Marriage by Mistake

by Kress, Alyssa

  Fortunately, that didn't stop Troy. He moved his entire hands over her breasts, massaging, testing, squeezing. It was heavenly. Felicia had to wrench her mouth from his and throw her head back.

  Thank God he didn't stop. She could hear him breathing heavily as his head lowered to her breastbone. She felt his lips there, hot and wanting. His fingers squeezed her nipples.

  Felicia groaned deeply. This was beyond anything. Who knew? Surely nobody could have convinced her before tonight that such activity could be so marvelous.

  "Oh! I say!" A deep male voice suddenly intruded on the delightful scene. Felicia felt as if she were being jerked awake from a deep sleep. Both she and Troy froze. "Do excuse us," said the voice, but sounding annoyed, as if the opposite were the case. One of the older club members, apparently, and not amused.

  Felicia could hear feet moving, clothes rustling. The intruder had stalking off. Meanwhile, Troy pressed his forehead against her collarbone. His hands stilled on her breasts. "Okay," she heard him murmur. "Okay, okay."

  Fighting a physical pain that was almost equal to the pleasure that had come before, Felicia drew her hands from his hair.

  Slowly, he lifted his head. Slowly, he let go of her breasts. He let go of all of her, and straightened.

  "Ho, boy," he breathed, and looked down at her.

  Felicia self-consciously straightened her silk bodice. Her gaze flitted up at him, then down.

  "That really didn't work," Troy muttered.

  Felicia simply nodded. There was no point belaboring the obvious. Why, she'd nearly let the man have his way with her — on the public terrace! She, Felicia, who'd always thought she was frigid.

  It appeared she was nothing of the sort.

  At least...not with Troy.

  Felicia frowned. There it was again, the grand contradiction, that this should be happening with Troy, the most irresponsible, least safe man she knew. Her whole life had been spent trying to avoid involvement with a man like her father, the kind of man who'd desert his wife and family in everything but name — and here she was throwing herself straight into the arms of just such an individual.

  Meanwhile Troy was looking as grim as Felicia felt and shaking his head. "We really have to avoid doing that again."

  Felicia cleared her throat. "Agreed."

  "So, at the risk of acting responsible for once in my life, I have a suggestion." Troy pulled down his shirt. "We don't have anything to do with each other. No conversation beyond 'hello' and 'goodbye.' And we absolutely never, ever, be alone together."

  Felicia drew in a deep breath. "Agreed." Of course she agreed!

  "Because," Troy went on, getting puritanical, "there is no way we could have any kind of a thing going between us."

  "A — a relationship?" Felicia's eyes widened. "Definitely not."

  "Right." Troy's gaze flicked away and he pulled down on his shirt again. "It would never work."

  "We're far too different."

  "You are a goody-good."

  "And you're unreliable."

  Troy's gaze shot toward her, then flew away again. "Right. So. Ahem. I'm going to go inside now. And you...you just take your time out here, giving me enough time to, uh, clear out. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  He turned to go then, but not before shooting her one last look, a look that belied everything he'd just said, a look that told Felicia he'd be ever so glad to kiss her again, and more, if she were so unwise as to let him.

  And she, crazy woman, came very close to doing just that as if — as if she had no sense of self-preservation. As if she hadn't just found out, both tonight and on the sidewalk outside the restaurant in Boston, that she had the capacity to play the fool for this man.

  She could easily make the same mistake with him that her mother had made with her father.

  So Felicia managed to stand her ground as Troy walked away. She didn't move as he went through the lounge doors. She stood outside for a good long while, making extra sure that Troy would, indeed, have time to clear completely from the Club's grounds before she dared go back inside the lounge, herself.

  Her heart pounded painfully all the while. Close. That had been so awfully close.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The morning following their moonlit walk, Kelly stood and watched from her bedroom window as Dean drove off. He'd left early, before anyone could conceivably have come down to breakfast, before Kelly could conceivably have gone down to use the gym. And it was a Sunday, no less.

