The Gift-Wrapped Groom (2 page)

“All right, since the possible use of my money so bothers you, I promise I will pay for your bridegroom's transportation to Midwater and provide his pocket expenses, if necessary. Nothing more. That should satisfy you.”

“Satisfy me? Nothing about this crazy proposal satisfies me. Look, even if you scour the entire country for a man fitting the intellectual and physical qualifications you've delineated and actually find such a man—which I heartily doubt—he certainly won't be willing to submit to an arranged marriage, relocate to this rough, rural part of western Montana and accept the surname stipulations you've outlined. For heaven's sake, you must see how impossible your task is.”

“If you think it's so impossible, Noel, what have you to lose by agreeing to my terms?”

What indeed, she had thought. Still, she'd hesitated. Her grandfather had never dealt a hand he couldn't win. Did he have an ace tucked up his sleeve on this one? Certainly didn't seem likely.

“Well, Noel? Are you ready to let the mining consortium's bank gain another foothold in Midwater by taking your store, your home, everything you've worked for? Or are you going to let your softhearted grandfather shoo the wolves from the door and agree to abide by his impossible search—your description—for a proper bridegroom?”

Softhearted grandfather? Conniving grandfather
had always seemed like a much more appropriate label to Noel. Still, she had almost said yes right then and there—that was how sure she had been of his outfoxing himself this time. Only her well-developed sense of justice and fair play—qualities that had obviously skipped her grandfather's generation of the family tree—had intervened.

“All right, Grandfather. I will agree. But only if when you fail to produce this paragon of a husband by next Christmas Eve, you allow me to pay back the amount you will have to expend now on my behalf.”

“I told you, Noel, I'm not a bank. I do not loan—”

“Grandfather, I really appreciate your offering to help out, even with this bridegroom rider attached. But I will not abrogate my independence by being beholden to you or anyone. I love you very much, you old schemer. But, you will receive both the principal and the going rate of interest by next Christmas Eve. I will not just take your money outright. To do so would be tantamount to my saying I can't make it on my own...and I can.”

“Noel—”

“What's wrong? If everything works out your way, I won't be repaying you a cent. Or are you beginning to doubt your ability to come up with this bridegroom, after all?”

Of course, that reverse challenge had done it, just as Noel knew it would. William Winsome did not take his courage of conviction lightly. On that he could be as stubborn as Noel.

“You will agree to abide by these terms, Noel? I have your word?”

“You have it, Grandfather.”

Despite her having given her word, Winsome had picked up the phone to contact his big-time lawyer in Helena and had arranged for the legally binding agreement—with every detail included—to be faxed for both their signatures the next day.

“Just to make sure all the details are taken care of and neither of us misunderstood the other,” he'd assured her with that all-too-charming smile of his.

Yeah. Right.

Still, Noel wasn't worried. She knew what her grandfather's chances were in this foolhardy venture. Over the past year, she had worked hard to bring her business back into the black and had diligently saved the money to repay him. In another week, she'd have it all—a full seven days ahead of Christmas Eve—her deadline.

Winsome hadn't mentioned how his search was coming for this mythical bridegroom. He didn't have to. The ever-increasing shortness of his temper over the past year spoke volumes to Noel. He'd reached his all-time scowling best at Thanksgiving dinner two weeks earlier. Noel chuckled at the memory of his silent glower when she'd asked at the dinner table—with absolutely no attempt at innocence—if he wasn't happy that the Christmas season had arrived
so soon.

Noel chuckled anew as she negotiated the final turn up his long driveway, lit by an impressive array of muted lights on either side of the road leading to his residence.

Her grandfather's home sat prominently on top of a hill on the very farthest reaches of Midwater valley. It was an unlikely blend of Montana ranch and European castle, with an enormous expanse of rambling, single-story pitched roof stacked on either side by tall, sturdy turret bookends. An astronomer's telescope topped the right turret. The left turret housed the emergency generators that backed up the valley's often fickle power supply.

Tonight, those turrets and every other inch of the large, impressive home were decked out in twinkling red and green lights to celebrate the season. A life-size Nativity scene took up the entire east lawn.

Behind the house, the top of a hill had been shaved off to form a helicopter pad. One edge sported a huge neon Santa Claus, with jolly glowing red cheeks, cracking his whip from the cockpit of a whirlybird with a flashing red nose.

