How To Marry A Millionaire (For Richer, For Poorer)

by Charlotte Maclay

  “I doubt anyone can do that,” Kathryn said with a shake of her head. She’d certainly failed to keep him in line, Kathryn realized. Or perhaps she only lacked the ability to keep her own fantasies under control. Curt was the kind of man she’d never dared dream about, and didn’t want to deal with. By his nearness alone he conjured up too many erotic images, needs she’d tucked so far to the back of her awareness she was sure she’d forgotten them—until now.

  Lucy slipped her arm through Kathryn’s, firmly ushering her away from the tennis court and toward the house. “Well, come on inside. I’ll make us a pitcher of apple-cinnamon herbal tea that tastes so good it’s downright decadent, and we’ll talk a little girl talk. I know all there is to know about Curt.”

  “You do not,” he objected.

  “Important things like where he’s ticklish,” she continued.

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” Curt maneuvered to keep up with his sister’s quick pace.

  “And how he gets really upset if anyone messes with his toothpaste.”

  “I only got mad because you left the damn cap off and the stuff got all over the clothes in my suitcase. I had an important appointment.”

  “You had a date, and she was a dog.”

  “Now wait a minute...”

  Kathryn stifled a smile as she and Lucy left Curt in their wake, him mumbling something about taking a shower if he wasn’t appreciated by the fairer sex. She’d forgotten the joys of sibling rivalry, the way her little sister, Alice, had been such a pest, and how Kathryn had loved her.

  In this case, brother and sister obviously shared the same irrepressible charm. She envied Lucy’s vivacious personality and her easy confidence, characteristics Kathryn sorely lacked. However, it was time to clear up any misunderstanding.

  Once in the kitchen, Lucy shooed Marvin, the butler, away so she could make the tea herself. She had so much effervescent energy, she seemed to move in fast forward, exhausting Kathryn even as she watched in admiration and amazement.

  “Now tell me about you and my brother,” she said, dropping ice cubes into a pitcher of ruby red tea.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “But I saw you two in a clench out on the tennis court. I just assumed...”

  Kathryn bristled. “It was not a clench,” she said tightly. “He was simply...” Seducing her, or trying to.

  “He kissed you.”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Slowing her pace, Lucy set the pitcher on the kitchen table and poured two glasses of tea. “You mean you’re not...seeing Curt?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Realizing her denial had been too vehement, Kathryn gratefully took a drink of the tea in order to calm down. “I mean, well, we do have a date next weekend. But that’s all. It’s only because I work for the firm representing him in the Roslyn Kellogg matter.”

  “Oh, that.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Boy, did I misjudge her.”

  “Yes, that does happen. So you see, my relationship with Curt—Mr. Creighton—is really strictly business.”

  The young woman looked at Kathryn with a fair amount of skepticism. “Pity. I was hoping...” Turning away, Lucy popped open a cabinet and retrieved a can of cashews, which she placed on the table. “See, I think Curt is kind of lonesome—”

  “Your brother? Lonely?” Kathryn nearly choked on the words. “That hardly seems possible when he has the Radisson twins to keep him company. Among others, I assume.”

  “Oh, they don’t mean anything to Curt. None of the girls I stash here until I can find them some decent acting roles are his type. In fact, the problem Curt has is finding somebody who isn’t interested in him just for his money, or what he can do for them.” She popped a couple of nuts in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I guess I’ve kinda got the same problem. Comes with the territory, I suppose.” With a jingle of her bracelets, Lucy made an expansive gesture that took in the largest, best-equipped kitchen Kathryn had ever seen, with its miles of stainless steel and butcher block countertops. It made a mockery of her entire apartment. What she’d seen of the rest of the house was equally extravagant, sparing no expense.

  Kathryn had never considered the unique problems of the truly wealthy. Finding a lifetime partner was an iffy matter, at best. Complicated by money, the odds of meeting someone who loved you for yourself—not your savings account, stocks and assorted other investments—would certainly make a person wary.

