blue-black angry eyes, waiting for her to give in and say she’d do what he demanded.
Well, she wouldn’t do what he demanded.
Not right yet, anyway.
He would just have to wait a little longer, because she needed time to think.
Emma slid the strap of her bright orange purse high onto her shoulder. She closed the folder on her copy of Blythe’s will and tucked the folder under her arm.
Jonas said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out of here.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Not yet.”
Emma pushed back the big leather swivel chair and stood. “This is a lot to think about. I’m not makin’ any snap decisions, Mr. Bravo. I need a little time.”
He looked at her as if he’d like to pick her up and toss her through that big window behind her. And probably all he’d do was smile in satisfaction when she hit the pavement ten stories below. “Time, Ms. Hewitt, is the thing we don’t have much of. You’ve got to marry me in the next two weeks—or you’ve got to prove to my satisfaction that you do not intend to try to claim custody of my sister.”
“Excuse me,” Emma Lynn Hewitt replied. “I do not have to marry you. And I do not have to prove a single thing. I have to decide whether or not I can bear to grant my dearest friend’s dyin’ wish. And if I decide I just can’t make myself do that, since to do it I’d have to marry up with you, then I have to figure out whether or not I want to fight you for custody of sweet little Mandy. Those are the things that I have to do and they are all that I have to do. And in order to do them, I need some time.”
She turned for the door, thinking as she headed for it that maybe refusing to marry him would be the best way to go. She could refuse—and then fight to get Mandy put in her care. Maybe that would satisfy her obligation to her friend. After all, the little sweetheart would certainly have a better chance at a happy, normal life with her than she ever would with Jonas Bravo.
“I’ll see you in hell before I let you have Mandy,” the billionaire said before she got out the door.
Emma paused, turned to face him again and gave him her sweetest, brightest smile. “I’m sure you know just where you’re headed, Mr. Bravo. But whether I’ll be there to meet you remains to be seen.”
“We are not finished here.”
“Oh, yes we are. I told you. I need a little time to think.”
“How much time?”
“A few days. Then I’ll get back to you.”
He started to stand. She didn’t stay to watch him come at her.
She darted through the door, yanked it closed behind her and headed for the exit as fast as her three-inch heels would carry her.
Chapter 3
Jonas dropped back to his chair as soon as the blonde in the orange suit bolted from the room. There was nothing to be gained by following her right then, nothing left, at that moment, to use on her save physical force. And contrary to what a lot of people believed, Jonas Bravo never used physical force. He only let them think that he might.
A few days, she had said. She would get back to him in a few days.
What the hell, Jonas wondered, was a few days? Two? Three? Four?
He felt caged. Caught. Bested.
Made to wait.
He sat alone in the conference room for several minutes, giving his frustration a chance to abate, at least minimally. Eventually it occurred to him that Ambrose would be ducking back in shortly, just to check and make sure he hadn’t torn the little dog groomer limb from limb.
Since Jonas felt zero inclination to deal with Ambrose again right then, he left the lawyer’s offices and went to Bravo, Incorporated, which was housed in the Bravo Building, a towering forty-story structure of pale granite and dark glass in downtown L.A.
He had a meeting at three with the project manager of a certain upscale shopping center that was due to open in six weeks. It was a project in which he’d made a significant investment of Bravo, Incorporated funds.
The meeting lasted two hours. When it was over, Jonas hardly remembered a thing that had been said. He kept thinking about the kennel keeper, about that word, few, about what she had really meant when she said it.
About how damn long she intended to make him wait.
After the meeting, there were calls to make and papers to sign. He spent an hour and a half closeted with one of his assistants, going over correspondence and contracts he needed prepared.
By seven, he had had enough.
He was supposed to meet the CEO of a certain Internet startup group for dinner at L’Orangerie. But he knew it would be pointless. Right then, he couldn’t have cared less if every decent tech stocks opportunity out there passed him right by. He had his secretary call and reschedule the appointment for Thursday night.
After all, Thursday was three days away. He’d have his answer from the dog groomer by then—wouldn’t he? Weren’t three days a few? He flexed his thick, powerful fingers, thinking how pleasant it would be to wrap them around Emma Lynn Hewitt’s neck and begin to squeeze.
Before he left his office, he downloaded the file on the Hewitt woman into his laptop. There might be something in it he had missed, something he could use to get her to start seeing things his way and to do so as quickly as possible.
Jonas kept files on all of his mother’s various causes and charities, as well as on her friends and acquaintances. In spite of what had happened thirty years ago, when she’d lost a son and a husband within months of each other and spent four years in psychiatric care as a result, Blythe Bravo had ended up a trusting soul. She was also a person who felt a responsibility to leave the world a better place than she’d found it. Jonas felt no such responsibility. And he made it a point not to trust anyone until they had proven they were worthy of trust.
He’d had the Hewitt woman investigated five years ago, when she’d first popped up in his mother’s life. Once he’d read the report provided by his investigators, he’d come to the conclusion that, while she rubbed him the wrong way personally, Emma Lynn Hewitt was probably harmless.
Harmless. He scowled as he thought the word.
And he felt bested again.
By a blonde with big breasts and inappropriate shoes.
On the way home, in the quiet back seat of the limo, he studied the file. He was still going over it when he reached Angel’s Crest, the hilltop Mediterranean-style house in Bel Air where Bravos had lived for three generations. Jonas owned a number of houses and apartments, among them a hunting lodge in Idaho, a small villa in the south of France and a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. But he considered Angel’s Crest his home.
Palmer, who ran the house, greeted him at the door. “Good evening, sir.”
Jonas nodded. “Palmer.”