Considering the modest, rural village of Midwater, her grandfather's extravagant residence, with its ostentatious decorations, definitely stood out, yet strangely befitted the small community's most famous, unconventional and exalted inhabitant.

William Winsome—former star of stage and screen, the man known for his clever manipulation of movie producers and directors, the man whose later rise to the governorship of the state of Montana was due more to his brilliant outmaneuvering of his political opponents than to his substantial personal charisma—this was the man who was about to find himself
finally
tripping over that long, interfering nose of his.

Noel was smiling.

She was still smiling as Jean Skogen, her grandfather's part-time nurse, housekeeper and chauffeur for the past five years, opened the door to her doorbell summons.

Jean was a square five-five, with blunt-cut dark hair, a blunt-shaped face, a blunt-shaped body and a blunt look in her hazel eyes. She helped Noel to shed her coat with the economy of neat, purposeful movements that still remained despite the fact that she'd ceased being an army paramedic a decade before.

“Wipe your feet,” Jean ordered in her typical bossy blunt tone.

Noel smiled and did as she was told. Jean's appearance and manner had finally ceased to fool her a couple of Christmases ago. It was a week after Noel's devastating breakup with Cade that Jean appeared—quite unexpectedly—on her doorstep, holding a tiny white puppy.

“My sister in Texas breeds West Highland white terriers. Champions. Except this runt. Throwback genes or something. She sent it to me rather than have it destroyed. Thought I might like a dog. I don't like dogs. You don't want it, Noel, no problem. I'll have Doc give it a lethal injection.”

Noel had snatched the adorable ball of white fur out of Jean's hands, horrified that the woman could think, much less say, such a thing. Mistletoe quickly and thoroughly stole her heart. Somehow the pain surrounding Cade never seemed so bad after the little white terrier came into her life.

And when Noel got the papers on Mistletoe from Jean's sister a month later and found that far from being the runt of the litter, her little terrier was its “pick”, she'd gotten a clear glimpse of the warm, squishy heart that hid behind the blunt manner of one Jean Skogen.

Now she leaned over to give the hard cheek a quick kiss. Jean's hazel eyes softened. The ends of her lips raised briefly in the ghost of a smile. Her tone was hurried, confidential, a mere whisper.

“They've been waiting for you.”

“
They?
Who—”

“Noel!” William Winsome's voice boomed across his enormous foyer, just as it had in many a theater, drowning out her question. Jean quickly turned away to hang up Noel's coat in the hall closet.

Noel's grandfather was still a strong-looking man at seventy-five—tall, straight, with a shock of thick white hair, a prominent nose and very blue eyes. He wore a typical outfit this evening—fine, dark gray wool slacks, a sports coat one shade lighter and an open-collared light pink silk shirt. His lithe, lanky body approached her with the smooth easy grace of a slightly aging but still formidable panther.

He positively beamed at her with far too much goodwill for someone supposedly facing a problem. Noel thought she caught a glimpse of a long, pink panther tail curling in anticipation behind her crafty old grandfather. Her stomach turned in a very uneasy twist.

“What's going on, Grandfather? You said you
needed
to talk to me immediately.”

A lanky arm draped across her shoulders—not with its full weight yet, but exerting sufficient force to guide her in the direction he intended her to take. That appeared to be the study he'd just vacated.

“I have someone I want you to meet.”

Noel resisted her grandfather's pull, planting her feet firmly on the well-polished, tongue-and-groove wood entry floor.

“You brought me here to meet someone? This late? I don't believe this. Grandfather, you know this is my busy season. I only just got home after putting in twelve hours at the store when I answered your call.”

Her grandfather's arm leaned more heavily on her shoulders, resolutely urging her forward.

“And knowing it was your busy season, I chose to be considerate and purposely didn't bother you at the store. I waited until you got home.”

He was pressing her forward inch by inch.

“What makes it so urgent that I meet this person tonight?”

“Well, the sooner the better, of course. He actually arrived this afternoon, but the plane trip was a long one and then there was the helicopter hop from Helena. I thought it would only be fair to let him rest up some. As it was, I soon realized he didn't need any recuperation time. He's quite a man. I can't wait to introduce you. You'll find his English excellent. Not even a trace of an accent.”

