Myk took a hand off the steering wheel and ran the hand over his eyes, then down his face. Good Lord, a Ninja. Now they were going have to contend with a self-appointed guardian angel who might or might not be a trained martial arts master.
Sarita saw the gesture, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, just a little tired,” he lied. “So, if I let you run your center and let you go back to work, will you settle down?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Okay, I will.”
“And cooperate a little more?”
“I’ve been cooperative. You’re the one saying no all the time.”
“And cooperate a little more?”
“Okay, okay, and cooperate a little more. When can I go?”
Myk didn’t believe her for a minute, but he was pleased he’d at least convinced her to unball her fist. For now. “We’ll see how things look in a few days.”
“A few days? But—”
“I want to test the wind in the neighborhood first.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just waiting for some additional info.”
Her voice mirrored her confusion. “Info? I thought you were an architect?”
“I am.”
“I’m going to assume that’s just your day job. Saint sneaks around a lot, too. Are you his boss?”
“Saint isn’t an architect.”
She could tell by his manner that the conversation was closed, but she was certain she’d find out what was going on; hey, she had a year.
The restaurant he chose turned out to be one of the most exclusive eateries in town. Of course, she’d never been there before, but the maître d’ greeted Chandler by name and gushed and fussed over their arrival.
They were immediately shown to one of the small private rooms glassed off from the main dining area. Each of the compartments had wooden blinds that could be rolled down to ensure privacy. As Chandler helped her with her seat, she wondered if he received the royal treatment everywhere he went.
Once the maître d’ withdrew, and they were alone, she asked, “Now what about these loose ends?”
Myk ran his eyes over her. She had on a white cashmere turtleneck sweater tucked into a killer pair of dark green leather pants. She was easily the finest woman in the place, and he had to force himself not to stare at his ring hanging against her breasts because the ring was not the real focus of his interest. “Let’s order first, then we’ll talk.”
Sarita conceded. “Sure.”
A young male server entered their room carrying a tray topped with glasses of ice water, a coffeepot, and two cups. He set everything down, then placed two menus on the table before silently departing.
Sarita picked up the menu. As she scanned the choices, her eyes widened. She knew this was a fancy place, but thirty-five dollars for fish? Are they crazy? She looked over at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she lied, and dropped her gaze. Of course she knew people like him ate better than folks like her, but she still found the astronomical prices stunning.
“Order whatever you want,” he told her.
Having helped her grandmother in the kitchens of rich folks most of her life, Sarita was quite familiar with the dishes offered, but the prices were making her head spin. “I’ll just have the lobster bisque.”
He set his menu aside. “That it?”
She nodded tightly.
“According to Lily you haven’t been eating much.”
“I haven’t been hungry.”
When his eyes probed her, she stared back emotionlessly.
“What’s really wrong with you?” Myk asked quietly. The memories of the tears in her eyes earlier this evening suddenly resurfaced. Thinking about them bothered him, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.
“I’m just trying to adjust to all this,” she replied. “Sable coats, fancy clothes, thirty-five dollars for fish.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“That’s the problem, I don’t know if I want to. When this is all over I don’t want to go back to my life thinking I’m somebody else.”
“Does that mean you’ve finally accepted this arrangement?”
“No, it just means I’m not used to being around someone who spends like you do.”
“I can afford it,” he countered bluntly.
“That’s all well and good, but the panties on my behind cost more than we spend on food at the center in two weeks. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable that makes me feel?”
He didn’t blink. “Being rich is a whole lot better than being poor. I know, I’ve been both. I worked hard to get where I am.”
“I’m not questioning what you have, it’s what you do with it that bothers me. I do not need five dresser drawers of nightgowns.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I went a little overboard.”
“Maybe? Chandler, if I lived to be a hundred years old, I couldn’t wear all those clothes.”
“What would you prefer I spend my money on?”
His eye were focused on her, and his voice had softened as if he really wanted her opinion. It gave her insides the oddest sensation. “I don’t know. You said you have a foundation. Do you give away a lot of money?”
“I do.”
“To whom?”
“Children, mostly.”
She was impressed. “Then you’re doing your part.”
“Yes, I am, so it doesn’t really matter what I pay for the panties on your behind, does it?”
Sarita didn’t know what she was supposed to say to that, and so was very glad to see the waiter make his return. She picked up her menu and quietly ordered a cup of the lobster bisque.
When she was done, Chandler gave his order, then told the waiter, “Ask Andre if he’d send out some scallops for my wife. She’s hungrier than she’ll admit.”
His presumptious attitude made Sarita’s irritation rise, but she held her tongue until the waiter exited. Once they were alone again, she said, “I don’t need you ordering for me. I told him what I wanted.”
“You need to eat. Starving yourself is not going to make me turn you loose.”
