Claiming Her_A Romance Collection

by R. R. Banks

  Thomas looks at me for a long moment. “One of the biggest frustrations your father had with you was that you always took everything on yourself,” he says. “You're a stubborn kid, Brady. You have a real hard time asking for help.”

  My laugh is wry. “I suppose the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree in that regard.”

  Thomas smiles. “Indeed,” he says. “But I will give your father all the credit in the world. He learned to ask for help. If he didn't understand something, he learned to be comfortable asking somebody to help him understand it.”

  “My father?” I ask. “Actually asked for – help?”

  “He did,” he replies. “Believe me, it's a hard lesson to learn – how to humble yourself enough to admit that you don't know everything. It's not easy admitting that you aren't the smartest guy in the room and that you need help understanding something.”

  I give him a grin. “I freely admit that I'm never the smartest guy in the room,” I say. “There's more I don't understand than I do. Except when it comes to football.”

  Thomas nods. “One of the best lessons your father ever learned – and tried to teach you – was to know your strengths,” he said. “To know what you are good at and what you might need help with. It was an amazing transformation I saw in him over the years. But because of it, he became a lot more well rounded. Your father was a genius in his own right, Brady. He designed things that still blow me away. But eventually, he learned that he didn't know everything and learned to lean on others. And that's a lesson you'll learn. That's why that condition is spelled out the way it is in his estate.”

  I cock my head and look at him. “So, what you're telling me is that they only wanted me to learn to ask for help?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he chuckles. “Do you really believe they expect you to have a thorough knowledge of everything KT does? That's impossible – and your parents never expected you to do the impossible.”

  “Sometimes, it feels like it.”

  Thomas chuckles. “Son, this is a lesson they wanted you to figure out on your own – that you don't have to do it all yourself. They wanted you to learn how to ask for help,” he says. “And by telling you this, I'm breaking their confidence. Kendrick wanted to tell you, but given that he's the executor of their estate and their attorney, he was bound by law. But once we learned of what Tiffany is doing behind the scenes, we decided that the stakes were too great to not tell you.”

  “So, just to be clear, all I have to do to fulfill that condition is – ask for help?”

  Thomas chuckles. “More or less, yes. As ridiculous as it sounds,” he says. “All they wanted was for you to humble yourself enough to learn to find the experts around you who can help you, who can help guide this company and grow it. They wanted you to learn to lean on them.”

  “Experts like you,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Among others,” he says. “There are good people in this company. Smart people doing some amazing things. And they only wanted you to be aware and knowledgeable about what's happening.”

  I sigh and sit back in my seat, taking a long swallow of beer. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Although, it makes perfect sense now that Thomas has let the cat out of the bag. My parents were always trying to teach me lessons. Always doing things like this to make a point.

  “That's a lot to digest and I'll have to think it over some,” I say. “I'm not entirely sure how to process it all just yet, hoss.”

  “I wouldn't expect anything less,” he replies.

  “But that still leaves us with the other condition,” I say. “And that one could prove a little more troublesome than the first. That's not about learning a lesson.”

  Thomas shakes his head. “No, it's not,” he replies. “But they believed in the stability a marriage can provide. They believed it reshapes one's priorities.”

  “Yeah, Tiffany is a great reminder that my father always had his priorities straight,” I say, completely deadpan.

  “That – was a mistake,” he says. “A mistake he never forgave himself for making. Believe me, I saw how badly he punished himself for it firsthand. But he and your mother – though they had their ups and downs – learned to get over it. Put it behind them. Because they had a stable marriage and never lost sight of their goals or priorities. And that's what they want for you, Brady.”

  “Which is great and all,” I say and grin. “Except for the part about having a wife. I have no prospects, hoss.”

  He sighs and grimaces. I can tell he's about to say something he either doesn't approve of or something he doesn't like because he looks like he just ate a rotten lemon.

  “Marie and I have been married a long time,” he says, looking at the framed picture on his desk. “A long, long time. We're partners in everything.”

  I nod, not sure where he's going with this.

  “But not every marriage is like ours,” he says. “Other marriages are – well – different.”

  “I'm not sure what you're driving at, hoss.”

  He sighs and runs a hand over his closely cropped hair. “I'm just saying that I have a lot of respect for the institution of marriage. A deep belief in it.”

  I nod slowly, still not understanding. “Okay, I get that, but you're losing me here.”

  “I guess I'm having trouble spitting it out only because I personally detest the idea,” he says.

  “Let me guess, this is an idea suggested by a certain burly lawyer friend of ours,” I say.

  Thomas gives me a wry grin. “See? You are a lot brighter and more intuitive than you give yourself credit for,” he says. “Our burly lawyer friend and I were spitballing recently –”

  “And by spitballing, you mean trying to find a suitable woman to throw in my path?”

  He grins. “Something like that.”

  “And? What did you two Cupids from hell come up with?”

  “Well, I still believe that in two years, you can find a suitable match,” he says. “But during our discussion, a point was raised that there are marriages that are more like – business partnerships.”

