Everything But Perfect (11 page)

Cheyanne did not want to admit
what happened last night wasn’t his fault. He’d been duped by her father, and
he was a man, doing man things expected of a honeymoon. Of course, he would
want to consummate their marriage. In the eyes of the law, there’d be no
question to it being a real marriage.

She could not fault him for that,
but she could blame him for the continuous conversation about it. They had sex.
So what? Many people do it all the time, and they don’t break into a fit of
tears because of it.

The real issue was he did not
love her. She had thought to lose her virginity to the man of her dreams, a man
who would tell her he loved her while making love to her, but Mitch wanted the
sex, nothing more.

Dammit! He certainly did not need
to acknowledge the fact he’d broken her spirit, as well as her body, or make
certain the evidence of their copulation was still visible on the sheets.

She rose from the table, moving
toward the window. She felt restless, even after an invigorating run. She
turned and found him staring at her. He then rose, moving toward her.

Within inches, he stopped, taking
a deep breath. “I need to say this. I need to get it out,” he started. “So
don’t stop me until I do.”

She remained mum, giving
allowance.

“I would love to have sex with
you again. What happened last night was not the way it is supposed to be
between a man and a woman. Nor is it the way I make love to a woman. It does
get better; a lot better—trust me. If we do it again, I can promise you, you’ll
never have any complaints.”

How in the world was she supposed
to comment on something like that? He seemed contrite, almost sincere. Did she
dare trust that sincerity? The way he was looking at her, his heart on his
sleeve, telling her exactly what he wanted, promising her it gets better,
should she even believe him?

“I’ve been thinking,” he said,
pausing.

She gave him the benefit of the
doubt, remaining mute.

“I think we should live together
the next four months.”

When she was about to balk, he
raised a hand in her face. “No, just hear me out.”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“If you don’t want the sex, I’ll have
to understand, but we should give it some genuine thought to feeling each other
out.”

She smiled at his strange choice
of words, unable to prevent it.

“Poorly said?” he inquired,
laughingly.

Cheyanne nodded.

“Okay, so maybe feeling each
other out was not the best way to put it. Let me start over,” he tried getting
out.

This time she voiced her opinion,
interrupting him. “I’m okay with your decision.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” she agreed. “I
don’t have much of a desire to go apartment hunting when we get back. I can’t
live with my parents, being married to you. Yes, you don’t want me in your life,
but where else can I go? Four months is not that long; I’m sure I can survive
in your company for four months. Once those four months are over, I get the
divorce, you get the shares, and we go our separate ways as planned. Deal?”

She held out her hand, expecting
he take this deal in a heartbeat.

She should have known better than
to expect anything to work in her favor when concerning him. Mitch refused her
hand, reaching for her waist instead. He drew her close, her body pressed
against his, his thick erection quite noticeable against her thigh.

He smiled down at her. “I can’t
help it,” he said, shamelessly.

“I’m sure you can. You just don’t
want to,” she replied, giving him a half-hearted smile.

“That too.” He then leaned
forward, saying, “I rather seal this deal with a kiss. Handshakes are too tame.”

“You sure do like kissing, don’t
you?” she teased, licking her lips in anticipation. Kissing Mitch was a reward
she would never admit to—aloud.

His smile widened. “You have very
kissable, um, lips.” His eyes, however, had lowered to her chest.

Cheyanne seeing this, tried to
push him away, but Mitch was not cooperating, so much stronger and determined
to stay the course. Dammit. Why did she suddenly lose all willpower when in his
arms? Why did her brain falter and her heart skip a few beats? It could not be that
she was falling for his charm, could it?

Mitch might be drop-dead
gorgeous, dressed or undressed. He might be charming, when it suits him, but
she knew him to be a lion in sheep’s clothing, waiting for the right
opportunity to pounce. She needed to be wary of him, stay on her toes, or
she’ll never survive the next four months.

“This is one deal you will have
to make with a handshake, Mr. Lavede,” she warned.

Mitch gave her a devil-grin, the
lines around his eyes increasing. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Lavede.” A
half-second later, his mouth covered hers, his hands moving to the small of her
back, drawing her close.

Every atom in Cheyanne came alive
the moment his thick erection pressed into the juncture of her legs.

No. No. No. I cannot possibly
want a repeat of last night! Can I?

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t
you?” he said, his voice a seductive rasp, music to ears wishing for the tune.

“Yes,” she said truthfully. Why
bother lying? He would just openly call her out on it.

