Читать книгу The One-Week Marriage - Renee Roszel - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. PARISH, you really must choose a wife, today.” Izzy Peabody dropped a leather-bound catalog on her boss’s desk. It landed on the polished walnut with a sharp crack. She wasn’t happy about his plan and she didn’t care if he knew it. After all, she was quitting, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she been carrying her resignation letter around in her purse for a month? All she had to do was work up her courage to hand it to him.

“What did you say, Peabody?” Gabriel Parish shouted from the private bathroom in his Manhattan office. He stuck his head out the door and Izzy sucked in an appreciative breath. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she’d seen him in exactly that pose—half shaved and shirtless, his upper torso and broad shoulders displaying delectable muscle—the sight always shook her to her core. Without fear of contradiction, Izzy knew that within the six-foot-three-inch hunk that was Gabriel Parish, any woman would find her fantasy man.

Black tousled hair fell across his forehead as his emerald gaze shifted to fix on her, full of professional curiosity and nothing more. It was agonizing for Izzy to be continually reminded that Mr. Parish didn’t think of her as anything but his faithful right arm—his “Peabody”—not a living, breathing woman who had foolishly fallen in love with her boss.

“I said, you really must take a minute to pick your wife,” she called, grateful she sounded composed.

“My what?” Those breathtaking eyes widened a fraction. She might have smiled at his dubious reaction, if it didn’t make her so miserable. Mr. Parish actually picking out a wife was a ludicrous notion. He had no desire to marry. And why should he, with a continual flow of gorgeous women simpering and wiggling through his life?

Trying to keep on track, she hefted the black catalog. “For the Yum-Yum account. Remember?”

From his quick, disgruntled frown, it was clear that he did. “Oh, right.” Disappearing into his bathroom, he shouted, “In a minute.”

She turned to go.

“Peabody, I forgot a shirt. Would you bring me a fresh one?”

She halted, wincing. That’s all she needed. To be forced into close proximity with the man’s chest. “Right away, Mr. Parish,” she said thinly, pivoting toward the quarters he used for his home away from home. When business—or social—engagements went too late for him to return to his Long Island estate, he slept in his office apartment.

Evidently last night had been one of those late nights. Entering the expensively appointed bedroom, she couldn’t help but notice that his bed was rumpled. She tried not to visualize possible reasons he stayed here last night—or arrived very early—since she knew he hadn’t been entertaining advertising clients. Besides, she reminded herself sternly, it’s none of your business what Mr. Parish does after hours!

Grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, she returned through his office to the bathroom. The door stood ajar, but she knocked, hoping not to have to face him until he was fully clothed. “I have the shirt.”

“Well, bring it in.”

She eyed heaven. What had she done to deserve this? “Yes, sir.”

He patted his face dry with a thick, white towel. Izzy inhaled and was struck broadside with his scent, so stirringly male. She swallowed hard, making herself breathe in shallow sniffs to keep his essence out of her head.

The bathroom was large with white marble on walls, countertops, even the floor. Golden faucets, handles and towel racks gleamed as only real gold could.

On the wall above the sink, a large mirror reflected her and her boss in unrelenting brightness. Unfortunately his image was not compromised in the slightest by light that should have exposed every flaw. The stark brilliance emphasized the firm sensuality of his mouth, the glossy blackness of his hair, those devilishly thick lashes and the gemlike quality of his green eyes. Her glance trailed down. When she discovered where her wanderings had taken her, she focused on his chin, warning herself not to stare at his chest. Her heart could only stand so much.

He flung the towel over a nearby rack, the act setting off a bothersome play of muscle in shoulder and arm. He grasped the shirt she held. She hardly noticed until he gave it a little jerk. “Peabody?” he asked. “Are you with me?”

She blinked and let go. “Why don’t you bring in that catalog? We can go over the candidates now and get it done before my eight o’clock meeting with Baxter Sports Equipment.”

