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Authors: Sandra Marton

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BOOK: The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée
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“Uh-oh, what?”
“When you start tossing out the down-home maxims—even though you haven't lived in that little dot on the map you call home for three decades—it's always a bad sign. Means you're going to tell me something you figure I won't want to hear.”
“Four decades,” the older man said modestly, “and Macon, Georgia, is hardly a dot on the map. Still, roots is roots, as my ol' granpappy used to say.”
“Your ‘ol' granpappy' was a supreme court justice.”
Jack mimed being shot in the heart. “A direct hit! Nonetheless, roots is—”
“—Roots. Yeah. I know.” David's smile tilted. “To tell the truth, I'm pretty much overdosed on things south of the Mason-Dixon line, as of late.”
“Is that why you've been as grouchy as a boll weevil at harvesttime the past couple of weeks?”
“Jack…”
“Okay, okay, I'll keep my store of country wisdom to myself.”
“Good. Now, what is it you need to tell me that I'm not going to like?”
Jack leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “You recall a situation last year? The Anderson mess, where the old man died intestate and suddenly three cousins turned up with three different wills?”
“Sure. We represented the old guy's son, and we won. Don't tell me one of the cousins hired himself another lawyer!”
“No, no. It's just that this reminds me a bit of that situation. Man kicks off. Leaves behind a wife but no will, and then it turns out he held his entire estate in joint tenancy with his sister, who now has, of course, full rights of survivorship.”
“Was he trying to defraud his widow?”
Jack shook his head. “The court says no. The widow ends up without a dime.”
“Ouch,” David said, picturing a white-haired old lady turned out onto the streets.
“Ouch, indeed. I just got the call a little while ago, from the wife of the dead man. He was an old friend… Well, no. He wasn't a friend. Not at all. An acquaintance, you might say, from a town twenty, twenty-five miles from Macon.”
“And?”
“And, she's penniless. The widow's not surprised—says she should have figured he'd leave her nothing.”
David's eyebrows rose. “No love lost in the relationship, I gather?”
“None.” Jack rose to his feet and paced around the office, his hands in his pockets. “I only met the lady once, years ago. Can't say I remember much about the meeting, except that she was a tiny little thing, seemed kind of sad.”
“She wants you to represent her?”
“Well, she asked if I'd look things over, see if she's not at least entitled to the monthly stipend her husband had been giving her. I didn't ask too many questions because I could see there might be a conflict of interest. You see, the dead man's sister was a school friend of Mary's. Same sorority, all that nonsense. Bottom line is that I know Clare rather well.” Jack smiled. “I don't like her, but I know her. So it's a problem.”
“Well, if you told that to the widow…”
“I told her this wasn't our cup of tea. Too messy. That's the truth, even if she had a chance of collecting something. Purty young thang from the backwoods—”
“The sister?”
“The widow.”
“Ah. I thought—well, from what you'd said, I assumed she was an older woman.”
“Young,” Jack said. “Very young. And more than pretty, as I recall. The story just about rocked the town. Beautiful girl—eighteen, nineteen years old—marries a man pushing sixty with both hands. Little lady's got swamp grass between her toes, he's from the town's first family.”
“She traded sex for money and power. Jack, that's the world's oldest profession. Second oldest, when people make it legit with a marriage license.”
“The sister agrees. According to her, that's how the girl got a marriage ring on her finger. Bed for board, so to speak. But, says Sis, her brother wasn't a complete fool. He had no intention of providing for the girl beyond the here and now.”
“The girl knew this?”
“She says she didn't. Says her hubby promised she'd be taken care of on a monthly basis, even after his death. She makes no bones about it. David. Kind of boasted to me that she'd insisted on it before she'd agree to marry him.” Russell sat down again and crossed his legs. “Amazing, how cold-blooded some members of the so-called gentler sex can be, don't you think?”
David smiled tightly. “You're asking the wrong man that question, Jack.”
“Sorry. I'd forgotten about that ex-wife of yours.”
