Only on His Terms

“Well, what kind of place do you call home?” she asked.

Without hesitation, he told her, “Bright lights, big city. I’ve lived in Manhattan since I started college, and I’m never leaving.”

His enthusiasm for the fast-paced setting didn’t seem to fit with how he’d reminded her of Harry earlier. But she tried to sound convincing when she said, “Oh. Okay.”

She must not have done a very good job, though, because he said, “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am, kind of.”

“Why?” He suddenly seemed a little defensive.

She shrugged. “Maybe because I was just thinking how you remind me of someone I used to know, and he wasn’t a bright-lights, big-city kind of guy at all.”

At least, he hadn’t been when Gracie knew him. But Harry’s life before that? Who knew? Nothing she’d discovered about him in the past week had seemed true to the man she’d called her friend for years.

Her new friend’s wariness seemed to increase. “Old boyfriend?”

“Well, old, anyway,” Gracie said with a smile. “More like a grandfather, though.”

He relaxed visibly, but still looked sweetly abashed. “You know, the last thing a guy wants to hear when he’s trying to impress a beautiful woman he’s just met is how he reminds her of her grandfather.”

He thought she was beautiful? Was he trying to impress her? And was he actually admitting it? Did he know how one of her turn-ons, coming in second after a bewitching smile, was men who spoke frankly and honestly? Especially because she’d known so few of them. Really, none other than Harry.

“I, uh...” she stammered. “I mean, um, ah...”

He seemed to take great pleasure in having rendered her speechless. Not arrogantly so, but as if he were simply delighted by his success. “So you’re not a big-city type yourself?”

Grateful for the change of subject—and something she could respond to with actual words—she shook her head. “Not at all. I mean, I’ve lived in big cities all my life, but never in the city proper. I’ve always been a suburban girl.”

Even though she’d never known her father and had lived in an apartment growing up, her life had been no different from her friends’ who’d lived in houses with yards and a two-parents-and-siblings family unit. Her mother had been active at her school and the leader of her Brownie troop. And even with her meager income, Marian Sumner had somehow always had enough for summer vacations and piano and gymnastics lessons. As a girl, Gracie had spent summers playing in the park, autumns jumping into leaf piles, winters building snowmen and springs riding her bike. Completely unremarkable. Totally suburban.

Her new friend considered her again, but this time, he seemed to be taking in something other than her physical appearance. “At first, I was thinking you seem like the city type, too. The suit is a little retro, but you’d still be right at home in the East Village or Williamsburg. Now, though...”

His voice trailed off before he completed his analysis, and he studied Gracie in the most interesting—and interested—way. Heat pooled in her midsection, spiraling outward, until every cell she possessed felt as if it was going to catch fire. The entire room seemed to go silent for an interminable moment, as if everyone else had disappeared, and it was just the two of them alone in the universe. She’d never experienced anything like it before. It was...unsettling. But nice.

“Now?” she echoed, hoping to spur his response and end the curious spell. The word came out so quietly, however, and he still seemed so lost in thought, that she wondered if he’d even heard her.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to physically dispel the thoughts from his brain. “Now I think maybe you do seem like the wholesome girl next door.”

This time, it was Gracie’s turn to look abashed. “You know, the last thing a girl wants to hear when she’s trying to impress a beautiful man she’s just met is how she reminds him of a glass of milk.”

That, finally, seemed to break the weird enchantment. Both of them laughed lightly, but she suspected it was as much due to relief that the tension had evaporated as it was to finding humor in the remark.

“Do you have to go back to work after this thing?” he asked. “Or would you maybe be free for a late lunch?”

In spite of the banter they’d been sharing, the invitation came out of nowhere and caught Gracie off-guard. A million questions cartwheeled through her brain, and she had no idea how to respond to any of them. How had her morning gone from foreboding to flirtatious? Where had this guy come from? How could she like him so much after only knowing him a matter of moments? And how on earth was she supposed to accept an invitation to lunch with him when her entire life was about to explode in a way that was nothing short of atomic?

She tried to reply with something that made sense, but all that came out was “Lunch...? I...? Work...?”

He was clearly enjoying how much he continued to keep her off-kilter. “Yeah, lunch. Yeah, you. As for your work, which firm do you work for?” He glanced around the room. “Maybe I can pull some strings for you. I’ve known most of these people all my life. A couple of them owe me favors.”

“Firm?” she echoed, the single word all she could manage in her growing confusion.

“Which law firm, representing which one of my father’s interests?” For the first time since they began chatting, he sobered. “Not that they’re my father’s interests anymore. Not since that trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger got her hooks into him. Not that my mother and I are going down without a fight.”

