and reading through a society page and business directory to see if the man had enough resources to support a spoiled wife.
Disgusted that she’d gone this far toward the idea of marrying a stranger for his money, she got up and started to pace. Though her apartment was large it seemed to grow more oppressively small by the hour.
She thought about the money she’d had over the years. Or rather, the money she’d spent. What she’d give for a year’s worth of the money she’d spent on clothing and jewelry alone! And now she couldn’t buy much of anything. What little she had left would have to fund a new, painfully modest life. And what if she couldn’t find a job? She’d already waited two months for something she could live with.
The grim future she pictured for herself made it nearly impossible to contemplate the wait between now and Monday, when she could again call the employment agency she’d consulted in hopes of finding something she was qualified to do.
Saturday night loomed before her like lonely shadows in a long dark hall. She was already sick of the deli food in the refrigerator. A fine, hot meal would go a long way in calming her jitters and helping her shore up what little actual courage she had.
Stacey glanced over at the business card propped up on the computer keyboard and realized she was in serious danger of sinking low enough to take advantage of Oren McClain.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful to at least find out if he’d like to take her to dinner. Maybe he wasn’t really serious about marriage. After all, he said he’d come to New York to see if her answer was still no. Perhaps if he took her out once or twice, he’d realize that he didn’t really want her to say yes. She might be doing him a favor if she let him spend enough time with her to become disillusioned.
Stacey didn’t let herself think about how far she’d twisted things around to make her selfish motives—and her craving for a hot meal—seem noble. Not until she’d made the call to McClain’s hotel and let him know she’d changed her mind about seeing him.
Once they’d made plans for the evening and she’d hung up the phone, she felt so heartsick over her cowardly scheme that she almost, almost called him back.
The lady was as jumpy as a flea on an old dog. He could almost smell her guilt over their date tonight, and he was satisfied by that hint of character.
A little aristocrat like Stacey Amhearst was probably terrified of being poor, and she was no doubt close to the point where she’d do just about anything to save herself from the horrors of being broke. She might even marry a rough old Texas boy like him.
She’d secretly studied him all through dinner as if she was judging a horse she might buy. He knew she liked the way he made her feel because he couldn’t mistake the way she’d melted when he’d escorted her across the restaurant with his hand at the back of her waist.
Or earlier, when he’d picked her up at her place and taken her arm to go downstairs to get in the taxi. And again when they’d arrived here and he’d taken her hand for the short walk from the taxi into the restaurant.
The lady was like a choice sweet in a kid’s warm grip, and he liked that her cool grace and polite reserve was about as thin as a cellophane wrapper. Months ago, she’d behaved as if she hadn’t quite known how to handle him—or herself—when he got close. She still behaved that way, but he couldn’t tell if that was because she liked him more than she wanted to or if she just didn’t have much experience with men like him. At least she seemed to enjoy being with him.
He probably came off like a brute compared to the men she was used to. Hell, he was no peacock. His skin had been burned brown by the sun and weathered by the elements, his hands were big and scarred and thick with calluses, and the only truly fragile and refined thing in his life was her.
But she might marry him anyway, because he had money and she knew he wanted her. She’d be torn up with guilt over it because she’d be marrying him for something other than love. How he knew that was more because of what he’d sensed about her than any bit of gossip he’d been able to ferret out.
Though he could be wrong, his instincts were usually on target. They told him Ms. Stacey Amhearst knew right from wrong. She just didn’t have enough confidence in herself—yet—to do right and damn the consequences. He meant to benefit from that while he could.
Oren leaned back to watch as she picked up her last spoon and dug into dessert. Though he knew from months ago that she’d been raised to pick and fuss daintily over her food, she’d gone after her meal tonight like a half-starved cattle crew at a cookhouse table.
The reason was obvious. She’d lost weight she couldn’t spare, and that was because she couldn’t do for herself in the kitchen. How the hell her grandfather could have raised her to be so helpless was a marvel to Oren McClain. No daughter of his would be dependent on anyone.
No wife of his would either. His only real criticism of Stacey was that she’d stayed helpless and dependent, though he meant to see that change. There was no reason in the world that she couldn’t have class and beauty and grace along with a hefty dose of can-do independence and the self-confidence that went with it.
“So tell me, Oren,” she began after she’d mostly finished the artsy dab that passed for a big city dessert. He enjoyed the sound of his name when she said it. She made it sound dignified and upper crust. “About your ranch. Is it just outside San Antonio?”
Oren smiled. “It’s about three hours outside, give or take.” He noticed she picked up her cloth napkin and touched it to her lips as if to think about that. Or to cover a rush of dismay.
“What do you do so far out? For entertainment.”
“We’ve got dances, church socials, barbecues, rodeos, school events. There’s a county fair and an occasional parade. Several small town celebrations and events, a couple honky-tonks for nightlife and weekends, a golf course, a lake, and we have our own doings at the ranch. Buyers and business folks fly in. I sometimes drive out or fly out to other places when something interests me or work takes me away.”
He could tell she was mentally trying to picture all that—and whether she could tolerate it or not—so he added, “Most folks in town or on the land are good people, lots are family folk and real friendly. Salt of the earth.”
The down-home, plain-folk descriptions must have rattled her a little because she made a big production of returning her napkin to her lap and then kept looking down as she fiddled with it. When she finally looked up, the smile she gave him looked a little too strained to be as serene as she must have meant.
“They sound…very nice,” she said, then reached for her water glass and took a delicate sip that made him stare at the way her lips handled the task.
As if catching him staring at her mouth unsettled her, she quickly put down the glass and offered him a self-conscious smile. She casually pushed her dessert plate a little away, and he guessed she was finished with it.
Oren lazily returned her smile. “How do I get the waiter to bring me the check so we can get out of this place?”
He was as much as declaring to her that he was a country hick, and as he’d hoped, she took it kindly. Now she smiled a little less tensely.
She lifted her napkin to the table and laid it neatly beside her plate, and her voice was low enough to not be overheard.
“They’re very good with
