For This Week I Thee Wed

Chapter 1

Once again her impetuosity had landed her in a jam. Francie Karr-Taylor rifled through a stack of papers on her gigantic wooden desk and picked up the letter for the tenth time that morning. Last week she'd placed the irksome missive on the edge just so, in case her cat took a notion to jump up on the desk and accidentally knock the reminder into the wastebasket. He hadn't.

She'd used the envelope postmarked Springdale, Illinois as a coaster for the better part of a week, but the return address still remained legible.

No, the letter was still here and she hadn't forgotten about the impulsive promise she'd made, so she guessed she was going to have to give the reunion committee a call. The letter requesting she be the photographer for Springdale's tenth class reunion had arrived months ago, and rashly she'd agreed to participate.

What had she been thinking? She'd known then just as she knew now, that she wasn't going to be able to attend the class reunion. She was going to have surgery that week-end. Or something else was going to come up. A debilitating sickness maybe. Or perhaps even a death: Her own would be convenient.

The intercom buzzed her that someone was downstairs, and she walked distractedly to the panel, the wrinkled letter in her hand. "Yeah?"

"Miss Karr-Taylor, it's Ryan MacNair. I'd like to speak with you for a few minutes, please."

"Who?"

He repeated his name and added, "We spoke a few weeks ago. About the brooch you had appraised? You told me to call back at a more convenient time."

"Oh." She glanced around the cluttered loft where she worked, barely noting the photographs hung on every wall, or even the wet ones drying on a line strung from the bathroom that doubled as a dark room to the door that led to her sleeping area. The place wasn't going to suddenly become neat and organized, and the time never got more convenient, so she might as well let him in. "Come on up."

She jabbed the button that unlocked the security door and sauntered back to her desk.

How hard could it be to fake her own death? She'd seen it done on TV plenty of times. She could assume a new identity and move her studio to Peoria under a different name.

Francie flopped into her chair and grimaced at her own thoughts. No. Nana needed someone to check up on her every few weeks and make sure the care center was doing a good job. Deserting her dear fragile grandmother was out of the question. It had distressed the old woman enough just thinking Francie wasn't married yet. What a selfish thought. Self-preserving and really clever--but selfish.

How on earth, then, was she going to get out of this bothersome class reunion? What was she going to tell her grandmother? Nana was the only person in the world she was close to. The only person whose opinion mattered. But Nana didn't agree with Francie's decision to choose a career over a marriage and children. A few months ago, to alleviate the old woman's worry over her being alone, Francie'd told her she'd gotten married.

To a rich man.

To a rich man with kids.

To a rich handsome man with kids.

Holy criminetly, how was she going to get out of this one?

A knock sounded on the door.

Francie crossed to open it.

"Hi, Miss Karr-Taylor--"

"Francie."

"Francie. Thank you for seeing me."

She swung the door open wide and ushered the tall dark-haired man in the tailored navy blue suit into her studio. "Would you like a soft drink? The coffee isn't any good any more."

"No, thank you."

"Well. . .." She wandered back to her chair and sank into the comfortable cushion, her gaze immediately landing on the letter that still lay on her desk. Darn cat. Darn Nana for thinking a woman couldn't be fulfilled with her career.

"I have an offer for you," MacNair said. He moved a stack of manila envelopes from the seat of the chair opposite her desk to an available spot on the floor and plucked the crease at the knee of his trousers as he sat. "Are you moving out?"

"No, why?"

"Uh, no reason. Do you recall why I'm here?"

Absorbed in her predicament, Francie tapped a fingernail against the edge of the desk. The reunion was less than two weeks away now, and she still hadn't figured out what she was going to do.

"Francie?"

"What? Oh. No, I guess I've forgotten what it was you wanted to see me about."

"The brooch you had appraised at Grambs and Sons last month."

"Right. It was in a box of old junk I bought at an auction. I thought the stuff would make a great still life. Black and white. Maybe a pair of gloves. Kind of draping out of an old jewelry chest with a piece of old lace beneath it."

"I put the word out to all the jewelers that I was looking for that particular piece," he said. "Grambs called me after you'd been in. That brooch rightfully belongs to my daughter. It's her legacy."

She'd found the perfect pair of old lace gloves. What had she done with them? "Uh huh."

"It belonged to my grandmother on my father's side. Unfortunately, my grandfather's will was contested, and the jewelry went to one of my aunts who only wanted what she could get out of everything. She wouldn't even let my father buy the pieces he wanted, just to be spiteful. I can't even remember why she started the feud with my father. I'm not even sure she does."

"She sounds lovely." Francie picked up a pen and doodled on the letter.

He blinked at her. "She sold it all, and we've been trying to find the pieces to buy them back. My father had intended for that brooch to remain in the family."

Francie's attention drifted to Peyton Armbruster's scrawled signature on the page, and Francie knew she couldn't stall any longer. She either had to come clean. . .or come up with a husband.

"The brooch was appraised at five hundred dollars," MacNair said. "Miss Karr-Taylor, I'll double that offer."

