The Husband Contract

Clay, on the other hand, was a thirty-one-year-old, cynical, trial-hardened lawyer who definitely did not have a soft spot for budding juvenile delinquents.

He gave the boy his courtroom glare. “I find it difficult to believe you don’t have any idea where your sister is, Nick,” he said softly. “Perhaps you’d like to think again.”

Nick seemed to consider stonewalling—but only for a split second. Then, as if instinctively, he straightened his spine and let his tone slide a shade closer to courtesy. “I think…over on the softball fields,” he mumbled. “At the human chess match.”

“Why don’t you show me?” Clay made it a polite suggestion.

As if pulled by an invisible string, Nick rose sullenly from the bench and began shuffling across the school grounds. Clay gave his helpful jester a low thumbs-up and followed the slouching teen through crowds of giggling sword swallowers, whooping javelin throwers and diminutive sceptered kings.

Nick didn’t speak, so Clay was able to concentrate on avoiding the dozens of carelessly wielded weapons. He steered a particularly wide path around all cotton-candy sticks, icecream-cone towers and hot dogs slathered with mustard.

“This is it,” Nick muttered as they reached the game fields. He tilted his head toward the chess match, which was already in progress. “Over there.”

Clay scanned the players. All adults, teachers, no doubt, in full costume—black and white kings and queens, knights and bishops. He double-checked the queens but couldn’t find anyone who looked much like the picture of Melanie Browning that Joshua had kept in his library. She’d been only sixteen in the photo, but she’d looked older. Long brown hair, wide blue gaze, full, sulky lips…

“Which one is Melanie?”

Nick grunted and averted his eyes. “Believe it or not, she’s the white knight,” he said, staring at the ground. Clay suddenly wondered whether having his older sister work at his school might embarrass the boy. “Isn’t that stupid? They wanted her to be a queen, but she said knights had more fun.”

At that moment, someone called out a move, and the white knight strode to the center of the board, obviously playing to the crowd with an exaggerated swagger. With a silver-gloved hand, the knight raised a long sword high in the air, apparently ready to hack some hapless black chess piece to ribbons.

The watching crowd murmured appreciatively. The May sunlight glinted on the aluminum foil of the sword’s long blade, sparkled like silver fire on the sequined glove, then spilled down the knight’s pristine short white tunic and tights. Clay couldn’t help noticing how the costume outlined the swell at the breast, the rounded tuck of the buttocks, the graceful curve of the thigh.

For the first time this morning, his mood lifted slightly. That, he had to admit, was indisputably the sexiest medieval knight he had ever seen.

Suddenly the knight’s sword dropped comically. From behind the helmet came a feminine voice that was both melodic and annoyed as hell. “Hey—wait just a minute! Where’s the black knight?”

The knight’s free hand reached up to yank off the silver helmet, and a cascade of thick chestnut hair spilled onto slim, tunic-clad shoulders. God, Clay thought with a strange inner lurch, Melanie Browning didn’t look older than her age. She looked younger, as innocent and wide-eyed as if she were a student herself.

She shook her head in laughing disgust. “For Pete’s sake, how am I going to kill the man if he isn’t even here?” She propped her helmet against her hip and scowled at the chess master. “Wasn’t Dr. Bates the black knight?”

“He probably forgot,” someone called out, laughing.

“You know philosophy profs,” someone else chimed in. “He’s probably still at home deciding whether to be or not to be.”

Melanie’s blue eyes sparkled, though she obviously tried not to smile. “Well, we have to have a black knight,” she insisted. Her gaze swept the crowd, found her brother. “Nick! You always wear black. You’d be a perfect kni—”

“No way,” Nick said emphatically, backing up. “I’m outta here. I just brought this guy—” he jerked his chin toward Clay “—to see you.”

Melanie frowned slightly at Nick’s rude tone, but her smile returned as soon as she saw Clay’s suit. Wow, he thought irrelevantly. What a smile!

“Oh, yes, perfect!” Grinning, she pointed her sword triumphantly at Clay. “You can be the Dark Gray knight. That’s close enough.” She extended her hand, silver sequins sparkling. “Good sir, would you be so kind as to step onto the chessboard so that I may run you through?”

Clay couldn’t help returning the smile, which surprised him. He was still irked that she had stood him up—and he definitely didn’t have time for this foolishness. But, sensing that the match was about to be salvaged, the crowd began to clap. Someone handed him a crude, thick wooden sword painted black, and wrapping his fist around the grip, he stepped onto the square in front of Melanie Browning.

She had put her helmet back on, hiding all that glorious hair. It should have rendered her androgynous, but Clay had never seen anything more distinctly female.

“You must be Mr. Gilchrist,” Melanie said as she bent forward into a fighting stance. She smiled sweetly inside her helmet and touched his sword with hers. “Tm so pleased you’ve already met Nick,” she said, beginning to parry lightly. “He’s not exactly excited about taking tennis lessons, but I’m sure you’ll bring him around. He’s a good kid, and he’s got a talent for tennis, I think.”

Clay met her thrusts, careful not to bend her elegant aluminum-foil sword with his clunky wooden one. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said. He was surprised to see that she had a natural grace and handled her sword as if she’d taken lessons. Could she really be that awkward boy’s sister? “I’m not a tennis instructor.”

