“I assume you would prefer that I didn’t accept her invitation.”
Cleo glared at Roarke, her dark green eyes glowing hotly. “You assume correctly. That is one advantage of your being my hired husband. You’re my employee, and if you want to get paid, you follow my orders.”
“I take it that your cousin Daphne isn’t one of your favorite people,” Roarke said. “Does that mean we should put her at the top of our list of suspects?”
“Other than Aunt Beatrice, all my relatives should be on our suspect list.” Cleo opened the car door and stepped out, then plastered on a phony smile and turned to face her family.
Aunt Beatrice met Roarke the moment he emerged from the Jaguar. She slipped her arm round his waist and gave him an affectionate hug. “So wonderful to see you again, Simon, my dear boy.”
Roarke’s gaze swept the veranda and stopped on the tall, bosomy brunette who had slunk out from behind a white column. She had to be Daphne. Exotic. Sultry. Seductive. He’d known women like her before. And they were all pure poison.
Daphne’s mouth curved into a mocking smile when her gaze met Roarke’s. She licked her red lips. Roarke grinned.
When Cleo rounded the Jaguar’s hood, Beatrice reached out, motioning her niece toward her. “Come, Cleo, everyone’s waiting. They’re all simply astonished by your whirlwind romance and marriage.” Slipping her other arm around Cleo’s waist, Beatrice whispered, “Oralie and Daphne have asked me a million questions, and Trey is fit to be tied. You’re going to have to put on a good show to convince this—” Beatrice nodded toward the veranda “—skeptical audience.”
Bending to reach Beatrice’s cheek, Roarke kissed his bride’s aunt, who blushed and giggled. “You leave everything to me,” he told her.
Without warning, Roarke swept his wife up in his arms. Gasping, Cleo flung her arm around his neck and glared into his smiling face.
“What are you doing?” she murmured.
He nuzzled her neck. Cleo squirmed. His nose glided underneath her hair and circled her ear. Cleo swallowed hard.
“I’m convincing your family that you and I are madly-in-love newlyweds,” he said.
“Don’t you think we could find a less dramatic way of doing that?”
“Don’t frown, Boss Lady. All those people waiting on the veranda are going to wonder why you look unhappy on your wedding day.”
“Oh, all right. Proceed.” She forced her phony smile back in place as Roarke turned around and walked toward the house. Aunt Beatrice, all smiles and fluttering hands, followed the couple.
When he put his foot on the first step, Roarke whispered to Cleo, “I’m warning you so that you’ll be prepared. I’m going to move my hand down from your waist to your hip, then I’m going to caress you. And when we get to the top of these steps, I’m going to kiss you.”
“Roarke, I—” The moment she felt his big hand gripping her hip, Cleo stiffened.
Her whole body tingled from his caressing touch. Relaxing, she gave herself over to these moments of sweet pretending. Almost unaware of her actions, she turned just enough to press her left breast against Roarke’s hard chest and glided her fingers up his neck and into his thick, dark hair.
If only this were real, she thought. If only we were in love and wildly happy and unable to keep our hands off each other. If only this marriage were real and not a farce.
True to his word, the moment he reached the top of the stairs, Roarke took Cleo’s mouth in a tongue-thrusting kiss that left her flushed, breathless and trembling.
For a split second, Roarke felt stunned himself and not quite in control. He had expected Cleo’s acquiescence, but not her wholehearted cooperation. She had returned his kiss eagerly, her mouth opening in a warm, moist invitation, her tongue mating savagely with his.
He looked directly into her eyes—compelling green cat eyes—and saw a reflection of his own desire.
“You two might want to save that for later,” a soft, saccharine, feminine voice said. “Right now, we have a little party waiting inside for the bride and groom.”
Still slightly disoriented and sexually aroused, Cleo stared at her cousin. She focused on Daphne’s moist, red lips, which were curved into a mocking smile. Daphne glared at Cleo, then turned to Roarke, and her expression changed. She sent him an invitation with her notorious come-hither look.
