Читать книгу His Not-So-Blushing Bride: Marriage with Benefits / Improperly Wed / A Breathless Bride - Фиона Бранд - Страница 13

Lucas spent the silent, tense ride home revamping his strategy.

Fragileness deepened Cia’s shadows, and it was enough to cool his jets. Nothing would have pleased him more than to walk into the house, back her up against the door and start that kiss over again, but this time, his hands would stroke over the hot curves of her body and she’d be naked in short order.

But she wasn’t like other women. She wasn’t in touch with her sexuality, and he had to live with her—and himself—for the next six months. While he’d like to sink straight into a simple seduction, he had to treat her differently, with no idea what that looked like.

Once they cleared the detached garage, he slid his hand into hers. “Thanks for going to dinner.”

Her fingers stiffened. She glanced at him, surprise evident. “You say that like I had a choice.”

“You did. With me, you always have a choice. We’re partners, not master and slave. So, I’m saying thank you for choosing to spend the evening with my family. It was difficult for you, and I appreciate it.”

Her gaze flitted over him, clearly looking for the punch line. “You’re welcome, then.”

He let go of her hand to open the door. “Now, I don’t know about you, but my parents’ house always makes me want to let loose a little. I’m half-afraid to move, in case I accidentally knock over one of Mama’s precious knickknacks.”

Cia smiled, just a little, but it was encouraging all the same. “It is easier to breathe in our house.”

Our house. She’d never called it that before, and he liked the sound of it. They were settling in with each other, finding a groove.

He followed her into the living room. “Let’s do “Let’s do something fun.”

“Like what?”

Instead of answering, he crossed to the entertainment center and punched up the music she’d been playing earlier, when he’d returned home from playing basketball. A mess of electronic noise blasted through the speakers, thumping in his chest. “Dance with me,” he yelled over the pulsing music.

“To this?” Disbelief crinkled her forehead. “You haven’t even been drinking, white boy.”

“Come on.” He held out a hand. “You won’t dance in public. No one is watching except me, and I can’t dance well enough to warrant making fun of you.”

He almost fell over when she shrugged and joined him. “I don’t like people watching me, but I never said I couldn’t dance.”

To prove it, she cut her torso in a zigzag and whirled in an intricate move worthy of a music video, hair flying, hands framing her head.

He grinned and crossed his arms, content to be still and watch Cia abandon herself to the beat. His hunch had been right—anyone with her energy would have to be a semicompetent dancer.

After a minute or so of the solo performance, she froze and threw him a look. “You’re not dancing.”

“Too hard to keep up with that, honey. I’m having a great time. Really. Keep going.”

“Not if you’re just going to stand there. You asked me to dance with you.”

Only because he hadn’t actually thought she’d say yes. “So I did.”

He could be a good sport. But he could not, under any circumstances, dance to anything faster than Brooks & Dunn.

So, he let her make fun of him instead, as he flapped his arms and stomped his feet in what could easily be mistaken for an epileptic seizure. When she laughed so hard she had to hold her sides, nothing but pure Cia floated through her eyes.

The shadows—and the fragileness—had been banished. Score one for Wheeler.

“All right, darlin’. Unless you want to tend to me as I’m laid out flat on my back with a pulled muscle, we gotta dial it down a notch.”

She snickered. “What are you, sixty? Shall I run and collect your social security check from the mailbox?”

Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and twirled her into his arms, body to body. “No, thanks. I’ve got another idea.”

Her arms came up around his waist and she clung to him. Progress. It was sweet.

“Slow dancing?” she asked.

“Slow something, that’s for sure.” He threaded fingers through her amazing hair and brushed a thumb across her cheek. Her skin was damp from dancing.

As he imagined the glow she’d take on when he got her good and sweaty between the sheets, he went hard. She noticed.

Her eyes widened, and all the color drained from her face as she let go of him faster than a hot frying pan. “It’s late. I have a shift in the morning, so I’m about danced out.”

All his hard work crumbled to dust under the avalanche of her hang-ups. He let her go with regret. Should have gone with slow dancing, and, as a bonus, she’d still be in his arms. “Sure thing. Big day tomorrow.”

The wedding. Realization crept over her expression. “Oh. Yeah. Well, good night.”

She fled.

He stalked off to bed and stared at the news for a good couple of hours, unsuccessfully attempting to will away his raging hard-on, before finally drifting off into a restless sleep laced with dreams of Cia wearing his ring and nothing else.