Izzy nodded, her glance fastened on the golden faucet for safety’s sake. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, turning away. She had no more desire to idle in the bathroom with Mr. Parish than she did to watch him nuzzle the neck of some svelte socialite. With a sudden thought, she faced him. “Unless you’d rather do it at lunch when you have more time to—”

“No,” he cut in. “Let’s get my wife firmed up.”

As she headed for his desk she almost smiled at the irony. “I don’t imagine any wife you’d choose would need much firming up,” she mumbled, grabbing the Celestial Companion and Chaperon catalog, containing employee photographs and vital statistics.

Celestial was a highly regarded New York firm, providing purely respectable escorts. Even so, the idea of her employer hiring somebody to pretend to be his wife—for a trip to a private, tropical island—didn’t sound all that pure or respectable. Where Mr. Parish was concerned, not many women who spent time in his company seemed concerned about keeping a relationship with him particularly pure or respectable.

She winced at the visions that barged into her mind. “I have to quit this job!” she muttered.

Upon reentering the bathroom, she was only slightly relieved to see that he’d slid on the shirt. It wasn’t buttoned. With a curt nod, he indicated the marble counter. “Lay it there so I can look while I finish dressing.”

She did so, her jaws clamped tight. Keep your eyes on the pictures, she admonished silently, but her wayward gaze drifted to his reflection—and his chest.

“Nothing interesting there. Turn the page.”

She jumped and did as he commanded, relieved to notice the next time her errant glance traveled to his reflection he was buttoning the shirt.

“Nothing there, either, Peabody.” The mellow sound of her name glanced off the walls and echoed in her brain. Peabody—Peabody—Peabody! His impersonal tone taunted her, and she reaffirmed her vow to hand him her resignation. Soon! Very soon!

At his bidding, she flipped through a number of pages, each containing four photographs of lovely women, personal information printed under each photo. Izzy didn’t know what Mr Parish might be looking for, but if the ones he’d rejected so far were any indication, he was very choosy. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t he a perfectionist in every aspect of his work? Why shouldn’t he be that way even with a wife he would only need for a week?

As she turned another page, her glance caught on her reflection. The harsh lighting was less flattering to her image. She seemed very blah—a blah brown. Her chestnut hair, parted in the middle, was coiled at her nape. Her boxy business suit, a dingy mushroom-colored linen, showed nothing of her figure. Even her eyes were an uninspiring shade of brown. She looked like a common brown wren.

Of course that’s how she’d looked for her three years in Mr. Parish’s employ. The day she walked in to the outer office to apply for the job, and met the matronly executive assistant who was retiring, Izzy realized that Gabriel Parish was looking for a top-notch aide, not a glamour girl.

She’d looked around the crowded reception room, knowing she had hours to wait before her turn to be interviewed. Unobtrusively she’d slipped out to make herself into the image of what she sensed Mr. Parish wanted. When she returned, gone was the makeup, the youthful-chic attire. She’d even knotted her long, flowing curls at her nape. She looked older than her twenty-three years, efficient and drab.

And now, right this minute, the image in the mirror looked both drab and unhappy—not a good combination for her mental health. Izzy was not by nature either restrained or drab. She’d repressed her true self much too long. Though the money was exceptional as executive assistant to the CEO of Gabriel Parish AdVentures, money wasn’t everything. She simply had to get away. Get a life!

“Peabody?”

Her gaze darted to his face. “Uh, yes, sir?” He finished knotting his tie, then indicated a photograph. “That redhead. She looks good.”

Izzy stared at the woman he indicated. She was breathtaking; exotic bone structure, full, pouty lips bowed in a Mona Lisa smile and enough fiery hair to stuff a couch. There was no getting around the fact that Mr. Parish had an eye for feminine beauty. “Sir...” She cleared a quiver from her throat. “Maybe you should pick out two or three, in case she’s not available.”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she glanced at him, startled to see a knowing smile on his lips. Her heart flip-flopped at the sight. The man had a real talent for grinning. But what was the grin all about? “Did I say something funny?” she asked, sounding foolishly breathless.

