The Man Must Marry(5)

"What?"

"She says it's been comforting for him."

"Then she's as sick as he is!"

"No. She's softhearted. And the bravest woman I've ever met," Sam countered.

"Brave?" Ben repeated.

"It was obvious that Tidewater's boardroom was the last place Ms.Kent   wanted to be today. And I assure you, she is not looking forward to this   evening. It takes a hell of a lot of courage to messenger the imminent   death of a man to his family. I honestly can't say that I could do  what  she's doing."

The car fell silent after that, until they stopped to pick up Jesse's   date for the evening. With legendary Sinclair willpower, the three men   forced themselves to throw off their gloom and smile at Darcy as she sat   next to Jesse.

Darcy was the epitome ofManhattan womanhood. Tonight she was dressed in   elegant black and cultured coolness. She wore three-inch heels, which   were necessary if she didn't want to be dwarfed by her escort. Jesse and   Darcy had been seeing each other for three months, which was about the   limit of Jesse's female attention span.

Sam guessed his brother would soon be moving on, which was probably just   as well. For all of Darcy's beauty, she didn't have much depth of   character. Traveling, shopping, and spending her trust fund were the   extent of her interests.

They picked up Ben's date next. Paula wasn't a steady; Ben enjoyed the   company of several different women. He'd been burned badly a couple of   times already; first when he was nineteen and then again four years ago.

The last time had been close. Bram had thought he was finally going to   get a granddaughter-in-law, and Jesse and Sam had thought they were   going to get the pressure lifted from finding their own wives. But just   when it had looked as if Ben might propose, he'd broken off the   relationship, not telling anyone why. It would take a stalwart woman to   marry a Sinclair. She would have to be intelligent, strong, and   forgiving. She'd also have to be brave. The Sinclair men were not known   for their patience. People generally treaded carefully around them,   especially Bram. And he'd brought up his grandsons to be just as   ruthless, just as relentless, just as driven.

Sam, Ben, and Jesse had been orphaned when Sam was twelve. Their parents   had died in a plane crash returning from an overseas meeting that had   doubled as a romantic vacation. His shoulders slumped in

defeat with the news that his third and last surviving son was dead,   Bram had arrived with Grammy Rose at the boys' home and collected them. A   powerful bond had been formed that day between the three lost,  confused  children and their grieving grandparents. Deep, desperate love  had  blossomed, along with friendship and respect.

That was why Bram hadn't been able to choose among them. He didn't want   to turn his business over to just one of his boys; they all owned  shares  in Tidewater, and they all were wealthy men in their own rights,  thanks  to the Sinclair drive. To pick one to head his company was  clearly too  hard for the old man.

The limo pulled up to the Marriott, where Willa was waiting in the   lobby. She reminded Sam of an absentminded professor, whose body was   having trouble keeping up with her brain. Willamina Kent 's head was too   far into the clouds to see the everyday details of life. And her  heart,  apparently, was her own worst enemy. Why else would she have  come on  this mission for a man she'd only known for six weeks?

As soon as she saw him get out of the car, she headed for the revolving   door. She'd traded her saddlebag of a purse for a clutch with a long   strap that dangled from her fist. Sam watched in stoic resignation as   she pushed through the door, snagging her purse in the sweep of the door   behind her. The strap snapped, and the purse landed on the ground,   unceremoniously pushed along by the door behind her.                       
       
           



       

Her ankles wobbled as she reached down to get it. Sam grabbed her elbow to steady her, then retrieved the purse himself.

"Thank you," she murmured, clutching the mangled purse, the long strap dangling like a tail as she headed for the car.

Sam settled her into the silent limo. Getting in beside her, he saw her cheeks were flaming red. They matched her dress.

The dress looked as if it had come from a thrift shop, the style even   older than the suit she'd worn earlier, with a high collar in danger of   choking her. Ruffles grazed her chin, and the hem was nearly at her   ankles.

