Dynasties: The Elliotts, Books 1-6

by Various Authors

  She gave him a look that clearly said he had missed the point.

  “Humor me, would you, please?” he asked, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “We can discuss the division of assets after we’re married.”

  Thankfully, she let the subject drop. With any other woman, he might have been suspicious, but with Misty, he knew that was just her way. If something was worth arguing about, she’d fight to the bitter end, but as far as she was concerned, some things weren’t worth the effort.

  “All right. Dinner’s getting cold, anyway.” Taking his hand, she led him through the house to the kitchen.

  “You cooked?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Of course. Why else do you think I needed to go out today?”

  When they reached the kitchen, pots were steaming on the stovetop and she released his hands to deal with them.

  “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the places she’d already set at the island.

  He did have a dining room, which he was sure she’d discovered during all of her alleged snooping, but the kitchen was cozier and less formal for just the two of them.

  “No offense,” she said, “but you were down to cocktail olives and crackers.”

  He winced. “Yeah, sorry. I try to keep the basics stocked, but I’ve been kind of distracted lately. My grandmother keeps telling me I should ask my housekeeper to shop for me, too, but I can’t see the point, since I eat out more often than not or pick something up on the way home from work.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited. This is nothing elaborate.”

  “It smells delicious.”

  He admired the smooth flow of her movements as she stirred and tasted. She strained a pan of pasta, then scooped generous portions onto two plates, covering them with red sauce. Returning to the island, she set a serving at each of their places before climbing onto her stool.

  She looked so eager for his opinion of her culinary skills that he spread the linen napkin over his lap and immediately dug in. She’d added shrimp and chunks of portabello mushroom to the sauce, and flavors exploded along his taste buds.

  “Mmm,” he uttered in appreciation. “Very good.”

  She beamed at his compliment, then speared a forkful of pasta for herself. They ate in silence for several minutes before Cullen caught her eyeing him warily.

  “What?” he asked, glancing down at his shirt front. “Did I drip?”

  “No,” she said on a half laugh. “I was just thinking…If we did get married, would you expect me to be a housewife and stay-at-home mother? Cleaning the house, having dinner on the table every evening when you got home from work?”

  Though the question was posed innocently enough, he sensed the seriousness behind the words. This was also the first time she’d spoken about if they married, rather than remaining adamant that it would never happen.

  He set his fork on the side of his plate and swallowed, considering his answer carefully.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything,” he told her honestly. “I would want you to do whatever made you happy. If you wanted to stay home to raise our children, that would be fine with me. And if you enjoyed cleaning or cooking, that would be fine, too. But I have a housekeeper, and we could also hire a cook, if you wanted, so it wouldn’t have to be an issue.”

  “What if I wanted to work outside of the house?”

  “I’d be okay with that, too. Misty,” he said, stretching his arm across the corner of the island to squeeze her hand, “whatever you want to do with your life, I’ll be agreeable. Within reason, of course,” he added, flashing her a grin. “I don’t know how thrilled I’d be with the idea of you jumping out of airplanes or running into burning buildings. But if you wanted a position at EPH, I’d do whatever I could to get you a job there. If you wanted to teach dance at Juilliard, I’d support you on that, too.”

  “Juilliard,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Right. Like they would want a former Las Vegas showgirl on their faculty.”

  “You’re a great dancer, Misty. You worked as a showgirl, but we both know you’re talented at other forms of dance, too. You could wipe the floor with those Juilliard stiffs, if you wanted to.”

  When she beamed at him, it made all the moments of doubt and disappointment at her rejections fade away. He understood now—at least in part—why she continued to turn him down.

  She felt out of her element. The thought of marrying him scared her because she considered herself not good enough for an Elliott, far from socialite material.

  He hated that she thought so little of herself. If she only knew how much the Elliott family needed her—how much he needed her—to add a spark to their lives and loosen up some of the rigidity Patrick Elliott had drilled into all of them from infancy.

  His mind flashed back to his brother’s remarks that afternoon at the EPH gym. Bryan was right. He needed to decide if his proposals to Misty were based on emotion or an ingrained sense of responsibility.

  He was beginning to believe it was the former. Love might be too strong a word. After all, he’d never been in love and wasn’t quite sure how a sensation like that would feel. But he cared for her deeply. So much so that he wanted to marry her, raise their child together, spend the rest of his life with her.

  He wanted those things, he realized. He wasn’t selflessly offering to take them upon his shoulders because it was the decent and respectable thing to do.

  They finished the rest of their meals in a comfortable silence, but when Misty rose to carry the dishes to the dishwasher, Cullen wiped his mouth with his napkin, knowing he needed to ask one more time.

  “Hey, Misty?”

  She acknowledged him without turning around, her light brown hair with those streaks of blond falling over her shoulder and back as she bent to fill the bottom rack.

  His throat closed for a minute, the words sticking as his chest tightened and a wave of unexpected emotion washed over him. He’d asked her to marry him a dozen times before, but for some reason, he suspected this time was different. This time, her refusal just might crush him.