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, and Izzy realized he was laughing at her naiveté. For her to even be concerned about the woman’s availability was laughable. “Take care of it, Peabody.” Clapping her on the shoulder in a comradely gesture, he strode out of the bathroom. “When the Baxter people get here, send them to the conference room, then buzz me.”

Gulping down several breaths, Izzy got her heart rate under control. “Yes...sir.” She touched the place on her shoulder where his hand had so recently been. Her boss never doubted for an instant that the stunning redhead would accept his deal.

He was right, of course. He would pay her more for one week’s work, pretending to be his wife, than she’d make in a month of dinner and theater dates. Not to mention the wardrobe he planned to purchase for her stay on the island. And last but far from least, he was handsome as sin and a millionaire to boot There wasn’t a woman pictured in the catalog who would refuse his offer. They’d probably agree to go for free.

Realizing she was still massaging the place he’d touched, she dropped her hand, irritated with herself for her stupid preoccupation. Clasping the open volume to her chest, she marched out of the bathroom aiming for the double-doored exit from her boss’s high-rise office.

“Oh, and Peabody?” Reflexively she turned as he came out of his apartment, shrugging on a suit coat. With her efficient-executive-assistant facade in place, she gave him an expectant look. “Yes, sir?”

“Try to get that disapproving-maiden-aunt expression off your face.”

Heat rose up her cheeks. She’d thought he was oblivious to everything about her except the part that ran his office. Especially her face.

She swallowed with difficulty as he settled into the leather chair behind his desk. A dark brow arched as he continued to eye her. “There’s no reason I should be married because a potential client is so eccentric he demands that even the head of his advertising agency be family oriented. That’s pure foolishness!”

He lifted a golden pen, shifting toward a stack of papers on his desk. “I can create an excellent advertising campaign as well single as I could married. As a matter of fact, I can do a better job unmarried—considering how much trouble women are.” He paused to write a word or two then glanced her way. “Right, Peabody?”

Her chin went up at his unintended slap. He didn’t think of her as a woman. She prayed he would assume her physical reaction to the slight was a half nod of agreement, rather than pain.

Didn’t she know better than anyone—except Mr. Parish, himself—that women on the receiving end of his charm and good manners quickly became jealous and possessive, choosing to believe his attention meant more than it did. Izzy had witnessed too many dreadful scenes right there in the office between females he dated. No wonder he thought women were trouble. To him, they were.

This was exactly why he opted to hire a fake wife rather than give any current lady-love hope that his affections were stronger than they were—or ever would be.

“Well, Peabody?” he asked, breaking through her thoughts. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Yes, I do have something to say, Mr. Parish! she cried mentally. It’s too hard to be close to you day after day—watching you smile that kiss-me-if-you-dare smile, hearing that smoky voice, inhaling that scent that makes me weak, every second knowing you can’t see me as any more human than your cellular phone or your fax machine! I quit! I’m leaving—to—day! Right now! Goodbye and good riddance Mr. Women-Are-Trouble!

She ground her teeth, wishing she could blurt all that out, throw her resignation letter in his face and stalk out of his life. But gazing into his eyes she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And that made her furious with herself. Coward! Sniveling, cringing, lovesick coward!

Straightening her shoulders, she eyed him with as much nerve as she could marshal. She didn’t like the deception he was planning. Just because Mr. Rufus, the elderly founder of the Yum-Yum Baby Food company, chose to live a reclusive life on his own private island, and would never suspect the lie, was no reason to do this shameful thing.

She eyed her boss narrowly. “Would you like me to rent you a couple of kids, too?” she quipped, trusting her sarcasm said it all.

He watched her for a second without any noticeable reaction to her wisecrack. “No,” he said after a heartbeat. “A wife will do.” Turning away, he went back to poring over the papers on his desk. “That will be all, Peabody.”

Dismissed, she wheeled around to escape. Her flight across the plush, jade carpet created no sound; her sensible pumps hardly made an impression. The irony galled. Even his carpet hardly registered her presence. As for Mr. Parish, he thought so little of her it didn’t occur to him that she even had the capacity to crack a joke.

