by Blake North
As I closed my eyes, the taste of her filling me and her soft body pressed on mine, I realized that this was a real kiss. My nerves were overloading, my heart aching.
I was starting to fall for Hayley Morris.
My contract-only wife.
I was subdued and quiet in the car on the way to the restaurant. She was too. I looked at her but her face was blank, and I wondered if I had offended her. She was pale and still, and I didn’t want to say anything to disrupt her thoughts.
Probably trying to recover from the publicity and all those cameras. This is hard for her.
I felt like a brute. She had confided in me her anxieties and I had disregarded them. Not that I could do anything else, mind you: the publicity was the main reason I had hired her and she knew that. I couldn’t do things differently.
I glanced at her, all pale and lovely in the gown, brown hair soft against her long neck.
I wished I could do things differently, just then. Very differently. That this was a proper date, and it was just the two of us, and we were heading home together for a private night in. But this was work, and I needed her to be seen with me, very publicly. It could quite literally be a matter of life or death. I shivered. This was not a matter for my feelings to get the better of me. This was serious and I should start acting like it.
CHAPTER NINE – HAYLEY
I just kissed Beckett Sand. I loved it.
I sat beside him in the car, mind whirling. My whole body shivered as if I had been plunged in a bath of ice, and yet I was not cold. I was catching fire, every inch of me filled with a delicious tingling, from my feet to the roots of my hair. I wanted him. I wanted to push that stunning body back onto the bed and like with him.
This is insane.
I glanced at him. He was looking out of the window, sitting quite formally as if I was the chief executive of a rival firm and we were discussing a merger. I sighed.
He probably doesn’t feel anything for me.
But yet…
But yet he had looked at me in the bedroom, when we were discussing the new dress. He had squeezed my hand and joked with me when I was scared. He looked at me so tenderly when we were drinking in the cafe. And then…
His lips on mine had been tender, gentle, probing. He might have been acting for the photographers, but it felt like a real kiss. It was a master-work. My whole body had turned to a melty mess under his tongue and I wished I could have kissed him endlessly.
I wish I knew what this was about, I thought sadly.
He had told me his company needed him to have stability; to look established and serious. I agreed that being married had these virtues. But was that really all there was to it? I thought there must be something more. The dress, the theater tickets, the accommodation…yes, he was rich. But surely he wouldn’t put such a huge outlay into just making himself look respectable.
“Hayley?”
“Yes?”
“You like Japanese food?”
“Sushi and that?” I asked. “Love it!”
He grinned. “Well, we can start with that. Personally, I always feel hungry after Japanese. So we might head off somewhere else after that.”
I smiled. “I sympathize. That sounds good.”
He chuckled. “We have a shared secret, then.”
“Yes.”
His green eyes sparkled. His hand was inches away from me and I wished, more than anything just then, that I could risk taking it in my own. Giving it a firm squeeze. We were conspirators. He was a friend.
We stopped at a stylish restaurant and I slid out, making a little swivel on the seat to stop my panties showing. I was glad my years on Broadway had taught me some useful things. He waited for me and we walked in together.
The restaurant proprietor led us to the best table, and we sat together, perusing the menu. I looked around, still lost in a haze of wonder. I dimly recognized some of the faces at the tables. Sure, I’d seen them on television sometime. I probably had.
“Hayley?”
“Mm?”
“Should we take the mixed platter? Always a good bet.”
“Yes!” I nodded enthusiastically. “It’s nice to share.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes,” he muttered.
I felt shy suddenly. I supposed I’d gone a bit far. We were only pretending, after all. Maybe he felt uncomfortable with that level of conversation.
“You liked the play?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” he said, grinning. “My neck froze in place halfway through the first half, and I kinda lost interest after that.”
I laughed loudly. I couldn’t help it. It was such a funny statement. “Oh, Beckett!”
He blushed. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. I was still laughing, though. “If I wasn’t very sure you weren’t one, I’d say you’re a Philistine.”
It was his turn to laugh. “How do you know I’m not?” he challenged.
“I’ve seen your garden. And your house. I know you’re not.”
He blushed. “Thank you,” he said.
He ordered our food and some tea and we sat silently, waiting for it to arrive.
“Hayley?”
“Yes?”
“You’re okay, right? The press and everything…it’s not, well, too demanding?”
I swallowed, feeling my throat tighten up with emotion. “Thank you for thinking of that,” I whispered. “But no. I’m okay.”
“Of course I thought of it,” he said, sounding surprised.
He actually cares, I thought, surprised.
We were both silent for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. The food arrived. I grinned and he eyed it suspiciously.
I had lifted my chopsticks, about to select a piece. He looked hesitant.
“I hate using those things,” he confessed. He was blushing when he said it, cheeks red. “I always make a fool of myself. I’ll use my fingers, if that’s okay?”
I laughed. “It’s not so hard. Let me show you.”
I reached over to his hand, guiding his fingers into the proper place. He had fingers thick with muscle, and touching their warm skin sent a flush of pleasure through me. I looked up at his eyes and he was looking at me, his own warm and watchful.
