Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  Meanwhile, Dan paced the room. I peeked at him from between my fingers. He was a restless wolf, prowling a cage.

  So beautiful.

  My hands dropped, and I took a step forward. “Dan—”

  He held out a palm. “Nope.”

  “I want you—”

  “Yeah, well, I want a lot of things.” His glare pivoted down and then up my body, and he sounded almost angry.

  I’d been close, so close, and there’d been no numbness, only desire and sensation. Didn’t he understand how monumental that was? And then he’d pulled away.

  “Couldn’t we—”

  “No!” He stopped pacing, his eyes a little wild. “We’re taking this slow.”

  “Because Dr. Kasai told us to? Or because you want to? Or because you don’t think I can?” I couldn’t disguise my bitterness.

  His eyes were a jumble of emotions. “Because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “Because it means something!”

  He’d shouted the words and the ensuing silence was deafening.

  An answering swelling in my heart reached out to him, and before I knew it, my feet had taken me across the room again. He watched me come, his gaze wary, bracing, as though he expected me to strike or otherwise hurt him. But when I was close, he pulled me into his arms, holding me tight and releasing his favorite expletive under his breath.

  I clung to him.

  “I have to be honest here,” he said on a rough rush next to my ear, his voice was much quieter, yet doubly impassioned. “I have to tell you my limits, because you have to trust me. So you have to know . . . you mean something to me. It’s never going to be a finish line with you, or something to cross off a list. It’s—I want—I need—it to be everything.”

  I stiffened a little at his words, recognition giving way to guilt. Before he’d thrown me for a loop by trading kisses for items of clothing, I’d been contemplating flowcharts and check boxes. Touching him, being in the moment with him, enjoying the tension between us had been infinitely more substantial.

  And dangerous.

  A difference I hadn’t comprehended until right now. Dan was not a box to be checked. He was not a task, a risk to be measured against potential benefit.

  He wants surrender.

  “I can’t control this,” I said, my eyes and nose stinging—not sure if I was referring to what had happened moments ago, or how I was falling in love with him, how I was probably already in love with him—and I pressed myself more firmly into his embrace. “It’s overwhelming.”

  “It’s supposed to be.” His hold shifted to my shoulders and he held me away, just a few inches so our eyes could meet. “Trust me,” he said, and it sounded like a plea.

  “I do.”

  He shook his head, telling me he disagreed. “Trust me that I want every part of you.”

  I stared at him, panic ballooning within me. “What if parts of me are messy? Or ugly?”

  He smirked. “Parts of you are ugly and messy. I still want you. I want the ugly and the beautiful and everything in between. You don’t pick and choose the parts of a person you want. Shit, I’m the ugliest fucker I know, and I want to give it all to you.”

  I laughed even as my chin wobbled and, damn it, I was already crying.

  His smile was soft, his gaze focusing on the tear that had spilled over my cheek. He didn’t try to wipe it away.

  “I want it all, Kit-Kat. I want all of you.”

  I nodded, sniffing. “I want all of you, too.”

  He placed a gentle kiss over my mouth, and then brushed his lips over the tears on my cheeks before resting his forehead against mine and closing his eyes.

  “And I want it to last.” It was a rough whisper.

  The words sounded like a wish.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Generic (drug): A pharmaceutical drug (typically the chemical name of a drug) that is equivalent to a brand-name product in dosage, strength, route of administration, quality, performance and intended use, but does not carry the brand name.

  —FDA.gov

  **Dan**

  I woke up in a great fucking mood.

  We’d kissed. A lot. And then we’d fallen asleep tangled in each other. Kat hadn’t been naked—if she’d been naked, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep—but she was wearing those little pajamas I liked. One of her legs between mine, her arm draped over my stomach, her head on my chest. She smelled like cake.

  The best. We should have been doing this all week. A missed opportunity.

  But we overslept. We had an appointment with Eugene to go over the will at 8:30 AM; it was now 7:45 AM. I showered first, dressing in the study while she used the facilities, and we left in a hurry. Not even rush hour traffic and wreckers on the Pike could make a dent—no pun intended—in my mood.

