The Billionaire Bargain #2(7)
“Look, you don’t have to go to all this trouble,”I interrupted, stung by the way she had said that last sentence, as if Grant had picked me out of the top of a dumpster on his way for coffee. “It’s—”I waffled for a second, uncertain if I should tell. But if I couldn’t trust Grant’s godmother to keep this secret, who could I trust?“It’s not a, a real wedding. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It’s just a business arrangement.”
“Well, of course it’s a business arrangement, you bargain-basement strumpet,”Portia said without looking up from her day planner, where she was circling some venue names and crossing out others.“Are all whores as na?ve as you these days, or were you dropped on your head multiple times as a child?”
She flipped a page, and began neatly printing another list of place names. Meanwhile, my blood came to a nice, roiling boil. Portia didn’t seem to notice.
“Given your entire lack of looks, skills, or suitable connections it was completely obvious that your nuptials were the final ingredient in some harebrained business deal cooked up by Grant in a last-ditch attempt to save the company from his own irresponsibility.”
All that bitchiness and brains, too. Apparently I’d had it wrong before. Portia already was a super-villain. She crossed out a name on the list with particular vehemence, as if she were trying to stab it.
“But just because you’re more suited to a marriage with a divorced ex-con on unemployment benefits, that’s no excuse for getting married in a courthouse like an uninspired civil servant with something to hide.”
“But if it’s not real, why does anything about the ceremony matter?”I protested.“We’ll be just as legally married no matter what we do. I still don’t see why there has to be a big fuss.”
“Of course you don’t,”Portia muttered, almost to herself. Then to me:“If Grant had allowed me to find him a suitable girl with beauty, class, and education, and they had actually fallen in love, and they were actually spending a life together, this is the wedding they would have. And everybody who is anybody in this city knows that.
“Now, if you want your little business deal to fall through, by all means, go get married in a Quik-N-EZ marriage chapel in Las Vegas next to a streetwalker and a cheap magician. But if you want Jedediah Jennings to actually believe in your little charade—frankly, the whole thing reminds me of nothing more than a slapstick vaudeville routine—your wedding must be up to Devlin standards.”
Portia gave me a look that suggested—no, that proclaimed from the mountaintops—that when it came to Devlin standards, I was so far below them I couldn’t even see their fossil records.
“It’s a proud name, Devlin. Grant is a direct ancestor of O’Develin Gofraidh, who fought valiantly in the Battle of Downpatrick. Their family tree claims nobles, epic poets, great political leaders.”
“Well, mine might only claim farmers, architects, and bank tellers,”I said,“but here in America we don’t believe in surfing on the glory of our ancestors. We make our own names.”
“What an inspiring speech,”Portia said.“Did you memorize that for your fourth grade civics class?”
She took a long drink of pomegranate juice, staining her lips red as blood.
“If Grant’s parents were alive, they would explain to you exactly how mistaken you are. This was all their job, shepherding Grant and keeping him safe, but—”for a moment I thought I spied an actual human emotion flitting across her face, her lips pressing together tightly, her eyes glistening in the light…and then boom, it was gone.“It’s my job to see that you live up to the expectations the world holds of the name Devlin. Even if only on the surface. That’s all anyone ever sees, you know.”
There was almost a tone of wistfulness in her voice at that last sentence, but then it hardened again.
“It’s a pity you have such an unappealing one. It makes my job of spin-doctoring your little charade so much more difficult.”
I wanted to slap her. I wanted to grab her pomegranate juice and throw it in her face. I wanted to leap up and yell to the whole room what a complete bitch she was, and storm out.
And I couldn’t do a single one of those things.
Because then, I would have proven her exactly right about how low-class I was. Because then, I would have alienated someone who knew my secret and who was motivated to protect Grant, but not me. Because then, there would be no one to help plan this wedding for me, and my own attempts at fancy wedding planning would fail spectacularly, and maybe so would the deal with Jennings.
Because Grant was counting on me to make nice and help him save the company, and I couldn’t let him down.
So I just sat there, feeling incredibly crappy. How had I not realized what I was getting into? Was there any way to escape? Was there anybody who could rescue me?
“My two favorite ladies!”
And then Grant appeared like a Prince Charming with an Aussie accent, a sexy five o’clock shadow, and mud on his thousand dollar hiking boots.
“Grant, dear, where have you been?”Portia said.“You’re tracking mud absolutely everywhere.”
“That would be telling,” he said with a grin, swooping in to kiss my cheek and then trying to give Portia a hug.
Portia fended him off with an icy glare and he just laughed, stepping back and going on:“And you know I can’t let you get a single hint of your birthday surprise. Mind like a steel trap and the determination of a bloodhound.”