Wife for a Day (6 page)

“I take it spying on him hasn't been all that difficult?”

“I despised him right from the start.”

“You danced with him, though. I watched you.”

“I promised you I'd bat my eyelashes, and I did. You know what it got me?”

“What?”

“His hands on my butt when we were dancing. He also did some very slow maneuvering toward a palm tree and a dark corner of the room.”

She felt Jack's fingers tighten around hers, saw the tensing of his jaw. “What did you do?”

“Told him I have a doctor friend who specializes in turning Australian playboys into eunuchs.”

Jack laughed. “I told him I'd break him in two if he hurt Lauren.”

“You could do it, too,” she said, casually running one hand over the muscles in his arms, like a real fiancée would do with the man she loved. “Unfortunately, I think threats roll right off Peter's back. I don't like him. I don't like worrying that he's going to hurt
Lauren by doing something no one would ever expect.”

“Why do you care what happens to her?”

“Oh, I don't know.” She put her cheek next to his, enjoying the closeness. “She's different from what I imagined. All the things I've read about her being wild, about going to nude beaches with married men, about…well, you know, the tabloids say things that aren't very flattering. But she's not like that at all.”

“Do you believe everything you read?”

“I read that you're worth close to a billion dollars. I could easily believe that.”

“Believe it if you want. I don't make a habit of divulging my financial status to the tabloids or anyone else. I keep my private life secret, too. Lauren, on the other hand, hangs around with people who like having their names in the news. She can't control what they say about her, and she's given up caring. The only thing that's important is what her family believes about her.”

“Want to know what I think?”

He nodded, his lips accidentally brushing over her cheek, an action that meant nothing, but made her toes tingle all the same.

She took a breath and attempted to swallow the anxious lump in her throat. “I think she's one of the nicest people I've ever met.” Her heart fluttered as his lips trailed along her jaw,
hesitating at her scar. He kissed the raised stretch of skin, and she nearly forgot what she'd wanted to say.

Don't pay attention to what he's doing
, she told herself.
It's all an act. A charade
. “You know, Jack,” she whispered, “if I was really your fiancée, I'd consider myself extremely fortunate to have Lauren as a sister-in-law.”

He didn't respond, not in real words, but she heard some kind of muffled agreement vibrating against her neck, as his fingers moved along her spine, sliding over skin that the low-cut gown didn't cover. What she was wearing was far more daring than anything she ever would have picked, but right now, she liked the idea that she could feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer to his chest, so close she could feel the rhythm of his heart beating against hers. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so right in someone's arms.

She slid a hand across his shoulder, around his neck, and found herself playing with the ends of his hair. She inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, surprised by the quiver that raced through her insides. She pressed her lips against the warmth of his neck, and heard him draw in a long, deep breath.

What on earth are you doing?
she asked herself.
This is pretend, nothing more
.

Slowly, she drew her fingers away, resting them once more on his shoulder, the safest, sanest place to touch. She inched away, but he pulled her back.

“The music's slow and easy,” he whispered, his breath soft against her ear. “And lovers are supposed to dance so close that a casual observer might think their bodies were fused together.”

She swallowed, trying to retain some measure of sanity and confidence. “We're not lovers.”

“Maybe not, but I'm thoroughly enjoying the masquerade.”

Whispered words and warm breath turned to heated lips against her ear, moving ever so slowly along her jaw, to the corner of her mouth.

She was in trouble now, and she didn't care at all.

She closed her eyes and found herself opening up to him as he kissed her, holding her tight as he swayed with the sultry music.

How long they kissed was anyone's guess. She was too dizzy to keep track. They might have danced through one song. Maybe two, but the music had been little more than a blur. All she'd concentrated on was the fire in his kiss, the passion, the way his hand cradled her neck as his fingers teased the wisps of hair that
had escaped the hairdresser's fancy coif, and the heat in his eyes when she'd braved a glimpse to see if he kissed with his eyes opened or closed.

They were definitely open, and they were gazing steadily at her face. He smiled, then whirled her around the room.

Pretending to be in love had never felt so right and so wrong at the same time. She'd been mad to go through with this charade. Foolish.

He did some kind of fancy dip, holding her tight as he bent over her, then pulled her back. Her breasts grazed over the silky tux, brushed the pearl buttons on his shirt, and desire like she'd never known in her entire life rippled through her insides.

Try as she might, she couldn't control the feelings. She didn't want to feel anything in his arms. Didn't want his kisses to turn her to mush. Didn't want to suffer when the night was over.

“Stop,” she pleaded, backing away from his lips, from the touch of his beating heart.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark with hunger. “Don't pull away, Ara—” His hand pressed at her back, pulling her close again, and she found herself powerless in his arms. “I can't call you that. Not anymore. You don't look like Arabella, you don't act like her or feel
like her.” He swirled her around, across the terrace, to a place far away from anyone else.

They were behind a tall potted palm, and he backed her against a wall. The stone was cold against her skin, but the fingers he was tracing over her cheek were on fire. “Who are you?” he asked, his words slow, deep.

“An actress.”

“Why all the mystery? You know my name. I want to know yours.”

She swallowed the crazy knot of desire that had crept into her throat, and pretended his kiss, his eyes, his touch had no effect on her. She couldn't let him know that he'd stirred feelings in her. This was all an act, nothing more. If he called her by name, it would seem all too real—and she'd hurt even more when it was over. “There's no mystery, Jack. I can bluff my way through most situations, including calling someone by the wrong name. You, on the other hand, don't have a poker face. If you knew my real name, you might spill it in front of your sister and blow everything.”

