Not Quite Married Page 3

  Oh, she was so tempted to shut the door in his face. Because she was tired and her feet hurt and there was a really good tearjerker on Lifetime.

  She didn’t want to deal with this. Not now.

  Not ever, really.

  But she and the stranger on her front porch had made a baby together. And the baby trumped everything: including her burning desire never to have to see his face again.

  With elaborate disinterest, she dropped her crossed arms and stepped away from the door. “By all means. Come on in.”

  Giving her no opportunity to change her mind, he stepped right over the threshold and into her private space. She blinked and looked up at him and couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Nice house,” he said, his fine lips curling upward a fraction at the corners.

  “Thanks. This way.” She took him through her formal dining room to the combination kitchen, breakfast nook and great room at the back. Stopping at the long kitchen island, she turned to him. “Do you want coffee or something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, all right, then. Have a seat.” She gestured at the sitting area across the room.

  He went on past her, all the way to the wing chair next to the sofa, but he didn’t sit down. For a moment, she hovered there at the end of the island, reluctant to get closer to him.

  Dread curled through her. He wore the strangest look on his face, and a great stillness seemed to surround him. The moment felt huge, suddenly.

  What in the world did he plan to say to her? Something awful, probably, judging by the seriousness and intensity of his expression.

  Reluctantly, she approached him. He simply waited, watching her come.

  She stopped a couple of feet from him. “Aren’t you...going to sit down?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t sit. Instead he reached for her hand.

  The move surprised her enough that she didn’t jerk away. His fingers closed over hers, warm. Firm. So well remembered. Tears scalded the back of her throat. She pressed her lips together and swallowed them down. “What?”

  And just like that, he lifted his other hand and slid a beautiful diamond ring on her finger.

  She gasped and gaped down at it, a giant marquise-cut central stone, surrounded by twin rows of glittering smaller stones, more diamonds along the double band.

  “Marry me, Clara. Right away. You can move to Denver and we’ll work this out. We’ll make a family for our child.”

  She gaped down at that sparkling, perfect, beautiful ring. And then, slowly, her breath all tangled and hot in the base of her throat, she lifted her head and looked at him.

  The really terrible, awful thing was, somewhere inside herself, she longed to throw her arms around him and shout yes!

  And that made her furious—at herself, as much as at him.

  Because who was he, anyway? When he touched her, she felt the thrill, yes. Her body seemed to know him. But her mind and her confused, aching heart?

  Uh-uh. No. She didn’t know this man at all.

  She pulled her fingers free of his grip and took off the ring. “No, Dalton.”

  “Clara...”

  “Take it. I mean it.” He shook his head. But he did hold out his hand. She dropped that gorgeous thing into his palm. “No way am I marrying you, let alone moving to Denver. Justice Creek is my home. I have my family, my friends and my very successful business here, so this is where I plan to stay.”

  “Listen to me, I—”

  “Stop.”

  Miraculously, he did.

  “We need to get straight on something here right from the start,” she said.

  He eyed her sideways as he dropped the ring into his jacket pocket. And then he asked carefully in that voice of his that was so gallingly manly and deep, “By all means. Let’s get it straight. Whatever the hell it is.”

  “Are you married or not?”

  “Excuse me?” He gazed at her as though he had his doubts as to her sanity. “Married? Me?”

  “That’s right. Do you have a wife?”

  The blue eyes, impossibly, got even bluer and that square jaw went to rock. “Of course not. I’m divorced, and have been since before the island. And I know that you know this. I told you myself.”

  She had to get away, get some distance from him. So she turned and marched over to the fireplace. Better. She straightened her shoulders and turned to face him again. “Look. I saw you, okay? I saw pictures of you online, with your supposedly ex-wife on your arm at some fancy party. The two of you were looking very chummy.”

  “Chummy? Astrid and I are not the least bit chummy.”

  “You looked pretty damn chummy to me.”

  “Astrid is a lovely woman. She’s active in her community, doing what she can to help disadvantaged children and victims of natural catastrophes and such. Occasionally she asks me to support her various causes. I’m happy to help. Once or twice, I’ve acted as her escort.”

  “Well, isn’t that civilized?”

  “Yes, it is, as a matter of fact. Is there something wrong with being civilized?”

  She decided not to answer that one. “There was talk about the two of you getting married again.”

  “Talk? Who said that?”

  “I don’t know who. It was just...somewhere online, is all.”

  “And you always believe everything you read somewhere online?” His eyes were practically shooting sparks.

  Ha. As though he were the one who’d been shabbily treated. She wrapped her arms around herself again as she had at the door and held her ground. “Just answer the question. Are you married or not?”

  “No.”

  “Are you dating your ex-wife?”

  “No. I told you, we’re on good terms, Astrid and I. But the marriage is over and it has been since before you and I were together on the island—as I made perfectly clear the first night that we met.”

