Motive For Marriage (Marriage of Inconvenience) Read online

His mask slipped. The Nate Perry who obviously knew how to charm, who could afford to hire Marta Wainwright of Severn and Coxton, Chicago, was gone. All of a sudden, he looked unsophisticated. Vulnerable.

  Judge Wyatt cleared his throat again. “This is a very difficult situation. I’m sure that now you can see why I called you into chambers on an emergency basis. We’ll have a hearing eventually, once Mr. Holling has an opportunity to prepare his case. But it would be better if we could decide some things informally now.”

  Marta Wainwright spoke up. “Of course. As long as Your Honor understands that the only discussion Mr. Perry will engage in is the one wherein we decide how soon he has custody of his daughter.”

  At the head of the table, the judge visibly tensed. Marta had been polite and formal, but the challenge was unmistakable. “Ah, Ms. Wainwright. We have much more to discuss.” He gave her a small smile. “Frankly, as the judge presiding in this courthouse, I set my own agenda and choose the topics for discussion.”

  “Certainly, Judge.” Not looking at all repentant, Marta fell silent.

  “Good,” the judge said after a moment. “I’m assuming that, due to this extraordinary situation, Sara has no idea that her father wants her back.” He looked at Libby.

  “No,” she said slowly. “I’m sure she doesn’t even know she has a father. If she knew anything about being in the witness protection program, I think she would have told me.” Libby avoided Nate’s gaze. “To Sara, her father was Heywood Clark, who was killed a year ago.”

  She took a deep breath. “Actually, Your Honor, I’m kind of worried about how she’ll take the news. Mr. Clark wasn’t, well, always nice to Sara.”

  “What does that mean?” Nate asked sharply.

  Libby had been facing the judge, but now she looked briefly to Nate. “He drank.”

  Nate’s features seemed to turn to stone. Marta whispered something in his ear.

  The judge leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Perry, I want you to know some of the facts. First, this is a small town, and I am acquainted with Ms. Jamieson’s family. I knew her father before he passed away. But we’ve never been close friends or socialized with each other. Actually, I know almost everyone in town, so I’ve gotten used to putting personal issues aside. I can be impartial in this matter. Anyone have a problem with me continuing to be the judge here?”

  For a moment, Marta Wainwright looked as though she might well have a problem with it. Then apparently thinking better of crossing the judge again, she shook her head.

  “Fine. Now, Mr. Perry also needs to know that Sara’s home life was far from perfect, and Ms. Jamieson has been kind to her since the child lost her parents almost a year ago. After all, without Ms. Jamieson’s intervention, Sara would be in foster care right now. You ought to thank her for that, at least.”

  Thank her? Libby felt bitter laughter rise within her. They were trying to take Sara!

  “But Mr. Perry is her father,” Marta said.

  The words hung in the air. Libby turned toward Cam. Why was Marta doing all the talking?

  The judge wiped a weary hand across his forehead. “I’m a father myself, and I respect the connection you have with your daughter, Mr. Perry. In the law, your rights are protected. But I’ve got to think about Sara’s best interest. Ms. Jamieson has confirmed what I suspected—that Sara has no idea that you exist. And I can’t let you simply uproot her and move her to Chicago. After I received your motion yesterday, I was up all night, researching, talking to other judges.”

  Marta Wainwright smiled. “I brought case law, Your Honor, that I’d be happy to share with the court.”

  Cam whispered in her ear. “I’m not quite sure what the law is here, Libby. I’ll have to do some research, too.”

  Libby nodded. Chalk one up for Marta Wainwright, she thought. The woman had obviously come armed with cases supporting the rights of fathers. But neither she nor Cam had known what was happening, so there’d been no way to prepare for their side yet.

  A shiver of fear went through Libby.

  The judge made a note in the margin of his paper, then spoke. “Sara needs to be told, and as soon as possible. But gently, for her sake. And we need to arrange for Mr. Perry to see her.”

  “When?” Nate asked. There was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice, and Libby felt again that unwelcome pang of compassion.

  She swallowed. “I could talk to her.”