  None of that explained why Curt was coming on to her in an all-out sensual attack.

  Nor did the thought ease the persistent headache that nagged at the back of Kathryn’s skull. Sometime during the next seven days, she was going to have to come up with a viable excuse to cancel her date with Curt Creighton. To do otherwise would be to put her heart, as well as her mental well-being, at far too great a risk.

  Chapter Six

  Blurry eyed from a third straight night of restless sleep—ever since she had agreed to a date with Curt Creighton—Kathryn peered into the bathroom mirror. She opened her mouth wide and prayed to find some sign of infection at the back of her throat. Just her luck, she hadn’t caught whatever it was that had kept her office mate, Clarence, out of work for a week. She’d do anything to be able to cancel out on Curt.

  “Coward!” she accused her image.

  She could fake a broken leg, she mused as she splashed cold water on her face. Crutches and a little plaster of paris would do the trick. Of course, Curt would probably counter with her very own gold-plated wheelchair. He was not an easy man to discourage.

  On the other hand, she could try for a restraining order, though she doubted any court in the country could contain Curt’s persistence or his sexy grin.

  How the devil was she supposed to concentrate on her work—or her exams—with Curt so completely filling her mind? She never should have accepted his challenge and the wager, even though she’d been absolutely sure Stefan could beat Curt blindfolded. The unexpected loss of the tennis match still puzzled her.

  A half hour later, as she was picking up her purse to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door.

  “Ah, chérie, I was afraid something was wrong. You are late leaving for your place of employment and you are usually so prompt.”

  “I know.” She smiled at her neighbor’s concern. Living across the hall from Rudy was like having a doting grandfather nearby. “I had some trouble sleeping last night.”

  “My poor dear,” he said, slipping into his Dr. Welby imitation, “losing sleep is a serious problem. You must see me in my office later and I will prescribe a cure.”

  Kathryn knew the cure—get Curt Creighton out of her life. Just how she could manage that, she didn’t know. Unless...

  Her mind racing, she considered a near-impossible scheme that had at least a slender chance of success.

  “Rudy, have you ever met my boss, Tom Weston?”

  “Oui, it was on a Saturday when we stopped by your office. We were on our way to a matinee, as I recall.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d almost forgotten.” She mentally crossed her fingers. “Would it be possible for you to imitate Tom’s voice.”

  He hesitated a moment, then seemed to grow in stature as he took on the role of a successful attorney. “Kathryn, would you mind bringing me the file on the Smith case?” His voice carefully modulated, he straighten his imaginary tie. “When you have a moment.”

  “Yes! That’s perfect.” She gave him an impetuous hug. “Oh, Rudy, I need a favor. A really big favor.”

  “Of course, mon amie. What is it you wish?”

  * * *

  AT THE SOUND of the phone, Curt set aside the applications for grant requests he’d been reading. The Mollie Creighton Foundation, named for his mother, funded a lot of charitable projects across the country, and he liked to make sure they were ones that would make an impact on some pretty tough problems.

  “Creighton here.”

  “Hello, Curt, it’s Tom Weston.”
>
  “How’s it going, buddy.”

  “Everything’s fine in terms of your case. But Kathryn asked me to call you.”

  Thoughts of accidents or dire illness caused Curt to frown. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid she won’t be able to make your date this weekend.”

  Letting his feet slide off the open desk drawer where they had been propped, Curt asked, “How come?”

  “My fault, I’m afraid. There’s a seminar this weekend on the legal ramifications of artificial intelligence. I need her to attend.”

  His frown deepened into a scowl. “All weekend?” Very convenient, it occurred to Curt, but not entirely believable.

  “Sessions go from early morning until late at night. You know how these business things go. She’s very sorry, of course.”

  “Of course.” Curt’s instincts told him something wasn’t quite right. “How come she didn’t call me?”

  “She was afraid you would think she was only making an excuse.”

