The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella
L. M. Halloran
1
I have a cramp in my right calf. Not a sharply painful one, but the dull, throbbing kind that will increase in intensity until I can stretch. Unfortunately, at the rate my current predicament is unfolding, it’s going to be another few minutes.
Hot breath fans over my ear. “Does that feel good?”
I summon appropriate enthusiasm. “Mmm, yes, Rob. Don’t stop.”
Robert Wiltshire III, the predicament, doesn’t hear the boredom in my tone. Even if he were at the pinnacle of avid listening, he still wouldn’t hear it.
Sometimes, when I think on how easily lies flow from my lips, it worries me. Other times—right now, for instance—I’m exceedingly grateful for the skill.
Since I’m watching the clock, I note that two minutes pass before Robert grunts and shudders in carnal delight. He doesn’t repeat last week’s mistake of kissing me, but simply rolls off to stare, panting, at the ceiling.
“Candace, you kill me.”
Shifting to face him, I prop my head on a hand. “That’s strange,” I say huskily. “You look perfectly robust to me.”
I trail fingernails over his flat chest, through a light dusting of blond hair. Goose bumps lift on his tanned skin. For a moment, I consider pinching a flat, dark nipple, but the impulse quickly fades.
Robert really is a stunning man. Finely built, with perfectly adequate equipment to bring pleasure. I happen to know—from several other women—that he takes great pride in giving his lovers orgasms. It was the main reason I pursued him. So far, though, the count remains zero. It’s not his fault—it’s always been extremely difficult for me to get off.
“Do you still want to go to LACMA tonight?” he asks hesitantly.
A twinge of guilt assails me, as I’m responsible for his tone. My brothers are fond of accusing me of emotionally castrating men. I’m equally fond of reminding them that they trained me.
“Of course I do,” I assure him, stroking his jaw until he turns his head toward me. He smiles, hazel eyes warming. There’s a darling cleft in his chin—I bend forward to kiss it. “What’s going on again?”
“Some new exhibition. Abstract, I think. Maybe afterwards, we can check out that new club in Hollywood?” His gaze travels from my face, flickers over my breasts, and skips downward. His breathing deepens. “Sound good?”
I smile and nod, despite clubbing being synonymous with torture in my mind. My acquiescence, I know, is an indicator that my guilt is reaching critical levels. I like Robert, I do. But I’m not the sort of girl who likes consistency. At least, I haven’t dated anyone who’s made me want to eat one flavor of ice cream the rest of my life.
Robert is getting attached, wanting to spend more time together than just a weekend night and an occasional midweek tryst. Soon, I’ll have to cut him loose.
I can almost hear my brothers’ groans.
The Los Angeles County Museum of Art, or LACMA, is one of my favorite places to spend a free afternoon. When visiting for pleasure, I only attend during the day, very rarely on a weekend, and never on the night of an exhibition opening. Any event that gathers patrons of the arts and society players equates me being on the clock.
A large part of my professional life is networking. Schmoozing. Hobnobbing. All for the purpose of charming monetary pledges for any of the handful of nonprofits I support. The proper term for what I do is philanthropy, but the tabloids color me in a less flattering light.
To the public, I’m an heiress with too much time on her hands and no redeemable skills besides smiling, cutting ribbons, and hosting parties. I’ve actually received quite a few commendations for my support of charities, but I’m a smart girl—they’re pats on the head not firm handshakes.
I’ve occasionally toyed with writing a public letter explaining exactly what it is I do. Correcting the misconception. Not that I think anyone would publish it or care. The truth is, having money doesn’t mean people will gleefully give me more, no matter how worthy the cause. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The reason I’m so damned successful at securing funds from tightfisted elitists is, quite simply, I’m a hell of a saleswoman and I work my ass off. I’m also highly competitive, aggressive, and occasionally belligerent.
It gets the job done.
2
Robert is touching me more than I like. A hand on my hip. A kiss on my temple. He’s mistaking hands-off glances for come-hither ones. Men. When he finally gives me some space, it’s because he sees a producer friend of his across the room.
Grateful for the reprieve, I sit on a bench before a massive, chaotic painting. It’s not beautiful or even very alluring, accounting for the lack of crowd. But it suits my mood perfectly. Brooding and bloody.
I feel a presence to my left. A moment later, a man joins me on the bench. He’s facing the opposite direction, a comfortable two feet between us. Don’t let him talk to me, I beseech the nonexistent stars above Los Angeles.
My prayer is answered.
I continue staring at the painting, wondering about the artist and the rage they must have felt to create such a grim collage. Then I consider that art is sometimes accidental—maybe they ran out of white paint. A few minutes pass before I grow bored attempting to unlock the artist’s motivation. I’ve met enough artists to know it’s a pointless venture, anyway.