In the morning, he awoke bleary eyed but determined to make some progress in at least one area sorely requiring his attention—work.

The muted hum of the shower in Cia’s bathroom traveled through the walls as he passed by.

Cia, wet and naked. Exactly as he’d dreamed.

He skipped breakfast, too frustrated to stay in the house any longer. An early arrival at work wasn’t out of line anyway, as Mondays were usually killers. A welcome distraction from the slew of erotic images parading around in his head.

At red lights, he fired off emails to potential clients with the details of new listings. His schedule was insane this week. He had overlapping showings, appraisals and social events he’d attend to drum up new business.

An annoying buzz at the edge of his consciousness kept reminding him of all the balls he had in the air. He’d been juggling the unexpected addition of a full-time personal life and the strain was starting to wear. As long as he didn’t drop any balls or clients, everything was cool.

Four o’clock arrived way too fast.

As anticipated, Cia waited for him outside the courthouse, wearing one of her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses a grandmother would envy and low heels.

With her just-right curves and slender legs, put her in a pair of stilettos and a gauzy hot-pink number revealing a nice slice of cleavage … well, there’d be no use for stoplights on the street—traffic would screech to a halt spontaneously. But that wasn’t her style. Shame.

Her gaze zeroed in on the bouquet of lilies in his fist. “You just come from a funeral, Wheeler?”

So they were back to Wheeler in that high-brow, back-off tone. One tasty kiss-slash-step-forward and forty steps back.

“For you.” Lucas offered Cia the flowers. Dang it, he should not have picked them out. If he’d asked Helena to do it, like he should have, when Cia sneered at the blooms, as she surely would, he wouldn’t be tempted to throw them down and forget this whole idea. Even a man with infinite patience could only take so much.

But she didn’t sneer. Gently, she closed her fingers around the flowers and held them up to inhale the scent.

After a long minute of people rushing by and the two of them standing there frozen, she said, “If you’d asked, I would have said no. But it’s kind of nice after all. So you get a pass.”

He clutched his chest in a mock heart attack and grinned. “That’s why I didn’t ask. All brides should have flowers.”

“This isn’t a real wedding.”

She tossed her head and strands of her inky hair fanned out in a shiny mass before falling back to frame her exotic features. This woman he was about to make his wife was such a weird blend of stunning beauty and barbed personality, with hidden recesses of warmth and passion.

What was wrong with him that he was so flippin’ attracted to that mix? This marriage would be so much easier if he let it go and worried about stuff he could control, like scaring up new clients.

But he couldn’t. He wanted her in his bed, hot and enthusiastic, hang-ups tossed out the window for good.

“Sure it is. We’re going to be legally married. Just because it’s not traditional doesn’t make it less real.”

She flipped her free hand. “You know what I mean. A church wedding, with family and friends and cake.”

“Is that what you wanted? I would have suffered through a real wedding for you.” His skin itched already to think of wearing a tux and memorizing vows. God Almighty … the rehearsal, the interminable ceremony, the toasts. Matthew had undergone it all with a besotted half smile, claiming it was all worth it. Maybe it was if you were in love. “But, darlin’, I would have insisted on a real honeymoon.”

He waggled his brows, and she laughed nervously, which almost gave him a real heart attack.

A hint of a smile still played around her lips. “A real wedding would have made both of us suffer. That’s not what I wanted. I don’t have a perfect wedding dress already picked out in hopes my Prince Charming will come along, like other women do. I’m okay with being single for the rest of my life.”

“Hold up, honey. You’re not a romantic? All my illusions about you have been thoroughly crushed.”

Romantic gestures put a happy, glowy expression on a woman’s face, and he liked being the one responsible. It was the only sight on this earth anywhere near as pleasurable as watching a woman in the throes of an orgasm he’d given her.

He had his work cut out for him if he wanted to get Cia there.

He put an arm around her waist to guide her inside the courthouse because it was starting to seem as if she wanted to avoid going inside.

The ceremony was quick, and when he slid the slender wedding band of diamonds channel-set in platinum onto her finger, Cia didn’t curl her lip. He’d deliberately picked something low-key that she could wear without the glitzy engagement ring. The set had cost more than his car, but he viewed both as an investment. Successful real estate brokers didn’t cheap out, and especially now, with Lana’s husband on the warpath, every last detail of his life was for show.

