Not Quite Married Read online

  Yes. Everything would work out. She just needed a little more time.

  He felt confident, good about everything. It was all going his way.

  And then, the next morning, her best buddy, Ryan, showed up at the door. Again.

  * * *

  Clara kept her promise and led the other man to the great room. She even invited Dalton to have a seat, too. So he took one wing chair and Ryan took the other.

  It was awkward—for Dalton, anyway. They talked about Ryan’s bar and Clara’s restaurant, about Clara’s friends and relatives. And about how he, Dalton, was managing to run Ames Bank and Trust from Clara’s home office.

  Yesterday, Dalton had been relieved to learn that Ryan had never been in Clara’s bed. But the longer he sat there across from the other man, the more he found himself thinking that it might have been better if the guy had been her lover, after all. Clara had said that Ryan had a lot of girlfriends. And he was a charmer, good-looking, with an easy smile and an infectious laugh. For a man like Ryan, an unattainable woman would be rare, a prize.

  About fifteen minutes into the visit, Dalton got a call from the main office, one he had to take. He went upstairs and dealt with it and the chain of memos that resulted from it. When he went back downstairs, he heard Clara laughing in the great room.

  “Rye. Stop it. I mean it.” And she laughed some more.

  She sounded so happy. Dalton tried to remember how many times she’d laughed like that with him. Not enough times, that was for damn sure. He entered the great room through the kitchen just in time to see the other man bending over the sofa and kissing her on the cheek.

  Yes, all right. It was a friends-only sort of kiss. But he didn’t like the adoring look on Clara’s good buddy’s face when he did it.

  “Call me if you need me.” The guy was still bending over her, one hand braced on the sofa back.

  “You know I will.”

  Ryan straightened and spotted Dalton standing there. “Later, man,” he said flatly, with a quick dip of his chin.

  Dalton gave him an answering nod. “Have a good one.” He tried not to grind his teeth when he said it. The other man headed down the side hall toward the front door and Dalton told Clara, “I’ll see him out.” It might be a good moment to have a private word with Mr. Best Friend Forever.

  But Clara nixed that. “Don’t be silly. Rye knows the way.”

  A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed.

  Right then, as he heard the door shut, Dalton made up his mind.

  He and Ryan needed to talk. And it would be better to do that somewhere away from the house. Better if it was just the two of them, without Clara there to run interference.

  Yes. Away from the house.

  And soon.

  * * *

  It was easy to set up.

  That afternoon, from upstairs in the office, Dalton called Ryan at McKellan’s. “This is Dalton Ames. We need to talk.”

  The other man didn’t seem the least surprised to hear from him. “I’m listening.”

  “Face-to-face.”

  “Fine. You want to come here?”

  “That’ll do. Ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be looking for you.” And Ryan hung up.

  Downstairs, Dalton discovered that Clara had moved to her room. She had the door shut, which worked for him. She could be sleeping. No reason to disturb her and then have to decide whether or not to lie to her about where he was going.

  He found Mrs. Scruggs bustling around in the kitchen. He let her know he was going out and would return within an hour.

  “Good enough,” the housekeeper said. “If I’m finished here before you get back, I’ll leave a note for Clara that you won’t be long.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  * * *

  McKellan’s Pub took up most of a block on Marmot Drive. It had lots of windows in front, with blue awnings that sheltered café tables right there on the sidewalk. Inside, it was all dark woodwork, accent walls of aged brick and cozy nooks where good friends could share a pitcher and order burgers.

  Ryan was waiting at one end of the long wooden bar behind which ranged shelf upon shelf of gleaming liquor bottles. There were three rows of beer taps spaced along the bar. And even at two thirty in the afternoon, the place had enough customers to make a visitor feel confident he’d come to a popular, well-run establishment.

  “You want a beer?” Ryan asked when Dalton reached the stool where he sat.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have a seat.” The other man nodded at the stool next to him.

  “A private word would be better.”

