Читать книгу His Not-So-Blushing Bride: Marriage with Benefits / Improperly Wed / A Breathless Bride - Фиона Бранд - Страница 12

After firing off at least half a dozen emails and scheduling a couple of walk-throughs for early Monday afternoon, Lucas descended the hardwood and wrought-iron stairs at six sharp. Dinner was important to Mama, which meant being on time, plus he’d already done enough to provoke Cia today. Though she should be apologizing to him for the solid fifteen minutes it had taken to scrub the coconut and lime from his skin.

Why did that combination linger, like a big, fruity, tropical tattoo etched into his brain? Couldn’t she wear plain old Chanel like normal women? Then the slight hard-on he’d endured since being in Cia’s bed, her luscious little body twisted around his, would be easy to dismiss. Easy, because a blatant, calculated turn-on he understood.

This, he didn’t.

He shouldn’t be attracted to her. Keeping his hands to himself should be easy. Besides, he scared the mess out of her every time he touched her. That was reason enough to back off, and there were plenty more reasons where that one came from. He’d have to try harder to remember them.

Cia had beaten him to the living room, where she paced around the sofa in a busy circle. The demons drove her relentlessly tonight. There must be a way to still them for a little while.

“Ready?” he asked, and caught her hand to slow her down. It was shaking. “Hey. It’s just dinner with some old people. It’s not like barging into a birthday party and proposing to a man you’ve never met.”

“My hands were shaking then, too.” She actually cracked a tiny smile. “It’s not just dinner. It’s a performance. Our first one, and we have to get it right. There’s no backup parachute on this ride.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darlin’. I always have a backup parachute in my wallet.”

“Only you could twist an innocent comment into an innuendo.” Her eyes flashed deep blue with an unexpected hint of humor. How had he ever thought they were brown?

“If you don’t like it, stop giving me ammo.”

Her bottom lip poked out in mock annoyance, but he could see she was fighting a laugh. “You really are juvenile half the time, aren’t you?”

And there she was, back in the fray. Good. Those shadows flitting through her eyes needed to go. Permanently. He’d enjoy helping that happen.

“Half the time? Nah. I give it my all 24/7.” He winked and kissed her now-steady hand. A hand heavy with her engagement ring. Why did that flash on her finger please him so much? “But you’re not nervous about dinner anymore, so mission accomplished. Before we go, can we find you some matching earrings?”

Fingers flew to her ears. “What? How did that happen?”

“Slow down once in a while maybe. Unless of course you want my parents to think we rolled straight out of bed and got dressed in a big hurry.”

She made a face and went back upstairs. The plain black dress she wore, the same one from the other night, did her figure no favors. Of course, only someone who had recently pressed up against every inch of those hidden curves would know they were there.

He groaned. All night long he’d be thinking about peeling off that dress. Which, on second thought, might not be bad. If she was his real fiancée, he’d be anticipating getting her undressed and the other choice activities to follow. No harm in visualizing both, to up the authenticity factor.

Imagining Cia naked was definitely not a chore.

When she returned, he tucked her against his side and herded her toward the garage before she could bolt. Once he’d settled her into the passenger seat of his car, he slid into the driver’s seat and backed out.

Spring had fully sprung, stretching out the daylight, and the Bradford pears burst with white blooms, turning the trees into giant Q-tips. Likely Cia had no interest in discussing the weather, the Texas Rangers or the Dow, and he refused to sit in silence.

“You know, I’ve been curious.” He glanced at the tight clamp of her jaw. Nerves. She needed a big-time distraction. “So you’re not personally a victim of abuse, but something had to light that fire under you. What was it?”

“My aunt.” She shut her eyes for a blink and bounced her knee. Repeatedly. “The time she showed up at our house with a two-inch-long split down her cheek is burned into my brain. I was six and the ghastly sight of raw flesh …”

With a shudder, she went on, “She needed stitches but refused to go to the emergency room because they have to file a report if they suspect abuse. She didn’t want her husband to be arrested. So my mom fixed her up with Neosporin and Band-Aids and tried to talk some sense into her. Leave that SOB, she says. You deserve better.”

What a thing for a kid to witness. His sharpest memory from that age was scaring the maid with geckos. “She didn’t listen, did she?”

“No.” Cia stared out the window at the passing neighborhood.

When he looked at a house or a structure, he assessed the architectural details, evaluated the location and estimated the resale value. What did she see—the pain and cruelty the people inside its walls were capable of? “What happened?”

