No, that wasn't the truth. She really was going to have to stop lying to herself.
Sometime.
The real reason she didn't go to the gym was she hated comparing herself to all those buff bods prancing around in shiny exercise wear. She'd never gotten over her high school nickname of Stringbean.
She swore under her breath. What the hell was she nervous about? It was just a dinner party. So what if Mike's mother came on like the Queen Mum's little sister? In her time, Gwyneth had rubbed elbows with the best—or at least with quite a few who thought they were the best—of New York society. Actually Mike's mother had greeted her very graciously, but his father had been damned rude.
She looked down at her ridiculously high heels. She'd probably tower over Mike. Well, that would just be good enough for him—put him in his place.
* * * *
Mike leaned over and kissed his sleeping son on the forehead. Carrying him to the bed, he pulled a sheet and blanket over his son's sturdy, little body.
A quiet knock sounded on his door. Gwyn?
At least he hoped so. Maybe he could explain everything before dinner. It would certainly make for a more comfortable evening if he could get it all out of the way. Either that, or she wouldn't be speaking to him at all.
Opening the door, Mike stopped. “Marina."
"I—uh, I came to tell Adam good-night,” Marina explained, a dark flush staining her neck and face.
Mike stepped back, allowing her to enter his bedroom. “Sure. He's already asleep. We had quite a session with the pony."
"I know. I watched from the window."
"You did?"
"Yes, I'm still a little nervous about his riding. I know it's just a pony, but, well..."
"It's that mother thing."
"Yes, I guess so.” Marina walked over to the far side of the bed and stroked a lock of black hair from Adam's forehead. “He was so happy to see you.” She waited a beat, then added, “I was, too."
"Marina—"
"I know. That wasn't fair, was it?"
Gnashing his teeth felt in order, but he managed a quiet, “You don't have anything to apologize for. I'm sorry I can't—” He broke off, wishing he could wring his mother's neck—just a little.
"Return my love. Yes, I'm well aware of that. You've made it quite clear by bringing your client with you."
"I didn't know you and Adam were going to be here—honest.” Hurting Marina more than he already had was never in his game plan. She was a sweet, intelligent, if slightly fragile woman who'd had the misfortune of falling in love with him at the wrong time.
Walking back toward him, Marina shrugged. “It doesn't matter. I thought I'd accepted that you'd never love or marry me, but when I saw how you were looking at her, I realized I hadn't given up hope. But you won't. I know that now. If it isn't Gwyneth, it'll just be someone else."
"I wish we weren't having this conversation.” Man, was that an understatement. Mike squirmed. Talk about a guilt trip.
"I know. We've had it before, haven't we?” Marina looked down at the toes of her shoes.
"We have."
"Sorry."
"Stop saying you're sorry.” Dammit. He'd raised his voice without really meaning to, but his patience was at an end. “You haven't done anything to be sorry for."
Marina's eyes widened, her flush darkened. “See you at dinner.” She tried to walk around him.
Contrite, Mike caught her wrist. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."
Marina jerked her wrist from his hand. “Go to hell, Michael. You can bloody well go to hell.” Without another word, she fled from the room.
Mike looked over his shoulder at Adam, breathing a sigh of relief. At least their bickering hadn't awakened him.
"That was a touching little scene,” came Gwyn's scathing tone.
Mike turned back to see her standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. “Sarcasm and sullen expressions aren't very becoming,” he told her in his driest tone. Gratified by her flushed face and sudden intake of breath, Mike added, “I can explain. You'll think less of me, but—"
"Less of you?” Her pert nose went up in the air. “Why, I hardly think of you at all."
Walking toward his prickly client, Mike found himself smiling. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” He reached out and caressed her cheek. “You can't get me out of your mind, any more than I can get you out of mine.” He backed her against the door frame.
Her sensual lips parted. Her eyes widened. He forged ahead, “From the first moment I saw you slinking into my office, I've been senseless to anything or anyone but you."
