The Marriage Agreement. Renee Ryan

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      Jonathon opened his mouth, then shut it again as he considered the widow through narrowed eyes. “You seem very determined I join you.”

      “I am quite determined.”

      “Why?”

      Undaunted by his suspicious tone, Mrs. Singletary gave a jaunty wave of her hand. “Considering the nature of our business relationship, I am determined we get to know one another on a more personal level. The opera is an excellent place to start.”

      Fanny shook her head at the widow’s flimsy excuse. Surely Mrs. Singletary had figured out by now that no one knew Jonathon Hawkins on a personal level. He always held a portion of himself back, never letting anyone past the polished facade. It was that mysterious air that made him so attractive to women, and so confounding to Fanny.

      “I appreciate the invitation,” he said at last. “But I must decline.”

      He did not expand on his reasons.

      A brief battle of wills ensued, but Mrs. Singletary gave in graciously after only a few seconds. “I suppose we will have to try for another time.”

      He smiled. Or maybe he didn’t. Fanny wasn’t sure what that twist of his lips meant. “Indeed we will,” he said.

      “Well, now.” The widow clapped her hands together. “Shall we begin our tour of this lovely ballroom?”

      Before anyone could respond, she linked her arm with Fanny’s. “You will show me around, Miss Mitchell, seeing as the majority of the preparations have fallen upon your capable shoulders.”

      The widow all but dragged Fanny deeper into the ballroom, leaving Jonathon and Philomena together. Convenient.

      At least neither of them seemed overly pleased to be in the other’s company. Fanny found far more comfort in their mutual uneasiness than she should.

      Did Jonathon have any idea what his business partner was plotting? Would it matter if he did? It was a well-known fact that once the widow set her sights on a particular match, there was no changing her mind.

      Perhaps Fanny should warn him. Or...perhaps not. She was merely his employee. He’d made it painfully clear there would be nothing more than business between them. She had no claims on him, and she certainly wasn’t interested in him romantically.

      That was, at any rate, her official stand on the matter.

      * * *

      Jonathon had heard his share of disturbing tales concerning Mrs. Singletary’s penchant for matchmaking. He’d dismissed them out of hand. Beatrix Singletary was eccentric to be sure, but he’d never found cause to think her the meddling sort.

      Until now.

      The woman was actually pushing her companion on him, and she wasn’t even attempting to be subtle. When next he had Mrs. Singletary’s ear, he would inform her that her efforts were wasted on him.

      Jonathon would never marry, nor father any children. He came from bad blood, from a long line of selfish men who’d destroyed the women in their lives.

      He would not perpetuate the cycle. His newest project would become his legacy, a tangible way to help women rather than hurt them.

      He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the ceiling, then across the ballroom, over to the doors leading to the terrace, anywhere but at the pretty young woman standing beside him.

      Miss Ferguson was likable enough. She was perfectly suitable—for some other man.

      “Mr. Hawkins, I apologize for my employer.” Philomena shifted uncomfortably beside him. “She means well, I’m sure. But when Mrs. Singletary gets an idea in her head, she can be unrelenting in her desire to see it through to the end.”

      Pleased by the young woman’s directness, Jonathon decided to be equally forthright in return. “Tenacity is an admirable trait. However, in this instance, Mrs. Singletary will be disappointed if she continues to push you and me together.”

      Relief filled the young woman’s gaze. “I concur completely. You and I would never suit. A match between us would be the very worst of bad ideas.”

      Jonathon offered a sardonic tilt of his lips.

      Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Hawkins, please forgive my wayward tongue. I did not mean to insult you.”

      “I’m not offended, Miss Ferguson. I find your candor refreshing.”

      “Praise the Lord.” She sighed. Then, clearly eager to move away from their discussion as quickly as possible, she looked out across the ballroom.

      Jonathon followed the direction of her gaze and felt his gut take a slow, curling roll. Fanny was working her charms on Mrs. Singletary, directing the widow through the ballroom. Even dressed simply in a black, high-collared dress, Fanny exuded grace and elegance. Rather than detract, the lack of color in her clothing emphasized her natural beauty.

      He watched, fascinated, as she pointed to the chandelier he’d had recently installed. Beneath the glow of a thousand flickering electric lights, her blue-green eyes sparkled with pleasure.

      Jonathon blinked, unable to tear his gaze free of all that joy, all that beauty. He’d spent too many years surrounded by ugliness not to appreciate the way she’d scooped her silky blond curls in some sort of fancy twist atop her head. A few errant strands tumbled free, framing her exquisite oval face.

      Fanny Mitchell was one of the Lord’s greatest works of art.

      She captivated him. In truth, she’d intrigued him from their first meeting. If any woman could entice him to reconsider his opinion on marriage, it would be Fanny Mitchell.

      And yet, because he admired her so much, liked her even, she was the last woman he would consider pursuing romantically.

      She’d become indispensable to him. Here, at the hotel. Her personal touches were everywhere. From the elegant yet inviting furniture in the lobby, to the specialty chocolates hand-delivered to the rooms each evening, to the list of Denver attractions provided to each guest at check-in.

      As if sensing his gaze on her, she shot him a wink from over her shoulder. His mind emptied of all thought.

      Footsteps sounded from the outer hallway, heralding someone’s approach. Jonathon jerked his attention toward the doorway.

      His assistant, Burke Galloway, hastened into the ballroom, a scowl on his face. Recognizing the look, Jonathon addressed Miss Ferguson directly. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

      “Of course.”

      He approached his assistant, a tall, lean young man with dark hair and startling, pale blue eyes. “Is there a problem?”

      Burke’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Joshua Greene is here to see you. I put him in your private office.”

      Everything in him went cold. “Which Joshua Greene, father or son?”

      Neither man was welcome in the hotel.

      “Son.” СКАЧАТЬ