Put a Ring On It (14 page)

She braced her bare feet against an outcropping of rock and helped him out of the water. His thick, dark hair dripped and his black oxford shoes squished as he stepped back on dry land.

“Are you okay?” she asked, tightening the sash of her robe.

The child regarded her with huge, solemn brown eyes. “Who are you?”

“I'm, um, I'm Brighton Smith.” She tucked her hands into the robe's pockets. “Who are you?”

“Dylan,” he replied.

“Dylan!” A shrill voice yelled from the far side of the driveway, and a petite, wiry woman with curly brown hair raced toward them. “What happened?”

“Mom, I was only—”

“He's okay,” Brighton assured the frazzled mother. “Took a little spill into the pond, but no harm done.”

“You were skateboarding, weren't you?” The mother didn't even wait for a reply. “Look at your shirt. You're going to be late for camp!”

“Hi.” Brighton held out her right hand. “I'm Brighton Smith. I'm Jake's, uh . . .”

“Christine Klimes.” The woman had a firm handshake. “I'm the head housekeeper.”

“So you do exist!” Brighton blurted out before her mental filter kicked in. “I was wondering. I never see anybody actually in the house.”

“We try to give Mr. Sorensen his privacy.” Christine shot her a speculative look. “And his guests, as well.”

Brighton stared at the koi pond.

“You've been here longer than any of his other guests,” Dylan chimed in.

“Shh!” his mother hissed. “Stop talking and go change into a fresh uniform before—”

“Good morning.” Jake ambled out of the tiny guest cottage adjacent to the garage, his hands full of file folders. He took in the boy's bedraggled state. “You okay, Dylan?”

Now the boy looked suffused with shame. “Yeah.”

His mother gave him a none-too-subtle nudge. “Apologize to Jake right now. He just bought you these new shirts.”

“Sorry,” Dylan mumbled.

Brighton glanced from Dylan to Christine to Jake. She sidled closer to Jake and whispered, “Is he your . . .”

Jake was too busy wringing out the hem of Dylan's shirt to pay attention. “My what?”

“Your—” She lowered her voice even more. “Son?”

All three of them burst out laughing.

“No,” Christine said. “He just feels sorry for me because I'm a single mom.”

“He's sending me to camp,” Dylan informed Brighton. “Bought my backpack and my uniform and everything.”

“I don't feel sorry for you,” Jake said to Christine.

“Yeah, you do.” Christine turned to Brighton. “He does. It's because he had a single mom, so he tries to help me out with my boy.”

“He's paying for my school next year, too,” Dylan divulged.

Jake and Christine both shushed him at once.

“Christine is tough as nails,” Jake told Brighton. “She doesn't need anyone to feel sorry for her.”

Christine smiled. “Is that why you got Dylan that puppy when his dad left?” She glanced back at Brighton. “And speaking of dogs—”

“I'll give you a bonus if you stop talking right now,” Jake offered.

Christine put one hand on her hip. “How much?”

“Name your price,” Jake said.

“Expect my written offer by the end of the day.” Christine waved to Brighton as she resumed chastising her son. “Nice meeting you.”

Brighton rounded on Jake. “
Innn
teresting. The plot thickens.”

He picked up the abandoned skateboard and peered into the pond to check on the fish. “Nothing to see here.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” She rolled up the sleeves of the oversize robe. “You're more than just a pretty face who's good in bed.”

His head snapped up. “Don't tell anyone.”

She gave him a wink and just a hint of smolder. “Your secret's safe with me.”

“Y
ou know what would go great with that dress?” Jake asked as he squired Brighton into the huge, high-ceilinged hotel ballroom filled with tuxedoed waiters and crystal chandeliers. “Pearls.”

“It's a gown, not a dress,” Brighton corrected. Lila had schooled her well. “And since
someone
destroyed my pearls in the heat of passion, I had to find a substitute.” She pointed out the art-deco-style diamond and emerald earrings she'd fashioned from the gemstones in Lila's store safe. “I made these especially for tonight.” She patted her head to ensure her hair was still in place. After reading and rereading Lila's mother's coiffure instructions, Brighton had given up and gone to the Rebound Salon on Main Street, where the stylists had created a soft, elegant updo.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let's get you something to drink. Champagne?”

She wrinkled her nose. “The last time I drank champagne with you, we ended up in the marital E-ZPass lane.”

“We took a long-shot bet and we'll never regret it.” He nodded to one of the servers carrying a silver tray of full champagne flutes. “Cheers.”

“Remind me again.” Brighton accepted the glass the server offered. “What's the occasion and who invited us?”

