One Night Stand Bride. Kat Cantrell
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chain of tobacco shops wasn’t a respected industry and he was the bastard son of a man who had never claimed him.
But what he said was, “Sex.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a liar. The last thing you need to bargain for is a woman willing to get naked with you.”
“That sounded like a compliment.” He waggled his brows to hide how his insides suddenly felt wobbly and precarious. How had she seen through that flippant answer?
That was what he got with a smart woman, apparently.
“It wasn’t. Seduction is less of an art when you’re already starting out with the deck stacked.”
He had to laugh, though he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to say thank you for the backhanded nod to his skill set. “I’m not leaving here without an answer. Marry me and the scandal goes away.”
She shook her head, a sly smile spreading over her face. “Over my dead body.”
And with that, she pushed his foot from the gap and shut the door with a quiet click.
Dumbfounded, Hendrix stared at the fine-grain wood. Rosalind Carpenter had just rejected his proposal. For deliberately not putting anything emotional on the line, the rejection sure stung.
* * *
Roz leaned on the shut door and closed her eyes.
Marriage. To Hendrix Harris. If she hadn’t understood perfectly why he’d come up with such a ridiculous idea, she’d call the cops to come cart away the crazy man on her doorstep.
But he wasn’t crazy. Just desperate to fix a problem.
She was, too.
The big difference was that her father wasn’t working with his “people” to help her. Instead, he was sitting up in his ivory tower continuing to be disappointed in her. Well, sometimes she screwed up. Vegas had been one of those times. Fixing it lay solely at her feet and she planned to. Just not by marrying the person who had caused the scandal in the first place.
Like marriage was the solution to anything, especially marriage to Hendrix Harris, who indeed had a reputation when it came to his exploits with the opposite sex. Hell, half of her interest back on that wild night had been insatiable curiosity about whether he could be as much trouble as everyone said.
She should have run the moment she recognized him. But no. She’d bought him a drink. She was nothing if not skilled at getting into trouble.
And what trouble she’d found.
He was of the hot, wicked and oh-so-sinful variety—the kind she had a weakness for, the kind she couldn’t resist. The real question was how she’d shut the door in his face a moment ago instead of inviting him in for a repeat.
That would be a bad idea. Vegas had marked the end of an era for her.
She’d jetted off with her friend Lora to let loose in a place famed for allowing such behavior without ramifications. One last hurrah, as Roz had informed him. Make it memorable, she’d insisted. Help me go out with a bang, had been her exact words. Upon her return to the real world, she’d planned to make her father proud for once.
Instead, she’d found exactly the trouble she’d been looking for and then some.
It was a problem she needed to fix. She’d needed to fix it before she’d ever let Hendrix put his beautiful, talented mouth on her. And now memories of his special brand of trouble put a slow burn in her core that she couldn’t shake. Even now, five minutes after telling him to shove off. Still burning. She cursed her weakness for gorgeous bad boys and went to change clothes so she could dig into her “make Dad proud” plan on her terms.
Marriage. Rosalind Carpenter. These two things did not go together under any circumstances, especially not as a way to make her father proud of her.
After watching her father cope with Roz’s mother’s extended bout with cancer, no thank you. That kind of pain didn’t appeal to her. Till death do you part wasn’t a joke, nor did she take a vow like that lightly. Best way to avoid testing it was to never make a vow like that in the first place.
Roz shed the flirty, fun outfit she’d worn to brunch with Lora and donned a severe black pencil skirt coupled with a pale blue long-sleeved blouse that screamed “serious banker.” She twisted her long hair into a chignon, fought with the few escaped strands and finally left them because Hendrix had already put her behind for the day. Her afternoon was booked solid with the endless tasks associated with the new charity she’d founded.
She arrived at the small storefront her father’s admin had helped her rent, evaluating the layout for the fourteenth time. There was no sign yet. That was one of the many details she needed to work through this week as she got Clown-Around off the ground. It was an endeavor of the heart. And maybe a form of therapy.
Clowns still scared her, not that she’d admit to having formed a phobia during the long hours she’d sat at her mother’s hospital bedside, and honestly, she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone, so she didn’t. The curious only needed to know that Rosalind Carpenter had started a charity that trained clowns to work in children’s hospitals. Period.
The desk she’d had delivered dwarfed her, but she’d taken a page from her father’s book and procured the largest piece she could find in the Carpenter warehouse near the airport. He’d always said to buy furniture for the circumstances you want, not the ones you have. Buy quality so it will last until you make your dreams a reality. It was a philosophy that had served Carpenter Furniture well and she liked the sentiment. So she’d bought a desk that made her feel like the head of a successful charity.
She attacked the mountain of paperwork with gusto, cheerfully filling out forms and ordering supplies. There was an enormous amount of overhead that went along with running a charity and when you had zero income to use in hiring help, there was only one person to do the work—the founder.
Before she’d barely dug into the task, the lady from the first hospital Roz had called her back.
“Ms. Smith, so happy to speak with you,” Roz began smoothly. “I’d like to see what your requirements are for getting Clown-Around on the approved list of organizations available to work with the children at your hospital.”
“I could have saved you some time, Ms. Carpenter,” the liaison replied and her tone could only be described as frosty. “We already have an approved group we work with. No need for any additional ones.”
That threw Roz for a loop. “Oh. Well, we’d be happy to go on the backup list. You know, in case the other group cancels unexpectedly.”
“That’s okay,” she cut in quickly. “That almost never happens and it’s not like we have scheduled times. The clowns come in on a pretty casual basis.”
This was not a good conversation. Unease prickled at the back of Roz’s neck and she did not like the feeling. “I’m having a hard time believing that you can’t use extra cheer in the children’s ward. We’re talking about sick kids who don’t want to be in the hospital. Surely if your current clowns come and go at will, you can add some of mine to the rotation. A clown is a clown, right?”
The long pause boded badly. Roz braced for the next part.
“To be frank, Ms. Carpenter, the hospital board would not appreciate any association with a charity you helm,” Ms. Smith stated bluntly. “We are required to disclose any contact a patient has with outside parties, particularly when the patients are minors. The clowns must have accreditation and thorough vetting to ensure we’re not exposing patients to...unseemly influences.”
Roz went hot and then cold as the woman’s meaning flashed through her. The reputation of the charity’s founder preceded her apparently. “I take it I qualify as an unseemly influence. Then may I be as frank and ask why you bothered to call me back?”
“Strictly in deference to your father. One of his vice presidents