Claiming His Christmas Wife

by Dani Collins

  “Because you never should have married me.” She was looking at her hand now, where she played her thumb against the plate of the catch. In a sudden move, she pulled her hand away and pressed her thumb to her mouth.

  “Did you just cut yourself?” How? She really was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “No,” she lied around her thumb, scowling at him. “What time do I need to be ready?”

  “Let me see.” He rose.

  “I’m a big girl. I can solve my own problems.” She held her ground, tucking her thumb inside her fist and dropping her hand, not hearing the ridiculousness of her statement when his email was ringing like a stock trading bell with notes and questions from his accountant about her catastrophe of a financial situation.

  Maybe she did hear it, though. She lowered her gaze and her shoulders heaved in a defeated sigh.

  He gave her this one and stayed where he was.

  “We have reservations for seven. Check the powder room for bandages.”

  She walked away and down the hall.

  * * *

  You look lovely.

  Imogen was trying not to smooth her dress down her hips or fiddle with the neckline as they entered the restaurant. Her mind kept playing a loop of his quiet compliment as they’d left the penthouse. Was he pandering to her fragile self-worth after her hissy fit at the boutique? Making a comment on the fact she didn’t look like death warmed over now that she was on the mend? Or had he meant it?

  Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe she did look nice. She had always scrubbed up pretty well. Along with all the clothes, some makeup had been delivered. With her hair washed and styled, she looked as good as she could. This dress didn’t hurt one bit, either. It was a figure-hugging crepe in panels of purple and ivory with a saucy zipper all the way down the front. Her shoes were a stunning confection of crystals forming a floral embellishment on an otherwise nude mesh with a sparkly heel. Chic and classy, but cheeky.

  She desperately wanted to click them together to see if she could fix her life in a blink. On the other hand, this Technicolor world of his, where her mother’s change purse had been replaced with a half dozen handbags with designer labels, was a nice place to visit. Even on her best day, she had never carried as much cash in her bank balance as the value of this quilted satin clutch, with its seed pearls in paisley patterns and enameled clasp.

  Had he spoken with a hint of emotion in his tone when he’d delivered that succinct compliment? Or had it just sounded that way because she’d been so terribly desperate that he not find fault? Had he been forcing the words out? Was it a pity compliment?

  Was she that far gone she was okay with that?

  “The other half of your party is here. Let me show you to your table,” the maître d’ said, weaving them through the crush at the front of the restaurant to what seemed an exclusive section at the back, where tables overlooked Central Park. She had glanced longingly at the merrily lit-up carriages trotting down the paths there as they’d entered.

  Watching them would be almost as good, but she balked and caught at Travis’s arm. “Other half?”

  “I invited a friend and his wife, someone willing to help with our PR problem.”

  Our? He wasn’t doing her reputation any harm. She was the one dragging him into the dirt.

  As Imogen recognized the couple waiting for them, and they stood for introductions, she must have dug in her heels because Travis’s hand in her lower back firmed, pressing her forward exactly as her mother used to when she had wanted Imogen to greet her father after a business trip with a hug and a kiss.

  “Nic. Rowan.” Travis greeted his guests, then introduced her simply as, “Imogen.”

  “Gantry,” she supplied. Nic Marcussen owned one of the largest news organizations in the world. His wife had been a child performer and was the daughter of a well-known starlet from British stage and films. “My father was Wallace Gantry. Travis may have neglected to mention that.”

  “He didn’t have to,” Nic said. “I know who you are. I don’t have any hard feelings. My sympathies for your loss.”

  “I suppose professional rivalry is only an issue for the person in second place,” she murmured dryly, making him release a surprised chuckle, then give her a look of reassessment.

  Maybe he was amused because she had exaggerated her father’s position. He’d been running dead last in their particular race, writing more than one inflammatory piece about rivals like Marcussen Media ruining publishing by encouraging the online platform. Meanwhile Nic had evolved with the times and had risen to the top. He could have gloated about that, but he allowed the conversation to move to other topics.

  Imogen remained on guard, though, barely touching her wine and filtering every word that left her tongue. It wasn’t the other couple that made her so tense. They were witty and relaxed and clearly in love, talking up their children and what sounded like such a perfect life that Imogen’s heart contracted with envy.

  While she felt like she was being tested with Travis looking at her each time she spoke, making her feel picked apart. She had lived her entire life like this, conscious of how she reflected on her father. Maybe she would have felt this same sense of being on display when she and Travis were married if they’d ever left his apartment, but one of the things that had drawn her to him most inexorably had been a sense that, when she was alone with him, she could be herself, accepted for exactly who she was.

  No longer. As forthright as she’d been in the last two days, as much as she had owned up to her mistakes and tried to make amends, she continued to feel as though she fell short. It was agonizing, not that she let on, chuckling on cue and pretending the brush of Travis’s thigh against her knee didn’t turn her insides to butter.

  They were starting dessert when Nic said, “Strong piece on the builder.” He was speaking to her, but nodded to indicate he was referring to Travis.

  “What?” The heat of a thousand suns swiveled onto her, drying her throat into an arid wasteland. She shot an accusatory look at the man beside her.

