The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride Page 2

  Poor guy. He’d been warned more than once to tone down his lifestyle. Will had often heard him joke about having a few wild chickens come home to roost. One of them, Dorian Brady, already had.

  How many more would there be?

  Urged by the board to take over as president, Will had declined the honor. With Jack gone, he was now the senior partner, but getting himself mired any deeper in corporate crap wasn’t among his long-term plans for the future. Once he turned over his tenth-floor offices to the mandatory outside auditors, he would have to clear out Jack’s tower office to prepare for the new regime. Which meant he was probably going to need the help of Jack’s secretary. He didn’t know whether to dread it or look forward to it. All he knew was that the woman affected him in a way no woman had in nearly twenty years.

  Midlife crisis?

  Yeah…probably. And dammit, he didn’t have time for it now.

  Shoulders hunched, the tall, lean Texan strode along the empty sidewalk. This time of night, traffic was light. The weather was unusually mild for February despite the wind and the threat of rain. If he finished up by Friday, maybe he could spend a couple of days out at the ranch.

  Or maybe not. There was still a lot of sludge to wade through before the company could move ahead at full speed. For a business the size of Wescott Oil to be run like a mom and pop market was not only criminal, it was damn near impossible in this age of government regulations and demanding stockholders. But by bribing and threatening the right people, Jack had managed to do things his way right up to the end.

  The end…

  God, what a waste. At fifty-eight, he’d looked no older than Will himself did at forty-one, thanks to great tailor, a good barber, a personal trainer and a top-notch plastic surgeon. For a man who routinely managed to tick off half of the Texas legislature and buy off the rest, he’d been one hell of a guy. He was going to be missed.

  While a scratchy recording of Fleetwood Mac flowed from a battered portable phonograph, Diana propped a bare foot up on her lap and carefully painted her big toenail a deep shade of coral. Tears ran a crooked trail down her face, not because she missed Jack, exactly, but because…

  Well, because it was such a waste. Underneath his crazy suspicions and his domineering ways, he’d been a good man. In some ways. At least he’d been good to her when it mattered most. Her mother had had the very best care right up to the end, and if it meant giving herself—Diana refused to call it selling herself—to a man like Jack Wescott, then it was well worth the shame.

  Or the guilt. Whatever she was feeling, it probably wasn’t grief, which was even more of a reason to feel guilty.

  She screwed the cap on the bottle of nail polish, which she used only on her toes where it wouldn’t show, and grabbed a tissue to blow her nose. “Get over it, Foster,” she muttered. People said that all the time. Get over it. Deal with it.

  And she would, she really would. She was nothing if not a realist. The thing was, she had never really wanted to be anyone’s lover, especially having grown up in a household where love was never a factor.

  Her parents had been what she’d once heard referred to as “tie-dyed rebels for peace.” When the rebellion had lost its luster, her father had left his wife and daughter to “find himself.” Lila, her mother, had gone to work in the cosmetics department of a local discount store for minimum wages and no benefits other than a minuscule discount.

  Her father had eventually come back—still lost—and taken a job selling paper products. Less than a month later he had gotten drunk, blacked both his wife’s eyes so she couldn’t go to work, and then left town again.

  They’d been “flower children.” Their mottos: Make Love, Not War; If It Feels Good, Do It.

  Growing up, Diana had rebelled against her parents’ entire generation. Eventually she might have ended up marrying some nice, dull man, the antithesis of her own father. Someone who would have been good with children and kind to pets. Someone who would, at least, be there for his family.

  Jack hadn’t been a dull man, nor had he always been nice. And while she’d let herself believe at first that he wanted to marry her, that had never been in the cards. He had set out on a deliberate campaign to seduce her, and once he’d discovered her weakness, he’d succeeded.

  And now Jack was dead and she would soon be back in the secretarial pool. Jack’s son Sebastian would be the new chairman, and Sebastian already had his own executive secretary, one who was more qualified for the position.

  Diana’s mother had never reconciled herself to the fact that her only child—her little princess—had settled for a secretarial course instead of trying for a college scholarship. “But, honey, you’re so creative,” she’d exclaimed so often in her fade-away voice.

  “You mean because I used to write those awful poems for your birthday and Mother’s Day? Mama, grow up. It’s about time somebody in this family did.”

  That had been several years ago, before her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. Since then Diana had come a long way. She had found a job to help pay the bills and had ended up working for a man who had insisted on doing things in a way that would have probably driven most secretaries up the nearest wall. The system they’d worked out together had been somewhat unorthodox, but it had suited them both.

  Well, she thought, sniffing and sighing heavily, that, too, was over. Done with. Fini. Period.

  Period? Which reminded her of another possible problem….

  But that was stress. Of course it was stress. They’d always been careful—almost always. Although Jack, for all his polished charm, could occasionally be demanding, impatient and insensitive.

  But it was over now, and she could get on with her life. Diana stretched her leg and wiggled her newly polished toes. Nail polish had been her favorite treat as a little girl. Her mother would polish her toenails and tell her it was because she was a princess, only she couldn’t tell anyone. And they would look at each other and smile, and when her father came home, Diana would huddle in bed and listen to the awful fights and think, I’m a secret princess. As soon as I’m big enough, Mama and I will go find our real home, and Daddy can’t ever go there.

