Call it Love

by Kress, Alyssa

  Cookie ignored the question. Uninvited, she took one of the thick leather chairs on the other side of Chess's desk. "Neither one of you knows the other too well."

  "Is it so important we do?"

  "He is your brother," Cookie pointed out.

  "My half-brother," Chess carefully amended. "And there is a twenty-year difference in our ages. I don't think it's so surprising we aren't very close."

  "Aren't very close—!" Cookie quickly banked her indignation. "That's right, Chess. There is a twenty-year difference in your ages, which is why—" She let her voice harden. "Which is why I would expect you to be the mature one in that relationship."

  "What relationship?" Chess's voice was harsh. He threw the pen down on the desk. "I hate to burst your loyal little bubble, Rebecca, but Alex hasn't the slightest use for me." His eyes narrowed on her. "Nor do I see how that's relevant."

  Her gaze locked on his hand, which he'd clutched into a fist on top of his desk.

  Why, the evening was chock full of revelations. For the first time, Cookie was seeing that Chess felt as ill-used by Alex as the other way around. Now, why had that idea never occurred to her?

  Carefully, she raised her eyes back to Chess's face. "You're mistaken. Alex is doing his very best to make it appear that he doesn't need you. My God, he recently lost his father—of course he needs you!"

  Chess was watching her like a hawk watching prey. "Is this to be a condition?" he coldly asked.

  "I, uh..." A condition? Whoa. That was a brilliant idea. With Chess this desperate she could request all kinds of favors. "I can't force you to be friends with Alex," she thought out loud.

  "I'm glad we both understand that much."

  "But it might be nice if you spent some time with him."

  "Fine." Chess's voice was impatient. "I'll spend more time with Alex. Now. Will you marry me?"

  The sudden demand found Cookie at a loss. Her heart beat wildly in her chest.

  "I don't have much time," Chess went on. His will seemed to pour out of him, undulating forcefully throughout the room. "The launch has to start in September, in time for the Christmas season. Unless I can get the votes to authorize a loan to get financing going on all the prep work, we may as well forget the whole thing. So. Will you marry me?"

  "Chess—" Her mouth felt dry, her stomach sour. She wanted to say no. This man wasn't one of her wounded birds. He wasn't anyone she could hope to manage.

  But, my God, his neck was stuck out on this. And of course he was too damn proud to admit he'd be slaughtered if she didn't step in to save him.

  "Rebecca." He said her name as though it were the title of a medieval castle he meant to take by force. He stood up and came around the desk, stopping before her seated form. He bent down, took a firm grip on her upper arms, and lifted her to her feet. His eyes bore into hers. "Will you marry me?"

  She met those terrible eyes and felt a dizzying sense of destiny. The bad kind that turned your life upside-down. But on the other hand, he was so obviously trying to do the right thing.

  Before she could chicken out, Cookie briefly closed her eyes and squeaked, "Okay."

  It took him a minute to understand she'd agreed. His blazing eyes changed. His nascent rage became sheer disbelief. For all his force of will, he hadn't been certain of victory.

  That small moment of vulnerability should have made Cookie feel better. Instead it made everything a hundred times worse. He no longer resembled the cold enforcer whose feelings she didn't have to consider. Instead, he resembled...a human being.

  "Well," he stated. His steel-strength fingers relaxed. "That's...fine. Very good. And I have your word?" His uncertain tone hardened again.

  Cookie nodded, wishing she knew the location of the nearest bathroom. Her stomach was tied in sailor's knots. They were going to get married. Married! The implications of the word twisted her stomach further even though she knew perfectly well that Chess wasn't interested in a real marriage.

  "My word," she croaked. She was not going to throw up. Even Cookie knew that a proposal of marriage could not be followed by the upchucking of one of the consenting parties. It was bad drama. No motivation.

  Chess, however, didn't seem to grasp the finer points of theater. He took one look at her, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her through a door in the wall behind him. Fortunately, a toilet awaited her there.