“Plane trip? Helicopter hop from Helena? No trace of an accent? Grandfather, who are you talking about?”

Her grandfather's blue eyes twinkled triumphantly. “Who do you think?”

A pressure squeezed inside Noel's chest—an ominous pressure of something circling, closing in. She took a deep breath and fought the flicker of suspicion trying to emerge into full consciousness. It couldn't be... She wouldn't let herself jump to such a devastating conclusion.

She grasped for other explanations. Her grandfather often played host to important people. Many in the movie business. This man must be a foreign actor. Maybe one she had mentioned she liked. Although at the moment she couldn't think of a single domestic or foreign star she had discussed with her grandfather.

They reached the entrance to the study. William Winsome drew back the french doors with a dramatic flourish.

“There
he
is, Noel. My Christmas present. And two weeks early.”

Noel's eyes swung away from her grandfather into the room.
He
was standing square in front of the massive stone fireplace, backlit by the roaring flames.

Her first impression was of size and strength. He was at least six-four, his upper body a flesh-and-blood triangle of solid shoulders and lean waist covered in a rough, dark sweater. He wore blue jeans over a pair of long legs, the muscles of which bulged against the material-like tree trunks sprouting new shoots. A swath of thick, raven hair winged menacingly across his forehead. His face was weathered stone, forged from harsh exposure to the most unforgiving of elements—and emotions.

But it was his eyes that caught and held her. Diamond black eyes as sharp and cold as the blackest Montana midnight.

This was no movie star. Nor was he anyone she had ever seen before. But she knew exactly who he was. He was the man who did not exist.

The color in Noel's face quickly drained away.

William Winsome slipped his arm around his granddaughter's waist and urged her forward into the study—closer, ever closer, toward those eyes.

“Noel, I'd like to present Nicholas Baranov—straight off the plane from Russia—your mail-order bridegroom.”

N
icholas Baranov watched the look of total shock that had immobilized Noel Winsome's face from the second she'd seen him. He had anticipated and prepared himself for the possibility of several reactions from his prospective American bride. Shock hadn't been one of them.

Still, if truth be told, he was feeling a bit shocked himself.

Considering the size qualifications Winsome had stipulated his grandson-in-law must meet, Nicholas had expected to be matched with a tall, hefty woman. This woman, standing so stock-still before him, was barely five-eight and rather on the slim side beneath her jade sweater and blue jeans. She stared at him from eyes as silvery green as the Siberian Sea, frozen in place within an oval of porcelain skin.

A cold, remote face, devoid of all life and passion.

But not so the long, thick hair that framed her face and flowed past her shoulders. Fire danced through its luxuriant red-gold strands—a scorching intense fire that lit up the room from the moment she entered it and brought a disturbing heat to his hands.

She was surprisingly, undeniably, astoundingly beautiful.

He had been prepared for ugly, had, in fact, fervently hoped for it. An ugly woman, unable to find a decent husband and needing to go so far as to have her grandfather arrange for one to be imported, this was understandable. But a woman who looked like this—one whose mental and physical health had been guaranteed—this woman could have only one kind of drawback. The worst kind. The moral kind.

If even by American standards her morality had been found wanting, Noel Winsome must be wanting indeed.

For himself it did not matter, of course. So little did. But the grandfather hoped for children. What if there were children? Should he back out now? Could he?

“Well, come on, Noel, Nicholas. The least you two could do is shake hands.”

Yes, Nicholas supposed it was the least he could do. He took a step forward and put out his hand. She did not take it. The look of shock gradually faded from her face. In its place emerged a hard look that kept her features frozen in place.

She turned toward her grandfather. “I would like to speak with you alone.”

Nicholas dropped his hand. So, she would end it and save him the trouble. He allowed himself to feel neither relief nor disappointment.

Winsome's voice remained amicable. “I don't think that would be very polite, do you? Nicholas is my guest and he's come a long way to meet you. If you have anything to say to me, you should be able to say it in front of him.”

“I can't believe you actually did this.”

Nicholas watched a new emotion pass over the old man's face. It matched the hardness of his granddaughter's, and then some. Gone was the charming, welcoming man who had greeted him with such enthusiasm and warmth. Up until this moment, he hadn't thought this grandfather and granddaughter looked at all alike. Now the resemblance was remarkable and unmistakable.

“Believe it, Noel.”

