Down and Dirty

by Crystal Green

  She wandered into the bedroom. “They’re going to feel like idiots when we prove them wrong.” There was steel in her voice that she’d never heard before. There was also anger, and she was glad Jameson had called her first to talk about this, so she could give the news gently to Ben. “Just so you know, Ben’s been thinking about what would happen when the press found out about us. He’ll already know who he wants to do an exclusive interview with first. He’ll have a strategy.”

  “Bennett can spin this all he wants, but I think we both know it won’t matter, Ms. Palazzo.”

  She stared at the phone in her hand. What was he talking about?

  “Come again?”

  Jameson’s laugh was serrated. “What could I mean by that? Let’s examine Exhibit A: you’re a slut who took off with my money after you came back to my room with me not all that long ago. Exhibit B: you, the same slut, got Bennett drunk and rushed him off to some cheap chapel in Vegas. The press might not know it yet, but you’re a gold digger, and you’re not in love with him. So how could the press possibly exploit that in the coming days?”

  It felt like a boulder had come sailing through the window and bashed her in the head.

  The hits kept coming from Jameson, too. “I wasn’t about to say anything in front of my father, but we can be truthful with each other in private. So let’s be efficient here. I’m going to make you an even better offer than you’d get from the plan you cooked up in your greedy mind.”

  Why couldn’t she say anything? It wasn’t like she was stunned that Jameson was giving her a hard time. She knew it wouldn’t be smooth sailing with him, even after last night’s dinner had gone so well. But hearing this was . . . surreal. She wasn’t the person he was talking about.

  A tiny voice called to her. But you actually did marry Ben for money. Remember?

  Jameson hadn’t stopped. “No matter how much cash you think you’re going to get from Bennett out of this joke of a marriage, I’ll triple it. You’ve already made him a laughingstock, a Vegas cliché—the moron who went and married a brassy ex-showgirl. Someone at the Marriage License Bureau talked, and all we can do now is damage control. You should profit nicely from it.”

  Words . . . she couldn’t grasp onto even one so she could reply to his accusations.

  He chuffed. “I’ll give you enough money to go wherever you want in the world, as long as you’re away from Bennett. Then he can give the press a redemption story of a brokenhearted guy who’s older but wiser after making a bad decision, and I’ll take it from there, guiding him to work so hard that he’ll forget about his crushed romance and be a better man for it. And all you have to do is give up this fiction about being in love with him and go on your merry way, a thousand times richer.”

  She couldn’t even eke out the words, But I don’t want to leave him. It was like a nightmare where she couldn’t scream, couldn’t make a sound.

  As she stood there in utter shock, she realized that she’d never put the phone off speaker mode. That she’d left the bedroom door open. That she hadn’t been listening for the sound of the patio door sliding open. And when she felt a prickle on the back of her neck, she knew, even before turning around, that Ben had been standing there, hearing Jameson’s call, watching her as she listened to every toxic word as if she were actually considering what his brother was offering.

  She slowly looked over her shoulder, her heart wrenching at the expression on her husband’s face.

  19

  Everything around Ben became a blur as he listened to Jameson make his appalling offer to Liz over the phone.

  An offer that she seemed to be weighing, based on the fact that she hadn’t told his brother to go to hell yet.

  And Jameson was still nattering on as Liz lowered the phone, giving Ben a look that made him think that she wished he hadn’t walked in on this.

  But what was “this” exactly? Had she been just about to refuse Jameson? Or was she truly the gold digger they’d first thought she was?

  Ben fisted his hands by his sides, wanting to throttle his brother . . . or maybe even himself, because he’d woken up this morning with his hand resting on Liz’s waist, pulling her to him in his sleep as if that was how it was meant to be—her and him together, and not because of any piece of paper or agreement. He’d even believed for a moment, when he’d looked into her eyes in the near darkness last night, that he’d witnessed a warmth no woman had ever shown him. An emotion that was so foreign to him that he hadn’t been sure what it was until his heart had picked up speed, beating out a rhythm that had always been stifled and was now free to come out with her. Only her.

