both of them and each assured me he would be willing to testify that she completely recovered from her condition. And she never relapsed. She was…eccentric, perhaps. But she was also in full command of her faculties when she set out these changes to her will.”
Jonas gave the lawyer his coldest stare. “I suppose you’ll attest to that.”
Ambrose did not waver. “I certainly will. Jonas, I promise you, I did discuss this at length with Blythe.”
“Did you make any effort to talk her out of it?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. But she wouldn’t be swayed. She insisted that she wanted these changes in the will. She said she honestly felt they were for the best—for Mandy. And for you.”
Jonas said nothing for a full count of ten. When he did speak, he was pleased to find that none of the rage shimmering through him could be heard in his voice. “All right. So you’re saying you believe these changes are going to stand up in court.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother’s estate provides the funds so that Ms. Hewitt here can make certain they do.”
“Exactly,” said the lawyer, still regretful—and still firm. “Jonas, I’m sorry, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it once more. If you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt, your sister could very well end up in her custody.”
Jonas allowed the corners of his mouth to lift in a humorless smile. “That is, assuming Ms. Hewitt is willing to become Mandy’s guardian.”
“Well, yes,” the lawyer allowed, looking slightly uncomfortable at that suggestion. “And I did point that out to Blythe. If Ms. Hewitt is unwilling, then these changes become meaningless.”
If Ms. Hewitt is unwilling…
The words seemed to ricochet tauntingly in Jonas’s brain.
Of course, Ms. Hewitt was willing. His mother wouldn’t have done this without Ms. Hewitt’s consent and active participation—would she?
She did it without mine, he thought, and then shoved the idea into the back of his consciousness.
Miss Hewitt was willing. She had to be. She’d seen her chance to catch herself a rich husband and she’d jumped at it.
Jonas turned his head just enough to give the woman in orange a withering stare. She stared right back, defiant, but a little too pale—as if she were every bit as surprised by this news as he.
Fat chance. The bitch probably dreamed up the whole insane scheme and kept after his mother on her damn deathbed until she agreed to it.
Blythe had always wanted the one son she had left to marry and give her a few grandchildren to spoil. But Jonas had made it poignantly clear to her that he never would. A man’s family, he had learned at a very young age, provided big opportunities for incalculable loss.
No, thank you. He ran his own life and he answered to no one and he couldn’t lose what he didn’t have. And he was…content. He liked his life just as it was and saw no reason to change it.
But evidently, his mother had decided to give him a reason.
She’d known his one weakness, the weakness she herself had created by adopting the sprite. His weakness was Mandy. And Blythe had used Mandy—just as this dog groomer from Texas had used her.
“Ambrose,” Jonas said. “Thank you for answering my questions. Now, I have a few things to say to Ms. Hewitt. Leave us.”
Ambrose hesitated. Jonas knew why. The lawyer thought it unwise to leave the little Texan alone with him right then. After all, one could never be sure what the Bravo Billionaire might do when provoked.
In the past, when he’d been younger and less disciplined and his people did not do what he asked them to do, Jonas sometimes threw things. Expensive, very breakable things always worked best. Things that shattered satisfyingly on impact. Once, he’d thrown a Ming vase through a stained-glass window. And on another occasion, he’d tossed a Tiffany bowl at a marble fireplace. He had also, during what he thought of as his Great White Hunter phase—a short phase, really, though the scandal sheets liked to make much of it—stood his ground to bring down a charging rhinoceros. Beyond the rhino, the rumor mill had it that he’d wrestled alligators and won, and that he’d gone at a grizzly bear with only a hunting knife for a weapon.
He never denied such rumors. Why should he? Being considered fearless and unpredictable had always worked in his favor.
“Ambrose,” he said, making a warning of the name.
The lawyer shifted nervously in his chair and turned his worried gaze on the dog groomer. “Er, Ms. Hewitt. Perhaps you have some questions?”
And, right then, for the first time since Jonas had entered the room, the dog groomer spoke.
“It’s all right, Mr. McAllister.” Her voice was a honeyed Texas drawl. It crept along Jonas’s nerve endings, setting off little flares of annoying heat right below the surface of his skin. He found himself staring at the tiny mole, low down on her right cheek, midway between her pert nose and her soft lips.
“You go on now,” she said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Bravo alone.”
Chapter 2
Emma Lynn Hewitt could see that the lawyer was worried for her. And maybe he had good reason to be. It was probably plain crazy for her to volunteer to be alone with Blythe’s scary, overbearing son right then.
But come on. What could the man do to her, really? If looks could kill, she’d have keeled over stone dead when he walked in the room and spotted her sitting there.
He was probably going to say some ugly things. He might even throw something—that big crystal water pitcher on the credenza over there, or maybe even a swivel chair or two. She had heard he sometimes threw things. But to the best of her recollection, she hadn’t heard that he threw things at people.
No. She didn’t believe he would do anything to physically hurt her. He would just use words to try to beat her into submission. Well, sticks and stones, as her aunt Cass used to tell her all the time. Words, even the mean, hard words of Blythe’s big, scary son, could not hurt her unless she allowed them to.
This was not her fault, whatever Jonas Bravo chose to believe.
The lawyer coughed. “Ms. Hewitt. Are you certain about this?”
Emma reached out and gave the lawyer’s sleeve a nice little pat. “I’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry ’bout me.”
“Well. If you’re positive…”
She beamed him a giant-sized smile. “I am.”
Mr. McAllister picked up his glasses and stood. Emma watched the tall, kind-faced lawyer walk down the length of the big conference table and go out through the double doors. It was a lot easier looking at the lawyer than at the man who sat beside her with tension radiating off him like steam.
As soon as the door swung shut behind the lawyer, Blythe’s son spoke in that arresting voice of his, which was soft and deep
