The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (4 page)

He pulled his hand back and pressed the handkerchief to my face again. "It's a small scratch. He probably grazed you with his teeth or something. He looked like he was going to eat you alive earlier."

 
I flushed and shuddered at the memory of Dustin's mouth and hands all over me. "I don't know why he followed me out. He normally flirts with me a lot but he's never gone this far."

Brandon leaned down and picked up the hundred-dollar bill which he handed to me. "The man clearly wants what he paid for."

I turned my head away so he wouldn't touch me anymore and I snatched the bill angrily from him. "Right. Because that's how I get by. Well, I might as well keep the money since I've already suffered for it."

The expression of dismay was clear in his eyes. "I'm not here to judge you, Ms. Samuels. That was my mistake yesterday. I don't care how you make your money. All I want is your cooperation in a simple and lucrative business arrangement that will offer you a safe and comfortable life for the duration of it and the financial support for you to continue living so afterwards."

My hands clenched into fists. "Despite what you think you know, Mr. Maxfield, I won't prostitute myself to you."

"But you will to men like Clarence?" he asked, his brows lifting.

"I am not a prostitute!" I yelled at him, my palm cracking against his cheek before we both realized it.

My jaw dropped in horror and I lowered my stinging hand, meeting his furious gaze as he palmed his reddened cheek. 

He didn't speak for a full minute and I refused to say anything—much less an apology.

"If your concern is your marital obligations to me in bed, set your mind at ease," he said slowly in a low, menacing voice. "I have no interest in sleeping with you whatsoever. But since I'll be paying you, I require absolute fidelity from you."

"And I suppose you require the exact opposite for yourself," I scoffed. 

"Of course," he said without hesitation. "I will, however, be very discreet. I will not humiliate you publicly in that regard. Besides, it will scandalize my father and I don't want to jeopardize changing his mind because of that."

"How very selective you are with your morals," I muttered snidely, shaking my head. "But then that's not my problem because I'm not going to marry you, Mr. Maxfield. You and your million dollars can go to hell."

I started to walk away.

"Money can make hell seem like heaven, Ms. Samuels," he said and I halted in my steps. "When you're truly burning in it with no way out, maybe you'll appreciate the offer I'm making you."

He walked around me and took a folded sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. "This is the contract. It's designed to protect both our interests. If you wish to consult your own lawyer, contact mine on the number listed so that you can procure the services of one at no charge and with a non-disclosure agreement that will protect me in case he decides to open his mouth."

Despite myself, I took the papers but without glancing at them.

"You have until Friday to decide," he said. "I'll meet you here at ten."

"You're wasting time, you know," I said through gritted teeth. "You might fancy yourself persuasive but it's not going to work.'

He suddenly grinned and for a moment, the sight of a smile stretching across his face and changing his stony but handsome profile caught me completely off guard.

"Oh, you haven't seen me persuasive yet, Ms. Samuels," he said as he started walking backwards to to the door. "And let me warn you, I play dirty."

And with that, he turned and walked back inside.

I muttered a colorful string of curses under my breath before glancing at the sheaf of papers in my hand.

I should just shred this and make a point that way, I told myself, kicking a stray pebble with my toe. 

And what? Work yourself to death for ten years and possibly run into a sleazeball like Dustin again who won't settle for some harmless flirting? 

I sighed and picked up the empty trash bin.

The money-side of this argument was definitely gaining popularity, especially after what happened with Dustin. Incredibly, life with the arrogant and infuriating Brandon Maxfield seemed much more preferable than the prospect of letting other men grope and pet me for the sake of a few extra dollars here and there.

I felt a rush of anger.

I never once thought I'd stoop this low but the circumstances were out of my control. The man responsible for them was already buried six feet in the ground. My mother was just as dead to me.

If there was a quick way out of this, it was Brandon's offer.

My only worry was that in escaping this life, I might just imprison myself in a completely different one where I may not get so lucky a second time.

By the time Friday came, I was already losing my mind.

The notice of sale from the bank arrived and I had about three weeks before the house was to be auctioned off. I got the default notice about five months ago and I've dragged it on as much as I could. The mortage payments were too high and it was hard to keep up with it along with the insurance, property taxes and all the utilties. I wouldn't even get started on my other consumer debt.

I went to the bank again to get another loan but considering I was only nineteen without much of a credit history or other collateral, they turned me down. I went to other loan agencies but the interests were so high they were almost criminal. I'd only bury myself deeper into debt if I signed up with any of them.

I needed money and I needed it fast but my paycheck barely covered my personal expenses and if I had to move in three weeks, I needed the money to pay down an apartment if I didn't want to sleep on the streets.

There's money to be had if you would just sign on the dotted line.

Even though I was still stewing in indignation at Brandon's offer, I couldn't resist going over the contract.

