Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  Roarke nodded to his boss, who had recently taken over the reins as head of Dundee Private Security. Raking his fingers through his thick, brown hair, Roarke shoved back his chair and stood. “I’ll be damned if I don’t feel like some Thoroughbred stallion about to be paraded around and sized up to see if I’d make a good studhorse.”

  Dane chuckled. “I think the lady’s pretty much made up her mind that you’re the man she wants for the job. This little inspection is probably just a formality.”

  “I haven’t accepted her proposition. I’m not sure that I can. She’s asking an awful lot for her million dollars.”

  “I wouldn’t do it.” Dane clamped his big hand down on Roarke’s shoulder. “But then, we’re very different men, with totally different agendas. I’m not eager to retire from this business, and I’m not paying the bills for an ex-wife’s medical treatment.”

  Roarke tensed at the mention of his former wife. Dane was one of the few people he’d ever told about Hope. He had always felt that his relationship with his ex-wife was nobody’s business.

  “I might as well get this over with.” He took a deep breath and tried to grin at Dane. Was he a fool even to consider hiring himself out as a husband to a woman he’d never met?

  “I’ll tell the two Miss McNamaras to come in.”

  “Hey,” Roarke called out.

  Hesitating at the closed door, Dane glanced back at Roarke. “Yes?”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Does it really matter?” Dane asked.

  “Yeah, it really matters. Good Lord, man, if I take her up on her offer, I’m going to be having sex with her for the next few months.”

  Dane cleared his throat in an obvious effort not to laugh. “She’s okay, I suppose, if you like the type.”

  “And just what type would that be?”

  “A petite redhead in a business suit, with an attitude so frosty that I could have chipped icicles off my fingers after our handshake.”

  “Damn,” Roarke groaned. It might have made things a little easier if she was a luscious blond bombshell, the kind who could raise a man’s temperature just by walking into the room.

  “What did you expect—a hot-blooded temptress?” Dane asked. “Don’t forget that she’d rather pay a man to marry her than seduce one with her charms.”

  “This particular woman is paying for more than just a husband,” Roarke reminded him. “Ms. McNamara expects her money to buy her a husband, a bodyguard and a sperm donor.”

  CLEO MCNAMARA SHIFTED uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d been so nervous. But then, a lot was riding on her interview with Simon Roarke. If he accepted her offer, she could save McNamara Industries and the jobs of several hundred employees. If he refused…? No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think in negative terms. Cleo, more than most women, knew the power of money. After all, she had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Few men could turn down a million dollars for less than a year’s service.

  “Cleo, dear, will you sit still?” Beatrice McNamara patted her niece’s quivering hand. “You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t calm down.”

  “I cannot believe I’m actually doing this,” Cleo said. “I’m about to hire myself a husband. If the matter wasn’t so dead serious, it would be hilarious. I’m sure Daphne will laugh herself silly if she ever finds out.”

  “Let Daphne laugh,” Beatrice said. “Let the whole family laugh. It doesn’t matter. The only important thing is that by fulfilling the stipulations in Daddy’s will, you’ll be able to retain control of McNamara Industries. Besides, there’s no reason for anyone to know this marriage isn’t a love match.”

  “If Uncle George hadn’t been such an old-fashioned male chauvinist, he wouldn’t have put me in this situation.”

  “Now, dear, give credit where credit is due.” Beatrice straightened the soft neck bow on her silk blouse, her tiny fingers touching the material with delicate finesse. “Daddy might have been a bit old-fashioned, but if he’d been a true male chauvinist, he never would have allowed you to become CEO of McNamara Industries in the first place.”

  “I know, Aunt Beatrice, but—”

  “He simply didn’t want to see you wind up an old maid like me.” Beatrice sighed dramatically. “Besides, when he made out his will, I’m sure he thought you’d marry Hugh.”

  Cleo supposed it was reasonable for Uncle George to have thought she would marry Hugh Winfield in order to fulfill the stipulations of the will. But she had dated the man only to please Uncle George, who’d been determined—for years—to see her marry. She’d known Hugh most of her life and had always liked him, but she certainly wasn’t in love with him. In all honesty, if he had dumped her—a week before Uncle George’s death—for anyone other than her cousin Daphne, she would have been relieved.

