Not Quite Married Page 9

  “Fair enough. Agreed.”

  “And how much does the amazing Mrs. Scruggs charge, anyway?”

  “I hired her.” Mr. I-rule-the-world was back. “I’ll pay her wages.”

  “Once again, Dalton. That wasn’t the question.”

  A frown of mild irritation. “If I’m paying her, you don’t need to worry about the cost.”

  “I most certainly do have to consider the cost. She’s working for me. I should pay her wages.”

  “Clara, we don’t need to argue about this.”

  “No, we don’t. And we’re not. We’re discussing this. How much does she charge?”

  “You’re like a damn bulldog when you set your mind to something, you know that?”

  “Whereas you are so easy-natured and laid-back.” She piled on the irony.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful, just doing what I can to make things easier on you.”

  “I had a question back there. You didn’t answer it.”

  “What question?”

  “How much does my new housekeeper charge?”

  “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

  That did it. She leveled her darkest scowl at him and threatened, “I’m not going to ask you again, Dalton.”

  His expression turned infinitely weary. And then he actually quoted a figure.

  It was more than she wanted to pay, but having seen what Mrs. Scruggs could accomplish in a day, she knew that the housekeeper would be worth it. “All right. I can manage that.”

  A muscle ticked in his square jaw. “But you’re not going to manage it, because I’m going to pay Mrs. Scruggs, and my paying her is only fair.”

  “Fair? Suddenly you’re all about what’s fair?”

  “I’m living in your house, using your upstairs office and not paying rent. Paying the housekeeper—whom I hired—is the least I can do.”

  When he put it that way, it sounded way too reasonable. “All right. You can pay her for as long as you’re staying here. But as soon as you move out, I pay her.”

  “Agreed.”

  She eyed him warily. “There’s a gleam in your eyes. I don’t trust that gleam.”

  “Gleam? Clara, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  And then the baby kicked. She winced and rubbed her side.

  “Let me feel.” He said it softly. Hopefully.

  And she just stood there, staring up at him as he took that last step that brought him up close and personal, and then put his warm, long-fingered hand over hers.

  It felt good, his hand on hers. It felt really, really good.

  “Um...here.” Her voice kind of broke on the word. And then she slid her hand out from under his and clasped it, moving it to where she felt the kick. “Yeah.” She smiled in spite of herself. “That’s it.”

  “I feel it,” he agreed as the baby poked at his palm, then poked again. He was watching their hands, all his attention on the movement beneath them. And then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. His were the clearest, most beautiful blue right then. “Clara...” His voice was rougher now, even lower than usual.

  She just stared up at him, still annoyed with him for not even telling her about Mrs. Scruggs, and at the same time swept up in the moment, in the intimacy of it—their baby kicking, her hand over his. She should have glanced away.

  But she didn’t.

  And he saw it, saw the yearning in her eyes. She knew he saw it by the way he said her name. Again. “Clara...”

  Step back, her wiser self commanded. But she didn’t listen to her wiser self. It felt too wonderful, to be so close, so...connected. It made her forget that she was pissed off at him, forget the hurt that still lingered between them, forget that if she was going to kiss him, first she wanted to talk to him.

  Really talk to him. For a long time, in detail. She wanted to know all the things he’d never told her on the island. About his parents and his childhood, about his work—did he actually like being a banker?—about his marriage to Astrid and what had gone wrong with it. About why he sometimes seemed like two different people: the domineering, oh-so-well-bred banker on one hand. The sexy, adventurous charmer from the island on the other.

  Who was he, really?

  But his hand was on her belly, and his eyes were holding hers. His briefcase dropped from his other hand and hit the floor with a definite thunk.

  And when he lowered his mouth to hers, well, there only seemed one thing to do in response to that.

  Lift it up and take it.

  Chapter Six

  Damn. It’s good to be home, Dalton thought as Clara swayed toward him.

  Her lips—softer even than he remembered—met his. He breathed in the sweet, unforgettable scent of her skin. She let out a tiny moan.

  And broke the kiss.

  Too soon.

  But he wasn’t deterred. He let the hand on her stomach slide on around to clasp her lower back, bringing her belly, so full with their baby, to press against him. It felt good, that hard roundness pushing at him. Insistent, undeniable, this new life that they had made.

  He lifted his other hand to cradle her face. “Ah, Clara...”

  She scowled up at him. “I don’t know why I just kissed you. I shouldn’t have. It’s wrong.”

  “Uh-uh. Not wrong. Very, very right.”

  “You piss me off. And we should talk first. There’s so much to say.”

  “Shh.”

  “See?” She pouted up at him. “Now you shush me.”

  “Shh...”

  He dipped his head and their mouths touched again, brushing. So sweet, the scent of her, Ivory soap and apples, all clean and fresh and crisp.

  This time, she didn’t jerk away.

  Instead she opened on a sigh. He deepened the contact—not too much. Enough to run his tongue along the edges of her upper teeth. On the island, sometimes they would kiss for the longest time, sitting on the white sand beach under the shade of a big umbrella, or in bed, their bodies joined, holding out against the rising wave of pleasure, making it last.

