That was why she was there, facing Abram’s three grandsons. When the wild-haired, sharp-eyed old man had appeared on her doorstep, asking to rent her cottage, he’d stolen her heart with his disgraceful charm, atavistic arrogance, and failing body. He’d told her bluntly that he’d come to Maine to die and that he wanted to do it on his own terms. And Willa, being a pushover for anything in need, had taken him in and given him love and understanding—and her promise to come tell his grandsons he was dying.
She should have guessed they would be younger versions of Abram.
All three grandsons were gorgeous—tall, imposing, and downright intimidating. Willa was sorely tempted to write her vote on a piece of paper and leave it at the front desk, so when they came to pick her up that evening, she would already be on a plane back to Maine. She didn’t want to be near either of the losers when they realized the results.
With more willpower than ambition, Willa forced herself to crawl off the bed and strip out of the suit she’d borrowed from Maureen, one of her senior employees. Rummaging around in the mess on the floor, Willa found the dress she’d bought for this trip. Shaking it out with a growl of disgust, she fished a hanger from the closet and hung the dress in the bathroom. Then she turned on the shower, hoping the wrinkles would leave the dress while she steamed the wrinkles out of herself.
“Where in hell did Bram find her?”
“In Maine.”
“Figures. What did she say? When’s he coming home?”
“He’s not,” Sam said softly.
“Never?”
“He’s dying, according to Ms. Kent.”
Sam sat quietly in the corner of the car, letting his statement sink in. Jesse was sitting facing him, Ben beside him. All three were dressed in casual evening attire, on their way to pick up their dates for dinner.
Willamina was Sam’s date.
“He can’t just run off and die on us,” Jesse whispered. “Can he?”
“It seems he has. Ms. Kent said he’s too proud for us to see him die.”
“That’s bullshit. The man literally brought us up. He’s been more of a father than a grandfather. He has no right to die without us,” Ben said, his fists clenched on his knees. “We’ll get her to tell us where he is, and then we’ll go get him. He belongs home.”
“She won’t betray him. I tried.”
“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”
Sam gave his brothers a wry grin. “Don’t underestimate Ms. Kent, gentlemen. She may look like a meek little partridge, but she won’t break her promise to Bram.”
“We know he’s in Maine. We’ll track him down,” Ben said.
Sam looked at his brothers’ anxious faces in the soft interior lights of the limo. “Do we really want to go against Bram’s wishes?” he asked, his voice betraying his reservations. “He’s of sound mind; it’s his body that’s failing him. And he doesn’t want us to see that.”
“Damn. I didn’t realize he was sick. I thought we had more time,” Jesse choked out, dropping his gaze to stare at his hands.
Ben wouldn’t let go of his anger. “Why in hell couldn’t he have just faxed us his vote? The woman obviously doesn’t know a spreadsheet from a bedsheet.”
Sam snorted. “Guess.”
Both brothers blinked at him, then started cursing.
“Bram is still trying to marry us off from his deathbed!” Jesse snapped, shaking his head in disgust.
“Yes,” Sam agreed. “That, and to prepare us.” Sam cocked his head. “I’d guess that Ms. Kent has fallen in love with Bram. Why else would she be doing this for him?”
“To land a rich husband,” Ben spat out.
“That woman couldn’t land a goldfish, much less a rich husband,” Jesse said.
“Don’t underestimate her.” Sam looked at his brothers with haunted eyes. “She owns a casket-manufacturing business. And she told me Bram’s been building his own casket.”
“What?”
“She says it’s been comforting for him.”
“Then she’s as sick as he is!”
“No. She’s softhearted. And the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” Sam countered.
“Brave?” Ben repeated.
“It was obvious that Tidewater’s boardroom was the last place Ms. Kent wanted to be today. And I assure you, she is not looking forward to this evening. It takes a hell of a lot of courage to messenger the imminent death of a man to his family. I honestly can’t say that I could do what she’s doing.”
