Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  Cleo supposed Uncle George had known that the only reason she dated Hugh was to please him. He’d made it perfectly clear how much he wanted to see her married. One of his greatest regrets had been that his only child, Beatrice, had remained single and childless. Understanding his reasoning and his assumption that she’d marry Hugh, Cleo could almost forgive her great-uncle for placing her in such an awkward predicament.

  Tomorrow she and Simon Roarke would sign the documents that sealed their fate and doomed them both to a temporary marriage. She had weighed the pros and cons of this situation again and again. She didn’t want to get married. And she certainly didn’t want to bring a baby into this world with only one parent. Her actions would be unfair to her child. But she and Aunt Beatrice would surround the child with love, and she was wealthy enough to afford to raise a child alone. When she had considered taking Aunt Beatrice’s advice to hire a husband who could father her baby, she’d thought the man would want to be a part of the child’s life after the divorce.

  What sort of person could walk away from his own flesh and blood? A person like Arabelle McNamara, she told herself. Was Simon Roarke as callous and unfeeling as her own mother had been?

  Cleo wasn’t sure what she had been expecting when she’d met Mr. Roarke. She knew a great deal about him, but only superficial information. His age, birthday, weight, height, schooling, occupational background, financial situation, medical history. But she knew absolutely nothing about the man himself. About Simon. She supposed, considering their marriage was a business arrangement and would be of short duration, that she really didn’t need to know the things a woman usually wanted to know about her husband.

  But their child was bound to ask about him someday. What would she tell her son or daughter? The only reason I had you was so that I could save McNamara Industries. Your father and I were strangers who married each other for strictly business reasons, and he wanted no part in your life.

  Dear God in heaven, am I making a terrible mistake? Should I sell the company? That would make the rest of the family happy and no doubt end the threats on my life. Then there would be no need to marry a man I don’t even know and conceive a child who would be born out of necessity and not out of love.

  Reaching to the foot of the bed, Cleo grabbed her yellow cotton robe and slipped into it. She got up and walked quietly across the room, hoping not to disturb her aunt. Opening the drapes enough to allow the moonlight to filter through the sheer curtains beneath, Cleo then pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, placing her feet on the bottom cushion as she hugged her knees to her chest.

  No, she hadn’t known what to expect when she’d met Mr. Roarke today, but she certainly hadn’t anticipated her reaction to him. She had long since passed the age of being a silly romantic and she’d never considered herself a very sexual creature. So why had every feminine instinct within her come to full alert the moment he’d touched her? Falling for the man she married wasn’t part of her plan. But how on earth could any woman be immune to a man like Simon Roarke?

  “I don’t know,” she answered herself aloud, her voice a whisper. “But, Cleo, my girl, if you want to come out of this marriage with your heart intact, you’d better find a way.”

  “DO YOU, Simon Alloway Roarke, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Simon listened to the Alabama judge’s words, reciting the marriage vows and making the appropriate responses when called upon to speak. Not long after he’d taken Cleo McNamara’s hand in his, a soothing numbness had claimed him. Thankfully the event, being a civil ceremony, wouldn’t last very long. He didn’t think he could have endured anything elaborate. Lucky for him, Cleo was a sensible woman, not one for turning their wedding into a major production.

  Of course, once they arrived at her home, they would have to begin acting the parts of madly-in-love newlyweds.

  “My family may suspect the truth—that I bought and paid for you,” Cleo said. “But I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure. Whenever we’re around others, I expect you to pretend to be in love with me. Aunt Beatrice has told the family that you used to date a college friend of mine, that you and I were acquainted years ago. And when we met again, by chance, while Aunt Beatrice and I were on our Atlanta shopping trip, you and I found ourselves attracted to each other. You simply swept me off my feet in a whirlwind courtship.”

  Roarke wasn’t too sure how sharp his acting skills were, but he’d give it his best shot. After all, Cleo was paying him for his services, and it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship to fake affection for a woman as appealing as Cleo.

