The Marriage Arrangement

by Patricia Ryan

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  He felt her silent laughter deep inside her body. “Oh, yes.” Taking his face between her hands, she kissed him. “Yes.” And again. “I’m fine.” And yet again.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he fell back slowly, without breaking the kiss. He lay still beneath her, wanting to thrust but knowing it would all be over far too soon if he did.

  Clay explored her with restless hands, touching every part of her that he could reach—all her womanly contours, every soft swell, every dip and hollow. He squeezed and caressed and searched, wanting to know all of her, wanting to memorize every inch of her.

  She began moving, riding him with a sinuous grace that impelled him closer and closer toward the inevitable. Abandoning control, he clutched her hips and thrust, filling her completely with every smooth stroke.

  With a moan, she tore her mouth from his, arching over him, her body taut and quivering, and he knew she was about to come again. Wrapping her in his arms, he rolled them over so that he was on top, lifted her hips, and plunged deep, grinding hard. She whimpered as her body shuddered beneath his, her internal contractions robbing him of his last ounce of control. He drove in and went rigid, his orgasm detonating in pulsing waves, shooting from him so explosively that he cried out hoarsely, again and again.

  His last thought before he sank on top of her, wet and spent, was that this was what people meant when they talked about making love. This was the way it was supposed to be.

  IZZY OPENED HER EYES to a flood of late morning sunlight.

  The first thing she saw was Clay’s pillow, next to her face. It was empty.

  The next thing she saw was something red on top of the pillow. Raising herself up on an elbow, she found it to be a heart cut out of construction paper, edged with doily lace, and festooned with sequins. An oversize yellow Post-it note was stuck to it.

  She leaned over the note to read it, blinking away her morning drowsiness:

  Dear Izzy,

  I didn’t want to wake you. Angie and Rose helped me make this at your parents’ house the day of my birthday party. I didn’t give it to you then, because I thought you’d think it was goofy. It’s still goofy, I guess, but I want you to have it. I’ll call you from Wolf Peak.

  I love you.

  Clay

  Izzy peeled the Post-it off and held the valentine up to her face, dragging her hand through her hair to get it out of her eyes. It was a more tidily executed piece of work—although just barely—than those crafted by her nieces. Imagining Clay hunched over the big table in her parents’ basement with half a dozen little girls for company, gluing sequins down in neat rows on a paper heart, made something quiver inside her chest. She turned the valentine over.

  On the back, in purple crayon, were the words To Izzy—Love, Clay.

  Flopping down on her back, she held the valentine to her nose and breathed in the subtle herbal scent that clung to it, the same scent that infused his shirts. Pushing the covers aside, she got out of bed and went to his dresser. She opened the top drawer: sweaters. Then the drawer below it: socks and underwear, those gray boxer briefs that always sent her libido into overdrive. In the drawer below that, she found pay dirt: his shirts, and tucked between them, a handkerchief tied around something that crinkled. She held it to her nose and inhaled the mysterious scent that had tantalized her for months. He must have kept the valentine in his shirt drawer while he was trying to work up the courage to give it to her.

  Returning to bed, she snuggled down in the covers and re-read the Post-it note.... I love you.

  He’d said it to her twice last night, while they were making love for the first time and then as they were drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  I love you.

  She knew he wanted her to say it back to him. But she couldn’t. Maybe if he hadn’t picked that particular situation to make a declaration of love...

  It’s what guys say in that situation, Izzy. His own words. It was what guys said when they scored with you for the first time. Like Prez. And Clay.

  “Damn.”

  Except last night wasn’t “scoring.” Last night was incredible. It was magic. Correction: the first time was magic. The second time was sweet and slow. Then they talked into the early morning hours, and he somehow got around to telling her, in heated whispers, all the things he’d imagined doing to her for so long and was going to do soon, if not tonight.... He’d been imagining a lot of rather... imaginative things, as it turned out, and by the time he got around to trying one of them out on her, they were both on a hair trigger. That last time was quick and a little rough and fucking amazing. Just the memory of it had the power to arouse her.

