Don’t Call Me Sweetheart (19 page)

“Don’t say anything, sweet. We can talk all we want in the
morning. Right now I think we both could use some sleep.” He pulled the
coverlet up and over their shoulders and tucked Whitney tightly against his
side, then reached to turn out the light. She felt the barest pressure of his
lips as he placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. There would be no sense
arguing at this point. They were the only ones there. It wasn’t as if she would
be caught in an embarrassing situation come morning. He was right, they might
as well get some sleep. They had much to discuss and she was so tired. As the
storm outside raged on into the night, a calmness invaded the bedroom of the
newlyweds replacing the fiery tempest they had ridden through together.

The incessant droning of the weather channel on the police
scanner she had purchased for just such an occasion woke Whitney. She lay still
for several moments, then turned on her side, pulling the sheets around her as
she did so.

Lord, she was naked. And she had made love with Christian,
not once but twice. The events of the previous night all rushed back to her and
she sat straight up in bed, looking wildly about for him. He was nowhere in
sight. Thank God. Maybe she would have a chance to dress before he returned.

She swung her slim legs over the side of the bed and raced
to the bathroom. A quick check told her he wasn’t in the sitting room either,
so she locked both doors and dropped the sheet to the floor next to the pile of
wet towels Christian had left. With nothing on but her mortification she stared
into the wide green eyes of the woman in the mirror. Christian’s woman. That’s
what she was now.

She was in a fine fix now wasn’t she? Not only was she
married to a man she had known for less than two weeks of face to face
interactions and that was counting two days in New York last spring, she had
allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with him, deceived him into
believing she was someone she wasn’t, blown all chances of starting a life with
a truly good and decent man.

How had this happened? What had she done to deserve such a
lopsided dose of poetic justice? She spent her life writing about the tangled
lives of others, she didn’t want to be caught in the middle of such a tale
herself.

With a deep sigh that summed up the fact that she had no
answers to any of her questions she stood and turned the handle of the bathtub,
delighted to see that they still had running water thanks to the generator she
had ordered installed before the start of winter. She hadn’t wanted her guests
to suffer the discomforts the loss of electricity could bring. But she wasn’t
sure how long she could count on the generator to power the inn. Maybe
Christian would know, he certainly thought he knew everything else.

Whitney eased herself into the steaming water, letting the
unaccustomed soreness in her limbs melt away for a few minutes before ducking
her head under the surface and working a good lather into her long tresses. She
scrubbed at her body too, hoping to erase Christian’s touch from her soft skin.
It didn’t work.

Abandoning the tactic, she finished her bath and dressed in
as many layers of clothes to hide herself under as possible without appearing
ridiculous. Checking the mirror she was satisfied that if Christian should lay
a hand on her today she was well insulated in her snowman outfit from the
effects she normally suffered. Between the white turtleneck and the heavy black
sweatshirt she pulled on top of it, gray long johns covered by a pair of
matching sweatpants and the thick socks tucked inside the goofy cartoon slippers
the Walstens had given her for Christmas, Whitney couldn’t have felt less sexy.
She could only hope Christian would agree. She caught her damp curls in a loose
ponytail and purposely left off her makeup. She wasn’t going to give Mr. Heaven
Hands a reason to think of anything other than talking today.

Stepping into the front room she knew that Christian had
come and gone while she was in the shower since the scanner was missing. That
meant he was worried about the weather. Wanting to be prepared for the worst
Whitney made her way to the nearest window and drew back the curtains. Alarms
started going off in her head as she saw that the world was a swirling white
blur. Snow was blowing past the window so fast that she couldn’t follow it with
her eyes. Where normally she would have a view of the backyard and the gazebo
from her vantage point, now she wasn’t even certain where the tree tops were just
below the window frame.

The television was on and as she turned from the window she
caught the tail end of a news report that indicated all roads in the vicinity
of Mr. Rainier were now closed and that the storm wasn’t expected to abate
until later in the day. Well that was just great, Whitney thought. There was an
abominable snowstorm outside and an abominable husband inside. She had trouble
deciding which was worse.