Frustrated, she folded her arms across her chest, and sank back against the seat. She didn’t bother hiding her displeasure.
“Quit pouting,” he said with quiet amusement.
She shot him a look that would have silenced a less confident brother, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all. “I’m not pouting.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How do you know I even like scallops?”
“Saint e-mailed me a list of your likes and dislikes.”
“And were Arrogant Brothers on the top of my dislike list?” she asked drolly.
“Didn’t notice.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He smiled at that. “Now let’s talk about the reception.”
She blinked. “What reception?”
“The one the mayor’s throwing for us.”
Considering this was the first time Chandler had mentioned such an event, she gave herself credit for keeping her voice even. “Why is the mayor giving us a reception?”
“So people can get a good look at you.”
Sarita studied him. “What people?”
“The people you’re going to be spending the next year being around—you know, the society types. Folks will want to see the woman who finally got me.”
Sarita supposed he was a prize. Rich, handsome, articulate—the body and face of a dark god. Well dressed. Good manners. If you overlooked the arrogance, a sister could call him heaven-sent. Sarita had called him many things since they hooked up but none suitable for the ears of angels. “So when is this supposed to take place?”
“Saturday night.”
Her dark eyes widened. “That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
“How many people is he inviting?”
“Two,
three hundred.”
Sarita eyes went wide as saucers.
He poured himself a cup of coffee. “This is going to be the social event of the year.”
As she watched him raise his cup to drink, she wondered how in the world she was going to pretend to be his wife in front of three hundred strangers? She could barely handle herself in this restaurant. She’d seen the curious looks they’d gotten when they arrived. Were there really going to be that many people interested in his bride? She supposed he was right. He and the mayor were the two most eligible bachelors in the city. The society section in the city’s newspapers always had pictures of them at some fancy gathering or another, and they were always surrounded by a bunch of grinning, well-dressed women.
The waiter returned with their plates. Although the food smelled and looked delicious, she had no appetite. As usual Chandler seemed to have no such trouble.
“I can have Andre fix you something else if you’d like.”
Sarita had been so preoccupied with her own thoughts it took her a moment to realize he’d spoken.
She shook her head and put down her fork. “The food’s fine. I’m just not very hungry.”
Myk wondered about the bleakness in her eyes as she looked away. Was the fight finally going out of her? He sensed her hovering near the edge. Although she appeared composed, her shoulders were tensed beneath the soft white sweater she was wearing, and that luscious mouth was tight and unhappy.
Sarita had to ask, “What about the people at my center? Will they be invited to the reception?”
“I think we’ll limit it to the fur-and-diamond set. We can have something at the center later, if you want.”
“I’d like for them to come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“How do you think three hundred people who consider themselves upper-class are going to treat a bunch of senior citizens, unwed mothers, and kids dressed in hand-me-downs? If you want to put your people through that, then fine, invite them.”
She didn’t like admitting he was right. The rich folks in his social circle would probably not want to rub shoulders with the city’s poor, and they most certainly wouldn’t be kind. She felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into a funk.
He asked, “You ready to talk about the rest of the details?”
She didn’t respond.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
But, as he began to speak, Sarita heard only his voice, not his words. Mentions of the mayor, champagne, gifts, and guests went in one ear and out the other. Sinking further beneath the weight of her mood, she scanned the patrons on the other side of the glass. There were intimately whispering couples seated around the room. Other couples were engaged in laugher and soft conversations. The sight only added to her melancholy. What right did they have to be happily going about their lives while she was forced to play mouse to Chandler’s cat? Yes, he was handsome, polished, and apparently rich as Midas, but she preferred to be elsewhere. She picked up her fork and slowly forced herself to eat.
After taking the first few bites, she realized just how great a chef Andre really was. The lightly sauced scallops were so succulent they practically melted in her mouth.
Over his coffee cup, Myk smiled inwardly watching her beautiful face be transformed by Andre’s scallops. One minute she’d been angry and sullen, now, she looked as if she’d died and gone to heaven. “Good, aren’t they?” he asked.
Sarita paused in midbite. She’d been relishing the scallops so much she’d forgotten she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying herself.
He added, “I’ve finally done something right, admit it.”
She looked over at him across the table and wondered how long she’d be able to maintain her distance. Part of the problem was that he was too damn fine for his own good. The dark chocolate skin, the matching eyes, the mustache. Women had probably been chasing him since kindergarten. Call her a fool, but as fine and as rich as he was, Sarita had no intentions of being another link in his chain. “You do get points for this. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She finished the scallops, sautéed veggies, and bread, and gently set her plate aside.
He asked, “Full, or do you want dessert?”
“Maybe. What did Saint’s list say about dessert?”
“Hot fudge sundaes.”
She smiled at him for the first time.
