by Kati Wilde
Now I’d rather have an hour to myself than speak to yet another person—especially since an enquiry of this nature could be sent via email. But people always want a face-to-face, as if the personal interaction might sway me in their favor. All too often, it does the opposite, and people that I could have easily interacted with through email are almost impossible for me to deal with in person.
But that’s why I have assistants to interact for me, when I need them to. At precisely four, Jessica sweeps through the door carrying the tea tray.
Caleb Moore follows. Better prepared this time, I meet him at the center of my office, carefully not focusing on his face but on an invisible spot just behind his head. His features are a blur framed by short dark hair as I shake his hand and invite him to sit. He’s no smaller than he was in the reception area—I judge him at about six inches taller than my five-ten in these heels—but my office is so large that even he can’t overwhelm the negative space and throw everything off-balance. Grateful for that, I take the seat behind my desk and, as Jessica arranges the tea service, finally allow myself to study him.
It’s a good thing that I didn’t really look earlier, because his features are absolutely fascinating, an arresting mix of symmetrical and irregular. His nose must have been broken once. Sporting a faint bump, it sits just off-center between perfectly matched cheekbones that rise like cliffs above the hollowed planes of his cheeks. A scar bisects one of his eyebrows, which form heavy slashes over the narrowed brown eyes that are scrutinizing me in return. Each side of his firm lips are almost exactly mirrored to each other from left to right, yet his bottom teeth are slightly crooked, the incisors overlapping each other the barest amount.
Jessica softly clears her throat. “Will that be all, Miss Clarke?”
Snap. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll let you know if Mr. Moore and I require anything further,” I say, which tells Jessica that I won’t need her to stay as my go-between. Instead I want to interact with a man who’s already proven to be incredibly distracting.
It’s not a logical decision but…well. Even I have my moments.
Neither tea nor coffee sits in front of him, though I assume Jessica offered him refreshment while I was lost in my perusal of his face. So he must have declined. Usually that means my visitor hopes this meeting won’t last long, or is nervous and doesn’t want to risk a spill.
Caleb Moore doesn’t appear nervous. So he likely just wants to get this over with. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Miss Clarke.”
Another fascinating incongruity—such smooth words from such a rough voice. And the words don’t seem to emerge easily, as if he’s unused to deferring to another person. Yet now he needs something from me…and I don’t think he likes being in this position.
He might like it less by the time we’re done.
“You have nothing to thank me for yet,” I reply bluntly, then remember there are social niceties to convey first. “Please accept my condolences regarding your grandmother’s death.” And now I need to say something nice about the deceased, but I can only think of one thing I liked about the woman. “I appreciated that Eleanor always spoke her mind.”
So few people do. Though, in Eleanor’s case, I might have liked her better if I also appreciated what came out of the woman’s mouth.
His jaw clenches for an instant before a wry smile quirks those symmetrical lips. “Did she?”
I wouldn’t have said so if she didn’t. But since I can’t interpret his tone, I move on. “I assume you heard that I once approached Eleanor with an offer for her lakeside property.”
“That’s right,” he confirms brusquely, apparently as ready to move on from the topic of his grandmother as I am. “And that your offer was for more than the property’s worth—which suggests to me that the project you had in mind is important to you.”
“It is,” I admit, but won’t give him anything else until I see what he’s brought me.
“Then I believe we can be of use to each other. I have a proposal for you here.”
The briefcase that he sets on the desk between us appears new, the bottom free of scuff marks. His suit also appears new, and a little too small—though if he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t let that discomfort show. As he opens the case, black wool pulls tight around each of his biceps. The sleeves are too short, exposing his wrists and a hint of sinewy forearms. The seams strain at the points of his shoulders, and I’d wager that he can’t properly button the blazer across his massive chest, though he might manage the buttons at his waist. He hasn’t fastened the shirt’s topmost button around the muscular column of his neck, though his neatly knotted tie almost conceals that. His hard jaw is incredibly smooth, as if freshly shaved, instead of shadowed by the whiskers that other men with similarly thick and dark hair tend to sport this time of day. Dark flecks on his snowy white collar suggest that his haircut is also new, and that the barber was either careless or hurried, and didn’t completely brush away the trimmed hairs.