“All those requirements—”

“Nicholas meets them and then some. He's real. He's here. He's all yours.”

Something like desperation began to lace her tone. “But the required blood tests, the license—”

“Were all taken care of days ago when I decided on Nicholas. I spoke to our doctor just before your physical in Missoula last month. Told him all about our little surprise.”

“You told him—”

“He drew a little extra blood just in case. Old Clyde has always been a good, loyal friend.”

“Of all the—”

“I knew about Nicholas then, of course. But there was a lot for my people in Moscow to take care of, and international red tape can be horrendous. You've no idea what kind of strings I had to pull and markers I had to call in. Still, it was all worth it. Nicholas is perfect, made-to-order.”

“This man is really...Russian?”

Nicholas was becoming irritated at the way this woman spoke with her grandfather as though Nicholas wasn't even there. Such a lack of manners. But then, Nicholas reminded himself, as he had for the last week, that he should not expect too much. After all, she was only an American.

“Nicholas will apply for citizenship once you are married.”

He watched her hands moving uneasily by her sides, as though too full of internal agitation to stay still. Obviously, she also lacked discipline.

“This can't possibly be legal. When Bud Winer wanted to marry a Filipino woman, he had to go to her country to meet her first. I've never been to Russia to meet this man.”

Winsome beamed at her. “Not to worry, child. When my friends at the State Department who arranged this matter for me explained to officials at the Immigration and Naturalization Service that because of the political unrest in Russia, it would not be prudent for you to visit, that condition was waived. So you see, those annoying minor details have been seen to and properly dealt with. Nicholas is legally here on a fiancé visa. You can be certain of it.”

Nicholas could see that the certainty was indeed making itself painfully felt. Those hands moved in ever-frantic sweeps. He didn't know how it was possible, but her face got even paler as the desperation grew in her voice.

“You would force me to do this?”

Winsome beamed again. “Me? Force you? Noel, this is the middle of the 1990s in the United States of America. Forcing women into marriage went out at least a century ago.”

Nicholas was glad to hear that the grandfather had no intention of forcing her. He liked William Winsome. He would not want to find cause to change that opinion. And no matter how desperate his own straits, he would not be party to taking an unwilling bride.

“Noel, if you don't have the good sense to accept this perfect husband I have scoured the earth to find, then simply say the word and Nicholas will be back on the next plane to Moscow.”

“You'll still let me give you the money?”

Money? She had paid her grandfather to find him?

More beaming from that perfect smile with those perfect teeth before the charming voice continued. “My dear child, I don't want your money. You'll find your old grandfather as generous as always. I will be delighted for you to continue to work at
my
store and come to live here with me in
my
home. We'll use that old shack of yours as firewood this winter.”

Nicholas watched as absolute horror absorbed Noel's face at the images William Winsome's seemingly loving words evoked. His confusion deepened. What was so terrible about her grandfather's freely offering to take her into his home—this beautiful home—while expressing so much love?

There was a tug-of-war going on between this grandfather and granddaughter—one that Nicholas was at a loss to understand. Then, in a flash, the look of horror on Noel's face was replaced by that hardness again. A fierce determination underlay her next words.

“I want to speak to Mr. Baranov alone.”

Winsome's smile dimmed not one watt. “I'm afraid leaving you two alone would be inappropriate. You are affianced, yes. But I am an old-fashioned man, and until the two of you have tied the knot, Nicholas will stay here and I will be present whenever you're together. And, if you're going to insist on using last names, Noel, please address our guest properly as Dr. Baranov.”

“I have the right to question him, and I intend to.”

The old man's smile dimmed and definite annoyance crossed his face. “Are you saying you don't believe me about Nicholas's qualifications? Since when have you ever found me to be less than truthful?”

“I'm not trying to impugn your veracity, Grandfather. But a man—and particularly a husband—must have far more important qualifications than those you delineated in our agreement. I will question him. This is a major life decision, the most important one I will ever make. And, ultimately, despite your considerable efforts in affecting it, this is my life, and this is a decision only I can make.”

Winsome studied the resolute look on his granddaughter's face. He obviously wasn't easy about acquiescing, but he finally did and nodded toward the large, beautiful mahogany desk that dwarfed the far corner of the book-lined study.

