Grayson's Vow

  "Noooo," I drawled out. "A nice cold shower invigorates a person, I've found. I prefer cold showers actually."

  The scaly dragon appeared to consider that. "I'll bet you do," he finally said, leaning one narrow hip on the doorframe as he watched me. How nice for him that he was having so much fun. I'd never back down now. I'd sleep on the floor in this dusty shack if it meant getting the best of Grayson Hawthorn.

  "Is there a kitchen? A place I might eat the crusts of bread you'll throw me?" I asked. "After I give you your portion of my inheritance, of course."

  "No, you'll have to eat up at the main house. I'll tell Charlotte to expect you for dinner," he said, ignoring the second part of my question. I remembered Charlotte from that morning—a plump, sweet-looking, gray-haired woman.

  "Will you be there?"

  "No. I'll be going out." Silence. Okaaaaay.

  "Who will you tell Charlotte I am exactly?"

  "I'll tell Charlotte and her husband, Walter, the truth. They've known me my whole life. They're the epitome of discreet." Anxiety assaulted me, and my heartbeat sped up at the thought of his housekeeping staff knowing our marriage was fake, but I decided to trust his epitome of discreet description. Plus, there would be no way to pretend we'd fallen in love when, yesterday, I hadn't existed in Grayson's life at all and they'd very well know it.

  I wished this was something I could do on my own, but it wasn't. I needed him.

  "I see. Okay." I looked around the cottage again, distracting myself with an assessment of the space. "Well, there are some definite cons, but there are pros, too."

  He furrowed his brow, but nodded once and then turned to leave. "Dinner's at seven thirty." That was in less than an hour. I guess I'd get started cleaning this place up as much as possible.

  Grayson came back inside a few minutes later, set my suitcase down, and then turned to leave. Suddenly he stopped, and I thought he was going to tell me he'd just been kidding about this place. Instead, he said coldly, "By the way, I absolutely prohibit the use of drugs on my property. If I find that you've brought them here, our deal's off."

  I sputtered, trying to think of a retort, but before I could come up with anything, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. A second later, I heard his truck roar to life and drive away. Clearly he'd looked me up and read about the "situation" I'd been in a year ago.

  Too late, I picked up an empty soda can off the floor and hurled it at the closed door. Vile serpent! I should call this whole sham off immediately. How dare he treat me like this after I'd made him the most generous offer of his scaly life? His arrogance knew no bounds. And he'd judged me to be a spoiled brat. A spoiled druggie brat. But beneath my anger, there was an undeniable feeling of shame and sadness. Was this worth it? God, I had to believe it would be. Someday.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grayson

  She'd remained as if she was really going to live in that small, dirty hovel. I smirked to myself, wondering how long it would take her to come running to the main house telling me there was no way in hell she'd stay there. Fifteen minutes? At dinner, tops. I had to give her a small measure of respect, though. She'd played along with the joke. I'd expected outrage, foot stomping, breath holding perhaps. The little witch had a tad more grit to her than I'd originally thought. And I hadn't had so much fun in . . . in a really long time. I'd even wanted to laugh for a minute there. I hadn't realized how foreign that feeling had become until the amusement rose in my throat.

  I took a quick shower, changed into clean clothes, and then went downstairs to let Charlotte know there'd be a guest for dinner. When I walked into the kitchen¸ it was fragrant with the smell of her beef stroganoff. Maybe I'd eat in after all.

  "Beautiful evening, isn't it?" Charlotte asked, smiling brightly at me.

  I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and downed half the bottle before grunting an affirmative response. "I have something to talk to you about."

  She stopped stirring and eyed me. "That sounds ominous."

  I shook my head, taking another swig of the cold beer. "For me, yes, but not for you."

  "You know anything that affects you negatively affects me, too, Gray," she said softly. A small corner of my heart, the part that still lived, throbbed with regret.

  "I know, Charlotte."

  "So what is it? Just get it out there."

  "I'm getting married. Probably."

  The spoon clattered to the stovetop, and Charlotte brought her hands to her mouth. "You knocked someone up. Oh, Gray!"

  I choked on the sip of beer I'd just taken. "No, God no."

  "What then? Why? Who?" Charlotte sputtered.

