A Proper Wife

“You’re not the least bit sorry!” Her eyes—almost black with anger—flashed with accusation. “Why would you be? You and your kind think you can insult anyone who has to work for a living, don’t you?”

“Lady,” he said patiently, “don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m trying to apologize but-”

She laughed coldly, showing small, perfect white teeth. “A goat could no more manage an apology than a baboon could learn the minuet!”

Giggles of appreciation swept through the crowd behind him. His face darkened and he stepped closer to her. She was tall for a woman but at six-two, he was taller; it gave him a grim kind of pleasure to see that his size intimidated her enough to make her take a quick step back.

“You’re right,” he said silkily, “I’m not in the least bit sorry. I enjoyed the show.”

There was a faint burst of applause, punctuated by a soft wolf whistle. Ryan turned and shot the crowd a quick smile.

The nerve of the man! Devon felt her cheeks flame as she stared up at the egotistical brute with the sea-green eyes, the black-as-midnight hair, and the smirk. Every eye in the place was on her now.

If only she’d ignored what he’d said.

If only she’d listened to the model who’d tried to stop her from flying at him.

If only she hadn’t let Mr. Deauville drag her out from behind the counter in Fragrances minutes ago.

The manager had been breathless, his little eyes shiny with distress.

The weekly fashion show was beginning in five minutes, he’d said, while he hustled her up to the mezzanine. One of the models had been taken ill. Devon was tall, she was slender—she would have to fill in.

Devon had tried to tell him that it was out of the question. She’d been hired two days ago to sell perfume, not to model.

But telling him anything at all had proven impossible. There’d been people and confusion everywhere. She’d still been sputtering when Mr. Deauville had shoved her into a blocked-off dressing room.

“Here’s your extra girl,” he’d said, and then somebody named Clyde with a lisp, a flutey voice, and the determination of a bull terrier, had grabbed her and told her to get out of her navy suit and white silk blouse and into the dress he’d shoved at her. Finally, he’d draped a velvet cape over her shoulders. It was in a color that made it about as unobtrusive as a fire engine but she’d clutched it as Clyde shoved her out the door because at least it hid the rest of her, which was crammed into a dress that covered damn near nothing.

The next thing she’d known, she’d found herself standing at the top of the stairs with a bunch of strangers peering up at her.

“It’ll be OK, kid,” the same model who’d tried to stop her a couple of minutes ago had said.

And it almost had been, until this... this Neanderthal, this jerk with the kind of dangerous good looks that probably made stupid women keel over, had decided to take some cheap shots at her expense.

And she, like a fool, had let his snide remarks get under her skin, launched herself at him like a missile gone haywire—

“Well?”

Devon blinked. He was looking down at her with that disgustingly masculine smirk on his face.

“Well, what?”

“Am I forgiven?” he said with a rakish smile.

“Come on, lady,” a male voice called out, “tell the guy you accept his apology!”

“Yeah,” another voice said, “tell him it’s OK.”

The man with the green eyes grinned. “You hear them,” he said softly. “Come on, love. Let’s kiss and make up.”

He reached out, cupped her chin in his hand, and bent toward her, his eyes on hers, that damnable smile still on his handsome face. He had to be joking, Devon thought desperately, he had to be....

She looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t.

Without hesitation, she jerked back, balled her hand into a fist, and slugged him, right in the jaw.

Holy hell, Ryan thought.

He staggered back, shaking his head against the sudden buzzing in his ears.

“Ryan?”

He blinked.

“Ryan? Are you OK?” Frank’s hands closed on his shoulders. “Dammit, say something!”

Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “She hit me,” he said in wonder.

Frank began to grin. “I’ll say.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “OK,” he said. “OK, I’ve had enough.” He pulled away from Frank and turned toward the girl, who hadn’t moved. “That’s it,” he said grimly. “I’ve tried to apologize but you wouldn’t accept that. I admitted I behaved like a jerk and that wasn’t good enough, either. But if you think I’ll let you get away with slugging me, you’ve got another—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Miss Franklin! What is going on here?”

Devon blanched. “Mr. Deauville,” she said quickly. “I—I can explain, if you’ll just—”

The manager turned to Ryan. “What happened here, sir?” Ryan glanced at the girl again. Her face was white as paper, her eyes huge and dark. Hell, he thought again, and he blew out his breath.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

The little man’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I appreciate your chivalry, but if Montano’s is to maintain employee discipline—”

“And I appreciate your concern,” Ryan said. His smile was polite. “But really, nothing happened. This young lady and I had a misunderstanding, and—”

“She slugged him,” a delighted voice called out.

The man with the mustache turned pale. “She did what?” He whirled toward the girl, his eyes flashing. “Miss Franklin?”

Devon swallowed hard. Two weeks of pounding pavements, searching for a job; two weeks of hearing Bettina tell her what a fool she was for looking for “demeaning” work....

“It... it isn’t the way it sounds,” she said desperately. “If you’d just give me a moment—”

“Did you strike this gentleman or didn’t you?”

“Mr. Deauville, please—”