  It was not the most auspicious of beginnings to a marriage, but when had Cookie ever done what she was supposed to do?

  ~~~

  Chess waited for her in the living room. As he sat on the sofa, leafing through a magazine, he wondered why he felt like laughing. His intended bride had just made it clear what she thought of tying herself to him in matrimony. He should have been insulted, but instead a chuckle waited deep in his chest.

  No matter what, she'd said yes.

  Apparently recovered, Cookie walked into the room. Her gaze sought him out immediately, then jumped away. "I get over-excited," she explained, putting her hands in the deep pockets of her sweater. "It's happened to me like that since I was a little kid."

  Chess stood, lifting the glass by his side. "Here. Drink this."

  She gave the glass a dark regard.

  Did she expect poison? "It's water."

  She accepted the glass and sipped cautiously.

  "That, uh, reaction must be awfully inconvenient for you," Chess observed.

  "It is." She took another sip.

  He couldn't help the smile that crept over his lips. "I guess that explains the hard time you've had breaking into acting."

  "Oh, no!" Her eyes flashed up at him. "Acting is completely different. Up on stage I'm—"

  She broke off, but Chess knew how she would have finished the sentence. On stage she was another person, whoever she wanted to be, in complete control.

  He felt a sudden, utterly unexpected connection with the woman. He knew about wanting to be in control.

  "I'm happy," Cookie finished weakly. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God, Chess, I didn't mean to imply that I'm unhappy about—"

  "Don't worry about it." The fact that she was digging her hole deeper only tickled the waiting chuckle. "You're simply more honest in expressing how you feel about me than some other people I could mention."

  "Oh, please." Cookie's closed eyes tightened. "I had no intention of—"

  "Sh. Enough." Chess placed two of his long fingers against her mouth.

  At the physical contact, her eyes flew open.

  Chess immediately dropped his hand. Hell. She looked...suspicious. That wasn't amusing. In fact, it rather hurt. But he forced a grim smile as he carefully eased back. "You don't have to explain." Indeed, her current expression explained well enough. "And you don't have to like me. Just marry me."

  Her lashes lowered. "I don't even know you."

  Chess's grim smile deepened. "That's just as well." Was it? Did he really want her going around suspecting him—of God knows what? On the other hand, what choice did have regarding her opinion of him? "Now it's late, and we're both tired. There are still a number of details to work out, but I'd rather do that tomorrow morning."

  "That sounds fine." Cookie did look tired. "I'll call a cab."

  "A cab?" Chess was appalled. A cab? No, that was going too far. She didn't imagine he had the decency to drive her home? "I don't think so, Rebecca."

  She stopped, her hand already on the phone that was sitting on the end table. "Pardon?"

  He put his hand over hers on the phone. As he felt her slight shock at the contact, he kept his hand there. Apparently, she suspected him of being a monster. Well, maybe he was, a little, for he heard himself say, "You're staying here tonight."

  Her face paled. "Wh-what?" She struggled, in vain, to retrieve her hand. "I don't think so."

  He let her go, smiling again. "I think so. In fact, if we're serious about getting married, we don't have a choice."

  Her mouth opened slightly. "Come again?"

  He stepped back, his arms
crossed over his chest, enjoying himself now. "I happen to know the lawyers handling David's estate won't release those shares to you unless the marriage looks real. Even if no one appears to notice what we're doing, we can't afford to look like anything but a real couple." He gave her a small, ironic smile. "That includes making the courtship look real. Considering how quickly we're going to get married, it had better look like a hot one."

  "Oh." The color did not return to her face. "Hot." Her top teeth chewed on her lower lip. "Er, how hot?"

  Chess let the moment expand. His mind played with various possible replies, each one more shocking than the next. If she thought he was a monster anyway, why not go for it? In the end, however, he settled for the truth. "There's a guest bedroom next door to mine."

  Her relief was almost palpable. "I suppose I could handle that."

  "For a few million dollars, yes, I suppose you could," Chess added dryly.

  She shot him a brief, peculiar look, and he immediately regretted the sarcastic remark. They both knew she wasn't doing this for the money.

