"But she doesn't deserve a user," Sunny insisted. "And that's what this guy sounds like."
Amanda turned on Sunny. "Aren't you the one who's so eager to get married? Who's so gung ho about this whole Wedding Ring? I figured you'd be insisting Charli stick it out for the full three months, like you did with Raven."
"I just hate seeing Charli hurt. Rejected. I know what that feels like."
Charli knew Sunny was referring to her one serious relationship, way back in high school. After graduation, Kirk Larsen had gone to Stanford University in California, and Sunny had taken her waitressing job at Wafflemania. She hadn't seen him since. They'd heard that Kirk had become a physics professor.
Sunny had dated during the past twelve years, but her friends knew that she'd never felt the same way about anyone else. Charli suspected she was looking for Kirk in every man she went out with.
"Charli." Raven looked her in the eye. "Is Grant what you really want? Because I have to tell you, it doesn't sound promising."
"Yes." Charli raised her chin, practically daring anyone to take exception. "I want Grant. He's the man I married and he's the man I love."
After a thick silence, Hunter said, "I told you before, Carlotta, and I meant it. Whoever you end up with is going to be a very lucky man."
He'd told her that last month, when he'd married Raven. At the time, she'd thought he was just trying to be nice to his bride's pathetically unmarriageable friend. Now she believed him when he said he meant it.
"And if Grant doesn't straighten out," Sunny said, "we'll just find you someone else."
"My grandma said… This is kind of embarrassing," Charli murmured. "She said I should ask you guys for advice."
Amanda said, "Isn't that what we've been giving you?"
"No, I mean advice about … learning to employ my feminine wiles."
All eyes turned toward Hunter. "What?" he asked. "You want me to leave now, just when things are getting juicy?"
"No," Amanda said. "You're the one who's going to tell her how to make things juicier."
He looked from her face to his wife's to Sunny's. "Oh, now, wait a minute. What do I know about feminine wiles?"
"You're a man," Amanda said. "You know what works."
"Actually," Charli told Amanda, "Nonni said you were the expert on men."
Amanda perked up. "Your grandma said that?"
"Right before she grumbled something in Italian about your two divorces. Anyway, I know I'm a little rusty in this area, but I was starting to get the hang of it Wednesday night. I just need a few pointers."
Raven turned to her husband. "Hunter?"
He sighed and signaled the waitress. "If I'm going to do this, I'll need another drink."
* * *
Chapter 11
«^»
"Mind a little competition?"
Grant looked up from the pool table to see Charli leaning in the doorway of his sprawling basement game room, which was filled with pinball machines, table hockey, table football and a jukebox—all the entertainments that other kids, kids from normal, middle-class homes, had taken for granted while growing up. Tonight he'd switched on only the large, modern chandelier hanging over the pool table, isolating it in a circle of light.
Charli hadn't changed clothes; she still had on the outfit she'd worn to dinner. Her sleeveless V-neck top was made of some dingy material in pale, opalescent pink, like the inside of a seashell. It seemed to change color with every breath. She'd paired it with a trim, plum-colored skirt short enough to expose an enticing amount of thigh. She was now barefoot, he noticed, her legs bare. She'd shed the sheer black stockings and high-heeled sandals.
Charli had gotten her hair restyled a couple of days earlier. It was just as long in back, but the front had been cut into wispy bangs that curved to softly frame her face. It was a more sophisticated, flattering style. Tonight she'd managed to coax a bit of wave out of the straight strands, so her hair had body and movement where normally it just kind of hung there. She'd also applied some makeup, with more proficiency than he'd thought her capable of—just enough to give her eyes a sultry cast, her lips a sensual pout.
They'd gone out to dinner with Mark Mahon, a partner at Grant's firm, and Mark's wife, Julie. When the four of them had entered the elegant French restaurant, heads had turned. Grant noticed male patrons subtly checking out Charli. Walking behind her, he was hard-pressed himself not to stare at her smooth, honey-colored shoulders, the subtle sway of her hips under the formfitting skirt, and especially her legs—good God, those surprisingly shapely legs, made all the more so by her high heels.
