The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride. Dixie Browning
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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 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