  One hand stole down between her legs, to where she was damp and sticky from last night’s marathon. She’d never experienced anything like it. She’d thought the men in her life before Clay had been good lovers, but she hadn’t known what a good lover was. She’d had no idea.

  Clay was... well, on the one hand, he was pretty demanding. Aggressive, even. When he wanted her in a certain position or moving a certain way, he made it happen. Izzy wasn’t used to a man taking such control in bed, but she found that it excited her that he had strong desires and exercised them.

  On the other hand, he could be heartbreakingly sensitive to her needs and feelings. She lost track of her climaxes, each one more volatile than the last. He seemed to relish her responses as much as he relished his own.

  No man had ever savored her the way Clay did—like a gourmet devouring a five-star meal. He consumed her with inexhaustible enthusiasm—licking and kissing and fondling her... biting her, tasting her, touching her everywhere, as if trying to claim every inch of her. She discovered erogenous zones she never knew she had.

  And every time he entered her, she thought with incredulous wonder, This is Clay coming into me. She studied his face, transported by passion, and his body, the tense muscles gleaming with sweat, and thought, This is Clay making love to me.

  And making such incredible love. She thought again of all the things they did, and all the things he promised they would do... When her thoughts returned to the present, she realized that she was lightly fingering the sticky and tender flesh between her legs. She escalated the caress, imagining it to be Clay’s. Release was swift, and surprisingly intense, but empty—because Clay wasn’t inside her when it happened. He was in an airplane, on his way to Wolf Peak, Colorado.

  Wolf Peak. The very name caused a scalding little rivulet of angst to snake its way into her stomach.

  Wolf Peak. She hated Wolf Peak. She hated stupid Thor-looking, chest-pounding what’s-his-name... Olof Borg, that was it. She hated doltish Olof Borg for deciding he just had to ski the Suicide Chute, and then challenging Clay to ski it with him.

  Clay wasn’t going to ski it, though. He’d promised her, as a gesture of faith... a gesture of love. The world was gathering at Wolf Peak to watch Olof Borg risk his neck, not Clay Granger.

  That was Izzy’s only comfort.

  OLOF BORG BROKE HIS LEG.”

  “He what?” Clay gaped at the earnest young reporter—one of about a dozen who’d gathered in the terminal of this modest airport to greet him on his arrival at Wolf Peak.

  “It happened early this morning,” the reporter said. “Before the storm set in. He was demonstrating some fancy jumps for the cameras—”

  “Typical Borg move,” growled Harry. He and Rob Hutchinson, the PR guy, had accompanied Clay to Colorado. “Hot-dogging right before a big gig.”

  “So, the event is canceled, right?” Clay asked. “Between this blizzard and Borg’s broken leg—”

  “Negative,” another reporter interjected. “It’s supposed to stop snowing by tomorrow morning, just in time for the run.”

  “But who’s gonna ski it?” Clay asked. There were chuckles from among the reporters.

  “The organizers are hoping you will.”

  Fuck me. Nothing could ever be simple.

 
; Rob, knowing a golden PR opportunity when he saw it, grinned and gave him a big thumbs-up.

  Harry scowled at Rob and grabbed Clay’s arm. “Come on, man. Let’s go buy a return ticket right now and get the hell away from this—”

  “No flights are taking off till the storm’s over,” someone said. “They almost didn’t let you land.”

  “I wish they hadn’t,” Harry grumbled.

  The reporters all started talking at once, firing a battery of questions at Clay. Was he going to take on the Suicide Chute? How fast did he think he could ski it? Did he know people were taking bets on his participation?

  Turning to Rob, Clay said, “Earn your salary,” and walked away, toward the rental car counter. Harry followed him. The reporters tried to, but Rob stepped in front of them, wearing his bland PR expression.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Rob said, “Mr. Granger has only just now been informed of Mr. Borg’s accident. He has no statement at the present time.”

  “When will he?” someone demanded.

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “You mean we can’t find out before then whether he intends to—”

  “That’s what I said. Take it or leave it.”

