скачать книгу бесплатно
And how was she going to manage without it?
“Here you go.” The picnic bench rocked slightly as Clay settled his weight on it She opened her eyes and stared at the cup in the outstretched hand as if she hadn’t ever seen such a thing before. “You wanted a snow cone?” he repeated patiently.
No, she hadn’t She had been trying to buy a little time to collect her composure. His showing up like this had been oddly unsettling. All that robust masculinity and suave confidence…Industrial-strength machismo was a rarity on a boys’school campus.
And then there was the way he had turned her lovely sword into a piece of overcooked silver spaghetti—don’t tell her that wasn’t a deliberate power play. He knew that she had needed this inheritance desperately, and he was warning her that there was no way she could fight her uncle’s will—or the lawyer who had drawn it up.
A sudden stinging behind her eyes startled her. No, damn it. She wouldn’t give in to weakness now. She wasn’t the type to whimper and beg. She straightened her spine. So what if his sword was bigger than hers? When he informed her that she was disinherited, she intended to laugh in his movie-star face.
“Melanie? Do you want this?” He sounded irritated, as if he had begun to suspect he was dealing with a simpleton. She took the paper cup, glancing at his shirtsleeve as she did.
Suddenly she frowned. What was that? That pink blob…surely he wasn’t wearing a pink polka-dot shirt? That would be a cute sight in a courtroom. The image pleased her. She felt a satisfying urge to chuckle.
He seemed to sense her amusement. “Cotton candy,” he said, turning over his wrist so she could see the extent of the damage. “Insidious stuff. I can’t get rid of it.”
“Suck on it,” she said. She raised her gaze to his, enjoying the surprised furrowing of his brow. She blinked innocently.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Suck on it,” she repeated sweetly. “You do know how, don’t you? It’s easy. Just put your lips over the stain and—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “I think I remember how it works.”
She raised her brows, daring him, knowing, of course, that it would be miles beneath his dignity. But hey—she could play power games, too.
To her amazement, he shrugged slightly, slipping his jacket free of one broad shoulder, then the other. He folded the expensive coat, laid it over the picnic table and then, watching her the whole time, he slowly raised his wrist to his mouth.
He was going to do it. Oh, heavens… She hadn’t noticed before what a sensual mouth he had, but there was no missing it now. Oh, my… A generous mouth, lips full but hard-edged, as if they had been laser-cut into the perfect shape.
Damn. She had meant to throw him off balance, but now, like a fool, she was the one blushing. Oh, Lord, wouldn’t she ever learn to squelch these hotheaded impulses? She should have known one little off-color word wouldn’t embarrass a man like this.
She couldn’t quite take her eyes off those lips. A tiny wriggle of discomfort moved in the pit of her stomach as he lowered them over the stain and covered it. She held her breath and waited. His lips were almost motionless. Only a subtle rhythmic pulse at the corner of his jaw hinted at his mission, but that pulse seemed suddenly to beat in time with her blood.
Inhaling a stiff breath, she lifted her gaze. He was still watching her. His brown eyes were flecked with gold, the irises deepening to dark chocolate over the pure white of his sleeve. She opened her mouth to say something, anything. Preferably something lightly sarcastic—that was her specialty. If she could only think of something.
But her mind was on strike. Before she could come up with a single witty syllable, he was finished. He lowered his arm and, without exhibiting the slightest interest in the results of his labors, smiled at her enigmatically.
“Interesting,” he said. “It’s not as sweet as you’d think, is it? A lot of things are like that. They look quite innocent, but—”
“Mr. Logan,” she broke in tersely, holding her snow cone so tightly that blue syrup trickled over her fingers, “why don’t you get to the point? You didn’t come all the way out here today to swap laundry tips.”
“No.” Still smiling, he leaned back against the table, getting comfortable. He obviously knew that their symbolic tussle for superiority was over, and he had drawn first blood. He flicked a glance at her fingers. Blue blood. “I came because you missed our appointment this morning. I wondered why.”
