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

by Charlotte Maclay

  “Not exactly.” She squirmed in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. The rough road was compounding a serious problem with the car’s shock absorbers. “I just thought it would have saved us time in the long run if we knew where we were going.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I think I left it back on the streets of Paris where you almost killed those pedestrians, not to mention us.”

  “Stick with me, sweet Katie.” He laughed. “I’ve got a real treat in store for you.”

  The car chose that moment to cough twice, lurch forward with a final wheeze, then silently roll to a stop on the deserted road. Grimly, Curt twisted the ignition key, which caused the wipers to get out of sync. They locked together like dueling swordsmen in the middle of the windshield.

  Kathryn’s lips twitched at the corners. Curt looked so glum, she didn’t dare laugh out loud. “A real treat?”

  “We’re out of gas.”

  “Really?” she teased. “I never would have guessed.”

  He gave her a sullen look. “The gauge must be broken.”

  “Everything else on the car seems to be. I can’t think why the gauge would work when nothing else does.”

  He slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. “If I ever catch that kid who sold me this piece of junk, I swear I’ll string him up by his ears!”

  “You bought it? I thought...” She choked back another laugh.

  “Yeah, well, at the time it seemed like the smart thing to do.” He glanced out the window. “Let’s try over there. Maybe we can get some help.” He pointed to the shadowy shape of a building a few hundred feet away. It didn’t look like a place of refuge to Kathryn.

  She shrugged. “Whatever you say, Curt, but my guess is we’re going to have to walk back to the main road.”

  Once out of the car, he took her hand and they ran through a mist as soft as dew on a chilly morning. He lifted her over a low rock fence, his hands at her waist, his thumbs just brushing the curves of her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat. Before their night in Paris, Kathryn hadn’t truly known what pleasure a man’s touch could bring her. Now her body seemed ultrasensitive to the least bit of contact.

  The building he led her to was low to the ground, built of rocks and didn’t have a single window. The door was padlocked shut.

  “Not much help for us here,” Kathryn pointed out.

  “We’ll see.” He fussed with the lock until it popped open.

  She cocked her head. “How’d you do that?”

  “Picking locks is an old hobby of mine. I used to break into Lucy’s diary all the time when we were kids.”

  Kathryn sputtered.

  As he shoved open the heavy door, she said, “I’m really not into breaking and entering, Curt. Why don’t we just walk back to the road?”

  “We’d get all wet.”

  “We’d also avoid being locked away in some dank and dreary French prison for the rest of our lives.”

  “Maybe I could bribe them to assign us to the same dungeon.” He gave her a quick wink.

  Suppressing a smile, she gave a “humph” of disapproval. The thought of being locked up with Curt for the rest of her life did have a certain appeal—though she wasn’t about to admit it to him.

  Miraculously he found a switch that turned on the lights. A dozen stairs led down to a huge room filled with rows of barrels stacked three high. The tangy scent of fermenting fruit filled the air.

  “A wine cellar,” she announced.

  “Looks like.” Nonchalantly he wandered down the row, examining the oak casks. The light from the bare bulbs glistened off his damp hair, haloing it in red. Kathryn had to fight the sensation that tightened her chest. He was such a beautiful man, so full of life and vitality it took her breath away.

  “This one looks like a good year,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the barrel. “It’s full, too.”

  “Curt, I don’t think we ought to be messing around with their wine.”

  Ignoring her, Curt tapped into the cask he’d selected. “See if you can find us a couple of glasses, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! I think we ought to get out of here before someone catches us. Frenchmen are bound to be fussy about who helps themselves to samples of their wine.”

  Undaunted, he wandered off down the row of casks, returning a few minutes later with two glasses. He filled the glass with an inch of deep, rose-colored liquid, swirled it and held it up to the light. He sniffed, then sipped the wine.

