Harlequin Desire February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: The King Next DoorMarriage With BenefitsA Real Cowboy (Kings of California)

by Maureen Child

  The man had touched her as intimately as possible, in more ways than she’d imagined existed. Yet a simple kiss on the back of her hand turned her knees to jelly.

  “Mrs. Wheeler, you are indeed ravishing.” He pulled a flat box from the pocket of his jacket. Without taking his eyes off her, he opened the lid and offered her the box.

  Cia glanced inside and her already weak knees almost pitched her to the travertine tile.

  “Lucas,” she squeaked, and that was the extent of her throat’s ability to make sound.

  He extracted the necklace and guided her to the mirror, then stood behind her to clasp the choker around her neck. Emeralds set in delicate filigreed platinum spilled over her collarbone, flashing fire and ice against her skin. Every eye would be drawn to the dazzling piece of art around her neck, and no one would even notice her cleavage.

  “It reminds me of you,” he murmured in her ear, not touching her at all, but his heat, a signature she recognized the moment he walked into a room, raced up her bare back. “An inferno captured inside a beautiful shell. All those hard edges polished away to reveal a treasure. Do you like it?”

  Did she like it? That was akin to asking if she liked the sun or breathing. The necklace wasn’t jewelry, the way every other man on earth gave women jewelry. It was a metaphor for how well he understood her.

  Lucas had an uncanny ability to peer into her soul and pluck out her essential desires, then present them to her.

  Similar to his mother’s pearls, this necklace represented all the frightening, unexamined things in her heart, which Lucas never let her forget. Neither could she forget he’d very pointedly failed to mention the things in his heart.

  “I can’t keep it.” Her hand flew to the clasp, only to be stilled by his.

  “Yes. You can. I insist.”

  “It’s too...” Personal. Meaningful. Complicated. “Expensive. I’m sure you still have the receipt. Take it back.”

  “The artist custom-made it for you. All sales are final.”

  She shut her eyes for a beat. “That’s not the kind of thing you do for a woman you’re about to divorce. How are we going to make it look like we’re on the outs if you’re buying me custom-made jewelry?”

  They had time, but they’d done such a bang-up job of making a fake marriage look real, reversing it presented a whole new set of difficulties. She wished she’d considered that before hopping into Lucas’s bed.

  “Maybe I’m trying to earn your forgiveness,” he suggested, and in the mirror, his gaze locked on hers, a blue firestorm winding around her, daring her to ask what he’d done that required forgiveness.

  Was this an apology for bringing up an alternative to divorce? “Forgiveness for an affair, maybe? You wouldn’t do that.”

  His forehead tightened. “How do you know what I’m capable of?”

  She spun away from the mirror, about to remind him that he’d been the one to convince her he’d never cheat. His black expression changed her mind. “Because I do. Only someone with a huge ego and a heaping spoonful of selfish has an affair. You don’t have the qualifications.”

  They stared at each other for the longest time, and, finally, Lucas blinked, clearing his expression, and gave her a slow smile. “So maybe I’m trying to earn your forgiveness for slaving away at the office. Leaving you alone for days on end, crying into your pillow about how your husband never pays attention to you anymore.”

  “That could work,” she said, then squealed as he backed her up against the vanity and slid magic fingertips up her leg, gathering green silk against his wrist.

  “It’s been so long, hasn’t it, darlin’? Are you desperate for my hands on you? Like this?” His palm flattened against her bottom and inched under her panties, stealing her breath as he dipped into her instantly wet center.

  Yes, exactly like that.

  “We have to leave or we’ll be late,” she choked out and squirmed against his wicked fingers. “Rain check. You and me and a coat closet. Nine o’clock. We’ll pretend it’s the first time we’ve been able to connect in weeks.”

  With his eyes blazing, he hooked the edge of her panties and drew them off to puddle on the floor. “How about we connect right now and I meet you in the coat closet? But only if you make it eight-thirty and leave your underwear at home.”

