A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT

by Bronwyn Jameson

  Heart racing, she tapped on the office door, then pushed it open a crack. Mitch – her future husband, she thought, this time with a warm flutter of pleasure – sat in the big office chair with his back to the door, and he held up a hand in a be-with-you-in-a-tick gesture. The warm flutter stilled and cooled. Apparently, this was another morning at work, same as any other, no big deal.

  Okay, Emily Jane, you can do this, too. A marriage without emotional upheaval, featuring her good, practical, even-tempered self. A pleasant smile, a nice good-morning, grab your clothes, get out of here.

  Her clothes sat in a neatish pile on the spare chair – Mitch must have gathered them up, although she couldn't quite put that picture together. The scene from last night, however, loomed large and detailed in her mind's eye. Her sweater atop the computer monitor, her panties and skirt pooled on the floor where they'd dropped, and her bra … she didn't even recall losing.

  Warmth flushed her cheeks as she pushed up the dangling sleeves of her borrowed sweater and crossed to the chair. "I won't disturb you," she began with a crispness she in no way resembled. "Seeing as you're working. I'll just grab my things and leave you be."

  But when she bent to pick them up, heat tingled up her spine. She straightened to find Mitch had turned his chair enough to watch. By the angle of his head and that telling tingle, she knew exactly what he'd been watching.

  The idea was so much more appealing than his no-greeting greeting, that a big smile spread across her face. "Sorry if I'm interrupting."

  "I wasn't working," he said evenly.

  Good. Excellent, in fact. Ridiculously pleased, she hugged her clothes to her chest. "Me, neither, and it's after nine. You should have woken me."

  "I thought about it … but I had things to do."

  Emily recalled the last time he'd used that things-to-do phrase, just before he hung up on Julia last night. Predictably she turned a little jelly-kneed. Then she wondered if he'd thought about waking her as he'd done in the middle of the night, after they'd slept with their bodies spooned in cozy harmony. With his big hands stroking her breasts and his teeth grazing her ear and his—

  "I called my in-laws' lawyer," he said, shattering her sensual reverie.

  "The Blaineys?" she asked stupidly. Well, of course the Blaineys. Did he have any other in-laws, current or ex?

  "I made an appointment for next Tuesday afternoon, late. In Sydney."

  "Will Randall and Janet be there?" With exaggerated care, she sat down in the chair. "Have you spoken to them?"

  "Not personally but their lawyer will. It's their choice, but this meeting isn't about visitation, so who knows?" He shrugged tightly.

  "Are you taking Joshua, then?"

  "No. He can stay with my parents while we're gone." He swung back to his computer, suddenly all business. "I thought it a good opportunity, since I'm going to Sydney, to find a convenient registry office and get the marriage paperwork under way. You have a birth certificate?"

  She opened her mouth, closed it again, shook her head.

  Mitch frowned. "Are you all right?"

  "It's just … my head's still spinning from last night, and now you're asking me about registry offices and birth certificates?" She lifted her hands and let them drop, unsure what bothered her most. His cool, remote tone, yes. The unsettling speed, yes. Was he afraid she may still run away? Or did he just want to get it over with so he could resume normal programming?

  "There's a thirty-day notice requirement," he said. "It requires both our signatures and the celebrant's so we need to decide where we're getting married before we can lodge it."

  "Decide where…?" Laughter, inappropriate and borderline hysterical, bubbled up inside, but one glance at her husband-to-be's darkening frown killed the impulse. "I've barely decided that I am getting married. I haven't spent a whole lot of time thinking about where."

  "A registry office is the best bet. We should be able to get an appointment for as soon as the thirty days are up."

  Emily knew better than to wish for a romantic ceremony with all the traditional trappings, but an appointment sounded so cold and clinical. So unemotional … just like the marriage Mitch wanted. Despite the bundle of clothing hugged against her chest, she couldn't prevent a chill from crawling over her skin. She sucked in a ragged breath, let it out on a shaky laugh. "Is there a need for such a rush? I need to think about this registry office thing."