  “If this is for her best interest,” Cam said, “we should let Sara say what she wants.”

  The judge smiled for the first time. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll let a ten-year-old girl call the shots.” He picked up the motion Marta had filed. “This motion is rather combative, Ms. Wainwright. We do things a little differently in Harborside, but I’ll give you some time to get used to my courtroom. What I’d like to see, from both the attorneys, is a suggestion to their clients to cooperate with each other. Maybe Ms. Jamieson and Mr. Perry could break the news to Sara together, and we could schedule some visitations for Mr. Perry.”

  Marta Wainwright bristled. “Mr. Perry needs to return to Chicago. He has a property-development business. Right now he’s in the middle of building the Iris Complex, a multimillion-dollar resort on Lake Michigan—”

  “Marta,” Nate interrupted, his voice a clear warning. He turned to the judge. “I’ll work with Ms. Jamieson on a visitation plan, and I can stay in town as long as necessary.” He glanced toward Libby, his mouth grim with purpose, before turning to the judge. “Apparently I need to pass some sort of test. Of fatherhood, I guess. So be it. I’ve been passing tests all my adult life. And I’ll do anything you ask in order to have my daughter back.”

  The judge smiled, a man-to-man smile. The knot in Libby’s stomach tightened. Nate Perry had obviously said what the judge wanted to hear. Marta might lack the instinct for dealing with Wyatt, but Nate had it.

  What would Sara think about all this? Libby had no idea. For the first time since she’d met him, Libby tried very hard to judge Nate objectively. There was no doubt that the man was prepared to go to great lengths to get his daughter back. Even his apparently big-business dealings in Chicago would be put on hold. What other steps would he take? Libby wondered.

  Would Sara like him? He was rich. From a big city. With a lurch, Libby remembered the horseback-riding lessons Sara wanted so badly. If Nate ever heard about his daughter’s wish, Sara would be learning the feel of the English saddle within a day. How could any ten-year-old girl resist?

  “I need to talk to you,” she said to Cam in a low voice.

  “Might we have a moment, Judge?”

  “Of course. This is a shock to your client. A year ago, there was nobody for this girl. Without Libby, Sara would have been in the foster-care system. And now we learn she has a father.” The judge shook his head. “I’ll leave you to talk. Try to come up with a visitation plan. If you can’t, I’ll order one when I come back.” The judge rose and left the room, shutting the old oak door behind him.

  “What do I have to do?” Libby whispered as soon as Wyatt had left.

  “I don’t know,” Cam admitted. “You know how much the judge hates to be crossed. He’s already decided Marta’s a pain, so if we’re cooperative about visitation, I think we’d have a better chance at the final custody hearing. It’ll buy us some time. I’ll look into this guy. We might uncover shady business practices. Or maybe he’s a womanizer…keeps bad company…not a good influence for Sara.”

  Libby glanced across the table, feeling sick to her stomach. She didn’t know about business practices, but Nate didn’t look like the kind of man who lacked female companionship. After all, in the waiting room she’d been charmed by the guy. And she’d thought herself immune to charmers.

  She looked more closely at him, trying to see under the surface of the polished businessman. He was sitting there, waiting. Not in conference with his attorney, not looking over his papers, just waiting.

  Nate caught her glance. “Well?”

  Cam
looked up. “Do you want to propose something with regard to visitation?”

  Marta started to speak, but Nate cut her off. “No. Whatever Ms. Jamieson decides is fine.” He hesitated. “The thing is, a child belongs with her real parent, and I’ve got plans—” He stopped, started again. “Ms. Jamieson, you know her better than I do. I’ll defer to your judgment. I don’t want to hurt Melissa.”

  At his words, Libby was suddenly ashamed. Nate was Sara’s father, and even if he hadn’t seen his daughter in eight years, he’d have strong feelings for her, wouldn’t he? After all, she considered Sara her daughter, and Nate’s legal challenge had brought out every mother-bear, protective instinct she had.

  And didn’t Sara deserve to know her father?

  “I’ll never relent on the custody case,” she said. “I love Sara, and I’m convinced she’s better off with someone she knows, in a town she’s familiar with.”

