by Mia Sheridan
It was late afternoon when I returned to my hotel, the sky a clear, calm blue. I let myself into my room and lay down on my bed for a minute, fatigue overwhelming me. I had tossed and turned the night before in anticipation of my morning call on Grayson Hawthorn. I was exhausted and fell asleep almost immediately.
I came awake blearily, confused for a minute about my surroundings, still in that gap between sleep and wakefulness, knowing something was wrong, but not yet recalling exactly what. Reality flowed back in slowly, the same way grief does, the pieces coming together to sit heavily on my chest. Wincing slightly, I rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. It was after four, so I'd only slept for a little over an hour. I sighed and sat up.
The warm shower soothed my muscles if not my heart and when I got out, I felt a little more alive. I partially dried my hair, and then stuck it up in a knot on top of my head that was sure to fall out. My grandmother had always said my hair was as fiery and unmanageable as I was. But she'd said it with so much love in her voice, I couldn't help but hear it as a compliment. God, how I missed her, even after all the years she'd been gone. The absence of her unconditional love was still a painful wound.
Just as I was pulling clean clothes out of my suitcase, my cell phone rang. Kimberly, I was sure. But when I looked at the screen, it was a local number I didn't recognize. My heartbeat stalled and then sped up in my chest as I ran my finger across the screen.
"Hello," I answered breathlessly.
A deep voice returned my greeting, no warmth in it at all. "It's Grayson."
"Oh." I feigned nonchalance as I collapsed on the bed in my towel. "How can I help you?"
"What room are you in?"
"Room?"
"Hotel room. Motel 6, right? Solano Avenue?"
"Uh, yes. But—"
"What room?" he repeated.
"Two eleven. What time will you . . . hello?" Did he just hang up on me? What the—
Three swift knocks sounded at my door and I let out a startled squeak, dropping my phone on the bed and jumping to my feet. "Hold on!" I demanded, rushing to my suitcase and hurriedly pulling on a bra and underwear. The knocking resumed.
"Hold ON!" I yelled again. Of all the rude . . . dragons!
I pulled the dress I'd worn this morning over my head and buckled the belt before I pulled the door open. Grayson Hawthorn filled the doorway, wearing the same thing he'd been wearing earlier—a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt that stretched nicely over his lean, but obviously well-muscled chest. His masculinity hit me in the gut. He smelled like he did that morning too—some sort of fresh, manly smelling soap. But now there was the slight addition of a salty tinge of sweat. I leaned forward, drawn to the masculine scent of him, but then suddenly realized what I was doing. Crossing my arms, I stepped back. "This is highly unprofessional. You should have given me some warning you were on your way."
Grayson stepped into the room, taking his time looking around. His eyes stopped for a second on my Louis Vuitton luggage before he finally made eye contact. "I wasn't sure I was coming until about fifteen minutes ago."
"I see. Well, would you like to go downstairs? We could get coffee—"
"This is fine. I won't stay long. I've gotta get back to work."
I glanced around my room at the unmade bed, the clothes strewn about. I dragged the chair from the desk forward and then sat down on the upholstered bench at the end of the bed. Grayson sat down on the chair. "I've been considering your offer. Before we go any further, I'd like to meet with the executor of the trust to make sure the money will be paid out as you said it will, upon our marriage or shortly afterward."
I nodded, my heart rate accelerating. "Of course. I understand."
Grayson gave one succinct nod. "And if everything looks fine there, we'll need to have a prenuptial agreement drawn up, stating the financial terms of our marriage."
"Obviously."
"No matter what happens financially in the next year when we're married, no finances or property will be split in any way, shape, or form."
"No, of course."
His expression remained enigmatic. "Once I meet with your executor, I'm going to have to trust that upon the payout, you'll actually give me half of it."
I frowned. "That would be our deal." A piece of hair fell out of my knot and I tried to tuck it back up. Grayson's eyes followed my hand and then lingered there as the lock slipped loose again.
"Yes, but Kira," he said almost distractedly before looking back to my eyes. He leaned forward, his gaze steady and alert now. "I don't know you. For all I know, we get married, then you get the check and take off for Brazil. Trusting you in any respect would be an act of faith on my part."
I bristled. "I would never do that."
"So you say. I've found that people say what suits them in the moment. Doesn't always mean it can be counted on."
Yes, I knew what he meant. I took a deep breath and nodded my head. "I . . . realize that. But, I intend on keeping my word."
He regarded me for one heartbeat . . . two, before he looked away. "I'll agree to you living at Hawthorn Vineyard for two months. That should be enough time to notify your father of our marriage and for you to find a place of your own with your share of the money. If there's an issue with your father, we can renegotiate the timeframe. There's an old gardener's cottage on my property that you can live in. It's small and doesn't offer many luxuries, but it has a bed and running water." He eyed me in some way I couldn’t read.
"Sounds quaint."
"Quaint would be a generous description." Was that challenge I read in those black dragon eyes, perhaps a small quirk of his lip?
"Fine." I lifted my chin. I'd never backed down from my father, and I wouldn't back down from this man.
"You are desperate."
"So are you."