  Ryan didn’t argue. “My office, then?”

  “That works.”

  So Ryan led the way under an arch at the other end of the bar and through a short hallway to a pair of swinging doors. The doors led into the kitchen. The cooks called greetings and nodded as Ryan went by. He led Dalton through another door. In there, row upon row of metal shelves were stacked with restaurant and bar supplies. They went down one long row with full shelves to either side, finally reaching Ryan’s office.

  Ryan shut the door and went around to drop into the chair behind the desk. “Sit.”

  Dalton took a chair next to a sad-looking plant and considered where to start. As he did this, he and Ryan stared at each other—or maybe glared was more the word for it.

  Finally, Dalton spoke. “I want to marry Clara.”

  Ryan swung his booted feet up on the desk. His chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Yeah. She told me.” And then came the taunting grin. “Too bad you’re having zero luck getting a yes out of her.”

  Dalton kept his breathing slow and even. “She’s having my baby and I’m living in her house, taking care of her. We’re working it out.”

  Ryan made a dismissive sound low in his throat. “In other words, she’s told you no and she’s letting you stay with her because she’s got a big heart and you’re the baby’s dad.”

  That stung. Dalton decided a change of focus was in order. “Clara says that you think you’re in love with her.”

  The pub owner didn’t even flinch. “That sounds like Clara. I ‘think’ I’m in love with her. I more than think it. I am in love with her, always have been. She’s turned me down over and over—but I almost got my ring on her finger at Christmas. Maybe one of these days I’ll get her to actually go through with the wedding.”

  Over Dalton’s dead body. “Don’t you think if she wanted to marry you, she would have done it by now?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” Ryan studied his boots. “And I’ve got a business to run. So whatever it is you came here for, can we get down to it?”

  “She’s having my baby. She needs me and the baby needs her father.”

  “So?”

  “Back off. Get out of the way.”

  The other man glanced up from his careful contemplation of his boots. The two locked eyes. Ryan said, “I’m not in your way, man. You’re in your own way. She’s not going to marry you just because there’s a baby. She’s a hopeless romantic. She wants it all—your life in her hands, your heart on a platter. She won’t settle for less.”

  It wasn’t anything Dalton didn’t already know. “You’re distracting her from making the right decision.”

  Ryan just kept on. “Plus, she’s always been kind of trigger-shy in relationships. She told me she really fell for you on that Caribbean island. And then you called it off. Major fail. You might never get past that.”

  “I’ll say it again. You’re a distraction for her.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m her friend. At a time like this, she needs her friends.”

  “You’re all over the map,” Dalton accused. “You say that you’re in love with her one minute, and that you’re not in my way the next.” He brought out the big guns, the ones Clara herself had provided. “My take is you love chasing her—you love it because you know it’s safe. You know she’s never letting you catch her and you’re
never going to have to step up and make it real.”

  That struck a nerve. Ryan’s boots hit the floor and he jumped to his feet. His eyes were ice as he rounded the desk. Adrenaline spurting, Dalton rose to meet him.

  When they stood toe-to-toe, Ryan muttered, “You know jack about what goes on between Clara and me.”

  “I know enough. Do the right thing. Go find yourself a woman of your own.”

  Ryan got that look, eyes narrowed, every muscle ready.

  Dalton gave him the necessary nudge. “Go ahead. Take your shot.”

  Ryan did just that. He feinted left, followed by a clean, swift uppercut.

  The punch took Dalton hard on the jaw. He saw stars as his head snapped back. But he recovered quickly, regained his balance and faced the other man eye to eye. Slowly, he raised his hand to his face and shifted his jaw from side to side, causing a faint crackling sound.

  Ryan held out both arms to the sides and groaned at the ceiling. “Are we doing this or not, man?”

  Dalton tasted the copper tang of blood on his tongue. He wiggled his sore jaw some more and admitted, “I told Clara I would get along with you.”