  “Ninety-one was definitely a good year for cabernet sauvignon. Nice, rich color. Superior bouquet. Very smooth.” He filled the second glass, pressed it into her hand and lifted his in a toast. “To us, Ms. Prim. And to our tour of France.” A beguiling smile deepened the creases in his cheeks.

  “I suppose we can’t pour it back in the cask?”

  “Probably not.”

  “To us,” she echoed with little conviction. Though she might love Curt, they were an unlikely pair. He relished the spotlight; she preferred the anonymity of the shadows. Given both his wealth and his charismatic personality, she could see little chance of finding middle ground. And she’d never try to force him into a mold that would quash his effervescence, for that’s what she loved the most. He made her smile.

  She sipped the wine, letting it slide smoothly down her throat past the painful constriction she felt. Unshed tears burned at the backs of her eyes. “It’s lovely,” she agreed.

  He gazed at her over the top of his glass. “So are you.”

  Taking a second sip, she concentrated on the taste of the wine, trying to force away a sudden wash of hopeless melancholy. “Exquisite.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  At the husky tone of his voice, she raised her gaze to meet his. While she’d been contemplating the impossible, he’d stepped closer—so close, she could see the fan of his unfairly long lashes and the tiny gold specks in his blue-green eyes. His expressive eyebrows naturally formed an arrogant arch and his nose appeared aristocratic; but it was the way his smile gentled the strong shape of his jaw that made her heartbeat accelerate.

  “Have you ever made love in a wine cellar?” he asked. Dipping his head, he brushed a kiss at that sensitive spot right below her ear, an erogenous zone he’d explored at length last night, and again this morning.

  A shiver raced down her spine. “Not that I can recall.”

  “Conjures up some interesting possibilities, doesn’t it?” He nibbled on her earlobe.

  She canted her head to give him better access to all the tender places along her neck she wanted him to investigate. “The floor looks a little uncomfortable. Too hard, I imagine.”

  His tongue swirled around the shell of her ear. “Maybe we could stretch out on top of the casks.”

  “Too lumpy.” Her eyes fluttered shut and a pleasant lethargy invaded her limbs. Curt had the most talented tongue, she mused, and he used it in masterful ways.

  “There’s a tasting table in the back. You’d be a perfect vintage.” He placed a dozen feather-light kisses on her eyelids. “A little on the sweet side, perhaps, but with an appealing bite.”

  She wavered, her legs no longer steady beneath her. She leaned back until she felt the rim of a wooden barrel press against her shoulders and thighs. She envisioned herself lying naked on an ancient oak table, Curt tasting her in all sorts of intimate ways.

  His breath warmed her face; his words heated her imagination.

  “On the other hand,” he whispered against her lips, “a feather bed would be nice.”

  “Feather bed?” she asked with a sigh. “In a wine cellar?”

  His tongue teased at the corners of her lips. “At the château.”

  “What château?”

  “The one that’s a quarter of a mile up the road. A hundred rooms, thirty of them bedrooms. Frescoes on the ceilings. Some of them downright suggestive.” He nipped seductively at her bottom lip between each pronouncemen
t. “You’ll love it.”

  “Hmm. Sounds heavenly.” What was truly heavenly was how Curt made her feel. Extraordinarily feminine. Achingly desirable.

  And thoroughly puzzled.

  Frowning, she shoved at his unyielding chest. “How do you know so much about this particular château?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I own it.”

  “You what?”

  “More accurately, it’s Creighton Enterprises that owns the vineyard and the château. This is where we get some of the private label wines we advertise in the Seduction Incorporated catalog.”

  “No!”

  His grin contained not the least amount of remorse. “‘Fraid so. I’d say this vintage—” he held up the wine they had sipped together “—is going to be imminently successful.”

  “You conned me again, Creighton,” she wailed. “You weren’t lost on that dinky little road trying to find some stupid shortcut. You knew where you were going all the time.”

  “Naturally.”

  “You had me scared to death that we were going to get shot for trespassing.”

  “You should have trusted me.”

