Til Death Do Us Part (28 page)

He could never allow himself to think of the child Cleo would conceive as his baby. Getting her pregnant was just a part of his assignment, a part of the package deal that meant lifetime security for him and for Hope. He would never see Cleo's child, never be a part of his or her life. It had to be that way. He'd been a father once, and he'd done a lousy job of it. He had failed his little girl and his failure had cost Laurie her life.

A man could die a hundred ways and a thousand times, but Roarke doubted that any agony could equal the pain a man felt when he lost a child and knew he could have prevented the tragedy.

Roarke joined Cleo in her sitting room. She sat curled up, in her sock feet, on the fat, pale green love seat, a brandy snifter in her small hand. Her leather loafers lay half-hidden beneath the sofa's fringed edge. His brandy
waited for him on the table. He lifted his glass, saluted her with it and slumped down into the corner wingback. He placed his feet on the needlepoint footstool and took a sip of the brandy, savoring the smooth taste of the aged liquor.

“Good stuff,” he said, and took another sip.

“Uncle George's private stock. He bought only the best.”

“Did he think he'd bought Hugh Winfield for you?” Roarke asked. “Is that why he put those ridiculous stipulations in his will?”

Cleo supposed she should feel insulted, but she didn't. How could she? In a way, what Roarke had suggested was true. “I was dating Hugh when Uncle George made out his new will, and yes, I'm sure he thought that I'd marry Hugh and that Hugh would jump at the chance to marry an heiress.”

“What went wrong?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

“Daphne?”

“When Uncle George was in the hospital, dying, I discovered Hugh in Daphne's bed. She had seduced him and set things up so that I'd find them together.” Lifting the snifter to her lips, Cleo slowly downed the remainder of her brandy. “Hugh was embarrassed, but not all that remorseful. He even accused me of being to blame.”

“How the hell could he blame you?”

“He said that he would never have turned to Daphne if I hadn't refused to have sex with him.”

“Aaa…hhh. A reasonable excuse for a man caught with his pants down,” Roarke said.

Cleo laughed, despite the vividness of the humiliating memory of that night less than a month ago. “I think at the time Hugh believed one potential heiress was as good
as another, so why shouldn't he choose the one willing to sleep with him? Of course, he had no way of knowing that Uncle George would make me his major beneficiary and leave me complete control of McNamara Industries.”

“Did Hugh change his tune once your uncle's will was read?”

“He tried once, but I didn't give him a chance,” Cleo said. “I would have given up McNamara Industries before I would have married that…that…that weasel!”

“So, Hugh stands to profit only if he marries Daphne and the family can force you to sell McNamara Industries?” Roarke finished off his brandy and set the snifter on the small cloth-draped, glass-topped table beside his chair.

“Hugh's not a bad man.” Cleo smiled when she noticed Roarke's widened eyes and raised brows. “He's a weak man. Nothing like his father. Hubert Winfield was Uncle George's attorney for years and he trusted him implicitly. Hugh is a junior partner in his father's firm, but he's not the brilliant lawyer Hubert is. Hugh works exclusively with McNamara Industries. That's about all he can handle, and his father keeps pretty good tabs on him to make sure he doesn't screw up. And Hugh is not privy to any of my personal legal affairs.”

“And this is the man your uncle chose for you?”

“Uncle George knew Hugh's bloodlines. Our families have been associated for several generations,” Cleo explained. “Besides, I
was
dating Hugh. Uncle George wanted me to find a man, and Hugh was…well, he was there.”

Roarke stretched his arms, threaded his fingers together and placed his entwined hands behind his head. “What do you suppose Uncle George would think of me as your husband?”

“I shudder to think. More likely than not, his first reaction would have been the same as Pearl's, but then, just as Pearl has done, once he had a chance to size you up, he'd advise me to hang on to such a prime specimen.”

Roarke laughed, the sound a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. Relaxing, he burrowed into the big, comfortable chair and took a long, hard look at Cleo. He liked what he saw. Liked it far too much. Instead of sitting there discussing potential suspects, he'd much rather carry his wife to bed, undress her slowly and make love to her all night long.