  She was wearing one of her starched white shirts, buttoned all the way to her neck, and a slim dark blue skirt to just beneath her knees. Her hair fell around her shoulders, meticulously arranged, straight and sleek.

  Kat was prim, impeccably ironed, all buttoned up. Seeing her like this made me feel like one of those bad kids who go around knocking down other kids’ towers made out of blocks, just to watch them fall. My first instinct was always to reach my hand up her skirt and watch her blush, sweat, and moan. The urge to undo all her careful work, wrinkle her clothes, mess her hair, and leave a hickey on her neck—or on the inside of her thigh—was always there, like a song on repeat in the back of my mind.

  Hmm . . . Maybe later.

  Adding sunshine to roses, next to the offices of Sharpe and Marks, lawyers extraordinaire, was a Dunks— Dunkin’ Donuts for all the plebeian Starbucks drinkers out there. She finished her makeup in the car while I grabbed my usual, hot coffee with one sugar, and ordered Kat’s the way I knew she liked it.

  She took a sip as I held the lobby door open for her, and I grinned when she glanced at me in surprise over her shoulder.

  “This is perfect.”

  I shrugged, scanning the lobby. “I know.” Three visible exits, one security guard.

  She shook her head. “How did you know how I take my coffee?”

  “I have my ways.” I shrugged again as we approached the receptionist.

  Her eyes narrowed while she tried to frown and failed. “How do you take your coffee?”

  I scoffed. “You can’t just ask a person how he takes his coffee, Kit-Kat. That’s a very personal question.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Oh yeah? How’re you going to manage that?”

  “I have my ways.” She grinned.

  Her grin made me dumb for a minute. All I could do was blink at her and wonder about these ways of hers.

  Meanwhile, Kat turned her attention to the guy at the desk. “Hi, Aiken.”

  The guy was concentrating on his computer screen. He looked up distractedly and then did a double take. “Ms. Caravel-Tyson,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

  Then he stood, smoothing his hand down his tie, and smiled at her in a way that sobered me up real fast. Because it wasn’t just a smile. It was an invitation.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? We can send someone out to pick something up, anything at all,” he offered as he navigated the big semicircular desk, walking straight for her, still wearing that smile.

  The guy tried to get closer to her, like he was planning on pulling her into a hug. He couldn’t. I’d angled my body in front of hers and Kat slipped her hand through my arm.

  I didn’t know this guy.

  Sure, he didn’t look like a threat—tall, younger than me, from the looks of it he worked out a lot, probably played cricket, or rowed a boat, or something else stupid—but you never can tell just by looking at people.

  All I’m saying is, maybe he was a serial killer. Who knows? Just to be safe, I made sure he couldn’t get too close.

  After a long, awkward minute of him trying to get at her and me shifting from one side to the other, staying between the
m, he shot me a furtive look of exasperation.

  “No, thank you.” Kat sounded like she was fighting a laugh. “We already have coffee. But if you could take us to Eugene’s office, that would be great.”

  “Of course,” he said, his voice going all deep, his eyes dropping to the front of the shirt she was wearing, then coming to me. “Is this person accompanying you, or will we need to find a place for him elsewhere?” There was no invitation in the smile he was sending me.

  I blinked at the guy. Not going to lie, his question and tone irritated me, like I was last Thursday’s leftovers from an all-you-can-eat fish and sauerkraut buffet.

  I heard Kat take a deep breath before saying, “Darling, this is Aiken. He’s an intern here at the firm. Aiken, this is Mr. O’Malley, my husband.”

  Darling. . . Yeah.

  I liked that.

  Mr. Harvard’s smile slipped, and he blinked like Kat had just thrown a drink in his face.

  That plus darling had me smiling, but I didn’t extend my hand. “You wanna lead the way, barney?”

  “Of—of course.” His eyes moved between us; it took him a few seconds to find his composure. Eventually he did, pasting on a new grin. “Right this way.”