  IZZY ANSWERED THE PHONE on the second ring and turned back to the stove. “Hello?”

  “Izzy?” The voice sounded distant and staticky. “It’s Clay.”

  She smiled. “Hi. How’s Colorado?” Picking up the cutting board and knife, she scraped the chopped garlic into the sizzling olive oil.

  “There’s a big snowstorm out here. We almost couldn’t land.”

  “Really?” She stirred the garlic with a wooden spoon, inhaling its heady aroma. “Is that going to affect the big event tomorrow morning?”

  There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. “No, they want to ahead with it.”

  “Seriously?” She clamped the can opener onto the can of minced clams and began cranking it.

  “Yeah, it won’t be snowing by then. Looks like another storm might hit late tomorrow, but most of the day should be clear and sunny.”

  Prying up the lid, she poured the contents of the can into the garlic and oil—her quickie clam sauce for just her and Aunt Teddy, whom she’d invited to dinner. “But Harry told me the snow is at its most unstable after a storm. Isn’t Borg worried about setting off an avalanche, or is he that hungry for publicity?”

  Another pause, a long one this time. She’d almost decided the line had gone dead when she heard him say, “I love you, Izzy.”

  Izzy stilled in the process of opening another can. She took a breath to speak—to return the words she knew he wanted to hear—but hesitated. All she could think about was Prez saying “I love you” and her saying it back simply because she knew he’d wanted to hear it. And then feeling like a fool when it was all over and she realized he didn’t even know what love was.

  “Izzy? Are you—”

  “I’m here.” She turned toward the breakfast counter, where Aunt Teddy was wrapping a loaf of garlic bread in foil.

  “Did you hear what I—”

  “I heard you.” Teddy met Izzy’s gaze and mouthed, Say it.

  Izzy spun back toward the stove, set the can on the counter unopened, and took a deep breath. She wanted to say it. The words hovered in her throat, in her heart... but they made her chest clench with fear. “When will you be coming home?”

  “Tomorrow night,” he said tonelessly. “I’ll be home by seven.”

  “Good.”

  “Izzy...”

  “Yes?”

  His hesitation was punctuated by a troubled sigh. “Nothing, I—I have to go now. I was supposed to meet Harry and Rob in the hotel restaurant ten minutes ago. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Right. Good night.”

  DID I EVER TELL YOU about me and Rory O’Dwyer?” Teddy asked Izzy over coffee and heaping bowlfuls of Cherry Garcia ice cream. Well, Izzy was drinking coffee. Teddy, who’d been soaking up Chianti all evening, had turned down the offer of coffee with the explanation that it might “kill the buzz.” And buzzed she was, if her slightly slurred speech and unfocused gaze were any indication.

  Izzy paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “About forty years ago, he asked me to marry him. Did you know that?”

  Izzy swallowed the ice cream, wondering what, exactly, Teddy’s agenda was here. “I knew there’d been a man. I didn’t know it was Rory.”

  Teddy’s eyes lost their focus. “We grew up together in the old neighborhood. He was your father’s best friend, and I... I adored him. From the time I was a child.”

  Why was Teddy telling her this?

  “I lost touch with him for a while,” Teddy continued, “but then I got a job at St. Vincent’s Hospital, where he was on staff. We started dating, and right away I knew it was the real thing. I was crazy about him. For about six months my whole life centered around him. I was just waiting for him to pop the question.” Her wistful smile faded. “Then one night I walked in on him banging Loose Lucy in the nurses’ lounge.”

  Izzy choked on her coffee. “Loose Lucy?”

  “And she was just the tip of the iceberg. Turned out he’d nailed about half the nurses at St. Vincent’s at one time or another.”

  “What a way to find out, though.”

  “When I broke it off with him, he fell apart. Apologized all over the place, begged me to forgive him. Sent me roses every day. Bought me a real nice diamond ring and asked me to marry him. He swore if I was his wife, he’d never touch another woman again as long as he lived. He told me he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone.”

  “What did you do?”

