Lawfully Unwed (Return To The Double C Book 17)

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “You wouldn’t lie about something like this.” That was Martin’s way. He’d twist words, twist situations. Always calculating. Always manipulating.

  She stared at the console. At her hand clasped with Archer’s. “Did you really want to go into practice together?” she asked suddenly. “You know. Back then. Or was it because we’d—” she swallowed and reminded herself that she was a grown woman “—because we’d slept together?”

  “Yes.”

  She absorbed that. Then she frowned. “Yes, you wanted the partnership? Or yes, you wanted it because we’d slept together?”

  “Yes,” he repeated with exaggerated patience, leaving his answer still wholly unclarified.

  Her breath escaped slowly. Noisily. “Obviously,” she said, “you’re just trying to annoy me.” After taking the time to confide something so extremely personal, too. “Why?”

  She realized their hands were still clasped when he rubbed his thumb across her palm. “Some habits are easier to break than others.”

  Then he let go of her and slowed the truck as he turned the steering wheel. A moment later she recognized the stone pillars beneath the wash of headlights.

  Her nerves shot into another gear. She moistened her lips. “What are we doing here?” She was afraid of jumping to conclusions. Particularly when her thoughts were already skittering around like lines on a painting and bells were jangling inside her veins.

  “It’s late.”

  She swallowed. “So?”

  “So it’s been a long day and I don’t want to drive any more tonight.” This wasn’t strictly true, since he did drive farther, at least until he reached his house where the exterior light washed invitingly down over the deck.

  “Don’t worry,” he said as he put the truck into Park. “There are several bedrooms, including the one in the guesthouse, that you can choose from.”

  “I have a lot to do tomorrow,” she argued, even though it was patently obvious that he wasn’t going to budge. “Your grandmother’s party is—”

  He covered her mouth with his hand. Lightly. But the fact that he’d done it at all was enough to make her go rigid.

  “Don’t worry,” he said in a mock whisper. “I’ll take you into Weaver in the morning. Nobody’ll be the wiser.” He dropped his hand and shoved open his door.

  She swallowed hard, watching him circle around the front of the truck. Moonlight shone down over his dark gold hair. He was so ridiculously beautiful it stole her breath. But it was the man inside who shined even brighter.

  Would Ros ever know just how long he, and his father before him, had been watching out for her? Would she ever get over being kept in the dark about her father’s true nature? Or would she deny the truth, even if proof were physically presented to her?

  The door beside her opened.

  “Well? Are you coming in or do I bring you a blanket because you want to do something stupid like sleep in the truck?”

  That, at least, spurred her to action. “I don’t want to sleep in the truck,” she assured him a little waspishly. What kind of prude did he think she’d become?

  “All right, then.” He held out his hand.

  She didn’t allow herself any time to think. She just took it and slid out through the door. But when she was standing firmly on the ground, she pulled her hand away and curled her fingers into her palm, holding on to the warmth that lingered.

  He never needed to know. He was already leading the way up the steps of the deck.

  She followed. “Which bed has the cleanest sheets?” Her voice was tart.

  He turned and looked at her. “Mine.”

  Her foot nearly missed the next step. Her breath parked itself uncomfortably in her chest.

  She peered up at him, wishing she could read his face. But he’d reached the top of the stairs and the light from the house was behind him, making his expression a wealth of impenetrable shadows. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  She felt her lips move, but no words would come. It was worse than when she’d made her first court appearance on her first real case. So many thoughts pushing inside her, all wanting to escape, and not a single one to emerge in anything remotely resembling a coherent statement.

  She opened her mouth again.

  A loud, yowling sound cut through the night, eclipsing the strangled sound she’d managed to emit.

  She thought of bears again. Of mountain lions and who knew what else. “What was that?”

  He chuckled suddenly as he turned and went over to the kitchen door and pulled it open. “That, sweetheart, is the cat.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The cat?

  Nell looked over her shoulder out into the night as the yowl sounded again. Plaintive. Annoyed.

  “And from the sounds of it,” Archer added, “he’s none too happy about missing being fed.”

  She turned and followed him quickly into the house. “That doesn’t sound like any housecat I’ve ever heard. Are you sure we haven’t been feeding a bobcat?”

  He reached into a lower cupboard and came out with a plastic bucket filled with cat food. “It’s not a bobcat,” he dismissed. “Go find a bedroom. I’ll be back.” He brushed past her on his way out the door again.

  She watched Archer from the doorway until the night swallowed him. After everything, she still felt wobbly inside.

  Do you want it to be?

  She hugged her arms around herself and walked out of the kitchen. Once more, that same soft light automatically came on.

  She walked down the hall, passed the powder room with its pedestal sink and stopped at the staircase. His study and a small bedroom were on the other side.

  The bedroom possessed a bed. Not quite as narrow as a twin, but not as wide as her overly soft bed at the Cozy Night, either.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek, looking toward the room and feeling her pulse throb.

  Do you want it to be?

  Upstairs, there were three more bedrooms. Not including his.

  Even the guesthouse had a bed. He’d told her so.