  In the dawn light, Kelly leaned against the window frame and rubbed her thumb against her lips as, through the paned glass of her bedroom window, she watched his Lexus disappear down the drive. But was he running? Oh, it was too hard to believe that after last night and their nice walk, he would start playing that game again.

  Kelly shrugged and stepped away from the window. She decided to hang cool, wait and see.

  Mid-morning, Maggie came into the gym with a telephone. "For you," she told Kelly.

  Kelly stepped off the treadmill. It could be her chorus line friend, Valerie, on the phone, with the latest gossip, or her boss, Rudy, with yet another complaint about her replacement. So Kelly calmed the leap in her heart as she reached for the telephone. "Yes?" she asked, casual.

  Dean's voice on the other end sounded husky. "Would you like to have lunch?" He paused. "A real lunch, that is."

  Kelly's heart took another leap, but she forced her voice to remain casual. "Why, I'd love to."

  "Jackson will drive you into town." Dean made this clear. "He'll deliver you to the restaurant, say, around noon?"

  Kelly cleared her throat. "Noon will be fine."

  "I'll see you then."

  Kelly hung up the phone and handed it to Maggie. She waited for the housekeeper to leave and close the door behind her before throwing her arms into the air and dancing a jig. Those good vibrations hadn't steered her wrong.

  Dean had just asked her out.

  ###

  They had lunch. Kelly was delivered by Jackson to a posh little café on Beacon Hill, a small place with heavy-duty prices. Dean was waiting for her. He pulled out Kelly's seat for her. She got the first glass of wine. Their eyes met, fell away, met again. After clearing her throat, Kelly asked how his day was going. After clearing his throat, Dean wanted to know if she'd had much traffic coming into town. They both made some kind of an answer and afterwards simply sat at their chic little table and looked at each other.

  Kelly was delighted. The nerves meant they each cared about the impression they were making. This was like the start of a real relationship. Dean didn't seem too sure about the situation, true, but things were definitely moving in the right direction.

  She sat back and sipped her wine, enjoying herself immensely. Dean, on the other hand, was not nearly so serene. He kept frowning and looking down, as if afraid of holding Kelly's gaze for too long. But that was okay, Kelly thought. It was part of the whole beginning-of-things package.

  In time, their lunches came, were suitably gourmet, and were consumed. Dean paid, then rose to pull out Kelly's chair.

  As she stood, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Do you have to go right back to work?"

  He went very still. "No."

  "Good." Kelly smiled. "I know just what I want to do with you."

  ###

  She made him ride a swan boat. In all the years Dean had spent in the Boston area, growing up, going to college, and building his business, he'd never ridden one of the swan boats in the public garden.

  Kelly said it was a scandal. She made him purchase two tickets and they had to stand in line with the families on vacation and the European tourists. Dean felt silly. He'd imagined she was going to take him to the Parker House.

  Not that he should be making love to the woman. On the contrary, he'd asked her to lunch in order to call the whole farce to an end. He'd intended to explain to her, calmly, logically, over a bowl of lobster bisque, that the idea of any kind of real relationship between them was ri
diculous. Especially if Kelly was imagining hearts and flowers. Dean didn't do hearts and flowers.

  But watching her over the peach linen tablecloth, Dean had been unable to find the right words. She'd looked so happy, so contented, sitting there in her off-the-rack sundress, drinking the expensive wine that he'd ordered out of guilt.

  And now, well, he should have been putting Kelly into a cab for a handkerchief-sopped ride home. Instead Dean was picking his way over the rickety floorboards of a flatboat along with a dozen other chumps, about to get transported around the pond by yet another chump, who pedaled from a seat that looked like a swan. Dean's grumbles faded, however, when he saw Kelly settle onto her portion of the bench seat with an amazingly happy smile on her face. He sank down next to her and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  He cared about making her happy. Lord, he shouldn't. It was a damned trap. He'd never be able to. Nor would she be able to make him happy, in the long run. They simply had nothing solid to build on. He'd witnessed the way these things played out through his father. Over and over he'd seen passions flare, burn bright, and then crumble into charcoal. It was inevitable, a law of nature.

  Oh, it was a mess. He had to explain things to her, make her see. This wasn't real.

