, my grandmother, my father's mother, lived modestly, but thanks to some fortuitous investments my grandfather made, she died with quite a bit of money. She left it to her two grandchildren, me being one, the other a cousin I don't know well. However, she stipulated in the trust that we only get the money either when we turn thirty, or get married, whichever comes first."
I sat back again, steepling my fingers.
"And so," she went on quickly, "what I propose is this: we marry, split the money, and in a year's time, file for divorce."
I raised an eyebrow. "Split the money? How much money are we talking exactly?"
"Seven hundred thousand dollars."
My heart started beating faster. Three hundred fifty thousand dollars. It was even more than the loan I'd hoped the bank would approve. It would be more than enough to make all the equipment and house repairs. Enough to bottle the wine sitting in barrels right now. Enough to add at least a couple employees, too. And if the newest harvest was as good as I predicted . . . this winery would be successful again in less than a year. I could fulfill the vow I'd made in my father's name.
I remained silent, not only going over what she'd just said, but also to make her squirm. She didn't. Finally, I said, "Interesting. There's no clause about how long we'd have to remain married?"
She released a breath and shook her head, no doubt assuming my question meant I was actually considering this insane idea. Was I? Was this even legit? Surely there was some catch. It was too preposterous to be true. My head was reeling just a bit and not only from the hangover anymore. "No, but my father would be . . . displeased if he knew I had married to get the money my grandmother left only to split it with you . . . that is, with anyone." Something raced across her expression, but I couldn't read it. "If he had any indication this was a fake marriage, he might very well try to contest the payout of the trust. It would be in both our best interests to make the marriage look as legitimate as possible. However, like I said, my father and I are estranged. I imagine our effort would only need to be minimal, but convincing."
I raised my eyebrows, allowing myself another moment to go over what she'd said. It was outrageous, unbelievable. "Wait, you're not," I leaned forward, "one of those crazy women who used to write to me in prison offering marriage, are you?"
Her eyes went wide. "What?"
I reclined back again. "Yeah, there were lots of them. Apparently some women find a sick thrill in that sort of thing."
"For what . . . why?" She shook her head slightly as if she wasn't sure how the conversation had veered off track. Her confusion seemed genuine.
I smirked. "From what I know, women like a bad boy."
She looked at me blankly for a moment. "I can assure you, I'm not one of those women."
I nodded slowly, regarding her. "Well good, because I can assure you that you're not my type anyway."
She bristled, sitting up straighter. "Even better then. What I'm proposing is strictly business, nothing more." She looked away, and I couldn't see those witchy eyes, but when she looked back her cheeks were rosy again. "However, it would look suspicious if I didn't live here, and frankly, Mr. Hawthorn, I need somewhere to live. And so I was thinking that in exchange for the housing, I could do accounting work for you. I assume you no longer have much of a staff."
I leaned back again. "I'm impressed by your research, Ms. Dallaire. No, I had to let my bookkeeper go. And my secretary. And most of the rest of the staff as well." Not that any of them had lived on the grounds.
She nodded. "I'm good with numbers. I worked as an intern for my father's accounting team. I'm well acquainted with accounting programs. I could work for you in exchange for room and board, and obviously for appearance’s sake. I don't propose I'd have to live here for a year—maybe just a couple months or so, or until I know my father has accepted the marriage and resumed ignoring me. I could discreetly move away, and we would never have to see one another again—except of course, in divorce court. It really would be very straightforward. And very temporary. And of course, we'd put it all in writing. And please, just Kira."
I studied her for several long moments, noting the way she'd just rambled. She looked to be polished and sure, but was she actually nervous sitting here in front of me? I held eye contact for just a beat too long, but she didn't look away and didn't flinch. "And what will you do with your half of the money, Kira? If I may be so bold as to ask."
She cleared her throat. "Well, other than live, I’m involved in several charities in San Francisco. One of the centers is in dire straits and will have to close if they can't come up with the funding."
I smiled a tight smile. Ah. Just like my stepmother. An heiress with an empty life. I could just see her pulling up in her Bentley to save the lowly peasants from starvation so she could refer to herself as a philanthropist, before dashing off to the Louis Vuitton store to add to her luggage collection. "I see." What did it matter to me what she did with her money? And what her purpose was. I needed only to be concerned with my own situation. "It's a highly unusual proposition. I'll think about it and get back to you." I started to stand.
"Well see, I kind of need your answer quickly." Her voice came out fast and breathy. My body, or at least the parts between my legs, twitched again. Dammit. Something about my body's reaction to her made me angry. Although the parts reacting had never been very discerning.
I sat back down.