  Ryan let out a bark of laughter. “Too late for that—and she’s asking too damn much, anyway.”

  Dalton scowled. “You know...”

  “What?”

  “You’re right.” He jabbed twice with his left, just to throw the other man off.

  Ryan laughed some more, easily leaning clear of each blow—and into the right cross that Dalton finally sent crashing into the other man’s very handsome nose.

  Chapter Eight

  Ryan flew backward with a heavy grunt and staggered against the desk. He shook his head to clear it, and blood flew from his nose.

  Then he jumped right up again and waded back in.

  Dalton was ready for him with a left hook. Ryan blocked it and delivered another dizzying right.

  They went at it for real then, knocking over both chairs, breaking the pot the sad plant was sitting in, ending up on the floor, where they grappled for dominance. Blood streamed from Ryan’s nose, more so when Dalton gained the top position and punched him in the face again. They rolled. Ryan was on top. He punched Dalton in the eye. They rolled some more, neither of them managing to stay on top for long, both of them grunting and breathing heavily by then, grinding pottery shards and loose potting soil into their clothes.

  It ended when the door opened. A guy in a chef’s hat stuck his head in and shouted, “All right, enough!”

  The whole thing was so damn stupid. Apparently, Ryan thought so, too. He started laughing again. He was a mess, blood all over his face, his nose and left eye swelling. Dalton didn’t kid himself that he looked any better.

  They rolled apart and sat up, arms on their bent, spread knees, sucking in air hard and fast.

  The chef asked, “Anybody need a doctor?”

  Ryan sent Dalton a questioning glance. When Dalton shook his head, Ryan said, “Thanks, Roberto. We’re okay.”

  The chef watched them with mixed resignation and disdain. Finally, he announced, “Tim from Diageo is waiting out front.”

  “Have Benny deal with him.” Ryan prodded the cut under his left eye.

  “If I leave, are you two gonna behave yourselves?” Roberto glared from Ryan to Dalton and back to Ryan again.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said.

  “We’re finished,” agreed Dalton.

  The chef ducked out. Dalton got up and held down a hand. Ryan took it and Dalton helped him to his feet.

  Dalton said, “Well, that didn’t solve a damn thing.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Kind of satisfying, though.”

  Dalton stared around at the general devastation. “Sorry about your office.”

  “No big deal. That plant was half-dead anyway.”

  Dalton looked down at his bloody, dirt-smeared shirt and slacks. “I need to clean up a little before I go.”

  Ryan swiped drying blood from under his nose. “It’s not going to help. She’ll know exactly what you’ve been up to.”

  Dalton only looked at him.

  Finally, Ryan grunted. “Men’s room is back out past the kitchen, through the swinging doors. We walked right by it on our way in here.”

  * * *

  The scent of Mrs. Scrugg’s savory chicken and dumplings filled the air, and Clara was working on her laptop in the great room when she heard Dalton let himself in.

  She expected him to come looking for her the way he always did when he entered the house. The baby kicked. She put her hand on the spot, knowing he would want to feel it, too. A smile of greeting rose to her lips—and faded when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  He must have work he had deal with...

  But then, a minute later, faintly, she heard the water running up there.

  A shower? At four in the afternoon?

  She shrugged. Maybe he’d been working out over at Quinn’s gym and needed to freshen up. She focused again on the restaurant accounts, and then Renée called.

  Clara was just wrapping it up with Renée when she heard Dalton coming back down the stairs. She sat up a little taller against the pillows, aiming a smile of welcome his way as she heard his footsteps approaching down the side hall.

  Her smile died a quick death when she saw his face. He stopped near the kitchen island and stared at her, one-eyed. Because his right eye was swollen shut.

  And the shiner wasn’t all. He had a giant purpling bruise on the left side of his jaw, a mean-looking cut on his forehead that he’d doctored with those little bandage strips—and his lower lip was split.

  She said into the phone, “Renée, I need to go.”

