A Proper Wife

Excerpt Dedication About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“The marriage is on!”

Marriage. Was he crazy?

“The ceremony’s Friday at four o’clock.”

He was crazy!

“I don’t want to ruin this for you,” Devon snapped, “but you’ve left out one minor detail, Ryan. Me! Marriage takes two, and I am one of the principal parties in this lunatic scheme, or had you overlooked that?”

“How could I possibly overlook it? It’s not every day a man has his bride handpicked for him.”

“Stop calling me that,” Devon said fiercely.

“I am not your bride!”

“Not yet you aren’t. But you will be, come Friday afternoon.”

FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it, or not!

SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sunfilled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut, where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.

A Proper Wife

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HER hair was the pale gold of summer wheat, her eyes the deep purple of wood violets. And for one heart-stopping instant as she started down the steps, Ryan Kincaid thought she might not be wearing anything beneath the ankle-length, crimson velvet cape but her own honeyed skin.

Logic told him otherwise. Montano’s might be New York’s trendiest department store, but, he thought wryly, it didn’t go in for nude modeling.

It was the way she held the cape closed that made for the incredible illusion. Her hands clutched the high mandarin collar against her chin so that the cape flared open at each stride, revealing an incredible length of elegant, curvaceous leg.

Ryan’s green eyes narrowed in appreciation. She really was stunning. And she knew it. You could see it in the proud way she held herself, in the look of disdain etched on her perfect face. All the other models had smiled at the crowd of shoppers gathered at the foot of the mezzanine steps, but she moved like a queen, never deigning to notice the peasants.

It only made her all the more appealing, Ryan thought, and he felt his body stir with interest.

Getting trapped in Montano’s crowded aisles during what had turned out to be the store’s Friday Fashion Show was turning out to be more pleasant than he’d expected.

Frank, standing just behind him, gave a choked groan.

“Oh, me, oh, my,” he whispered, “will you look at the blonde?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The answer to a man’s dreams.”

Ryan grinned. “X-rated dreams,” he said softly.

It was amazing, the series of images that were flashing through his mind. And that was weird. He was not a man given to sexual fantasies: there’d always been enough beautiful women in his life to keep him more than happy with reality. But just looking at this one as she came down the mezzanine steps was putting his brain into overdrive.

“No offense,” Frank murmured, “but I’d sure rather have a drink with her than with you.”

Ryan smiled. “Forget the drink. I’d rather take her home, peel off that velvet cape and make a career of finding out what’s underneath it.”

The comment had been meant for no ears but Frank’s, but just as Ryan began to speak, the music that had been playing gave an electronic burp and died. The hum of the crowd subsided.

And Ryan’s words were clear and distinct in the ensuing silence.

The blonde froze.

The crowd gave a delighted gasp.

Ryan gave a soft groan of embarrassment.

What now? he thought. Did he grin? Shrug his shoulders, laugh the whole thing off? Should he offer an apology?

In the end, there were no options. The blonde’s jaw tightened, her spine stiffened, and she resumed her walk down the stairs but with a purposeful stride.

A girl broke from the little cluster of models gathered at the foot of the staircase, said something and reached out a hand, but the blonde shrugged it off and marched toward him.

Frank gave a soft laugh. “Adiós, muchacho,” he murmured, and stepped back.

She came to a stop in front of Ryan, her beautiful face white with barely repressed rage, her eyes locked on his. He cleared his throat, then gave her the smile that had charmed some of the most exquisite women in Manhattan.

“Amazing, the tricks acoustics can play,” he said pleasantly.

She said nothing, just went on looking at him with that glint of fury in her eyes.

Ryan cleared his throat again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m really sorry about that, but—”

“You,” she said coldly, “have the manners of a goat.”

Someone in the crowd tittered. Ryan felt an unaccustomed flush of color rise into his face.

“Yes. Well, I—”

She came a step closer. A faint scent of perfume—Opium? L’Air du Temps?—teased his nostrils.

“Or are you just a pluperfect jackass?”

The titters came again, louder and more widespread. Ryan had to work at keeping his smile plastered to his face.

“Look, miss,” he said, “I’m sorry if—”

“You’re not the least bit sorry!” Her eyes—almost black with anger—flashed with accusation. “Why would you be? You and your kind think you can insult anyone who has to work for a living, don’t you?”