  As if she could resist him. Within moments, he’d sheathed himself and they joined, beautifully and completely.

  She clung to him, wrapped her legs around him and plunged into pleasure. Pleasure with an edge because her brain had left the building, and he’d ended up with a piece of her heart after all. She couldn’t find the courage to shut off what she was feeling.

  When Lucas made love to her, she forgot all the reasons why the alternative wasn’t plausible. Lucas glided home slowly, watching her with a searing, heavy expression, and her heart asked, “What if it could be?”

  The question echoed with no answer.

  No answer, because Lucas was not presenting an alternative to divorce so they could continue having spectacular sex, no matter what he claimed.

  Sex wasn’t the basis for a relationship. Sex wasn’t guaranteed to stay good, let alone spectacular. He hadn’t miraculously fallen in love with her. So why had he really brought up long-term?

  And why was she so sad? Because his alternative hadn’t included a declaration from his heart or because it felt as though she didn’t know the whole truth?

  It didn’t matter. This time she wouldn’t end up brokenhearted and disillusioned because she wasn’t giving Lucas the chance to do either.

  They arrived at the benefit twenty minutes late, and it would have been thirty if Lucas hadn’t tipped the driver to speed. Regardless, heads swiveled as they entered the ballroom, and Cia struggled not to duck behind Lucas.

  “What are they looking at?” she whispered. “I told you there was no such thing as fashionably late.”

  “Maybe they know you’re not wearing any panties,” he said, a lot more loudly than she would have liked, and made her skin sizzle with a sinful leer.

  She smacked his arm with her clutch. “Maybe they know you stuffed them in your pocket.”

  The swish of fabric alerted her to someone else’s presence. Lucas’s mother. She stood right in front of them, and as far as Cia knew, still possessed working ears. Cia’s smile died as heat climbed across her face.

  “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Wheeler,” Cia croaked. The fire in her face sparked higher. “I’m sorry, I mean Fran. You’d think it would be easy to remember. I don’t like being called Mrs. Wheeler, either. Makes me feel like an impostor.”

  Where had that come from? She sealed her lips together before more stupid comments fell out, though dragging her son’s sex life into public had probably already killed any warm feelings her mother-in-law might have developed over afternoon tea.

  The older woman’s cheeks were a little pink, but she cleared her throat and said, “No problem. I couldn’t answer to it for at least a year after Andy and I married. Such a big change in identity. Wait until you have kids and they start calling you ‘Mama.’ That one’s worse, yet so much more wonderful.”

  Another couple joined them, and Cia was caught up in introductions instead of being forced to come up with a neutral response to Fran’s casually thrown out comment. It didn’t stop the notion from ricocheting through her head.

  Kids. No, thank you.

  Lucas’s warm hand settled at the small of her back as he talked shop to the couple who had asked Fran for an introduction. The wife needed larger office space for her CPA business. Cia smiled and nodded and pretended as though she wasn’t imagining how Lucas would approach fatherhood.

  But she was.

  He’d kiss her pregnant belly while peering up at her through those clear blue eyes. He’d treat her reverently, fetching her drin
ks and rubbing her feet.

  When the baby cried at night, he’d smooth Cia’s hair back and tell her to stay in bed while he handled it. Later, he’d throw a ball for hours with a little dark-haired toddler. Lucas would label it fun and insist work could wait, even if it couldn’t.

  As quickly as those wispy images materialized, they vanished in favor of much clearer images of flashing lights atop black-and-white squad cars and grim-faced policemen who knocked on the door in the middle of the night to utter the words, “I’m sorry. The accident was fatal. Your parents are gone.”

  The only way she could guarantee that no child of hers would ever go through that was not to have any children. She tucked away the sudden, jagged longing for a life that would never be.

  Fran’s friends wandered toward the dance floor, the wife clutching the business card Lucas had retrieved from a hard, silver case, and another well-dressed couple looking for a real estate broker promptly replaced them.

  “This is my wife, Cia Wheeler,” Lucas said.