  “And do you, Cleopatra Arabelle McNamara, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the judge asked.

  “I do,” she said clearly in her deep, raspy voice that Roarke thought was very sexy.

  Cleo and Roarke exchanged the simple gold bands she had purchased at the local jewelry store in River Bend earlier that day. He made sure he didn’t hold her hand longer than was necessary.

  Remembering a first wedding on the day of a second wedding might be only natural, but Roarke refused to allow himself to remember anything about his first wedding. It would be unfair to Cleo to compare her with Hope. And it would be unfair to him to have to recall the circumstances that had led to the demise of his former marriage.

  Simon didn’t look at his new bride. He hadn’t made eye contact with her at all. What was the point? They both knew why they were there and what they had to do. This was a business arrangement, one that would benefit them both.

  All the legal documents had been signed beforehand. The equivalent of one year’s salary plus a nice bonus had been deposited in a bank account in Simon’s name and Cleo had agreed to a million-dollar divorce settlement once he had successfully fulfilled his part of their bargain.

  And that was the reason he was going through with this farce—for the money. If he was ever going to free himself from a life of danger and violence and still continue to meet his obligations to Hope, he needed money. A lot of money.

  Cleo McNamara had offered him a small fortune to marry her—and to keep her safe. In the weeks, possibly months, ahead he would be not only her husband, but her bodyguard. Being her bodyguard, no matter how difficult, would be the easy part. Being her husband would be a complicated situation. But he could handle it. He could handle just about anything if it meant making sure Hope would be taken care of for the rest of her life. The most difficult part of the bargain would be dealing with Cleo’s pregnancy. No matter how painful it would be for him, he could force himself to father Cleo’s child—as long as he never saw the child, never became a part of its life, never allowed himself to love it.

  He and Cleo were virtual strangers, having met only three days ago. But now they were man and wife. Legally bound in an unholy alliance. He had married her for money. She had married him for control of her family’s business. No matter what the mitigating circumstances, no matter who else would benefit from their marriage, they had gone into this most sacred union without an ounce of love or commitment between them.

  He kept reminding himself that Cleo wasn’t his type, but he couldn’t deny that she was attractive. Slender. Elegant. Cool. Controlled. Bossy and independent. It hadn’t taken him long to size her up and decide that he liked her. But there wasn’t much chance of her stealing his heart. Hell, he wasn’t sure he even had a heart anymore.

  His lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t smile. He was no longer very susceptible to women in general. Once, he had preferred his women soft, warm, sweet and needy. Hope had been like that. But he had learned his lesson—learned it the hard way. Now he steered clear of emotional entanglements.

  He didn’t love anyone, and he never would love anyone. Not ever again.

  But he had to admit that a part of him was intrigued by the challenge of melting the ice princess, of finding out if there was any fire inside Cleo.

  “You may kiss your bride,” the judge said.

  Roarke l
ooked at Cleo then, and for just a split second her expression was soft, almost tender. He noticed a damp glaze covering her moss-green eyes. Tears? Surely this steel magnolia wasn’t crying.

  “Well, Boss Lady, do you want a kiss?” Roarke asked, looking down, staring directly at her and determined to start this marriage off on the right foot. He reminded himself that this was strictly a business arrangement and she was his employer.

  Cleo’s expression hardened instantly. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, then opened them to face him with a chilly glare.

  “That won’t be necessary.” She pulled her hand out of his loose hold. “There are only three things this job requires of you, Roarke, and kissing me isn’t a mandatory part of any of them.”

  “Well, I can see where marrying you and protecting you don’t necessarily require kissing, but I’m afraid playing the part of your lovesick husband will require a few kisses. And getting you pregnant is definitely going to require more than a handshake.”

  The judge coughed several times and then cleared his throat. Cleo glared at Roarke. He met her glare head-on, neither flinching nor smiling.