  I gave Charlotte the bare facts of what Kira had presented to me in my office that morning. Even after having a whole day to think on the topic, it still sounded crazy. Insane. "The facts haven't been confirmed, yet. But she'll be here for dinner, so I wanted to let you know. Actually, she's staying here for the time being."

  Charlotte's face was a study in disapproval. She clearly hated this idea. "Marrying for money, Gray? No, I don't want this for you. And does this girl have no ethics? You deserve more. You deserve—"

  "It's temporary, okay? If it turns out to be as Kira said, it will be a good thing for this vineyard. And frankly, it's my last hope." I set my jaw, unwilling to argue about this with Charlotte. "You know my situation."

  "Yes, but . . . temporary? Marriage isn't temporary. Marriage isn't a business deal—a matter of contracts and negotiations. Marriage is sacred, a sacred vow to love forever."

  I snorted. Charlotte knew I had little to no respect for the sanctity of marriage after witnessing the frigid nature of my own father and stepmother's "wedded bliss." "Most people aren't like you and Walter, Charlotte. Just look at Jessica and Ford Hawthorn."

  Tenderness filled Charlotte's expression as she stepped closer to me. She took a moment, seeming to collect her words. "Gray, I know since you've come home, things have changed so much and everything has been so hard for you. I know you blame yourself . . . for all of it. And you've changed, Gray. You don't smile—you just work. You've shut down. But this is not the answer to your problems. It can't be. I can't let you do this—"

  I set the empty beer bottle down, the glass clanking loudly on the marble countertop, anger and helplessness filling my chest. I hardly needed Charlotte's summation of who I'd become. Who I'd been forced to become. I lived with myself every second of every day. "You're my housekeeper, Charlotte, not my mother. I won't discuss this further. Set another plate."

  Hurt flashed in Charlotte's eyes, but she pressed her lips together, turning back to the stove, muttering something I couldn't hear and didn't care to. Charlotte was as soft as her husband was rigid. "You'll be staying for dinner, of course," Charlotte said without turning, as I started to leave the kitchen, "to introduce us to your future wife."

  I halted, the word "wife" making me jolt slightly. I much preferred "business partner" when it came to Kira. Of course, Charlotte was purposely trying to rattle me, trying to make clear what I was considering. I hadn't planned on eating dinner at home, but I said, "Of course." I'd give Charlotte that much at least.

  I closed myself in my office and opened up the website for the Napa Valley Clerk's Office. There was no waiting period for getting married. We'd simply need to make an appointment and show up with a witness, or use one provided by them. Hopefully Kira wouldn't have a problem quickly making an appointment with the executor of her trust. The sooner we got this fake marriage started, the sooner we could get this fake marriage ended, and could both get on with our lives.

  I rifled through my mail, putting the bills aside. For the first time in months I didn't cringe at the very large pile. If this worked . . . If this worked, I could pay them all. I wouldn’t let myself think about specifics, though, until everything had been confirmed. I halted when I saw a personal letter addressed to me in the feminine handwriting I recognized immediately. My chest squeezed momentarily before I had a
chance to steel myself. Curiosity pricked at my mind, but I tossed the letter aside. There was nothing she could say that would ever change anything. I didn't need to hear her pitiful words of explanation or apology.

  "God damn you, Vanessa," I whispered, leaning my elbows on my desk and taking my head in my hands for a few moments.

  Now I really wanted to get out of here and blow off some steam. Instead, I had to dine with a stranger who might very well be my wife in a short time. Charlotte was right. This was a terrible idea. Ridiculous. No matter in what capacity I let them in, somehow women always had a way of ruining my life. And the truth of the matter was, Kira Dallaire would end up being the worst of all. She would be a constant, shameful reminder of just how far I'd fallen. A constant reminder of what I'd been reduced to: marrying a stranger for money. If I could find any humor in it at all, I'd laugh at my own pitiful predicament. I'd laugh at the fact that I was even considering this insanity.

  A few minutes later, I heard the front doorbell. I finished up what I was doing, knowing Walter would answer it in his formally cold, no-nonsense demeanor, no doubt. Of course, if anyone was used to dealing with servants, it was undoubtedly Kira Dallaire. She was probably used to a whole swarm doing her bidding and meeting her every whim.

