by JoAnn Ross
“They’re from my mother.” He skimmed the lines of familiar handwriting. “She wants to welcome us home.”
The congratulatory note had him wondering what, exactly, Jake had revealed about the hastily planned wedding. It also explained the furniture, which, now that he thought about it, Mitch realized belonged to his grandmother Cudahy. His mother had stashed it away in her basement when his grandmother had moved into that condo on the San Diego coast.
“There’s a casserole in the refrigerator we can heat up in the microwave,” he continued reading. “And a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, if you’d like a glass.”
Sasha put her hand to her head, which, while not throbbing as badly as it had when she woke up this morning, still felt as if someone had hit her with a very sharp rock. “I think I’ve had enough champagne for one weekend.”
“Hangovers are the pits.”
He’d watched her obvious suffering all day and although he’d experienced random urges to offer her sympathy and aspirin, he’d resisted both. There was something about Sasha that encouraged a man to want to protect her, to take care of her. And, dammit, to care for her.
And that definitely wasn’t the plan, he reminded himself as a ball of ice formed in his stomach.
Get married, get that bureaucratic weasel Potter off her back, help her get a green card and move on. That was the plan. And so long as they both stuck to it, everything would be okay.
She looked at him with interest. “You have felt this way?”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, more times than I care to count.”
There it was again, that easy endearment that made her heart turn somersaults. Sasha reminded herself that the only reason she was standing here, in Mitch’s spotless sunwarmed kitchen that smelled of lemon cleanser and spring flowers was to trick the U.S. government.
Mitch had been chivalrous enough to come up with the marriage ruse in the first place. It was not his fault she loved him. It was not his fault that she’d lain awake last night, fantasizing about a real wedding night.
If her heart was suffering, the pain, like her pounding headache, would pass. And in the meantime, she’d just have to keep reminding herself that thinking too much about Mitch—especially thinking about tomorrows with Mitch— would be a very grave mistake.
They stood there, on either side of the kitchen table, the wicker basket of flowers between them, looking at each other, attempting to hide their feelings.
As he felt himself being pulled into the velvety warmth of her eyes, the icy knot in his stomach pulled even tighter and Mitch realized that if he didn’t get out of here now, he’d be in danger of suffocating.
“Why don’t you unpack?” he suggested, waving his hand in the general vicinity of the single bedroom. “I’ve got some errands to run.”
It was more than a little obvious that he was desperate to escape. Sasha lowered her eyes and began toying nervously with the flowers, rubbing the ruffled edges of a white carnation between her thumb and index finger. “Will you be back for dinner?” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she wished she could retrieve them.
Hell, she was already starting to sound like a wife. That’s all he needed. Deciding to establish the parameters of this mock marriage now, before things got entirely out of hand, Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’d probably be better if you didn’t wait for me.”
His voice was more distant than she’d ever heard it. Deciding she liked him better when he was yelling at her, and refusing to allow him to see that his cold dismissal stung so cruelly, she lifted her chin and gave him a look of icy aloofness that one of her czarist ancestors might have used to demoralize a recalcitrant servant.
“Fine. I am accustomed to eating alone. And I was not attempting to control your behavior.”
“Good. Because, just for the record, others have tried. But no one has succeeded.”
Now they were even sniping at each other like an old married couple. Deciding that this must’ve been the shortest honeymoon on record, Mitch clenched his teeth and met her cool, level gaze. “Use whatever drawers and closet space you need.”
With that he was gone. Almost, but not quite, slamming the door behind him.
Sasha sank down onto one of the Windsor kitchen chairs and sighed. But having already cried more in the last few days than she had in her entire twenty-four years, her eyes remained resolutely dry.
“DARLING!” Meredith smiled in welcome when she opened the door to her townhouse and saw him standing on her front porch. “I didn’t expect you.”
“We need to talk.”
“This sounds serious.”
“Not really. Well, I guess it is, in a way.” Mitch dragged his hand through his hair. “Can I just come in, so we don’t have to have this conversation in front of an audience?”
Meredith glanced past him toward the elderly woman walking the ancient Schnauzer, as she did each afternoon, rain or shine. “Of course.” She moved aside to let him in, and waved to her neighbor.
“Good evening, Mrs. Lansky,” she called out in those perfectly modulated tones that always reminded critics of Diane Sawyer. “How is Petey tonight?”
“His arthritis seems to be easing up,” the elderly woman answered. “In fact, he hasn’t had so much spring in his step since he was a pup. I think it’s the new dog food I switched him to after your consumer report last month.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Meredith’s smile could have melted butter. “I have a life-style segment tonight that might interest you—it’s about a gourmet restaurant catering to dogs.”
“That does sound interesting.” The elderly woman nodded her snowy head. “Petey and I never miss a broadcast.” That said, owner and dog continued down the walk.
“Stroking your public again?” Mitch asked as he threw himself down on the white silk sofa. The first time he’d entered Meredith’s house, he’d felt as if he’d stumbled into a blizzard. Or a hospital emergency room. Everything—floor, walls, furniture, silk flowers—was as white as snow.
