Chapter 3
As if in sympathy to the occasion, the weather had taken a turn.
The sun was blocked out by angry gray clouds.
The small chapel had been surprisingly full.
Sybil Simpson had not been a popular or well-liked woman or even a sociable one.
She had preferred her own company. But her dedication to her church could not be questioned.
She had not participated in any of the outreach programs, but come rain or shine, she would be seen making her way briskly to the local Methodist church. And she had miserly paid her tithes.
Julesa had a feeling that was the reason for the overwhelming support. Standing in the front pew and being greeted by people who were curious to take a look at the girl who had left Winter's Peak and made something of herself.
She responded in polite tones, discouraging any further conversation as she went through the ritual.
The minister was brief and to the point, which was gratifying.
And one of the church ladies had offered to read the eulogy, which was not a detailed one.
She had led a quiet and simple life and had somehow managed to live through the scandal surrounding her brother.
Now she was alone at the graveside. Rev. Blake had left, after patting her awkwardly and insisting that she call him if there was anything she needed.
"She was one of us and so were you."
Was she? Wrapping her long, black cashmere jacket more securely around the plain black dress, she wandered over to her mother's grave.
Julesa had brought flowers for her and her dad.
Gladiolas and lilies. Her throat burned as she stared at the tombstone.
There had been an argument as to whether he should be buried in the cemetery.
After all, he had killed himself and such a thing was considered to be a mortal sin. And he had never been religious.
She recalled him laughing and commenting that religions were for people who did not know better. And he had no intention of sitting Sunday after Sunday, listening to a man who claims to know the way.
Feeling the tears trickling down her cheeks, she lifted a hand to brush them aside. Hearing the footsteps crunching behind her, she composed herself and turned to offer polite conversation before taking her leave.
"Ms. Simpson." The man was well dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece suit and a somber gray tie. His hair was slickly combed over to cover the balding patch in the middle. He looked vaguely familiar, and she realized she had seen him as she was leaving the chapel.
"Yes?"
His smile was forced and did not quite meet his pale blue eyes.
"I am sorry for your loss." She accepted the hand he extended reluctantly, feeling the dryness of his palm.
"Thanks. I have to--"
"I am here representing the Wainwright's family." Taking out a gold card holder from his breast pocket, he flipped it open and gave her a card.
"You're a lawyer."
"For the company, yes. I know this is an inappropriate time, but we want to purchase your aunt's property."
"Excuse me?" She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "Let me get this straight. You approached me while I just laid my aunt to rest and proposed a business deal? Are you for real?"
"I would like to make an appointment at your earliest convenience--"
"Leave me the hell alone. Now." Gripping her jacket around her, she sent him a blazing glance that had him walking away.
She had to take deep cleansing breaths, or she felt as if she was about to explode. The nerve of that family! The damn nerve. How dare they intrude on her time of grief. She wasn't going to sell. Even if she had the intention of doing so, this cemented her decision. To hell with them.
Suddenly she felt as if she was completely alone in the world. Feeling the tears threatening again, she rubbed a hand over her face.
"Richard has always been an asshole with lousy timing."
The deep voice at her right had her jolting.
She knew who he was of course. There was no mistaking the tousled dark hair that was begging for a barber's scissors.
Jordan Wainwright had not changed much, but was even more wildly attractive, his body lean and rangy in faded denims and a slate gray sweater.
"But the poor sod was just doing his job.
" Amber eyes studied the brightness in the dark brown eyes and the strain on her lovely face.
He had attended the funeral to pay his respect and sat at the back of the church, watching her.
And between the time he had stepped inside the chapel, until she had walked behind the coffin that was carried out by men he knew worked at the funeral home, he had come to a decision.
"Go away," she whispered hoarsely, humiliated that he had seen her distress.
"I have a feeling you could use a friend."
"You're not one."
