His Brother's Fiancée

by Jasmine Cresswell

  "It's a very convenient story, but if it's true, why didn't you tell me before? You knew what I believed about you and Mary Christine. You knew that I despised what I thought you'd done, and yet you never attempted to explain, even though I was about to marry your brother. Didn't you want to have a good relationship with your future sister-in-law?"

  "Not particularly."

  Emily blinked, then stared at him. "Why on earth not?"

  Jordan's gaze finally veered away from her, and for the first time he hesitated before answering. "It seemed safer that way," he said finally.

  "Safer?" Emily was puzzled by his choice of word.

  "Yes." He turned, meeting her gaze again. "I didn't explain about Mary Christine because you were marrying my brother. The wedding date was set. On balance, it seemed safer for both of us if you had a really good reason to dislike me."

  Emily felt a chill that had nothing to do with the altitude or the quickening breeze. Too much had happened in the past couple of days and she realized she was afraid of asking Jordan to expand on his cryptic answer. Okay, so she deserved her crown as Princess of Avoidance, but she wasn't ready to hear what he might reveal.

  The wind was blowing her hair across her face and she used that as an excuse to swing around, pushing it out of her eyes and simultaneously turning her back on Jordan. "I'm glad you didn't know Mary Christine was married," she said, as if that ended all relevant discussion.

  Jordan said nothing.

  Eyes fixed rigidly ahead, Emily crossed the few feet of porch that separated her from the front door. Jordan didn't move from his position propped against one of the pillars, and even though she wasn't looking at him anymore, she could feel his tension.

  Jordan wanted her to ask the question she'd so carefully avoided, Emily realized, but that didn't mean it was in her own best interests to gratify his wish. She had no reason— no need—to know why it had seemed safer to Jordan if she disliked him. Her world had already been turned upside down once in the past two days. She didn't need another threat to her mental equilibrium.

  "The front door's locked," she said, trying the handle. "Do you have the key?"

  "Yes, I have it."

  "Could you open the door, please? I'm starting to feel a little chilled."

  When he didn't respond, she slowly turned around. He hadn't moved, except to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and his remote gaze still seemed fixed on some distant object on the far side of the Jeep.

  Emily drew in a shaky breath. Avoidance of difficult issues had always worked well for her, but in the past couple of days, it hadn't proved a very effective coping mechanism. So what was she going to do? She could follow her standard pattern and ignore what Jordan had just said. Or she could acknowledge the tension humming between them. Tension that was all the more obtrusive because she was trying so hard to deny its existence.

  What the hell. She was a married woman now, and the rules from her previous world no longer seemed to make a lick of sense. Perhaps that meant she would be wise to take a new approach?

  Her decision made, Emily seized her tiny supply of courage in both hands. "You win, Jordan. I'll ask the question you're waiting to hear. Why did you want me to dislike you?"

  He finally swung around, his expression so tightly controlled that it was unreadable. "Because I was afraid that if you didn't actively dislike me, I would do something we would both regret."

  "Such as…what?" Emily realized her hands were balled into fists at her side, but she couldn't seem to unclench them.

  "Something like this," Jordan said, closing the gap between them and bending his head to slant his mouth across hers.

  The touch of his lips sent an instant jolt of sensation ripping through Emily's body. Jarred by the unexpected reaction, her lips parted. Jordan's tongue flicked against hers, and she felt a fierce quiver of unfamiliar yearning.

  Since her disastrous love affair in college, she'd never much enjoyed kissing, which seemed like a frightening prelude to sex rather than an activity that could be enjoyable in itself. But Jordan's kiss felt different. Sweet. Tempting. Exciting. Recklessness churned deep inside her, bringing a liberating sensation of freedom in its wake. This man was her husband. She could kiss him if she wanted to.