The car fell silent after that, until they stopped to pick up Jesse’s date for the evening. With legendary Sinclair willpower, the three men forced themselves to throw off their gloom and smile at Darcy as she sat next to Jesse.
Darcy was the epitome of Manhattan womanhood. Tonight she was dressed in elegant black and cultured coolness. She wore three-inch heels, which were necessary if she didn’t want to be dwarfed by her escort. Jesse and Darcy had been seeing each other for three months, which was about the limit of Jesse’s female attention span.
Sam guessed his brother would soon be moving on, which was probably just as well. For all of Darcy’s beauty, she didn’t have much depth of character. Traveling, shopping, and spending her trust fund were the extent of her interests.
They picked up Ben’s date next. Paula wasn’t a steady; Ben enjoyed the company of several different women. He’d been burned badly a couple of times already; first when he was nineteen and then again four years ago.
The last time had been close. Bram had thought he was finally going to get a granddaughter-in-law, and Jesse and Sam had thought they were going to get the pressure lifted from finding their own wives. But just when it had looked as if Ben might propose, he’d broken off the relationship, not telling anyone why.
It would take a stalwart woman to marry a Sinclair. She would have to be intelligent, strong, and forgiving. She’d also have to be brave. The Sinclair men were not known for their patience. People generally treaded carefully around them, especially Bram. And he’d brought up his grandsons to be just as ruthless, just as relentless, just as driven.
Sam, Ben, and Jesse had been orphaned when Sam was twelve. Their parents had died in a plane crash returning from an overseas meeting that had doubled as a romantic vacation. His shoulders slumped in defeat with the news that his third and last surviving son was dead, Bram had arrived with Grammy Rose at the boys’ home and collected them. A powerful bond had been formed that day between the three lost, confused children and their grieving grandparents. Deep, desperate love had blossomed, along with friendship and respect.
That was why Bram hadn’t been able to choose among them. He didn’t want to turn his business over to just one of his boys; they all owned shares in Tidewater, and they all were wealthy men in their own rights, thanks to the Sinclair drive. To pick one to head his company was clearly too hard for the old man.
The limo pulled up to the Marriott, where Willa was waiting in the lobby. She reminded Sam of an absentminded professor, whose body was having trouble keeping up with her brain. Willamina Kent’s head was too far into the clouds to see the everyday details of life. And her heart, apparently, was her own worst enemy. Why else would she have come on this mission for a man she’d only known for six weeks?
As soon as she saw him get out of the car, she headed for the revolving door. She’d traded her saddlebag of a purse for a clutch with a long strap that dangled from her fist. Sam watched in stoic resignation as she pushed through the door, snagging her purse in the sweep of the door behind her. The strap snapped, and the purse landed on the ground, unceremoniously pushed along by the door behind her.
Her ankles wobbled as she reached down to get it. Sam grabbed her elbow to steady her, then retrieved the purse himself.
“Thank you,” she murmured, clutching the mangled purse, the long strap dangling like a tail as she headed for the car.
Sam settled her into the silent limo. Getting in beside her, he saw her cheeks were flaming red.
<
br /> They matched her dress.
The dress looked as if it had come from a thrift shop, the style even older than the suit she’d worn earlier, with a high collar in danger of choking her. Ruffles grazed her chin, and the hem was nearly at her ankles.
At least her shoes were better this time. They were black, again with two-inch heels, and matched the wide belt cinching her waist. The purse she was industriously trying to repair was tan.
Sam reached over and took it from her. Upon examination, he quickly decided the thing was a lost cause and broke off the strap. “Now you have a hand clutch,” he said, handing it back to her.
Her gaze, which had widened when he’d popped the useless strap, lowered to her lap. Turning the small handbag over and over, she finally looked up at the others in the car and gave them a shy smile.
“Hello again,” she said to Jesse, who couldn’t quit staring.
Ben quietly kicked him.
“Ah…hello,” Jesse answered. “I guess I should make the introductions. This is my friend, Darcy. And this is Paula, Ben’s friend. Ladies, this is Willamina.”
