Her groan nearly drowned out his as she melted into him. Every curve nestled into his hard-muscled body as if they had been designed for each other. His long arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened. Had she taken it to the next level, or had he? Did it matter? They’d joined so seamlessly that there was no longer a him or a her, but a them, an us, a single unit that ebbed and flowed as one.
Her nipples hardened, chafing against the prison her bra had become, aching to be free, to be fondled, to be kissed. As if he’d sensed her distress, he pulled her harder to his chest, his heavy breathing barely massaging her tender points through the too many layers of clothing.
The hard ridge of his erection nearly branded the delicate skin of her stomach as if it was already seeking her warmth.
She broke the kiss, her lips barely a millimeter away. Somehow, she found the air to speak. “Deal.”
His phone pinged softly. He fumbled in his pocket for it, almost seeming grateful for the interruption. He read the text then punched in a reply. “We have a plane to catch.”
SIX HOURS AGO, STEPHANIE had marched into Ethan’s office prepared to do battle. Now, she was settling into her seat in first class, headed to Las Vegas to marry him. How had she gotten from point A to point B in six freaking hours? This was, without a doubt, the weirdest thing she had ever done.
She’d done so many strange things in her life, she qualified as an expert in oddity, or at least that’s what her friends had always said. But she didn’t have any friends, did she? She had acquaintances, business associates, classmates, and a strange assortment of quasi-family her father and Uncle Brian had cobbled together to fill the voids in their own lives. Except for her brothers, and they weren’t her blood relatives, Stephanie didn’t fit with any of them. She didn’t fit anywhere.
Her mother and grandmother had not only fit into but had dominated their social circles. Generations of breeding and money had assured their status, but they hadn’t had the sense to marry properly. Once old money lost the money, the choices weren’t always pretty. Without a personal fortune to enhance a suitor’s net worth, their marriage pools had evaporated. The beautiful, petite princesses had been forced to mix their blue blood with wild Kerrigan blood to avoid the genteel poverty that was far more romantic in classic literature than in real life.
Stephanie the Amazon, all six-foot, 185 pounds of her, had been the result. Her childhood dream of wearing her mother’s wedding dress had been dashed when she’d realized her left thigh wouldn’t fit into the size-one gown. She might have been able to wear her mother’s shoes—if she’d amputated a few toes. She was a Kerrigan through and through without a smidgeon of her mother’s or grandmother’s petite grace.
To the outside world, she was an heiress who only needed to snap her fingers to make everyone bow to her whims. She’d worked hard to perfect that act, but it was more of a comedy routine: one giant farce. In reality, she was a mutt in a world of pampered pedigree pooches. The fat chick who didn’t fit. The outcast.
She spread her hands over her stomach to imagine the baby who might soon grow there. Finally, someone who would love her and accept her for who she was: his or her mother. She already loved the baby who hadn’t been conceived yet. Would Baby Kerrigan-Webb —make that Baby Kerrigan-Smith —have Ethan’s black eyes or her green? Her crazy red curls or his poker-straight sable locks? One thing was for sure, Baby Kerrigan-Smith —BKS —would be tall. And intelligent. Those traits would be hard-wired into their genes. With any luck, he/she would have Ethan’s lean build and perfect nose. His perfect everything. She had no problem with providing an incubator for the child who would be Ethan’s clone. Even if that child was a girl. He was that gorgeous. So much so that, under normal circumstances, he would never have given someone like her a second look.
But these weren’t normal circumstances.
She studied him. He was already asleep. How he’d managed to stay on his feet this long was nothing short of amazing. Four days without sleep? The man had stamina. How much stamina? She’d find out tonight. From now until they reached their destination, he’d get about five or six hours of sleep. She reached out to set her hand on top of his. With everything she had pent up inside, he was going to need it.
He stirred enough to grasp her hand, before pulling it to his face. He pinned it between his cheek and shoulder, snuggling it as if burrowing into a soft, fluffy pillow. His deep sigh ended with a whimper as his eyes darted under his closed lids. She half expected him to stick his thumb in his mouth.
