Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  His stomach did an evil flip-flop. Practically a virgin usually meant only one former lover. Winfield? No, Roarke thought. Not Winfield. Someone else. Someone a long time ago. Someone she had loved.

  Roarke scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. “I’m sorry if I sounded like I was making fun of you. I wasn’t. Not at all. I just thought that since I’m going to be your lover, it would be better for both of us if I knew it had been a while since you’d been with someone.”

  “All right. Yes, it has been a while…years,” she admitted reluctantly, her gaze fixed on the carved back of the needlepoint-upholstered French chair that sat behind her desk at the foot of the bed. “Ten years. He was my fiancé.” She swallowed, bit down on her bottom lip and crossed her arms, hugging herself about the waist. “A few weeks before we were to be married, he eloped with Daphne.”

  That would explain, in large part, the animosity between Cleo and Daphne. And it explained Cleo’s cool, controlled attitude. Apparently, Daphne was no longer married to this man, whoever he was. What Roarke wondered was whether Cleo still loved him. Surely not. Not after ten years. But the hurt would still exist. And the awful humiliation.

  He, perhaps better than anyone, knew that sometimes old wounds never healed. Not completely.

  Roarke walked over to the French doors that led out to a balcony overlooking the backyard. Lined drapes in an expensive floral fabric hung on each side of the doors. He glanced down at the brick patio and the small flower garden. Off in the distance, he saw the orchard Cleo had told him about earlier in the day.

  “Any man who’d dump you for Daphne is a fool.” Roarke’s voice was deep, calm and totally void of emotion. “You’re better off without him.”

  “Yes, I know.” She got out of bed, removed her navy heels and slipped into a pair of green satin house shoes.

  When Roarke opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, she followed him. “You’ve been with a lot of women, haven’t you?” she asked.

  He grasped the white wooden banister that circled the balcony and leaned over, looking straight down at the screened back porch. “Several.”

  “How many are several?” She stood directly behind him, a couple of feet away.

  “I don’t know. Half a dozen before I got married, then more after my divorce. Not very many in the past five or six years. If you’re worried, don’t be. I always practiced safe sex.”

  “Did you ever love anyone other than your wife?”

  “Not really. A couple of heavy involvements before I got married. Kid stuff, really. Hormones, mostly.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken so openly, so honestly with anyone, least of all a woman. But Cleo had been honest with him, had shared probably the most painful and humiliating experience of her life. He owed her the truth. He’d answer her questions. As long as she didn’t start probing into his marriage, asking about things he couldn’t bear to remember.

  “Simon?”

  A sudden hot, searing pain hit him square in the gut. It was as if she had branded his name into his flesh. The women he’d known in the past fifteen years had called him “Roarke” or “honey” or “lover,” if they’d called him anything at all.

  Hope had called him “Simon.” She still did, on the rare occasions that she recognized him when he visited her at the sanitarium.

  “Yeah?” He’d have to get used to Cleo calling him “Simon.” It was all part of the act. This was just a job, he reminded himself. When it was over, he would walk away and forget he’d ever known Cleo McNamara. Forget that he’d left her with his child growing inside her body.

  “I can help you unpack, if you’d like,” she said. “I’ll empty a couple of drawers in the chest for you. And I have an enormous walk-in closet with plenty of room for your clothes.”

  “I travel pretty light.” He turned slowly and faced her, thinking how very pretty his new wife looked in the fading early-evening sunlight. Her red hair shone like bronze silk. He had the sudden urge to reach out and pull her into his arms. “I’ve got two suits. The blue one I’m wearing and a black one. Some dress pants, a sport coat, a couple pair of jeans and a few shirts. Other than socks and underwear, that’s about it.”

  “We’ll have to get some new suits made for you,” she said. “Uncle George has a tailor in town that all the men in the family use.”

  “Tailor-made suits?” Roarke widened his eyes in mock surprise, lifting his dark, thick eyebrows in the process. “You really want me to look the part of your husband, huh?”