  Roarke had to continue thinking of getting her pregnant as just part of his job. He would never allow himself to think of the child as his. The baby would be Cleo’s— Cleo’s alone—from the moment of conception. Things had to be that way. Otherwise, he’d never be able to go through with their deal.

  He took a good, hard look at the woman he had just married. Even on her wedding day, she wore a simple navy blue suit with a cream silk blouse. No frills. Not even a bouquet or corsage. She had dressed as if this were a business merger, not a wedding.

  The fact that she had taken no pains to make herself feminine and alluring, hadn’t bothered with flowers, music or even a little dab of perfume, made Roarke want all the more for her to act like a woman, a bride—his bride. Dammit, how could any female not wear something lace or satin on her wedding day? How could she not at least pin a rose on her lapel? And why the hell wouldn’t she want to be kissed?

  Maybe she did, he thought. Maybe she was just too proud to ask.

  Before Cleo had a chance to object, Roarke slid his arm around her tiny waist and drew her up against him. Gasping, she gazed up at him, her cheeks coloring slightly.

  “What—” She started to question his actions.

  Quickly lifting her off her feet, he leaned over to meet her open mouth, capturing it in a kiss that left her breathless and shocked. When she jerked her head back, trying to end the kiss, Roarke deepened his attack, thrusting his tongue inside. She struggled momentarily, then melted into him, her lips softening, her moist warmth accepting him.

  When he felt himself growing hard, Roarke slowed his pace. Tracing her lips with the tip of his tongue, he looked into her eyes and saw desire. And something more.

  Good Lord, what had he done? The last thing he wanted was for this woman to care about him, and he figured that Cleo was the kind of woman who’d tie lust and love together in one neat little package.

  “Why did you do that, after I’d expressly told you it wasn’t necessary?” she demanded.

  Roarke set her on her feet, then clutched her chin, tilting it upward so that she was looking directly at him.

  “Every bride should be kissed on her wedding day, Mrs. Roarke, and every groom should have the pleasure.”

  “Oh” was all she said before pulling away from him.

  Dammit all, he had desperately wanted to kiss her. He’d warned himself not to give in to the temptation, to his need to discover just how deep Cleo’s frigid, controlled exterior went.

  Well, he had just found out. His wife’s icy facade was only skin-deep. Buried just below the surface was a volcano of passion waiting to explode. And heaven help him, he was glad that he was the man who was going to set off that explosion.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE IRON GATES swung open, admitting Cleo’s sleek, green Jaguar. Roarke could barely see the Steadman-McNamara house from the road. Cleo had told him that Jefferson Steadman, Aunt Beatrice’s maternal grandfather, had built the country manor house around the turn of the century.

  “How many acres have y’all got here?” Roarke asked, taking note of the vast, well-manicured green lawn, the huge, old trees that lined the driveway and the wooded areas in the distance.

  “Three hundred and fifty acres,” Cleo replied. “At one time this place was a working farm. We still have the fruit orchards, and Pearl cans and freezes a great deal of the harvest each year.”

  Three hundred and fifty acres. Not enormous, but large in comparison with the sixty-acre farm he’d grown up on in Tennessee. He had hated the way his overbearing, religiously fanatical aunt and uncle had treated him—like an indentured servant. But he had loved the land, the animals, the clean air and sunshine. That’s what he missed, what he wanted again someday. Just a small place where he could raise a crop or two and keep a few chickens and horses and some cattle. He might even buy himself a dog. When he was a kid, he’d wanted a dog.

  “Brace yourself,” Cleo said. “We’re almost there.”

  A two-story portico added a certain grandeur to the facade of the old manor house. Glistening white in the afternoon sunshine, the home boasted three stories, neat black shutters and four brick chimneys.

  Roarke let out a long, low whistle. “This is mighty fancy digs for an old country boy like me.”

  Glancing at the man sitting beside her, Cleo noted the way he rested in the leather seat. His big, long body lounged in a half sitting, half lying position.

