A Proper Wife

by Sandra Marton

  “It sounds good, baby, but we both know that your little brain is already at work, trying to figure how much you and Mama can squeeze out of Grandpa now that he told you poor, dumb Gordon wanted to see you taken care of.”

  “My brain is busy, all right. It’s telling me that aiming for your jaw was a big mistake. I should have gone for a more sensitive part of your anatomy.”

  Ryan hauled her closer, his face dark with fury.

  “You so much as try to hit me again, lady, and I’ll...I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Devon demanded,. tossing her head in defiance. “Hit me back? I wouldn’t put it past a louse like you!”

  Ryan glared down into her angry face. Dammit, but she’d read him right! He’d never had the urge to strike a woman in his life but right now the thought of shaking Devon until her teeth rattled was almost overwhelming.

  His gaze swept over her. Struggling against him had made all that pale hair come loose from its phony, godawful bun; it fell around her face like gold silk. Her eyes, even without makeup, were the purple of spring tulips. Her cheeks were streaked with pink, a shade darker than her parted lips.

  Ryan’s belly knotted. He couldn’t recall ever being this angry—or this intrigued—by a woman in his life. The confusion made his head spin and tied his muscles in knots; it made the breath rasp in his lungs. There was only one thing he could do and he did it, pulling her, hard, against his body.

  “No,” she gasped, but it was too late.

  His mouth was already on hers in a kiss that was as wild as it was dominating. He felt her stiffen instinctively, felt her lips tighten against his, and, just as instinctively, his mouth softened against hers and his hand slid into her hair.

  Her body seemed to jerk in his arms and she made a whisper of sound.

  “No,” she said against his mouth, and he seized the moment and slipped his tongue between her lips.

  He felt the heat of her mouth, the honeyed taste of it. Her scent—not L’Air du Temps or Opium now, but something primal and female—rose to his nostrils. She made the sound again and he recognized it for what it was, the need of a woman who wants a man, and as she rose toward him, as her arms closed around his neck and she returned his kiss, his confusion was transformed into a surge of desire.

  Dammit to hell.

  He thrust her from him and she fell back against the wall, her breathing as swift and erratic as his. Her dark lashes flew open, revealing those incredible violet eyes. She stared at him, her expression dazed, and it took all Ryan’s strength not to pull her into his arms again.

  Her hand rose slowly to her lips. She wiped the back of it across her mouth and swallowed convulsively.

  “You’re a horrible human being, Ryan Kincaid,” she whispered.

  Ryan’s face was like stone. “Remember that. Maybe it’ll keep you and your mother far, far away from me and from my grandfather.”

  He turned and walked down the hall to the library. Bettina came hurrying out just as he reached the door; she started to say something but he brushed past her without acknowledging her presence.

  James, still sitting by the fire, looked up. “Interesting evening,” he said mildly.

  A smile twisted across Ryan’s lips. “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Well? What did you think?”

  “What I think is good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “Don’t mouth platitudes, boy. What do you think of the girl?”

  Ryan laughed as he took the bottle of cognac and poured himself a double.

  “A proper wife, you said.”

  “I still say it.”

  “We must have spent the last hour with two different Devon Franklins.”

  “If you’re referring to the fact that she’s also got some spirit—”

  “She’s ill-tempered, argumentative, and sharp-tongued,” Ryan said, and tossed off half the cognac.

  “A woman who’d roll over and play dead wouldn’t keep your interest and you know it.”

  “She’s also Bettina’s daughter.”

  “Very astute,” James said wryly.

  “Come on, Grandfather, you know what I mean! Those women came to New York to try and get some money out of you.”

  “Bettina did. I don’t think the girl is part of it. And your brother thought well of her.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan gave a harsh laugh. “And my brother sure as hell was a terrific judge of character.”

  James let out a deep sigh. “I think it’s time we said goodnight, Ryan. I’m feeling rather weary.”