“It's a local charity benefit, and one of my companies is cosponsoring, so I figured I should make an appearance.”

“
One
of your companies,” she repeated. “How many companies do you have?”

He shrugged. “Who keeps track of these things?”

Before she had time to press for details, they were deluged with handshakes and hugs. Well,
Jake
was, anyway. Handshakes from the men, and hugs—close, full-body, lingering hugs—from the women.

“This is my wife, Brighton,” Jake kept announcing. His female admirers reacted as if he'd spattered them with acid.

Brighton was grateful for her black Chantilly lace dress and diamond and emerald earrings, her armor against the cutting glares from the many, many (
many
) women who had designs on Jake. The moment he got sucked into a cadre of male coworkers who wanted to discuss a logistics issue, the wives and girlfriends clustered around Brighton.

“How'd you do it?” a willowy redhead demanded. “What's your secret?”

Brighton sipped her bubbly. “Pricey booze and no impulse control. Two great tastes that taste great together.”

The redhead laughed. “I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

As news of the nuptials spread across the ballroom, more and more women flocked over to get a glimpse of the newly minted Mrs. Sorensen.

“You must be extraordinary,” a reedy-voiced brunette
announced, though she looked dubious. “Jake usually won't even bring a date to these things.”

“But he always leaves with one,” someone else trilled.

“Where's your ring?” Another woman, surprisingly strong for one so petite, practically wrestled the champagne glass away from Brighton in her attempt to inspect her left hand. “I have to see the diamond Jake Sorensen proposed with.”

“No ring,” Brighton replied. Everyone stared at her. She knew they were waiting for juicy details, but she refused to divulge anything. Yes, her marriage was a sham. Yes, her wedding had been hilarious. Yes, all of this would be great cocktail party conversation. But these experiences were
hers
. Hers and Jake's. Speaking of whom . . .

“Are you behaving yourself over here?” Jake appeared at her side with a charming smile that immediately dispersed all the cattiness.

“Not really.” Brighton turned to him with a saucy smile. “I'm starting a bunch of rumors about how you proposed with the worm at the bottle of a tequila bottle.”

“It's not a rumor if it's the truth.” Jake lifted her hand to his lips, holding her gaze as he kissed her knuckles.

“How gentlemanly of you,” she breathed, keenly aware of the audience.

“We are in a ballroom,” he pointed out. “And I am in a tux.”

She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “Not for long.”

For a moment, it was just the two of them, totally alone. The music and the chatter receded; all she could perceive was his touch and his gaze and the connection between them. Her insides felt as fizzy as the champagne she'd just sipped. He did this to her every time.
Every time.
All he had to do was look her way.

“When can we leave?” she whispered to him.

“Jake!” a jovial male voice boomed. “I've been looking everywhere for you. Come meet the new investors.”

“Five minutes.” Jake squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Time me.”

She nodded, turned around, and nearly ran into a tiny, platinum-haired wisp of a woman. “Oops, sorry.” A drop of champagne splashed over the rim of her glass.

The woman waved away the apology, her mouth puckering into a little moue as she admired Brighton's gown. “I absolutely adore what you're wearing. Is it vintage?”

For the first time since she'd walked into the ballroom, Brighton relaxed. “From the fifties, I think.”

“Look at that lacework.” The woman eyed the Chantilly stretched across the shoulders and bodice. “Divine. And those earrings.” She tilted her head, admiring the diamonds and emeralds. “Stunning.”

“Thank you.” Brighton's smile was genuine this time.

“Harry Winston?” the woman guessed.

“Pardon?”

“The earrings. Are they Harry Winston?”

Brighton's smile brightened into a beam. “Actually, I made them myself.”

“You did? Goodness, you do beautiful work.”

“Thank you. You have great taste.” She hadn't realized how this would sound until she'd already said it. But it was the truth; the other woman wore a stunning statement necklace crafted from peach coral, deep green jade, and black jade. Her hair was pulled back and her black gown was simple—the whole ensemble showcased the unusual piece.

“I know.” The woman gave her a conspiratorial grin, then reached out to touch Brighton's earrings. “May I?”

“Of course.” Brighton held still while her new acquaintance studied the craftsmanship.

“You're an artist,” she declared, stepping back.

Brighton shook her head. “No, I'm an actuary.”

“A what?”

“I work in insurance. The jewelry is more of a hobby.”

The other woman gasped. “But you're wasting your gift.” Before Brighton could respond, she went on. “Do you have your own line? A storefront? A Web site?”

“No, I'm just sort of freelancing for a few weeks at a boutique by the beach.”

The woman clicked her tongue and demanded, “Where is your shop? I'd love to commission a piece from you.”