At his concerned tone, Francie glanced up into his grave features, and finally his words sank into her dilemma-drugged brain. He was as intense about this silly old brooch as she was about taking a husband to the reunion.

For the first time she took a good hard look at Ryan MacNair. His dark hair, bearing a distinguishing widow's peak, was neatly styled and brushed back from a square-jawed face. Dark brows were divided by a V of anxiety that didn't diminish his well-bred features. He was handsome.

He had a nice straight nose and an interesting mouth that could probably slide into a knockout smile if he'd loosen his collar and tie and give himself a little air.

His navy suit and cranberry silk tie were of the best quality and taste, and he wore them with ease and panache. He was rich. Not her type--if she had a type, but—wouldn't he impress the control tops right off the women back in Springdale? She imagined Nana looking him up and down.

"You wanted to use the brooch in some photographs," he said. "Have you done that?"

"Are you married?"

He blinked, his warm brown eyes showing confusion over the abrupt change of subject. "I'm divorced," he said finally. "Is that relevant to the discussion?"

Actually a discussion took two people, but she spared him that reminder, and let the wheels in her mind whirl with possibilities. "I'm just beginning to sympathize with your situation, Mr. . .."

"MacNair."

"Mr. MacNair. I'd certainly feel bad if something of my grandmother's was sold off against my wishes."

He nodded, his brow still furrowed. "Then you'll sell it to me?"

"You want this brooch pretty badly, don't you? It means a lot to you. And your father."

His carefully guarded expression didn't change. "Yes."

"So, my decision carries a lot of weight."

"It does," he admitted, though his aggravated expression showed his reluctance to do so.

Francie smoothed the letter, refolded it and placed it inside the stained and warped envelope. "Perhaps we can negotiate after all."

"Money is not the issue here. The brooch has sentimental value. Five thousand."

"No. Not more money," she said with a flick of her hand. "In fact, if you agree to this idea, you can keep your money."

His frown deepened. "What idea?"

"I'm in a bind myself. I'm afraid I've done something—said something--impetuous, and now I don't have any way out of it. Except maybe through you."

"I don't understand."

"I told my grandmother that I'd gotten married."

"And that's a problem?"

"It wasn't true. It's not true."

"You told her you were married?"

She nodded.

"But you're not married. And you weren't married."

"Right."

"Then why did you tell her that?"

The question was so simple. The answer was so complicated. "Because I'm not."

He stared at her.

"It's a long boring story," she supplied. "Maybe sometime we'll go over the details, but for now I'll just say I had my reasons."

"So you lied. And now this lie is causing you a problem."

"Oh, yeah." She stood and walked restlessly to the row of windows and gazed, unseeing, down on the street.

"What does that have to do with me?"

She turned back. "I've been cornered into participating in the tenth reunion celebration in my hometown. Nana is expecting me. And she's expecting me to bring a husband."

With a wary expression, he waited for her to speak.

"You can have the brooch. . .."

He leaned forward in the chair, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

". . .if you come to Springdale with me as my husband for a week."

He stood. "I suspected you were going to say that, but I didn't believe you would. That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard."

"Well, hey, it was worth a try." She gave a half-hearted wave. Shoulders slumped, she hugged her upper arms and turned back to the window. "I saw something about escort services on Dateline the other night. Do we have any of those around here?"

Ryan studied her small frame in profile against the window, her words sinking in and shocking him once again. "You can't go to one of those places!"

"Why not?"

"You don't know anything about them. You could place yourself in serious danger."

"I am in some serious danger, here, Mac."

He straightened his shoulders at the flip nickname. "You're simply in an embarrassing situation because you lied. You have only yourself to blame."

"I'm not blaming anyone. I'm trying to come up with a solution."

"Why don't you tell your grandmother the truth?"

She turned back, a hint of irritation in her blue eyes. "Because she'd only make my life miserable until I really found someone to marry, and I'm not willing to do that. I guess we don't have anything more to talk about."

"What about the brooch? An arrangement? I'm sure we can come up with something—"

"Those were the terms, Mac. If you want the pin, you need to pose as my husband. It's only one week out of your whole life. If that's too much of a sacrifice, well. . .."

"Lady, I've never heard anything so unprofessional and unethical in my life. Real people just don't go around doing these kinds of things. That only happens in the movies."

"Sure they do. Negotiations take place on Capitol Hill every day."

"Honest negotiations."

"You think."

He didn't know if it was her irreverent attitude or the fact that she held him over a barrel that irked him. Ryan reflected back on the only heirloom he had to hand down to his daughter and held himself in check. His grandfather had had that piece of jewelry made for his grandmother as a wedding present.

He intended for Alanna to have that brooch, and had been sick over its loss for the past year. When Ryan had received the call from the appraiser and learned that the piece of jewelry had fallen into the hands of a young woman, he'd decided to appeal to her sense of fairness.

How could he ever have imagined that the woman would be a zany, flippant photographer with more nerve than sense? She didn't operate on his wavelength. He didn't think she operated on anyone's wavelength but her own.

