Nancy Herkness
Page 7
It wasn’t unpleasant.
A whiff of ocean-scented breeze prickled over her skin, raising goose bumps on her arms. A strand of hair blew loose from its braid and caught in her eyelashes. If she lifted her hand, it would be hard to avoid touching him. As she debated the wisdom of that, he crooked a finger around the errant hair and pulled it away from her eyes. Then he tucked it behind her ear, brushing the sensitive skin between her hairline and her earlobe with his fingertips. The goose bumps disappeared under a wave of rippling warmth that made her gasp.
“I think this marriage could be convenient in many ways,” her prospective husband murmured in her ear.
He had shifted almost imperceptibly but now Charlie could feel the slide of his khaki slacks against her thighs and the friction of cotton against her blouse. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the intertwined scents of salt water and warm, clean male.
Then she ducked neatly under his arm, nearly colliding with Major who had been keeping them under close surveillance.
“Sorry, Major,” she said, dropping a hand on his head. “Not to be coy, but may I have some time to think about your very flattering offer?” She considered batting her eyelashes but decided against it.
“You have until Monday morning at 9 a.m.,” her suitor snapped.
“‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’” Charlie quoted.
“Oh, I’m already having second thoughts,” he said. He touched his fingertips to his lips in a mockery of blowing her a kiss before he strode off the porch and disappeared around the corner of the house.
Charlie sank into a rocking chair and listened to Jack leave Winter Circle with a bad-tempered squeal of the Land Rover’s tires.
Major trotted over to lay his head in her lap, and she scratched him behind his ears. Setting aside the shock of the bizarre proposal, she considered its pros and cons…
Despite her brave words, she really didn’t want to write a book about a man who didn’t want to be written about. Some of her colleagues would call her a wimp, but she didn’t enjoy confrontational interviews or unauthorized investigations…and, as Mike had pointed out, having a husband would certainly solve her problems in the short term. A two-parent family was more acceptable to an adoption agency than a single parent. Of course, hunting meteorites was not exactly a low-risk profession; he undoubtedly traveled more extensively and more hazardously than she did. But he’s retiring, so that won’t be a concern. His investment income would give her the paperwork cushion she needed to find a good, home-based job. Not that I’d touch a penny of his money, she thought, remembering his requirement for a prenuptial agreement with indignation.
She had her own savings.
But his would look good on the financial statement.
However, all of that was just the paperwork. Going beyond that, things got more complicated. They would have to pretend to be a loving couple in order to hoodwink the social worker, and Rhonda Brown didn’t strike her as an easy person to hoodwink. She would also have to make up a really creative story as to why she was getting married so suddenly. As a writer, that was not beyond her capabilities. It was when she considered the flesh-and-blood reality of Jack Lanett as her husband that Charlie swallowed hard. He had made his interest in physical contact quite clear. And that wink at the lecture hall…that was so unexpected. She swallowed again.
Would she have the good sense to say no?
Was it good sense to say no?
“Of course, it is,” she told Major firmly. “I don’t jump into bed with men I don’t care about.”
Except for Nick. She winced. Less than a year after her divorce, she was assigned a story on an ecology-minded resort hotel in the middle of Egypt’s Western Desert. Nick Rogers got sent along to do the photography. Adrere Amellal was one of the most exotic places Charlie had ever been. Since there was no electricity, the hotel was lit by candles at night. The swimming pool was fed by a spring and surrounded by date palms and oleanders. She had thought achingly what a perfect place it would be for a honeymoon.
On their second afternoon there, Nick suggested a swim. They lolled about in the deliciously cool water, talking about other assignments they’d each been on. Then Nick stroked purposefully over to her, and skimmed his hands up her thighs, over her hips, and along the sides of her breasts. Charlie was swamped by a wave of longing so intense she literally couldn’t breathe. She answered the question in Nick’s eyes by twisting in the water so his hands were cupping her breasts. Without a word, they climbed out of the pool, grabbed their towels and went straight to Nick’s room.
Charlie and Nick spent the rest of their five days inventing ways to touch each other without anyone noticing. The moment they landed in New York, though, Nick made it clear that the trip was great fun, but he didn’t wish to extend their acquaintance.
Charlie was devastated.
When she had failed to carry a child and her husband discarded her as a result, she had lost belief in herself as a woman; with Nick, she had begun to recover it. She had started to feel that she was capable of touching another person’s mind, body and heart but Nick had proved she was wrong—again.
“Enough wallowing in self-pity,” she said, gently pushing Major’s head off her lap and standing. “I need company and a wiser head than mine.”
With the dog at her side, she jogged across her yard to Isabelle’s back porch and banged on the screen door. No one answered so she pushed it open and walked in.
“Isabelle?”
“I’m out front. Come on through.”
Charlie found her neighbor kneeling by a flowerbed, surrounded by flats of pink impatiens and purple pansies, as she sprinkled organic fertilizer on a newly turned bed. “Would it be crazy to get married just to push the adoption through faster?” she asked, picking up a trowel and gouging out an impatiens-sized hole.