She gently disentangled her hand to accept the Bloody Mary she’d ordered the second she’d set foot on the plane. Sure, it was only three-thirty, but she’d skipped lunch. Didn’t the tomato juice and celery stalk count as a salad? Besides, after the day she’d had, she deserved a reward. She took a sip, savoring the spicy tang. She’d need a second drink for the intestinal fortitude necessary to go through with this crazy plan.
She took another sip and studied his face. Relaxed, devoid of stress, he looked so much younger and more innocent. She could imagine kissing his carbon copy as she read their child a bedtime story. No. Her child. Hers. Not his. Not theirs. Why was that so hard to remember? This was a business deal, like purchasing sperm from a fertility clinic minus the middleman plus the added bonus of a few happy endings.
From wife to widow to wife again in less than a week and maybe a mother soon. That had to be some kind of a record. She hadn’t had the chance to get Smitty’s official death certificate hence the trip to Las Vegas. Nevada only cared about the date and place of Smitty’s death no further paperwork required. Other states weren’t so accommodating. They’d filled out the application and paid the fee online on the way to the airport. Their license would be waiting for them when they got to the Clark County Clerk’s office, conveniently open until midnight, then to their hotel for rings, a quick ceremony, and on to the wedding night.
Sips be damned; she took a long, deep drink from her glass. What was wrong with her? She was marrying a man she’d only vaguely heard of a few days ago. This could be the biggest mistake of her life. But, truthfully, how much worse could it be than the Smitty debacle? She’d dated him for more than a year shouldn’t she have known everything about him? She hadn’t known a damned thing. She still didn’t. She chugged the rest of her Bloody Mary.
At least this time, there would be no illusion of love or romance, no insincere promises of forever, nothing more than a straightforward business deal with everyone’s duties and responsibilities reduced to writing. A finite combination of vowels and consonants, black on white, which Uncle Brian would have ready for them to sign when they got back to Philly tomorrow.
This wedding couldn’t be more different than her first. This time, there would be no bridal showers, no endless rounds of shopping to find the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, or the perfect lingerie. No decisions about entrees. No cakes to taste, no hors d’oeuvres to sample. She wouldn’t try out a half-dozen hairdos, four new shades of lipstick, or three shades of nail polish.
Nail polish. She flexed her hands to check out her manicure. She needed a fill, but there wouldn’t be time for that. She spread her fingers. She was still wearing Smitty’s ring. Or more precisely, Grandma Jordan’s ring. Every Jordan bride for five or so generations had worn this ring.
She’d beamed when Smitty had slipped the family heirloom onto her finger. Finally, something of her mother’s that fit.
She removed her necklace then her ring. She looped the ring through the necklace and fastened the necklace back around her neck. What was past couldn’t be fixed. This marriage—check that, this business deal—was exactly what she needed to jumpstart the next phase of her life. She twisted and flexed her left hand. It felt light and free. And needed to be holding another Bloody Mary. She signaled the flight attendant.
CHAPTER 16
NOT AGAIN. PLEASE DEAR God, not again. Pain radiated from deep inside attacking everything in its path. His heart beat against hi
s ribs in a vain attempt to escape the torment. He struggled to keep from falling back into bed. Unable to draw a full breath, the room around him spun as it grayed out. “Age is only a number. We can make this work. I know we can. I love you.”
Her disgusted sigh ripped through him. “Our age difference has nothing to do with anything. You are my creation. Our creation. I have to admit, we did a damned good job on you, but you are nothing more than an overgrown street urchin. If I showed up for brunch at the club with you on my arm, I would be laughed out of the place.”
Desperation clawed at him. Think, man, think. “Or you could be the envy of every woman there. The sexy cougar with a tall, good-looking, young stud at your beck and call. Now that I’ve passed the bar, I’m going to be a big success. You will be proud of me!”
