Chess had thought that idea awfully ironic. Then he'd given Ruth to understand, and not entirely politely, that his private life was to remain just that: private.
Ruth had laughed.
"Nice to see you, too, darling," she now cooed. Her gaze went past Chess. "Cookie."
In that moment Chess knew that Ruth saw it all. A nice little parcel of humiliation joined the rest of the emotions he'd bundled up inside.
"We came as soon as we could after your phone call," Cookie spoke from beside him. She sounded diffident, faintly conciliatory, the way she'd sounded for the past four days. "What's wrong?"
Ruth looked to either side, indicating her photographers and the crowd of passengers still straggling off the plane. "Hmm. I suppose you two could use a ride home, huh?"
So. It was something bad enough she wouldn't discuss it in public. Of course, Ruth had refused to give a reason over the phone, too, insisting Chess needed to see the issue in person. Dread settled on top of Chess's stomach.
He reached for something problematic but not disastrous. "That bastard at the TV channel," Chess said, moving them away from the crowd. "He sold our time slots."
"Let's go get your luggage," Ruth suggested.
So. Worse than that.
It was a long, dismal drive home. Ruth wouldn't say another word about the reason she'd called them home early. Instead, she asked pointed questions about the honeymoon.
Cookie, ever the actress, undertook to answer the interrogation from her position beside Chess in the back seat. He had to hand it to her. Her replies were bright and personable while giving away none of the truth.
No one would have guessed that the cheery, vivacious woman sitting beside him walked in complete terror of her husband.
Now why this was, exactly what Cookie had to fear, Chess could not understand. As far as he was concerned, he'd done absolutely nothing to deserve her terror. Damn it, even on their wedding night, he'd barely touched her. He certainly hadn't hurt her.
Taking in a deep breath, Chess attempted to calm himself by looking out the window at the night-lit city. Over the past four days, he'd worried the matter like a dog with a bone. He'd replayed the scene countless times, checking his actions against her reactions. He still thought every move he'd made had been in response to a direct invitation from her.
Sort of. Maybe. There was that little bit where he'd promised to treat her like a virgin. He'd maybe proceeded a mite hastier than he would have with a true virgin. But, come on— That couldn't have been the problem.
She hadn't merely recoiled from his touch. She'd retched.
In the car Chess closed his eyes. All right, stop there. He wasn't going to think about that part or about the way she'd cried in the night afterward. Oh, she'd been quiet about it, but he'd heard her all the same, crying because he'd touched her.
Or maybe she'd been crying about something else? He'd begun to wonder about that. Maybe she'd been crying because she hadn't been able to go through with it, this seduction she'd so obviously planned. On the plane home, Chess had started to ponder the various clues. Strands had started coming together: Cookie's nausea—twice now without good reason. Her unpredictable mood swings. The push-pull signals she gave. Last, but certainly not least, her most recent boyfriend had left for Africa shortly before Chess had proposed marriage.
It could all make a great deal of sense...
"You're being awfully quiet, Chess. Didn't you have a good time?" Ruth's tone was just the wrong side of accusatory as she slid him a dark glare.
Didn't women always stick together? Giving Ruth a similar glare to her own, Chess remembered why he'd always made it a practice to keep a good emotional distance from the species. Thirty-eight years of experience with his mother had taught him they were all barracudas.
"I had a wonderful time," he told Ruth in a silky tone. "So I'd sure like an explanation already for having to come home early."
She smiled. "We'll be at your house in five minutes."
Once at the house, Cookie hurried in first. "I'll get the lights."
Chess dumped the bags in the foyer while Cookie set about turning on every damn lamp in the living room. She looked pleased as punch to have Ruth there. Of course she was. Then she wouldn't have to be alone with Chess.
"Yes, I'll have some wine, thanks, Chess." Ruth took a seat on the white sofa. She began to unzip a black portfolio.
Chess ignored the order and took an aggressive stance on the opposite side of the coffee table. He plowed his hands into the trouser pockets beneath his sport jacket. "I've had enough suspense, Coldwell. Out with it."
