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A Proper Wife
Sandra Marton
FROM HERE TO PATERNITY The heat is on… and so is their marriage! Ryan Kincaid doesn't like being told what to do. When his grandfather pressures him to marry and introduces him to a suitable bride, Ryan is furious. Devon Franklin is the most argumentative, grasping female he's ever met! So what if she's gorgeous and he can't stop thinking about her?Devon is perfectly capable of running her own life. She doesn't need a husband and certainly not one like Ryan-disgustingly rich, dangerously handsome, infuriatingly smug… ! Who cares if his kisses turn her knees to jelly? Perhaps the solution is a whirlwind wedding… and an equally quick divorce?From Here to Paternity: men who find their way to fatherhood - by fair means, by foul, or even by default!
Excerpt (#u439fbf0f-d610-5647-90b3-e7b70ef3aa6a)Dedication (#u7012bab7-fb25-5b01-b5f8-05225d8f9552)About the Author (#u380c30bd-de7a-52bb-9985-63bd86620eac)Title Page (#ud62841b7-cfbe-5cbb-b205-d182c52e7759)CHAPTER ONE (#u4beb46b3-7d9a-5041-818e-df640d6fa756)CHAPTER TWO (#uf36c59f1-b4c8-5efb-b5f4-1c873d2b792b)CHAPTER THREE (#ud6b98b60-e1cb-56c3-9d88-7458559f3be0)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“The marriage is on!”
Marriage. Was he crazy?
“The ceremony’s Friday at four o’clock.”
He was crazy!
“I don’t want to ruin this for you,” Devon snapped, “but you’ve left out one minor detail, Ryan. Me! Marriage takes two, and I am one of the principal parties in this lunatic scheme, or had you overlooked that?”
“How could I possibly overlook it? It’s not every day a man has his bride handpicked for him.”
“Stop calling me that,” Devon said fiercely.
“I am not your bride!”
“Not yet you aren’t. But you will be, come Friday afternoon.”
FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it, or not!
SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sunfilled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut, where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.
A Proper Wife
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
HER hair was the pale gold of summer wheat, her eyes the deep purple of wood violets. And for one heart-stopping instant as she started down the steps, Ryan Kincaid thought she might not be wearing anything beneath the ankle-length, crimson velvet cape but her own honeyed skin.
Logic told him otherwise. Montano’s might be New York’s trendiest department store, but, he thought wryly, it didn’t go in for nude modeling.
It was the way she held the cape closed that made for the incredible illusion. Her hands clutched the high mandarin collar against her chin so that the cape flared open at each stride, revealing an incredible length of elegant, curvaceous leg.
Ryan’s green eyes narrowed in appreciation. She really was stunning. And she knew it. You could see it in the proud way she held herself, in the look of disdain etched on her perfect face. All the other models had smiled at the crowd of shoppers gathered at the foot of the mezzanine steps, but she moved like a queen, never deigning to notice the peasants.
It only made her all the more appealing, Ryan thought, and he felt his body stir with interest.
Getting trapped in Montano’s crowded aisles during what had turned out to be the store’s Friday Fashion Show was turning out to be more pleasant than he’d expected.
Frank, standing just behind him, gave a choked groan.
“Oh, me, oh, my,” he whispered, “will you look at the blonde?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The answer to a man’s dreams.”
Ryan grinned. “X-rated dreams,” he said softly.
It was amazing, the series of images that were flashing through his mind. And that was weird. He was not a man given to sexual fantasies: there’d always been enough beautiful women in his life to keep him more than happy with reality. But just looking at this one as she came down the mezzanine steps was putting his brain into overdrive.
“No offense,” Frank murmured, “but I’d sure rather have a drink with her than with you.”
Ryan smiled. “Forget the drink. I’d rather take her home, peel off that velvet cape and make a career of finding out what’s underneath it.”
The comment had been meant for no ears but Frank’s, but just as Ryan began to speak, the music that had been playing gave an electronic burp and died. The hum of the crowd subsided.
And Ryan’s words were clear and distinct in the ensuing silence.
The blonde froze.
The crowd gave a delighted gasp.
Ryan gave a soft groan of embarrassment.
What now? he thought. Did he grin? Shrug his shoulders, laugh the whole thing off? Should he offer an apology?
In the end, there were no options. The blonde’s jaw tightened, her spine stiffened, and she resumed her walk down the stairs but with a purposeful stride.
A girl broke from the little cluster of models gathered at the foot of the staircase, said something and reached out a hand, but the blonde shrugged it off and marched toward him.
Frank gave a soft laugh. “Adiós, muchacho,” he murmured, and stepped back.
She came to a stop in front of Ryan, her beautiful face white with barely repressed rage, her eyes locked on his. He cleared his throat, then gave her the smile that had charmed some of the most exquisite women in Manhattan.
“Amazing, the tricks acoustics can play,” he said pleasantly.
She said nothing, just went on looking at him with that glint of fury in her eyes.
Ryan cleared his throat again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m really sorry about that, but—”
“You,” she said coldly, “have the manners of a goat.”
Someone in the crowd tittered. Ryan felt an unaccustomed flush of color rise into his face.
“Yes. Well, I—”
She came a step closer. A faint scent of perfume—Opium? L’Air du Temps?—teased his nostrils.