  “But visitation?” Nate said.

  “Yes.”

  At the one word, Nate Perry smiled—a slow smile that lit his blue eyes and took Libby’s already twisted insides and tied them in knots so tight she was afraid they’d never unravel.

  NATE NEEDED a place to live in Harborside, and he figured he might as well be right on the water. He parked at one of the state parks at the edge of the lake, and checked over the small list of houses for rent the real-estate agent had given him. Looking out past the dock, he watched the water. Lake Erie was shallow, and its waters were rougher than Lake Michigan’s. And the islands in the distance appeared more numerous. Erie was legendary for its fastforming storms. Nate had already picked up a chart in town. He intended to learn the waters as soon as possible. Sailing was his passion, so if he was going to stay in Harborside for a while, he was going to sail.

  He chewed over his list. There were cottages on the fringes of Harborside, but most were used only seasonally, and were therefore not adequately heated. Besides, few would have electrical systems that could handle his computer, copier and fax machine. There was a restored Victorian mansion for rent in town. Nate had considered it, thinking the place might impress Judge Wyatt But he really wanted something on the water.

  He loved the water. When he was a kid, he’d walk down by Lake Michigan, hands in his pockets, the wind blowing off the lake buffeting his body. He’d watch the sailboats—white sails, rainbow sails—and he’d think about the people who lived in the glittering towers overlooking the water. And he’d dreamed. Oh, how he’d dreamed.

  Now he had his own condo at one of Chicago’s prestigious addresses—a complex he’d developed—and he had his own sailboat at the yacht club. On the water he felt free and loose.

  If he had a home on the water, he could teach Melissa to sail.

  There was one more place to consider. From the car window, Nate saw it in the distance—a condominium, a white sugar cube that stood very close to the water’s edge. Bittersweet Point, the developer had called it. The place must have been bitter, because after building only one two-unit structure, the developer had gone bankrupt.

  It was a familiar scenario. Real-estate development was a risky game and the stakes were high. Huge amounts of money were made and lost. Bankruptcy happened frequently, and unexpectedly. A number of Nate’s colleagues who, one month would be attending every party, supporting the ballet, providing scholarships for ghetto kids, would suddenly lose everything. And when they lost their money, their wives and girlfriends left, too. Nate had seen that situation many times. Nothing survived.

  Nate put the rental car in drive. The joke among the high rollers of Chicago real estate was that on every deal you bet the farm.”

  Nate no longer bet the farm. As soon as he could stop taking such big risks, he had. But those first years had been scary as hell. No wonder he’d been such a lousy husband and father. He’d worked around the clock, scared to death that he’d lose everything, including his family. He’d been even more terrified that he found the game too enjoyable, that somehow he craved the excitement of being in a business where everything was on the line. That he’d be like his father.

  Hell. He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he’d passed the overgrown access road to Bittersweet Point. He pulled over and swung the car into a U-turn.

  The gravel access road twisted among the trees. The trees here were smaller than those a few miles inland, deprived of nourishment in the sandy soil, bent into sinewy submission by the wind. Their bark was wet from a recent rain, branches glistening black against a sharp blue sky. Twining through the undergrowth were the bittersweet vines. The bittersweet had been picked at by birds. But here and there were flashes of brilliant orange.

  Automatically, almost without realizing that he was doing it, Nate began to weigh the site’s attributes. He broke through the trees onto a wide, rough beach. Getting out of the car, he walked to the water’s edge.

  The beach faced a tiny cove, and on the opposite shoreline were shabby, comfortable homes. Melissa lived in one of them with Elizabeth Jamieson. Marta had obtained the address from the judge’s office. It was the third house. You couldn’t miss it. Who would put that shade of blue trim with that butter-yellow house? Libby Jamieson didn’t follow the ivory/taupe/slate color scheme that his decorators were all slaves to. There was a clothesline out in her backyard, and it was hung with towels and sheets, in a brilliant rush of color that reminded him of the twenty-thousand-dollar antique Amish quilt that hung in the lobby of his condo in Chicago.