  "You want a church wedding?"

  "No, I just…" Her voice trailed off as she looked up into his face. "I was only thinking that local might be nicer than Sydney."

  "So every man and his dog can line up outside to stare at you, to wonder why you've gotten married so fast? Is that what you want?"

  "That wouldn't bother me," she said candidly.

  When the day came, she would notice one thing only – this man she was marrying. Everything else would fade into the background as long as he stood waiting to take her hand, to have and to hold and never let go. And as quickly as that thought tiptoed across her mind, the imagery snapped into focus like a page from her wedding album.

  She could smell the rosebud buttonhole in his suit jacket; she could see the smattering of dark hair on the back of the hand that reached to take hers; she could feel her throat clog with choking, sentimental tears.

  Unfortunately the last wasn't only in her mind's eyes, and she jumped to her feet, casting around for a valid excuse to get the blazes out of there before she succumbed to her emotions. "I'll think about it, okay? Right now I have to go collect Joshua. You said ten-thirty, right?"

  He stared back at her a moment, his expression scarily unreadable. Emily had to dig her bare toes into the carpet to stop herself fleeing. She knew – as sure as she stood here wearing nothing but a man's sweater – she would hate whatever he was about to say.

  "Why don't we both go," he suggested in a tone that wasn't a suggestion at all. "We can go into Cliffton first and look at some rings."

  Rings? As in engagement rings? As in symbols of the unbroken circle of love?

  Emily didn't realize that her body had gone slack in shocked response, until the clothes she'd clutched so tightly fell to the floor. For a moment she stared at them stupidly, her skirt and sweater and underclothes spread out in stark counterpoint against the muted beige carpet, and then she ducked down to pick them up.

  Apparently Mitch had the same idea, because they ended up at opposite ends of her bra in a gentle tug-of-war. She let go and slumped back onto her haunches.

  "Don't you want a ring?" he asked.

  Confused, unsure, Emily shook her head. She didn't know what she wanted except for all this to be … different. Meaningful. "I think that's something else I need to think about," she said quietly.

  For a second he said nothing, but she felt him watching her, probably trying to work out what had happened to that practical, emotionally even creature he thought her to be.

  "I'd like you to wear my ring," he said finally, and her gaze leaped to his. "So please do think about it."

  "I will."

  "And in the meantime—" his eyes, she noticed, were no longer cool, no longer intent on the business of this deal "—I notice you're wearing my sweater."

  Emily swallowed. "You don't like it on me?"

  "I'd prefer it off you." Heat arced between them. "Come over here."

  Emily knew that succumbing to the heat and the desire would not resolve anything. She even suspected he might use the moment to twist her arm about rings and registry offices. But as she inched across the carpet toward him, as she rested her hands on his knees and used the purchase to pull herself into his arms, she told herself it didn't matter.

  She was marrying the man she loved, he was offering her the family she craved, so did it really matter how or where they said their vows?

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  "Is the ring not comfortable?" Mitch gestured toward Emily's hand and the solitaire diamond she'd been twisting
and turning on her finger ever since he put it there an hour earlier.

  "It just feels a little strange," she murmured, but he noticed how her lips softened as she looked down at her hand, moving her fingers slightly so the stone caught the afternoon sunlight. "But it's beautiful."

  "Suits you," he replied automatically, taking her arm to cross the street. "Almost as much as that forget-me-not underwear."

  The compliment and/ or teasing brought color to Emily's cheeks, but she didn't comment. She'd been quiet all afternoon – no, longer. Ever since they left Plenty for the city earlier that morning.

  "So, you're glad I persuaded you to get a ring?" he persisted, keeping hold of her arm when she tried to reclaim it at the other side of the street. He leaned down closer to her ear. "Or did you at least enjoy my means of persuasion?"