  A small but definite humph escaped her, a sound she honestly hadn’t meant to make.

  “I heard that,” he muttered darkly. “And what do you want from me? There is absolutely nothing going on between Astrid and me. We’re cordial. And we’re civil with each other and when she wants help with one of her causes, I do what I can.”

  She knew it was petty of her, but she couldn’t resist remarking, “And if I believe that, maybe you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me?”

  He regarded her, those laser-blue eyes boring twin holes right through her. “You think I’m lying to you? You think I would come here and ask you to marry me if I was already married?”

  Okay, maybe he had a teeny-weeny point there. She tried to dial it back a notch. “You didn’t exactly ask me, Dalton. You told me.” It came out sounding plaintive and she couldn’t decide which was worse: being a raving bitch or coming off as pitiful.

  He demanded, “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

  “I...” She gave up all pretense of angry defiance, dropping her arms away from her body, letting out a low, sad sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything—not about you. Not really. On the island, you were...like someone else entirely, completely different from how you are now. It’s very disorienting.”

  He looked almost stricken. For about half a second. But then his jaw hardened again and his eyes narrowed. “I think you should call Astrid and ask her if there’s anything going on between her and me.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me. Did you just say I should call your ex-wife?”

  “That is exactly what I said.”

  “Not. Going. To. Happen.”

  “Why not? Afraid to find out I’m not a lying, cheating would-be bigamist, after all?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you will call Astrid.”

  “Hello. Are you there, Dalton?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question.”

  “Just trying to be absolutely sure you can hear me.”

  “Of course I can hear you.”

  “Good. The last thing I�
�m up for is a little chat with your wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” he curtly clarified. And then he lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Was he getting a headache? She certainly was. “All right,” he said. “This has not gone well. I need to regroup and come up with another plan to get through to you.”

  “Get through to me about what? Because, honestly, Dalton. Two strangers getting married is not any kind of viable solution to anything.”

  “We’ve lost months because you read something on the internet and jumped to conclusions.”

  “Don’t forget that you put a detective on me.”

  “...And learned that you were getting married.”

  “But I didn’t get married.”

  “Which I didn’t find out until Tuesday when you finally came and talked to me. The heart of the matter is you should have come to me earlier.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Fascinating analysis of the situation. Also totally unfair. Why would I want to come to you? You made it way clear on the island that you were done with me.”

  “I wasn’t done with you.”

  “It certainly sounded like it to me.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It was different on the island. I was different.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I didn’t want to ruin something beautiful and I was afraid that if we continued when we returned home, it would all go to hell.”

  “So you’re saying that on the island you were pretending to be someone you’re not.”

  “No, I’m...” He stopped himself, glanced away, and then said, way too quietly, “By God. You are the most infuriating woman.”

  She started to feel a little bit bad about then. In his own overbearing way, he really was trying. And she wasn’t helping. Because he had hurt her and she just couldn’t trust him. And his proposal of marriage had actually tempted her—at the same time as it had made her want to beat him about the head and shoulders with a large, blunt object. As she tried to think of something to say that might get them on a better footing with each other, he pulled a phone from his pocket and poked at it repeatedly. Her cell, on the coffee table, pinged.

  He put his phone away. “I’ve texted you her number.”

  “Her, who?”

  “Astrid. You have her number now. You can call her and she’ll be happy to tell you that she and I have no plans to remarry, that we are amicably and permanently divorced, that we are not dating or in any way romantically or sexually involved with each other.”

  Now Clara was the one pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need your ex-wife’s number.”

  “I mean it. Call her. And once you’ve talked to her, call me. Because you and I are not done yet. Not by a long shot. Good night, Clara.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel, crossed the great room, went through the kitchen and disappeared from sight. A moment later, she heard the front door open and close.

  That motivated her.

  Even hugely pregnant, Clara could move fast when she wanted to. She zipped through the kitchen and straight to the window in the dining room that looked out on her porch and front yard. She got there just in time to see him duck into the backseat of a limo.

  A moment later, the limo slid away from the curb and drove off down the street.

  “Astrid.” She scowled. “No way am I calling Astrid.”

  * * *

  And she didn’t call Astrid.

  But in the days that followed, she did think about Dalton a lot. She felt guilty, actually, for the way she’d behaved that night—so bitchy and angry, ready for a fight.

  The hard truth was she still had that thing for him—for both of him, actually. The wonderful man she’d known on the island. And the sexy stuffed shirt who’d shown up at her door out of nowhere with a ring in his pocket and the arrogant assumption that she would pack up her life and move to Denver because he told her to.

  She needed to buck up and deal, to reach out to him again, and do a better job of it this time. In the end, he was her baby’s father and she had a duty to do what she could to encourage some kind of a coparenting relationship with him.

  However, she didn’t deal. She put it off, just as she’d put off telling him about the baby in the first place. Every day that passed, she had less respect for herself and her own behavior.

