fell out to the floor. Absently, Lauren bent to retrieve it. And then she saw what it was.
It was a check for twenty thousand dollars. And it was made out to Lauren Rose, and signed, in a slashing hand, Mike Landrill.
Lauren felt such a gust of rage that she shook with it. That bastard. That rotten excuse for a human being. How dare he send her money to pay her off as though she were some cheap tramp! Not pausing to reflect that at twenty thousand, the tramp could hardly be called cheap,. Lauren jammed the unread letter and the check into her handbag and almost ran back downstairs and out of the hotel.
There was a taxi waiting near the entrance. Lauren flagged it imperiously.
“The Ritz,” she snapped.
Her screeching rage hadn’t had time to cool down when she was deposited in front of his hotel. She strode into the lobby, and demanded to be told the number of Mr. Landrill’s suite.
“Is he expecting you, madame?” enquired the clerk.
“Oh, yes,” said Lauren loftily. She would have told any lie in the book in order to throw the check in his rotten face.
When she had the number, Lauren lost no time in going up to the correct floor. She strode along the corridor, her anger carrying her. When she reached the door, she hammered on it with her fist and then turned the handle. It gave. She flung the door open.
“What kept you?”
Michael Landrill was lounging on a comfortable-looking couch, dressed in the dark-blue robe she well remembered. Near him was a trolley loaded with silver chafing dishes and trays of food. Coffee bubbled in a percolator, its fragrance mouth-watering.
Mike stood up with a grin. “I knew the check would bring you if the note didn’t.”
Lauren was dizzy with the conflict of emotions that pounded at her brain. “What note? I didn’t read the letter. When I saw that check I could have—I could have—”
“Thanked me nicely?” There was derisive laughter in his words, but his eyes held a light Lauren didn’t understand. “Kissed me? Killed me?”
Lauren gritted her teeth. “Of all the rotten, low-down, creeps I ever met.” She drew a breath. “If you think you’re going to give me money for what was between us, you’ve got another think coming. All I want to do is forget that I ever met you.”
“That’s going to be kind of hard,” Mike said in a surprisingly calm voice.
It caught Lauren’s attention. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“Well, if we’re going on a honeymoon, we sure can’t pretend we don’t know each other. People would think it was peculiar,” he added in a tone of kindly explanation.
Lauren gaped at him. Was he crazy? What was this about honeymoons?
The man actually laughed! Lauren surged forward, her hand raised to strike the laughter off his mocking face. He caught it, and since it held her purse, he took that from her and opened it. He extracted the letter.
“I knew you’d bring it,” he said, pleased. “You probably intended stuffing it down my throat.”
“How right you are,” Lauren snapped.
“Did you read the letter?” Mike persisted.
“No! The check fell out and I saw it. I got so angry—”
Mike grinned. “It worked, didn’t it? I knew that if the note didn’t—”
Lauren snatched the note out of his hands rudely. She flipped it open. It read:
Dear Lauren,
Please come to the Ritz and let me beg your pardon properly for the foolish, stupid, childish act I put on this afternoon. I guess it was the last strike back of a bitter conditioned reflex I’ve been saddled with since I was a kid.
Or perhaps it was bridal nerves?
Anyway, I’ve been fighting it out in my mind, and the answer is simple. I’ve got to marry you, so I can have exclusive rights to giving you your showers. Also feeding you midnight suppers, and swimming with you at the crack of dawn, and maybe letting you win a few more races. Also I can’t jeopardize my chances of signing you for Landrill’s, exclusively. My lawyer would never forgive me if I lost him our chance at September Song! To say nothing of my chef, who feels he has never been properly appreciated.
So please come, Lauren.
I beg you. My lawyer begs you. My chef begs you—or would, if he realized the problem.
If you say no to this triple plea, then take the money and spend it on a smear campaign of Landrill’s; or buy Herbert an exploding cigar. Or something.
I hope you’ll come. Because I love you.
Lauren folded the note slowly. She wanted to look at him, and yet she was almost afraid to. What would she see on his face?
And then, suddenly, it didn’t matter. Because she loved him so desperately that nothing in life would ever have been truly joyous again if she had lost him.
She dropped the letter and and faced him fully. And he wasn’t laughing. There was a look she had never seen before, a searching, hopeful, vulnerable sweetness and appeal that broke down every defense she might have erected. She ran to him, and his arms were open and ready when she reached him.
“Oh, Lauren,” he said, and his deep voice trembled with the love and relief he felt. “Oh, Lauren, thank God. I thought I’d blown the one chance I’ve ever had at the real thing.”
His kiss, hard and demanding, expressed his need. And then it softened, and became deliciously seductive. Lauren opened her love-drugged eyes. He was smiling down at her, so pleased and satisfied at the success of his stratagem that she had to chuckle.
“You said, once,” he stated, “that you didn’t want a shipboard romance. Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle for one.” He waited, eyes glinting with mischief, for the expected flare-up.
Laurel smiled demurely. She trusted the guy. Still, not to spoil his joke, she said, “What do you mean, shipboard romance?”
He laughed triumphantly. “I’ve just booked us for the Queen Elizabeth’s world tour. And am I going to romance you for three months!”
“I love you, too,” Lauren whispered.
About the author
Elizabeth Chater was the author of more than 24 novels and countless short stories. She received a B.A. from the University of British Columbia and an M.A. from San Diego State University, and joined the faculty of the latter in 1963 where she began a lifelong friendship with science fiction author Greg Bear. She was honored with The Distinguished Teacher award in 1969, and was awarded Outstanding Professor of the Year in 1977. After receiving her Professor Emeritus, she embarked on a new career as a novelist with Richard Curtis as her agent. In the 1950s and 60s she published short stories in Fantastic Universe Magazine and The Saint Mystery Magazine, and she won the Publisher’s Weekly short story contest in 1975. She went on to publish 22 romance novels over an 8 year period. She also wrote under the pen names Lee Chater, Lee Chaytor, and Lisa Moore. For more information, please visit http://www.elizabethchater.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the author