Читать книгу The One-Week Marriage - Renee Roszel - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
HIS wife?
It wasn’t as though she’d never had that fantasy.
But for only a week?
It seemed Mr. Parish and Madam Fate had something in common that Izzy would never have anticipated. Both had a genius for diabolical pranks. Suddenly she had the very thing she’d fantasized about for so long—Gabriel Parish as her husband—yet she didn’t really have him at all.
By the time the shock of being dragged onto the plane wore off, Izzy and her boss were thirty thousand feet above the Eastern seaboard, winging south toward Miami. From her window seat, she blinked, coming fully back to reality. She glowered at the man beside her. He was on the phone. His deep chuckle filled the cabin. Izzy saw people turn and smile. His laughter was contagious. People around him caught it like the flu—only with more palatable results.
However, there was nothing palatable going on from where Izzy sat. She had a feeling she was the only person in the half-filled first-class section who wasn’t smiling. As her boss talked business with one of his advertising clients, he happened to catch sight of her frown and winked nonchalantly. As if he thought that would make it all better! How dare he drag her onto a plane, without even a toothbrush, expecting her to spend the week lying for him.
He hung up. “Okay, Peabody,” he said, drawing her glance. “I know you’re not crazy about this.” She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, halting her. “Neither am I, but we can make this work.” He shifted to better see her. “Don’t forget, you’re getting a new wardrobe out of the deal, and I’ll pay double overtime.” His grin was sunny, meant to charm the daylights out of her.
But to Izzy that smile was pure cruelty. He knew no flesh-and-blood woman could withstand it—fiendish, manipulative beast! However, since he didn’t think of Izzy as a woman, she had no plans to quiver and sigh and melt like one. Lifting her chin, she muttered, “It didn’t cross your mind that I believe this ruse is unfair and that I might refuse to have anything to do with it?”
His smile didn’t dim, but somehow became wry. She realized the change was in his eyes, which narrowed slightly. “It crossed my mind.”
“And then flitted right out?”
“Yes.”
She eyed heaven and turned toward the window. Outside the sun shone on fluffy clouds below them, the image of a snow-covered landscape in some arctic wonderland. “You take me for granted, Mr. Parish,” she said. “I don’t like that trait in you.”
“Are you bucking for a raise, Peabody?” Amusement rode his words.
She twisted to scowl at him. “Everything is not about money, sir.”
“Reverse psychology.” He nodded. “Good strategy. What about five percent?”
She gaped, anger welling inside her. “What?”
He chuckled. “Okay, seven.”
With an exasperated moan she lay back and closed her eyes. “I don’t want a raise, Mr. Parish. I simply can’t abide the idea of lying to that nice man.”
“If you like him, you’ll go along with my plan.”
She peered at him from behind her lashes. “Excuse me?”
“He needs me, Peabody.” Mr. Parish leaned closer. Reflexively she fumbled for the controls, pressing her seat back to recline. With her retreat, his grin grew crooked. “There, you see? You’re acting like a wife, already.”
She frowned. “Your attitude about marriage alone should disqualify you!”
“My attitude about marriage shouldn’t come into it.”
“Well I shouldn’t be here, but I am.” She wasn’t sure if her argument held a scrap of logic. With Mr. Parish leaning over her, his face inches above hers, her brain was misfiring. Frantically she pressed her seat button, but nothing happened. She was as far back as she could go.
“Are you telling me life isn’t fair, Peabody, and that we must play the hand we’re dealt?”
She had no idea if that’s what she meant, but decided it sounded good and nodded.
The humor in his expression reminded her of a father tolerating a pampered child. “You don’t think I’m playing the hand I was dealt?”
“Yes, I do,” she retorted. “But they used to shoot cardsharps for playing a hand the way you’re playing yours.”
“You think I’m cheating?”
“Think?” She was amazed he could even ask the question.
“I’m not, Peabody. I can’t.”
“No?” She eyed him with distrust, curious to see how he thought he could weasel out of admitting he was a scoundrel. “I doubt that.”
His grin was cocky and sexy. “You can embezzle from a company and cheat on a spouse, Peabody. There are as many ways to cheat as there are people. But you can’t cheat on inspiration.” He watched her speculatively. “Quality can’t be faked. Married or not, I’ll give old Rufus quality work.” He nudged her, a brief, teasing gesture. “Tell me honestly, do you believe I have any intention of cheating the man?”
She stared at him. How did he do it? Deep down, she knew if he got the Yum-Yum account, he would work a miracle—conceive a campaign that would elevate baby food above the mundane and make the hawking of it an earth-shattering event.
