Sam’s roving gaze narrowed on Miss Kent when he noticed she wasn’t scribbling notes as the others were doing. Nor was she paying much attention to what was being said. That’s when it hit him: the woman didn’t know a damn thing about this business. Those blue-gray eyes of hers, which were sharpened with thoughtful attention, watched Jesse with an intelligence that had nothing whatsoever to do with spread sheets, growth curves, or bottom lines.
Ben spoke next.
And again, Miss Kent studied him with the intensity of a woman attending an auction to buy a horse, not hiring a CEO.
Sam’s gut tightened. Their grandfather was at it again, only the old wolf was getting more devious.
He had sent Willamina down to shop for a husband.
Sam was thirty-six years old, Ben thirty-four, Jesse thirty. Since they’d each turned twenty, Bram had been trying to get them married off and settled down. Their grandfather had paraded more women before his grandsons than Sam could even count, much less remember. And now the old man had found another fortune-hunting woman, this time in Maine.
Bram must be getting desperate to sic a gold-digging frump on them, a little brown twit with faerie hair and angelic eyes, possessing all the grace of a newborn filly on ice skates. And from what he’d seen so far, those appeared to be her good qualities.
But as long as she voted as instructed, who cared if she was husband hunting? The three of them had successfully escaped their grandfather’s campaigns for sixteen years; they’d send this one scurrying back to Maine two minutes after she voted.
Sam stood up and spoke last, explaining that he didn’t intend to make any major changes yet. But he did emphasize his own vision for the company’s future, reminding the members that he’d been making most of the daily decisions for the last five years.
Then he called for a vote.
Most of the members had been anticipating this day, and the speeches were more a formality than anything else. All three had their own members in their corners, and as the votes were orally given, each member backed his or her man. Eventually, it came down to Bram’s deciding vote, as everyone had known it would.
“Miss Kent,” Sam said. “Please tell us what Bram wished.”
She looked up at him. “I—ah—I haven’t decided.”
“You don’t have to decide, Miss Kent,” Sam told her, his shoulders stiffening. “You just have to give us Bram’s vote.”
“Um…Abram didn’t give me a specific vote.”
“What?” Ben said in surprise, jumping up from his seat across from her. “What do you mean?”
“He told me the decision was mine,” she told Ben, her chin rising defensively.
“Yours?” Jesse repeated, also standing up. “What in hell are you talking about?”
Willamina Kent stood up, though her insignificant height only mocked her attempt to look imposing. “Just what I said. Abram told me the decision was mine.”
“He can’t do that!”
“Well, he did.”
Willamina’s gaze moved from one grandson to the other, and she spread her arms wide. “Think about it, gentlemen,” she softly implored. “The man’s your grandfather, and he loves each of you very much. He couldn’t choose one of you over the others.”
“Love has nothing to do with this,” Sam said tightly. “He just had to name the man best qualified to be his successor.”
“He told me you were all equally qualified and that he wouldn’t worry about Tidewater if any one of you succeeded him.”
Whispered murmurs erupted around the table, along with an underlying tension.
“So what in hell are we suppose to do?” Jesse growled.
Everyone looked at Miss Kent.
She gave them a sheepish smile. “I guess the three of you will take me to dinner.”
“But what about the vote?” somebody asked harshly.
Miss Kent darted a wary glance at the table of hostile stares. “I understand the importance of my decision. And frankly, I didn’t want to take on this obligation. But I have, and I need some time to decide.”
“Why are you doing this for Bram?” Sam asked.
“Because he asked me to.”
“But why?”
“Abram has been renting a cottage on my property for the last six weeks, and we’ve become friends. He needed this favor, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse him. I tried all last week to talk him out of this, but he just got…”
“Stubborn as hell,” Sam finished for her.
“Miss Kent,” one of the board members interrupted. “This situation can’t go on any longer. Abram Sinclair is Tidewater. The business community knows he’s gone missing, and we have no leader with the power to make binding decisions. It’s imperative that a new CEO be chosen soon.”
“I’ll decide by tomorrow, after I have dinner with you three tonight,” she promised, looking at the three contenders. “But I simply can’t vote right now.”
“I have a date tonight,” Jesse told her.
“Then bring her,” she offered. “I just thought if I could get to know each of you a little better, it would help me decide.”
“You expect to gamble the future of a multibillion-dollar business over dinner?” Ben asked incredulously.
“I was told the company would be in good hands with any of you.”
“If this is a fishing expedition, Miss Kent, then beware,” Sam whispered tightly, leaning over the table, watching with satisfaction as her eyes went wide and wary. “The three of us are liable to sink your ship with you still in it.”
She blinked up at him. “Fishing expedition?”
“Dammit to hell!” Ben growled, slapping his briefcase shut and storming out of the boardroom.
Sam took her by the elbow again, restraining himself from dragging her to her feet. They didn’t need this right now. Not after six weeks of worrying about their grandfather.
“Come on, Ms. Kent,” he ground out.
He had to let go of her elbow while she scrambled under the table to retrieve the purse she’d dropped again. While she was there, she patted the floor, looking for her shoes. Sam looked up at the boardroom of equally incredulous people.
