Pres drew her into his arms, easily, naturally, as if she belonged there, and for half a second she could almost believe that she did. He was as easy to dance with as he was to talk to. And he was remarkably easy to talk to. He was open and direct—at least when it came to talking about her problems and her secrets.
He'd yet to reveal any of his own. And Molly knew he had his secrets. A man like Preston Seaholm definitely had secrets.
He lifted her chin, and lowered his mouth to hers, and then, dear Lord, he was kissing her. His mouth was so soft, his lips so gentle. It was a sweet kiss, a tender kiss, soft and slow and heartbreakingly romantic. It was so different from the all-consuming way he'd kissed her before, yet somehow it seared her just as completely.
He tasted of champagne, sweet and heady. Molly didn't want to stop kissing him.
He didn't want to stop, either, but he did. "God, lady, you get me going," he breathed in her ear, holding her even closer.
Molly could hear his heart pounding, beating a rhythm that was almost as crazy as her own.
"You stopped smoking." She had to say something, and it seemed curiously appropriate.
Pres nodded, his cheek smooth against hers. He must have shaved right before he met her for dinner. It seemed sweet and totally unnecessary, and it made Molly's heart flip-flop. When was the last time a man had gone to such trouble for her?
"I had my last real cigarette forty-six hours, seventeen minutes, and five seconds ago," he told her.
She pulled back to look into his eyes. She felt alarmingly light-headed. "Last real cigarette?"
"Last night I had just a couple of drags of—"
"Oh, Preston, that's cheating. Just because you don't have the whole thing doesn't make it less real. If you quit, you quit. No cheating," she admonished him. She gave him a long look. "You seem to be doing okay, cheating aside."
"It's killing me," Pres admitted. "I'm in serious agony."
"Don't be in agony on my account," Molly said. "Have a cigarette."
"No." He leaned forward, once again capturing her lips with his.
Molly felt herself melt as his tongue lazily explored her mouth. But just as quickly as he began kissing her, he pulled back. "The only time I'm not dying for a cigarette is when you kiss me," he whispered. "And that's because when you kiss me, I'm too busy dying for you even to think about smoking."
He lowered his head for another kiss, and Molly couldn't resist. She knew that his soft words were just that—soft words. But combined with his intoxicating kisses, they made her breathless and hopelessly off balance.
He kissed her harder now, deeper, longer, with an explosion of incendiary passion that made her cling to him. They'd long since given up all pretense of dancing. The other couples on the hardwood floor flowed around them as Pres kissed her again and again.
She was doing this for the photographers, she tried to convince herself. If it weren't for the fact that she and Pres had to make the photographers believe they were truly engaged to be married and deeply in love, she would never kiss anyone this way. Not in public.
"Molly, come back to my suite with me." Pres's voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged. He rested his forehead against hers. "Please?"
He'd asked her to his suite here at the resort. It was probably exactly like the room where Zander was hanging out, watching videotapes with Pres's friend Dominic. It was elegant, it was lavish, but it was impersonal and cold.
And the sad truth was, if Pres had asked her to his bungalow, if he'd invited her into the privacy of the place that was truly his home, she would have gone. If he'd given her just a little bit of himself, she would have given him her heart.
But he hadn't. He'd offered her nothing but the false closeness of physical intimacy.
Molly fought her disappointment. She should be grateful. She should be glad. She'd come dangerously close to getting in too deep with a man that she didn't even know—that she probably would never truly know.
"Come on, Molly," he pressured her softly. "Say yes. I swear you won't regret it."
Won't regret it? She already did.
"I can't, Pres," she whispered.
He gazed into her eyes, searching for something. Finally he nodded. And tried to smile. And began to dance with her again. "This doesn't mean I'm giving up, so don't get any ideas."
"We're nearly strangers," Molly said, feeling the need to explain. "You don't know even the most basic things about me. You don't know that I was an only child, that my mother died when I was in high school, that my dad still hasn't gotten over it. You don't know that my favorite color's blue, and that if provoked, I can eat an entire sleeve of Chips Ahoy in one afternoon." She paused, looking up at him. "And I don't know anything about you."
She hoped he would realize what she wanted from him—what she needed from him. Still, she knew it was a mistake to give him such strong hints. Not only did it go against everything she believed to play relationship guessing games, but she knew that she absolutely couldn't let herself fall for this man. She'd walked that road before. She couldn't take that kind of risk again.
"Okay," he said. "I was an only child too. My dad died about three years ago and Mom's remarried. My favorite colors are the colors of the beach—blue, green, and white. If provoked, I can smoke two packs of cigarettes a day."
Molly shook her head, trying to resist the urge to rest her head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the seductive sway of his body so close to hers.
