How To Marry A Millionaire (For Richer, For Poorer) Read online

  How to Marry a Millionaire

  Charlotte Maclay

  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 One

  “No, don’t tell him I called,” she said, her voice catching. “I’ll get back to you later.”

  Hand trembling, Kathryn Prim hung up the phone on her desk and used a tissue to wipe a tear from her eye. That had been the most difficult call of her life...one that was long overdue.

  Before she could draw a shaky breath, a large, very masculine hand closed firmly over her shoulder.

  Kathryn screamed.

  “Hey, it’s all right, pretty lady. You probably should have dumped the bum years ago.”

  Heart thundering, Kathryn swiveled in her chair, shifting her gaze from the man’s powerful hand to the showy silver belt buckle at his tapered waist, up past a worn leather jacket that tugged across broad shoulders, to a pair of blue-green eyes that smiled down at her. Sweat marks from the motorcycle helmet he carried tucked under his arm darkened the waves of his cinnamon brown hair. Somebody must have left the office door unlocked after-hours, she swiftly concluded, and this guy was a late special messenger with papers for her attorney boss, Tom Weston.

  She hoped.

  Gathering herself, she said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No problem.” As though he owned the place, he pulled up her office mate’s chair, sat down and extended his jeans-clad legs, crossing one booted foot over the other. The soles were almost worn through. As he leaned back, the chair squeaked under his weight—a hundred ninety pounds of serious masculinity. “The way I see it, the guy must be nuts to let you go. Anybody can see you’re a knockout. The pick of this year’s crop. Why, you probably have half the men in town waiting in line to ask you out.”

  Not likely, and even the thought wasn’t particularly flattering. Kathryn made it a point to avoid that kind of a reputation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That phone call. I came in and there you were, crying...” He leaned toward her, a little too close for comfort—bringing with him the enticing scent of spicy after-shave—and rested his elbows on his knees. His perusal was disturbingly intimate, skimming across her hair, which she wore tied back in a neat bun, then lingering an extra moment on the all-too-rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath her tailored blouse.

  As he shifted the helmet, she noticed a fine smattering of light brown hair on the backs of his hands, and long, tapered fingers. His fingernails were surprisingly well-trimmed and manicured compared to the casual way he was dressed. “You weren’t talking to your boyfriend?” he asked.

  “No. My sister, Alice.” It had taken Kathryn weeks to build up the courage to make that single call, which she was in no mood to discuss with anyone. “I haven’t spoken with her in years. Though I really don’t see that it’s any business of yours.”

  He frowned, though not in a way that suggested he was in the least put off by her statement. “Then you didn’t just get dumped?”

  “It hardly seems possible since I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, hallelujah!” His broad grin creased both of his cheeks in a totally infectious way. “That leaves the field clear for me.”

  She stifled a responding smile. This guy certainly didn’t let any grass grow under his feet. He’d probably developed his winning technique at the local singles’ bar. “Mr....I’m afraid I didn’t get your name?”

  “Curt Creighton, bachelor millionaire at your service, ma’am.” He gave her another one of those disarming smiles that begged for company.

  She resisted...barely. “Mr. Creighton, I don’t happen to be in the market for a bachelor millionaire right now. But if you’re here to deliver some papers to my employer, Mr. Weston, or to one of the other attorneys, I’d be happy to sign for them.”

  His gaze flicked to the nameplate on the side of her desk that identified her as a paralegal, then back again. “Please don’t reject me, Katie, my girl.”

  She winced at the use of the nickname that brought back nothing but bad memories. “I prefer Ms. Prim, if you don’t mind.”

  His lips twitched and he cocked an amused eyebrow.

  “And I’ve heard all the jokes, so don’t bother.”

  “Yes, ma’am, whatever you say...Ms. Prim.” He said her name slowly, letting the final syllable slip through his lips in a slow, sensual breath. “But you see, when a beautiful woman turns me down, particularly one who’s been crying, I view it as a challenge to bring a little happiness into her life again.”

  “Namely you?”

  He shrugged and amused crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. “Surely you don’t doubt I could bring a smile to your lovely lips.”

  She stood and narrowed her gaze. The look would have cowed a lesser man. It didn’t budge this guy—not an inch. Studying him again, she belatedly noted a stubborn set to his jaw, a never-say-never glint in his eye. Smiling or not, the man was a predator at heart. The realization sent an anxious feeling burrowing into the back of her skull.

  “I doubt you’ll have the opportunity to do anything regarding my lips.” Kathryn sensed that if she gave Curt Creighton a chance, his overpowering personality and his damnably attractive grin might well get him more than simply a smile. Forget that as a messenger he probably didn’t have but a little loose change in his pocket, wild story about millions to the contrary. She’d vowed when she left home at age seventeen she’d never trust a man again. Rich or poor. For twelve years she’d kept that promise... mostly by avoiding temptation. She wasn’t about to change her modus operandi now.

  He rose slowly from the chair, finally standing full height, his chin level with the top of her head. “That definitely sounds like a challenge, Ms. Prim.”

  His soft, intimate tone skidded along her spine. She fought the sensation, watching with a degree of anxiety as he casually slid his hand inside his jacket.

