A Proper Wife

by Sandra Marton

  Devon sighed and leaned her head against Ryan’s shoulder.

  “Actually,” she said softly, “the boarding school wasn’t so awful. Oh, it was stuffy. And silly. And the girls were horrible—they all knew each other, they came from the same backgrounds.” She gave a little laugh. “They had names like Buffy and Muffy.”

  “And when they spoke, they sounded as if they had lockjaw,” Ryan said, smiling.

  “Exactly. But for all of that, I was happy. I went to bed and woke up in the same place each day, and at night I never had to worry whether or not the door was locked or what time Bettina would be home.”

  Or if she’d be home at all, Ryan thought grimly. His arm tightened around Devon. She’d never have to worry about anything again. Not ever. He would take care of her, he would cherish her and protect her.

  “Whoever it was who said childhood was paradise,” he said, trying for a light tone, “was obviously never a child.”

  Devon smiled. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Those kids look pretty happy.” She nodded toward two little boys running toward them with a fat cocker spaniel puppy trundling along at the end of a red leash. “And just look at that puppy, Ryan! Isn’t he adorable?”

  Suddenly the puppy broke free.

  “Lady,” one of the boys yelled. “Hey, lady, get the dog, would ya?”

  Laughing, Devon ducked away from Ryan’s encircling arm and set off toward the dog, which immediately decided this was a much better game than simply racing across the grass.

  Ryan tucked his hands into his jeans, smiling as he watched Devon and the spaniel feinting right and left in their efforts to fool each other. It was a toss-up which was cuter, he thought, the girl or the dog.

  His smile tilted. Hell, it wasn’t a toss-up at all.

  Devon wasn’t just cuter. She was incredibly beautiful. Her face was devoid of any makeup, flushed with her exertions and bright with laughter. Her hair, loose at his request, floated over her shoulders like a silver halo as she danced around the puppy.

  It was a joy to watch her, to see the graceful motion of her body, to know the lushness of it beneath the turned-up, baggy jeans she wore, jeans that were his, along with the equally oversize sweatshirt that drooped almost to her knees.

  “What do you mean, you don’t own any jeans?” he’d said in mock horror as they’d dressed this morning.

  Devon had blushed and explained that the boarding school she’d attended had frowned on such things and she’d never felt comfortable, even after graduation, buying anything so frivolous.

  “Frivolous?” he’d said incredulously, and he’d yanked a sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans he’d hoped might fit her from his drawer, tossed them at her and demanded she put them on.

  She had, after first asking him to turn his back.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ryan had said, folding his arms and hoping he looked totally unruffled by a display of feminine modesty that had charmed him right down to his toes. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  And she hadn’t—not until the sight of her zipping up the jeans had been more than he could bear. With a soft groan, he’d decided breakfast could wait and he’d come up behind her, slipping one hand down into her panties and the other up under her shirt.

  “Damn,” he muttered. What a thing to be remembering now, in the middle of Central Park, especially since the memory was doing impolite things to his hormones.

  Ryan tried to concentrate on something else. He watched as Devon snagged the puppy’s leash and handed it to the two little boys. She turned and came toward him, and the sight of her, of that beautiful face and body, finished him off completely.

  “Damn,” he said again, and he sat down on the grass.

  “What?” Devon said breathlessly as she collapsed beside him.

  “Nothing,” Ryan said with a grimace. He looked at her puzzled expression, laughed softly, and threw his arm around her shoulders. “I can’t believe the effect you have on me. Here I was, thinking how great you looked in those jeans, and then I started thinking about what happened when you were getting into them this morning—and now I’m not fit to be seen by small children and fat puppies.”

  “You’re not fit to be...” Color flooded Devon’s cheeks and she giggled and buried her face in Ryan’s shoulder. “Are you serious?”

  “Am I serious? she asks. Here I am, inches away from making a public spectacle of myself...” He laughed with her and then, unexpectedly, his laughter faded and died. “Devon? Did you ever have a moment when everything seemed to stand still? When you suddenly thought, I have never been happier than I am right now?”