Her stomach growled just then prompting Whitney to make her way
to the kitchen. She realized that she hadn’t eaten much of her supper last
night before she had used it for target practice on Christian’s head. If she
had kept her mouth shut would the evening have turned out differently? She
would never know now. Besides, Christian deserved everything he had got and
more. For crying out loud, what kind of man told a woman that he would provide
her with an opinion when and if, he thought she needed one. Maybe that was why
he was so large. He needed someplace to store all that arrogance.

Cautiously Whitney peeked around the kitchen door. The coast
was clear so she swung it wide open. She was alone but signs of Christian were
everywhere. Broken egg shells littered the counter and a skillet had been set
to the back of the stove after the contents had been scraped from it. The man’s
domestic habits were atrocious. Whitney cleared the mess away, thinking all the
while that she would need to be sure to bring up his serious lack of conscience
when it came to cleaning up after himself. It only took a few moments before
she was happily munching on a piece of toast herself and washing it down with
some orange juice she had found mixed in the refrigerator. Once her hunger was
taken care of she knew that it was time to find Christian and start sorting out
the mess left over from last night. She wished it could be as easy as scraping
dishes.

He was in the small room off the front lobby that served as
an office. When she entered he failed to look up from the ledger books Whitney
had carefully maintained since her arrival. Half of her dreaded meeting those
obsidian eyes that had stripped her soul bare, among other things. The other
half desperately wanted to see if the softness she had glimpsed last night in
Christian’s gaze still shone for her. There was only one way to find out.

“Ahh-mmm.”

Black eyes met hers and she had her answer. The look in them
sent shivers along her spine. He wanted her again. It didn’t matter that she
was dressed like a frumpy housewife, his eyes said he’d make love to her ’til
she was as old as Methuselah if she’d let him. She had to say something quickly
before things went too far again.

“Are you any neater at keeping accounts than you are in the
kitchen?”

He threw his head back and laughed. Something Whitney had
never heard. She liked it. “I’ve never taken time to learn the finer points of
being a respectable maid, although several of them have tried to teach me.”

“They didn’t try hard enough,” Whitney added, grinning back.

Christian drank in Whitney’s fresh-scrubbed beauty, raising
a dark eyebrow when he caught sight of her footwear but he didn’t stop his
appraising scrutiny until he had covered her from head to toe. As he leaned
back in the chair behind the desk he was again struck by the idea that marriage
to this woman might not be so very bad. And since an annulment was now
completely out of the question, they might as well make the best of the
situation. Especially since he knew what the best included.

“Whitney, about last night…” he began, rocking slowly back
and forth on the back legs of the chair.

“I think so too,” Whitney interjected, “it was a huge
mistake. And we won’t let it happen again. Ever!”

“I was going to say,” Christian told her, letting the front
legs of the chair smack back down onto the floor, “that I had been wrong to
hold you hostage to a marriage you didn’t want but I’m not sorry it turned out
the way it did. You’re different from every other woman I’ve known before. You
don’t pretend to be something you’re not and you certainly don’t pull any
punches saying what you think. I can’t stand a hypocritical woman, like that
McLaughlin dame you worked for. Saying one thing and meaning another.”

“What are you talking about,” Whitney choked out, unable to
believe they had gone from discussing the consummation of their marriage to her
supposed former employer.

“You know, the way she says that she want to give her
readers what they want, stories about passion and romance the way it should be.
Then she pastes pictures of men like me panting over a woman on her covers and
fills the pages with scenarios that would only be believable in a fairy tale
world. Nothing could be further from true romance.”

“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on whatreal
romance should consist of?” The iciness in her voice caused Christian to glance
sharply at Whitney. Hell, he thought, she acted as if he was putting her down.

“You were pretty much convinced last night in the gazebo as
I recall.”

“And you think that’s what women really want, to be
manipulated into succumbing to a man’s desires, give in to his directives,
forget her own feelings the moment he deigns to touch her? Let him give her
opinions to her like he would give scraps to a dog?”