Ruth glanced toward Cookie. "Sit, doll."
Glancing briefly at Chess, Cookie carefully took a seat.
Ruth pulled a magazine out of the portfolio. "The news is not good."
So he'd surmised. Chess waited, watching Ruth but aware of Cookie sitting there, too obedient, all attention.
"Our ad campaign is history," Ruth announced.
"What?" Cookie piped up. "But it hasn't even begun—"
"History," Ruth snapped back. "As in dead. Gone. Blowing in the wind."
Chess tried not to reel. "What happened?"
Keeping her eyes on him, Ruth laid the magazine open atop the coffee table. "Take a look at this."
Chess looked down, as did Cookie. They both saw a glossy, full-page magazine advertisement. It showed a meadow full of wildflowers. In the midst of them sat a little girl, thoughtfully plucking a daisy.
Chess let forth an expletive that bore no relation to the image of youthful innocence in the picture.
"'Temptress,'" Cookie read the title under the image of a glass bottle in the corner of the page. She looked up at Ruth. "I thought the name of the new perfume was Temptation."
"It is." Ruth gave her an approving smile and pointed to the magazine. "That isn't an ad for our perfume."
Indeed it was not, even though the photograph was a dead ringer for the layout he and Ruth had planned for the September campaign launch.
"Read the fine print," Ruth suggested.
Chess allowed himself the bitter pleasure of swearing some more before scooping the magazine out from under the two women. "'Temptress,'" he read aloud, his voice biting. "'A product of Korman Cosmetics.'"
Chess had taken measures—a great deal of measures—to protect the formula for the new scent. Having the ad campaign stolen was a calamity he had not foreseen.
"Korman's done it again," Ruth observed calmly.
"Korman," Cookie repeated. "Oh, yes. The one Kate was afraid of."
Chess threw the magazine back on the table. "You are absolutely right, Ruth. Our ad campaign is dead. Dead as a doornail."
Ruth explained to Cookie. "With those visuals, we'd be advertising Korman's product as much as our own."
"I recognized the photograph," Cookie said. "How on earth did he get a hold of it or the name of the perfume?"
Ruth caught Chess's eye. "If the leak is from my office, I swear I'll—"
"Don't bother." Chess shoved a hand through his hair and turned. "It's in mine." Korman's spy was still around then and working overtime. Hatred welled up easily, finding a safe access route here. Henry? Chess thought, not for the first time. He hated to imagine the plant fixture, Henry, might have betrayed him, but Chess had to be realistic rather than sentimental. On the other hand, if Henry had stolen the classic formulas, he would have tripped off to enjoy whatever he'd been paid for them. He wouldn't be hanging around the plant still, grumbling about his mortgage.
Who knew? All Chess was sure of was that he was going to catch this spy. Soon. And eviscerate him.
Cookie saw the murder in Chess's face. She felt an immediate, unwanted access of sympathy. Quickly, she looked away, fixing her gaze back down on the purloined advertisement. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to feel sympathy toward Chess any more.
That first horrible night in Hawaii when Chess had told her that her failure to be a real woman to him was "really not
that big a deal, Cookie," she'd made a solemn vow. She was going to get over this infatuation.
That night, after she'd finished heaving the contents of her stomach in the bathroom, he'd met her at the door, having put back on his clothes. At first she'd been touched by his concern. He'd wanted to make sure she understood that no one was going to force her to do anything.
Cookie had wanted to bawl. She'd wanted to want this. She'd wanted to be good for him, to be a complete, loving wife. Instead, she'd simply nodded that she understood, while knowing that the problem hadn't been with him but with her.
She'd intended to explain that to him. At first. But then Chess had gone on.
Don't look so glum, he'd said. The important thing was that it was past midnight in San Francisco and their loan had gone through. That's the real reason they had gotten married, after all: to finance the launch.