  Now, why Cookie was doing it, what had made her agree to the scheme, was beyond Chess. He only knew one thing.

  He owed her now.

  "The bedrooms are upstairs," he rumbled. "And Rebecca?"

  She stopped and turned.

  "You won't regret this." Chess's voice went deep because he meant it. She deserved a hell of a lot more, but at least this much. "I promise," he said.

  She dipped her head, and he didn't know if she believed him or not.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Every time I think you've topped yourself, Cookie, you go and pull another one." Cookie's longtime friend, Luther, said this with a sigh as he spun his potter's wheel. His hands were full of the gray clay he was fashioning into a vase. He glanced over at Cookie and then threw another tube of clay on the vase. "You've actually agreed to get married?"

  "It's a marriage of convenience." Cookie wandered through Luther's spacious studio, brushing her fingers over an earthenware plate here, a glass bottle there. Morning sunlight played over the surfaces of Luther's creations, making interesting shadows and spilling pools of color over the concrete floor.

  "His convenience," Luther snorted. He glanced up at Cookie, down at his vase. He thought she didn't know he was using her full figure as a model for his vase.

  Cookie didn't mind. For Luther her body was for art, not sex.

  "Please tell me what you're getting out of it," Luther requested.

  Cookie pursed her lips as she ran a finger through the clay dust on his sink. "This needs to be wiped." She grabbed a sponge from behind the faucet.

  Luther looked up at her as she wet the sponge. "You should be getting something out of it."

  Logically, Cookie had to agree. A marriage of convenience ought to benefit both parties. Meanwhile, she kept her attention on the bottom of Luther's sink as she scrubbed.

  "I thought this guy was your enemy. Been on the opposite side from you all these years. Why are you even crossing the street for him?"

  Cookie continued scrubbing the sink. She wasn't sure she knew the answer herself. "I couldn't leave him in the lurch." Chess had always been the one with the power. Maybe she'd agreed to help because finally she'd be holding some of the reins.

  "No, that couldn't be enough." Straightening suddenly, Luther stopped work on his vase. "I got it. Secretly, you have a crush on him. In fact, you've had the hots for him for ages."

  The sponge slipped across the surface of the sink as Cookie choked. "Ri-ight."

  Luther chuckled. "It was worth a try."

  Cookie turned on the water to rinse the sponge. "Chess is not even my friend, let alone a secret crush."

  "Too bad." Luther returned his attention to his vase. "If you liked him, and you were married, you might actually try—you know." He shot her a wry look. "That scary S-word thing."

  Cookie squeezed the sponge in her hand but kept her voice bland. "Why are you always bringing sex up with me? As if it were the most important thing in the world."

  "No, just one of the best." Luther chuckled.

  Cookie let out an exasperated breath. "So you keep telling me."

  Luther spun his potter's wheel and smoothed out the vase. "And you never believe me."

  "For one thing, your kind of sex would be different from what a woman would experience with a man. And for another, I do believe some people can enjoy it. Just not me."

  "All right." Luther went from teasing to resigned. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. It's just that in the five years I've known you, you've never made clear what the problem is, and I wonder...I wonder if maybe you should tell somebody. That talking about it might help."

  Shaking her head, Cookie turned away to squeeze out the sponge she'd been using. "Definitely would not help."

  "And it's not something physical, like you're dying or anything?"

  Emphatically, Cookie shook her head. This was a purely mental problem and she was fairly certain where it came from. The episode from third grade. It couldn't have lasted more than half an hour, and it hadn't even included sexual abuse, but it had colored the rest of her life.

  She'd insisted on walking home from school by herself over the objections of Betsy, her father's housekeeper. Four boys from an older grade had lain in wait for her on the way. They'd grabbed her and dragged her to their hideout, a shack they'd put together from discarded boards and hidden in the landscaping between two apartment buildings. For thirty minutes they'd taken turns holding Cookie down with her face in the dirt. After alternately laughing and poking fun at her, they'd eventually tired of the game and run off.