  The water of the pond gurgled against the sides of the boat as it slipped between the lily pads. A breeze brought the scent of newly mown grass. Dean knew he shouldn't delay his talk any longer. He drew in a breath.

  "Oh, look at the ducklings!" Kelly pointed toward a line of the scruffy things, paddling madly to keep up with their mother. "Aren't they adorable?"

  Dean glared at her. Couldn't she be unlikable, for at least half a minute?

  Unmindful of his problem, Kelly was beaming at the ducks while her hands blindly opened her purse. "I think I have some saltines in here. Oh, look for me, will you?" She thrust the sequined purple purse at Dean. "Hello, sweeties. Oh, don't swim away!"

  Dean automatically clutched the purse. Because he didn't know what else to do, he peered in. He fingered aside a metal tube of lipstick and an extra-thin gold pen. His search halted on a Winnie-the-Pooh key chain. He swallowed. "No saltines," he told Kelly.

  "Oh, darn. Probably for the best." She sighed and accepted her purse back, all the while peering after the ducklings. "I suppose crackers aren't a part of their natural diet."

  "No, I wouldn't think so." Dean watched Kelly watching the ducklings. The woman had a Winnie-the-Pooh key chain in her purse. How on earth was he supposed to explain the hard facts of life to a person like this? Not to mention the way his heart was twisting at the mere sight of her, going ga-ga over some ducklings.

  Of course it was this moment Kelly chose to turn and look at him. Her eyes were bright, her smile wide. Dean felt as if two hands reached inside his chest and wrung his already twisting heart.

  He wasn't going to do it. Something inside him, some relic, long-repressed, rose in rebellion and prevented speech. The normal part of him knew what he had to do, knew what was proper and responsible. But this older, wilder part of him didn't care.

  Kelly tilted her head. A querying look came into her eyes. She put a hand on his arm. "Did you want to say something?"

  He certainly ought to say something. He ought to say that a relationship between them would never work. He ought to say they had to stop kidding themselves here.

  But, dammit, he wasn't going to.

  I like you. Kelly had told him that yesterday. The words echoed through him like precious jewels. Dean wasn't ready to expose them for what they really were, an outer shell, no more. He wanted to keep them, just a little longer.

  For one more day.

  Dean stared at Kelly while the tension that had been riding him since the previous evening mysteriously relaxed. He felt a slow smile crawl over his face. One day. It was the perfect way to combine his desire with his responsibility. He wouldn't give those marvelous words back — yet. He could do that — tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he'd go back to the sober, pragmatic fellow who knew better. Tomorrow he'd deal with everything.

  But today?

  Well, today...wouldn't count.

  "Dean?" Kelly asked. "What is it?"

  Dean's smile grew. Instead of telling her how these matters really worked, instead of warning her not to get too attached, he let the sun warm his face, he heard the pleasant lap of water against the boat. He luxuriated in the sensation of Kelly's little hand on his sleeve.

  "Yes, I want to say something." He heard a laugh in his voice. "I want to say I'm having fun."

  For today, a small inner voice reminded him. Dean ignored it. He knew what he had to do tomorrow. But for now...? Feeling reckless, feeling almost giddy, he touched Kelly's cheek. "Today," he said, "I'm going to have fun."

  Kelly smiled. Dean laughed. Swiveling at the sound, mama duck headed her brood quickly back toward the shelter of the lily pads.

  ###

  Kelly had hoped the quiet ride on the swan boat would relax Dean. She wasn't prepared for the transformation, however, once they got off. He didn't reach into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. He didn't look at his watch. Instead he rearranged his palm around her hand to get a better grip and smiled.

  "So," he asked, looking down at her. "What's next?"

  Kelly's lips parted. He wasn't going to run back to his office? He wasn't going to plead some kind of business emergency to sort through his emotions? She closed her mouth and cleared her throat. "Um, well..." An afternoon at the Parker House occurred to her, but she knew they weren't ready for sex. Dean had turned some sort of corner, to be sure, but it wasn't yet love.

  If it was love, he would have said so.

