The Marriage Maker

by Christie Ridgway

  He ignored her apology to attack the cuffs of his denim shirt. With quick movements, he rolled them up his strong forearms.

  Cleo eyed his determined movements. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to start being more honest with each other, Cleo.”

  She was afraid to ask, but she had to. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means, lucky for Ned and Betsy—unless they like instant oatmeal, of course—that I can cook.”

  Cleo’s knees went weak. “You can cook? Really?”

  “Really. How does pasta primavera sound?”

  “Like music to my ears,” she said, still stunned. Ethan Redford, consummate deal-maker, could cook? “I could kiss you.”

  Ethan turned toward the door. “Maybe we should start being honest about that, too,” he said.

  By the time the pasta primavera had been prepared and consumed, Cleo found she could relax, even with Betsy Coving ton keeping her company in the kitchen as she put the last of the dishes away.

  Cleo hugged to herself the knowledge that, at least for tonight, she and Ethan had achieved a real partnership. As he’d made the meal, he’d smiled to himself often—she had the distinct feeling he was still bemused by her own admitted clumsiness in the kitchen—but they’d worked together well. Under his direction, she’d put together a passable green salad, though his lips had twitched at the sight of her in elegant carrot chunks.

  He’d touched her, too. She shivered now, remembering it. His shoulder and hip rubbing against her to make room for himself at the countertop. A light swat on her behind to move her aside when her tippy-toe stretch still couldn’t reach the water pitcher in the highest cupboard. His fingers lingering on the small of her back as he untied her apron before politely pulling out her chair.

  Around the table itself, they’d been in perfect concert, too. He prompted her to tell the Coving tons tales of life at the day care center and she showed her interest in Ethan’s business by following up some of Mr. Covington’s questions with a couple of her own.

  Now from the living room came the low murmur of the men’s voices. Both men sat on the couch and Jonah’s grandfather was feeding the baby his evening bottle. Mrs. Coving ton paused with a dish towel in her hand, peering through the kitchen doorway at the sight the three made. She smiled softly.

  “Oh, look,” she said.

  Cleo did. Jonah was nestled in the crook of his grandfather’s arm, but the baby’s eyes were fixed on Ethan. They stared at each other, unblinking, and then the baby’s mouth quirked around the nipple, sending a sweet, hopeful smile Ethan’s way. Cleo’s heart clenched. And then again, when Ethan surprised her by returning the smile to Jonah.

  It was unexpected and just as sweet as the baby’s, and maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she saw hopefulness in Ethan’s smile, too.

  Her spirits, already buoyed by the success of dinner, bubbled higher, and the words just popped out. “I love them,” she said. Maybe they were going to be a family, after all. Maybe Ethan had just needed time to get used to the idea.

  Betsy Coving ton smiled again and her gaze was warm. “That’s what I came to find out. I know Ethan promised you’d visit in the fall, but I couldn’t wait that long.”

  “I understand,” Cleo said. Patience wasn’t her strong suit, either. But she’d been right not to push things…push Ethan. He’d just needed time to see how things could—should—be with them. She just knew he wasn’t going to leave again tomorrow, despite what he’d said.

  “And to be honest,” Betsy continued, “because of the way Ethan and Della were raised, I couldn’t stop worrying. I’m surprised how well Ethan is coping with instant parenthood.”

  A little chill ran down Cleo’s spine. She didn’t know much about the way Ethan and his sister had been raised. He had been so close mouthed about it, only a few hints about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks and about his less-than-warm father.

  “Ethan would do anything for Jonah,” Cleo said.

  “Even marry.”

  Cleo inhaled a sharp breath, but the other woman put out her hand. “I don’t mean it as a criticism, dear, believe me. My own son failed Della and he failed his child. Any choices—and changes—Ethan has made for Jonah only deserve my praise.”

  The resigned hurt in Betsy Covington’s face made Cleo search for a safer subject than Jonah’s biological father. “You knew Della?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled sadly. “Della and my son were engaged at one time. I thought she would be his salvation. I prayed for it, because she was a wonderful person. Despite the disadvantages of her childhood, she was an engaging, optimistic young woman.”