Later, he told himself. Be patient. First things first. Business before pleasure.

Idiot, he reprimanded himself. Pleasuring Cleo would be business. Part of his job was to impregnate her.

He had to get his mind off making love to Cleo. “Does your cousin Daphne hate you enough to kill you?” he asked, determined to get back to the business at hand—gaining more personal information about the suspects.

“I honestly don't know.” Cleo shifted uncomfortably, then bent one knee, lifting it high enough to drape her folded hands around it. “Daphne and I have had a love-hate relationship all our lives. Since we were children, whatever I had, Daphne wanted. For years, I couldn't understand why she was jealous of me.

“I envied her so much. She had two loving parents. A mother who doted on her. A brother who adored her. And she's always been beautiful and the center of attention.”

“So why do you think she's so jealous of you?” Roarke asked.

“Because of Aunt Oralie's insecurities. My father was Uncle George's favorite and Aunt Oralie resented that. Then when I came to live with Uncle George and Aunt Beatrice, I became Uncle George's favorite.”

“Would you say that Oralie Sutton hates you?”

“No, of course she doesn't. I'm her brother's only child. In her own way, she loves me. It's just that…well, she's an unhappy woman, very fragile and high-strung. Uncle Perry is so protective of her, and he resents me a great deal. I'd say if anyone in this family truly hates me, it's Uncle Perry. He hates me because my existence has caused so much pain for Aunt Oralie and kept his children from being the only McNamara heirs.”

“Do you think Perry Sutton tried to shoot you?”

“I don't know,” Cleo said. “But I think it's possible.”

“Why not Trey? Or even Marla?”

Shaking her head, Cleo giggled. Her short, cinnamon hair gleamed with healthy vibrance in the soft glow of the lamplight. “Marla wouldn't hurt a fly. She's too sweet and timid. And I doubt that Trey knows one end of a rifle from the other.”

“Whoever tried to shoot you might have been hired by one of your relatives,” Roarke told her. “Of course, since the shooter missed his target, I'd say he wasn't a trained professional. But Trey or Perry or even Daphne could have hired some local hoodlum who wasn't a very good shot.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Cleo rubbed up and down her arms. “I hate to think that one of my relatives is willing to kill me in order to sell the company. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? Knowing that someone I've lived with most of my life, someone I've loved and trusted, wants to see me dead.”

“I won't kid you, Cleo. These next few months aren't going to be an easy time for you. But I promise that I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

“Roarke, I…”

“What?”

“Thank you for agreeing to this arrangement.” She slid
to the edge of the sofa and stood. “I know that acting as my bodyguard is what you're trained to do, but the other…the personal terms of our business deal… Well, I'm grateful that, for whatever reasons, you decided to take me up on my offer, you were willing to marry me and…and—”

“I did it for the money,” Roarke said unemotionally. “I'm nearly forty. I've got my share of battle scars, some obtained when I was in the Special Forces and some since I've been with Dundee. I'm tired. I want to retire. Invested wisely, the million you're paying me should take care of me for the rest of my life.”

“Yes. I understand.” She walked past him, pausing briefly before exiting the sitting room. “There's more brandy in the cabinet—” she pointed to the chinoiserie cabinet beneath the window “—if you'd like more. And there's a television in the armoire in my…our bedroom, and a fairly good selection of books on the bottom shelves. Please, make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

“In other words, make myself at home, huh?”

“Yes, certainly.” She glanced at him briefly and wished she hadn't. The way he looked at her made her feel all fluttery inside, as if a dozen tiny butterflies had been set free in her stomach. “I'm tired. I think I'll turn in.”

Before she had taken three steps out of the sitting room, Roarke called out to her, “It's been a long day for both of us. I might as well call it a night, too.”

Tell him, dammit, Cleo! Tell him that you are not going to have sex with him tonight.

Maybe he doesn't expect to have sex with you. Since you're his employer, maybe he plans to wait for your explicit orders.

“Roarke?”