  Husband or not, she knew there were a thousand good reasons why kissing Jordan was a very bad mistake. Right now, though, Emily couldn't remember any of them. In defiance of the warning voice sending out urgent instructions to exercise caution, her arms went around Jordan's neck, and her body softened, molding against his. In return, he deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting fiercely against hers and his hands roaming over her body with the sort of seductive skill she'd fantasized about during last night's sleepless vigil in the hotel. Before long, she couldn't conjure up a single reminder of why it had ever seemed important to resist.

  Jordan's hands framed her face, and she could feel heavy calluses on his thumbs as he brushed them against her cheeks, tracing the contours of her face. Calluses that his mother no doubt considered shameful, since she despised men who worked with their hands.

  Far from being repelled, Emily realized that she found the roughness intriguing, even stimulating. What she really wanted was for Jordan to rub those callused thumbs across her breasts. Her nipples tingled at the mere thought, and for an unguarded moment she actually contemplated taking his hand and guiding it to her breast. Then either sanity returned, or her courage failed her, she wasn't sure which.

  She might lack the spunk to take any initiative to increase the intimacy of their kiss, but she could at least give herself permission to enjoy whatever Jordan initiated. Closing her eyes, she surrendered herself to sensation. Until now, she'd never known that it was possible to respond to a kiss with every part of her body. Her skin felt hot, her head light, her muscles weak, and her feet oddly heavy. And when Jordan's hands slid down her back, beneath her cotton sweater, she felt a reaction not just where he touched, but deep inside, all the way to the pit of her stomach. If they had been inside the house, in the vicinity of a bed, she wondered what might have happened next.

  The realization that she was actually contemplating a sexual relationship with Jordan was enough to pour a dose of ice-cold water on Emily's overheated senses. Reality crowded in with a vengeance, and she abruptly tore herself out of his arms. Good God, even if her own birth wasn't warning enough of where careless sex could lead, how could she have forgotten the bitter lesson she had learned in college? Shawn Dooley was very like Jordan in many ways. And he, too, had been all charm and sweet promises until she really needed him.

  Jordan didn't attempt to reclaim her once she'd freed herself from his arms. Emotions roiling, her body still frighteningly aroused, Emily stared at him in dazed silence, too shaken to remember any of the polite stock phrases she usually employed to dampen the enthusiasm of men who made sexual advances to her.

  It was Jordan who broke the lengthening silence. "Now you know why it was better if I let you despise me. You were my brother's fiancée, after all."

  And just what the hell did that remark mean, Emily wondered. The possible interpretations were limitless. Al-most at once, she decided she was better off not knowing. Avoidance might not have proven an ideal coping mechanism over the past few days, but it was one that had worked mighty well for her in the past, and probably could be made to work for her again. She'd done all the probing into cryptic comments that she planned to do for the time being.

  "It's really getting cold out here," she said, as if their last exchange had been an impersonal discussion of the weather instead of a passionate exchange of kisses. "Could you please let me inside the house, Jordan?"

  "Yeah, sure." He took the key from the pocket of his jeans and opened the front door.

  In silence, carefully not looking at him, she walked inside.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Exhaustion was clearly affecting his brain, Jordan decided. Or what tattered remnants of a brain he still possessed. Having spent the
entire night pretending to be asleep, while actually fantasizing about jumping into Emily's bed and making love until both of them were too sated to move, he was willing to concede that he wasn't operating at peak mental efficiency. Still, he'd assumed he had a few scraps of normal brain function left. For sure it hadn't occurred to him that he was tired enough to do something as totally and completely dumb-ass as grabbing Emily and thrusting his tongue halfway down her throat.

  Right now, he could probably count himself lucky that she hadn't socked him on the jaw as a warning to keep his distance. Except that Emily was way too inhibited to let rip with a punch, even when she was outraged. Which she almost certainly had been. Although—for a couple of seconds there—he'd had the impression that she was kind of getting into the kiss in her own uptight, ladylike way.

  And that was sheer wishful thinking on his part, Jordan decided. If he didn't want to do irreparable damage to his long-term plans, he'd better set his mind to recovering lost ground. He needed to devote the next couple of days to convincing Emily that he wasn't going to jump her bones the minute she let down her guard. In other words, he had to keep his hands off her delectable body and his mouth off her eminently kissable lips.