I gulped and took away my hand.
“You see?” I said, swallowing the rush of feeling that had gone through me. “It’s easy.”
He was still looking at me, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“I trust you,” he said, clicking them experimentally, “so if you say it’ll work, I’ll give it a try…”
He reached for a piece, managed to convey it to his mouth and took a bite. The other half slipped from the chopsticks and landed on his napkin in his lap.
I giggled. He swallowed and then burst out laughing, putting the chopsticks aside.
“Nope, I’m sorry, Hayley.” he was grinning, embarrassed. “I’ll resort to being rude.”
Having said that, he lifted a piece of sushi and quite elegantly popped it in his mouth.
I sighed. I’d never experienced someone so sexy before. Hell, everything he did aroused me. I looked away, selecting my own piece.
“You know what?” he said.
“What?”
“I’m quite jealous of how you just did that.”
I laughed. “You need practice, mister.”
“I’ll bet I do.”
“Well, then. We’ll have to come here every night for a week till you get it.”
He laughed. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”
I nodded, swallowing my mouthful. It was wonderful.
“It is,” I agreed.
“Well, I think we should take you up on that, then,” he agreed.
“You’re on!”
“And then, if you like, we can try the new restaurant over by the theater,” he suggested. “Though you might want to come into that every night next week!”
We laughed.
“I probably w
ill,” I agreed. “If it’s half as good as this one.”
He nodded. Then his phone made a message-tone and he grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to take that.” He dug it out of his jacket pocket and read whatever was written there. I saw his face fall and he went white.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice unnaturally light. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Oh,” I said mildly.
“I’d just better write a reply, and then we’ll be sorted. Want dessert?”
I frowned. We still had half a plate of sushi to try. He was distracted. And something was definitely not nothing to worry about.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m busy with this,” I added, indicating the plate.
“Oh, fine! Yes. Sorry,” he added, realizing his gaffe. “I’m also, um, still busy with it.”
He reached for the chopsticks, thought better of it, and put them down. Used his fingers instead.
“You need lessons, mister,” I reminded him. He laughed.
The evening ended on a merry note, though as we drove home, after yet another restaurant and the stir and odd photo or two coming out, I was still worried.
Something happened that upset him. I can feel it.
Even though he was relaxed and laughing, his friendly self, as we drove home I could feel the way he was tenser, stiffer than he had been. Something was up.
By the time we reached home, all sleepy from the long evening, the thought had more or less slipped from my mind.
“Goodnight,” he said softly on the gravel drive as we alighted from the car.
“Goodnight,” I whispered to him.
He stared at me and I stared back, but then he was turning, walking back into the house. His tall form moved briskly up the stairs ahead of me and before I could say anything, he had disappeared into the far reaches of that rambling house.
Goodnight, I thought as I disrobed and slipped into the shower. Sweet dreams.
I was asleep as soon as my head touched the soft, fluffy pillow.
CHAPTER TEN – HAYLEY
The sun shone through the window. I stirred and opened my eyes. I looked up at a white-painted ceiling, luxurious sheets beneath me, a soft pillow below my head. I remembered. I was in Beckett Sand’s home. It was Saturday morning. Lovely.
I slid out of bed and tiptoed through to the bathroom, had a shower and, wrapped in a towel, remembered the predicament I had only half-considered yesterday. What was I going to wear?
I opened the closet. To my amazement, it was full of clothes. Amazing clothes. The place was like a designer outlet on a sale day—racks and racks of famous labels, all in elegant, delicate colors. Luckily, navy, gray, and blue were some of my favorites, because the whole wardrobe revolved around a muted, gracious palette. Whoever had put it together had a wonderful eye. Each piece was exquisite.
I pulled out a navy Vintage-style dress, with delicate polka-dots. I loved it. I just had to try it on. It looked like it would fit, whereas the pale cream slacks on the row below it didn’t look quite the right size for me. I was interested, so I checked the sizes of various things.
My check led me to realize that he had stocked it with various sizes. That was smart.
The more I came to know this man, the more I started to appreciate his mind. He was bold and forthright, but he seemed to also have an eye on the big picture, thinking of the small things and not overlooking them. It was an unusual combination. I admired it.
I shrugged the polka-dotted dress over my head and swirled in front of the mirror, loving the light, breezy fabric and the way it made me feel.
I feel so pretty.
I brushed my hair and made myself up, regretting the loss of Bethany, who’d done my makeup for the theater the past evening, and went downstairs.
“Miss Morris!”
A voice from the dining-room made me pause. He was there. The delicious smell of toast was with him, and my stomach twisted painfully at the thought of breakfast.
“Mr. Sand.” I smiled. He was wearing a pale jacket and shirt, designer jeans. Stunning, as usual. I went in.
“Please, join me,” he said, waving a hand at the seat opposite. “I was hoping you’d come down soon. Did you sleep well?”
He was hoping I’d come down? I swallowed. “Thanks,” I said, then remembered his question. “I did. Thank you. And you?”