  Ryan’s eyes flew to his grandfather’s face. Exhaustion was written across the stern old features.

  “Of course, sir. I’ll help you to your room.”

  “Brimley can help me to my room,” James said testily. “Let the dragon earn her living.”

  Ryan smiled. “I’ll send her in.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as you’d hoped,” he said softly. It was a lie, but a harmless one.

  “That’s all right. Nothing important is ever simple, my boy. I’ve lived long enough to know that that is one of life’s few truisms.”

  Moments later Ryan slid behind the wheel of his Porsche. He shook his head as he thought of how close Devon Franklin and her mother had come to catching the brass ring.

  But Devon’s temper had done her in.

  Not that he’d really have married her. He’d walk through fire for his grandfather. But marry Devon Franklin?

  Ryan shuddered as he put the car in gear. Not in this lifetime, he thought. He stepped on the gas and the Porsche roared down the driveway and into the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONDAY morning did not start well.

  Ryan’s clock radio, programmed to awaken him to soothing music at seven, instead woke him an hour later with a burst of what sounded like machine gun fire.

  “... latest adventure movie, coming your way,” an excited male voice screamed as Ryan, heart pounding, shot bolt upright in his bed.

  He reached out a hand, slammed the radio into silence, and fought to get his bearings.

  Hell, he thought, scrubbing his hands over his bristly face, waking up to that was all he’d needed. His housekeeper had done it again. In her zeal to whisk away dust, she was forever unplugging things and plugging them in again with no clue as to what small disaster she might have left behind.

  Last week it had been the microwave oven, pinging away in the middle of the night; the week before, the VCR had gone on at dawn, madly recording test patterns from the local public television station.

  Well, at least he was awake. Anything was better than the awful nightmare he’d been having a few minutes before.

  In the dream, he’d been standing at the end of a flower-strewn aisle, not in a church but in a department store. The place was empty but for Frank, who stood beside him dressed in jeans, black bow tie, sweatshirt and sneakers.

  Ryan, on the other hand, was in a tuxedo.

  What are we doing here? Ryan said, tilting his head warily toward Frank’s.

  Frank gave him a sad smile. You tell me, pal, he said, and before Ryan could reply, there was a swell of music from the mezzanine and a woman in an ankle-length, crimson velvet cape suddenly materialized at the far end of the aisle.

  Who’s that? Ryan whispered.

  Frank sighed. How should I know? It’s your dream.

  Ryan stared down the aisle, his brow furrowing. He couldn’t see the woman’s face—it was hidden behind an elaborate white lace veil—but there was something very familiar about her.

  Slowly, she began walking toward him. The cape swung gently open at each step, revealing a stunning length of long, tanned leg.

  Frank stepped back.

  Wait, Ryan said, I’m not ready for this.

  The woman glided to a halt. Her hands rose to her veil.

  Wait, he said, wait.

  It was too late.

  Ryan shrieked as Agnes Brimley lifted the veil from her persi
mmon-sour face.

  With a nervous laugh, Ryan swung his legs off the bed. He sat still, taking deep breaths.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  So much for gagging down Sharon’s homecooked version of chicken Marengo last night.

  He’d canceled his date with her Saturday evening. The thought of dealing with her and Devon Franklin in one twenty-four-hour period had seemed more penance than anyone should have to pay for being male. But by Sunday, with his equilibrium regained, he’d decided that it was foolish to prolong things.

  Their relationship was over and it was time she acknowledged it.

  Experience had taught him that public places were best for goodbyes. There was less likelihood of a scene if there were strangers around. So he’d made a reservation at an Italian restaurant in midtown—a businesslike place, nothing romantic—and then he’d telephoned Sharon.

  “No, no, Ryan,” she’d said in a little-girl whisper she’d developed in the past week, one that he wryly suspected would have shocked the pants off the dozen stockbrokers who took orders from her. “Let’s not eat out tonight. You come to my place. I’ll make us something simple.”

