The Marriage Arrangement

by Patricia Ryan

  Then about half the population of the universe would give anything to trade places with her right now as she watched Clay whip his silver tie off and drape it over the tie hanger in the closet. Izzy had changed into her flannel nightgown and chenille robe in the bathroom, but Clay was apparently less modest. She wondered just exactly how much less modest; at what point, if any, would he stop undressing?

  He removed his cuff links and dropped them into a little round leather box on his dresser; she heard the soft rattle of gold against gold. Sitting on the club chair, he tugged off his shoes and socks. The shoes went on the shoe tree, the socks in the hamper.

  “I’m impressed,” she said, untying her robe and laying it across the foot of the bed. “I’ve never known a man who could put away his own clothes.”

  He gave her the once-over, grinning his patented lady-killer grin. “Did I ever tell you about this thing I’ve got for flannel?”

  So this is how he was going to play this particular scene: with boyish flirtatiousness. Deciding she could handle that, Izzy tried for a bemused smirk as she slid between the cool sheets. “Then you must be the only male animal in existence who feels that way. Isn’t flannel famous for being a turn-off?”

  “Not to this male animal.” He popped the buttons on his crisp shirt and shrugged it off. Izzy’s insides turned to flan at the sight of this particular male animal’s bare torso. Clay was classically proportioned, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, each and every muscle well-defined.

  All you really need for street luge, Harry had told her, is a street, a street luge, and rock-hard abs. Clay had the abs for it, all right—almost a caricature of the washboard stomach every man coveted.

  He turned to toss the shirt into the hamper, the muscles of his back flexing and retracting. “Flannel’s so... soft,” he said as he unbuckled his belt. Izzy tried to think of somewhere else she could look other than at the drop-dead gorgeous man chatting to her so casually as he stripped. “Like a woman. I wish more women wore it.”

  They do, Izzy thought. But generally not when they’re going to be sharing a bed with the likes of Clay Granger. “I would have thought black lace would be more your speed.” She lay on her side and propped her head on her hand, hoping she came off about a thousand times more relaxed than she felt.

  “As long as it’s a nightgown, I’m happy.” He slid the belt out of its loops and added it to the collection on his belt hanger, then unbuttoned his fly. “I hate pajamas on women.”

  Izzy’s mouth felt like she’d been eating talcum powder. “Why? They’re comfortable.”

  “Yeah, but nightgowns are more—” he grinned and shrugged as he turned his back to her “—user-friendly.”

  Zip. The trousers fell. Izzy’s eyes followed their path to the floor, taking in gray boxer briefs and long, powerful legs. She rolled onto her back, examining the molding on the ceiling as he kicked off the pants and hung them up. Superimposed on the ceiling was a ghostlike image of Clay in his skivvies, as if that brief glimpse had been burned onto her retinas. He had no hips to speak of, and a nice, tight ass, the kind women just ached to get their hands on. His legs were, well, ridiculous. Too perfect.

  God, this is gonna be hard. She closed her eyes to dispel the image, but it lingered, taunting her with its sexually charged beauty. Really hard.

  Izzy felt the bed dip as he sat. “Izz? You okay?”

  She looked over at him, eyes full of concern, body that wouldn’t quit, and thought, No. I think I may be in serious trouble here. But she said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  He reached over and brushed the hair out of her eyes. She inhaled the warm scent of his skin. “You’re not feeling sick again?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just been a long day.”

  “I’ll say.” He flicked off the light and got under the covers with her. Even separated as they were, she felt his heat.

  Izzy lay on her back in the dark, her mind vibrating as if she’d just drunk a pot of her mother’s espresso. How was she possibly going to be able to sleep in the same bed with Clay Granger? This was a test of strength to rival anything Hercules had to put up with.

  At least Clay hadn’t gone to bed naked. She didn’t think she could handle, that.

  “I normally strip down completely before I get into bed,” he said.

  Of course. Out of the darkness above her there materialized an iridescent likeness of Clay Granger, sans skivvies, looking like something a Greek sculptor would have chiseled out of marble.