A jagged swirl of black ink peeks up from the left side of Caleb’s collar. Hardly enough of the tattoo is visible to even begin to guess at the design, yet I can’t stop myself from trying to picture what would complete that artwork. How far down the length of his neck does it extend? Just to his shoulder? Down over his chest? Or was the rest of the tattoo decorating his back?
Oh no.
Snap.
I jerk my focus away as he withdraws a presentation folder from the case. His hands and his long, blunt fingers are roughened by labor—I can still feel the scrape of his thick calluses from when we shook hands.
How can I make sense of him? “What is your profession, Mr. Moore?”
His dark gaze clashes with mine as he holds out the presentation folder for me to take. His voice contains a steely note of challenge. “I’m a mechanic.”
“Ah.” Satisfaction fills me as the pieces slide into place. So he was invited at the last minute to a four o’clock appointment and hastily prepared for this meeting. But he didn’t have time to find a suit that fit his big frame, instead grabbing the nearest size to his own off the rack. Yes, that makes perfect sense. And the ill-fitting suit might have been adorable on someone else. On him, the knowledge of how and why he wore it simply makes him more compelling.
I take the folder, extrapolating from what his answer told me. He’s the Wyndham heir, yet isn’t named Wyndham. And unlike a Wyndham, he works a blue-collar job. He also doesn’t own a properly fitted suit, which suggests that he doesn’t socialize with the Wyndhams, either. Now he’s here to sell the property Eleanor left him.
Given what I know of the Wyndhams, though, it’s hard to believe that he can sell it. “The family didn’t contest Eleanor’s will?”
“They did. They are.” Caleb Moore snaps the briefcase closed and sets it aside. “Which is why I’ve come to you with that.”
He indicates the presentation folder—which is surprisingly neat, the included papers perfectly aligned. Given how quickly he threw together his own appearance, I expected something messy. But this is an incredibly pleasing package.
Yet Caleb Moore is far more interesting, so I return my focus to him. “What do you propose?”
In that rough voice, he tells me, “I don’t have a hope in hell of fighting the Wyndham lawyers alone.”
“I imagine not,” I reply, and see where he’s going with this. “So you want me to take on the cost of the legal battle to secure your inheritance…after which you would sell the property to me, minus the legal fees I incur?”
“What I’m proposing is more complicated.”
The quirk of his lips is fascinating, as is the interplay of that tiny smile with the unyielding hardness of his brown eyes.
Snap. “How complicated?”
“I’ve outlined it there.”
He gestures to the folder again. Reluctantly, I drag my gaze from his face and read the title page through the translucent cover.
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
TO SECURE THE W
YNDHAM ESTATE FOR
AUDREY CLARKE AND CALEB MOORE
In a gruff voice, he says, “I want to marry you.”
2
Caleb
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
If the woman facing me wasn’t repeatedly plucking that damn rubber band around her wrist, I’d have thought shock had frozen her solid. Or that she’d stroked out. But she isn’t looking through me now, as she did when I was shown into her ridiculous office. Her attitude then was dismissive and vague, and she obviously hoped to get rid of me as quickly as possible. And her smug little “Ah” after I told her my occupation was followed by a clear reluctance to even glance at the proposal I spent two goddamn weeks typing up and poring over, as if nothing I do could possibly be worth a minute of her precious time.
But I’ve got her attention now.
I have no clue what’s going through her gorgeous head, though. Her narrowed gaze is locked onto my face but she might as well be a sculpture made of ice, because she doesn’t give a damn thing away. I expected laughter, maybe. Or outrage. She’s pure class, and I’m a grease monkey who just aimed way above my station.
