Contract Bride Page 4

  Rosalind scowled back, clearly not cowed in the least. “You have to know that we’re curious.”

  “Darling.” Hendrix held out his hand to his wife. “Your curiosity is one of my favorite qualities. Come over here and be curious about the advantages of a round booth when you’re sitting next to your husband.”

  An intense smile that held a wealth of meaning bloomed on Rosalind’s face. She clasped his outstretched hand, allowing him to draw her into the booth and over to his side, where he slung an arm around her. He murmured something in her ear and she laughed, snuggling against him with such ease that Tilda got a lump in her throat while watching them. They were so clearly in love, so obviously the kind of lovers that trusted each other implicitly.

  The white-hot spurt of emotion in her chest was nothing but pure jealousy. Naming it didn’t make it any more acceptable or understandable. Where had that come from? Longing for that kind of intimacy with a man had gotten her into trouble with Bryan, leading her into dangerous water before she fully realized she’d left the shore behind. Tilda swallowed as she tore her gaze from the two.

  “Don’t mind them,” Warren said with a note of disgust in his voice. “They embarrass the rest of us, too. They have no boundaries in polite company.”

  “That’s so not true,” Hendrix countered with a smirk, scarcely lifting his gaze from his wife’s luminous face. “We’ve turned over a new leaf. No more public nakedness.”

  That broke some of the tension, and Jonas slid into the booth with his wife, which left Warren and Tilda. He sat next to Hendrix, leaving Tilda at the edge. Which suited her fantastically. She liked nothing less than being trapped, and luck of the draw meant she wouldn’t have to be.

  Across from her, Viv settled in close to her husband. Viv and Jonas might not have sensual vibes shooting from them the way the other couple did, but it was clear they were newly married and still in the throes of the honeymoon phase.

  Happiness in marriage wasn’t a goal of Tilda’s. Burying herself in her job was. That was all she could handle at the moment, all she would allow herself to hope for. Intimacy wasn’t on the table in her marriage, by design, and that was a good thing. After all, she couldn’t trust herself any more than she could trust a man.

  Warren had left a solid foot of space between his thigh and Tilda’s. Appropriately so. He would never slide his arm around her and nestle her close, turning his head to murmur something wickedly naughty or achingly sweet into her ear.

  And it shouldn’t have taken the rest of the evening for her to convince herself she didn’t want that.

  Three

  The moving company Warren had hired arrived at his house with Tilda’s things around midafternoon on Saturday, meager as they were. She’d apparently not brought very much with her from Australia, just a few paperback books with well-worn covers, several boxes of clothes and shoes, and a set of china teacups.

  He was curious about both the teacups and the books. But asking felt like a line they shouldn’t cross. Too personal or something. If she wanted to explain, she would. Didn’t stop him from thinking it was a strange state of things that he didn’t feel comfortable getting personal with his wife.

  The lack of boxes meant she didn’t need any help unpacking and he had no good reason to be skulking about in his bedroom as she settled into her room on the other side of the connecting door in his bathroom. He couldn’t find a thing to occupy his attention, an unusual phenomenon when he normally spent Saturdays touring the Flying Squirrel warehouses with Thomas.

  But his brother was on vacation with his wife—somewhere without cell phone reception, apparently, as he’d not answered his phone in several days. That was unfathomable. Who wanted to be someplace without cell phone reception?

  If Warren had been occupied with work—like he should have been—then he wouldn’t have heard Tilda rustling around in the bathroom. Nor would he have wandered through the door to appease his sudden interest in what she was doing. She glanced up sharply as he joined her in the cavernous room.

  Immediately, she took up all the space and then tried to occupy his, too, sliding under his skin with her presence. He’d been in a small room with her before, lots of times. But not at his house, a stone’s throw from the shower where he’d indulged in many, many fantasies starring the woman he’d married.

  The problem wasn’t the married part. It was the kiss part. He probably shouldn’t have done that.

  Or, more to the point, he should have done it right. Then he wouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like to kiss Tilda properly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. That short, utilitarian peck yesterday had been ill-advised, obviously. But the officiant had said to kiss the bride. Warren hadn’t seen any reason not to. It was a custom. He wouldn’t have felt married without it, a twist that he hadn’t anticipated. So he went with it.

  But it hadn’t been worth the price of admission if he was going to be constantly on edge around Tilda now. Constantly thinking about whether it would change their working dynamic if he kissed her as thoroughly as he suddenly burned to.

  He cleared his throat. “Settling in all right?”

  She nodded. “You have a lovely home.”

  Which she never would have seen, even one time, if they hadn’t gotten married. “It’s yours, too, for now. I have to admit, I was a little surprised you picked the adjoining bedroom. It would have been okay to take the one on the first floor.”

  But she was already shaking her head. There were no loose strands in her hairstyle today. He’d somehow expected that she’d adopt a more casual look on a Saturday, but Tilda had shown up in yet another dove-gray suit that looked practical and professional. But it also generated a fair amount of nosy interest in her habits. Even he wore jeans and T-shirts on Saturday, despite the assurance that he would put in an eight-hour day in the pursuit of all things Flying Squirrel before the sun set. Did she ever relax enough to enjoy a day off?