"Not good enough," he guessed, loosening his hold on her just enough so that every time he moved, his thighs brushed hers. "So what else do you want to know?"
Her mouth was dry. It wasn't too late to change her mind and tell him yes, she'd go back to his suite with him. The look in his eyes told her he was hoping that she would.
She cleared her throat. "Everything. Anything. Tell me something that you've never told anyone else. Tell me one of your darkest, most horrible secrets."
Pres smiled at her, and she couldn't look away from the ocean-green swirl of his eyes. "I don't have any horrible secrets."
"Then why won't you talk to the reporters about Merrilee Fender?"
Something changed in his face. There was a flash of pain in his eyes that he quickly smiled to cover up. "Good point," he said, but he didn't explain.
Molly couldn't hold it in. "Oh my God, you still love her."
His laughter was half-incredulous, half-exasperated. "Don't be absurd."
"There's nothing absurd about it. She's beautiful and—"
"I don't still love her. The truth is, I never did."
Molly stared at him. There was obviously much more to this than he'd let on. And he was just as obviously not going to say anything more.
"Why are we talking about my ex-wife?" he asked. "Can we please stop talking about my ex-wife?"
Molly looked away, wondering why he had married a woman he didn't love. But she wanted him to tell her about it because he wanted to, not because she asked. "I'm sorry."
Pres lifted her chin. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I didn't mean to sound so ... Can we just forget about Merrilee tonight?"
Molly nodded and smiled, but her blue eyes were so subdued. "Maybe we should order our dinner now," she said quietly,
As they walked back to the table Pres kept his hand lightly and possessively on her back. But it was all just part of the act. He knew damn well that despite the ring she wore on her finger, he didn't possess Molly Cassidy in any way, shape, or form. And as much as he wanted to make love to her, he also knew it wasn't going to happen tonight.
It might've happened. There was a moment on the dance floor when he'd kissed her and was sure he was heading straight for heaven. But then something had gone wrong.
Pres replayed their conversation over and over in his head, searching for something he might've said to offend, something he might've done. . . . Or maybe it was something that he didn 't say. . . . But what?
As he held Molly's chair and sat down next to h
er at their table, as Zig came right over, dancing immediate attendance upon them, Pres realized that there was only one thing of which he was positive. And that was that he didn't have a clue.
Dr. Marsh Devlin, the island's sole physician, was clearly confused. "So you're not here to have a blood test for your marriage license. . . ,"
"Because the engagement's just a sham," Pres finished for him.
Marsh crossed his arms and sat on the edge of his desk. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said in his crisp English accent. "Molly Cassidy is a delightful woman. When I heard that you two were engaged, I thought . . ." He looked down at his own shining new gold wedding band on his left hand and smiled.
Pres lowered himself into one of the chairs across from Marsh's desk, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You thought what?"
"It's odd, actually," Marsh said, still staring at his ring. "This marriage thing. I can't explain it medically, but when you get married, something happens to your brain, and you get . . . well, slightly stupid, I think. You say 'I do,' and then you instantly want everyone else around you to say it, too, regardless of their situation. I mean, I'm sitting here thinking you're a fool for not actually going ahead and marrying this woman, when in reality I'm the fool. You surely have your reasons for doing what you're doing, right?"
Pres nodded, unable to hide a smile.
"And therefore I shouldn't feel bad or sorry for you because you're not going to do exactly what I did. And in fact, you can't do exactly what I did, because what I did was marry Leila, and I'd be damned upset if you attempted to do the same."
"How is Leila?"
Marsh smiled, his lean face relaxing. "Fabulous, thanks. Amazingly wonderful. Exquisitely excellent. You're sure you don't want a blood test?"
Pres laughed. "No thanks. Molly and I really are just pretending to be engaged. The whole thing started out as a little lie I told during a press conference. I didn't want to be Fantasy Man's Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, so I fibbed and told the news teams that I was going to get married. But someone had a picture of me with Molly, and one thing led to another. They didn't believe me when I told them I made it all up, so now we're seeing if the media attention will die down if we give them what they want. What we're really trying to do is keep those vultures away from Molly's son."
"I heard about what happened over at the church."
"Zander starts school tomorrow," Pres told the doctor. "I've issued invitations for our official engagement party to all those Peeping Tom-type shows that try to pass themselves off as news, like American Lifestyles. The party's on Wednesday night, up at the resort, eight o'clock—tell Leila and consider yourself invited."
"I will, thanks." Marsh shifted his weight, pushing himself more fully up onto his desk. "So let's get this straight: You're having a party to officially announce an engagement that's not really real?"
"I know, it's crazy. But I can't think of anything else to do. The main thing is that we've let these camera crews know that their attendance at this event depends on their leaving Zander alone—you know, not harassing him at school. If we get word that Zander's being followed or bothered in any way, they get scratched from the guest list."
