The Pre-Nup - Softcover

Beth Kendrick is the author of four previous novels, including Nearlyweds and Fashionably Late. She also writes teen fiction as Beth Killian. She lives near Phoenix, Arizona, with her husband, son, and an assortment of badly behaved dogs.
From the Trade Paperback edition.

Chapter One

Ellie


Another exciting, exhilarating extravaganza. And I am exhausted." Ellie Barton rubbed her eyes and smiled up at her husband as he held open the door between the garage and the house. "Smudged mascara never felt so good."

"You know you love organizing these black-tie shindigs." Michael smiled back and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. "Admit it."

"It is nice to get out of jeans and sneakers," Ellie admitted. "See a bit of the world beyond Gymboree and Tumbling Tots. Talk about something besides Curious George and imaginary friends named Moodle."

"And you're a natural at it. My mom says you're turning into quite the society queen."

"I don't know about that," Ellie demurred. Her voice was still hoarse from straining to be heard over the brass band. "But I'm learning from the master. Fund-raising is the toughest committee, but your mother can get blood from a stone and not spill a single drop on her Escada. I just scurry around and do her bidding and everything magically falls into place."

"Any excuse to buy more Escada," Michael translated.

"Be nice. It's all for a good cause." Ellie furrowed her brow. "Wait. What was tonight?"

"Heart disease." Michael loosened his bow tie and reached under his tuxedo sleeves to unfasten his cuff links. "Next week is domestic violence, and next month is cancer."

"Right." She paused to clear her throat. "You know, I was thinking, it's great that we organize these galas to raise money and awareness and all, but I'm sure the women's shelter could use some hands-on volunteers, too. Once Hannah starts preschool five days a week, I could commit to that."
Her husband dropped back a step and asked, "Commit to what?"

"Whatever they need. Administrative stuff, sorting out donations, childcare . . . I'd like to really get involved."

Michael picked up the pace as they rounded the corner from the side hallway to their home's foyer. "Sweetheart, believe me, getting the Mayfair Estates crowd sloshed enough to write a big stack of checks is by far the best way to help that shelter. Besides, you know how much business I get through these committee connections." He threw her a wink. "The mortgage's not going to pay itself."

Ellie glanced up at the massive, custom-made crystal chandelier Michael's mother had commissioned from an artisan in France. "Right. We're one step away from living in a refrigerator carton under the freeway." She extracted a small tube of hand sanitizer from her evening bag. "Could you pay the baby-sitter? I'm going to go check on Hannah."

"I'll check on Hannah. You relax." Michael steered her into the master suite. "And lay off the Purell, woman, before we have to sign you up for a twelve-step program."

"Go ahead, mock me. But it's the height of flu season, and some of those city councilmen we shook hands with? Not exactly the picture of personal hygiene."

He grinned and kissed her freshly disinfected fingertips. "Howard Hughes in high heels."

"Speaking of high heels . . ." Ellie made her way across the bedroom and into the huge, mirrored bathroom, where she collapsed onto a carved antique rosewood stool and kicked off her strappy stilettos. She curled her toes against the cool travertine floor. "Ahh. Sweet relief."

Michael met her gaze in the mirror and shook his head. "I will never understand why you insist on wearing those things to events where you're expected to be on your feet for five hours. Aren't you in pain?"

"A little," she admitted. "But they look good. And I need all the help I can get these days."

"You look beautiful," he said immediately, and, Ellie noticed, a bit absently.

Not that she blamed him. She knew she was guilty of the cardinal sin of their exclusive gated community: she'd let herself go. Not entirely, not all at once, but since giving birth to their daughter three years ago, she'd abandoned the strict exercise, makeup, and moisturizer regimen of her early twenties. She was just too busy to devote all day, every day to the pursuit of personal perfection. The first crinkles of crow's feet were encroaching at the corners of her eyes. Breast-feeding had taken an undeniable toll on her figure. And sometimes she would spend an entire morning running errands and shuttling her daughter between play groups before noticing a coffee stain on her cardigan.

Michael caught her frown in the mirror. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She stifled a small sigh. "Do you ever wish I'd get a little, you know, work done? Botox? Tummy tuck?"