"I wish I could give you more time to consider, Mr. Hawthorn, but unfortunately, circumstances dictate that I—"
I put my hand up to stop her. "I'll get back to yo
u by the end of today. How can I get a hold of you?"
She paused. "I'm staying at the Motel 6 tonight. I can give you my cell number, and you can call me."
Motel 6? My, how far the princess had fallen. Yes, her situation was quite desperate. I watched as she grabbed a sticky pad and a pen at the edge of my desk and carefully wrote out her phone number. I took it and tossed it casually onto the pile of messy papers. She looked at where I'd thrown it and then back to me, her lips pressed together. "I can assure you my proposition is legitimate."
"It very well could be. Of course, I'd want to meet with the executor of this trust anyway. But it's still something I need to consider. I do have to think about other ways this might affect my life. A felon is one thing, but a felon and a divorcé? How will I fend off the ladies?" She narrowed those startling eyes.
"Yes, well, if there were any other options, I wouldn't be considering this either. Trust me." This princess wouldn't know a real problem if it smacked her in the face. But as we stared each other down, something flashed in her eyes. Under her cool business demeanor, she was just barely holding back a temper. She was a princess, but oh yes, just as I'd thought, she had a little witch in her, too. We were both silent as she leaned forward slightly as if waiting for . . . something. Did she expect me to thank her?
"Have a good day." I didn't stand. She could show herself out. She stood slowly, holding her hand out so I could shake it. I reached forward and took her hand in mine for the second time. That same heat spiked through me, and I quickly pulled away. Kira Dallaire turned on her heel, her haughty little chin in the air, and left my office without looking back.
I stood and went to the window, lifting the shade. I watched as she walked toward a white Jetta. It surprised me she was driving such a non-flashy car. When she got to the door and began to climb in, she paused and looked around at the vineyard. There was something in her expression that made me unconsciously take a step toward her, my face almost hitting the glass in front of me. What had that been? Appreciation, I thought. For this run-down place? But with something else, too . . . understanding? Before I could consider it any longer, she ducked inside her car, slamming the door behind her, and a minute later, was driving through the gate and out of sight.
Maybe I was judging her unfairly. If anyone knew what that felt like, it was me. Maybe I was just hung over, and she had reminded me of the type of woman my stepmother was. And of course, there was the fact that she had just strode in here and blatantly offered me a marriage for money . . . But perhaps Kira Dallaire wasn't exactly what she seemed to be.
I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer to google her. One good turn deserved another. As soon as I typed in her name, a whole slew of images appeared: Kira Dallaire in an evening gown, exiting a limo, Kira Dallaire at the premiere of a movie at some theatre or another, Kira Dallaire standing beside the man I recognized as Frank Dallaire at a black tie benefit. Always with the same small, tight, haughty smile. In several photos, she was standing beside a good-looking blond man who appeared to be at least five to ten years older than her. I clicked on one of the photos and read the byline, identifying the couple as Cooper Stratton and his fiancée Kira Dallaire. Fiancée? I looked at the date—a little over a year ago. Had that been what had "cut short" her college career? Had she dropped out to become a society wife?
I clicked through several articles, my disdain growing as I pieced together Kira Dallaire's actual situation. None of the news stories came right out and said it, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Kira had been engaged to Cooper Stratton, a young assistant district attorney running for superior court judge in San Francisco, when she was involved in some sort of embarrassing scandal—drugs were heavily hinted at—that took place in a penthouse at the St. Regis Hotel. Her father, in an effort to protect her and get the help she needed, shipped her off to some rehab center, more likely a glorified spa in London or Paris. And her fiancé had broken off their engagement. Who could blame him? But now she was back and her father, he what? Wouldn't fund the partying lifestyle she was accustomed to? Refused to give her any cash until she could prove she was willing to improve her life? Of course, on that I was only guessing. Either way, Kira Dallaire had decided to take matters into her own hands.
I'd been right in my judgment of her: she was just like my stepmother. A woman who'd been given everything in life and thought it was because she was entitled to it. A selfish woman who expected life to bend to her will. And when it didn't, she'd go to extreme lengths to bend it back, regardless of whom it hurt.
I leaned back for a minute, thinking things through. Never in a million years had I expected to wake up to this.
We were both desperate in our own ways. The question was: was I desperate enough to hand over my name—even temporarily—for the cash I needed to save this vineyard and fulfill my vow?
Something on the computer screen caught my eye, a small picture at the bottom of the article I'd been reading, and I clicked on it, making it as large as possible. It was another picture of Kira Dallaire and Cooper Stratton. He had his hand resting possessively on the small of her back and was smiling proudly as she grinned up at him. My eyes homed in on her right cheek. She had a dimple. The little witch had a dimple. And what it was about that small feature that made my pulse quicken, I couldn't have explained if my life depended upon it.
