Elizabeth Bevarly - When Jayne Met Erik

Her expression, he noted, changed not one iota, save an almost imperceptible arching of one eyebrow. So he had no idea how to gauge her reaction. Very quietly she replied, “Oh.” Nothing more. Just Oh.

So Erik plunged onward. “Because you see, I myself happen to be a multimillionaire,” he told her with much equanimity.

“Oh,” she said again. And again her expression reflected nothing of what she might be thinking.

Erik took it to be a good sign. Then again, he took most things, short of natural disaster, to be good signs. That was just the kind of man he was.

“Or, at least, I will be a multimillionaire,” he clarified pleasantly. “Once I get married, I mean.”

Jayne Pembroke’s expression cleared then, making her look…relieved? Maybe this was going to be easier than he’d anticipated.

“So you’ve come in to buy an engagement ring for your intended,” she said, her smile returning.

“Yes,” he agreed happily. “That’s it exactly. A ring. A fiancée—and, hence, a wife—will, after all, expect a ring, won’t she? Two rings, actually. One to signify the engagement and one to signify the marriage. Which,” he added, “when you get right down to it, is a damned nice gift, considering the fact that she will only be my wife for one year.”

Now Jayne’s smile fell again, and her expression grew puzzled. “One year?” she echoed, sounding disappointed.

“Well, you can’t expect me to stay married any longer than is necessary, can you?” Erik asked, fighting a twinge of indignation. Honestly. They weren’t even married yet, and already she was finding fault with him. “I mean, I do have other obligations, you know.”

Now Jayne opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.

“Not that my wife will have to worry,” he said, jacking up the wattage on his smile. “Because it goes without saying that, after we go our separate ways, she will end up with some—” he wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully “—lovely parting gifts.”

Now Jayne, he noted, was looking at him as if she had just discovered he’d escaped from a hospital for the criminally insane. Hmmm, he thought. Perhaps they weren’t quite on the same wavelength as he had assumed they were. Perhaps he wasn’t going about this the best way he could be going about it. Perhaps he wasn’t making himself as clear as he could be making himself.

So Erik straightened to his full six feet, tossed his head in a way that he’d been told by several women was quite boyish and charming, brushed his dark hair back from his forehead, and smiled what he liked to think was his rogue’s smile. “What I’m trying to say, Miss Pembroke,” he began in his most enchanting tone of voice, “is…will you marry me?”

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