“He knocked her down, and she hit her head. After a two-month coma, they finally pulled the plug.” Her voice cracked. “He claimed it was an accident, but fortunately the judge didn’t see it that way. My mom was devastated. She poured all her grief into volunteer work at a shelter, determined to save as many other women as she could.”

“So you’re following in your mom’s footsteps?”

“Much more than that. I went with her. For years, I watched these shattered women gain the skills and the emotional stability to break free of a monstrous cycle. That’s an amazing thing, to know you helped someone get there. My mom was dedicated to it, and now she’s gone.” The bleak proclamation stole his attention from the road, and the staccato tap of her fingernail against the door kept it. “I have to make sure what happened to my aunt doesn’t happen to anyone else. Earlier, you said marriage is about not being able to live without someone. I’ve seen the dark side of that, where women can’t leave their abusers for all sorts of emotional reasons, and it gives me nightmares.”

Oh, man. The shadows inside her solidified.

No wonder she couldn’t be still, with all that going on inside. His chest pinched. She’d been surrounded by misery for far too long. No one had taken the time to teach her how to have fun. How to ditch the clouds for a while and play in the sun.

Wheeler to the rescue. “Next time you have a nightmare, you feel free to crawl in bed with me.”

Her dark blue eyes fixed on him for a moment. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’d prefer never to be dependent on a man in the first place, which is why I’ll never get married.”

“Yet that looks suspiciously like an engagement ring on your left hand, darlin’.”

She rolled her eyes. “Married for real, I mean. Fake marriages are different.”

“Marriage isn’t about creating a dependency between two people, you know. It can be about much more.”

Which meant much more to lose. Like what happened to Matthew, who’d been happy with Amber, goofy in love. They’d had all these plans. Then it was gone. Poof.

Some days, Lucas didn’t know how Matthew held it together, which was reason enough to keep a relationship simple. Fun, yes. Emotional and heavy? No.

Lucas had done Matthew a favor by taking over his monument of a house, not that his brother would agree. If Matthew had his way, he’d mope around in that shrine forever. Cia had already begun dissolving Amber’s ghost, exactly as Lucas had hoped.

“Looks suspiciously like a bare finger on your left hand, Wheeler. You had an affair with a married woman. Sounds like you deliberately avoid eligible women.”

At what point had this conversation turned into an examination of the Lucas Wheeler Philosophy of Marriage? He hadn’t realized he had one until now.

“Marrying you, aren’t I?” he muttered. Lana had been an eligible woman, at least in his mind.

“Boy, that proves your point. I’m the woman who made you agree to divorce me before we got near an altar,” she said sweetly and then jabbed the needle in further. “Gotta wonder what your hang-up is about marriage.”

“Nagging wife with a sharp tongue would be hang-up number one,” he said. “I’ll get married one day. I haven’t found the right woman yet.”

“Not for lack of trying. What was wrong with all of your previous candidates?”

“Too needy,” he said, and Cia chortled.

He should have blown off the question, or at least picked something less cliché. But cliché or not, that’s what had made Lana so disappointing—she’d been the opposite of clingy and suffocating. For once, he’d envisioned a future with a woman. Instead, she’d been lying.

Had he seen the signs but chosen to ignore them?

“Exactly,” she said. “Needy women depend on a man to fill holes inside.”

“Who are you, Freud?”

“Business major, psych minor. I don’t have any holes. Guess I must be the perfect date, then, huh, Wheeler?” She elbowed his ribs and drew a smile from him.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Now he understood her persistent prickliness toward men. Understood it, but didn’t accept it.

Not all men were violent losers bent on dominating someone weaker. Some men appreciated a strong, independent woman. Some men might relish the challenge of a woman who went out of her way to make it clear how not interested she was five seconds after melting into a hot mess in a guy’s arms.

The stronger she was, the harder she’d fall, and he could think of nothing better than rising to the challenge of catching her. Cia wasn’t scared like he’d assumed, but she nursed some serious hang-ups about marriage and men.

Nothing about this marriage was real. None of it counted.

They had the ultimate no-strings-attached arrangement, and he knew the perfect remedy for chasing away those shadows— not-real-doesn’t-count sex with her new husband. Nothing emotional to trip over later, just lots of fun. They both knew where their relationship was going. There was no danger of Cia becoming dependent on him since he wasn’t going to be around after six months and she presented no danger to his family’s business.