“Actually,” David said, “I wasn't thinking of her at all. Well, go on. What is it you want from me? If it's my opinion, I don't see much of a chance for appeal or reversal. I suppose the girl could sue, on the grounds that she's been defrauded of her rights to the estate.”
“She did, and the matter was decided against her. She says she doesn't care about anything but getting the monthly allowance her husband promised.”
“How much was it?”
“I don't know. I told you, I didn't ask too many questions.”
“Well, whatever it was, fifty bucks or five hundred, I hope you told her the chances of that happening were slim to none.”
“I tried. But she started crying…”
David gave a wry smile. “I'll bet.”
“I ended up promising I'd drive down and talk to her—but then I realized how it would look, considering my connections to the sister.”
“Damn right.”
“So,” Jack said with a little smile, “I'm asking you to do me a favor.”
“Jack, for heaven's sake…”
“It's not a big thing, David. Tomorrow's Friday. You can fly to Atlanta in the morning, cab to her house, be back before dinner.”
David frowned. “You're leaving out the part where I tell her not to be greedy, to be grateful for the cash, jewelry, furs, whatever it is she's got squirreled away.”
“Yes—except you might try doing it a little more gently.”
“Why? To prove that lawyers have hearts?”
“That's a cold attitude, counselor.”
“I'm feeling cold lately, Jack. And realistic.”
“Look, we do pro bono work all the time, and that's all I'm suggesting here, an hour of free advice for a young woman who needs it. I have to admit, I feel sorry for her, even knowing she married for money.”
“Sold herself, you mean.”
“I suppose. Still, there's something about her. She has this vulnerability… What?” Jack said when David's mouth crooked in a half-smile.
“I knew a rancher once, said the same thing about a yearling grizzly cub just before it mauled him.”
Jack laughed. “You see? Sometimes, nothing will do but a down-home sentiment.” He sat down again and leaned forward. “Look, we both know the girl's a manipulative little gold digger, but she did keep her end of the deal, or so I gather. She stayed with Avery, right to the end.”
“Such dedication,” David said, folding his arms and tilting back in his chair.
“Don't be so hard-hearted. She's broke. She has no skills, no talents, well, none other than a secretarial course she took one time, before she married.” Jack chuckled. “There's an idea. Maybe you should offer her a job.”
“You're leaving a skill out, Jack. The one that got her a wedding ring.”
“Ah, yes.” Russell gave a deep sigh. “Amazing, what a man will put himself through, and all so he can get one particular woman into his bed.”
An image of Stephanie Willingham flashed through David's head.
“Amazing,” he said coolly. “Okay, I'll talk to her.”
“Thank you, David.”
“Don't thank me,” David said, and smiled. “I'll get my pound of flesh out of you, Jack. I'll make you go to the Sheratons' house party next weekend, instead of me.”
Jack laughed. “Still running away from Mimi Sheraton? I wish I could oblige, but Mary's already made plans.”
“Terrific.”
“It will be. Just take out that little black book of yours and find yourself a playmate to take along for the weekend. That should stop Mimi.”
David snorted. Mimi Sheraton, daughter of a senator and married to a client who was husband number three—or was it four?—was stunning and about as subtle as a shark. Assertive women were fine—but one that groped you under the table while you were talking with her husband was definitely a turnoff.
“The only thing that would stop Mimi,” he said, “would be the announcement of my death.”
Jack laughed again. “Or of your engagement.”
“Same thing.”
The men smiled at each other, and then David reached for a pen and paper.
“Okay,” he said. “I'll fly down to Atlanta tomorrow. No need to let grass grow on this.”
“No need at all.” Jack dug into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “And I just happen to have the lady's address and phone number right here.”
“All I need now,” David said, glancing at the paper as he took it from his partner's outstretched hand, “is her name.”
“Oh. Oh, right. I thought I'd… Her name is Willingham.”
David stiffened, and his fingers tightened around the pen.
“It's what?”