  “Like a chicken trusts a fox.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I’m going to get you for this, Creighton.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  She rolled her eyes. The man was absolutely impossible. And totally irresistible.

  Behind Kathryn, someone discreetly cleared his throat.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Creighton. Mademoiselle.” Hat in hand, the burly workman bowed with great dignity. “Welcome to the vineyards of château Amour. I trust I am not disturbing your wine tasting.”

  “Not at all, Jacques. You’re right on time.” Curt slipped his arm around Kathryn’s waist in proprietary fashion. “I’d like you to meet Mademoiselle Prim. This is her first trip to France and I wanted to show her the château. Jacques is our head vintner and a true master of his craft.”

  “Really.” Still stunned by Curt’s ownership of a vineyard, much less a hundred-room chateau, Kathryn smiled weakly. “How did he know we were here?” she asked under her breath.

  “There’s a phone at the back of the wine cellar. I called him when I went to get the glasses.”

  “Oh.” If the man had waited a few minutes longer before arriving, he might have caught them in a very compromising position. Kathryn had been about to reject the need for a feather bed and plead for out-of-control passion on the dirt floor of the wine cellar instead.

  * * *

  JACQUES HOOKED UP the disabled Fiat behind his equally antiquated truck. As they bounced down the road, Kathryn sat in the cab of the truck, squeezed between Curt and the Frenchman.

  For the moment, the misty rain seemed to have stopped, though the clouds still hung low across the rural landscape, providing a surrealistic backdrop to the evenly spaced rows of vines.

  Within a few minutes, a massive stone structure appeared out of the fog. Three stories high, the château looked like a castle with a dozen chimneys peeking up through the slate roof, each corner of the building marked with a rectangular tower. A stray ray of sunlight slipped through the overcast and touched the square windowpanes across the front of the building like a magic wand, transforming the gray image with the same sparkle found in the most exquisite diamonds.

  “Enchanting,” Kathryn said on a sigh.

  “Our plans call for turning the château into the ultimate bed-and-breakfast for lovers,” Curt explained, his arm resting along the back of the seat. “We’ll feature weekends here in the Seduction catalog as the perfect gift for when all else fails.”

  “You might want to consider paving this road. Otherwise you’re likely to have a junkyard full of rental cars with broken axles. Not to mention a good many lovers with sprained backs.”

  He chuckled and gave her a quick hug. “Maybe I should hire you as a consultant. The female point of view, you know.”

  “Thanks, but I already have a job. Assuming I can get back to L.A. before Tom fires me.”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Kathryn had toured the great rooms of château Amour and began investigating the spacious bedrooms, she was ready to concede that Seduction Incorporated would have a real moneymaker in the place. Even with most of the furniture covered with dust cloths, the château had a romantic feeling, as though this were the original home of Sleeping Beauty. It would be hard to resist a man’s advances in such an enchanted place.

  Not that Kathryn wanted to, she mused with a half smile. The feather bed Curt had touted so proudly looked quite inviting.

  “You want to give it a try?” he asked.

  “Do we have time? Cannes is still a long drive—”

  He placed a quieting finger on her lips. “In France, there’s always time for love.”

  She opened her mouth and tasted him with her tongue. Who was she to argue with such ancient wisdom when her body was already thrumming with desire?

  Leisurely they undressed each other, taking time to admire the intimate landscapes revealed when each garment was set aside. Kathryn explored the rugged expanse of Curt’s muscled chest, while he investigated the smooth mounds of her breasts and the valley between them. With growing familiarity, she surveyed that part of Curt that could fill her so completely. In return, her thighs learned the thrilling pleasure of his rough cheeks against her sensitive skin.

  Together they lay down on the feather bed and Kathryn felt as if she was sinking into a sea of sensations. Enveloping warmth. Air redolent with the tangy scent of sex. The salty flavor of Curt on her tongue. The murmur of words of love in her ears. Buoyed by the utter softness of the mattress, Kathryn welcomed Curt’s tender invasion of her body.

