The Marrying Man

by Barbara Bretton

  He was no more than two feet away from her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, catch the faint scent of soap on his skin. She wanted to hate him but the emotions blossoming inside her chest were something very different. Something exciting and scary and wonderful. He was pig-headed and exasperating but she liked the way the house felt with him in it. As if she'd been waiting a long time for him to come along and complete the circle.

  "There's a Holiday Inn not far from the airport in Hartford," she said. "I'll draw you a roadmap."

  "Afraid of something, Zaslow?"

  "Maybe you should be afraid, McKendrick. I'm the one who kills people for a living."

  "Good place to do it. You could hide a score of corpses in this place and no one would ever find them."

  "So why do you want to stay here?"

  "Call me crazy," he said. "You don't have to like me, Zaslow, you just have to listen to me."

  The truth is I more than like you, cowboy, and it's scaring the daylights out of me.

  ***

  She had one of those incredibly mobile faces that mirrored every thought, every conflicting emotion.

  "All right," she said after a long moment. "You can stay in the guest room."

  "You have a guest room?"

  "Of course I have a guest room."

  "You didn't mention it before."

  A smile tilted the corners of her mouth. "I wasn't going to let you stay in it before."

  "So what changed your mind?" She was a mystery to him, a beautiful, chaotic mystery, and suddenly he needed to understand what made her tick.

  "I don't know," she said, then laughed softly. "A hunch, maybe. Maybe I just felt sor--" She stopped. "Why don't you get your stuff out of the car while I find some clean sheets."

  Minutes later he climbed the stairs to the second floor. His duffel was tossed over his shoulder and he lugged a briefcase and a notebook computer under his arm. The landing opened onto a long, narrow hallway that was dimly lit by a single brass lamp atop a pine table. He noticed a back staircase that probably led down to the kitchen. The doors to most of the bedrooms were closed. Small pools of light filtered into the hallway and he caught bursts of music and childish laughter. It struck him that this was more than a house. This was Cat's home. Her family's home.

  And he didn't belong.

  "In here, McKendrick."

  He followed the sound of her voice to the second room past the staircase. The door was ajar. He was a man who felt at ease in palaces and presidential suites, but at that moment he felt singularly out of place.

  Cat was seated on the bed, her long slender legs tucked up beneath her. Her son--Jack, was it?--was propped up against the headboard, his dark hair tousled and spiky. His features were rounder than Cat's, his skin ruddier. Actually he didn't look a hell of a lot like his mother except for the straightforward expression in his dark eyes. She offered Riley a smile that he felt all the way down to the bootheels. "Come on in, McKendrick. Jack has a question he'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."

  Riley crossed the threshold into the boy's room. He caught the faint smell of bubble gum, dog biscuits, and modeling clay in the air. "Hey, Jack," he said, leaning against the chest of drawers to the right of the door. "Ask away."

  Jack mumbled something too low for Riley to hear, then buried his face in his pillow.

  "He's shy," Cat said, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Just give him a moment or two."

  Jack peeked up at him. Riley winked. The boy giggled, then buried his face back in the pillow.

  "Progress," Riley said to Cat.

  "Come on, Jack," she said, laying her hand on her son's shoulder. "It's time for lights out. Do you want to ask Mr.McKendrick your question tonight or can it wait until breakfast?"

  "Tonight!" The boy sat up straight and met Riley's eyes. "Are you really a cowboy?"

  "Sure am," Riley said, hiking up his pants leg so Jack could see his well-worn leather boots. "Born and raised in western Nevada."

  The boy's dark eyes shone with wonder. "Did you have your own horse?"

  Riley met Cat's eyes and grinned. "I had lots of horses but I guess my favorite was a mare named Fred."

  "A mare named Fred?" Cat asked.

  Jack frowned. "What's a mare?"

  "A mare is a female horse," Riley said.

  "You can't name a girl Fred," Jack told him sternly. "Girls have girl names."