  Liz, who’d made him feel like he was actually worth her time, who didn’t need to be impressed, who made him think that he could be the man he’d never known he was.

  The man whose chest was getting more hollow by the second.

  Goddammit, had he been a bigger fool than usual while he’d to see if she’d say something to him about last night? Half of him had felt discovered, elated. But the other half . . .

  Well, honestly, he was bitterly relieved that he wouldn’t have to live up to any of her expectations, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to anyway.

  And that was the half he listened to, just as he always did.

  Liz looked at the phone in her hand as if she just now realized Jameson had never stopped talking, persuading her that she wasn’t good enough for marriage to a Hughes. Ben had heard enough, and he strode forward, anger driving him.

  He took the phone from her and spoke into it. “Sounds like you called the wrong number,” he said through his teeth.

  Jameson didn’t miss a beat. “Ah. So the conversation wasn’t so private after all.”

  “Not remotely.” And he’d heard enough to get the gist of it.

  He looked at Liz, who’d pulled the bedcover so tightly around her that it doubled as a cocoon, protecting her from the sharp questions she was probably seeing in his eyes.

  “You’re my brother, Jameson, but that doesn’t excuse you from going behind my back and tooling around in my business. Piss off.”

  “Bennett, I’m saving you a huge headache. Trust me on this—and whatever you do, don’t trust her.”

  Ben didn’t know what was happening in his chest, but it felt like a vise was in there, pressing every part of him together to create pure anguish. The pain got even worse as Liz gazed at him with those beautiful violet eyes—a gaze full of regret? Or was it something simpler and more dangerous?

  Sadness?

  He didn’t let any of it get to him. Having a contract with her meant he didn’t have to deal with any of this bullshit.

  Even though his temper was boiling, he managed to calmly end the call. “Don’t ever contact us again, you meddling shit.”

  He smoothly hung up, lowering the phone but still standing in front of his wife, inches away. So close that he could’ve taken her in his arms to chase off any of her sadness or regret or whatever. It didn’t matter what she was feeling, though, because the tabloids now knew about the marriage.

  Neither of their so-called feelings mattered.

  They didn’t speak for a strained moment, and that was a good thing, because it allowed his anger to cool until it hardly existed. There was merely a big, yawning space in him—that black hole he’d never been able to fill with Rolex Bunnies or running away to a town in a desert where he could nearly disappear.

  After the tension nearly snapped between them, she finally spoke, clutching the bedspread to her chest. “I can’t believe what Jameson was saying. I—”

  “Sat there listening to him, wondering how high he’d go with his offer?”

  The words felt like acid, and when she drew back from him, he savored a moment of harsh power—not over her, but over himself.

  Hughes men don’t have real wives, he thought. And this is why. Good thing I found out before . . .

  Before he bought in to the act she might’ve been putting on last night in bed, seducing him
for a reason he wasn’t sure about yet? Before she bled him dry of money eventually?

  He didn’t know. Hell, he didn’t know her. Why should he have any faith in a near stranger? He’d been crazy to in the first place.

  Liz had recovered from his insult, her eyes watery. “How can you say that to me?”

  “I heard him making an offer, Liz, and I saw you listening to every word he said. That’s how.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Too much to do today—call his PR man, arrange a fast, exclusive interview. Even the dog needed tending. “Poppy’s still in the backyard sniffing around the fence line, and I only came in to see if I could find a treat for her in the kitchen. That’s when I heard Jameson’s voice.”

  “My God, Ben, you can’t think I was actually considering any of it.” She took a step toward him. “You can trust me.”

  When she rested her hand on his arm, she left a patch of warmth that spread like the sun’s lethal rays through him. Even worse, the sensation made him ask himself if he could trust her.

  Jameson was the brother who’d chosen to believe the worst about Bennett for most of their lives, the consummate corporate automaton who probably didn’t know the definition of emotion.

