TEN!” THE REVELERS ROARED as they stared at the live broadcast from Times Square on Harry’s gigundo TV. “Nine!”
I must be nuts, Izzy thought, squeezed up against Clay in the crowd surrounding the television. Did I really just agree to marry Clay Granger?
Clay leaned in close to her, his palm over the top of his champagne flute to keep its contents from spilling. When he spoke into her ear, she could only hear about every other word because of the noise, but she thought he said, “This countdown reminds me of getting ready to jump out of an airplane.”
“Six! Five!”
He laughed. “Man, I love that feeling, when you’re just falling through the air, falling and falling. Know what I mean?”
He’s nuts, too.
“Three! Two! One!”
We’re both nuts. What are we doing?
“Happy New Year!” Horns shrieked; voices whooped. Izzy, having sworn off alcohol for the duration of her pregnancy, pretended to take a sip of her champagne; Clay drained his.
As “Auld Lang Syne” played in the background, couples paired up for the traditional kiss at the stroke of midnight. Izzy pointedly avoided looking at Clay. She feigned another sip of champagne. When she lowered her glass, he was staring down at her.
He took her glass out of her hand and set it on a side table, along with his. Then he tilted her chin up, leaned down, and kissed her.
It was a sweet kiss, soft and unassuming. But as he started to pull away, he hesitated, and his mouth grazed hers again.
His lips were warm, and they tickled, making her shiver with heat. He closed his eyes, so she did, too. She felt a firmer pressure as he moved his mouth gently over hers.
This is a real kiss, not just a New Year’s kiss. Clay’s really kissing me! And, God help her, she was kissing him back.
She felt a slow rush of vertigo, as if she were losing her balance... as if she were, in fact, falling through the air, falling and falling... It stopped when his fingers threaded through her hair to cup the back of her head, steadying her. He encircled her waist with his other arm, holding her firmly. She returned the embrace, telling herself, No, it’s really just a New Year’s kiss. Nothing wrong with a little New Year’s kiss.
Clay’s tongue, hot and tasting of champagne, swept lightly over her lips. She inhaled sharply. His arm tightened around her momentarily, and then he pulled back and looked at her. She noticed his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath that fisherman-knit sweater. For the briefest moment his eyes searched hers, and then he seemed to gather himself, and looked away.
So did Izzy. Around them, the other couples had already separated and the party was getting back into full swing.
Harry sauntered up to them, chuckling and shaking his head. “I must say, you two are just full of surprises tonight.”
“Yeah,” Clay said after a moment. He glanced briefly in Izzy’s direction, his dazed expression that of a man who’d just realized the full extent of the deal he’d struck. “I guess we are.”
CHAPTER THREE
I’LL SHOOT YOU in front of the fireplace,” Harry told Izzy, adjusting his tripod in the living room of Clay’s Italianate Victorian home—beautiful and gigantic, a veritable mansion—which was swarming with wedding guests. He pointed to a spot. She stood there and faced the photographer, who struck her as strangely dapper in white tie and tails and that Yankees cap. Spinning it around backward, he leaned into the camera. “Turn to your left,” he instructed as he focused.
She did, and winced at the snow-reflected sun streaming in through the tall windows facing the backyard.
“To your right then,” Harry amended. “And, uh, do you think you could manage a smile? I’m the one who should be frowning—I’m missing the play-offs for this. You, on the other hand, have just married the catch of the century.”
My God, I did, didn’t I? Had it really only been a week since Clay had proposed to her—if you could call it that—at Harry’s New Year’s Eve party? Izzy glanced down at the ring finger of her left hand, where a chunky wedding band snuggled up against the promised Tiffany diamond, and then at Clay, nursing a scotch in the corner.
Her new husband looked pensive as he watched her posing for Harry’s camera. All morning he’d seemed a little removed from what was going on—except when the judge had pronounced them man and wife and invited him to kiss the bride. He’d looked her directly in the eye for the first time that day, and they’d connected, just briefly, with a wordless intimacy that had shocked her. Then he’d winked.