  Ryan groaned and put his hand on his flat, muscled belly where Sharon’s “something simple” still lay like a ball of lead. He rose to his feet, padded naked to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and took out a packet of Alka-Seltzer. He waited impatiently for the tablets to dissolve in half a glass of water. Then, screwing up his face and holding his breath, he slugged the water down.

  The meal hadn’t been the worst of the evening.

  Ryan sighed as he lathered his face with shaving soap, picked up his old-fashioned, straight-edged razor and placed the blade gently against his jaw.

  “Dress casually,” Sharon had said, and he had, in pressed, faded jeans, loafers, and a pale yellow cashmere sweater under a leather bomber jacket.

  Promptly at eight, he’d rung the bell to her apartment.

  Sharon was dressed even more casually. She flung open the door wearing a smile, a pair of high heels, and a tiny red bib apron. The rest of her clothes were conspicuous by their absence.

  “Hi,” she said, giving him a big, sexy grin. “Guess what’s on the menu?”

  Ryan knew better than to answer, but that didn’t faze Sharon. She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a passionate kiss.

  Gently, he extricated himself from her tentacles, said he was starved, and managed to consume some half-raw thing that quivered when she put it on his plate.

  After dinner, she plopped down in his lap, guided his hand to the apron ties, and asked him to guess what was for dessert.

  Ryan blanched, set her carefully on her feet, and handed her a little box.

  “Happy belated birthday,” he said.

  The box contained a pair of sapphire and diamond earrings he’d picked up the day before in a quick stop at Cartier. It was, he’d thought, a gift that would put a polite spin on a goodbye visit.

  Wrong.

  His heart and his stomach sank together as he saw the light go on in Sharon’s eyes. Square little jewelry boxes were not a smart thing to give a woman who was hearing wedding bells. Why hadn’t he realized that?

  Because of the damned Franklin girl, that was why. It was her fault. He’d started to buy Sharon an amethyst necklace but the color of the stones had reminded him of the color of Devon Franklin’s eyes and he’d turned away from the necklace counter in confusion.

  “Oh, Ryan,” Sharon whispered, and before he could say a word, she popped open the box.

  “Earrings,” she said. “How—how thoughtful.”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “Sharon, we have to talk.”

  “I agree,” she said, snapping the box closed. “Emily and Mark got engaged last week.”

  Emily and Mark? Ryan had no idea who they were, but instinct told him this wasn’t the time to ask.

  “That’s nice,” he said cautiously, “but—”

  “I think it’s time we did, too.”

  There it was. The taunting cape had been flung aside and the matador’s espada glinted in the arena sun.

  Ryan tried an impersonal smile.

  “You’re a lovely woman, Sharon. But when we first met, we agreed—”

  “That was then,” Sharon said, her voice suddenly cold.

  Ryan’s eyes had narrowed. “Then, now, next week...It won’t change. And it’s time we dealt with it.”

  The evening had not ended in the civilized manner he’d hoped. Sharon had called him a name. Several names, in fact, and then she’d pointed dramatically at the door.

  “Get out,” she’d shrieked.

  And he had.

  Ryan shuddered as he recalled the nasty scene. Why did women insist on changing the rules in the middle of the game? he thought as he stepped into the shower. That was the one thing a man could count on. You sure as hell couldn’t count on the female of the species for consistency.

  Just look at Devon Franklin. One minute she could make a man think she was the sexiest thing alive. The next she was a leading contender for Queen of the Vestal Virgins. And she was either a knowing part of her mother’s scheme, or she was an innocent pawn.

  He didn’t know which and he didn’t care. He only knew he wanted no part of her, a decision his grandfather had no choice but to accept, thanks to Devon’s Friday night performance.

  Ryan’s jaw knotted. All he had to do now was forget he’d ever laid eyes on her.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be easy.

  He shut his eyes as the shower beat down on him. Last night, Sharon—who was stunning, by any man’s standards—had put everything she had on display. But for sheer impact, none of it had compared to Devon’s slow, sexy stroll down the stairs at Montano’s.