“Are you willing to trust me?” he
probed, pressing his mouth to her neck.

“I’m not sure…I think…,” she
whispered out, her thought pattern stuck at that point.

“Don’t think, sweetheart. Let
your body tell you what it wants.”

As his mouth lowered, reaching
her collarbone, then her shoulder and moving down her sleeveless arm, it was
all she could do to make herself think. She was feeling plenty and all of it was
very good, but was it enough?

“Let your body respond, sweetheart.”

Jesus! How much more did he want
her body to respond? The heat was pooling in places truly ignored for
twenty-four years.

Somehow, someway, without her
knowing, Mitch walked her backward to the bed, lowering her onto the soft
mattress, kissing his way around her neck, face and arms. It did not take long
before he removed her shirt and bra and was making his way to her bared breasts,
seeking exactly what he had ultimately paid for.

All the while, Cheyanne had
somehow worked off his T-shirt, touching his chest, feeling what she could of
him through her fingertips.

“You do want to touch me, don’t
you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly.

“Go ahead,” he mumbled against
her skin.

Did she dare be so bold?

“I can feel your response, sweetheart,
whether you care to admit it or not.”

Of course, he could feel her
responding. She wasn’t dead!

“Touch me, Cheyanne,” he
whispered.

Somehow, her fingers had moved to
the top of his jeans. Her brain was saying one thing, her heart another. Her
heart somehow won this war and she took the plunge, the waters deep and
dangerous, but so damn exciting.

Mitch sucked in his breath,
giving her room to slip her hand inside.

“Oh, God!” he murmured against
her mouth as she palmed his thick erection, the first time ever holding a man
like this. “Houston, we may have a problem in a few seconds.” He then looked
deep into her eyes. “I need to undress you, now.”

Cheyanne stopped any movement,
her hand still down his pants. Was she doing this wrong?

“Are you going to be okay with this?”
he rasped.

She’d be okay with whatever he
asked of her now. Cheyanne nodded.

“Good, because I’d be pissed if
you weren’t.”

Ten seconds later, naked and
lying under him, Mitch did everything he could to make the sex better. He was
gentle and loving and her heart could not understand why it could not have been
this way the first time with him.

He waited until she was ready,
made certain she hadn’t changed her mind, and when he entered her, there was no
pain, only an exquisite tug to her soul, of which she could not properly
explain.

It was barely eight in the
morning; she was having sex with a man who was her legal husband, and she was thoroughly
enjoying every second of it. Was this even possible? Did she not hate him as
much as she first thought?

Chapter Twelve

Mitch was still in bed when the
knock sounded at their door. Cheyanne was just about to head to the shower,
stopping to give him an odd look.

They had made a honeymoon quite
unforgettable most of yesterday. Having a decent night’s sleep, the first in a
long time, he could honestly say every part of his body had rejuvenated. He’d
shown her how to make love, and she’d been a superb pupil. Hell, she even gave
him a run for his money, initiating the sex last night after a late supper.

Apparently, he married a wildcat.

“Get that, would you, babe?” He
was not about to get out of bed, nude, and answer the door.

Cheyanne stuck out her tongue at
him, but did as told.

Laura was on the other side,
holding their breakfast tray. “You both missed breakfast again,” she said,
smiling, and then hurriedly stepping into the room to set the tray on the
table. She took one brief second to look his way, say ‘Good morning,’ then
hightail it from the room with a huge smile on her face.

Mitch climbed out of bed, walking
over to lift the lid from the silver tray. “Blueberry pancakes…my favorite,” he
muttered half-heartedly.

“Are they?” Cheyanne asked; her
eyes glued to his lower half.

Hell, if she keeps staring at it,
it might get used again.

He cleared his throat, shoving
away the possibility. “Not really; just making polite conversation.”

When she would not stop staring,
he added, “But I do need to keep up my strength, so I’ll just have to make do.”

This brought her out of her
daydream, her sheepish smile as charming as her cheeks blooming a delicate red.

“What is your favorite
breakfast?” she asked, sitting down at the small table, opposite him.

Mitch poured a cup of coffee. He
refused to get dressed yet, mainly because he loved seeing the rosy color of
her cheeks and mainly because the longer he remains undressed, the more chances
he will have at having sex with her.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he
teased.

“Fine, be that way,” she said, glancing
away, the pink blooming higher in her cheeks.

“Why? Are you planning to make me
breakfast when we get home?”

