Bride Of Convenience

Was it better to live in an embarrassed state in financial exile somewhere, or let everyone think she’d tragically died rich? The fact that they’d only find out later that she was a pauper had helped her to squelch that fleeting thought of limo-cide.

Actually, she’d been half hoping for some conveniently rich man to sweep her off her feet tonight and fly her to Vegas for a quickie marriage. Her reputation for spending money would have made it easy to conceal a ploy or two that would funnel funds into her accounts. After all, she had plenty of expensive clothes she’d never worn publicly that hung in her closets, and some off-the-rack things still sported tags. With a little imagination, it would be easy enough to pass those off as new purchases. If her conscience allowed her pride that much.

But one of the problems of the sophisticated set was that for the few people in her circle who did marry at her age, an ostentatious ceremony with all the pricey traditions was a requirement for a first marriage.

And there was no unattached single man here tonight whom she hadn’t already mentally crossed off her list of potential husbands, so there could be no quick trip to Vegas.

Bad nerves and depression had left her with little more ambition tonight than to fill her stomach with rich goodies and numb herself with vintage wine.

She didn’t care for alcoholic drinks of any kind, and rarely imbibed. Until tonight. Tonight was her farewell party. The last fling on her social calendar before she ran out of money and lost her place among the only people she’d known.

And then she saw him.

At first, the very tall, brutally masculine rancher from Texas seemed merely a phantom that fear and desperation had conjured up to haunt her.

She deserved to be haunted by her memory of him. She’d not treated him particularly well at the end, but she’d been so disrupted by him, so very threatened by his earthy masculinity and the shock of the things he’d made her feel, that she’d been compelled to protect herself.

She’d regretting rebuffing him almost right away. She’d tried to smother her guilty feelings by telling herself that he was too honest and straightforward—too real—for her. A real man like him would find out soon enough that she was too frivolous and inept for his way of life. How would a man like him react when he found out? She couldn’t bear his bad opinion. She’d rather be thought a snob than a failure.

Even worse, he owned a cattle ranch somewhere in a dusty corner of Texas! She’d be useless and lonely and bored out of her wits. The only thing they’d really had going between them had been the explosive physical attraction that had so frightened her.

None of her friends knew that she wasn’t at all as sexually sophisticated as they were. In fact, she was so sexually unsophisticated that she was still a virgin at twenty-four. She’d been quite happy waiting for the man of her dreams and her wedding night, though most of her friends would have laughed at that old-fashioned notion.

Then she’d met the cowboy, and he’d overwhelmed her so badly she’d been terrified. She’d never told a soul about him, because she’d known she would have been tittered over and teased about it. Either because he was a rancher from Texas or because he was so macho and rabidly masculine and unrefined—or because she’d been so turned on that she’d panicked.

Hadn’t she met him here at another of Buffy’s parties? It had been months ago now, and she’d almost made herself forget. That’s why it was such a surprise to think about him now. He’d been someone’s guest, but she doubted she could remember who because she hadn’t paid attention when the introductions were made. Her brain had short-circuited and she’d had eyes only for the macho beast. Everyone else had vanished from awareness.

As Stacey watched her delusion, appreciating the beautiful cut of his elegant black tuxedo, she felt her pulse begin to accelerate and realized it was the first time in a long time that her heart was beating fast because of excitement rather than fear.

McClain—yes, she still remembered his name—wasn’t handsome, but he was striking, with a charismatic masculinity that a lesser male could only dream of having. It was such a pleasure to watch her delusion walk toward her in the safety of her imagination that she delayed the sip of wine she’d been about to take.

And then her delusion stopped in front of her and neatly plucked the wine flute out of her cold fingers to sit it with absent aplomb on the tray the waiter had just brought. His other hand settled hotly on her waist and she felt the jolt that told her this was real.

The cowboy was here.

He was so tall, built so tough and hard, that his lean frame was solid with muscle. She realized again that he wasn’t at all handsome, and noted afresh that his rugged features had the kind of weathered tan that hinted at Native ancestry as did his overlong black hair. His eyes were a glittering black that went perfectly with his coloring and the costly cloth of his tuxedo.

His low voice was a gravely drawl that called up images of a sexy night in bed.

“I’ve been waiting to dance with you, darlin’.”

Stacey felt the room tilt a little as he expertly eased her into a private corner nearer the door. It didn’t matter a whole lot that they were the only ones dancing to the soft notes of Unchained Melody that the pianist on the other side of the room was playing.

Suddenly, just like before, they were the only two people in the universe, and Stacey felt her head spin with the idea. Was she tipsy or had the pressure and upset finally caused her to snap?