“Willingham. Stephanie Willingham.” Jack closed one eye in a slow, deliberate wink. “I don't know what today's terminology is but when I was a young and callow youth, we'd have described her as one hell of a piece of—”
“I know the phrase,” David said. He tried to smile but from the look on the older man's face, he suspected he wasn't succeeding. “Believe me, Jack—it hasn't changed.”

* * *

It was insane, agreeing to see Stephanie again. It was even more insane, not telling Jack the truth.
Talk about a breach of ethics… David's hands tightened on the steering wheel of his Porsche as he turned off the highway at the exit for Willingham Corners. He'd driven down instead of flying, telling himself that the hours on the road would clear his head.
Even a first-year law student would know that what he was doing was improper. He was the wrong man to deliver legal advice to the widow Willingham.
I already know her, he should have said to Jack. I've had a run-in with her.
A run-in? Hell, he'd almost ripped off her clothes.
It wasn't too late to turn back. To head for the nearest phone, call Jack, tell him…what?
Hello, Jack. Listen, I spent an afternoon trying to seduce the grieving widow, so I'll have to disqualify myself from this case.
But there was no case. He was only a messenger and if Stephanie had any faint hopes of going into a courtroom again, she'd change her mind once he'd laid out the facts.
David smiled thinly, and tromped down on the gas.
CHAPTER SIX
D
UST rose into the air as Stephanie lugged her suitcase down from the shelf in the attic.
She sneezed, wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, and dumped the suitcase on the floor.
This was not the best place to spend an already warm May morning. The attic was airless and hot. Dust and cobwebs clung to every surface, spiders skittered in the corners and every now and then she caught the sound of mice behind the walls.
Stephanie shivered, despite the heat. She hoped they were mice, anyway.
The attic was depressing, too. It wasn't the kind of place that made you want to open old trunks and delve through the contents, despite the fact that it was a repository of castoff furniture and knickknacks that dated back two centuries. Under ordinary circumstances, she'd probably have been fascinated by the stuff—but these weren't ordinary circumstances, and never had been.
“You have married into a fine old family,” Clare had said on their wedding day, “but you will never be part of it.”
Stephanie smiled grimly as she slammed the attic door behind her and edged her way down the steep wooden steps with her suitcase in her hand.
“I'll do my best to fit in,” she'd said—but that was when she was still naive, when she'd believed in Avery's promises and in his kindness.
“Your best could never be good enough,” Clare had replied with a brittle smile, and Stephanie, stung, had started to answer but Avery's hand had tightened painfully on hers and he'd drawn her into a corner. It had been the first indication of what her life as his wife was really going to be.
“Lesson one,” he'd said with a phony smile plastered to his face so that anyone watching would think he was only whispering sweet nothings in her ear. “Don't you never sass my sister, you understand?”
Oh, yes, she'd understood. Avery had lied…but what could she do about it? He was all that stood between her and despair.
Stephanie carried the suitcase down the hall and into her bedroom. The lies, at least, were over now. She had no place to live, no money, and her brother's bills to meet, but at least she didn't have to pretend anymore. That was something to be grateful for, although she hadn't done much to keep up the pretense that she was glad to be Avery's wife the last couple of years. It hadn't been necessary. Avery had been too sick to appear in public very often. There'd been no reason to smile when he told a vulgar joke, or try not to shudder when he put his arm around her.
There'd been no reason to do much of anything—but she'd done it anyway, slept in the room next to his, as she'd done from the beginning; tended him when he woke during the night, gave him his medicines and fed him his meals and cleaned up his messes when he'd refused to let the nurses do it, because, after all, she'd given her word.
If only Avery had adhered to the same philosophy.
No. Stephanie opened the suitcase and stared down at the things inside iL She wouldn't think about that. She wouldn't think about anything, not until she spoke with Jack Russell's associate.
A woman from his office had phoned late yesterday. Mr. Russell was sending a colleague to meet with her, she'd said. Not Mr. Russell himself? Stephanie had asked, trying not to let her disappointment show. No, the woman had said briskly. An associate. A gentleman, who'd be paying a courtesy call in late afternoon.