  He swallowed hard, his fingers turning white as they clutched the edge of the island. “Will you marry me?”

  She stopped what she was doing and turned to meet his gaze. Sadness and regret flashed through her eyes for a split second, and he knew what was coming.

  “I’m sorry, Cullen, the answer is still no.”

  Ten

  Two days later, Misty was wandering around Cullen’s town house, trying to find something interesting to occupy her time. She’d already straightened the kitchen and bedroom, flipped through channels on the television in the living room and read the first few chapters of a popular fiction paperback she’d found in the den.

  It wasn’t even noon and she was bored already. Cullen had assured her she wouldn’t be expected to be a housewife or stay-at-home mom. She could go out if she wanted, find a job or other activity to keep occupied.

  If she married him. Which she wouldn’t. Couldn’t, no matter how much her heart might protest the decision of her better judgment.

  She would still see him. He would come to Nevada to visit his child, and she was sure he’d ask her to fly east with the baby a few times a year. They could spend time together then.

  Things might not be the same between them—their sexual relationship would likely transform itself into something more platonic—but at least he would still be in her life. She wouldn’t lose him completely just because she refused to love, honor and cherish him.

  She didn’t need vows for that. She already felt all of those things and more for him. But she wouldn’t intrude upon his life, forcing him to make room for her and a child when she was sure that had been as far from his plans as flying to the moon.

  It hadn’t exactly been in her plans, either, but she could incorporate the role of single mother into her everyday life much more easily than he could incorporate a pregnant ex-showgirl into his.

  With a sigh, she plopped down on the sofa in front of th
e TV, contemplating another run through the channels to see if anything interesting had come on in the past ten minutes. She could go out—it was a balmy May afternoon—but had already done about as much exploring as she cared to do on her own. Or maybe…maybe she should think about going back to Las Vegas.

  Back to her dance studio and normal routine. She might not be able to teach classes quite the way she had in the past, but there were adjustments that could be made to allow her studio to remain open. A couple of the students had been taking classes from her long enough to pick up the slack and demonstrate moves she was no longer capable of.

  And there was no sense dragging out the inevitable. She would have to return home eventually. Maybe sooner would be better than later, especially considering the tension that had developed between Cullen and her ever since that night in the kitchen when he’d asked her one more time to marry him.

  One last time, it seemed, since he hadn’t broached the subject again.

  Where he used to propose several times a day, it had now been several days since the topic of marriage had even been discussed. They still made love, still slept in each other’s arms and he still called from work to check on her. But what he didn’t do was ask her to marry him morning, noon and night.

  She missed it, she thought with a pang low in her belly. As many times as she’d turned him down, it was horrible of her to be sorry he’d stopped, but she was. She missed the tiny thrill of anticipation that used to sing through her veins every time the phone rang or he walked through the door.

  She’d said no because it was the right thing to do, but it had been flattering to hear him pose the question over and over, as though he really meant it.

  When the doorbell chimed, her heart lurched and she jumped to her feet, thinking it might be Cullen. A second later, her senses returned and she realized he would simply use his key, not ring the bell.

  Still, a visitor would be a nice distraction. She almost didn’t care if it was a door-to-door salesperson wanting to demonstrate the amazing power of a new vacuum cleaner, or a neighbor looking for her toy poodle.

  What she didn’t expect to find when she pulled open the door was Cullen’s cousin Bridget. Misty hadn’t seen the woman since their amusing and slightly embarrassing encounter in his office a couple of weeks ago, but that didn’t keep her from stepping into the foyer and greeting Misty with a wide, bright smile.

  “Hi, there,” Bridget said enthusiastically, tossing her lime green handbag over one shoulder. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Misty shook her head. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to say hello, but was beginning to realize this was probably typical of encounters with Bridget. The young woman was energetic almost to a fault, and brought a smile to Misty’s lips without even trying.

  She was wearing an orange sleeveless top with a small tie holding together the two sides of the deep V-neck. Her skirt had an angled hem and a swirl design that incorporated the same colors of her blouse, purse and brown shoes. Her dark blond shoulder-length hair was pulled back on either side with rhinestone clips that sparkled in the sunlight shining through the front windows.

  “I’m so glad.” A determined light played across her blue eyes. “Now tell me you don’t have plans for the day.”

  Misty shook her head again. “No. Why?”

  Bridget released what must have been a pent-up breath. “Great, because I came to take you to lunch.”

  “Excuse me?” Misty blinked, feeling somewhat disconcerted.

  “Lunch. You know, the meal between breakfast and dinner. The activity in which women get together for a little gossip and girl talk.”

  She flashed a grin and moved forward to squeeze Misty’s arm. “Come on. I know Cullen is at work and you must be going stir-crazy cooped up here by yourself. We’ll go out, grab a bite and I’ll fill you in on all the best need-to-know about the Elliott clan. You can ask me how to get on Granddad’s good side—if he even has a good side—” she added with a roll of her eyes, “and what Cullen was like as a kid.”