Gabriel Parish was gifted that way. She’d seen it happen too many times to doubt his ability. It was almost scary. Defeat washed over her, and she opened her mouth to admit he was right. He wasn’t cheating, wouldn’t cheat. He was merely playing his hand—his own way. His motto was Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained and this was simply another venture to him. The method be damned.
Yet, in a sudden flash of insight she couldn’t make the admission. Wouldn’t. No matter how pretty the words he used to justify it, he would still be lying about being married, and she would have to join him in his lie. Forcing herself, she met his gaze. She had to be firm. “I won’t do it, Mr. Parish.”
He watched her for a minute, his nearness making her too aware of him. The seconds dragged by.
She glared.
He smiled.
She grew panicky. If she looked into those eyes for another second she would agree to anything he asked. “Would you...” She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “Would you back off, sir?”
One dark eyebrow rose a trifle. He turned away to steeple his fingers before his face. He seemed to fall into deep thought. Izzy wondered about what.
Her boss had a keen, unorthodox mind. At thirty-five, he was called “the young genius of promoting” in New York’s fast-paced advertising world. His career was his family, his passion, his children, his wife and his love. In the three years she’d been part of his breakneck-take-no-prisoners world she’d never complained, never objected. She had a feeling he wouldn’t take her rejection well. She was tampering with his whole existence.
Staring out her window, she heaved a sigh. Quite possibly she wouldn’t have to hand him her resignation letter after all.
Renewed yearning swelled in her breast. If Mr. Parish only knew how badly she wanted to be his wife. His real wife. Someone he loved, someone he could come to for comfort and happiness. But a sham wife? She couldn’t go through with it—being near him, braving false endearments and displays of affection.
The idea was too painful to bear.
She breathed deeply in an effort to remain composed. This was no time for silly tears. After staring out the window for what seemed to be a hundred years, it began to nag her that Mr. Parish continued to say nothing. Her nerves tightened like overwound clock springs, and she felt close to screaming. Why didn’t he just say, “You’re fired!” and get it over and done? She wanted to look at him, gauge his expression, his posture, his demeanor, but she didn’t have the nerve.
After ten more agonizing minutes, she knew if she didn’t do something she would jump up and start screaming. That sort of behavior would only get her sent to a home for the mentally disturbed or a cell in airline prison.
She peeked at her boss. It startled her to see that he’d reclined his seat and appeared to be sleeping. Sleeping? The sight did unruly things to her. His hawk-like features were riveting and seductive, even in repose.
But sleeping? This wasn’t the way she’d expected her driven, aggressive boss to react. She’d expected reasoning, cajoling and endless charm—until she finally surrendered, a trembling, simpering nitwit. It was out of character for him to give up. And he never napped on trips. He always had his briefcase open, working on his pitch. Baffled, she leaned toward him and waved a hand over his eyes.
“Are you trying to get my attention or do you think my face is hot?”
She jerked back, her heart rate skyrocketing in surprise. “I—I thought you were asleep.”
His thick lashes lifted to a sexy half-mast, and he glanced at her. “I was thinking.”
“Something good, I hope.” She bit her tongue. If she’d chosen that reply from a compiled list of The Ten Most Inane Things To Blurt she couldn’t have done worse.
“I was thinking about you.” He didn’t smile, merely observed her. No doubt his observation included the reddening of her face.
She sat, frozen, wishing she had that list of the ten most inane things to blurt, since they had to be better than any response she was coming up with. Apparently her blush was answer enough, because he grinned. “You never knew I thought about you?”
She shook her head.
“I do.” He squeezed her wrist. “I didn’t mean to take your feelings for granted. I’m sorry.”
She tingled where he touched her. Then she began to tingle all over. Very carefully she removed her arm from his fingers. Contact with the man didn’t help her mental processes. She rubbed the place where his hand had been and lifted her chin, preparing to tell him his apology was accepted, that she forgave him for his insensitivity. When she opened her mouth nothing came out except a little squawk. She swallowed.
“Are you angry with me?”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He closed his eyes. “That’s a load off my mind.”
She stared at him so long her eyes began to feel prickly. “What are you going to do about the Yum-Yum account?” She realized with horror she’d asked that question out loud.
He didn’t respond, just lay there, those sinful lashes curling outward across high, handsome cheekbones.
Had he actually fallen asleep this time? She doubted it, but decided he’d speak when it suited him.