With a fast and unsexy kiss, it was over. They were Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler.

The cool, hard metal encircling his finger was impossible to ignore, and he spun it with his pinkie, trying to get used to the weight. Uncomfortable silence fell as they left the courthouse and neither of them broke it. Cia had asked a friend to drop her off, so she rode home with him.

Half-surprised Mama hadn’t crashed the event, he called her with the update before he pulled out of the courthouse parking lot. By the time the wheels hit the driveway of the house, Mama had apparently posted the news to Facebook, which then took on a life of its own.

Text messages started rolling in, and he glanced at them as he shifted into Park.

Pete: Dude. Are we still on for bball Sunday? Or do you have to check with the missus?

Justine: REALLY Lucas???? Married???? REALLY????

Melinda: **&^$%. Missed it by that much. Call me the second you get tired of her.

Lucas rolled his eyes. He hadn’t spoken to either woman in months. Pete yanked his chain twice a day and had since college.

When Lucas went to shut off his phone, a message came in from Lana: Congrats. Nothing else. The simple half a word spoke volumes and it said, Poor Lucas, marrying that woman on the rebound.

“You’re popular all of a sudden,” Cia said after the fourth beep in a row, and her tone tried and convicted him for a crime he’d not been aware of committing.

“It’s just people congratulating us.”

And he was done with that. Lana’s name popping up on the screen, after all this time, had unburied disillusionment he’d rather not dwell on.

He hit the phone’s off button and dropped it in his pocket, then left the car in the driveway instead of pulling into the garage so it would be easier for Cia to get out.

His efforts to untangle Cia’s hang-ups last night had failed. Tonight, he’d try a different approach. “Have dinner with me. To celebrate.”

Before he could move, she popped the door and got out. He followed her up the drive and plowed through Amber’s fancy flowerbed to beat her to the porch.

“Celebrate what?” she asked, annoyance leaking from her pores. “I was thinking about soaking for an hour or two in a hot bath and going to bed early, actually.”

Before she could storm through the entryway, Lucas stopped her with a firm hand on her prickly little shoulder. “Wait.”

With an impatient sigh, she turned. “What?”

“Just because you’ve got your marriage license doesn’t mean we’re going to walk through this door and never speak again. You realize this, don’t you?” He searched her face, determined to find some glimmer of agreement. “This is the beginning, not the end. We’ve been faking being a happily engaged couple. Now we have to fake being a happily married couple. No, we don’t have to put on a performance right now, when no one’s around. But to do it in public, trust me, darlin’, when I say it will be miles easier if you’re not at my throat in private.”

Her tight face flashed through a dozen different emotions and finally picked resignation. “Yeah. I know. I owe you an apology. It’s been a rough day.”

For both of them. “Because you didn’t want to get married?”

She shrank a little, as if she couldn’t support the heavy weight settling across her shoulders. As if she might shatter into a million shards of razor-sharp glass if he touched her. So he didn’t.

But he wanted to, to see if he could soften her up, like during the five seconds he’d had her pliant and breathless in his arms and so off guard she’d actually kissed him back.

“I’ve been prepared to be married ever since I came up with the idea.” Misery pulled at her full mouth. “It’s just … I didn’t have any idea how hard it would be to get married without my father walking me down the aisle. Me. Who was never going to get married in the first place. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

One tear burst loose, trailing down her delicate cheekbone, and he had to do something.

“Hey now,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her quivering shoulders, drawing her in close. She let him, which meant she must be really upset. Prickly Cia usually made an appearance when she was uncomfortable about whatever was going on inside her. “That’s okay to cry about. Cry all you want. Then I’ll get you drunk and take advantage of you, so you forget all about it.”

She snorted out a half laugh, and it rumbled pleasantly against his chest. There was something amazing about being able to comfort a woman so insistent on not needing it. He’d grown really fond of soothing away that prickliness.

“I could use a glass of wine,” she admitted.

“I have exactly the thing. Come inside.” He drew back and smiled when some snap crept back into her watery eyes. “You can drink it while you watch me cook.”

“You cook?” That dried up her waterworks in a hurry. “With an oven?”

“Sure enough. I can even turn it on by myself.” As he led the way into the kitchen, a squawk cut him off. “Oh, good. Your wedding present is here.”

Cia raised her brows at the large cage sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “That’s a bird.”

“Yep. An African gray parrot.” He shed his suit jacket and draped it over a chair in the breakfast nook.