  A quivering sensation hit Cleo’s stomach. She quickly returned her attention to the driveway ahead of her. Just because Simon Roarke was devastatingly masculine didn’t mean she had to overreact to the mere sight of him. If she allowed her hormones to dictate her actions every time she was around him, she’d be a nervous wreck by the end of the week.

  “Do you really still consider yourself a country boy?” Cleo asked, remembering that Roarke’s personal history stated that he’d been born in Chattanooga, but had grown up on a farm outside Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. “After a career in the Special Forces and having lived in Atlanta for several years, I don’t see how you can think of yourself as a country boy.”

  “You know the old saying.” Roarke scooted his massive frame up in the seat and spread one long arm out above Cleo’s shoulders.

  When she widened her eyes in a quizzical expression, he grinned. “‘You can take the boy out of the country,’” he said.

  “‘But you can’t take the country out of the boy.’” Smiling, she completed the sentence for him.

  Cleo had a nice smile, Roarke realized. Warm, genuine and sort of sexy. Her wide mouth parted at a slightly crooked angle, curving the left side up more than the right. Her full, pink lips were moist and very inviting. Roarke’s body tightened. Groaning silently, he warned himself to concentrate on something other than Cleo’s luscious mouth.

  “One of the reasons I took this job as your hired husband is so I can buy myself a little farm somewhere and retire.”

  “Thirty-nine is a bit young to retire, isn’t it?” Cleo asked.

  “Not from my line of business,” he told her.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen, what all you must have endured, the types of people you’ve met.”

  Yeah, he’d probably seen just about everything, experienced nightmares other people never even knew about. He wondered what Cleo would think if he told her that neither the horrors of being a professional soldier nor the dangers he faced in the private security business could compare with the never-ending hell a man lived in when he felt responsible for the death of his only child.

  “Let’s just say my life has been nothing like yours, Boss Lady.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that!”

  “I’ll be careful not to use the term around your family.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  Suddenly real
izing this homecoming was going to be a worse fiasco than she’d thought, Cleo groaned as they drove up to the house. The whole clan waited on the veranda, like a group of overeager fans prepared to pounce on their favorite rock star.

  Smiling warmly and waving enthusiastically, Aunt Beatrice stood at the top of the steps. Several feet behind Beatrice, Oralie and Perry waited in front of the double doors. As always, Aunt Oralie, in her flowing silk dress and her thirty-inch pearls, looked the part of an aging Southern belle. She gazed at the approaching couple with cool, calculating hazel eyes, but put on a proper smile of welcome. Uncle Perry possessed a good poker player’s face. One never quite knew what was going on behind his faded brown eyes.

  Cleo pulled her Jaguar to a slow, smooth halt. Aunt Beatrice rushed down the front steps. Laughing giddily, she clapped her hands. “Congratulations, children, and welcome home.”

  Gripping the steering wheel, Cleo took a deep breath and willed herself to stay calm. If she was going to make this charade work, she could not allow anyone to suspect that she wasn’t a deliriously happy bride.

  “I thought you said you told your family that you didn’t want any fuss made.” Roarke surveyed the group of people hovering about on the porch.

  The older couple had to be Oralie and Perry Sutton. Roarke thought that the woman’s smile was too strained to be genuine, and he wondered what secrets lay hidden behind Sutton’s unemotional demeanor.

  The couple half-hidden behind one of the white columns were probably Trey Sutton and his wife, Marla. Young Sutton resembled his father a great deal, but he was a good three inches shorter. His wife looked very young and perhaps a bit too wholesome for this group of wealthy snobs.

  “Knowing Aunt Beatrice the way I do, I imagine she’s planned some sort of celebration.” Releasing her tenacious hold on the steering wheel, Cleo turned to her husband of less than an hour. “I’ll forewarn you. They’re going to be suspicious and will probably ask far too many personal questions. My cousin Daphne will, no doubt, flirt out rageously with you today. And sooner or later, she’ll invite you into her bed.”