  “Do you prefer swords or pistols at dawn?” he asked, then cocked a single brown eyebrow. “Or more appropriately, roses or diamonds at dusk?”

  “I prefer you leave. Now.” She hated the husky, hesitant note in her voice.

  From under his jacket he produced a large, brown envelope and handed it to her. “Tell Tom I’ll see him in the morning. I’ll see you then, too.”

  In the worst way Kathryn wanted to deny the possibility. “Are you a...client?” On a first-name basis with the boss?

  “When some woman tries to nail me with a negligence suit, I am. The rest of the time I’m an ol’ college buddy.”

  “I see.”

  “The lady claims she hurt her back when she fell out of my bed.”

  Kathryn raised her eyebrows. It figured.

  “Well, not exactly my bed,” he continued. “The one in the guest bedroom.”

  Given Curt’s athletic appearance and his cavalier attitude, she doubted the distinction had much legal merit. “I’ll see Mr. Weston gets the information.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” He took a couple of steps toward the doorway, just enough to give Kathryn some sense of relief, then turned back. “You planning to close up shop soon?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Good. I’ll wait for you.”

  “You reall
y don’t have to do that, Mr. Creighton.”

  “Curt,” he corrected with easy insistence. “It’s after dark and the building is empty. I don’t want you riding down in the elevator all alone. That’s not a good idea in a city like Los Angeles.”

  “I’ve been managing alone for years, thank you.”

  “Ah. I suppose you’ve had one of those self-defense courses. Waste of time with a determined mugger.”

  Kathryn felt the guilty heat of a flush creep up her neck. She’d often thought much the same herself. “I also used to be on the high-school track team, if that reassures you.”

  “Nope. I’ll just wait.” He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest, his helmet dangling from one hand.

  Among assorted attributes, stubbornness appeared to be a dominant characteristic in males, she concluded, not for the first time. It didn’t disturb her greatly. She could be pretty obstinate herself. “If you’ll wait in the reception area, I’ll be right there.”

  When he left, she quickly put away the papers on her desk, delivered the envelope to Tom’s office and locked all of the inner doors. Then she slipped out the private entrance. When she got downstairs, she’d ask the security guard to make sure Mr. Creighton had left the office. Meanwhile, she’d be safely on her way.

  She walked resolutely down the carpeted hallway. Rounding the corner to the elevators, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Ready to go?” Curt asked with the casual ease of a man who always got his way. He had already pushed the button and had the open elevator waiting for them.

  Stepping inside, she faked a weak smile, hoping she wasn’t making a serious mistake. She carefully placed herself next to the control panel, her finger practically resting on the emergency bell. In the musty confines of the elevator she easily caught the appealing scent of his after-shave. He was, after all, a client of the firm and one of Tom Weston’s friends. Or so he said.

  Except for the odd curl of warmth in her midsection generated by Curt’s amused expression, the ride down to the first floor was uneventful. She watched with a certain amount of relief, however, as the doors parted.

  Before she could step from the elevator, Curt right beside her, the brilliant flash of a camera struck her in the face, not once, but twice, in quick succession. Purple spots appeared before her eyes.

  “Thanks, Mr. Creighton,” the photographer called, dashing toward the exit.

  “Damn,” Curt muttered under his breath.

  Blinking, Kathryn asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “The paparazzi. Yellow-rag photographers and journalists follow me around all the time.” He slipped his arm around her waist in a thoroughly proprietary gesture, finally escorting her out of the elevator. “Sorry about that. I thought I’d lost them on my motorcycle.”

  “Why on earth would they want to...” Her jaw dropped open. Curt Creighton, heir to the Creighton fortunes, millionaire playboy and the owner of Seduction Incorporated—a man who was the object of more gossip than Princess Di. My God, she’d never made the connection...

  She nearly ran to her car, though Curt, with his long-legged strides, had no trouble keeping up with her. Kathryn didn’t want anything to do with a guy who was the center of so much attention. Privacy. Nobody snooping into her personal affairs. That’s the way she lived her life.

  Her hand shook as she unlocked the car door, and her knees felt a little wobbly as she slid into the driver’s seat. It had been bad enough as a teenager to know everyone in town knew what she was up to; it would mean even more misery to have the entire world aware of her least little indiscretion.

  * * *

  CURT WATCHED KATHRYN drive her VW Rabbit out of the nearly empty underground parking lot. The rough sound of the engine echoed through the concrete structure as he tugged on his helmet. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d called her a pretty lady. Her hair was a striking shade of blond, with just a hint of strawberry and enough natural curl so the strands gave the impression they were struggling to escape the severe hairdo they were forced to endure. Her tasteful makeup didn’t quite cover a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  Her figure was good, too, and so were her legs, what he’d seen of them when her skirt rode up a bit as she slid into her car.

  Of course, a woman in tears had always been his weakness. At least, according to his sister, Lucy, that was true.

