Allison Leigh - The Bride and the Bargain

Dammit.

He jabbed the phone with his finger and the dial tone went silent. He pushed at his desk, his chair swiveling around to face the windows behind him. But he didn’t see beyond his own frustrated reflection, glaring back at him.

Smooth, Gray. Really smooth. He hadn’t been turned down so flatly, so abruptly, in well…ever.

His phone buzzed softly and he glanced at the caller ID. He grimaced and jabbed the speaker. “What’s up, Marissa?”

“Hello to you, too,” his attorney drawled, sounding amused. “You’re sounding rather tense, darling. Anything I can do to help?”

If only it were that simple. Marissa Matthews was a beautiful, leggy redhead who’d make the perfect wife for him. Independent, never demanding, perfectly accustomed to the requirements of being a Hunt. If he could have made a bargain with her to become his wife, he would have. Only she already knew who he was; and had made it plain all the way back when they were in school together that she’d be happy to marry only money.

“Not this time,” Gray told her. “You get the paperwork from Birchman signed?”

“Not yet. But don’t worry. I will. He’s got no choice. He either sells his little operation to HuntCom at a very tidy sum, or he goes under. It’s a slam dunk. You made sure of that, remember?”

He had. Tying up every possible venue for Edward Birchman to market his so far barely noticed software.

It was something Gray was good at. HuntCom hired the best developers in the world as a general rule, but Gray still kept his eye on what was going on outside of HuntCom walls. And when he spotted something that was going to be good, going to be big, he usually managed one way or another to bring it into the fold.

To everyone’s profit, except HuntCom competitors.

“That’s not why I called, though,” Marissa said. “Unless you went out and purchased a yacht this afternoon—when I know you were supposed to be meeting with your father—I’m afraid that Gerry’s up to his tricks again.”

Gray grimaced. Gerry Dunleavy was Gray’s half brother on his mother’s side. Christina had married two more times after she’d been given the boot by Harry when Gray was still a tot. She’d only produced one other child, though, Gerry, from husband number three. And considering old Dunleavy was a contemporary of Moses when he’d married Christina, that was pretty much a medical miracle.

Gerry was ten years younger than Gray, and a royal pain in his backside given his proclivity for using Gray’s name whenever it suited his purposes. And one of Marissa’s tasks in life for Gray—for which he paid her handsomely—was to keep on top of Gerry’s activities and keep him out of the news.

Personally, Gray avoided dealing with Gerry himself. Not hard, since they detested one another. He simply didn’t want Gerry’s behavior to reflect poorly on HuntCom.

“What the hell does Gerry need with a yacht? Christina’s already got one courtesy of Daddy Dunleavy. He left it to her in his will.” And Lord knew there was nothing that Christina ever denied Gerry.

Of course she conveniently left it to Gray to clean up whatever messes resulted from that particular habit.

“I guess a three-year-old yacht isn’t good enough for Gerry. How do you want me to handle it?”

He’d like to launch Gerry off the nearest pier and never see his hide again.

There was no affection lost between them. As it was, Gray saw their mother only when he absolutely couldn’t avoid it. But Gerry was fully aware that Gray didn’t want their family laundry aired in public, despite the distance between them.

Not when there was already enough Hunt family business bandied about. “How much did he spend?”

Marissa told him.

Gray winced. “If I’m buying it, find out where he’s planning to dock it, and make damn sure it’s insured.” The last time Gerry had acquired something in Gray’s name, it had been a sports car that he’d totaled within hours of driving it off the lot, and they hadn’t been so quick.

The only miracle was that Gerry hadn’t hurt anyone. Not even himself.

The roadside diner down near Portland that he’d slammed into, however, had gotten itself rebuilt, bigger and better than ever, courtesy of a quiet meeting that Marissa had arranged with the owners within hours of the accident. Gray had been out of the country, but Marissa had acted promptly. Gerry hadn’t even turned a hair when Gray had later laid into him for his carelessness. The expense of it all was covered from Gray’s personal account, and Gerry had been happy to remind Gray that he’d never even miss the chunk.

It was true, but that had hardly been the point.

“Look at the bright side,” Marissa said. “It’s been an entire year since Gerry pulled a stunt like this.”

“Yeah. A year when I’d stupidly let myself think he’d outgrown being jealous of me.”

“Darling, I hate to tell you, but that is never going to happen. Gerry had the misfortune of being born well after Christina ceased being your father’s wife. Old Dunleavy left her perfectly well-off, but it was peanuts compared to what you’ve got as a Hunt.”

What he would keep as a Hunt only if he solved his wife and child dilemma, Gray amended silently.

Justin, J.T. and Alex had all held up their ends of the bargain. But if Gray failed now, they’d all lose. His brothers, his new sisters-in-law and scores of HuntCom employees who depended on the company for their livelihood. “Thanks for keeping on top of it, Marissa.”

“It’s what you pay me for,” she said smoothly. “I’m having breakfast with Birchman tomorrow. I should have the papers on your desk by nine.” She rang off without fanfare.

Despite that positive assurance, the results of the evening had definitely left a sour taste in his mouth.

He still had several reports to read in preparation for the following morning, but he had no patience for them just then.

He dragged the list of telephone numbers in front of him and studied the name that he’d circled.

Daphne Mason. The name on the phone listing.

One call to Marissa and he knew she could have a dossier on his desk within twenty-four hours that would tell him everything he ever wanted—and didn’t want—to know about Amelia White and her sister, presumably Daphne Mason.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. Turned to his computer and ran a search on both women’s names, coming up with a plethora of useless matches from nuns to rock singers.

He pulled out his cell phone and hit J.T.’s number, only receiving his brother’s voice mail in response. He disconnected without leaving a message.

What would he have said?

He’d put off toeing Harry’s line for so damn long, that he had them all in danger of losing everything they’d ever worked for.

The phone vibrated in his palm. “Figured you were playing newlywed with your bride,” he answered.

“I beg your pardon?”

The voice was female. Smooth. Lilting.

Definitely not J.T.

“Amelia.” There was no baby crying in the background this time. No television that he could hear. No other voices at all—childish or adult. “Sorry about that. I thought you were my brother.”

“Oh. Well, I—”

“I didn’t mean to scare you off earlier. About dinner.”

“You didn’t.”

She was a poor liar. He could hear it in her voice. And now that she’d called, he was going to make darn sure not to take another misstep. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

She hesitated so long he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. And then, when she did answer, it was in one heck of a rush. “Wecouldmeetforcoffee.”

Fortunately, he was a native Seattleite. Coffee flowed in his veins, and he understood any sentence containing that magic word just fine. “Sure. Sounds good.” Better than good, if his lightening mood was any indication. “You said you’re new to the area. Do you have a place in mind?” He’d prefer to name the place so that he could pick the setting and be assured that nobody would blow his cover. But he was treading carefully—an act that did not come naturally to him.