Contract Bride Read online

  When she actually relaxed, she noticed that Warren’s body was warm and she didn’t hate the little hum in her core that seemed her constant companion lately. How could she help it? He seemed to know by some kind of osmosis exactly what she needed and when she needed it most. It was unsettling. And wonderful.

  When the car rolled to a stop—at home—she glanced at him. “I thought we were having lunch.”

  “We are.” He pulled her from the car by the hand, but instead of guiding her inside, he took the stone walkway leading around through a wrought-iron gate and they emerged in the circular garden she’d seen from the terrace Saturday night.

  Her breath caught.

  Warren had obviously called ahead. A lavish picnic had been painstakingly spread out in the center of the blooms in the grassy section of the garden. “What is all this?”

  “A circus,” he shot back wryly. “What does it look like?”

  It looked like the perfect place for Warren to pick up where he’d left off this morning, poking into things that he shouldn’t while hiding her away from prying eyes. It was far more brilliant and devious than taking her to a restaurant, where they couldn’t have any sort of frank conversation. Instead, he’d gone for romance. Seduction.

  “It looks like a man who’s playing dirty.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Then my work here is done. Come. Have a glass of champagne.”

  At lunch? On a Monday? Baffled, she watched the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation pull a bottle from a bed of ice and pop the cork. He handed her a glass flute that had been blown into the shape of a delicate tulip, the stalk of the flower forming the stem.

  When in Rome. She sipped the champagne because she had a feeling she’d need it. Warren clinked his glass to hers, watching her over the rim as he drank his own. And then, when her attention was fully occupied, he reached up and pulled the clip from her hair.

  As it fell out of the twist and down around her shoulders, he stuck the clip in his pocket. “I’ll put it back later. Still my secret.”

  “Warren,” she squawked and choked on the word as she registered the rising electricity arcing between them.

  “Shh. I’m only looking at you.”

  She should protest. Or something. But they were hidden from the street, encased in their own private sanctuary. Her hair brushed her nape and it was incredibly freeing. What was the harm in letting her scalp breathe for a while?

  When Warren led her to the heavy canvas spread across the grass, she found out.

  Instead of focusing on drinking his champagne, he took off his shoes and reclined on the ground, gesturing for her to join him. She followed his example and stretched out. It took less than a second for his gaze to grow heavy with dark, delicious intent.

  “I love your hair,” he murmured. He didn’t move, but she felt his voice curling through her midsection like a dense fog. “It’s such a rich color, and with that slight wave, it looks like it’s alive.”

  “It’s just hair.” But there was no harm in being secretly pleased with the compliment.

  “I beg to differ. ‘Just hair’ wouldn’t do this.” Before she could protest, he pressed her hand to his chest. His heartbeat galloped along at a breakneck pace, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was as swept up in the romance of this garden lunch date as she was.

  “Maybe you should lay off the caffeine,” she advised. “You always drink at least two test items from the research lab every morning.”

  “Tilda. Don’t be dense.” His thumb stroked down her palm as he set aside first his champagne flute, then hers. “My out-of-control pulse is not because I had an energy drink. It’s all you. You’re so sexy, I can’t process it sometimes.”

  Heat prickled through her cheeks, flooding along her hairline. Might as well sport a big neon sign that announced he’d flustered her. “Not in this outfit.”

  “In that outfit,” he corrected and trailed a fingertip along the buttons of her tailored shirt. “Because I know what’s under it. Secrets. Here, let me show you.” When she started to pull away, he clamped down on her palm, holding it in place against his thundering heart. “Stay with me. Trust me. I’m just going to show you how sexy you are.”

  That statement was so intriguing that she didn’t move. Couldn’t. He fingered the top button of her shirt and slipped it free, then slid to the next one. She couldn’t breathe as the intensity of the moment pushed down on her chest while his touch simultaneously lit up her center.

  It was a horrible, magnificent paradox. She’d long given up feeling safe enough to be with a man again, but Warren had patiently sorted through all her barriers. Still was. But she was still half turned-on and half anxious.

  The next button popped from its slot and he peeled back her blouse into a V that revealed the slightest bit of cleavage. His hum of approval vibrated against her palm and it loosened something inside her.

  Without a word, he leaned over and replaced his fingers with his mouth, kissing the slice of breast he’d uncovered but going no farther than the line he’d created with her blouse. She let her fingertips nip into his chest, registering his heartbeats as a barometer of his excitement—it was nearly as good as having a mindreading device. How great a concept was that?

  It got even better as he mouthed his way up the column of her throat and wandered along her jawline. If she moved her head a fraction, they’d be kissing. The anticipation coiled through her belly, releasing as he settled his lips at the corner of her mouth in a light, exploratory nibble that rushed through her center.

  One taste wouldn’t kill anyone.

  She turned her head to catch him just right. The kiss brewed for a half second before becoming a reality, mouths aligned and so very hot. She moaned as his hands slid down her back, and he rolled her half beneath him. The kiss turned carnal and heavy in a flash as his leg notched between hers, riding against her skirt, which he quickly gathered up at her thigh, exposing more of her secrets than she’d expected for a Monday afternoon.