  Daddy had been killed when she was fourteen. By then she’d known she was no princess but only the daughter of a disillusioned flower child who lacked the courage to break away from her abusive marriage to an ex-hippy. Diana remembered her father chiefly for his long absences and his vicious temper.

  “Girl, you are a mess! Get it together!” she growled softly to herself.

  And she was going to, she really was. It would be awkward returning to the secretarial pool after months of working on the executive floor. For one thing it was a world-class rumor mill, and she herself would be the focus of an uncomfortable amount of gossip.

  But before she made any decision she was going to have to help Mr. William K. Bradford, the senior partner and chief financial officer, sort out the mess Jack had left behind. And wouldn’t you know, he’d turned out to be the man she’d plastered with melted chocolate ice cream.

  Since then she’d tried to avoid him, hoping he would forget the incident, or at least forget who ruined what had to be a custom-tailored suit and a designer tie. Not to mention the white shirt. Chocolate stains were impossible to remove.

  She could only hope he wouldn’t remember her. He’d been wearing sunglasses. Maybe some of the ice cream had spattered those, too, and he hadn’t seen her clearly.

  The trouble was, she’d seen him. Had a good look at him, from his broad shoulders to his thick, dark hair and his wonderfully irregular features. What was there about certain men that made them so heartbreakingly attractive? There were probably thousands of men who were more handsome. Hundreds.

  Dozens, at least. She didn’t lose any sleep over any of them, while the very thought of having to work in close contact with Will Bradford was enough to make her break out in a heat rash. She hadn’t exactly led a sheltered existence. She did know the facts of life. She simply did
n’t know how to deal with a man who made her think wicked thoughts so soon after her mother had died and she’d broken off with Jack.

  So much for disapproving of her parents’ early lifestyle. If It Feels Good, Do It.

  She’d done it, and it hadn’t even felt particularly good.

  Huddling in the lopsided recliner her mother had bought at a going-out-of-business sale, she thought some more about William Bradford. He struck her as the kind of man who lived his life by a set of ironclad rules. She liked that in a man. Purpose. Discipline. Order.

  From now on, Diana vowed, she would make rules of her own, rule number one being that she was in sole control of Diana Foster. From this day forward she would take complete responsibility for her own life.

  Will was the last to arrive for the weekly dinner meeting in one of the smaller private rooms at the Texas Cattleman’s Club, an exclusive establishment formed originally so that a few wealthy cattle barons and some of the early oilmen could escape from their wives for a night out. As years passed it had served as a convenient cover for a number of covert operations. Of the small group of close friends, all were ex-military and had been involved in any number of operations that never hit the news. Thank God things had been quiet on that front lately. With Jack’s unexpected death, Will had had enough on his mind without having to fly off at a moment’s notice to rescue some poor unfortunate who’d blundered into trouble.

  Between missions, the club served as a fund-raising organization for various charities that had arisen as the small town of Royal doubled and tripled its size. Will was, unfortunately, a member of the club’s committee whose duty it was to sift through the dozens of applications and choose a worthy recipient for the funds raised by the annual charity ball. He’d just as soon divide the take equally among the charities, but tradition precluded such a simple solution.

  After nodding to a few of the older members dozing over their Wall Street Journals in the cigar, brandy and wax-scented great room, Will opened the massive oak door and closed it quietly behind him. “Evening, gentleman,” he greeted.

  “Man, you look like hell.” It was Jason, foreign advisor and CIA agent, the youngest of the group, who passed judgment on him.

  Sebastian, Jack’s son and newly appointed CEO of Wescott Oil, looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was obvious his father’s death and the new responsibilities had taken their toll. Gamely he grinned. “Things are that bad in your neck of the woods, huh?”

  “Not bad. Shall we say…disorganized? If your father had suspected an OPEC spy of trying to infiltrate the company to gather information, he might have devised a similar plan for throwing him off track. Anyone ordered yet? What are we having?”

  Their tastes were as varied as the men themselves. Keith Owens, owner of a computer software company, was still studying the bill of fare. Robert Cole, private detective with an old-money background, usually ordered seafood.

  Will chose steak, medium rare, with a baked potato, no sour cream and a salad, which he didn’t particularly want but which he ordered anyway because at his age a smart man started thinking about health and his own mortality.

  Pity poor Jack hadn’t started earlier.

  Will hadn’t had time to stop by the club in more than a week. Since every man present was the son, if not the grandson, of a former member, this group was the closest thing to family he was ever apt to have. He asked after each man individually, then took a sip of the single drink he allowed himself each evening and said, “Want to tell me what all the snickers were about when I walked in?”

  “What snickers? Oh, you must mean the bet. Seb has the dubious honor of heading up this year’s gala, and he suggested that since we’re all aging bachelors, we place a bet on which one will still be standing alone by the end of the year. Whoever wins can have the consolation prize of choosing the beneficiary,” Rob explained.