  Predictably her blush deepened and – even more predictably – Mitch's body reacted. For the past ten days since she'd said 'yes', he'd applied many and various means of persuasion, and now here they were in Sydney, with a ring on her finger, a registry office earmarked and a date penciled in. All they needed was one last piece of paperwork, and by the end of the day that, too, would be settled. He hunched his shoulders against a sudden chill in his flesh. Five hours and it would all be over. Finished. Done.

  A group of tourists spilled out of a hotel into their path, and Mitch tucked Emily closer to his side as he guided her around their perimeter. Her body bumped against his with every step, warm and giving and … tense? He glanced down, saw her flicking at the ring with her thumbnail.

  "If it's not the ring," he began, frowning at the nervous gesture, "is it the registry office? Didn't you like it?"

  "No, it was fine. Nicer than I thought, with the pews and flowers and everything. It's … it's stupid." She made a small, dismissive sound. "Prewedding jitters, I suppose."

  If she meant those dark-of-night, gut-twisting attacks of self-doubt – Why am I doing this? How can I make her happy? What will I do if she leaves me, too? – then he understood. "It'll be okay once we get these formalities over with."

  "I guess." But she didn't sound very convinced, and Mitch wondered if the speed things were moving had spooked her. Dinner tonight, somewhere classy, he decided as he ushered her down the side street toward where he'd parked the SUV. Her SUV, that she'd only driven around the countryside. Perhaps she needed a distraction from whatever troubled her. At least with two hands on the wheel she'd be forced to stop worrying her ring to death.

  "How about you drive?" he asked, fishing for the keys. "There won't be too much traffic this time of day."

  "I'd rather not."

  "I'd rather you did." He released her arm, but only so he could press the keys into her hand. He closed her stiff fingers around them. "You said you wanted to try."

  With her head bowed, he couldn't see her face, but he could feel the tension in her fingers. "Yes, I do, absolutely, but this isn't the best time."

  "Good a time as any." He released her hand and stepped back. "Come on, Emily, stop thinking about it and just do it. Open the door and get in the seat. Once you start, you'll be fine."

  "It's not the driving, Mitch." She blew out a breath that sounded a little shaky around the edges, and the keys jingled a nervous, metallic dance as she shifted them from one hand to the other. "It's not going very well, this getting married business, is it?"

  "Hey." He cupped her face in his palm, brushed his thumb across her cheekbone. "This getting married business is almost done."

  When she opened her mouth to respond, her lips trembled, and Mitch's breath backed up in his lungs. Damn, he hated these tremory spells. Hated his feeling of helplessness even as he shushed her second attempt to speak and drew her against his chest, not tightly, but in a loose-armed grip that gave her space to move. Space to retreat if she didn't want his embrace. Lately the only place he knew what she wanted was in his bed, and that thought didn't thrill him half as much as it ought. He wanted … hell, all he wanted was for this strange new state of their relationship to settle, to establish a pattern where he knew what to expect.

  A gust of wind swirled down the street, stirring Emily's loose hair so it whipped across his throat and teased his jaw and chin. That fleeting touch combined with the scent of her shampoo to set up a warm ache in his chest, right where her head lay against his leather jacket. Then her hands shifted, sliding under his jacket to rest on his waist, one flat and warming all the way through his shirt, one fisted to hold the car keys.

  It was the simplest touch, not teasing or suggestive, but natural and … trusting. The ache in his chest tightened, then it shifted and swelled like a wave, knocking his feet out from under him. Not what he wanted, this terrifying wash of response to what should have been an uncomplicated embrace. Not what he'd envisaged, when he'd asked her to be his wife.

  Tension stiffened his posture in a reflexive reaction, and her head lifted a little. Enough that he could rest his hands on her shoulders and exert sufficient pressure to peel her all the way clear of his body. Good. Great. Now he could breathe again. He wasn't missing that soft, warm pressure at all.

  "Better now?" he asked.

  "Yes and no." Her hands fidgeted with the same ambivalence as her answer, juggling the keys, ducking into her jacket pockets and out again, almost as if she didn't know what to do with them now that they weren't on him.