  “Robert Graves,” the male half of the couple said and shook Cia’s hand. “Formerly Allende, right?”

  “Right. Benicio Allende is my grandfather.”

  Robert’s eyes grew a touch warmer. “I thought so. My company does the advertising for Manzanares. It keeps us hopping.”

  “Oh?” Cia asked politely.

  It never ceased to amaze her how people loved to name-drop and rub elbows because of her last name. Former last name. Robert Graves was no exception, prattling on about Abuelo’s shrewd negotiations and then switching gears to announce right then and there that he’d like to do business with Lucas. It wasn’t said, but it was clearly implied that he’d decided because of her.

  She made Lucas stable. Connected. Exactly as they’d hoped this marriage would do.

  The room spun. Was that why Lucas wanted to blow off the divorce? Because he didn’t need the Manzanares contract to save his business anymore but he did need her?

  Not possible. A few paltry clients couldn’t compare to the coup of Manzanares. She’d done exhaustive research. She’d considered all the angles.

  Except for the one where she worked hard to be an asset to her husband and succeeded.

  No. He’d keep his word. He had a high ethical standard. Surely he’d return to form before too long. Lucas excelled at racing off to the next woman—his brother had even warned her of it.

  Lucas didn’t want to give up sex. Fine. Neither did she, and compromise wasn’t a foreign word in her vocabulary. They could keep seeing each other on the sly after the divorce.

  The idea loosened the clench of her stomach. She didn’t have to quit Lucas cold turkey, and, as a bonus, she would gain a little extra time to shut off all these unwelcome feelings she’d been fighting.

  As soon as the Graves couple coasted out of earshot, Fran signaled a waiter, and Andy Wheeler joined the group in time to take a champagne flute from the gilded tray.

  “A toast,” Lucas’s dad suggested with a raised glass. “To all the new developments and those yet to be born.”

  Cia raised her glass and took a healthy swallow.

  “Oh, you’re drinking,” Fran said with obvious disappointment. “I guess there’s no news yet.”

  Lucas flashed a wolfish smile in Cia’s direction. “You’ll be the second to know, Mama.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re talking in code?” Cia whispered to Lucas.

  “I might have casually mentioned we’re trying to get pregnant,” Lucas whispered back. “Don’t worry. It’s just window dressing.”

  “Window dressing?” Cia said at normal volume, too startled to rein in her voice. “What kind of window dressing is that?”

  “Excuse us for a moment, please.” Lucas nodded at his parents and dragged Cia away by the waist to an unpopulated corner of the room.

  “Pregnant? Really?” she hissed and blinked against the scarlet haze over her vision. “No wonder your mom stopped by for tea and chatted me up about identity and being called ‘Mama.’”

  “Well, now. I guess I don’t have to ask you how you feel about the idea.” Lucas tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, and it took supreme will not to slap his hand away.

  “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a ‘trying to get pregnant’ marriage and never will. Should I say it again? In Spanish, maybe?” She stuck a finger deep into his ribs. “Why did you tell your parents something so ridiculous? We don’t need any more window dressing. In fact, we should be taking the dressing off the window.”

  “Since several people are at this very moment watching us argue, I believe dressing is peeling away rapidly with every finger jab,” Lucas responded. “Simmer down, darlin’. Matthew’s gone. I’m the only Wheeler who has a reasonable shot at producing the next generation. It’s Wheeler Family Partners. Remember?”

  She swallowed, hard, and it scraped down her throat as if she’d gargled with razor blades. “So I’m supposed to be the factory for the Wheeler baby production? Is that the idea?”

  “Shocking how people leap to cast my wife in that role. One might wonder why you’re having a meltdown about the mere contemplation of bearing my children, when you’ve been so clear about how our marriage is fake and we’re divorcing, period, end of story.” He stared her down with raised eyebrows. “Mama was upset when Matthew left, and I told her we were trying for a baby to soften the blow. Not because I have some evil scheme to start poking holes in the condoms. Okay?”

  Oh, God. All part of the show.