  But his thigh was so delicious against her burning core as he chafed it, feeding the flames as he shifted even further, covering her with a full-body press. He was big and firm, and the feel of him should be thrilling through her. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was too much.

  She gasped for air as her throat closed and she couldn’t speak to save her life. Her nerves frayed, sending her into a panic attack. She pushed at him weakly, knowing she had absolutely no chance of moving him unless he chose to remove himself.

  Warren froze and pulled back, his gaze roving over her face. He swore and sat up, running a hand through his hair.

  “I got carried away again,” he mumbled, his eyes shut. “I have no excuse for not checking in with you sooner. Please forgive me.”

  God, this was a never-ending nightmare of a merry-go-round that she desperately wanted to exit.

  “No, Warren.” She crawled to him and pulled his jaw into her hands to force him to look at her. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one botching this.”

  She couldn’t stand that he thought this was in any way his fault. Couldn’t stand that she had no idea how to fix the way her insides got too tight when she felt threatened. Why did she feel threatened? Who knew? It was a mystery to her; otherwise, she’d figure out how to shut it off for good.

  “Do we need a...code word or something?” he asked cautiously. “Or have I already ruined things so much that you’re through with all of this?”

  “Nothing is ruined. You’re so incredibly patient with me and I feel like a sook. But facts are facts, and I’ve got some issues. You shouldn’t pin any hopes on this marriage becoming anything more than a way to keep me in America.”

  The lovely vibe between them dissolved and vanished like so much smoke from a chimney. Great. Leave it to her to be the one ruining things with her angst and back-and-forth, as if she couldn’t make up her m
ind whether to be hot or cold. It wasn’t fair to him.

  Slowly, he reached out, his gaze on his fingers as he rebuttoned her shirt to the very top.

  “Who said I had any hopes for our marriage? What’s happening between us has nothing to do with that and everything to do with giving you a safe environment to express your sexuality. You’re so much the opposite of who you pretend to be. If you get to a place where you feel free to be yourself while you’re with me, then that’s all I could hope for.”

  Oh. She blinked, but the seriousness in his expression didn’t fade. He wasn’t suffering from the effects of an unrequited love, which was a relief. Or, at least, it would be a relief as soon as she convinced herself of it, which was practically the same thing.

  She obviously couldn’t handle a relationship right now and he’d realized that. Because he was paying better attention to her emotional landmines than she was.

  But that didn’t stop the twist of disappointment that he wasn’t falling at her feet, spouting poetry about his poor broken heart that could only be healed by her love. Silly. She didn’t want that. It was just that she’d thought the surprise picnic meant something that it didn’t. So it wasn’t quite the romantic gesture that she’d believed, but it was, in fact, something better. A safe place. Not a magic fixer-upper love potion that wouldn’t have worked anyway.

  She was still the one with the biggest stake in working through her problems, and he’d given her permission to skip the guilt if she failed because Warren wasn’t emotionally invested.

  “I’m having a very nice time at lunch,” she told Warren solemnly, which made him smile, so she considered the outing a victory all the way around.

  Despite the slight hollow feeling in her stomach where the warmth of Warren had been a few moments ago.

  Seven

  The way things had gone down at the picnic bothered Warren for two solid days. The date had ended on exactly the right note, with zero pressure on either of them. Tilda had learned that she could be and act however she wanted around him. Wear sexy lingerie. Let her hair down. What else could he have expected out of the afternoon?

  He had some work to do in the pay-attention-to-her-subtle-cues department, but mostly he’d passed the test of proving he could back off when she needed him to. He had a feeling he’d be proving that one over and over again, but that was okay. It had to be. Tilda needed slow. It wasn’t the end of the world.

  So, why was he still on edge?

  Maybe because he wasn’t sure what the next step was. He was flying a little blind here, especially given that his usual go-to mode was distance. Out of his element didn’t begin to describe it. Where he normally buried himself in work to cope with feeling ineffective on the people side of things, the source of his frustration was front and center in his professional life—by design.

  Everything was tied together, and the more time he spent with Tilda, the more she dazzled him. She assassinated items on the project’s to-do list like an Australian ninja, shining at whatever task she picked up. Sometimes it was dizzying when she really got going, but that’s why he’d fought for her to stay.

  He needed her. Or rather, Flying Squirrel needed her. But they were slowly becoming one and the same. And, near the end of the week, he started to question whether it hadn’t always been that way.

  On Friday, she emerged from her bedroom with chunky strands of hair falling to her temples on each side. Deliberately. He smiled and met her in the hall, as had become their habit. One he would never have said would become so entrenched in his routine so fast. But he enjoyed riding to work with her and then riding home again afterward as they recapped the day. So far, they’d eaten dinner together every night, too.

