Marriage by Mistake (12 page)

Worse, he was clearly hot for her right back.
Meanwhile it was only becoming more and more clear how very wrong
they were for each other. Their values, goals, and lifestyles were
all at extreme odds.

Dean claimed that part of him was the man
Kelly had met in Las Vegas, but she hadn't seen an ounce of
evidence to support such a theory. He was cold, remote, and
judgmental. And he'd been avoiding her ever since she'd moved in
here.

Kelly lowered the finger she'd been gnawing
and frowned. On the other hand, Robby had said things: about their
absent father, about Dean's own youth spent shunted away in
boarding schools, and about the endless stream of stepmothers. She
could almost see why Dean behaved the way he did. He practically
didn't have a choice. If no one had treated him with warmth, how
could he know how to treat anyone else with warmth?

She'd noticed his abruptness when he'd met
them out on the patio the other evening. It had been as if he'd
wanted to join in, but had no idea how. As if, maybe, he were
shy.

Kelly combed her hair back with one hand.
Heck, maybe a part of 'her' Dean
was
inside there,
trapped.

With her hand in her hair, Kelly halted. She
blinked at the colorful her array of her clothes.

Whoa! No. Stop.
Maybe
Dean had
suffered a lonely childhood,
maybe
no one had ever showed
him they cared.
Maybe
that made him wall himself away, in
self-defense.

But more likely he was just a cold fish.

Slowly, she finished combing her hand through
her hair. She had a habit of making up virtuous qualities in a man
to support her attraction. She couldn't do that this time. She had
to keep her eyes open, her judgment clear.

She had to see the man for who he truly was,
and not who she wished he would be.

'Her' Dean, trapped inside. Kelly shook her
head at herself. Not likely. The real Dean was utterly
self-contained, an island unto himself, and happy to be so. He
wasn't
needy
. She'd see that crystal clear after spending
five hours at the opera with him.

She pursed her lips and reached out to toy
with a cerise silk number. That's right. She could get rid of her
ridiculously romantic vision of 'Dean' trapped inside of Dean by
the end of the evening. She'd see that her husband was not at all
the man she had married.

Hmph. Kelly swept the cerise aside to pull a
purple spandex miniskirt off the closet rack. So actually, this
'date' might not be such a bad idea, after all.

###

On a Saturday night Troy had any number of
parties to choose from, the host of which would have been glad for
his witty, charming presence.

On this Saturday evening he wasn't getting
ready to go to a single one of them. He was sitting in Dean's
formal dining room laying out solitaire hands. As he dealt the
cards, he listened for the descent of Kelly from her bedroom. That
scary interview of hers with Dean in the study had turned into a
date.

Not that Troy was worried about Kelly. She
could obviously hold her own with Dean, which meant,
coincidentally, that Troy didn't have to worry about the outcome of
his little bet with Robby, either. She'd be gone in a week, more's
the pity.

Troy heaved a gusty sigh as he flipped the
cards in a game of Klondike. No, he wasn't worried about Kelly. He
was sitting here all by himself because he couldn't bear to be with
anybody he knew.

He couldn't bear to be with himself, for that
matter. Specifically, he wished he could part company from the
segment of himself that kept thinking about Felicia.

Since Monday and his altercation with her at
the tennis court, he hadn't been able to get the woman out of his
mind. He kept seeing the expression on her face when he'd told her
the news about Dean. She'd resembled a delicate little bird, yes a
delicate little bird that had just gotten shot between the
eyes.

Considering how much Troy hated the memory of
that expression, it was bizarre how often it kept popping into his
head.

"Damn," Troy muttered. "Lost again." With a
vigorous movement, he swept the cards into a pile.

All week he'd been trying to tell himself
that Felicia's shot bird expression hadn't been his fault. Because,
hey, was there anything wrong with telling Felicia that her
wonderboy, Dean, had gotten married? All Troy had done was tell her
the truth. Dean
was
married.

But all week his rationalizations had fallen
flat. Even if it had been right to tell Felicia about Dean's
marriage, Troy hadn't done so in a right way. He'd done it to let
fall a drop of poison. And he'd been careful to let that poison
fall at the precise moment to cause the most pain, embarrassment,
and humiliation possible.

