His Not-So-Blushing Bride: Marriage with Benefits / Improperly Wed / A Breathless Bride

Four

After firing off at least half a dozen emails and scheduling a couple of walk-throughs for early Monday afternoon, Lucas descended the hardwood and wrought-iron stairs at six sharp. Dinner was important to Mama, which meant being on time, plus he’d already done enough to provoke Cia today. Though she should be apologizing to him for the solid fifteen minutes it had taken to scrub the coconut and lime from his skin.

Why did that combination linger, like a big, fruity, tropical tattoo etched into his brain? Couldn’t she wear plain old Chanel like normal women? Then the slight hard-on he’d endured since being in Cia’s bed, her luscious little body twisted around his, would be easy to dismiss. Easy, because a blatant, calculated turn-on he understood.

This, he didn’t.

He shouldn’t be attracted to her. Keeping his hands to himself should be easy. Besides, he scared the mess out of her every time he touched her. That was reason enough to back off, and there were plenty more reasons where that one came from. He’d have to try harder to remember them.

Cia had beaten him to the living room, where she paced around the sofa in a busy circle. The demons drove her relentlessly tonight. There must be a way to still them for a little while.

“Ready?” he asked, and caught her hand to slow her down. It was shaking. “Hey. It’s just dinner with some old people. It’s not like barging into a birthday party and proposing to a man you’ve never met.”

“My hands were shaking then, too.” She actually cracked a tiny smile. “It’s not just dinner. It’s a performance. Our first one, and we have to get it right. There’s no backup parachute on this ride.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darlin’. I always have a backup parachute in my wallet.”

“Only you could twist an innocent comment into an innuendo.” Her eyes flashed deep blue with an unexpected hint of humor. How had he ever thought they were brown?

“If you don’t like it, stop giving me ammo.”

Her bottom lip poked out in mock annoyance, but he could see she was fighting a laugh. “You really are juvenile half the time, aren’t you?”

And there she was, back in the fray. Good. Those shadows flitting through her eyes needed to go. Permanently. He’d enjoy helping that happen.

“Half the time? Nah. I give it my all 24/7.” He winked and kissed her now-steady hand. A hand heavy with her engagement ring. Why did that flash on her finger please him so much? “But you’re not nervous about dinner anymore, so mission accomplished. Before we go, can we find you some matching earrings?”

Fingers flew to her ears. “What? How did that happen?”

“Slow down once in a while maybe. Unless of course you want my parents to think we rolled straight out of bed and got dressed in a big hurry.”

She made a face and went back upstairs. The plain black dress she wore, the same one from the other night, did her figure no favors. Of course, only someone who had recently pressed up against every inch of those hidden curves would know they were there.

He groaned. All night long he’d be thinking about peeling off that dress. Which, on second thought, might not be bad. If she was his real fiancée, he’d be anticipating getting her undressed and the other choice activities to follow. No harm in visualizing both, to up the authenticity factor.

Imagining Cia naked was definitely not a chore.

When she returned, he tucked her against his side and herded her toward the garage before she could bolt. Once he’d settled her into the passenger seat of his car, he slid into the driver’s seat and backed out.

Spring had fully sprung, stretching out the daylight, and the Bradford pears burst with white blooms, turning the trees into giant Q-tips. Likely Cia had no interest in discussing the weather, the Texas Rangers or the Dow, and he refused to sit in silence.

“You know, I’ve been curious.” He glanced at the tight clamp of her jaw. Nerves. She needed a big-time distraction. “So you’re not personally a victim of abuse, but something had to light that fire under you. What was it?”

“My aunt.” She shut her eyes for a blink and bounced her knee. Repeatedly. “The time she showed up at our house with a two-inch-long split down her cheek is burned into my brain. I was six and the ghastly sight of raw flesh …”

With a shudder, she went on, “She needed stitches but refused to go to the emergency room because they have to file a report if they suspect abuse. She didn’t want her husband to be arrested. So my mom fixed her up with Neosporin and Band-Aids and tried to talk some sense into her. Leave that SOB, she says. You deserve better.”

What a thing for a kid to witness. His sharpest memory from that age was scaring the maid with geckos. “She didn’t listen, did she?”

“No.” Cia stared out the window at the passing neighborhood.

When he looked at a house or a structure, he assessed the architectural details, evaluated the location and estimated the resale value. What did she see—the pain and cruelty the people inside its walls were capable of? “What happened?”