  That last was icing on the cake. Misty had been almost desperate to find something to do, and since she liked Bridget immensely, going out to lunch with her sounded like fun. But now that she’d mentioned it, Misty did want to know more about Cullen’s childhood and the man who would be her child’s great-grandfather.

  “Let me just grab my purse,” she said, turning to head upstairs. “I should probably phone Cullen, too, to let him know I won’t be home for a while.”

  “He already knows,” Bridget called after her.

  Misty paused halfway up the steps.

  “I told him what I was up to before I left EPH. He said we should enjoy ourselves and bring him some leftovers.” Bridget crossed her arms over her chest. “As if. Let him find his own food. If we talk as long as I think we will, we may still be out at dinnertime.”

  Misty chuckled before running the rest of the way to the bedroom to retrieve her small clutch purse. When they stepped outside, she noticed Bridget had a Town Car from the same service Cullen had recommended waiting at the curb.

  “I’m not allowed to let you overdo it,” Bridget said as they slipped into the air conditioned backseat.

  “I feel fine,” Misty felt the need to put in.

  “I’m sure you do, but Cullen told us about your hospital stay—scared ten years off of him, I’d venture to say—and he just doesn’t want you getting sick or risking the baby. You’re lucky he doesn’t have you on bed rest, whether the doctor suggested it or not,” she said with a wink. “The Elliotts are like that—stubborn, determined know-it-alls.”

  “You included?” Misty asked with a small smile.

  “Of course.” Bridget didn’t seem the least offended or put off by the description. “As much as I hate it sometimes—especially Granddad—I’m lucky I was born into this family. Anyone else’s and they’d have probably tied me up in a burlap sack and tossed me into the East River years ago. As it is, they consider me hell on wheels. Most of the time, I think they all stand back and hope that if I do anything really stupid, I won’t take them down with me.”

  “It must be nice to belong to such a large, close-knit family.”

  “It is,” Bridget replied without hesitation. “It can be a pain in the butt, too, but any time I’m in trouble or need something, I know I can turn to them.”

  A beat passed before Bridget said, “You can, too, you know. Once you and Cullen get married, you’ll be as much an Elliott as the rest of us and can come to me or the others whenever you need anything.”

  Misty started to protest that she and Cullen weren’t going to marry, then thought better of it. He had probably already told his family they were, and no amount of argument from her would convince them differently.

  Besides, she really didn’t want to bring Cullen’s cousin into the debate. It would become clear enough to everyone that a wedding wasn’t going to take place when no plans were made and she flew back to Las Vegas.

  She also took exception to the idea that she would fold naturally into their family and automatically become one of them just because she married Cullen. Bridget herself had said that their grandfather, Patrick Elliott, had been overheard claiming, no grandson of mine is going to marry a stripper!

  She wasn’t a stripper and never had been, but doubted the eldest Elliott would appreciate the distinction.

  A lot of people felt the same way, so she could hardly blame him for the misconception. It bothered her more that he had apparently made up his mind about her and her relationship with Cullen before even meeting her. But then, she couldn’t blame him for that, either. In his shoes, she probably would have had a similar reaction.

  From the outside, she was sure she looked like a gold digger, out for the Elliott money. An exshowgirl, searching for a way out of Las Vegas and into one of the wealthiest and most successful families in the northeast.

  First, they would say, she lured Cullen in with hot sex and a convenient affair. Then she mana
ged to get herself pregnant and trap him into a loveless marriage.

  If only people—Cullen’s family included—knew the truth. How much she really did care for him, and that this pregnancy had been as much of a shock to her as it had to anyone else.

  Her hand moved to cover the slight bulge in her lap as the Town Car moved through the stop-and-go Manhattan traffic.

  That was another reason she couldn’t marry Cullen—because no matter what they did or said, no one would ever believe she hadn’t gotten pregnant on purpose to tie him to her and gain ready access to his money.

  She might be a kept woman, but she wasn’t a gold digger and didn’t think she could live with the knowledge that everyone in the world thought she was.

  Hours later, Misty and Bridget sat at a white latticework table on the patio of a local delicatessen. A slight breeze ruffled the umbrella over their heads as they made slow work of their sandwiches and fruit salad.

  They probably would have been at the restaurant much earlier, except that Bridget had insisted they stop along the way. After hearing about what Misty had done so far on her first visit to New York, she had declared Misty’s outings boring and pedestrian and decided to give her a taste of what the Elliott women considered a fun day of shopping.

  She had taken Misty to several jewelry stores and boutiques, encouraging her to buy something at each. She kept telling her he wouldn’t mind, and a part of Misty knew it was true. But she felt extremely uncomfortable at the notion of making or asking Cullen to pay for anything more than necessities for her.

  Providing for their child was one thing, but she refused to accept baubles and superfluous gifts that would make her feel like more than just a mistress. They would make her feel like a whore. No better than the type of woman everyone already assumed her to be.