He kissed her cheekbones, gazing deep into her eyes. “Then I'll call you Whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”

“Some men might call you Red, or Curly,” he said, wrapping a spiraling strand of her hair around his finger. “Personally, I like your eyes, especially now, when they're warm and
glowing. You've got eyes that could intoxicate a man.”

“You aren't trying to butter me up so I'll help you out with some other foolish scheme, are you?”

“I'm not thinking about much of anything, except what's going on right now between you and me.”

“There's nothing going on.”

Again he kissed the corner of her mouth, and with every ounce of willpower she had, she fought the urge to give in to him.

“Jack, this isn't right.”

“It might not be right, but it feels damn good.”

“Stop, Jack. Please.”

The moment she said stop, he drew back, and sighed. “What's wrong?”

“Don't pretend you care for me when it's only a farce. Don't—”

Sam's protest came to a skidding halt when a familiar man slipped into view.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Jack spun around, and Sam thought for sure her heart had skipped a beat when she recognized Chip Chasen standing behind Jack in a tux she'd altered for him earlier in the week. “Good evening, Jack,” he said. “Good evening, Arabella. You're the talk of the party, and I've been anxious to meet you.”

Forcing a smile, Sam held out her hand and Chip, one of Mr. Antonio's worst tippers, kissed her knuckles. He studied her with a frown on his face as if trying to remember where he'd seen her before.

“Arabella,” Jack said, “I'd like you to meet Chip Chasen.”

“I believe we've met somewhere else,” Chip said.

“I don't think so,” Sam tossed back, maybe a little too fast.

“She's firmly entrenched in Denver society, Chip,” Jack said, coming to her rescue. “You're Cape Cod and Palm Beach.”

“I've been to Denver a time or two. Do you know—”

“It's a big city,” Jack interrupted firmly, then changed the subject. “What are you doing at Lauren's party? I didn't think the two of you were on speaking terms.”

Chip took a swallow of his drink. “We made up years ago. I loved her once, she loved me, and even though she took me for half of what I'm worth, divorce didn't wipe out all the old feelings.”

“You and Lauren were married?” Sam asked.

“For six not-so-blissful months. I might as well tell you the honest truth, before Jack puts his own spin on things. I liked to bet on the
horses. In fact, I preferred horses to marriage—then, and now. Statistics-wise, I'm husband number one. Number two was killed in a boating accident a week after their divorce, and”—he leaned close to Sam, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath—“from the gossip I've heard tonight, number three might die at the hands of Jack Remington, even before the wedding takes place. Lauren's hell on husbands.”

He was drunk. His words were slurred, his eyes red, and the face Sam had once thought was semihandsome now looked tired and old.

Chip continued to stare at her, and then his eyes widened. “I've got it. You look like the woman who altered a suit for me this week. Odd coincidence, isn't it? Of course, you couldn't be her, could you?”

“I could,” Sam said with a confident smile, “if I was a good enough actress.” She felt Jack's fingers tighten around her arm, and she quickly gave him a wink.

Chip took a drink of whiskey. “You'd have to be one hell of an actress, because those people from West Palm Beach just don't fit in here.”

“
Those
people?” she asked. “Who exactly are
those
people?”

“I assume you have them in Denver, too.
Poor people, illiterate people, ones without much education.”

“Oh, you mean the ones who cook your food, clean your house, wash your clothes and tailor them, too, because you've never learned the simple, basic skills of taking care of yourself?”

Chip laughed. “Sounds like you have an affinity for
those
people.”

“I've known a few of those people in my life. Strip away the money you were fortunate enough to be born with and your pompous arrogance, and you could fit in quite nicely. No, I take that back. You'd still be a wimp unable to take care of himself, which means you wouldn't last more than a week or two on the other side of the bridge. You'd be pulp, Mr. Chasen. Dog meat. Now, if you don't mind,” she said, clutching the skirt of her gown so she could make a hasty retreat, “I need some fresh air, and I'm not going to find it here.”

She rushed down the marble steps and across the lawn toward the beach. Tears spilled from her eyes, and for once she didn't try to hold them back. She was one of
those
people, and she always would be. Going to the ball for one night didn't change anything. She could scratch and claw her way out of the hole her life had been since the time of her birth,
but she'd always be one of
those
people. Tonight, after getting an up-close glimpse of how crude and obnoxious some rich people could be, she finally realized that being one of
those
people was okay.

“Wait.” Jack's voice hit her from behind, but she didn't stop until his hand wrapped around her arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. Back where I belong.”

“You belong here. With me.”

She jerked around. “Why, because you paid me to be here? If that's the reason, you can keep your money.”

He shook his head, and smiled when he took hold of her hands. “No, because I don't know what you're going to say or do next. Because you're not a stereotype or a hanger-on. And, to be quite honest, because you make me feel good.”

“Well, maybe I make you feel good, but you don't make me feel anything but anger. You didn't even stick up for me back there.”

“You were doing fine on your own. It's not every day someone puts Chip Chasen in his place.” He wiped away one of her tears with his thumb. “You know what, Whiskey?”

“What?”

“It was a sheer pleasure watching you at
work. Seems to me those Hollywood people underestimated your talent.”

“I wasn't acting. That was me, the real me, impulsive and quick-tempered. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not.”

“I'd be disappointed if you were.” He touched her cheek, and for the first time she noticed his fingers weren't soft and smooth, but callused, used to hard work. “Come on back,” he urged.

She shook her head. “It's been a long day, and Chip's right. People like me don't belong here. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go home.”

“Then
I'll
take you.”

She started to say no, but he put a finger to her lips and silenced her.

“Do me a favor, Whiskey. Just this once, don't argue with me.”