“Dammit,” Frank muttered, “kiss the babe and get it over with, OK?”
Ryan’s heartbeat rocketed. He clasped Devon’s face between his hands. Slowly, his eyes locked with hers, he bent to her and kissed her gently, his lips barely parting hers.
He felt the sudden tremor sweep through her, a tremor he knew she’d tried, and failed, to prevent. Fire licked along his veins and his arms went around her, his mouth never leaving hers. His kiss deepened, his lips moving over hers, the tip of his tongue making a hidden, silken foray into her mouth. The faintest sound rose in her throat, trembled on her lips as it passed from her kiss to his mouth.
Pop!
The cork exploded from a bottle of champagne under the expert touch of the caterer Miss Brimley had hired.
Ryan stared down into Devon’s flushed face. “Devon...” he said softly.
“Congratulations, young man,” the judge said.
“Good luck, my boy,” James said. “I know you’ve done the right thing.”
Frank was more direct. “Old pal,” he said glumly, “I think you’ve lost your marbles.”
Ryan looked at his bride again. She was standing as far from him as she could get and still be in the same room. Miss Brimley was on one side of her, Bettina on the other. They were both babbling away and Devon was nodding her head as if she were listening, but Ryan knew instinctively that she wasn’t. As he watched, the pink tip of her tongue snaked out and lightly touched the center of her bottom lip where an almost indiscernible swelling remained as the passionate mark of his kiss.
His body knotted like a fist. Hell, he thought, and suddenly he wondered if Frank might not be right.
At dusk, Ryan stabbed his key into the lock of the ornate oak door of his three-story brownstone in the East Sixties. Devon stood beside him, her shoulder brushing his.
Married, he thought. I am married.
He knew it intellectually. But that didn’t change the fact that he sure as hell didn’t feel married. It had all happened so quickly—he’d been a bachelor on Monday and now here it was, only Friday, and he was a husband.
But he wasn’t a husband. Not really. He was married, but being a husband meant something more. If he’d been a husband, he’d lift his new wife into his arms as the door swung open, he’d carry her over the threshold...
Devon moved past him into the marble-floored foyer.
“Is the entire house yours?”
The sound of her voice startled him. She hadn’t spoken directly to him since the ceremony.
Ryan put down her suitcase and nodded.
“Yes.”
“It’s... it’s very handsome.”
He nodded again. “Thank you.”
“How many rooms does it have?”
He had to think about that. Did it have eight or nine? It all depended on whether or not you counted the gym in the basement.
“Nine,” he said, frowning. What in hell was the matter with him? he thought as he tossed his keys on the hall table. He wasn’t a rental agent, showing the place to a prospective client.
It was just that it was weird, having her here, knowing she was actually going to live here—for a few months. He had lived in this house for seven years. In all that time, he had never shared it with anyone. Women came and women went; some of them spent a night, maybe two. Once in a great while—a very great while—he let a woman spend a long weekend.
But he’d never let one move in. Hell, he’d never let anybody move in, not even a housekeeper. Housekeepers, cleaning ladies, caterers—none of them were live-ins.
Ryan didn’t like sharing his space.
Now, he’d contracted to share it with Devon, and for six entire months.
A thin trickle of sweat beaded on his forehead. How come he hadn’t thought of that? He’d been so damned busy convincing her to go through with the marriage that he’d never given a thought to the logistics of it.
How would it be, sharing the breakfast table? Eating dinner with her? What would it be like, arguing over what TV program to watch or if the thermostat should be turned up or down? What would she say when he stayed late at the office, or met Frank for drinks instead of coming home after a long day? Would she bitch about dinner getting cold, or that he’d spoiled her plans for the evening when he hadn’t known she’d even had plans for the evening?
Theirs was not a real marriage; she wouldn’t have the right to complain about anything he did or didn’t do. He should have made certain she understood that in advance.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
He looked at her. She was standing in the center of the foyer, just under the big Orrefors crystal chandelier. Soft rays of light fell across her, turning her hair to silver. Spun silver silk, he thought, and his fingers curled against his palms.
“Ryan? There is a kitchen, isn’t there?”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “It’s down that hall.”
“Good.” Devon smiled. “I thought I’d make us some coffee.”
So, it was beginning. Not wanting to marry him was one thing but now that she had, she was going to go through the motions of being a wife.
“Fine. Coffee might be a good idea. We need to talk about—”
“—the ground rules,” Devon said. “I agree.”
She set off at a brisk pace, never pausing until they reached the kitchen. Devon threw on the light switch and looked around her. Ryan waited for her to gush over the size of the room and the multitude of up-to-the-minute appliances—Sharon certainly had—but Devon didn’t even blink.
“Where do you keep the coffee?” she said.
“In the freezer.” Ryan eased himself on to a high stool at the marble-topped counter. “The coffeepot’s on that shelf.”