This is Charli! he'd wanted to yell, as he held her chair and intercepted yet another appreciative male glance. Charli Rossi Sterling doesn't look like this! Not really. If she did, he wouldn't have married her.
Dinner with the Mahons had been a chore, distracted as Grant bad been by his wife's abrupt transformation into a babe. For her part, she'd comported herself admirably, conversing intelligently about current events while carefully avoiding controversial issues, laughing delightedly at Mark's lame jokes, complimenting Julie on her ugly dress and exercising impeccable table etiquette.
The Mahons had already been invited to the dinner party Grant and Charli had planned for next Saturday. Grant viewed the event as a sort of "coming out" for his bride, marking his official transformation, in the eyes of the partners, from hell-raising bachelor to stable married man. He tried not to think about how much was riding on the party. Julie asked Charli who she'd gotten to cater it.
"Oh, I'm cooking everything myself."
"For a dozen people?" Julie's overplucked eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"How did you persuade a gem like this to marry you?" Mark ragged Grant. "Beauty, brains, and she's talented in the kitchen."
"Don't say that until you've tasted my cooking," Charli said, with a becoming blush.
"Charli's modest," Grant said. "She's an incredible cook. But her talent isn't restricted to the kitchen. You should attend one of her concerts at Courtland Hight, watch her conduct her students. Those kids are amazing. How many do you have in the symphonic band, sweetheart?"
"Ninety-eight," Charli answered, regarding him with quiet intensity. His use of the endearment "sweetheart" had surprised him as much as it had her; it had just popped out. He hoped she didn't think it was a calculated ploy on his part to cast the two of them as typical lovey-dovey newlyweds. Or perhaps what had surprised her was hearing him brag about her competence as a teacher and conductor.
"The band had its spring concert last night," Grant said. "They performed this one piece that knocked my socks off. It was from the movie Saving Private Ryan. The band played while the concert choir sang—no lyrics, just these wonderful harmonized tones. Meanwhile they dimmed the lights and projected war-related photos on a screen."
"Sounds kind of depressing," Julie said.
"No, it was magnificent. Powerful." Grant felt a chill just remembering it. "I can state categorically that that was the first time I've ever gotten misty-eyed listening to a high school band."
Everyone laughed, and Mark teased, "Could it have been the lovely conductor who so moved you?"
Grant's only complaint about that piece was that the dim lighting obscured his view of his wife. Never before had he seen her in her formal concert attire, a tailored black tuxedo with a white pleated shirt. He knew it wasn't intended to make her look sexy, but damn if it didn't give him additional fuel for the fantasies that kept him awake half the night.
During the cake-and-coffee reception in the school's cafeteria afterward, he'd been proud to be introduced as Mrs. Sterling's new husband. The kids obviously had tremendous respect for Charli. He sensed she was tough but fair. She expected a lot out of her musically gifted students, and according to her, they rarely disappointed her.
The rest of the dinner with the Mahons had been uneventful. It was clear that Mark had been favorably impressed by Charli. He'd even taken Grant aside late
r to congratulate him on having made such a promising match.
Grant had secluded himself in his game room as soon as they'd returned home, hoping Charli would go straight to bed. Instead here she was, moving closer in his peripheral vision as he set up his shot. The cue tip skidded off the cue ball, which rebounded off the rail and rolled well clear of the six ball, its intended target.
"Maybe I should make a bet." Charli sat next to him on the edge of the pool table. "Doesn't look like you're too sharp tonight."
She was close enough to touch. Against his will, he breathed deeply of her familiar scent, light, soapy and thoroughly feminine. Ten days had passed since that incident in Charli's bedroom when he'd come close to losing control and sabotaging his well-laid plans. Since then, he'd scrupulously avoided a repeat performance.