  “Let’s just call any new clothes you acquire during our marriage a bonus,” Cleo said. “Besides, we’ll have to find something for you to do at McNamara Industries to explain why you’re going in to work with me every day and nosing around at the plant. You’ll need to look like a successful businessman.”

  “I’ll certainly live up to the image of a kept man, won’t I? We’re living in your family’s mansion. You’re buying me new clothes and giving me a job. What else? Are you giving me a car, too?”

  “Would you prefer using my Jaguar or my Mercedes?” she asked. “I prefer the Jag, but if you’d rather drive the Mercedes, then I have no objections.”

  “We’ll use the Jag,” he said. “Since I doubt I’ll be going anywhere without you, we’ll just use your favorite vehicle.”

  “Maybe everyone will think we’re so in love that we can’t bear to be apart, not even for a few minutes.”

  Moving closer, he clutched her shoulders in his big hands. “Look, Cleo, I know this situation isn’t easy for you. And I know you have the noblest of reasons for choosing this course of action. I intend to do whatever I can to make things as easy for you as possible, and if that means convincing the whole world that we’re madly in love, so be it.”

  She laid her hands on his chest, intending to push him away. But once she touched him, she felt the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. “Thank you…Simon.”

  “We need to discuss each member of your family.” He released her shoulders, then grasped her hands, which lay on his chest. “The more information you can give me, the better. I’ll have to find out everything about your aunt and uncle and cousins, including Trey’s wife.”

  “Surely Marla isn’t a suspect. She’s harmless. She doesn’t make a move without Trey’s approval.”

  “Then she’d do whatever he asked her to do, even try to kill you.”

  “Everyone is a suspect?”

  “Everyone, including Hugh Winfield.” He clasped her hands tighter, pressing them against his chest.

  “Hugh?” Cleo gazed directly into Roarke’s eyes, and for one brief moment longed to stand on tiptoe and find his mouth with her lips.

  “He’s involved with Daphne, and if he marries her, her inheritance will be his, too.”

  Cleo was looking at him as if she wanted to be kissed. But he wouldn’t kiss her. He was beginning to know this woman—his wife. Her eyes might be begging for him, but she would deny their hunger if he attempted to give her what she wanted.

  “Aunt Beatrice is above suspicion, and Pearl and Ezra, too, I hope.”

  “Probably. I don’t think Beatrice would have suggested bringing in a bodyguard who could fulfill the stipulations in her father’s will if she wanted you dead. And I don’t see that either Pearl or her husband has a motive.”

  Cleo had to get away from Roarke—Simon—before she embarrassed herself. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, why she was acting like some female animal in heat. Maybe their discussion of their respective sex lives had triggered the rush of hormones that had her practically climbing the wall. This would never do! How was she going to convince her husband that she wanted to wait a couple of weeks before consummating their marriage if she went up in flames every time he touched her?

  “I think I’ll shower and change clothes before Pearl brings up dinner.” Cleo shoved on Roarke’s chest, and for a couple of seconds she thought he wasn’t going to release her.

 
He dropped his hands to his sides and waited for her to remove her hands from his chest. “Sounds like a good idea. As soon as you finish up, I’ll take a shower.”

  Lift your hands, she told herself. Lift your hands, turn around and walk away.

  He kept looking at her, his gaze moving over her face, then down to her chest. He was staring at her breasts, at the pebble-hard nipples pressing against her sheer bra and silk blouse. A gripping sensation throbbed intimately within Cleo, sending tingling desire radiating from her feminine core to her taut breasts and then throughout her body. Balling her hands into fists, she shoved against his chest. He stepped backward, putting a few inches between their bodies.

