Her Convenient Millionaire (10 page)

“I'm going to go clean up before we head in for work,” he said, throwing away his empty can.

Sherry met him halfway across the living room and threw her arms around his neck.

Mike set his hands on her waist. “What's going on?” He sounded puzzled.

She was, too. She didn't know why she'd done it. Sherry turned and rushed into her bedroom before she could embarrass herself anymore and shut the door. He didn't have to know how much she liked him.

 

Two days later Mike was at his mom's, cooking dinner before work. He did it whenever he could because he liked knowing she had eaten, knowing what she'd eaten and knowing she wouldn't be sneaking around cooking things.

The elevator rattled as it arrived on their floor, loud enough to be heard over his own rattling around in the kitchen. He'd have to call someone and get it worked on.
It shouldn't make that much noise. Mike paused to listen, trying to tell who might be getting off. Sherry had taken the car this afternoon to “run errands,” but she ought to be back. It would be time to head into work soon.

He hadn't insisted on going with her today, because she swore she'd be safe, and he knew she was too afraid of her father to say so if it weren't true. Since Mike hadn't a clue where she planned to go, he figured Nyland wouldn't, either. She wasn't back, but he wasn't worried. Not exactly.

They'd been getting hang-up phone calls over the past few days, both at Mom's and at his place. He suspected her father, but hadn't gotten round to getting the phone company to put a trace on the line. They didn't come often enough to be harassing, and no one ever spoke, but they made him uneasy, and they had Sherry jumping at shadows. She didn't need more grief from the man.

“Sherry's back,” his mom said from her perch on a kitchen chair. She liked to supervise his cooking, even though it had been many years since he set the oven on fire trying to bake one giant chocolate-chip cookie. It hadn't occurred to him then that the dough would expand and drip off the sides of the cookie sheet.

“How do you know?” He tasted the pasta sauce and added more oregano.

“Because if it was Donna or Lanita and Katie, they'd have gone the other way. Your apartment is the only one past mine.”

“Is that how you spy on me?”

She ignored him. “Aren't you going to go get her? Tell her where you are?”

“She's a smart girl.” He lifted the lid of the other pot to see if the water was boiling yet. “When she sees I'm not over there, she'll figure it out.”

“Aren't you going to go kiss her hello?” His mother sounded annoyed.

Mike hid his grin. “With my mother watching?” He gave a fake shudder. “Heavens, no.”

“Come over here so I can stick you with this fork.” She waved the utensil menacingly.

“I'm not that stupid.” He had to laugh. She was half bark, and half bite. Trouble was, he could never tell which half he would get.

The front door burst open and slammed shut again hard enough to rattle the family pictures in the living room. Sherry had arrived.

“Guess what?” She dropped a small pile of shopping bags near the door, bounded into the kitchen and threw her arms around Clara hard enough to half knock her out of the chair before hugging her gently.

She bounced over to Mike, and before he knew what hit him, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a big kiss right on his mouth. Then she was gone. Long before he could recover from the brain explosion caused by the feel of her curves pushed hard against him, the scent of woman overwhelming tomato and basil, the taste of mint and woman left behind on his lips. He wanted her back, where he could catch and hold on, taste more, smell more. Feel more.

“Guess what?” she said, yet one more time.

“I don't know. What?” Mike tucked his hands in his front pockets to keep from reaching out for her.

“I'm back.” Her wide grin never faded. “And I had a wonderful time, all by myself without a bodyguard.”

She swooped back in for another fierce hug, one more quick kiss, and, damn it, his hands were stuck in his pockets. He couldn't get them out fast enough to capture her before she flitted away to kiss his mother's cheek.

“Congratulations.” His mom apparently understood what was going on.

A girl thing, Mike guessed. He didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing.

“Thank you.” Sherry twirled in a circle, her skirt flaring out slightly before she collapsed in the chair across from his mother.

“Where did you go?” Mike asked. “What did you do?” He assumed she hadn't seen Nyland given the mood she was in.

The lid to the pasta pot rattled, telling him the water boiled. He gave it only half his attention as he poured in the corkscrew shapes, while watching Sherry.

She waved a hand languidly through the air. “Oh, you know. Places. Stores. The mall. I went to one of those mega-hyper-super-discount stores for the very first time in my life.”

“What did you think?” Clara perked up a little. She loved those stores. “What did you buy?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Sherry laughed as she gave a mock shudder. “By the time I followed the trail of bread-crumbs back to the door again, after being lost for hours and hours, I was too intimidated to even think about buying anything. Besides, what do you do with a fifty-pound sack of rice or five pounds of chili powder?”

Mike took two steps to the pantry and opened it to display huge packages of rice, pasta, chips, pickles and whatever else had caught his mother's eye. “I've been trying to figure that out.”

Sherry's eyes went wide, then she burst out laughing. “Good thing I was intimidated, huh?”

“Good thing.” Mike stared at her, frowning. “Something's different. You look different somehow. What is it?”

She turned her gaze on him, eyebrows rising in question. “You can't tell?”

