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The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife. Sandra Field
Читать онлайн.Название The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781408941638
Автор произведения Sandra Field
Жанр Современная зарубежная литература
Издательство HarperCollins
The Millionaire’s Pregnant Wife
Sandra Field
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
COMING NEXT MONTH
CHAPTER ONE
IF HE HAD to deal with inheriting a mansion he’d hated on sight, he’d rather do it alone.
If he had to go through all the boxes in one room of that mansion, searching for clues to a mother about whom—to put it mildly—he felt ambivalent, he’d much rather do it alone. But it would take forever, and Luke Griffin didn’t have forever. He had a financial empire to maintain.
He needed help.
Not his usual way of operating. He’d been doing things on his own since he was too little to remember.
He thumbed through the Yellow Pages again until he found the company that had looked like a helpful lead. Organize Your Home. With a name like that, surely someone should be able to help him go through the boxes? The other choice was to haul them to the dump.
They were his only chance to find out anything about his past. Luke punched the numbers and waited for the ring.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice. A rich contralto voice, with an undertone of huskiness that managed to turn two ordinary syllables into something very close to an invitation. He said briskly, “Is this Organize Your Home?”
“You have the right number,” the woman said. “But the business is no longer in operation…sorry.”
She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded jubilant, like sunlight through the amber depths of brandy. “My name’s Luke Griffin,” he said. “I’m staying temporarily at Griffin’s Keep, and I have at least three days’ work for you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin—as I said, I’ve disbanded the company. Last week.”
He said implacably, “What do you usually charge per hour?”
“That’s not—”
“Just answer the question. And perhaps you could tell me your name?”
Her voice warmed with temper. “Kelsey North. Forty dollars an hour. It’s not on.”
“I’ll pay two hundred and fifty an hour. Multiply that by three days—I’m sure you can do the math.”
There was a taut silence. Then she said crisply, “What sort of work?”
“My grandmother—Sylvia Griffin—left me some papers that are of personal interest. Unfortunately they’re scattered throughout her financial records. Boxes and boxes of them, and each one has to be gone through page by page. I’m a busy man and I have to get back to Manhattan. I can’t take the time to do this on my own.”
“I see,” Kelsey North said. “Give me your number. I’ll call you back later this evening.”
He rhymed off the numbers on the phone. “I look forward to hearing from you,” he said smoothly. “Goodbye, Ms North.”
The woman at the other end banged the receiver down with a force that was not remotely professional. If she was one of his employees, she’d be taking a course on customer relations, Luke thought, idly wondering why she’d closed her business. Although with a voice like that she was wasted organizing other people’s closets.
If, when she called back, she said no, he was in deep trouble.
He’d up the rate to five hundred an hour. That’d get her, he thought cynically, and went to see if he could rustle up a cup of coffee in the archaic kitchen of Griffin’s Keep.
KELSEY GLARED AT the receiver as if Luke Griffin was standing on top of it. The nerve of the man. The arrogance. As if she was supposed to levitate six feet in the air the moment he said jump.
Organize Your Home no longer existed. Finished. Kaput. She was free, free, free!
She did an impromptu twirl around the living room, then sat down again at the table where she’d been working on her list when the phone had rung. It was a list, in bright red marker, of all the things she wanted to do now that her life was her own.
Go to art school. Travel. Paint a masterpiece. Paint her toenails purple. Have torrid sex.
Her brow knitted. She crossed out torrid. Any kind of sex would do, wouldn’t it? Still frowning, she erased Have sex and substituted Have an affair. It sounded more romantic. Classier. Especially if she had it with someone tall, dark and handsome, who’d treat her like a piece of breakable china and give her roses and breakfast in bed.
None of her dates in the last few years had been tall, dark and handsome; there wasn’t much choice in Hadley, the village where she lived. Kelsey heaved a sigh, then added Holiday to her list.
But until she sold the house, how could she afford a holiday? Nearly all her savings had gone to the art school in Manhattan as the deposit with her application.
Two hundred and fifty dollars an hour for three days. Six thousand dollars.
Yes, she could do the math.
He was bribing her, she thought with a spurt of rage. The famous—or rather, infamous—Luke Griffin thought she could be bought.
Well, she could. Couldn’t she?
Why did everything always have to come down to money?
If she had six thousand dollars she could pay for her first two semesters and have a bit left for a trip. Somewhere south, where it was warm.
It wasn’t as though Luke Griffin couldn’t afford it. He could. He’d graduated from millions to billions several years ago, or so Alice at the post office said.
Organizing a dead woman’s papers wasn’t anywhere on her list.
So what? She’d go to Griffin’s Keep, work her butt off for three days, take the money and run. And in the meantime she’d check the internet for inexpensive package tours to a tropical island with palm trees, white sand and drinks with little colored umbrellas in them. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Kelsey picked up the phone and dialed the number for Griffin’s Keep.
Luke brushed a layer of dust off the receiver and held it to his ear. “Luke Griffin.”
“This is Kelsey North. What time do you want me to start?”
Her brandy-smooth voice was overlaid with irritation. “Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty,” he said. “I can’t find anything but mouse droppings in the pantry, so if you need caffeine to get yourself moving in the morning, you’d better bring your own.” He smiled into the phone. “Wear old clothes, the place hasn’t been cleaned in months. I look forward to meeting you, Ms North.” Gently he put the phone down.
One more woman who could be bought, he thought, and wondered if her appearance would in any way measure up to the beauty of her voice.
KELSEY