“You’re giving me a bird? As a wedding present?”

“Not any bird. African grays live up to fifty years, so you’ll have company as you live all by your lonesome the rest of your life. And they talk. I figure anyone who likes to argue as much as you do needed a pet who can argue back. I named her Fergie.” He shrugged. “Because you like hip-hop.”

Speechless, Cia stared at the man she had married, whom she clearly did not know at all, and tried to make some sort of sound.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she managed to say.

“That’s okay.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them deftly halfway up his tanned forearms, then started pulling covered plates out of the stainless steel refrigerator. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Neither was I,” she mumbled. “Doesn’t seem like that matters either way.”

She’d never owned a bird and would have to take a crash course on its recommended care. As she peered into the cage, the feathered creature blinked and peered back with intelligent eyes, unafraid and curious. She fell instantly in love.

The psychology of the gift wasn’t lost on her. Instead of showering her with expensive, useless presents designed to charm her panties off, he’d opted for a well-thought-out gift. An extremely well-thought-out gift designed for … what?

Every time she thought he was done, Lucas Wheeler peeled back another one of his layers, and every time, it freaked her out a little more.

Regardless, she couldn’t lie. “It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten.” And she’d remember forever not that her father hadn’t been there to give her away, but that her fake husband had given her something genuine on their wedding day. “Thanks, Lucas.”

The sentiment stopped him in his tracks, between the stove and the dishwasher, pan dangling, forgotten, from his hand. That indefinable energy crackled through the air as he treated her to a scorching once-over. “Darlin’, you are most welcome.”

“Didn’t you mention wine?” she asked, to change the subject, and slid onto a barstool edging the granite island.

There was a weird vibe going on tonight, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Alcohol probably wouldn’t help.

Lucas retrieved a bottle from the refrigerator. “Sauvignon blanc okay?”

When she nodded, he pulled a corkscrew from a wall hanger, then expertly twisted and wiggled the cork out in one smooth motion. The man did everything with care and attention, and she had a feeling he meant for her to notice. She did. So what?

Yes, his amazing hands would glide over her bare body in a slow seduction and turn her into his sex-starved lover. No question about it.

The real question was why she was envisioning Lucas touching her after simply watching him open wine. Okay. It had nothing to do with wine and everything to do with being in his arms last night. With being kissed and watching him dance like a spastic chicken, draining away all her misery over hurting his mother.

Lucas skirted the barstools and handed her a glass of pale yellow wine. His fingers grazed hers for a shocky second, but it was over so fast, she didn’t have time to jerk away. Good thing, or she would have sloshed her drink.

He picked up his own glass and, with his smoky blue-eyed gaze locked with hers, dinged the rims together. “To partnership,” he said. “May it be a pleasurable union.”

“Successful, you mean. I’ll drink to a successful union.” As soon as the words came out, she realized her mistake. She and Lucas did not view the world through the same lens.

He took his time swallowing a mouthful of wine, and she was so busy watching his throat muscles ripple that when his forefinger tipped up her chin, she almost squealed in surprise. His thumb brushed her lips, catching on the lower one, and her breath stuttered when he tilted his head toward hers.

“Darlin’,” he said, halting way too close. His whiskey-smooth voice flowed over her. “If you find our union as pleasurable as I intend, I’ll consider that a success. Dinner will be ready in forty-five minutes.”

A hot flush stole over her cheeks and flooded the places he’d touched. He went back to cooking.

As she watched him chop and sauté and whatever, she had to instruct her stomach to unknot. He’d been messing around, like always. That’s all. For Lucas, flirting was a reflex so ingrained he probably didn’t realize he was doing it, especially when directing it at his fake wife in whom he had no real interest.

She bristled over his insincerity until Fergie squawked. A fitting distraction from obsessing about the feel of Lucas’s thumb on her mouth. She retrieved her laptop from the bedroom and researched what parrots ate while Lucas finished preparing the people food.

“The guy at the pet store said to feed her papaya. They like fruit,” Lucas said and refilled her wineglass. “There’s one in the refrigerator if you want to cut it up.”

She sighed. He’d even bought a papaya. Did the man ever sleep? “Thanks, I will.”

Silence fell as she chopped alongside her husband, and it wasn’t so bad. She shouldn’t be hard on him because he dripped sexiness and made her ache when he looked at her, as if he knew the taste of her and it was delicious. Might as well be ticked over his blue eyes.