She stared at him. “We didn’t have an appointment”
“My secretary seems to think we did.” He propped his snow cone in a crack of the table. “She set it up a week ago. She said she confirmed it yesterday afternoon.”
Melanie ran her clean hand through her hair. This was crazy. She couldn’t have forgotten a call from her uncle’s lawyer—she had been praying for that call every time the telephone rang the past two weeks.
“There’s some mistake,” she said. “I wasn’t even at home yesterday afternoon.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “What about your brother?”
Something in his tone made her feel defensive. “Well, yes, Nick was there, but he certainly wouldn’t ever have—” She broke off self-consciously. Of course Nick would have. He was dreadful about messages. But Clay Logan couldn’t have known that. Why would he, after seeing Nick the grand total of about two minutes, automatically assume it was all the boy’s fault?
But she knew why. Because Clay Logan had no patience for teenage boys, especially troubled ones like Nick, that was why. The smoothly groomed attorney in front of her had undoubtedly never slipped one foot off the fast track from cradle to college. He’d probably been president of his preschool.
“Well, whatever happened, I’m sorry about the mix-up,” she said, hoping he’d let it drop. “Would you like to reschedule?”
“We could.” Clay hadn’t moved from his half-reclining position. He looked completely comfortable out here at the picnic grounds in spite of his regimental-striped tie and wing tips. “Or I could just tell you the terms of the will right now.”
She caught her breath. So it was that simple, was it? Obviously it wasn’t going to require reams of paperwork and notarized signatures to tell her what Joshua Browning had left her. One word would do it: Nothing. He had left everything to charity, just as he warned her he would on that awful night eight years ago.
She wondered numbly whether Clay would even say he was sorry. Or did he, perhaps, think this was what she deserved? She could only guess what Joshua had told his lawyer about his wild, ungrateful niece.
“Okay.” She put her snow cone down carefully, then met his gaze. “Now is fine.”
“Good.” But Clay didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted to the next picnic table, where Dutch Allingham and Josh Smithers were forcing bewildered beetles to race down the length of their swords.
The silence stretched. She tried to ignore it, concentrating on wiping her hand with paper napkins. But she noticed that Clay’s forefinger flicked against his thumb, the only sign of perturbation she’d seen in him yet. Perhaps, she thought, he did regret, just a little, what he had to say.
“Toward the end of his life, your uncle insisted on drafting a rather strange new will,” he said slowly, returning his gaze to Melanie’s face. “I hope you’ll take time to think it over carefully before you react. I know it’s going to come as a shock.”
She laughed, and the sound was harsher than she had intended. The boys looked up from their beetle race and stared. “I doubt it. I knew my uncle very well.”
“So did L”
“Did you really?” She eyed him coldly. “Did you live with him for eight years, dependent on him for every scrap of food you ate, every stitch of clothing you wore, every smile, every hug, every bit of affection you received?”
“No.” He frowned. “Of course not”
“Then I don’t believe you knew him quite well enough,” she said. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be a single controlling, vindictive thing he could do to surprise you.”
Clay sighed. “Look, Melanie, I’m sorry…”
His voice sounded genuinely regretful, and even that little hint of pity threatened to destroy her hard-won composure.
Bracing herself, she dug her heels into the sand beneath the table and narrowed her eyes.
“Violins aren’t necessary, Mr. Logan. I’ve known since I was sixteen years old that my uncle planned to disinherit me.”
One side of Clay’s mouth—that wide, generous mouth—quirked up. “And you never let yourself hope that Joshua might change his mind?”
“Never,” she lied, though she could see that he knew it wasn’t true. “Never.”
“Then perhaps I’m going to have the pleasure of surprising you after all.” Clay crossed one leg over the other and propped his head against the palm of his hand. He was the picture of languorous ease—darn him. Melanie’s own posture was so tight she could almost hear her muscles humming.
