The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride. Dixie Browning
Jack with his foot on the neck of a dead lion, and another eight-by-ten glossy of Jack with a dead blue marlin. “Yeah, go ahead. Here, I’ll move it for you.”
“Use your knees, not your back,” she warned in the voice that had come as something of a surprise the first time he’d ever heard it. Quiet, a little bit husky. The type of voice advertisers paid a fortune for, but without the fake seductiveness that was used to sell everything from potency pills to plumbing supplies.
“Huh?” Real intelligent, Bradford.
“To lift the box. Squat, don’t just bend over. Better yet, drag it like I did all the others.”
Will had a feeling Sebastian was going to want to change quite a few things now that he had the power. Father and son were nothing at all alike. They hadn’t gotten along particularly well, although each was brilliant in his own way.
“Yes, ma’am,” Will muttered, amused at Diana’s bossiness. Nevertheless, he bent his knees slightly, leaned over and lifted the box, which was filled with books, trophies and framed photographs. “Where?” he said with a grunt.
“There.” She pointed.
He set it up on top of the stack by the door and managed to resist grabbing his back. Masking his grimace with a smile, he said, “I could do with some lunch, how about you?”
Turning slowly, Diana surveyed the spacious tower office with its paneled walls, the walnut louvered shutters and the heavy, lined linen draperies. Not for Jack Wescott the usual preference for glass, leather and steel.
“How much more do we have to do? I cleaned out the records room and the bathroom.” A length of hair fell forward, and she brushed it back. That morning her heavy, straight brown hair had been confined in one of those twisted arrangements on the back of her head. He could have told her about hair like hers and the laws of gravity.
“Then that about does it,” he said. “Cleaning staff will be in tonight. They can take down the curtains and either toss ’em or send ’em out to be cleaned. They’ve been here for as long as I can remember.”
She touched the soft, sun-faded fabric the way a woman would. “I don’t think Jack ever even noticed them. I guess most men wouldn’t, but they’re sort of nice, aren’t they? In a subtle, understated kind of way.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” So are you, lady. In a subtle, understated kind of way.
Will made up his mind to give her the draperies once they came back from the cleaners. Unless her living quarters were a hell of a lot larger than his, he had no idea what she would do with all those yards of heavy, lined fabric. Slipcover her house, maybe.
Still, it eased his conscience, because as soon as they wound things up here, he’d already made up his mind to offer her a bonus and encourage her to leave town. The last thing poor Seb needed after dealing with the sudden death of his father and the appearance of an illegitimate half brother was to have to deal with any possible demands from his father’s ex-mistress.
After washing up in the luxurious washroom, they locked the door and crossed the hall to the elevators. Dorian Brady and two clerks from the computer department got on at the floor below. Will nodded to Dorian. He was still withholding judgment when it came to Jack’s by-blow. There was something about him—almost a watchfulness—that raised a few red flags.
But then, that was probably because Seb was Will’s friend, and this guy, whatever his credentials, was an interloper.
As the elevator sped silently down to the lobby, Diana said, “What about the boxes of files I took home with me? Is there any hurry about going through them?”
The doors opened soundlessly, and the small group filed out but lingered nearby. Will, noticing the way Dorian was eyeing his late-father’s secretary, moved to block his view as they crossed the plush lobby. If any man was going to ogle the woman, it wasn’t going to be some shifty-eyed kid in a flashy two-toned suit and a bolo tie.
Not until they were outside did he answer her question. “It’s all personal stuff, isn’t it? Nothing to do with the estate?”
“The boxes? As far as I know.”
“Then let’s let it ride, okay? What do say we stop by the Royal for some chili and coconut pie?” He made the offer only because he’d kept her long past lunch time. All he really wanted to do was go home, watch headline news and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.
Well, maybe not all… “Or if you’d rather, we could drive over to Claire’s.”
And then, damned if she didn’t start crying, right there in broad daylight.
Thank God the Saturday-morning traffic was light.
Well, hell…
Two
They ate at the Royal Diner. Diana ordered the chili and a glass of milk to douse the fire. She didn’t talk much, but then, Will wasn’t used to having conversation with his meals unless he ate at the club. He was still trying to figure out why she’d started crying, but when he’d asked her, she’d just shaken her head.
Women.
At least she’d stopped crying as suddenly as she’d started. Claimed dust had blown in her eye.
Sure it had.
“World-class coconut pie,” he said, forking up the last bite from his plate. “Want to take a slice home with you—or maybe a whole pie?”
Another thing about her that got to him was her smile. It started with a crinkling of the eyes, tweaked the corners of her lips and then it was gone, almost making a man wonder if he’d only imagined it.
“No, but thank you. I’d better get home before the rain starts again. It doesn’t rain often around here, but once it starts, it can make up for lost time.”
“Weather’s been crazy everywhere these past few years.”
So Will drove her back to the office building and left her at her car. Earlier that morning he’d carried down a box of her personal belongings. A small box. Evidently, she traveled light. He’d found himself wondering what was in it. Her own personal photographs? Family? A boyfriend? He doubted that, under the circumstances.
He hardly knew her, but if he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t the type of woman to spread her personal relics around for public view.
But then, if he’d had to guess, he would never have pegged her for one of Jack’s conquests, either.
When she started to close her car door, he held it open and leaned down. “You’re sure you’re all right, Diana? You look a little washed out.”
“Thanks,” she said, and shot him another one of her quirky smiles. “Nothing a little blusher won’t take care of, I hope.”
Will watched her as she drove away in an eighties model sedan that was just one of the mysteries about Diana Foster that plagued him. She had a face that could easily be called patrician. A body that was tall, almost too lean, yet definitely, temptingly feminine. She wore outfits that could be bought at any discount store, yet he could easily imagine her striding down a runway wearing one of those slinky, transparent, cut-down-to-here-and-up-to-there outfits designed to raise a man’s blood pressure into the danger zone.
She could do that wearing black polyester slacks, a cotton pullover sweater and a battered twill raincoat.
Watching her drive off, swerving to avoid the deepest puddles, he visualized her mouth. She hadn’t bothered to replace the lipstick she’d eaten off with her chili.
Because she’d forgotten?
Or because he wasn’t worth the bother?
If she had any idea how vulnerable her naked lips looked, she’d have layered it on with a roller.
Vulnerable?
Where