Her breathing increased as her breasts rose against his chest. It was all he could do to keep from burying his face between them.
"Stop it. You're driving me crazy."
"I know. We're both goners, and you know it.” He leaned in. “Now if you'll be very careful and not get lipstick on me, I'll kiss you."
"You jerk.” But her breath was warm and soft on his cheek. She slanted her head carefully as he'd instructed and kissed him, tasting of mint toothpaste and smelling like lemonade heaven as her body melted into his. Her lips, as lush and sweet as he remembered, parted. Sweeping his tongue into her mouth, he nearly lost his bearings.
He sighed, then pulled back. “You're not being careful,” he warned. “We have to go down to dinner in reasonably good shape, or everyone will think you've forgiven me for not telling you about my son."
Gwyn jerked back and pinned him with her level, blue gaze. “And what about that? I felt like an idiot."
"I had planned to tell you this weekend, but matters obviously got out of hand. After dinner, we'll take a walk in the garden. We'll talk then.” He hesitated, but then decided he'd better warn her. “Whatever you do, don't trust my mother. She's enjoying this little confrontation she's set up."
Eyes widening in surprise, Gwyneth sputtered, “Don't trust your mother? She was very nice. Now your father, I wouldn't trust him to tell me which way is left."
"At least with my father, you know where you stand and what he's thinking. He doesn't hold back. My mother is—don't get me wrong, I love her—but she's the more devious of the two."
Appearing to consider his words, Gwyneth gave a brief nod. “Okay."
Mike offered his arm. “Shall we go down and face the jury?"
Placing her graceful hand on his forearm, she nodded her agreement. Mike whispered in her ear, “You were kidding about not thinking about me, weren't you?"
Gwyneth's only response was a wide grin and a coy fluttering of her dark blond lashes. It didn't matter that she didn't answer. He already knew.
Twenty-two
Elinor surveyed her guests. Marina had just entered, red-faced and sullen. Presumably, the poor dear had a talk with Michael. Circulating among her guests, she wondered how long before he would make his appearance with the fair Gwyneth on his arm. After all, she had great faith in her son's ability to remain in the young woman's good graces.
The quiet whir of her husband's wheelchair caught her attention. Turning and heading in George's direction, she leaned over and straightened his tie. “Now then, have you discovered anything interesting about Michael's friend?"
He frowned and gave a very impolite, “Humph."
She nodded and smiled at new arrivals, then asked, “Am I to interpret that as ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ dear?"
"She's Wilford Wells’ niece."
"Your college roommate? The hippie one with the long hair and lovely blue eyes?"
"That's Wilford. Flirted with every cause that came down the pike. The two of them have an almost totally pro bono practice for the downtrodden and penniless."
"I take it there's sufficient family money then?"
"Gwyneth's father made a fortune on Wall Street. Everything the man touched turned to gold. Uncanny, he was."
"He's dead?"
"Yes. Her mother, too. Another family fortune—old money. In the crassest terms, Mike's friend is loaded."
"Well, she's certainly lovely.” Brilliant choice, son.
"And bright, too. Wonder what she sees in our son?"
"Really, George, you must make allowances. Michael is handsome, intelligent and—"
"A prime example of wasted opportunities. Now then, where have you seated Gwyneth?"
"On Michael's right."
"No, I want her on my right. Seat someone else on Michael's right. I want to talk to this young woman, take her measure."
"I suppose I could place Mrs. Sand on his right."
"Safe choice as long as Mike doesn't get it in his head to marry her,” George remarked with a snort, then pivoted his chair as if to greet another guest. Abruptly he spun the chair back around, adding, “And while you're at it, put Marina on his left."
Elinor permitted herself a discreet chuckle. “It won't do any good. From the expression on Marina's face, they've already had words."
"Don't care. It's about time he takes responsibility and marries the girl."
"She's hardly a girl."
"She's the mother of our only grandchild. I won't have his future ruined by the stain of bastardy."
