by Day Leclaire
“You saw.”
How could she doubt it? His reaction had been a clear enough indication. From the moment they’d met, Marco had been open and warm and affectionate—generous in both spirit and attitude. But from the second they’d arrived in Hidden Harbor a reserve had settled over him. Not that she could blame him. He’d had a lot to deal with since his arrival. And every bit of it was her fault for failing to be up front with him from the start.
“Why did you want to marry?” he rapped out. “Why is that an actual goal?”
“Tomorrow’s my twenty-seventh birthday.” Her explanation sounded ludicrous and they both knew it. But how could she make him understand everything that had led up to establishing those goals, both personal and professional?
“And?”
“And when I graduated from college, I formulated a five-year plan.”
“One for business and one for your personal life?”
She nodded. “I knew I had this job waiting for me, that Mother Brent would train me to take over from her when she retired.”
He studied the chart through narrowed eyes. “That’s not quite what this chart says.”
“That’s because she died unexpectedly not long after I graduated. There was a lot for me to learn. It required a plan.”
“And this is your plan.” She couldn’t tell from his expression whether or not he approved. It shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did. “That still doesn’t explain your decision to marry at the end of five years.”
No it didn’t. And having it stated so baldly made her feel foolish. “I wanted to marry and have the business sorted out by the time I was twenty-seven.”
“Let me guess. Once you set yourself a goal—”
“I keep it.”
“And tomorrow is the five-year deadline?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?” he demanded. “I can understand your hoping to marry before you’re thirty or to have children within a certain time frame. But to actually go to a marriage ball in order to meet some schedule you set for yourself five years ago—” He shook his head.
“That isn’t the only reason I went.”
“Do your...” He waved a hand toward the outer office. “Do the Tyler boys know about your goal to remarry? Is that why they have a line of potential husbands stretching from here to Baltimore?”
A smile flirted with her mouth. “It doesn’t extend quite that long.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’ve never told anyone other than Pru about my goal.”
“Then why are they offering you men like a box full of chocolates?”
“Chocolates?” Her smile grew. “I think I might like chocolate better, though I can’t remember the last time I had any.”
To her relief, she’d succeeded in diverting his attention. “You can’t remember? Good grief, woman. How’s that possible?”
“I don’t know. I was discouraged from eating it as a child and have never been particularly tempted as an adult.”
“You’ve obviously been sadly deprived. I’ll have to see what I can do about that.” His expression hardened and she knew her brief respite from his questions was over. Too bad. She’d hoped to escape relatively unscathed. “That still doesn’t explain that nonsense in your reception area. Why are your former stepsons parading men in front of you like studs at an auction?”
She sighed. “Ever since their father died, the boys have been eager to see me remarry. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s their way of thanking me for caring for Henry while he was ill. Maybe they equate marriage with happiness.”
“Don’t you?” She remained stubbornly silent and anger flashed in his eyes. “Answer me, Hanna. Do you equate marriage with happiness?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “We discussed this last night, remember? I equate marriage with companionship. I suppose a byproduct of companionship would be happiness.” Her gaze locked with his. She didn’t make any attempt to disguise the conviction of her stance. But deep inside a desperate yearning betrayed her, warning that she secretly hoped to be proven wrong. If Marco noticed the equivocation, he didn’t let on. “At least, I hope we’ll be happy.”
“How can we, carissima, when you can’t be honest with me?”
“Dammit, Marco!” She shoved back her chair and escaped from behind her desk He watched her without speaking until her restless pacing came to a stumbling halt in front of her wall chart. For the first time, she saw it through his eyes. It was precise and detailed, each item calculated to the exact day, if not the exact hour. The sheer cold-bloodedness of the thing made her flinch.
“It’s quite interesting to have one’s entire life displayed on a chart on a wall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.” He came up behind her. “Too bad all your secrets aren’t recorded so openly.”
She turned on him, the anger she’d denied possessing getting the better of her. “You’re asking me to trust you with things that I’ve never told anyone. How am I supposed to do that?”
“I’m your husband.”
“A husband I’ve known for precisely one day.” She struggled to remain still beneath the intensity of his scrutiny, but couldn’t quite manage it. Spinning around, she npped the chart from the wall, tossing it in the general direction of her trash basket. She’d retrieve it later, when Marco wasn’t around. And this time she’d hide it well away from curious eyes. “There. Satisfied?”
“Not even close You chose me. You chose to marry me. Does that mean nothing?”
“Of course it means something, but—”
“You can’t have it both ways, Hanna. You wanted a husband? Well, now you have one. That means you also have the consequences that come along with it.” He seized her shoulders, the passion he’d kept so carefully in check spilling free. “I want a wife, not a companion. I want a future, not a line on someone’s chart. I’m not a goal, I’m a man. You can’t pencil me in when convenient and erase me when your goals change.”
“I wasn’t planning on erasing you.”
He waved that aside. “Where’s your heart, Hanna? Where’s your soul? What happened to them?”