Of course, neither did his cell phone or his fax machine.

Thirteen days after Mr. Parish chose the beautiful redhead, Miss Dawn Day, to be his fake wife, it was time to put the fraud into action.

Sunday morning, May 3, Izzy and her boss stood in La Guardia’s TransGlobal First Class lounge. Any other time the room would have had a relaxing influence, decorated in earth tones, leather and luxuriant green plants. But today, it was obvious that Mr. Parish saw none of it.

“She’s late.” He scowled at his watch. “Did you send James with the limo?”

“Yes, sir.” Izzy closed her notebook, hoping he was through giving orders for the coming week. “I’m sure they’ll be along any second.” She started to put her notebook inside her shoulder bag, then hesitated, glancing at him. “Any other instructions, sir?”

He regarded her with a disgruntled frown. “Did you say something, Peabody?”

“I said, will there be any other instructions?”

“Oh.” His jaw worked. “No.” He shifted to check the door of the lounge. Almost unforgivably, it remained closed.

Izzy opened her purse and deposited her notebook inside. Her hand brushed her resignation letter and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. For the millionth time since she’d written the thing she was racked with indecision. Her fingers curled around the envelope. Now would be a good time to give it to him, her logical side urged. He’d have a week away from you to get accustomed to the idea. He probably wouldn’t even be cross when he returned.

“What about her ticket?”

Izzy jumped, yanking her hand from her purse as though it held a poisonous snake. “Um, uh, I sent it by messenger. She got it. I called and checked.”

Gabriel Parish scowled and Izzy was captured by the picture he made standing there before the large window. He glanced down. Morning sun glinted off the tips of his long eyelashes, then flashed off the gold of his Rolex as he snapped up his wrist.

In an expensive ebony suit and bold black-and-white striped tie, he exuded self-confident masculinity—a sight that would make any female heart flutter. The furtive peeks of other women in the lounge went unnoticed by her boss, heedless of everything except his immediate concerns. But they were glaringly apparent to Izzy. Masking a dejected sigh, she snapped her purse shut. Once again, she couldn’t bring herself to hand him her resignation letter. Not today.

Movement at the lounge entrance brought Izzy’s gaze around to see an incredibly lovely woman burst through the door. Her long, trim legs ate up the distance, even encumbered as she was by impossibly high ankle-strap stilettos. Her chic yellow suit-dress set off her figure and flowing red hair to extraordinary advantage. Izzy’s heart sank to some deep pit as her boss’s hired wife neared, smiling, her gaze riveted on Mr. Parish. If ever there had been a perfectly matched duo in the world, Dawn Day and Gabriel Parish were that duo. It would be easy to believe they were a couple—both tall, intimidatingly perfect—icons for their gender.

“She’s here,” Izzy said, appalled at the dejection in her tone.

“Ah, good.”

The sound of Mr. Parish’s voice drew her gaze to his face. His troubled frown gone, he smiled at the woman. Behind the new arrival trailed James, Mr. Parish’s driver. A tiny frown rode his sandy brows, no doubt due to worry that he might be in trouble for getting Miss Day there so late.

The redhead held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Mr. Parish? I’m Dawn Day.” Her voice was soft and low, every bit as alluring as her face and figure.

Reaching deep inside herself for the willpower to keep her expression composed, Izzy studied her from a few steps behind her boss.

“I’m sorry about the delay. I had a slight problem, but it’s nothing to concern you.” She placed a hand on her cheek, then seemed to realize what she’d done and dropped it. Izzy thought the jerky move odd and looked closer at the woman’s face.

Mr. Parish took her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dawn.” His smile was so dazzling it could have made angels cry. Obviously he was pleased with what he saw. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Dawn smiled again, then winced slightly. Her hand fluttered to her cheek, then darted away.

“Is anything wrong?” Izzy asked, moving to get a closer look.

