A Proper Wife

by Sandra Marton

  “The marriage is on!”

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  “The marriage is on!”

  Marriage. Was he crazy?

  “The ceremony’s Friday at four o’clock.”

  He was crazy!

  “I don’t want to ruin this for you,” Devon snapped, “but you’ve left out one minor detail, Ryan. Me! Marriage takes two, and I am one of the principal parties in this lunatic scheme, or had you overlooked that?”

  “How could I possibly overlook it? It’s not every day a man has his bride handpicked for him.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Devon said fiercely.

  “I am not your bride!”

  “Not yet you aren’t. But you will be, come Friday afternoon.”

  FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it, or not!

  SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sunfilled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut, where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.

  SANDRA MARTON

  A Proper Wife

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  HER hair was the pale gold of summer wheat, her eyes the deep purple of wood violets. And for one heart-stopping instant as she started down the steps, Ryan Kincaid thought she might not be wearing anything beneath the ankle-length, crimson velvet cape but her own honeyed skin.

  Logic told him otherwise. Montano’s might be New York’s trendiest department store, but, he thought wryly, it didn’t go in for nude modeling.

  It was the way she held the cape closed that made for the incredible illusion. Her hands clutched the high mandarin collar against her chin so that the cape flared open at each stride, revealing an incredible length of elegant, curvaceous leg.

  Ryan’s green eyes narrowed in appreciation. She really was stunning. And she knew it. You could see it in the proud way she held herself, in the look of disdain etched on her perfect face. All the other models had smiled at the crowd of shoppers gathered at the foot of the mezzanine steps, but she moved like a queen, never deigning to notice the peasants.

  It only made her all the more appealing, Ryan thought, and he felt his body stir with interest.

  Getting trapped in Montano’s crowded aisles during what had turned out to be the store’s Friday Fashion Show was turning out to be more pleasant than he’d expected.

  Frank, standing just behind him, gave a choked groan.

  “Oh, me, oh, my,” he whispered, “will you look at the blonde?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The answer to a man’s dreams.”

  Ryan grinned. “X-rated dreams,” he said softly.

  It was amazing, the series of images that were flashing through his mind. And that was weird. He was not a man given to sexual fantasies: there’d always been enough beautiful women in his life to keep him more than happy with reality. But just looking at this one as she came down the mezzanine steps was putting his brain into overdrive.

  “No offense,” Frank murmured, “but I’d sure rather have a drink with her than with you.”

  Ryan smiled. “Forget the drink. I’d rather take her home, peel off that velvet cape and make a career of finding out what’s underneath it.”

  The comment had been meant for no ears but Frank’s, but just as Ryan began to speak, the music that had been playing gave an electronic burp and died. The hum of the crowd subsided.

  And Ryan’s words were clear and distinct in the ensuing silence.

  The blonde froze.

  The crowd gave a delighted gasp.

  Ryan gave a soft groan of embarrassment.

  What now? he thought. Did he grin? Shrug his shoulders, laugh the whole thing off? Should he offer an apology?

  In the end, there were no options. The blonde’s jaw tightened, her spine stiffened, and she resumed her walk down the stairs but with a purposeful stride.

  A girl broke from the little cluster of models gathered at the foot of the staircase, said something and reached out a hand, but the blonde shrugged it off and marched toward him.

  Frank gave a soft laugh. “Adiós, muchacho,” he murmured, and stepped back.

  She came to a stop in front of Ryan, her beautiful face white with barely repressed rage, her eyes locked on his. He cleared his throat, then gave her the smile that had charmed some of the most exquisite women in Manhattan.

  “Amazing, the tricks acoustics can play,” he said pleasantly.

  She said nothing, just went on looking at him with that glint of fury in her eyes.

  Ryan cleared his throat again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m really sorry about that, but—”

  “You,” she said coldly, “have the manners of a goat.”

  Someone in the crowd tittered. Ryan felt an unaccustomed flush of color rise into his face.

  “Yes. Well, I—”

  She came a step closer. A faint scent of perfume—Opium? L’Air du Temps?—teased his nostrils.

  “Or are you just a pluperfect jackass?”

  The titters came again, louder and more widespread. Ryan had to work at keeping his smile plastered to his face.

  “Look, miss,” he said, “I’m sorry if—”

  “You’re not the least bit sorry!” Her eyes—almost black with anger—flashed with accusation. “Why would you be? You and your kind think you can insult anyone who has to work for a living, don’t you?”

  “Lady,” he said patiently, “don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m trying to apologize but-”

  She laughed coldly, showing small, perfect white teeth. “A goat could no more manage an apology than a baboon could learn the minuet!”