It hadn't been easy. Now that he was aware of her innate sensuality, it almost seemed as if she was teasing him at every turn, although he knew that was just his sex-starved imagination working overtime.
Charli had taken to wearing only a towel, tucked low on her bosom, when sauntering from the hallway bathroom to her room after her morning shower. He supposed if he could remember to keep his own bedroom door closed, he wouldn't be distracted by the sight of her half-naked and damp, with water droplets trailing from her wet hair into her bounteous cleavage, while he held his breath waiting for the towel to succumb to the strain and pop off with her next inhalation. Clearly she was unaware of being observed from behind his half-opened door, making him feel like a voyeur.
Likewise, she'd started coming to the kitchen for breakfast and nighttime snacks wearing only those flimsy little pajamas or, worse yet, a very short nightgown under which she wore absolutely nothing. This was not guesswork on Grant's part. His powers of observation had gotten a strenuous workout during the past week or so.
That very morning Charli had stood in the breakfast nook spooning up a bowl of shredded wheat, backlit by the early morning sunlight streaming through both the bay window and her white cotton nightie. Transfixed by the sight, Grant had dribbled orange juice down his best power tie.
On one level, he was pleased that Charli no longer felt the need to bundle up in her thick, high-necked bathrobe the way she had at first. It meant she'd begun to feel comfortable and relaxed in her new home. Unfortunately, what made his wife comfortable made Grant decidedly uncomfortable.
The worst, thought, had been Monday evening, when she'd insisted on giving him a haircut, assuring him that she'd been trimming her parents' hair since she was a teenager. She'd produced her barber tools, planted him in a kitchen chair and draped him with a black nylon cape. She'd taken her time, painstakingly combing and snipping, running her cool fingers through the strands, gently blowing stray hairs off his neck, inadvertently brushing up against him. Thank God for the concealing cape, or she'd have witnessed the effect all this intimate attention had had on him.
Grant had called Jayne Benning last Thursday, as he'd promised himself he would. He'd arranged to meet her after work for cocktails in the bar of one of Manhattan's small boutique hotels, off the beaten path. There he'd bought Jayne her usual vodka gimlet and tossed back two stiff bourbons while trying to mentally psych himself up for the elevator ride upstairs to the room he'd already reserved.
In the end the room had gone unused. He'd shared with Jayne the news of his recent marriage, told her how great it was to see her again, given her a brisk peck on the cheek and hailed the bewildered woman a taxi.
Grant could no longer blame his dormant sex life on wedding preparations or long hours at the firm or any of the other excuses he'd concocted during the past few weeks. He was forced to acknowledge his increasing distaste for the idea of cheating on his wife.
But it's not cheating! the rational part of him argued. He and Charli both knew what kind of marriage they had. He should feel no hesitation about pursuing outside relationships.
Neither should she, the nagging voice continued, leaving him half convinced that if he refrained from exercising his right to make whoopee, so might Charli. Didn't make any sense, but he couldn't help that.
Grant stepped away from Charli and moved around the table, closer to the cue ball. He struggled to concentrate on his next shot.
She asked, "Did I do something wrong at dinner?"
He looked up. "No. What makes you say that?"
"You've been kind of quiet ever since we left the restaurant."
"You were fine at dinner, Charli. Terrific, actually."
"It was sweet of you to say those nice things about me and my students and all."
"I meant them. You know that. And to be honest, it kind of irked me that we'd been talking with the Mahons for, what, about an hour at that point, and neither of them had asked you anything about your job."
She shrugged. "I sort of expected that."
"It was rude. It was almost like they saw you as nothing more than an extension of me."
He half expected her to say, Well, aren't I? After all, he'd made it excruciatingly clear from the beginning that their marriage was about his career.
Instead she said, "That briefcase you gave me after the concert is, well, it's just gorgeous, but you shouldn't have."
"You always say that. I never met a woman who so disliked receiving gifts."
"I don't dislike them, Grant, they're just … not necessary. Not for every little occasion. Really, you spoil me."