  “That might be the sexiest hairstyle I’ve seen on you yet,” he murmured, then he indulged himself by first holding his hand up as a notice that he was about to touch her, and then doing it, sliding a finger along her jaw to turn her face to the side as he evaluated. “I like it when you experiment with ways to drive me mad.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” she volleyed back saucily. “Then you probably don’t want to know what color my underwear is.”

  He groaned, which only made her laugh. She’d been experimenting with her flirting, too, and—not for the first time—it had taken a naughtier bent, which he fully deserved for creating this monster. “You’re so wrong. I absolutely want to know.”

  She leaned into his touch, another jerky step forward in this dance. His reward for learning that he had to tread carefully with her.

  “Ice-blue silk.”

  “My favorite,” he murmured, his gaze tight on her as they stared at each other.

  If she’d been any other woman, he’d have segued this serendipitous moment into a kiss, but he’d blown it twice now by getting too frisky too fast. And, of course, ice blue could be any number of shades, and he’d be hard-pressed to not slip a few buttons free as he kissed her so he could see this color for himself. Which was probably a bad idea.

  This was a delicate balance of push and pull, and when she stepped back, letting his hand drop from her face, he knew he’d made the right call. Biting back his disappointment, he let her go ahead of him down the stairs and spent the day imagining the hell out of Tilda spread out on his desk in her ice-blue bra and panties.

  To say that the day ended up a waste of time on his part was an understatement. Tilda did all the work while his brain stayed stuck in her cleavage. Which he could not actually see.

  Clinical insanity might be a blessing at this point.

  Things did not improve at dinner as Tilda launched into a discussion about a study she’d read in a trade publication about energy drinks and their positive effects on college students’ ability to concentrate. Animated, Tilda talked with her hands, and every time she gestured, the collar of her shirt wrinkled an iota. His gaze strayed to it over and over, but like all his other frustrations, nothing good popped out.

  Interrupting the one-sided conversation, which she seemed not to notice he’d yet to participate in, he put his fork down. “Tilda.”

  She paused midstream, mouth open. “I’m talking too much.”

  “You’re not talking enough,” he corrected. “About the right subjects. Why did you tell me about the color of your underwear earlier? Just so we can be clear. Was it strictly to drive me over the edge or were you inviting me to see it? Because I don’t want to upset you, but I don’t want to miss a signal, either.”

  She blinked and blinked again. “I...didn’t have an agenda.”

  “The hell you didn’t.”

  He reeled back his temper, which, rationally, he knew was only due to old-fashioned sexual frustration. But naming the source didn’t ease it any. Only a good long session between his wife’s thighs would take care of that, and at this point, he wasn’t particular about the nature of the activity, only that he was about to bust something inside if they didn’t move past this nebulous in-between place where they’d gotten stuck.

  “Warren, I—” She rubbed at her temples. “I don’t know either. I like flirting with you. I think about letting you see my underwear all the time.”

  “Really?” That piqued his interest in a big way. “Like you wish I’d burst in on you as you’re undressing again? Because that can be arranged.”

  He’d clear his schedule for a week straight. All he needed was a green light.

  That got a small smile. “Maybe not that. But I need...something to move the needle. I don’t know what.”

  So she was feeling a little stuck, too. That was news, and as headlines went, he was a fan of this one. It meant she was equally frustrated. Neither was she telling him to back off. More like, “come and get me.” But that hadn’t worked so well for them before, which put them right back where they started—dancing around each other.

  It was killing him.

  And not just because he
genuinely cared about getting Tilda to a better place. She was slowly coming out of her uptight shell, and the woman who was emerging could tie a man in knots.

  One who would let a woman do that to him, of course. Not Warren.

  “Tell me what happens. In your fantasy where I see your underwear,” he prompted.

  A guard snapped over her expression and Warren nearly cursed, but he kept his mouth shut because they had to do something different. Also, he was wildly curious about what she’d say.

  “I wouldn’t call it a fantasy—”

  “I would.” And he was definitely an expert at them. “If you’re thinking about it, some scenario came to mind. Where are we? What’s happening? Don’t pull punches with me. I’m not judge and jury in the trial of Tilda’s imagination. I’m just the poor guy you’re teasing.”

  A tinge of pink swept along her skin and he really shouldn’t be so pleased to see it, but odds were high the images in her head were very, very naughty given the sheer volume of color in her face, and he desperately wanted to hear what she fantasized about.

  “Tell me, Tilda,” he murmured, dinner completely forgotten. “You’re safe with me.”

  “I think about coming to your room. With my robe on,” she said, her voice growing steadier as she spun out the scene. “You’re on the bed. Watching me. And I take off the robe, then climb—”

  “Whoa. You’re going way too fast.” He held up a hand, thrilled his muscles still worked as the erotic images spilled through his own mind’s eye. “Give me a moment to catch up.”

  “What, are you fantasizing about that now?” she whispered, glancing around as if someone might overhear them in the cavernous dining room that could fit a basketball team or the erection she’d given him, but not both. No way.