  That Sunday night, Ryan dropped by with a pizza from Romano’s, that great Italian place across the street from the bar he owned and ran. She got him a beer and they shared the pie and he told her about the new woman in his life, a gorgeous redhead with a great sense of humor. Clara said she couldn’t wait to meet her.

  Ryan, who was tall and broad-shouldered with beautiful forest-green eyes and thick brown hair, gave her his killer smile. “Yeah, we’ll have to set something up...”

  She knew by the way his voice trailed off that the redhead wouldn’t be around for long, which made her a little bit sad. Rye loved women. But he never stayed in a romantic relationship for very long.

  After they ate the pizza, he hung around for a couple of hours. They made small talk and played Super Mario Kart 8 and she kept thinking that now was a good time to tell him she’d finally contacted the father of her baby, a good time to explain that she’d gotten pregnant during her Caribbean getaway last summer, that the baby’s father was a banker who lived in Denver and had proposed to her out of nowhere just three nights before.

  But she didn’t tell Ryan any of that, even though he had been ready and willing to step in to marry her just months before. When Rye asked her if she had something on her mind, she just said she was feeling stressed, that was all, what with the baby coming soon and the restaurant keeping her so busy.

  Rye’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you were feeling good about Renée running things when the baby comes.” Renée Beauchamp was her head waitress and manager.

  She rushed to reassure him. “Renée is a godsend and already she’s handling a lot of extra stuff for me. It’s going to be fine, I know it. I just worry is all.”

  “You need anything, you know to call me.”

  She thanked him and told him he was amazing and promised that yes, she would totally take advantage of his friendship if she needed to.

  But she failed to say a word about the father of her baby.

  The next night, Dalton called. “Astrid tells me you haven’t gotten in touch with her yet.”

  I need to get along with him, she thought. She said, “How many times do I have to tell you that I have no intention of calling your wife?”

  “Ex-wife,” he corrected in a tone that said he was quickly losing patience with her. “You would know that by now, if you would only call Astrid.”

  I need to get along with him. “I’m, um, thinking about it.”

  “Think faster.”

  “Har-har.”

  “Last week, you said the baby was due in six weeks.”

  “Yes. On the sixteenth of May.”

  “Which is five weeks away now.”

  “I may not be a banker, Dalton, but I do know how to count.”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from saying, Time for what?

  And he went on, “I should be with you.”

  Okay, that sounded kind of sweet. She tried to think of something nice and helpful and conciliatory to say.

  But before she could come up with anything, he said, “You could have the baby any time now. What if I’m not there?”

  She had never expected him to be there, so she had no idea what to say to that.

  And then he said, “Are you still on the line, Clara?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call Astrid. I mean it.”

  And then he hung up.

  And she did not call Astrid. But she was thinking about it. A lot.

  The next weekend, Rory and Walker, Ryan’s brother, had a little party out at the Bar-N, their ranch. Clara went. So did Ryan and a bunch of their mutual friends a
nd Clara’s sisters and three of her brothers.

  Rory took her aside and asked her how she was doing, how it was working out with Dalton. And Clara was vague and unhelpful in her answers, causing Rory to ask if she was all right.

  Clara lied with a big, fat smile and said she was doing just fine and no, she hadn’t told Ryan about Dalton yet. She hadn’t told anybody, she confessed.

  “I will,” she promised her favorite cousin and dear friend. “Soon...”

  Sunday night, Dalton called again.

  It was just more of the same. He told her get in touch with Astrid and she said again that she was giving it some thought.

  “Four weeks left until the baby comes,” he said bleakly. “This is wrong, what you’re doing, Clara. It’s wrong and you know it.”

  And, well, after she hung up, she felt really depressed. Mostly because he was pretty much right.

  So she did it. She called Astrid.

  Dalton’s wife—all right, all right, ex-wife—answered the phone on the first ring and sounded quite nice, actually. She said that yes, she would be happy to meet with Clara at Clara’s convenience.

  “Will you come to the house?” Astrid asked. “We can chat in private, just the two of us.”

  Clara took down Astrid’s address and said she would be there at two the next afternoon. Then she called Renée, who said that she would have no problem handling the restaurant tomorrow without her.

  But of course, Clara went in anyway. She might be about to have a baby, but the café was her first baby. She didn’t like deserting her business or her staff with hardly any warning. And it turned out to be another busy day, so she was glad she’d gone in—and hated to just walk out on the lunch rush.

  But Renée reassured her and sent her on her way, adding that she really ought to start cutting back on her hours. She was about to have a baby, and she needed to take better care of herself.

  Clara promised she was fine. And then wondered the whole drive to Denver why she was even going to meet Astrid. She didn’t really believe that Dalton was still married to—or even dating—his ex. He’d been right that she’d totally jumped to conclusions.

  And now she was too proud to give it up and admit that she’d been wrong.