  But had Jameson only been looking out for him whereas his wife wasn’t?

  As Liz kept holding on to him, Ben realized that he’d already trusted her with a secret so major that it had the power to crumble his reputation if anyone found out about their arranged marriage.

  So whom should he believe?

  Without checking himself, he put his hand over hers, covering her as much as she’d already covered him. But when she smiled in relief, almost knocking him to the ground with the bright force of it, he removed his hand and backed off, his tone stony.

  “What I’m going to trust is the terms of our contract,” he said. “And I’ll trust that you’ll be content with everything I’ve promised you.”

  He knew in that instant, as her gaze clouded over, that he’d wounded her. The thing was, he’d promised himself he’d never reject her again after that morning when she’d revealed they were married.

  Yet rejection was a part of business—just as much as any contract. Wasn’t it time she learned that? And wasn’t it time she got used to him disappointing her?

  As he left the room, he didn’t look back.

  Only forward now, he thought, into a marriage that would never again see a night like the one that had nearly thrown him off track, making him feel something for a partner he shouldn’t ever fully trust with anything more than business.

  ***

  “Your hubby’s sure good in an interview,” Anita said over the phone to Liz. “You should totally watch it online.”

  Liz, who’d spent the morning hiding away, wasn’t anywhere near a computer. She sat in the guest room—her room now?—on the bed, petting Poppy as the dog rested her head in Liz’s lap. Every once in a while, the pup would train big, sad eyes on Liz like she knew just what she was feeling.

  A dull ache around her heart. A chunk of ice in the pit of her stomach. And it was all because she hadn’t told Jameson to screw off soon enough. Why hadn’t she found her voice in time for Ben to see that he could trust her? And why hadn’t she anticipated how a man who’d never put any faith in a woman would react?

  Then again, why had she gotten herself in yet another situation with a guy who didn’t want anything to do with her in the long run?

  She kept petting Poppy. It made her feel so much better. “Don’t mind me if I skip Ben’s interview, Ani. Ben told me he wanted to take care of it on his own.” She couldn’t stand to watch all the lies he’d be spinning, either.

  “Ah, yes, the protective husband. That’s what Ben said to the interviewer online, too. He asked the reporter to respect your privacy while you two settle in and then go on your honeymoon. Have you even planned it yet?”

  “I’m still going over our options.” In other words, no. There’d been too many curve balls thrown at her lately to think about a serious honeymoon. Besides, it was the last thing she was in the mood for now.

  Before Ben had left the house, he’d been all professional again. After their confrontation about Jameson, he’d informed her that he was contacting his very own publicity man on retainer, who, in turn, had made arrangements for the rushed interview with a major gossip website Ben had already handpicked to spin the wedding PR. He’d also told her, in a blasé way, that his father would be on the set of the interview, spending the day with him before he left for the East Coast.

  Liz sighed, and Anita caught it.

  “What’re you so blue for?” she asked. “Your husband is shouting your good news to the world! Also, you’ve got a new hot red convertible in the garage that you need to take me cruising in. I’m gonna score so many men in that thing.”

  The car had been delivered after Ben had left, too, but all Liz wanted was him.

  “I only wish . . .” A million things, all of them having to do with Ben. “I don’t know. It was nice having the marriage to ourselves for a short time. Now everything’s going to change.”

  “For the positive.” Anita laughed. “Have fun looking at mansions tomorrow with the Realtor, chica. And call me if you need anything, okay?”

  “Okay.” It truly sucked to keep this secret to herself. Ben was the only one she could talk to about it.

  Ben—who’d turned his back on her this morning.

  They hung up, and Liz pressed a hand to her chest, wishing it would stop the misery. Poppy wagged her tail and gave her an understanding look that made Liz want to cry. But she didn’t.

  Big girls didn’t cry.