“He knocked her down, and she hit her head. After a two-month coma, they finally pulled the plug.” Her voice cracked. “He claimed it was an accident, but fortunately the judge didn’t see it that way. My mom was devastated. She poured all her grief into volunteer work at a shelter, determined to save as many other women as she could.”

“So you’re following in your mom’s footsteps?”

“Much more than that. I went with her. For years, I watched these shattered women gain the skills and the emotional stability to break free of a monstrous cycle. That’s an amazing thing, to know you helped someone get there. My mom was dedicated to it, and now she’s gone.” The bleak proclamation stole his attention from the road, and the staccato tap of her fingernail against the door kept it. “I have to make sure what happened to my aunt doesn’t happen to anyone else. Earlier, you said marriage is about not being able to live without someone. I’ve seen the dark side of that, where women can’t leave their abusers for all sorts of emotional reasons, and it gives me nightmares.”

Oh, man. The shadows inside her solidified.

No wonder she couldn’t be still, with all that going on inside. His chest pinched. She’d been surrounded by misery for far too long. No one had taken the time to teach her how to have fun. How to ditch the clouds for a while and play in the sun.

Wheeler to the rescue. “Next time you have a nightmare, you feel free to crawl in bed with me.”

Her dark blue eyes fixed on him for a moment. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’d prefer never to be dependent on a man in the first place, which is why I’ll never get married.”

“Yet that looks suspiciously like an engagement ring on your left hand, darlin’.”

She rolled her eyes. “Married for real, I mean. Fake marriages are different.”

“Marriage isn’t about creating a dependency between two people, you know. It can be about much more.”

Which meant much more to lose. Like what happened to Matthew, who’d been happy with Amber, goofy in love. They’d had all these plans. Then it was gone. Poof.

Some days, Lucas didn’t know how Matthew held it together, which was reason enough to keep a relationship simple. Fun, yes. Emotional and heavy? No.

Lucas had done Matthew a favor by taking over his monument of a house, not that his brother would agree. If Matthew had his way, he’d mope around in that shrine forever. Cia had already begun dissolving Amber’s ghost, exactly as Lucas had hoped.

“Looks suspiciously like a bare finger on your left hand, Wheeler. You had an affair with a married woman. Sounds like you deliberately avoid eligible women.”

At what point had this conversation turned into an examination of the Lucas Wheeler Philosophy of Marriage? He hadn’t realized he had one until now.

“Marrying you, aren’t I?” he muttered. Lana had been an eligible woman, at least in his mind.

“Boy, that proves your point. I’m the woman who made you agree to divorce me before we got near an altar,” she said sweetly and then jabbed the needle in further. “Gotta wonder what your hang-up is about marriage.”

“Nagging wife with a sharp tongue would be hang-up number one,” he said. “I’ll get married one day. I haven’t found the right woman yet.”

“Not for lack of trying. What was wrong with all of your previous candidates?”

“Too needy,” he said, and Cia chortled.

He should have blown off the question, or at least picked something less cliché. But cliché or not, that’s what had made Lana so disappointing—she’d been the opposite of clingy and suffocating. For once, he’d envisioned a future with a woman. Instead, she’d been lying.

Had he seen the signs but chosen to ignore them?

“Exactly,” she said. “Needy women depend on a man to fill holes inside.”

“Who are you, Freud?”

“Business major, psych minor. I don’t have any holes. Guess I must be the perfect date, then, huh, Wheeler?” She elbowed his ribs and drew a smile from him.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Now he understood her persistent prickliness toward men. Understood it, but didn’t accept it.

Not all men were violent losers bent on dominating someone weaker. Some men appreciated a strong, independent woman. Some men might relish the challenge of a woman who went out of her way to make it clear how not interested she was five seconds after melting into a hot mess in a guy’s arms.

The stronger she was, the harder she’d fall, and he could think of nothing better than rising to the challenge of catching her. Cia wasn’t scared like he’d assumed, but she nursed some serious hang-ups about marriage and men.

Nothing about this marriage was real. None of it counted.

They had the ultimate no-strings-attached arrangement, and he knew the perfect remedy for chasing away those shadows— not-real-doesn’t-count sex with her new husband. Nothing emotional to trip over later, just lots of fun. They both knew where their relationship was going. There was no danger of Cia becoming dependent on him since he wasn’t going to be around after six months and she presented no danger to his family’s business.

