Purely Sexual. Delta Dupree
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a problem. She will.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“Fine. Challie knows more than she’s saying.” Standing now, Paul adjusted his red silk tie. Combing his thinning brown hair, he moved across the room to the maple coat rack, lifted his navy jacket and thrust his arms into the sleeves. Tailor-made Italian suits were the only threads he wore, never the assembly-line creations from the business he owned. In essence, the clothes produced—part of PT Industries—was the main reason the district attorney had been sniffing after his ass. Sweatshop, as in illegal immigrants, some would say.
“Don’t leave yet. What’s my second choice? I’ll take it, whatever it is. It has to beat marriage by a long shot.”
Paul went back to the desk. He pulled the leather chair back and said, “Take Challie to the ranch. You can stay in the foreman’s cabin next to Ray’s place. Then—”
“Then what?”
The cabin was located in Bum-Fuck, Montana. Good pussy was scarce in an area of dazzling fields filled with cows, horses and manure. The great American countryside.
Paul pinned him with a level gaze. “I’ll have Tina tell her you’re vacationing and you need her to clean for arriving guests. I’ll get a couple of my boys to join you. You’ve been there before, forty-odd miles away from Nowhere, USA. Closest neighbor is four miles downwind.”
How could he forget? Other than fucking and fishing, the best part of Montana was horseback riding across 6,000 acres without a care in the world, the wind in his face, the smell of freshly cut hay filling his nostrils. “And?”
Paul yanked the desk’s center drawer open. He withdrew his favorite .38-caliber S&W and set it on the gleaming wood. “Do whatever’s necessary to take care of any problems.”
Donnie straightened his back. Do what’s necessary? With a fucking gun?
Was Paul really as cold and calculating as people had claimed? One particular detective had put his life under a high-powered microscope after his first wife’s death. In the end, he’d pocketed millions of dollars from insurance and assets, not to mention old money Lana had brought into their marriage. When Donnie blatantly asked his boss about the incident, the answer was as chilling as an Arctic wind. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. Donnie’s mouth had clamped shut like a trap door.
Sliding the weapon across the desktop, Paul said, “You don’t have much choice. Pick one. If you have an aversion to marriage, you’re looking at wearing the tears of a clown in jump-suit orange, day in and day out, if Susannah doesn’t make it.”
Ah, hell. He hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t laid an abusive hand on the secretary. Now, Paul was talking jail. Hell of a choice—marriage or prison. Either way he adjusted the picture, the old ball and chain action dominated the scene with one major problem: prison meant no female activity.
“What about our lawyers? What the hell do we pay them for?” he asked.
“Real estate and commercial business mainly. I don’t want them handling this particular criminal case. I can’t afford to have my name or any of my businesses associated with amoral activity, not with my current state of affairs. The district attorney’s been harping on my ass enough already. If you’re steadfast against marriage, take the gun,” Paul said. “You lack an alibi and, remember, the police have already started the investigation.”
Donnie slowly got to his feet, shaking his head wildly. “You’re talking…” Hell, he couldn’t get the word out.
Paul replaced the gun and shoved the drawer closed. “I’ve got a meeting with the symphony directors.” Straightening his tie, he marched toward the double doors. “Lock the desk when you leave and put the key away as usual.”
“I’m not doing it,” Donnie snapped. He might as well take the pistol and blow his own frigging brains out. “Marriage or Montana. My ass’ll be sealed up in prison two decades as some sloppy jailbird’s goddamn girlfriend before—”
Paul swung around. His brown eyes narrowed thinner than paper. “It’s not a request, Donnie. You will go to Montana and do whatever is necessary, be it marriage slash honeymoon or curbing all future problems while the perpetrator is still walking free.”
Life was not going well.
Challie Baderleen had planned to go window-shopping this weekend with Aunt Hattie. Instead, Mrs. Tedesco was sending her to some out-of-the-way cabin alone with a man, leaving poor Jasmine to do all the mansion’s cleaning.
Mr. Fontana was arrogant, a virtual stranger she had no respect for and had avoided. He chased any woman who wore a skirt. Almost any woman. He’d never pursued her because she wasn’t shapely or leggy or big breasted. Her hair was blacker than obsidian, far from the blond women he shadowed. Curly, not straight, but it was long—sort of—if she pulled a lock straight out and held it there. Freed, the strands snapped back into unruly ringlets.
It didn’t matter. Fontana had no use for her. He had no morals anyway. Without morals, a man was no good. Grandmama had always preached about bad men; although, this one was a handsome devil. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His thick hair was nearly as dark as her own, and it hung too long. Good businessmen kept theirs barbered like Mr. Tedesco’s well-kept appearance.
No matter. Fontana didn’t like her anyway. It showed on his face, his staring, frowning when they came in contact. With all the room inside this metal contraption, why was he sitting directly in front of her like a sentinel?
She didn’t like him any more than the thought of riding in this giant bird. Was there such a thing as airplane sickness? God, she hoped not. She’d lost a hard-fought battle three weeks ago on the high seas. She might throw up all over this good-looking devil’s baggy blue jeans. At least they weren’t sagging britches hanging halfway down his backside. The young men she’d seen at the big shopping mall wore their pants hanging much too low on their hips.
But wouldn’t that be a mess? Wouldn’t vomiting knock Mr. Fontana off his cocky camel? Wouldn’t she feel satisfied?
She settled back into the comfortable, soft-leather seat and gripped the armrests. Everything inside the plane was colored iron gray—carpeting, walls, the two-piece outfit the lady who’d shown them inside wore. When the bird rolled away from the building, Challie closed her eyes.
“We’ll be on the runway shortly,” Fontana said. “You have to buckle your seat belt.”
She cracked open one eye. Seat belt? She didn’t want to appear ignorant, but seat belt for what? She looked over at him, trying not to show bewilderment, and sucked in air. He’d pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. Lord. She’d never been this close to him. His eyes were fierce. Light brown, no, hazel was what people called the color in this country.
When he leaned over to fasten her seat belt, she caught the scent of something delicious, something mouth-watering. But his hands…penetrating heat seeped through the only cotton skirt she owned.
“Too tight?” he asked.
She shook her head. She rarely spoke, but Challie knew English well, had studied the language all her life. Except, her confidence ran low around people like him. Staying quiet was easier than holding conversations with those people above her class, especially with men. She kept her eyes and ears open, absorbed everything she could, improving her knowledge.
Two nights ago, she’d seen Fontana arguing with the blond woman. Then he’d left. Later, when she went back to check the upstairs guest baths for cleanliness, she saw him again, his hand on the doorframe, leaning into the same room. There was something different about him this time. She couldn’t put a finger on it, though. Dark suit, polished shoes…but something niggled at the back of her mind. Darn her noisy shoe soles. He must’ve heard her footsteps because he slipped inside the bedroom. The door stayed ajar. She heard the woman’s voice again, except her tone didn’t sound angry—calm, teasing. Aunt Hattie called