  Beatrice fidgeted with the braid trim on her lavender jacket. “I’m most eager to see what Mr. Roarke looks like, aren’t you? His credentials are quite impressive, but one can’t really judge a man until one meets him face-to-face.”

  “I don’t see that Mr. Roarke’s physical appearance matters much one way or the other,” Cleo said, lying to herself as well as to her aunt. “He meets all the qualifications I need in a temporary mate. He’s intelligent and healthy. And he’s a seasoned bodyguard.”

  “Well, say what you like, but I know that if I were planning on having—” Beatrice lowered her voice to a whisper “—sex…with a man, I’d want him to be at least passably good-looking.”

  Before Cleo could think of a reply, the inner office door opened and Dane Carmichael invited them into Mr. Roarke’s office.

  Standing, Cleo stiffened her spine, and when Aunt Beatrice grabbed her hand, she squeezed tightly, trying to reassure them both. She stepped back, allowing her aunt to enter first, then followed her into the plainly decorated, modern office.

  The man stood with his back to them. A very large, wide back. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing dark, hairy forearms. He was a big man, broad and thickly muscled beneath his clothes. He turned slowly. His blue eyes captured Cleo in their mesmerizing glare. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She swallowed hard.

  Beatrice McNamara gasped, then said ever so softly, “Oh, my, my.”

  My, my, indeed, Cleo thought. Simon Roarke was, without a doubt, the most masculine man she had ever encountered. He stood six-three, a good foot taller than she. With his top shirt buttons open, his thick, dark chest hair was partially exposed. Despite telling herself not to stare, Cleo could not stop herself from inspecting the man.

  There was a rugged, almost fierce beauty in his appearance. His face was not a pretty one by anyone’s standards, but a strikingly handsome, extremely manly one. A five o’clock shadow darkened his jawline.

  “Roarke, this is Ms. Cleo McNamara,” Dane said. “And her aunt, Miss Beatrice McNamara.”

  Gathering up her courage, Cleo stepped forward. She tilted her chin defiantly, daring anyone to think that she wasn’t strong, capable and fearless.

  “Mr. Roarke.” She offered him her hand.

  Simon glanced down at her small hand, tiny almost and quite delicate. Pale. Creamy. Soft. Unadorned. Well manicured, the nails painted with clear polish.

  He accepted her greeting, his own big hand swallowing her small one when he grasped it. He felt a barely discernible tremor when their palms touched, but it was so slight he thought he might have imagined it. He realized he wanted this woman, who was trying so valiantly to appear tough, to show him some sign of weakness. But his gut instincts told him that Cleopatra McNamara seldom allowed anyone to see her vulnerable.

  “Ms. McNamara. Won’t you sit down?” He found himself strangely reluctant to release her hand, so he guided her to the chair and assisted her in sitting.

  Dane had been right about her. Cleo was a frosty little redhead in a neatly tailored black business suit. But where Dan
e had failed to notice Ms. McNamara’s nicely rounded behind and the high thrust of a pair of not-too-inadequate breasts, Roarke did notice. Maybe if a man knew he was destined to bed a woman, he paid closer attention to her physical attributes.

  Cleo was no ravishing beauty—that was true. But good Lord, there definitely was something about her that stirred Roarke’s baser instincts. Maybe it was because she was so small, so thin, that he could easily break her in half with his bare hands. Or maybe it was the fact that she was trying so damn hard to show him how strong and tough she was. A lot of women in her situation would have used the “I’m so helpless and need a big strong man like you” approach. Whatever the cause, Roarke found himself interested in and oddly attracted to this woman who could soon be his for the taking.

  Cleo stared up at him with fearless, moss-green eyes, her expression questioning him, his honesty, his sincerity. And for the briefest instant he felt as if she were warning him not to hurt her.

  “We haven’t any time to waste,” Beatrice said in her authoritarian, schoolteacher voice. “It’s taken us nearly three weeks to find you, Mr. Roarke, and Cleo must be married within thirty-one days of Daddy’s death.” Beatrice stood behind her niece’s chair, her fingertips biting into the leather surface.