Smiling that careless smile of his, he’d closed his hands gently over her arms, leaned down, and kissed her—a ritual kiss, soft and fleeting, yet she’d felt an unmistakable sexual tug as his lips grazed hers. His hands had tightened around her arms before he’d released her, and he’d quickly looked away.
She drew in a deep, calming breath, let it out and smiled.
“Hold the bouquet where we can see it, sweetheart,” her mother urged over the chatter of the guests and the music of the string quartet in the front parlor. Paola Fabrioni looked elegant as always that day, in a silk sheath the color of eggplant that she’d made last week, along with four of her granddaughters’ dresses. “That’s right. You look beautiful, Isabella. You glow.”
Izzy groaned to herself. She wished her mother would stop telling her she glowed. Brides were supposed to be “radiant.” Expectant mothers “glowed.”
“Whoa—what happened to that smile?” Harry chastised. “Say ‘more meat, please!’”
“More meat, please,” Izzy repeated as the shutter clicked.
She hadn’t so much as hinted to her parents of her condition. In a couple of months she’d announce her pregnancy, and by the time she delivered, if the baby was a little early, well... It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Well, it was, but just a lie of omission, and a white lie at that—a lie meant to protect the feelings of people she loved.
Who was she kidding? A lie was a lie. Her parents had always treated her with love and respect, and here she was staging this ridiculous farce of a wedding, in large part to keep them from finding out she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. They’d believed her without hesitation when she’d used her fiancé’s notoriety as an excuse for the wedding being so hasty. Clay was a famous man, she’d explained, and so well-known for being an eligible bachelor that the press would hound them if they knew about the wedding. The shorter the engagement, the less chance of word leaking out. As for a honeymoon, they’d had no time to plan one, so they were putting that off until later... much later.
Her parents had accepted all this easily, which only made Izzy feel worse; they trusted her, and she was lying through her teeth. What they had not taken with the same good grace, however, was the civil ceremony. She and Clay wouldn’t be truly married in the eyes of God, they’d maintained, unless they were married by a priest. And since Clay had been brought up Catholic, there should be no impediment to a religious wedding, no matter how rushed. How could she tell them that she didn’t want to be truly married in the eyes of God—that a church wedding was too much of a farce even for her to stomach? So she’d blamed it on Clay, claiming that he preferred it this way. Just another lie, she’d thought dispiritedly. What was one more lie?
“Okay,” Harry said, “now let’s get one of the happy couple. Front and center, Mr. Granger.”
Clay, looking like a zillion bucks in a well-tailored navy suit and silver tie, handed his glass to someone and crossed to the fireplace.
“Get behind Izzy,” Harry ordered him. “That’s right. Closer, you guys. Can you lose the flowers, Izzy? Somebody take those flowers away.”
Izzy tossed the bouquet of orchids into the crowd. A hand reached up automatically to grab it. All the Fabrionis laughed when they saw the recipient to be steely-haired, hawk-faced Teodora—Izzy’s maiden aunt.
“You’re next, Aunt Teddy!” piped little Rosa, one of Izzy’s many nieces.
“Bite your tongue,” Teddy growled. “Here.” She handed the
delighted child the bouquet. “Shove that down the garbage disposal, will you?”
Harry pretended to wipe away a tear. “God, I love weddings.” He returned his attention to the newlyweds. “All right, you guys, look like you’re having a good time. Clay, put your arms around Izzy.”
Clay encircled her tentatively with his arms.
“Nice try, Slick—like this.” Harry left his camera to position his subjects. Wrapping Clay’s arms snugly around Izzy’s waist, he said, “Jeez, loosen up, you guys. Izzy, cross your arms over Clay’s, like that. Good. Now intertwine your fingers. Both hands. Lean back against him. Relax. There.” He returned to his camera and fiddled with the settings.
Izzy had wanted to let Harry in on the real reason behind this wedding, but Clay had advised discretion even with him, at least for the time being. She’d accused him of not trusting his best friend to keep a confidence, but he’d maintained that it wasn’t a matter of trust. Harry always meant well, but he liked to talk, and there were times when he spoke without thinking. Clay didn’t want the truth leaking out before they’d even gotten married. After things had settled down, they’d decide whom to share their secret with.