He watched her as she measured the coffee into the filter. Her movements were brisk and efficient and when the coffee was finally ready, he tried not to smile as she filled two mugs and handed him one. He knew she was waiting for his response; for some reason, women seemed to think making a good cup of coffee ranked as one of life’s great mysteries.
“Is it OK?” she said after he’d taken a sip.
“It’s fine,” he said, and he let the smile come. “Not quite as good as mine, but I suppose that’s because you’re not familiar with this particular filtering system.”
Devon smiled politely. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll get used to it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will. Not that it matters.” Her smile sweetened. “The coffee tastes fine to me, and this is probably one time in a million I’ll be making it for.you.”
Ryan’s brows drew together. “Well, of course, I have a housekeeper, but she generally doesn’t come in until ten—”
“If you think I’m going to be doing kitchen duty,” Devon said pleasantly, “you’d better think again.”
Oh, how wonderful it was to see the wind go right out of his sails! She had waited for this moment ever since he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her right after the ceremony. Until that kiss, she’d gone through the week feeling sickeningly sorry for herself.
But that was over now, thanks to him. That kiss—that very public display of macho intent—had changed everything.
What did he think he’d acquired today? A woman to play at being wife for six months? One who’d cook his meals, iron his shirts, sleep in his bed? He’d never coerced a woman into his bed, he’d said, but he’d never mentioned how many he’d seduced into it.
That kiss had shown his true intentions.
She’d been so stupid, not hammering all the details out in advance. But they’d hammer them out now, and to hell with the consequences. She wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around anymore.
“I didn’t expect you to,” he said with a frosty smile. “I told you, I have a housekeeper. As for breakfast coffee, I’m quite capable of making my own.”
“How nice for you.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “And,” he said coldly, “while w
e’re on the subject of how things are done around here, I suppose you should be aware that I often work late at my office.”
She nodded. “Thank you for telling me,” she said politely.
“And Frank and I usually have a drink together on Friday evenings.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said, even more politely.
“I go away for a couple of days on business with some frequency.”
“Mmm. I’m sure you lead a busy life.”
The desire to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled was almost overwhelming but he had the feeling that would be playing right into her hands. Ryan forced himself to take a calming breath.
“So? What about you?” he asked.
Devon’s brows lifted. “What about me?”
“Is there anything I should know about your comings and goings?”
“I can’t think of a thing.”
“About your friends?”
“Nope.”
“You mean, you won’t be going anywhere with anyone?”
Devon laughed. “Don’t be silly. Of course I will.”
Ryan’s face darkened. “Dammit, that’s what I just asked you. I’ve just explained my schedule. Now I’d like to hear yours.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Because...because it’s the civilized thing to do.”
“I don’t agree. Laying out your schedule was your idea, Ryan. I didn’t ask how you spend your time and I don’t expect you to ask about how I spend mine.”
She had gone too far. She saw it in his face the second before he covered the distance between them, but short of shrinking back against the counter—and she’d have faced down a tank before giving him that satisfaction—there was nothing she could do about it.
His hands closed like talons on her shoulders. Despite herself, she gave a little gasp as he yanked her onto her toes.
“What nonsense is this, dammit? You are my wife, and I expect you to show me the proper respect.”
“I am your partner in a six-month leasing arrangement,” Devon answered. Her heart was tripping wildly but somehow she managed to keep her voice cool and steady. “I will not do anything to embarrass you and I expect you to show me the same courtesy. I will also put up whatever necessary front you require for the benefit of your grandfather. Other than that, I don’t wish to have anything to do with you. Is that clear?”
A muscle knotted in Ryan’s jaw. “You’ve thought this out pretty carefully, I see.”
Devon stared into his cold eyes. She hadn’t been thinking at all, not until just a little while ago, but why would she ever tell him that?
“Of course,” she said.
Of course. Of course.
The words echoed in Ryan’s head. How could she be so damned calm and collected when he was—when he was...
His hands tightened on her. There were ways to wipe that remote, faintly amused look from her face. He could give in to the urge to shake her like a rag doll.
Or he could press his mouth to hers and kiss her until she pleaded for mercy, until she wound her arms around his neck and begged him to take her, right here on the gleaming white floor. He would rip off her clothing and bare her body to his hands and make love to her until she sobbed out his name and begged him never to leave her.
With a muffled curse, he let go of her and took a step back.
“There’s a guest suite on the top floor,” he said tonelessly. “It has its own bathroom and small sitting room. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”
Devon nodded. Her heart was still pumping crazily, her shoulders ached where his fingers had bitten into her flesh, but she was determined to show no reaction.
“I’m sure I will,” she said, and she strode from the kitchen.
It wasn’t easy, getting her suitcase up the stairs and down the hall, but she managed.
Once inside her rooms, with the door safely locked, she breathed easier.
Her quarters were more than satisfactory, they were elegant. Under other circumstances, she’d have viewed the marble fireplace, the four-poster bed, and the garden below the windows with pleasure.
But these were not other circumstances. This was her wedding night, and she was spending it alone.
