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“The options haven't changed since I first outlined them to you.”
“Maybe it has taken me this long to make myself believe this is really happening,” she grumbled.
“Since I assume you're choosing the option that keeps us both alive, we need to go over a few things.”
Though B.J. couldn't help but resent Daniel's assumption that she would make the choice he wanted her to make, she couldn't really argue with him either. She had no wish to face the business end of Bernard's weapon. “I suppose you're right. If I'm to play a part, it would be helpful if I have a script.”
A sudden thought occurred to her. “Wait a minute. Did you never mention your wife's name? You introduced me to Creepy Guy as B.J.”
“That's not a problem.”
Something in his voice struck her as odd, but he was speaking again before she could define it. “There's very little that you have to remember. We've been married for two years. You are a homemaker and community volunteer who leaves all business and financial matters to her husband.”
“Oh, gee, thanks for making me such a progressive, modern woman.”
He ignored her—something he did entirely too easily, she thought. “Last fall you suffered a miscarriage and you've been somewhat despondent since. You've had even less interest in my business dealings with your money, which means I'm free to speculate with it at my own discretion.”
The more he told her, the less enthused she became with her role. A mopey housewife. Terrific. “I suppose I adore the ground you walk on?”
That seemed to fit in with the chauvinistic tale he had concocted.
He looked almost amused by her resigned question. “Of course. I've been the loving and solicitous husband since your loss. Which, of course, makes you less inclined to question my actions away from you.”
“So you don't love me?” It felt foolish to ask that of a man who was a virtual stranger—but it was only a charade, after all, she reminded herself.
A tiny shiver slipped down her spine when his dark eyes held hers for a heartbeat before he replied. “I've implied to Drake that I love your money more.”
She pulled her gaze from his, glancing down at her hands. “Then I would say you're in sorry shape, considering I don't have any.”
“My wife has plenty of money,” he corrected her.
The gold ring on her left hand glittered. She touched it with her right forefinger. “You just happened to have a woman's wedding ring on a chain around your neck? Just in case someone stumbled into your story?”
“The ring was my mother's. I've worn it for almost a dozen years.”
Despite the utter lack of emotion in his voice, B.J. felt her throat tighten anyway. She knew enough about his mother's fate to understand how much this ring must mean to him. He had carried it with him when he left the Walker ranch and he had worn it since as a reminder of—what? His mother's life? The injustice of her death?
“I'll take very good care of it,” she assured him.
“Thank you.” He stood then, glancing toward the bedroom. “Feel free to rest a while if you like. I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.”
“Actually…” Rising, she put a hand to her midsection. “I'm starving. It's been hours since I've had anything to eat.”
The smile he gave her then was quick and apparently genuine. “We can't have that. Room service or restaurant?”
Dragging her gaze from his amazing smile, she looked ruefully down at her wrinkled and travel-worn clothing. “Maybe room service would be best.”
Following her gaze, he nodded. “What size do you wear?”
“Size two. Why?”
“Shoe size?”
“Seven. Why are you—?”
“You'll need some clothing.”
He picked up a phone from an ornately carved and gilded writing desk. She listened in astonishment as he briskly and efficiently ordered a meal and then requested that an assortment of clothing, shoes and lingerie be sent to their suite for his wife's consideration. Despite what she knew about his impoverished background, he seemed to have adapted very well to a life of privilege.