“Lady,” he said patiently, “don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m trying to apologize but-”

She laughed coldly, showing small, perfect white teeth. “A goat could no more manage an apology than a baboon could learn the minuet!”

Giggles of appreciation swept through the crowd behind him. His face darkened and he stepped closer to her. She was tall for a woman but at six-two, he was taller; it gave him a grim kind of pleasure to see that his size intimidated her enough to make her take a quick step back.

“You’re right,” he said silkily, “I’m not in the least bit sorry. I enjoyed the show.”

There was a faint burst of applause, punctuated by a soft wolf whistle. Ryan turned and shot the crowd a quick smile.

The nerve of the man! Devon felt her cheeks flame as she stared up at the egotistical brute with the sea-green eyes, the black-as-midnight hair, and the smirk. Every eye in the place was on her now.

If only she’d ignored what he’d said.

If only she’d listened to the model who’d tried to stop her from flying at him.

If only she hadn’t let Mr. Deauville drag her out from behind the counter in Fragrances minutes ago.

The manager had been breathless, his little eyes shiny with distress.

The weekly fashion show was beginning in five minutes, he’d said, while he hustled her up to the mezzanine. One of the models had been taken ill. Devon was tall, she was slender—she would have to fill in.

Devon had tried to tell him that it was out of the question. She’d been hired two days ago to sell perfume, not to model.

But telling him anything at all had proven impossible. There’d been people and confusion everywhere. She’d still been sputtering when Mr. Deauville had shoved her into a blocked-off dressing room.

“Here’s your extra girl,” he’d said, and then somebody named Clyde with a lisp, a flutey voice, and the determination of a bull terrier, had grabbed her and told her to get out of her navy suit and white silk blouse and into the dress he’d shoved at her. Finally, he’d draped a velvet cape over her shoulders. It was in a color that made it about as unobtrusive as a fire engine but she’d clutched it as Clyde shoved her out the door because at least it hid the rest of her, which was crammed into a dress that covered damn near nothing.

The next thing she’d known, she’d found herself standing at the top of the stairs with a bunch of strangers peering up at her.

“It’ll be OK, kid,” the same model who’d tried to stop her a couple of minutes ago had said.

And it almost had been, until this... this Neanderthal, this jerk with the kind of dangerous good looks that probably made stupid women keel over, had decided to take some cheap shots at her expense.

And she, like a fool, had let his snide remarks get under her skin, launched herself at him like a missile gone haywire—

“Well?”

Devon blinked. He was looking down at her with that disgustingly masculine smirk on his face.

“Well, what?”

“Am I forgiven?” he said with a rakish smile.

“Come on, lady,” a male voice called out, “tell the guy you accept his apology!”

“Yeah,” another voice said, “tell him it’s OK.”

The man with the green eyes grinned. “You hear them,” he said softly. “Come on, love. Let’s kiss and make up.”

He reached out, cupped her chin in his hand, and bent toward her, his eyes on hers, that damnable smile still on his handsome face. He had to be joking, Devon thought desperately, he had to be....

She looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t.

Without hesitation, she jerked back, balled her hand into a fist, and slugged him, right in the jaw.

Holy hell, Ryan thought.

He staggered back, shaking his head against the sudden buzzing in his ears.

“Ryan?”

He blinked.

“Ryan? Are you OK?” Frank’s hands closed on his shoulders. “Dammit, say something!”

Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “She hit me,” he said in wonder.

Frank began to grin. “I’ll say.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “OK,” he said. “OK, I’ve had enough.” He pulled away from Frank and turned toward the girl, who hadn’t moved. “That’s it,” he said grimly. “I’ve tried to apologize but you wouldn’t accept that. I admitted I behaved like a jerk and that wasn’t good enough, either. But if you think I’ll let you get away with slugging me, you’ve got another—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Miss Franklin! What is going on here?”

Devon blanched. “Mr. Deauville,” she said quickly. “I—I can explain, if you’ll just—”

The manager turned to Ryan. “What happened here, sir?” Ryan glanced at the girl again. Her face was white as paper, her eyes huge and dark. Hell, he thought again, and he blew out his breath.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

The little man’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I appreciate your chivalry, but if Montano’s is to maintain employee discipline—”

“And I appreciate your concern,” Ryan said. His smile was polite. “But really, nothing happened. This young lady and I had a misunderstanding, and—”

“She slugged him,” a delighted voice called out.