Everyone smiled graciously, then Willa turned to Sam. “Are we going to pick up your date next?” she asked.
“No. I drew the short straw.”
Her face flushed, and her head bent down, causing her precarious topknot to loosen.
Aw, hell. He hadn’t really meant to say that. He knew she didn’t want to be there any more than they did. But despite what he had said to his brothers about Willa’s courage, she was also husband hunting. Only someone hoping to marry into the Sinclair wealth would agree to come to New York to vote on something she knew nothing about.
Well, by the end of this evening, Willamina Kent would be more than ready to fly home after a triple dose of confirmed bachelorism. They’d all sent better women than she down the road shaking their heads. Bram was going to have to go to his grave without getting a granddaughter-in-law.
Sorry for hurting her feelings but determined to stand firm against the threat she posed, Sam turned away and stared out the window.
The man may as well have slapped her face. She didn’t want to be the arrogant jerk’s date. She didn’t want to be anyone’s date. Especially not one of these three puffed-up baboons parading as men.
They were just like their grandfather—and Willa didn’t consider that a compliment. Abram Sinclair was a bossy, arrogant old goat, even if she did love him. But that didn’t mean she had to love his grandsons.
She didn’t even have to like them.
She was there on a mission of mercy and nothing else, despite what Abram hoped. Oh, she knew he had matchmaking up his sleeve. He’d been blatant enough with his praise and subtle hints that his boys were all lonely, misunderstood men.
Well, they could damn well find their own wives. Which shouldn’t be hard; they were gorgeous. But even if they were butt ugly, they were wealthy enough to have women drooling at their feet.
Willa eyed the women in the car. They were beautiful. Elegant. Skinny. Everything she was not. She hated them; she hated New York. And she hated anyone named Sinclair.
The restaurant they arrived at was over-the-top fancy and the only nonlimos pulling up were foreign and expensive. Willa felt like a wren in a house of predatory cats.
Sam Sinclair wasn’t helping matters.
“If you take my elbow again, I’m going to drive my heel into your shin,” she softly warned when he reached for her.
He drew back as if she’d bitten him, then his eyes narrowed. “If you fall flat on your face, I’m going to leave you there.”
Chin raised and with all the dignity she could muster, Willa followed the other women inside—into an Asian country.
Damn. Foreign food. And if they expected her to use two little sticks to eat with, she’d starve first. She was a Maine girl; she ate meat and potatoes and seafood. Pronounceable seafood.
They were soon seated around a large circular table in a room so dimly lit she could barely see across it. Not knowing what else to do with her…clutch purse, Willa set it on her lap, only to have it slide down her satiny dress, fall onto the floor, and bounce off her foot. She heard Sam sigh.
The damn purse could damn well stay where it was; all it held were some tissues. Willa hated purses. Doing errands at home, she wore jeans and sneakers and a small fanny pack. She didn’t have time to chase down a purse whenever she wanted something. Since she’d left Maine, she’d spent more time babysitting her purse than anything else. The floor sweeper could have this one.
They were given menus, and everyone ordered drinks. Willa got stared at again when she ordered a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. A double.
Thank God it came quickly. Willa took a large, throat-burning sip, then opened her menu. She didn’t recognize anything. She could see the words shrimp and chicken and beef, but there were other, more ominous words associated with them, which everyone pronounced competently as they placed their orders.
The dinner from hell, that’s what this was.
“Do you have plain lobster?” she asked the waiter when he looked at her.
He nodded.
“What is today’s price?” she asked, knowing it was rude but too curious to care.
He told her, and Willa’s eyes nearly crossed. “Shrimp, then. Just sauteed. With steamed rice.”
The waiter nodded and left, and Willa looked up to see everyone staring at her again. She gave them her most brilliant smile, no matter how painful it was for her. “I buy lobster off the boat nearly every week. Even during peak season, I don’t pay more than five dollars a pound.”
“Really?” Darcy commented.