After another few moments, she faced the fact that gazing at him was not the most productive way to spend her time—especially if she planned to stick to her guns about not helping him perpetrate the fraud against Mr. Rufus.
Her thoughts drifted to the few times she’d spoken with the venerable gentleman over the phone. He was always so good-natured and—well, sweet was the only word she could think of that fit.
Hugo Rufus’s Yum-Yum Baby Foods had been around since the fifties. He’d been relying on the same advertisements for years. They’d grown stagnant, dated, not changing with the times. Izzy recalled what Mr. Parish had said only a few moments ago. “He needs me.” She’d let his assertion slip by, barely registering. At the time, she’d been too flummoxed by his nearness to think clearly. She chewed the inside of her cheek, recalling his assertion. He needs me.
Izzy wondered if dear Mr. Rufus’s fortunes might be in jeopardy? If his private island was mortgaged to the hilt? She turned worriedly toward the window, seeing nothing of the celestial tableau outside. Was Mr. Rufus’s advertising search a last-ditch effort to save the stodgy company from going under?
Today’s crop of hep-short-attention-span-tell-me-quick-and-loud-or-forget-it Generation-Xer parents needed to get snagged into hearing about Yum-Yum, or the company could die.
She glanced at her boss. He lay there like some sleeping Norse god with really great lips. Her gaze trailed over him, refusing her demands to look out the window.
She’d seen her boss’s preliminary ideas for the Yum-Yum campaign, heard the jingle he would have proposed. Patterned for an MTV generation of young parents, what she’d seen was catchy and eye-grabbing. He’d even managed to talk one of today’s fastest rising rock groups into being featured in the promotion. The concept was outrageous yet darling—every member of the group happened to be the father of a baby under the age of one. The infants would also be featured. From what Izzy knew of the concept, if that ad campaign didn’t sell Yum-Yum Baby Food, nothing on this earth would.
Tom, she glanced at her boss again. If she let herself be totally honest, Gabriel Parish very well could be Yum-Yum’s last chance. What if the company went belly up? Thousands of jobs could be lost. Could she forgive herself if she didn’t help? Even if it required a tiny lie? She winced. Okay, a pretty big lie?
Why did she suddenly have to believe, with pulse-pounding certainty, that Hugo Rufus needed Gabriel Parish—married or not! Little lies, big lies, whatever it took. He needed what Gabriel Parish could give him as urgently as Dawn Day had needed dental help.
With no desire to examine her decision for potential flaws in logic, she placed her hand on her boss’s wrist. Realizing what she’d done, she snatched it away. “I—I’ll do it, sir.”
One corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “I know, Peabody.”
He never even opened his eyes.
Izzy’s idea of shopping for clothes was to go into a discount store where harried employees hardly had time to point out the dressing rooms, let alone turn the purchase of a shorts outfit into a catered affair.
Of course Izzy had never been to Tant Mieux, an exclusive boutique in downtown Miami. Perched awkwardly on a costly Louis XIV chair, she was offered all manner of delectable finger food, as emaciated models breezed by in designer ensembles. Izzy wasn’t surprised to see the models flapping long, fake eyelashes at Mr. Parish, while smiling suggestively with collagen-pumped lips.
Neither was she surprised that the gaunt nymphs treated her as though she were a smudge on the brocade upholstery. Something to wrinkle one’s nose at, then quickly turn away. Clearly her gray, knee-length suit and gum-soled walking shoes were not on the cutting edge of haute couture.
“Yes,” Mr. Parish said, drawing Izzy’s attention. “We’ll take that one, too”
She glanced at the model posing before her boss. The vixen’s expression was so come-hither that Izzy didn’t know whether Mr. Parish had purchased the model or the mauve shorts set with matching platform sandals, feathered beanie and color-coordinated polo mallet.
“I hope out back they’re not dyeing a horse to match that outfit,” she mumbled. For the past two hours she’d sat quietly as her boss made selection after selection. But this purple job was too much! She couldn’t be silent any longer.
Mr. Parish glanced her way, hiking a brow. “You have a problem with it?”
“To which? A mauve horse or the outfit?”
He leaned her way. “With your brown eyes, you’ll look lovely in mauve,” he assured with a grin.
Taken off guard by the mention of her eye color, she murmured, “I—I didn’t know you ever noticed the color of my eyes.”
“I checked in the limo on the way over.” He glanced away, toward the next model swaying toward him.
“You didn’t have to go to all that bother, sir, I could have memoed you on it.” Izzy knew she had no right to feel affronted, but she did. After working for him three whole years, he’d only noticed her eyes because he’d made a point to on the way over!