“I told you! I don’t have a heart. As for my soul, I’m not sure I have one of those, either. I warned you.” Her chin wobbled, but she brought it under swift control, praying she hadn’t betrayed herself. She wasn’t the emotional sort, and it would be disastrous for him to start thinking she was. “I told you what I expected from our marriage. If you want more than I have to offer, you’ll have to find it elsewhere, with someone who can give you love and passion, who can be the sort of woman you need.”
“You’re the woman I need.” He pulled the clasp anchoring her hair free and tossed it aside. Thrusting his hands into the heavy curls, he held the strands to the light so they burned with rich color. “The passion’s there, waiting to be brought out. But you hide it. Are you afraid, is that it?”
She forced herself to remain perfectly still. “I’m not afraid, because there’s nothing to fear. And I told you before, my red hair has nothing to do with whether or not I have a passionate nature. It’s a stereotype, the same as redheads having a volatile temper. I married you because it was my goal to find a companionable husband before my twenty-seventh birthday. I’ve done that.”
His dark eyes contained all the passion she denied possessing. “So now that we’re married, you can cross me off your list?”
“No!” Could he hear the note of pleading in her voice? “Now we can plan for the future. Together.”
He released her hair and caught her starched collar instead, urging her a step closer. “Get your pencil, my sweet, so you can record my plans for our future.”
“Don’t bother. I have excellent recall.”
She tried not to inhale his scent, nor to warm herself in his heat or drink in the richness of his dark eyes. But it was so difficult, especially since she wanted to absorb his essence clear down to her bones. He bent s
o his mouth hovered a fraction above hers.
“I plan to strip you, my lovely swan. I plan to pluck my way through all your feathers until I find the princess hidden underneath. And when I find her, I’m going to make her mine. I don’t know what spell holds you captive. But I intend to break it. And when I do, you’ll not only discover you have a heart and soul, you’ll discover love, too. You won’t be in any position to deny it, because it’s going to consume you.”
For a moment, she almost believed him—believed she was capable of a love that profound, that she could actually experience the sort of emotion he described. He’d planted a seed of longing, one she doubted could be easily weeded from her life. Not that it would grow. Seeds didn’t grow on barren soil. Slowly she pulled free. “Pluck away, Marco. All you’ll be left with is feathers. There isn’t any princess. There never was.”
“We’ll see.”
He didn’t let her make good her escape. At the last instant, he captured her with a single kiss, held her as though by enchantment, his lips all that touched her physically. But the sheer force of his personality wrapped her in warmth, bound her tight and nourished her in a way she’d never known nourishment. She was helpless to keep from responding, her mouth parting, opening to him, flowering beneath the intensity of his heat.
He slipped inside, past the barriers to the inner sweetness. She shuddered in reaction, dismayed to discover how easily he overcame her resistance and how quickly and thoroughly he could arouse her. Temptation beckoned, an overwhelming urge to give in to him, to allow the seed he’d planted to flourish, to grow where it had no business taking root.
She murmured in protest, her mind struggling to accomplish what her body couldn’t. She fought to deny the pleasure coursing through her, to bring an end to an embrace that would give lie to her stance. She didn’t feel anything for this man, at least, nothing more than the companionship she’d claimed. But his mouth stilled the protest, sweeping coherent thought from her head.
Unable to stand the distance between them for another instant, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him into her. His warmth collided with her, sweeping the chill of loneliness from her body. At long last he put his hands on her, proving beyond any doubt that what she lacked emotionally, she more than made up for through sheer physical desire. Her need for him consumed her, eating through icy exteriors and protective layers like a roaring fire eating through well-seasoned timber. If they’d been anywhere else, she’d have helped him strip away the proper little dress she wore and make quite improper love to her on the top of her desk.
But she was Hanna Tyler and she’d spent her entire life doing what was proper. She’d also spent her life protectively governed by schedules and charts and being as precise as possible. To change now would negate a life’s work by those who’d raised her. And she couldn’t do that.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Please, stop.”
He lowered his head, dragging air into his lungs with deep, unsteady breaths. “Tell me we’re stopping so we can go someplace more private.”
“We’re stopping because—” She fought to keep her voice even and dispassionate, to look at him without weeping. “Because I have appointments. I don’t have time for...for...” She swept her hand toward the desk, as though he knew she’d actually considered using it for an impromptu bed. “For this.”
He didn’t bother asking for a clearer explanation. Perhaps he’d been considering alternate uses for her desk, too. “So I’m supposed to run along like a good boy until you have an opening in your calendar?”
It wasn’t what she’d meant. Not even close. “I have a business to maintain. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll be up to—”
“Don’t say it.” He stepped well away from her, his eyes burning beneath lowered brows. She’d never known a man who could intimidate with a single look. Until now. “Don’t put me in the same category as your business appointments. I told you before I wasn’t a gigolo. Trust me, you don’t want to start treating me like one. You won’t like the results.”
Shame filled her. He was right. She’d tried to distance herself using any means possible and he didn’t deserve that. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I have a schedule to keep. People depend on me.” As though to prove her statement, the phone buzzed. “That’ll be Pru reminding me that I’m late for my next appointment.”