  Teddy let out a long, wavering sigh. “I lied and told him I didn’t love him anymore. I told him to keep his ring. I told him people didn’t change overnight, just like that. Once a womanizer, always a womanizer.”

  “Ah.” Izzy was beginning to suspect Teddy’s agenda.

  “Finally he got tired of having me slam the door in his face. Two years after that, he married someone else. From all accounts he was completely faithful to her until the day she died.”

  “Oh.”

  “The joke was on me.” To Izzy’s astonishment, Teddy’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “Turned out he could change, after all.”

  And that, of course, was the point of Teddy’s reminiscence: if Rory could change, so could Clay. Men could remake themselves for the women they loved, but the women had to give them the chance. Teddy’s appetite for happily-ever-after romances made a lot of sense all of a sudden.

  “Aunt Teddy, I think you should work with Rory and Father Frank on their home health-care service.”

  Teddy wiped her eyes with her paper napkin. “To what end?”

  “To help people.”

  Teddy cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “And,” Izzy added, “to see if maybe the old magic is still there between you and Rory.”

  “Magic doesn't have that long a shelf life. Besides which, every time I look at Rory, I just... I feel sick inside. Ashamed for having been so shortsighted back then, for not having given him a chance to prove himself.”

  “It’s not too late to make up for your mistake.”

  “Sure it is—it’s forty years too late.” Teddy pinned Izzy with a meaningful look over the top of her coffee cup. “It’s not too late for you, though. Stop being such a self-centered little asshole.”

  “Whoa. Self-centered? How do you figure—”

  “It’s all about Izzy, isn’t it? Boo hoo. Poor little Izzy and her miserable fucking exes who fucked her over. Join the fucking club.”

  “Jesus, Teddy,” Izzy said through an incredulous little chuckle. “How much of that wine did you—”

  “So now Izzy the Genius, having concluded that Clay must be just like those miserable shits by virtue of owning a penis, lets the poor lovestruck bastard twist in the wind instead of looking at him square on and realizing he’s actually nothing
whatsoever like them. Christ Almightly, Izzy, stop fixating on the past and start thinking about the future. Take down your armor. Next time you see Clay, tell him what he wants to hear.”

  “That’s the moral of the story, then? That I should tell Clay I love him?”

  “That’s the moral of the fucking story.”

  CLAY GLIDED HIS SKIS to the top of the cornice that marked the entry to the Suicide Chute and looked down. Below the steep drop-off on which he stood, a narrow furrow sliced through walls of rock and twisted sharply around boulders and trees. The Suicide Chute fell a good six hundred vertical feet, angling fifty degrees in places. The only way to ski it was with aggressive step-unweighting, punctuated with plenty of free-falling, jumps, and tight turns.

  Does Izzy know you’re doing this? Those were Harry’s last words to him before Clay had skied away from the mountaintop camp from which the media and organizers would observe the run. Now they were all watching him, cameras rolling, while he mentally rehearsed, for the hundredth time, his route down the Suicide Chute.

  No, Izzy sure as hell didn’t know he was doing this. And he didn’t want to think about what her reaction would be when he got home tonight and told her. Then again, maybe she wouldn't even be there. Despite what they’d shared together the night before last, she was still clearly holding back with him. She refused to say the words he so desperately wanted to hear. After last night’s phone call, he’d been forced to conclude that she didn’t feel them in her heart. From the look of things, it was only a matter of time before she left him. Most likely he’d find the house empty when he got home, with a note on the dining table from Izzy: I’ve gone to live with Teddy in Brooklyn.

  There was a certain grim humor in the situation, Clay conceded; one of “the world’s most sought-after billionaire bachelors” so torn up by unrequited love that he didn’t care whether he lived or died. Well... that might be putting too melodramatic a spin on things. He didn’t want to die, and he’d do everything in his power to make sure he got to the bottom of this run alive. Still, he had to admit that if Izzy had only returned his declaration of love, he would have headed home on the first morning flight instead of suiting up for this lunatic stunt. Proof positive that he was basically a pathetic dumbass of the highest order.