“Or are you just a pluperfect jackass?”
The titters came again, louder and more widespread. Ryan had to work at keeping his smile plastered to his face.
“Look, miss,” he said, “I’m sorry if—”
“You’re not the least bit sorry!” Her eyes—almost black with anger—flashed with accusation. “Why would you be? You and your kind think you can insult anyone who has to work for a living, don’t you?”
“Lady,” he said patiently, “don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m trying to apologize but-”
She laughed coldly, showing small, perfect white teeth. “A goat could no more manage an apology than a baboon could learn the minuet!”
Giggles of appreciation swept through the crowd behind him. His face darkened and he stepped closer to her. She was tall for a woman but at six-two, he was taller; it gave him a grim kind of pleasure to see that his size intimidated her enough to make her take a quick step back.
“You’re right,” he said silkily, “I’m not in the least bit sorry. I enjoyed the show.”
There was a faint burst of applause, punctuated by a soft wolf whistle. Ryan turned and shot the crowd a quick smile.
The nerve of the man! Devon felt her cheeks flame as she stared up at the egotistical brute with the sea-green eyes, the black-as-midnight hair, and the smirk. Every eye in the place was on her now.
If only she’d ignored what he’d said.
If only she’d listened to the model who’d tried to stop her from flying at him.
If only she hadn’t let Mr. Deauville drag her out from behind the counter in Fragrances minutes ago.
The manager had been breathless, his little eyes shiny with distress.
The weekly fashion show was beginning in five minutes, he’d said, while he hustled her up to the mezzanine. One of the models had been taken ill. Devon was tall, she was slender—she would have to fill in.
Devon had tried to tell him that it was out of the question. She’d been hired two days ago to sell perfume, not to model.
But telling him anything at all had proven impossible. There’d been people and confusion everywhere. She’d still been sputtering when Mr. Deauville had shoved her into a blocked-off dressing room.
“Here’s your extra girl,” he’d said, and then somebody named Clyde with a lisp, a flutey voice, and the determination of a bull terrier, had grabbed her and told her to get out of her navy suit and white silk blouse and into the dress he’d shoved at her. Finally, he’d draped a velvet cape over her shoulders. It was in a color that made it about as unobtrusive as a fire engine but she’d clutched it as Clyde shoved her out the door because at least it hid the rest of her, which was crammed into a dress that covered damn near nothing.
The next thing she’d known, she’d found herself standing at the top of the stairs with a bunch of strangers peering up at her.
“It’ll be OK, kid,” the same model who’d tried to stop her a couple of minutes ago had said.
And it almost had been, until this... this Neanderthal, this jerk with the kind of dangerous good looks that probably made stupid women keel over, had decided to take some cheap shots at her expense.
And she, like a fool, had let his snide remarks get under her skin, launched herself at him like a missile gone haywire—
“Well?”
Devon blinked. He was looking down at her with that disgustingly masculine smirk on his face.
“Well, what?”
“Am I forgiven?” he said with a rakish smile.
“Come on, lady,” a male voice called out, “tell the guy you accept his apology!”
“Yeah,” another voice said, “tell him it’s OK.”
The man with the green eyes grinned. “You hear them,” he said softly. “Come on, love. Let’s kiss and make up.”
He reached out, cupped her chin in his hand, and bent toward her, his eyes on hers, that damnable smile still on his handsome face. He had to be joking, Devon thought desperately, he had to be....
She looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t.
Without hesitation, she jerked back, balled her hand into a fist, and slugged him, right in the jaw.
Holy hell, Ryan thought.
He staggered back, shaking his head against the sudden buzzing in his ears.
“Ryan?”
He blinked.
“Ryan? Are you OK?” Frank’s hands closed on his shoulders. “Dammit, say something!”
Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “She hit me,” he said in wonder.
Frank began to grin. “I’ll say.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “OK,” he said. “OK, I’ve had enough.” He pulled away from Frank and turned toward the girl, who hadn’t moved. “That’s it,” he said grimly. “I’ve tried to apologize but you wouldn’t accept that. I admitted I behaved like a jerk and that wasn’t good enough, either. But if you think I’ll let you get away with slugging me, you’ve got another—”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Miss Franklin! What is going on here?”
Devon blanched. “Mr. Deauville,” she said quickly. “I—I can explain, if you’ll just—”
The manager turned to Ryan. “What happened here, sir?” Ryan glanced at the girl again. Her face was white as paper, her eyes huge and dark. Hell, he thought again, and he blew out his breath.
“Nothing happened,” he said.
The little man’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I appreciate your chivalry, but if Montano’s is to maintain employee discipline—”
“And I appreciate your concern,” Ryan said. His smile was polite. “But really, nothing happened. This young lady and I had a misunderstanding, and—”
“She slugged him,” a delighted voice called out.
The man with the mustache turned pale. “She did what?” He whirled toward the girl, his eyes flashing. “Miss Franklin?”
Devon swallowed hard. Two weeks of pounding pavements, searching for a job; two weeks of hearing Bettina tell her what a fool she was for looking for “demeaning” work....
“It... it isn’t the way it sounds,” she said desperately. “If you’d just give me a moment—”
“Did you strike this gentleman or didn’t you?”
“Mr. Deauville, please—”
