“So this is it? You’re telling me there’s no way out? That after all this time you’ve come up with…” Tristan McFarland thrashed a frustrated hand through the air “…with nothing?”

Ian Anderson let the file of papers drop onto the top of his desk with an ominous slap. “Save the theatrics, Tristan. I’ve been telling you this for weeks.” He glanced at the small desk calendar and leaned back in his chair. “Eleven weeks, to be exact.”

“I realize that.” Tristan directed his words toward the carpet beneath his pacing feet. “But you’re my attorney. You’re supposed to get me out of this. It’s what you get paid to do.”

Ian raised his own hand in a defeated, but patronizing gesture. “Yes, I’m your attorney. And no, I’m not free. But I’m telling you that there’s not another estate lawyer in Texas who will say differently—your aunt’s will is rock solid. It ought to be. It was drafted by the best.”

“Masters,” Tristan spat the name. “This whole thing was probably his idea.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “Forcing me to get married!”

“There are worse things.”

Tristan shot him a scalding look, one that usually sent his subordinates crawling away in shreds. Ian didn’t bat an eye. “Sure,” he agreed. “Being disemboweled, drawn, and quartered.”

Ian shrugged. “As I’ve told you before, you can contest, but it’s a lose/lose situation. On the off chance that you do win, you’ll have a dozen or so fifth cousins twice removed crawling out of the woodwork for their piece of the McFarland pie. You’ll be lucky to come out with enough to pay your legal fees.”

Tristan slumped dejectedly into a leather chair and released a weighted sigh as he brooded. “Risking the money’s one thing, but the press…” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s like some bad Lifetime movie.”

“The bright side is no one’s been able to find Devin yet. The way he jet-sets, you’ll be bouncing grandchildren on your very wealthy knee before he discovers he could have had the family fortune.”

“It’s beyond insane.” Tristan jumped to his feet and resumed pacing.

She was even making Devin find a wife, pitting them against each other in a contest to see who would inherit it all.

Not that Tristan was overly worried about Devin’s willingness to tie himself to one woman. His brother was more of a commitment-phobe than Tristan was.

“Your aunt made you work for it all these years, Tristan. What made you think she would hand the money to you now?”

Tristan stopped. Ian was right. Patricia had made him work his way through college. She’d forced him to earn his way to the top of the company. She had never simply given Tristan anything, but now that he had a fortune—well, almost had it—he wasn’t willing to let it go easily.

Tristan turned to face Ian. “You know, I’ve never resented her underhanded tactics until now. She’s always been manipulative and controlling, but she was fair. I never thought she would resort to posthumous blackmail.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call this blackmail.”

“Why not?” Tristan shrugged. “Extortion is extortion.”

“Then don’t do it,” Ian said calmly.

“Don’t do it? Do you know what you’re saying?”

Ian nodded. “Let the inheritance go to charity. You’ve made a few nice investments of your own along the way. Let someone else worry about McFarland for a while.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Tristan, it’s Tuesday. You have until Friday to comply with the terms of your aunt’s will. You know your options. Get married or lose it all.”

“The money, the company, the house…they all rightfully belong to me and I want them.”

“Then get married. Get a wife, get the money, and get the dog.”

“Don’t remind me.” Tristian sighed once again. “As if forcing me to get married wasn’t enough, I inherit the dog regardless.”

“How is Bruno?” Ian asked, his expression stoic.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Small, black, and spoiled. He’s at the groomers’ right now having his weekly doggie massage and manicure. Or is it a pedicure?”

Ian chuckled. “I never thought I’d see the day when you would have custody of a poodle.”

“Tiny toy poodle, if you don’t mind,” Tristan corrected with a derisive quirk of his lips.

Ian chuckled once more, then punched a button on his speaker-phone.

A feminine voice stammered across the intercom. “Yes? Mr. Anderson?”

“Could you bring us a fresh pot of coffee, please?” Ian asked as looked at Tristan. “My friend could use a little refreshment.” Without waiting for her reply, Ian released the intercom. Then he formed a pyramid with his hands and exhaled heavily above them. “In all honesty, Tristan, I don’t consider the amount you stand to inherit unworthy of a few vows, clinging new bride and dependent poodle or not. I could go out on the street and find people who would be willing to do much more than get married to inherit 6.5 billion dollars.”

“Point three,” Tristan corrected. “6.3 billion. And most of that’s not liquid.” Most of it was MacFarland Manufacturing, his family’s clothing company. The company he should rightfully be inheriting.

“Point three, point five? What’s a couple of million between friends? You know I’m right.”

He heaved a deep, resigned sigh. “Fine. I have to get married. Now tell me, just who am I supposed to marry?”

“There’s always Anna.”

Tristan snorted. “Anna? No amount of money would be worth that Besides,” he ran his fingers down the sides of his face, futilely massaging the tension at his temples. “She’s gone to Africa with the Peace Corps and won’t be back for at least another two months.”

“She what?”

“She didn’t actually join, but I still can’t reach her.”