"True enough." He paused. "If you don't mind me asking, why'd you pick me? I mean, other than my desperation?" His lip did quirk up slightly then, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "You could have picked some homeless guy off the street and shared half your inheritance with him. There are lots of desperate people in this world, Kira, if you're looking to give money away."
"My father would never believe I had fallen in love and married a homeless man, Grayson. It would be too easy for him to contest the payout of the trust. My father is well connected, as you can probably imagine, and I have to be careful. I had to pick the right person. A convincing person."
He tilted his head. "Your father contesting the payout of the trust . . . Is that something I need to worry about?"
I shook my head. He would more likely expend effort toward covering it up or putting a spin on it that worked in his favor, should a marriage to Grayson Hawthorn actually occur. Still . . . "I don't think so, no, but I've learned that where my father's concerned, it's wise to be diligent." Despite my optimistic words, a chill went down my spine.
"I see. So you intend to convince your father you saw me on the street, fell madly in love, and we married in a week?"
I sighed. "He won't find it such a stretch. He sees me as . . . impulsive . . . flighty . . . irrational."
His dark eyes regarded me speculatively. "And are you? Are you those things?"
I bit my lip. "Impulsive, yes, I admit I can be. Flighty, no, I don't think so. Irrational, aren't we all sometimes?"
He seemed to consider my answer for a second. "So that will be our story? We bumped into each other here in Napa, fell in love, and impulsively married because we were irrational—but not flighty—with new love?"
I gave him a small smile. "Basically. I guess we can discuss the details so we're in sync." My heart had started racing again. "So you agree? We have a deal?"
"If all pans out once I meet with the executor, yes, we have a deal."
I nodded and let out a breath. "You won't regret this, Grayson."
"Oh, I'm sure I will in some way or another, Kira. But . . . desperate times—"
"Call for desperate measures. And th
is is about as desperate as measures get."
He smiled, flashing me a set of straight, white teeth, but the same disdain he'd shown me earlier was back in his expression. He didn't see me as someone giving him a gift, but as someone driving him to do something he didn't want to do. As if I hadn't given him a choice. Well, that was fine. I didn't need his gratitude. I needed his name. I couldn't deny the disappointment I felt, though. When I'd seen him on the street the day before, he'd seemed . . . lost, broken, but still compassionate. However, the man sitting in front of me now was completely different—stiff and cold. Had I really misjudged him that poorly?
As if he had read my thoughts, the smile disappeared from his face as quickly as it had appeared. "There are just a few more things I think we should discuss briefly."
"Okay." I crossed my legs. His eyes followed my movement, and then he clenched his jaw and looked away before speaking.
"Since you're going to be living on my property and doing some accounting work, I think we should be up front about the nature of our relationship."
"Relationship? I thought that was clear. We're marrying for money. We have no relationship." The awkward, stilted nature of this meeting highlighted that fact perfectly.
"We'll be business associates. Nothing more."
"Agreed. As long as you're discreet, conduct your personal life as you see fit."
"I intend to."
"Fine."
"Good. I don't want you to get any . . . fanciful ideas about this arrangement."
I raised a brow. "Fanciful?"
"Romantic. Inaccurate."
I gritted my teeth. "Yes, you've made it clear I'm not your type. And I'll try my very best not to fall for your irresistible charms and make things," I narrowed my eyes, "unbearably awkward."
"Good."
I wanted to kick him. Regardless of what else he was, he was obviously a man used to being pursued by the opposite sex. And apparently he either assumed I was some sort of nun, or he had zero concern with how I conducted my own personal life. Most likely the latter. "What else?" I asked coldly.
Grayson—henceforth referred to as The Dragon—studied me. I didn't try to figure out what he was thinking. Probably trying to ascertain whether or not I was actually going to be able to keep myself from falling in love with him. He was getting uglier by the second. Arrogant reptile. "You mentioned my record. I'm assuming you know the nature of my crime?"
That immediately cooled the anger I'd been feeling. I felt heat creep up in my cheeks. "I hope you don't find it too intrusive, but I thought it best that I research you before making my offer."
He shrugged. "A good business decision. Do you have any questions about what you read before we move forward? I'll answer your questions now, but I don't intend to discuss it later."
I couldn't hide the surprise that came over me. "I . . . well, from what I understand, you got in a fight with a man outside a bar in San Francisco, and you hit him . . . ah, repeatedly. He fell and hit his head and died. It was an accident. You didn't intend to kill him. Is that the truth?" I felt embarrassed to sum up what was certainly an extremely upsetting situation, even now. He'd gone to prison for five years for his crime.
He was silent for so long, I wondered if he'd answer me. Finally, he said simply, "That's accurate enough." I regarded him for a moment, but his face was unreadable.
"Prison must have been . . . very hard for you." Something passed over his expression, but he schooled it with passivity before I could attempt to name it.
"You have no idea." There was an awkward silence. I bit my lip.
"And now, you're a felon."
He leaned forward, his steady, dark gaze fixed on me, his masculine smell clouding my senses. "Yes, Kira. I'm a felon. I can't get a loan—as you well know. My employment options are limited to say the least. Many doors are now closed to me. You're going to be married to a felon. Frank Dallaire's daughter is going to be married to a felon."