  “Sure. We’re pretty much done anyway. Tomorrow, then?”

  “Bye.” Clara hung up and swung her feet to the rug.

  “Don’t get up.” He came for her.

  Ignoring his command, she gained her feet, braced her belly with one hand and rounded the couch to meet him. “Oh, my God. What happened? Were you mugged?” Instinctively, she reached to touch the giant swollen bruise on his chin.

  He caught her outstretched fingers and kissed them with his poor, battered lips. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Her heart was beating much too fast and her stomach churned. “Wrong. My God, look at you. Is anything broken? We need to call an—”

  “Clara, we don’t need to call anyone. Don’t get excited, okay?”

  “I damn well will get excited.” She rubbed her belly in an effort to soothe both herself and the baby, and said furiously, “This is outrageous. We need to get you to the hospital. You could have a concussion, broken bones...”

  “Shh...” He looked down at her fondly, with a twinkle in his good eye.

  A twinkle? Somebody had just beaten the poor man to a pulp and he could stand there and twinkle at her? She said smartly, “Don’t you dare shush me. Not now. If someone’s attacked you, we need to—”

  “No one’s attacked me.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around and pointed her toward the sofa cushions. “Go on. Lie back down. Please.”

  She shrugged off his hands and faced him again. “Tell me what is going on.”

  That twinkle? Gone now. He looked suddenly somber. She peered at him more closely, frowning.

  Wait a minute. Did he look just a little bit guilty?

  She demanded, “Tell me. Now.”

  He put his hand to his jaw and winced as he prodded at it.

  She accused, “See? Your jaw is broken. I knew it.”

  “My jaw is not broken,” he said wearily. “Please go back to the sofa.”

  “Fine.” She reached around to rub that sore spot at the base of her spine. “I’ll sit down and put my feet up. And then you will tell me what happened and how.”

  He didn’t look happy. But he did give her a reluctant nod. “All right. The sofa.”

  So she marched back where she’d been, lowered her body with slow care and stretched out her legs across the c
ushions. “There. I’m on the sofa.” She made a space for him next to her and patted it invitingly. “Sit here.” He hesitated. And then, at last, looking a little like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, he trudged over and dropped down beside her. She patted his thigh. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right, then. Talk.”

  Another hesitation. And then finally, “I went to see Ryan.”

  In the space of an instant, her fear and worry vanished, to be replaced by a burst of sheer fury. “Wait. No. I don’t believe it.”

  “Clara, I—”

  She cut him off. “You got in a fight with Ryan, didn’t you?”

  He put up both hands. “Now, Clara. Take it easy. It’s not good for you or the baby if you let yourself get worked up.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Clara, I—”

  “Did you get in a fight with Rye?”

  He muttered a low curse. “Yes.”

  She gaped at him, the hot ball of anger in the center of her chest gradually increasing in size. And intensity. “I don’t believe this. This isn’t happening. You’re a banker, for heaven’s sake. Bankers don’t get in brawls.”

  “Look. I apologize. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  She sputtered, “You...you apologize? You can’t see out of one eye, your lip’s split, your jaw is the color of a ripe eggplant—and all you’ve got is you’re sorry?”

  “Clara, I—”

  She didn’t even let him finish. “One thing I asked of you. One thing. To get along with Ryan...”

  “Clara, come on...” He reached out a placating hand.

  She batted it away. “How messed up is he?”

  Dalton scowled through his bruises. “He’s fine. About the same as me.”

  “The same as you?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “The same as you is definitely not fine.”

  “Damn it, Clara, I—”

  She cut him off again. “Where is he now?”

  He rubbed his sore jaw some more and muttered, “I left him at that bar he owns.”

  As mad as she was at him, she still worried he needed to see a doctor. And should she trust him when he said that Rye was fine? She had to know for herself. So she grabbed her phone and autodialed his cell as Dalton protested, “Clara, come on. I said he’s all right...”