When Jayne Met Erik

And what an interesting sensation that was, too.

When she glanced up to find Erik looking at her, he noted that she also had a charming way of blushing. Well, my, my, my. For such a gloomy day, things sure were brightening up all of a sudden.

“Hello,” the redhead said softly, her voice as pleasant as her laughter had been. “Can I help you?”

Erik smiled. Oh, if she only knew.

What was it he had been thinking he required in a wife? he asked himself again as he gazed upon the redhead named Jayne. Oh, yes. First and foremost, she would have to be beautiful.

He considered the salesclerk behind the counter again, taking in the wide eyes, the fair complexion, the smattering of freckles, and the…unusual wardrobe that appeared to be kind of…damp?

We-ell, he thought, she was kind of cute. In a soggy, mismatched, ragamuffin sort of way.

“Actually, Miss…” he began, deliberately leading.

“Pembroke,” she told him. Then she asked her fateful question once again. “Can I help you?”

Erik’s smile fell some when he recalled that he’d also been thinking earlier that he wanted his future wife to be blond. And preferably brown-eyed, as well. He noted the pale-red hair again and thought, Fine. So she was strawberry blond. It was close enough. And although her eyes were a striking lavender color, he’d never said they absolutely had to be brown, had he? No, he had not. He’d simply indicated that it would be preferable, that was all. Let it never be said that Erik Randolph couldn’t make compromises. Lavender eyes it would be.

“As a matter of fact, you can help me,” he told her. “I’m looking for something very specific.”

She smiled at him, and he decided then that he liked her smile very much. That was going to be so helpful in the coming year.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she told him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he assured her, recalling that the third item on his list of wifely requirements had been reasonable intelligence and a fair amount of articulation. Even if the woman behind the counter had barely spoken two dozen words so far, she did seem to at least have the capacity for both.

Still, he had wanted the future Mrs. Randolph to be knowledgeable about current fashion trends, hadn’t he? he further reminded himself. And, noting the woman’s outfit once more—however reluctantly—there was no way he could make excuses for her there, could he?

Unless, of course, she was way ahead of Erik in fashion sense, he told himself. Which, although unlikely, was certainly possible. Who knew? Maybe a month from now, everyone who was anyone in Youngsville would be wearing burnt orange and raspberry with chartreuse accessories. Hey, it could happen. After all, bell-bottoms and fringed vests were back in style, weren’t they?

He mentally tallied the rest of his wife to-do list. A demure and mild disposition had been desirable, he remembered thinking, which, clearly, this woman had. And he’d wanted his wife to be a free thinker, too. Taking in her outfit again, he realized that wasn’t going to be a character trait she lacked at all. A knowledge of the social register—well, they could study together, he told himself—and an appreciation for the arts. Again, more studying might be required.

Ah, well. No one was perfect, he reminded himself. And they would be spending a year together, so all this studying would give them something to occupy their time. Jayne the salesclerk did, at least, seem to claim the majority of the desirable traits Erik required in a wife.

Which was good, because he decided in that moment that she was exactly the woman he needed. She had just stated quite clearly that marriage to money—temporarily, no less—would solve all of her problems. And having a woman married to his money—temporarily, no less—would solve all of Erik’s problems, too. He needed a wife. She needed money. Their encounter this afternoon, clearly, was fate. It was providence. It was kismet. It was destiny.

It was perfect.

He smiled again when he realized just how well this was going to work out. Obviously, the two of them were meant for each other. Now all he had to do was convince Jayne—what was her last name again?—of that, too.

“I apologize for your having to wait,” she said, just as the silence was beginning to stretch taut. “We didn’t mean to ignore you. We just didn’t hear you come in.”

“Oh, no harm done,” he assured her. “In fact, I found your conversation to be quite intriguing.”

Jayne’s eyes widened in obvious concern. “Ah…” she began eloquently. “You mean that, um, that stuff about a hostile takeover? Oh, that was all totally false.”

“Yeah,” her co-worker quickly agreed, with a very adamant nod. “That was a complete fabrication. We were just playing What-if.”

Jayne nodded again. “I mean, who’d want to hostilely take over Colette, you know? It’s unthinkable.”

“I couldn’t care less about a takeover,” Erik said amiably, honestly. “Hostile or otherwise. That wasn’t the part of your conversation that I found intriguing.”

The two women exchanged glances, then Jayne directed her attention back to him. “Oh,” she said softly.

Erik, in turn, directed his attention to the brunette. “Do you mind?” he said politely. “I think Miss…

“Pembroke,” redheaded Jayne repeated.

“Miss Pembroke, here,” he continued, “can see to my needs.”

The brunette gaped softly at his less-than-subtle dismissal, but she nodded and strode toward another jewelry case. Nevertheless, her watchfulness, Erik noted, didn’t stray far from her colleague. Which he supposed was understandable. You never knew what kind of oddball was going to stumble in from the street and make some bizarre, unacceptable suggestion.

He turned to look again at Jayne Pembroke—Pembroke, he reminded himself firmly, lest he forget again; it really wouldn’t do to forget one’s fiancée’s name, would it? Pembroke, Pembroke, Pembroke—calling up the most disarming smile in his ample arsenal. “No, it wasn’t the takeover part of your conversation that was so intriguing,” he said again. “It was the part about you marrying a multimillionaire.”

Her expression, he noted, changed not one iota, save an almost imperceptible arching of one eyebrow. So he had no idea how to gauge her reaction. Very quietly she replied, “Oh.” Nothing more. Just Oh.

So Erik plunged onward. “Because you see, I myself happen to be a multimillionaire,” he told her with much equanimity.

“Oh,” she said again. And again her expression reflected nothing of what she might be thinking.

Erik took it to be a good sign. Then again, he took most things, short of natural disaster, to be good signs. That was just the kind of man he was.

“Or, at least, I will be a multimillionaire,” he clarified pleasantly. “Once I get married, I mean.”

Jayne Pembroke’s expression cleared then, making her look…relieved? Maybe this was going to be easier than he’d anticipated.

“So you’ve come in to buy an engagement ring for your intended,” she said, her smile returning.

“Yes,” he agreed happily. “That’s it exactly. A ring. A fiancée—and, hence, a wife—will, after all, expect a ring, won’t she? Two rings, actually. One to signify the engagement and one to signify the marriage. Which,” he added, “when you get right down to it, is a damned nice gift, considering the fact that she will only be my wife for one year.”

Now Jayne’s smile fell again, and her expression grew puzzled. “One year?” she echoed, sounding disappointed.

“Well, you can’t expect me to stay married any longer than is necessary, can you?” Erik asked, fighting a twinge of indignation. Honestly. They weren’t even married yet, and already she was finding fault with him. “I mean, I do have other obligations, you know.”

Now Jayne opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.

“Not that my wife will have to worry,” he said, jacking up the wattage on his smile. “Because it goes without saying that, after we go our separate ways, she will end up with some—” he wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully “—lovely parting gifts.”

Now Jayne, he noted, was looking at him as if she had just discovered he’d escaped from a hospital for the criminally insane. Hmmm, he thought. Perhaps they weren’t quite on the same wavelength as he had assumed they were. Perhaps he wasn’t going about this the best way he could be going about it. Perhaps he wasn’t making himself as clear as he could be making himself.

So Erik straightened to his full six feet, tossed his head in a way that he’d been told by several women was quite boyish and charming, brushed his dark hair back from his forehead, and smiled what he liked to think was his rogue’s smile. “What I’m trying to say, Miss Pembroke,” he began in his most enchanting tone of voice, “is…will you marry me?”

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