What the hell? “How is that the right thing?” I demand, suddenly outraged he’s treating me as though I were some kind of…vermin. What’s next? A restraining order to keep me away from my own child?
“Do you how messy and expensive unsettled parental rights and custody battles can be? I’m not letting Jo go through that. She deserves better.”
“I suppose marriage never occurred to you?” I bring up the most logical possibility, and the one this lawyer should’ve thought of if he had a functioning brain cell in his skull. Perhaps I should retain a decent attorney for Jo. She deserves better than some joker who’s incapable of identifying the most obvious and sound solution. “Or don’t they do that in California anymore?”
He chokes out a laugh. “You think I’m doing this to get you to marry her?”
“Aren’t you?” I’m rich. So is my family. And we’re well connected. Why wouldn’t a woman want to marry me?
The horrible scandal? Remember the conspiracy and all that? a small voice in my head whispers.
Yeah, but I wasn’t really part of it. Or so I tell myself when I’m feeling ashamed and responsible for what happened within my family. The Blackwoods are dignified. We do not air our dirty laundry. We pour bleach over the stains, patch up the rips and pretend we’re above everything.
And it usually works…as long as we avoid tabloid writers.
“Look, I’m sure you’re a great catch,” Hugo says, his tone mildly conciliatory. “But Jo doesn’t love you or plan to marry you. If she did, she would’ve told you about the bun in her oven, right?”
He has a point. And it’s pissing me off. My child deserves a father. Jo should’ve told me, instead of having her cousin do this…notification.
r /> My estimation of her drops a notch or two, but that doesn’t dim the hotness of our night together. As a matter of fact, anticipation streaks along my spine. What’s wrong with me? How can lust trump good sense?
“I’ll handle this personally,” I say finally.
“You can consult a lawyer of your own if you like, but this is a good deal for you.”
I almost snort. I’ll be the judge of what’s good. I hang up, then ask Susan to come into my office. “Clear my calendar for the rest of the week and arrange for the earliest flight out to Los Angeles.”
“But your meetings—”
“Cancel or reschedule. If not, tell them it’s going to have to be done via teleconference. No exceptions.”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Eight
Jo
Elizabeth and I let our gazes roam over the endless rows of shoes. They’re all nice, but… Hmmm. That pink pair looks stylish…
Wait, no. I pause, thinking about the dress she’s going to wear to the gala next month. There’s nothing really wrong with the pink stilettos, but she could do better.
I could do better.
Everyone at the gala is going to know I put her outfit together. As the head of the Pryce Family Foundation, Elizabeth King is one of the most high-profile women in the country for her charitable work. Not to mention she’s model-beautiful, with long, glossy golden hair and warm, compassionate eyes that never fail to put people at ease. Making her look even more striking is going to further my career, especially since she’s always made sure I got the credit for her impeccable fashion choices.
I give her another once-over, taking in her height, coloration and a thousand other details. “What do you think about these?” I say finally, picking up a pair of glittery silver sandals with thin heels. Dolce & Gabbana shouldn’t disappoint.
Her eyes brighten. “Ooh! They’re so cute!”
“And perfect for your royal-blue dress.”
“I know!” She takes them from my hands and lovingly strokes the straps. “Oh my. I have to get these.” She sighs. “I’m so glad you’re here. I would’ve picked out something nude-colored, but I need more pizzazz.”
A staff member of the luxury boutique brings over a tray of drinks. Elizabeth and I each take a glass of freshly squeezed organic orange juice off the silver surface. As I sip the sweetly tart beverage, it suddenly occurs to me that Elizabeth has no reason to take the OJ. She drinks vodka like water, and she usually prefers champagne or a mimosa when she’s shopping.
I tilt my head and regard her. She’s not showing or anything…but the woman exercises and eats healthy food. She snapped right back after her first child—a son. Her smile is too happy, and… Is that a little extra glow on her face?
I lower my voice and lean closer. “Are you pregnant?”