“Has Allan, our smitten veterinarian, finally proposed?” Isabelle asked, sitting back on her heels in surprise.
“No, the meteorite hunter has.”
“The good-looking fellow who burned out of here in that gas-guzzling Land Rover?”
“Yup.”
“Good heavens, your hair had a more powerful effect on him than you thought!”
Charlie explained Jack’s proposal, and Isabelle braced her gloved hands on her knees. “If it’s really just a convenient business arrangement, I think it has some possibilities…but a man who will go to that length to protect his privacy has something in his life he doesn’t want exposed. For all you know, he’s murdered three wives already.”
“I checked his background when I got the interview. He has no criminal record.”
“So he murdered them and got away with it.”
Charlie chuckled. “He’s never been married—in this country anyway.”
“Aha, he has a harem in the Far East.” She looked closely at Charlie. “Seriously, my dear, you need to be careful. This man is a total stranger. A most attractive stranger but a stranger nonetheless.” Something in Charlie’s face made her say, “Ah, you think he’s attractive too.”
Charlie flushed.
“That’s very dangerous for you,” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “Perhaps you should find another topic for a book.”
“I can keep it strictly business,” Charlie insisted. Then she sighed. “You know how much I want a child. I was so close, and I just can’t bear to wait another year. But it’s such a bizarre idea.”
Isabelle considered for a moment before she shrugged and said, “Marriages have been made for stranger reasons.”
By Sunday evening, Charlie had picked up and put down the telephone so many times she had lost count. Finally, she sat down on the sofa, took a gulp of white wine, patted Major and Twinkle, and dialed Jack’s cell phone number.
“Jack Lanett.”
“I know,” Charlie said. “It’s Charlie Berglund.”
She heard a grinding noise in the background.
“Just a minute. I’ll move to a qui
eter place.”
The noise receded, and Charlie took a deep breath. “Jack, I’ve thought a great deal about your proposal. And although I think it’s a rather unusual way to handle our, um, situation, I’m going to say yes.”
“Fine. I’ll have my lawyer contact you on Monday.”
“You mean I haven’t just made you the happiest man on earth?”
“This is a business arrangement, pure and simple,” he said more emphatically than she thought necessary.
“That was a joke.” Charlie gave up trying to keep it light. “Fine, strictly business. I’ve checked it out, and we can get married on Friday if we do it here. You’ll need to get a blood test and sign some papers. I can fax you the necessary information.”
He gave her his fax number.
“We also have to coordinate our story for the social worker and present a convincing picture of a married couple.”
“We can discuss that at our wedding.” His tone when he reached the word wedding became distinctly ironic. “Or are you inviting the social worker?”
“I might,” Charlie said just to annoy him.
“Fax me the information, and we’ll talk again. And I appreciate the honor you do me by accepting my proposal.”
“Better late than never,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Good-bye, Jack.”
“Until Friday, Ms. Berglund.”
Jack hit the “end” button and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He was amazed to discover that he was smiling. He walked back into the sculptor’s studio Miguel had rented to work on meteorites while they were in New York. Miguel was cutting an especially fine stony-iron, slicing it into pieces which would highlight the large greenish-brown olivine crystals embedded in the metal. Jack flipped down his safety glasses and walked over to pick up a cut slab. He started toward a grinding machine when Miguel stopped his saw.
“Hey, amigo, what are you doing with that?”
“I’m going to finish it for you. You know, I actually did my own prep before you joined the firm.”
“Yeah, but I’m better at it,” Miguel said, pushing up his welding mask and wiping a sleeve across his forehead. “Leave that piece to the expert. You can work on this one.” He picked up a small chunk of an iron and tossed it to his friend.
Jack caught it and turned it over in his hands for a moment. “I can’t do much damage to this.”
“You have other things on your mind. The pallasite requires concentration.”
Jack dropped the iron on the work table. “Will you be my best man?”
“Sure, when the day comes.”
“It’s coming Friday.”
“In which decade?”
“I’m getting married this Friday.”
“Tell me you’re joking.” Miguel sat down hard on his stool.
“No joke. I’m marrying the nosy reporter.” Jack filled him in on the details.
“You’ve done some crazy things in your life, amigo, but this one is the craziest,” Miguel said, shaking his head.
“What’s so crazy about it? It solves both our problems, and then it’s over.”
“That’s what you think now. But remember Rapunzel: long blond hair can turn into a very strong rope.”
“Have I ever come close to getting tied down?”
“This one’s different. She’s got noble intentions. And we all know what a sucker you are for a good cause.”
Jack picked up the small meteorite and studied it a moment. “You know, it’s been a long time since I made an iron ring.”
“Isabelle, will you be my maid of honor?” Charlie asked as she hefted a box of organic mangos onto her neighbor’s porch Monday morning.
“So you accepted the hunter?” Isabelle ripped open a box of pesticide-free carrots and began sorting them into clients’ baskets.
“The wedding is Friday.”
“Friday!” Isabelle’s carrots landed on the floor in a heap. “We have to get organized. I know just the place to buy the dress. Mike and Ernst can have the reception on their patio—”
“This is not a real wedding. I don’t need any of that.”