  When I finally made my way to the kitchen, Kira was seated at the large, well-worn, farmhouse dinner table, a glass of wine in front of her. She was wearing jeans and a deep-green blousy-type shirt. Her hair was pulled back as severely as it had been that morning. Had that been only hours ago? It seemed more like a decade.

  Charlotte was moving around the kitchen, ignoring her. She addressed me without looking my way, "I didn't clean the dining room today as I was unaware there'd be a guest." She shot a disdainful look at Kira. "I hope eating in the kitchen meets with your approval, sir." She put the emphasis on sir, obviously trying to make me feel guilty about referring to her as nothing more than a housekeeper earlier.

  "You know I don't like to eat in the dining room anyway, Charlotte. This is fine." I sat down at the table, nodding once to Kira and taking a sip of my water.

  "You don't drink wine?" she asked.

  "Only sometimes."

  "Isn't that unusual for someone who runs a winery?"

  "I suppose." She kept looking at me, but when I didn't continue, she looked away, taking in the kitchen.

  "This kitchen is really beautiful," she said softly.

  Before I could answer, Charlotte placed a plate in front of Kira, a little harder than necessary, I noted, causing a small dollop of sauce to splash onto the table. She delivered my plate in the same fashion, turning up her nose as she walked away. Without acknowledging her, I began to eat. Charlotte started clanking around in the kitchen, ignoring us both. Other than the noise of dishes being handled, an awkward silence ensued.

  . . . and continued . . . and then continued some more.

  The clock on the kitchen wall ticked loudly, the only other sounds: Charlotte's angry dish washing and our forks hitting the plates now and then. I noticed Kira shifting in her seat and looked up to see a red flush in her cheeks. She caught my eye.

  "Have you ever been to Africa?" she suddenly asked.

  Africa? I opened my mouth to answer, but she spoke first. Apparently the question had been rhetorical. "Kenya, specifically. They have a wonderful welcome custom there. The warriors of the tribe, wearing their most vibrant costumes, do what's called a jumping dance. They all form a circle and compete to jump the highest, demonstrating to their guests the strength and bravery of their tribe. It's magnificent! The heights some of them can jump, it's unreal." A lock fell loose from her pulled-back hair, but she ignored it, taking a big bite of stroganoff, not bothering to swallow before continuing. "I was just thinking what a run for their money you could give them with the Hawthorn welcoming custom, though. It's heartwarming. I can't tell you how comfortable you've made me feel. Of course, in Kenya, you can also expect a mixed cocktail of cow's milk and blood to be part of your greeting, so that does knock off a few points for them. Still—"

  I put my fork down. "Are you done?"

  Sparks seemed to flash in her eyes as she met my gaze. "Not really. Why?" A jolt speared down my spine at those sparks making her large green eyes bright with indignation. But then she took a casual sip of wine and returned to her meal. I looked at Charlotte and swore I saw one side of her lip quirk up before she turned away.

  I clenched my jaw at Kira's sarcastic response, but had to concede that she was right. We'd been rude to her. I was in a shitty mood. But she hadn't really done anything wrong. I didn't like her . . . or rather, I didn't like her type, and her existence in my home was a blatant reminder of the many ways I'd failed. But that didn't mean I couldn't be civil. She was also presenting a way out. I wouldn't act like she was doing me a huge favor despite the money, though. And I wouldn't pretend I liked this situation—or that we weren't partners in this distasteful business deal. We were both making a sacrifice here. She was handing over what amounted to a lot of money to me, but she was going to be disrupting my life for the next few months, the next year, maybe longer when it came to taxes, seeing her name on forms for the rest of my life . . . But, we'd be civil business associates. She’d been all right so far. I'd even had a little fun earlier with the whole gardener's cottage thing. Which, come to remember, she hadn't brought up yet.

  "We should discuss—"

  "The fact that you're the offspring of a fire-breathing lizard? I already figured that out."

  Charlotte snorted from the kitchen but covered it up with the bang of a pot.

  "Listen, Kira—"

  "No, you listen, Grayson." More hair fell to frame her face as she banged her little fist down on the table and glared at me, her witchy eyes flashing again, heating my blood, much to my own dismay. "I'm making you a very generous offer here. If this is going to work, I refuse to let you treat me as you've done so far. I can assure you that, with your credentials, you won't get a better offer than mine. Keep treating me like you of all people have the right to look down on me, and I'll leave and take my inheritance with me."