  Without saying a word, she turned and ran into her bedroom, leaving Roarke alone on the balcony. The moment she slammed shut the bathroom door, he let out a long sigh, then cursed under his breath. He was aroused to the point of pain. Somehow he had to make it through dinner and a discussion of the suspects. How many hours would that take? How long would it be before they went to bed? He could wait a little longer, if he had to. A few hours. Waiting would make the loving all the sweeter. For both of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROARKE FINISHED OFF his second beer, placed the bottle on the table and leaned back in the French bergère chair. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked at Cleo, who sat in a matching chair across the round Sheraton table in her sitting room. She played with a piece of Pearl’s delicious apple pie, destroying the flaky crust with the tip of her fork. She had picked at her entire meal, leaving most of it on her plate. Roarke wondered if she always ate so light or if she was nervous tonight.

  His cast-iron stomach was all right; he never had a problem eating. As a matter of fact, all Roarke’s appetites were in top form, and there was one particular appetite that he was more than ready to appease.

  Cleo hadn’t said much to him after they’d showered and changed clothes. Unfortunately, they’d showered separately. In the future, he’d have to rectify that situation. Before he’d had a chance to unpack, Ezra had delivered their dinner on an enormous silver tray, and Cleo had busied herself arranging the meal on the table in her sitting room.

  Cleo’s suite consisted of three rooms: a large, luxurious bath; a huge bedroom decorated with antiques; and a small sitting room, with a table and two chairs, a fat, overstuffed love seat and a Queen Anne wingback in the corner. All three rooms had been done in pale, delicate shades of green, peach and cream. Although there wasn’t any lace or bows or satin or frilly touches in the suite, the rooms were decidedly feminine. The orderly neatness, the expensive decor, the cool, fragile colors corresponded with similar traits in Cleo herself. She was cool, neat, fragile and rich.

  She gazed nervously at him, and Roarke instinctively knew that while they’d shared supper, she’d been thinking about tonight. About their first night together. Once or twice, he had noticed her glancing into the bedroom, at her bed. The bed she would share with him during their marriage.

  “If you’re finished, I’ll ring for Pearl to clear away these things.”

  “I’m through. Pearl’s a fabulous cook.” Roarke laid his linen napkin on the table. “You didn’t eat much. Weren’t you hungry?”

  “Not really. Nerves, I guess,” Cleo admitted. “It’s not every day that I get married.”

  “Or every night that you share your bed with a husband.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to having someone share my suite, and certainly not my bed.” She stood abruptly. Her napkin fell from her lap and landed at her feet on the soft, thick carpet. She crossed the room hurriedly, pulled open a drawer in the mahogany inlaid-and-banded chest, then turned to him. “I’ll rearrange a few things so that you can have this drawer. And there’s plenty of room in the closet—” she nodded toward the door that led to the room-size walk-in closet “—for you to hang your clothes.”

  “Thanks.” Roarke couldn’t help but notice how different Cleo looked after she’d changed out of her navy blue suit and into a pair of jeans and oversize top. Young. Fresh. Innocent. She’d washed away any residue of makeup, leaving her face scrubbed clean. And she had removed her gold jewelry, the earrings, watch and bracelet—everything except the wide gold wedding band.

  He looked down at his left hand, at the band circling his third finger. Eighteen years ago, Hope had slipped a similar ring on his finger and he had promised to love her forever. He’d been so sure their love would last a lifetime—it hadn’t survived the first year. Now he was married again, but not for love. This time he knew in advance that this marriage was headed straight for the divorce courts.

  Cleo notified Pearl that they had finished dinner, then she emptied the second drawer in the chest for Roarke. She opened the closet door and, after flipping on the light switch, walked inside and pushed some of her suits down the rack on the left. Although she watched Roarke while he unpacked his suitcase, she pretended to be otherwise occupied.

  Roarke was even more masculine, more devastatingly male in a pair of tight, faded jeans and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt than he’d been in his suit. His shoulders were massive, his arms bulging with muscles, his stomach flat and his butt tight. She didn’t believe she’d ever spent as much time assessing a man’s body as she had the past hour inspecting her husband.

  After his shower, he hadn’t bothered putting on any shoes. When he’d commented on how soft the carpet was, Cleo had stared down at his big feet. Even his feet looked masculine. Large. Wide. His toes sprinkled with brown hair.