Troy pulled the cards into a tight pile and
squeezed his hands around their corners. There was no
rationalization for his behavior. He'd been rude. Deliberately,
inexcusably rude. He breathed in and out slowly while admitting
what that meant.

The knowledge was bone deep, ingrained young
and repeated often. The proper thing to do. For all Troy's
ne'er-do-well, good-time, occasionally-land-in-the-pokey ways, he
never strayed from the "proper thing." Because it wasn't "improper"
to live solely off a trust fund, or get arrested for speeding, or
even fall into bed with somebody else's wife. But it was
exceedingly improper to act rude. It simply wasn't done. And if it
was
done, then one had to apologize.

Hissing out a breath from between his teeth,
Troy tossed the cards onto the table. He jumped from his seat and
glared at the hearts and diamonds spread across the gleaming
surface. There was no getting around it. He had to apologize. Good
God. To Felicia.

###

On Saturday night Dean prowled the downstairs
hall, shifting his shoulders in his black tuxedo. This date was
going to work. It had to. Starting with the choice of clothes Kelly
would make for going to the opera, he would see how completely
wrong she was for him. The sexual attraction would diminish. The
way she'd hold herself, treat the opera, the boredom he knew she'd
exhibit    it would all work toward curing him of this
embarrassing attraction.

Dean knew he could not continue to feel
passionate about a woman who yawned at La Bohème.

Troy walked out of the dining room to drop
into one of the hall chairs. He shuffled a deck of cards while
gazing at Dean with something between curiosity and challenge.
Robby was already waiting in the hall, swinging his legs over the
side of a sofa and blinking at his half-brother. Dean scowled at
the both of them. The pair took far too proprietary an interest in
his bride, and Dean had a good idea why...

A rustling sound from above had Dean
whirling. Dimly, he was aware of Troy halting his shuffling, of
Robby freezing in his seat. But mostly he saw Kelly.

Kelly in a lipstick red pantsuit. The
material hugged her figure, outlining every curve and angle with
confidence and approval. Over this swirled a Chinese silk duster
with giant red flowers splashed upon it, hiding and revealing the
tight pantsuit. It was an unusual choice, somehow elegant,
unexpectedly sophisticated.

And hot.

Dean couldn't swallow. He couldn't move. He
was like a pointer who'd found his prey; taut, tensed,
trembling.

Her lashes lowered. She started down the
stairs. Toe down, heel down, sway of the hip. Dean felt his
paralysis leave, replaced by the urge to meet her halfway, to press
his body against hers and move her going up again, to the
bedrooms.

How he would like to rip off that tantalizing
pantsuit and engage in an activity quite different from listening
to opera.

The abrupt vehemence of the thought snapped
Dean out of it. He took a step back. His eyes narrowed as she
slinked herself the rest of the way down the stairs.

Fine, she'd passed the dress test. Her choice
of clothes made him want her more than ever. But she was going to
hate the opera. He was certain of it. She would yawn, fidget, and
thus display her utter incompatibility.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs,
looked him straight in the eye, and tilted her head.

So, do you want me yet? Are you panting
and begging on your knees
?

She gave him a little smile.

Have I got you completely in my
power
?

Dean tightened his jaw. Just a few hours, and
then he could answer that question in the negative. Yes, he liked
what she was wearing, but she was going to hate the opera.
Discovering how very different she was, intellectually and
socially, would set him free. This    this clawing need
would depart for good.

"Well," she asked. Her voice was breathless,
sexy. "Are we ready to go?"

His jaw relaxed. He even smiled. "Oh, we're
ready." He took her arm. "Are we ever."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Well, if that wasn't the most   
exciting    moving    tremendous piece of stage
artistry I have ever seen!" Kelly fanned herself with her program
as Dean channeled them through the milling crowd and toward the
exit. "Really! The costumes, the drama. The music!" Kelly heaved a
deep sigh. "I never knew opera was so
exciting
."