  "That's what Fred said too but nobody listened to her."

  Jack had a score of questions but his mother had other ideas. "Those questions can wait until tomorrow, sweetie. It's time you got some sleep."

  Jack ignored his mother. "You'll be here tomorrow?" he asked Riley.

  "I'll be here."

  Cat brushed a lock of hair from the boy's forehead with a tender gesture then frowned. "Oh, Jack..." Her voice trailed off and she placed the palm of her hand flat against his forehead. "I think you're coming down with something."

  "He looks fine to me," said Riley.

  She shook her head. "I know the signs. There's a twenty-four hour bug going around town. Jenny had it last week. I was wondering when it would hit someone else."

  "You can tell all that by touching his forehead?"

  "I'm his mother," she said by way of explanation. "Of course I can."

  Another example of all Riley would never understand about the mysteries of family life.

  "You're good with kids," Cat said a few minutes later after she'd settled the boy down for the night.

  "All I did was answer his question."

  "You'd be surprised how few adults pay attention."

  "He seems like a good kid."

  "They all are. I've been lucky."

  There wasn't much he could say to that. The woman lived in the middle of insanity and she felt lucky. And what scared him the most was that he understood why. All evening he'd been trying to quantify the way he was feeling, to find a name for it, some way to identify and catalog the odd rush of sensation he experienced every time he looked at her, but the words were just beyond reach.

  He hoped they stayed there.

  "This isn't the most masculine room in town," Cat said, as she showed him to a room at the opposite end of the hallway, "but we weren't expecting a cowboy."

  "Long as it's got a bed," Riley said with confidence. "Flowered wallpaper doesn't bother me."

  "Well," said Cat , cautiously, "it's a bit more than flowers on the wallpaper."

  She flung open the door and switched on the light.

  "Hell, no!" Riley stepped back. "No way."

  "I decorated this during my retro Laura Ashley phase," she said. "I admit I might have gone a tad overboard."

  "Overboard?" He stared at the profusion of deep pink roses on the bedspread, the walls, at the windows, strewn across the chaise longue, and massed in pots on every available flat surface. "Lady, this is one for Ripley's Believe It or Not."

  She lifted her chin and he admired the stubborn set of her jaw. "I never claimed to have good taste. When I like something, I like it all the way."

  He peered cautiously into the room. "You like roses."

  "Very perceptive," she said, that stubborn jaw softening. "I love roses."

  He stepped into the room and tossed his bags down on the bed. "Good thing I don't have allergies. The power of suggestion could put you in the hospital."

  "You'll find both the closet and the bathroom through that door," she said, pointing.

  "More roses?" he asked, hoping against hope.

  "More roses." A wicked smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Don't worry, McKendrick. I don't think Laura Ashley wallpaper has a negative effect on a man's testosterone level."

  "Feel like putting that in writing?"

  Their eyes met and to Riley's surprise they both started to laugh. She had a great laugh, not one of those polite exhalations of breath, but a full-bodied, lusty laugh that made him wonder if she laughed like that in bed.

  "It's this or the family room so
fa," she said. "Your choice."

  He unzipped his duffel. "I'll manage."

  She backed toward the door. "I'll get you an extra blanket."

  "Don't bother."

  "It's no bother. This is an old house and it gets very cold at night."

  "I'm hot-blooded," he said. "The cold doesn't bother me."

  "Lucky you," she said after a moment. "If you need anything, I'm next door."

  "I'll remember that." His blood shifted. He wouldn't be able to forget that if he tried.

  She made to leave then turned back toward him. "We get up early around here. I hope the noise doesn't--"

  "It won't. I get up at five."

  Her eyes widened. "Every day?"

  "I run."

  "You really are organized, aren't you?"

  "You've got to practice what you preach."

  "You might have met your match in the Zaslow household."

  "I don't think so."

  "You're outnumbered," she pointed out.

  "By this time tomorrow that won't matter."

  "You think a lot of yourself, don't you, cowboy?"