  That was the best choice. The wisest choice. Don’t even stay the night under the same roof.

  She closed her hand over the square newel post. Placed her toe on the bottom step.

  What would the cost be if she went up the rest of the steps?

  She took her foot from the stair again. Walked past the staircase. But instead of going into the bedroom with the narrow bed, she turned and went into his study, instead.

  Bookshelves lined three of the walls. Not just any ordinary bookshelves, either. No, these started at the floor and went all the way up to the ceiling. A dark metal rail for a rolling ladder two-thirds of the way up ran continuously around the three walls, too.

  She crossed to the closest wall. Ran her palm lightly over the wildly mismatched spines. He seemed to have a little bit of everything. Biographies. Political commentaries. Science fiction. Historical fiction. Satire. Thrillers. Poetry. Even—

  Her trailing fingers stopped atop the sweetly familiar name. Julia Brewster.

  She slowly pulled out the narrow book. The glossy dust jacket was pristine. She smiled slightly as she touched the familiar rotund little penguin on the cover. “Hello, Monty,” she murmured. “What are you doing here in this house?”

  “Keeping company with Seuss and Dahl.”

  She turned on her heel, clutching the book against her chest. She felt engulfed by Archer’s green, green gaze. “It’s one of my mother’s books.”

  He was still holding the bag of cat food and he set it on the corner of his unexpectedly cluttered desk as he approached her. “Monty the Curious Penguin. I know.”

  Her chest felt tight. “But why?”

  “Why not? It’s your mom’s first book. And it’s a good one. One of Layla
’s favorites, in fact. She’s Greer and Ryder’s oldest. She’ll be three in a few months and she always wants to look at the pictures when she is here.”

  An image of him reading to a little girl filled Nell’s head way too easily. It joined the memory of him holding Liam. And it caused an increasingly familiar longing deep down inside her.

  “It’s not for sale anymore,” she said. He’d stopped only inches away from her and she stared up at him. “It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  He’d either had it for a very long time or he’d put some effort into finding it. “There were twelve in all.”

  “You told me that, too.” His voice was impossibly gentle. “Did you ever finish tracking all of them down? You had all but one.”

  “The tenth.” She shook her head. “Is it a coincidence? You just happen to have a copy of this?” She held up the book between them. Almost like a shield.

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Yes.” She turned and slid the book into its narrow space on the crowded shelf, then just hovered there, her blind gaze on the myriad titles. Her heart was beating so hard, she felt dizzy.

  She forced herself to turn back. To face him. Because not facing him felt cowardly. And when it came to him—to the things he’d told her tonight—the last thing she wanted to be was cowardly. Her gaze caught on his strong, angled jaw for a moment before finally reaching his gaze. “And yes, I want it to be an invitation.”

  “I’m sensing a but in there.” There wasn’t a single spark of deviltry in those green depths now. If there had been, she’d have been able to resist his intense lure.

  Her throat tightened. Her mouth was dry. Swallowing was nearly impossible. “But I’m afraid.”

  His hands settled lightly on her shoulders. Thumbs roving in small, gentle...distracting...circles. “Of what?”

  Of everything.

  “Making another mistake,” she said instead.

  Something in his eyes flickered. The distracting circles slowed. Stopped. The corners of his lips lifted for such a brief moment she almost missed it. Then his hands moved. Lightly cupped her face. He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers in a kiss as faint as a whisper.

  Maybe for that reason alone, it shook her all the way down to her soul.

  Then he straightened.

  His hands fell away.

  “We’re all afraid of making mistakes, Cornelia.” And he turned and left her alone in his study.

  She sagged against the bookcase behind her. Against her mother’s first book that was sitting on his bookshelf.

  * * *

  Eighteen hours later, Nell still didn’t know if she’d passed up the chance of a lifetime with Archer or if she’d escaped by the skin of her teeth.

  What she did know, however, was that she still felt shaky. And it was extremely inconvenient, when she ought to have all of her focus on her final checklist for Vivian’s cocktail party.

  Which was probably why she nearly jumped out of her skin when a young woman suddenly breezed into Vivian’s office at the mansion with a cheerful “Hi! You must be Nell.”

  Nell stared at the gamin-faced girl. She was wearing a short, glittering red dress that showed off her legs, particularly when she hopped up to sit on the side of Vivian’s desk, knocking aside a stack of mail. “Yes,” Nell returned warily. “And you are—”

  “Delia.”

  Vivian’s granddaughter-slash-assistant who’d been away, Nell realized.

  She suddenly felt very self-conscious in her black dress that was nowhere near as vibrant. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t cling and it covered her knees. In fact it looked more like a shapeless sack, but since Nell hadn’t made it into Classic Charms until the last minute, she’d had to go with what had been available.

  The salesgirl had insisted Nell looked très chic, but at that particular moment, Nell felt anything but.

  “I’m Nell,” she said, and quickly shook the other girl’s hand. “And it’s nice to meet you. Though I think we probably did meet a long time ago. I spent a summer once in Braden with your aunt and uncle. And all of you came over one day for a barbecue in the backyard. You would have been just a little girl.”