“A hundred years ago in Maine, lobster was considered a poor man’s food.”
“You don’t say,” Darcy purred.
Willa sighed. A shallow dish, that one. She looked at Ben. “Abram tells me you all like to sail and that he owns a Sengatti sloop,” she offered conversationally.
“That’s right,” Ben guardedly returned.
“I sail,” she told him with waning brightness. “As a matter of fact, I grew up not far from the Sengatti Yacht Yard.”
“Have you sailed on one?” Ben asked, looking interested despite himself.
“Oh, sure. My dad was a sea captain. We owned a schooner and plied the tourist trade. Dad often took new owners out for lessons on the Sengatti they’d just purchased, and I went along.”
“Bram upgraded his sloop eight years ago,” Jesse interjected. “She’s forty-two feet long and fast. I believe she was the last boat Emmett Sengatti himself actually built.”
Willa smiled at his enthusiasm. “What’s her name?”
“Bram christened her the RoseWind, after Grammy Rose.” Ben’s face sobered. “Until Gram died five years ago, the two of them loved to go out sailing.”
“Tell us about your father’s schooner,” Sam interjected.
“She was named Cat’s Tail, because Dad said she sailed like a cat whose tail had just passed over a candle flame. She was two-masted and sixty-seven feet long. She slept ten, assuming a few couples didn’t mind cuddling. In the winter, we sailed her down to the Caribbean and hired out for weeklong charter tours.”
“What about school?” Jesse asked.
“Mom taught us.”
“Us?” Sam asked.
“My sister and me. We crewed for Dad. Mom cooked.”
“You must live fairly close to Prime Point, then,” Ben piped up, looking pleased. “That’s where Sengatti Yacht is located.”
“Not that close,” Willa shot back, shooting down his hopes of learning where his grandfather was.
The food arrived, and while Willa eyed hers suspiciously, Darcy tried to continue the conversation.
“So you’re a sailor? Is that what you do for a living?”
“No,” Willa told her with anticipated relish. “I build caskets.”
Bingo. Both Darcy and Paula choked on their first bites of food. The men didn’t bat an eyelash, so S
am must have told them already.
“Caskets?” Paula squeaked, her eyes wide in horror.
“Yup, and we do a lot of custom orders. We use local wood and carve beautiful scenes into them.” She beamed at her stunned audience, who had set down their forks. “Our caskets hold the remains of some of the world’s most eccentric people. We ship all over the world. You’d be amazed at some of the requests we get.”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Finally, Sam started to push his food around on his plate.
Okay. That had been a nasty shot, and she was a little ashamed of herself. But dammit, they all deserved it. They all had been looking down their noses at her.
“What do you do, Darcy?” Willa asked.
“Do?”
“For work?”
“Work?”
Willa sighed.
“I’m thinking of going back to school,” the woman offered.
“School’s important,” Willa confirmed, smiling at Jesse, who suddenly started eating.
“I do charity functions,” Paula piped up.
“That’s important, too,” Willa agreed.
Wow. And these intelligent Sinclair men were attracted to them?
“Shouldn’t we be discussing Tidewater?” Ben interjected. “That is the reason we’re here.”
“No, it’s not. We’re here so I can get to know each of you better.”
“We’re not biting, Ms. Kent,” Sam said softly, leaning closer. “No matter what Bram told you, you’re trolling in barren water.”
“Fine,” Willa shot back. “Then maybe I’ll just draw straws tomorrow.”
Sam snapped his brows together at Willa’s not-so-subtle reminder of his rudeness. If she was fishing, she wasn’t baiting her hook. She didn’t talk like a woman trying to snag a husband; she talked as if she couldn’t wait to be done with the entire lot of them.
Sam repressed a shudder, imagining Willa on a ship full of ropes and pulleys and sails. He wondered how often she unexpectedly went swimming or how many guests she’d drowned. Captain Kent must have the patience of a saint or nerves of steel.
The Man Must Marry Page 3