  "I know what I can do."

  "We're a rowdy bunch."

  "I've seen worse."

  She grinned. "By this time tomorrow that won't matter."

  "You'll thank me, Zaslow. In two days I'll have your life on the right track and you'll wonder how you ever managed without me."

  She knew a challenge when she heard one. Her eyes flashed fire but the fire was tempered by a sense of humor that was obviously as much a part of her as her long legs and high cheekbones. "Cowboy, I'll--"

  "Mommy!"

  They both started at the sound of the little girl's voice from the hallway behind Cat.

  Cat swung the Sarah up into her arms. "What's the matter, honey? Bad dream?"

  The child shook her head. Her eyes, as blue as Cat's, were fixed on Riley. "Go home," she said, then buried her face in Cat's shoulder.

  "That isn't nice, Sarah." Cat's voice was firm. "Mr. McKendrick is our guest. What did I tell you about we're supposed to treat guests?"

  The little girl mumbled something but Riley couldn't understand a word of it.

  "She said, 'Be polite,'" Cat explained, reading his mind.

  Riley wanted to tell the child not to worry about it but he knew he was out of his depth. This was definitely Cat Zaslow's territory.

  Cat kissed her daughter's chubby hand. "Don't you have something to say to Mr. McKendrick?"

  The child burrowed her face deeper into Cat's shoulder.

  "Sarah." Cat's voice was firm but still loving. He wondered how she managed to do that. It was a sound he'd longed for as a child. It must come with childbirth or something.

  Sarah turned her head slightly until he could just make out her delicate features. "I'm sorry. You don't have to go home."

  "Thank you," he managed. The lump in his throat made it hard to say much more.

  Cat smiled at him and for the first time in his life he wanted the one thing he knew he could never have.

  A home.

  A family.

  A woman like Catherine O'Leary Zaslow.

  Chapter Five

  "Jenny!" Cat stepped in front of her friend and folded her arms across her chest. "Please, I'm begging you. You're not going to leave me alone with him, are you? I thought we were in this together."

  "I don't know about you, my friend, but Dawn and I are off to Disney World." Jenny balanced her eighteen month old daughter against her right hip and rummaged through the diaper bag. "I know those plane tickets are in here some place."

  "You don't keep your plane tickets in there, do you?" Cat was sloppy but even she had her limits.

  "Of course I do." Jenny withdrew the ticket envelope from the zippered compartment. "Except for Dawn, the diaper bag is the one thing I know I won't forget."

  Cat couldn't argue with logic like that. No mother could. "Please tell me you got your dates wrong. You leave next Friday, right?"

  Jenny met her eyes. "Today, Cat." She waved the tickets at her friend.

  "I could've sworn it was next weekend."

  "Why would I go next weekend? The crowds are there this weekend."

  "Jenny, people don't usually want to go to Disney World when it's crowded."

  "It's Dawn's first time. I want her to have the whole Disney experience."

  "I'll give you a raise," Cat pleaded, her level of desperation rising. "I'll double your vacation days."

  "Throw in Alec Baldwin and you might have yourself a deal."

  "Doesn't our friendship count for anything? How can you abandon me in my hour of need?"

  Jenny--the wretch--laughed at her pain. "We both know what you need, Cat, and he's waiting for you in the living room even as we speak."

  Violent heat flooded Cat's body. "Jenny! What kind of thing is that to say?"

  "It's the truth. If I could've captured the sparks flying between the two of you I'd put the electric company out of business."

  "I take it back," Cat said. "Go to Disney World. It's obvious you need the rest."

  "Opportunities like our cowboy friend don't show up every day, Cat. If you don't rope him in, someone else will."

  "Someone else is welcome to him," Cat declared in no uncertain terms. "The only reason he's here is because I intend to prove a point."

  Jenny--the wretch--threw back her head and laughed loud and long. "And if you believe that, honey, you're even better at fiction than I thought."