  Hell, that shouldn't be an impossible goal to set himself.

  If he could control his adolescent urge to get laid, he might yet be able to persuade Emily that he was an okay kind of a guy, with serious potential as a husband. Someone who bore only a passing resemblance to the lazy, good-for-nothing stud portrayed by his parents and their cronies on the San Antonio gossip circuit.

  There were some minor consolations to be derived from his current situation. He'd spent quite a few wakeful hours last night picturing Emily in this house he'd built, and so far, the reality of her presence was living up to his most self-indulgent fantasies. She'd clearly fallen in love with Elk Meadow as swiftly as he had the first time he saw it five years earlier. It was music to his ears to listen to her enthusiastic comments as they explored the downstairs levels of the house. He'd even been pleased that she liked the basement storage systems, and if that wasn't pathetic, he didn't know what would be.

  He led her from the vaulted atrium through the living room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, and into the kitchen, where she lingered to admire the six-burner stainless steel range, with its built-in grill.

  "Do you cook?" she asked. "Or is this fancy equipment just to impress visitors?"

  "I like to cook when I have time. What about you?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "To my mom's despair, I'm barely adequate. I get bored at the chop, grate, peel and dice stage of most recipes, which limits what I can make."

  "A set of really sharp knives helps with the grunt work."

  "I guess it would help some. I like to bake cakes for special occasions, so maybe there's hope for me yet. What sort of a cook are you? Elegant European? Exotic Eastern? Down-home American?"

  "Mostly down-home, with a touch of exotic thrown in for variety. I could live happily on steak and potatoes, with ice cream for dessert, seven days a week. But since I'd prefer not to drop dead on my fortieth birthday, I've learned a few recipes for fish and grilled vegetables."

  "Bet that impresses all your girlfriends," she said, smiling. Her smile was genuine, and he could see that, for a moment, she'd completely forgotten that they were officially a married couple.

  "I usually take my dates out to eat. I'm too busy to cook when I'm in San Antonio. And I've never brought a girlfriend here. Until today."

  "I'm not your girlfriend," she said quickly.

  "No, you're not," he agreed. "You're my wife."

  She stared at him blank-eyed, having a lot of trouble wrapping her mind around the truth of what he'd just said. In all honesty, Jordan still couldn't believe they were married himself. Not wanting to make too much of his point, he walked over to the fridge and pulled open the door to check the contents.

  "I called a friend of mine yesterday and asked her to buy us some groceries. It looks as if she's stocked the whole fridge. If you'd like a sandwich, there seems to be plenty of choices for fillings."

  "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry right now. I am thirsty, though."

  "The altitude will do that, especially on top of a plane journey." Jordan checked the refrigerator shelves for drinks. "Take your pick. There's fancy water in little bottles, with bubbles or without. Also Coke, milk and orange juice. And beer or wine, if you feel in the mood. Although you might be smart to lay off the alcohol for the rest of today, at least until your body adjusts to the altitude."

  She nodded. "I drank more than enough champagne yesterday to last me for the rest of the week, but some water would be great."

  "Fizzy?"

  "Just plain, thanks."

  He opened a bottle before handing it to her and selecting a Coke for himself. "If you're ready, I'll take you upstairs so you can get unpacked and settled in for the night."

  "Yes, I guess we should do that. Get unpacked, I mean. The day seems to have disappeared. I can hardly believe it's five o'clock already."

  She'd got the hunted rabbit look again, which Jordan tried to find amusing and couldn't. Damn, was the mere mention of bedrooms or sleeping arrangements always going to send her running for cover? He was sure she felt the same physical attraction he did, and he wasn't sure why she was so reluctant to acknowledge it. Why wouldn't she allow herself to share something with him that would give pleasure to them both? If he'd hoped that telling her the truth about his affair with Mary Christine would work a miraculous transformation in her attitude, then clearly he was going to be disappointed.

