Jonas’s arm came around her, comforting and warm, chasing away the icy, numbing chill that had settled over her. “I’m fine,” she whispered fiercely, burying her face in his shoulder. “Really.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Jonas led her into the hallway and toward the elevator. Stephanie didn’t recall any of the ride to the top floor, but when the thick door glided open, Jonas called to Bertha Westheimer.
“Bring me a strong cup of coffee, and add plenty of sugar.”
“Jonas, really,” Stephanie insisted, her voice wavering slightly. “I’m fine, and I’m certainly not anywhere near being in shock.”
He ignored her, leading her into his office and sitting her down in a thick leather chair. He paced the area directly in front of her until his ever-efficient secretary appeared with the coffee, carefully handing it to Stephanie. The older woman gave Stephanie a sympathetic look that puzzled Stephanie. She couldn’t understand why the other woman would regard her with such compassion, but then she remembered her hair. She smiled back as Bertha quietly left the room, softly closing the door behind her.
“I won’t ever have you subjected to that kind of treatment again,” Jonas roared, still battling his anger.
Stephanie stared up at him blankly as he paced. He marched like a soldier doing sentry duty, going three or four feet, then swiftly making a sharp about-face. She realized his irritation wasn’t directed at her.
“We’re getting married,” he announced forcefully.
Stephanie’s immediate response was to take a sip of the syrupy coffee, convinced she’d misunderstood him.
“Well?” he barked.
“Would you mind repeating the question... I’m certain I heard you wrong.”
“I said we’re getting married.” He said it louder this time.
Stephanie blinked twice. “If I wasn’t in shock before, I am now. You can’t possibly mean that, Jonas.”
“My name will protect you.’’
“But, Jonas—”
“Will or won’t you be my wife?” he yelled.
“Stop shouting at me,” she cried, jumping to her feet. The coffee nearly sloshed over the edges of the Styrofoam cup, and Stephanie set it down before she ended up spilling it down the front of her dress.
“Anything could have happened down there,” Jonas continued. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did...” He left the rest to her imagination.
Stephanie went still, her gaze studying this man she loved. “Isn’t marriage a little drastic?”
“Not in these circumstances.” He looked at her as though she were the one being unreasonable.
“Jonas, do you love me?” she asked the question softly, almost fearing his response.
“I’d hardly be willing to make you my wife if I didn’t.”
“I see.”
He hesitated, looking uneasy. “How do you feel about me?”
“Oh, Jonas, do you really need to ask?” Her gaze softened, and her heart melted at the pride and doubt she read in his hard expression. He was more vulnerable now than at any time since she’d begun working for him. “I’ve been in love with you from the moment we stood in front of the fountain in Paris—only it took a while to realize it.”
His eyes looked deeply into hers, and when he spoke, the burning anger had been replaced by tenderness. “Stephanie, I love you. I didn’t ever expect to fall so hard, and certainly not for a tiny slip of a woman who is so proud and forthright. But it’s happened, and I’ll thank God every day of my life if you’ll agree to marry me and have my children.”
“Oh, Jonas.” She cupped her hand over her mouth and battled back the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to engulf her. Then she sniffled and turned around, desperately seeking a tissue.
Jonas handed her one and paused to cup her face in his hands. He smiled at her gently, lovingly. “We’re going to have a wonderful life together,” he said as he lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss was tender and sweet, and his tongue probed her mouth with slow, easy thrusts that made Stephanie’s knees grow weak.
Her arms curled and locked around his neck as his mouth meandered over her lips to her ear. “You’re a crazy woman.”
“Crazy about you,” she admitted, loving the feel of him rubbing against her, knowing that their lovemaking would be exquisite.
“A man attacks you and you’re a fireball. I ask you to marry me, and you burst into tears.”
“I’m happy.”
“You will, won’t you?”
“Marry you? Oh, Jonas, I’d consider it the greatest honor of my life to be your wife.”
“You won’t mind children?”
“A dozen at least,” she said with a happy laugh. Fresh tears misted her eyes at the thought of bearing Jonas’s child.
“A dozen?” He cocked his brows and grinned sheepishly. “I’m willing, but you may want to change your mind after three or four.” Still holding her, Jonas flipped the switch to the intercom. “Miss Westheimer?”
“Yes,” came the tinny-sounding reply.
“Contact Mr. Potter and tell him that Miss Coulter won’t be in for the remainder of the day.”