The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (2 page)

The smile vanished from my mouth as it hung open while his statement replayed in my head. It took a moment before I finally understood what he said.

My brows shot up. "Why the hell would Martin do that?"

He raised one brow himself. "You call him Martin like that and you wonder why? Obviously my father is smitten with a teenage gold-digger like you, but instead of marrying you himself, he throws you at me because you probably prefer younger meat."

"If by younger meat you mean yourself, no, thank you," I said acidly, now seething at his insults. "You're obviously made of vile, unpleasant stuff and would be most likely hard to chew on, considering how much of a stiff-ass you are. I would marry Martin over you any time, except that I don't marry men who are like a father to me because that's just wrong in so many levels. And if you knew your father really well, you'd know that he will never marry anyone else. He can't lose a heart he'd already lost to Evelyn a long time ago."

Martin was a widower after his second wife, Evelyn, died young of an aneurysm four years ago. Brandon was his son with his first wife whom he'd married young at his family's insistence. She'd died from an accident when Brandon was only five. Evelyn was a young, bright-eyed twenty-something when she married Martin two years after he lost his wife. I affectionately called Martin an old man because of his silvery hair but he was a great man who cherished his younger wife and adored all his children. Evelyn's death though dealt him a shock that quickly became evident in his physical health. A few years had passed but he was still feeling it despite his cheerful smiles.

"Then explain to me why he insists that I marry you," he spat out. "Explain why he's willing to go as far as to threaten me out of a position I've worked hard to earn for as long as I could remember. Explain why marrying a nineteen-year-old, foul-mouthed, punch-throwing diner waitress is worth everything I'm already entitled to."

I snorted. "If you think that way, then you don't deserve anything that you're already entitled to. As for your father's actions, I suggest you ask him because I certainly didn't decree for him to do this. In fact, I'll give him a piece of my mind when I see him—for this completely ridiculous idea, and for putting me through the traumatic experience of having to deal with you."

"You will not tell my father anything except that you've accepted my proposal," Brandon said. "He specifically instructed that you're not to be informed of any of this—that I must convince you to marry me without bribery or coercion."

"Well, now I can see why you won't make a good CEO," I muttered. "Not only are you incapable of following instructions, you're also a cheat. Plus, you're just so effortlessly offensive."

He scowled. "I'm only offensive to opportunists like you who play an old, gullible man right into their plans."

"Gullible?" I asked with a loud, wry laugh. "You really think Martin Maxfield is gullible? You're the one who's gullible if you think that of him. And as much as I'd like to take the credit for being so cunning, I'm afraid I can't, because if I were really that good in plotting out to marry well, I'd certainly choose someone more pleasant than you are."

"Many things can be made pleasant with a lot of money, Ms. Samuels," he sneered. "And I happen to know I'm the biggest catch around here. I'm also not old, bald, fat and strung with a few ex-wives who demand ridiculous alimonies."

At that moment, I honestly couldn't recall any reason why I thought of Brandon Maxfield as my own prince charming. None of the articles about him ever clued me in on just how incredibly crude he could be.

I raised a brow at him. "Well, you've certainly got an ego to match your bank account. You must absolutely hate having to grovel at your father's feet for the CEO position, and subject yourself to his whims."

His fists clenched. "What I absolutely hate is providing opportunists like you the chance to take advantage of someone because I need you for something I'm working hard to achieve. But I'm pragmatic, Ms. Samuels. Instead of quarreling with you, I'd rather we come to an amicable business agreement that will give us both what we want."

Kneading the space between my brows, I snuck a glance at him. "I'm listening because it's less effort for me than to try to dent the table with you pretty face."

His lips twitched that for a second I thought he was about to smile, but it disappeared so quickly I wasn't even sure I'd seen it in the first place.

"I'll agree with my father's condition and marry you," he started and I clamped down on my protests until he was done. If I let my mouth run away with me, we'd never be done here. I might just kill him before I could walk away from this table.

"But I want you to insist on a pre-nup which he didn't want us to have, and I want us to only stay married for a year which was the minimum period he'd accept. Don't ask me why because I don't know what he thinks can be gained out of this to begin with, much less a year into it," he continued. 

I put a hand up to stop him, unable to keep a lid on it any longer. "If I were really the opportunist you think I am, why the hell would I agree to a pre-nup that I'm sure would give me nothing, if left to your lawyers to craft?"

"Because I will pay you for your services, Ms. Samuels," he said curtly. "I will pay you a million dollars to stay married to me for a year."

My jaw dropped so fast I was surprised I didn't feel the cold, hard surface of the table top. I barely managed to shut it close and swallow hard.

A million dollars. Jesus. That's six zeroes—more zeroes than I've got in my bank account before the negative sign.

Then I remembered Martin's kind, smiling face.

The man was more of a father to me than my own had been. After years of sitting with him while he ate his breakfast at Marlow's and listening to him talk about anything under the sun—whether it was a merger or a lovely memory of Evelyn or a few amusing antics by his children—we became good, old friends.

A pang of guilt hit me.

"No, I can't," I said with difficulty because, although I fiercely felt too much loyalty for the old man to do anything like that to him, a million dollars was a fortune for someone like me who had less than nothing.

"No?" Brandon repeated in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't be so hasty if I were you, Ms. Samuels. A million dollars is a lot of money which I know you are in dire need of."

This time, my own hands clenched into fists. "You don't know anything about me, Mr. Maxfield."