The man with the mustache turned pale. “She did what?” He whirled toward the girl, his eyes flashing. “Miss Franklin?”

Devon swallowed hard. Two weeks of pounding pavements, searching for a job; two weeks of hearing Bettina tell her what a fool she was for looking for “demeaning” work....

“It... it isn’t the way it sounds,” she said desperately. “If you’d just give me a moment—”

“Did you strike this gentleman or didn’t you?”

“Mr. Deauville, please—”

“You’re fired, Miss Franklin!”

“Wait a minute, Deauville.” Ryan stepped forward, frowning. “You can’t just fire her.”

“Butt out,” Devon snapped. She swung toward Ryan, her face flushed. “Haven’t you done enough for one day? You’re the cause of this fiasco, you... you stupid, hypocritical jerk!”

Ryan shook his head, wincing at the words and at the sudden ache in his jaw.

“Listen, lady, I’m doing what I can to be a gentleman here, but—”

“Why waste time trying to be anything but what you are?”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He stared at her for a long moment and then he turned to the manager dancing attendance at his elbow.

“The girl slugged me, all right,” he said tightly.. “Fire her.”

“I already did,” the little man said. He looked at Devon, his eyes cold. “I repeat, Miss Franklin, you are terminated.”

Devon stared from one man to the other. Did they think she was a... a thing to be discussed as if she weren’t present?

“Terminated?” she said, and gave a little laugh. In one swift, defiant motion, she shrugged the crimson cape from her shoulders and let it pool at her feet. “Take my advice, Mr. Deauville, and go terminate yourself!” Before either man could speak, she turned and walked away.

It was the longest walk of her life, up those steps and then to the dressing room. She could feel all those eyes boring into her, knowing what they saw, the dress she’d been stuffed into that was little more than a pair of thin straps and skintight black silk; the ridiculously high-heeled, black satin pumps.

But she kept her shoulders back and her head high, until, at last, she was safely inside the dressing room. Then she stripped off the dress, kicked off the shoes, put on her own clothing and whisked out the employees’ door to the street.

The two cramped hotel rooms she shared with her mother just off Times Square were mercifully empty. Bettina was probably out shopping, Devon thought bitterly as she locked the door behind her, spending their last few dollars to dress herself up for tonight’s visit to James Kincaid.

Devon’s mouth trembled as she sank down on the edge of her sagging bed. Why had she ever agreed to go with Bettina this evening? She hadn’t wanted to: last week’s visit had been more than enough. The old man was just eccentric, Bettina had insisted, but Devon had felt first like a supplicant and then like a bug under a microscope.

Tonight would surely be worse. Bettina was up to something—the signs were all there. If only she’d devote half that much energy to looking for a job.

A job, Devon thought. Lord, a job!

This morning, she’d been employed. Now, barely four hours later, she wasn’t.

Here she was, in a strange city, with no money and a mother who thought work was something invented for fools. And now, thanks to that insulting creep at Montano’s, she was out of a job.

At least she’d gotten back some of her own. That punch had really rocked him. She couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing, she, who never so much as stepped on an ant if she could help it, but he had deserved it.

A smile tilted across Devon’s lips. What satisfaction there’d been in feeling her fist connect with his smug, square-jawed face.

Her smile wobbled, then disappeared.

“Damn him,” she said shakily. “Damn him to hell!”

“Damn who?” Bettina said brightly, slamming the door after her.

Devon ran her hands quickly over her eyes. “Hello, Mother. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was out shopping,” Bettina said, tossing packages on the bed. “I want to look my best tonight, Devon. So should you.”

“I don’t know why we’re going at all,” Devon muttered. “I don’t even know why we came to this city.”

“Because we have family here, that’s why. And family helps family, when the chips are down.”

“We have no ‘family’ here, and you know it.”

“What a terrible mood you’re in, Devon. I hope you’re not going to sit around glowering tonight.”

Devon took a breath. “I lost my job,” she said.