"No one pays attention to that anymore. Besides, Michael has given Adam his name and supports him. I'm afraid you're going to have to be satisfied with that. Our son's heart is taken."
"You mean his dick—"
"George!” she rasped. “You forget yourself. We have guests. No need for vulgarity."
But he ignored her—as he often did.
"Ma'am, may I be of assistance?"
Elinor glanced in the direction of an unfamiliar, working-class, British accent. One of the caterer's people, she assumed. “Yes?"
"Reginald, ma'am. Shall I make those place card changes for you?"
"You were listening to my conversation with my husband?"
"Of course not, ma'am, I just ‘appened to overhear when I carried a tray of canapés to the buffet. I ‘ope I'm not overstepping."
His eagerness was only too apparent, but she waved him away, offended by his obsequious manner. “No, Millie will take care of it. Attend to your usual duties. Serve the canapés.” She nodded a dismissal.
"Yes, ma'am,” he replied with a polite nod of his shiny pate.
Then, to her astonishment, the cheeky upstart lowered his right eyelid in a slow, but plainly obvious wink. Stiffening her spine, Elinor ignored him. Indeed, she would be having a word with his employer, but not now. She'd just caught sight of her son and his lovely client as they stood at the top of the staircase. “Michael darling, and Gwyneth,” she called, making her tone gracious and warm. “Come, I want to introduce you to everyone."
* * * *
At the sound of his mother's voice, Mike paused. He felt the muscles in Gwyn's back tense. “It'll be all right,” he whispered against her slender, ivory neck.
"I wish I'd stayed in the city.” She dropped her tone so only he could hear.
"You're safe here,” he assured her.
"Then why do I feel like a sacrificial lamb?” She continued slowly down the stairway.
"I have it on good authority that we're having steak and lobster, not lamb, for dinner.” He resisted the growing impulse to kiss her. “But if you like, I'll be more than happy to take a nibble or two of your sweetness, but I'd probably trip down the steps if I tried it now."
Her cheeks flushed in response. “Shush—someone will hear you."
Mike grinned. “No one's listening to me, they're all looking at you."
Fixing him with her blue gaze, she batted her lashes at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Of sorts. I assure you, I can do better."
"I certainly hope so.” She feigned a weary sigh.
"After dinner, we'll walk in the rose garden, and I'll shower you with all the appropriate compliments your little heart desires."
"I won't hold my breath.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but a smile curved her ripe lips and gave him hope that the weekend might not be a disaster after all.
They reached the bottom of the stairs where his mother—and nearly everyone else—stood smiling at them. Inclining his head, Mike kissed his mother's cheek, knowing how she hated demonstrations of affection. Too common.
His mother reacted as he'd expected. She stiffened, but the smile never left her face. “Michael, careful, you'll muss my makeup.” She reached for Gwyn's hand. “Gwyneth, dear, I want you to meet our old friends, the Howards."
Gwyn nodded. “Of course.” Casting him a regretful glance over her shoulder, she allowed his mother to lead her away.
Mother's in fine form, he mused. Divide and conquer.
Surveying the other guests, he estimated there were at least twenty of the buggers milling about the room. He followed Gwyn's progress around the room as she smiled and nodded, chatting up his parents’ friends. How well she fit in with them. Lovely and graceful as a Greek goddess, Gwyneth seemed to be a hit with the hunt crowd. There was so much he didn't know about her, but he looked forward to the discovery. Anything, and everything, that made Gwyn Wells tick fascinated him. She was such a contradiction, he thought—not for the first time.
"Michael?” A soft, hesitant voice snapped him out of his Gwyneth-zone.
Mike turned around to face the mother of his son. “Marina.” He acknowledged her with a nod, hoping she wasn't about to renew their argument in front of everyone.
She gazed at him with pleading eyes. “Do you think we could take a turn in the garden?"
"Of course.” He followed her through the French doors and out into the night. The familiar scent of honeysuckle—it reminded him of the summer nights when he and Tamiko had strolled in the same garden, their hearts so full of love, secure in the knowledge that they would spend the rest of their lives together.
