The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride. Dixie Browning
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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 didn’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