Clay’s right hand rested firmly against the underside of Izzy’s left breast. She felt its unnerving pressure through the jacket of her ivory Armani suit—a gift from Clay, along with the triple strand of pearls and matching earrings she wore. Between the rings, the pearls, and the suit, he’d dropped a pretty hefty chunk of change on her already. Adding to that the cost of airline tickets and hotel rooms for out-of-town guests, limo service for Izzy’s entire extended family, catering for this wedding luncheon, and various other expenses, she figured it was costing him upward of fifty thousand dollars to marry her. Which was about a thousand times as much cash as she had to her name right now. He’d made it clear that the money was nothing to him, and considering he was an actual honest-to-god billionaire, she didn’t doubt that. But it still made her uneasy to be on the receiving end of such generosity.
“Just give me a minute here,” Harry muttered as he altered the height and angle of the tripod.
Clay dipped his head; she felt his face brush her hair. “Mmm,” he murmured. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
Besides tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff you bought me? “Uh, I don’t wear perfume. That must be my shampoo you’re smelling.”
“No, there’s something else.” He nuzzled her temple. “Something warm... a subtle undertone.”
“Soap?”
“No. It smells... Mediterranean.”
She grinned. “Olive oil.”
A pause. “Olive oil?”
“I use it to keep my skin soft. It’s a habit I picked up from my mother.”
“No wonder you look good enough to eat.” She arched an eyebrow, and even though he couldn’t see her, he whispered, “Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“You know what,” he chuckled. She felt his chest vibrate against her back, and became acutely aware of him... his arms, rigid with muscle beneath the soft sleeves of his suit... the solid length of his body crushed against her from behind. He disengaged his right hand to push her eyebrow down, then threaded his fingers through hers again, lightly brushing her breast in the process. The way he stilled told her the touch had been accidental, and had unsettled him. She felt the soft thrumming of his pulse where his wrist pressed against her.
Izzy took a deep breath in an effort to slow her own quickening heart, and inhaled a complex fusion of scents: freshly laundered cotton, warm skin, clean wool, and an enigmatic fragrance that reminded her of her mother’s little herb garden. It didn’t smell perfumey, like after-shave or cologne; it smelled as if he’d just taken a walk in the woods.
“All right, you guys,” Harry said, straightening. “Look at the birdie. More meat, please!”
“More meat, please!”
Click.
“Great,” Harry pronounced. “Now let’s have one of the parents with the bride and groom.”
By “the parents” he meant Izzy’s parents. Clay’s were notably absent. Presumably they were still in Europe, although not with each other. His mother was a Swiss-French socialite, his father a wealthy American bank executive, and they had divorced when Clay was eleven. That was all Izzy knew about them, and she only knew that much because of Harry. She’d never met them, and Clay hated talking about them. They hadn’t come to his first wedding, and she had no idea whether he’d even invited them to this one.
“Izzy,” Harry said, “do you know where your father is? We need him for the next picture.”
“Have you looked on the porch?” she asked. “I told him he could smoke his cigars out there.”
“I’ll check it out. Meanwhile, you guys stay put.”
Clay, still standing behind Izzy, stroked her arms and whispered in her ear, “How you holding up? Any more dizziness?”
She’d grown faint in the judge’s chambers that morning, at the conclusion of their brief marriage ceremony. Aunt Teddy—a retired registered nurse—had made her sit with her head down until the feeling passed, then chided her for skipping breakfast. Of course, she’d been too racked by nausea to eat the waffles and sausage her mother had put in front of her that morning, but she could hardly admit to that with her entire family hovering over her.
Izzy didn’t honestly know whether the nausea was from morning sickness or anxiety over the fact that she was actually marrying Clay Granger. She’d experienced a little spotting over the past couple of days, too, a disconcerting development that she’d have to check into as soon as she found a doctor. Could something like that be caused by nerves?