  Giggles of appreciation swept through the crowd behind him. His face darkened and he stepped closer to her. She was tall for a woman but at six-two, he was taller; it gave him a grim kind of pleasure to see that his size intimidated her enough to make her take a quick step back.

  “You’re right,” he said silkily, “I’m not in the least bit sorry. I enjoyed the show.”

  There was a faint burst of applause, punctuated by a soft wolf whistle. Ryan turned and shot the crowd a quick smile.

  The nerve of the man! Devon felt her cheeks flame as she stared up at the egotistical brute with the sea-green eyes, the black-as-midnight hair, and the smirk. Every eye in the place was on her now.

  If only she’d ignored what he’d said.

  If only she’d listened to the model who’d tried to stop her from flying at him.

  If only she hadn’t let Mr. Deauville drag her out from behind the counter in Fragrances minutes ago.

  The manager had been breathless, his little eyes shiny with distress.

  The weekly fashion show was beginning in five minutes, he’d
said, while he hustled her up to the mezzanine. One of the models had been taken ill. Devon was tall, she was slender—she would have to fill in.

  Devon had tried to tell him that it was out of the question. She’d been hired two days ago to sell perfume, not to model.

  But telling him anything at all had proven impossible. There’d been people and confusion everywhere. She’d still been sputtering when Mr. Deauville had shoved her into a blocked-off dressing room.

  “Here’s your extra girl,” he’d said, and then somebody named Clyde with a lisp, a flutey voice, and the determination of a bull terrier, had grabbed her and told her to get out of her navy suit and white silk blouse and into the dress he’d shoved at her. Finally, he’d draped a velvet cape over her shoulders. It was in a color that made it about as unobtrusive as a fire engine but she’d clutched it as Clyde shoved her out the door because at least it hid the rest of her, which was crammed into a dress that covered damn near nothing.

  The next thing she’d known, she’d found herself standing at the top of the stairs with a bunch of strangers peering up at her.

  “It’ll be OK, kid,” the same model who’d tried to stop her a couple of minutes ago had said.

  And it almost had been, until this... this Neanderthal, this jerk with the kind of dangerous good looks that probably made stupid women keel over, had decided to take some cheap shots at her expense.

  And she, like a fool, had let his snide remarks get under her skin, launched herself at him like a missile gone haywire—

  “Well?”

  Devon blinked. He was looking down at her with that disgustingly masculine smirk on his face.

  “Well, what?”

  “Am I forgiven?” he said with a rakish smile.

  “Come on, lady,” a male voice called out, “tell the guy you accept his apology!”

  “Yeah,” another voice said, “tell him it’s OK.”

  The man with the green eyes grinned. “You hear them,” he said softly. “Come on, love. Let’s kiss and make up.”

  He reached out, cupped her chin in his hand, and bent toward her, his eyes on hers, that damnable smile still on his handsome face. He had to be joking, Devon thought desperately, he had to be....

  She looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t.

  Without hesitation, she jerked back, balled her hand into a fist, and slugged him, right in the jaw.

  Holy hell, Ryan thought.

  He staggered back, shaking his head against the sudden buzzing in his ears.

  “Ryan?”

  He blinked.

  “Ryan? Are you OK?” Frank’s hands closed on his shoulders. “Dammit, say something!”

  Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “She hit me,” he said in wonder.

  Frank began to grin. “I’ll say.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “OK,” he said. “OK, I’ve had enough.” He pulled away from Frank and turned toward the girl, who hadn’t moved. “That’s it,” he said grimly. “I’ve tried to apologize but you wouldn’t accept that. I admitted I behaved like a jerk and that wasn’t good enough, either. But if you think I’ll let you get away with slugging me, you’ve got another—”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Miss Franklin! What is going on here?”

  Devon blanched. “Mr. Deauville,” she said quickly. “I—I can explain, if you’ll just—”

  The manager turned to Ryan. “What happened here, sir?” Ryan glanced at the girl again. Her face was white as paper, her eyes huge and dark. Hell, he thought again, and he blew out his breath.

  “Nothing happened,” he said.

  The little man’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I appreciate your chivalry, but if Montano’s is to maintain employee discipline—”

  “And I appreciate your concern,” Ryan said. His smile was polite. “But really, nothing happened. This young lady and I had a misunderstanding, and—”

  “She slugged him,” a delighted voice called out.

  The man with the mustache turned pale. “She did what?” He whirled toward the girl, his eyes flashing. “Miss Franklin?”

  Devon swallowed hard. Two weeks of pounding pavements, searching for a job; two weeks of hearing Bettina tell her what a fool she was for looking for “demeaning” work....