"I hope it works."
Pres nodded. He did too.
"So if not a blood test, what are you here for?" Marsh asked.
"Information."
"Something to do with one of your scuba-diving projects?"
Pres shook his head. "No. I want to talk to you about Zander Cassidy."
Marsh stood up and crossed to the other side of his desk. "Pres, the boy's a patient. Without his mother's permission I can't discuss—"
"I'm not asking you to break any rules," Pres told him. "I know the kid has some kind of degenerative hearing loss. That's not a secret. I just want you to help me understand what that means, and what can be done to correct the situation."
Marsh sat down behind his desk. "If you have questions, I'm sure Molly could answer them—probably even better than I. Audiology is not my specialty, and she's done quite a bit of research—"
"It's kind of an emotional issue, and the fact is, Molly's not a doctor." Pres leaned forward. "Come on, Marsh. Tell me what this kid's prognosis is and what the options are for changing it. I care about these people. I want to know what I can do to help."
Marsh folded his hands on his desk and levelly met Pres's gaze. "Alexander Cassidy is progressing toward total deafness. His condition is genetic and irreversible, Pres. I'm sorry. There's no magic operation, no miracle cure."
Pres stood up. "I can't accept that." He began to pace. "There must be something. Some alternative treatment, some recent technological advance—"
"There's nothing," Marsh said gently. "Do you think Molly hasn't searched for some way to preserve her son's hearing?"
"Molly doesn't have the resources or the money—"
"Molly has far more than resources and money. She has her love for her child."
"All the love in the world couldn't help her if there were some million-dollar operation Zander needed—"
"And all the million dollars in the world can't help restore Zander's hearing," Marsh told him. "Pres, I know you don't believe me, but your money can't buy what this little boy needs."
Silence. Pres could hear the sound of his watch as the second hand swept around the dial. "I want to help them," he said again. "Can you give me the names of specialists I can call?"
Marsh gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. I'll have Helen fax some names and phone numbers to your office in the morning."
Pres reached across the desk to shake the doctor's hand. "Thanks for seeing me on a Sunday."
Marsh smiled sadly. "I wish it had been for a blood test."
ELEVEN
"So we're diving a wall at about sixty feet," Pres told Zander as they sat on the edge of the pool. "We're right where we're supposed to be, but Simon, this is his first time at this depth, and he's still pretty much a virgin diver, he suddenly panics and instead of taking air in to his BC to keep himself neutral, he lets it out. Just like that, he goes into free fall, and drops like a stone. I can see him, and I know that he's still panicking, so I go after him. We both go down too far, too fast, about another sixty feet, and I'm not happy about that, but I grab him and adjust his BC and finally get us both neutral again. He's really freaked out, breathing too fast—really sucking the air out of his tank and—"
Pres stopped talking, suddenly aware that Molly was standing beside them. He looked up at her. "Hi."
"And you do this for fun?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Absolutely."
"Did this Simon have fun?"
"Eventually."
"So what'dya do?" Zander asked, eager for the end of the story. "What happened next?"
Molly shifted impatiently. "When you guys are done telling horror stories, you need to do your homework," she said, pointing to Zander, "and you . . ." She looked down at Pres. "I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."
She turned to go back to the house, but Pres stopped her by reaching out and grasping her ankle. "Hey, how's the work on the roof coming?"
She gently pulled herself free, shading her eyes and looking up at the house. "It's noisy," she admitted, "but hopefully it won't take too much longer. At least not more than a week."
"How about you and me take a walk on the beach," Pres suggested. "Get away from the noise for a while?"
Molly smiled ruefully. "I suppose after three days it's time to give the world another photo opportunity, huh? Lord, I'll be glad after tonight, when this is all over."
"Hey, Mom," Zander said, splashing his feet in the cool water of the pool. "I was thinking. . . . You know this make-believe game you and Pres are playing, pretending to want to get married and everything, with this big party tonight?"
Molly nodded, waiting for her son to go on, hoping he wasn't going in the direction she feared he was going.
"Well, I was thinking, why don't you just
get married for real?"
He went. Straight where she'd hoped he wouldn't go.
Zander turned to look at Pres. "You like us, don't you, Pres? And we like you. . . ."
Molly intercepted, tapping Zander's shoulder so that he would look up at her and correctly follow her words. "Of course Pres likes us, but Z, people just don't go and marry everyone that they like. It's much more serious and complicated than that."
"Why?" Zander asked.
Pres tapped the boy on the leg, and he turned to face him.
"Because when people get married," Pres said, "they should go into that relationship really believing that this is the one person they want to spend the rest of their life with. And the rest of your life can be an awfully long time if you don't pick the right person."
Sunrise Key 3 - Otherwise Engaged Page 11