The simple celebratory dinner turned into a lavish poolside spread. Lucas led her outside, where a covered flagstone patio edged the elegant infinity pool and palm trees rustled overhead in the slight breeze. Dust coated the closed grill in the top-of-the-line outdoor kitchen, but the landscaping appeared freshly maintained, absent of weeds and overgrown limbs.

Lucas set the iron bistro table with green Fiestaware and served as she took a seat.

“What kind of chicken is this?” she asked and popped a bite into her mouth. A mix of spices and a hint of lime burst onto her tongue.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I made it up. The kitchen is one of the places where I let my creativity roll.”

Gee. She just bet she could guess the other place where he rolled out the creativity.

“Oh. I see.” She nodded sagely. “Part of your date-night repertoire. Do women take one bite and fall into a swoon?”

“I’ve never made it for anyone else.” His eyes glowed in the dusky light as he stared at her, daring her to draw significance from the statement.

When he stuck a forkful of couscous in his mouth and withdrew it, she pretended like she hadn’t been watching his lips.

This was frighteningly close to a conversation over a good bottle of wine, the idea he’d thrown out as the way to get to know each other. But they still weren’t dating. Perhaps he should be reminded. “Really? What do you normally make when you have a hot date you want to impress?”

He stopped eating. As he sat back in his chair, he cupped his wineglass and dangled it between two fingers, contemplating her with a reckless smile. “I’ve never cooked for anyone, either.”

She dropped her fork. Now he was being ridiculous. “What, exactly, am I supposed to take from that?”

“Well, you could deduce that I cooked you dinner because I wanted to.”

“Why? What’s with the parrot and dinner and this—” she waved at the gas torches flaming in a circle around the patio and pool “—romantic setting? Are you trying to get lucky or something?”

“Depends.” His half-lidded gaze crawled up inside her and speared her tummy. “How close am I?”

Why couldn’t he answer the question instead of talking in his endless, flirty Lucas-circles?

Oh, no.

His interest in her was real. As real as the hunger in his expression after kissing her. As real as the evidence of his arousal while dancing last night. Clues she’d dismissed as … what? She didn’t even know; she’d just ignored them all so she didn’t have to deal with them. Now she did.

Firmly, she said, “We can’t have that kind of relationship.” The kind where she gave him a chunk of her heart and he took it with him when he left. The kind where she’d surrender her hard-won self-reliance, which would happen over her dead body. “We have an agreement.”

“Agreements can be altered.” That dangling wineglass between his fingers raked up her nerves and back down again. He couldn’t even be serious about holding stemware.

“This one can’t. What if I got pregnant?”

Dios. With fingers trembling so hard she could scarcely grip the glass, she drained the remainder of her wine and scouted around for the bottle. There’d be no children in her future. Life was too uncertain to bring another generation into it.

“Well, now that’s just insulting. What about me suggests I might be so careless?”

“Arrogance is your preferred method of birth control?”

They were discussing sex. She and Lucas were talking about having sex. Sitting by the pool, eating dinner and talking about sex with her fake-in-name-only-going-away-soon husband.

“I’m not worried, darlin’. It’s never happened before.”

She stood so fast the backs of her knees screeched the chair backward until it tipped over. “Well, that’s a relief. Please stand back as I become putty in your hands.”

He followed her to his feet without fanfare, no more bothered than if they were discussing what color to paint the bathroom.

In one step, he was an inch away, and then he reached out and placed a fingertip on her temple. Lazily, he slid the fingertip down her face, traced the line of her throat and rested it at the base of her collarbone with a tap. “What’s going on in there? You’re not afraid of getting pregnant.”

“Stop touching me.” She cocked a brow and refused to move away from the inferno roiling between Lucas’s body and hers. He was the one who should back down, not her. Last night, she’d run from this confrontation and look where that had gotten her. “Nothing is going on other than the fact that I’m not attracted to you.”

Liar. The hot press of his fingertips against her skin set off an explosion way down low. But wanting someone and being willing to surrender to the feeling were poles apart.

“I don’t believe you,” he murmured.

He wasn’t backing down. His hands eased through her hair, and unmistakable heat edged into his eye.

“What, you think you’re going to prove something by kissing me?”

“Yep,” he said and dipped his head before she could protest.

