The Misconception (21 page)

Ryan grinned, and raised both arms overhead. “Mark my words. This chump will some day be a champ again.”

He lowered his arms, turned around to check the door again and froze. Tracy stood just inside the entrance, her hair curled wildly about her head in a style as cute as she was. As he watched, she gracefully unwrapped from one of the funky shawl-like garments she wore when the weather was cool. The smile teasing the corners of his mouth faded.

She was wearing The Dress. The red one that dipped low in the front, clung to less skin than it revealed and ended well above her knees. The one she’d never worn for more than a few minutes, because he couldn’t resist the urge to tear it off. By wearing The Dress tonight, was she sending him a signal? Did she want him to get her alone, tear off The Dress and do all the things to her he’d been dreaming about for the past nine months? The things that used to make her scream his name and beg for more?

Was The Dress the signal he’d been waiting for?

Slowly, feeling as though he were navigating a heavy fog, he walked toward the door and his knockout of a wife. He was halfway there when he spotted the hand of a very large, very good-looking man resting on the back of The Dress. Ryan’s own hand immediately curled into a fist, getting ready to knock out the man who dared touch her.

Then Tracy, who had yet to glance in his direction, turned, looked up into the man’s face and smiled. Ryan’s fist stayed bunched as every bit of his blood dropped to his feet, but he didn’t have the right to start swinging. He and Tracy were separated, and the model-handsome, Goliath-size man was her date. Tracy would probably say the stranger had more rights than Ryan did.

She turned back around, her green cat’s eyes scanning the bar crowd until they fell on him. They looked wary and watchful, not at all like the eyes of a woman who’d worn a red dress to lure the husband she still loved into seducing her. The lips she’d painted with that sexy red lipstick she was never without curved slightly upward before she reached behind her, took Goliath’s hand and headed toward him.

Maybe, Ryan thought darkly, she’d worn The Dress in the hopes that Goliath would rip it off. Ryan felt as though he’d been hit in the solar plexus with a stun gun, but he forced himself to smile.

“Ryan,” she said when they were inches apart. Her cloud of perfume wafted into his nostrils, reminding him of the luscious way she smelled when they made love. “I want you to meet somebody. This is Jax Jackson. Jax, Ryan Caminetti.”

Ryan reluctantly pulled his gaze from his wife’s lovely face and raised it to the man’s smiling one. Goliath was even more imposing and better-looking up close, the kind of man who could easily lift a woman if by some miracle he didn’t sweep her off her feet. Goliath’s big hand was outstretched. Ryan gripped it, barely conquering a childish urge to squeeze as hard as he could.

“Ryan, it’s good to meet you,” Goliath said, slapping their clenched hands with his free one. He looked around at their surroundings with appreciation once they were finished shaking hands, taking in the dart boards, pool table, wooden booths and half-dozen televisions turned to various sporting events. “I was wondering why we were driving out of Old Town when there are so many bars right there. Now I know. This is a great place. Nothing artificial about it.”

“We’ve been coming here for years,” Ryan said through clenched teeth before he remembered that he couldn’t speak for Tracy anymore.

“Have you heard the one about the neighborhood bar and the pickle?”

“Jax, Ryan’s not much for jokes.” Tracy laid a hand on Goliath’s arm with maddening familiarity. “I’m sure he’s not in the mood to listen to one.”

She’d got that one right, Ryan thought darkly. About now, all he was in the mood for was a bar-room brawl even if the good-natured, good-looking Goliath was a good three inches and fifty pounds heavier than he was.

“Sure, he’s in the mood. Everybody likes a good joke. Okay. A big, juicy pickle comes into a bar and asks for a beer.” Goliath paused, as though trying hard not to laugh at the thought of a pickle walking into a bar. Ryan’s lips twitched in response. He had to admit, the idea of a walking pickle was pretty funny. “The bartender says, ‘Sorry. We don’t serve food here.’”

Ryan tried to control the guffaw that escaped from his lips, but it was impossible. Damn. He might hate the big guy’s guts, but he sure could tell a good joke.

He was vaguely aware that a number of people had been within hearing range of the joke, including Tracy, and not one of them laughed. Strange.

“You liked that one, huh?” Goliath asked. “I got another.”

“Jax,” Tracy said, her face solemn, “maybe we’ve had enough hilarity for one day.”

“No. No. I got to tell this one. It’s a gut-buster. What do cannibals call kids on bicycles?” He paused a beat. “Meals on wheels!”

Ryan laughed again, although it was the last thing he should be doing with the man trying to steal Tracy. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help it. Goliath was a regular comedian, much funnier than Will Ferrell and Tracy Morgan, who hardly ever got Ryan to crack a smile.

Goliath slapped Ryan on the back and gave his shoulder an affectionate, masculine squeeze. “I can’t say I’ve heard real good things about you, but you’re my kind of guy, Ryan.”

His comment doused Ryan’s laughter like a reservoir of water does a flame. So Tracy had been discussing him with the big, funny guy. The knowledge stuck in Ryan’s craw and burned.

“That’s strange.” Ryan wiped tears of laughter away from his now-serious eyes. “This is the first I’ve heard of you.”

“That’s not true, Ryan,” Tracy cut in. “I told you about Jax when I cut your hair a few weeks ago.”

“No, you didn’t.” He shook his head. If she had told him she was dating Goliath, no way he’d have forgotten.

She raised her eyebrows. “Sure, I did. Jax is. . .” She stopped, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “. . . the man who. . .”

“Proposed to her sister,” Jax finished with a smile.

The comment had the same effect as a light bulb in a dark room. It banished the blackness in Ryan’s heart and replaced it with the brilliance of hope. Goliath was involved with Marietta, not Tracy. Wait a minute. That didn’t compute.