“You mean she didn’t take her sat phone?” Ian laughed. “What business does a bored, temperamental socialite have in some small African country?”

“With the election coming up soon, her father thought it would be a good idea for her to make a mark in the world.”

“I’ll bet you a thousand she took a manicurist and a private chef with her.”

Ignoring Ian’s all-too-accurate description of Anna, Tristan leaned forward and picked up his aunt’s will. “I don’t want to get married.”

“So you’ve said.”

Tristan glared once again.

“There’s got to be someone else you can marry. I’ve seen how women look at you.”

Tristan shook his head. “Find me one who’ll sign the pre-nup, and I’ll marry her tomorrow.”

“Here’s a thought. You make it a business proposition. Be up front about the situation from the beginning. Pay her and in the end, you both walk away richer and neither one hurt from the association. Instead of buying freedom, you buy the bonds of holy matrimony—for a year.”

“Perfect,” Tristan scoffed. But since Neiman Marcus seems to be fresh out of brides, I guess I’ll walk down the street and randomly ask women if they’ll marry me. No, even better. I’ll post it on Instagram. Wife Wanted. No experience necessary. Contact Tristan McFarland.’”

“That’s not a good way to keep the marriage out of the limelight. Besides you don’t have that long. You have to be married by Friday.”

“Then I suppose I’m left with one option,” Tristan said matter-of-factly. “Marry the next woman I see.”

A soft knock sounded and the door opened behind him. He whirled around as the temp secretary he’d blown past earlier inched into the room.

“Here’s the coffee you asked for.” Her voice was smooth and clear, but her hands shook as she set the tray down on the credenza, the china clattering noisily.

Ian walked around his desk, then leaned one hip against it. He folded his arms across his chest as a slow Cheshire-smile spread its way across his face. “Thank you, uh…”

“Claire,” she supplied. “Claire Campbell.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Campbell. Please stay a moment.”

She seemed hesitant as she slowly nodded, glancing at each of them in turn. She acted almost afraid, almost wary of potential dangers.

“Nonsense,” he muttered to himself, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Even if he did buy a wife, where the heck would he find one at this short notice? Weren’t purchased brides usually imported from some third world country? He didn’t have time for all that. He had to be married in three days. Besides, that was more Devin’s speed, not his.

“Let me introduce you to my friend. Tristan, this is Claire Campbell, my temporary secretary. Ms. Campbell, Tristan McFarland.”

At the sound of his name, he jerked to attention, annoyed that Ian was bothering with inconsequential and unnecessary niceties while Tristan’s entire existence was crumbling down around him.

Tristan stood and turned to face the temp, not at all surprised at the flush of pink that stole into her cheeks. She shyly extended her hand in greeting.

He took it into his own. “It’s a pleasure, Claire.”

“Yes,” she murmured a little breathlessly.

Tristan released her fingers and started to return to his seat when Ian cleared his throat. Behind the secretary’s back, he raised his brows and looked pointedly at Tristan. What was Ian up to now?

“I do believe Tristan has something he wants to talk to you about, Ms. Campbell.”

“What?” Tristan frowned Ian.

The attorney inclined his head in the temp’s direction as if to say, Here she is: the next woman you’ve seen.

Was he serious?

He looked serious enough.

But Tristan hadn’t been serious. He’d just been spouting off. And yet…

Was she the answer to his problems?

Tristan had to find a wife.

Today.

Tomorrow at the latest.

It was the only way he’d get his birthright.

Lost in the surreal moment, Tristan turned back to the temp.

The word “mousy” didn’t fit her at all, he decided. He replaced it with medium. She was of medium height and medium weight with medium blond hair of medium length.

She lifted a hand to smooth back her thick, medium bangs, and he noticed that even her fingernails were medium.

Tristan looked up and met her eyes.

He sucked in an involuntary breath and held it. If she were medium, then there were no true words to describe her eyes. Darkly-browed with thick, sooty lashes, the orbs were blue. No, green. Well, somewhere in between, and he didn’t have his wits about him enough to accurately discern their color as he gazed into their depths.

“Tristan. Hello? Tristan?”

At the sound of Ian’s voice, he tore his gaze from hers.

Once again, Ian inclined his head in the secretary’s direction.

Tristan looked at the temp, careful not to meet her gaze. Had it really come down to this? “Uhum, Chloe—”

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Claire. Right. I know this is sudden…Claire. We just met and all, but… do you like dogs?”

“Yes,” she answered. Her expression changed from captivated to puzzled.

“Tristan,” Ian intoned, the word clearly a warning.

Tristan swallowed, trying to ease the sudden dryness in his throat. He had to do this. He had tried every way possible to get out of this arrangement, but deep down he knew, someone from his own social circle would be hard for him to control, but a medium secretary would be different. He could marry her, send her off to a Parisian spa for the summer, then divorce her after the obligatory year. He would pay her and she would surely be grateful for the money. It was a perfect idea.

Okay, so it wasn’t perfect, but it was the best idea he’d had since his aunt died.

He took a deep breath and looked into the medium secretary’s not so medium eyes. “Will you marry me?”

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status