  She filled her lungs for what felt like the first time in an hour and let the breath out slowly, along with all the blistering anger at Lucas for...whatever offenses she’d imagined. It was a lot to balance, with the sudden presentation of alternatives and being an asset and baby talk.

  Evil scheme aside, Lucas still had a serious obligation to start a family, and he’d never shun it. Her lungs constricted again. They’d have to be extremely careful about birth control going forward.

  Going forward? There wasn’t much forward left in their relationship, and she stood in the way of his obligations. It would be selfish to keep seeing him after the divorce.

  She grimaced at the thought of another woman falling all over herself to be the new Mrs. Wheeler. Cooing over his babies. Sleeping in his bed. Wearing his ring.

  Soon, she’d be Señorita Allende again. That should have cheered her up. It didn’t. “We could have easily coordinated stories. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  Lucas lifted one shoulder and glanced at his Rolex. “Slipped my mind. It’s almost eight-thirty. I’ll race you to the coat closet.”

  She crossed her arms over another pang in her chest. “It’s seven-fifteen, Wheeler. What is going on with you? As slippery as your mind is, you did not forget casually mentioning we’re trying to get pregnant. You wanted to see my reaction in a place where I couldn’t claw your skin off. Didn’t you?”

  A smear of guilt flashed through his eyes. He covered it, but not quickly enough to keep her stomach from turning over.

  She was right. Oh, God, she was right.

  Long-term marriage suddenly didn’t seem like an off-the-cuff, not-really-serious suggestion. The anger she’d worked so hard to dismiss swept through her cheeks again, enflaming them.

  “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I have a lot of balls in the air. Bound to drop one occasionally.”

  “Learn to juggle better or a couple of those balls will hit the ground so hard, I guarantee you’ll never have children with anyone.” She whirled to put some distance between them before she got started on that guarantee right this minute.

  Lucas followed her back into the mix of people, wisely opting to let her stew instead of trying to offer some lame apology or, worse, throwing out an additional denial. Matthew’s exodus had triggered more changes than the
obvious ones.

  Lucas’s commitment phobia had withered up and died and now he’d started hacking away at hers with a dull machete. How could this night be any more of a disaster?

  Fifteen minutes later, she found out exactly how much more of a disaster it could become when she overheard a conversation between four middle-aged men with the distinct smell of money wafting off them. They were blithely discussing her shelter.

  She listened in horror, frozen in place behind them, as they loaded up plates at the buffet with shrimp and caviar, oblivious to the fact that they were discussing her shelter.

  “Excellent visibility for the donors,” one said, and another nodded.

  Donors? Maybe she’d misheard the first part of the conversation. Maybe they weren’t talking about the hotel site or her new shelter. They couldn’t be. She’d made it very clear to Lucas she didn’t want to depend on donations to run the shelter. Hadn’t she?

  “Any venture tied to Allende is a gold mine,” the third declared. “How could you not be in after Wheeler’s fantastic sales pitch? The property’s in great shape. Most of the updating will be cosmetic, and the renovation contract is already on my lawyer’s desk.”

  The property? Lucas had taken people to the site? How many people?

  “Domestic violence is a little, shall we say, uncouth?” the fourth one suggested with a laugh. “But the Hispanic community is a worthwhile demographic to tap from a charitable perspective. It’ll cinch my bid for mayor. That’s the kind of thing voters want on your résumé.”

  Acid scalded her stomach. No. She hadn’t misheard. Lucas had charged ahead without her—without her permission or even her knowledge. He’d made the proposed shelter site public, rendering it useless.

  What more had Lucas done? Had he been presenting an alternative to divorce or a done deal?

  What exactly had the necklace been an apology for?

  Twelve

  Lucas and Cia had been home a good twenty minutes and she hadn’t spoken yet. In the car, she’d blasted him with a tirade about an overheard conversation, which she’d taken out of context, and then went mute. That alone chilled his skin, but coupled with the frosty set of her expression, even a stiff drink didn’t melt the ice forming along his spine. So he had another.