He shrugged smugly, that bastard. "Oh, I know enough, Ms. Samuels. I know, for example, that your father's death left you in a boat-load of debt. The house is currently under water. It's six months behind on the mortgage, and at risk of being foreclosed again after you managed to save it a year ago when you assumed the mortage yourself.  You racked up quite a bit of your own personal debt after your short stint at a pastry school in Paris, and you've sold everything that you could to make some dent on it but you're barely covering the interest. You want to go back to Paris and complete your apprenticeship, but you don't even have enough money to get groceries if your recent trips to the food bank are an indication. You're doubling your efforts around the wealthy men who come into Marlow's for better tips, like with Bruce Cooper, for example, but I doubt that they ever leave you with enough to get you by comfortably."

My cheeks were so hot with humiliation that they probably resembled ripe tomatoes.

I stewed quietly where I sat, glaring at Brandon and hoping that if I did it hard enough, it would eventually cause him to catch fire and explode.

"I didn't realize you deigned to research a foul-mouthed, punch-throwing diner waitress, a teenage gold-digger, such as myself," I said slowly through gritted teeth. "I could say I'm honored but right now I just feel disgusted by how low you would stoop to get what you want, throwing someone's hardships in her face, to push your cause."

Something flickered in his beautiful eyes for a moment before he scowled at me. "I wouldn't have to if you didn't poison my father's brain with this idea. I'm merely pointing out how this could benefit you, Ms. Samuels, and satisfy my father's demands, and achieve my own goals as well. We all win."

"No, only you win," I said with a snort. "Don't delude yourself that you're doing everyone a favor. For one, you're cheating your father who must have some reason for this demand, preposterous as it may be, and defeating his very purpose in it. Second, you're insulting me with the offer of a million dollars when I truly need it, but not at the price of my integrity or self-respect—or even my sanity because to stay married to you for a year would drive me absolutely bananas. And third, you degrade yourself and your honor by doing everything that you're doing right now—going around your father's back, sacrificing your own conscience and freedom to secure something as material as the title of CEO tacked on to your name when you already have more than you can ever possibly need, and dragging someone into this mess with you when she can be doing more to better her situation than sit around with you and plot against your father—a man that she has the utmost respect for."

I took in a deep breath after that rant, feeling incredibly better but foolish for giving someone so unworthy of it, such as Brandon Maxfield, a window to my soul where I was certain he'd only look in so he could find something to use as leverage.

Although his expression had mostly shut down as I was going off at him, his eyes held a glimmer of surprise.

"I wouldn't worry about my conscience, Ms. Samuels, considering my father isn't too concerned about his own when he devised this plan with your inspiration, surely," he shot back, no less intense than he had been moments ago. He seemed more riled up actually but I imagined it didn't take much to push Brandon Maxfield off the edge. He portrayed none of the cool, confident composure he was constantly credited for whenever the media speculated about him.

"As for insulting you, it's your decision however you'd like take my assessment of your character, and I think that a million dollars is something you can't turn away, no matter your integrity, because integrity will not feed you or put a roof over your head when you're thrown out on the streets," he added. "I could just cut you out of this deal and find another way around my father's demands but I figured this would be easier and best for everyone. It doesn't have to get ugly, you know? Think like a business woman and not like a teenage romantic. You'll find yourself making more practical choices."

"Like you do, obviously," I retorted with a roll of my eyes. "I bet there's not a romantic bone in your body, Mr. Maxfield—just the cold, mercenary desire to make more money than you could ever possibly need."

He laughed but although his voice was deep and rich, it was harsh and ironic. "While I don't deny that I like making money, Ms. Samuels, most of this is simply to avoid more conflict with my father who is deteriorating in health. If you know my father as well as you imply you do, you should know that he's not in good shape."

My ready response lurched back into my throat and I swallowed hard.

He was right. Martin had looked older and more frail when I first saw him again after I returned to the city. He was still a raucous, wily old man who had sunshine in his smile but he had been thinner and more tired than I remembered. Time had been quickly catching up with him after he lost his wife.

"Wouldn't it be worse then, to cheat him like this?" I asked quietly. "Martin will be so disappointed in me if he finds out I'd do something as despicable as this to him. He'll never forgive me."

"My father's disappointment weighs more heavily on you than a million dollars?" Brandon asked in confusion. "I'm no longer surprised why you're so poor, Ms. Samuels. Did you let your father dig himself further into debt because you couldn't bear to deprive him of whatever made him happy, no matter how bad it was for him?"

"Don't you dare speak about my father," I warned him in a low, angry voice. 

He scoffed. "He wasted his life away, drinking until it killed him, yet you display such loyalty? Aren't you up to your eyeballs in debt because of him?"

"Whatever kind of life my father lived bore no impact on yours, so you can withhold your judgement because no one needs it," I snapped. "As for your father, he's a good man and deserves none of this."

"And I deserve none of his manipulation!" he shot back. "Everything was fine with my life until he decided to drop this bomb on me, and now I have to rearrange my entire existence to accommodate a wife I did not require nor find convenient to begin with. Not only that, I don't get a say in the woman I'm supposed to marry at all. Of all of the women he could choose, he decided that you would be the perfect candidate—but you're too young, too rough on the edges, too temperemental, too raunchy in that tiny uniform, and too much of a pain in the ass."

"Well, I'm glad to be superlative in some ways," I muttered sarcastically. "But yes, you're right. I'm definitely not the best choice to be your wife. I'm way too hot for you, too good, too honest and generous a person for someone as greedy as you are, too real to spend time in the company of conniving folks such as yourself, and too pissed off at you to ever consider tying myself to you in marital union, much less stay in the same room as you."

His eyes glinted in anger. "Ms. Samuels—"

"You've used up the ten seconds I gave you about ten minutes ago, Mr. Maxfield, and I'm done. Now, I have to get back to my job," I announced, standing up and leaping up over the seats so I could crouch my way out of the booth across the top of the table. The clingy white shirt that had Marlow's printed across it in maroon and yellow letters, and the black shorts that I wore allowed me the flexibility of the movement, and Brandon made no move to stop me.