His eyes narrowed, skimmed over her, trying to pinpoint the change. New dress, sunny-yellow color, but she'd worn
it when she left, so it was probably from the bottomless suitcase her sister had packed. Same great legs, same sleek curves, same smile, same eyes, same nose, same golden hair.

“You cut your hair!” He couldn't keep the triumph from his voice. He'd figured it out on his own.

Sherry laughed and shook her head, the short, ear-length locks tumbling all directions. “I can't believe you didn't notice. It doesn't even reach my chin.”

“You have to forgive him, dear.” Clara reached across the table and patted Sherry's hand. “He's a man. You can't kiss him like that and expect him to comprehend more than one thing at a time.”

“Like that?” Sherry gave him a sideways look. “But that was scarcely a kiss at all.”

That was the truth. Two scarcely-a-kisses didn't add up to even one real kiss. Not that Mike wanted one. Or rather, not that he wanted one with his mother looking on, smiling one of her patented “told you” smiles. He couldn't have one, anyway. Not the kind of kiss he wanted.

There. He admitted it. He wanted to kiss his wife. Wanted a hell of a lot more than kisses, truth be told. But he couldn't have it. Because if he ever got what he wanted, everything would change, and that would lead straight to disaster, deep ocean and high winds driving him under till he never came up again.

“Who's ready to eat?” Mike reached for the strainer to drain the pasta.

Immediately Sherry got up and went to the sink to wash her hands, then proceeded to fix drinks for supper.

“So?” she said.

“So, what?” Mike frowned at her. What did she want?

“So, what do you think about my haircut?”

Her tone of voice made it clear this wasn't the first time she'd asked. He needed to pay more attention to the con
versation and less—a lot less—to kisses, hypothetical or otherwise.

“I like it,” he said, pouring the noodles into a serving bowl. He picked up the pan with the meatballs and rationed his mom's share onto her plate. She could have three. No more.

“Micah Scott, you haven't even looked at it. How can you possibly know if you like it or not?”

He shrugged. “Because it's your hair.” He'd like it however it was cut, because it was attached to her. How could it look anything but good? He put the rest of the sauce and meatballs in a bowl and set them on the table.

“Mike.” Sherry poked him lightly in the arm. “Look first, okay? I want an honest opinion.”

He looked, against his better judgment.

Her hair tumbled about her face as if she just got out of bed. It made her look both younger, more vulnerable somehow, and at the same time older, more mature. She ducked her head, as if uncomfortable under his scrutiny. The action exposed her pale nape, no longer protected from the sun—or his eyes—by the long veil of hair.

That curve of smooth bare skin at the back of her neck made him want to howl. Her new haircut transformed her into some kind of sultry, seductive sex goddess. How in the hell was he supposed to resist that?

He swallowed, hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Oh, yeah. I like it just fine.” His voice came out rough edged, raspy.

His mother cackled from her seat at the table, seeing everything he didn't want her to see.

“Honestly?” Sherry sounded as if she wanted to believe him, but couldn't quite. “It's not too short?”

“It looks good. Great, in fact.” He slapped a serving spoon down beside the pasta. “Trust me. Now sit down and eat.”

Sherry sat and surveyed the table. “Don't you usually serve meatballs with spaghetti, rather than rotini?”

“We were out.” He served her plate with pasta. “Eat.”

 

After dinner Sherry hurried through the dishes, despite the way Clara kept insisting she could do them and they needed to hurry off to work. Sherry didn't want Mike accusing her of failing to keep up her end of things. When everything was spotless, Clara almost pushed them out the door. It might have hurt Sherry's feelings if she weren't halfway sure Clara was playing matchmaker again. Maybe she thought they'd be overwhelmed by passion while they were changing for work. They were halfway down the hall when Clara's front door opened again.

“Oh, wait,” she called. “Come back. I forgot something.”

“What?” Mike stopped walking, but didn't turn back. Sherry followed his lead. He knew his mother's sneaky ways.

“Something came for you today, Sherry. It was in my mailbox, addressed to you.” Clara started after them, and Mike hurried back to take her arm.

“What is it?” He took the thick square envelope from his mother and glanced at it curiously before handing it to Sherry.

“Well, I don't know,” Clara said. “I don't go around opening other people's mail.”

Mike snorted in disbelief.

Clara ignored him. “It looks like a wedding invitation.” She pointed at the postmark. “It's local. Palm Beach. You know anybody getting married?”

Sherry stared at the envelope a moment longer, her heart pounding. “It does, doesn't it?” Surely Tug wouldn't send invitations to a wedding that wouldn't happen. Couldn't. She was already married. To Mike.

Nobody ever sent an invitation to the bride. It couldn't be what she was afraid it was.

She opened it and pulled out the inside envelope, her hands shaking. She had to pause and wipe her palms on her skirt before removing the card inside.

“What is it?” Mike asked again.

Sherry read the message a second time trying to comprehend.

“Well?” Clara demanded. “Is it a wedding invitation?”

“Close.” Sherry blinked back sudden, surprising tears. “It's an invitation to a wedding reception. My baby sister's getting married. Apparently, I'm still in disgrace, since I'm not invited to the wedding.”

