Hunter shrugged, snagging his putter and walking onto the green. “Sure.”
“Where is she now?”
Hunter crouched down on one knee, eyeing the slope of the terrain. “Why do you care?”
“You remember when you burned down the gypsy’s tent?”
Hunter stood up. “You mind if I play golf now?”
“Seriously,” said Jack.
“No. I’ve forgotten the rampaging elephants, the fire department and the lawsuit that grounded me for a month.”
Jack grinned, his mood lightening for the first time in forty-eight hours.
“You remember what she said?”
“How did this get to be about me?”
“She said a redheaded girl would give you twins.”
Hunter shook his head in disgust and turned to address the ball.
Jack held his tongue while Hunter swung the putter.
The caddy lifted the flag, and the ball plunked into the hole.
“She also said I would marry a woman I didn’t trust,” said Jack. “Think about it, Hunter. What were the odds?”
Hunter slid the putter through his grip, handing it upside down to his caddy. “Please don’t let the shareholders hear you talking like this. They’ll have you impeached.”
Jack stared hard at his cousin. “You remember what else she said.”
“That you’d buy a golf course.” Hunter glanced around. “You bring your checkbook?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
Hunter snorted. “I don’t need to. You’re doing a fine job of that all by yourself. You’re a logical man, Jack. I didn’t marry Vivian. There are no twins. And gypsies can’t predict the future.”
Maybe not consistently, but the two Jack had talked to were sporting pretty good averages. And the first one had also predicted Jack and Hunter would blow the family fortune. “Are we over-leveraged on anything?”
“No. Now hit the ball.”
“Nothing out there that can bite us in the ass?”
“Not unless Kristy signed the lamest prenup ever.”
Jack took a deep breath, running the cool shaft of his putter across his palm and settling his grip on the black, perforated rubber. Hunter was right. The prenup was fine. Kristy took away what she brought to the marriage, and Jack took away what he brought. Which was exactly the way he wanted it.
He took a few swings, testing the weight of the putter. Then he tapped the ball.
It followed the contour of the green, arcing up the high side then veering at the last second to hit the hole. Exactly the way he wanted it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS SHE marched up the impossibly imposing brick steps at the Osland mansion outside Manchester, Dee Dee trotting along on her leash, Kristy reminded herself that nothing had changed. Recognition and success in the fashion world were still her dream.
She’d already had plenty of other setbacks over the years. And every time, she’d picked herself up, dusted herself off and redoubled her effort to bring her fashions to the attention of the industry.
Now, gazing up at the sprawling, three-story, snow-covered Colonial, she assured herself this was no different. She’d pick herself up one more time. Marrying Jack was merely a blip on her road to success, and a year from now she’d be laughing at the absurdity of thinking she was in love after only two days. Nobody fell in love that fast. She’d been swept off her feet by a man who’d set out to trap her. That was all.
Of course he’d seemed like the perfect man. Anybody could pretend to be perfect for two days. He’d laughed at her jokes, pretended to admire her intelligence, professed to like the same wines and catered to her every whim.
But it had all been a lie, a sham. And as soon as he’d shifted to the real Jack, she hadn’t liked him at all. In fact, she’d hated him then. She still did. And that was why showing up on his doorstep and cornering him with his fake marriage was going to be so easy.
In the back of the limo, halfway between the airport and the Osland estate, she’d realized she wasn’t simply getting revenge for Cleveland. She was also doing it for herself. Jack was in line for a comeuppance, and her success would show him a thing or two about judging people.
“And it will be his own darn fault,” she pointed out to Dee Dee as she reached to ring the bell.
It chimed a musical tune, echoing inside the huge house.
A dark-haired, middle-aged woman opened the door. She wore a blue-and-white tunic with slim gray slacks. Her glance flicked to Dee Dee then returned to Kristy.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m here to see Jack Osland.”
The woman stepped back, opening the door wide. “Mr. Osland is expecting you?”
Kristy shook her head.
The woman’s smile faltered for a scant second. “Who shall I tell him is calling?”
Kristy stepped over the threshold. Dee Dee followed, her trimmed nails making muted clicks on the black-and-white tile.
“His wife,” said Kristy.
The woman’s brown eyes went round for a moment. “I’m sorry?”
Kristy nodded in confirmation of what the woman had just heard. “You can tell him his wife is … home.”
“Fine.” With admirable aplomb, the woman gestured to a gilt settee along one oak wall of the bright, octagonal room. “Please, do have a seat.”
“Thank you,” said Kristy, as the woman exited down a long hallway. She walked over to the settee with Dee Dee trotting along beside her. Instead of sitting down, she scooped the dog into her arms, straightening Dee Dee’s blue, satin-lined coat. It was made of fleece, with a discreet appliqué sewn at the collar. She gave the dog a reassuring pat, snuggling it close to her chest.
It took about thirty seconds for swift, masculine footsteps to sound on the hardwood floor of the hallway.
Kristy took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as Jack rounded the corner.
When he saw her, he came to an abrupt halt. Sunbeams from the beveled windows shone in his dark eyes, highlighted the uncompromising planes and angles of his clean-shaven face.
“Is this a joke?” he demanded.
She kept her voice light and airy by sheer force of will. “Hello, honey.”
His square jaw clenched in the booming silence that followed her words.
“I’m home,” she finished.
He advanced warily, as if Dee Dee might bite. Which was ridiculous.
“This isn’t your home,” he stated.
“I’m your wife.”
“In name only.”
“Actually, if you’ll recall, your name was pretty much the only thing I didn’t take.”
“What do you want?”
“Domestic bliss.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“If this is about money—”
“This is about fashion.”