“Really,” Bettina said without much interest. “How do you like this dress? Too dull, do you think?”

Devon winced at the magenta silk her mother had taken from one of the boxes.

“It’s...it’s fine, Mother. Did you hear what I said? I had a run-in with a rude customer and—”

“Well, it’s no loss. Selling perfume is no better than selling sweaters the way you did at Saks back home.”

“Selling isn’t glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

“Don’t you dare take that holier-than-thou tone with me!” Bettina swung toward her daughter, eyes flashing. “I worked hard to support us and don’t you forget it. Waiting on tables, cleaning up after people who thought they were better than me, scraping pennies to give you all the benefits so you could have the life that I’d dreamed of—and long before Gordon Kincaid came along to pay the bills, in case you’ve forgotten, miss.”

There had been more to it than that, Devon thought savagely. There’d been an endless string of men. Uncle Harry, and Uncle John, and Uncle Phil....

“I did what I had to do,” Bettina said, as if she’d read Devon’s thoughts, “and it was all for you.”

“I never asked for anything,” Devon said tightly.

“The sacrifices,” Bettina said, “the struggle...”

Devon shut her eyes. I won’t listen, she told herself fiercely, I won’t. She’d grown up on this litany, hearing about her mother’s hardships, of how she’d all but given up her own life for her daughter’s...

“Next, you’ll turn your back on me, same as your father did.”

The bitter accusation twisted, sharp as the blade of a knife, in Devon’s heart.

“You know I’d never do that, Mother.”

Bettina smiled. “Good girl!” She bent down, gave Devon a kiss that was actually a cheek-to-cheek caress, and then she looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time! Come along, darling. Grandfather Kincaid is sending his car for us and we don’t want to be late. Put on something bright and pretty, for a change. And use some of my drops in your eyes, will you? You look as if you’ve been crying, for heaven’s sakes!”

It was better than looking as if you’d been socked in the jaw, Devon thought.

What on earth had made her think of that?

Whatever the reason, she was glad of it.

For the first time in hours, Devon smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

AT A few minutes past four every Friday afternoon, end-of-week celebrants from Wall Street’s financial offices began pouring out into the streets. Lounges and bars filled up with regulars intent on getting the weekend off to a quick start.

Ryan and Frank, who had made a ritual of toasting the week’s end together since their university days, snagged the last pair of empty leather stools at the mahogany bar at The Watering Hole and exchanged friendly greetings with Harry, the bartender.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Harry said. “The usual?”

“Yes,” Frank answered, but Ryan shook his head.

“I’ll have a Coke.”

“A Coke?” Frank said, lifting his eyebrows. “What’s the matter, pal? Did that dame’s right hook rattle your brain?”

Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “It was a good shot,” he said grumpily. “Is there a mark?”

“A little shadow, maybe, right there—”

“Ouch!” Ryan drew a sharp breath just as the bartender put an ice-filled glass and an open bottle of Coke in front of him. He took an ice cube from the glass, wrapped it in his handkerchief and held it gently against his jaw. “Maybe this will help. I don’t really feel like trying to explain a lump on my jaw to my grandfather.”

“Ah,” Frank said, “now I get it. No booze because you’re making the long drive out to see the old man, right?”

“You’ve got it.” Ryan waggled his jaw carefully from side to side. “Can you believe that dame? She walks around, shows off damned near everything she’s got, then gets ticked off when a guy notices. Whatever happened to decorum?”

“Decorum?”

“Yes. Decorum. You know, less cleavage, less leg, less of everything on display.”

Frank’s brows rose just a little. “This from the man who once dated Miss November?”

True enough, Ryan thought with some surprise. When had he ever cared how much a woman showed? If she was good-looking, the more, the better.

His eyes met Frank’s. “It was Miss December,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you remember those little bells?”

Frank chuckled. “Man, do I ever!” Frowning, he peered at Ryan’s jaw. “That bruise is turning color. You’d better run up a tale Grandpa will buy.”

Ryan sighed. “The hell with it. If he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. He’ll probably tell me the girl gave me exactly what I deserved.”

“The old man hasn’t changed, huh?”

“Unlike the female of the species,” Ryan said with a fond smile, “my grandfather is always predictable.”

