Marrying a Delacourt. Sherryl Woods

forget about work, highly entertaining. It gave her a great deal of pleasure, however, to remind him from time to time that he wasn’t God’s gift to women. She figured she had at least a little credibility since she was one of the few who’d ever walked away from him.

      Over the years she had observed his pattern from a nice, safe distance. Most of the women he dated were eventually abandoned by him through benign neglect, never in an explosion of passionate fireworks. She suspected that most of those relationships contained less passion than some of the occasional conversations she and Michael had over legal matters. In the deep, dark middle of the night, she took a certain comfort in that.

      Tonight as she settled into the fancy Delacourt corporate jet, she glanced around at the posh interior and smiled. Of course Michael expected her to be impressed by the bottle of chilled champagne, the little plate of hot hors d’oeuvres. No doubt he still thought of her as the small-town girl who’d been wide-eyed the first time he’d taken her on a trip in this very same plane.

      They had gone from Austin, where she’d been in school, to Houston for a visit to the family mansion. Michael had wanted to introduce her to his family, especially his charismatic, much-idolized father. She had been stunned, if not impressed, by the evidence of their wealth. Even with Michael at her side, she had wondered if she would ever truly fit in there.

      These days it took a lot more than champagne and canapés to impress her. Apparently Michael had forgotten that in recent years she’d worked for a lot of people every bit as rich as the Delacourts. In fact, she’d prided herself on taking quite a bit of money away from them.

      Oh, yes, she thought with anticipation, this little trip to Los-wherever-Texas held a lot of promise. For Michael to be anywhere other than in his office or at some gala where he could network was so rare that the explanation was bound to be a doozy. She could hardly wait to hear it.

      The flight didn’t take long. When they landed, a car was waiting for her at the airport and the pilot gave her very thorough written and verbal directions, then regarded her anxiously.

      “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to drive you, Ms. Foster? I don’t mind, and Mr. Delacourt suggested that would be best.”

      Grace understood the insulting implications of that. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-two-inch height.

      “Thanks, Paul, but I am perfectly capable of driving a few miles,” she said coolly. Beyond his low regard for her driving skills, she knew what Michael was up to. He wanted her wherever he was at his beck and call, with no car available for a speedy exit. “Thank you, though. You can let Mr. Delacourt know that I am on my way.”

      The pilot, who’d been around during the days of their stormy relationship, grinned at her display of defiance. “Whatever you say, Ms. Foster. Nice seeing you again.”

      “You, too, Paul.”

      Satisfied that she had won that round, Grace got behind the wheel of the rental car, studied the directions one last time and tried not to panic. The truth was, she had a very unfortunate sense of direction. To top it off, the sky was pitch-black, the moon little more than a distant, shimmering sliver of silver. And it wasn’t as if there were a lot of street signs out here in the middle of nowhere.

      “I can do this,” she told herself staunchly.

      Twenty minutes later she was forced to concede that she was hopelessly lost. She drove around for another ten minutes trying to extricate herself from the tangle of rural roads that apparently led nowhere close to where she wanted to go. By the time she finally abandoned her pride, she was highly irritated. With great reluctance, she called Michael at the number the pilot had discreetly written at the bottom of the page.

      “The plane landed forty-five minutes ago. Where the devil are you?” Michael demanded.

      “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling.”

      He moaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself lost.”

      “It wasn’t me,” she protested. “It was these stupid directions. Whoever heard of telling somebody to turn at a blasted pine forest? I saw a pine tree, I turned. Now I seem to be staring at a pasture. There are cattle in the pasture, and I am not amused.”

      He chuckled.

      “It’s not funny. Laugh again and I’ll be back at the airport and out of here.”

      “Not likely,” he muttered.

      “Michael,” she said, her tone a warning.

      “Sorry. It’s just that this is one of your many charms,” he said. “For a woman who has a law degree and a thriving practice in a major metropolitan area, you are absolutely pitiful when it comes to getting from one place to the next. I am amazed you ever make it to court on time.”

      “Will you just tell me how to get from here to there?” she snapped. She was not about to tell him that only years of practice and sticking to the same, precise route assured her of getting to the courthouse. Unanticipated detours gave her hives.

      “Sweetheart, you’re in a ranching area,” he said, pointing out the obvious with what sounded like a little too much glee. “There are a lot of cows. Can’t you just back up, turn around and get right back on the highway where you made the wrong turn?”

      “You stay on the phone,” she instructed. “I’ll be back to you for further instructions when I am facing the highway.”

      It took another frustrating twenty minutes to backtrack and finally make her way to the turnoff Michael assured her would lead to where he was.

      When she found him waiting for her on the front porch of a spectacular house with two boys sound asleep in the rocking chairs flanking him, her annoyance promptly gave way to amazement. This was obviously going to be a whole lot more fascinating than the weekend she’d anticipated spending with her case files and her law books.

      “Whose house is this and why are you here?” Grace asked as she and Michael settled in the living room with the cup of tea she’d insisted she preferred over wine. She wanted all her wits about her for this conversation.

      “My brother-in-law built it for Trish,” Michael explained. “And I’m here because I’ve got a whole family of conspirators.”

      “Another forced vacation?” She’d heard all about the last one. The tale had circled the Houston grapevine before landing in the society column of the daily paper. Imagining Michael’s indignation, she had laughed out loud at the story, but she was wise enough to stifle a similar urge now.

      “You don’t have to look so amused,” he said, his own expression thoroughly disgruntled.

      “I guess even the high-and-mighty Michael Delacourt has someone he has to answer to on occasion.”

      “If you’re going to start taking potshots, I’m going to regret calling you.”

      “It’s all part of the package,” she informed him. “But let’s get down to business.”

      She gestured toward the stairs. The boys had been awakened and sent off to bed in a guest room. Since they’d barely been alert enough to acknowledge her existence, she imagined they were sleeping soundly again by now.

      “Who are they?” she asked.

      Michael appeared not to have heard her. They were alone in a cozy room that had been designed for the comfort of big men. He was sprawled in an oversized chair, looking frazzled. Even here he was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open. No jeans and T-shirts for this man. No wonder he made the society pages so often. He always looked like a million bucks.

      Grace liked her power suits as well as the next person, but on the weekends, she settled into shorts or comfortable, well-worn jeans, faded, shapeless T-shirts, and sandals. She’d deliberately worn her weekend wardrobe to demonstrate how unimpressed she’d been by this out-of-the-blue invitation.

      Now, with her