He glanced at her. “Should I memo you on the color of mine? It’s something my wife should know about me.”
She swallowed several times. She would never be able to forget those eyes, no matter how she might try. “No, sir. I—I’ll catch a look later.”
He faced her fully, and leaned so close that she could have kissed him with hardly more than a pursing of her lips. “No time like the present. What do you see?”
Her body reacted violently to his soft question. She felt herself going hot and cold, and blood pounded in her temples. She fought the urge to tip her head forward just enough—just enough...
Fighting the impulse with all her might, she sank back in the seat, praying she looked more composed than she felt. “Green...I’d say...green.” Her voice sounded breathless and husky. “I’ll jot it down so I won’t forget.” She made herself look at the mauve-clad model, wiggling toward the exit. “On the subject of that last outfit, I don’t want the hat or the shoes—or the mallet.”
“Loosen up, Peabody.” He winked, still much too close for her peace of mind. “You might like it.”
She frowned, fighting the erotic effect of his suggestion. “My idea of loosening up does not include breaking an ankle in those shoes. And I don’t think the birdies gave those feathers voluntarily!” She paused, then added, “I’m rethinking the mallet.”
He chuckled, taking her veiled threat as a joke. “You’re tired.” Turning to the hovering proprietress, he said, “That will be enough. Have everything sent to my hotel this evening.”
Izzy was mortified. Though every item of clothing he’d purchased was hugely expensive, many were more suited for a mistress than a wife. At least not a wife about to meet the conservative Mr. Hugo Rufus.
Izzy knew she didn’t have a chance at winning an argument with her boss, so she decided to use a little trickery of her own. “Uh, Mr. Parish?”
He turned, his expression one of a man satisfied with the business of the day.
“I think I should stay a while. I’m sure a few things will need alterations.”
“Of course.” He stood, checking his watch. “Forgive me, Peabody. They are your clothes, after all. You should feel comfortable in them.”
She gritted her teeth. And I’ll have tons and tons of places to wear them, too! she threw back mentally. I go to so many coronations and White House garden parties!
“I need to get some work done. Take your time. I’ll send the driver back to wait.”
“Thank you.” She hoped her anxiety over what she planned to do didn’t show in her voice.
Once he was gone, she counted to ten, working up her courage to face the shop owner. With hands clasped nervously, she spun around. “I’m going to have to make some changes in Mr. Parish’s selections.”
The proprietress remained poised, with hardly a flicker of an eyelash to show either surprise or dismay. No doubt many husbands preferred to dwell in their own misguided fantasy that their wives adored their taste. Not that Gabriel Parish wasn’t discriminating. But he was a man—a bachelor. And hardly conservative! If they were taking an extended vacation on a yacht with Jack Nicholson and other glittery Hollywood types, the choices would have been appropriate. But not for a visit to conventional, family-oriented Mr Rufus.
“Shall we begin, Miss?” the unruffled shop owner inquired.
Izzy struggled to keep her gaze from wavering in embarrassment. It was evident the woman recognized that Izzy wasn’t Mr. Parish’s wife. No doubt the fact that Izzy called him “Mr. Parish” was a big hint.
This was an awful moment—one of many Izzy knew she’d have to endure now that she’d promised to go through with this farce. She hoped she hadn’t done a very stupid thing—that her foolish desire to be near her boss hadn’t run roughshod over her sensible need to leave him—rationalizing a reason for staying.
Riddled with guilt and self-doubt, she forced a smile. “Let’s start with that purple polo and poultry outfit.”
The flight to Tranquillity Island was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Izzy was exhausted from the long, trying day. She hadn’t finished making wardrobe changes and fittings at Tant Mieux until nearly eight. Seamstresses had stayed late, a clear indication that the bill had been substantial enough for special considerations.
Izzy brought most of the selections back with her, but the things that needed a bit more altering arrived at nine-thirty.
She took a shower before remembering the nightgowns were lost somewhere in the mountain of boxes and sacks piled around her room. The hotel’s white terry robe hanging in her closet caught her eye, saving her from having to dig in all that stuff, wrapped in a bedsheet.
Wearing the robe and matching slippers, she began to towel-dry her hair. A knock at the door brought her head up, then she remembered. Mr. Parish sent a hotel employee out to purchase suitcases for her. No doubt they had arrived. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she peered through the peephole. Unable to see anybody, she cracked the door as far as the security latch would allow. “Hello? Who’s there?”