So was an evening in the Kincaid house, Ryan thought as Frank excused himself and headed for the lavatory.

Drinks first, in the old-fashioned sitting room. Bourbon for Ryan, seltzer for James since he’d given up whiskey on orders of his doctors. Then Agnes Brimley, his grandfather’s prune-faced housekeeper would call them into the dining room for a medically approved dinner of gritty brown rice, mushy vegetables and stringy chicken. Dessert would have the look, smell and texture of pulverized soap.

Then the old man would shut the door on both logic and the disapproving Miss Brimley, light up one of the ropy cigars that were his sole remaining vice, fix Ryan with a rheumy eye and deliver The Lecture of the Month.

The World and How Much Better it Had Been Seventy Years Ago was always the choice opener. Second would come Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated—even though in the five years Ryan had been running the development firm his grandfather had founded, he’d built it from being an east coast success to a national conglomerate.

But those were only warm-ups to James’s favorite lecture, which always began with the words, “Time is passing, my boy,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-two soon and that it was time he settled down.

Ryan smiled. And he would sit through it all without more than token protest. What would the pundits of high finance make of that? Ryan Kincaid, the man Time magazine had dubbed The Lone Raider, would endure the lectures for the simplest, most complex of reasons—because he loved his grandfather and his grandfather loved him, even if the old man would sooner eat nails than admit it.

His grandfather had raised him and Gordon both, after their parents’ messy divorce. Now, with Gordon gone, neither Ryan nor the old man had anyone else to care about.

“So, what about Sharon?”

Ryan looked up as Frank eased himself onto the stool again.

“What about her?”

“She can’t be thrilled to be without you this evening, considering how she fusses over our weekly boys’ night out.”

Ryan grimaced. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not talk about Sharon.”

“Problems?”

“Well, I forgot her birthday.”

“Which is why we ended up in Montano’s.”

“Yeah, but there’s more.” Ryan sighed. “I thought we understood each other. She didn’t want anything permanent and neither did I. Now she’s starting to talk about how all her friends are getting married and having babies.”

“I hope you told her you’re too young to end your life.”

Ryan lifted his glass, brought it to his lips, gazed into the dark liquid and then put it down again, untouched.

“The thing of it is, I’m not.”

Frank recoiled in horror. “What?”

“We’re pushing middle-age, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“At thirty-two?” Frank began to grin. “I get it. You’re anticipating Grandpa Kincaid’s lecture about Getting Married, Settling Down, and Producing Little Kincaids to comfort him in his old age.”

“There are times I almost think he’s right.” Ryan’s mouth twisted. “After all, my brother’s dead, and heaven knows his marriage didn’t produce any heirs.”

“Yeah. That was a fiasco, wasn’t it?”

“What else could it have been? Gordon got himself hitched to San Francisco’s own version of Jezebel.”

“Bettina Eldridge, right? I remember.” Frank sighed. “Look, pal, this is America. Kingdoms are not lost because the Prince Royal has yet to take himself a bride. Tell that to the old man, why don’t you?”

Ryan ran his finger along the edge of his glass. “My grandfather’s gotten very old,” he said softly. “Time passes, you know.”

“Tying on the ball and chain won’t stop the clock from ticking,” Frank said bluntly, “but if you think it will, there’s always Sharon.”

Ryan grinned. Even back in their undergraduate days at Yale, Frank had had a way of bringing things back to basics.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Marriage just isn’t man’s natural state.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Hell, just look at the Kincaids. My mother celebrated her fifteenth anniversary by asking my father for a divorce so she could go off and become an anthropologist. My father fell for his secretary a year later and disappeared into parts unknown. My brother married a woman who saw dollar signs whenever she looked at him...”

“Marriage sucks,” Frank said agreeably.

“My grandfather’s always telling me that his marriage was a joy, but why wouldn’t it have been? The rules were simpler. My grandmother was an old-fashioned woman. Pleasant, sweet-tempered, eager to please.”

Frank sighed. “That’s how women were raised in those days, pal. A girl was raised to be a lady. To play piano, serve tea and embroider doilies, to bring a man his slippers and his newspaper...”

Ryan’s brows lifted. “We’re talking about a wife,” he said gently, “not a cocker spaniel.”