Everyone won.

Instead of only visualizing Cia out of that boring dress, he’d seduce her out of it. And out of her hang-ups. A lot rode on successfully scamming everyone. What better way to make everyone think they were a real couple than to be one?

Temporarily, of course.

Lucas’s parents lived at the other end of Highland Park, in a stately colonial two-story edging a large side lot bursting with tulips, hyacinth and sage. A silver-haired older version of Lucas answered the door at the Wheelers’ house, giving Cia an excellent glimpse of how Lucas might age. She hadn’t met Mr. Wheeler at the birthday party.

“Hi, I’m Andy,” Mr. Wheeler said and swung the door wide.

Lucas shook his dad’s hand and then ushered Cia into the Wheelers’ foyer with a palm at the small of her back. The casual but reassuring touch warmed her spine, serving as a reminder that they were in this together.

Through sheer providence, she’d gained a real partner, one who didn’t hesitate to solve problems she didn’t know existed. One who calmed her and who paid enough attention to notice she wore different earrings. She’d never expected, never dreamed, she’d need or want any of that when concocting this scheme.

Thanks to Lucas everything was on track, and soon they could get on with their separate lives. Or as separate as possible while living under the same roof.

Lucas introduced Cia to his brother, Matthew, and Mrs.

Wheeler steered everyone into the plush living area off the main foyer.

“Cia, I’m happy to have you here. Please, call me Fran. Have a seat.” Fran motioned to the cushion next to her on the beige couch, and Cia complied by easing onto it. “I must tell you, I’m quite surprised to learn you and Lucas renewed a previous relationship at my birthday party. I don’t recall the two of you dating the first time.”

“I don’t tell you everything, Mama,” Lucas interrupted, proceeding to wedge in next to Cia on the couch, thigh to thigh, his heavy arm drawing her against his torso. “You should thank me.”

Fran shot her son a glance, which couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a warning, while Cia scrambled to respond.

Her entire body blipped into high alert. She stiffened and had to force each individual muscle in her back to relax, allowing her to sag against Lucas’s sky-blue button-down shirt as if they snuggled on the couch five times a day. “It was a while back. A couple of years.”

Matthew Wheeler, the less beautiful, less blond and less vibrant brother, cleared his throat from his position near the fireplace. “Lucas said four or five years ago.”

Cia’s heart fell off a cliff. Such a stupid, obvious thing to miss when they’d discussed it. Why hadn’t Lucas mentioned he’d put a time frame to their fictitious previous relationship?

“Uh … well, it might have been four years,” Cia mumbled. In a flash of inspiration, she told mostly the truth. “I was still pretty messed up about my parents. All through college. I barely remember dating Lucas.”

His lips found her hairline and pressed against it in a simple kiss. An act of wordless sympathy but with the full force of Lucas behind those lips, it singed her skin, drawing heat into her cheeks, enflaming them. She was very aware of his fingertips trailing absently along her bare arm and very aware an engaged man had every reason to do it.

Except he’d never done it to her before and the little sparks his fingers generated panged through her abdomen.

“Oh, no, of course,” Fran said. “I’m so sorry to bring up bad memories. Let’s talk about something fun. Tell me about your wedding dress.”

In a desperate attempt to reorient, Cia zeroed in on Fran’s animated face. Lucas had not inherited his magnetism from his father, as she’d assumed, but from his mother. They shared a charisma that made it impossible to look away.

Lucas groaned, “Mama. That’s not fun—that’s worse than water torture. Daddy and Matthew don’t want to hear about a dress. I don’t even want to hear about that.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to get to know my new daughter,” Fran scolded and smiled at Cia conspiratorially. “I love my sons, but sometimes just because the good Lord said I have to. You I can love because I want to. The daughter of my heart instead of my blood. We’ll have lunch next week and leave the party poopers at home, won’t we?”

Cia nodded because her throat seized up and speaking wasn’t an option.

Fran already thought of her as a daughter.

Never had she envisioned them liking each other or that Lucas’s mother might want to become family by choice instead of only by law. The women at the shelter described their husbands’ mothers as difficult, interfering. Quick to take their sons’ sides. She’d assumed all new wives struggled to coexist. Must have horrible mother should have been on her criteria list.

And as long as she was redoing the list, Zero sex appeal was numero uno.

“Isn’t it time for dinner?” Lucas said brightly, and everyone’s gaze slid off her as Fran agreed.