  “It... it isn’t the way it sounds,” she said desperately. “If you’d just give me a moment—”

  “Did you strike this gentleman or didn’t you?”

  “Mr. Deauville, please—”

  “You’re fired, Miss Franklin!”

  “Wait a minute, Deauville.” Ryan stepped forward, frowning. “You can’t just fire her.”

  “Butt out,” Devon snapped. She swung toward Ryan, her face flushed. “Haven’t you done enough for one day? You’re the cause of this fiasco, you... you stupid, hypocritical jerk!”

  Ryan shook his head, wincing at the words and at the sudden ache in his jaw.

  “Listen, lady, I’m doing what I can to be a gentleman here, but—”

  “Why waste time trying to be anything but what you are?”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He stared at her for a long moment and then he turned to the manager dancing attendance at his elbow.

  “The girl slugged me, all right,” he said tightly.. “Fire her.”

  “I already did,” the little man said. He looked at Devon, his eyes cold. “I repeat, Miss Franklin, you are terminated.”

  Devon stared from one man to the other. Did they think she was a... a thing to be discussed as if she weren’t present?

  “Terminated?” she said, and gave a little laugh. In one swift, defiant motion, she shrugged the crimson cape from her shoulders and let it pool at her feet. “Take my advice, Mr. Deauville, and go terminate yourself!” Before either man could speak, she turned and walked away.

  It was the longest walk of her life, up those steps and then to the dressing room. She could feel all those eyes boring into her, knowing what they saw, the dress she’d been stuffed into that was little more than a pair of thin straps and skintight black silk; the ridiculously high-heeled, black satin pumps.

  But she kept her shoulders back and her head high, until, at last, she was safely inside the dressing room. Then she stripped off the dress, kicked off the shoes, put on her own clothing and whisked out the employees’ door to the street.

  The two cramped hotel rooms she shared with her mother just off Times Square were mercifully empty. Bettina was probably out shopping, Devon thought bitterly as she locked the door behind her, spending their last few dollars to dress herself up for tonight’s visit to James Kincaid.

  Devon’s mouth trembled as she sank down on the edge of her sagging bed. Why had she ever agreed to go with Bettina this evening? She hadn’t wanted to: last week’s visit had been more than enough. The old man was just eccentric, Bettina had insisted, but Devon had felt first like a supplicant and then like a bug under a microscope.

  Tonight would surely be worse. Bettina was up to something—the signs were all there. If only she’d devote half that much energy to looking for a job.

  A job, Devon thought. Lord, a job!

  This morning, she’d been employed. Now, barely four hours later, she wasn’t.

  Here she was, in a strange city, with no money and a mother who thought work was something invented for fools. And now, thanks to that insulting creep at Montano’s, she was out of a job.

  At least she’d gotten back some of her own. That punch had really rocked him. She couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing, she, who never so much as stepped on an ant if she could help it, but he had deserved it.

  A smile tilted across Devon’s lips. What satisfaction there’d been in feeling her fist connect with his smug, square-jawed face.

  Her smile wobbled, then disappeared.

  “Damn him,” she said shakily. “Damn him to hell!”

  “Damn who?” Bettina said brightly, slamming the door after her.

  Devon ran h
er hands quickly over her eyes. “Hello, Mother. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I was out shopping,” Bettina said, tossing packages on the bed. “I want to look my best tonight, Devon. So should you.”

  “I don’t know why we’re going at all,” Devon muttered. “I don’t even know why we came to this city.”

  “Because we have family here, that’s why. And family helps family, when the chips are down.”

  “We have no ‘family’ here, and you know it.”

  “What a terrible mood you’re in, Devon. I hope you’re not going to sit around glowering tonight.”

  Devon took a breath. “I lost my job,” she said.

  “Really,” Bettina said without much interest. “How do you like this dress? Too dull, do you think?”

  Devon winced at the magenta silk her mother had taken from one of the boxes.

  “It’s...it’s fine, Mother. Did you hear what I said? I had a run-in with a rude customer and—”

  “Well, it’s no loss. Selling perfume is no better than selling sweaters the way you did at Saks back home.”

  “Selling isn’t glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

  “Don’t you dare take that holier-than-thou tone with me!” Bettina swung toward her daughter, eyes flashing. “I worked hard to support us and don’t you forget it. Waiting on tables, cleaning up after people who thought they were better than me, scraping pennies to give you all the benefits so you could have the life that I’d dreamed of—and long before Gordon Kincaid came along to pay the bills, in case you’ve forgotten, miss.”

  There had been more to it than that, Devon thought savagely. There’d been an endless string of men. Uncle Harry, and Uncle John, and Uncle Phil....