He smiled ruefully. “My shoulder was burning, so it took me ages to get comfortable,” he confessed. “But I did, eventually. You look good.”
I felt a blush creep slowly up my throat. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s a nice dress.”
“It suits you,” he agreed. “Which reminds me,” he added, “we have something to discuss.”
“We do?” I asked, frowning. I reached for a big slice of toast from the rack and buttered it carefully, watching him as he leaned back, relaxed, sipping his coffee.
“Yes,” he said, grinning. “Our marriage.”
I dropped the toast. Then gave a self-conscious giggle. “Oh,” I said, “that.”
“Yes,” he said, “that.” He laughed.
“You want to have it soon?” I asked, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone. In truth, my heart was thumping and it was hard to think straight. I was finding it hard, I had to confess, to think about marriage without thinking about being close to him in less-than-proper ways.
“I do,” he nodded, swallowing his coffee and reaching for another slice of toast. “I had thought next week.”
“What?”
For the second time that morning, I gaped at him. He laughed.
“I know it’s sudden. But we have to get a move on,” he said lightly. “I need to fly to Tokyo in three weeks’ or so, and I’d like for you to accompany me. The sooner we get this done and dusted, the neater for all concerned.”
I nodded, slowly chewing toast as I thought about it. Was it me, or did that same strained look cross his face when he said that as when he received that message? I was starting to wonder what was going on here.
“I suppose,” I said, trying to make my voice sound non-committal.
“Absolutely,” he nodded, swallowing toast. “Coffee?” he asked, lifting a flask.
“Yes, thank you,” I nodded absently. He poured it for me, and I felt a tickle of pleasure in me.
“Thanks,” I said when he was done. He smiled.
“Least I can do,” he said playfully. “Now, what about the dress?”
I gulped. “The dress? Oh! Of course you mean the wedding. Well…” I trailed off. It was so, so strange to be discussing a wedding that was an act only. I had an idea in my mind of what I would want a wedding dress to look like, but I wanted that to be for a real wedding, not an act. To use it for this would seem a funny kind of disrespect of my ideals. I sighed. “I guess we should do something current.”
“I suppose so,” he nodded. He looked surprised. I supposed he expected me to have some kind of input about it, some preferences or ideas to contribute. I cleared my throat.
“I guess it should be white,” I hazarded. “And I’d like chiffon on it somewhere. But aside from that, let the designer go crazy.”
“I think I won’t be doing that,” he said, laughing. “You haven’t seen them go crazy. Well, neither have I. But I’m sure, with their artistic temperament, that it’s a scary thing to see.”
We both laughed.
“I’m sure,” I added. “Well, then. What else do we have to make plans about?”
“The actual wedding is going to take place in a friend’s chapel,” he said quietly. “I deliberately wanted it intimate and, well, inaccessible to the press. So we don’t have to do anything.”
“Oh. Good. Yes.” I nodded. Somehow, that part of the plans had escaped me. He had thought of the big picture again, as it seemed he always did. I smiled. “Good idea.”
“Thanks,” he said shyly. “As for the rest? What kind of reception would you like? We won’t have the honeymoon directly, since I hav
e work commitments, but we can schedule one for when I get back, if you want?”
I laughed. “Well, I’m happy with whatever you choose. I’ve always fancied the idea of a hotel reception. But if you have another plan, then, I’m happy to go with it.”
“You’re very relaxed,” he commented, grinning brightly. “It’s a nice trait.”
I smiled. I could feel myself flushing under his praise and I shifted in my seat, feeling warm. “Thanks,” I commented. “Is it hot in here?”
He laughed. “I suppose it is. Those windows are quite big and they do let the sun in, especially in summer. I’m quite warm too.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said.
He stared at me. I gulped, realizing what I’d said. I went red.
“I’m sorry,” I swallowed, feeling terribly embarrassed. “I mean, it is warm in here. Oh, silly me. I’m tired. Sorry. Late night and all.” I trailed off, feeling wretched. I looked at him. He was smiling.
“Not at all,” he said, eyes merry. “I like the odd compliment. But I promise I’ll put it down to your being distracted and tired. No worries.”
I sighed. Smiled at him. I wanted to say that I meant it. That he was hot. Very. And I’d love to let him know just how hot I thought he was. Of course, I couldn’t say that. So I smiled.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said gently. “Now,” he added, pushing his chair back, “I have to make a call. Then, perhaps we could meet here in about twenty minutes? I’d like to show you the garden.”
I nodded. I didn’t ask who he was calling, or why. It was, I guessed, none of my business. I drifted out and went upstairs to my quarters.
Twenty minutes later, we met up again. He was smiling, looking cheerful.
“That was my daughter,” he explained.
“Oh?” I frowned. I didn’t know he had a daughter. That was news.
“She’s coming back from college tomorrow afternoon,” he explained. “I’m going through to the airport to fetch her.”
“Oh,” I said again, carefully. “How old is she?”
“She’s seventeen,” he explained quickly. “Almost eighteen. Her name’s Estella.”
“What a lovely name.”