  Cookie's main concern as she'd limped back to the street had been to avoid getting into trouble with Betsy or, worse yet, getting her father into trouble with the officious older woman. Betsy had been correct, of course. It hadn't been safe for Cookie to walk home from an urban public school by herself. It was all Cookie's fault.

  So she made up a friend at whose house she had stopped on the way home. Having disobeyed Betsy by not calling ahead with this information, Cookie lost the privilege of walking home by herself any more. Needless to say, she'd been greatly relieved to hear it.

  Ever since then, Cookie had been unable to bear close, or in any way prolonged, physical contact, the type that could remind her of those boys holding her down and herself unable to move. A quick hug from a friend was the most she could manage.

  Perhaps her shame should have diminished over the years, but it was as alive as the day she'd walked home. If anything, it had gotten worse, magnified by her inability to deal with the problem.

  "I'm glad to hear you're not dying," Luther declared. With his wheel turning, he kept his gaze on his work. "But I wonder if you're completely sure about being unable to have sex. I mean..." To Cookie's astonishment, red crept into his face. "Have you ever tried?"

  The question caused red to sweep into her own face. "I've tried." With a jerky movement, she threw the sponge back onto the sink.

  "Once?" Luther queried.

  "Twice." Clearing her throat, Cookie paced toward Luther's shelves. She hated to think about the two occasions, several years apart, on which she'd attempted physical engagement with a man. Each time, she'd completely frozen. Panic had seized her to the point she could barely breathe, let alone enjoy the experience.

  The first time she'd been unaware there'd be a problem. The second time had been a test to see if anything had changed.

  Nothing had. If anything, the panic and discomfort had grown worse.

  "Twice." Luther stopped his wheel and stared at his unfinished vase. "I am talking to a thirty-five-year-old woman who's only had sex twice in her life."

  "Luther!" His incredulous tone ended up making her laugh. "Just because you're a—a hog doesn't mean the rest of us have to overindulge."

  A smile dug a crescent into one side of his face. "I wouldn't call more than twice in thirty-five years overindulgence, my dear." He stood and, raising one
lanky leg, stepped over his potter's wheel. "I think it's time you tried again. Possibly with your new husband—toward whom I suspect you actually do have a fancy."

  "Please." Feeling her face flame, Cookie forced herself to meet Luther's eyes as he approached her. "He thinks I'm a featherbrained fluffball."

  "Doesn't mean he wouldn't sleep with you."

  "Not the sort of experience I have in mind."

  Luther pressed his lower lip upward. "No, I suppose you'd want something more..."

  "Practical," Cookie supplied.

  Luther tilted an eyebrow.

  Cookie hugged her arms around herself and smiled. "If I were to grit my teeth and plow through the process again, I'd want to end up with something for my trouble."

  Luther continued looking quizzical.

  "A baby," Cookie explained.

  Her friend regarded her a moment longer and then released a small explosion of air. A wide smile split his face. "Oh, Cookie."

  "What?"

  Still grinning, Luther strolled back toward his workstation. "As if you could ever use another person that way."

  "Why not? If—if I were to take full responsibility? If the guy never had to even know?"

  Shaking his head, Luther lowered to a seat behind his wheel and started it spinning.

  "What would be wrong with it?" Cookie stepped toward him. "Assuming I could let some man paw me?"

  "About a thousand things, and you could name every one." He smiled and continued shaping the vase in her image. "My dear, sweet, utterly harmless Cookie. You are not diabolical. The only reason you would ever let a man 'paw you' is if he'd completely demolished your emotional defenses, roused that sleeping sexual instinct of yours, and gotten you to fall head over heels in love with him. In which case," Luther mused, "it would probably end up fine and dandy if he got you pregnant as well."

  Cookie opened her mouth, prepared to retort that she was far more likely to do something diabolical—to Luther—than let a man demolish her defenses, that hell would probably freeze before she found any sexual instincts, and the last thing she would ever do was fall in love—particularly not with Chester Bradshaw. Her indignant reply, however, was prevented by the ringing of Luther's telephone.