Grayson's Vow (9)

“Well, see, I kind of need your answer quickly.” Her voice came out fast and breathy. My body, or at least the parts between my legs, twitched again. Dammit. Something about my body’s reaction to her made me angry. Although the parts reacting had never been very discerning.

I sat back down.

“I wish I could give you more time to consider, Mr. Hawthorn, but unfortunately, circumstances dictate that I—”

I put my hand up to stop her. “I’ll get back to you by the end of today. How can I get a hold of you?”

She paused. “I’m staying at the Motel 6 tonight. I can give you my cell number, and you can call me.”

Motel 6? My, how far the princess had fallen. Yes, her situation was quite desperate. I watched as she grabbed a sticky pad and a pen at the edge of my desk and carefully wrote out her phone number. I took it and tossed it casually onto the pile of messy papers.

She looked at where I’d thrown it and then back to me, her lips pressed together. “I can assure you my proposition is legitimate.”

“It very well could be. Of course, I’d want to meet with the executor of this trust anyway. But it’s still something I need to consider. I do have to think about other ways this might affect my life. A felon is one thing, but a felon and a divorcé? How will I fend off the ladies then?”

She narrowed those startling eyes. “Yes, well, if there were any other options, I wouldn’t be considering this either. Trust me.” This princess wouldn’t know a real problem if it smacked her in the face. But as we stared each other down, something flashed in her eyes. Under her cool demeanor and formal business language, she was just barely holding back a temper. She was a princess, but oh yes, just as I’d thought, she had a little witch in her too. We were both silent as she leaned forward slightly as if waiting for…something. Did she expect me to thank her?

“Have a good day.” I didn’t stand. She could show herself out. She stood slowly, holding her hand out so I could shake it. I reached forward and took her hand in mine for the second time. That same heat spiked through me, and I quickly pulled away. Kira Dallaire turned on her heel, her chin in the air, and left my office without looking back.

I stood and went to the window, lifting the shade. I watched as she walked toward a white Jetta. It surprised me she was driving such a non-flashy car. When she got to the door and began to climb in, she paused and looked around at the vineyard. There was something in her expression that made me unconsciously take a step toward her, my face almost hitting the glass. What had that been? Appreciation, I thought. For this run-down place? But with something else too…understanding? Before I could consider it any longer, she ducked inside her car, slamming the door behind her, and a minute later, was driving through the gate and out of sight.

Maybe I was judging her unfairly. If anyone knew what that felt like, it was me. Maybe I was just hungover, and she had reminded me of the type of woman my stepmother was. And of course, there was the fact that she had just strode in here and blatantly offered me a marriage for money… But perhaps Kira Dallaire wasn’t exactly what she seemed to be.

I sat back down at my desk and turned on my computer to google her. One good turn deserved another. As soon as I typed in her name, a whole slew of images appeared: Kira Dallaire in an evening gown, exiting a limo; Kira Dallaire at the premiere of a movie at some theatre or another; Kira Dallaire standing beside the man I recognized as Frank Dallaire at a black-tie benefit. Always with the same small, distant smile. In several photos, she was standing beside a good-looking blond man who appeared to be at least five to ten years older than her. I clicked on one of the photos and read the byline, identifying the couple as Cooper Stratton and his fiancée, Kira Dallaire. Fiancée? I looked at the date—a little over a year ago. Had that been what had “cut short” her college career? Had she dropped out to become a society wife?

I clicked through several articles, my disdain growing as I pieced together Kira Dallaire’s actual situation. None of the news stories came right out and said it, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Kira had been engaged to Cooper Stratton, a young assistant district attorney running for superior court judge in San Francisco, when she was involved in some sort of embarrassing scandal—drugs were heavily hinted at—that took place in a penthouse suite in a luxury downtown hotel. Her father, in an effort to protect her and get the help she needed, shipped her off to some rehab center, more likely a glorified spa in London or Paris. And her fiancé had broken off their engagement. Who could blame him? But now she was back and her father…he what? Wouldn’t fund the partying lifestyle she was accustomed to? Refused to give her any cash until she could prove she was willing to improve her life? Of course, on that I was only guessing. Either way, Kira Dallaire had decided to take matters into her own hands.

I’d been right in my judgment of her: she was just like my stepmother. A woman who’d been given everything in life and thought it was because she was entitled to it. A selfish woman who expected life to bend to her will. And when it didn’t, she’d go to extreme lengths to bend it back, regardless of whom it hurt.

I leaned back for a minute, thinking things through. Never in a million years had I expected to wake up to this.

We were both desperate in our own ways. The question was: Was I desperate enough to hand over my name—even temporarily—for the cash I needed to save this vineyard and fulfill my vow?