  “But,” he said, “under the circumstances...”

  She cleared her throat and attempted a jocular tone. “Thank you for your discretion.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said as he started moving around under the covers. It quickly became clear to Izzy that he was peeling off his briefs. Apparently Clay’s idea of discretion and Izzy’s were worlds apart.

  She could just make out an arm snaking up from beneath the covers and tossing the underwear on the floor.

  Just try to sleep now, smart-ass, she dared herself.

  She felt him approach her in the dark, and held her breath while he kissed her lightly on the forehead. Knowing that he was naked as he delivered this kiss infused the seemingly innocent gesture with potent eroticism. “Sleep well, Izz.” He rolled away from her.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She rolled the opposite way. That’ll happen.

  THERE WAS A ZIPPER on Izzy’s stomach. A brass zipper, like on a pair of blue jeans. Funny she’d never noticed it before—that or the fact that her belly had grown so enormous so quickly.

  I wonder what the baby looks like. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl. Hesitating only slightly, she took hold of the little brass pull and drew the zipper down. Her stomach opened neatly, revealing a tissue-wrapped bundle within.

  With great care she withdrew the bundle and placed it on the bed next to her. Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped first one layer of tissue paper, and then another, and another, until finally...

  Izzy gasped with delight at the infant nestled within the tissue, as plump and beautiful as a china doll, but warm and alive. She trailed her fingers tentatively over the dark, downy hair, the peach-soft skin. It was a girl! A perfect baby girl! With brown eyes and a dimple on one cheek.

  She rocked her baby and sang her a lullaby. And then she knew it was time to wrap her up and put her back. How she wished she could hold her forever, just like this, but it wasn’t time yet. Her baby wasn’t ready to be born.

  Knowing it was for the best, Izzy enfolded her daughter back up in the tissue, tucked the bundle carefully into her stomach, and pulled the zipper back up.

  All in good time...

  IZZY AWOKE the next morning to heavy breathing from behind her. It came in rhythmic gasps, broken now and then by a strained grunt.

  The bed felt empty. She rolled over and saw Clay, on the primitive rug that covered the plank floor, doing crunches in his briefs. He had his hands behind his head, his knees bent. The sheen of perspiration that covered his body highlighted its beauty—like a marble statue polished to a brilliant gleam to show off its perfection.

  He must have done a lot of crunches, given his exertion and the way he was sweating. She counted a hundred fourteen more before he collapsed, eyes closed, chest heaving.

  Izzy was going to say good morning then, but before she could, Clay leapt to his feet and crossed to the pull-up bar in the archway that led to the dressing alcove. His back to her, he grabbed the bar with both hands and rose gracefully, every muscle in his back standing out in sharp relief, then lowered... rose and lowered, over and over. Again and again. For a long time.

  As he grew fatigued, his arms and shoulders quivered slightly. He grunted with the effort of repeatedly hauling himself to the bar. Izzy sat up and watched him openly, speculating on the potential of that well-honed body in regard to a more intimate form of exercise.

  His breath came in rasps, his body shook. Sweat trickled down his back in rivulets. Izzy was am
bushed by an image of herself underneath Clay, and felt a surge of wanting that took her breath away.

  Clay dropped to the floor and dragged both hands through his wet hair, then turned and saw Izzy. “Hey,” he said breathlessly, coming to stand at the side of the bed. He wiped his hands on his sweat-soaked briefs. Izzy’s eyes actually hurt with the effort it took to keep from scanning downward. “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Lousy.” Except for that dream, she amended silently, smiling to herself as she remembered the tissue-wrapped baby with the single dimple.

  Clay nodded thoughtfully, then smiled—not the trademark woman-eating grin, but a smile of gentle understanding that made a tendril of warmth uncurl inside her. “I didn’t get much sleep, either. I mean, I got to sleep okay, but I kept waking up.”

  “I heard you stirring when Teddy started banging around next door.”

  “Yeah, and that was just the first time. I couldn’t seem to relax.” He shrugged. “I guess we’ll get used to sleeping with each other.”

