My heart started beating faster. Three hundred fifty thousand dollars. It was even more than the loan I'd hoped the bank would approve. It would be more than enough to make all the equipment and house repairs. Enough to bottle the wine sitting in barrels right now. Enough to add at least a couple employees, too. And if the newest harvest was as good as I predicted . . . this winery would be successful again in less than a year. I could fulfill the vow I'd made in my father's name.
I remained silent, not only going over what she'd just said, but also to make her squirm. She didn't. Finally, I said, "Interesting. There's no clause about how long we'd have to remain married?"
She released a breath and shook her head, no doubt assuming my question meant I was actually considering this insane idea. Was I? Was this even legit? Surely there was some catch. It was too preposterous to be true. My head was reeling just a bit and not only from the hangover anymore. "No, but my father would be . . . displeased if he knew I had married to get the money my grandmother left only to split it with you . . . that is, with anyone." Something raced across her expression, but I couldn't read it. "If he had any indication this was a fake marriage, he might very well try to contest the payout of the trust. It would be in both our best interests to make the marriage look as legitimate as possible. However, like I said, my father and I are estranged. I imagine our effort would only need to be minimal, but convincing."
I raised my eyebrows, allowing myself another moment to go over what she'd said. It was outrageous, unbelievable. "Wait, you're not," I leaned forward, "one of those crazy women who used to write to me in prison offering marriage, are you?"
Her eyes went wide. "What?"
I reclined back again. "Yeah, there were lots of them. Apparently some women find a sick thrill in that sort of thing."
"For what . . . why?" She shook her head slightly as if she wasn't sure how the conversation had veered off track. Her confusion seemed genuine.
I smirked. "From what I know, women like a bad boy."
She looked at me blankly for a moment. "I can assure you, I'm not one of those women."
I nodded slowly, regarding her. "Well good, because I can assure you that you're not my type anyway."
She bristled, sitting up straighter. "Even better then. What I'm proposing is strictly business, nothing more." She looked away, and I couldn't see those witchy eyes, but when she looked back her cheeks were rosy again. "However, it would look suspicious if I didn't live here, and frankly, Mr. Hawthorn, I need somewhere to live. And so I was thinking that in exchange for the housing, I could do accounting work for you. I assume you no longer have much of a staff."
I leaned back again. "I'm impressed by your research, Ms. Dallaire. No, I had to let my bookkeeper go. And my secretary. And most of the rest of the staff as well." Not that any of them had lived on the grounds.
She nodded. "I'm good with numbers. I worked as an intern for my father's accounting team. I'm well acquainted with accounting programs. I could work for you in exchange for room and board, and obviously for appearance’s sake. I don't propose I'd have to live here for a year—maybe just a couple months or so, or until I know my father has accepted the marriage and resumed ignoring me. I could discreetly move away, and we would never have to see one another again—except of course, in divorce court. It really would be very straightforward. And very temporary. And of course, we'd put it all in writing. And please, just Kira."
I studied her for several long moments, noting the way she'd just rambled. She looked to be polished and sure, but was she actually nervous sitting here in front of me? I held eye contact for just a beat too long, but she didn't look away and didn't flinch. "And what will you do with your half of the money, Kira? If I may be so bold as to ask."