  Well, that didn’t matter. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t take days off, either. Why would having a woman in his house change his ninety-hour workweek? And certainly finding himself in possession of a wife didn’t mean they should take a day off together like he’d been half imagining.

  “I know you said the staff is very discreet,” she said and nodded to the open door behind her that gave him only a glimpse of the room beyond. “But taking this bedroom seemed like less of a problem. Less obvious that we’re not, um...sleeping together.”

  Well, now, that was an interesting blush spreading over Tilda’s cheeks, and he didn’t miss the opportunity to enjoy it. He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the nondescript marble vanity, which suddenly seemed a lot more remarkable now that it had several feminine accoutrements strewn across it.

  “Yes, that was why I suggested it,” he drawled.

  But now he was thinking of the reasons it was less obvious they weren’t sleeping together—because of the accessibility factor. This was an older home, designed in the style of a hundred years ago when women had their own chambers but understood the expectations of producing heirs. These women needed discreet ways to travel between their bedrooms and their husbands’, and vice versa, without disturbing staff members.

  He’d never even so much as imagined a woman using that adjoining chamber. And now he couldn’t unimagine how easy it would be to steal into Tilda’s bed in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t be wearing a suit, that was for sure. What did she wear to bed? In all of his fantasies, she was naked.

  And that was absolutely not the right image to slam into his mind during a conversation with his in-name-only wife while stuck in a netherworld between two beds that were not going to see any action of the sensual variety. A man with his imagination should be putting it to better use dreaming up new ways to sell energy drinks, not undressing his buttoned-up employee with his eyes.

  “Did you wa
nt to go over the project plan?” she asked, very carefully not looking at him as she pulled open an empty drawer to place her hairbrush inside.

  “In a little while. After you’re settled. And only if you want to. I don’t expect you to work weekends just because we’re together.”

  The drawer slammed shut, the sound echoing from the mostly bare walls, and she flinched. “Sorry, I’m not used to your house yet. Even the drawer mechanisms are higher end than what I’m accustomed to. Takes hardly any force at all to close.”

  He eyed her, not liking the way the vibe between them had gotten more stilted. They’d been easy with each other for so long. He yearned to get that back.

  “No problem. I don’t expect you to automatically know how everything in the house operates. You take some time to get acclimated and we’ll have dinner together later. In fact, no work for you today. I insist.”

  Dinner. That sounded nice. An opportunity to keep things casual, learn some things about each other. Get used to being married and find their way back to the easiness that had marked their working relationship.

  But instead of taking the hint and nodding enthusiastically, she froze. The vibe between them grew icicles and he scouted around for the reason she’d suddenly gotten so tense.

  “Dinner?” she repeated. “Will it be like a...date?”

  Mayday. Obviously she didn’t want the icicles between them to melt, and if her tone was any indication, the idea of a date was not welcome.

  That needled him. Was he so terrible a companion that she couldn’t even fathom having a dinner that wasn’t about business? Lots of women enjoyed his company...right up until they realized his cell phone was an extension of his arm.

  This conversation was going south in a hurry.

  “No, of course it’s not a date.” Dates came with connotations that he didn’t know how to deal with, either. All of his dates consisted of interruptions due to work emergencies and the occasional late-night booty call that left him feeling increasingly lonely. “Would it be so bad if I did mean it that way?”

  Wow, he needed to shut his trap, like, yesterday.

  “I, um...don’t...know.”

  She looked so miserable that he had to take pity on her. Clearly she didn’t know how to respond to that, and technically, he was her boss more than he was her husband.

  “It’s just dinner,” he practically growled. “I want to eat with you. Let’s not attach any more meaning to it than that.”

  She nodded, her eyes a little wide.

  There was a reason he didn’t have more practice at this. The pact. And, frankly, drawing out his wife for the express purpose of getting to know her wasn’t a good plan. Where could this possibly go? Granted, she already knew he was a workaholic, so that realization wasn’t likely to stall things out before they got started. But in order for that to matter, they’d have to have some type of relationship beyond business.

  Now was probably not the right time to figure out that that sounded really great.

  * * *

  Tilda spent about an hour rearranging her clothes in the closet of her new bedroom. If closet was even the appropriate term when the thing in question was the size of the entire corporate apartment she’d been living in for the last two months as she worked on the Flying Squirrel campaign. She’d expected to stay in that tiny apartment for the entire year. Funny how things worked out.

  Not so funny were the second thoughts she’d been plagued with about selecting the bedroom near Warren’s. The reasons she’d given him were sound. The effect of his proximity was not.

  Sure, she’d had an academic understanding that the rooms connected via the enormous bathroom. There was an ocean of wide marble tile between the two doors, locks on either side and then a lot of carpet. They never had to see each other except perhaps in passing—she’d presumed.

