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He murmured, “Now, darlin’. You think about how we’ll finish that later on. I know I will be.”
Later?
Lucas tugged at their clasped hands, and she followed him on rubbery legs into the dining room, still raw from being kissed breathless. Raw and confused.
It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. That kiss had been window dressing. It had been a diversion to get her to lay off. She wasn’t stupid. Lucas had a crackerjack gift for distraction when necessary, and this had been one of those times. There was no later.
No one asked about the relationship between her and Lucas during dinner.
It might have had to do with the scorching heat in his eyes every time he looked at her. Or the way he sat two inches from her chair and whispered in her ear every so often. The comments were silly, designed to make her laugh, but every time he leaned in, with his lips close to her ear, laughing didn’t happen.
She was consumed with later and the lingering taste of him on her lips.
Clearly, she’d underestimated his talent when it came to women. Oh, she wasn’t surprised at his ability to kiss a fake fiancée senseless, or how the wickedness of his mouth caused her to forget her own name. No. The surprise lay in how genuine he’d made it feel. Like he’d enjoyed kissing her. Like the audience hadn’t mattered.
He’d been doing his job—faking it around other people. And despite the unqualified awareness that it wasn’t real, that it never, ever could be, he’d made her want it to be real.
A man who could spin that kind of straw into gold was dangerous.
After dinner, Fran shooed everyone to the huge screened-in porch for coffee. Andy, Matthew and Lucas small talked about work a few feet away, so Cia perched on the wicker love seat overlooking the pool, sipping a cup of coffee to ward off the slight chill darkness had brought. Decaf, because she’d have a hard enough time sleeping tonight as it was. Her body still ached with the unfulfilled promise of Lucas’s kiss.
After a conspicuous absence, Fran appeared and joined her.
“This is for you,” Fran said, and handed Cia a long, velvet jewelry box. “Open it.”
Cia set her coffee aside and sprung the lid, gasping as an eighteen-inch gray pearl and diamond necklace spilled into her hands. “Oh, Fran, I couldn’t.”
Fran closed Cia’s hand over the smooth, cool pearls. “It belonged to my mother and my grandmother before that. My mother’s wedding ring went to Ambe—” She cut herself off with a pained glance at Matthew. “My oldest son, but I saved this for Lucas’s wife. I want you to have it. It’s your something old.”
Madre de Dios, how did she refuse?
This was way worse than a villa—it was an heirloom. A beautiful expression of lineage and family and her eyes stung as Fran clasped it around Cia’s neck. It hung heavy against her skin, and she couldn’t speak.
“It’s stunning with your dark hair. Oh, I know it’s not the height of fashion,” Fran said with a half laugh. “It’s old-lady jewelry. So humor me, please, and wear it at the ceremony, then put it away. I’ll let Lucas buy you pretty baubles more to your taste.”
Cia touched the necklace with the tips of her fingers. “Thank you.” A paltry sentiment compared to the emotion churning through her.
Fran smiled. “You’re welcome. At the risk of being tactless, I was crushed you didn’t want any family at the wedding. I’m more than happy to pitch in as mother of the bride, if that’s part of the issue. You must be missing yours.”
Before Cia’s face crumpled fully, Lucas materialized at her side and pulled her to her feet. “Mama. I told you Cia doesn’t want a big ceremony or any fuss. She doesn’t even like jewelry.”
Obviously he’d been listening to the conversation. As Fran sputtered, Cia retreated a few mortified steps and tried to be grateful for the intervention.
Her dry eyes burned. No big church wedding for her. No flower girls, chamber music or a delicate sleeveless ecru dress with a princess waist, trimmed in lace. All that signified the real deal, an ability to gift someone with her love and then trust the fates not to rip her happiness away with no warning.
Neither could she in good conscience develop any sort of relationship with Mrs. Wheeler. Better to hurt her now, rather than later.
With her heart in shredded little pieces, Cia unclasped the necklace. “Thank you, but I can’t wear this. It doesn’t go with a simple civil ceremony. I’m pretty busy at work for the foreseeable future, so lunch is out of the question.”
Fran’s expression smoothed out as she accepted the return of her box and necklace. “I overstepped. You have my apologies.”
“It’s fine, Mama. We should go,” Lucas said and nodded to the rest of his family, who watched her coolly.
Excellent. Now they all hated her. That’s what she should have been going for all night. Then when she and Lucas divorced, he could blame it all on her, and his family would welcome him back into the fold with sympathy and condolences. His mother would say she knew Cia wasn’t the right girl for him the moment she’d thrown his great-grandmother’s pearls back in her face.