She traced the scar from behind his ear down his jaw to his chin. “We are proud of you. You’ve worked hard and done everything we’ve asked you to do, and you’ve done it well. We have no doubt you will be a success because we gave you the tools to be a success. You are young and drop-dead gorgeous, but you can thank Maria for your beautiful face and me for that perfect smile. Your eyes are the only original parts left on your face, but those had to be enhanced to get you out of those hideous glasses. Laura gave you that.”
He reached up to grasp her hand. “Stop talking about the others. We are the only two people here. Laura and Maria are in the past. This is now. You are my future. We are the future.” His eyes burned. He slammed his eyelids shut to quell the sting.
“You think I don’t know you’ve professed your love for each of us? You’re pathetic.” Her cackle forced his eyes open. The tight line of her lips filled him with dread. He’d seen that look before. The one that said the conversation was wrapping up. He had one last shot to make his case. “Marry me,” he blurted out.
“Marry you? Oh, my dear boy, are you delusional? I have to admit we taught you all the tricks to satisfy a woman, and you turned out to be damned good at it, but sex isn’t enough. To be honest, I’ll miss your glorious cock, but we’re done. There’s a new student in the works, and Maria is nearly done with him. He’s coming to me next, so you have to leave.” She held out her hand. “I’m going to need it back now. You’re on your own.”
It was over. Finished. The end. He numbly scooped his jeans up off her bedroom floor and fumbled in the back pocket for his wallet. With shaky hands, he opened it and drew out a credit card, the one nestled next to a fresh condom, and handed it to her. With nothing left to say, he got dressed, walked out the door, and stepped into nothing.
THE JOLT OF THE WHEELS hitting the runway jarred Ethan out of his nightmare. He blinked hard and worked his brain harder to figure out exactly where he was. And why. A scrap of his dream lingered as his mind urged him to wake up, but his body wasn’t ready for that much exertion. His eyes drifted shut, reluctant to return to wakefulness yet unwilling to revisit the nightmare that hadn’t assaulted him in years.
A hand clasped his shoulder. “Ethan, wake up. You’re okay. Whatever it was, you’re safe. We’re on the ground. You aren’t falling.”
How many times had Megan done this for him over the years? Pulled him from his night terror with words of support and a gentle touch?
But this wasn’t Megan. What the hell? His eyes flew open as he shot bolt-upright in his seat. His head jerked from side to side, surveying his surroundings.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say good evening?” Her soft, feminine voice washed over him.
He focused on her and scratched his head. “What time is it?”
“A little after nine eastern, just past six here,” she told him.
A different time zone? Ethan struggled to make sense of it all. He failed. “Where is here?”
“We’ve landed at McCarren Airport. We’re in Las Vegas,” she told him.
He stretched and shifted in his seat to work out some of the travel kinks. Thank God there had been first-class seats available at the last minute. He could think of a dozen better ways to spend the money, or not spend it at all, but he didn’t fit in coach. And he couldn’t have asked Stephanie to travel peasant class. Not that it hadn’t briefly crossed his mind.
He was here to marry Stephanie Kerrigan. To save Pete. Now that he’d had some sleep, that didn’t sound like such a great idea. But what choice did he have? The same choice he’d always had. None.
Married. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before, but that had been years ago when he had been young and stupid. When he had been naïve enough to think he’d finally found someone to love him. Stephanie wouldn’t love him. She only wanted his body like the others. Apparently, he was still a whore.
It was worth it. It had to be. Because this time, it was for Pete. His tiny, beautiful, perfect nephew. His family.
Between Megan and him, Pete would get the tools he needed to grow into a strong, healthy man without the gaping hole on his birth certificate where his father’s name should be. They would show him pictures of Smitty. They would make him understand that Smitty had loved him. That leaving hadn’t been his father’s choice. Pete would grow up in a safe, clean environment surrounded by love. He would be free of the doubt, the feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy that had always crippled Ethan. The feelings he’d covered with a stone mask, behind a reputation so ferocious that few dared to venture close.
But Stephanie had come close. Why? He had no clue. It was for the best if it stayed that way.