“Well, you can try,” she said, managing what she hoped was a lazy smile, but which felt annoyingly like a sickly one.
“Okay.” He smiled. “Two months before he died, your uncle established what is commonly known as an incentive trust. In that trust, he left everything—his house, his collection of antique maps, his stocks, bonds and cash holdings and, of course, the Browning ruby—to one person.” He eyed her, obviously assessing the impact of his list. “That’s an estate totaling well over twelve million dollars.”
“Left them to—” she swallowed “—to whom?”
Clay twitched one long, lazy forefinger toward Melanie. “To you.”
For a long moment, she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her vocal cords had gone slack. Everything? Even the ruby? That wasn’t possible. Joshua had said—
“There are certain conditions, of course.”
Melanie’s numb hands slowly clenched into fists in her lap. Conditions. Of course. Nothing Joshua Browning had ever offered in his life had been unconditional.
“That,” she said, “might have been predicted.”
“Yes, perhaps. But I did warn you. This is where it gets strange.” Clay leaned forward. The sudden movement stirred the air, and the trembling breath she took tasted sickly sweet, like overblown magnolias. “It’s true,” he said. “You are to inherit everything, every single penny, but only if you can, within one year, prove that you are mature enough to handle it”
She stared. “Prove what?”
Clay shrugged. “Apparently Joshua had certain…reservations about some of your life choices. And, as well, he feared that your brother might coerce you into doing something unwise.”
“Nick would?” Her lips twisted. “What? Did Joshua think I might cut up the Romeo Ruby and use it to buy my brother video games?”
Clay didn’t smile. “Or private schools. Designer shoes. Tennis lessons.”
“Twelve million is a lot of tennis lessons,” she snapped.
“Yes, it is,” he answered calmly. “Too many. I think that was Joshua’s point”
She stared at him. How dare he take that superior tone? This was so utterly preposterous, and yet how like Joshua it was! Though Clay made it all sound so pragmatic, Melanie knew that Joshua hadn’t cared a fig what became of the money. He’d just wanted another way to control her, even from beyond the grave.
“Tell me, Mr. Logan. Did my uncle have any idea how a person can prove anything as intangible as good judgment? Surely maturity can’t be quantified.”
Clay didn’t look at all disturbed by her bitterness. “Actually Joshua suggested several ways. He thought a review of your finances might help, combined with a look at Nick’s grades, interviews with his teachers, things like that But in addition he said that, in his opinion, the ideal proof would be for you to marry someone the executor approved of. Someone who couldn’t be suspected of marrying you for your inheritance.”
Marry her for the money…Had Joshua really said that? Had he really still needed to throw that in her face? Memories of that long-ago night, of an elopement that failed, a love that was proven false, flooded over Melanie like a river of shame.
“Oh, that’s rich! I must marry to get my inheritance? For God’s sake! That’s…that’s…” Realizing she was in danger of sputtering, she took a breath. “That’s positively feudal”
Clay nodded gravely. “So I told Joshua. But he was adamant.”
Suddenly she longed to tell Joshua exactly what she thought of his “incentive trust”. But it was too late. She would never again tell Joshua anything. He was dead. For the first time, it seemed to sink in that her long battle with him was over.
And this…this insult had been his parting message to her.
She stood up though her legs were shaking. She couldn’t listen to another word. Tucking her cardboard helmet under her elbow, she threw her head back, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. She had expected to be hurt, but this… This was worse than anything she had imagined.
“Listen carefully, Mr. Logan,” she said, enunciating each word clearly. “I want you to tell my uncle’s executor, whoever this paragon might be, that I intend to claim my inheritance. The Romeo Ruby belonged to my parents. When they died, my uncle took everything that should have come to us—”
“Their wills named him as beneficiary,” Clay interjected reasonably.