Cia murmured her goodbyes and followed Lucas through the house and out into the starless night.
Once they were settled in their seats, he drove away, as slow as Christmas. But she didn’t care so much this time and burrowed into the soft leather, oddly reassured by the scent of pine trees curling around her.
“Thanks, Lucas,” she said, and her voice cracked. “For giving me the out with your mother. It was …”
“No problem,” he said, jumping in to fill the silence when she couldn’t go on. “It takes two to make marriage work, fake or otherwise. I’ll do damage control with Mama in the morning. And, darlin’, I must confess a real fondness to you calling me Lucas.”
His gaze connected with hers, arcing with heat, and the current zinged through the semidark, close quarters of the car. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her pulse skittered.
All of a sudden, it was later.
Five (#ulink_3d8d8af4-4912-552a-8e24-76ac98b464c0)
Lucas spent the silent, tense ride home revamping his strategy.
Fragileness deepened Cia’s shadows, and it was enough to cool his jets. Nothing would have pleased him more than to walk into the house, back her up against the door and start that kiss over again, but this time, his hands would stroke over the hot curves of her body and she’d be naked in short order.
But she wasn’t like other women. She wasn’t in touch with her sexuality, and he had to live with her—and himself—for the next six months. While he’d like to sink straight into a simple seduction, he had to treat her differently, with no idea what that looked like.
Once they cleared the detached garage, he slid his hand into hers. “Thanks for going to dinner.”
Her fingers stiffened. She glanced at him, surprise evident. “You say that like I had a choice.”
“You did. With me, you always have a choice. We’re partners, not master and slave. So, I’m saying thank you for choosing to spend the evening with my family. It was difficult for you, and I appreciate it.”
Her gaze flitted over him, clearly looking for the punch line. “You’re welcome, then.”
He let go of her hand to open the door. “Now, I don’t know about you, but my parents’ house always makes me want to let loose a little. I’m half-afraid to move, in case I accidentally knock over one of Mama’s precious knickknacks.”
Cia smiled, just a little, but it was encouraging all the same. “It is easier to breathe in our house.”
Our house. She’d never called it that before, and he liked the sound of it. They were settling in with each other, finding a groove.
He followed her into the living room. “Let’s do “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?”
Instead of answering, he crossed to the entertainment center and punched up the music she’d been playing earlier, when he’d returned home from playing basketball. A mess of electronic noise blasted through the speakers, thumping in his chest. “Dance with me,” he yelled over the pulsing music.
“To this?” Disbelief crinkled her forehead. “You haven’t even been drinking, white boy.”
“Come on.” He held out a hand. “You won’t dance in public. No one is watching except me, and I can’t dance well enough to warrant making fun of you.”
He almost fell over when she shrugged and joined him. “I don’t like people watching me, but I never said I couldn’t dance.”
To prove it, she cut her torso in a zigzag and whirled in an intricate move worthy of a music video, hair flying, hands framing her head.
He grinned and crossed his arms, content to be still and watch Cia abandon herself to the beat. His hunch had been right—anyone with her energy would have to be a semicompetent dancer.
After a minute or so of the solo performance, she froze and threw him a look. “You’re not dancing.”
“Too hard to keep up with that, honey. I’m having a great time. Really. Keep going.”
“Not if you’re just going to stand there. You asked me to dance with you.”
Only because he hadn’t actually thought she’d say yes. “So I did.”
He could be a good sport. But he could not, under any circumstances, dance to anything faster than Brooks & Dunn.
So, he let her make fun of him instead, as he flapped his arms and stomped his feet in what could easily be mistaken for an epileptic seizure. When she laughed so hard she had to hold her sides, nothing but pure Cia floated through her eyes.
The shadows—and the fragileness—had been banished. Score one for Wheeler.
“All right, darlin’. Unless you want to tend to me as I’m laid out flat on my back with a pulled muscle, we gotta dial it down a notch.”
She snickered. “What are you, sixty? Shall I run and collect your social security check from the mailbox?”
Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and twirled her into his arms, body to body. “No, thanks. I’ve got another idea.”
Her arms came up around his waist and she clung to him. Progress. It was sweet.
“Slow dancing?” she asked.
“Slow something, that’s for sure.” He threaded fingers through her amazing hair and brushed a thumb across her cheek. Her skin was damp from dancing.
As he imagined the glow she’d take on when he got her good and sweaty between the sheets, he went hard. She noticed.