By the time she got to the last remark she was practically
shouting. Good lord, he knew just how to get under her skin. All her good
intentions disappeared as Christian blindly attacked her, never knowing he was
doing so. Whitney suffered a moment’s remorse that she was continuing to
deceive him by not confessing that she was also Lane McLaughlin but she got
over it quickly.

“I think,” Christian responded, flinching a little as his
own words were thrown back at him, “that we’re getting off track. I don’t want
to fight with you this morning, Whitney. If I’ve offended you by voicing an
opinion on the type of person you chose to work for in the past, then I’m
sorry. I’m entitled to think as lowly of her as I choose to, just as you’re
entitled to place her on a pedestal if that’s your wish. To me, she epitomizes
all that was wrong with the corrupt world that I was forced to use and consider
best left behind. If another author had approached me first, I suppose I would
have these feelings about them but I don’t. I have them about Lane McLaughlin
and there’s nothing you can say or do that will change them.”

As he spoke Christian stood and rounded the corner of the
desk where he leaned one hip against the edge. He switched his devastating
smile into overdrive. “All that’s in the past so let’s forget about Lane
McLaughlin. Neither of us works for her anymore so it’s not as if we’ll ever
have to see her again. I would much rather discuss my feelings for you, sweet.”

“You don’t want to discuss anything and we all know it. And
I would much rather be by myself, that is if I’m allowed to say so.”

Whitney whirled and raced up the stairs, slamming the door
to her bedroom shut when she reached the top. The man was impossible! No, this
situation was impossible! Her husband thought her work was reprehensible, her
efforts just a cheap con job being foisted off on her faithful readers. She
wondered what had made him to go to Tess in the first place and ask for her
help if he felt this strongly about romantic fiction. What had made him so
bitter? It didn’t matter. He blamed her for it. Well, he was blaming her alter ego
anyway. He didn’t deserve her sympathy, or her love. Unfortunately, she could
only control the one.

She was glad to see that he didn’t try to follow her this
time. She was able to spend the entire day in solitude working on her
manuscript, madly typing scenes that required the heroine to rant and rave at
the hero. It was late in the afternoon before she realized that she had been
cooped up in her room for hours and was once again famished. A quick glance
outside told her that the storm had finally stopped, leaving behind a landscape
obscured by a two foot thick blanket of snow and drifts higher than the roof of
her car.

Switching the television on she flipped channels until she
found one reporting on the progress being made cleaning up in the aftermath of
the storm. If one could believe what was said, they could expect the roads
through their area to be cleared by morning. Mercifully, she wouldn’t be
trapped with Christian for too much longer.

The kitchen was quiet once again as she made her way
downstairs to find something for supper. There was no ignoring the fact that
Christian had raided the refrigerator several times during the day judging by
the number of dirty dishes piled near the sink. At least he had managed to head
them in the right direction.

Whitney plopped a piece of honeyed ham between two slices of
bread and added a few leaves of crisp green lettuce to complete her sandwich. Poking
around in the refrigerator she produced a bowl of potato salad and the last
piece of one of Bette’s famous lemon meringue pies. How in the world Christian
had missed it was beyond her. She was just glad he had. Smiling with
satisfaction, she carried her plate back up to her sitting room, anticipating a
quiet meal in front of the television. She hoped there was a something good on.
Maybe she could concentrate on someone else’s problems for awhile instead of
her own.

The plate slipped from her numb fingers as she entered the
room. Christian was seated in front of her laptop where she had been working
all afternoon. He was scrolling through her manuscript, a furious expression
etched across his usually handsome face. It was apparent that he now knew there
was more to Whitney than met the eye. He had been played for a fool and Whitney
knew she was going to suffer for it. Why hadn’t she remembered to turn the
stupid computer off? Why couldn’t he just stay away from her?

As the plate hit the floor, sending food splattering across
the carpet, Whitney reeled and ran back the way she had come. She didn’t wait
for Christian’s response and she didn’t care where she was going. Just knowing
that if he found her he would punish her in the only way he could helped propel
her flying feet as she bounded down the stairs. The sound of a chair hitting
the floor above her head told her he was coming. He was going to make love to
her again, make her beg him to weave his magic around her. He’d humiliate her. Torture
her. Touch her. Kiss her. God help her.