Eileen Wilks – Jacob's Proposal (страница 2)

Jacob’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I’ve been considering marriage. It seemed time.”

“What about you, Mick?” Luke’s use of Michael’s nickname was an olive branch of sorts. “You wouldn’t meet many women in your line of work. Sneaking into hostile countries, blowing up things—it can’t leave you much time for socializing.”

“Luke has a point,” Jacob said. “Will your duties interfere with finding a bride? You said you’d be leaving the country again soon.”

“Yes. On the third.”

Luke whistled. “Eight days? I’m a fast worker, but that’s not much time, even for me. With all those millions that will land in your lap soon, though, it can be done. Want me to send a few candidates your way?”

Michael scowled. “I think I can find a wife on my own.”

“One more thing,” Jacob said. “The treatment seems to have worked, but there’s no guarantee subsequent treatments will have the same effect.” He paused. “We might marry, dissolve the trust, set up another one to pay for Ada’s care—and a month or a year later, she could be dead anyway.”

Luke and Michael exchanged glances. For once, the two understood each other perfectly. Michael spoke for them both when he said, “A month, a year, twenty years—it doesn’t matter. Any time we can buy her will be worth the price. This is for Ada.”

It was settled. The three of them would find women willing to marry quickly, and so dissolve the bizarre trust their father had set up. They would do this in spite of the fact that each of them had at some point vowed never to marry.

Because this was for Ada. The one woman they all loved.

Their housekeeper.

One

Rain washed the window where Jacob stood staring out at a wet, dreary world. He didn’t know why some people claimed to like rainy days. Rain sucked the color out of everything and sniffled in self-pity while it did, sounding like one great, endless sob. And a December rain was the worst, cold and endlessly gray.

Storms, now—storms were all right. When the air cracked open and flashed threats across the sky in million-volt arcs of light, it woke a man up. But three endless rainy days made Jacob want to put his fist through something.

Not that he would do such a thing, of course. He took a sip from the mug in his hand, then frowned. Cold coffee was as bad as rainy days.

Of course, if he wanted to be honest, he’d admit that his mood this morning had a great deal to do with what had happened last weekend. It wasn’t every day a man asked a woman to marry him. And got turned down.

He’d rushed things. He knew that, but what choice had he had? He had to marry soon, and Maggie had been his choice. She was perfect for him, a warm, outgoing woman with dozens of friends both male and female, and a ruthlessly competitive streak when she was on the back of a horse. But sexually she was shy, inexperienced. He’d rather liked that about her. Jacob hadn’t objected to taking his time, letting her get used to him.

Hadn’t he spent two months proving she could trust him, that he wouldn’t pounce on her? It hadn’t been easy, either. And the reason she’d given for refusing him had come as a shock. Like hell he didn’t want her! Maybe he didn’t feel some blind, all-consuming passion, but she was a cute little thing and he’d been looking forward to taking her to bed. Passion was like fool’s gold, anyway—lots of sparkle, no substance. He’d expected her to agree with him about that.

Of course, Maggie had been shocked, too. But she liked him, dammit. They could have been good for each other, comfortable together. If he’d just had a little more time…

When the door behind him opened, he spoke without turning. “The office line rang a minute ago.”

“Then you should have answered it,” a tart voice said. “Since you’ve apparently got nothing better to do.”

He turned around. “I’m taking a break. You’re always telling me I work too hard.”

A tiny, wrinkled woman in baggy slacks came into the room bearing an insulated carafe of coffee—no doubt her excuse for barging in on him. “There’s a difference between taking a break and brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

It had been three weeks since Ada had returned from Switzerland and learned that he’d told his brothers about her condition. She had yet to forgive Jacob for spilling her secret. She was looking better, though. That was what mattered. Oh, she was still too skinny, but she had always been a bony little thing. Her movements were reassuringly brisk.

“I like the hair.”

One child-size hand came up to pat the orange frizz that made such an interesting contrast with her tanned-to-leather skin. “Do you? I was afraid Marilyn used too much Tropical Sunrise this time.”