  She chuckled self-consciously. “You think so?”

  “Sure. I mean, I know it’s kind of strange and all, sharing a bed. ’Cause usually, when a man and a woman share a bed, it’s ’cause, you know...”

  “Right, but, like, we don’t have to let that make us feel... you know...” God, Izzy, think you can sound any more like a complete drooling idiot? “I mean, we’re friends and all.”

  “Yeah. That’s right.” He absently rubbed his stomach, corrugated with muscle.

  Izzy swallowed hard.

  Clay nodded toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna go jump in the shower.” He paused in the open doorway. After a moment he turned and looked at her. “We are friends, Izzy. We’ve been friends for twenty years. We can handle this, right?”

  Fat chance. “You bet.”

  “Great.” He closed the bathroom door.

  Izzy flopped down on her back. She heard water running and imagined Clay stripping out of those damp briefs and stepping into the shower. She’d heard pregnancy messed around with your hormones, subjecting you to periods of heightened sexual awareness. That had to be the cause of all her overheated imaginings.

  The fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Clay that way was actually kind of humbling. Here she’d warned herself to be on the lookout for any amorous moves on his part, and now all she could think about was what he looked like in the shower.

  She pictured Clay soaping himself up, and heat flooded her from within. She thought about the tenderness in his eyes when he was worried about her, the way he’d held her yesterday, rocking her like a baby... kissing her hair...

  The heat coalesced into feverish need.

  Oh, yeah, I can handle this, she thought, sneering mentally at her naïveté in entering into this marriage. We’re friends, right? No problem. No problem at all.

  I CAN HANDLE THIS, Clay thought as he stood in the shower stall, letting the too hot water hammer some sense into him.

  Just stop thinking about her like that.

  Right, he thought, looking down and seeing where the direction of his thoughts had led him. Never a big fan of sexual frustration, he set about relieving it—a utilitarian act like brushing his teeth or using the john. Closing his eyes, he imagined his soapy fist to be the willing body of...

  Isabella Fabrioni.

  No! He forced his mind’s eye to produce a succession of random sex objects—Victoria’s Secret models and strippers and, yes, French upstairs maids—but this crazy-haired waif in a rumpled flannel nightgown kept elbowing them aside.

  In the end, it was sweet, soft little Izzy who took center stage in his amorphous sexual fantasy... Izzy who opened her arms, her body... Izzy who breathed hot, sweet murmurings into his ear, who drew him into her slick heat, who pumped all the need and frustration from his body, faster and faster, yes—

  He swallowed a gasp of surprise as he came—surprise because it was so explosive, like an M-80 going off inside him.

  Fuck. He leaned against the smooth tiled wall, catching his breath as the sensation ebbed. It was never that good when he jerked off. Hell, it was never that good when he was with a woman. Not for a long time, anyway. Not since...

  He pushed off the wall and stood directly under the shower, lowering his head to let the scalding spray beat on the back of his neck.

  Judith.

  Don’t think about Judith, either. Judith is gone. And sooner or later, Izzy will be gone, too. Remember that.

  Everybody leaves sooner or later. Everybody.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I CAN HANDLE THIS... I can handle this... Clay repeated to himself later that morning as he guided his white Porsche through the network of winding single-lane roads that crisscrossed North Moon Bay, most of them converging at his destination: the village square.

  He glanced at Izzy in the passenger seat of the sleek little convertible, gazing at the snow-blanketed scenery—undulating hills, rambling stone fences, Colonial houses with wreath-adorned doors—admiring the graceful line of her nose. It should be too large for her face, but it wasn’t. The secret must lie in the balancing of her features, he decided. With that big, lush mouth and those bottomless eyes commanding so much attention, a delicate little nose would only get lost.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she murmured.

  When had her voice started sounding so velvety to him? When had he become susceptible to the baffling allure of hair with a mind of its own, the unaccountably enticing fragrance of olive oil mingled with soap?

