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He straightened. ‘Are you telling me your heart is in danger?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Not as long as she remained on her guard. And she had no intention whatsoever of letting her guard slip. ‘But what about Carol Ann and your grandfather?’ They could become invested in this fake marriage.
He stilled. ‘You’ll always be Carol Ann’s friend, won’t you? You’re not going to dump her the moment we get our divorce.’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then I think she’ll be fine. Thank you for considering her well-being. I appreciate it.’
But she noticed he made no mention of his grandfather’s well-being. She didn’t pursue it. ‘Fine. That leads us to the next topic.’
* * *
Will stared at her. He wanted away from the cloying heat of the room. Mind you, it had only become cloying in the last few minutes.
‘You’re supposed to ask me what topic?’ she prompted.
‘What topic?’ he growled.
She sent him a falsely sweet smile that scraped through him like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘Kissing.’
He rocked back on his heels. He couldn’t help it. He was simply grateful he managed to stop himself from striding from the room altogether.
She glanced away, her lips pressed into a tight white line that still couldn’t hide the luscious curve of her bottom lip. A fact he desperately didn’t want to notice.
‘Did you really think we’d manage to get through this weekend without the odd peck?’
He let the air out of his lungs, slowly. A peck? He could manage that. Her lips twisted as if she’d read that thought in his face and he knew what message he was sending her—that he found her unattractive. And he could tell she was doing her best to try and not let that bother her...hurt her.
Damn it! He needed this weekend to go smoothly. He needed to convince his grandfather that he and Sophie were serious. He tried to bring Carol Ann’s face to mind, but it was Sophie’s wounded eyes that kept appearing there instead.
Damn it! Letting her think that he didn’t find her attractive provided him with a measure of protection, but a real man wouldn’t let her continue operating under the misapprehension, wouldn’t let her take the blame for his own weakness. If it were any other woman...
But it wasn’t any other woman. It was Sophie.
Will you keep an eye on her? Be there for her if I can’t be?
He’d promised Peter.
He slammed his hands to his hips. ‘I don’t find you unattractive, Sophie.’
She turned from surveying the fire. ‘You don’t need to pander to my vanity and make excuses or apologise, Will. These things can simply be a matter of taste or chemistry or—’
He held up a hand, holding her gaze. ‘You’re lovely...beautiful.’ His gut clenched as he said the words.
She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. ‘But?’
Her chin didn’t drop, the light in her eyes didn’t fade, and she suddenly appeared indomitable. Where he’d fancied he’d seen fragility, now there was only strength. It made his mouth go dry though he couldn’t fully explain why. Except the realisation that what he thought of her physically maybe didn’t matter to her one jot. Which was how it should be, of course. But it left him feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
Right, so that’s new, is it?
He ignored the sarcastic voice as best he could, and thrust out his jaw. ‘But,’ he ground out, ‘you’re different from the women I date. With them I...’
‘Scratch an itch and then move on?’ she offered when he hesitated.
It was crude but accurate, and everything inside him rebelled at it. ‘We have fun, enjoy each other’s company.’
‘Yes.’
He shifted under the steadiness of her gaze, shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Are you saying it’s different for you and the guys you date?’
‘No.’
If he’d been hoping to put her on the defensive he’d have been sadly disappointed.
‘The itch I’ve been scratching, though, is grief, and I finally figured out that the partying, the drinking, the dating an endless parade of guys—having fun and enjoying their company—hasn’t helped.’
He pulled his hands from his pockets and then didn’t know what to do with them. He moistened his lips. ‘Has it made it worse?’ How could he help?
She made an impatient movement. ‘Not worse. It’s just...pointless, and not how I want to spend the rest of my life.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘I wonder what itch you’re scratching? I think it’s a big one.’
He realised then that she wasn’t judging him. Lots of women did, and found him wanting. Not that he blamed them. He wasn’t cut out for commitment and the long haul. But Sophie was simply trying to work him out. Some of the tension that had him wound up tight eased. When you had parents like his, when you watched them do their best to tear each other apart—and succeed—you promised to never let yourself fall into that same trap, to never get embroiled in the same predicament.
But he didn’t want to talk about his parents. ‘Is it really so incomprehensible for a guy to simply want to keep his freedom, to not want to be tied down?’
One of her shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug.
‘What I’m trying to say, Sophie, is that you’re not like the women I usually date and that...’ He bit back a curse. ‘I can’t treat you the way I would them.’
She nodded. ‘Because I’m Peter’s little sister.’
Exactly.
‘And I can’t treat you like the guys I’ve been dating.’
‘Because I’m Peter’s best friend.’
Very slowly she shook her head. ‘Because I like you.’ Her eyes grew shadowed. ‘And because of who you were to Peter—yes, that too. It means I want you as a part of my life for...’
Things inside him clenched up tight. ‘For?’
‘Forever. Permanently. I know I’m a trial to you. I know you probably don’t even like me all that much.’
