The Fiancée Fiasco (11 page)

"I believe I ran up a couple hundred dollars on your phone bill," she cheerfully admitted as she let the door close the heat of the day behind her. Truth be told, she felt pretty nervous. The next few moments would set the tone. Was her rebuff the night before going to make him act standoffish, resentful, or any other kind of pain in the ass?

Win gave her an affable grin. "I'll take it off your first retainer." And so, without the slightest reminder of the night before, or any disgruntlement it might have occasioned, he went back to sorting the groceries. "Do you mind having dinner at home tonight? I bought some fresh pasta."

"Hm. Doctor's orders again?"

"Well." He winced. "Not with the Alfredo sauce I was planning to make."

Roseanne chuckled and relaxed. Everything was going to be fine. The man had a basic good nature. If a woman didn't happen to be married to him, he was a completely amiable fellow. And he'd mentioned CovMarch's first retainer as though it were a done deal.

Roseanne was pleased enough that she didn't point out a private dinner at home was hardly conducive to fostering Win's public image as 'taken.' They had all weekend, after all, to take care of that little matter.

All weekend, Roseanne mused, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. Watching Win whistle as he set about making their dinner, she found herself looking forward to the coming weekend with something suspiciously like pleasure.

And, well...why not?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Roseanne was not disappointed in her weekend with Winthrop Carruthers. She had a wonderful time. Every now and then a thought would pop into her head, a concern that maybe she was enjoying herself too much. The guy was officially a cad, after all. She wasn't supposed to like him. But the pleasure of the moment always banished such scruples to the background. On Saturday they toured art galleries and walked around the campus of Rice University. On Sunday they drove down to Galveston.

As a traveling companion, Win made the grade: pleasant, even-tempered, and mannerly to the point of gallantry. He was a bit lacking in spontaneity, perhaps, but he made up for the defect by easily falling in with Roseanne's impulsive ideas.

Not once did he lay a hand on her. True to his word, he kept all communications strictly verbal. Roseanne let herself relax on the issue. Everything was going great, not a cloud on the horizon.

Until late Sunday afternoon. They were on the beach in Galveston. The nippy spring air had driven any would-be sunbathers home, so Winthrop and Roseanne had the place to themselves. The scene was eerie, however, rather than romantic. An occasional gull cried overhead, giving the scene an even more desolate atmosphere.

As if in tune with the setting, Win grew silent and withdrawn. In vain did Roseanne suggest he take off his shoes. He simply watched while she pulled off her own loafers to dangle them from her fingers.

She plunged her toes into the sand and wiggled them. "Feels nice," she told him, persuading.

Winthrop stared at her bare feet for a moment, obviously a million miles away. Mumbling something about, "not today," he turned distractedly and started walking.

Roseanne had to run to catch up to him.

Winthrop strolled on the sand above the water line, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets and his frowning eyes considering the lines of beached kelp.

Maybe he was doing that nerdy engineering thing, Roseanne thought. Calculations and mechanical designs were zipping through his brain. But she had a sinking feeling that wasn't the explanation. Something was weighing him down. His aura reminded her of the evening she'd intercepted him in the Seattle airport. Weary and sorrowful.

Roseanne bit her lower lip and gazed out to sea. The longer they walked along the sand, the more she felt an urge to somehow lighten his burden.

Bad urge, she scolded herself. If her once-cheerful companion were now moody it was not her problem. None of her business. Didn't concern her.

Only...it did concern her.

Winthrop stopped short and gazed down at something in the sand. "Look at this." He squatted to get a better view, himself.

She came up and squatted too. It was a small sand shark, about the size of a large trout, twisted in death into a graceful, curving shape.

"Poor bastard wandered in too far," Winthrop hypothesized. "Got caught in an ebb tide and never made it back out."

Why did she feel like he was talking about himself? Roseanne glanced toward Winthrop's face. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at her, surprised. "Did I say something was wrong?"

Roseanne expelled a breath. "Did you have to? For the past two hours it's been clear you're depressed."