“Perhaps,” she said coldly, “but they meant for him to look after it for us. I’m quite sure it never occurred to my parents that my uncle would try to disinherit Nick and me.”
He waited, not contradicting her. How could he? He must know it was true.
“So you tell my uncle’s executor that I expected something like this. Tell him I’ve already hired a lawyer, and he’s going to break this will.” She narrowed her eyes. “Tell him that I’m not going to lower myself to prove anything to anyone, especially not to any man who’d participate in such a contemptible charade as this.”
Clay was smiling, a strangely charming, lopsided grin that created a small dimple where his cheek met his jaw. She scowled at him. What the devil was so funny?
“I mean it, Mr. Logan. If a snake like that thinks he can actually pass judgment on my life, my decisions, my maturity…”
Her words faltered as a sudden suspicion settled cold and thick in her stomach. She folded her arms across her waist and tried not to shiver.
“All right, I’ll bite. Why the smile? Who’s the executor? Just who is low enough to be my uncle’s accomplice in this farce?”
Clay tilted his head. A ray of sunlight fingered its way through the trees and struck golden highlights into his hair. He was still smiling, his cheek still dimpling.
“I’m sorry, Melanie,” he said quietly. “It’s me.”
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a8eb5d47-86da-58f5-8fce-1a464e68683b)
“OH, BLAST all!” Melanie balefully eyed the charred bread sticks on the pan in front of her. “Just look at this,” she said, raising her voice so that it could be heard in the adjacent living room. “I burned them. Damn that man!”
Ted Martin, who was spread out comfortably on her sofa watching a basketball game on television, lifted his blond head. “Who?”
“Clay Logan, of course. Who else?” She picked up one of the blackened twists, which was the consistency of a hockey stick, and knocked it against the counter.
It felt perversely gratifying to hit something. Today had been a very, very bad day. Only forty-eight hours after receiving a copy of Joshua Browning’s will, Melanie’s lawyer had called this afternoon with the tragic news. However medieval it might seem, the will appeared to be ironclad. Clay Logan was too good to have left any loopholes.
Her lawyer had been sympathetic, but the bottom line was that he just couldn’t agree to take the case on a contingency basis—the odds of winning were too slim. His best advice, he said, was that she should negotiate with Logan, who was by all accounts a tough lawyer but a fair and just human being.
Well, not by all accounts. If anyone had asked her, the report would have been a great deal less flattering. She wasn’t ready to agree he was a human being at all.
She whacked the bread stick one last time. “Damn, damn, damn the man. May his grandchildren be cross-eyed. May all his dogs have fleas.”
With a resigned sigh, Ted sat up and turned off the television. “Why? Logan didn’t make you burn the bread, did he?”
She came to the doorway, scowling. “Of course he did.”
“How?” Ted ambled into the kitchen and extracted a fat strawberry from the pie on the windowsill. “Did he break in and sabotage the oven thermostat?”
“He might as well have.” Melanie pulled the strawberry from his fingers just an inch short of his lips. “Honestly, Ted, you’re as bad as Nick.” She tucked the berry back into its cradle of whipped cream. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes—I curse Clay Logan and all his dogs because he’s an insufferable man, and I hate him. I’m so busy hating him, in fact, that I’ve ruined a perfectly good dinner.”
“No, you didn’t. The spaghetti’s fine. And I made one hell of a salad. Let’s eat.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t. I hate Logan too much to eat.”
“Good. More for me.” Ted reached around her to rummage for utensils. “But seriously, are you sure it’s Logan you’re mad at, Mel? He was just the hired gun, wasn’t he? The will itself is your problem—and that was your uncle’s idea.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” She knew Ted was right, but her annoyance was no less intense for being irrational. She could still see how Logan had looked at the chess match the other day, sizing her up, obviously deciding that Joshua had been right. “But I wish you could have seen his face when he told me. He was the hired gun all right, and he thoroughly enjoyed pulling the trigger.”