Dawn’s big, blue eyes found Izzy and her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Why...no. What could be wrong?” The faintest edge of trepidation in her voice heightened Izzy’s concerns.

Dawn shifted her gaze to Mr. Parish. “I have my boarding pass.” She held it up. “So all is well.”

He lifted it from her fingers, slipping it into his pocket with his own. “It should just be a few minutes.” Taking her arm, he added, “Why don’t we sit?”

As Mr. Parish led his striking companion toward a seating area that looked more like a man’s cushy den than a waiting room, Izzy noticed what appeared to be a slight puffiness along the redhead’s otherwise perfect jawline. Once again the woman tentatively touched the place. Izzy had the impression Mr. Parish’s fake wife might be in some pain.

James touched Izzy’s shoulder. “When do I pick them up again?”

She didn’t look his way, but continued to survey Dawn’s profile. “A week from today. Five o’clock in the afternoon ”

“Should I leave now?”

“Wait until they take off.” She glanced at the driver. He was young, nice-looking, new at his job and trying hard. “Once, last year, the plane was taxiing down the runway when something went wrong with the engine and the flight had to be postponed. Mr. Parish doesn’t like to dawdle at airports when he can go work at his office for a few hours. So, never leave until the plane disappears into the distance.”

James nodded, looking solemn.

She smiled at him, feeling for the young man. Their employer could be intimidating. Touching James’s hand in a friendly gesture, she added, “If you have questions, ask me.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she was sorry. Ask me? How could you have said such a thing, dummy? she admonished inwardly. Remember, you’re quitting!

The chauffeur’s frown evaporated and he looked almost at ease. She supposed her tiny fib was worth it if she reduced James’s stress level. He was a wiry, high-strung man, taking everything too seriously.

“I don’t think that lady feels good,” James whispered.

Izzy had gone back to studying Dawn’s face, so the chauffeur’s remark snagged her attention. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“She kept touching her face and popping aspirin. She spotted me watching her in the rearview mirror and almost snapped my head off. Told me to mind my business and drive.”

“Oh, dear.” Izzy was beginning to have a bad feeling. The three summers she worked in her father’s dentist office hadn’t been wasted. Izzy had seen a lot of dental problems walk in the office door. Dawn Day might be an icon of female beauty, but if Izzy didn’t miss her guess, behind those ravishing lips lurked trouble. “If she has what I think she has, she’s going to need medical attention,” Izzy murmured, more to herself than to James.

“If you want my opinion, I think she’d rather die than give up this trip.”

Izzy glanced thoughtfully at the chauffeur. She wouldn’t blame Miss Day if she’d crawled to the airport on broken arms and legs. Mr. Parish was making it worth any woman’s while to take this jaunt. Not to mention the added bonus that he would be there. Nevertheless, if the woman had an abscessed tooth, as Izzy suspected, she couldn’t go. Abscesses usually made themselves known at an earlier stage than Miss Day’s. Though, a few people never realized they had a problem until the swelling began. They might think it was nothing—just a little ache that would pass—but in a few hours the pain would be excruciating. Miss Day needed a root canal—today! Or by tomorrow morning she wouldn’t be able to endure the agony, no matter how spectacular the perks.

Mr. Parish’s deep laugh rang out, drawing Izzy’s gaze. The woman’s throaty giggle was almost too far away to detect. But as Izzy watched, the redhead’s fingers moved tentatively across her jaw. It was clear her self-prescribed aspirin treatment was doing little good.

Fine, she thought dourly. This is just fine! It was too late to hire anybody else from the agency, still Izzy had no choice. She had to confront the woman. If she allowed her to go, she would never forgive herself.

She looked grimly at James. “I have to do something. The poor thing has no idea what she’s in for.”

He shrugged. “I don’t envy you, ma’am. She’s not as sweet as she looks. Be careful she doesn’t scratch out your eyes for your trouble.”

Izzy surveyed the chauffeur narrowly, battling to hold on to a resolve that was trying to scurry into hiding. “Thanks,” she quipped wryly. “You’re a huge help.”

