The Husband Contract. Kathleen O'Brien

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       CHAPTER ONE

      “HEY, watch it,” Clay Logan growled, reaching out to grab the shoulder of a four-foot-tall jester who had just barreled past, sideswiping him with a plume of cotton candy.

      “Well, sorry,” the kid said defensively, frowning at the pink mess on Clay’s shirt cuff. “I didn’t even see you.”

      Clay plucked at the goo and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt. It wasn’t easy. He had to be in court in an hour, and his shirt was ruined.

      “That’s okay.” He summoned a smile. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Melanie Browning. Do you know where she could be?”

      “Our Miss Browning?” The jester shook his head. “She was being Juliet this morning in the play, but now…” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

      Clay sighed heavily as he felt the beginnings of a headache. He knew where Melanie Browning should have been, damn it. She should have been in his office where they’d had a ten o’clock appointment. She had baldly stood him up—no call, no excuses. And all, apparently, for the pleasure of playing Juhet at the Wakefield Boys Academy Medieval Day Fair. He rubbed one last time at his sleeve and then gave up—the stain was just spreading. Now his shirt and his fingers were wrecked.

      Silently he cursed the benevolent impulse that had brought him here to track the woman down. He must have been insane. He should have buzzed Tracy to send in the next client and merely mailed Miss Browning a whopping bill for the missed appointment.

      The jester guiltily eyed the damage he’d done. “Well, maybe I can find out for you,” he offered. He turned to a pair of teens sitting on a nearby bench. “Hey—you guys know where Miss Browning is?”

      One of the older boys laughed scornfully. “Why would we tell you, dork?”

      Clay frowned, surprised by the gratuitous rudeness. Who were these kids? The boys, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, were among the very few here today who were not wearing medieval costumes. Too chronically cool, no doubt, Clay thought, irritated by the swaggering boredom on their adolescent faces.

      “You’re not telling me. You’re telling him,” the jester said, pointing at Clay as if the presence of an adult settled the question.

      The teenagers didn’t seem impressed. They held their hands awkwardly behind their backs, and Clay could see two thin threads of smoke curling just over their shoulders. Smoking, at their age on school grounds? Rude and stupid.

      “Him?” One of the boys stared at Clay, his smile defiant. “Who’s he? God?”

      Clay met the sneer, unimpressed himself. He knew their type. Real scary guys—except for the cowlick and the acne and an occasional unplanned octave swoop.

      “Yeah, I’m God,” he answered blandly. “And I’m late for the Apocalypse. So how about an answer, and I’ll let you get back to your smokes. Do you know where Miss Browning is or not?”

      “Nope,” the boy said, his shoulders jiggling as he humedly stubbed out his cigarette. “We haven’t got a clue.”

      That much was obvious, Clay thought wryly.

      The jester scowled. “Well, you did know, Nick. You were with her after the play.”

      The СКАЧАТЬ