Her eyes whipped to his. “Hell,
no!”

“No domestic abilities?”

“I have abilities. I just don’t
like to use them if not necessary.”

“What sort of abilities?” he probed
suggestively.

Cheyanne’s sudden growl at his
face had to be out of pure frustration. “Mr. Lavede!”

He wasn’t fooled by it. “Yes,
Mrs. Lavede…”

“When are we going home?” she
suddenly asked, stabbing one of the pancakes, setting it on a plate, and then
drowning it with homemade maple syrup.

Mitch’s smile lowered. “Sick of
me already?”

“Um, no,” she said, avoiding eye
contact.

This peaked his curiosity. “Do
you want to leave? We have another day.”

This time, her gaze met his. “I
have things I need to do.”

He reached for a slice of toast.
Thankfully, there was an assortment of breakfast items, because his least
favorite food was blueberry pancakes. “Such as?”

“Um…work-related things.”

“Sure you don’t mean…co-worker-related
things?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”
she snapped, setting down her fork.

“Not a damn thing. Just polite
conversation,” he replied.

She slowly leaned back, glaring
at him. “It did not sound very polite to me. It sounded confrontational or
judgmental.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant to be either
way,” he warned, sipping his coffee.

Her eyes lowered to her plate. “I
need to check on the samples I’d sent to the lab from Benghazi. I have to get
back to reality sometime.”

“Yes, I know. The fantasy was fun
while it lasted, but reality is so much better, isn’t it?” he muttered rudely.
His mood was souring, and being naked now, there was a bit of vulnerability
creeping in.

Mitch hated being vulnerable.
Nothing good ever came of it.

She raised her face, her eyes meeting
his. “Are you trying to start a fight again? I thought we called a truce.”

“No. No fight intended. Are you
trying to start one?”

“Why would I bother? I don’t win
them. And women don’t start fights, Mr. Lavede…they finish them.”

“Yes, you don’t start them, Mrs.
Lavede, but you certainly give your all when they do occur.”

“Dammit, Mitch!” she suddenly
blurted.

He lowered his coffee cup. “What
did I do this time?”

“Stop acting like this is
supposed to be normal. It’s not. And yes, the fantasy is over. Time for a true
reality check.”

“I’ve had a reality check for the
past two days, sweetheart. My reality is I married a woman who is either manic/depressive
or just loves to be confrontational. Which is it?”

Her gasp was quite loud to his
ears. Mitch counteracted to it quickly before things got ugly or out of control.

“Fine. Fantasy is over. We’ll
leave in one hour.” He stood up, Cheyanne’s eyes turning away from him.

“We have another day,” she said.

He stared at her. “We can have
that day back in New York.” He then stalked over to his suitcase, grabbed out
clothes for the day, and retreated to the bathroom to shower. Whatever had put her
undies in a bundle, he did not have the energy to decipher.

Perhaps when they got back to
reality, and she had to deal with it on her own, she would change her tune. For
now, he was just going to play along with the mood swings, make the most of them.
She was a vixen in a hunter’s trap, no way out, and she would likely do
whatever it took to get free, even if this meant chewing off her own limb. He
simply need buy his time until she came to her senses and accepted this
marriage for what it was.

****

Mitch was a very complicated man.
Not only in his actions, but in the way his mind worked. She half expected him
to be happy about going back home and he seemed pissed instead. Why? The sooner
they were back in New York, the sooner this farce would find the finish line,
and the sooner she could get back to her career. She was seriously missing
digging in the dirt.

Marriage was…different. She’d
give it that much. Marriage to Mitch was a complication compounding interest
hourly. He was hot and cold, fire and ice, and every bit of this was wrapped up
in one hell of a package. She would admit she hit the jackpot having him for
her first. He was, for a better lack of word, awesome in bed.

Her thoughts quickly drew to
their future, and then stopped. There was no future, just four months of
marriage, then separate ways, separate lives. In four months, she’d have to
give him up, walk away, and pretend this never happened.

How was this even possible now?

Done with his shower, he opened
the door and the steam wafted out. Her eyes met his.

Mitch was staring at her. This
could have been because she was only half-dressed, standing across the room
from him in only her underwear.

No longer did it bother her to be
this way in front of him. Hell, he made love to her multiple times. He did know
her body. Still, the odd pause and even stranger look was unsettling.

He shook himself free of whatever
daydream he’d fall victim to, and walked her way. “Ready to leave?” he said
briskly.