  She had that damn straight. Curt had been looking forward to the weekend a great deal. If it hadn’t been his old friend calling... Then again, Kathryn wouldn’t be above... There was that nosy neighbor that lived across the hall...

  An internal alarm sounded in Curt’s head. Over his lifetime a lot of people had tried to con him for one reason or another—usually money. He’d developed some pretty good instincts that, while they weren’t necessarily foolproof—as evidenced by Roslyn Kellogg—had prevented him from squandering the wealth he’d inherited.

  Money, he suspected, wasn’t the problem this time.

  Thoughtfully he rubbed his palm along his jaw. “Hey, Tom, I saw Henry Sampson the other day. Remember him?”

  “Sure. Who could forget ol’ Henry? How is he?”

  “He’s still as skinny as a rail. Hasn’t gained a pound since we graduated.”

  “Is that a fact?” The person on the other end of the line cleared his throat, but Curt had already learned all he needed to know. Hank Sampson was a three-hundred-pound offensive lineman for the Rams. “I have another call. We’ll talk later.”

  “Sure. Tell Kathryn I’ll give her a call.” Soon. Very soon.

  “That won’t be necessary. She’s really very busy.”

  “Not too busy for me.” Smiling, Curt quietly cradled the phone. Kathryn Prim was one shrewd lady. She just hadn’t learned yet how early she’d have to get up in the morning in order to keep ahead of him.

  He imagined she wouldn’t be at all pleased when she learned how she’d lost the tennis match. Confessing that particular sin would require delicate timing.

  * * *

  “NICE TRY, PRETTY LADY. A convenient weekend seminar? Very clever.”

  Kathryn cringed at the sound of Curt’s voice even as his compellingly masculine image flooded her awareness. Damn these direct phone lines! In the future, she wanted all of her calls screened.

  “What do you want?” she asked, as if she didn’t know. Clearly Rudy’s acting skills weren’t as good as she had hoped.

  “Who’d you have make the call?” he asked, his amused tone bringing to mind sexy blue-green eyes crinkled at the corners with a smile. “That scrawny guy who lives across the hall from you? He’s not half-bad as an actor. Had me going there awhile.”

  “Curt, I really can’t make our date on Saturday.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No. Really. I’ve got to...” He sounded so close on the phone, as though he were in her office; she could almost smell his spicy after-shave. “It’s the only day I can do my grocery shopping.”

  “You can do better than that, sweetheart.”

  If only he were right, she thought, frantically searching for a new excuse. “I mean my shopping and enrolling for next semester. You know how long those registration lines can be.”

  “Register by mail. Saves a lot of time.”

  She rolled her eyes. Arguing with Curt Creighton was like trying to tap dance through a mine field. “Would you believe I have an aunt in East Angola? She’s a missionary and she’s been very ill. I have to go see the dear woman one last time.”

  “Good girl. You’re getting more creative by the minute.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. Impossible man. “I have an appointment to give blood. You wouldn’t want me to miss that.”

  “You can reschedule. I’ll arrange a mobile van just for you, if I have to.”

  He would. He’d probably buy the damn thing. “Really, Curt, I think I’m coming down with something. The flu, maybe.”

  A large, very masculine hand with tapered fingers and a smattering of cinnamon brown hair on the back reached across Kathryn’s desk and pressed the button on her phone to disconnect the call.

  Kathryn’s head snapped up. He was there. In her office. All six foot two of him, leather jacket, silver belt buckle and helmet included. Her heart did some sort of impossible somersault and air lodged painfully in her lungs.

  He flipped his cellular phone closed. “Honey, the only thing you’ve got is an acute case of cold feet.”

  “Good Lord, you scared me half to death. I could have had a heart attack.” As it was, her heart was thudding so fast it felt as if a jackhammer had taken up residence in her chest. “Besides, you shouldn’t be here. You promised you wouldn’t embarrass—”

  “I’m seeing Tom. The one who’s your boss, remember? No one’s going to think anything about me stopping by to say hello to the paralegal who is working on my case.”