  Kathryn had something else going for her, though. Sadness lingered in her melt-your-heart hazel eyes even when she was trying to be tough. He suspected that beneath her tailored clothes, she was trying to hide something—from herself as much as anyone else. Something more than a few freckles. Maybe a big-time capacity to care, he mused as he tightened the helmet strap under his chin. An admirable trait that could get a woman into a whole lot of trouble if she came up against the wrong guy.

  And her voice. If rose petals could speak, they’d sound like Kathryn Prim—soft and velvety.

  He twisted the ignition key of the Harley and felt the power rise beneath him. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he’d find an opportunity to get to know Kathryn a little bit better.

  Smiling from behind the tinted visor, he wondered if she was as straitlaced as her last name implied. Or if with the proper tutelage she could be thoroughly shameless.

  * * *

  KATHRYN PARKED IN FRONT of her apartment house, a three-story stucco building a block off of Wilshire Boulevard. The Santa Monica neighborhood still had a certain amount of charm despite its aging veneer. As she eased out of the car, she discovered every muscle in her body ached. A definite sign of stress.

  Before she reached the building’s entrance, her favorite neighbor greeted her on the sidewalk with a cheery, “Hello, my little chickadee. It appears you’ve had a hard day.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. The guy must be psychic. “Hello, Rudy. How ever did you guess?”

  “Ah, you forget, mon amie, I am an actor, a master of body language.” The wiry octogenarian hadn’t had a part in twenty years...nor had he forgotten a single line he’d ever spoken on camera. “I see how your shoulders are hunched and the creases that mar your lovely forehead.”

  Evidently the knot in Kathryn’s stomach wasn’t visible. Building up enough courage to call her kid sister for the first time in twelve years had generated a whole lot of anxiety. Somehow Kathryn had known Alice would still be living in the small farming community in central California where they grew up. Kathryn simply hoped her sister would keep her word not to tell their father she’d called. She wasn’t quite ready to face that particular challenge just yet.

  “It was a long day,” she hedged, unwilling to talk about the whole rash of stressful experiences she’d had in the past hour or so.

  “It is more than that, my darling,” Rudy insisted, adjusting the jaunty angle of his beret on his full head of white hair. “Perhaps you are ill? Your face appears flushed.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Responsibility for her accelerated heartbeat and the continued rapid flow of blood through her veins could be laid right at the feet of Curt Creighton. She could have handled him if he’d only been a lothario in messenger’s garb. Certainly she’d had plenty of experience dodging unwelcome advances.

  “You vant already to come up to my apartment,” Rudy offered, slipping into one of the many characters in his repertoire. He had an amazing facility to imitate voices and accents. “I made chicken soup like my mother—”

  “No, thanks. I’ll zap something in the microwave. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.” She tried to slip past him on the walkway, but he didn’t give an inch.

  “Bah. You study too hard. You should be having fun. Going to parties.” He gestured expansively, his full shirtsleeves creating their own breeze. “You should be finding a man.”

  This evening a man had found her. A man she sensed was very dangerous....and possibly determined. “I’m getting a law degree, Rudy. Going to night school two evenings a week mea
ns a lot of work.” Considering the couple of times a week she tried to get to the gym for a jazzercise workout, there were few leisure moments in her life, and she liked it that way.

  “But it is so boring, chérie.”

  “Yes. I know.” She outmaneuvered him and hurried up the steps. She was boring. Intentionally so. Once the talk of the town, albeit a small town, she’d vowed never to let that happen again.

  Now some jerk-face photographer might be planning to plaster her picture across a national tabloid, with who knew what kind of a suggestive headline, and link her name with that of Curt Creighton. According to the press, he was a world-class womanizer. His face—and often his muscular physique—hit the grocery store tabloids with considerable regularity, usually with a woman at his side wearing a skimpy swimsuit that revealed more than it hid. Apparently the man spent a great deal of time with female companions, lounging around the heart-shaped pool at his Hollywood Hills mansion.

  Not that Kathryn had read any of the articles about the guy. But the headlines were enough to bring a blush to the cheeks of even an experienced woman.

  He was skilled in the art of flirtation, she’d give him that. Evidently far more skilled than she was at keeping her reactions under control. He had an uncanny knack of getting too close, of entering a woman’s private space to make her think about hot, sweaty bodies and long, languorous nights. Forbidden thoughts she’d discarded years ago.

  The whole experience had been enough to give her a migraine—a nasty one that blurred her vision as she slid her key into the apartment lock.

  She could only hope both the photographer and Curt Creighton would lose interest in her in a hurry. After all, she was too overdressed to make a big splash on the front page of a tabloid, and far too uncooperative for a man like Creighton.

  After changing into comfortable slacks and a warm sweater against the chill of an autumn evening, she took her microwaved dinner into the second bedroom. Like the rest of the small apartment, everything in her office was orderly. Books were lined on bookshelves and arranged alphabetically by author for fiction, by subject for nonfiction, and there was a special section for her textbooks. Three carefully sharpened pencils lay in a neat row on the right-hand side of the walnut desk, and a crooked-neck lamp lit a spotless mock-leather desk pad. At some intuitive level she admitted her fetish for being organized was an effort to keep her emotions as well ordered as her professional life. Surely no one could criticize her subconscious motives.