  “Business partnerships,” I say flatly.

  Thomas nods. “Oh, I can think of a few prominent political couples whose marriage was little more than a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  I rub at the stubble on my chin. “Huh,” I say. “So, you think I just need to find a girl and propose a business arrangement? A little you scratch my back, I scratch yours deal?”

  That look of distaste appears on his face again. “I'm not suggesting any such thing,” he says. “All I'm saying is that some believe it's – an option. And with time beginning to run short, perhaps it's an option you shouldn't remove from the table entirely.”

  I can tell he's uncomfortable with even throwing that out there as an option. Thomas is a good man who values marriage and family above everything else. I can tell the very idea of a sham marriage to satisfy a requirement for my inheritance turns his stomach and goes against everything he believes in. But he had to be the one to float it out there because Kendrick couldn't, given his position.

  The fact that he floated it out there at all though, tells me just how serious the situation is. Or at least, how seriously they're taking it.

  “All I know is that this company cannot fall into Tiffany Greene's hands, Brady,” he says. “This is your father's legacy. Your legacy. And if she wins, she'll destroy it all in a heartbeat. And she will hurt a lot of people in the process.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I just need a little time to think.”

  “I'd expect that you would.”

  I put my hat back on and get to my feet. Thomas comes around and pulls me into a tight embrace. A moment later, he steps back and gives me a smile.

  “I haven't been keeping that chair warm for the last couple of years,” he says, “just to let some spiteful, greedy little girl sell it off to the highest bidder.”

  “I know you haven't, hoss,” I say. “And I'm going to do everyt
hing I can not to disappoint you.”

  Thomas nods. “That's all I can ask.”

  I leave the Keating building and feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. The lives and livelihood of more than fifty thousand people rests on my ability to meet my two obligations – which are getting married, and apparently learning to ask for help.

  My mind is swirling in a million different directions and I'm not entirely sure what to think. It feels like there's a hellacious storm brewing. It's out on the horizon, still two years away, but it's like I can see the thunderheads already gathering. The clouds are pitch black and promise to bring ruin and destruction.

  Unless I can somehow manage to head it off.

  The driver holds the door open for me and I slip into the back seat, lost in thought. But as he pulls away from the curb, an idea begins to form in my mind. And by the time we're halfway home, I'm feeling really good about it.

  “This can work,” I say. “This can really work.”

  Chapter Ten

  Amanda

  I climb the stairs to my apartment after another fruitless day of job hunting. I don't have enough experience for this place. I don't have the right kind of experience for that place. Everywhere I went, all I got were doors slammed in my face. It's all so frustrating and scary, and all I want to do is cry.

  “Amanda.”

  The familiar voice freezes me in my tracks at the top of the stairs. I turn around on the landing, my heart thundering in my chest as I see my landlord Roger coming up the stairs behind me – and he looks none too pleased. Roger is a heavy-set man who looks like he's a donut or two away from a massive heart attack. He's bald and has a long, scraggly beard, and for some reason, always smells like fish and garlic. Always. He's exactly what I picture whenever somebody says the word, “redneck.”

  “Got your rent?” he asks, out of breath from climbing the stairs, his twang more pronounced than usual. “You're late. Again.”

  I give him my best smile. “I will,” I say. “Soon. I promise.”

  “You said that two days ago.”

  “I know, Roger,” I say. “And I'm sorry. I'm trying to find a new job and all –”

  “Look,” he says. “You're a nice girl and all, Amanda, but that's really not my problem. Know what is my problem?”

  The knot in my stomach twists painfully. “What is your problem, Roger?”

  “The fact that you're more than a week late with the rent,” he says. “And that you've been late for the last six months in a row.”

  “Roger, please,” I say. “I just need a little more time to get myself back on my feet. Please. I'm looking for a job every day. I'm looking hard. I just –”

  He sighs and runs his hand over his bald head. “You have two days,” he says. “If you don't have your rent by then, I have no choice but to evict.”

  “Roger, please –”

  He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Two days,” he says. “That's it. That's all I can do.”

  He turns and waddles back down the stairs, grumbling to himself the whole way. The knot in my stomach is so tight, I feel like I'm going to throw up. My life is literally spinning out of control. Not only do I not have a job, I'm about to be out on the street. There's no way in hell I can get a new job – and the money to pay my rent – in two days.

  I'm screwed. Absolutely screwed.

  I walk into my apartment and slam the door behind me. I look around at my shitty little apartment. I stare at the cracks in the walls. The peeling linoleum in the kitchen. As I walk down the short entryway, I listen to the creaks in the floorboards. There are a million things wrong with this place, a million reasons why it sucks, but it's mine. This is my place. My home. My sanctuary. This is where I come when I need to hide away from the world.

  And now, it's about to be taken away from me.

  I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands, my body heaving as I sob. It's like the dam that's been holding all of my emotions back finally burst. I've been punched in the gut by life over and over and over again and I just don't know how much more I can take.