  Smoothing his hand down his tie again, he turned and walked toward the elevators. We followed at a distance since I still wasn’t clear on his serial killer status. He used a key card, then pressed the call button. The doors slid open right away and he gestured for us to enter. We did, Kat standing in the corner, me next to her, him walking in and taking the spot by the buttons.

  He glanced over his shoulder, giving my wife another of his inviting smiles. “Did you have a nice summer?”

  Apparently, he’d recovered from the near-heart attack inducing shock of our marriage.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The tightness in her voice had me checking on her. She looked at me, her eyes big and solemn, like she was frustrated. Arranging my eyebrows into the universal expression for, Are you okay? Kat nodded quickly in response, squeezing my bicep, and placing her head on my shoulder.

  Hmm . . .

  I shifted my coffee to my other hand, covered her fingers with mine, and placed a kiss on her temple. She sighed, sounding content.

  Good.

  Turning back to the doors, I spotted the guy watching us, his forehead’s wrinkles and his lips’ slight sneer communicating loud and clear that he found the idea of us confusing.

  Narrowing my eyes, I asked, “And how was your summer?” Get a chance to visit the club with mummy and daddy? Take the yacht for a spin down the Cape?

  “Great,” he replied, giving too much emphasis to the “T.”

  Thank Christ, the doors finally opened. Our tour guide stepped out first, and we followed. I spotted the stairway immediately and made a quick mental map of the layout as we walked. It must’ve been the executive level because everything was quality, from the art on the wall to the plasterwork on the ceiling.

  But there was too much glass for my liking—glass doors, glass walls—something I hated about Cypher Systems’s offices as well. Seemed like a safety hazard.

  He led us to a big set of wooden double doors, knocked twice, and then entered without waiting for a response. He held the door open.

  The barney stopped in his tracks as the sound of arguing voices—wicked pissed voices—greeted us. Frowning, I peered around our escort’s shoulder and found Eugene yelling at another guy, and I caught the tail end of the rant.

  “. . . unacceptable, Sharpe. You can’t make these decisions, and you can’t just show up here, minutes before a scheduled meeting, and drop this on me. The Caravel-Tysons are my clients.”

  “You’re retiring, Eugene. You need to let us handle it.”

  “You’re not handling it, you’re fucking it all up.”

  “It’s time for you to—”

  Kat cleared her throat loudly, cutting off whatever Sharpe was going to say. She stepped around me and the barney, strolling into the office like she was the Queen of Sheba. “I have an eight-thirty appointment, Mr. Marks. It’s eight thirty.”

  I followed her in, coming to stand at her shoulder. Her back was straight and her voice dripped with disdain. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could only imagine the ice she was sending their way.

  The guy named Sharpe seemed to sigh, his attention moving between us. I didn’t miss the disapproval forcing his eyebrows lower as he inspected me.

  Eugene was pissed. He didn’t look at us. He continued glaring at Sharpe.

  Belatedly and unnecessarily, the barney said, “Mr. Marks, Ms. Caravel-Tyson is here.”

  While being scowled at, I surveyed the layout of Eugene’s office. Right away, I spotted the closed door to the left of his desk. My money was on private bathroom. The first thing rich people wanted to do when they achieved any success was stop shitting on the same toilet as poor people. Or other rich people for that matter. They wanted their own damn toilet.

  Fucking weirdos. Regardless of how much money I had in the bank, I was never going to be one of these people.

  “Thank you.” Eugene, standing by his desk and still shooting daggers at Sharpe, dismissed Aiken with a lift of his chin. He then walked around his partner to us, his eyes on me, and then moving his attention to Kat.

  “Ms. Caravel-Tyson.” He nodded his head, not reaching out to shake her hand. “You know Mr. Sharpe, my partner.”

  His use of her last names hit an off note with me, but she didn’t seem to care.

  Sharpe stepped forward, making no effort to shake her hand either. “You’ve made the trip for no reason. According to the wishes of the inheritor designate, we are unable to—”

  “Inheritor designate? What are you talking about?” Stepping away from me and walking past the two men, she took a seat at a medium-sized conference table, setting her coffee on the surface. “I’m the sole beneficiary.”