  He wore a big grin, however, an appealing one, as he turned to face her. Still holding Kelly's hand, he began to back up the path. "Have you toured downtown Boston yet?"

  "Have I toured?" Other than the walk between his office and the Parker House, that was? "No."

  "Good." Dean's smile broadened. "Then I can show you the sights."

  "Oh." Kelly couldn't help staring. He really had turned a corner. He seemed happy, eager...relaxed.

  Dean turned to face forward again. He pulled her along. "The Freedom Trail. That should be sufficiently hoke — er — " He broke off and his face turned red.

  "Hokey?" Kelly guessed, and tilted him a look.

  To her surprise, Dean laughed. An outright, unconsidered laugh. "All right, hokey," he admitted. "But I think you'll enjoy it."

  "Because it's hokey."

  Dean threw her sidelong glance. "If the shoe fits..."

  "Then I ought to wear it?" Kelly laughed, too. Then they shared a look, smiling, connected. Kelly felt a hiccup of pleasure. Well, this was...unexpected, a truly different side to Dean, joking and spontaneous.

  She found herself stepping closer, hooking her arm with his. Okay, maybe she should question this new side of Dean, maybe she should wonder what was really going on. Maybe she should, but she wasn't going to. Heck, why ruin a perfectly good moment?

  For one day, she could just enjoy whatever was.

  ###

  It was the closest Kelly had seen Dean come to the Dean she'd first met in Las Vegas. He looked happy, he had a sense of fun, he laughed.

  They started out on the Freedom Trail, the red-brick line that wound through downtown. After two churches and a cemetery, however, they decided to abandon the formal, tourist path.

  "Maybe I didn't have you pegged so well, after all," Dean said, coming up behind Kelly where she roamed, frowning, amidst three-hundred-year-old headstones.

  She looked up at once, alert and concerned. But he seemed to be taking his miscalculation in stride.

  "Let's try the Haymarket," he said, and took her arm. Adaptable, unruffled. And casually taking possession of her as if — well, as if they belonged together.

  That felt awfully good. "Let's," Kelly agreed, and held onto him.

  Arm-in-arm then, they strolled through the Haymarket. Buyers and sellers argued over the price of vegetables,
and fish lay in gleaming silver piles. Dean steered Kelly around spilled vegetables and the odd fish head.

  "Two hundred years of rats have been cleaning up here after hours," he told Kelly. "Speaking as an expert in the field, I can tell you by now it's built into their genetic code."

  She laughed.

  From Haymarket they ducked into the relative sanity of Faneuil Hall, where carts lined up under glass awnings sold everything from Red Sox banners to hand-carved sculptures. Dean waited patiently while Kelly debated between buying a straw scarecrow or a wooden chess set for Robby. Not once did he evince a desire to be out of her presence or doing something else. Not once did he check his telephone or his watch.

  As Kelly paid for the chess set, she felt a deep contentment. She didn't know what had prompted this about-face behavior on Dean's part, but she did know she liked it. This was good for him.

  And it wasn't so bad for her, either.

  She felt wanted, she felt appreciated. She felt like she was getting to know a man who might actually come to care for her.

  She turned, wrapped bag in hand, to find Dean watching her with an arrested expression. "What?" she asked. Lord, she hoped the castles she'd been building in the air weren't showing on her face.

  To her relief, Dean shook a smile back on. "Nothing." He lowered his head closer to hers. "I'm just enjoying myself."

  Kelly met his eyes. "You're enjoying yourself." She dared to add, "for a change."

  Dean's smile went crooked. "For a change." He straightened and took the bag from her hand. "Are you hungry?"

  "I'm ashamed to admit it, after that fancy lunch..."

  "Gourmet food is notoriously unsatisfying. Come on. I'll take you to a place where they know how to fill you up."

  ###

  A neon sign in an upstairs window of the North End building announced this was 'Josefina's.'

  Dean led Kelly through a street-level door and up a narrow staircase. Wonderful smells drifted down to meet them, garlic and tomato and basil. At the top of the staircase stood a large woman in a white apron. Her eyes widened when she saw Dean.