At times like this, Grant wanted to shake Charli. Considering all that his wife was required to forgo in her marriage, why on earth should she do without what he could give her?
"This was a special concert for you," he said. "I could've given you a bouquet, but flowers die. And I knew you could use a new briefcase. That ratty old thing you were carrying around was about to split at the seams."
"Well, thank you again, but—"
"Don't say it. Anyway, as for tonight, you really were terrific with Mark and Julie. I was surprised."
"Were you?"
"Maybe surprised isn't the right word," he said, bridging the cue on his knuckles and sinking the six ball. "I have faith in you, Charli. I hope you realize that."
"Faith in my ability to help you make partner?"
He looked up at her then. Was that a trace of bitterness he heard?
She hopped off the table and selected a cue from the nearby wall rack. "Are you just fooling around here or would you care for a game of eight ball?"
He gestured in invitation. "I'm just sinking balls. Be my guest." Now that she was here, he couldn't exactly kick her out.
She circled the table, chalking her cue, staring at the dozen balls remaining on the table. "Because that's what this is all about, isn't it?" she asked. "You making partner."
Charli was across from him now, leaning over the table, taking aim with her cue. She seemed oblivious to the fact that the V neckline of her pink top gaped open, exposing lush breasts barely corralled by a silver lace-and-satin bra. Grant wasn't concerned about being caught staring. She was concentrating fixedly on the balls before her.
"I was just wondering," she said, sliding the cue back and forth in preparation for her shot. Back and forth again. Why had Grant never noticed how blatantly sexual that was? "If your making partner is the purpose of our marriage, what happens after you achieve that goal?" She hit the cue ball with a smart crack, sinking the eleven ball in the corner pocket. She looked up at him, awaiting an answer.
"My making partner isn't the sole purpose of our marriage."
"It isn't?"
"Not anymore. Although without question it was the, uh, instigating factor." He gave a wry smile. "Please don't tell me how lawyerly I sound."
"I wouldn't dream of it," she said dryly. "Does this mean our arrangement won't end once you become a partner?"
"Are you talking about divorce? Charli, I have no intention of divorcing you."
"What if you don't make partner?" Staring levelly at him, she added, "It could happen, married or not. You have to be prepared for
that."
"I know there are no guarantees," he said gruffly. "I'm just trying to give myself an edge."
"Well, what if all this doesn't work?" She spread her arms, indicating herself, the two of them. "I'm thinking I've got forty or fifty years of your resentment to look forward to, if that should happen."
"Why would I resent you?"
"Come on. You saddled yourself with an unwanted wife for one purpose only. Maybe the senior partners won't be so impressed by me. Maybe they'll see through the ploy. Maybe they just won't offer you a partnership and it'll have nothing to do with your marital status. But you'll still be stuck with me."
Grant had heard little after "unwanted wife." He gripped his cue so hard his knuckles were white. "I never said I didn't want you, Charli. Ours may not be a conventional marriage, we may not have those kinds of feelings for each other, but … I want you. I want you by my side."
"Even if you don't make partner."
He tried to smile. "Let's hope that doesn't become an issue."
Charli wasn't smiling. She waited for an answer.
"Even if I don't make partner," he said. The truth was, he'd gotten used to having Charli around. He couldn't imagine living alone again in this big house.
Grant examined the pool table and targeted the three ball. As he lined up the difficult shot, Charli said, "You never ask me to join you down here for pool or table football or anything anymore."
She had to know why. "We don't have to spend all our free time together."
After a moment she said, "Should I leave?"
His fingers tightened on the cue. "I didn't mean you aren't welcome down here, Charli. This is your home, too."
"I guess I don't really feel that way yet."
He made his shot, tapping the cue ball into the seven ball, watching it bump the three ball into the side pocket. He straightened. "It'll take time. You'll adjust."
"Will you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sometimes you seem a little … territorial," she said. "I can understand why. This place has been yours alone for four years. It can't be easy having someone else move in, disrupting things."
I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH Page 11