The Marriage Agreement. Renee Ryan

sculpted the darkened ballroom as Fanny Mitchell awaited her employer’s arrival. A happy sigh leaked out of her, echoing off the ornate walls. She loved this cavernous, oft overlooked room, loved it above all others in the hotel.

      An expectant, almost dreamy silence hung in the air, as if Fanny was on the brink of something new and wonderful. Arms outstretched, she executed an uninhibited spin across the dance floor. Then stopped abruptly, frowning at her whimsy.

      A quick tug on her sleeves, a readjustment of her skirt, and she was back to being the oh-so-proper guest-services manager of the finest hotel in Denver, Colorado.

      Decorum restored, she continued her inspection at a more sedate pace. In four days, Mrs. Beatrix Singletary would hold her annual charity ball in this very room. Three hundred of Denver’s most important residents were invited to attend, including most of Fanny’s family. It would be the first time the widow held the event outside her home. Fanny suspected this change in venue was because Mrs. Singletary now owned one quarter of the Hotel Dupree.

      As owner of the other three quarters, Fanny’s employer wished to impress his new business partner with the efficiency of their hotel staff. Fanny would not let him down.

      She would not let herself down. This was her chance to prove she was more than the gossips claimed, more than the labels others had attached to her since childhood.

      By organizing this particular function, the largest and most anticipated of the year, Fanny would finally show the good people of Denver that she was worthy of their respect. That she hadn’t jilted one of the most highly respected men in town on impulse, or because of some hidden flaw in her character.

      Her decision had been well thought out and for all the right reasons.

      Fanny moved to a nearby wall and pressed a switch on the raised panel. The recently installed Maria Theresa chandelier came alive with light.

      The absurd fee to ship the exquisite fixture from Europe had been well worth the cost. Airy and delicate, the handblown glass and crystal rosettes twisted around the metal frame in such a way as to give the illusion of a floating waterfall.

      Continuing her inspection, she made mental notes where to put tables, chairs and the myriad of flower arrangements she’d personally designed.

      This was what she was born to do, taking an annual event people talked about for months and turning it into an even more spectacular occasion.

      Why, then, did she experience a sudden burst of melancholy? Why this strange bout of dissatisfaction?

      Fanny knew, of course.

      She would soon celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. Unlike her four married siblings, Fanny had no one special in her life.

      There was still time for her own happily-ever-after. For now, she would focus on the many blessings the Lord had bestowed on her. She had siblings who adored her, parents who supported her unconditionally and a job she loved, working beside a man she greatly admired.

      “Fanny,” a deep, masculine voice called from behind her, the tone a mix of amusement and lazy drawl. “You’ve arrived ahead of me as usual.”

      She ignored a rush of anticipation and slowly pivoted around to face her employer. For one dreadful, wonderful moment, her heart lifted.

      There he stood, framed in the doorway. Jonathon Hawkins. The intensely private, overly serious, wildly successful hotelier, whose rags to riches story inspired everyone he met, Fanny most of all.

      He was so competent, so handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of glossy, dark brown hair, he attracted more than his fair share of female attention.

      He seemed oblivious to his effect on women. His mantra was business first, business always. Though she felt a sad heart tug over his resolve to remain unattached and childless, Fanny appreciated his single-minded focus.

      That was, at any rate, her official stand on the matter.

      His mouth curved in an easy half smile and a sudden dizziness struck her.

      “Mr. Hawkins.” She ordered her heartbeat to slow to a normal rate. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve secured—”

      He lifted a hand to stop her. “You agreed to call me Jonathon.”

      Her breath snagged on a skittering rush of air. Of course. They’d been on a first-name basis for over a year. She’d nearly forgotten in his absence, though he’d been gone but a week.

      “I...yes, I...” Get control of yourself, Fanny. “Are you ready for our final walk-through, Jonathon?”

      “I am, indeed.” He pushed away from the door frame.

      Here we go, she thought, silently bracing for the impact of his nearness.

      As his long, purposeful strides ate up the distance between them, she noted how he moved with predatory grace. Jonathon Hawkins was a study in contradictions, a man who could be sophisticated and mannerly, or cunning and shrewd, depending on the situation.

      He stopped, leaving a perfectly appropriate amount of space between them. Always the gentleman, she thought. She knew enough about his past to find that especially intriguing. And there went that sad little heart tug again.

      “Shall we begin?” Under the bright glow of the chandelier, his eyes seemed to hold a thousand shades of blue.

      She swallowed back a sigh. “Yes.”

      “After you.” He gestured for her to take the lead.

      For a dangerous moment, she couldn’t make her feet work properly. Jonathon seemed different today, more intent, more focused. His silvery-blue eyes gleamed with intelligence and something else, something she knew better than to define.

      Quickly breaking eye contact, she directed him to the far right corner of the ballroom. Their heels struck the freshly polished floor in perfect rhythm with one another.

      “We’ll set up banquet tables here and...over there.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the opposite corner. “This will allow easy access to the food without obstructing the general flow of traffic to and from the dance floor.”

      He studied the two spaces. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if picturing the setup in his mind. “Excellent.”

      Pleased by his approval, she continued guiding him through the room, stopping at various points along the way to explain her ideas in greater detail. When they were once again standing in the spot where they’d begun, she drew in a deep breath. “Do you have any questions or concerns?”

      “Not at the moment.” He smiled down at her. “Thank you, Fanny. As always, you’ve thought of everything.”

      Had she? She turned in a slow circle, attempting to determine if there’d been a forgotten detail, something they were both missing. When nothing came to mind, she returned his smile. “I think we’re ready.”

      “So it would seem.”

      A moment of silent understanding passed between them. His expression was so full of meaning, so unexpectedly affectionate, she thought he might lean in closer and...and...

      She quickly looked away. “I hope Mrs. Singletary agrees.”

      That earned her a soft chuckle. “You’ve left nothing to chance. I’m confident your efforts will find favor with the illustrious Beatrix Singletary.”

      “Did I hear someone mention my name?” As if she’d been waiting for her cue, the widow materialized in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other poised against her chin.

      On anyone else, the pose would look ridiculous. Not on Mrs. Singletary. She was a woman with flair, always dressed impeccably in the latest fashion. A renowned beauty in her day, the widow had golden-brown hair that was a perfect foil for her fair complexion. Her face showed few signs that nearly four and a half decades had passed since her birth.

      Fanny liked the woman. She