Everyone won.

Instead of only visualizing Cia out of that boring dress, he’d seduce her out of it. And out of her hang-ups. A lot rode on successfully scamming everyone. What better way to make everyone think they were a real couple than to be one?

Temporarily, of course.

Lucas’s parents lived at the other end of Highland Park, in a stately colonial two-story edging a large side lot bursting with tulips, hyacinth and sage. A silver-haired older version of Lucas answered the door at the Wheelers’ house, giving Cia an excellent glimpse of how Lucas might age. She hadn’t met Mr. Wheeler at the birthday party.

“Hi, I’m Andy,” Mr. Wheeler said and swung the door wide.

Lucas shook his dad’s hand and then ushered Cia into the Wheelers’ foyer with a palm at the small of her back. The casual but reassuring touch warmed her spine, serving as a reminder that they were in this together.

Through sheer providence, she’d gained a real partner, one who didn’t hesitate to solve problems she didn’t know existed. One who calmed her and who paid enough attention to notice she wore different earrings. She’d never expected, never dreamed, she’d need or want any of that when concocting this scheme.

Thanks to Lucas everything was on track, and soon they could get on with their separate lives. Or as separate as possible while living under the same roof.

Lucas introduced Cia to his brother, Matthew, and Mrs.

Wheeler steered everyone into the plush living area off the main foyer.

“Cia, I’m happy to have you here. Please, call me Fran. Have a seat.” Fran motioned to the cushion next to her on the beige couch, and Cia complied by easing onto it. “I must tell you, I’m quite surprised to learn you and Lucas renewed a previous relationship at my birthday party. I don’t recall the two of you dating the first time.”

“I don’t tell you everything, Mama,” Lucas interrupted, proceeding to wedge in next to Cia on the couch, thigh to thigh, his heavy arm drawing her against his torso. “You should thank me.”

Fran shot her son a glance, which couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a warning, while Cia scrambled to respond.

Her entire body blipped into high alert. She stiffened and had to force each individual muscle in her back to relax, allowing her to sag against Lucas’s sky-blue button-down shirt as if they snuggled on the couch five times a day. “It was a while back. A couple of years.”

Matthew Wheeler, the less beautiful, less blond and less vibrant brother, cleared his throat from his position near the fireplace. “Lucas said four or five years ago.”

Cia’s heart fell off a cliff. Such a stupid, obvious thing to miss when they’d discussed it. Why hadn’t Lucas mentioned he’d put a time frame to their fictitious previous relationship?

“Uh … well, it might have been four years,” Cia mumbled. In a flash of inspiration, she told mostly the truth. “I was still pretty messed up about my parents. All through college. I barely remember dating Lucas.”

His lips found her hairline and pressed against it in a simple kiss. An act of wordless sympathy but with the full force of Lucas behind those lips, it singed her skin, drawing heat into her cheeks, enflaming them. She was very aware of his fingertips trailing absently along her bare arm and very aware an engaged man had every reason to do it.

Except he’d never done it to her before and the little sparks his fingers generated panged through her abdomen.

“Oh, no, of course,” Fran said. “I’m so sorry to bring up bad memories. Let’s talk about something fun. Tell me about your wedding dress.”

In a desperate attempt to reorient, Cia zeroed in on Fran’s animated face. Lucas had not inherited his magnetism from his father, as she’d assumed, but from his mother. They shared a charisma that made it impossible to look away.

Lucas groaned, “Mama. That’s not fun—that’s worse than water torture. Daddy and Matthew don’t want to hear about a dress. I don’t even want to hear about that.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to get to know my new daughter,” Fran scolded and smiled at Cia conspiratorially. “I love my sons, but sometimes just because the good Lord said I have to. You I can love because I want to. The daughter of my heart instead of my blood. We’ll have lunch next week and leave the party poopers at home, won’t we?”

Cia nodded because her throat seized up and speaking wasn’t an option.

Fran already thought of her as a daughter.

Never had she envisioned them liking each other or that Lucas’s mother might want to become family by choice instead of only by law. The women at the shelter described their husbands’ mothers as difficult, interfering. Quick to take their sons’ sides. She’d assumed all new wives struggled to coexist. Must have horrible mother should have been on her criteria list.