At least her shoes were better this time. They were black, again with   two-inch heels, and matched the wide belt cinching her waist. The purse   she was industriously trying to repair was tan. Sam reached over and   took it from her. Upon examination, he quickly decided the thing was a   lost cause and broke off the strap. "Now you have a hand clutch," he   said, handing it back to her. Her gaze, which had widened when he'd   popped the useless strap, lowered to her lap. Turning the small handbag   over and over, she finally looked up at the others in the car and gave   them a shy smile.

"Hello again," she said to Jesse, who couldn't quit staring. Ben quietly kicked him.

"Ah … hello," Jesse answered. "I guess I should make the introductions.   This is my friend, Darcy. And this is Paula, Ben's friend. Ladies, this   is Willamina."

Everyone smiled graciously, then Willa turned to Sam. "Are we going to pick up your date next?" she asked.

"No. I drew the short straw."

Her face flushed, and her head bent down, causing her precarious topknot   to loosen. Aw, hell. He hadn't really meant to say that. He knew she   didn't want to be there any more than they did. But despite what he had   said to his brothers about Willa's courage, she was also husband   hunting. Only someone hoping to marry into the Sinclair wealth would   agree to come toNew York to vote on something she knew nothing about.

Well, by the end of this evening, Willamina Kent would be more than   ready to fly home after a triple dose of confirmed bachelorism. They'd   all sent better women than she down the road shaking their heads. Bram   was going to have to go to his grave without getting a   granddaughter-in-law. Sorry for hurting her feelings but determined to   stand firm against the threat she posed, Sam turned away and stared out   the window.

The man may as well have slapped her face. She didn't want to be the   arrogant jerk's date. She didn't want to be anyone's date. Especially   not one of these three puffed-up baboons parading as men. They were just   like their grandfather-and Willa didn't consider that a compliment.   Abram Sinclair was a bossy, arrogant old goat, even if she did love him.   But that didn't mean she had to love his grandsons. She didn't even   have to like them.

She was there on a mission of mercy and nothing else, despite what Abram   hoped. Oh, she knew he had matchmaking up his sleeve. He'd been  blatant  enough with his praise and subtle hints that his boys were all  lonely,  misunderstood men.

Well, they could damn well find their own wives. Which shouldn't be   hard; they were gorgeous. But even if they were butt ugly, they were   wealthy enough to have women drooling at their feet. Willa eyed the   women in the car. They were beautiful. Elegant. Skinny. Everything she   was not. She hated them; she hatedNew York . And she hated anyone named   Sinclair. The restaurant they arrived at was over-the-top fancy and the   only nonlimos pulling up were foreign and expensive. Willa felt like a   wren in a house of predatory cats. Sam Sinclair wasn't helping  matters.

"If you take my elbow again, I'm going to drive my heel into your shin," she softly warned when he reached for her.

He drew back as if she'd bitten him, then his eyes narrowed. "If you fall flat on your face, I'm going to leave you there."

Chin raised and with all the dignity she could muster, Willa followed the other women inside-into an Asian country.

Damn. Foreign food. And if they expected her to use two little sticks to   eat with, she'd starve first. She was aMaine girl; she ate meat and   potatoes and seafood. Pronounceable seafood. They were soon seated   around a large circular table in a room so dimly lit she could barely   see across it. Not knowing what else to do with her … clutch purse, Willa   set it on her lap, only to have it slide down her satiny dress, fall   onto the floor, and bounce off her foot. She heard Sam sigh. The damn   purse could damn well stay where it was; all it held were some tissues.   Willa hated purses. Doing errands at home, she wore jeans and sneakers   and a small fanny pack. She didn't have time to chase down a purse   whenever she wanted something. Since she'd leftMaine , she'd spent more   time babysitting her purse than anything else. The floor sweeper could   have this one. They were given menus, and everyone ordered drinks.  Willa  got stared at again when she ordered a Johnnie Walker Black on  the  rocks. A double.