Bride Of Convenience

“What about love, Mr. McClain? Isn’t that the most important consideration when two people make a commitment to a relationship that will span fifty or sixty years?”

“Look around, Miss Stacey. Lots of folks fall in love, but they just as easily fall out. I’m willing to bet on natural chemistry and deliberate choice. We’ve got the chemistry. All that’s left is the choice.”

Now he reached into his inside jacket pocket with his free hand and Stacey saw the small flash when he brought it out. There, circling the tip of his index finger, was a simple solitaire diamond on a gold engagement band. It was simple, but elegant, and she was experienced enough with fine jewelry to know it cost a fortune.

“I choose you, you choose me.”

A wedding dilemma:

What should a sexy, successful bachelor do if he’s too busy making millions to find a wife? Or if he finds the perfect woman, and just has to strike a bridal bargain…?

The perfect proposal:

The solution? For better, for worse, these grooms are in a hurry and have decided to sign, seal and deliver the ultimate marriage contract…to buy a bride!

Will these paper marriages blossom into wedded bliss?

Look out for our next CONTRACT BRIDES story, coming soon in Harlequin Romance^®!

Bride of Convenience
Susan Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Joanne Anderson

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE lady was broke.

She was dressed just as richly and stylishly as before, but this time in a sleek, shimmery teal designer original that showed off her blond coloring and perfect body. She looked like a million bucks, but she was worth little more than a few thousand dollars.

He was here to change that.

Oren McClain had taken on a losing prospect or two in the past. Mostly ranches or abused horses. He had a modest gift for spotting potential in some failure or misfit. The right management or backing or retraining might turn a respectable profit or reclaim something of value. Or bring it out.

The willowy blonde across the room carried a few of those little potentials that always got his attention. He sensed her quiet desperation as she nursed yet another glass of wine.

Everyone else at the crowded penthouse party was too self-absorbed to see the shell-shocked dullness in her pretty blue eyes. None of them would have realized that her talent for regularly getting the waiters to bring the drink tray around for a discrete exchange of empty for full was partly the need to anesthetize herself from the pretentious bores and tiresome elites at this big city soiree. She might be too snookered to let herself realize it, but he knew she would later. He meant to point it out as bluntly as possible, if need be.

There was a weary intelligence in those lovely eyes, along with a dispiritedness that could be expected of a woman bored out of her mind with her shallow, aimless life. A life that had spoiled and sucked almost everything worthwhile out of her. That’s what happened when life held no greater challenge than could be met by beauty and a charming smile. Or a hefty tip.

And yet it was clear she was in mourning for the shallow privileged life that was rapidly coming to an end. Oren McClain was certain he was one of the few at that stuffy penthouse party who knew Stacey Amhearst’s days of bartering beauty and charm, and bestowing hefty, persuasive tips wouldn’t last another week.

But she knew it. Which was part of the reason she looked morose and standoffish. And panicked.

He’d learned a lot about her in the past few months, so this wasn’t idle speculation. The lady truly was broke. Her spacious apartment and all the other costly doodads that went with it suddenly had the shelf life of Beluga caviar. All the beautiful, wealthy snobs around her who didn’t already know, would very soon find out the jarring truth.

And then the invitations would dry up. Most would stop taking her calls, stop reading her phone messages. Their butlers and maids wouldn’t answer the doorbell or, if they did, they’d recite some polite little fib to deny her entry. She’d be the hot topic of gossip as they nattered to each other in hushed, horrified tones, as if leery of attracting the same unthinkable misfortune.

Most would be eager to put her downfall out of their minds and move on. As if forgetting her quickly and pretending she’d never been part of their rarified society might somehow inoculate them against contracting the same terrible fate. Fate like bad luck or bad investments or embezzled fortunes, along with the poverty, and the shame and shock of being shunned by peers.

A few of the men, both the single and the unfaithful married who appreciated class and education and beauty, might come her way and offer some sort of arrangement, respectful ones or not, but those would fall through. He’d see to it.

Oren McClain hadn’t come back to New York after all these months because of some paltry bit of business. He’d got wind of her trouble weeks ago, but he’d stayed away, waiting for a pampered thoroughbred to lose a few more important races and show up at sale where she could be had for a song.

