Maybe Married. Leigh Michaels
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I thought proposals were supposed to cover things like love. “Sir, I think it would be best if—”
“Please, my dear. Call me Barclay. Since we’re going to be married—”
Just a few minutes ago, she’d thought it was kind of cute how easily he could manipulate people into doing what he wanted. But now that he was using the knack to try to maneuver her, Dana was feeling something close to panic. “I haven’t agreed to anything of the sort.”
For one unguarded instant he looked startled by the possibility that she would consider turning him down, and then he smiled again. “Well, not yet,” he said affably. “I suppose I was a bit abrupt.”
A bit abrupt? That was one way to put it, Dana thought, though it wouldn’t have been her first choice of words. The arrogance he was displaying was unbelievable, completely unlike the man she had thought he was.
So much for your judgment, she told herself. But then, we’ve always known you weren’t too sharp where men are concerned.
“So I won’t ask you for an answer just now. Take your time, and let me know when you’re ready, Dana.”
As if there could only be one answer. As if she was only delaying just so she didn’t look desperate by snatching at his proposal…
Now she knew what Mrs. Janowitz had been talking about, when Dana had said she’d be going back to her regular job. Of course that’s the official line, for now. But those of us who can see what’s really going on approve.
The woman had known what Barclay Howell intended—long before Dana herself had even suspected. Had he taken a poll, for heaven’s sake? Checked out his little idea with his advisers to make sure they wouldn’t object to his choice of a first lady for the university?
It was just as well he wasn’t demanding an answer right now. She’d have a hard time finding one that wouldn’t singe Barclay Howell’s aristocratic ears.
She got to her feet, feeling a little unsteady.
“Dana,” he said. “Just one more thing before you go. I haven’t had a chance to tell you how very important this cocktail party is. Quite possibly the most important one yet.”
Dana was relieved to step back onto familiar ground, even though it seemed to be wobbling under her toes. The most important cocktail party yet? Why?
You should be honored, the imp at the back of her brain suggested, that he proposed before he brought up the cocktail party.
Dana ran through the guest list in her mind. The president’s cocktail party was a regular monthly event, and tonight’s guests were the usual mix. There were a few people from the foundation which raised funds for the university, a few of their most regular donors, a few alumni who might become donors, a few professors, and a few students being honored for special achievements. Dana couldn’t think of anybody who was at all unusual. So what made this particular party any different than the one she’d arranged last month?
“I’ve invited an extra guest,” Barclay said. “I happened to hear just this morning that he was in town, and I called him up on the chance that he might be free this evening. He seemed quite pleased to be asked. So I’d like you to make a special effort to make sure he feels welcome here.”
Lingering shock made her feel like saying she’d tell the bartender to be sure the special guest got an extra paper umbrella in his drink, but she restrained herself. “I try to arrange things so everyone feels welcome.”
“No, I mean a little personal effort. Instead of vanishing into the background tonight, Dana, I’d like you to stick around.”
“Play hostess,” she said. The words tasted like sawdust.
“If you want to call it that. I’d rather think that you were trying out the role.”
“Whatever you wish, sir.”
He shook a gently chiding finger. “You must get over that habit, my dear. When we’re married…yes, I know, you haven’t given me an answer yet. But you may as well get used to the change, anyway.”
Dana took a deep breath, decided not to say what she was thinking, and started for the door.
“Don’t you want to know who the guest is?”
“It won’t make any difference in how I treat him,” Dana pointed out.
“Of course it won’t, my dear.” He started flipping through CDs again. “Still, I think you should know. He might be the biggest single donor this university ever snags—he’ll certainly have the cash to do it, when the sale of his company is final. And he owes us a debt of gratitude, too, since he got his degree here and that’s what made him the success he is today. I looked it up, so I’d be sure to have it right—he studied mechanical engineering.”
Dana’s breath caught in her throat.
Don’t be silly, she told herself. Barclay hadn’t given any time period; the man he was talking about might have graduated decades ago. If he was selling a company, he was probably near retirement age.
To say nothing of the fact that every semester there were at least a hundred graduates who’d majored in mechanical engineering, and a fair number of them must have eventually gone on to own good-size businesses. So why should her mind instantly conjure up a particular one? Especially when the one she was thinking of had said, the last time she’d talked to him, that he’d never set foot on this campus again.
Besides, there was absolutely no reason for her heart to start pounding like an out-of-balance washing machine at the very thought of him. That was over. Done with. Finished.
She managed a casual tone. “So who is this marvelous catch?”
Barclay said the name slowly, with relish, as if the syllables tasted good. “Zeke Ferris.”
And suddenly Dana’s heart wasn’t thumping madly anymore. But that was only because it had almost stopped beating altogether.
The foundation people were always the first to arrive at any university function, because they never missed an opportunity to talk someone into making a pledge. Next came the honor students, starched and stiff and on their best behavior, sitting in a row along the edge of the room. The professors always came as late as they dared—missing the president’s parties altogether would be extremely bad form, but a token appearance was all that most of them seemed to be able to stomach. The alumni and the big donors trickled in and out throughout the party, making it clear that they couldn’t be expected to limit themselves to one event per evening.
But halfway through the time set aside for the cocktail party, it appeared that Zeke Ferris wasn’t going to show up at all.
Dana circulated through the crowd, a half-full glass of sparkling water in her hand, making sure that no one was left out of the conversation. Some of the students looked as though they’d rather climb under their chairs than talk to the president.
Dana sympathized; she was feeling a bit out of place herself. Always before, she’d stayed in the shadows, orchestrating the party and keeping it running smoothly but not coming into direct contact with the guests. This, she thought irritably, would have to be the one evening that Barclay Howell changed the rules. She tried once more to smooth the creases out of her rust-colored skirt. She’d chosen the suit because it was just a shade darker than the auburn of her hair, and normally she liked wearing it. But tonight, next to the neat little cocktail dresses the other women were wearing, her suit felt sadly lacking in style. If she’d had any idea what Barclay had had in mind, she’d have brought along a change of clothes.
Beneath the president’s smile, Dana could see tension. He kept looking toward the door—expectantly at first, then hopefully, and finally with irritation.
Dana was sorry for his disappointment, as well as relieved that Zeke hadn’t shown up after all. But she was not at all surprised. Once she’d had a chance to calm down and think it over, she’d have