“Very cheerful.”

She snorted and set the carafe down on his desk. “As if you cared about cheerful. You want me to call a temp agency? Cosmo’s down with a stomach bug, and I’ve got better things to do than answer your office line.”

Damn. “My new assistant should be capable of answering the phone. If she ever gets here.”

“She called. She’s on her way.”

He glanced out the window. This damned rain! “I suppose the roads are difficult.” Although Jacob’s house was built on high land, several of the roads nearby flooded when they had a heavy rain. That was one reason he preferred to have his staff live in.

“They’ve got travelers’ advisories out. Here.” She held out a fresh cup of coffee. “Maybe a little caffeine will stop your snarling.”

Jacob took the mug. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking in a new assistant. He’d always hated having strangers around him. Sonia, his regular assistant, thought highly of Ms. McGuire, but Jacob remained skeptical. “I know her name from somewhere.”

Ada gave him a pitying look. “They do say the brain is the first to go. She compiled a report for Sonia a month ago. You read the report. No doubt her name was on it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He sipped the coffee and sat down behind his desk. “It sounds like I’ve got time to put a call through to Marcos in Rome. When my new assistant finally shows up, bring her to me right away. You can fill her in on my faults later.”

“Aren’t enough hours in the day to do that,” she said, going to the door, where she paused, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Jacob…”

“Yes?”

“Did Maggie turn you down?”

He knew very well his expression hadn’t given him away, but apparently something had. He nodded.

“She wasn’t right for you, anyway,” she said gruffly. “You might as well get some work done. Better than brooding.” She pulled the door shut behind her,

In spite of everything, he smiled. Ada was definitely feeling better.

And that, he reminded himself, was what mattered, not who he married. Marriage was an unholy risk, no matter who he asked. Maybe, he thought, sipping his coffee, he would ask his new assistant to marry him as soon as she stepped in the door. Good morning, Ms. McGuire. I’m pleased to see you didn’t drown on the way here. You’ll need to answer the phone today, since my secretary is sick. Also, I would like to get married as soon as possible. Is Friday good for you?

Jacob chuckled and put down his mug. He was still smiling as he powered up his computer, accessed the latest market quotes—and promptly forgot his coffee, the rain and the woman who had rejected him.

It was still raining when Claire pulled up in front of the West mansion. Or castle, she thought, eyeing the massive house where she would be living for the next month or more.

Someone had already decorated for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was only a few days behind them. Lights were strung in a zigzag along the pediments topping the first floor windows, making a bright, incongruous splash of scarlet against the gray stone. Off to the left, she glimpsed a turret through the blur of rain. And could the roof really be crenelated?

Good grief. Tucking her laptop beneath her raincoat and shielding herself as much as possible with her umbrella, she climbed out of her cousin’s Bronco and dashed up the steps.

The doorbell was tucked inside a gargoyle’s snarling mouth. She grinned and pressed it, wondering who would open the door. A house like this deserved an ancient family retainer. A terrifyingly dignified butler, maybe? Or a hunchback with a scar that knit half his face into a hideous scowl? Igor, in fact.

The door didn’t creak when it opened, unfortunately. And that was definitely not Igor.

“Good God,” exclaimed the wrinkled elf in the doorway. “This is worse than I’d expected. Or maybe better.”

The woman was no bigger than a twelve-year-old child. A scrawny twelve-year-old. Frizzy hair the color of marigolds and the texture of a dandelion puff framed a face that had been browned by the sun of at least fifty Texas summers. She wore a sweatshirt, baggy olive-green slacks, an apron and a pair of diamond earrings with stones so big they should have come out of a Cracker Jack box.

But Claire was pretty sure they hadn’t. “Ah—I’m Claire McGuire.”

“Of course you are. Who else would show up in this weather, looking the way you do?” She shook her head. “You may as well come in. Sonia did warn me. She also assured me you wouldn’t try to seduce the boy, but you wouldn’t have to try very hard, would you?”