What the hell...?
‘But it means I don’t want to mess things up between us.’
Where had she got that idea—that she thought he didn’t like her?
‘You’re one of the few links I have left to Peter and I can’t bear the thought of losing it.’
Her grief went so deep and he intended to do whatever he could to help her over it. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘It will if we mess this up. If we lose our heads and forget ourselves...just once...then we’re not going to want to see each other again.’
Her words were like a punch to the gut. Because they were true.
‘It’s what I meant when I said we were playing a dangerous game.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘If you found me unattractive that would be—’ She broke off. ‘But you don’t.’
And he realised then what she’d made explicit but had left unsaid. She didn’t find him unattractive either. The knowledge made his blood roar.
Hell.
He ground his back molars together and counted to three, pulled in a breath. ‘You have my word that I won’t lose my head.’
He would not let her down.
‘And you have my word.’
They had to be cautious, circumspect. He couldn’t let himself feel too comfortable with her...and yet they both had to cultivate an appearance of tranquillity with each other for outside eyes. She was right. This could be trickier than he’d first envisaged. But not impossible.
Her lips lifted and she rolled her eyes.
‘What?’
Before he knew what she was about she’d leaned in, stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
His heart crashed in his chest. His cheek burned where her lips had touched him.
She eased back, adjusted her cardigan. ‘Right. Your turn.’
She was trying to make kissing him as natural as possible, and he had to do the same. ‘Believe it or not,’ he said, ‘it’s my pleasure.’
He pressed a kiss to her brow and tried not to notice how soft and warm and vibrant she felt beneath his lips.
She huffed out a laugh. ‘Well, in that case I choose to believe it. Right, sit.’
She gestured to the sofa and he took a seat. She came from behind. Her arms slid around his shoulders, making him start.
‘You do that downstairs and you’ll give the game away.’
He nodded and gritted his teeth. ‘Do it again.’
She eased back, walked away and then moved towards him again and bent down to slide just one arm about his shoulders. He rested his hand on her forearm and felt a tiny tremor run through her. He pulled in a measured breath and her scent flooded his senses. ‘You smell nice.’
Nice? That’s the best you can manage?
She smelled sensational—fruity and warm, like Christmas. Though Christmas was months away.
‘It’s my body lotion. Frosted cherry. My favourite.’
They broke apart at exactly the same moment. This was exhausting, but he saw the wisdom of it. They needed to give the impression that they were physically comfortable with each other.
When nothing could be further from the truth.
‘Your turn.’ He waved her to the armchair.
She sat, leaned back, crossed her legs—for all the world as if she were completely at ease.
Time for them to get this over and done with.
Her eyes widened when he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and leant down towards her, effectively locking her in and leaving her nowhere to escape. ‘Lips?’
She glanced at his lips and then back into his eyes and nodded. ‘Dry lips,’ she whispered. ‘And we keep it brief.’
Every cell in his body burst to life. He recited, Peter’s sister, Peter’s sister, Peter’s sister, over and over in his mind. ‘I want to tell you something before we do this,’ he murmured, his gaze not dropping from hers.
She swallowed. ‘Okay.’
‘You’re wrong. I like you just fine, Sophie Mitchell.’
Her lips parted as if in shock. He couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His mouth lowered to hers, lips brushing lips—light, teasing and nowhere near enough. She stiffened, but then he felt her force herself to relax. And then she leaned forward a fraction and pressed her lips more firmly against his and kissed him back.
Wind roared in his ears. It took all the strength he had to not deepen the kiss, to not engage lips, mouths, tongues and hands.
Biting back a groan, he pulled back to stare into stunned blue eyes. They were a deeper shade of blue than he’d ever seen before.
She pushed him away and launched herself from the chair like a horse from a starter’s gate. ‘We better keep that to a minimum.’
She was darn right they were keeping that to a minimum!
He’d kiss her cheek, her brow, the top of her head, her hand, but he had every intention of staying as far away from those lips as possible. They were lethal!
CHAPTER THREE (#ub95ab6fe-f0b2-5305-bac3-a4f835800090)
THE MOMENT SOPHIE and Will entered the drawing room, they were greeted with a squeal and a woman with the same dark auburn hair as Will—Carol Ann—launched herself at her brother with a display of such unadulterated joy all Sophie could do was smile.
When had she lost that easy, unselfconscious joy? The answer came swiftly—when she was eleven years old. She glanced at Will and wondered when he’d lost his.
His current delight at seeing Carol Ann, however, was plain to see. He turned his sister towards Sophie. ‘You remember Sophie, don’t you?’
She’d prepared herself for any number of scenarios—from cluelessness as to who Sophie might be, suspicion, perhaps jealousy over Will...and even a studied politeness. What she got though was another whoop of joy and smothered by a hug.
‘Sophie’s my best friend.’
She was?
‘We like the same movies.’