  Will looked from one man to the other. “You’re not serious. Hell, I outgrew that kind of thing in prep school.”

  Jason, the youngest member of the group, enjoyed his playboy reputation enough to pick up the challenge. “Not that I’m particularly interested in game playing—” he was widely known for his games with the fairer sex “—but I’ll win this one in a walk-away.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, old boy?”

  Jason, his eyes alight with amusement, said, “Yeah, that about covers it.” It was widely known, as well, that Jason was allergic to marriage.

  And while Will didn’t particularly want to win the consolation prize, marriage was definitely not in his future. Once had been enough.

  “So, that’s settled,” Sebastian said, sounding vastly relieved. “Lets me off the hook.”

  It occurred to Will that, under the circumstances, maybe one of the others should have taken over the task of heading up this year’s shindig. It was a daunting task at the best of times, and the man had just lost his father, after all.

  “Next item on the agenda,” Keith Owens said around a mouthful of stuffed quail. “What about Dorian? Do we invite him to join the club?”

  Sebastian abstained from commenting. Caution urged Will to suggest they not make any hasty decisions, but before he could voice the thought, Jason spoke up. “I vote we sit on it for a few weeks. All due respect, Seb, but we don’t really know this guy.”

  After a brief discussion, it was decided to postpone making a decision. Will was relieved. Jason had razor-sharp instincts. Will trusted his instinct on most matters. By the time his dessert of fresh fruit compote was served, he was too tired to enjoy it. Shoving it across the table, he said, “Sorry, fellows, but if I don’t make it to bed in the next half hour, you’ll have to scrape me up off the street. Been a hell of a week.”

  After handing the accounting books to the outside auditors, Will turned his full attention to Jack’s messy personal records. Will had already learned two disturbing things. First, that Diana Foster lacked the required qualifications for the position she’d been given. Second, that aside from a nice raise, she’d been the recipient of several large sums of money deposited to a checking account soon after she’d been promoted to the position of Jack’s executive secretary. Putting that together with a remark Jack had once made about Diana’s mother being ill, Will came to a conclusion that had set his blood to boiling.

  It wasn’t the kind of thing he could come right out and ask: Did you sleep with Jack so that he would pay your mother’s medical expenses? Hell, he didn’t know her well enough to ask anything that personal. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer.

  Oh, yeah, and there was a third thing, too. He learned that Diana, in a pair of black slacks, bending over an open carton on the floor, had a sweetly rounded bottom that could make a marble statue salivate.

  On the way up to the tower office, Will reminded himself that only a few months ago Jack’s old secretary, Miss Lucy, had been put out to pasture, if not with a golden parachute, at least with a gold-plated umbrella. Shortly after that, Miss Foster had been yanked out of the secretarial pool and propelled upstairs to the executive suite.

  Knowing the lady had sold herself to the highest bidder, Will felt slightly sick. She might not look the part, but she’d evidently become just one more in a long line of Jack’s women.

  What was she, vamp or virgin?

  Obviously not the latter.

  Which didn’t change the fact that for the past few months, whenever they’d found themselves in the same elevator together he’d had to stare at the indicator buttons and think about something else. The ranch. His favorite horse. The chances of being trapped overnight in an elevator with Diana Foster.

  None of which had helped. He had a feeling that in the pitch-dark depths of a West Virginia coal mine, he would be aware of her nearness. Aware that she had hair like a dark silk waterfall, eyes like melted chocolate and skin that looked cool as snow but hinted at banked fires underneath. If she wore perfume, it was not easily discernible. Instead there was an aura a
bout her that reminded him of dark roses, satiny wood and fine wine.

  Probably because he’d seen her on more than a few occasions in Jack’s walnut-paneled offices.

  It was Saturday morning. Will and Diana had both come in to clear out the last of the personal items in Jack’s office so that the cleaning crew could do their job and Seb could call in the decorators. He managed to keep his mind on business for almost an hour until she turned, tape roller in hand, her dark hair brushing her shoulder. “Shall I label this box personal and put it with those others for Sebastian?”

  “What’s in it? Oh, yeah—trophies, certificates, pictures…” Jack with several politicians. Jack with a couple of Hollywood types. Jack with his foot on the neck of a dead lion, and another eight-by-ten glossy of Jack with a dead blue marlin. “Yeah, go ahead. Here, I’ll move it for you.”

  “Use your knees, not your back,” she warned in the voice that had come as something of a surprise the first time he’d ever heard it. Quiet, a little bit husky. The type of voice advertisers paid a fortune for, but without the fake seductiveness that was used to sell everything from potency pills to plumbing supplies.

  “Huh?” Real intelligent, Bradford.

  “To lift the box. Squat, don’t just bend over. Better yet, drag it like I did all the others.”

  Will had a feeling Sebastian was going to want to change quite a few things now that he had the power. Father and son were nothing at all alike. They hadn’t gotten along particularly well, although each was brilliant in his own way.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Will muttered, amused at Diana’s bossiness. Nevertheless, he bent his knees slightly, leaned over and lifted the box, which was filled with books, trophies and framed photographs. “Where?” he said with a grunt.