The two small crescents of his smile appeared faintly in his cheeks. "Now, how could I be depressed when I'm enjoying one of the best weekends in a long time with as marvelous a companion as yourself?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me. You ought to know that by now."

He gave a short laugh and let his gaze wander out over the sea. "I often wonder if there's a way to get
any
where with you."

His words struck a strange, jarring chord. "Not really." Roseanne forced a grin. She didn't want to examine the peculiar sound that chord made inside of her. "I'm generally at wherever I want to be gotten to."

Winthrop raised an eyebrow. "Well, I doubt you're going to want to be where I'm going tonight."

"Oh? Where's that?" This, then, was the crux of the matter. He was obliged to go somewhere unpleasant. It was a relief to discover his problem had nothing to do with the strange jarring chord inside her.

Win grimaced as he picked up a pebble and then cast it into the waves. "Tonight I'm supposed to have dinner at my parents' house."

Roseanne straightened, frowning. "I'm catching the use of first personal singular. Aren't you taking me along?"

Winthrop gave her a shocked look. "Good Lord, no."

No? Had he said
no
? She crossed her arms over a very odd stab of pain beneath her breastbone. "That's pretty odd, Win. Don't you think you'd better take me? I mean, convincing your parents you aren't getting back together with Sylvia was a major part of this whole enterprise. You didn't want your father to think you would remarry and then he could finish that oil company merger with Sylvia's father."

He averted his eyes. "Yes, I know you planned to convince everybody, but meeting my parents—? Honey, it's not a good idea."

Honey
? For Roseanne, the endearment only served to underline the insult he was actually handing out. He was ashamed of her. She could feel her anger in her face.

"I see," she said, very precisely. "You don't think I can pull it off, eh?"

Winthrop gaped at her. "That's not—"

Roseanne brushed away his attempted explanation. "Never mind. The partners at CovMarch don't think I have what it takes, either." She started down the damp track of the beach. An odd, salty pressure built behind her eyes. She felt as slighted as if he were a real-life boyfriend who wouldn't take her to meet his parents.

Win loped to catch up to her. "Well hell, Roseanne. You could at least listen to me before you go flying off the handle." He sounded suitably put-upon, the classic defense of all males when faced with what they considered to be over-sensitive females. "This isn't about your
capabilities
."

She smiled dryly. "I know. It's about the fact I don't resemble Sylvia, or any other example of dainty Texan womanhood."

Win stopped, widened his eyes, then rushed to catch up to her again. "Of all the— Don't be stupid."

That stopped Roseanne in her tracks. So now she was stupid, too? "I see," she hissed, and glared at him.

He stopped, too, and glared right back. "The problem isn't
you
, Roseanne—it's
them
."

It took her a second to hear him, and then her jaw dropped. "You mean—your parents?"

He sighed. "You could say they're not the most pleasant people in the world."

Her crackly anger subsided. Oh. Wow. It wasn't what she'd thought. Quite the contrary.
He was trying to protect her
. Swallowing, she felt a different, far more complicated sensation stir under her breastbone. Clearing her throat, she grasped for something halfway intelligent to say. "In-laws aren't supposed to be pleasant. Everybody knows that."

He slanted her an expression that was almost amused. "Even in make-believe they aren't your in-laws yet."

"Oh, you know what I mean. I wouldn't expect pleasantness."

"Yeah, but—"

"But nothing. I've been to your office, spent the weekend with you. Your parents must know about me by now. How are you going to explain
not
bringing me?"

He couldn't quite meet Roseanne's eyes. "I suppose that might get a little awkward."

"I'll say. And it could bring down the whole charade." Even as she said the words, Roseanne wondered why it would matter to her if the charade collapsed at this point. Win had already promised to retain CovMarch. If their scheme fell apart because he hadn't brought her home to meet his parents, it would be his fault, not hers.

But...such a result would make life even worse for Win; the Sylvia reconciliation rumors could actually gain in strength. And Roseanne would feel like a failure.

Not sure whether she was feeling more protective of Win or of herself, then, Roseanne sniffed and declared, "I'm coming with you."