I’m not the first Moore to do so, though. And the Wyndhams ground my mother into the dirt for it. So I’ll do anything—any goddamn thing—to take everything from them. Even marry a woman who looks straight through me.
Though I know it won’t come to that. In a second, she’ll be laughing. Or she’ll put me in my place. Hell, maybe that’s what this silence is—the way that classy, elegant people tell someone to get the fuck out. Maybe I’m supposed to be collecting my proposal and slinking away.
Snap.
Fuck. The ball is in her court now. So why isn’t she lobbing it back?
If she’s still playing at all. If so, I know what offer she’ll send my way. She already said it—her lawyers fight the Wyndhams’ lawyers, and she’ll buy the property from me at a reduced price. She would be assuming some risk, though. If the Wyndhams won, she’d be out a fortune in legal fees.
I have a pretty damn good idea of what those fees will amount to. Because I’ve already tried to go that route. But the law firm I approached wouldn’t even take me on as a client, claiming the chances of beating the Wyndhams weren’t solid enough—and if I didn’t win, they’d never recoup their costs from me. So my next stop was at a bank, hoping to secure a loan for a legal retainer. But they basically told me the same damn thing: no one would bet against the Wyndhams. The bank manager gave me something on my way out the door, though.
“My advice?” he called after me. “Find yourself a rich wife!”
I don’t want a wife. But the idea ate at me. Not finding a wife, but a business partner. Because there had to be someone out there who would bet against the Wyndhams.
That someone might be Audrey Clarke. But I didn’t even know who she was until a few weeks ago, drunk as fuck and hanging out at my friend Patrick’s house after Thanksgiving dinner. That was when Patrick’s younger brother, Mike—who is currently studying for his MBA—told me that Audrey Clarke had once tried to buy the Wyndham property, and then slurred his way through all the reasons why the CEO of Clarke, Incorporated would be the ideal candidate.
Not for marriage. If she only offers to pay legal fees in exchange for the property, I’d be fucking thrilled. The proposal is simply about making sure she really stops to look at me. That was Mike’s advice, too.
“Dozens of people ask Audrey Clarke for money every damn day. So you’ve got to stand out, make her notice you. Then you’ve got to ask for a whole damn pie. Because although you only want a single slice of that pie, if you only ask for a slice, most companies like Clarke’s only give a tiny bite. But if you ask for the whole thing…well, maybe you’ll get the slice you want.”
Like I asked for a slice from the law firm and the bank. But they didn’t even give a bite. Maybe Audrey Clarke won’t, either. But I won’t lose a thing by trying.
So the day after Thanksgiving, I looked her up. And found damn little. There’s almost nothing about her on the company website or in the press, except that she’s always listed near the top in articles like “The Wealthiest Women in the World”—and is at the top when the lists don’t include women who inherited their money. But I still don’t even know what Clarke, Incorporated does. Spends money to make more money, it seems like. The tagline on her website only reads, “Investing today in a better tomorrow.” Which sounds like some bullshit.
More helpful were the online forums where entrepreneurs talk about their interactions with her. There I discovered that anyone who comes into a meeting with Audrey Clarke without a solid business plan might as well not even set up an appointment. And a single factual error or typo in a proposal can be a kiss of death. So I put my proposal together as carefully as possible.
Yet she’s barely looked at it. She just stares at me. And now I’m thinking some of the other comments I read on those forums aren’t so far off. There was a whole lot of ice queens, rich bitches, and conceited cunts tossed in there. Most of that, I dismissed as the disgruntled bullshit some men sling around after they’ve been rejected by a woman, even if it’s just a business rejection. But the ice? The snobbery? Yeah. I can see that.
