Kathleen O'Brien - The Husband Contract

Something in his tone made her feel defensive. “Well, yes, Nick was there, but he certainly wouldn’t ever have—” She broke off self-consciously. Of course Nick would have. He was dreadful about messages. But Clay Logan couldn’t have known that. Why would he, after seeing Nick the grand total of about two minutes, automatically assume it was all the boy’s fault?

But she knew why. Because Clay Logan had no patience for teenage boys, especially troubled ones like Nick, that was why. The smoothly groomed attorney in front of her had undoubtedly never slipped one foot off the fast track from cradle to college. He’d probably been president of his preschool.

“Well, whatever happened, I’m sorry about the mix-up,” she said, hoping he’d let it drop. “Would you like to reschedule?”

“We could.” Clay hadn’t moved from his half-reclining position. He looked completely comfortable out here at the picnic grounds in spite of his regimental-striped tie and wing tips. “Or I could just tell you the terms of the will right now.”

She caught her breath. So it was that simple, was it? Obviously it wasn’t going to require reams of paperwork and notarized signatures to tell her what Joshua Browning had left her. One word would do it: Nothing. He had left everything to charity, just as he warned her he would on that awful night eight years ago.

She wondered numbly whether Clay would even say he was sorry. Or did he, perhaps, think this was what she deserved? She could only guess what Joshua had told his lawyer about his wild, ungrateful niece.

“Okay.” She put her snow cone down carefully, then met his gaze. “Now is fine.”

“Good.” But Clay didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted to the next picnic table, where Dutch Allingham and Josh Smithers were forcing bewildered beetles to race down the length of their swords.

The silence stretched. She tried to ignore it, concentrating on wiping her hand with paper napkins. But she noticed that Clay’s forefinger flicked against his thumb, the only sign of perturbation she’d seen in him yet. Perhaps, she thought, he did regret, just a little, what he had to say.

“Toward the end of his life, your uncle insisted on drafting a rather strange new will,” he said slowly, returning his gaze to Melanie’s face. “I hope you’ll take time to think it over carefully before you react. I know it’s going to come as a shock.”

She laughed, and the sound was harsher than she had intended. The boys looked up from their beetle race and stared. “I doubt it. I knew my uncle very well.”

“So did L”

“Did you really?” She eyed him coldly. “Did you live with him for eight years, dependent on him for every scrap of food you ate, every stitch of clothing you wore, every smile, every hug, every bit of affection you received?”

“No.” He frowned. “Of course not”

“Then I don’t believe you knew him quite well enough,” she said. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be a single controlling, vindictive thing he could do to surprise you.”

Clay sighed. “Look, Melanie, I’m sorry…”

His voice sounded genuinely regretful, and even that little hint of pity threatened to destroy her hard-won composure.

Bracing herself, she dug her heels into the sand beneath the table and narrowed her eyes.

“Violins aren’t necessary, Mr. Logan. I’ve known since I was sixteen years old that my uncle planned to disinherit me.”

One side of Clay’s mouth—that wide, generous mouth—quirked up. “And you never let yourself hope that Joshua might change his mind?”

“Never,” she lied, though she could see that he knew it wasn’t true. “Never.”

“Then perhaps I’m going to have the pleasure of surprising you after all.” Clay crossed one leg over the other and propped his head against the palm of his hand. He was the picture of languorous ease—darn him. Melanie’s own posture was so tight she could almost hear her muscles humming.

“Well, you can try,” she said, managing what she hoped was a lazy smile, but which felt annoyingly like a sickly one.

“Okay.” He smiled. “Two months before he died, your uncle established what is commonly known as an incentive trust. In that trust, he left everything—his house, his collection of antique maps, his stocks, bonds and cash holdings and, of course, the Browning ruby—to one person.” He eyed her, obviously assessing the impact of his list. “That’s an estate totaling well over twelve million dollars.”

“Left them to—” she swallowed “—to whom?”

Clay twitched one long, lazy forefinger toward Melanie. “To you.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her vocal cords had gone slack. Everything? Even the ruby? That wasn’t possible. Joshua had said—

“There are certain conditions, of course.”

Melanie’s numb hands slowly clenched into fists in her lap. Conditions. Of course. Nothing Joshua Browning had ever offered in his life had been unconditional.

“That,” she said, “might have been predicted.”

“Yes, perhaps. But I did warn you. This is where it gets strange.” Clay leaned forward. The sudden movement stirred the air, and the trembling breath she took tasted sickly sweet, like overblown magnolias. “It’s true,” he said. “You are to inherit everything, every single penny, but only if you can, within one year, prove that you are mature enough to handle it”

She stared. “Prove what?”

Clay shrugged. “Apparently Joshua had certain…reservations about some of your life choices. And, as well, he feared that your brother might coerce you into doing something unwise.”

“Nick would?” Her lips twisted. “What? Did Joshua think I might cut up the Romeo Ruby and use it to buy my brother video games?”

Clay didn’t smile. “Or private schools. Designer shoes. Tennis lessons.”

“Twelve million is a lot of tennis lessons,” she snapped.

“Yes, it is,” he answered calmly. “Too many. I think that was Joshua’s point”

She stared at him. How dare he take that superior tone? This was so utterly preposterous, and yet how like Joshua it was! Though Clay made it all sound so pragmatic, Melanie knew that Joshua hadn’t cared a fig what became of the money. He’d just wanted another way to control her, even from beyond the grave.

“Tell me, Mr. Logan. Did my uncle have any idea how a person can prove anything as intangible as good judgment? Surely maturity can’t be quantified.”

Clay didn’t look at all disturbed by her bitterness. “Actually Joshua suggested several ways. He thought a review of your finances might help, combined with a look at Nick’s grades, interviews with his teachers, things like that But in addition he said that, in his opinion, the ideal proof would be for you to marry someone the executor approved of. Someone who couldn’t be suspected of marrying you for your inheritance.”

Marry her for the money…Had Joshua really said that? Had he really still needed to throw that in her face? Memories of that long-ago night, of an elopement that failed, a love that was proven false, flooded over Melanie like a river of shame.

“Oh, that’s rich! I must marry to get my inheritance? For God’s sake! That’s…that’s…” Realizing she was in danger of sputtering, she took a breath. “That’s positively feudal”

Clay nodded gravely. “So I told Joshua. But he was adamant.”

Suddenly she longed to tell Joshua exactly what she thought of his “incentive trust”. But it was too late. She would never again tell Joshua anything. He was dead. For the first time, it seemed to sink in that her long battle with him was over.

And this…this insult had been his parting message to her.