“Laugh all you want to, Mitch, darling. But my Q-ratings are the highest in the Rocky Mountain region.”
“I always thought that was because of your legs.” Despite the seriousness of his mission, his gaze drifted down to the long legs attractively showcased by the short emerald silk robe.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible chauvinist, Cudahy?”
“All the time.” In spite of the seriousness of his mission, he grinned. “Personally, I’ve always taken it as a badge of honor.”
“You would.” She sighed dramatically. “Although I have to admit that if there’s one man who can get away with it, it may be you.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on his mouth. It was hot and long and involved a lot of the clever tongue action she did so well. “I missed you the other night,” she said when the kiss ended.
“I was out of town.”
“That’s what Jake told me when I called the station. So, does this sudden need to get away have anything to do with your reason for coming here?”
“What makes you think that?”
“From your grim expression, darling, I have the impression that you haven’t dropped in for a quickie before I leave for the 6:00 p.m. newscast.”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She sighed and glanced down at her watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. Why don’t you come talk to me while I redo my makeup?”
He followed her into the bedroom, which, like the living room, was a sea of white, suggesting the same Grace Kelly restraint she wore like a second skin in public. Having discovered firsthand exactly how unrestrained the newscaster could be while tumbling around in those white satin sheets, Mitch knew the cool outward appearance was deceiving.
Which was, he reminded himself, what his wedding to Sasha was all about. Deception.
“I don’t want you to start throwing things,” he warned as he watched her smooth moisturizer into her skin with her finge
rtips, “until you hear the entire story.”
“Gracious.” She met his eyes in her mirror. “This does sound serious.”
At least he had her full attention. Sometime between explaining who exactly Sasha Mikhailova was, and ending with yesterday’s wedding ceremony—leaving out the fact that he’d fainted and the part about Elvis and Sasha’s incredible streak of luck at the tables—Mitch was aware of Meredith abandoning her tubes and pots.
“Well,” she said when he finally finished, “that’s quite a story.” She turned around on the little white satin stool and began sponging on her foundation.
Mitch warily watched her, waiting for the explosion he figured would eventually come. The silence was beginning to drive him crazy.
“Since the wedding wasn’t real, there really isn’t any reason for us to stop seeing one another,” he said reassuringly.
“Don’t you mean sleeping together?” she asked, moving on to rose-tinted blusher.
“Well, yeah.” He knew he was mumbling and hated himself for it. “I guess that’s what I mean.”
She accented her eyes with a smudge of kohl at the corners, and applied three coats of mascara. “May I ask a few questions?” she asked finally, after outlining her lips with a vermillion pencil.
“I’d say you’re entitled, given the circumstances.”
“Did you happen to tell your new bride you were coming here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not? If this is simply a marriage of convenience, why should she care what you do? Or with whom you do it?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Most marriages are,” Meredith said sagely. Since she’d already made three trips to the altar before the age of twenty-eight, Mitch figured she knew more about such things than he did.
“But it’s still just a green card marriage,” he insisted.
“So you said.” She filled in the vermillion line with a bright crimson, pressed her lips against a tissue, then turned to face him.
Here we go, thought Mitch as he steeled himself for the fireworks.
“But I don’t have time to get sidetracked with personal discussions right now,” Meredith said calmly, “not when we have something far more important to discuss.”
Mitch, who’d been balanced on the balls of his feet prepared to duck flying tubes, jars and bottles, released his guard somewhat. But Meredith’s next statement had the effect of a fist to his midriff, leaving him breathless.
“Mitch,” she said sweetly, “I want you to get me an exclusive interview with your bride.”
“I DON’T GET THIS,” Jake said as he dribbled the basketball. “Are you telling me that you’re ticked off because your lover isn’t mad at you for getting married?”
“The least Meredith could’ve done was act a little put out,” Mitch complained, anticipating Jake’s move to the right. After leaving Meredith’s, he’d dropped by the station, hoping to find his brother-in-law working out on the court. They’d been playing one-on-one for the past half hour, he was having the damn pants beat off him, and after thirty minutes of sweating and running, he was still as frustrated as he’d been when he’d arrived. “And it isn’t a real marriage.” He switched to the left.
“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?” Jake feigned right, moved left, and sank a nice easy jump shot. “He shoots. He scores! And the crowd goes wild.”
“You traveled,” Mitch complained as he took Jake’s pass and began dribbling the ball. “And you also sound just like Meredith.”
“She didn’t buy the marriage-of-convenience story, either?”
“No.” Mitch swore as Jake deftly stole the ball and shot another quick two points from the perimeter. “How the hell do you expect me to concentrate on my game when you keep bringing up my damn marriage?”
Jake tossed him another pass. “Sorry. I thought you came here to talk.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” Mitch cursed again as he threw up a brick that missed the rim by a mile. The ball went rolling off the court, and came to a stop against the wheel of a fire truck. “I came here because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Jake eyed the ball and shrugged, deciding to let it go, for now. “How about home?”