  Cleo swallowed. That was the second time the older woman had brought up Della’s and Ethan’s childhood. While part of Cleo didn’t want to pry into her husband’s past, another part thought knowing what he seemed so reluctant to speak about might cement their fragile, brand-new closeness. She swallowed again. “Ethan doesn’t talk much about…his family.”

  Betsy nodded. “Della always said her brother tried to ignore things that hurt. By refusing to acknowledge his feelings, he could protect himself.”

  Cleo busied herself wiping an already-clean countertop. “It sounds like Della knew Ethan well.”

  “Oh, she did. And she adored him. He shielded her from much that went on in their household. But from what I gathered, they lived with a volatile father whose mood swings were exacerbated by drink and a mother who did nothing to help her children or herself.”

  “Ah.” Cleo’s fingers gripped the sponge tighter. “And there were…money problems.”

  Betsy nodded. “And with that in his back ground, too, it isn’t surprising that Ethan has such a drive for making money. That’s one of the things that has worried me about leaving Jonah in his care.”

  Cleo turned around, surprised. The Coving tons appreciated money, too. It was obvious in the enormous solitaire on Betsy Covington’s finger, in her impeccable manicure and in the sleek cut of her expensive country-club clothes. “You’re worried about Ethan’s success?”

  “About what he’s willing to give up for it.” Betsy looked steadily at Cleo. “I’ve met men like that before. Men who only offer money and not emotion.”

  Men who only offer money and not emotion. The words dropped, each one ice-cold, into Cleo’s brain. Ethan had offered her Bean sprouts. He said he would always provide for her and the baby. “He wants to take care of Jonah,” she said, trying to ignore the sick sense of panic rising in her belly.

  “I’m certain of it,” the older woman said. “But he needs you to show him how.”

  Cleo turned away again. Betsy Coving ton didn’t mean Ethan needed Cleo to show him how to diaper the baby or to feed the baby, or to even play with the baby. She meant that Ethan needed Cleo to show him how to love Jonah.

  And, of course, Cleo wanted Ethan to love her, too. That little balloon of happiness she’d been floating on slowly deflated. She had no idea how to make it happen.

  The Covingtons didn’t stay up much later than Jonah. They claimed a desire to rise early in the morning to get started on the next leg of their trip, which would take them into Canada to visit some longtime friends. After pleasant good-nights were exchanged, the older couple drifted down the hall.

  With a cup and saucer in each hand, Cleo rose. Ethan immediately followed, carrying the others. In the kitchen, she placed hers on the countertop. “Go ahead and set them here,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ll wait for the dishwasher to finish and then unload it and put these in.”

  “Do it in the morning,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

  Cleo fussed with the cups and saucers, setting each one precisely in the middle of a square tile. “No. I think I’ll do it tonight.”

  “You don’t want to go to bed?”

  “Mmm.” Cleo turned all the cup handles in the direction of the sink and avoided the question. The issue of bed was the last of the evening’s hurdles, and s
he wasn’t even sure Ethan realized that it loomed in front of them. The house had four bedrooms. One was used as his office. One was the master bedroom. One was Jonah’s. One was the one she’d been using…and was now occupied by their guests. In the short time she’d had before their arrival she’d managed to shuffle a few of her things into Ethan’s room.

  Yet while she and Ethan had shared his bed last night, all the events of today hadn’t made it clear that he’d welcome her back in it again.

  There was all she’d held back from him about the skeleton. There was his expressed desire to leave again the next day. There was the strain of the Covingtons’ visit. He knew, now, that she didn’t cook.

  And Cleo knew that his sister Della had thought Ethan ignored his feelings as a way of protecting himself. Betsy Coving ton wondered if he was the kind of man who offered money instead of emotion.

  “Cleo…” Ethan’s hand touched her shoulder.

  Heat ribboned down her arm.