  Roarke glanced at Beatrice McNamara, a softer, older version of her niece. He knew she was sixty-three, but would have guessed her a good ten years younger. Although her auburn hair was streaked with gray, she kept it cut stylishly short, and her petite body was still youthfully slender.

  “I understand the urgency.” Roarke spoke directly to Beatrice, then turned his attention to Cleo. “You must be desperate to retain control of your uncle’s little fertilizer plant if you’re willing to marry a man you don’t know and have him father your child.”

  What sort of woman must she be, Roarke wondered, to pay such a high price for the stewardship of a small chemical plant in a one-horse Alabama town? If she didn’t marry within a month of her uncle’s death and become pregnant within a year, she wouldn’t lose her inheritance, just control of the company. In fact, by selling the business, as the other family members wanted to do, she’d be a far richer woman than if she kept the company and lived off the quarterly dividends.

  “If I don’t fulfill the stipulations of Uncle George’s will by marrying and getting pregnant, then McNamara Industries will be sold. And the company that wants to buy it plans to downsize drastically. That will mean hundreds of River Bend residents will lose their jobs. Our ‘little’ fertilizer plant is the major employer in the county, Mr. Roarke.”

  “I see.” Roarke scanned Cleo’s face for any sign of deception and found none. So Cleo McNamara was a do-gooder. A wealthy businesswoman who actually gave a damn about her employees.

  Beatrice cleared her throat. “You understand that your background in the Green Berets and here at the Dundee agency is what tipped the scales in your favor as our choice for a husband. Cleo needs a full-time bodyguard.”

  “I’m well aware of Ms. McNamara’s reasons for selecting me over the other candidates.” Roarke glared at Dane Carmichael, who stood by the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirky grin on his face.

  “We’re quite certain that someone in the family is trying to kill Cleo,” Beatrice explained. “Two days after Daddy’s funeral, someone tried to shoot her. And with one of Daddy’s rifles, too! The sheriff checked every weapon in Daddy’s collection immediately after the shooting and discovered one of the rifles had been fired recently. The bullet they found in the wall behind where Cleo had been standing was a match.”

  “But according to the report you sent me, there were no fingerprints, other than your father’s, found on the rifle.”

  “That’s right.” Beatrice nodded.

  “And the authorities don’t have a clue as to who fired that shot?” Roarke posed his question to Cleo.

  “Not a clue,” she said. “But it had to have been either a family member or someone they’d hired. Only Aunt Beatrice and I want to keep McNamara Industries a family-run business. The rest of the family want to sell it.”

  “Is saving your uncle’s company worth risking your life?” Roarke fervently wished he didn’t find Ms. McNamara to be so damned noble. There was certainly something irresistibly appealing about a strong, intelligent, noble woman.

  He realized that he’d never met anyone quite like her, and it was at that very moment he decided to take Cleo McNamara up on her offer of marriage. Even though he’d be doing it for the money, perhaps by making it possible for her to fulfill the stipulations of her uncle’s will, he, too, would be doing something just a little noble.

  “Yes. Saving McNamara Industries is worth any price I have to pay.” Balling her hands into tight little fists in her lap, she stared up at Roarke. “Do we have a deal? As Aunt Beatrice pointed out, I don’t have any time to waste.”

  “Has your lawyer drawn up all the documents?”

  “Yes. I have them with me. In my briefcase.”

  “Then leave them and I’ll read over them tonight. Come back tomorrow morning and, if you haven’t changed your mind, we’ll sign the papers.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” Cleo assured him. “Once we’ve finalized our deal, I’ll want you to return to Alabama with me and we’ll be married immediately.”

  Cleo stood and offered her hand to Roarke. Reluctantly, he accepted, once again holding on to her longer than necessary.

  “I want one thing understood up front,” Roarke told her, his thumb caressing her knuckles. “I’ll marry you, father your child and protect you while we try to discover who wants to kill you. But I won’t be around once the child is born. That’s the only way I’ll agree to this deal.”