The flashy little high-stepper who’d danced, delighted, and set his blood on fire, then kidded him about his marriage proposal, hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d thought the things he’d offered her were nothing more than the quaint exaggerations of a Texas rube too inflamed by his libido to be telling the truth about what he could provide for a wife.

She might see him in a different light now. After all, she’d need someplace to go after next week. Texas would be as good a place as any for a woman who’d had her privileged life stolen and was about to suffer the abandonment of peers.

And once he got her to Texas and she learned something about how to live a useful and satisfying life, she might even grow to love him.

She was half finished with her latest glass of wine, and had just located one of the waiters to watch for a chance to give him a subtle signal, when Oren McClain started toward her.

As a farewell party, it was a crashing failure.

Perhaps that was because few suspected it was a farewell party. She might as well have stayed home.

Stacey Amhearst quickly changed her mind about that. It was depressing at home. She couldn’t pretend anymore that it was cook’s night off, or that her butler had gone out to see his ailing mother. She’d come here for comfort and edible food.

There was little comfort to go with the food. What had she expected? That her pedigree-obsessed friends would crowd around sympathetically and offer to help her raise money with a charity auction? She really would throw herself in front of a limousine if anyone but her closest confidants found out about her outrageous misfortune before her lease was up on Thursday.

Was it better to live in an embarrassed state in financial exile somewhere, or let everyone think she’d tragically died rich? The fact that they’d only find out later that she was a pauper had helped her to squelch that fleeting thought of limo-cide.

Actually, she’d been half hoping for some conveniently rich man to sweep her off her feet tonight and fly her to Vegas for a quickie marriage. Her reputation for spending money would have made it easy to conceal a ploy or two that would funnel funds into her accounts. After all, she had plenty of expensive clothes she’d never worn publicly that hung in her closets, and some off-the-rack things still sported tags. With a little imagination, it would be easy enough to pass those off as new purchases. If her conscience allowed her pride that much.

But one of the problems of the sophisticated set was that for the few people in her circle who did marry at her age, an ostentatious ceremony with all the pricey traditions was a requirement for a first marriage.

And there was no unattached single man here tonight whom she hadn’t already mentally crossed off her list of potential husbands, so there could be no quick trip to Vegas.

Bad nerves and depression had left her with little more ambition tonight than to fill her stomach with rich goodies and numb herself with vintage wine.

She didn’t care for alcoholic drinks of any kind, and rarely imbibed. Until tonight. Tonight was her farewell party. The last fling on her social calendar before she ran out of money and lost her place among the only people she’d known.

And then she saw him.

At first, the very tall, brutally masculine rancher from Texas seemed merely a phantom that fear and desperation had conjured up to haunt her.

She deserved to be haunted by her memory of him. She’d not treated him particularly well at the end, but she’d been so disrupted by him, so very threatened by his earthy masculinity and the shock of the things he’d made her feel, that she’d been compelled to protect herself.

She’d regretting rebuffing him almost right away. She’d tried to smother her guilty feelings by telling herself that he was too honest and straightforward—too real—for her. A real man like him would find out soon enough that she was too frivolous and inept for his way of life. How would a man like him react when he found out? She couldn’t bear his bad opinion. She’d rather be thought a snob than a failure.

Even worse, he owned a cattle ranch somewhere in a dusty corner of Texas! She’d be useless and lonely and bored out of her wits. The only thing they’d really had going between them had been the explosive physical attraction that had so frightened her.

None of her friends knew that she wasn’t at all as sexually sophisticated as they were. In fact, she was so sexually unsophisticated that she was still a virgin at twenty-four. She’d been quite happy waiting for the man of her dreams and her wedding night, though most of her friends would have laughed at that old-fashioned notion.

Then she’d met the cowboy, and he’d overwhelmed her so badly she’d been terrified. She’d never told a soul about him, because she’d known she would have been tittered over and teased about it. Either because he was a rancher from Texas or because he was so macho and rabidly masculine and unrefined—or because she’d been so turned on that she’d panicked.

Hadn’t she met him here at another of Buffy’s parties? It had been months ago now, and she’d almost made herself forget. That’s why it was such a surprise to think about him now. He’d been someone’s guest, but she doubted she could remember who because she hadn’t paid attention when the introductions were made. Her brain had short-circuited and she’d had eyes only for the macho beast. Everyone else had vanished from awareness.