  Anger raced through my blood, and I banged my own fist on the table. I had the satisfaction of seeing Kira jump slightly. "If this is going to work, I won't be treated like you're taking pity on me and I'm not making as much of a sacrifice as you are," I gritted out. "Do you think I have any desire whatsoever to marry you or anyone else?"

  "No, I'd imagine you're about as capable of monogamy as a junkyard dog. Not that that has anything at all to do with me."

  As if from a great distance, I heard Charlotte cough again.

  I narrowed my eyes to slits. "Exactly. Do you think I'd be doing this if I weren't utterly desperate and if you weren't my Very. Last. Option? So, throw the money in my face if you will, but don't act like you don't need me, too. Don't act like you're not just as desperate as I am. And don't act like I'm not your best and only prospect. You said it yourself. For someone who came here begging, you'd be wise to treat me with some respect."

  Her cheeks flared with even more color. "Begging?" she hissed. "Begging?" Heavy cascades of dark fire fell around her face as her hair came completely loose from whatever she'd been using to hold it back. I almost sucked in a breath. I hadn't realized she had so much of it. It surrounded her face and swung around her shoulders, looking as if it went halfway down her back.

  She stood up slowly and I did, too, until we were both glaring at each other across the expanse of the kitchen table. The air between us crackled with . . . something, the heat in the air practically shimmering. And strangely, that tingling heat was now dancing through my blood in a full-blown performance much like the African welcome dance Kira had described, making me feel vitally . . . alive.

  "I was crazy to come here. This," she waved between us, "is crazy. It'll never work. We should call it off. I could find someone else to marry. I can't imagine why I chose you. I find you . . . exceedingly difficult to like."

  "I agree. It
's ridiculous. And vice versa."

  "Good. It's off," she hissed.

  "Good," I growled. We stared each other down, her eyes dancing with angry fire. And why the hell did I like that so much? After several tense, heated moments, I made a conscious effort to control my breathing, raising an eyebrow at her. "And by the way, next time you offer to marry someone, you should try to be a little more meek. A man likes some obedience in a wife."

  More fire glowed in her eyes and another undeniable thrill shot down my spine. "Charlotte," she suddenly said very sweetly. "Do you have a pen and paper I could borrow?"

  "Oh yes," Charlotte said, grabbing a pen and pad of paper out of the junk drawer and practically running it over to Kira, as if she were suddenly at her beck and call.

  I watched Kira closely, waiting to see what she would do next.

  Kira smiled politely at Charlotte and then uncapped the pen carefully, putting it on the end with deliberate slowness, and then holding the pad of paper up, the pen poised before it. "What was that now? I want to make sure I get every single word of wise advice," she said, stretching out the word every. "Meek, was it? Does that have double e or is it ea? I can never remember."

  I regarded her through lowered lashes, resisting the urge to laugh at her ridiculous display of sarcasm. "I wouldn't worry so much about the spelling of the word meek as how to embrace the concept."

  "Hmm," she hummed. "And obedient, you said?"

  "Yes."

  "Obedient—yes." She made a big check mark on the paper. "And?"

  "Your sharp tongue—that will be a turnoff to future husbands."

  She pretended to write that down. "Sharp tongue—no." She marked a big X on the paper. "What else?"

  We stared at each other for a few more strained seconds, her expression a phony look of intense interest and mine a mild smirk. The truth was, I didn't even know if the legal aspects of the fake marriage she'd proposed were legitimate. But talking about calling it off before even knowing caused a spear of disappointment to shoot through my body. I hated the idea, hated the little spiky-tongued witch standing in front of me, hated that in reality, she did have more power in this situation than I did . . . but at the same time, it was the first thing in a long while that had given me some hope. And I didn't even realize until that moment how sweet that hope tasted. I looked away first, breaking the intensity flowing between us, but she was the first who spoke as she set the pen and paper on the table. "Listen, this situation is . . . unusual to say the least." She paused again and I looked back to her. The spark had gone out of her eyes as if the idea of calling it off wasn't exactly what she wanted either. "I called the executor of my trust before I walked over here. He can see us late in the day tomorrow. Maybe we could find a way to coexist at least until we've ascertained everything is as I've said. And then we can make a final decision from there."