  Instead, she glanced at the oversized red alarm clock by the bed. Ben had asked her to be at the Rough & Tumble at four, before the saloon got busy. He’d also summoned his friends to attend, and was planning on having a bakery deliver cake and champagne for a belated wedding announcement. PR at its best—even to fool his friends.

  She tried to be excited about the big announcement, but after this morning . . . not so excited. Just hurting. A knifing throb behind her ribcage, a heart that had lost its beat when Ben had looked at her with such a sense of betrayal.

  Before this morning, she’d been aiming for him to admit he cared for her. Now she just needed to get his trust back. How realistic was that, though, when she was discovering, day by day, that he wasn’t the happy-go-lucky man she’d assumed he was, and that he had a cage around his heart?

  She rose from the bed, and Poppy bounded off of it, following her into the hallway. From there, she went to the patio door, where she let the dog outside. When Poppy came back in, Liz gave her a jerky treat that she’d ordered from a gourmet market in Vegas that delivered, along with all the fine food a kitchen the size of this one could hold.

  Too bad a limit-free credit card wasn’t enough to soothe the stings, though.

  After taking one last glance in her mirror at the black-and-white Versace Ben had bought her yesterday, along with a sedate pair of black ankle boots, Liz took a deep breath, went outside to give Poppy one last kiss, and walked the short way to the R&T.

  Motorcycles were already lined up outside the saloon, catching the last of the sun as it threatened to dip below the mountains. The dusty boardwalk and fragile wood table in front of the door were empty, the extreme opposite of the lively jukebox rock that was escaping from inside the bar.

  Time for a wedding announcement for Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, Liz thought, resting her hand against the door. Time to put on your married face.

  So she smiled, and even though it weighed over her lips, she kept it on as she pushed open the door and let the barrage of music welcome her.

  A bunch of old-timer weekend bikers were shooting back beer at the bar, and when they saw her, they raised their bottles in salutation with a giddy cheer. Kat was serving them, and as she slid a drink to Clancy DeForge, the general store owner, she smiled at Liz.

  But it was a sm
ile that was just as melancholy as Liz’s. Why?

  Liz didn’t have time to wonder, because the notorious and unkempt Jimmy Beetles—the genuine biker who’d tricked her into dancing on the bar the other night—lumbered toward her, his beefy arms outstretched.

  “Damned if it isn’t Ben’s new old woman!” He had crumbs in his beard and didn’t seem to give a crap.

  Liz avoided a bear hug and patted his arm in a quick thank-you, veering around him toward the potbellied stove.

  And that’s where she found her husband.

  Ben rose slowly to his feet, their gazes locking, the music seeming to fade as nothing else mattered in that room—not the smoke or the neon beer signs or the license plates on the wall.

  Once again, there was only him.

  He was gazing at her as he had last night in bed during that sublime moment when he’d touched her face and looked so deeply into her that she swore he’d seen every thought, every hope . . .

  A voice broke into the moment. Jimmy Beetles.

  “Attention, attention!” Then he interrupted himself. “Hey! Turn down that goddamned jukebox!”

  Someone went over to the machine as Liz pulled her gaze from Ben’s, noticing that he’d been sitting at a table with his father, who filled every inch of his chair with his designer-suited girth and was giving Liz an appreciative Hughes smile. Standing behind him was a statue-like man in a black suit—a bodyguard? In the chair next to Mr. Hughes was Bijou, her arms crossed over a black sheath worthy of Audrey Hepburn, her expression revealing that she was allergic to divey bars. Jameson wasn’t around, and that was no surprise, but two other men had taken his place: Gideon Lane and a guy Liz didn’t recognize, although she’d never forget him because of his ultramuscled arms and a stoic, rocky warrior look. He even had what seemed to be a primitive sun shaved into his stubbled hair.

  Before Jimmy Beetles could resume his announcement, Ben walked over to Liz. Without a hitch, he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close. It was like this morning had never happened, and she went all the more empty because of this lie they were telling, just for the sake of the marriage act.