  Her breath caught as their eyes met. She wanted to tell him that she’d never felt anything like that until a little while ago, when she’d realized just how deeply she loved him.

  “Yes,” she said with a little smile. “Yes, I have.”

  Ryan nodded, his expression solemn. “It’s how I feel this minute,” he said, gently thumbing her hair back from her temples. “Everything is so...so damned perfect.”

  And, as their lips met, Ryan knew that the beautiful stranger who had lived in his home for five long months was a stranger no longer.

  She was his wife, and he was deeply, passionately in love with her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HOW did you tell a woman you’d fallen in love with her?

  Ryan had never really given it much thought, perhaps because he’d never really imagined himself in love.

  But if a man wanted to do such a thing, it would be a cinch. After all, what was so difficult about looking a woman in the eye and saying, Darling, I love you?

  Plenty, as he was rapidly learning. For starters, just thinking of saying those words made him nervous. The corollary to “I love you” was “Come live with me and we’ll be happy forever.” And that was OK—except that after a lifetime of being convinced there was no “forever” when it came to men and women and affairs of the heart, who could blame him if he wanted to be sure everything was just right before he took that irretrievable last step?

  Candlelight, soft music, long-stemmed roses were what he wanted, a very private, very romantic setting for what was going to be the most important moment of his life.

  The Sheep Meadow in Central Park, on a hot July 4th Saturday with kites flying, radios blasting, and kids and dogs and people everywhere, was neither private nor romantic.

  The little garden behind the brownstone was. Better still, he knew a restaurant just off 57th Street, a tiny, dimly lit place with wonderful French food and a marvelous wine cellar. Neither of them was really dressed for La Salamandre but its owner was an old friend. He’d not only welcome them warmly, he’d probably weep with Gallic joy once he realized his bistro was going to play an important role in such a romantic event.

  Ryan got to his feet and held his hand out to Devon.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s go.”

  Her hand clasped his lightly. She stood up, smiled into his eyes, reached up and plucked a blade of grass out of his dark hair.

  “Where are we off to?”

  Ryan smiled back at her and put his arm around her waist.

  “How does lunch sound?”

  Devon put her arm around his waist, too. “It sounds fine. Did I ever tell you I make the world’s best tuna melt on rye?”

  “Tuna melt?” Ryan said, and shuddered.

  “Ah, I see. The man doesn’t go in for sophisticated foods.” Devon grinned. “OK, then, how about bacon, lettuce and tomato on toast?”

  “Well, I had something better than a coffee shop in mind.”

  “So did I. I thought we could go home and I’d...”

  “Home?”

  She looked at him. “Sorry,” she said quickly, “I meant we could go back to... to your house and—”

  “I liked it better when you called it ‘home,’” Ryan said softly, brushing a kiss across her temple. “But I want to take you someplace special for this particular lunch.”

  Devon
smiled. “Where?”

  He smiled, too, very mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

  As they strolled out the Fifth Avenue exit and made their way slowly downtown, Ryan thought about what he’d say.

  How did you tell your own wife that rather than divorcing her, you wanted to marry her all over again? With all the trimmings this time, the ones he’d snickered at over the years.

  He wanted the whole nine yards: a church with sun streaming in the stained-glass windows, flowers at the altar and along both sides of the aisle. He wanted an organ playing—hell, he wanted violins and a cello and a choir. There’d be groomsmen and bridesmaids—but most of all, there’d be Devon, gliding toward him in a white lace gown and gossamer veil.

  They’d take their vows and slip gold rings on each other’s fingers. He’d given Devon a gold ring at that rushed little ceremony months ago but it hadn’t meant much more to either of them than a cigar wrapper. The ring he’d give her this time would be one she chose, a perfect complement to the fiery diamond engagement ring she’d wear to proclaim his love.

