“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m cool with it, so like I said, start talking.”
Now that he wasn’t holding her so tightly, it was easy enough to pull herself free of his grasp. So she did, then took a step backward for good measure. “I don’t know why I should explain myself to you when Simon’s already done it.”
“I can think of a reason. In fact,” Hunter added, “I can think of five million reasons.”
She blanched. “You don’t seriously believe I’m doing this for the money?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Margie sucked in a breath. “Why, you self-righteous, judgmental, arrogant son of a-”
His narrowed gaze flicked past her briefly; then he grabbed her, yanked her close and kissed Margie so hard she almost forgot to breathe.
Sensation raced through her bloodstream until every inch of her body was standing up and shouting Yippee! Her stomach dropped, her heartbeat thundered in her chest and her mind fuzzed out so totally, she couldn’t have given her own name if asked.
Her whole world had come down to the feeling of Hunter’s mouth on hers. His tongue pushing past her lips to sweep inside her warmth. His breath sliding into her. His arms wrapped around her like taut wire, binding her to his body, until all she could do was lift her own arms to hook them behind his neck.
She opened to him eagerly, hungrily, reacting solely to the passion he’d ignited. Didn’t seem to matter that he was insulting, annoying and a bully. All that counted now was what he was making her feel. Never before had she reacted so completely to something so simple as a kiss. But then, this was no simple kiss, either.
There was heat and fire and lust and fury all rolled into one incredible ball of energy that felt as though it was consuming her.
Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. She staggered a little when he let her go. Not surprising, really, since he’d kissed her blind. “What? How? What?”
His lips quirked at one corner of his mouth before he again looked past her and said, “Sophie!”
Oh, God. The housekeeper, Margie thought, instantly feeling a flush of embarrassment.
But Hunter dropped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close to his side as he greeted the older woman. “I was so busy getting reacquainted with my wife,” he was saying. “I didn’t see you come up.”
How was he able to joke and laugh and speak coherently after what they’d just experienced? Margie looked up at him and couldn’t believe that he was so unmoved by what had happened. How could he not have felt what she had? How could something that powerful be so onesided?
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Sophie said. “It’s good to see two such lovebirds canoodling.”
Canoodling?
“I’m so glad to have you home again. Now you two go on upstairs, and we’ll see you for dinner, all right? Cook’s making all of your favorites, Mr. Hunter.” Sophie gave him a quick hug. “We’re all so happy to have you home again. Aren’t we, Margie?”
Hunter finally looked down at her, and Margie saw the light of challenge in his eyes. “That right, babe? Are you happy to have me home?”
Margie still felt shaky from that kiss, but she didn’t want to let him know how he’d affected her. Especially since that kiss had seemed to mean nothing to him. So she met his look with one of her own, then forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Oh, happy doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.”
Dinner took forever.
Simon was at the head of the table acting like Father Christmas or something, and Hunter’s “wife” was sitting directly opposite him, alternately ignoring him and sending him looks designed to set his hair on fire.
As for Hunter, all he could think was, he never should have kissed her.
Damn it.
Ever since tasting her, the only thing he wanted was another taste. And that couldn’t happen. No way was he going to hook himself even deeper into this little fiasco his grandfather had arranged. For all he knew, his little “wife” was counting on seducing Hunter into making this a real marriage. Maybe that was her grand plan.
But how could it be her plan when it had been his idea to kiss her? Gritting his teeth, he avoided looking at the woman across from him and tried to draw his mind away from the memory of her mouth on his. Useless. He’d been trying for hours to forget exactly how he’d felt when his mouth had come down on hers. To brush aside the near electrical jolt of pure, white hot lust and desire that had threatened to crush him.
Hell, if it hadn’t been for Sophie standing there in the hall, he might have pushed Margie up against a wall and…
Way to not think about it, he chided himself.
His body was hard and achy, and his mind was still spinning from the effect she’d had on him. She’d fit into the circle of his arms as though she’d been made for him. The taste of her lingered in his mouth, and the memory of the feel of her curves pressed along his body had kept him hard as stone for hours.
She wasn’t at all the kind of woman he usually went for. So Hunter couldn’t explain even to himself why he was suddenly so filled with the need to touch her again. To kiss her again. He should be thinking about strangling her for what she was doing here in this house.
Instead…
Damn it. Even as he looked across the table at her, wearing a shapeless blue dress with a high collar and short puffy sleeves, his mind was stripping away her clothes. Laying her bare on the fussy quilt that now covered his bed. In his mind, he was kissing every curvy inch of her, burying himself inside her and-
And, if he didn’t turn his thoughts to other things, he’d never be able to stand up from this table without showing the world just how much he wanted her.
Grimly, Hunter fought for control. He looked at her again and tried to see past the softly curling dark red hair and bright green eyes. He shoved aside the memory of how she’d felt in his arms and instead tried to figure out how much of her “I’m innocent” act was for real. On the surface, she seemed to be exactly what she was portraying. A young woman doing a favor for a lonely old man. But for all Hunter knew, she was just a hell of a good actress. And if she was playing him, how much easier it would have been for her to play Simon.