As Stacey watched her delusion, appreciating the beautiful cut of his elegant black tuxedo, she felt her pulse begin to accelerate and realized it was the first time in a long time that her heart was beating fast because of excitement rather than fear.

McClain—yes, she still remembered his name—wasn’t handsome, but he was striking, with a charismatic masculinity that a lesser male could only dream of having. It was such a pleasure to watch her delusion walk toward her in the safety of her imagination that she delayed the sip of wine she’d been about to take.

And then her delusion stopped in front of her and neatly plucked the wine flute out of her cold fingers to sit it with absent aplomb on the tray the waiter had just brought. His other hand settled hotly on her waist and she felt the jolt that told her this was real.

The cowboy was here.

He was so tall, built so tough and hard, that his lean frame was solid with muscle. She realized again that he wasn’t at all handsome, and noted afresh that his rugged features had the kind of weathered tan that hinted at Native ancestry as did his overlong black hair. His eyes were a glittering black that went perfectly with his coloring and the costly cloth of his tuxedo.

His low voice was a gravely drawl that called up images of a sexy night in bed.

“I’ve been waiting to dance with you, darlin’.”

Stacey felt the room tilt a little as he expertly eased her into a private corner nearer the door. It didn’t matter a whole lot that they were the only ones dancing to the soft notes of Unchained Melody that the pianist on the other side of the room was playing.

Suddenly, just like before, they were the only two people in the universe, and Stacey felt her head spin with the idea. Was she tipsy or had the pressure and upset finally caused her to snap?

The heat of him was scorching, and the rocky hardness of his big body made her knees tremble. The hand at her waist rested boldly low on her back, and the shivery pleasure of being wedged snugly between that hand and his body was almost erotic.

“H-how did you get here?”

Her brain was so fuzzy that she wasn’t completely certain he was really here, but somehow his first name came out of the fuzziness: Oren. It was a Southern name. A good one for a cowboy, but hopelessly out of fashion.

His stern mouth curved faintly. “The usual way. A pickup, two planes, a taxi and a taxi.”

Her soft, “How did you get in?” sounded dazed. Again, he obliged, and her gaze fixed on his mouth.

“Just like last time. The visiting guest of a guest.”

Stacey’s brain somehow seized on the notion of second chances, and she almost missed what he said next. That was because she was looking up at him and they were dancing slowly, which made the dizziness worse.

“I came to New York to see you.”

The words struck sweetly for a few seconds, but then turned bitter. What would have happened if she’d accepted his crazy proposal months ago? She wasn’t clearheaded enough to catalog all the horrors and disasters she might have been spared, but she knew if she’d married him then, at least the loss of her fortune wouldn’t have caused a fraction of the shame she was in for now. At least she wouldn’t be six days away from homelessness.

“Oh, why?” It came out sounding forlorn because it was the start of the questions that were suddenly revolving in her mind: Oh, why didn’t I marry you? And, Oh, why was I such a fool?

“I had to see if things had changed for you.”

His words made her heart give a sickening lurch and her head was suddenly heavy. She let her chin go down and her gaze fixed on the snowy white between the facings of his jacket. Her eyes were stinging and she bit her lips together to hold back the emotion that was coming up like sea swells.

He went on speaking as if he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

“I thought I might spend a few days, take you out, see what you think now. Unless your answer is still no.”

Stacey realized she’d placed her hands on his chest and that they’d slowly stopped dancing. It felt for all the world as if they were still moving, because the room was moving.

“I think I’m not feeling well,” she got out. She couldn’t get her brain to come up with anything else. Mostly because it was the truth, but partly because she should have told him “no.” No, I haven’t changed my mind, or No, because I’m no better suited to a life with you than I was before.

Either would have let him off the hook. It would have been kinder to disappoint him for the second time now, rather than later. But she’d felt too desperate for some kind of reprieve or deliverance for too long to automatically reject this potential lifeline.

That was the moment, despite all the fuzziness from the wine, that she began to feel guilty. Her guilt wasn’t immediately acute, but it promised to be. Particularly since some survival instinct had kicked in and she suddenly realized that she might agree to almost anything to be spared financial disgrace.