After she hung up the phone, Stephanie realized she'd neglected to ask the gentleman's name. Not that it mattered. She was in no position to make demands on Mr. Russell. So long as he wasn't sending the office boy, she'd be satisfied. Russell's firm was well-respected. Avery had said as much once, in a left-handed way.
“Ol' Jack's the one man in Washington I've never been able to buy,” he'd said with a wheezing laugh.
Stephanie blew a tangle of curls off her forehead. As far as she was concerned, there couldn't have been a better recommendation.
“Okay,” she muttered, “let's see what's still usable here.”
A musty smell wafted from the suitcase as she opened it. Stephanie wrinkled her nose, went to the windows and threw them open. Then she bent over the neatly folded clothing she'd put away seven long years ago…
And groaned.
The smell came from mildew, though that wasn't the worst of it. Something had gnawed a tiny hole in the corner of the lid, just big enough to have given the moths and mice a treat. Two dresses, both made on an ancient sewing machine, a pair of polyester slacks that could almost pass for wool, the blouses she'd put away with such care…all ruined.
“Burn that garbage,” Avery had ordered the day she'd first come to this house.
The thought of tossing out what little remained of her old life, her real life, had terrified her. So, instead, she'd committed her first act of defiance and stashed the suitcase in the attic.
Stephanie sank down on the edge of the bed. It was silly, she knew, but she really had wanted to leave with nothing that wasn't her own. In view of the mess she'd found inside the suitcase, her choice was reduced to the jeans, sweatshirt and sneakers she was already wearing.
“Hell,” she whispered, and shot to her feet.
It was even sillier, to sit here and waste time worrying about it.
“On to Plan Two, Steff,” she said briskly.
She wiped her grimy hands on the seat of her jeans, then pulled open the closet door. Designer clothing crowded the rack from one wall to the other. Stephanie put out a hand, then drew it back.
“You're being an idiot,” she muttered. “Clothing is clothing, that's all it is.”
Exactly. And the cold truth was that she'd worked long and hard for her keep.
“Damn right,” she said, and she began stripping garments from their hangers. Not too many—just enough until she found a job. Found a way to earn money for herself…
For Paul.
But how? How? She didn't need much to live on, but the costs of keeping her brother safe, and well, and reasonably content…
Why was she wasting time on a line of thought that wouldn't accomplish anything?
She worked quickly, folding things and placing them on the bed. Shoes, underwear, a sweater…
The sound of tires crunching on the bluestone gravel driveway drifted up through the opened windows.
Stephanie glanced at her watch and frowned. Who could that be? It was early afternoon; Russell's man wasn't due until much later and she wasn't expecting anyone else…
Clare.
Of course. It would be her sister-in-law, come to gloat, to remind her that she had to be out of here by midnight.
The doorbell rang. Stephanie shot a look into the mirror. She was a mess. She had no makeup on, her hair seemed to have forgotten its morning touch of the comb. Her sweatshirt was grimy, her jeans were torn and she'd snagged a couple of fingernails wrestling the suitcase from the attic.
She looked like hell—and hell was exactly what Clare deserved.
She took a deep breath and headed for the stairs.

* * *

David stood on the porch, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his chinos, whistling softly through his teeth as he surveyed the scene around him.
Big white house, colonnaded porch, a driveway you damn near needed a map to negotiate and enough Spanish moss dripping from the trees to gladden the heart of the entire Confederate army.
Nice. Very nice—assuming that living on the set of
Gone with the Wind
was your idea of a good time. It sure as hell wasn't his and somehow, he wouldn't have thought it suited the widow Willingham, either, but then, what he knew about the woman could fit in a thimble with room left to spare.
