The Playboy’s Unexpected Bride. Sandra Marton

offered brandy. A cigar. Coffee. Linc said no to all three.

      “Something’s on your mind, Hernando.” Linc’s tone was polite but cool. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just get to it.”

      His host nodded. Licked his lips. Fussed at the logs on the hearth with a poker before finally looking at Linc.

      “This is difficult for me, Lincoln.”

      “But?”

      “But there is something I must ask.” A quick laugh. “I am not good at asking for favors. Not that this is a favor, exactly. I mean, it is something that will surely benefit you, as well as me.”

      Here it comes, Linc thought, folding his arms over his chest. A request to change the terms of their agreement? To renegotiate the price? What else could it be?

      “And what is it you must ask?”

      Marques cleared his throat. “You are unmarried Lincoln. That is correct, yes?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I said, you are single. Am I right?”

      Linc frowned. What did his marital status have to do with anything? “Uh, yes. Yes, I’m single.”

      “No children, then?”

      “Marques. What is this about?”

      “Because, you see, it is possible only a man with a child—with a daughter—would understand my feelings on this matter.”

      “What matter?”

      Marques looked at him, then away. “I have a daughter. She is young—but,” he added quickly, “mature for her age.”

      “I’m afraid I don’t see what—”

      “She is also bright and well-educated. Obedient and well-mannered. And—”

      And, Linc thought in horror, as the truth began to sink in, Marques wanted to marry her off. To him?

      “I am a modern man, Lincoln. Still, when it comes to my daughter, I have some old-fashioned ways.”

      Hell. Absolutely to him. He’d heard about this kind of thing, of course, arranged marriages, especially in wealthy families in Europe and South America…

      “…would never hand her off to a man I didn’t trust and respect…”

      They did this back home, too. Not quite this openly but he’d been the target of a couple of attempts at marriage-brokering. He was in his thirties, he was single, he was well-off…

      Why think in polite euphemisms? He was rich and that was fine because he’d gotten that way strictly on his own. Nobody had given him anything in this life, which made what he’d acquired, the homes, the cars, the private plane, all the more enjoyable.

      And his looks were acceptable.

      Okay. Most women made it clear his looks were more than acceptable. He’d always had his pick of women, even back in the days he’d never had more than ten bucks in his pocket. So, yeah, he’d been here before. Approached, you could call it, by some of New York’s best-known grands dames. They had daughters and he was, by their reckoning, eligible, and so what if his blood wasn’t as blue as theirs?

      You’d love my Emma, they said. Or, Why don’t you come out to our place in Easthampton this weekend? Glenna will be there. You do remember Glenna, don’t you?

      Yes, but nobody had ever come straight out and said, Here’s my daughter. I’d like you to marry her.

      “…a charming young woman, Lincoln, polite and very willing to accommodate. If you’d simply agree to meet her—”

      “Hernando.” Linc took a deep breath. “I—I want you to know I appreciate how—how direct you’re being. This can’t be easy for you.”

      Marques gave a little laugh. “It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.”

      “I’m sure it is but the thing is—the thing is—”

      A polite knock sounded at the door. A servant popped his head in, smiled apologetically and said something in rapid Portuguese.

      Marques sighed. “My wife is on the phone, Lincoln. I’ll take the call in my office. She is visiting her sister but you know how it is with women.”

      Linc didn’t. Not with wives, at any rate, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

      “I’ll only be a minute. Help yourself to some brandy while you consider my proposition.”

      Linc waited until the door closed. Then he muttered an oath and decided brandy was a fine idea.

      How did a man turn down what Marques called a proposition? Grimly, he poured an inch of amber liquid into a snifter. He didn’t want to insult him. He didn’t want to lose this account, either, but if that was what it took to get out of here…

      What was that?

      Had something stirred outside the French doors? Clouds had moved in to obscure the moon; the light was poor but… Yes. There it was again. He had a better look now, enough to be sure what was out in the darkness wasn’t a something.

      It was a someone.

      Linc put down the brandy glass. He moved slowly, instinctively falling back into survival tactics honed to a fine edge years ago. Adrenaline pulsing through him, breathing steady, he felt himself come alive as he always had in moments like this.

      The handles to the French doors were almost within reach. One more step…

      He exploded into action, yanked the doors open, threw himself into the night and wrapped his arms around the intruder.

      Wrapped his arms around a woman.

      Definitely a woman. Her long hair swept across his face. Her breasts filled his hands. Her rounded bottom pressed against his groin. She fought him with all her strength, which was considerable, but it was no match for his.

      A cry rose in her throat. Linc sensed it coming and clapped his hand over her mouth. For all he knew, she had an accomplice.

      The feel of his hand increased her frenzy. She twisted like a wild thing caught in a trap. Linc lifted her off the ground and drew her, hard, against his body. She grunted. Her elbows slammed into his belly. Her heels rapped his shins.

      He put his mouth to her ear.

      “Stop it,” he hissed.

      She fought harder. Deliberately, he spread his hand over not just her mouth but her nose.

      “I said, stop!”

      Another jab. Another kick. His hand pressed more insistently. After a few seconds she sagged against him but he wasn’t fooled. The fight had gone out of her too fast. She was faking it.

      He put his mouth to her ear again. She smelled of roses or maybe lily-of-the-valley. He wasn’t much on flowers or scents. All he knew was that she fought like a man but she sure as hell smelled like a woman.

      “Behave, or it’s lights out. You hear me?”

      A second passed. Then she nodded. Slowly, carefully, he eased his hand from her face and swung her toward him.

      “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

      “Let go of me!”

      It was too dark to see her features but he could hear the fury in her voice, sharp with command and condescension. It was almost enough to make him laugh but laughing when your best security system had been breached didn’t quite cut it.

      “I asked you a question, lady. What’s your name? How’d you get past the gate?”

      “You asked two questions. And I gave you an order. Let go of me. Now!”

      He