Squaring her shoulders, she headed toward her boss and his pretty companion. To keep up her nerve, she told herself this was right. Fate had taken a hand to keep her boss from perpetrating this fraud. Miss Day’s abscessed tooth might seem like a calamity now, but it was for the better. Really!

Still, how was she going to get Miss Day to admit she was in pain? The redhead had already denied she had any troubles at all.

An idea flashed into Izzy’s brain and she walked around between the big leather chairs in which Mr. Parish and Miss Day were seated. “May I get you anything?” she asked, then pretended to be caught by the sight of something unsightly on the redhead’s face. “Oh—there’s a smudge...” She drew a clean handkerchief from her purse and skimmed it across Miss Day’s puffy jaw. “There—”

A shriek split the air as Dawn lurched from the chair. Stumbling away, her hand went to her jaw. “Why—why you witch!” she screamed, her blue eyes filling with tears. “That hurt!”

Mr. Parish abruptly stood, his confused gaze going from his hysterical companion to Izzy. “What the hell?”

Dawn moaned, tears spilling from her eyes. “Oh—it hurts! That witch did it on purpose!”

“Did you pinch her, Peabody?”

“No, sir.” Sick at heart, Izzy watched as the redhead crumpled back into her chair. Reduced to a miserable heap, Miss Day covered the lower half of her face with both hands, moaning and rocking back and forth.

Izzy placed a solicitous hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. But you must get that tooth looked at right away.”

The redhead glared at Izzy, her eyes glittery and wild. “I’m fine, I tell you! Mind your own business.”

“You’re ill?” Mr. Parish sat down in the chair next to Dawn, his expression worried.

“I’m afraid she has an abscessed tooth, sir,” Izzy said quietly.

“That’s not true! You’re a liar!” Dawn cried, then moaned at the pain her yelling caused. She slumped back, her face ashen.

“We’re ready to board, Mr. Parish.”

Izzy’s gaze shot to the newcomer. An attractive flight attendant stood nearby, her features closed in concern.

“May I be of help?” she asked.

Mr. Parish stood. Frowning, he shook his head. “We can manage.” He motioned to James. When the chauffeur scurried up, his boss indicated Miss Day. “Drive her to my dentist. His private number is programmed into the car phone.”

“But it’s Sunday, sir,” James said.

“He’s a close friend. He’ll see her.” Solemnly he offered the redhead his hand. “I’m disappointed, Dawn. But I can’t allow you to make the trip in your condition.”

Slouched dejectedly in the big chair, she looked at him, her eyes awash with pleading and suffering. “I—I need this job.”

Izzy watched her boss’s jaw harden, a clear indication that he was as disturbed as she. He bent to take her fingers in his. “I’ll compensate you for your trouble, Miss Day. Now see about that tooth.”

When Mr. Parish helped her to her feet, he handed her over to James and sent them on their way.

The first-class passengers began boarding. Izzy stared at her boss, watching him watch his counterfeit wife disappear—along with his chance at the Yum-Yum Baby Food account. So tall and grim, he was a striking vision, even in defeat.

Although Izzy had been against this ploy from the beginning, she felt a twinge of sadness. Her boss had gone to incredible lengths to get the account. Seeing his chance walk out the door along with Miss Day had to be excruciating. “I—I’m sure you’ll realize that—in the long run—this is best, sir.”

He shifted to glower at her. He was furious. Gabriel Parish wasn’t a man who took kindly to losing. He lived for the stimulation of the quest and reveled in conquest. The money he made was a mere by-product. Mr. Parish had to be suffering the tortures of the damned, seeing this challenge slip through his fingers.

A part of her rejoiced that her boss would not be traveling to an idyllic tropical island with Dawn Day, and she felt a pinch of guilt. Well, fate had spoken. It was time to move on.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself to meet his angry gaze. “I’ll see about getting your bags off the plane, sir, but I’m not sure if—”

“No.” He grasped her elbow. “Peabody, you are going to be my wife for a week.”