The yeasty scent of baked bread had permeated the air a few minutes ago and must have jump-started Lucas’s appetite. She smiled at him, grateful for the diversion, and took a minute to settle her stomach.

Andy and Matthew followed Fran’s lead into the dining room adjacent to the living area, where a middle-aged woman in a black-and-white uniform bustled around the twelve-seat formal dining table. A whole roasted chicken held court in the center, flanked by white serving dishes containing more wonderful food.

Lucas didn’t move. He should move. Plenty of couch on the other side of his thigh.

“Be there in a minute,” he called to his family and took Cia’s hand in his, casually running a thumb over her knuckles. “You okay? You don’t have to have lunch with my mother. She means well, but she can be overbearing.”

“No.” She shook her head, barely able to form words around the sudden pounding of her pulse. “Your mother is lovely. I’m … well—we’re lying to her. To your whole family. Lying to my grandfather is one thing because he’s the one who came up with those ridiculous trust provisions. But this …”

“Is necessary,” he finished for her. “It would be weird if I never introduced you to my parents. For now it’s important to play it like a real couple. I’ll handle them later. Make something up.”

He didn’t understand. Because he’d had a mother his whole life.

“More lies. It’s clear you’re all close. How many other grown sons go to their mother’s birthday party and then to dinner at her house in the same week?” Cia vaulted off the couch, and Lucas rose a split second later. “I’m sorry I put you in this position. How do we do this? How do I go in there and eat dinner like we’re a happy, desperately in love couple?”

“Well, when I’m in an impossible situation, and I have no idea how to do it, I think to myself, ‘What would Scooby do?’”

In spite of the ache behind her eyes, a shuddery laugh slipped out. A laugh, when she could hardly breathe around the fierce longing swimming through her heart to belong to such a family unit for real.

“Scooby would eat.”

“Yep.” Lucas flashed an approval-laden smile. “So here’s a crazy idea. Don’t take this so seriously. Let’s have fun tonight. Eat a good meal with some people I happen to be related to. Once it’s over, you’ll be one step closer to your money and I’ll be one step closer to Manzanares, which will make both of us happy. Voilà. Now we’re a happy couple. Okay?”

“We’re still lying to them.”

“I told my parents we’re engaged to be married, and that’s true.”

“But there’s an assumption there about us—”

He cut her off with a grunt. “Stop being so black-and-white. If anyone asks, don’t lie. Change the subject. My parents are waiting on us to eat dinner. You’ve got to figure it out.”

She took a deep breath. One dinner. One short ceremony. Then it would be over. “I’m working on it.”

“Maybe you need something else to think about during dinner.”

In a completely natural move, Lucas curved her into his arms, giving her plenty of time to see him coming. Plenty of time to anticipate. The crackle in the air and the intent in his eyes told her precisely what he’d give her to think about.

And still, when he kissed her, the contact of Lucas’s mouth against hers swept shock waves down her throat, into her abdomen, spreading with long, liquid pulls.

She’d been kissed before. She had. Not like this, by a master who transformed the innocent touching of mouths into a carnal slide toward the depths of sinful pleasure.

He cupped her jaw with a feathery caress. When her knees buckled, he squeezed her tighter against him and deepened the kiss slowly, sending the burn of a thousand torches down the length of her body.

Her brain drained out through her soles to puddle on the Wheelers’ handmade rug.

Then it was over. He drew his head back a bit, and she nearly lost her balance as she took in the dark hunger darting through his expression.

He murmured, “Now, darlin’. You think about how we’ll finish that later on. I know I will be.”

Later?

Lucas tugged at their clasped hands, and she followed him on rubbery legs into the dining room, still raw from being kissed breathless. Raw and confused.

It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. That kiss had been window dressing. It had been a diversion to get her to lay off. She wasn’t stupid. Lucas had a crackerjack gift for distraction when necessary, and this had been one of those times. There was no later.

No one asked about the relationship between her and Lucas during dinner.

It might have had to do with the scorching heat in his eyes every time he looked at her. Or the way he sat two inches from her chair and whispered in her ear every so often. The comments were silly, designed to make her laugh, but every time he leaned in, with his lips close to her ear, laughing didn’t happen.

She was consumed with later and the lingering taste of him on her lips.

