I Don't Want to be Married Read online

  “You knew the land was important to me,” Rosalind cut in.

  “It doesn’t make it right.” He bobbed his head and pursed his lips, then strolled from the kitchen.

  The silence wasn’t her friend. Sam’s chiding tone infuriated her. She threw the dirty dinner plate into the sink. The clop and clunk sound of the dish breaking irritated her further.

  “Great, now I have to clean up that mess too,” she grumbled.

  The lawyers stepping in seemed to be a heaven-sent message for Sam. He hadn’t overreacted when she’d let the cat out of the bag. He’d been very quiet and almost seemed pleased. No, he appeared relieved to let them take control of the situation.

  To her surprise, Sam hadn’t lectured her or anything. He only warned her not everything stayed the same, change was a good thing, and not all men were as easy to control as her horses. When she’d tried to question him, Sam raised his hand, signaling the conversation was finished.

  Frustrated at Sam’s M.O. these last weeks, they barely spoke. He seemed to be avoiding her, or would often leave the room when she entered. She found his dinners half eaten.

  With the deadline of the second month fast approaching, it was time to have an all-out shouting match with Sam. The stairs creaked. Rosalind slowed her steps as his bedroom door loomed in front of her. Her confidence faded.

  The sudden ringing of the phone saved her. She abruptly turned away and raced down the stairs.

  “Hello.”

  “Is Mrs. Smith available?”

  “Who . . . I’m sorry, this is she.”

  “Hello, my name is Mr. Haugen, from Johnsen and Haugen Law Office. I’m calling to let you know your inheritance will be in your control in seventy-two hours.”

  “It’s about . . . I mean, will all of it be transferred to my bank account?”

  Rosalind fisted her free hand uneasily. The amount of money he offered her would make everything simple.

  “It can be, or would you like a portion of the cash?”

  “Can I have one million?” The amount sounded strange to her own ears. Listening to herself say it aloud caused a smile as wide as a flowing river to appear on her face.

  “Yes, I’ll have it arranged to be transferred in forty-eight hours. Did you want to establish an annuity for the remainder?”

  A small gasp of delight escaped her. “Oh, I’m not sure. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “All right, Mrs. Smith. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No. Thank you, Mr. Haugen, for calling.” She hung up the phone with shaking hands and hid her excitement, knowing Sam would be able to hear if she screamed. She withdrew the now worn business card from her rear pocket.

  Two p.m. in Minnesota, an hour later in the Big Apple. All her worries would soon be settled.

  Allan, her so-called husband, would be removed from her life for good with no harm done. The quicker they pushed through the divorce, the better. Simply saying the word husband left a sour taste in her mouth. Without delay, she punched in the number from the card.

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for calling Smith and Associates Brokerage Firm. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hello, Mr. Smith please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s on the phone. May I take a message?”

  “No . . . I will . . . it’s very important I speak to him today,” Rosalind stated. “This is his wife.”

  Holding her breath, she waited. The meager self-confidence she’d gathered withered away.

  “Hello, are you still there? Did you hear me? I am his wife. I need to have a word with Mr. Smith.”

  “Sorry. Hold please,” said the voice, now decidedly unpleasant.

  She heard a click and music. Now what? What if he couldn’t talk, and another day went by without contact? It was already late afternoon and she didn’t know if she’d be able to make it into town to FedEx the divorce papers. All she wanted to do was be courteous by letting him know the papers would be arriving.

  After holding for a short time she was ready to redial when the annoying music stopped and the non-emotional voice came on the line.

  “Thanks for holding. May I have your first name?”

  “My first name? It’s Rosalind . . .”

  Before she could finish, she heard another click and the pointless music.

  Well if that doesn’t make a bull ornery.

  He needed to hire a more courteous secretary. As her temper climbed, unexpectedly the irritating music cut off.

  “Who the fuck are you? Who are you working for?”

  The familiar male voice cooled her fire, but another kind of burn flared in a different area as her pulse skyrocketed. She’d been unprepared to hear the huskiness of his voice even though it was laced with fury. Her knees weakened. Her stomach flipped.

  “I’m not . . . you’re being rude,” Rosalind snapped.

  “Listen, you money hungry, conniving bitch. I want a divorce.”

  She gripped the phone tighter, in spite of her sweaty palms. An unexpected image of him lying in silky boxers, with that sexy, hairy chest and his handsome face, caused her body to heat anew.

  “Excuse me. You don’t have to shout or call me names. That’s why I’m calling.” Rosalind forced the sexy visualization to dissipate. “I wanted to thank you again, Allan. For helping me and to let you know I’ll be sending the divorce papers today.”

  “You didn’t answer me. Whom do you work for? How much are they paying you to do this?”

  The sternness in Allan’s voice told her this wouldn’t be a walk down the yellow brick road.

  “I don’t work for anyone.”

  “Why haven’t you contacted me before this?”

  “You agreed to help me. I’ve been trying to tell you I have the divorce papers. I’m going to try and get them out to you this afternoon, so you’ll have them in the morning via next day air.”