  "The answer's obviously no." And he took those restless hands in his, steadying them. "You think we should talk about whatever it is that's bothering you?"

  "I'm afraid if I start talking I'll never stop, and that is so not what you want."

  Dread settled heavy in Mitch's gut, but he had to ask, "Why is that?"

  "You seem to think I'm this practical and even-tempered person, and I have no idea why." She blew out an exasperated breath. "I just feel like this giant emotion-filled balloon, and every day something expands it a bit more. Every other minute I think I'm going to explode."

  "How about you let it go one puff at a time." Mitch squeezed her hands. "Come on, Emily, one thing."

  For a second she resisted, shaking her head and trying to pull her hands free. But then she sucked in an audible breath and said, "So, okay, I'm not so happy about the registry office."

  "You said it was fine."

  "And so it is. I'm sure it's finer than most registry offices, but—"

  "You don't want to get married there." Mitch let go of her hands so he could put his own on his hips. He shook his head. "Why didn't you just say so?"

  "Because I was trying to make it easier on you," she fired back. "I know your first wedding was a big, church affair and I didn't want to remind you of it."

  "It's not something I'm likely to forget."

  "I know that." She shook her head, almost sadly, regretfully. "And I wish that didn't bother me as much as it does, but I know you'll never let go of Annabelle's memory."

  "I can't change my history," he said stiffly, although God knows he wished he could. "I have a failed marriage and I won't ever forget that."

  "And you think that's your fault, don't you? You blame yourself for her leaving, for deserting Joshua, when the decision was hers." Eyes narrowed and brimful of passion, she leaned closer, and her voice dropped to a new, low intensity. "Nothing you could have done would have changed her mind, Mitch. You can't hold yourself responsible for the choices she made."

  "Maybe I don't," he said softly, although he knew her parents held him responsible and that's why they'd kept their distance. Why they chose to contact him through a law office. He reached out and plucked the car keys from her hand. "But that's not something I'm going to debate with you on a city street."

  "Is it something you'll ever debate?" she asked, not giving an inch.

  "What are you asking, Emily?" Hands on hips he glared down at her. "If you expect me to forget about my first marriage, you're asking too much."

  She eyed him narrowly a moment longer, and something shifted in her eyes, like a new understanding or a d
ecision made, before she nodded slowly. "I can see that."

  "Good," he said while all kinds of not-good alarms sounded in his head. "Now you've got that out, I'll take you home."

  * * *

  Home would have been lovely, Emily thought an hour later. Anywhere would have been preferable to the chic, beachside apartment he had shared with Annabelle, but that's where he took her and that's where he left her while he went to meet with the Blainey's lawyer. From the bathroom window she watched him climb into a taxi – easier, he'd said, than parking in the city – and her spirits bottomed right out.

  She had thought it couldn't get much worse than that silent ride through the suburbs, until she walked into this place with Annabelle's touches in every room, on every wall, in the very air she breathed. Had she really thought he would forget his first wife so easily? Had she actually believed that the magic she'd felt in his arms and his bed was mutual?

  Apparently she had, unless the acute ache in her chest was due to something other than the splintered pieces of her heart. She couldn't marry him, not even for the security of his home or to belong in his fabulous family – without his love, that would be meaningless. And as for a baby…

  Emily swung away from the window. There was no baby, she'd discovered this morning, so why torture herself with that particular question? She should be glad, pleased that she'd arrived at this painful decision while she still had choices – while she could still walk away.

  Walk away? She shook her head ruefully as she wandered into the kitchen. Where could she walk to? Practically speaking, she was holed up here in this hated apartment, a prisoner of her own weaknesses. Why hadn't she told him she wouldn't stay here? Why hadn't she stamped her foot and demanded to go home, back to Korringal? That's what his beloved Annabelle would have done.

  But no, Emily Warner did not do tantrums. She conceded and she allowed herself to be persuaded and she held her simmering emotions in check because she wanted love so desperately. So here she stood, alone and fraught and on the brink of screaming.