His thick brows lifted. Taking out a slim silver case, he released the clasp and took out a slender cigar. Keeping his eyes on her face, he flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the tip. Her eyes went to the smoldering flame as he drew on it.
"I'm on your side."
"Is that so?" The sarcasm was rife in her surprisingly sultry voice. To his surprise, he had the strangest urge to just pull her in his arms and wrap his hands around her. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his scarred leather jacket, he continued to stare at her.
"Oh, just go away, will you?"
"I have a proposition for you."
Her eyes widened, and she felt the laughter bubbling up inside her. "Another one? Did your daddy send you as a backup in case that--that lawyer did not succeed?"
"No one sends me anywhere."
"I'm not interested. Now please go away." She turned away from him and waited until he had left. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she gave into the grief that gripped her.
*****
He was waiting for her on the top step of the slightly sagging porch.
Waiting, with long legs crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world like he belonged there.
She was drained and emotionally exhausted.
The repast had been held at the funeral home and the constant expressions of sympathy along with the questions about her life in the big city had her feeling as if she could just curl up in her bed and sleep for a week.
"What are you doing here?"
"I have an offer for you." Rolling to his feet, he stepped aside for her to climb the steps.
She stood there, her arms crossed as she tried to stare him down. "I am not interested."
"You haven't heard what I have to say."
"I am not interested." She started up the stairs with the intention of slamming the door in his face, but he was too quick. Stepping in behind her, he closed the door with a snap.
Hissing out an annoyed breath, she tugged off her jacket and tossed it over the coat tree. "Go away."
"I think you're going to love what I have to say."
"I strongly doubt it." She stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. A loaded plate had been handed to her by one of the caterers, but she had barely nibbled on the canapes. Her brother had called to check on her and the sound of his voice almost had her crying again.
"What--" She broke off and simply stared as he put the kettle on.
"Sit," he ordered.
"I don't need your help."
"Where are the cups?" As if she had not spoken at all, he started opening cupboard doors. Sitting at the counter, she folded her hands on the faded red and white tiles, her expression mutinous.
To her surprise, he seemed to know his way around.
He had shed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater to reveal powerful forearms covered with dark hair.
Tearing her eyes from the enticing scene, she watched in silence as he poured the steaming water over the pouch and added honey.
Putting it in front of her, he straddled the stool and stared at her in silence.
"Drink. You look like you're about to fall to pieces. "
Picking up the cup, she blew on it and took a sip.
"What do you want?"
"Finish the tea. Hungry?"
"No."
Sliding off the stool, he went to the pantry and foraged around until he found a tin of biscuits. Grabbing a plate, he took some out and placed them neatly on the ceramic.
"I don't--"
"Eat."
Glaring at him, she pulled the plate and took up a shortbread biscuit and took a bite.
"Satisfied?"
He actually smiled, eyes crinkling. "Not yet."
"What do you want?"
"You hate the Wainwright family."
His blunt declaration had her starting. Putting the cup down, she gave him a steely look.
"I don't think about your family," she told him primly.
"Don't you?" His eyes wandered over her face, and he felt the now familiar wrench inside his chest at the desolate expression on her face.
She had certainly changed, he mused. Who would have thought that the scrawny kid that used to stare at him with stars in her eyes had turned out to be an exquisite beauty.
Picking up a biscuit, he nibbled, eyes going to her lips. "I am not very fond of them myself. I want to propose an unusual solution to both our problems."
"I don't have one."
"I would say you do." He brushed the crumbs off his fingers and reached for the glass of water he had filled. Taking a sip, he kept his eyes on her face. "I need a wife."
If she had not been sitting down, she probably would have fallen flat on her butt. The cup bobbled in her hand, forcing her to put it down.
"Excuse me?"
He smiled at her shocked expression.
"I have a conundrum. My parents are determined to marry me off to someone I am not interested in. I want them off my back. And I would like you to marry me."
She laughed softly, one hand going to her chest. "You're a funny guy."