“You take the bathroom first.” He raked his hand over his jaw. “I need to shave before I go to bed.”

Nodding agreement, she hurried to retrieve her gown and robe from the closet, then rushed into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

While preparing for bed, she thought about the fact that this was her wedding night. She almost cried. No, she told herself, don't give in to self-pity. Things could be a lot worse. What if Hugh Winfield was the bridegroom who would join her in her bed tonight? Heaven forbid!

At least with Roarke, she would be the one in charge. There were certain advantages to buying yourself a temporary husband.

The moment she walked out of the bathroom, Roarke, who sat on the edge of the bed, stood and smiled at her. He looked her over from head to toe and almost laughed aloud. She certainly hadn't dressed like a bride on her wedding night. No sheer, see-through nightie. No lace teddy. Nothing the least bit sexy or provocative. But dammit all, if there wasn't something appealing about little Miss Cleo Belle in her unadorned, pale lavender cotton gown and matching robe that skimmed the floor as she moved toward him.

“The bathroom's all yours,” she said, then glanced away shyly.

He liked that about her. That hint of timidness. He'd already figured out that some of what people considered coolness in Cleo was actually shyness.

“I usually sleep in the raw,” he told her, and couldn't repress a muted chuckle when he saw her mouth gape in a silent gasp. “But until you get used to me, I'll make a concession and sleep in these.” He held up a pair of blue-and-white-striped pajama bottoms.

“Thank you for your consideration,” she said.

She waited until he disappeared into the bathroom be
fore she removed her robe, draped it over the desk chair at the foot of her bed and turned down the covers.

Roarke usually slept naked. She tried valiantly not to think about how he would look—tall, muscular and completely unclothed. Perspiration broke out on her upper lip. Moisture coated her palms. Her nipples puckered painfully. And her femininity tightened and released, then tightened again.

She crawled into bed, turned off the lamp on her nightstand and pulled the covers up to her neck. She lay there quietly, trying not to move. She should have told him that they were not going to have sex tonight. She should have told him!

Less than ten minutes later, Roarke emerged from the bathroom, clean-shaven and whistling some unfamiliar tune. Cleo tensed. Suddenly, she felt very hot.

She hazarded a glance in his direction. Dear Lord, he was magnificent. Dark brown hair curled over his chest, narrowed down to a V across his flat belly and disappeared beneath his low-slung pajama bottoms. His massive shoulders looked six feet wide and his big, muscular arms bulged with power.

Two ugly, semicircular scars, located below his right pectoral muscles, marred the absolute perfection of his chest. How had he gotten those scars? she wondered. In the army? Or on an assignment for the Dundee agency?

“Do you prefer the light on or off?” He sat down on the left side of the bed.

“Off, please,” she said.

He turned off the lamp, then slipped under the covers and slid across the bed. Cleo lay there beside him as rigid as a corpse. Good God, what was wrong with her? Roarke wondered. Was she afraid? If she'd had only one other
lover, she might be feeling more than a little uncertain about their making love.

“It's all right, honey.” He reached out and ran his fingertips softly over her cheek.

She sucked in her breath and held it. He raised his head and leaned over her. She gazed up at him, able to see the outline of his face in the faint moonlight coming through the French doors. What would she do if he kissed her? she wondered.
Oh, please, don't let him kiss me.

Roarke ran his fingers down the side of her neck, slowly caressing her soft skin as he lowered his hand over her shoulder. “Relax. We'll take things easy. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do.”

Releasing her breath, she turned and buried her face against his shoulder. He lifted her body just enough to take her in his arms and hold her close. She trembled. He soothed her with long, sensitive strokes across her back.

“What's the matter, Cleo? You're trembling.”

“I—I—” Tell him, you ninny! Tell him!

He felt the wild beat of her heart, the quivering of her fragile body, the tightening of her nipples as they pressed into his chest. He could not resist the urge to kiss her, but realizing how nervous she was, he tempered his passion with tenderness and took her mouth gently. She responded instantly, her lips softening and opening. He could tell that she wanted him.