The cowboy had said he was rich. That he had a big ranch and oil wells, plenty to keep her in jewels and designer duds…

Oh God, she remembered suddenly that he’d said that. He’d called them “duds.” That had touched her then, and the memory touched her now. Touched her so much that she wanted to cry over the artless simplicity of a big, rough, macho man who’d seemed to be sincerely smitten and had made such a sweet, homespun offer to provide whatever it took to make her happy and choose him.

Jewels and designer duds…as if he was offering his best to a woman he revered like a queen, but a woman who was so far above him socially that he’d never understand that a pretentious snob like her wouldn’t be caught dead in a dud of any kind. Or married to a cowboy.

She couldn’t seem to keep from remembering that he’d treated her delicately and deferentially, as if she was worthy of respect and pampering and perhaps even worship. She hadn’t deserved a speck of those things from him then, and she certainly didn’t now. He was too good-hearted and sincere for her, too sweet and artless. He was too honorable and too deserving of better than to be stuck with a useless ninny like her.

As tempting—sorely tempting—as it was to grab for this lifeline and let him think she might change her mind about accepting his marriage proposal, Stacey realized she hadn’t sunk quite low enough to do that to him. She couldn’t use an honestly decent man like him to save her own skin. She’d be the lowest of the low if she did that. Particularly now, when she had even less to offer him in return.

“Oh, Oren, I’m s-sor…” The room had taken a hard turn that time. Her choked, “Not feeling weell,” was little more than a jerky whisper, but he heard it as if she’d spoken in his ear.

The room continued to spin dangerously and she found herself clinging to him and pressed against his side as he led her along the edge of the crowd. Her knees barely held her up, but his strong hand at her waist kept her anchored safely to him, so no one paid much attention. At least, she didn’t think they had.

They’d just reached the relative quiet of the foyer when he stopped. “Are you gonna be sick?”

It took her several moments to decide, but her belated, “No,” was belated enough that he’d already ushered her into the private elevator by the time she got it out.

The moment the doors closed, he had her in his arms. He spared a moment to take her tiny evening bag off her wrist and tuck it in his cummerbund, but then his arms went back around her and she was pressed comfortably against him.

“Am I gonna have to carry you, or can you make it to a cab?”

Stacey leaned her cheek against his hard, warm chest because her eyelids were amazingly heavy. She was distantly aware when the elevator stopped, and that she remained on her feet only because he turned so she could cling to his waist. He held her up enough to foster the illusion that she was able to walk under her own power.

She wasn’t particularly drunk but she was dizzy and sleepy and slow, yet even so, she didn’t want to be carried out. She didn’t want everyone’s last sight of Stacey Amhearst to be of her being carried out of a building because she’d had too much to drink. It was bad enough that they’d find out in a few more days that she was almost penniless.

At least leaving the party with a tall, rugged stranger would be a plus in their eyes. Until they found out where he was from and what he did for a living.

The warm city night cleared her head a little. McClain led her along the row of cabs waiting at the curb. She was becoming steadier with each step, but when they reached the cab at the head of the line, they walked on past.

Stacey searched ahead for some other cab he must have been aiming for, but there were no other vehicles in the line, so then she looked for a limousine. After several more steps it dawned on her that there were no limos ahead either. She slowed, perplexed.

“Where are we going?”

“The walk’ll be good for you,” he said, and she glanced up at him, dismayed.

“But it’s six blocks. And it must be after midnight.”

“It’s a nice night.”

His naiveté was a shock. “We could be mugged.”

Now he smiled a little, blatant evidence that he was far too macho to give a thought to the perils of big city crime. And maybe he was right. McClain was a big man, and he looked rugged and harsh, the quintessential tough-guy, even in an elegant tuxedo. And there was a “don’t mess with me” aura about him that most muggers would choose to pass up. There were easier targets.

“But it’s six blocks,” she reminded him, then felt heat flash into her cheeks. She’d sounded whiney and a little put upon, and she had just enough sense left to be a little ashamed of that in front of a man like him.

It’s what she would have said to anyone else and not thought a thing about it, but she’d said it to Oren McClain. A man whose fit, work-hardened body would see a paltry six blocks as laughably light exercise.