  After he’d emptied his underwear and a pair of blue-and-white-striped pajama bottoms from a duffel bag and placed them in the chest, he pulled out a shaving kit.

  “Would you mind putting this in the bathroom for me?” he asked.

  “Of course.” When she walked out of the closet, he tossed the kit to her.

  Entering the bathroom, she paused to look at her very private domain, one that would be private no longer. For the next few months, she would have to share her living quarters with Roarke. Even her bathroom was no longer sacrosanct. She placed his shaving kit on the vanity, alongside her cosmetic basket. Her hand trembled. Marrying a stranger to fulfill the stipulations in her uncle’s will had seemed the only solution to her problems, and she’d been certain she would be able to adjust to sharing her suite with a man. But she wasn’t as sure now. Now that Simon Roarke’s underwear was in her English mahogany chest. Now that his razor and toothbrush and aftershave rested on her vanity. Now that she had to face a night alone with him in her bed, lying beside her, his big body only inches away. What would happen if they accidentally brushed against each other during the night?

  Stop worrying, she told herself. You’re the boss. He’s the employee. Once you explain that you want to wait a couple of weeks and become better acquainted before you have sex, then he’ll have no choice but to comply with your wishes.

  Exiting the bathroom, she halted in the doorway when she saw Roarke remove a gun and trim leather holster from his suitcase. She sucked in her breath. A gun! Of course he’d have a gun. He was a professional bodyguard.

  With the holster in his hand, he looked across the room at Cleo. “Under normal circumstances, I would have worn this today, but… I’d like to put it in the nightstand, on my side of the bed. And I’ll need to start wearing it whenever we’re out of these rooms.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” If others saw his pistol, what would they think? How would they ever explain why her husband was carrying a gun?

  “Yes, Boss Lady. It’s a necessary part of my protecting you.” He pulled the gun from the holster and lifted it up so she could get a better look at it. “Do you know anything about guns?”

  “Not a great deal,” she said. “Uncle George had a small collection of rifles that he kept in a gun cabinet in his study downstairs.”

  “Come here.” He motioned for her to come to him.

  She complied with his request, crossed the room and stopped at his side. He grabbe
d her hand and laid the gun in her palm. She quivered.

  “A gun is no better or worse than the person who uses it,” he told her. “This gun will be used only for your protection. It’s not your enemy.”

  She handed the gun back to him. “I’m not afraid of guns, Roarke. It’s just that I’m not used to living with someone who carries one.”

  Roarke returned his Beretta to the holster, then gave it back to Cleo. “Put this in the nightstand, will you? I don’t know which side of the bed you want me to sleep on.”

  Holding the gun cautiously, Cleo carried it to the nightstand on the left side of the bed, opened the drawer and carefully placed the holster on top of several paperback books.

  “How will you explain wearing a gun if someone in the family or at the office notices?” Closing the drawer, she glanced across to where Roarke stood in the closet, hanging his clothes beside hers.

  “I brought along that model of Beretta, a Cougar 800, because it’s compact and easy to conceal, but uses a high-powered 9 mm clip. No one should notice it, but if someone does, I’ll just say I’m wearing it to protect my wife.”

  She nodded agreement. What sort of man was he, this husband of hers? A former Green Beret. A private security agent. A professional bodyguard. He had nothing in common with the men of her acquaintance. Ordinary men, who lived ordinary lives. No danger. No violence. No weapons.

  “You know a lot about guns, don’t you?” she asked.

  “In my line of business, it pays to know a lot about guns.”

  A loud, distinct knock at the bedroom door ended their discussion. Before Cleo could reply, the door opened and Pearl sauntered in, a large, empty basket in her hand. She looked Cleo up and down, then gave Roarke the same visual treatment.

  “Your aunt Oralie was complaining that y’all didn’t join the family for dinner,” Pearl said. “Bea told her that she suspected you two wouldn’t be joining the family for meals for several days.”