“Almost,” she said, jumping into her
jeans. She then rushed on a T-shirt, giving him a wry smile when done.

Mitch wasn’t returning the smile.

“We’ll stop on the way home for
lunch,” he said, zipping his suitcase closed.

“Sounds fine to me,” she said,
collecting her items out of a bathroom that smelled so good—so
Mitch
.
She came back into the room to find him staring out the window.

Jeans and a gray T-shirt had
never looked so good on a man. He turned; saw her looking at him, then frowned.
“I’ll see if Laura will pack up a picnic. We can find a park, eat there, and
then head straight home.”

“Okay.”

He nodded, stalked to the door,
gave her another strange look, and then left the room, supposedly to find
Laura.

Cheyanne shook her head. She
would never be able to figure out a man like him. He was a walking
contradiction to his moods. His smile could hide his anger, his anger hidden by
an arched brow. No wonder he was so good in the boardroom. He likely won every
hand playing poker, too.

Five minutes later, he returned,
stopped in the open doorway, looked as if wanting to say something but must
have changed his mind. He walked to their suitcases, picked up both and carried
them from the room.

“Coming?” he asked from the
hallway.

She gathered her wits, her purse,
and went to him. “Yes.”

“Laura has a picnic ready for us
downstairs. Can you get it while I take the cases to the car?”

“Sure.”

She moved ahead of him, made her
way down the stairs and found Laura in the living area. The woman looked up as she
entered the room.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Laura
said.

“Yes. Very much. You have a
wonderful home.”

“We do try our best. Your husband
said you have to leave for home because of work?”

“Yes. I’ve got a lot on my
plate.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said, smiling.
“And being newlyweds fills that plate to overflow.”

“Yes, it does,” she replied,
hoping the smile on her face remained until safely out of the room. “Mitch said
you made us a picnic for the ride home.”

“Oh, my, yes. You will love it.”
Laura set down her cleaning rag and spray and walked into the kitchen. She came
back out carrying a wicker basket. “Everything two lovebirds need for a picnic
is in here.”

Cheyanne gave her a soft smile,
accepting the basket. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it. I was a new
bride too, a long time ago,” she said winking. “You are very lucky to have
found Mitch. He’s such a nice man—a real keeper. You’ll have to let us know
when little ones arrive.”

“Little ones?”

“Babies.”

Cheyanne felt the heat creep into
her cheeks, tenfold. “No babies…not yet, anyway,” she lied. It wouldn’t do her
any good to tell Laura she could only keep him for four months and that babies
were never going to happen. Not with Mitch as the father.

“I have eyes. You two are very
much in love. I can tell. There will be babies,” she said firmly, smiling at Cheyanne.

Cheyanne nodded, didn’t dare
answer this, then headed for the front door, just as Mitch was coming back
inside.

He took the basket from her
hands. “All set?”

“Yep.”

By now, Laura and Charlie were
seeing them off.

“Thank you, for everything,”
Mitch said.

“Yes, thank you,” Cheyanne added.

“Come back on your first
anniversary. We’ll make it special,” Charlie added.

Mitch turned and smile. “We’ll do
that,” he promised.

Cheyanne didn’t dare say a word.
Her mind was still reeling on what having a baby with Mitch would be like—a
pipe dream that was never going to happen.

****

Hours later, only half way home,
Mitch pulled off the road, finding a wayside with huge park. It was a lovely
spot for being the middle of nowhere. “We’ll eat here.”

“Fine.”

He shut down the engine then
turned in his seat. “Is that all your ever going to say to me? Fine?”

“What was I supposed to say?” she
snapped, feeling the tension build. He hadn’t said more than two words to her
for the better part of an hour.

“How about
Wonderful choice,
Mitch
, or…hell, I don’t know.” He paused, forcibly dragging in a breath. “Your
continuous
fine
is getting on my nerves, sweetheart.”

She almost said
fine
again, clamping her lips shut. It was just a word. He didn’t need to go
ballistic over her saying it.

He climbed out of the car, walked
over to her side, opened the door, and held out his hand. Uncertain of wanting
to take it, she did not want to start another useless argument with him, either.
She set her palm against his, felt the now-familiar spark between them and
climbed out of the car with his help.

“We’ll go over by that bench,” he
suggested, twerking his head in the direction. On the far side of the park was
a bench, secluded from everyone else. Although the middle of nowhere, there
were a few cars and folks using the wayside for gainful purpose.