Not that it was a real wedding night. It was all a fraud. That was what she’d told Bettina when her mother had insisted on stuffing a white lace nightgown into Devon’s suitcase.
“I certainly won’t need that,” she’d said, her mouth curling with distaste.
But she should have needed it. A girl’s wedding night was supposed to be a wonderful thing.
And this one could have been. She could have spent the night lying in Ryan’s arms. No matter how strong their dislike for each other, there was no denying the power of the sexual attraction between them. Even down in the kitchen, she’d sensed that the tightly restrained violence in him could just as easily have become fiery passion.
Devon gave a little sob of despair as she spun away from the window. She undressed quickly, pulled on an old flannel nightgown and crept into the big four-poster bed.
Six months, she thought as she drew the blanket to her chin, that wasn’t so long.
But a night could last an eternity when it was your wedding night and you were spending it alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS Friday, the start of the long July 4th weekend.
Ryan would have thought half of Manhattan would be on its way east to the Hamptons or north to Connecticut by now, but it didn’t look that way, not as he pulled open the door to The Watering Hole. Judging by the blast of music and the press of bodies, the bar was doing Friday night business as usual.
Ryan peered over the heads of the crowd toward the bar. It was going to take half the damned night to reach it, he thought irritably. Didn’t these people have anywhere else to be?
“Hi, there.”
Ryan looked down. A petite brunette with chocolate-brown eyes, a pouty, crimson mouth, and enough cleavage to endanger a midget, was smiling at him.
Ryan nodded. “Hi.”
“Crowded, isn’t it?”
“That it is.”
Someone jostled the brunette. “Whoops,” she said, giggling as she fell against Ryan. “Sorry about that.”
Ryan smiled. He doubted that she felt the least bit sorry. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were sparkling. Her hands were pressed lightly against his chest and so was most of that impressive cleavage.
She was going to make some man very happy tonight, but he didn’t even feel a twinge of pain that it wasn’t going to be him.
“Sorry, darling,” he said, “I’m meeting somebody.”
“Oh.” Her smile grew even poutier. “Lucky somebody.”
Ryan’s lips twisted. “Yeah,” he said. He gave her a regretful smile, then worked his way past her, through the jammed room and to the bar.
He spotted Frank dead ahead, perched on one stool while valiantly defending another. Grinning, Ryan came up behind him.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, “what a lucky so-and-so you are to be spending the evening with me?”
Frank snatched his jacket from the stool and fixed Ryan with a baleful glare.
“It’s bad enough I had to spend the last fifteen minutes threatening death and destruction to everybody who tried to steal this seat from me. You don’t really expect me to bat my eyes at you and simper, do you?”
Ryan laughed as he sat down next to his friend.
“Sorry I’m late, old buddy. I got hung up at the office.” He nodded his thanks as an ever-observant Harry set his usual drink before him. “So,” he said after a long swallow, “how’s it going?”
Frank shrugged. “Depends on what we’re talking about. Business is fine. My love life’s in the toilet.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I broke up with Emma.”
“Was that your latest?” Ryan smiled. “I know you always tell me their names and give me a full des
cription—”
“—but lately, you haven’t been paying attention, pal.” Frank sighed. “Yes, Emma was my lady of the month.”
“What went wrong?”
“The usual. She began making noises about forever after.” Frank shuddered dramatically. “We sure as heck don’t want ’em to do that, do we?”
“No,” Ryan said after an almost imperceptible pause. “No, we certainly do not.”
“And how’re things in your world? Still putting in lots of overtime?”
What he was putting in, Ryan thought, was lots of time just sitting in his office long after the workday had ended, but what was the sense in hurrying home?
If he got home before seven, he and Devon ended up having dinner together, she at one end of the long dining room table, he at the other. How was her day? he’d ask. She’d say it had been fine and how was his? And then they’d slip back into the same polite silence that had surrounded them since their quarrel the day of their wedding.
He frowned and cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m still working late. I—I find I can get a lot done at night, when people are gone and the phones aren’t ringing.”
Frank nodded. “Well, why not? There’s no point in hurrying home.” He looked at Ryan, a sly grin easing across his mouth. “Unless, of course, the situation’s changed and you’re making the most of having a temporary wife under your roof.”
Ryan’s eyes went flat. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, take it easy. I was just wondering if the status quo was still the status quo, OK?”
The cold look eased from Ryan’s eyes. “Sure,” he said. “Sorry, Frank, it’s been a rough week.”
“That’s OK, man. I know how it is.”
No, Ryan thought, Frank couldn’t possibly know how it was.
Frank didn’t share a house with a woman who might as well have been a ghost. He’d never entered a room she was in only to have her smile politely and walk out. He’d never walked into the unexpected scent of her perfume lingering in a hallway. And he sure as hell had never heard the soft sound of her laughter when she was on the phone and then spent the next hours going crazy, wondering who in hell was making her laugh when he couldn’t.
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