The knock boomed again, this time from behind her. She spun, startled. The sound came from the door that adjoined her room with Mr. Parish’s.
“Peabody?”
“Yes, sir?” She wondered what he might want her to do at this hour. She wasn’t exactly dressed for dictation.
“I’ve ordered some food. I thought you might be hungry.”
Stunned, she sank against the door. It clicked shut. “Food?”
“Peabody, I can’t hear you. Let me in.”
“Oh—uh...” Accustomed to doing as he bid, she scurried to the door and threw it wide.
He stood there grinning, looking marvelous in beige slacks and a short-sleeved knit shirt, the same bright hue as his eyes. When he scanned her, his grin skewed wryly. “Bad timing?”
At first she didn’t register what he meant. Then she remembered she wore nothing but a robe. With suddenly restless fingers she touched her towel turban. “I—I just.” She motioned loosely toward the bathroom.
“I gathered that.” He indicated a dining table, set with two covered dishes and a big carafe. “Come. Eat while it’s warm.”
She peered down at herself. The big robe swallowed her from her chin to the top of her terry scuffs. She certainly wouldn’t show any skin he hadn’t seen before—and precious little of that. Deciding she could use some food, she stepped into his room.
“It was nice of you to think of me, Mr. Parish.” Usually on business jaunts he had dinner engagements with clients. On most of those occasions she went along, took notes, rummaged through files in his briefcase, whatever he needed to make the meeting go smoothly. After dinner, she went to her room and read herself to sleep. Never had he ordered room service for them to share.
“You’re doing me a favor, Peabody.” He pulled out her chair and she took a seat at the glass-topped table. “The least I can do is feed you.” He smiled, and she hurriedly turned to gaze out the window. His smiles were too disturbing to experience while wearing nothing but a robe.
She noted with some irritation that her lack of proper attire didn’t unsettle him in the slightest. Of course, being a worldly bachelor, seeing half-dressed women was no big event to him.
She concentrated on the view outside the picture window From their room on the twentieth floor, she scanned Miami’s meandering coast, lights adorning the shoreline like a brilliant crown. Farther out, on the dark water, scattered twinkling lights marked oceangoing vessels as they crept across the sleeping sea.
A sound caught her attention and she turned back. Her boss seated himself on the far side of the table—which wasn’t far enough. She crossed her legs, her foot skimming his shin. Her slipper fell off.
“Oh...”
“What?” He glanced up from placing his napkin in his lap.
She shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My slipper—it...”
He looked down. The white scuff was clearly visible beside his brown loafer. “I’ll get it.” He bent, ducking beneath the table.
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pa—”
He took her ankle into his hand, cutting off her breath. As he lifted her foot, her robe skimmed off her knee, revealing a show of leg. She could see all this through the glass. And because it was glass, there was no stopping the light from passing right through. Mr. Parish had a good clear view, too. Izzy cursed the table for not being made of thick oak.
He remained bent there holding her ankle for a fraction of a second longer before slipping the scuff onto her foot. Did Izzy sense a momentary hesitation, or was it merely a hallucination brought on by the woozy feeling his touch generated in her brain? She had to admit, she wasn’t feeling up to her usual, alert self.
He let her go and ducked back out. Brushing a fallen lock of hair off his brow, he grinned. “Cinderella, I’m happy to report the slipper fits.”
She dragged her feet beneath her seat and adjusted her robe over her knees. “Actually it’s a little big.”
He removed the cover from both their meals and gave her a cynical look. “That’s my Peabody. Ever the hard-nosed realist. Not a touch of romance in her soul.”
She stared at her plate, deciding a close inspection of her cheese soufflé was better than giving him the chance to see the pain and longing in her eyes. Her ankle sizzled unmercifully from the caress of his fingers.
Hard-nosed realist, ha! He couldn’t be more wrong. She was without a doubt the biggest, stupidest romantic fool who had ever lost her slipper—and her heart—to a man. If that weren’t so agonizingly true, she would not be on her way to a private island paradise, pretending to be his wife!
His wife.
She had a quick, disturbing revelation. Not until this moment did the true scope of that status hit her. As his wife, she would be expected to spend a certain amount of time alone with him—in a room much like this one.
Panic racing through her, she peered at him. The fact that he was watching her shook her badly, and she could only stare.
An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t look so worried, Peabody.” He reached across the table, his hand closed as though he held something. “You’ll like being Mrs. Parish.” With a sexy wink, he slipped a golden wedding band onto her finger.