  Of course! That was how to do it. He wouldn’t tell her he loved her now, not just yet. First, he’d buy her a ring, a diamond as beautiful and as flawless as she was. And he’d make dinner reservations at La Salamandre. Hell, he’d do better than that, he’d tell Alain he wanted to reserve the whole damned restaurant.

  And when the moment was just right, he’d slip the ring from his pocket, take her hand in his, and say—

  “Oh, Ryan, whoever would think we’d run into each other here?”

  Ryan was so far away, happily lost in the imaginary world where he and Devon would begin their new lives, that at first he didn’t even recognize the woman’s voice, or her face.

  But when she shrieked his name again, he blinked his eyes and brought her into sharp, unwelcome focus.

  “Sharon,” he said, and forced a smile to his lips. “How nice.”

  Sharon smiled at him as if there had never been a cross word between them the last time they’d seen each other, almost six months before.

  “You look wonderful,” she said happily. Before he could take a backward step, she flung her arms around his neck, rose on tiptoe, and planted a kiss on his lips. “But then,” she said, laughing, “you always do.”

  Ryan’s eyes met Devon’s over Sharon’s glossy head. He smiled uncomfortably and lifted his eyebrows.

  Devon didn’t react.

  Well, that wasn’t true. She was reacting; her silence, her frozen face—that was reaction enough. Ryan knew that much. It was the same way he’d seen women react in the past, when they decided they had a claim on his full-time attention.

  But Devon did have a claim on his full-time attention. She was his...she was—

  “Ryan, darling,” Sharon purred, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “Oh. Oh, of course.” He took Sharon gently by the shoulders and put her at arm’s length. “I, ah, I don’t think you’ve met my... my...” Hell, what was the matter with him? Devon was his wife; it was a word he wanted to spend the rest of his life saying and here he was, choking over it the very first time he tried to use it. “Sharon,” he said firmly, “this is Devon. My wife.”

  He held out his arm. Devon looked at it for what seemed an eternity before she moved forward and let him settle it around her shoulders. She smiled politely at Sharon.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Sharon’s smile was equally polite. “How do you do, Yvonne? It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “It’s Devon,” Devon said politely. “And it’s very nice to meet you, too.”

  “Your wife is so pretty, Ryan,” Sharon said, turning up the wattage on her smile as she swung toward him. “Why have you been keeping her in hiding?”

  “I haven’t been. That is, I’ve been busy. Well, you know how it is...”

  Damn. Damn! He was almost stuttering, but why? Sharon meant nothing to him; Devon meant everything. It was just that it was awkward, being confronted by your former lover with your... your wife at your side, especially when until fewer than twenty-four hours ago, you hadn’t felt as if you had a wife at all.

  “Ah, I see. It’s Devonne who’s been keeping you under wraps.” Sharon gave a gay little laugh. “You mustn’t do that, you know. We’ve all missed seeing Ryan around town.”

  “I haven’t kept him anywhere,” Devon said, shooting Ryan a tight smile. “Isn’t that right, Ryan?”

  “Well... well...”

  “Isn’t that cute? The cat’s got Ryan’s tongue.” Sharon batted her lashes. “Does she keep you on such a short leash, darling?”

  “I don’t keep him on any kind of leash,” Devon snapped. “Actually, Ryan and I have a very modern relationship.”

  “Really,” Sharon said, lifting her eyebrows.

  “Really,” Devon said, fighting a losing battle to keep her temper under control.

  It was hard to know who she was angrier at, this... this overcoiffed, underdressed femme fatale or Ryan, standing like a big gorilla at her side.

  How dare Ryan let this... this Sharon creature pull this disgusting act? She was his wife; why wasn’t he acting as if she were?

  But she wasn’t his wife, Devon thought suddenly. A cold hand seemed to dig inside her chest and seize her heart. She wasn’t his wife at all. She knew it, Ryan knew it—and, now that she thought about it, Sharon seemed to know it, too. It was the only reason she’d try this sort of routine.

  “You know, sweetie,” Sharon said, leaning closer, “you snatched this man right out from under my nose.”

