Bride Of Convenience. Susan Fox P.
like him. At least she seemed to enjoy being with him.
He probably came off like a brute compared to the men she was used to. Hell, he was no peacock. His skin had been burned brown by the sun and weathered by the elements, his hands were big and scarred and thick with calluses, and the only truly fragile and refined thing in his life was her.
But she might marry him anyway, because he had money and she knew he wanted her. She’d be torn up with guilt over it because she’d be marrying him for something other than love. How he knew that was more because of what he’d sensed about her than any bit of gossip he’d been able to ferret out.
Though he could be wrong, his instincts were usually on target. They told him Ms. Stacey Amhearst knew right from wrong. She just didn’t have enough confidence in herself—yet—to do right and damn the consequences. He meant to benefit from that while he could.
Oren leaned back to watch as she picked up her last spoon and dug into dessert. Though he knew from months ago that she’d been raised to pick and fuss daintily over her food, she’d gone after her meal tonight like a half-starved cattle crew at a cookhouse table.
The reason was obvious. She’d lost weight she couldn’t spare, and that was because she couldn’t do for herself in the kitchen. How the hell her grandfather could have raised her to be so helpless was a marvel to Oren McClain. No daughter of his would be dependent on anyone.
No wife of his would either. His only real criticism of Stacey was that she’d stayed helpless and dependent, though he meant to see that change. There was no reason in the world that she couldn’t have class and beauty and grace along with a hefty dose of can-do independence and the self-confidence that went with it.
“So tell me, Oren,” she began after she’d mostly finished the artsy dab that passed for a big city dessert. He enjoyed the sound of his name when she said it. She made it sound dignified and upper crust. “About your ranch. Is it just outside San Antonio?”
Oren smiled. “It’s about three hours outside, give or take.” He noticed she picked up her cloth napkin and touched it to her lips as if to think about that. Or to cover a rush of dismay.
“What do you do so far out? For entertainment.”
“We’ve got dances, church socials, barbecues, rodeos, school events. There’s a county fair and an occasional parade. Several small town celebrations and events, a couple honky-tonks for nightlife and weekends, a golf course, a lake, and we have our own doings at the ranch. Buyers and business folks fly in. I sometimes drive out or fly out to other places when something interests me or work takes me away.”
He could tell she was mentally trying to picture all that—and whether she could tolerate it or not—so he added, “Most folks in town or on the land are good people, lots are family folk and real friendly. Salt of the earth.”
The down-home, plain-folk descriptions must have rattled her a little because she made a big production of returning her napkin to her lap and then kept looking down as she fiddled with it. When she finally looked up, the smile she gave him looked a little too strained to be as serene as she must have meant.
“They sound…very nice,” she said, then reached for her water glass and took a delicate sip that made him stare at the way her lips handled the task.
As if catching him staring at her mouth unsettled her, she quickly put down the glass and offered him a self-conscious smile. She casually pushed her dessert plate a little away, and he guessed she was finished with it.
Oren lazily returned her smile. “How do I get the waiter to bring me the check so we can get out of this place?”
He was as much as declaring to her that he was a country hick, and as he’d hoped, she took it kindly. Now she smiled a little less tensely.
She lifted her napkin to the table and laid it neatly beside her plate, and her voice was low enough to not be overheard.
“They’re very good with subtleties here. You might try doing this.” She discretely lifted a slender index finger then immediately put it down.
McClain grinned over at her and Stacey watched as he glanced away and went solemn. The momentary glitter that flashed in his dark eyes was as effective as a shout and immediately their waiter was at his side with a small silver tray.
McClain tossed a couple large denomination bills on the tray with a low, “Keep it,” that made the waiter murmur his thanks and vanish as quickly as he’d appeared.
Stacey realized she hadn’t seen McClain take out his wallet, and she wondered how long he’d been waiting for her to finish dessert. He’d declined one for himself, but she’d been too impolite to deny herself when he’d encouraged her to choose a dessert. Or rather, she’d been too selfish and greedy to pass up what was surely a last opportunity for a decadent treat.
Now he winked at her. “You’re right about these folks. They understand subtle.”
And then he stood up, and it wasn’t necessarily her imagination that his size and his masculine presence caused the murmurs at the tables nearby to pause a moment, as if a giant had suddenly stood up among them. Oren came around to her side of the table and casually pulled her chair back for her to rise.
And then he took her elbow with hard, strong fingers that were absolutely gentle and almost scorchingly hot. And magical.
Never had she felt the things Oren McClain made her feel. Every time he touched her, the tiny shocks and shivery tingles he set off rapidly gathered in places she’d not known could feel things like that.
It was part of what had overwhelmed her about him before. Every time he’d touched her and she’d felt like this, she’d gotten the very strong sense that if he ever did more than touch her a little or kiss her, she’d lose control of herself and somehow be lost. For someone who’d kept herself remote from all but a friend’s casual touch or occasional hug, the whole issue of physical intimacy was unknown territory.
Or maybe it was because Oren McClain was such a physical man with such a virile presence. A reserved woman like her had little enough experience, but with a man like him it was difficult to know what to expect when it came to delicate sexual matters.
She, of course, knew all about the mechanics of sex, but knowledge was worlds away from actual experience. And instinct warned that even if she’d had a bit of experience with sex, an intimate encounter Oren McClain would be completely unique. He was too elemental, too completely male, and too supremely confident in himself not to be dynamic and possibly quite primitive in bed.
Why had a man like him chosen her? Did he want a meek woman to dominate? He was a man who could naturally dominate anyone, including most men, but she sensed that was purely accidental because of his size and rugged looks. He’d been anything but overbearing when she’d been around him.
But then, he didn’t need to be. As with the waiter who’d responded to a mere gleam in a single, momentary look, McClain needed to do little more than show an inkling of his will to get his way.
Stacey thought about that as they stepped out of the restaurant and paused under the canopy at the end of the walk to wait for a taxi. The night was warmer tonight than it had been last night. Then again, heat was pouring off McClain and Stacey felt flushed with nerves and uncertainty.
And she had the absurd impulse to cry. She’d let herself down in so many ways that she couldn’t begin to keep track of them all. She was ashamed of being afraid to stand on her own two feet, but shame wasn’t enough to prompt her to overcome her fears. Not even the worry that she might grab the easy rescue McClain seemed to offer and unintentionally jump from the frying pan into the fire, was enough to put some starch in her spine.
She never should have come to this; she’d never in her life dreamed of coming to this. But here she was, after months of growing impotence as she’d made one shocking discovery after another, then had failed, time after time, to catch up with the thief or to prevent a single disaster.
The rarified life her grandfather