For a sixteenth of a second, she considered all possible options, and then his lips covered hers and she went with dissolving into his arms. It was all she could do when Lucas kissed her, his mouth hot and the taste of his tongue sudden and shocking.

His fingers trailed sparklers through her hair and down her spine, molding her against the potent hardness of his body. Clicking them together like nesting spoons, foretelling how sweetly they would fit without clothes.

He angled his head and took her deeper, yanking a long, hard pull from her abdomen. A burst of need uncoiled from a hidden place inside to burn in all the right places. It was real, and it was good. He was good.

So good, she could feel her resistance melting away under the onslaught of his wicked mouth. But she couldn’t give in, and, Dios, it made her want to weep.

If only he’d kept a couple of those layers hidden. If only she had a way to insulate herself from someone like him. The intensity between them frightened her to the bone, because he had the unique ability to burrow under her defenses and take whatever he wanted.

Then he’d leave her empty, and she’d worked too hard to put herself back together after the last disastrous attempt at a relationship.

She broke away, wrenched out of his arms and rasped, “All that proves is you’ve practiced getting women naked.”

His face was implacable and his shoulders rigid beneath the fabric of his slate-gray button-down. He cleared his throat. “Darlin’, why are you fighting this so hard? At first I thought it was because you’ve been around so much misery, but there’s something else going on here.”

“Yeah. Something else, like I don’t want to. Is your ego so inflated you can’t fathom a woman not being interested in you?”

He laughed. “Hon, if that’s how you kiss a guy you’re not interested in, I’ll lick a sardine. Pick a different card.”

How dare he throw her own phrase back in her face.

“This is funny to you? How’s this for a reason? You might very well be the hottest male on the planet, but I am not willing to be your latest conquest, Wheeler.” Her hands clenched into fists and socked against his chest. For emphasis. And maybe to unleash some frustration. He didn’t move an iota.

For who knew what ill-advised reason, he reached out, but then he wisely stopped shy of her face. “Is it so difficult to believe you intrigue me and I simply want to unwrap the rest of you?”

“Yeah. It is.” She crossed her arms to prevent any more unloading of frustration. His chest was as hard as his head. And other places. “You’re feeling deprived. Go find one of the women who text messaged you earlier in the car and scratch your itch with her, because I’m not sleeping with you.”

A smile curved his mouth, but the opposite of humor flashed through his steely gaze. “In case it’s slipped your mind, I’m married. The only person I’ll be sleeping with for the next six months is my wife.”

Panic spurted at the back of her throat. Upon meeting her for the first time, he’d kissed her hand—how had she not considered that his old-fashioned streak didn’t end there?

Of course, he’d also flat-out told her he wouldn’t sleep with another woman while she wore his ring. “Your wife just turned you down flat.”

“For tonight anyway.”

His supreme confidence pricked at her temper. So he thought he could seduce away her resistance?

“For forever. Honestly, I don’t care if you sleep with someone else. It’s not really cheating.”

The sudden image sprang to mind of Lucas twined with another woman, the way he’d been with her on the bed, his mouth open and heated against the tramp’s throat, then kissing her senseless and dipping a clever hand under her clothes.

Her stomach pitched. Ridiculous. She didn’t care what he did. She really didn’t.

“I care,” he said, his silky voice low.

“Why? This isn’t a real marriage. You aren’t in love with me. You barely like me.”

“We’re legally married. That makes it really cheating, whether I’ve had you naked and quivering in my arms or not. Have I made my position clear enough?” Fierceness tightened his mouth and scrunched his eyes and had her faltering.

Anger. It was so foreign, so wrong on Lucas, she didn’t know what to do with it.

“I think so.” She swallowed against a weird catch in her throat. So, maybe he wasn’t quite the horn dog she’d assumed. “Are you clear on my position?”

“Crystal.”

Relieved he wasn’t going to push some macho, possessive sexual agenda on her, she nodded. “Great. I’m glad we talked this out. It’s incredibly important that we handle this fake marriage like rational adults. Now we can go forward as we’ve discussed, as pure business associates, without any additional complications. Agreed?”

Reflected torchlight danced in his eyes, obscuring his true thoughts. He leaned in and motioned her closer.

With his lips almost touching her earlobe, he said succinctly, “Sweetheart, the only thing I plan to do going forward is regroup. And then, my darlin’ Mrs. Wheeler, all bets are off.”

He turned on his heel and left her on the patio. She had the distinct impression he was both mad and plotting how to get even.