All the more reason for him to extend our estrangement, perhaps make it permanent. Which suits me just fine. But I didn't say that. Instead, I answered, "It'd be difficult for me to disappoint my father more than I already have."
He studied me again with his dragon eyes, the ones that seemed to see right through me. "I'll take your word for that." He suddenly stood, startling me slightly. I jumped up, and we almost collided when we both went to step forward. He steadied me by putting his hands on my upper arms. I raised my eyes to his and when he looked down at me, he seemed startled, too. "I have to go," he said, turning and beginning to walk toward the door.
"Oh, okay," I said, following him. "Just one more question, um, regarding the timing of this arrangement." I looked around the hotel room, calculating quickly how many days I could stay here. Of course I'd also need to hire a lawyer to draw up a prenuptial agreement with The Dragon, someone who had no connections to my father. "I know you probably want to . . . well, the thing is . . ."
"You don't have the money to stay here."
I let out a breath. "I do, but, not for long. Especially if I'm going to need to pay lawyer fees."
He stood in front of the door, rubbing the back of his neck. Finally he said, "Pack your suitcase. You can come with me now. We'll arrange a lawyer tomorrow. But Kira," he turned, looking me in the eyes, "if this doesn't pan out in a way we're both satisfied with, I'm going to ask you to leave immediately."
I nodded. "You wouldn't have to ask."
He jerked his head in a quick nod. "I'll give you five minutes to pack."
Yes, sir, Dragon, sir, I was tempted to respond sarcastically. But I zipped my lips and hurriedly began packing my things.
**********
Thirty minutes later I had checked out of the hotel, and following Grayson’s black truck, we were pulling through the gates of Hawthorn Vineyard.
I had been taken aback by the vineyard’s beauty the first time I'd arrived here, and I was just as taken now. Massive oak trees bordered the long driveway, the canopy of leaves shading our vehicles as we drove beneath them. The Hawthorn home, which stood just behind a courtyard with a large, round fountain in the center, was a vision of grace and elegance, and yet it managed to look warm and inviting at the same time. Ivy climbed one side of the large structure, and elegantly curved, wrought iron balconies flanked every window on the upper floor. The acres and acres of vineyards created a breathtaking background to the house and gardens, and I could see a small grove of fruit trees off to the left of the house—peaches, perhaps, or maybe apricots. At first glance, it looked like a lush paradise just waiting to be explored. It was only as you drew closer that you noticed the fountain wasn't running, the ivy needed tending, and the lawn and surrounding gardens were overgrown. The gardener had been dismissed, no doubt. It was beautiful nonetheless. In its glory, this place must have been magnificent. My eyes lingered on the rolling hills of vines in the distance, as I wondered at the state of grapes they'd produce. I looked forward to seeing it restored, not just for Grayson's sake, but for the sake of beauty itself. A place like this shouldn't be allowed to crumble to ruin. I thought Gram would agree. But I pushed the thought of my gram aside for the moment. No, she wouldn't want to see this beautiful vineyard in the place she'd loved so much crumble to ruin, but she'd also roll over in her grave to know I was marrying for money. I was a woman who would marry a complete stranger for money. That was me. Despair filled my chest momentarily. I knew that about myself now, and it brought another small measure of self-loathing.
Grayson pulled the truck over before we'd driven around the fountain, and I pulled behind him, just noticing a small house on the right, partially hidden behind a very large oak and overgrown foliage. He had called it the gardener's cottage, but most likely, any gardeners who had worked here recently hadn't lived on the property and had used this "house" strictly for equipment storage. Still, there was something quaint about it, half hidden as it was, and draped in overgrown wisteria. I got out of my car and Grayson did the same, walking toward me.
There was a glint of devilish challenge in his expression. Did he expect me to balk at the accommodations? Probably. Surely he saw me just as everyone else did, a spoiled princess, a daddy's girl who lived a frivolous, useless existence. And now he was going to have some fun with me. But what did I care what he thought? In a few months’ time, I'd never see him again. Our lawyers could handle the extremely straightforward divorce proceedings and I wouldn't think of him again. And vice versa I was sure.
I followed Grayson to the door of the cottage, where he moved the large showy blooms of purple wisteria aside and opened it without a key. Inhaling a big breath of the vining flowers, I stepped inside. Well. Old, obviously unused gardening equipment filled the front room. It was dusty, dirty, and smelled of mustiness and motor oil. I fought my way through the cobwebs and walked into the second room, what had once been a bedroom, but now only held a small metal bed with rusted springs.
"I'll have Charlotte bring you some blankets and a pillow, of course," Grayson said from behind me. I whirled around and eyed him. Was that amusement in his eyes? Why yes, it was. His lip trembled as if he was trying to control a smile that wanted to burst forth. Thought this was funny, did he? Well, what he didn't know was that the accommodations I'd been keeping for the past year were far worse than this. To the people I'd been living with, this would be a castle.
"I'll bathe in the fountain, I suppose?" I asked, smiling sweetly at him.
"The fountain doesn't work. There's running water here. Only cold, though, no hot. That won't be a problem, will it?"