  That hadn’t worked out. He’d just wandered in while she was putting away her things, perfectly fine having a chat in the bathroom. Why hadn’t she taken the bedroom downstairs? Well, she knew that one. Because she’d had a moment of panic at the idea of being adrift in this huge house. Warren was the only person she knew in this place, the only person who had given her a measure of comfort in the whole of the United States. She shouldn’t have to second-guess choosing the bedroom that meant she’d be closer to him. If she liked the fact that he was convenient, no one had to know. Nor would she ever act on that convenience. He was her boss and she owed him a debt of gratitude for keeping her out of Australia.

  Plus, he’d backed off in a hurry when she’d tried to put parameters around this nebulous thing he’d called “dinner.” Of course, it was crystal clear now that he hadn’t defined it as a date in any way, shape or form.

  Which was good. She was telling herself it was good, even as she tried to figure out what you wore to dinner with your husband who wasn’t really a husband. One of her serviceable dove-gray suits felt too...officey, despite the fact that she’d been wearing one all day. Jeans and a T-shirt, like what she wore to the grocery store, seemed too casual. But then, Warren had mentioned they’d be dining at the house, so maybe casual wasn’t off base.

  In the end, she couldn’t do it. She picked the brown suit and hid a peacock-blue silk bra with corded straps and a matching thong under it. Defiantly. It was her favorite set, bought with her first paycheck from the Flying Squirrel campaign. She’d waltzed right into that high-end lingerie store in downtown Raleigh and bought the classiest, most beautiful fabrics in the place. The clerk had folded her purchase into silver tissue paper, then tucked her lingerie into a foil bag the size of a paperback. Nothing she’d bought needed a bigger package, since both scraps were tiny and revealing.

  Not that she’d ever reveal any of it to anyone. Her little secret. A kick in the teeth to Bryan’s memory, who had never wanted her to wear anything remotely flashy or skimpy. She didn’t dress that way on the outside, but that barrier of boring clothing was for her own peace of mind. Better to avoid attention than to seek it.

  Dinner was exactly as advertised. At home, low-key and not a date. Warren wore the same T-shirt and jeans he’d had on earlier, but of course he looked like a dream in anything. She so rarely saw him in something besides a suit that she took time to enjoy the way his shoulders filled out the soft cotton, graceful biceps emerging below the cuffs.

  Wordlessly, he pulled out a chair at the twelve-seat dining room table off the foyer.

  “Do you entertain a lot?” she inquired politely, since she felt like she had to say something, and heebie-jeebies, are you a good-looking man didn’t seem appropriate.

  “Never. This was my mother’s idea. Apparently it’s the done thing to have a room big enough for a basketball team to dine in.”

  She smiled at the joke and slid into the chair he offered, careful not to brush him as she sat. But as he helped her push in the chair, it caught on an uneven slat in the hardwood floor and his fingers grazed her shoulders.

  The coil of heat low in her belly surprised her with its intensity. The man had barely touched her. What was wrong with her that she had to fight the instinct to lean back against his hands in wordless invitation?

  But his heat vanished from behind her as quickly as he’d established his presence. Taking a seat to her left, he eased into his own chair and turned his focus to her.

  “Are you unpacked yet? Need any help?” he inquired.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. You’ve already been so generous with your staff and in allowing me time to get settled. We should really go over the project plan again, now that we’ve got Wheatner and Ro—”

  “No work.” Warren broke off as his housekeeper came in with plates of white fish and green beans, serving dinner with precise efficiency. Once he’d nodded his thanks, she disappeared. “We’re just eating dinner tonight. As a couple. Not as coworkers.”

  “But we’re not a couple,”
she countered, wondering how she was supposed to eat with such a thing thrown down between them. And wondering whether that note of panic had sounded as squeaky to him as it did to her. “We agreed. In name only.”

  A couple. She’d never been part of a couple, or rather, a normal one. She turned the term over in her head, trying not to attach any significance to it. Her dating life had been nothing remarkable. She’d longed for the kind of relationship that seemed to come so easily to everyone around her, but nothing had ever clicked for her. Until Bryan, whom she’d met at her university roommate’s wedding.

  In retrospect, they’d clicked far too easily, largely owing to her desperation to finally have the kind of companionship and intimacy she’d craved.

  And over the last year, she’d proven that she could live without either. Being one half of a couple wasn’t her goal any longer.

  Warren didn’t pick up his fork, despite having just laid down the law about the activity they were pursuing. “We did agree to in name only. But I’d like to get to know you. We’re going to have some interview rounds for your green card. It would be beneficial if we didn’t stumble through basic things like the names of our siblings or where you were born.”

  “I’m an only child and I was born in Melbourne. Your brother is Thomas. I was thinking that after Wheatner and Ross come back with the revised promotional—”

  “Tilda.”

  Warren’s voice snaked through the low light of the dining room to seep through her chest with jagged teeth, freezing her vocal chords.

  “Is it that difficult to put work aside for an hour?” He cocked his head. “No judgment on this side of the table, if so. I’m the last person to cast the first stone when it comes to being all about the work. But it’s Saturday night and I want to have a nice dinner with my wife, not with a project manager.”

  He wanted to what? “I’m only your project manager. The rest is strictly for show. In order to keep me in the country.”