  She leveled her eyebrows into her most intimidating glower, which she knew wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. “You must have gone through the line twice when they were passing out chutzpah.”

  He winked. “Saturday. As planned. Ten o’clock sharp.”

  As he vanished out the door, Kathryn sank back into her chair. About the only thing left to do was to give herself a big dose of food poisoning come Friday night. But she didn’t think she could go through with that. Besides, there were moments—not many, she assured herself—when she actually liked sparring with Curt Creighton. She never would have imagined it would be so much fun to challenge a man with her wits.

  * * *

  “A PLANE?”

  “Sure. It’s the fastest way I know to get to Pebble Beach.”

  “Pebble...” Kathryn choked on the name of their destination, an exclusive resort community three hundred miles up the California coast. Waiting like a silver magic carpet on the tarmac at the Santa Monica airport, the private jet was so sleek it looked as if it was flying a million miles an hour just sitting still. It had been hard enough for Kathryn to accept a uniformed Marvin as the chauffeur of the mile-long limousine Curt had picked her up in. Now she found herself facing a liveried crew wearing the corporate colors of Creighton Enterprises—an appropriate combination of silver, gold and U.S. mint green.

  She shook her head in total amazement. “I thought we’d probably go to a park for a picnic,” she protested weakly.

  “Too ordinary.” Curt cupped her elbow as he escorted her up the steps into the plane’s cabin. He handed off her hanging bag with her change of clothes to one of the smiling crew members and briefly introduced her to the pilot, Walter Jackson.

  The plush interior made the plane look like a corporate conference room—thick carpeting, swivel chairs upholstered in rich velour and a matching couch along one side of the cabin. Kathryn detected a faint scent of newness to the aircraft, along with a trace of lemon air freshener...and wealth. Every time she was with Curt she caught the seductive scent of megadollars spent as casually as she might spend a little spare change.

  “You don’t do things halfway, do you?” she asked, allowing Curt to seat her on the couch.

  “Creighton Enterprises has interests all over the world. Europe. The Orient. South America. My top managers need to be able to respond to a crisis without having to wait for an airline.”

  “Besides that, you really like having expensive toys.”

  A guilty grin creas
ed both of his cheeks. “What would be the point of having money if you couldn’t spend it?” he admitted.

  “None, I guess.”

  He sat down beside her and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles one over the other. His scruffy sandals, cutoff jeans and cropped T-shirt were the antithesis of dress for success, yet she couldn’t imagine a more powerful, virile man. A light coating of swirling hair roughened his muscular thighs—tanned thighs a woman instinctively wanted to touch. His ribbed belly invited an even more intimate caress. He was definitely the kind of man who would turn heads in a nunnery.

  Kathryn would somehow have to endure more than twelve hours in his company without revealing just how strongly he affected her. A formidable task when she could already feel her breathing accelerating and her breasts growing heavier by the moment.

  A crewman pulled the cabin door closed and the Fasten Seat Belt sign lit up. The engines whined as they turned over. Deep in the pit of her stomach, Kathryn felt a fluttery sensation that had little to do with a fear of flying.

  Chapter Seven

  A little more than two hours later, Curt sat on the beach drizzling a handful of white sand through his fingers. He and Kathryn had consumed about half the generous amount of food and fine wine provided by the country-club hotel for their picnic. Leaning back in the low beach chair, he felt content, well fed and ready to make his move.

  “I don’t know about you, but it seems to me this beats the hell out of balance sheets and corporate maneuvering.”

  “You sound like a man who’s not happy with his work.”

  She was kneeling on the corner of the blanket, putting away the leftovers in the wicker picnic basket, a picture of domestic concentration. Her paisley print sundress revealed creamy smooth shoulders; her arms and hands moved with the grace of a dancer. Curt wished he had thought to bring his camera along. The dappled sunlight beneath the cypress tree fascinated him as it caressed Kathryn’s fair complexion, first at one delicate juncture and then another. He’d like his kisses to be able to play tag with the traveling dollops of sunlight.