  In contrast, the sugar cube at his back was stark and ugly, a blight on the unpretentious beach. If he rented this horror, he could sit behind the windows of his living room and look across the cove and wonder what his daughter was doing every minute of every day.

  And wonder about her caretaker, Elizabeth Jamieson. Libby, they all called her.

  When he’d first met her, Nate had been instantly attracted. He’d always been partial to redheads, and Libby’s coppery hair had been a flyaway halo around her face. She wasn’t beautiful. Pretty, but definitely not beautiful. These days, he had his pick of beautiful women, and every time he had a beautiful woman on his arm, it proclaimed to the world that he was somebody. And her clothes! What a contrast to the sophisticated, very expensive up-to-the-minute fashions his Chicago women friends wore. He smiled, remembering Libby’s too-bright skirt.

  Then he remembered her confession about forgetting to buy stockings, and he chuckled aloud. At her comment, he’d had to physically restrain himself from a detailed perusal of her legs.

  Nate picked up a stone and whipped it out over the water, trying to make it skip. But it sank like a…stone. God, now he was reduced to dwelling on clichés and smiling over a frizzy-haired, small-town woman.

  Okay, so he was attracted. He wasn’t about to act on the attraction. Libby Jamieson was the enemy, whether or not he imagined that she looked at him with sympathy, whether or not she had agreed to allow him visitation with Melissa.

  Just before she left the courthouse, she’d given him a school picture of Melissa, and Nate had felt his throat tighten painfully. They’d been arranging the next month of his life, careful not to look too directly at each other. She’d hesitated, then asked him to wait a minute. Blushing, she’d chattered inanely while she rummaged in the funny-looking satchel she carried.

  Finally, she’d found her wallet and extracted something.

  “Here, this is for you,” she’d said softly as she’d handed the small snapshot to him. “I thought you might like to have Sara’s picture.”

  He’d taken the photograph, so overcome at the unexpected gesture that he hadn’t even managed a thank-you. It was the first likeness he’d seen of his daughter since she was two and a half years old.

  He’d been stunned at the changes eight years had brought. Of course, he’d known Melissa wasn’t two and a half anymore, but…And his daughter was so beautiful, she took his breath away. Her face was less round than he remembered, her hair straighter. But she still had those blue eyes. “Sara Clark
” was embossed in gold script under the photo.

  Brought abruptly to the present, his mouth twisted. Sara. He whispered the name, wondering if Eve had picked it or if some anonymous government bureaucrat had chosen his daughter’s new name. Well, Sara didn’t know she’d ever been Melissa, so Nate had best get used to the idea that she probably would want to be called Sara.

  There was plenty to get used to.

  This cold white condo, which he’d rent. This town, so small and out-of-the-way that he hadn’t been sure if his cellular telephone would work. The fact that, contrary to his dreams, he wasn’t going to be able to just sweep Melissa—Sara—up into his arms and take her back to Chicago.

  And he’d have to get used to dealing with Libby Jamieson, because, like it or not, she was important in Sara’s life.

  The real-estate agent had said she’d leave a key under the mat on the deck. The two units were side by side, with matching decks that touched each other and were separated only by a wooden privacy fence. Nate headed toward the building.

  “Hello!”

  Nate stopped, startled, and turned toward the sound.

  A blond boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, sat on the deck of the second condo. Nate peered up at him, over the solid wood railing. The kid was smiling.

  “Hello,” Nate said politely, unhappy at being disturbed. He hadn’t thought to ask if the place next door was rented.

  “Are you renting this place?” the kid asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Cool!” The boy smiled. “You’ll really like it here. The guy who was building these things was going to build like a hundred more, but he never did. I heard you drive in, and I almost said something to you, but you went right down to the beach. You didn’t come up here, like anybody else would. So I watched you. You’ve got a good arm.” He stopped. “With the stone,” he explained.

  Nate headed for “his” deck. “The stone sank.”

  “Whatever,” the kid said cheerfully.

  “Whatever,” Nate repeated, not wanting to encourage the boy’s chatter.

  “Why don’t you come over? My mom would make you coffee.”