She dropped her purse again when she tried to sit down and put on her shoes. Sam picked it up, deciding he would hold on to it for sanity’s sake. Finally, he all but dragged her into the hall.
“I’ve booked a room at the Marriott,” she told him as she scrambled to keep up.
“You can stay at the penthouse tonight.”
“No. I prefer to stay at the hotel,” she said, looking up with unwavering eyes that were nearly the color of slate.
“If you insist.” He stopped at the reception desk. “Did you find Miss Kent’s luggage?”
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. It’s already in your car.”
“Thank you.” He started toward the elevator.
“I am quite capable of walking on my own,” she quietly told him, tugging on her elbow.
He freed her, then watched with ill-concealed anger as she eyed the elevator doors as if they were going to open up and eat her.
“First time visiting New York?” he asked dryly, forcing his emotions under control. He also had to relax his shoulders forcibly, as they were bunched with the desire to throttle the little twit.
“Actually, it’s many firsts for me,” she answered, looking up with what Sam could only describe as excitement. “Including my first plane ride.”
“Really?”
“Yup. And I can tell you, I’m in no hurry to do it again.”
“What do you do for a living in Maine, Miss Kent?”
“I’m a casket maker.”
Sam blinked. The elevator doors opened, and without thinking, he took her elbow again and ushered her inside. “Did you say casket maker?”
She smiled up at him indulgently, as if she’d been expecting his reaction. “I own a small casket-manufacturing business. I have a few highly skilled craftsmen who do the woodwork and others who do
the interiors.”
“I see.”
“Abram’s been working for me,” she said, pulling free. She touched Sam’s sleeve. “He’s been building his own casket.”
Sam swayed slightly, as if he’d just taken a blow to the gut.
“It’s been comforting for your grandfather,” she continued softly. “Abram says he feels good using his hands. And he’s proud of his final accomplishment.” She moved to stand directly in front of him, looking up with concern. “Your grandfather is dying, Mr. Sinclair,” she said gently. “He’s come to terms with it, and now you and your brothers have to, too.”
“Then he shouldn’t have run off!” he snapped. “He should be home with his family. We’re all he’s got left.”
“He’ll be back. I think.”
“You think?”
She canted her head, her countenance calm before the growing storm she must have seen in his eyes. “In some cultures, the elderly go off by themselves into the wilderness to die. In a way, I think that’s what Abram has done. I suspect he didn’t want the fuss and bother of a deathbed scene,” she explained, her voice soothing.
Dammit, he didn’t want to be soothed. He wanted to grab this woman and shake her until she rattled. She was a stranger. A twit. And she was saying things he didn’t want to hear.
“Tell me where he is,” Sam ground out, grabbing her by the shoulders.
Her eyes widened, her sympathy turning to alarm. “I can’t. I promised.”
Sam glared at her. “I’ll find him, you know. There can’t be too many casket makers named Willamina Kent in Maine.”
“You’ll hurt him if you do.”
“He belongs at home.”
“He’ll come back.”
“In a box!”
“If that’s his choice,” she said, her chin rising but not her voice. “We don’t have any say in how we enter this world, Mr. Sinclair. But if we have the chance to leave it on our own terms, then we deserve to.”
Sam felt the blood drain from his face and tightened his grip on her shoulders.
She winced but didn’t try to break free. Instead, she brought one small hand up to his chest. “It’s Abram’s choice, Sam.” Her eyes became beseeching. “Have you thought that maybe he wants your last memories of him to be of a strong man who sat at the helm of his empire? If Abram could have had his way, I think he would have died sitting at his desk.”
“Or standing on the deck of a cargo ship, watching the sun rise,” Sam whispered. He released her to slam his hand suddenly against the wall of the elevator. “Damn!” He spun back toward her. “He was a sea captain, did you know that? It’s how he started. Bram could tell just by the smell of the breeze what tomorrow’s weather would be. He loved being at sea, and he and Grammy often traveled on whichever cargo ship was heading where they wanted to go.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Sam closed his eyes against the pain tearing at his insides. He didn’t like it, but he understood. Oh, Christ, he really did understand Bram’s pilgrimage to Maine. If the old man knew he was dying, he would not want witnesses, especially his grandsons.
Sam took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Bram is likely coming back in a box.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The old wolf couldn’t live forever,” he said with painful resignation, rubbing his temple in an attempt to erase the realization that he would probably never see his grandfather again.
She touched his sleeve, smiling sadly up at him. Just then, the elevator stopped, and the door pinged, and he watched her stiffen. Pushing down his anguish with an iron will, he held up her purse.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect it with my life.”
She laughed, and the haunting weight of morbidity magically left the elevator. Every muscle in Sam’s body involuntarily reacted to the simple, pleasant sound of her gentle laughter.
“You think I’m bad with elevators?” she said, her smile crooked. “You should see me with escalators.”
Well, hell. A partridge with the laugh of an angel.
If there was one weakness in Abram Sinclair, it was women. The old man had always liked them plump, laughing, and warm, which was why he was forever preaching to his grandsons that breeding, beauty, and bank accounts didn’t matter. Full bosoms were nice, and backsides built to cradle a man were necessary.