“You’re Marietta’s man?” Ryan asked.

Jax shrugged. He was pretty sure Marietta wouldn’t put it that way, but it sounded good to him. “I guess you could say that.”

“Somehow I, uh, expected you to be, uh, shorter.” Ryan nodded once. “Definitely shorter. And, uh. . . not so, uh. . .” He stopped again, started. “. . . muscular or, uh. . .”

“Normal?” Jax supplied.

“Yeah.” Ryan nodded and gave Jax a sheepish grin, then hastened to add, “not that Marietta’s abnormal.”

Jax wrinkled his brow, pretty sure he didn’t agree with that one. Marietta Dalrymple was a lot of things — smart, sexy and incredibly obstinate among them — but normal was not a word he’d use to describe her. Normal women didn’t advertise for sperm suppliers. Nor did they appear on national television advocating male-less motherhood.

“I hear you, pal,” Jax said, his standard reply when he didn’t have something nice to say. The jukebox was playing an old Willie Nelson tune about stardust and memories. He bent slightly at the waist to get closer to Tracy’s ear. “Hey, Trace, you want me to get you something to drink?”

She didn’t reply, although he’d practically blown the words into her ear. That’s because she was staring at Ryan as though he were the only man in the room. Obviously she had it just as bad as Ryan did. It wasn’t hard to see why, even though Ryan was sporting the worst haircut Jax had ever seen. Entire sections of his hair were longer than others, creating a sort of patchwork quilt effect that had no business on the human head.

Despite the haircut, Ryan possessed a magnetism that went far deeper than his skin. It didn’t hurt that he was the first person — okay, the only person — in recent memory who laughed at Jax’s jokes.

Jax wondered what happened between these two to threaten their marriage, especially since the torches they were carrying for each other were bright enough to blind a convention of ophthalmologists.

“Trace?” he asked again, louder, and she started. “How

’bout you go with Ryan, and I get you a drink?”

She nodded, although he wasn’t altogether convinced what he’d said had sunk in. No matter. He’d order a glass of one of those mild white wines all women seemed to like. From the looks of her, Tracy wouldn’t taste what she was drinking anyway.

Then he’d find out if any of the couple’s friends had a sense of humor anywhere near as well-developed as Ryan’s and try to stop himself from wondering what Marietta was doing tonight.

THE SCENT OF SMOKE assailed Marietta the instant she walked into Paddy’s Pub, and she braced herself for the wave of nausea that seemed to accompany every new smell. It didn’t come.

She took a trial sniff. Nothing. No roiling belly. No urge to make a dash for the restroom. Great, she thought. The only substance that didn’t make her squeamish was one that wasn’t good for her baby.

If things went as planned, she wouldn’t be inside Paddy’s long enough to breath in too many fumes. She’d locate Tracy, talk her into leaving and convince her she was making a mess of her life. That is, if Tracy were even here.

Right. Of course Tracy was here. Marietta had seen her face when she’d relayed the invitation from Ryan. Cinderella had worn the same look when she’d found out the prince had invited her to the ball.

Marietta took a few steps farther into the bar, aware that her tweed suit, altered slightly at the waist to make room for her expanding middle, labeled her an outsider.

Is this how the lone stranger felt when he walked into one of those wild-west saloons where everybody knew each other? She half-expected somebody to saunter up to her and ask, “What’s your business here, pardner?”

Shaking off the image, Tracy set off to take care of business. Her eyes swept the establishment, looking for her sister. Instead, they riveted on Jax.

He was standing with his back to her, but she knew instantly it was him. How many men, after all, had a waist that narrow, shoulders that broad and hair that luscious shade of chocolate?

A delicious thrill ran through her. Without pausing to wonder at its origins, she strode purposefully toward Jax, stopping a few feet from him when she realized he wasn’t alone.

A beautiful redhead wearing tight jeans, a snug top that showcased her considerable bust line and a sultry smile walked red-tipped fingernails up Jax’s chest. From her glassy eyes, Marietta figured she’d been drinking for hours. The jukebox stopped playing, and Marietta could clearly make out what she was saying.

“I only live a few blocks from here.” The woman’s voice was low and sexy. “Why don’t you come over?”

The breath caught in Marietta’s lungs as disillusionment filled her. She was at once angry at herself for being disillusioned and at Jax for being like every other man on the planet. Why had she expected, even for a moment, that he wouldn’t seize every sexual opportunity that came his way?

“I’m flattered, but I can’t do that,” Jax said.

Had Marietta heard correctly? The beautiful redhead giggled, and plastered herself up against him. Since her breasts looked like they were filled with silicon, Marietta wondered why she didn’t bounce off him.

“How about some Sex on the Beach then?” Jax must have looked puzzled, because the woman giggled again. “It’s a drink. You mix something green with something pink and you get something brown that tastes really good.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”

“Take me away from all this then,” the woman purred. “And stop worrying about your girlfriend. I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

Marietta crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for Jax to succumb the way men were programmed to, telling herself it wouldn’t hurt when he did.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Typical, Marietta thought. Here she was pregnant with his child, but that must not rate. “But I’m taken. Definitely taken. In fact, I have a fiancé.”

Did he just say he had a fiancé?

“Anything that’s taken,” the redhead cooed in a low, throaty voice, “can be taken away.”

Jax spanned the woman’s waist with his hands, lifted her off her feet and gently extracted himself from her clutches just as the music started up again. Marietta didn’t hear his next words, but they seemed to mollify the drunken redhead, who patted his chest and turned away. Jax turned, too, and spotted her. A slow, sexy grin instantly enhanced a face that was already way too symmetrical.