“Which home? The comfortable, messy one I used to live in? The one with the leather couch? The one that didn’t smell like a lemon orchard and look like an explosion at a rose parade?”
“Ah.” Jake nodded sagely. “I told Katie I thought that was a mistake.”
“Obviously she didn’t listen,” Mitch muttered.
“When you’ve been married a bit longer, you’ll realize that women never listen when it comes to decorating or matchmaking.”
“I don’t intend to be married all that much longer. And I want my couch back.” Mitch raked his hand through his hair and glared at the late rush-hour traffic streaming by the station. “Hell, I want my life back.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re ticked off at your mom and Katie for getting rid of your couch, so you’re going to take it out on Sasha by leaving her alone her first night as a married woman.”
“It’s not her first night.”
“That’s right.” Jake leaned against the backboard post, folded his arms across his broad chest and eyed Mitch with amusement. “You two had an unexpected honeymoon in Laughlin. So, how did it go?”
“It didn’t.” Although he didn’t elaborate, Mitch’s scowl spoke volumes.
“Sounds as if you wish otherwise.”
“And you sound like some damn radio talk show shrink!” Mitch’s outburst caused a trio of pigeons perched on the roof to flap their wings and fly off to the top of a nearby palm tree.
“You probably just need to get laid,” Jake said, laughing. “Which, I figure, probably makes sense. I doubt if there are many guys who could spend the night with Sasha and not want to jump her lush little Russian bones.”
Mitch’s hands curled unconsciously into fists at his side. “Keep that up and I’ll have to kill you.”
Humor was mixed with the open speculation in Jake’s gaze. “Now you sound like a husband.”
Mitch’s muttered curse was ripe and vulgar. “It’s just that she’s a nice woman.”
“The best,” Jake agreed. “And the little fact that she’s in love with you probably makes this marriage thing stickier.”
“She’s not in love with me,” Mitch snapped. The idea was as ridiculous as it was horrifying.
“She’s been bonkers over you since you showed up at the diner like Sir Galahad in a yellow coat and helmet.” The laughter left his eyes as his gaze turned serious. “Which is why you’re going to have to tread carefully, pal. Because if you break that little girl’s heart, there’ll be a whole bunch of people standing in line waiting to kick out your lung.”
“Beginning with you?”
“Nah.” Jake shook his head as his natural humor returned. “Glory will be first. But I’ll be right behind her. Followed, I’ll bet, by your mom and sister.” He nodded in the direction of the station house. “Then the rest of the crew. Then Glory’s regular customers, then—”
“I get the idea.” Mitch’s shoulders drooped as he realized exactly how deep a mess he’d gotten himself into this time. Compared to this phony marriage gambit, rushing into blazing buildings seemed like a lead pipe cinch.
“You want to play some more?” Jake asked. “Or go get drunk?”
“You’ll just keep beating me if we play,” Mitch grumbled. “So I guess the only thing left to do is get drunk.”
“You could go home.”
“No.” Mitch shook his head. “That’s not an option.”
It was Jake’s turn to curse as he shook his head. “I’ll drive. Just let me call Katie.” A smile twitched. “Some of us have learned the wisdom of letting the little woman know we’ll be late.”
As Jake went into the station to make his call, Mitch’s mind wandered to Sasha, alone in his apartment, eating
her solitary dinner. Sympathy stirred, guilt clawed treacherously at his gut.
“Ready?” Jake asked when he returned.
Reminding himself that Sasha was a big girl and had understood the rules going into this fake marriage, Mitch forced down the sympathy and tried to ignore the guilt.
“Ready.” He climbed into the passenger seat of the new minivan Jake had traded his Corvette in for when the baby had been born, and told himself that this married man’s car was just one more reason he had every intention of regaining his single status as soon as possible.
Marriage meant sedate wheels and exchanging Saturday night poker games with the guys for driving the baby-sitter home after an early movie. Marriage meant spending Sundays mowing lawns instead of playing softball and watching ESPN until your eyes glazed over.
Marriage meant doing dishes and changing diapers, buying life insurance, worrying about orthodontists’ bills and college tuition and pretending to be interested by paint and fabric swatches.
Marriage was okay, Mitch supposed, for guys like Jake. Guys who actually seemed to enjoy their tranquil, predictable lives of suffocating domesticity.
And although Mitch was truly glad his sister had found such a paragon of a husband, he vowed that there was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life in captivity.
7
IT WAS TWO in the morning when Mitch poured himself out of the minivan and managed to stagger up the stairs. His head was swimming with a combination of Mexican beer and tequila chasers and he knew he was going to hate himself in the morning. But right now, he felt just fine.
It took him three tries before he managed to unlock the door. Then, leaving a trail of clothes across the living room carpet, he managed to make his way into the bedroom, where he threw himself facedown onto the bed, pinning Sasha with an arm thrown across her chest. And then he began to snore. Loudly.
His breath was like a warm breeze in Sasha’s ear—a beer-scented breeze. When she tried to shift away, he mumbled and pulled her closer. As he held her against his chest, Sasha realized he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. His body was hard and warm. And undeniably inviting.