A Convenient Proposal - By Lynnette Kent Page 0,19

of the drawbacks to this charade, I guess. You’ll know more about me than you ever wanted to.”

“And we should be on the road, shouldn’t we?” Arden started walking briskly toward the parking lot. “We wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.”

Surprised that she hadn’t argued about carrying the bags, Griff followed. Igor greeted them at the car windows, and Arden took him for a brief walk in the chilly fresh air before they resumed the trip.

With her sunglasses back in place and her face turned toward the window, she couldn’t have signaled more clearly that she wasn’t in the mood to talk. Griff left her alone and even left the radio off as he wrestled with his own thoughts.

Arden had said she wanted a child as her “price” for doing him this favor. The expression on her face—part grief, part yearning, he decided—indicated more than just the ticking of her biological clock. He’d seen grieving pet owners wear that look.

Had Arden lost a child? Would she tell him if he asked?

Griff snorted to himself. Not likely.

Not yet, anyway.

THEY HAD THEIR FIRST lover’s quarrel as they passed through Macon around four o’clock.

“I am not a short-tempered man,” Griff said through set teeth. “But you’re testing my limits.”

Arden stared out the side window. “You know as much as you need to. My past is finished and of no interest to anyone, including me.”

His fist thudded on the steering wheel. “Lovers—people who are thinking about spending their lives together—share their histories. Childhood days, teenage years and college…all of it contributes to the person you’ve become. Your memories matter.”

Most of Arden’s childhood memories involved windowless rooms containing a music stand and a violin. “We aren’t spending our lives together. Just a few weeks.”

“Why are you threatened by my questions? Wait—you’re in the Witness Protection Program, right? If I discover who you really are, they’ll find you and kill you.”

She couldn’t repress a chuckle. “I wish I could use that excuse, because you might actually let this rest.”

“You won’t say where you were born?” He sounded almost discouraged.

Perhaps if she gave him a few details, he’d be satisfied. “Okay, you win. I was born in New York City and lived there with my mother until I was nine.”

He turned his head to give her a big grin. “Not so hard to say, was it? What happened when you were nine?”

“We moved around quite a bit.” Because she was performing in Europe and Asia.

“Where did you graduate from high school?”

“I was homeschooled.”

“Ah. And college?”

Now she’d reached her limit. “New York.”

“Does that meant New York State University? New York University? Or a college which shall remain nameless in the city of New York?”

“Does it matter?”

“Are you trying to drive me crazy?” With a twist of his wrist, bluegrass music blared into the space between them, painfully loud.

But Arden endured it without comment, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting it bothered her. Griff drove for an hour without changing the volume or glancing in her direction. Though she regretted the hostility between them, she couldn’t bring herself to admit more.

Because admitting that she’d attended Julliard would lead him to ask about her musical career. If she told him the truth, he’d pry into the reasons she wasn’t playing now. She’d have to reveal her approaching deafness, and from there move on to her gullibility and foolishness. As hard as she’d worked to bury those memories, telling Griff about them would bring everything back to the surface.

Why put herself through that?

Finally, he turned down the radio volume. “I’m sorry I yelled,” he said. “Maybe I’m not as even tempered as I claimed to be.”

“I can understand your frustration.” She turned slightly toward him. “Just believe me—nothing in my past matters today, and none of it affects you in the least. As far as we’re concerned, history started on New Year’s Eve.”

“I’ll try.” He swallowed hard. “So what details shall we concoct for the benefit of the nosy people in Sheridan? Let’s make up a really good story, so they’ll be suitably impressed.”

Arden hadn’t even begun to think of a story when Griff snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. How about we say you’re a lost relative of the last Russian czar?”

WITHIN AN HOUR OF THEIR arrival, Arden decided that her current predicament made press conferences look like quiet time at the public library.

The Campbell family proved to be huge, comprised of not just Griff’s parents and three sisters, but their husbands and children, too, all of