They never had gotten around to having their “talk” earlier. After kissing her, Hunter hadn’t trusted himself to be alone with her. So instead, he’d taken one of the horses Simon still kept and went for a ride over the property. Not that the long ride had done a thing for his sanity. Because images of Margie had ridden with him every step of the way.
“More wine, Hunter?”
Hunter looked at his grandfather and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”
But he knew even as more of the dark red wine was poured into his glass that there wasn’t enough liquor in the world to ease the wild, churning thoughts running through his brain. Why her? he asked himself. Why this short, argumentative con artist? Hell, he’d just finished a relationship with Gretchen, a six-foot-tall model with the face of an angel and even she’d never gotten to him as deeply as this one tiny redhead had.
Gritting his teeth, he took another bite of the pot roast prepared just for him. It might as well have been cardboard. He’d been looking forward to coming home. Having a few days to relax and not worry about a damn thing. Well, that was shot, he told himself. Everywhere he went in the damn house, someone was winking at him or smiling knowingly.
Having every servant in the house treating him like a newlywed was annoying. Having his “wife” within arm’s reach and untouchable was irritating. Hell of a homecoming.
The last mission he’d been on, Hunter had been wounded, cut off from his team, and he had had to find his own way out of hostile territory. Eight days he’d been alone and fighting for his life-and what he was going through now made that time seem like a weekend at Disneyland.
“There’s a dance at the end of the week,” Simon said, dragging Hunter gratefully from his thoughts. “To celebrate the new addition to the clinic.”
/> “That’s nice.” He didn’t give a damn about a dance.
“Now that you’re here, you’ll take Margie to represent the family,” Simon said.
“I’ll what?” Hunter looked at his grandfather and out of the corner of his eye noted that Margie looked just as surprised as he felt.
“Escort your wife to the town dance. People will expect it. After all, you and Margie are the ones who made it all possible.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Hunter reminded the older man.
Simon bristled, narrowed his eyes on him and said, “As far as people in town are convinced, you did.”
“He doesn’t have to go with me,” Margie said quickly, apparently as eager as Hunter was to avoid any extra amount of togetherness. Now why did that bother him?
“I’ll just tell everyone he hasn’t recovered from his injuries,” she added.
Now it was Hunter’s turn to scowl. Not that he wanted to go to the damned dance, but he didn’t want someone else, especially her, making up excuses for him. The day he needed help-which would be never-he’d ask for it.
“Damn good at lying, aren’t you?” he asked.
She turned her head to spear him with a long look. Then giving him a mocking smile, she admitted, “Actually, since I’ve had to come up with dozens of reasons why you never bother to come home to see your grandfather, yes, I have gotten good at lying. Thank you so much for noticing.”
“No one asked you to-”
“Who would if I hadn’t?”
“There was no reason to lie,” he countered, slamming his fork down onto the tabletop. “Everyone in town knows what my job is.”
She set her fork down, too. Calmly. Quietly. Which only angered him more.
“And everyone in town knows you could have gotten compassionate leave-isn’t that what they call it in the military?-to come home when Simon was so sick.”
Guilt poked at him again. And he didn’t appreciate it. “I wasn’t even in the country,” he reminded her, grinding each word out through gritted teeth.
She only looked at him, but he knew exactly what she was thinking, because he’d been telling himself the same damn thing for hours. Yes, he’d been out of the country when Simon had his heart attack. But when he’d returned, he could have come home to check on the older man. He could have taken a week’s leave before the next mission-but he’d settled instead for a phone call.
If Hunter had made the effort, he would have been here to talk his grandfather out of this ridiculous fake marriage scheme and he wouldn’t now be in this mess.
With that realization ringing in his mind, he met Margie’s gaze and noted the gleam of victory shining in those green eyes of hers.
“Fine. You win this one,” he said, acknowledging that she’d taken that round. “I’ll take you to the damned dance.”
“I don’t want-”
“Excellent,” Simon crowed and reached for Hunter’s wine glass.
“You can’t have wine, Simon,” Margie said with a sigh and the old man’s hand halted in midreach.
“What’s the point of living forever if you can’t have a glass of wine with dinner like a civilized man?”
“Water is perfectly civilized.” Apparently, Margie had already forgotten about her little war with Hunter and was focused now on the old man pouting in his chair.
“Dogs drink water,” Simon reminded her.
“So do you.”
“Now.”
“Simon,” Margie’s voice took on a patient tone and was enough to tell Hunter she’d been through all this many times before. “You know what Dr. Harris said. No wine and no cigars.”
“Damn doctors always ruining a man’s life for his own good. And you,” he accused, giving Margie a dirty look, “you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side, Simon. I want you to live forever.”
“Without having any damn fun at all, I suppose,” he groused.
Hunter watched the back-and-forth and felt the oddest sense of envy. His grandfather and Margie had obviously had this same discussion many times. The two of them were a unit. A team. And their closeness was hard to ignore.