Her sword paused a moment, but she began fighting again quickly. “You’re not?” She backed up a step. “But you were with Nick, and I thought…” She tilted her head, laughing at her mistake unselfconsciously. “Nick always says I have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions. Rats! I just hate it when he’s right.”

That probably didn’t happen very often, Clay thought, but he found himself reluctant to voice the words. Her tone was full of tolerant affection. Tennis lessons, indeed. From Clay’s observation, the kid could make better use of a drill sergeant.

“Oh! What was I thinking? I know who you are!” With a flourish, Melanie drew a circle in the air with the tip of her sword—a useless but flashy maneuver—and the crowd roared appreciatively. Obviously, Clay noted, the gregarious Miss Browning was beloved by all members of the Wakefield Boys Academy—most of whom, not coincidentally, were male. “You’re the math tutor, of course! I should have known by the suit. You’re Mr.—”

Clay shook his head.

She hesitated. “The baseball coach?”

Clay sighed. This could take all day. “No,” he said firmly.

She laughed, unchastened. “Well, now that we know who you’re not, I’ll just hush up and let you tell me who you are.”

“My name is Clay Logan.” Somehow he kept his voice neutral. “I’m a lawyer. I’m handling your uncle Joshua’s estate.”

The laughter died on her full lips, the smile dropping like a kite deprived of wind. She knew the name—there was no doubt about that. She froze in her position. Behind the homemade helmet, her blue eyes narrowed, fixed unblinkingly on his face.

“Clay Logan.” She spoke the name in a dark monotone. Slowly she extended her sword, and with deliberate paces she came forward until the glinting silver tip grazed his shirt, right over his heart. “You’re Clay Logan?” “Yes.” He glanced at the sword. “Is this where you’re supposed to kill me?”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even move. Her arm was perfectly steady, the point unwavering. He let her hold that stance for a long thirty seconds. Out of his peripheral vision he could still see the crowd laughing and munching on candy apples, but he could no longer hear them. He heard only her heavy, agitated breathing, saw how it made her breasts strain against the tunic. He had no doubt that, if her sword had been real, she would have run him through on the spot.

Her instinctive antagonism wasn’t personal, of course—when she’d believed he was the tennis pro, she had been all smiles. No, this smoldering resentment was directed at her uncle’s lawyer. She had hated her uncle, and apparently that contempt spilled over onto anyone who had been his ally.

And, God help him, she didn’t even know about the terms of the will yet. If she despised Clay already, what would she do when she learned the details, when she heard about the nasty little clause Joshua had insisted on inserting?

Suddenly Clay wished himself anywhere but here. What had he been thinking? Had he really believed he could soften the blow by delivering the terms of Joshua’s will face-to-face? Had he really thought that she would appreciate the personal touch? What a fool he’d been! If ever two people were destined to be enemies…

The crowd was growing restless, but she showed no signs of moving. Finally, with a strange reluctance, Clay lifted his own sword and slowly applied pressure to hers. The sparkling aluminum foil bent easily under his crude black blade, curving into an impotent droop that pointed only at the ground.

She looked at the ruined sword for a moment, then, tossing it onto the grass, she raised her angry eyes to his. “I was supposed to capture you,” she said tensely. “You were supposed to die. You’ve spoiled the match.”

“I’m afraid,” he said slowly, “that I’m about to spoil a lot more than that.”

Her elbows propped behind her on the picnic table, Melanie sat backward on the bench, staring out through the dappled branches of the overhanging magnolia and deciding that sometimes life was just too ironic to bear.

She could see Clay Logan out of the corner of her eye. He was buying two snow cones from a diaphanously garbed princess in a heart-shaped headdress. The princess seemed to be enjoying the transaction immensely. She had offered him extra syrup three times.

Not that Melanie could exactly blame her. For a moment, back when she had mistaken Clay for Mr. Gilchrist, Melanie had been a little dazzled herself. She had taken one look at those aquiline features, those springing waves of rich brown hair and broad, elegant shoulders, and she had instantly begun debating whether it would be bad parenting to date Nick’s tennis instructor.

Yes, darned ironic, Melanie repeated to herself, pretending not to watch. This gorgeous human being was Clay Logan. Wouldn’t you just know it?

He didn’t even look like a lawyer. In spite of his twentiethcentury power suit, he had the air of a knight who would bring his lady treasures, a chest heaped high with golden coins and rubies as big as his fist. Or at least one ruby. Was that too much to ask? One twenty-five-carat, heart-shaped ruby that had been in her family for a hundred years. The beautiful, infamous Romeo Ruby.

But that, of course, was the final irony. Clay Logan wasn’t bringing her anything but a slap in the face from good old Uncle Joshua. I’m afraid that I’m about to spoil a lot more than that, Clay had said, but she had known it before he spoke. Joshua had disowned her eight years ago. Why should the tyrant have changed his mind on his deathbed?

No, her uncle hadn’t left her a penny. All that remained now was to find out how this slick lawyer, Clay Logan, had worded it. She closed her eyes against the bright May sunlight. How exactly does a lawyer justify robbing someone of her birthright?