  “You didn’t tell her you sent it to me?” Nic asked.

  Travis’s flat smile at Nic said, “Thanks a lot.”

  “You said—” Behave, Imogen. She willed the pressure behind her eyes to stay there and looked to her crème brûlée. “He didn’t,” she replied with a forced smile. “Thank you.”

  She quickly changed the subject, asking after their home in Greece, and managed to get through the rest of the meal without snapping, but the short trip back to Travis’s penthouse was a silence thick with the fulminating anger she was suppressing. She was trembling by the time they were in the elevator.

  “I sent it across to him because I thought it was very—”

  “I don’t care what you thought,” she cut in. “You lied.”

  “About reading it? Or about our reason for going to dinner?”

  “Both.”

  “Look, I sent the press release on our reconciliation directly to him, as an exclusive. In return, he made a point of being seen with me, which telegraphs that any smear campaigns against me will have consequences.”

  The doors opened and she charged straight up the stairs to the guest room she had commandeered.

  He followed and stuck out a foot to stop the bedroom door she tried to slam in his face.

  She glared at him as she threw down her overpriced, mostly empty clutch—biggest lipstick holder in the history of accessories—and kicked off her insanely expensive shoes without care for their quality.

  “Since he and I were on the topic of you,” Travis continued relentlessly, “I sent across your article, requesting he forward it to one of his editors if he saw a place where you might fit. You seemed interested in freelance work.”

  “That’s not how it works, Travis. Writers are a dime a dozen and you have to earn your stripes. Do your friends
send sketches from their wives for you to consider for your next big project, so they don’t have to go through the pesky process of apprenticing at the drafting table? No. You expect them to climb through the ranks like everyone else.”

  “You’ve paid your dues. Why are you angry? He liked it.”

  “Great! Now what happens if he throws some work my way? Who do I owe for that?” She gave a useless pound of her fists into the air at her hips, making her elbows hurt. “You? Again?”

  “You owe yourself because it was a good piece.” He looked confused, like he genuinely didn’t understand why he had to explain this to her. “It was thorough, insightful and entertaining.”

  “I don’t care what you thought,” she insisted, talking over him.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you didn’t care then how I felt about you. I don’t need to hear now that you find those feelings quaint and pathetic.”

  He rocked back on his heels, expression shuttering. “That’s not what I thought at all. For God’s sake, Imogen, I thought it sounded as if—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think it sounds like! I am being brutally honest with you at every turn,” she cried shakily, throwing out her arms in agitation. “I have no ego left. No defenses, no self-worth. I’ve lost everything and I depend solely on you.” She pointed at him in emphasis. “And you lied to me. I asked you if you’d read it and you lied.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked away. The ceiling light was on, along with the one in the hallway. There was nowhere for either of them to hide.

  “Do I not even deserve honesty from you?” Her whole body throbbed with agony at how little respect that showed.

  A muscle pulsed in his jaw before he finally admitted quietly, through his clenched teeth, “I felt naked when I read it.”

  “You did,” she choked, dipping her head to rub her brow. “Those were my gauche feelings on display, not yours.”

  “You—” He looked away. “Reading it made me remember the excitement and enthusiasm you showed when we met. I remember how encouraging you were. It was infectious and, yes, flattering.” His fists were round bulges in his pockets. “You also captured how I was feeling. My passion and ambition for the future. All the aspirations I had for the company. It was uncomfortable to look back on that, mostly because I’ve lost some of that glossy outlook. I’ve become cynical and business focused. Reading it was like reading a letter from myself, reminding me why I pushed to expand, what I had hoped to accomplish. It was disturbing to see how far I’ve strayed from where I intended to be right now.”

  She searched his expression, which was closed off and resistant to telling her any of this. She wanted to ask where he thought he should be, but only said, “You lied because you didn’t want to tell me that?”

  “I don’t process things as quickly as you do. I have to deconstruct before I can reconstruct. But if you want honesty, Imogen, my first thought was that I needed to thank you for documenting that time in my life. Reading that article renewed my sense of inspiration.”

  She blinked, feeling for the first time since she’d seen him again that maybe she did have something to offer him.

  “At the same time, it was a gentle rebuke.” He frowned. “Suddenly, I’m realizing why I haven’t been entirely happy with my work lately. I forgot the passion that drove me to architecture in the first place. So, yes, I lied to you while I filtered through all of that.”

  For some reason, her stomach was full of butterflies, all flitting in different directions, tickling her heart and making her breaths feel unsteady. She didn’t know how to process this, either. She was touched. Truly moved by having had some effect on him at all.

  She tried to gloss over it by being flippant. “Does that mean I should say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘you’re welcome’?”

  “You can say ‘you’re welcome,’” he said with a sincerity that turned the floor beneath her to sand. “But maybe ‘thank you,’ as well, since I loathe revealing my missteps, but I sent the article to Nic anyway. I knew it was a stellar example of your ability. I couldn’t refuse to let you use it to get work if writing is where your interest lies. But there was some self-interest there, too,” he allowed with a tilt of his head. “I figured he could help you get started without putting my story on every desk in town.”