And Christ, this place. The Clarke building is a pretentious lakeside palace made up of steel and glass. And she doesn’t mingle with the rabble of her own company, as far as I can see. She’s up here in an executive suite all by herself—a suite that takes up at least four levels. I could fit two of my apartments in her office alone. No, six of my apartments, because I’d have to stack them up just to fill the space up to the ceiling. Yet the only shit she even has in here is a desk and a chair. She sits in front of thirty-foot-tall windows like a queen laying claim to everything around her.
But even though her manner is as cold and as empty as this office, she’s as gorgeous as everything outside that window. Goddamn fucking beautiful. Her pale blonde hair is scraped back in a ponytail that falls halfway down her back. Her face is like some kind of fairy princess’s, with finely arched eyebrows, a delicate nose, and lush pink lips.
But her eyes. Her goddamn eyes. They are glittering chips of ice, pale blue and freezing cold. The kind of eyes that can flay a man alive.
Snap.
Teeth gritting, I glance at the rubber band. Just a cheap yellow one. She’s snapped that damn thing so many times, the skin of her inner wrist is bright pink.
I clench my fists, barely stifling my impulse to reach out and stop her from snapping it again. What she does to herself is none of my business.
But I can’t stand the idea of her doing it again. And although I was waiting for her to respond, impatience grips me now.
With frustration roughening my voice, I tell her, “I’m not talking permanently, of course. I know marriage isn’t a conventional business arrangement, but—”
“It’s perfectly conventional,” she cuts in smoothly, as if she didn’t just spend the past three minutes staring at me in complete fucking silence, like a woman stunned by my oh-so-conventional proposal. “Though perhaps not as commonplace as it once was, securing property through marriage is a tradition as old as the vows themselves. So, go ahead. Let me hear your pitch.”
My pitch. She wants to hear my pitch? Isn’t that why I wrote that damn business plan? But she hasn’t even looked past the cover page.
Shit. Okay. I’ve read that business plan a billion fucking times in the past few weeks. So I dredge up what I can recall from the “Executive Summary” section.
“I propose a marriage contract that would lock me into selling the Wyndham mansion and surrounding estate to you for thirty million dollars, in exchange for Clarke, Incorporated handling all legal fees incurred while fighting the Wyndhams—and those fees would be reimbursed from the monetary inheritance I’ll receive if we win. The marriage itself would be dissolved after all challenges to Eleanor Wyndham’s will are settled and probate is granted. I believe this arrangement would be mutu
ally beneficial to all parties involved.”
Christ. That last bit looked great on paper, but sounds really fucking stupid said aloud. But she doesn’t look amused. Instead she nods once…as if considering it.
“Thirty million for the property?” she asks after a moment. “Including all of the mansion’s furnishings and artwork?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow again. “It’s worth five times that amount. Even if we have to fight the Wyndhams for ten years, the legal fees still won’t make up the hundred-and-twenty million dollars’ difference. Why sell so cheap?”
“Because I want to get rid of it.”
“And the Wyndham fortune?”
“I’ll get rid of most of that, too.” I’ll look for a charity that helps women like my mother. “Except maybe hold enough back to start up a recycling company and name it Wyndham Trash.”
Her lips twitch and she leans back in her chair, her icy gaze still on my face. “Why propose marriage when simply asking me to take over the legal battle would suffice?”
I prepared a bullshit answer for this, too. “Because if something happens to me, chances are the estate would go to them anyway, even if I leave a will. They’d probably contest that, too. But if I’m married—and if that woman has your resources—it won’t matter. It will all go to you, instead.”
She seemed still before, but now her stillness seems preternatural. “Do you expect something to happen to you, Mr. Moore?”
I shrug. “Not especially. But we’re talking about a whole lot of money. Fuck knows what’ll happen if the Wyndhams get desperate. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”
Not after what they did to my mother. And I shouldn’t have said ‘fuck’ in this elegant office. But Audrey Clarke doesn’t react in any way, except to subject me to another of those scrutinizing looks.
“So you inherit a fortune, but your only plan is to sell the property and start a trash company to besmirch the family name. Do you intend to do nothing for yourself with that money?”