CHAPTER THREE
Kira
He looked like a prince, but if I were going to cast him in a fairy tale now, I'd cast him as The Dragon! A beastly, judgmental, fire-breathing dragon.
Of course, it wasn't surprising, really. My skill in judging character was sadly . . . not skillful. That had been proven once. Quite painfully.
Still, I hadn't been prepared for his mocking contempt. And yeah, okay, so my offer probably sounded outrageous to him initially. But I was the one doing him a favor here. I was offering him free money. Or practically free. There was a price—I admitted that. I was asking him to marry for money. I couldn't help cringing at the blunt truth. But I'd made a list, and there were far more "pros" than "cons" for both of us, I thought. Although, arguably, the "cons" were very weighty and could tip any scale, regardless of what you titled it. Despite having tried to present the offer in a very business-like manner, he'd looked at me with such disdain, as if I were yesterday's trash. The fact that I felt like yesterday's trash only made it that much worse.
The more condescension he'd shown me, that faint derision never leaving his expression, the more nervous and ruffled and unsure I'd become. I hated that feeling. I'd known it my whole life. Being scorned felt heartachingly familiar.
And then he'd told me I wasn't his type. As if it mattered. It didn't matter. Not at all. Not one bit. I only needed my money to be his type.
So why had it hurt?
I let out a sigh. He'd said he would call me, but based on his rude dismissal, I wouldn't hold my breath. Well. I'd tried. Another one of my Very Bad Ideas and Grayson Hawthorn had let me know that's exactly what he’d thought of it. In that slightly bored, pleasantly masculine voice of his no less. I felt my lips curve down. So the question was, what was I going to do now? Going back to my father was out of the question. I'd sooner sleep on a street corner. Or at the drop-in center. My heart sank when I thought of the center. What were they going to do now? So much was riding on getting my hands on the money Gram left. I supposed I could pull my car over and choose any number of people off the street to make the same offer I'd made to Grayson Hawthorn. Or place an ad on the Internet like I'd joked about with Kimberly. I could sell my car. It was in my name, one of the few things I'd bought with my own money. But then I wouldn't even have a place to sleep if and when my cash ran out.
I'd just thought . . . well, seeing Grayson Hawthorn at the bank, it seemed like fate. The more I'd thought about it yesterday in my small, lonely hotel room, the more my heart had felt like there was something very right about sharing my gram's money with that man in particular, considering the connect
ion I knew existed between him and my father. Not that I could share that with him, and not that it would do him any good to know anyway. But I could share the money with him—money he desperately needed—and maybe set something right, balance the score in some small measure.
I had to admit his looks had swayed me, too. He looked like every hero in every fairy tale I'd ever dreamed, come to life. And, God, I wanted to believe in heroes again.
But sometimes, I supposed, a girl just had to be her own hero.
Especially when the hero in question turned out to be a dragon.
I knew Grayson Hawthorn had done wrong in his life, but after examining his case particulars, it seemed more like a terrible accident. And regardless, it was a mistake he'd paid for. More than paid for. And now he was still paying in people's perceptions of him. No one would give him a chance, or at least the loan he so desperately needed.
So I'd gone with my gut, decided at the very least to reserve judgment until I'd met him in person, and rushed to his home the next morning before I could completely lose my nerve.
Well. The Dragon would have to figure out his life for himself. Just as I would. I alone controlled my destiny. I hardly had time to indulge in despair. I parked my car in the hotel lot and made my way to my hotel room.
I stripped out of the dress and sandals I'd worn to meet with Grayson Hawthorn—an outfit from my old life I hadn't even realized I'd packed as I’d hurriedly thrown items into my suitcase willy-nilly. As I'd dressed this morning, I'd been happy for the mistake, though. I'd wanted to appear professional and the jeans or frayed shorts I normally wore didn't exactly say, "take me seriously." I paused. But maybe they did say, "I'm desperate! Marry me!" Perhaps I should have worn those after all.
After changing, I left the hotel and spent the day walking around downtown Napa, doing some window shopping, browsing through several shops including a bookstore, and stopping for a leisurely lunch at a small café Gram had liked. Despite being hopeless and without a plan, I made a conscious effort to clear my mind and enjoy the day as much as possible. If I had to get a waitressing job like Kimberly had suggested, then that's what I'd do. I wasn't afraid of hard work. I had hoped for a plan offering more options, but that wasn't to be. I straightened my spine and channeled my inner Scarlett O'Hara. I'd take today and then I'd come up with a new plan once the disaster that was this morning had rolled off my shoulders.