  Delia smiled mischievously. “Fortunately I’m not little anymore. And don’t be offended when I say I don’t remember you.” She swung her feet that were clad in ruby-red sandals with mile-high heels. “So how do you like working for our Vivvie?”

  Nell almost choked. Vivvie was about the last thing she’d have dared to call Vivian. But then she wasn’t one of the woman’s grandchildren. “It’s very interesting.”

  She moved over to the windows to look down at the patio below. It was so nice and warm, they would be starting off out on the rear patio. Montrose had been busy in the kitchen all day making his preparations. She hoped.

  All Nell could do was trust that the chef would do his part, since he’d barred everyone from entering the kitchen after having one too many shouting matches with Vivian over the menu.

  There were no trays of food on the linen-draped tables. But at least the florist was there, setting out several bouquets. They were fancier than Nell thought necessary, but they weren’t quite as formal and ornate as Vivian had envisioned.

  Nell could only hope the decision she’d made where the flowers were concerned would be more on point than her indecision where Archer was concerned.

  After spending a sleepless—and solitary—night on the narrow bed in the bedroom next to Archer’s study, he’d returned her to Weaver early that morning just the way he’d promised.

  With no one the wiser.

  Well, nobody except Gardner, who’d been trying to get her three boys corralled and into the car for their day at summer camp.

  Archer, who during the drive into town had acted as if nothing important had or had not occurred between him and Nell, had given the single mom one of his trademark smiles before driving away.

  Nell marked off the floral decorations on her checklist and wished she could mark off Archer as easily. She glanced at Delia. “Your grandmother told me she wasn’t expecting you back for a few weeks.”

  The girl lifted a shoulder. “I decided to come home early.”

  Another thing that Vivian had said about Delia. She was as spontaneous as a spring breeze.

  “I imagine this is usually your job.” Nell gestured at the tables down below.

  “Organizing one of Vivian’s boring little soirées?” Delia laughed. “Not likely. She doesn’t trust my taste at all. Tells me I’m too prone to sequins and glitter.” She stopped next to Nell and looked out at the patio, too. “She obviously trusts yours, though. Very...tasteful.”

  “You mean boring,” Nell interpreted drily.

  “It’s not boring if that’s what makes you happy.”

  Paying exorbitant amounts of money for out-of-season floral arrangements—even scaled-down ones—wasn’t something Nell cared about at all. But Vivian did.

  “How many people are on the guest list, anyway?”

  Nell flipped to another page in her organizer and extracted the list. She handed it to Delia. “About thirty-two. Most of the town council and their husbands and wives. A couple others. Your grandmother’s architect.”

  “Exciting.” Delia’s eyes looked mischievous.

  Nell raised her eyebrows. “Maybe not, but you came.”

  Delia shrugged. “Vivvie’s not the worst pain in my side. I figure it’s the least I can do. I’ve learned a lot from her since I started doing the personal assistant thing.”

  Nell looked out at the empty buffet tables again. “Did you learn how to negotiate between Vivian and Montrose?”

  “That’s not a skill anyone can master.”

  Great. Nell squelched a sigh. “Well, everything on this list is taken care o
f. Except for the hostess and the guests arriving. And hopefully the food will materialize.”

  “There will be food,” Delia assured her. “Montrose might act like a total prima donna, but in the end, he’ll come through for my grandmother. He always does. And there’s never a problem with the guests showing up. People around here are always curious to get a glimpse inside the Templeton mansion.”

  “I can believe that.” Only then did she notice that Delia was eyeing her with an assessing look. “What?”

  “That dress does nothing for you,” Delia said bluntly. Then she spun on her heel and disappeared as abruptly as she’d appeared in the first place.

  “Gee thanks,” Nell said under her breath. If she had any illusions about herself, she might have been stung. Instead, she could think only that Delia was quite the young chip off her grandmother’s block. “Vivvie” was equally plainspoken.

  With a few minutes on her hands, Nell left Vivian’s office as well, going down the hall to her own. There was nothing else she could do to hasten Montrose short of breaking through his barred kitchen door, so she might as well make some phone calls. Try to live up to her insistence that she’d soon be moving out of the Cozy Night.

  In short order, she’d made three appointments to see one of the overly expensive apartment units near Shop-World, a two-bedroom house that was over in Braden and a room in a four-bedroom house being shared by two other people.

  It wasn’t an impressive start, but it was still a start.

  “I wondered where you’d gotten to.” Once again, Delia’s abrupt appearance caught Nell by surprise. She was holding two dresses hanging on hangers in one hand and she tossed them over Nell’s desk. “Either one is better than that thing you’re wearing. And I brought some shoes, too.” She was holding a pair of black shoes by the sharp, high heels in her other hand. “Size eight?”

  Nell didn’t know if she was asking about her shoe size or her dress size. Only one would be right. “Um—”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Delia interrupted her hemming and hawing, “but I am never wrong.” Her eyes were assessing but not unkind. “And they’ll go with either dress.” She turned on her own high heel with a shimmering sparkle. “Leave your hair down, too,” she said before she reached for the door on her way out. “You have five minutes.”