"Bartering was the first type of selling around," she added. "Our country was founded with trades."

Artists. He'd dealt with his share in his position at the museum. He could deal with this one.

But a week in Springdale pretending to be her husband? The demand was preposterous. Outrageous.

It was also his only option.

"I don't have anyone to take care of my children for an entire week." It was as good of an excuse an any, and it was the truth.

She inched toward him like a dog sniffing a steak. "Children?"

"Yes. I've never left them for that long. I keep my business trips to just a day or two. My housekeeper fills in during that time, but--"

"How old are they?" she asked, circling him. "Girls? Boys?"

"Twelve and nine. A girl and a boy."

She stepped close, her blue eyes lit with a determined fire he didn't trust. "That's perfect. They can come along!"

"What do you mean?"

"I need kids, too! Oh, this is great. Now I won't have to do something drastic."

"What? What could be more drastic than this scheme you've concocted?"

"I'll make the plane reservations, don't worry about that."

"Hold it. I can't just pull up and take off for a week. I have a job. My children have school."

"A week out won't hurt them." She perched on the edge of her desk, sending a stack of papers sliding across the top and onto the floor, and grinned a naughty grin. "This is great."

"Now wait a minute," he said, stopping her gush of pleasure with an upraised palm. He leaned down to collect the papers she'd knocked off and shuffle them into a semi-neat pile. "I never said I'd do this. I can't just take a week off to play some game of house. And I can't subject my children to it either." He tried to find a place to lay the papers, and finally shoved them into her hands. "What kind of father would drag his children along and ask them to participate in something so dishonest?"

Carelessly she dropped the stack of papers on the already laden desktop behind her. "A father who wants my brooch?"

Her irritating confidence got under his skin. "I can't ask my kids to lie. I've always taught them honesty."

"I guess we could say they're at boarding school."

Ryan's mind had remained three steps behind hers since this meeting had begun. He gave himself a mental shake. "What about the logic of all this? What did you tell your grandmother that your husband's name was? Who would I be expected to be?"

"I don't think I actually gave you a name. I told her I go by Karr-Taylor because that's the name I've established in my career. Plenty of women don't take their husbands' names. Don't tell me you're a chauvinist."

Ryan blinked. "No! I'm not—what does being a chauvinist have to do with it, anyway? It would never work."

The woman was enough to drive a sane man nuts.

Hopping off the desk, she sat in her chair, rifled though the papers and books and produced a Rolodex. "Fine. You know the way out."

She flipped index cards, pulling a few out and setting them aside.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding someone else to do it. I don't know why I didn't think of this before. Of course they may not have kids. We'll use the boarding school story."

Ryan stood watching her peruse the cards with a pencil between her teeth. His logical mind grappled with what was happening. She had no intention of selling him the brooch unless he went along.

He had an ultimatum.

He could walk out and disappoint his father and his daughter.

Or he could grit his teeth and go along with her outrageous mandate for one week. One week. How difficult would that be?

He could get the time off. He'd gone over his planner just that morning and knew what lay ahead. The next few weeks were going to involve intensive cleaning and painting in preparation for the Summer and Fall exhibits, and he could afford to take the time off. There was only a week of school left before summer vacation, and then what? He had no one to care for his daughter and son for a week.

He had been promising to take them on a vacation and teach Alex to swim. He never got enough time with them.

What would he tell them?

The truth. He'd never done anything less.

They would see how important this was—he'd have to stress that he didn't condone the masquerade, but that he'd had no choice--and they'd understand. His daughter had lost so much already. She wasn't going to lose her legacy if he could help it.

Francie had picked up the receiver and was dialing.

He took a step forward. "Is there a pool in Springdale?"

"There's one in the hotel, I think."

"All right," he said.

She paused and glanced up. "All right?"

"All right," he repeated. "I'll do it."

A delighted grin spread across her features, and she slid the receiver back into place. "The kids, too?"

He nodded grimly.

"All right!"

"When exactly is this. . .event?"

She gave him the dates. "It'll be fun, Mac. You'll see. We'll wow 'em."

"My name is Ryan."

"Right. That sounds more uppity. "I'll make the flight arrangements and call you with the itinerary. What are the kids' names?"

"Alanna and Alex."

"Good choices. We won't have to change them."

"I'm so glad you approve."

"We'll leave a day early," she went on, apparently oblivious to his sarcasm, "because we need clothes for the oldies dance, and there are some great consignment and thrift stores in Springdale."

"Oldies dance?"

"Yeah, you know: Bobby socks, bell bottoms, duck tails. The theme is a mixture of fifties, sixties and seventies. The Partridge Family, Frankie and Annette, styles like those. You'd make a great Ricky Nelson. Who do you think I could be? Shelley Fabares, maybe?"

A disturbing knot of indigestion settled in Ryan's stomach. A week with this woman. One solid week. But it was one week versus his daughter's legacy.

He hoped he had the stamina to live through it.

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