  ***

  Riley ducked back into the hallway.

  "Damn," he muttered under his breath. He'd always wondered what women said about men when they were together but he never thought he'd find out quite this way.

  They'd been talking about him.

  And you didn't have to have a degree in psychology to know Cat didn't think much of him. The woman had flat out begged her housekeeper to postpone her vacation just so Cat wouldn't be left alone with him.

  Last night he'd entertained a few convoluted and highly erotic fantasies about Cat and him and a hot tub. Now he felt as if he'd been pushed under a cold shower and left there to think about where he'd gone wrong.

  Tough luck, McKendrick. That's what you get for forgetting why you're here.

  ***

  Cat watched in dismay as her own children signed on with the enemy. The only one who hadn't fallen under the cowboy's spell was Jack and that was only because he was sick in bed with the twenty-four hour flu that had been making the rounds.

  "It's not going to last," she said as the little turncoats marched off to their respective rooms to make a day list of responsibilities.

  "It'll last," said Riley, sifting through a huge mound of orange index cards.

  "They're having fun now," she predicted, "but just you wait until the novelty wears off. Then you'll find out what running a household is all about."

  "Sit down."

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Sit down," he repeated.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. "Better make it fast, McKendrick. I have galleys to do on my latest book."

  "Your book can wait."

  "No," she said carefully, "my book can't wait. That's how I pay my bills."

  He plucked a stack of unopened envelopes from the wicker basket in the middle of the table. "That's the problem, Zaslow. You don't pay your bills."

  She felt her cheeks redden. "Of course I pay my bills." She glanced at the postmark on one of the envelopes. "Maybe I don't always pay them on time, but I do pay them."

  "Do you know what you're doing to your credit rating?"

  She glared at him. "Do you know what my bank balance is?" Writing murder mysteries had proved to be extremely lucrative. "I doubt if my credit rating is in any trouble."

  "Guess again, Zaslow. You have enough red flags after your name to start your own communist country."

  "Very funny, cowboy, but you're not scaring me."

  "Somebody should. I found three unanswered letters b
ehind the television in the family room."

  "Wonderful," she snapped. "You've proved your point. I'm a mess. Does that make you happy?"

  "Happy?" He gestured broadly toward himself. "Look at me! Do I look happy?"

  "Yes," she lied. "You look ecstatic. You look like you've waited all your life to find someone like me." Her words resonated in the air between them. She wished she could reach out and grab them, erase them from his memory bank, but it was too late. Her words were out there and even if her intent hadn't been provocative, the effect definitely was.

  ***

  The last time Riley had been at a loss for words was the time he shared a hotel employees' elevator with a topless Las Vegas showgirl named Bambi.

  This was worse.

  Her expression didn't waver. She didn't blush. There was no indication that her words were anything more than a flip wisecrack meant to knock him down a peg or two. But he felt those words in the center of his chest and they seemed to be growing bigger, more important, with every second that passed.

  He cleared his throat. "Make a list," he said. "Write down everything you do on an average day."

  "I'm the mother of five," she said. "I have no average days."

  "Humor me," he said. "Write down every damn thing you do from the time you open your eyes in the morning until you close 'em again at night."

  Her expression grew darker. "Not everything."

  "Yes," he said grimly. "Everything."

  She pushed the paper and pen away from her. "Not in this lifetime."

  "All right," he relented. "Forget the personal stuff." Women got a little touchy when it came to bathrooms.

  "Thank you." She pulled the paper and pen back toward her and began to write.

  And write.

  And write.

  He paced the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of black coffee, drank it, then paced some more. Finally he couldn't restrain himself. "What in hell are you doing?" he bellowed. "The Secretary of State doesn't have a day like that."

  He watched, fascinated, as she looked up at him, then looked through him as if he weren't standing there in front of her. She gave her head a quick shake as if to clear away the cobwebs.

  "Sorry," she said. "A great plot idea occurred to me and I didn't want to let it slip by."