  “Come on, this is a joke, right? You’re doing this for John.”

  “Who’s John?”

  She realized he didn’t remember anything. If he demanded an annulment because they hadn’t slept together, she’d be screwed. Mr. Haugen and Mr. Johnsen would demand she return the money. Damn.

  “Never mind. You have divorce papers for me, already?”

  “Yes, as soon as you sign them, I can submit them to the court here in Minnesota. When the divorce is finalized you’ll receive the second part of your payment.”

  “Money? How much?”

  Rosalind took a deep breath. “Mr. Smith, it seems you’ve forgotten our agreement.”

  “I don’t even know who you are. And I surely wouldn’t have agreed to marry you, or anyone for that matter.”

  “Oh, yes you did, and we are married. You agreed to help me for twenty-five thousand dollars upfront. And then upon completion . . . um, our divorce, I’m paying you another twenty-five thousand dollars. Is this ringing any bells? You were a smidgen drunk, but it is your signature on the marriage license and the certificate. You agreed.”

  “I see my name, goddamn it! I have the proof right here in front of me. This doesn’t answer my question of why. And you said no one paid you. Why would I have married you for fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Are you sure you aren’t drunk right now, Mr. Smith? Who would pay me? I paid you to marry me. I left you the initial payment of twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “I’m confused. Why would I need or take your money?”

  She heard the candor in his voice and said sharply, “I don’t know, only you would know that. If you think I’ll give you more than fifty thousand, you’ve got another think coming, mister. The agreed amount was twenty-five thousand dollars when we are divorced. Not a penny more.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. T
hat’s all?”

  “Listen here, Mr. Smith. Being president of a big company doesn’t mean you can push me around. I don’t know who you think you are. You’re not getting a dime more than the agreed upon amount,” she stated firmly.

  Rosalind stood and paced around the kitchen to calm down. Holy Mother of pastures, if this didn’t make pigs shit. He’s trying to collect more money. Damn. What a mess.

  About to fly off the handle with insults, she instead heard laughter.

  “I don’t give a damn about the money. Keep it. And for your information, I wasn’t drunk. I developed a reaction to some medication I took. It didn’t mix well with the handful of drinks I enjoyed. Why on earth am I explaining myself to you?”

  “Not sure. It’s not my problem. I said the divorce papers will be overnighted,” she stressed.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying no one paid you to blackmail me?”

  Undecided if she should be angry or laugh, Rosalind held her temper in check for the moment. “Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you you’re wrong. You’re not listening. I never mentioned anything about blackmail, you did.”

  She heard more laughter followed by what sounded like choking.

  Great. That’s all I need is for the man to die.

  “Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, are you all right?”

  “Rosalind? Is that your name?”

  His tone was much calmer and controlled. On the other hand, it now held a hint of amusement. She answered hesitantly. “Yes, that’s my name.”

  “There are certain things you should know about the person you married. The firm I own and am the president of, is one of the top Fortune Five Hundred companies in the United States. I am, and have been, one of the most sought after bachelors in the world. Somehow, you have done what others haven’t been able to do. You got the best of me. I’ll be more than happy to sign the papers when they arrive. And forget about the money. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. I want the divorce. I can’t be married.”

  “I’m sorry, Allan, I had no clue who you were . . . are. As I said before, I want this divorce as badly as you do. The documents will be FedExed before five today. Thank you very much, Mr. Smith.”

  “The sooner the better for both of us. By the way, Rosalind, why did you need to get married, or should I rephrase, why did we get married?”

  What am I supposed to say? I’m being selfish and childish. Why would some millionaire care I needed money to save horses?

  “My grandfather was kind of old fashioned. You see, in order for me to receive the bulk of my inheritance before my thirtieth birthday, I was required to be married. Like you, I didn’t want to be married. I found you at the bar in Las Vegas. I’m sorry your drunkenness gave me . . . I’m not like . . . the—our marriage was meant to be very short.”

  She held her breath and waited. It was partly the truth. The silence was broken by more of his husky laughter. His deep booming laugh brought a smile to her lips and something intense racing through her system.

  “Rosalind, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure. I contemplated hiring a private detective to find you. Get those papers to me ASAP.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “Goodbye.”

  She hung up and did another happy dance around the kitchen. She’d now be able to concentrate on Dawn’s workouts and training for the championship.

  Chapter 6

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Allan grumbled in disbelief as he placed the phone in its cradle.

  Pennies to me. Why would I have agreed to accept money? I don’t need any.

  He removed the impertinent ring from his inside breast pocket, turning it over in his fingers. He’d carried the damn thing around every day since Las Vegas. Allan opened his desk drawer and took out the marriage certificate he’d kept hidden. He stared at the words with contempt.

  Rosalind’s phone call had thrown him a curve. He’d been prepared for some sort of a blackmail plot and had his lawyers along with special agents on call if he heard from his so-called wife. Now that she had surfaced, he was in uncharted territory and unsure what to do. It hadn’t been blackmail. No need for the police; maybe his lawyer to manage the divorce, but in general he was on his own. Yet a smidgen of skepticism lingered that this whole thing hadn’t been a set–up.