  “Sharon,” Ryan said, clearing his throat, “I don’t think Devon is interested in—”

  “He spent a weekend with me—well, of course, there was nothing unusual in that, was there, Ryan? You and I had spent dozens and dozens of weekends together.” Sharon sighed. “And then, on Sunday, you said goodbye and that was that. A week to the day later, I opened the New York Times and read that you’d been married.”

  “Sharon,” Ryan said, his voice sharp and chill, “we don’t want to keep you.”

  “Oh, you’re not keeping me, Ryan. Honestly, I’m so pleased to see you—and your lovely wife, of course. Lavonnne? Do ask Ryan for my number and give me a call. We’ll get together, for lunch perhaps.” She tossed back her mane of red hair and shot Devon a dazzling smile. “And we’ll compare notes about Ryan. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Loads of fun,” Devon said through her teeth.

  Ryan’s arm tightened around Devon’s shoulders.

  “Goodbye, Sharon,” he said, and he urged Devon swiftly up the street. Hell, he thought, bloody hell. Heaven only knew what Devon thought now.

  They stopped at the corner as the light went to red.

  “Vicious bitch,” Ryan muttered.

  “I don’t know why you’d say that,” Devon said sweetly. “I thought she was very friendly.”

  Ryan snorted. “She’s about as friendly as a cobra.”

  Devon glanced at him. His jaw was set, his mouth thin.

  “She must have been very upset, reading about our—about your marriage that way.”

  The light changed to green, and she stepped off the curb, shrugging off Ryan’s arm in the process.

  “It wasn’t the way she made it sound,” he snapped.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No, dammit, it was not! Our—relationship—had ended before you and I—before we—”

  “Strange, that you never mentioned her.”

  “It isn’t strange at all,” Ryan said coldly. “I never asked you about any relationships you might have had before we ... we signed our contract, now did I?”

  No, Devon thought, he certainly had not. Why would he? Their marriage wasn’t a marriage. Even now, after a night of incredible intimacy, neither of them could bring themselves to use the word.

  Devon’s throat constricted. Besides, what could he have said even if he’d wanted to say it? That there’d been a sexy, gorgeous woman in his life? That
he’d been involved with her, right up to the minute his grandfather had forced him into a marriage he didn’t want?

  All these months she’d been so angry at Ryan, so angry at herself, so busy denying that she’d fallen in love with him ... and not once, in all that time, had it occurred to her that Ryan might have left a woman behind when he signed his name to that damned marriage contract.

  Oh, she’d assumed there’d been women who’d wept a bit when they read the announcement in the Times. A man as handsome, as virile, as Ryan would surely have had women.

  But there was a world of difference between the singular and the plural of that word. “Women” were faceless, but this “woman” had not just a face but a name. She was a beautiful, sophisticated, sexy creature named Sharon who’d made her feel stupid and ugly.

  “Listen,” Ryan said brusquely, “just forget about Sharon, OK?”

  Devon nodded. “Sure.”

  “Where do you want to have lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Yes. Lunch. That’s what we were going to do before we ran into Madam Viper.”

  “Actually, I’m not terribly hungry.”

  “I am,” Ryan said grimly.

  “Well, then...” Devon nodded toward a hot dog vendor on the next corner. “Buy yourself a hot dog, why don’t you?”

  “I am not in the mood for a hot dog from a pushcart,” Ryan said irritably.

  Damn Sharon, anyway! Ten minutes ago, he’d been strolling along with a sweetly smiling woman at his side, feeling as if he’d conquered the world.

  Now he was stomping along Fifth Avenue with a fire-breathing dragon in tow. His euphoric mood seemed a thing of the far distant past.

  Why had he let Sharon get away with all that crap? The sweetness-and-light routine, all that pretense about not getting Devon’s name straight. It had all been bull. But he’d been so busy, trying to feel like a husband instead of a character in a bad farce, that he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about it.

  And now Devon was putting on a jealousy act that was driving his blood pressure off the scale.