Marry Me, Kate

“I promise you I intend to discuss your, uh, business plans. I’ll give you my full attention for one hour and you can show me those figures you said you had prepared.” Not that he expected anything that would make a lick of business sense. Not if it had to do with the ramshackle diner.

She didn’t grab the opportunity he offered. Instead she planted her hands on those slender hips that had drawn his gaze more than once and stared at him.

“Why?”

Of course she would ask. “Because I keep my word. You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Now it’s my turn.”

He found it fascinating to watch the changes in her expressive eyes as she considered his statement. Then she looked over her shoulder at their audience.

“Go on. Give him a chance,” one customer, an older, unshaven man urged with a grin.

“Billy—” she began, then stopped. She turned back to stare at Will, her eyes narrowing.

He knew the instant she made up her mind and breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, the thought of ending their acquaintance tonight bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

“All right, Mr. Hardison. I’ll take your one hour. Come on.” She spun on her heel and headed toward a back booth in the diner.

Will frowned. He didn’t want to conduct business in the diner. With an audience. Hurrying after her, he said, “Don’t you think we could find a better place for our discussion?”

Like her bedroom.

He immediately shut down that errant thought. Business. He needed to think about business. But it was hard when he was following her trim figure encased in tight black, her red hair sparking as it moved with her.

“No.”

Brief and to the point. He’d already learned she was direct, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. “Okay,” he agreed with a resigned sigh and slid into the plastic and Formica booth opposite her.

From the small black purse she’d carried with her all evening, she withdrew several sheets of paper folded to fit inside.

Kate couldn’t believe she’d been given a second chance. Drawing a deep breath, she began to outline her plan to rescue her father’s diner.

“A catering firm?” the man opposite her asked in surprise. “I hate to mention such mundane things, but catering is a tough business, with a low profit margin. And even more important, it requires good cooking skills.”

Did he think she was an idiot? “Of course it does. But since I trained in Paris, I think my cooking will be adequate.”

“Paris, France?”

The surprise on his face was offensive. “No, Paris, Texas! Really, Mr. Hardison, must you insult my intelligence? Of course, Paris, France. I worked there as sous-chef of Maxim’s for the past three years.”

“Maxim’s?” he repeated. “But I ate there last November.”

“And you haven’t died from ptomaine poisoning yet? Amazing.” She had to remind herself not to be sarcastic. Pop always warned her about her sharp tongue, but the man was driving her crazy.

“I didn’t mean—the food was good. But you don’t look like you—I mean, your appearance—I’m surprised.” He finished with red cheeks, but his gaze had roved her face and body and it didn’t take much interpretation to understand his meaning.

“So you think only ugly women learn to cook?”

“No, of course not, but—let’s see those figures.”

Though his resorting to business to get him out of his difficulties was amusing, she didn’t bother to smile. Too much was at stake. But it didn’t keep her from appreciating that she had him at a disadvantage.

“All right, here’s what I’m hoping to do.”

She forgot the earlier events of the evening, her disgust with her companion, the despair that had filled her as they’d driven back to the diner. Inside, the flickering hope that had driven her to William Hardison in the first place flamed high as she described her plan to restore the diner to its former glory.

Or to more than its former glory since she wasn’t sure it had ever been a smart establishment. Her plans included a large expansion of the kitchen to enable her to mass produce hors d’oeuvres and meals for the catering. And, since the man had agreed to listen, she threw in the apartment she planned to add on for herself.

“You want to live here?” His glance around the diner wasn’t admiring.

“I already live here. I’d like to have nicer accommodations.”

His gaze whipped back to hers. “Where?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where do you live?”

“There’s a room behind the kitchen.”

“I want to see it.”

Her eyebrows raised. She had no intention of showing him her bedroom. She wasn’t ashamed of it, exactly, but it wasn’t a showplace, either. Just a room with a small bed, some space for her to store her clothes and a lot of boxes holding some of her belongings and those of her father. It was none of his business.

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“But, you see, Mr. Hardison,” she said with a glacial smile, “I don’t much care what you think about my living quarters. I only care about your business acumen, in regard to my plans.”

“I think you have about as much chance of being successful as the Royals do of making the playoffs.”

Her confidence took a nosedive. The Royals, the local pro baseball team, were halfway through their season with a .348 percent win record.

She stiffened her back and raised her chin. “I see. Well, thank you for listening.” She started to slide out of the booth, hoping she could escape before her eyes allowed the tears filling them to overrun down her cheeks.

“But I will give you the money,” he said as he took hold of her arm.

She froze. Surely she had not heard correctly. He’d just said she had almost no chance to make her plan work. Then in the next breath he’d offered her the money?

Collecting herself, she asked sedately, as if her heart were not thumping like a drum, “On what terms?”

The smile on his lips should’ve warned her. But she was thinking percent, payments, length of loan, escrow. He wasn’t.

“My terms are that you marry me.”

Chapter Three

She gasped, drawing in a deep breath as she pulled herself together. Finally, when she had control once more, she said coldly, “I believe I mentioned earlier that I’m not for sale, Mr. Hardison.”