To her relief, he didn’t press. “Where should I wait?”
“I have a private apartment upstairs. Make yourself at home.”
“Somehow I suspect that’ll take more than a single afternoon.”
She didn’t doubt it for an instant. “As soon as I’m done for the day, I’ll be up. We can finish our discussion then.”
He continued to study her for an unnerving minute. “Not only will we finish that discussion, we’ll begin quite a few others. You and I have a lot to talk about.”
“No problem.” Big problem! A full-blown discussion was the one thing she’d do anything to avoid.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his hand. It was closed in a fist. Slowly, he unfolded each finger until he’d exposed what he held. A delicate feather rested in the center of his palm. Hanna fought for air. It had to be a feather from the mask she’d worn to the Cinderella Ball or possibly from her costume. How it had ended up in his pocket, she didn’t know. But the evidence trembled within his grasp. With infinite grace he lifted his hand to his mouth and blew. The feather exploded into the air between them, carried on the warmth of his breath, whirling and spinning in delicate circles.
“One feather at a time, princess. Until I’ve stripped them all away,” he warned. Or was it a threat?
Whichever, she couldn’t mistake his meaning. He’d strip away one feather at a time, one secret at a time, until she was naked for the world to see. As far as she was concerned, it was a fate worse than death. It was also a fate she’d resist with every particle of her being.
At least... She’d try.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS LATE when Marc awoke, his surroundings pitchblack and unfamiliar. He remained still until he’d regained his bearings and could determine where the hell he was. Then he remembered. He’d fallen asleep in Hanna’s living room on her sofa. He sat up with a groan. His head pounded and his stomach grumbled in hunger. He vaguely recalled seeing a lamp on the table beside him and he fumbled in that direction. His memory proved accurate. He flicked the switch, and a harsh glow stabbed through the high-ceilinged room, illuminating the uncomfortable starkness.
Glancing at his watch, he muttered a curse. It was three in the morning and judging by his gut reaction to the utter stillness, Hanna hadn’t stepped foot in the place since he’d arrived. The silence felt downright oppressive and he glared in frustration at his surroundings. The room echoed Hanna’s claims about herself—at least the self she presented to the world.
It was sterile and bland and completely lacking in personality. Although the floor had been laid with a good quality oak, the color had been bleached into nonexistence before being protectively coated with a heavy-duty varnish. A single area rug attempted to add a hint of warmth to the room. It failed miserably, the mottled grays, browns and whites as bland as everything else he’d seen around here. There were a few pictures on the walls, but they were all group photos and not one of them included Hanna. As for the furniture... He winced. It was an eyesore and gave him a backache. Two for the price of one. Just great.
Escaping the coldness of the living room, he entered the antiseptic environment of the kitchen. Checking the meager contents of her refrigerator, he decided he could probably throw together a couple of omelettes. If he was hungry, she must be starved by now—starved and too nervous to face him after he’d attacked her with that feather. If it weren’t so tragic, it’d be downright amusing.
In addition to the omelette, he peeled an orange for them to share and poured two glasses of wine. Perhaps once he’d fed her, he could coax her to bed, although he was
almost afraid to see what her bedroom looked like. No doubt as monastic as the rest of the place. With his luck she’d have a single mattress—too short to fit a decent-sized man—covered with a horsehair blanket. If so, that would be the first change he instituted.
Ready or not, Hanna was going to find her bed filled with passion.
Loading the food and drinks onto a cutting board that he improvised as a tray, he made his way to her office. Outside her door, he juggled his handful and tapped lightly. Not receiving a response, he walked in.
He found Hanna behind her desk, as he’d expected, and he stood for a long minute, staring. She’d fallen asleep, her glasses askew on her nose, a stack of papers pillowing her cheek, her vivid hair blanketing her arms and shoulders. Even in sleep, tension gripped her, betrayed by the way her hands remained on top of her to-do list. He’d never seen anything so beautiful or so heartbreaking. She was utterly alone amidst a world of precision, a passionate woman stifled by order, the life bled from her until only the brilliance of her hair remained to betray the truth of who and what she was.
He set the tray on the edge of the desk and circled to his wife’s side. Ever so carefully, he gathered her up. With a murmur of drowsy contentment, she slipped into his arms as though finding her way home after ages of desperate searching.
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked in tender exasperation.
“Marco?” Her lashes flickered, but didn’t quite open. “You came.”
“Of course I came. You’re my wife.”
“Oh.” She yawned. “No one’s ever come for me before. I usually go to them.”
“That’s going to change.” He glanced at the tray he’d prepared and gave it up. He’d return for it later. Right now, it was time to put his wife to bed. “A lot of things are going to change around here.”
“Okay.” She yawned. “Take a memo, Pru.”
He carried her out of the office. “Pru’s not here. I’m the only one left. And since there’s no one else currently in charge, I’ve made a decision.” She’d fallen asleep again, not that it stopped his explanation. “What’s the decision, you ask? I’ll tell you, moglie mia. I’ve decided your life is due for a change and it’s up to me to change it. I suppose charts and graphs and schedules are fine and good.”