  Cleo couldn’t understand how a man could father a child and then desert it, never wanting anything to do with it. But for her sake and the child’s, she was glad Simon Roarke wasn’t the sentimental type. She had wondered how she’d handle the situation if he asked for visitation rights. Obviously, that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “You never want to see the child?” she asked. “Never want to be a part of his or her life?”

  “That’s right.” Roarke clenched his jaw; the pulse in his neck bulged and throbbed. “The child will not be mine. It will be yours—completely yours.”

  “Very well. We have a deal.” She pulled her hand free, squared her shoulders and turned away from him.

  Roarke watched while Dane escorted the McNamara ladies out of the office. The moment the door closed behind them, he turned toward the window, took a deep breath and thought, Good Lord, am I making the biggest mistake of my life?

  For a good thirty minutes, he stood looking out the window. His thoughts raced backward in time. To another marriage. To a twenty-one-year-old soldier madly in love with the prettiest girl in the world.

  The pain rose inside him, a deep, twisting knot of agony that started in his belly and spread through him like an insidious poison. With unsteady hands, Roarke removed his wallet from his pocket and slipped out a frayed photograph. Blue eyes identical to his own stared back at him from the face of a golden-haired angel. His little Laurie. The picture had been taken only a few weeks after her third birthday. Her last birthday. Roarke had been halfway around the world in an insect-infested jungle when his daughter had died. If his military career hadn’t been more important to him than his child, Laurie would still be alive. And Hope might not be vegetating in a mental hospital.

  CLEO LAY IN the double bed in Atlanta’s Doubletree Hotel, listening to Aunt Beatrice’s wispy breathing as she slept peacefully. Cleo could not imagine life without her aunt, who actually was her father’s first cousin. Beatrice, whom she’d referred to as aunt all her life, had been the nearest thing to a mother Cleo had ever known. When she was three, her father had been killed in Vietnam and her mother, young, beautiful and a bit wild, had deserted Cleo.

  She had grown up on the McNamara estate in River Bend, a sleepy little Alabama town in northwest
Alabama, near the Tennessee River. Aunt Beatrice had adored her and taken over her upbringing. And because she not only looked like the McNamaras but Uncle George believed she had the McNamara brains and grit, she soon became his favorite. “You’re your father’s daughter,” he’d told her often. Uncle George had thought the world of young Jimmy McNamara Jr., his only brother’s son.

  Cleo couldn’t ever remember wanting for anything money could buy. If she wanted it, needed it or asked for it, it was hers. But she would never forget the nights she had prayed her mother would return for her and love her the way mothers should love their daughters. But the beautiful, wild Arabelle had never returned. And when Cleo was nineteen, they received word that her mother had died accidentally of an overdose of drugs and alcohol.

  She supposed one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with Paine Emerson and had agreed to marry him at twenty was that she’d longed for the kind of family life she’d been denied. She’d seen herself as a happy homemaker and the mother of half a dozen little Emersons. She’d been such a young fool. More in love with love than with Paine. And totally infatuated with the dream of being the kind of mother she’d never had.

  She had thrown herself into their relationship with total abandon, giving Paine her virginity as well as her heart. She didn’t know which she regretted losing the most. But in the long run, it didn’t matter. She had retrieved her broken heart and mended it quite well. And her lost virginity was of little importance, since, for all intents and purposes, she was still what some would call a semi virgin, a woman with very little sexual experience.

  She had hated Daphne for quite some time after her cousin had seduced Paine into eloping. But when Paine had left Daphne for another woman only four years into their turbulent marriage, Cleo had actually felt sorry for her cousin. She had welcomed Daphne home, if not with open arms, at least with civility.

  She couldn’t remember a time in her life when Daphne hadn’t wanted what she had. If Cleo got a pony, Daphne wanted a horse. If Cleo got a new dress, Daphne had to have two new dresses. When Cleo became engaged to Paine Emerson, Daphne promptly seduced him into eloping with her. So why had Cleo been surprised that, less than six months after she started dating Hugh Winfield, she found him in bed with Daphne?