  “Oh.” She was still holding on to her elbows, but much of her tension had drained away into a glow she was afraid to name. Pride? “That was kind. Thank you.” She licked her lips. “But please don’t lie to me again. It’s upsetting.”

  “Is it? I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly.

  She quirked a half smile at his facetious lie and dropped her gaze, realizing that she stood beside the bed. He was inside her room, hand on the latch of the door.

  “I do appreciate all you’re doing for me,” she said sincerely. “It’s hard to accept it, though. If I lash out, that’s why. I don’t like being something that has to be tolerated. Not again.”

  “You’re not.”

  “You’re not doing this out of friendship or affection, Travis.” She wasn’t being emotional about it. It was a fact. “It’s obligation because we were once very briefly married. That’s all.”

  He didn’t contradict her and that was, perhaps, the most painful response he could have offered.

  “I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t think you were worth the effort, Imogen.”

  As she stared at him, absorbing those words, her heartbeats slowed and grew so heavy they became a hammer, chipping away at her breastbone. “Do you mean that?”

  “I do.”

  She nodded, unable to thank him because she was too moved. Her composure was crumbling.

  “Do you mind?” she said in a strained voice. “I’m going to take my pills and get some sleep. The boss of my life says I have to.”

  He stood there a long moment before nodding once. He closed the door as he left.

  She sat on the bed a long time, eyes closed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Travis booked them into the presidential suite in a Charleston mansion that had been converted to an exclusive boutique hotel. Their room had two floor-to-ceiling marble fireplaces, panels of Tiffany glass above the door frames, Italian chandeliers, a whirlpool tub in the bathroom and a twelve-foot Christmas tree in the lounge.

  She was dying to say, “What, no piano?”

  “I usually stay with my father, but his brothers and their wives are there, in town for the party.”

  “I’ll try to make do,” she murmured, noting there was a king bed and a daybed, along with a sofa here in the lounge that probably pulled out.

  “You have an appointment at the spa. I’m seeing my barber and picking up my tuxedo.”

  “Okay.” What else was she supposed to say? This was a play they were enacting. She had to report to hair and makeup, then say her lines without flubbing. “Is your father’s party being held here?”

  His mouth quirked. “A cruise of the harbor. I asked Gwyn to make all the arrangements and send the bills to me. She was going to book a paddle wheeler, but Vito’s bank decided to buy a yacht to use for corporate events. He swears it was coincidence, but he likes to upstage me.”

  “Rivalries only matter when you’re in second place. Someone said that to me recently.” She circled a rivet in the upholstery of the chair she stood behind.

  “You said it,” he said dryly. “And when it comes to pleasing Gwyn, I’m forced to cede to Vito, so any sense of rivalry is pointless.”

  She smiled benignly, keeping her gaze on the chair. Lucky Gwyn.

  “Are you all right? You’ve been quiet.”

  “Nervous,” she admitted.

  Suffering a hideous case of performance anxiety. After his kind words the other night, she had reminded herself not to let that
affect her too deeply. To counteract any silly yearnings, she had counted up all the ways she could never rise to his level, which made for a depressing mood. She had decided to salvage some self-respect by repairing the damage she’d done, though. She would be the best fake wife he’d ever had.

  Despite not having been a very good real one.

  He left and she went down to the spa to let the proverbial birds and mice work their magic, massaging away her tension, painting her nails and pampering her skin, rolling her hair into fat twists of red-gold and lengthening her lashes to glamorous degrees.

  When she returned to their room, she found a gown on the bed, this one in a rich amethyst. It didn’t look as dramatic as the blue she’d brought with her, appearing quite plain and modest, but once she had it on, she saw its sensual elegance.

  The draped back was so low, however, she couldn’t wear a bra. That left her breasts thrusting against the sweep of velvet across her front. The cut of the skirt was narrow with a slit that rose nearly to her hip. Once she had her shoes on, she showed a lot of leg with each step.

  She was swaying in front of her reflection, wondering who that red-carpet siren in the mirror was, when Travis returned.

  He looked breathtaking in his tailored tuxedo. He was freshly shaved and his hair was trimmed into scrupulously perfect lines. And for once, in this single snapshot of time, with his compliment from the other night still floating like a love song in her ears, she was able to smile naturally as she looked on him, almost believing herself good enough for that ruthlessly handsome man.

  * * *

  Travis had walked into an electric fence as a kid—three wires he hadn’t seen at summer camp because he’d been talking over his shoulder to a friend. The jolt had knocked him back so hard, he’d stumbled and landed on his butt.

  That’s how he felt as she smiled at him. Like he’d been chopped in the heart and the gut and the groin by a charge of something so strong, he came up short and had to catch himself on his back foot.

  Dear God, she was a vision. He had known the color of that gown would accent the auburn and gold in her hair. He hadn’t expected it to turn her eyes to emeralds and make her skin look delectable as whipped cream. The blue one from New York had been sexy on her, but he had taken one look at this dress on the mannequin and had known its simplicity would do her far more justice. It let Imogen shine through, from delicate shoulders to long limbs to the undeniable feminine mystique she possessed.