Reading it definitely made things seem very real—that marrying him and getting paid for it was not merely just an arbitrary idea. 

The marriage would be real—and so would be the lies and the money.

"Why can't just the prince come riding down in his white horse and rescue Cinderella because he couldn't live without her?" I muttered after I finally put the contract down late Thursday night, the revisions scribbled on it in red ink. 

Because this isn't a fairytale and Brandon Maxfield is no prince charming.

I convinced myself that night that this was bitter reality and I had decisions to make—there will be no fairy godmothers or true love. Even if money didn't make the world go round, it paid for a lot of its maintenance.

On Friday morning, I went to Marlow's in a light blue cotton sundress and flip-flops, my long, dark  blonde hair gathered in a loose bun. I wasn't due for my shift until much later because I worked Friday evenings when the tips were the best.

I was there five minutes before ten and Brandon was already waiting in a booth, reading the morning paper.

"Hey," I said when he finally looked up.

His hazel eyes flickered with some unidentifiable emotion as he appraised me from head to toe.

"Like what you see?" I snapped, irritated by the sight of him because it was either that or I swooned which would not do at all.

"Just thinking that you might clean up better than I hoped," he said as he gestured to the seat across from him. "You look almost... young."

"I am young especially compared to you," I retorted as I slid into the booth and tossed my white canvas bag on the seat next to me. "You're practically ancient—from the caveman era, I believe."

"Good morning to you too, Ms. Samuels," he said dryly. "And yes, I am older and wiser than you."

I scoffed. "Real wise people need not to point it out. Those who wish they were point it out often."

He smiled and set down his paper. "Bad week, huh?"

I sighed and leaned back against my seat, eyeing him in exasperation. "Oh, I'm sure you have a pretty good idea of how great things have been going for me. That's why you look like the cat who got the cream."

"Hmm, this is sounding positively better with each second," he said with a satisfied smirk. "And since I'm pretty certain I'm getting the answer I want today, let us take our time and maybe feed you first. If I'm right about the dire straits you're in, you'e probably been skipping breakfast."

I glared at him as he beckoned one of the waitresses over. "I can afford to feed myself just fine."

He rolled his eyes at me and smiled up at Becca who came to our table and glanced between us in curiosity. "Can we get a plate of your Working Man's breakfast? I'll have some pancakes and bacon for myself."

I opened my mouth to protest that I couldn't possibly eat that much but my stomach growled, and I bit my lip and lowered my gaze, hoping to God that no one heard.

"What would you like to drink, Ms. Samuels?" Brandon asked, surprising me.

"I'll have a cup of coffee, Becs," I told the waitress with a small smile. "Thank you."

Once the waitress was gone, I turned a narrowed glance at him. "A Working Man's breakfast? Really? You think I can eat three pancakes, roasted potatoes, some bacon, ham, pork sausages, scrambled eggs, two pieces of buttered toast and a large raisin scone?"

He just let out an impatient sigh. "If you're going to be my wife, Ms. Samuels, you need to look like it. The starved look isn't a new fashion trend a Mrs. Maxfield would be sporting."

I gave a short laugh. "Starved? I'll tell you that every man in this room thinks I have enough flesh where it matters."

It was true. I've always been on the curvy side but whatever baby fat I may have had I lost in the last year. Working hard and eating little had that end-result.

"A Mrs. Maxfield also doesn't call lascivious interest to herself," Brandon added in a low hiss although his eyes raked over me with something that could only be called lascivious interest. Well, that certainly made things interesting.

"Would you rather have a mousy, frumpy and unattractive Mrs. Maxfield?" I asked with a snort. "Who would ever believe you'd marry one considering your very discerning taste in dating only women with the highest caliber of beauty and poise—"

"—my standards are pretty high—"

"—and narcissism and brainlessness?" I finished with a grin when his smug expression tightened into a frown. "I guess I could call on my acting chops and pretend to be blown away by the prolific undertaking of determining one's outfit to the next charity ball. I mean, how are we to save the world if not in platform heels?"

A smile ghosted on his lips but he quickly chased it away with another frown although his warm hazel eyes held a sparkle of humor. "A Mrs. Maxfield has to be a woman of impeccable taste, pleasant and charming humor, perfect manners and easy flexibility with her husband."

My brows rose. "Flexibility? Do you mean like gymnast-level positions in bed? I danced a little in high school but I don't think I can get my foot over my neck. And you're not supposed to be sleeping with me."

Heat flared in his gaze and his jaw clenched. "No. I meant flexibility in cooperating with her husband in decisions deemed best for her."

