to be in the way she held herself—chin high, slim shoulders back.
Just another of Blythe’s strays, he reminded himself, a little nobody from a bend-in-the-road town in Texas. As it had turned out, his mother’s investment in the woman’s dog grooming and boarding enterprise had been a profitable one, so he couldn’t fault the perky Texan on that count. Still, he had always disliked her.
Though he effortlessly schooled his face to betray nothing, Jonas noted a certain raw feeling in his gut—as if someone had taken a cheese grater to it. He was thinking the obvious: What in hell is she doing here? But he didn’t speak the question aloud. It would have been bad strategy, was too likely to betray his dismay. The Bravo Billionaire, as any dedicated tabloid reader would avidly tell you, did not experience feeble emotions like dismay.
There was a blue folder in front of the kennel keeper. And one in front of each of the two chairs to her left and to her right. Her folder was open. She’d apparently been reading the contents while she waited for him and for Ambrose. Judging by the strange, rather stricken look on her face, what she had read must have surprised—even shocked—her.
The cheese grater sawed another layer off the lining of Jonas’s stomach. He realized he no longer felt the urge to ask what she was doing here.
No. All at once, he didn’t even want to know.
Ambrose said, “Jonas. You’ve met Ms. Hewitt?”
“I have.”
The woman started to stand, then appeared to think better of the move and kept her pretty little butt in the chair. She swallowed. And nodded.
He nodded back.
“Have a seat.” Ambrose had him on the move again, ushering him down the long table toward the chair—and the folder—to the right of Emma Hewitt.
Jonas sat. Ambrose crossed behind the kennel keeper and took the chair to her left.
Once settled in his chair, Ambrose opened the folder on the table in front of him and then reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of half glasses. “Ahem. Jonas.” He put on the glasses. “Before she died, your mother made a few changes to her will. She asked that I call you and Ms. Hewitt in together to discuss them.”
Jonas sat very still.
Peering over the tops of his glasses, Ambrose gestured at Jonas’s folder, which Jonas had not yet allowed himself to touch. “If you’ll just read the sections I’ve highlighted, I’m sure Blythe’s wishes will be made clear to you. And of course, I’ll be right here to answer any questions you might have.”
“I see,” said Jonas.
The kennel keeper said nothing. She was a splash of hot orange in his side vision.
“Please,” Ambrose urged. “Have a look.”
What damn choice did he have? Jonas opened the folder and began to read.
A quick scan of the highlighted passages and he had the picture.
Once he understood his mother’s insane intention, he closed the folder and said, very quietly, “All right. I’ve read it.”
“Good.” Ambrose glanced at the dog groomer. “Ms. Hewitt? Have you looked through your copy?”
She nodded.
“Well,” said Ambrose. “As I said, please feel free to ask any—”
“Wait a minute,” said Jonas. Ambrose waited. “I think we need to make certain we’re all in agreement as to exactly what it says here.”
Ambrose announced, “An excellent idea.” Then he fell silent—as if he expected Jonas to explain the will that he had prepared.
Not a chance. Jonas said nothing. And the dog groomer from Texas kept her mouth shut, as well.
Ambrose realized the task had fallen to him. “Well,” he said. “Ahem. As you can both see, the issue here is custody—the custody of the child, Amanda Eloise Bravo.”
Ambrose laid it all out for them.
“The will now requires that you, Jonas, must marry Ms. Hewitt here—and cohabit with her at a location of her choosing—for one year. During that year, you and Ms. Hewitt are to have joint physical and legal custody of your adopted sister. At the end of that year, should either you or Ms. Hewitt choose to divorce, then full custody of Amanda will be yours, Jonas. However, if you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt within three weeks of your mother’s death—and to remain married to her for one full year—then custody goes to Ms. Hewitt.”
Ambrose paused to remove his reading glasses. He took a snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lenses of the glasses. He did all this while looking at Jonas, a look that managed to be both regretful and unwavering. “And should you try to contest the will, all legal expenses incurred by Ms. Hewitt in fighting your suit will be paid by your mother’s estate.”
Ambrose put his handkerchief back in his pocket. He folded his glasses and set them on top of his folder. “That’s about it,” he said with a grim smile.
Jonas stared at the lawyer. He kept his face composed, but he was thinking that he would really enjoy breaking something. Yes. He’d very much like to rip something in two.
Blythe’s death had caused him far more pain than he would ever admit. And the pain—which he knew to be grief—had taken him completely by surprise. He was thirty-six years old, after all, and had believed himself immune to grief since well before his tenth birthday. Apparently, he had believed wrong. Because deep in his most secret heart, he missed his harebrained mother terribly.
And somehow, the fact that he’d ended up missing her so damn much made this ridiculous alteration to her will all the more infuriating. She’d set this whole thing up and then managed to die without dropping him so much as a hint as to what he was in for.
“I do have a question,” said Jonas.
Ambrose lifted those silver eyebrows.
Jonas hit him with it. “Did my mother honestly imagine that paying Ms. Hewitt’s legal expenses would keep me from taking this issue to court?”
Ambrose put on his most solemn expression. “I can’t say what your mother imagined. But I hope you realize that the will before you is perfectly legal and binding. If you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt within the next two weeks, you could very well lose custody of your sister.”
“I could. But I won’t.”
Ambrose looked suddenly weary. “Jonas. Who can ever be truly certain of any outcome when it comes to the vagaries of our legal system? I’m only saying that if you fail to abide by the terms your mother has set out here, the possibility is quite good that when the matter comes before a judge, Mandy will go to Ms. Hewitt.”
Jonas waved an impatient hand. “Look, Ambrose. We both know that my mother spent a number of years in one of L.A.’s finest psychiatric hospitals. I could put up a valid argument for mental incompetence.”
Ambrose’s expression had become downright reproachful. “You could, but I think you
