A Proper Wife. Sandra Marton

      Excerpt Dedication About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

      “The marriage is on!”

      Marriage. Was he crazy?

      

      “The ceremony’s Friday at four o’clock.”

      

      He was crazy!

      

      “I don’t want to ruin this for you,” Devon snapped, “but you’ve left out one minor detail, Ryan. Me! Marriage takes two, and I am one of the principal parties in this lunatic scheme, or had you overlooked that?”

      

      “How could I possibly overlook it? It’s not every day a man has his bride handpicked for him.”

      

      “Stop calling me that,” Devon said fiercely.

      

      “I am not your bride!”

      

      “Not yet you aren’t. But you will be, come Friday afternoon.”

      FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it, or not!

      SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sunfilled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut, where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.

      A Proper Wife

      Sandra Marton

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      HER hair was the pale gold of summer wheat, her eyes the deep purple of wood violets. And for one heart-stopping instant as she started down the steps, Ryan Kincaid thought she might not be wearing anything beneath the ankle-length, crimson velvet cape but her own honeyed skin.

      Logic told him otherwise. Montano’s might be New York’s trendiest department store, but, he thought wryly, it didn’t go in for nude modeling.

      It was the way she held the cape closed that made for the incredible illusion. Her hands clutched the high mandarin collar against her chin so that the cape flared open at each stride, revealing an incredible length of elegant, curvaceous leg.

      Ryan’s green eyes narrowed in appreciation. She really was stunning. And she knew it. You could see it in the proud way she held herself, in the look of disdain etched on her perfect face. All the other models had smiled at the crowd of shoppers gathered at the foot of the mezzanine steps, but she moved like a queen, never deigning to notice the peasants.

      It only made her all the more appealing, Ryan thought, and he felt his body stir with interest.

      Getting trapped in Montano’s crowded aisles during what had turned out to be the store’s Friday Fashion Show was turning out to be more pleasant than he’d expected.

      Frank, standing just behind him, gave a choked groan.

      “Oh, me, oh, my,” he whispered, “will you look at the blonde?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The answer to a man’s dreams.”

      Ryan grinned. “X-rated dreams,” he said softly.

      It was amazing, the series of images that were flashing through his mind. And that was weird. He was not a man given to sexual fantasies: there’d always been enough beautiful women in his life to keep him more than happy with reality. But just looking at this one as she came down the mezzanine steps was putting his brain into overdrive.

      “No offense,” Frank murmured, “but I’d sure rather have a drink with her than with you.”

      Ryan smiled. “Forget the drink. I’d rather take her home, peel off that velvet cape and make a career of finding out what’s underneath it.”

      The comment had been meant for no ears but Frank’s, but just as Ryan began to speak, the music that had been playing gave an electronic burp and died. The hum of the crowd subsided.

      And Ryan’s words were clear and distinct in the ensuing silence.

      The blonde froze.

      The crowd gave a delighted gasp.

      Ryan gave a soft groan of embarrassment.

      What now? he thought. Did he grin? Shrug his shoulders, laugh the whole thing off? Should he offer an apology?

      In the end, there were no options. The blonde’s jaw tightened, her spine stiffened, and she resumed her walk down the stairs but with a purposeful stride.

      A girl broke from the little cluster of models gathered at the foot of the staircase, said something and reached out a hand, but the blonde shrugged it off and marched toward him.

      Frank gave a soft laugh. “Adiós, muchacho,” he murmured, and stepped back.

      She came to a stop in front of Ryan, her beautiful face white with barely repressed rage, her eyes locked on his. He cleared his throat, then gave her the smile that had charmed some of the most exquisite women in Manhattan.

      “Amazing, the tricks acoustics can play,” he said pleasantly.

      She said nothing, just went on looking at him with that glint of fury in her eyes.

      Ryan cleared his throat again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m really sorry about that, but—”

      “You,” she said coldly, “have the manners of a goat.”

      Someone in the crowd tittered. Ryan felt an unaccustomed flush of color rise into his face.

      “Yes. Well, I—”

      She came a step closer. A faint scent of perfume—Opium? L’Air du Temps?—teased his nostrils.

      “Or are you just a pluperfect jackass?”

      The titters came again, louder and more widespread. Ryan had to work at keeping his smile plastered to his face.

      “Look, miss,” he said, “I’m sorry if—”