Cleo stiffened in Roarke’s arms. She tightened her hold around his neck and glanced at her husband, who was surveying Daphne from head to toe. When he grinned at Daphne, Cleo wanted to scratch his eyes out. Dammit, wasn’t there a man on earth immune to her sultry cousin?
Threading his big fingers through Cleo’s short hair, Roarke pulled her face toward his. She quivered when his mouth touched her ear.
“If you laugh and then look longingly into my eyes, she’ll wonder if I told you something about her,” Roarke said.
As though on cue, Cleo smiled, then laughed and gazed at Roarke as if he were the only man in the world. In her peripheral vision, Cleo noticed the smile on Daphne’s face vanish, quickly replaced by a sullen frown.
Still carrying Cleo, Roarke headed straight for the double entrance doors. A tall, skinny, gray-haired man, wearing faded, patched work clothes, hurried ahead of them and opened the leaded-glass doors, then stood back and nodded a greeting.
“Oh, hello, Ezra,” Cleo said. “Ezra, this is my husband, Simon Roarke. And this—” she smiled warmly at the old man “—is Ezra Clooney. He’s worked here on the estate since before I was born.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Roarke,” Ezra said. “We’re sure glad to see Miss Cleo got herself a husband.”
“I’m glad that I’m the man she chose for a husband.” Roarke carried his bride over the threshold and into the enormous foyer, where a sparkling crystal chandelier lit a hallway decorated with Persian rugs and antique furniture.
Once inside, he put Cleo on her feet, but kept his arm around her waist, securing her to his side. Beatrice McNamara scurried into the house behind them, followed by the other family members.
“Come on into the dining room,” Beatrice said. “I have a little surprise for y’all.”
“Heaven help us,” Cleo moaned.
“Let’s go see what Aunt Beatrice has done for us, darling.” Following Beatrice’s lead, Roarke led Cleo down the hallway and into the dining room.
A string quartet, set up in a corner in front of the Hepplewhite breakfront, played a Tchaikovsky composition. A classically romantic piece of angelic sweetness.
Cleo closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for the strength to see her through this ordeal. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d had little choice but to marry a stranger? Did she have to go through the motions of celebrating a marriage that was destined to end in divorce?
An enormous wedding cake awaited them in the center of the Sheraton dining table that was obviously large enough to accommodate a good two dozen persons or more. The four-foot cake was traditional in style, with a bride and groom perched on the top layer. Several bottles of champagne were waiting to be opened and a small feast had been placed on the sideboard. A variety of floral arrangements filled the room with a sweet, springtime aroma.
“This is lovely, Aunt Beatrice. Thank you,” Cleo said, all the while wishing she and Roarke could escape upstairs to her suite and not have to endure this phony celebration. But it was her own fault, really, for letting her pride get in the way. Maybe she shouldn’t have insisted on playing out this little drama with Roarke as her devoted lover.
Roarke glanced around at the assembled guests and discovered one person whose identity he couldn’t discern. A blond man with a thin mustache. Somewhere in his mid-thirties. A three-piece-suit type. A slick, cultured pretty boy.
“Perry, you must do the honors as man of the house, now that Uncle George is no longer with us.” Oralie Sutton slipped her arm through her husband’s.
Perry Sutton opened the first bottle of champagne and filled flutes for everyone, then lifted his
glass for a toast.
“To Cleo and her husband,” Perry said. “We wish them every happiness.”
There were several murmurs of “To Cleo” from among the small crowd.
Aunt Beatrice practically shouted, “Happiness to Cleo and Simon.”
One by one, Cleo’s family gathered around the table, waiting for the bride and groom to cut their wedding cake.
Slipping his arms around Cleo, Roarke placed the silver knife in her hands, then covered her hands with his, and together, they sliced the first piece of cake.
“You must feed it to each other.” Beatrice’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I’ll freeze the top layer for y’all to share on your first anniversary.”
Of all the silly things for her aunt to have said, Cleo thought, when Beatrice knew good and well that there was no chance she and Roarke would celebrate their first anniversary. As soon as the identity of the would-be killer was discovered and Cleo was pregnant, Roarke’s job would be completed.