Her eyes widened, and all the color drained from her face as she let go of him faster than a hot frying pan. “It’s late. I have a shift in the morning, so I’m about danced out.”
All his hard work crumbled to dust under the avalanche of her hang-ups. He let her go with regret. Should have gone with slow dancing, and, as a bonus, she’d still be in his arms. “Sure thing. Big day tomorrow.”
The wedding. Realization crept over her expression. “Oh. Yeah. Well, good night.”
She fled.
He stalked off to bed and stared at the news for a good couple of hours, unsuccessfully attempting to will away his raging hard-on, before finally drifting off into a restless sleep laced with dreams of Cia wearing his ring and nothing else.
In the morning, he awoke bleary eyed but determined to make some progress in at least one area sorely requiring his attention—work.
The muted hum of the shower in Cia’s bathroom traveled through the walls as he passed by.
Cia, wet and naked. Exactly as he’d dreamed.
He skipped breakfast, too frustrated to stay in the house any longer. An early arrival at work wasn’t out of line anyway, as Mondays were usually killers. A welcome distraction from the slew of erotic images parading around in his head.
At red lights, he fired off emails to potential clients with the details of new listings. His schedule was insane this week. He had overlapping showings, appraisals and social events he’d attend to drum up new business.
An annoying buzz at the edge of his consciousness kept reminding him of all the balls he had in the air. He’d been juggling the unexpected addition of a full-time personal life and the strain was starting to wear. As long as he didn’t drop any balls or clients, everything was cool.
Four o’clock arrived way too fast.
As anticipated, Cia waited for him outside the courthouse, wearing one of her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses a grandmother would envy and low heels.
With her just-right curves and slender legs, put her in a pair of stilettos and a gauzy hot-pink number revealing a nice slice of cleavage … well, there’d be no use for stoplights on the street—traffic would screech to a halt spontaneously. But that wasn’t her style. Shame.
Her gaze zeroed in on the bouquet of lilies in his fist. “You just come from a funeral, Wheeler?”
So they were back to Wheeler in that high-brow, back-off tone. One tasty kiss-slash-step-forward and forty steps back.
“For you.” Lucas offered Cia the flowers. Dang it, he should not have picked them out. If he’d asked Helena to do it, like he should have, when Cia sneered at the blooms, as she surely would, he wouldn’t be tempted to throw them down and forget this whole idea. Even a man with infinite patience could only take so much.
But she didn’t sneer. Gently, she closed her fingers around the flowers and held them up to inhale the scent.
After a long minute of people rushing by and the two of them standing there frozen, she said, “If you’d asked, I would have said no. But it’s kind of nice after all. So you get a pass.”
He clutched his chest in a mock heart attack and grinned. “That’s why I didn’t ask. All brides should have flowers.”
“This isn’t a real wedding.”
She tossed her head and strands of her inky hair fanned out in a shiny mass before falling back to frame her exotic features. This woman he was about to make his wife was such a weird blend of stunning beauty and barbed personality, with hidden recesses of warmth and passion.
What was wrong with him that he was so flippin’ attracted to that mix? This marriage would be so much easier if he let it go and worried about stuff he could control, like scaring up new clients.
But he couldn’t. He wanted her in his bed, hot and enthusiastic, hang-ups tossed out the window for good.
“Sure it is. We’re going to be legally married. Just because it’s not traditional doesn’t make it less real.”
She flipped her free hand. “You know what I mean. A church wedding, with family and friends and cake.”
“Is that what you wanted? I would have suffered through a real wedding for you.” His skin itched already to think of wearing a tux and memorizing vows. God Almighty … the rehearsal, the interminable ceremony, the toasts. Matthew had undergone it all with a besotted half smile, claiming it was all worth it. Maybe it was if you were in love. “But, darlin’, I would have insisted on a real honeymoon.”
He waggled his brows, and she laughed nervously, which almost gave him a real heart attack.
A hint of a smile still played around her lips. “A real wedding would have made both of us suffer. That’s not what I wanted. I don’t have a perfect wedding dress already picked out in hopes my Prince Charming will come along, like other women do. I’m okay with being single for the rest of my life.”
“Hold up, honey. You’re not a romantic? All my illusions about you have been thoroughly crushed.”
Romantic gestures put a happy, glowy expression on a woman’s face, and he liked being the one responsible. It was the only sight on this earth anywhere near as pleasurable as watching a woman in the throes of an orgasm he’d given her.
He had his work cut out for him if he wanted to get Cia there.
He put an arm around her waist to guide her inside the courthouse because it was starting to seem as if she wanted to avoid going inside.