Clearly, she’d underestimated his talent when it came to women. Oh, she wasn’t surprised at his ability to kiss a fake fiancée senseless, or how the wickedness of his mouth caused her to forget her own name. No. The surprise lay in how genuine he’d made it feel. Like he’d enjoyed kissing her. Like the audience hadn’t mattered.

He’d been doing his job—faking it around other people. And despite the unqualified awareness that it wasn’t real, that it never, ever could be, he’d made her want it to be real.

A man who could spin that kind of straw into gold was dangerous.

After dinner, Fran shooed everyone to the huge screened-in porch for coffee. Andy, Matthew and Lucas small talked about work a few feet away, so Cia perched on the wicker love seat overlooking the pool, sipping a cup of coffee to ward off the slight chill darkness had brought. Decaf, because she’d have a hard enough time sleeping tonight as it was. Her body still ached with the unfulfilled promise of Lucas’s kiss.

After a conspicuous absence, Fran appeared and joined her.

“This is for you,” Fran said, and handed Cia a long, velvet jewelry box. “Open it.”

Cia set her coffee aside and sprung the lid, gasping as an eighteen-inch gray pearl and diamond necklace spilled into her hands. “Oh, Fran, I couldn’t.”

Fran closed Cia’s hand over the smooth, cool pearls. “It belonged to my mother and my grandmother before that. My mother’s wedding ring went to Ambe—” She cut herself off with a pained glance at Matthew. “My oldest son, but I saved this for Lucas’s wife. I want you to have it. It’s your something old.”

Madre de Dios, how did she refuse?

This was way worse than a villa—it was an heirloom. A beautiful expression of lineage and family and her eyes stung as Fran clasped it around Cia’s neck. It hung heavy against her skin, and she couldn’t speak.

“It’s stunning with your dark hair. Oh, I know it’s not the height of fashion,” Fran said with a half laugh. “It’s old-lady jewelry. So humor me, please, and wear it at the ceremony, then put it away. I’ll let Lucas buy you pretty baubles more to your taste.”

Cia touched the necklace with the tips of her fingers. “Thank you.” A paltry sentiment compared to the emotion churning through her.

Fran smiled. “You’re welcome. At the risk of being tactless, I was crushed you didn’t want any family at the wedding. I’m more than happy to pitch in as mother of the bride, if that’s part of the issue. You must be missing yours.”

Before Cia’s face crumpled fully, Lucas materialized at her side and pulled her to her feet. “Mama. I told you Cia doesn’t want a big ceremony or any fuss. She doesn’t even like jewelry.”

Obviously he’d been listening to the conversation. As Fran sputtered, Cia retreated a few mortified steps and tried to be grateful for the intervention.

Her dry eyes burned. No big church wedding for her. No flower girls, chamber music or a delicate sleeveless ecru dress with a princess waist, trimmed in lace. All that signified the real deal, an ability to gift someone with her love and then trust the fates not to rip her happiness away with no warning.

Neither could she in good conscience develop any sort of relationship with Mrs. Wheeler. Better to hurt her now, rather than later.

With her heart in shredded little pieces, Cia unclasped the necklace. “Thank you, but I can’t wear this. It doesn’t go with a simple civil ceremony. I’m pretty busy at work for the foreseeable future, so lunch is out of the question.”

Fran’s expression smoothed out as she accepted the return of her box and necklace. “I overstepped. You have my apologies.”

“It’s fine, Mama. We should go,” Lucas said and nodded to the rest of his family, who watched her coolly.

Excellent. Now they all hated her. That’s what she should have been going for all night. Then when she and Lucas divorced, he could blame it all on her, and his family would welcome him back into the fold with sympathy and condolences. His mother would say she knew Cia wasn’t the right girl for him the moment she’d thrown his great-grandmother’s pearls back in her face.

Cia murmured her goodbyes and followed Lucas through the house and out into the starless night.

Once they were settled in their seats, he drove away, as slow as Christmas. But she didn’t care so much this time and burrowed into the soft leather, oddly reassured by the scent of pine trees curling around her.

“Thanks, Lucas,” she said, and her voice cracked. “For giving me the out with your mother. It was …”

“No problem,” he said, jumping in to fill the silence when she couldn’t go on. “It takes two to make marriage work, fake or otherwise. I’ll do damage control with Mama in the morning. And, darlin’, I must confess a real fondness to you calling me Lucas.”

His gaze connected with hers, arcing with heat, and the current zinged through the semidark, close quarters of the car. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her pulse skittered.

All of a sudden, it was later.