"Is that right?" He smiled a little.

"Yes." Roseanne made it definite. "Don't worry about your parents bothering me, Win. I do not come from a line of pussycats."

But Win only gave her a look that said he didn't know if such a lineage would be quite enough.

He still looked worried four hours later. They'd returned from Galveston, cleaned and changed at Win's house, and were driving through a suburb near downtown Houston.

His parents lived in a shady, tree-lined neighborhood of palatial mansions that fit every possible time era in style. There was a cross-timbered country house from Tudor England, a palatial villa from old Rome, and several examples of Colonial New England set smack down on the Texas plain.

Winthrop's parents lived in one of the larger examples of the Colonial variety. A wrought iron gate barred the entrance to a brick-lined circular drive. Several graceful willow trees shaded a the portico over the front porch.

But Winthrop didn't drive through the gate. Instead he pulled up behind a tall row of hedges, well hidden from the paned front windows of the house. He cut the motor with a deep, resigned sigh.

"Why are we stopping here?" Roseanne was dressed in a conservative blue skirt suit, with a string of pearls demurely encircling her neck and a matching set of pearls in each ear. At the last minute, in a highly uncharacteristic surge of self-doubt, she'd sprayed a small blast of expensive French perfume behind each ear.

Winthrop turned to her. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"

"Let's not have this argument again, Win." All he was accomplishing with his words of doom and gloom was to make her increasingly nervous about a situation for which she'd felt no initial apprehension.

"All right, then." He reached into his jacket inner pocket. The jacket was navy, and set off with a conservatively striped tie. It was the first time Roseanne had seen him dressed in anything darker than a deep tan. "You'd better put this on before we go inside." He handed her a small plush box.

A wave of dismay swept over her. "An engagement ring?" Her voice went inexplicably hoarse.

Winthrop took the box out of her useless hands and opened it. Inside rested one of the most exquisite diamond rings Roseanne had ever seen. It sparkled brilliantly in the last light of day.

"My God, Win. That must be a couple of carats at least." And she was pretty sure both those carats were genuine.

"Just about," was Win's laconic reply. "Here, give me your hand. No, the left one, you idiot."

Roseanne wished her hand wasn't shaking so badly as Winthrop calmly slipped the ring onto the proper finger. "Win, it's beautiful. It's...gigantic."

She stared at the thing. The ring was the extravagant gesture of a man who either had more money than he knew what to do with, or who was madly in love.

She didn't want to wear it. What if it had belonged to—?

"It wasn't Sylvia's." Win seemed to read Roseanne's thoughts. His smile was brief and ironic. "She kept all her jewelry."

"Oh." Roseanne frowned, gazing back down at the ring. It had never belonged to Win's ex-wife. This was good news, very good. Oh, not that Roseanne would allow herself to feel jealous of Win's ex-wife. Rather, it meant the ring was simply a prop, something Win had bought specifically for this purpose, intending to return or resell the thing.

Yet the prop felt very heavy on her finger, reminding her that all of this was a sham. As she drew in a long breath, she felt a twinge of conscience, the first she'd experienced since embarking on this bold masquerade. The whole thing was a fake.

Letting out her breath, Roseanne shook her head. No. Pretending to be Win's fiancée didn't harm anybody. There was no need for guilt.

"We'd better go." Sighing, Winthrop put the car back into gear and drove it through the wrought iron gates. He parked on the brick drive and went around to open Roseanne's door for her. After nearly a week in the man's company, she'd learned to wait for him to do this. Winthrop became ill-tempered and confused when a woman let herself out of a car door.

He took her hand as they went up the steps to the porch. Roseanne momentarily ignored the small breach in the no-touch rules. His touch felt natural at that moment and, though she never would have admitted it, she was glad of the emotional support it gave her.

"Hss! Winthrop!" A bright, feminine voice quietly hailed them from the shadows deep at the left of the porch.

"That's Belinda," Winthrop informed Roseanne. "My youngest sister. She probably wants to give us a last minute warning before we enter the lion's den." He tugged Roseanne gently toward the voice in the shadows.