He didn't care for her. He'd only wanted sex with a convenient body. And he hadn't even wanted that as much as his loan.
Now Cookie stared at the photograph of Korman's bottle of Temptress. It looked as though even the financial reason for the marriage had just fallen through.
"Is this it, then?" she asked Ruth. "Is this the end?"
Ruth's eyes hooded, and she gave Cookie a disconcertingly shrewd regard. "An interesting question. One I've been pondering for twenty-four hours now."
Chess turned, eyeing Ruth. "You've got something up your sleeve."
"Maybe," Ruth allowed.
The admiring look Chess shot Ruth sent an arrow of envy through Cookie. Never had Chess looked at her that way. Of course not. What did Cookie have that he could admire?
"I should have known," Chess gloated. "Let's hear it."
"The good news is we still have the magazine and TV spots," Ruth explained. "All we have to do is change the visuals we stick in them."
"Those visuals took months to design," Chess reminded her. "And the deadline for the September magazines is the end of this week."
"We'll miss September," Ruth conceded. Her eyes slid to the side, hitting Cookie again in a strange and probing way. "But if the new campaign is strong enough, it's possible we could outdo our September losses with October gains."
Chess scoffed. "You're talking about a bloody miracle."
Ruth smiled but she kept her eyes on Cookie, not Chess.
Cookie got the strangest impression, then, perhaps born of fatigue, that Ruth was trying to tell her something, trying to include her in some private communication. But that was ridiculous. Women never confided in Cookie.
"A miracle," Ruth said. "Cookie, you remember he said that when it comes time to hand out bonuses."
~~~
"I wish to hell I knew what she had in mind."
Chess's voice startled Cookie, who'd been switching off lamps in the living room. She hadn't expected Chess to return to the room after letting Ruth out the front door. She'd assumed he would simply go up the stairs to bed. In Hawaii their evening leave-takings had been remarkably without ceremony, particularly after Chess had obtained the second hotel room.
Cookie straightened from the floor lamp she'd been about to turn off. She left it on. The room was too dim as it was. Almost romantic.
Oblivious to such nuances, Chess paced toward the French doors leading out to his garden, his brows drawn.
Despite her decision not to care, Cookie could sense his tension. Everything was in jeopardy. His whole house of cards could come tumbling down.
"Ruth promised to show us something by the end of the week," Cookie said, determining to remain objective. She wasn't going to reach out emotionally. She could not afford to sympathize.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "We're going to miss September completely. A whole month."
He was just thinking out loud, Cookie told herself. He wasn't looking for a response from her. He didn't need her. He'd said so.
"I doubt there's a choice but to move forward," she remarked, keeping her tone cool and crisp.
Brooding out the window, Chess shook his head.
The setting was intimate, suggestive. To Cookie it suggested other women who'd been in this room with her husband late at night when the lights had been low. Those other women had known what they were doing around a man, and Chess, no doubt, had known exactly what to do with them. The scene must have played out to its natural conclusion a hundred times. So simple. So easy.
For everyone but her. Clenching her nails into her palms, Cookie turned aside, determined to change the train of her thoughts. "It's the same problem, isn't it?"
"What?"
"The stolen ad campaign. It's the same problem as the stolen formula. An inside job."
His hand rubbed the back of his neck again. "Yes."
"But this time it's a bit more personal," Cookie mused.
"How is that?"
"No financial gain. Think about it. Whoever did this wasn't out to make money by printing that advertisement. They couldn't have believed that you'd go ahead with your ad campaign after seeing it had been stolen. You wouldn't throw fifteen million dollars at someone else's product."
"No," Chess slowly agreed, turning to look at her.
"So, all they could hope to accomplish was to hurt you."
"True." He tilted his head, frowning. "So, this isn't about money."
"More like revenge."
Chess's eyes widened. "Hell."
Cookie raised her eyebrows. "Got any particular enemies, Mr. Bradshaw?"
"Hell," Chess said again, and the color drained from his face.
