by Ginna Gray
She marched from the parlor and down the long central hallway to the study. Sitting at the desk, she picked up the telephone and punched Mimi's number on the speed dial. Her friend answered on the first ring.
"Hi, sugar. What's up?"
"You sound groggy. I hope I didn't wake you." Most days Mimi retired to her boudoir after lunch for a short beauty nap.
"No, I was just lyin' here readin' a fashion magazine, Tiffany's has an ad in Glamour showin' a gorgeous diamond pin. Sweetie, if I'm lyin' I'm dyin', it'll make you drool. I was thinkin' about flyin' up to New York for the weekend to have a look at it. Brooches are gonna be very big this season. I thought maybe you'd like to go with me. We could take in a play and do some serious shoppin'. What do you think?"
"Sorry, I can't."
"If it's the cost, the trip will be my treat."
"No, it's not that. Well … not entirely. Listen, Mimi, I need a favor."
"Sugar, you know you can count on me."
"I have a couple of questions for you," Elizabeth said.
"Shoot."
"First of all, is your offer of a loan still good?"
"You betcha. Whatever you need."
"Good. My second question is, do you know of a really good private detective?"
She could sense the instant change in Mimi's demeanor. She could almost picture her friend languidly lying on the brocade chaise in her bedroom, then jerking to attention, swinging her long legs over the side and sitting forward, her ears perked up like a bird dog on point.
"Who're you havin' investigated?"
"Max Riordan. I'm thinking about accepting his proposal."
"What? You can't be serious! You don't know anything about the man."
"That's why I want to borrow money to hire a private detective. I want to check him out before I make my final decision."
"We need to talk about this. Give me ten minutes to throw some clothes on and I'll be right over."
In slightly over five minutes, Mimi burst into the study through the French doors, her hair standing on end and wearing not a speck of makeup, which spoke volumes about the depth of her concern.
"Now, what is this about Maxwell? You can't marry a man we know nothing about."
Elizabeth made an ironic little sound and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm beginning to wonder if we ever really know anyone."
She told her friend about her meeting with Wyatt and his disappointing reaction.
"You have to admit, if I'm going to marry for reasons other than love, all things considered, Max Riordan's proposition is looking better and better. At least a marriage between us would be mutually beneficial. I wouldn't be made to feel like some simpering damsel in distress in need of rescuing."
"Well … put that way, Max's offer is more appealing than Wyatt's. But I hate to even think about you in a loveless marriage. I mean, sweetie, let's face it. Men are difficult enough to live with when you adore them. God forbid you should be tied to one you don't give two hoots and a holler about."
"If you can think of a better solution, I'm all ears."
Mimi grimaced. "Damn. I wish I could."
It took the investigator Elizabeth hired, a retired HPD detective by the name of Donald Summers, barely a week to conduct a thorough background report on Max.
In his late fifties, Mr. Summers was a big man with salt-and-pepper hair, a broad, lined face and gentle eyes. Though his size was intimidating, he inspired trust with his solid, steady manner.
Mr. Summers and one of his old police buddies had set up their own investigative agency after retiring from the force, and they had a reputation for being thorough, honest and discreet.
According to Mimi, their agency had done work for several people she knew, mostly gathering evidence in divorce cases, or doing preemployment background checks.
"This turned out to be an easy job," Mr. Summers related, while both he and Elizabeth scanned copies of his typed report. "Your Mr. Riordan's life is pretty much an open book. One that reads like the American success story.
"He conducts his business in a straightforward manner—no dummy companies, no under-the-table deals, no shady business of any kind that I could find. And believe me, I dug deep, but there was nothing to find.
"Among the people with whom he does business he has a reputation as a straight shooter. Apparently he's short on tact and patience, drives a hard bargain and he's demanding, but he's also fair.