  With the joy born of shared intimacy, they scaled the heights of intimacy. As one, they peaked, then toppled from the parapets to seek a closeness that only comes with familiarity.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, dressed once again, they reluctantly stepped out of the château and walked down the steps toward the waiting car.

  A man appeared without warning. A man with a camera.

  Kathryn turned her head and tried to cover her face as the flash went off, a lightninglike reminder that reality was inescapable and never far away.

  “Curt!” she cried.

  “I’ll get him.” Grimly he took off in pursuit of the fleeing photographer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Curt sprinted between rows of grapevines. He’d do anything to protect Kathryn—climb the highest mountain, swim the widest river, even slay a hundred dragons, if need be. He wasn’t going to let one sleazy member of the paparazzi ruin her reputation when it meant so much to her. She meant that much to him.

  For an over-the-hill has-been, Bernie Zimmer was quick on his feet. But Curt was younger and lots more motivated.

  He dived after the fleeing photographer and clipped him at the knees in a perfect open-field tackle. The guy went down hard, his camera bouncing out of his hands. Curt got the creep in a hammerlock, his forearm pulling hard against Zimmer’s throat.

  “Leave off, Creighton,” Bernie choked. “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Not anymore, you’re not. Now you’re working for me.” He tightened his grip around Bernie’s neck. Normally Curt wasn’t a violent man. For Kathryn, he realized, he’d be anything necessary in order to defend her. “I’ll double...triple what you’d get paid for those pictures. But I want the film and I want you off my back. Forever. And nobody hears from you that the lady and I were ever in France. Got that?”

  “There’s a thing called freedom of the press, man.” He coughed. “You can’t gag me.”

  “Can’t I?” Curt brought his mouth real close to Bernie’s ear, so close he could smell the guy’s sweat. In a taut whisper he said, “Remember those tabloid stories that said I had connections to the mob?” Lies that had really gotten under Curt’s skin, but he wasn’t beneath using them now to persuade the photographer to mend his ways.

  Bernie nodded.
>
  “Think about that while I remind you the mob plays for keeps. Broken kneecaps happen all the time. Or if you’d rather, a phone call can get you fitted for cement shoes and a walk across the bottom of the Atlantic. What’s it gonna be?”

  He flipped Bernie onto his back and fisted his shirt tight against his throat. Red faced, the whites of his eyes were showing and his neck veins distended. “Or maybe I ought to just take care of everything myself,” Curt threatened. “That’d give me real pleasure.”

  Bernie shook his head. “You can have...the film. No charge.”

  Curt eased his grip. He was shaking almost as much as Bernie, and his breath was coming just as hard. But the creep had bought his phony story about the mob. That’s all that mattered—keeping Bernie scared speechless, at least as far as any tabloid stories were concerned.

  “I like to pay for services rendered,” Curt said. He shoved himself away from the photographer, retrieved the camera and exposed the film. “I like to know my employees are loyal to me and not to anybody else, like some flea-bitten editor who wouldn’t know an honest story if one hit him in the face.”

  He whipped some bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the ground in front of Bernie, who eyed the money uneasily.

  “Go on. Take it. And get outta here before I decide to break your kneecaps myself.”

  “Yeah. Right. I’m gone, man.” Rubbing at his throat, he picked up the money and struggled to his feet. “No sweat, Mr. Creighton. Whoever asks, I never saw you.”

  “If I see a word in print about this trip, you know what will happen, don’t you? It’s a hell of a long walk back to the States underwater.”

  Bernie’s head bobbed up and down like one of those toy dolls stuck in the back window of an old car.

  “Beat it,” Curt ordered. “And don’t let me catch you skulking around again.”

  Taking a few steps backward, Bernie edged down the row of grapevines, then turned and fled toward the road.

  Curt exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He had to steady himself by leaning against a vine-covered post. This business of bluffing a guy with threats to his life was no easy trick. For Katie, though, it was worth the price.