  If that were true, who was going to protect her?

  She refused to turn around. “What?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Let’s go to bed.” His hand tightened on her shoulder.

  There was a darkness, an intent, in his voice and in his touch that set her heart rattling in her chest. She licked her lips, stalling to get control of its wild movements. Practical, sensible Cleo couldn’t be so aroused by a hand, by a voice.

  “Maybe I’ll, uh…maybe your office—”

  “No.” His other hand closed around her other shoulder.

  Heat streaked down that arm and her fingertips tingled. She wasn’t certain he knew what she was talking about. Wiggling her fingers to ease the strange sensation in them, she tried again. “You see, the Coving tons, uh…my room—”

  “Cleo.” Ethan jerked her back against him, so her shoulder blades hit the hard plane of his chest. He was hot. So hot. “Shut up.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut. “But the bed—”

  “Our bed. We’re going to—” now he hesitated “—sleep in our bed.”

  That tingling was racing around her body now. Cleo tried to think of another protest—one last attempt to protect herself—but he threw all hopes of her protest away by curving her hair behind one ear and whispering against it. “I think I missed a few spots last night.”

  “Missed a few spots?” she echoed stupidly, her mind distracted by the hard press of his body against her bottom.

  “Like right here.” He swept her hair off her nape and pressed a wet, openmouthed kiss on that surprisingly sensitive skin.

  A little helpless noise made it through Cleo’s tight throat.

  His mouth was back at her ear again. “What was that?” His hard, big arm clamped around her middle, which was a good thing, because all the bones below her waist were ragdoll-soft. “Did you say you want me to kiss you there again?”

  She wanted him to kiss her anywhere. Everywhere.

  He seemed to figure out she was incapable of answering, because he stopped talking and just started kissing. The back of her neck, the side of her neck, her ear, her throat, every inch of skin he exposed as he unbuttoned her blouse.

  As he pulled the sides open, Cleo’s eyes drifted open. They were in his bedroom. On his bed.

  She couldn’t remember the journey from kitchen to mattress.

  And when he bent over her to wet with his tongue the silky material of her bra, right over her nipple, she didn’t care. Sensible, practical Cleo decided that some details were extraneous.

  And some details were delicious.

  Ethan explored her body with excruciating slowness. When she tried to reach for him, he firmly placed each hand on one side of the wide pillow beneath her head. “Hold here, honey,” he said, and then bent to her skin again, to run his mouth over each of her ribs, to circle her navel with his tongue, to stroke his fingers from hipbone to hipbone.

  “Ethan,” she whispered, his name coming out more like a moan.

  But he wasn’t swayed by the plea in her voice, and only settled himself along side her. He was still completely dressed, and the scratch of his clothes against her skin was erotic.

  “Ethan,” she tried again, and lifted a hand toward his chest.

  He caught it and pulled it back to the pillow. “Hold here,” he commanded once more.

  She obeyed, because then he sucked her nipple into his mouth and she couldn’t do anything but ride the ripples of pleasure that slid down her body, heating her center. Her legs moved restlessly, and Ethan immediately insinuated one hand between them.

  They instinctively parted, and then he was between her thighs, his shoulders pressing against the sensitive skin inside them. Cleo gripped the corners of the pillow. “You’re still wearing your clothes,” she said desperately.

  He was looking at her. Cleo’s body suffused with a new degree of heat. The silvery moon light was beaming through their window, making it easy for her to see him. See Ethan, fully dressed, fully between her splayed thighs, looking at her.

  Then he shuddered. Cleo saw it roll down his spine, felt his fingers tighten on her hips.

  She closed her eyes, even more desperate now. “Ethan. Please. Make love to me.”

  His fingers tightened again, but he didn’t move. “I am, Cleo.” And then he bent his mouth to that hot, melting, most intimate spot on her body.

  Oh. Cleo jerked. Ethan licked again. Cleo jerked again, her body nearly rising off the bed.

  He lifted his head for just a moment. “Hold on,” he said.