"Which reminds me," Cookie went on, quickly looking away. Chess wasn't going to get her sympathy, dammit. "What are you going to tell Kate?"
His lids hooded. "About this? The truth. There's no way to hide it, anyway."
In other words, he would have hid it from her if he could have.
"While you're at it, you might tell her the whole truth," Cookie bluntly suggested.
He stared at her. "What do you mean?"
Maybe he wasn't going to get her sympathy, but he was starting to get her anger. Knowing her own part in the fault of their botched honeymoon, Cookie hadn't the luxury of getting angry with Chess on her own behalf. But she could do it on Kate's. "The classics, Chess. The stolen formulas. It's time to clue Kate in. You know, she might be able to help."
Chess's face tensed. "We'll handle this my way. You gave me your word."
"I gave my word," Cookie admitted, feeling an odd relief. In this arena they were both comfortable: being angry with each other. "But that doesn't prevent me from voicing my objections about the way you've decided to handle it."
"Well, Rebecca, what do you suggest?"
"Honesty," she shot back, then belatedly heard the use of her given name, a dead giveaway for danger.
The way his lips then curved confirmed the peril. "Honesty," he repeated. "An interesting concept for you to extol."
He knew. Cookie shrank backward. He knew what a fool she'd made of him. Somehow Chess had figured out that the woman he'd purchased bore no resemblance to the display model on the shelf. Shame suffused her, nearly as suffocating as when Chess had been on top of her in bed.
"Do you think 'honesty's the best policy'?" He stalked forward, and Cookie took another step back.
Her calves came against the white sofa, and she fell into a seat, paralyzed by her own guilt and the intent focus of his gaze.
He stopped on the other side of the coffee table, staring her down. "Have you been honest with me, Rebecca, in this marriage?"
Shame had a stranglehold on her throat.
"I don't think so," he purred, his eyes narrowing. "But maybe you could start now. Tell me, Rebecca—honestly: why did you marry me?"
Panic rose. "Why did I marry you?" Slightly hysterical, she remembered how easy it had turned out to agree. And then—and then she'd learned way too much about him, so that by the time they'd said their vows— "You asked me to!" she exclaimed, determined he not figure out her deepest secret.
<
br /> "I asked, yes, and I think you were actually glad of it." His lips thinned, and her panic beat faster. "Because you had your own private reasons for the marriage, reasons that had nothing to do with your shares in Scents Allure."
No! she thought. Anger joined her panic. He wasn't entitled to this. He didn't get to have everything, her heart as well as her pride. "Maybe I had my own private reasons," she admitted, her voice hard. "But they are just that. Private."
His eyes briefly flared. "I don't think so. I think they—or it—is every bit my business. Rebecca, are you pregnant?"
Cookie's heart slammed into her throat. What?
"Dammit!" Chess turned his head to the side, his hands bunched into fists. "Damn, that isn't the way I wanted to do this."
Cookie could only stare at him, wide-eyed, as he sank to a seat in the easy chair by her side. Pregnant! Her?
"Cookie, I'm sorry." His voice had completely lost its edge. He dropped his head into his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and then lifted his face again. His demeanor was purely tender as he reached over to take her hands. "It's just that you could have told me beforehand. Surely you know I would have helped."
As she continued to meet his gaze, she slowly began to understand. "You think I married you because— I mean, in order to stick you with—?"
His hands gripped hers tighter. "This means the marriage is for keeps. No divorce. Do you understand that?" His eyes were now frighteningly intent. "No child in this family is growing up without a father."
Cookie could only stare at him. Oh. His concern wasn't that she might stick him with a child that was not his own. Not at all.
He didn't want her child to grow up without a father.
"Oh, God," she whispered. The world began a slow revolution, back to the way she knew things really were. How could she have forgotten?
"Rebecca, I want the truth."
The truth. Of course. The truth was that, despite the occasional bad temper, despite the offhand autocracy and the remote independence, Chester Bradshaw was a very flower of a man. He was good. That was the truth.
Call it Love Page 14