  Kissing and kissing until he knew he couldn’t hang on one second longer. He was going to go over the edge and there was no way he could stop it...

  She always tasted so good, like sunshine and sugar cookies. And freedom, somehow. All the freedom and ease and fun he’d never allowed himself.

  Oh, there had been women. Lots of them. Before Astrid. Before he’d decided it was time to find the right wife, before he’d finally accepted that the thrill of being wanted by a stranger never seemed to last beyond the first encounter.

  So he’d given up on one-night thrills. He’d pursued and married Astrid. And had it all gone to hell.

  Only to meet Clara, on the island, while he was still reeling from how completely he’d messed up the commitment that should have been for a lifetime.

  Clara.

  It had never occurred to him that a woman could be so many desirable things at once. Thrilling and funny and cute. More than cute, beautiful. A pure temptation and a true companion.

  Clara. He had found her when he wasn’t ready. And then he’d blown it royally. He’d let her get away.

  He wouldn’t make that mistake a second time.

  And it was so good, to be kissing her again. It made him ache. It made him hard. It made him want to keep kissing her.

  He only cared that they didn’t stop. He eased his fingers up into the warm, thick fall of her hair and cradled the back of her head, gathering her marginally closer.

  Her hands slid upward, hesitating at his chest. For a second, he was afraid she would push him away.

  But no. With a soft little moan, she grabbed his shoulders. And then she twined her arms around his neck.

  And kept on kissing him.

  He took advantage of that long kiss to touch her some more, to learn again the silky texture of her skin, to track the tempting indentations of her spine. He clasped her waist, thickened now with the baby. But still, that feminine curve was there, inviting th
e span of his hands.

  He knew it couldn’t go on forever, that kiss. Still, a groan of regret escaped him when she took her mouth away from him and settled back onto her heels.

  She looked up at him, mouth plump and red from kissing him, eyes soft as melted chocolate, cheeks beautifully flushed. “Kissing,” she said, reproaching him. “We shouldn’t be kissing.”

  “Too late.” He bent and scooped her up under the knees with one hand, keeping the other at her back.

  “Dalton!” She laughed in spite of herself as he cradled her snugly against his chest. “Put me down.”

  “Bed or couch?”

  “Put me down,” she ordered again, shoving at his chest a little—but she was still laughing.

  The bed was closer. He carried her through the arch to the side hallway, detouring into the master suite, taking her straight to the bed and putting her down on it, then dropping to sit beside her. “Scoot over.”

  “What?”

  “Make room for me.” He toed off one shoe and it fell to the rug.

  “Wait a minute, Dalton. We have to—”

  “Too late.” He dropped the other shoe, turned and swung his stocking feet up on the bed, using his shoulder to nudge her a little more over to the center of the mattress, clearing the space he needed beside her. “Ah. There.” He raised his arms and laced his fingers behind his head. “That’s better.”

  “You’re going to get your gorgeous designer suit all wrinkled.”

  “Sometimes a high price must be paid.”

  She’d rolled to her side so she and her giant belly were facing him, and she braced her elbow in the pillow, her head on her hand. “You remind me of the island Dalton right now...so free and fun and easy.”

  “I am the island Dalton.”

  She only looked at him, her expression growing serious. “Tell me about your parents.”

  He didn’t particularly want to talk about them. They had done their job, fed him, clothed him, brought him up to be a functioning member of society. And now they were gone. What was there to say about them?

  But it seemed she wanted him to talk about his parents. Really wanted it. And he understood that to get what he needed from her, somehow he was going to have to give her the things that she needed.

  “Dalton?” she prompted.

  So he told her, “They were older. My mother was in her early forties when I was born.”

  “Were older?”

  “My father died a decade ago, of heart disease. My mother of cancer a couple of years later.” He rolled his head toward her.

  “I’m so sorry...”

  “Why? It’s not your fault.”

  She gave a sad little laugh. “Dalton, it’s just what people say, that’s all. An expression of sympathy for what you’ve lost.”

  “I know. It’s the right thing to say. And you said it sincerely. I believe you. But still, it’s not your fault.”

  She reached out and touched the side of his face. Cool and soft and welcome, her touch. “Did they...hurt you somehow?”

  He studied her face. He really liked her face, the pretty oval shape of it, the fullness of her mouth. From the first, she’d seemed the most open, accessible person he’d ever known.

  “Dalton?” She was waiting for him to answer her question.

  “No, they didn’t hurt me. They were distant, both of them. They wanted a quiet house, with everyone speaking in hushed tones. I don’t think they really wanted children. But they did want an heir, an Ames to take over when my father stepped down. And then I finally came along. They were glad on one level. The bank would be run for another generation by an Ames. But they also found me messy and loud and inconvenient.”

  “I cannot imagine you as messy and loud.”

  “They eventually whipped me into shape—figuratively speaking, of course. There was no actual whipping. Just constant and steady pressure to conform to the life they had laid out for me.”

  “And you did conform?”