So Myk had the waiter bring her a hot fudge sundae. When it arrived it was so decadently prepared she could only stare at the mounds of ice cream topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry. “Now that’s a sundae.”
“Yes, it is.”
She waded in with her spoon. Bringing a small portion to her mouth, she tasted the warm dark chocolate and the slightly melted ice cream, then moaned softly with pleasure.
“That good?” he asked.
Sarita was in heaven. “Many points for this, Chandler. Many points.”
“Glad I could help.” Myk watched her over the rim of his cup. The tiny licks that she gave the spoon as she tasted some of the fudge were teasingly erotic. She slid a small finger over the piled-high whipped cream, and when she gracefully sucked the finger into her mouth he hardened like a pipe. Innocent as her actions were, Myk knew that in the future he’d never be able to see another hot fudge sundae without thinking of her. He couldn’t remember ever being aroused by a woman eating ice cream before, but then he’d never been around a woman like Sarita before.
Sarita looked up. “I can’t eat all this. Do you want some?”
He again picked up his coffee cup. “No.” He wanted to kiss that sassy mouth of hers so he could taste the chocolate and the cream, but chastised himself for even thinking such a thing.
Sarita sensed he’d retreated behind his walls again. She set aside her spoon. “We can leave if you’re ready to go.”
“No. Go ahead. Eat as much as you want.”
Sarita wasn’t sure he was telling her the truth, but she went back to the sundae. Finally, she’d had enough. “I can’t eat another bite.” The sundae had to be the best one she’d had in a long time. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. Are you done?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s head out.”
At the door, she waited for him to sign the bill and to retrieve their coats from the checkroom. She would’ve preferred to put on her leather jacket without his assistance, but knowing they were being casually observed by the other diners, she made herself stand still for his assistance. As he helped her on with the coat, his fingers accidentally brushed the back of her neck, and she leapt as if burned.
To those observing, his leaning forward to whisper in her ear had the look of an intimacy shared. Only Sarita heard his real words.
“You’d better do something about that before the reception. Nobody’s going to believe our little game if you jump to the ceiling when I touch you.”
His nearness and the soft rush of his breath against her ear increased her heartbeat. She knew he was right, but what did he expect?
Once they reached his house, he pulled the car into the garage and cut the engine. Turning to her, he said, “Are you really going to be able to go through with this?”
She knew he was talking about the reception. “If I say no, will you call it off?”
He shook his head.
“Then I’ll be able to do it.”
“Can you dance?”
“Of course I can dance.”
“With me.”
She went silent. The guests would be expecting them to act like newlyweds, and newlyweds danced. Good Lord! She really hadn’t thought this all out. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she bluffed.
He didn’t look like he believed her for a minute.
“I’ve got a few drawings to go over, but in about an hour—you and me—dancing.”
“But—”
“No, buts, Sarita.” He opened the car door and got out.
; Since she had no real wish to spend the night in the cold garage, she got out, too, and followed him inside.
Sarita went up and took a shower. When she was done, she wrapped herself in a towel and waded through the dresser drawers in hopes of finding something comfortable to wear. As she pawed through the soft piles of silk and lace, she wished she’d paid more attention when Lily was putting all this stuff away. She swore she’d seen some sweats somewhere. Closing yet another drawer stuffed with camisoles and spaghetti-strapped nightgowns, she headed to the huge walk-in closet. The interior could have held her whole bedroom at home. It was filled with suits hanging from padded hangers, shoes, handbags, and boxes and bags still waiting to be opened. Shaking her head at what she considered to be a waste of good money, she tightened the towel and dived in. After a few minutes of intense searching she unearthed a boxed set of sweats. She didn’t bother wondering where you could buy sweats that needed to be boxed, but instead finished drying off, found a suitable pair of panties, and slipped into the expensive sweats. Picking up a magazine from the pile on the coffee table in front of the fireplace, she stretched herself out on the green velvet Cleopatra divan and flipped through the monthly’s pages, hoping it would distract her from thinking about having to dance with Chandler in an hour. It didn’t.
In his office, Myk rolled up the drawings for the bridge his company was putting up in one of the neighboring suburbs and stuck them back in the tube. In spite of his mind’s objections, he found his interest in his new wife growing. He couldn’t help wondering how things might have been different had he met her at a party or happened to run into her at a bank or a concert. No doubt he would’ve been attracted to her, any man in his right mind would, but this way? This way was crazy. He headed to her room.
He knocked, and when she called come in, Myk opened the door and stepped inside. He looked at her standing by the fireplace in her sweats, and said, “You’re going to have to change clothes.”
Confused, she looked down at what she had on. “Why?”
“Because you’ll be wearing a dress, not sweats.”
“And?”
“And, remember how you jumped in the restaurant when I was helping you on with your coat?”
The Edge of Midnight Page 11