It dawned on Gracie then—dawned like a two-by-four to the back of her head—that the man to whom she had been speaking so warmly wasn’t one of the many attorneys who were here representing Harry’s former colleagues. Nor was he one of those colleagues. It was Harry’s son, Harrison Sage III. The man who had assumed he would, along with his mother, inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune. The one whom Gracie had prevented from doing just that. The one she had earlier been thinking might be furious, vindictive and homicidal.

Then his other remark hit her. The part about the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. That was what he thought she was? Her? The woman whose idea of stilettos was a kitten heel? The woman who preferred her hemlines below the knee? The woman who’d nearly blinded herself that morning with a mascara wand? The woman who intended to give away nearly every nickel of the fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—dollars with which Harry had entrusted her?

Because even without Mr. Tarrant’s having told her about Harry’s wish that she give away the bulk of his fortune to make the world a better place, Gracie would have done just that. She didn’t want the responsibility that came with so much money. She didn’t want the notoriety. She didn’t want the pandemonium. She didn’t want the terror.

Maybe she’d been struggling to make ends meet before last week, but she had been making them meet. And she’d been happy with her life in Seattle. She had fun friends. She had a cute apartment. She was gainfully employed. She was working toward her degree. She’d had hope for the future in general and a sunny outlook for any given day. Since finding out about her inheritance, however, she’d awoken every morning with a nervous stomach, and had only been able to sleep every night with a pill. In between those times, she’d been jumpy, withdrawn and scared.

Most people would probably think she was nuts, but Gracie didn’t want to be a billionaire. She didn’t even want to be a millionaire. She wanted to have enough so that she could make it through life without worrying, but not so much that she spent the rest of her life worrying. Did that make sense? To her, it did. To Harry’s son, however...

She searched for words that would explain everything to Harrison Sage III quickly enough that he wouldn’t have time to believe she was any of the things he’d just called her. But there was still so much of it she didn’t understand herself. How could she explain it to him when even she couldn’t make sense of it?

“I, um, that is...” she began. She inhaled a deep breath and released it, and then shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. She forced a smile she was sure looked as contrived as it felt and tried again. “Actually, I mean... The thing is...”

Gah. At this rate, she would be seeing Harry in the afterlife before she was able to make a complete sentence. Just spit it out, she told herself. But all she finally ended up saying was “Um, actually, I don’t have to go back to work after this.”

Well, it was a start. Not to mention the truth. Go, Gracie!

Immediately, Harrison Sage’s expression cleared. “Excellent,” he said. “Do you like Thai? Because there’s this great place on West Forty-Sixth that just opened. You’ll love it.”

“I do like Thai,” she said. Still being honest. Forward, Gracie, she told herself. Move forward.

“Excellent,” he said, treating her again to that bewitching smile. “I’m Harrison, by the way,” he added. “Harrison Sage. If you hadn’t already figured that out.”

Gracie bit back a strangled sound. “Yeah, I kinda did.”

“And you are?”

It was all she could do not to reply, “I’m the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m—I’m Gracie,” she said instead.

She was hoping the name was common enough that he wouldn’t make the connection to the woman he probably hated with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. But she was pretty sure he did make the connection. She could tell by the way his expression went stony, by the way his eyes went flinty, by the way his jaw went clinchy...

And by the way the temperature in the room seemed to drop about fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—degrees.

Two (#ulink_83137d8b-cc1a-5104-a52f-b98ca7f4f992)

Harrison Sage told himself he must have misheard her. Maybe she hadn’t said her name was Gracie. Maybe she’d said her name was Stacy. Or Tracy. Or even Maisey. Because Gracie was a nickname for Grace. And Grace was the name of the woman who had used her sexual wiles to seduce and manipulate a fragile old man into changing his will to leave her with nearly every nickel he had.

This was that woman? he thought, taking her in again. He’d been expecting a loudmouthed, garishly painted, platinum blonde in a short skirt, tight sweater and mile-high heels. One who had big hair, long legs and absolutely enormous—

Well. He just hadn’t expected her to look like something out of a fairy tale. But that was exactly the impression he’d formed of this woman when she first walked into the room. That she was some fey, otherworldly sylph completely out of her element in this den of trolls. She was slight and wispy, and if she was wearing any makeup, he sure couldn’t see it. Stray tendrils of hair, the color of a golden autumn sunset, had escaped their twist, as if all it would take was a breath of sorcery to make the entire mass tumble free.