Frowning, he jabbed the doorbell again. Wouldn't it be a bitch if she wasn't in? He knew he was early, knew he probably should have phoned from his car, but there'd been no way to precisely estimate his arrival time…
Who was he kidding? He hadn't phoned because he was damned well certain Stephanie would have told him what he could do with his impending visit, had she known about it. And then she'd have seen to it that Jack knew the details, as well. All the details, including the embarrassing ones. So David had instructed his temp to offer no names to Mrs. Willingham.
“Just tell her to expect a visit from a member of Mr. Russell's firm,” he'd said.
The woman's brows had taken a barely perceptible lift but, unlike the late, unlamented Miss Murchison, she hadn't asked any questions.
“Yes, sir,” she'd replied, and now here he was, unembarrassed… and, thanks to the hour, unexpected.
David stepped off the porch and gave the house the once-over again. Windows were open upstairs; he could see draperies billowing gently under the warm caress of the spring breeze. Okay. One last try. He climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and pressed the bell, listening as the chimes echoed distantly through the rooms.
All right. Enough was enough. He'd head back to the highway. Or to his car. Yes, that's what he'd do, phone Jack and tell him what he should have told him in the first place, that he was the wrong man to deal with the beautiful young widow with the vulnerable air and the disposition of a tigress…
The door swung open. Stephanie Willingham stood before him, her hands on her hips.
“You know what, Clare?” she was saying. “As far as I'm concerned, you can take this miserable house and—”
She broke off, her face reflecting shock. Not that David really noticed. He was pretty much in shock, himself.
This wasn't the stunning, sophisticated woman he'd been dreaming about. Stephanie looked about as sophisticated as a teenager. And she was—there was no other word to describe her—a mess. Her face was smudged and makeup-free; her hair was a mass of ringlets. She was wearing a sweatshirt that was a couple of sizes too large and a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better days.
And she was definitely not as beautiful as he'd remembered.
She was more beautiful, so lovely that the shock of seeing her almost stole his breath.
As it was, it damn near stole his hand, which he'd rested on the doorjamb.
“You,” Stephanie said, and slammed the door in his face.
He moved fast, got his hand out of the way just in time and replaced it with his shoulder, wincing when the door threatened its removal.
“Okay,” he said, “calm down.”
“How dare you? How
dare
you?”
“Mrs. Willingham…Stephanie…”
She called him a name, one that made his eyes widen.
“Get out of here! You hear me? You—get—out—of—here—right—now,” she said, punctuating each word with a shove against the door.
“Hey. Hey, don't do that. You're going to slice my arm off at the shoulder.”
“That'll be a good start, you—you…”
“Look, I know you're not glad to see me, but—”
“Not glad?
Not glad?
” Her voice flew up the scales. “Get off my porch. Get out of my driveway. Get—”
“Dammit, woman, listen to me!”
“No, Mr. Chambers. You're the one has to do the listening.” Her eyes narrowed coldly. “I've got a shotgun right at my side.”
“Oh, for crying out loud…”
“My late husband always said a loaded gun was a man's best friend, but believe me, this gun's got nothing against being a woman's best friend, too.”
“Listen, there's a perfectly logical explanation for—”
“You get yourself out of this doorway, down those steps and into your car or so help me Hannah, I'll blow your head off!”
Did she really have a gun? David hadn't seen any, but what did that prove? Not seeing a weapon didn't mean there wasn't a weapon. That was urban survival lesson number one.
“Mrs. Willingham,” he said in his finest, most conciliatory-courtroom manner, “you're overreacting.”
“Move, Mr. Chambers!”
“Stephanie, dammit because—”
“One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thou—”
“What are you doing?”
“I'm counting. You have five seconds, sir. Two more, in other words, and if I'm not looking at your backside by then, I'm going to fire.”
David sighed. “Jack Russell,” he said, and the instant he saw her eyebrows knot together in puzzlement, he twisted hard, freed his shoulder and threw all his weight against the door.
She had the advantage of leverage. He, however, he had a multiplicity of advantages. He had weight. Height. Muscle. And the growing conviction that if she really did have a gun, she wouldn't hesitate to use it.
BOOK: The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée
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