He was the odd man out here. He was the one who didn’t belong. In the house where he’d grown up. With his grandfather. This woman…his “wife,” had neatly carved Hunter out of the equation entirely.
Or, had he done that himself?
It had been a hellish day, and all Hunter wanted at the moment was a little peace and quiet. Interrupting the two people completely ignoring him, he said, “You know what? I’m beat. Think I’ll head up to bed.”
“That’s a good idea,” Simon agreed, shifting his attention to his grandson. “Why don’t both of you go on up to your room? Get some rest?”
Silence.
Several seconds ticked past before one of them managed to finally speak.
“Our room?” Margie whispered.
Hunter glared at his grandfather.
Simon smiled.
Four
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Hunter told Margie.
“Well,” Margie said from inside the closet, where she was changing into her nightgown, “you’re not sleeping with me.”
Good heavens, how could she possibly share a bed with the man who’d kissed her senseless only hours ago? If he kissed her again, she might just give into the fiery feelings he engendered in her and then where would she be?
“Don’t flatter yourself, babe,” he said, loud enough to carry through the heavy wooden door separating them. “It’s not your body I’m after. It’s the mattress. Damned if I’m sleeping on the floor in my own damn room.”
She frowned at the closed door and the man beyond it. Apparently, she didn’t have anything to worry about. He had clearly not felt anything that she had during that kiss. Was she insulted? Or pleased? “Fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Help yourself,” he countered.
Margie stopped in the process of tugging her nightgown over her head. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? You’d let me sleep on the floor rather than do it yourself like a gentleman.”
“Never said I was a gentleman,” he told her.
“Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor.” This was her room now. Had been for over a year. Why should she be the one to be uncomfortable? And if he wasn’t interested in her sexually, she should be perfectly safe. Right?
“Up to you.”
“Just don’t you try anything,” she warned, telling herself to pay attention.
He actually laughed. “Trust me when I say you’re safe.”
Bastard. How easily he dismissed her. That kiss he’d given her clearly hadn’t touched him at all. Even though her own lips were still humming with remnants of sensation. Of course it hadn’t meant anything to him. Why would it? She’d known most of her life that she simply wasn’t the kind of woman men like him noticed.
She was too short, too…round. He probably went for the six-foot-tall, ninety-pound type who thought a single M &M was a party. His kind of woman never had the last cookie in the box; she didn’t buy cookies. His kind of woman didn’t wear T-shirts; she wore silk. And her clothes hung on her as if she were a coat hanger. No bulges, no curves, no lines. His kind of woman didn’t have to marry a man by proxy; she had men lining up at her door. And his kind of woman wouldn’t have melted at a simple kiss.
“Oh God, how did I get myself into this?”
Being married to Hunter when he wasn’t there had been so easy. So perfect. She’d made him into the ideal husband. Thoughtful, caring, loving. How was she supposed to have known that the real man was lightyears away from the image in her mind?
And yet, this Hunter stirred something inside her that made her yearn for things to be different. Which was just a one-way ticket to misery and she knew it. The only way she would ever have a husband like Hunter was this way. A lie.
Still grumbling to herself, she stepped out of the closet to find her “husband” alr
eady ensconced in the bed. On her side.
“Move over,” she commanded, waving one hand for emphasis.
“It’s a king-size bed,” he reminded her. “Plenty of room for both of us.”
Oh, she thought, there probably wouldn’t be enough room for her to lie down comfortably beside him if the bed were the size of the county. But she wouldn’t let him know that she was feeling decidedly uneasy about this situation. Besides, she was going to have enough trouble falling asleep tonight, let alone having to sleep on the wrong side of the bed.
“You’re on my side.”
He looked around, then shrugged broad, bare shoulders. “Since I’m the only one lying on it, I figure it’s my side.”
His eyes shone with amusement in the pale wash of light from the bedside lamp. His bare chest gleamed like old gold, and when he shifted higher onto the pillows, the quilt covering him dipped, pooling at his hips.
Margie sucked in a gulp of air but couldn’t quite stop herself from admiring the view. The soft, dark hair on his chest narrowed into a strip that snaked across his abdomen, then disappeared beneath the quilt.
He was naked.
Oh, God. She was never going to get to sleep tonight. Her stomach did a slow roll and pitch, and her mouth went dry. “Don’t you have pajamas?”
He chuckled and she couldn’t help noticing the dimple in his left cheek. Why did he have to have a dimple?
“No,” he said, “I don’t.” Then his gaze swept over her, taking in her knee-length, long-sleeved cotton gown decorated with pale blue flowers. His eyes widened as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Don’t you have something less…”
Margie felt his disapproval plainly, plopped both hands on her hips and dared him to finish that sentence. “Less what?”
“Less…Little House on the Prairie?”
She smoothed one hand over her comfy nightgown. Didn’t she feel pretty? He couldn’t make it any clearer that he wasn’t experiencing the slightest bit of attraction for her. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing. It’s very cute.”
An Officer And A Millionaire Page 4