"His fortune, as you can see by the numbers listed on page four, is enormous. It consists of stocks, real estate, oil leases, outright ownership of several businesses and factories, plus he owns a large chunk of a pharmaceutical company, a quarter interest in a shipping fine and several other ventures. They're all listed in the report. He's an extremely wealthy, self-made man with a sterling reputation and a first-rate credit history. All the bankers and businessmen who know him seem to regard him with awe. They all agree that when it comes to business and finance he's a genius.
"As for his personal background, it's strictly blue-collar. Mr. Riordan had what I guess you could call a nomadic kind of haphazard childhood. His father was an oil-field worker, what's known in the oil business as a tool-pusher. His mother was always a homemaker. The old man worked on oil rigs all over the world and dragged his wife and son along with him.
"Except for a four-year hitch in the Marine Corp, from his mid-teens through his mid-twenties, Max himself spent his summers in the oil fields working as a roustabout. He used that money, along with some scholarships, to put himself through college. State schools. He earned double degrees from Texas Tech in petroleum engineering and finance. Throughout his college years he was on the dean's list. He also earned a master's in business from Stanford.
"His father died about ten years ago. He's on excellent terms with his mother and supports her in a very comfortable style. She lives in one of those plush, high-toned assisted living communities for wealthy seniors. Her name is Iona Belle Riordan. She has never remarried."
Mr. Summers closed his copy of the report. "All in all, I'd say he's a decent guy. I'd trust him. In fact, I wouldn't mind getting some stock tips from him. I hope this report tells you what you wanted to know."
"Yes. Yes, it has. Thank you, Mr. Summers."
After showing the detective out, Elizabeth marched into the study, found Max's business card and dialed his private number before she could change her mind. He answered on the first ring.
"Yeah," he barked.
Elizabeth jumped at his harsh tone and almost hung up. She was shaking, she realized. Annoyed with herself, she squared her shoulders. "Max. This is Elizabeth Stanton. I've … I've thought over everything we talked about and … and I've decided to accept your proposal."
There was a moment of silence. Then, his voice softening fractionally, Max said, "I'll be right there."
"You'll be right where?"
Sitting in front of Max's massive desk, Troy Ellerbee, his right-hand man, scowled at him as he hung up the telephone and stood up. "You can't leave. Have you forgotten? We have a meeting with Dewitt Scarborough and his attorney coming up in—" Troy shot back his shirt cuff and glanced at his wristwatch "—two hours and forty-four minutes."
"On my way out I'll get Carly to reschedule the meeting. This is more important," Max replied absently. He went into his adjoining private bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror. Troy followed. After rebuttoning his shirt collar, Max cinched up his tie and ran a comb through his hair.
"What do you mean, more important?" Troy demanded from the doorway. "What could be more important than the Scarborough deal? We've been working on old man Scarborough for more than a year to sell us that land."
Brushing past his assistant, Max returned to his office and retrieved his overcoat from the closet and slipped into it.
"Dammit, Max, are you listening to me? If you reschedule at the last minute, old man Scarborough may back out of the deal. You know what a curmudgeon he is. For Pete's sake! What is so important that you'd ri
sk that?"
"I'm getting married."
"That's no reason to—" Troy stopped short, his eyes widening. "What? What did you just say?"
"I said, I'm getting married." Oblivious to his assistant's agitation, Max patted the pockets of his overcoat. Where the devil had he put that ring? Frowning, he thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. Right. The safe.
He marched across to the other side of the office, opened out the hinged oil painting that hid the safe and proceeded to twirl the combination dial. Again, Troy followed right on his heels.
"You're getting married? Since when? And to whom? When did this happen? I didn't even know you were seeing anyone."
Max pulled the black velvet jeweler's box from the safe and placed it in the inside pocket of his suit coat. Next, he removed a folded legal document, stuffed it into the same pocket, then closed and locked the safe and returned the oil painting to its usual position. "I'm marrying Elizabeth Stanton. Tonight, I hope. If her schedule permits."
"Elizabeth Stanton! Good grief, man! Have you lost your mind?"