"Don't start with that again." He rested his warm hands on her shoulders, then tugged at her zipper to peek at the label of her dress. "Size ten? Someone call Jenny Craig, stat!"

Her cheeks flushed. "Don't make fun of me! I'm the only double-digit-wearing woman under sixty in this whole neighborhood. Compared to all the second and third wives at the country club, I'm a—"

"You're a hell of a lot more interesting than the Stepford sorority," Michael assured her. "You're an original. First edition!"

"I don't want to be interesting. I want to be sexy and beguiling, and . . . God." She folded her arms on the bathroom counter and rested her chin on her hands. "I'm just so tired."

"Sweetheart, come on, you know you—Hang on." Michael broke off as a loud buzzing noise emanated from his tuxedo pants pocket. He extracted a small silver PDA, squinted down at the screen, then tapped at the keyboard. "Work. Hang on."

Ellie scrunched up her nose. "Again? How can anyone be thinking about real estate at this hour on a Friday night?"

"No one's thinking about real estate right now; they're thinking about the golf course where we're going to discuss the development deal tomorrow morning. We have to change our tee time." He placed the PDA on the bathroom counter next to her evening bag and returned his attention to her. "Now. Back to you. Where were we?"

She glowered at her own reflection. "I was bemoaning my lack of Stepford sultriness."

"Listen to me. You're the perfect wife. Especially when you're all charming like tonight, making small talk with the new investor about—who's that writer? Henry James?"

"Henry Fielding," Ellie corrected.

"See? Brilliant to boot. I rest my case." He emptied his pants pockets and peeled a pair of twenties from his engraved money clip. With his broad shoulders and dimpled smile, he was the epitome of tall, dark, and debonair.

Her scowl melted into a smile. "Did I ever tell you that you look like James Bond when you go black-tie?"

"Every time I break out this monkey suit. And that is why I married you. Sit tight, relax, and I'll drive Shannon home. Oh, as long as I'm out, I better fill up your car. Don't want you running out of gas tomorrow while you and Hannah hit the birthday party circuit."

Emboldened by his praise and loath to let a new dress and a professional hair-and-makeup job go to waste, Ellie sat up and blew him a kiss. "Maybe I'll take a nice hot bath and get warmed up for when you come home?"

His eyebrows shot up a fraction of an inch. "That's quite an offer. But I thought you were sleep-deprived?"

"Sleep is for the weak and the childless. That's why God invented caffeine. Besides, it's not every day a girl gets her chance with James Bond."

They heard footsteps in the hall, and Michael glanced down at his watch. "I should really get Shannon home. I promised her mom she'd be back by eleven. And listen, about the bath . . . hold that thought. Next weekend we'll leave Hannah with my mom and get a suite at the Fairmont. Order room service, get a massage . . ."

"It's a date." She quashed a twinge of disappointment.

"Baby, just wait 'til I get you alone. We are going to sleep all night long 'til we can't sleep no more." He jingled his car keys as he headed down the hall.

Ellie waited until she heard the door close, then shimmied out of her sequined black silk gown and turned on the faucet of the enormous jetted bathtub in the center of the room. She poured in some vanilla-scented bath oil, stripped off her bra and panties, and had one foot in the tub when Michael's PDA vibrated off the edge of the counter and onto the floor.

She was shocked he'd left it there. He prided himself on being accessible to his clients at all times. The tiny red light on the top of the screen was blinking insistently, so Ellie pulled her foot back out of the bathwater and minced across the room, hoping that the plastic casing hadn't cracked from the fall.

"You have one message waiting," the screen announced. Then an ominous exclamation point appeared. "URGENT!"

Her eyes widened. What if this was an emergency? A lot of Michael's clients had attended tonight's bash and most of them were as impatient as they were wealthy. She'd have to figure out how to get in touch with him right away. She clicked the scroll wheel.
To: mbarton007
From: Vixen_MD
Mick—
You KNOW I'm always up for that. I'm wearing the red thong you gave me. Get over here and rip it off. Meet you in 5 minutes. Make me moan.

Ellie stood motionless for a full minute, blinking down at the screen until the letters blurred together into one mottled gray blob.

Make me moan.
This had to be a mistake. First of all, no one ever called Michael "Mick." He hated nicknames of any kind; even "Mike" was verbot...