Continuing their charade of being happy newlyweds, Cleo put a piece of cake up to Roarke’s mouth and he bit into the delectable concoction. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to the side of his mouth and wiped away a smudge of frosting. Realizing what she’d done, Cleo stared into Roarke’s sky-blue eyes—eyes that were smiling at her. He grasped her hand, brought it to his mouth and slid her finger between his lips, licking off the frosting. Cleo shivered. Her mouth gaped. She sucked in a deep breath.
For the next hour and a half, Roarke and Cleo gave award-winning performances. All the while Cleo prayed for deliverance, Roarke observed the group of suspects. And that’s how he thought of Cleo’s family. As suspects. After all, one of them had already tried to kill her.
He wasn’t sure what lay at the root of Cleo and Daphne’s problem, but even to an untrained eye, the animosity Daphne felt for her cousin was obvious. Roarke’s gut instincts told him that a man was involved somehow. He couldn’t help wondering if that man wasn’t the pretty boy, whom he’d found out was a lawyer named Hugh Winfield, the son of the head of the law firm that handled all of the McNamaras’ personal and business concerns.
Daphne had kept herself draped around Winfield like a vine around a trellis. But the odd thing was that Cleo seemed totally unconcerned. Maybe Winfield wasn’t the man.
Cleo leaned over and whispered to Roarke. “I can’t take much more of this. My feet are hurting. I’ve got a killer headache, and if I have to keep smiling this way much longer, my face is going to crack.”
“Would you like for me to swoop you up in my arms and carry you upstairs?”
“No! I think we’ve put on enough of a show for one day,” Cleo said. “Why don’t you see how many more of Trey’s and Aunt Oralie’s questions you can answer, while I run out to the kitchen and ask Pearl to bring our supper upstairs to my suite? I think everyone will understand that we want to be alone on our wedding night.”
“Do you suppose Pearl could round up some beer for me? I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
“If necessary, I’ll have her send Ezra into town to buy some. Any particular brand?”
“Anything domestic will do.” Roarke grinned.
When Cleo started to walk away, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her up against his chest, then kissed her. “Don’t be long, darling,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.
The moment Cleo exited the room, Trey Sutton, dragging his thin, blond wife with him, approached Roarke on one side, while Oralie Sutton closed in on him from the opposite side. Across the room, Daphne ran the tips of her long, red nails up and down Hugh Winfield’s chest while she stared provocatively at Roarke.
“So, you knew Cleo when she was in college?” Trey asked. “Surely you weren’t a student, too.”
“No, I wasn’t a student,” Roarke replied.
“How did the two of you meet?” Oralie smiled ever so sweetly as she played with her cultured pearls.
“Mr. Roarke was dating a friend of Cleo’s, Mother,” Trey said derisively, his hazel-brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Don’t you remember Aunt Beatrice telling us the whole story? Cleo and Mr. Roarke were attracted to each other years ago, but didn’t pursue a relationship because he was dating a friend of hers.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Oralie patted her son’s arm affectionately. “But then, Beatrice is such a romantic little creature and prone to…well, shall we say…fantasies.”
Oralie’s mocking chuckle got on Roarke’s nerves far more than Trey’s unmannerly inspection. What the hell was the guy doing—measuring him for a suit or a coffin? From the short time he’d been around Cleo’s family, Roarke already knew one thing. He didn’t like any of them. With the exception of Beatrice.
“I’d love to hear your version of this wild, whirlwind courtship.” Daphne sauntered across the room, her long, curly black hair swaying with each movement of her broad shoulders. “I’ve never thought of Cleo as the type who could inspire such hot passion in a man. Especially a man like you.”
Oralie’s cheeks flushed. She cleared her throat. “Daphne! What a vulgar thing to say.”
“Was I being vulgar, Mr. Roarke?” Daphne brushed by Marla Sutton, who clung to her husband’s arm, her eyes wide with wonder and her mouth slightly parted.
Slipping her arm through Roarke’s, Daphne manacled his wrist. She scratched his skin just above his wristwatch. He grasped her hand, holding it tightly, then tilted his head downward enough so that he could whisper in her ear.