“Make yourself comfortable. Ask any questions you desire. You will not find Nicholas wanting. I will remain within hearing range. The proprieties must be maintained, you understand.”

Noel flashed her grandfather a look. She clearly did not believe proprieties were behind his continued presence at all. Yes, this was a very strange relationship these two had, not at all like the respectful and warm one he had shared with his maternal grandfather in Russia. So many years ago. More than a lifetime ago.

Nicholas forcibly pushed away those memories as he followed Winsome's gesture and took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He expected Noel to take the other. But instead, she circled the desk and sat in her grandfather's chair. As he caught the small frown on Winsome's face, Nicholas decided that the move had been both bold and calculated.

She had claimed a part of her grandfather's territory deliberately. Did she have so little respect for her elders? Did she take Winsome's chair to provoke him?

No. He could see it now. She did so to tell her grandfather that she intended to supplant his previous control over the situation.

Ah, now he was beginning to understand. That must have been why at first she had seemed in opposition to him. His sudden appearance and Russian heritage had been a surprise. Noel Winsome was a woman who did not like surprises.

Too bad. He had a feeling he would be presenting her with a few at the conclusion of this “question” period.

He wasn't concerned about what she would ask. After all, this was merely a contract between them—a contract that was benefiting her as it was him. Emotion had no part in it.

That was one of the reasons he had agreed. He had no heart to give. That had died four years ago in his beloved Russia. He would not pretend to feel what he could not, or be what he could not.

Her tone had become businesslike—crisp and clear. She was looking at his face, but avoiding his eyes. “I take it you speak, read and write English fluently, Dr. Baranov?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an honorable man? That is to say, if you give your word, will you keep it?”

“Yes.”

She picked up and twirled a ballpoint pen between her fingers as though needing to give them something to do. She slid a piece of loose notebook paper around the top of the desk until it lay in front of her. Casually, she began to scribble on it.

“What is your doctorate in?”

Her real attention did not seem to be on this question. Nicholas doubted very much whether she was interested in his answer. So why did she bother to ask? What was going on in the mind of this woman?

“Physics,” he answered.

“What does a Russian citizen do with a doctorate in physics?”

“This Russian citizen became a nuclear physicist.”

The scribbling paused. Her head came up. “You've been involved in making atomic weapons?”

His answer to
this
question clearly interested her. Were he to answer yes, Nicholas had a feeling this interview would be over. So, now he knew she was for peace—at least between countries. Between man and woman, well, that appeared to be another matter altogether.

“My area of expertise was and is concerned with the cleanup of nuclear waste, Miss Winsome.”

“Are you a communist?”

“A socialist.”

“What about the unrest within the government among socialism, communism and capitalism?”

He shrugged. “It is struggle. Always struggle.”

Her eyes dipped again, the momentary interest gone. The scribbling resumed.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“You've never been married?”

“No.”

“Had children?”

“No.”

“Have you ever raised your hand in anger against another human being?”

“Yes.”

Her head came up again. This time not only interest but alarm swam in those silver-green eyes. “Who?”

“A petty official.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I broke his hand.”

“Why?”

“He had used it to push an old woman who was in his way.”

Curiosity replaced alarm. For the first time since she had walked into the room, her eyes met his directly. The heat increased in Nicholas's hands.

“Did you know this woman?”

“No.”

“The petty official?”

“No.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“If you have to ask why, then I can give you no answer you would understand.”

A flash of irritation swept through her eyes at his mild rebuke. He could see her wrestling with wanting to quickly change the subject and wanting to get further details. Her curiosity for the details won out. So, he'd learned another thing about this Noel Winsome.

“What happened after you broke his hand?”

“I ran.”

“Why?”

“In Soviet Russia, running was the only safe thing to do when one was ten.”

“Ten? How could you break a man's hand when you were only ten?”

“I was a big ten.”

Her look measured his shoulders, almost unconsciously, seeming to test the truth of this statement. He felt the muscles tense and warm along his collarbone, his upper arms—everywhere those cool eyes touched.

Then, for the space of a heartbeat, something not nearly so cool flickered in the depths of her eyes. Nicholas felt that heat in his hands again. That very curious heat.

Her gaze returned to his face, once again avoiding his eyes.

“What happened after you ran?”

“I was visiting distant relatives in Kazakhstan. They sent me back home for protection.”

“What happened to the woman and the petty official?”