  Eugene was grinding his teeth, the corners of his mouth at an unhappy angle. He looked tense and I got the impression he wanted to say something.

  Sharpe opened his mouth to respond, but just then the door on the left side of the room opened, revealing Tiny Satan. I heard the telltale sounds of a toilet recently flushed. Of course the shitbag didn’t wash his hands. Disgusting.

  My stare turned into a glare and my sigh was automatic. I shook my head, strolling to the conference table, inserting myself between Kat and her cousin. This fucking guy.

  Quinn and Alex had been able to thwart and delay Caleb’s attempts to return to Boston for the last week. They’d also sent me plenty of valuable info about Caleb’s finances, which I’d planned to tell Kat about. But, honestly, with everything else and all the good stuff between Kat and me last night, it had slipped my mind.

  Long story short, he was no longer a threat. So I wasn’t worried seeing him here now. That said, this Sharpe guy was an unknown threat.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” Caleb said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and grinning at both of us, all teeth and no lips.

  Poor Eugene.

  Firstly, Kat had been giving the old guy the iceberg treatment for days.

  Secondly, his partner seemed like a tightass.

  Thirdly, what was the point of having his own rich-person bathroom if this sheisty fuckstick comes in and pisses all over it? Not even washing his hands after.

  “Mr. Tyson,” Sharpe sounded relieved. “I was just explaining to your cousin that there was no need for her to make the trip, and that we’d be in contact with next steps for her.”

  “Why is he here?” Kat addressed this question to Eugene, her tone impressively dispassionate. “He’s not mentioned in the will.”

  “And how do you know that?” Caleb swaggered further into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets. Based on the continuing movements of his hands, I’d bet my collection of bird skeletons—if I had a collection of bird skeletons—that Caleb was playing with his dick.

  “I don’t have time for this.” K
at sounded bored. “Mr. Marks, please call my lawyers to arrange an alternate time to read the will.”

  “Your lawyers?” Caleb sounded gleeful. The sheisty fuckstick was up to something. “But, how will you pay them?” he asked dramatically.

  Kat’s glare slid to her cousin and she gave him the meanest fucking look I’d ever seen, like he was maggot pus at the bottom of a garbage can. She didn’t respond, instead picking up her coffee like she was prepared to leave.

  “Are you going to tell her, Marks? Or should I?” Caleb shifted back and forth on his feet, like he had to take a piss. But we all knew that wasn’t the case, he’d just taken one and not washed his hands.

  Sharpe took a step forward, looking displeased with his client. “Ms. Caravel-Tyson, if you would please just leave. We will be in contact—”

  “Never mind, I’ll tell her.” Caleb spoke over Sharpe. “I’ve frozen all your assets. Surprise!”

  My eyes widened. I was surprised. I glanced at Eugene for confirmation.

  He nodded subtly. “Caleb has been working with Sharpe to freeze the Caravel-Tyson assets since last week.” Eugene looked like he was ready to explode with contempt, which was why the coolness of his tone was so remarkable. “He’s had some . . . communications and transportation issues on his return trip from Chicago. But Sharpe’s team received approval for the motion yesterday.”

  “On what grounds?” Kat continued addressing her questions to Eugene, as though neither her cousin nor Mr. Sharpe were present.

  “We’re not able to disclose that.” Sharpe took a half step toward the door, like if he moved to the door then Kat and I would follow.

  “Your marriage.” Eugene’s stare moved from Kat to me. “Caleb is working to have it invalidated on the grounds of mental incompetence and Mr. O’Malley’s questionable character. He plans to invalidate your marriage and then proceed with his guardianship petition.”

  “Eugene!” Sharpe was clearly shocked by his partner’s willingness to openly share information with us.

  I looked over at Eugene—the sneer of his lip, the cold rage behind his eyes—and realized the old guy had finally decided to not give a single fuck what his partner thought.