"Why are you so shocked? You're the one who told me that the only way I was going to break into Houston society and tap into the old monied investors was to marry a trophy wife. One of their own. Someone with a mile-long pedigree. Elizabeth fits those prerequisites to a tee."
"Good Lord, man, I never thought you'd take me seriously. I was only kidding around!"
"I know that. But the more I thought about it the more I realized it was an excellent idea. These people are a tight group, particularly the decedents of the original Texas 'Three Hundred,' who came here with Stephen F. Austin. They tend to close ranks against newcomers. Having Elizabeth as my wife will open doors—and hopefully some deep coffers for me.
"But marriage? Damn, Max. How long do you think the marriage will last once she realizes that you married her for her contacts?"
"She already knows that. I laid it all out for her."
Troy looked dumbfounded. "And she's okay with that?"
"Why wouldn't she be?" Max headed for the door. "Our marriage will be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Thanks to her ex-husband, Elizabeth is in financial trouble. She's marrying me for my money and I'm marrying her for her social position and contacts. We're both going into this with our eyes wide open.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go meet with her and work out the last-minute arrangements."
At the door Max paused and looked back at Troy, who stood staring after him with his mouth agape. "Stand by, will you? I may need you to act as best man."
"Sure. Right. Whatever you say," Troy mumbled.
Elizabeth had not expected Max to drop everything and come over. She replaced the receiver and looked around in a panic. It wouldn't take him long to get there. His office in Greenway Plaza wasn't far from River Oaks.
She went in search of Gladys and told her that she was expecting Mr. Riordan momentarily, then hurried upstairs to powder her nose and gather her composure.
Fifteen minutes later when she came back downstairs Max was in the parlor, standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the oil painting over the mantelpiece. He glanced over his shoulder at her as she entered the room and nodded toward the painting. "One of your family?"
"Yes. That's my great-great-grandmother, Ida Stanton."
"Those are beautiful jewels she's wearing."
"Thank you." Elizabeth looked up at the painting in wistful silence. Ida had sat for the portrait wearing a formal evening gown of dark wine silk trimmed in ecru lace in the mid-nineteenth-century Victorian style. In her ears and around her neck were the exquisite gold-and-diamond earrings and necklace that had become known as the Stanton Diamonds.
"My great-great-great-grandfather, Asa Stanton, had the set made for his wife, Camille, for their twenty-fifth anniversary. She gave them to their son Jonathon to give to his bride, Ida O'Keefe, on their wedding day. They've been passed down from generation to generation ever since."
"So they're family heirlooms. I look forward to seeing them on you someday."
"Yes … well, I'm afraid that's not going to happen. I had to sell the set last spring in order to meet payroll and purchase a new harvester for Mimosa Landing."
Max raised his eyebrows at that, but to Elizabeth's vast relief he didn't question her decision. Parting with the Stanton diamonds had been wrenching enough without rehashing the matter.
"Won't you have a seat," she invited, gesturing toward the sofa. She sat down in her favorite chair and folded her hands together in her lap. "I really didn't expect you to drop everything and rush right over."
"No problem. I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible. The next few weeks are going to be very busy for me. On the chance that you would accept my proposal, I had my attorney draw up a prenuptial agreement over a week ago." He pulled the legal document from his pocket and handed it to her. "If you can contact your attorney and have him okay the agreement today, we could sign it and fly to Las Vegas and be married tonight."
Stunned, Elizabeth looked from Max to the document she held in her hand, then back to Max. She blinked several times, at a loss for words. The man was like a steamroller. No small talk, no finesse, no subtlety. Just wham-bam, here's the deal, let's get on with it.
"You must be joking," she managed finally to say in an appalled voice. "Las Vegas? There is no way I will take my vows in some sleazy marriage mill in Las Vegas. I would never do anything so … so tacky."
"I hope you're not thinking of staging one of those ritzy society weddings that take a year to arrange," Max countered. "Because it isn't going to happen. I don't have the time or the patience for all that hoopla."