  It’s my own damn fault. He knew better than to drink when he took his medicine. John and the gang would have to own up to their part in this mess.

  Allan swiveled and leaned back in his chair to take in the New York City skyline, with the new Freedom Center in the place of the Twin Towers.

  “Excuse me Mr. Smith, you need to see this.”

  Allan whirled around and stared at Paul Harrington, his Vice President. “What’s the concern? Did someone find out about our investors being involved in the Heinz Corporation business?”

  He waved for Paul to come in, who crossed the room to halt in front at his desk.

  His VP held out a newspaper. “No, I haven’t seen any movement yet. I’m not sure how to tell you. This morning’s paper has a picture of you on the front page.”

  Paul’s face was tight with emotion, his knuckles white from his grip on the paper. Allan stood and walked around his desk. When Paul said nothing, Allan grabbed the paper—

  And glared at a picture of himself with a woman he didn’t know.

  “What the hell! This can’t be happening,” he snapped.

  “Do you know this woman?”

  Allan ignored Paul’s question. It wasn’t a very nice photo. He appeared plastered and was groping a woman in a cowboy hat. The caption read:

  Allan Smith, one of the world’s most sought after bachelors, is no longer on the market. He married Rodeo Queen Rosalind Dunne the same weekend he attended a friend’s wedding in ‘Sin City,’ also known as Las Vegas—

  The paper fell from his fingers. Damn. His sublunary world was about to bust in all the wrong places. He never thought the papers or the media would find out. What if the tabloids got hold of the pictures? Not to mention Katherine’s reaction. Would every newspaper on Earth soon carry the story of his disgrace?

  Shit. Who in the hell leaked the story? Where had the damn pictures come from?

  “When did the story hit?”

  “This morning. The picture and article are also on the internet.”

  “The ‘net? What about YouTube or Twitter?”

  “No, not yet,” Paul said.

  “Any inquiries yet from clients or the media?”

  “Seven to be exact. I’ve been able to throw them off for the moment. I’m sorry, I should have been prepared.”

  “No, I’m at fault. I thought this would disappear, go away.” Allan tried to keep his anger in control. “I should’ve told you when I returned from Vegas. Damn it. We’ll have to work fast. Get Ms. Becker—no, I mean Mrs. Parker—back from her honeymoon. Tell her I’ll send her and her new hubby anywhere they want to go after she takes care of this problem.”

  “Is it true?”

  Allan drifted to the window and regarded his beloved skyline. It gave him a calming feeling every time. He loved the Big Apple with its myriad lights. It was all he’d ever known. He braced his hands on the windowsill and took a deep breath.

  If he could work through the Dell, Nvidia Hedge Fund, and the Heinz Corporation messes, along with the collapse of the Towers and the markets falling hundreds of points in a matter of minutes, the gaucheness of a wedding should be unproblematic to handle. His shoulders were big enough.

  “Yes, I was the wrong person, at the wrong place, at the wrong time. As you know, timing is everything,” Allan said without turning.

  He’d been so careful. He’d concealed his tracks so the paparazzi wouldn’t ruin John’s wedding day, which had been a success. Somehow things got out of c
ontrol during the bachelor party outing. Whoever leaked the pictures was in deep shit. Once he found the person or persons responsible, he’d make sure they burned in hell.

  “I’ll contact Tiffany myself. The least number of people talking about this the better.” Paul hesitated. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did this happen? Are you being blackmailed?”

  “No, I’m not being blackmailed. I can’t explain at this moment. If the papers . . . shit. If anyone calls for a statement, tell them we have none at this time. I’ll wait for Tiffany to arrange a press conference. Once you have her itinerary, bring it to my office and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Of course, give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  With the snick of the door closing, Allan rubbed the tense cords on back of his neck, and groaned. The news photo surprisingly brought into place some missing pieces.

  His unknown wife was the beautiful cowgirl from the rodeo. He remembered how she’d ridden her horse like it had been part of her. A sharp image in flashback mode placed them sitting in the country western bar. Next, came a white room, music and a man in front of a slot machine. Lastly, the kiss.

  The woman he’d been dreaming about since returning from Las Vegas was his wife. Rosalind. Every damn night he dreamed of them kissing. He’d awaken wanting, aching for her. It frightened him. He’d never felt such an explosive attraction to a woman before. Not even Katherine had been able to keep his interest, as this mysterious woman was able to.

  Was this the thing John tried to explain to him last year? The reason their fifteen-year-old pact meant nothing?

  The lure to be close to the woman was weirdly intoxicating, yet he couldn’t remember them having sex. It had been years since he’d taken pleasure in sex without the safety net of the ‘Gigolo Contract.’

  Thankful for the privacy of his office, Allan buried his face in his hands, trying to erase the tiredness. The past haunted him in his business dealings and now, his personal life.