“Anyone who thinks they’re going to marry my sister is going to have to arm wrestle me first.”
Sam smiled, with so many teeth she felt like a dog snarling, waved the bouquet and headed for the exit.
So that’s my future wife, Ethan Ballard thought, watching the bridesmaid head out the exit onto the stone veranda that faced the sea. He bet she was going to hurl that bouquet right off of there, too. He hadn’t missed her thwarted attempt at escape earlier, or the way she had looked during the dinner and the toasts. Cynical. Uncomfortable. Bored.
The least romantic woman in the room. Perfect.
He’d been pretty sure she was the one from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Despite the sexy outfit, and the abundance of rich chocolate upswept hair, he could tell by the sunburn and freckles that she was the wholesome, outdoorsy type that he imagined the Finkles would love.
She’d be perfect for the task he had in mind. When he’d held her hand a little too long in the reception line she’d yanked it away and given him a dirty look with those sea-mist eyes of hers.
Ditto for his offers to dance with her. Though Ethan felt faintly stung—who didn’t want to dance with him—it boded well for his plan.
Samantha Hall was the girl least likely to appreciate his offer of marriage. Least likely to want anything else once the assignment was over.
And he only needed a wife for one day.
Tomorrow. Combining his cousin Amanda’s wedding with business, Ethan was in Cape Cod looking at real estate. He’d seen a promising property on the Main Street of St. John’s Cove this morning, but what he really wanted was an old family cottage up the coast, between St. John’s and Stone Harbor. He’d been drooling over the Internet pictures of Annie’s Retreat for over a week, and had an appointment to see it tomorrow.
Then his lawyer had called. He’d done his homework, as always. The current owners, the Finkles, had turned down a lot of offers on the place. They knew exactly what they wanted, and it wasn’t to sell to a businessman who would see their property as an investment, who would see the development potential in that rare amount of oceanfront.
The Finkles would be more amenable to an offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Ballard, who wanted to raise a dozen children on the place.
Trying not to whistle at his good fortune in finding the perfect Mrs. Ballard so quickly, Ethan headed out the door after her. Job one was to find out if she knew the Finkles. If she did, he wouldn’t proceed.
Samantha Hall was in the shadows, on the wide deck behind the exit door, standing so still that for a moment he didn’t see her. And when he did he was struck by her loveliness, her slender figure silhouetted by moonlight, her face lifted to the breeze.
She was looking out at the sailboats and yachts bobbing in their moorings, something faintly wistful in her expression.
Very romantic.
She turned, startled when she heard him come out, turned away instantly. He almost laughed out loud when she pulled at the front of her dress, again. The dress fit her graceful lines perfectly and showed off her slender curves to mouthwatering advantage.
But for some reason he found her discomfort with it far more delightful than the dress itself.
“Gorgeous night,” he said conversationally.
“Hmm.” Noncommittal. Suspicious.
“Lucky catch on the bouquet.”
“I guess that depends what you think lucky is.”
“Isn’t the one who catches it the next one to get married?” he asked.
“There’s a disclaimer clause if you’re just saving the bouquet from a disastrous dip in chocolate.”
Ethan laughed, and not just because it was the perfect answer for a man with a mission like his.
“What did you do with the bouquet?” he asked.
Her eyes slid guiltily to the left and he saw the bridal bouquet had been shoved in a planter, the elegant lilies bright white against red geraniums.
“I’m Ethan Ballard,” he said, extending his hand.
“We met in the reception line,” she said, pretending she didn’t see it.
The music started inside. He wondered if he should ask her to dance, again, and was surprised that he wanted to dance with her. But on the other hand, there was no sense romancing her. His marriage proposal wasn’t about romance, and he didn’t want her to think it was.
Job one, he reminded himself, surprised at how hard it was to get down to business with her scent tickling at his nostrils.
“Do you know a family named the Finkles, over Stone Harbor way?” he asked.
Her brow scrunched in momentary concentration. “No,” she said. “I can’t say I do.” Then, with a touch of defensiveness, “My world is pretty small. You’re looking at it.” And she nodded her chin toward the sea and then the barely visible lights of town.
“I’m looking for a wife,” he said, always the businessman, cutting to the chase, even while he kept his tone light, and even while he was aware of being not completely professional. A renegade part of him was looking forward to getting to know her a tiny bit better.
She shot him a look. “Goodie for you.”
Despite the fact this was all a business venture for him, he was a little taken aback at her lack of interest in him. That was not the reaction he got from women at all. Obviously she had no idea who he was, and he found that in itself refreshing.
What would it be like to get to know another human being who didn’t know you were heir to a fortune, a millionaire businessman in your own right and a retired major league baseball player?
“You caught the bouquet, it seemed fortuitous. I have a proposition for you,” he said carefully.
“Propose away,” she said, but he realized when she tucked a wayward strand of her glossy dark hair behind her ear that she was not as cavalier about his attention as she wanted him to believe.
For the first time, he felt a moment’s hesitation. Maybe she wasn’t right for this job, after all; there was something sweetly vulnerable under all that not very veiled cynicism.
At that moment the side door exploded open. His cousin, Amanda, came bursting out, the skirt of her bridal confection caught in her hands, tears streaming down her face. She raced down the stairs with amazing swiftness given that her outfit was not exactly designed for a one-hundred-yard dash. She was at the bottom of the stairs before the door exploded open again, and Charlie came out it.
“Mandy, honey, come on. Don’t be like this.”
“Don’t you Mandy, honey, me!” she yelled, rounding on him. “How could you?”
Ethan was pretty sure that neither of them had even noticed that he and Samantha were in the shadows behind the door. Samantha had gone still as a statue, and he did the same.
And then the bride turned around, tore past the pier, up a set of stairs on the other side of it and into the parking lot. Charlie gained on her and caught her; a furious discussion ensued that Ethan felt grateful he could not hear.
The discussion resulted in Amanda climbing behind the wheel of her bright yellow sports car convertible, revving the engine and leaving Charlie in a splatter of gravel.
Ethan turned to see how his bridesmaid reacted to the drama. She was leaning on the railing, her small chin on her hands, a knowing little smile playing sadly on her lips as she gave her head a cynical shake.
His doubt of a moment earlier was erased. She was perfect.
“Will