Chapter Two
His housekeeper, Mrs. Bryant, had apparently slipped an
hallucinogenic into the shrimp, Luke thought. That would
explain what he thought he'd just heard. In fact, it might
explain this whole conversation. Maybe Devon's little sister
hadn't shown up to tell him that Devon had run off to marry
a dairy farmer from some state that began with an M.
Maybe he hadn't told her about his grandfather's crazy plan
to get him married before his thirty-sixth birthday. And
definitely she hadn't just said-
"What?" His voice came out as a croak, and he cleared
his throat before trying again. "What did you just say?"
"I said ... you could marry me instead." From the look in
her eyes, he was willing to her that Cat was almost as
shocked by the suggestion as he was.
"That's what I thought you said." Luke downed the last of
the brandy and leaned forward to set the snifter on the
edge of the coffee table before looking at her again. "You
don't look deranged," he said conversationally.
"It's not deranged," she protested. "If you think about it,
it makes sense."
"On what planet?"
"On this one." Her color rose, but her mouth set in a
stubborn line that made Luke uncomfortably aware of the
fullness of her lower lip. She had the most amazingly
kissable mouth. He hadn't let himself notice it before, on
the couple of occasions when Devon had dragged him to
her father's house for dinner. His engagement to Devon
might not have been the romance of the decade, but it was
an engagement, and it was just tacky to ogle your fiancée's
little sister over the dinner table.
With an effort, he dragged his eyes away from her
mouth. "It isn't like trading in a car for a new model," he
said, annoyance lending an edge to his voice.
"Actually, it is. Sort of." Cat leaned forward, her
expression earnest. "You and Devon had a business
arrangement, right?" She didn't wait for him to respond but
hurried on as if she had to get it all out at once. "You need
to be married before your thirty-sixth birthday, and it
apparently doesn't matter who you marry so ..."She gave
him a self-conscious little shrug. "Why not me?"
Why not her? There were so many reasons why not her
that Luke didn't know which one to mention first.
"You're too damned young for one thing," he said, coming
up with the first and most obvious problem. "How old are
you, anyway?"
"Twenty-one," she said indignantly, then bit her lip. "In
five months."
"Twenty? You're twenty?" Luke shot to his feet, snatching
up the brandy snifter on the way to the bar. "Do you know
how old I am?"
"Is this a test?" Cat turned to watch him as he splashed a
healthy dose of brandy into the snifter.
"I'm thirty-five," he said, ignoring her question. "I'm
twice your age."
"You're off by five years."
"Don't split hairs." He picked up the brandy snifter and
stalked back to the sitting area. He stood in front of the
sofa and scowled down at her. "I'm old enough to be your
father."
"Technically, I guess, if you were on the precocious side
but, since you're not my father, I don't see that we have a
problem."
Luke pointed the brandy snifter at her. "Thirty-five-yearold men do not marry twenty-year-old girls."
"Sure they do. I could be your trophy wife."
She said it with such bright good cheer that Luke was
startled into laughing. But he still shook his head. "No. I'm
not in the market for a trophy wife. The whole idea is
crazy."
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