How naive they'd been.
At the edge of the boxwood maze, Marina stopped and turned to face him. “I wanted to apologize. I was unspeakably rude earlier."
"It's all right.” He looked down at the toes of his shoes, then met her direct gaze—dark brown eyes, just like Adam's. “I wish I could feel differently. You're a wonderful person, a wonderful mother,” he began.
"I know.” A rueful smile marred her pretty face. “And someday I'll make someone a fine wife—just not you."
"No. Not me,” he admitted as gently as he could.
"I've always known how you felt. I guess I just hadn't truly given up. Thank you for being honest and not wishy-washy. I know I need to get on with my life, even if I don't always act like it."
Mike placed a hand on each of her shoulders. “I want you to be happy. You do know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. You're a good person, no matter what your father says."
Mike snorted. “Yeah, well, he does have his own opinion."
"He loves you, Michael. In his own way, he admires your independent nature, but he'd never admit it."
"Not likely. At least, not in my lifetime."
"Just remember what I said. I've seen how he watches you when you're not looking. He's proud of you. He is."
"Thank you for telling me. I'll try to remember that the next time he chews my butt for breakfast."
Marina giggled at his response, then her brow furrowed. “We can still be friends, can't we—for Adam's sake?"
"Of course, we can.” Mike waited a second, then forged ahead. “I hope you and Gwyneth—I mean—uh—"
"You want me to be nice to Gwyneth?” The frown never left her face.
"Damn. I'm not handling this very well, but the thing is—I'm going to marry her. She'll be around when Adam's with me."
"So it'll be easier for all of us if Gwyneth and I can be civil."
"Right. I don't expect you to have her to tea, but—well, you know what I mean."
"Yes, Michael, I do."
Mike held his breath. Marina's gaze had turned inward. He didn't give much for his chances until, without warning, she nodded and gave him a brave smile. “All right. I know you're righ
t."
Then her bottom lip started trembling, and Mike didn't know what else to do but say, “Thank you,” and kiss her forehead.
Naturally, Gwyn chose that very second to enter the garden. She cleared her throat—rather theatrically, Mike thought.
"I seem to be interrupting again."
Twenty-three
Gwyneth leaned against the door, her arms folded across her chest. Just because she'd interrupted a tender moment between Michael and the mother of his son didn't mean she was going to jump to conclusions.
Like hell she wasn't.
She waited. Mike's eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and Marina just turned and stared.
"Gwyneth—” he started.
"Never mind, I see there's still some unfinished business between you two. Why don't you give me a ring when you're ready—like never."
Mike set his jaw. Maybe he was biting his tongue—too bad since Marina looked like she'd be only too happy to do it for him.
Gwyneth restrained the impulse to smack someone's ears. After all, she was in polite society and the guest of the most arrogant, untrustworthy man she'd ever had the misfortune of knowing. Damn if she'd make a scene, but...
A discreet, “Ahem,” interrupted her mental tirade. She turned, relieved for the distraction. She'd seen enough of Michael and Marina to last twenty lifetimes.
"Miss Wells?” The servant shifted his weight from one foot to the other and avoided her gaze.
"Yes?"
"There's a bit of a problem. I wonder if you could give us a hand?"
"Of course,” she mumbled. Now what kind of problem had arisen that would require her particular assistance?
She soon found out.
The servant ushered her into a book-lined study. Michael's father sat behind his desk, a now familiar scowl across his lined face.
"Sir, are you ill? What can I do?"
George Carlton nodded in the direction of a video monitor. “There's someone at the gate asking for you. To whom have you given our location?” If anything, his frown deepened.
"No one,” she replied, genuinely puzzled. “I mean, I didn't even know exactly where Michael was bringing me—just somewhere in Virginia."
"Fellow says his name is Klein. Says he's your fiancé."
The Man For The Job Page 14