Which explained exactly why Willamina Kent was there.
Sam escorted her to the car in the underground parking garage in silence, where Ronald was waiting. He gave his driver instructions to take them to the Marriott, and they rode through Manhattan in silence. Willamina spent the trip with her nose nearly pressed to the window, watching the city go by.
Sam passed the time watching her.
Her shirttail was untucked again. And the suit, which looked as if it had been made in the late seventies, was wrinkled beyond repair. She’d unknowingly knocked over the heavy purse at her feet, and half the contents had spilled out.
Sam silently sighed. He couldn’t figure her out. For all of Miss Kent’s artlessness, he definitely had seen intelligence in her eyes during the meeting.
A less astute person might only notice her appearance, but Bram always tried to see past the mask a person wore, just as he was always trying to see beyond the ocean’s horizon.
Sam felt he’d inherited his grandfather’s talent, which was why he would bet there was a lot more to Willamina Kent than first impressions. Abram Sinclair never would have left the fate of Tidewater—or his grandsons—in the hands of a twit.
So, was she merely the dying whimsy of an old man? Bram wouldn’t be averse to shaking up his family or his business to achieve an end, which meant the old wolf had an ulterior motive for sending her here.
Marriage, most likely. It wasn’t beyond Bram to have fallen in love with Willamina himself; and who better, he would figure, for one of his grandsons to marry? Willamina seemed like a sympathetic creature, if a person could get past her antics.
Although her chosen profession was…weird.
Well, hell. He guessed somebody had to build caskets.
But Bram was building his own. Sam still couldn’t shake off that macabre vision.
“Do you need help checking in?” he asked when they pulled up to the Marriott.
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” She frowned down at her purse, then started shoving everything back into it. “Will we all be going to dinner tonight?”
“We’ll pick you up at seven,” Sam told her. He stepped out of the car behind her and watched with wry amusement as Ronald handed her defeated luggage to the porter, noticing some kind soul had wound it shut with packing tape. The porter, bless his training, didn’t even bat an eye when he took it.
Once Miss Kent was safely on her way, Sam climbed back into the car and headed back to the office. Maybe he could salvage something of this hellacious day—as well as do an Internet search for a casket company in Maine.
As the elevator doors were closing back at the parking garage, Sam saw a scrap of material caught in the door track. Shoving against the doors to open them again, he reached down and retrieved what turned out to be a pair of iridescent lilac panties.
They were a little larger than he was used to.
With a smile of anticipation for the evening to come, Sam shoved them into his pocket. It appeared the little partridge didn’t always wear brown.
Chapter Two
Willa dropped her ruined bag onto the floor of her hotel room, only to watch it break open and spill her laughable wardrobe onto the carpet.
What a mess. And not just her clothes, either, but the bigger mess she was in—including what was sure to be the evening from hell. She was going to have to sit through dinner facing three hostile men who likely wanted to tar and feather her and put her on the first plane north.
After each one tried to charm her vote.
Damn Abram Sinclair. This was all his fault. She didn’t belong here. Those people in that boardroom today, a
nd his grandsons, they were all way out of her league. She was a small-town girl. The biggest business decisions she made were what new designs she could carve into the covers of her caskets. She had no business deciding who should head a multibillion-dollar company.
Willa moaned in frustration, kicked off her shoes, collapsed onto the bed, and rubbed her forehead. She’d gotten a pounding headache within minutes of sitting between those monstrous props on the plane, and she still had the damned thing, only now it had gone from pounding to splitting. Hell, even her hair hurt.
And her day was not over. Willa opened her eyes and squinted at her watch. In four hours, there would be three angry men taking her to dinner. Oh, they’d be civil enough, considering that each one wanted her vote. They all would probably spread on the charm so thick she’d likely drown in it.
Except maybe Sam Sinclair. He hadn’t tried very hard to hide his feelings about the situation—or her.
She didn’t blame him. Abram had run away from home, hurting all three of his grandsons. They obviously loved the old man and needed to say good-bye to him. Willa understood both the grandsons’ points of view and Abram’s; she also understood everyone’s pain.
To top everything off, Sam clearly considered her a slap in the face. Abram had brought a stranger onto both the familial scene and the business scene. And not just a stranger but a klutz.
Willa had never worn heels in her life and couldn’t seem to get the hang of them. The ones she had on today had belonged to her mother. And she hated elevators. If the boardroom hadn’t been on the thirtieth floor, she would have walked up the stairs—though thirty floors was a bit much. Then her luggage had been eaten. And when she’d gone to the bathroom and gotten a look in the mirror, she’d nearly screamed.
She’d laughed instead, until she cried. She’d come to Manhattan, to a high-powered meeting, looking like something her cat had dragged up from the beach. No wonder everyone had been horrified to think she had the tie-breaking vote. She’d been horrified herself.
Now she was simply scared.
And that was unnatural for her. She was twenty-nine years old and considered herself fearless. She had confidence in her ability to read situations and people. She made her own decisions. And even if those decisions turned out to be wrong, she always stood by them.
The Man Must Marry Page 2