  Man, he was in trouble. Trouble you don’t need. Trouble you should actively avoid. Clay forced himself to recall the harsh emptiness of being suddenly alone. Better to be alone all the time, to like it that way, than to let someone inside. ’Cause when they leave, they take a chunk of you with them, and he didn’t have that much left to lose.

  He told himself it was only Izzy’s nearness and the novelty of their situation that was firing up his hormones of late. He was just horny, that was all. It had been a while since he’d gotten any. If he remedied that situation, his libido would settle down and he could go back to regarding Izzy as...

  She gasped, and he stole another glance as she pointed to a family of deer at the edge of Lindholm’s woods.

  As what? A little sister? He recalled his fantasy that morning, a fantasy so powerful it had felt better than any actual sex he’d had in ten years.

  Actual sex. That was what he needed. But with whom, and when? He’d just gotten married. It would be a trifle tacky, even for him, to go off tomcatting during the honeymoon period. What was a decent interval, he wondered, between the wedding and the first fling? Two weeks? Two months? Two years? What would Emily Post have to say on the matter?

  “What?” Izzy said.

  “What?”

  “You laughed, kind of.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “We’re here.”

  He negotiated the Porsche into a tight space right in front of La Pâtisserie. Good. He wouldn’t have to drop her off and come back. Izzy shouldn’t be walking any more than she absolutely had to.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked as he took her hand to help her out of the car.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. And Aunt Teddy said it would be okay, as long as I didn’t tour the village on foot. Don’t worry.”

  When they’d come downstairs that morning, they’d found Teddy drinking coffee and listening to some twangy female country singer on her phone; not the best sound quality, but she didn’t seem to mind. The idea of sitting around his kitchen making small talk with Izzy’s rather singular aunt hadn’t appealed to him, so he’d decided to take his bride out for a nice Sunday brunch. Only Izzy hadn’t thought she could handle a big meal, so he’d brought her here to La Pâtisserie, the quaint little pastry shop where he picked up breakfast on the way to work every morning.

  Izzy paused on the sidewalk, taking in the square—a long rectangle of snowy lawn surrounded by picturesque shops, still decorated for the holi
days. Pine swags encircled the copper lampposts. Gold garlands and a big red ribbon festooned the cannon in the middle of the square. The icy air was scented with a sharp undertone of wood smoke, which could be seen curling from many of the chimneys.

  “This is wonderful,” Izzy said, her breath forming clouds as she spoke. “It’s like something out of Norman Rockwell.”

  Clay found it absurdly gratifying that she seemed to have fallen instantly in love with the village he’d adored as long as he could remember. His all too infrequent visits to his grandfather in North Moon Bay had been oases of warmth in a chilly childhood. Grandpa Tom had always greeted him with a hug. That was what Clay remembered most about him—those bear hugs that smelled comfortingly of leather and tobacco.

  Living in NoMo—in the house he’d come to regard in his youth as his only real home—was Clay Granger’s greatest pleasure. And now, to have a wife who could share in that pleasure—

  Whoa. Get real, Granger. Izzy was his “wife” in much the same way that... well, that his mother and father had been his “parents.” A role was being played, appearances maintained. That was all there was to it.

  “I wish we could walk around a little.” Izzy cast an inveigling little look up at Clay.

  “No way, sweetheart.” Sweetheart? “Jim Cooper made it perfectly clear—”

  “I know.” Her hand touched her stomach over her down parka, a gesture that he was finding way too endearing. “I didn’t mean it. But when I can walk around...”

  He bowed low. “I’ll be yours to command.” He opened the door of the café and Izzy stood for a moment on the threshold, smiling with eyes half closed as she breathed in the aromas of cinnamon, yeast, and coffee that wafted on a gust of warmth from within. Her expression of sensuous rapture was so beguiling that he took a mental picture of it, to savor later. Oh, you’re in trouble, all right. Big, big trouble.

  Taking her hand—why’d I do that?—he led her into the shop, hung up their jackets, and seated her at a little round marble table. The glass case beneath the long counter displayed a dizzying variety of cakes and pastries.