“You outta walk off some of that wine,” he said gruffly. She heard the hint of disapproval and was embarrassed that she’d been drinking like a fish. He’d caught her at a bad time, and what pride had survived everything else was under sound assault.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, then submitted as he again slid his arm around her waist. Her arm went hesitantly around his, and they started. Hopefully, the effects of the wine would numb a little of the ache of walking six blocks on concrete in her heels.

They’d only gone two blocks before her head cleared more and her feet began to hurt enough that she reconsidered her pride in favor of trying to hail a taxi. But because she wanted to behave well while McClain was still around to witness it, she refrained from complaining. Or begging.

By the time they reached her building, got past security and took the swift silent elevator to her apartment, Stacey was abysmally clearheaded, and was already vowing to never again use alcohol to escape her problems. All it had done was make them worse, though something told her that her notion of worse was about to be revised downward.

That little inkling seemed downright prophetic by the time they reached her door and she tried to tell Oren McClain good-night.

“I’d like to see you inside,” he said. “Make sure you’re all right.”

The genuineness in his tone told her he wasn’t angling for more than that, though she couldn’t actually be sure. He’d been completely trustworthy before, but people were rarely what they seemed on short acquaintance.

And, it was kinder to him to stop things before she gave him any false hopes. Not that she assumed that every man who came in range was instantly lovesick, but because she couldn’t overlook that he’d said he was here to see if she’d changed her mind about him. He’d have to be more than a little smitten to do that.

Besides, she didn’t want to give herself the opportunity to grab whatever rescue he could provide. It would be wrong to use him, and she wasn’t sure how long she could be noble if she spent even a few more minutes with him. And it was a disturbing fact that her body was still reacting to the masculine pull of his, and she still tingled everywhere they’d touched on the walk home.

She made herself say, “I’m all right. Really. I’m just tired now…and embarrassed that I made a fool of myself.”

One side of his stern mouth curved slightly. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself, Miss Stacey. You’re the same proper lady you always are. Just a little thirsty.”

Stacey so liked the gently scolding tone in his gravely voice—as if he thought she was too hard on herself—but his kind words hurt. He was so gallant.

Too gallant to string along or exploit.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Good night, Mr. McClain.” She turned toward the door.

“You might need this,” he said, and she glanced back. Seeing the tiny handbag, she took it, fumbled with the catch, then got out her key. Her hand was steady enough to unlock the door.

She felt her body tingle again as he reached past her to push open the door, so she stepped quickly inside and turned.

“I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he said. “Take you to lunch somewhere.”

Stacey knew he meant to try to court her again, and she couldn’t allow that. It took almost more will than she had to tell him so.

“I’m…sorry. I’m truly sorry, Oren. It wouldn’t be…right.” She almost bit her lip again for calling him Oren. Using his first name after she’d called him Mr. McClain seemed far too personal, and maybe even a little inviting.

As if he hadn’t noticed anything but her refusal, a stoniness came over him. Had she hurt his feelings or merely made him angry?

Though he couldn’t know she no longer had a house staff, she was very aware that they were the only two people here. If he was a threat to her at all, she might be in trouble more serious than losing her fortune.

She was afraid of him—he was so big and tough that he could hurt her with very little effort—and yet she wasn’t afraid of him at all. He might not pass muster with the etiquette police, or know which fork to use, or how to properly greet royalty and important guests in a receiving line, but he was a complete gentleman.

“All right then, Miss Stacey,” he said, and his rugged face seemed merely solemn. He lifted his hand to an inside pocket and withdrew a business card. He held it out to her.

“I wrote the name of my hotel there, and the room number. I’m stayin’ till Thursday. After Thursday, you can get hold of me at any of those numbers.”

Stacey made herself take the card because he didn’t deserve rudeness, and he was perceptive enough not to need a strong rebuff. Proof of that was when he turned and crossed the short distance to the elevator.

Stacey literally had to press her fingers over her lips to keep from calling him back. She managed to step farther into her apartment to let her door go shut before he could get into the elevator and turn so she could see his face. Stacey listened to the latch on her door catch securely, then heard the elevator doors close.

Had she just done Oren McClain a kindness, or had she just cut off her last chance for an easy rescue?