"No, of course I'm not considering a formal wedding. Under the circumstances, that wouldn't be appropriate, either. However, if we're going to do this, I insist that we do it with some degree of decorum. I think we should have a small, tasteful ceremony, either here or at Mimosa Landing, with our families and closest friend as witnesses.
"Believe me, when word of our marriage gets out, there's going to be plenty of gossip without adding fuel to the fire by doing something so tasteless as getting married in Vegas."
"Hmm. I suppose you're right. But I don't want to drag his out. How long will it take to put together the kind of ceremony you're suggesting?"
"Well, first we'd have to get together with our attorneys and work out the prenuptial agreement. Then we have to get blood tests and a license. Make arrangements with my minster to perform the ceremony. Call the people we want to attend and invite them. Arrange for the flowers and a small buffet. Oh, yes, and we'll need to buy rings."
"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot." Max reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a small jeweler's box. "I picked this up last week. The jeweler at Tiffany's assured me it was your size." He tossed the box to her, and Elizabeth caught it reflexively.
"What…?"
"It's an engagement ring. Go ahead. Open it."
"An engagement ring?" Elizabeth's chin tilted up at a haughty angle. "Were you so certain that I'd say yes?"
Max shrugged. "I find it pays to approach every transaction with a positive attitude. Anyway, the jeweler said I had thirty days to return it."
"I see." Looking down at the box, Elizabeth snapped it open and sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, my word." Nestled in the blue velvet was a magnificent, glittering solitaire diamond ring. The stone was large, but the elegant simplicity of the gold Tiffany-style setting kept it from being ostentatious. Elizabeth hadn't given any thought to rings, but even if she had, she would not have expected Max to present her with an engagement ring. Their marriage didn't seem to warrant one.
However, she had to admit, if she had picked out the ring herself she could not have found one more perfectly suited to her taste. It was so lovely she could only stare at it, speechless.
"It's just two carats," Max said when the awkward silence stretched out. "I looked at bigger stones, but they seemed gaudy to me. But if you don't l
ike it you can exchange it for a bigger diamond or a different ring, if you want."
"Oh, no. No. It's beautiful. Absolutely perfect." She put the ring on her finger and looked up at Max with a hesitant smile. "Thank you."
She halfway expected him to respond with a token kiss on the cheek or at the very least a tender word or two. But Max merely replied, "No problem."
For heaven's sake, she thought. They'd just gotten engaged. He'd presented her with an absurdly expensive ring. Within a few days they were going to be married and spend the rest of their lives together. And all he had to say was "no problem." Did the man even have a softer side?
"I'll also have my attorney set up the Mimosa Landing trust." Max pulled out his PDA and punched a few buttons with the stylus. "Let's see, this is Monday. We should be able to get all that done by the end of the week. Which means we could get married on Saturday. How does that work for you?"
"You mean this coming Saturday?" Elizabeth said in a squeaky voice.
"Yes. I don't see any reason to delay, do you?"
"Well … no. I suppose not. I just … didn't expect things to move quite so rapidly."
"Fine, then. Saturday it is. If it's all right with you, we'll fly to New York for a short honeymoon. I have some business there that I need to take care of next week, anyway.
"Now, why don't you give your attorney a buzz and see if he can see us this afternoon. If he can, tell him to meet us at my office in Greenway Plaza as soon as possible. I've already put my attorney on notice. He's waiting to hear from me.
"As soon as we get the prenup hammered out and signed, you and I will go get the blood tests and get the ball rolling."
* * *
Four
« ^ »
Three hours later, sitting in Max's plush Greenway Plaza office, Elizabeth felt as though she were being swept along by a force over which she had no control.
Her lips twitched in a sardonic smile. A force by the name of Maxwell Riordan.
She wouldn't necessarily describe Max as domineering. He did frequently ask for her opinion or preference and her wishes seemed to matter to him. However, he was a decisive, forceful, take-charge kind of man. He exuded authority and strength. Watching him in operation was awe-inspiring.