  Hell, the truth was that even dressed in that prim-and-proper suit, with her hair pulled back and her face devoid of makeup, Devon had managed to stir his senses.

  Ryan groaned, opened his eyes, and looked down at himself. It wasn’t only his senses she’d stirred, he thought grimly.

  Dammit! This had to stop.

  Angrily, he jammed the shower control knob all the way to the right, shuddering at the sudden rush of icy water that spewed over him. He stood beneath it without flinching while he counted to two hundred, and then he shut the water off and stepped briskly onto the mat.

  So what if he’d overslept? He was going to take the time for his morning workout anyway. An hour in his basement gym—thirty minutes on the Nautilus, thirty in the lap pool—another cold shower and whatever cobwebs were still in his head would be gone.

  His stomach clenched, and he groaned and put his hand against his belly.

  The effects of Sharon’s chicken Marengo would, unfortunately, take a little longer to fade.

  The workout turned out to be just what he’d needed.

  By the time he reached the glass tower that housed Kincaid, Incorporated, on its highest six floors, Ryan’s mood had considerably improved. Devon and Sharon were both memories. What was Frank doing tonight? he wondered as he rode the elevator to the fortieth floor. Maybe they could take in a game at the Garden.

  The receptionist gave him her usual dazzling smile. Ryan smiled back, gave a wave of the hand to one of the mailroom clerks, and paused beside his secretary’s desk.

  “Good morning, Sylvia. How was your weekend?”

  Sylvia looked up. “Probably better than yours,” she said. “What’s that on your jaw? Did somebody slug you?”

  His hand shot to his face. “No,” he said abruptly, “of course not. Why would you even ask such a...”

  Ryan frowned. The door to his private office was standing partly open, which was unusual. His frown deepened as he caught a swift glimpse of a pair of boot-clad feet pacing across the Berber carpet.

  “What the hell? Sylvia? Is somebody in my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? What do you mean, yes? You know better than to let anyone—”

  “I kn
ow sir, but I was sure this would be OK. It’s your niece.”

  Ryan went very still. “My what?”

  “Your niece.” The smile fell from his secretary’s middle-aged face. “Well, that’s what she said, Mr. Kincaid. She said her name was Devon Kincaid and—”

  “No calls for the next half hour,” Ryan said sharply. He strode into his office, slammed the door shut behind him, marched to his desk and punched the off button on the telephone.

  Devon, who was standing at the window, swung toward him.

  “It’s about time,” she said tightly. “I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

  Ryan tossed his briefcase on his desk, undid the buttons on his jacket, and glared at her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Your secretary assured me that you always got in before nine, but—”

  “Never mind what my secretary assured you!” Ryan stalked toward her, anger stamped into every feature of his face. “Where do you get off, telling her your name was Kincaid and that you were my niece?”

  “I am,” she said, flushing slightly. “Your stepniece, if you want to get technical about it.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to get technical about it. I’m not even sure there is such a thing as a ‘stepniece.’”

  Although she was certainly done up to look like a niece this morning, Ryan thought furiously, assuming you got to pick your niece from the latest Ralph Lauren ad in Vanity Fair.

  No red velvet capes today, no prim and proper suits. Devon was wearing an oatmeal-tweed blazer opened over a black turtleneck shirt, faded jeans and ankle-high leather boots. Her hair was drawn back loosely from her face, secured at the nape of her neck with a demure black bow.

  Ryan’s gut tightened. On second thought, she didn’t look the least bit like anybody’s niece. Nieces were supposed to be cute little girls in gingham dresses, but there was nothing cute about Devon. Her jeans clung to her calves and slender thighs; her high, rounded breasts pressed lightly against the black cotton shirt. And all Ryan could think about the tied-back, platinum hair was that it would only take one tug of his finger to undo the ribbon and send all that pale silk cascading over her shoulders.