Dean answered not a word, just kept moving
them with stoic persistence toward the side exit door. Kelly
allowed herself to be tugged, fanning herself with her program and
rather enjoying the man doing the work for a change.

She'd soon discovered that going out on a
date with Dean was far different from her usual experience: that
being where she researched the show times, where she found a method
of transportation, and where, more often than not, she picked up
the tab. With Dean, he'd been the one to do all of that, and more.
He'd taken care of her, and Kelly couldn't help it. She liked
it.

"It's good I self-parked and not valeted,"
Dean muttered, shoving politely through the crowd. "Or we'd never
get home."

"Home?" Kelly's joyful smile faded. "We're
going straight home?"

He turned back to shoot her a glance. "Where
else would we go?"

Kelly blinked. "I don't know." Indeed, she'd
thought five hours more time than she could possibly endure with
her husband. Now she felt reluctant to come to the end of it.

He'd been warily attentive all evening. She
wasn't used to attentiveness. And he'd come out of his shell for a
minute or two there. Although he hadn't answered her rapt comments
on the opera just now, his attention on the stage during the
performance had been complete and genuine. Kelly could swear he'd
been moved. She tilted her head. "I wouldn't mind getting some
coffee."

"Coffee." Dean halted his progress through
the crowd. Immediately, they were shoved from behind. He had to
grab Kelly to keep them both from toppling. With his fingers
gripping her shoulders and their bodies pressed together, they were
in a sudden embrace. Kelly could feel the strength of his chest
against her breast and the barely-there stubble of his chin on her
forehead. She could feel the instant blaze beneath her skin.

He grunted and disentangled from her,
immediately shooting out his wrist to look at his watch. "Coffee?"
he repeated, and glared at the poor watch.

Kelly faltered. Was he glaring at his watch
because he didn't want to spend more time with her? Or because his
heart had raced just then, too, and he didn't want her to know? To
back up a step, had he really been moved by the opera, or was she
making up things about his personality again, things to support her
own breathlessness in that brief physical contact?

Kelly gazed into the cool, impenetrable eyes
that rose to meet hers. Well, perhaps she was making things up, but
there was only one sure way to find out. She needed to get to know
him, really know him. This evening offered the best opportunity
yet. All she had to do was...be careful. She had to make sure to
see only what was really there, and not what she wished would be
there.

Kelly drew a deep breath and smiled.
"Coffee," she insisted, and took his arm. "I'm sure we could find
some place open."

###

Dean was appalled. She'd liked the opera.
Liked it? She'd loved it! With her delicate fingers now wrapped
around his forearm, she hummed
Mi chiamano Mimi
while
keeping pace with his taken-aback strides.

She was supposed to have hated it, been
bored, showed her true colors. He was supposed to have gotten free
of this unhealthy attraction.

Instead, she was swaying to her memory of the
music. Positively glowing with enjoyment, she'd prolonged the
evening, insisting on
coffee
. And he didn't even mind. Mind?
He was thrumming with excitement, simply to be near her. Pathetic,
that's what he was. Truly pathetic.

During intermission they'd run into Felicia
Thurgood, a distant relative and social acquaintance of Dean's
who'd been very properly attending the production with her aunt and
uncle. But had Felicia, with her modesty and refinement, done one
single thing for Dean's libido?

Felicia was like an unlit match compared to
the bonfire that was Kelly.

"Here?" Kelly now asked. She scuffed to a
stop and turned toward a brightly lit café that filled the
limestone corner of a building. "It looks kinda pricey but I have
to admit, it's the only place we've seen that's open."

Dean looked up at the elegant café, a place
he came often after the opera. He must have directed their steps
this way out of habit. "This is fine." He was determined to escape
Kelly's clutches yet. One place was as good for the task as
another.

Inside, they managed to get seated at one of
the plush banquettes by a window. Kelly looked around with a smile
that suggested she wasn't seeing any of it; the elegant
surroundings, the one-of-a-kind dessert creations, or the
distinguished-looking crowd. She waggled her shoulders. "Oh, I'm
still all shivery from the music. Maybe I should have herb tea
instead of coffee, or I'll never get to sleep tonight."