  Jordan was tired and irritated enough to lead Emily into the master bedroom, as if he anticipated she would sleep there with him, although he expected no such thing. The room was dominated by a fieldstone fireplace—and a king-size bed. He anticipated watching her reaction to the latter with a certain malicious pleasure.

  Not for the first time, Emily managed to surprise him. Far from getting flustered at the sight of the bed with its dramatic blue-and-yellow spread, she didn't seem to notice it. She paid even less attention to the fireplace with its fancy display of lichen-encrusted stones. Instead, she gave a smothered gasp and made a beeline for the armoire standing in the far corner of the bedroom.

  His armoire. Jordan's stomach tensed. It was crazy, but he discovered he really cared about her reaction to his work.

  She stood in front of it, her gaze rapt. Then she ran her hands almost reverently over the carved panels of the doors, which depicted two wolf cubs playing in a snow-covered forest clearing.

  "You're so lucky to have this," she said, her fingers frankly caressing as she traced the outline of the larger wolf cub's bushy tail. "It's from the Woodcutters Workshop, isn't it?"

  "Yes." He actually had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything else. "How did you know?"

  "The craftsmanship is unmistakable once you've seen a couple of their pieces."

  "Even so, I'm surprised you could recognize it instantaneously, from way across the room like that."

  "I'm an interior designer, remember. It's my job to know about the industry's leading designers. Besides, I think the Woodcutters Workshop is the most exciting producer of custom furniture in the country."

  Emily was still examining the carved panels, indifferent to the other contents of the room and even the dramatic view of the mountains from the windows that flanked either side of the fireplace. "I saw an exhibition of their furniture at a trade show in North Carolina about four years ago," she said. "Everything that comes out of their factory is well made and elegantly designed, but the hand-carved signature pieces by J. C. Hunter are more than wonderful. In my opinion, they're works of art."

  "I'm…glad you like them."

  "I recommend them to clients all the time, but the waiting list is so long, it doesn't always work out. Right after that exhibition, I tried to buy a dining room china cabinet for a client of mine, but every J. C. Hunter piece is custom-produ
ced, and the lead time at that point was at least two years. My client was enthusiastic enough that she agreed to wait. Then she bitched and moaned for most of the two years because she hadn't really believed it would take that long. It was a nightmare keeping her focused on the end result, instead of the wait."

  "Was she satisfied in the end?"

  Emily smiled. "She was ecstatic, thank goodness. Especially when all her friends lavished compliments on her taste. She chose an oak cabinet with a formal design of flowers and ivy leaves, very different in style from this one you have, but still lovely. Personally I like your selection even better. I love the free-flowing feel of the carving on this piece."

  As if she couldn't bear to look away, Emily turned back to the armoire again, bending down to examine the depiction of a robin, perched on the end of a fallen tree trunk. "God, he does magnificent work," she murmured, her fingers tracing the trademark J. C. Hunter signature. "This piece is even more beautiful than the others I've seen. How long did you have to wait for this to be produced?"

  "About three months."

  "Three months! That's all?" Emily straightened in surprise. "Hey, what's your inside track, Jordan? Care to share it with me? If I could get J. C. Hunter pieces in a three-month time frame, my success as an interior designer would be guaranteed."

  In the ten years since he'd founded the Woodcutters Workshop, Jordan had never felt the slightest need to explain the truth about how he made his living to his parents or to his older brother. But watching Emily's pleasure in something he had created, he found that keeping silent was impossible. Curiously, telling her the truth was hard to do.

  "I know J. C. Hunter personally," he said at last.

  "You do?" She looked at him with new respect. "I'm seriously impressed. I heard he was really young to be such a fine craftsman. Is that true?"

  Jordan couldn't believe it, but he felt his cheeks grow hot. Lord almighty, he was blushing! This was crazy. He cleared his throat. "Well, I'm thirty-four. I guess that's pretty young to have run your own business for ten years. But remember, I dropped out of college when I was barely eighteen. So I was apprenticed to a cabinetmaker for six years before I branched out on my own."