The Billionaire's Bride. Jackie Braun

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      PROLOGUE

      MARNIE STRIKER LARUE covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one hand and hollered, “Do not put Dorothy in the fridge again, Noah.”

      She couldn’t see into the kitchen, but she’d developed a sixth sense where her four-year-old son was concerned and he’d been awfully preoccupied with that goldfish lately.

      Sure enough, he hollered back, “Aw, Mom.”

      When Marnie saw him dash in the direction of his bedroom, she settled back onto the couch beside the mountain of unfolded laundry and, securing the receiver between her ear and shoulder, said, “So, what were you about to say, Mother?”

      “I just wanted to mention that Dad saw an interesting article in the Phoenix Sun the other day about how the number of female-owned businesses is on the rise.”

      Apparently her parents, who had retired to Arizona several years before, still had a sixth sense when it came to their youngest child.

      This was another not so subtle reminder that Marnie’s plan to start her own business had languished for three years now. With her late husband’s enthusiastic backing, she’d plotted out a strategy for a mail-order business, a frillier version of Land’s End and L.L. Bean. At first, she’d planned to offer clothing and accessories for women like her who lived far from shopping centers and strip malls, but who still wanted to be fashionable. Later, she’d hoped to branch out into men’s and children’s clothing and then finally to include home decor.

      It was to be called Marnie’s Closet, a name that had come courtesy of her sister-in-law, Rose, who still borrowed things to wear on occasion, although not as often now since Marnie hadn’t added so much as a new belt to her wardrobe in a few seasons.

      The entire typed-out plan was still somewhere in Marnie’s house, gathering dust. It had been hatched PHD—Pre-Hal’s Death. That’s how Marnie thought of everything now, as if her world had been bisected neatly in two by the events of one horrific afternoon three years earlier.

      “Your husband is dead.”

      Those were the only words she’d heard that day. The remainder of what the kind-faced Michigan State Police officer had said had been lost to the roaring in her ears as she’d sat on the couch in her tidy little home holding tightly to her infant son while the rest of her world had slipped beyond her grasp and shattered into unsalvageable pieces.

      Even now it seemed inconceivable. Dead? Not Hal. Not her careful, methodical, safety-conscious husband. It was a mistake. Had to be. Someone else’s husband had died trying to save two inebriated downstate snowmobilers who had ignored thin ice warnings and tumbled sled and all into the unforgiving waters of Lake Superior.

      But then as now the truth could not be ignored. Hal was dead. The boy she had loved, the young man she had married, had become the spouse she mourned.

      Since his death, she’d forgotten all about the business venture that had so excited her. She’d forgotten about everything but maintaining her tenuous financial footing and seeing to her son’s needs. Every morning for the past three years she’d gotten up tired and every night she had gone to bed bone weary, the monotony of her predictable schedule broken only by the bittersweet joy of watching her son learn to walk and talk СКАЧАТЬ