  But she didn’t know if he was talking to her or to himself, because when he bent to kiss her again he tightened his grip on her hips and tilted her body. His mouth found her once more, a sweet, sweet spot, and Cleo squeezed the pillow corners to keep herself from shooting straight into the moonlit night and a mind-blowing climax.

  But Ethan wanted it all. He wouldn’t stop, didn’t seem to want to stop. Cleo couldn’t catch her breath. Her nipples tightened, swirling into harder points. Desperately close and determined to tell him to stop, she looked down once more.

  And just then, Ethan traced one hand down her hip to slide two fingers inside her.

  Cleo died.

  They used to call it that, the little death, and Cleo understood it now, because her body spasmed and her mind spun free from reality and heaven was certainly the moon-gilded Ethan as he quickly shed his clothes and joined their bodies.

  Finally, when both their breathing had quieted, Cleo allowed herself to stroke his hair. Her fingers drifted through it slowly, and she gloried in the freedom to touch him. From the beginning, she had always wanted so much to touch him. Satisfaction and happiness welled up inside her.

  She was free to touch him. He was her husband. He was hers.

  She spoke without thinking. “Ethan, I—”

  His hand quickly covered her mouth. “Shh.”

  Cleo froze. She wouldn’t have believed his sated body could move so quickly, but it must have been an almost reflex that made him stifle her with such speed.

  An instinctive reflex.

  To protect himself from what she’d been about to say.

  Her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She made herself breathe. Then she puckered her lips and kissed away his silencing fingers.

  And then she stared into the moonlit darkness and listened to the man she loved breathe a sigh of relief when she didn’t tell him so.

  Eleven

  Standing in the front doorway, Cleo lifted her hand for one m ore wave to the departing Coving tons, then slid a look at Ethan. “How do you think the visit went?”

  His brows rose in surprise. “Fine.” His lips twitched. “And your coffee and bagels and cream cheese weren’t even half bad this morning.”

  Cleo looked away. Making break fast had been her excuse for rising earlier than usual. When she’d opened her eyes and met Ethan’s across the pillow this morning, she’d been desperate for a reason to escape.

  He didn’t want her love.

  He didn’t w
ant her to need him.

  And lying beside him in bed, she thought it might be too easy for him to see that she did love him, that she did need him. Wildly.

  But he’d married her because she was sensible, practical and capable. He’d married her because she was a woman who could handle herself and the adorable baby he’d brought into her life.

  As if she’d woken him by her thoughts, in his crib down the hall, Jonah started to cry. Cleo turned quickly, frowning. Usually Jonah took at least an hour’s nap in the morning, but she’d put him down only fifteen minutes before.

  “Cleo.”

  Ethan’s voice made her pause. “Hmm?” She turned and directed her gaze in the vicinity of his left shoulder, not trusting herself to look at his face without giving her feelings away.

  “I just wanted you to know I’m taking a late afternoon plane.”

  Cleo’s heart dipped, and she swallowed. “Okay.” Before her expression could give away her disappointment, she turned back toward Jonah’s room.

  “Cleo.”

  She slowed, but didn’t turn around this time. “What?”

  “Are you going to be okay…with the baby?”

  His hesitation asked her more. Was she going to be okay with the baby and with the limits he was putting on their relationship? No.

  But Cleo had her pride. And she was that practical, sensible, capable woman he had married. “Of course,” she said, continuing on to Jonah’s room. If she wasn’t okay now, well, then, she would be. She’d find a way to live with half a marriage. Somehow.

  Jonah’s face was flushed and he didn’t immediately stop crying when she picked him up. A niggle of unease rolled down Cleo’s spine. He was usually such an easygoing baby.

  She went through the checklist. His diaper was dry and his tummy was full. The worry getting stronger now, she shifted him in her arms and put his cheek against hers. He was hot.

  To the tune of his fretting, she carried him into the adjoining bathroom to retrieve the thermometer. Blessing the inventor who thought up something so simple as taking a temperature via the ear, she quickly checked Jonah’s.