“It's in a little town called—”

“Just one moment.” The woman whirled and waved to a white-haired gentleman across the room. “Let me get my bag and take down your contact information.”

Brighton watched her future client (she supposed “patron” would be more appropriate in this social context) point her out to the white-haired companion. The man whispered something to her, and then pointed across the room.

Brighton glanced behind her to see what they were looking at. Jake was striding toward her. She looked back at the blonde, who was now looking at Jake.

“Hey.” Brighton tilted her head toward the blonde as subtly as she could. “See that woman in the black dress and the coral-and-green necklace? Do you know her?”

Jake gave a curt nod. “We're done here.” He whisked her out of the ballroom so quickly, she was still holding her champagne glass when they reached the hotel lobby. Brighton noticed a brass elevator so similar to the one in her office building and remembered that, only a week ago, she'd been desperate to escape the humdrum of corporate life.

Her wish had certainly been granted.

Jake led her to the valet stand and handed the uniformed worker a claim ticket and a folded twenty-dollar bill.

“What was that all about?” Brighton asked.

His eyes had gone dark and his whole body was tense. “Nothing.”

“Oh, it was definitely something. Is she an ex-girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He never broke eye contact. “Yes.”

“Business associate?” she tried.

“No.”

When the valet delivered the truck, Jake opened the door for her, then settled into the driver's seat without a word.

“I'm going to need some answers here,” she told him. “Why was everyone looking so intense? You, her, that old guy with the expensive haircut?”

“It's nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing important, anyway.”

Her jaw dropped as a horrible thought occurred. “Oh God. Is this something I'm not going to be able to testify about because we're legally married?”

“No.” He took a slow, measured breath. “Don't worry about it.”

She knew she should drop it—the last time she'd had a fight in a car, she'd ended up dumped and disgraced. “When someone looks at me the way that woman looked at me, I have a right to know why.”

He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. “How did she look at you?”

“Like I'd
wronged
her. Like I called her a name and threw a drink in her face.” She tapped one finger on the window. “Are you
sure
she's not your ex-girlfriend?”

Jake's laugh was rough and bitter. “That's not what this is about.”

“Then what the hell is it about?” she demanded. “Because you have the same look on your face that you had on the night we met.” She swallowed, not sure she wanted to hear the answer to her next question. “Is this related to what you said about spending ten years drinking and buying expensive shit and socializing with strangers?”

“Do you really want to talk about this?” he asked. “Or do you want to drive to the Four Seasons in Baltimore, get a suite with a big bathtub, and lay waste to another set of pearls?”

“Don't do that,” she said. “Don't try to distract me with the sexy and the shiny.”

He blinked. “The what?”

“Every time you don't want to talk about something or answer a question, you start throwing money at the problem.” She clenched her molars in frustration. “I just want to know who the hell I'm married to. You swore Google to secrecy, you have an apparently endless stream of money, you do things to people that make them give me death stares across crowded rooms . . .” She waited for him to give her something. Anything. The tiniest scrap of self-disclosure.

He kept his eyes on the road.

“Don't just sit there being inscrutable,” she said. “We're having our first official fight.”

“I'm not angry,” he pointed out.

“That's the problem!” She was suddenly yelling. “You're never
angry. You're never angry or sad or frustrated or anything besides sexy and charming. Get angry! Fight with me.”

“Brighton.” His tone was soothing and reassuring and made her want to start throwing things.

She realized that this was how Colin must have felt when she tried to reason with him during the great zipper-merge debacle. She desperately wanted Jake to engage, to show some sort of emotion, but he remained patient and unflappable. Because he didn't care.

This is how drama queens are born,
she warned herself.
Get ahold of yourself.
So she did. She forced herself to stop talking and sit back. To bottle everything up, just like he did.

They spent the rest of the drive home in silence.

When the car pulled into the driveway of Don't Be Koi, Brighton noticed a familiar figure silhouetted against the porch light.

“Oh my God. Is that . . . ?” She covered her mouth with her hand as she recognized the stoop of the shoulders, the downcast profile. “It's Colin.”

Jake didn't seem at all surprised. “That's him?”

She nodded. “That's him.”

“I figured he'd show up eventually.” Jake turned off the truck and took the keys out of the ignition. “I'll handle this.”

“No. No, no, no.” Brighton's voice shook as she reached for the door handle. “
I'll
handle this. Stay right where you are.”

Jake looked half-amused and half-alarmed. “Should I frisk you for weapons?”

“No need. I'll deal with him with my bare hands.” Brighton handed him her purse and went to work on the dainty art deco screwbacks. “Here, hold my earrings.”