I sat back and enjoyed his discomfort before piercing him with a glare. "Be direct, Mr. Maxfield. If you meant subservience, just say it. You expect a Mrs. Maxfield to be entirely in your power, like a puppet whose strings you can pull anytime. A Mrs. Maxfield should never voice contradicting opinions, complain about your extra-marital affairs or point out your excessive ego and greed. She must also turn off a few functioning brain cells to be able to cope with the insipid concerns of the people in your circle if she wants to be able to relate. She needs to be a spineless and superficial arm candy, battery-operated with a million dollars. Did I miss anything?"

"Yes," he muttered with an exasperated sigh. "A Mrs. Maxfield also needs to be less sarcastic."

"I don't know about that," I said as I picked up the contract and handed it to him with a smile. "It's only sarcastic if you actually don't agree with what I said which I thought you did considering all your stipulations here. I just condensed it into a simple characterization—dumbed it down, you know? Understanding the big words might make me too smart and you know we can't have that."

I was spared from a scathing response when Becca arrived with our food. Working at Marlow's, you'd think I'd gag at the smell of its food but I was so hungry that I nearly had tears in my eyes the moment I put a slice of bacon in my mouth. Sure, I've eaten leftovers here but there was a big difference in getting scraps from the kitchen and eating my own meal.

"This isn't signed," he finally said a few minutes after Becca left and he'd scanned the contract.

"Not yet," I replied through a mouthful of pancakes soaked in maple syrup. "I want it amended first with the revisions I made. First two-hundred-fifty thousand upfront on the day of our wedding, second after six months, third on the eighth and the last of it at the end of the year. The separate clothing and spending allowance is fine but I want a separate bedroom, a charity budget and a grant for a full program in any pastry school of my choice. In case I die during the agreed year, all payable amount should be donated to a charity I'll name on my will. If you die before the contract expires, all payable amount you promised me on this contract will be paid out in full by your estate to which I'd have no right to as to be stated by our pre-nup."

"Sounds reasonable," Brandon said as he sat back and studied me with those intense eyes. "Why the charity budget? What for? I'm already on the board of several ones."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I might as well try to spread what wealth I can get out of you. I have a few projects I want to get involved in. Don't worry, I won't be pocketing any of that money. It'll all go to a good cause."

"For someone who seemed really incensed at the idea of taking my money a few days ago, you sure seem eager now to spend it," he commented with a dry laugh. "I'm amenable to all of that. Anything else?"

"I don't want you and your mistresses doing the dirty deed in our marital home," I said, feeling a rush of anger at the image of walking in on Brandon screwing the brains out of a nameless, faceless woman in the home we'll be sharing. "If I catch you doing so, I gain the right to terminate the contract with all of the remaining instalments of the full payment to be deposited directly to me within thirty days after the termination is formalized. It's all in there."

If that condition bothered him, he didn't show, because he only smiled smugly. 

"That won't be a problem, Ms. Samuels," he said. "I don't bring my romantic affairs home. If you think that's one way to get out of this with all of the money and without fulfilling your side of the bargain, think again."

I stuck out my tongue at him while making a nauseous face. "Thank God I don't have to sleep with you. You're probably like a stone statue in bed—all cold and emotionless. Aren't your women just better off with a dildo or do they just want shoulders to grab on to so they have you instead?"

Holy guacamole, Charlotte. Where did you learn to talk like that?

The truth was, I was no sex adventuress. Like never. Ever. 

But something about Brandon just provoked the worst of my temper. I was saying the damndest things around him all the time.

But instead of getting riled up, his mouth just turned up on one corner, his eyes giving me a lazy, challenging look. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Well. Brandon The Boor can actually flirt.

My cheeks heated up but I just rolled my eyes. "No, thanks. I don't sleep with art pieces especially those who speak when they are either not supposed to or just full of crap when they do."

He assaulted my senses further when he grinned broadly. "It's only crap if they're things you don't want to hear and those usually are the truth."

I hate to admit it but I agreed. "Have I told you I don't like you, Mr. Maxfield?"

"Not in so many words, Ms. Samuels, but you've certainly shown it," he answered with a husky laugh.

Damn it. Why did the man have to be in such good humor today when mine was frayed thin from the stress of the week?

"Well, I've got to do the most damage I can while we're not married yet," I said, squaring my shoulders and thrusting up my chin. "When will I get the revised contract?"

"It'll be ready by tomorrow morning," he promised, folding the contract and slipping it inside his jacket's pocket. "My father is arriving on Sunday and I thought we'd announce it during the family brunch which you're attending with me."

My heart constricted at the thought of having to look Martin in the eye and lying to his face. Him and the rest of the Maxfields. 

Oh, God. When this contract ends maybe you can forget about pastry school and become an actress instead. You'll get tons of practice.

"I can't. I have to work Sunday morning," I said.

He scowled. "The contract states you have to quit all your jobs when you marry me."

"It does," I agreed with a nod, downing the last of my coffee. "When I marry you, not before. When is the wedding going to be anyway so I can give Bobby the notice? It's not easy finding and training a new person."