“And with it all,” Frank said, ignoring the interruption, “she’d be gorgeous and more than willing.”

An image suddenly swept into Ryan’s mind. He saw the blonde from Montano’s, saw himself stripping her of that velvet cape. He saw her naked under his hands, all tanned, silky skin, high, sweet breasts and gently curved hips...

Damn! Ryan reached for his glass and drank the last of the chilled Coke.

“If I could find a babe like that, I’d marry her myself,” Frank said emphatically.

“Who wouldn’t?” Ryan grinned, glanced at his watch, and stood up. “You’re describing a proper wife. But they haven’t made a model like that in years. And that’s exactly what I’m going to point out to my grandfather.” He took out his wallet and tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Thanks for the talk, friend. It was just what I needed.”

Frank smiled modestly. “My pleasure.”

“This time when the old man launches into the Why Don’t You Settle Down speech, I’ll sing him a chorus of I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Grandad. Then I’ll fold my arms, sit back, and smile.”

As he had since childhood, Ryan sat to James’s right at the Kincaid dining room table. But tonight was nothing like those childhood dinners. It was nothing like the hideous dinners of the past several years, either.

Ryan frowned. What in hell was going on?

Prepared for the sort of awful meal he’d described to Frank, he’d come close to falling out of his chair when Miss Brimley had come marching in with the first course.

“Ah,” James had said happily.

“Ah,” Ryan had dutifully repeated, and prepared for the worst. But when his grandfather had uncovered the tureen, a wonderful scent had wafted to Ryan’s nostrils.

“Lobster bisque?” he’d said incredulously.

“Lobster bisque,” James had replied.

Agnes Brimley had glared.

The bisque had been followed by well-marbled beef, baked potatoes slathered in sour cream, and tossed green salad with Roquefort dressing.

“And a good claret to wash it all down, of course,” James had said.

Now, with the meal ending, Ryan cleared his throat.

“Are we ... celebrating something, Grandfather?” he asked carefully.

James looked up from his plate. A strange little smile skimmed across his mouth.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, my boy, but yes, I suppose you might say that we are.”

Ryan nodded. “And what would it be, sir?”

James smiled and shook his head. “No more questions for now, Ryan. We’ll talk after dessert, I promise.”

As if on signal, Miss Brimley banged open the service door, the very briskness of her step an indication she disapproved of whatever it was she carried on the oval silver platter in her hands.

“Dessert,” she said coldly.

Ryan stared at the platter as she extended it to him. He hadn’t seen such an assortment of goodies since childhood. Tiny golden creampuffs, bite-size chocolate éclairs, chunky squares of shortbread....

He raised shocked eyes to Miss Brimley. “Are those white-chocolate brownies?”

She sniffed. “Indeed.”

He started to reach for one, thought of the workout he put himself through each morning, and drew back his hand.

“I, ah, I don’t think so, thanks.”

The housekeeper’s expression softened, if only slightly. “At least someone’s still using his brain as God intended!”

James wheezed out a laugh. “If you are trying to ruin my appetite, Brimley,” he said, helping himself to one of everything, “it will pain you to know you are not succeeding. Bring in the coffee, if you please. Real coffee, not that decaffeinated swill you’ve been pawning off on me all these years. Then shut the door and leave us alone.”

When she’d done as ordered, James sighed, reached inside his vest, took out a cigar—an act that only recently had seemed daring but which now was all but fraught with innocence, Ryan thought dazedly—and bit off the end.

“Excellent meal, my boy, don’t you think?”

Ryan rose and took his grandfather’s old-fashioned cigar lighter from its place on the mantel.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of excellent,” he said, his tone wry. He held out the lighter and flicked the wheel. “Julia Child would probably agree, but I suspect your doctors would take a different view.”

“Doctors,” James said dismissively. “Shamans, you mean, beating their drums and dancing around the fire when we all know the best they can hope to do is delay the inevitable.”

Ryan grinned. “Your diet may have changed but I see your disposition is still as sweet as ever.”

The old man chuckled, then drew on the cigar until the tip glowed bright red.

“So,” he said, blowing out a wreath of smoke, “what’s new in your life, young man?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s new in yours first?”

James’s lids drooped down over his eyes. “What could be? I spend my days taking pills and eating pablum.”