She hoped that was all there was to it. Just five weeks into her pregnancy, she already felt intensely protective toward her baby. She’d always heard about how powerful the maternal instinct was, but she’d never realized quite how powerful until now.
“I’m okay,” she told Clay. “But I wouldn’t mind some lunch.”
“I think they’re just about finished setting up the buffet in the dining room. As soon as Harry’s done with us, I’ll find you a place to sit and bring you a plate of something hot.”
“Thanks,” she said, feeling a little flustered but pleased by how well he played the solicitous bridegroom. No, that wasn’t fair, because it implied that he was putting on some sort of an act, when in fact his concern seemed completely genuine. That he cared about her was gratifying, but she reminded herself that his affection was... brotherly.
Yes, that was it. Having no real family to speak of, Clay truly did view her as a little sister, someone to alternately tease and protect. Which was good, because she’d be in real trouble if there was anything more to it. On-the-prowl males had been the bane of her existence for way too many years, and she was officially washing her hands of them for good. Let Clay Granger practice the art of sexual conquest on someone else—rather, on many someone elses. She’d stay at home with her baby, maybe do a little freelance work, and not give it a second thought when he was out late at night. Or when he didn’t come home. It would be none of her business what he did, or with whom. She wouldn’t care. Not a bit.
“Izzy?” Clay closed a hand over her shoulder. “You sure you’re okay? You look like you might be feeling sick again.”
“No, I’m fine.” More or less. She was beginning to feel vaguely light-headed, but that didn’t mean anything. Necessarily. “I just want to eat.”
“I know. Soon.”
Harry rejoined them. “He’s not out there. Any ideas, Clay? It’s your house.”
Clay looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. “Yeah—come with me.” He led Harry around the corner; Izzy heard their footsteps heading upstairs.
Ridiculously, she felt slightly bereft at Clay’s sudden absence. One minute he was caressing her arms and asking after her welfare. The next, he was gone. Well, get used to it, she warned herself. This marriage was a farce—nothing more than an elaborate in-joke. And I’m
just waiting for the punch line.
Her feeling of abandonment accentuated the slight wooziness that had been creeping up on her. Not so slight, actually. Her head felt cold; her hands trembled slightly.
The caterers announced that luncheon was served. The guests all gravitated to the dining room, with the exception of her mother, who was waiting for her husband to be found. Paola circled the room slowly, studying the foxhunting paintings hung at eye level on the oak-paneled walls—just a few examples of the sporting art that Clay had been collecting for years. Izzy inhaled the savory scents that wafted through the house, picturing in her mind a table laden with foods richly sauced in cream and butter and wine, surrounding an ornate wedding cake...
Suddenly she didn’t feel much like eating anymore.
A wave of vertigo washed over her and she turned and gripped the intricately carved mantel to steady herself. One more picture, that was all. Then she’d go find a place to lie down. Her room. Clay had given her a bedroom next to his, a lovely room done in restful shades of green. She’d go there and lock the door and lie down. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
Two small, framed photographs were propped on the mantel, and she turned her attention to them to focus her mind outside of herself. The first was a snapshot of Clay and his late wife in ski gear, laughing as they tussled in the snow. Judith had been on the tallish side, a wholesome, athletic honey-blonde. And he’d loved her to distraction. Izzy leaned closer to study Clay’s wind-burned face. He’d been so young; he looked so happy, so guilelessly happy. She hadn’t seen him look like that in years.
The second picture made her smile in spite of her queasiness, since it brought back such happy memories. It was a shot of Clay, Harry and her when they were about sixteen, on the brocade settee in the foyer of Clay’s parents’ apartment. The two boys sat with Izzy stretched out across their laps, her head propped on her hand, laughing as they tickled her. Harry had used the camera’s time-release function to take the picture so that he could be in it. His hair, thick and dark, was pulled back in a ponytail. Clay’s was short, as always. Izzy peered closely at her own adolescent image with a sense of shock. She’d been so pretty, with her wild hair and big, toothy smile. She didn’t remember having looked like that. Had Clay thought she was pretty? Did he think she was pretty now?
The Marriage Arrangement Page 4