  My cell phone rings, so I try to pull myself together. I dig my phone out of my bag and look at the display – unknown number. I decline the call and drop the phone back into my bag.

  “Pull yourself together,” I tell myself.

  I force myself to my feet and pace the living room, trying to figure out what I can do. Looking around my place, I look for things I can sell. Except, I don't really have much of value. Certainly not anything valuable enough to pay the rent.

  I need to clear my head. I need to get out. Grabbing my bag, I walk out the door, locking it behind me. Descending the stairs, Roger is standing there, next to the mailboxes. He looks over at me.

  “Two days,” he says.

  “I heard you,” I reply and rush out into the dying light of the late afternoon.

  The air is crisp and I take in several long, deep breaths. Walking down the street, I try to organize my thoughts. What can I do to earn money? What can I do to make sure I don't get kicked out of my place?

  With no job prospects, I really didn't have the answers to those questions. And had no idea how to go about getting them.

  My phone rings again and I dig it out of my bag, hoping against all hope it's one of the places I applied to, calling me to schedule an interview. It's a number I don't recognize, which gives me a spark of hope.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Amanda?”

  The voice is familiar, but I can't quite place it immediately.

  “This is she,” I say.

  “You're a hard woman to track down, darlin'” he says and chuckles.

  And then it hits me. The slow, southern drawl – it's Brady goddamn Keating.

  “How in the hell did you get my number?” I snap.

  “It wasn't all that hard really,” he says. “I know people and –”

  “How?” I'm almost yelling.

  “I asked your co-worker,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm pretty goddamn far from okay,” I am yelling into the phone now. “Thanks to you.”

  People on the street are turning and looking at me, their expressions ranging from curious to amused to frightened. I suppose it's not everyday they run across some lunatic yelling on the street.

  “And now people think I'm a freak,” I say, lowering my voice. “Also, thanks to you.”

  “Slow down now, darlin',” he says. “The reason I –”

  “Call me darlin' one more time and the next time I see you, I'm going to tear your nuts off with my bare hands.”

  His laugh is slow and sugary, like molasses. “As pleasant as you make that sound, I actually have a purpose in making this call, dar – Amanda.”

  “What, to rub in the fact that you've made my life a living hell?”

  “Actually, there's something I want to discuss with you,” he says.

  I'm so angry that I'm seeing red. The nerve of his son of a bitch. He turns my life upside down, destroys everything I've been working for, and then has the gall to call me to chat? I want nothing to do with Brady Keating – unless it involves beating him senseless.

  “I've got nothing to say to you,” I say, my voice colder than ice.

  “Well, that's fine,” he says. “You don't need to say anything. I just need you to listen, darlin'.”

  “You realize I'm going to kill you, right?”

  He chuckles. “Now, why would you want to kill me?” he asks. “I've got the key to solving all your problems.”

  “The key?” I almost screech. “You are the reason for all my problems.”

  “Well, that's not exactly fair, I –”

  “You got me fired from my job, Brady,” I said. “And because I don't have a job, I can't pay my rent. And if I can't pay my rent, I'm going to have no place to live. So, unless you're calling to give me a million dollars, you can just screw off. I'm not going out with you. Ever. So, leave me alone.”

  I
stab the button on the phone, ending the call and drop it back into my bag. It immediately rings again, so I pull it out again and punch the button.

  “Stop calling me, you pretentious prick!”

  “Wow,” Amy says, her familiar Texas drawl coming through the phone. “Got a stalker or something, girl?”

  I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry,” I say. “Just some annoying asshole keeps bothering me.”

  “I gathered,” she says and giggles. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Thinking about jumping off a bridge,” I say.

  “Before you do that, why don't you come out and have a few drinks with us?”

  It's tempting. Very tempting. I'm so stressed out and angry, I want nothing more than to go drink myself into oblivion. It'd help me forget my problems. At least, for a little while. But as I think about the amount of money I owe versus the amount of money I have, I know I can't.

  “I'd really love to,” I say. “But I really can't afford it right now. I lost my job.”

  “What?” Amy gasps. “I had no idea. I'm so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Amy has been my best friend since we met shortly after I moved to San Antonio. And I'd only moved to San Antonio to escape the misery of life in California. Yeah, that's looking like a really solid move now and I'm kicking my own ass. At least back home, I had a decent job and wasn't struggling so bad to get by. Of course, everything else that went with it made it intolerable. But at least I knew I wasn't going to be homeless and starving on the street.

  Amy is a bright and chipper girl, always happy, and always optimistic. She's one of those already fairly well established in her career. She went to cosmetology school and now has her own shop. Of course, she had help from mommy and daddy – something I never got – but her shop is a huge success. And she did that on her own. I'm proud of her – but also jealous as hell.

  “How about this?” she says. “Why don't you come out with us and it'll be my treat.”

  The idea of somebody else paying my way curdles my stomach. I can't stand the idea of being somebody's charity case. Yeah, I'm in a bad way, but I'm a little too proud to accept handouts. For now, anyway. I might have to reconsider that depending on how bad things get.