The heat of him was scorching, and the rocky hardness of his big body made her knees tremble. The hand at her waist rested boldly low on her back, and the shivery pleasure of being wedged snugly between that hand and his body was almost erotic.

“H-how did you get here?”

Her brain was so fuzzy that she wasn’t completely certain he was really here, but somehow his first name came out of the fuzziness: Oren. It was a Southern name. A good one for a cowboy, but hopelessly out of fashion.

His stern mouth curved faintly. “The usual way. A pickup, two planes, a taxi and a taxi.”

Her soft, “How did you get in?” sounded dazed. Again, he obliged, and her gaze fixed on his mouth.

“Just like last time. The visiting guest of a guest.”

Stacey’s brain somehow seized on the notion of second chances, and she almost missed what he said next. That was because she was looking up at him and they were dancing slowly, which made the dizziness worse.

“I came to New York to see you.”

The words struck sweetly for a few seconds, but then turned bitter. What would have happened if she’d accepted his crazy proposal months ago? She wasn’t clearheaded enough to catalog all the horrors and disasters she might have been spared, but she knew if she’d married him then, at least the loss of her fortune wouldn’t have caused a fraction of the shame she was in for now. At least she wouldn’t be six days away from homelessness.

“Oh, why?” It came out sounding forlorn because it was the start of the questions that were suddenly revolving in her mind: Oh, why didn’t I marry you? And, Oh, why was I such a fool?

“I had to see if things had changed for you.”

His words made her heart give a sickening lurch and her head was suddenly heavy. She let her chin go down and her gaze fixed on the snowy white between the facings of his jacket. Her eyes were stinging and she bit her lips together to hold back the emotion that was coming up like sea swells.

He went on speaking as if he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

“I thought I might spend a few days, take you out, see what you think now. Unless your answer is still no.”

Stacey realized she’d placed her hands on his chest and that they’d slowly stopped dancing. It felt for all the world as if they were still moving, because the room was moving.

“I think I’m not feeling well,” she got out. She couldn’t get her brain to come up with anything else. Mostly because it was the truth, but partly because she should have told him “no.” No, I haven’t changed my mind, or No, because I’m no better suited to a life with you than I was before.

Either would have let him off the hook. It would have been kinder to disappoint him for the second time now, rather than later. But she’d felt too desperate for some kind of reprieve or deliverance for too long to automatically reject this potential lifeline.

That was the moment, despite all the fuzziness from the wine, that she began to feel guilty. Her guilt wasn’t immediately acute, but it promised to be. Particularly since some survival instinct had kicked in and she suddenly realized that she might agree to almost anything to be spared financial disgrace.

The cowboy had said he was rich. That he had a big ranch and oil wells, plenty to keep her in jewels and designer duds…

Oh God, she remembered suddenly that he’d said that. He’d called them “duds.” That had touched her then, and the memory touched her now. Touched her so much that she wanted to cry over the artless simplicity of a big, rough, macho man who’d seemed to be sincerely smitten and had made such a sweet, homespun offer to provide whatever it took to make her happy and choose him.

Jewels and designer duds…as if he was offering his best to a woman he revered like a queen, but a woman who was so far above him socially that he’d never understand that a pretentious snob like her wouldn’t be caught dead in a dud of any kind. Or married to a cowboy.

She couldn’t seem to keep from remembering that he’d treated her delicately and deferentially, as if she was worthy of respect and pampering and perhaps even worship. She hadn’t deserved a speck of those things from him then, and she certainly didn’t now. He was too good-hearted and sincere for her, too sweet and artless. He was too honorable and too deserving of better than to be stuck with a useless ninny like her.

As tempting—sorely tempting—as it was to grab for this lifeline and let him think she might change her mind about accepting his marriage proposal, Stacey realized she hadn’t sunk quite low enough to do that to him. She couldn’t use an honestly decent man like him to save her own skin. She’d be the lowest of the low if she did that. Particularly now, when she had even less to offer him in return.

“Oh, Oren, I’m s-sor…” The room had taken a hard turn that time. Her choked, “Not feeling weell,” was little more than a jerky whisper, but he heard it as if she’d spoken in his ear.

The room continued to spin dangerously and she found herself clinging to him and pressed against his side as he led her along the edge of the crowd. Her knees barely held her up, but his strong hand at her waist kept her anchored safely to him, so no one paid much attention. At least, she didn’t think they had.

They’d just reached the relative quiet of the foyer when he stopped. “Are you gonna be sick?”

It took her several moments to decide, but her belated, “No,” was belated enough that he’d already ushered her into the private elevator by the time she got it out.