CHAPTER 17
ETHAN SLID THE KEY card through the electronic reader with more force than was necessary. Was he nervous? Stephanie bit back a smile. That was kind of sweet.
Huh.
The words Ethan Webb and sweet did not go together in the same sentence unless they were separated by the words is not.
At least that’s what she’d read. And briefly experienced firsthand.
But the man waiting for her to enter the bridal suite ahead of him was not the man she’d spent the weekend researching. He wasn’t brutal or cold. He wasn’t savage or barbaric. He was simply a man who loved his family. A man prepared to do whatever it took to protect them, regardless the cost in dollars or pride. A man who would make some lucky woman very happy someday.
But that woman wouldn’t be her.
As she entered the room, her shoes sunk into the deep pile of the pristine white carpet. How many of the brides who had stayed here had been virgins? Not many, she guessed. So, why the obsession with white? The couch was white. The chairs were white. Everything was white. A woman could lose her wedding dress in here.
She made her way across the vast expanse of white that stretched out like a Hawaiian beach to the bedroom that was equally sterile. If a bride entered this room as a virgin, chances were she wouldn’t leave as one. Otherwise, what would be the point?
Ethan removed an envelope from his breast pocket, the same pocket he’d used for the summons and complaint he’d served at Smitty’s gravesite, and set their marriage license on the nightstand. He frowned as he looked around. “There were supposed to be flowers. I ordered roses.” He pulled out his phone and started punching buttons. “You like roses, don’t you?” he asked without looking up.
He’d ordered roses. Double huh. Why would he do that? “Of course, I like roses, doesn’t every woman?”
His finger hovered over the keyboard. He looked up, perplexed. “I...I suppose. It’s been a long time since I’ve sent anyone flowers.” He cleared his throat and concentrated on his phone. “Yeah, well, um, the uh... the concierge apologizes. There was a snafu, but the flowers are on their way up.”
Triple huh. Not only nervous but shy and embarrassed. She reached out to touch his arm. “She hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.
He only shrugged. “Ancient history.”
The naked pain in his voice squeezed her heart nearly dry. Was this what he was compensating for? She caressed his arm gently. “The past has a bad habit of intruding on the present.”
�
��Yeah, well, rich girls don’t marry poor boys. At least that’s what she said.”
“Good God, she dropped Fitzgerald on you? Point A, Gatsby was a stalker, and Point B, rich girls do marry poor boys. I married Smitty, and he didn’t have a dime. I guess that makes me Fitzgerald’s pretty little fool.”
He smiled. A real smile, and damn didn’t it nearly melt her panties?
“You are not little, thank God. And foolish? Not in this lifetime. Pretty? No way, you’re...”
Deep chimes echoed through the room. Here Comes the Bride? Were they kidding? Obviously, they weren’t, and neither was Ethan. She wasn’t pretty. She never had been. Hadn’t that been pounded into her head time after time? Which was why men like Ethan never went for women like her. This was a business deal, not a love match, and no matter how many times she had to remind herself, she would. Because it was the one part of this whole situation that would never change.
By the time she’d gathered the courage to leave the bedroom, the sitting room was exploding with color. Splashes of red, pink, yellow, and the deepest blue punctuated the pristine décor, reminding Stephanie of the fish tank in the hospital waiting room especially the mandarin fish Ethan liked.
Stephanie ran her fingers over the velvety blue petals. “They’re beautiful.”
Ethan handed the delivery man a twenty and subtly jerked his head towards the door. “Not as beautiful as you. That’s where I was going when the doorbell rang. I didn’t want you to think otherwise.”
Before Stephanie could answer, a strain of Pachelbel’s Canon in D filled the room. “Now what?”
Ethan opened the door to allow another hotel employee to enter with a rack of dresses.
“First flowers, now dresses. What is this, a scene from Pretty Woman?” Her words were a little harsher than she’d intended.
For Pete's Sake: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage of Convenience Standalone Romance Novel (Tobin Tribe Book 1) Page 8