  “I did. There were a lot of time-outs. Sometimes I lived in my room for days at a time. I was very resentful.”

  The big eyes brimmed with sympathy. “They didn’t...love you?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Again, she brushed the side of his face with her tender hand. He felt that light touch all the way down to that place inside him that only she had ever reached. “You don’t know if they loved you,” she echoed in a sad little whisper. At his slight shrug, she said, “I’m so sorry...”

  He tried a smile to lighten the mood. “There you go being sorry again.”

  “You try to make a joke of it, but I think they were hard on you. Too hard.”

  “Maybe. Their expectations were high, and I learned to rise to them. I am now the man they wanted me to be.”

  “Except...on the island?” she asked only slightly sheepishly.

  He admitted it. “Yes.”

  She made a small, thoughtful sound. “So on the island you were your natural self, the person you might have been, if your parents hadn’t been so strict and controlling.”

  He stroked her hair—and she let him. “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “Clara, who knows how I would have turned out with a different set of parents? I might have ended up a hopeless slacker, totally lacking in focus and drive.”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that.”

  “But you never know.”

  She searched his face. “Do you plan to be strict and controlling with our daughter?”

  “I plan to take care of her and make sure she gets whatever she needs.”

  Her expression had turned severe. “If you’re too strict, you’ll be dealing with me.”

  “I have no doubt on that score.”

  “Rules and boundaries are important. But there has to be love and leeway, too.”

  He turned on his side, rested his head on his arm. “I promise to be guided by you—or at least, to listen if you tell me I’m being too harsh.”

  She looked so hopeful. “You mean that?”

  “I swear it.” He watched her smile. Like the sun peeking out from behind a gray cloud, that smile. “Your turn.”

  “For?”

  “I have questions.”

  She gave a low chuckle. “Anything. Just ask.”

  “At the hospital, your great-aunt Agnes said something disparaging about your father and his ‘behavior.’ What behavior was she talking about?”

  “That detective you hired didn’t tell you?”

  “I didn’t hire him to find out about your father.”

  “Right.” She winced and reached behind her.

  “What?”

  “Pillow...” She felt around at her back. He reached over her and grabbed the pillow she was searching for. “Thanks.” She took it and propped it between her thighs.

  He touched the tip of her nose. “So. Your father...?”

  “It’s beyond tacky. You won’t approve.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Fair enough. My father had a mistress while he was married to my mother.”

  “Shocking,” he teased.

  She wrinkled that pretty nose at him. “It went on for two decades.”

  “It? You mean he messed around with different women?”

  “No. Just one. Her name was Willow Mooney, and he was with her for more than twenty years. My father essentially had two families at the same time. There was my mom and my brothers and sister and me, living the good life in the big house my dad built when he and my mom got married. And then there was Willow, with her five kids, in a smaller place across town. That went on, him going between my mother and Willow, for over twenty years. And all along, he publicly claimed my half siblings. All nine of us have the Bravo name. I’m glad for that, on the one hand. I love my half sisters and brothers. But that he rubbed his other family in my mother’s face, well, that hurt her. A lot. And the day after my mother’s funeral, my f
ather married Willow and moved her into the house he’d built for my mother. He’s gone too now, my father, but Willow’s still alive.”

  “Your father sounds like a man who never worried about what people might say.”

  “No, he did not. He never considered who he might hurt, either. He just did whatever he wanted to do. He was a big man, with a lot of charisma. And when he would look at you, talk to you, he made you feel like you were the only other person in the world.” A faraway smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “I was always so certain that I was his favorite, of all his kids. But then my sister Elise told me she knew that she was the favorite. And my half sister, Nell? The really hot one, with the tats and the auburn hair?”

  “Yes. I remember her.”

  “Nell told me a year ago that she always knew Dad felt she was the special one. Even if you didn’t like the things he did, somehow you couldn’t help liking him, couldn’t help feeling you were special in his eyes.”

  “Including your aunt Agnes?”

  “Except for Aunt Agnes. She never liked him. And she can hold a grudge. She never forgave my father for keeping Willow on the side, for having children with her, children that he treated just the same as his children by my mother. My father sent all nine of us to college—or at least, those of us who wanted to go. And when he died, he left each of us a nest egg, a trust fund that matured when we reached the age of twenty-five. Agnes believed that my mother’s children should have gotten more than Willow’s kids. And to this day, she’s furious that Willow ended up with my mother’s house.”

  “You all appear to get along, though—your siblings and half siblings. At the hospital, everyone seemed on pretty good terms.”

  She reached down and readjusted the pillow between her thighs. “We’ve had our issues, but we’ve mostly worked through them. Our parents’ choices are not our fault. But my mother, well, he hurt her so bad. She was proud, my mother. From a wealthy, respected family. Before she died, when she was so sick, she whispered to me that she wanted to hate my dad, that he had humiliated her for most of their married life.”

  “Then why didn’t she leave him?”

  “She loved him. Loved him enough to live with the humiliation of him having another woman. To her, having him half the time was still better than not at all.”