“I find everything about you vulgar, Ms. Sutton.” He spoke so low only Daphne could hear him. “Especially the way you’re coming on to me.” He jerked her hand away from his wrist and smiled when he saw the look of disbelief on her face.
Roarke stepped back, away from the smothering bodies and the prying eyes. He saw Aunt Beatrice looking forlornly at him from across the room where she stood beside Perry Sutton. With her eyes, she pleaded with him to continue the charade, to consider Cleo’s pride before speaking.
“I think we should get a few things straight. Up front,” Roarke said.
Aunt Beatrice’s mouth opened on a silent gasp. Her green eyes widened in fear. She took several hesitant steps in Roarke’s direction.
“I’m a private man and I don’t think the details of my relationship with Cleo are any of your business. But since y’all are her family—” he practically snarled the word “—and know all about Uncle George’s will, then I should tell you that Cleo and I rushed into this marriage so that she could fulfill the stipulations of that will.”
Beatrice gasped. Tears glazed her eyes. Oralie nodded, a self-satisfied smile on her face. Trey laughed aloud.
“I knew it!” Daphne stared at Roarke.
“Oh, you misunderstand, Cousin Daphne,” Roarke said. “If it hadn’t been for Uncle George’s will, Cleo and I would have had a chance for a longer courtship, but the end results would have been the same.”
“What do you mean?” Trey asked.
“Cleo and I would have married. We just wouldn’t have been in such a hurry. You see, I’ve been waiting all my life for a woman like Cleo.” Roarke glanced at Daphne. “I’m damn lucky she agreed to marry me.”
Silence hung heavily in the room, like a rain-filled cloud on the verge of explosion. Roarke scanned the room, quickly taking note of each person. Seeing Beatrice’s bosom heave with a sigh of relief. Catching the little secret glance between Trey and Daphne. Observing the tightening of Hugh Winfield’s soft jaw. Noting Marla’s nervousness. Detecting Oralie’s vaguely disguised anger. And recognizing Perry’s unemotional demeanor for what it was—a habitual mask he used to hide behind.
“While I have y’all’s undivided attention, I might as well go ahead and make something else perfectly clear,” Roarke said.
A communal hush filled the air, as if everyone had taken a deep breath and were waiting for his revelation before exhaling.
“I know that someone in this family took a shot at Cleo right after her uncle’s fu
neral. Let me warn you. If you’re smart, you won’t ever try to harm my wife again. Because if you do, when I catch you—and I will catch you—you’re mine.”
“How dare you accuse one of us of wanting to harm Cleo!” Oralie said.
“Just who do you think you are, coming in here, making threats like that?” Trey lifted his chin defiantly, but made no move to shorten the distance between himself and Roarke.
“I’m Cleo’s husband.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, stretching the material of his dark blue suit taut over his wide shoulders. “And in case anyone doubts that I’m capable of backing up my promise of retaliation, I think you should know that I spent over a dozen years in the Special Forces. I know a hundred and one different ways to kill a person.”
Oralie and Beatrice gasped in unison. Marla cried out. Trey, his face ashen, instinctively stepped backward. Daphne licked her lips. Perry remained silent.
“Now, if y’all will excuse me, I’ll go out in the kitchen and find Cleo. We would appreciate not being disturbed tonight.”
When Roarke exited the room, he paused briefly in the hallway, trying to discern where the kitchen might be. Hugh Winfield’s voice rang out loud and clear.
“I’ll speak to Father about what can be done legally to rectify the situation. Surely once I tell him about this man he’ll be more forthcoming with information about Cleo’s personal legal matters. And I’ll run a check on Simon Roarke immediately.” Roarke grinned. Yeah, you do that. Unless you’ve got some powerful friends, you’ll never get any information on me. My army files won’t be available, and Dane Carmichael will make sure you learn only what I want you to know.
He heard Aunt Beatrice making angry, mother-hen sounds about respecting Cleo’s marriage, but he didn’t hang around to listen to anything else.
Til Death Do Us Part Page 27