“Nonsense. If nothing else, you need pictures to show your social worker. Authenticity is important in deception. And you will be legally married, won’t you?”
“Yes. But—”
“Then we plan a wedding.”
Seven
In the end, Isabelle had her way, and the wedding planning was fast and furious. Mike vetted the prenuptial agreement, and insisted on adding several clauses to protect Charlie’s assets. He also found a justice of the peace to perform the ceremony. Ernst organized hors d’oeuvres and a small wedding cake for the patio reception. He ordered flowers, including a bouquet for the bride and a boutonniere for the groom. Charlie faxed forms back and forth to New York, went to the doctor for a blood test, made two trips to the county courthouse, and cleaned out space in her closet for Jack’s clothes. She also endured an exasperated diatribe from her agent when she killed the book idea. Isabelle dragged her to a vintage clothing store and persuaded her to buy an ivory silk crêpe de Chine dress with a square neck, elbow length sleeves and bias-cut skirt.
The morning of the wedding Isabelle helped the bride smooth her hair back into an elegant figure-eight chignon. Charlie had decided not to invite Rhonda Brown. A romantic, spur-of-the-moment decision seemed to fit the story she had concocted for the social worker better. So the only people present—besides the bride and groom—were Isabelle and Miguel, the justice of the peace, Mike, Ernst and a photographer Isabelle brought along.
Having not had the nerve to ask Jack what he would wear, Charlie was relieved when he appeared at the courthouse in the same silver gray suit he had worn to the lecture. This time, though, he was wearing a yellow tie that coincidentally matched the spray of yellow alstroemeria Charlie pinned on his lapel.
“How very wifely,” Jack commented as she carefully wove the anchoring pin through the fine fabric of his suit.
She made the mistake of looking up.
He was so close she could see the fine lines around his eyes and a few glints of silver in his dark eyebrows. His smile held a disarming hint of teasing. Without thinking, Charlie laid her palms against his chest. It felt like sun-warmed brick: utterly solid and inviting to lean against. She sighed and said, “Not wifely, professional. I have to make my business partner look good.”
“I’m going to have a hard time looking as good as my business partner,” he said, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips.
“Charlie! Jack! The justice of the peace is ready for us!” Isabelle’s voice yanked Charlie out of her bemused trance.
The ceremony at town hall and the reception by the channel passed in a blur.
Isabelle’s scruffy-looking young photographer was from one of her environmental groups. She assured Charlie young Warren Bixby was very skilled and would produce portrait quality prints of the festivities within a week. So Charlie and Jack posed and blinked in the glare of the camera’s flash.
Jack sailed through the afternoon with almost eerie poise and good humor. As she stood on Mike and Ernst’s lawn, absently twisting the newly acquired ring on her fourth finger—a complete surprise, the one detail she had overlooked—Charlie watched him charming her three friends with a certain amount of irritation. Even the photographer had taken a shine to him. Unfortunately, she was just as susceptible to him as everyone else.
Miguel must have noticed because he stopped by her side and said, “It’s an occupational hazard.”
“What is?”
“Instant intimacy with total strangers.”
“He’s good at it,” she said, “except I wouldn’t call it ‘intimacy.’ He doesn’t reveal much of himself in the process.”
“That’s an occupational hazard too,” Miguel said, chuckling. “Your occupation.”
“What’s he afraid I’ll find out?”
Miguel shrugged. “He’s a private man, and he likes to be in control.”
“It’s just for the photographer,” Isabelle said, offering her a silver cake knife.
“Try to be gracious, sugar,” Jack said, taking the knife and wrapping her fingers around it by the simple expedient of cupping her hand in his. “Smile for the man, and then we’re done with it.”
Charlie gave a canned grin, all the while intensely aware of her new husband’s body pressed against the length of her back as they leaned over to cut the cake. The thin silk of her dress seemed to evaporate anywhere that he touched her. When he completed the embrace by reaching around to pick up a plate with his left hand, she could feel the buttons on his jacket, the buckle on his belt, and a great deal of muscle beneath his suit.
“Now I know why grooms always seem to enjoy this part of the reception,” he murmured in her ear, his breath feathering deliciously over her skin.
She shifted her elbow so it met his ribs, and was rewarded with a grunt of discomfort. But he didn’t give an inch.
By the time the photographer released them, Charlie had no doubt her new husband was feeling the effect of their proximity as much as she was.
It served him right.
Jack looked up from the suitcase he was unloading into an empty dresser drawer. “Do you really think your Ms. Brown will check the drawers?”
Charlie had grabbed a few suit hangers for Jack’s clothes from her coat closet, and was returning to her bedroom, followed by Major. “No, but if you’re staying here when she comes for the home study, you have to put your clothes somewhere,” she said.
She stopped, watching him. The last man who had folded his clothes into that dresser drawer was her ex-husband Greg. To have Jack Lanett looking so utterly at ease in her bedroom was unsettling. Charlie snatched a pair of slacks out of his suitcase and slid them onto a hanger.