That hurt. But at least Juliana had made sure she got invited to the reception.

“Too bad I won't be going.” She shoved the invitation back into the envelope. She didn't dare go. Confronting Tug on his own turf wasn't even something she wanted to think about.

“I think you should go.” Mike took the invitation from her still-shaking fingers. “I think
we
should go. Together.”

“I don't think so,” Sherry said. “The reception's at the house. I don't want to go back there.”

A soft click barely registered in Sherry's hearing. Part of her noticed Clara wasn't there anymore and realized the click was the door closing; but most of Sherry focused on Mike.

“I won't let you out of my sight.” Mike read the invitation for himself. “It's the perfect opportunity to prove to your father—and everyone else—that we're married and he can't marry you off to some geek with money.”

A shudder ran through her at the memory of Tug's grip on her arm as he marched her out of the club. She never wanted to feel so helpless again. “I really don't want to—”

“Don't want to show your sister how happy you are for
her? Don't want to take the chance to convince your father?”

“We might not.”

“Then you'll still be no worse off than before. But we might pull it off, and then you'll have him off your back.”

Sherry bit her lip, uncertainty eating at her. “I'm afraid,” she said, something she could admit only to him.

“I know.” He touched her shoulder. “But it'll be okay. Promise.”

She wanted to step into his arms, take the reassurance he offered. How long would the offer be good? She couldn't start to depend on him. One day, not too far off, she would have only herself to lean on. But his promises were so tempting.

“How can you be so sure?” she whispered.

“Because I'll be right there with you. I'll never let anyone hurt you.
Never.
”

M
ike's gray eyes blazed with the force of his words, lightning behind storm clouds. Sherry shivered before their fierce power, wanting to believe him, believe in his promises. But she had wanted to believe so many times before, and every time—every single, sorry, stinking time—the promises had been no more than sand castles on the beach, forgotten as high tide washed them away.

If only one person in her life had forgotten their promises, Sherry might be able to believe that Mike could be trusted…because he was different, heart and soul different. But his difference didn't matter. The problem was with Sherry.

She was invisible. Forgettable. Clearly unimportant. Otherwise, why would so many promises, made to her by so many people, have been broken?

He brushed back her short, unruly hair and let his fingers trail along her cheek. “Trust me.”

How could she? She wasn't important to him. He'd made that abundantly clear. How long before he forgot about her in the excitement of the party?

“Have I ever let you down?” His eyes flashed lightning again.

She shook her head. “Not so far. But it's barely been a week.”

He gripped her shoulders tight, arms taut as if he held himself in firm control. “What do I have to do to convince you that I'm not like all those jerks you know here in Palm Beach?”

“Oh, I know you're different, Mike. But we both know that I'm not.” Sherry broke free and hurried to his front door. She had to get away, hide her exposed weakness before anyone saw it and used it to rip her wide open.

“Sherry, wait.” Mike caught her arm as she reached the door and spun her around. “That's not true. You're not like them. I didn't want to admit it, okay? But you're—” He faltered, hunting words. “You,” he said helplessly. “You're you.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“If I knew, I'd have said that instead. I…you—” Again his fingers traced along the side of her face, brushing through her new short hair. “Let me take care of you, please? Can you trust me to do that?”

“Why?” It seemed to matter a great deal to him, and she did not understand it.

“Because you're my wife.”

A smile forced its way to her lips. “For a minute I was afraid you were going to do that ‘you're you' bit again. But it's not real. I'm just your paper wife.”

“Real enough.” His fingers slid back into her hair and he cupped her cheek in his palm. “To the world you're my wife. What kind of man would I be if I let anything happen to you?”

Ah.
Now she had it. Pride was involved. That masculine code that men understood and women never quite got.

“Will you go to your sister's party with me?” He stroked his thumb along her cheekbone, his hand warming her cheek. She suppressed a shudder in reaction. “Will you trust me to look after you?”

His touch created a slow-rising sensual haze that was beginning to fog her brain, but Sherry retained enough presence of mind to nod her head. She could trust him to do what he said, because it wasn't about her. It was about his image as a man.

“Good,” he murmured as his head lowered and his lips grazed across hers.

She leaned into the teasing kiss, needing more. His hand, the one not tipping her face up toward his, slid to her waist, warm and heavy. He returned his mouth to hers, open now, and his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Sherry opened to him, helpless to resist his sensual entreaty. He slid inside, wiping away all knowledge of anything but Micah Scott.

He stroked the inner contours of her mouth, and she sank deeper into the haze of rising passion as she answered his every caress with one of her own. Oh, she needed this. She knew he didn't mean anything by it, knew the kisses would go nowhere, given his “sex should mean something” speech. But while he kissed her, she could pretend for just a little space of time that she meant something to somebody.

“Whoa! Hey, go home for that.” Only after the woman spoke did Sherry hear the rattle of the elevator as it departed. “We can't even come up the elevator without having to hide Katie's eyes, just in case you two are out in the hall.”

Sherry broke the kiss, but Mike wouldn't let her pull away. He tucked her head into his shoulder, holding her close. She understood why, the instant their bodies touched.
Mike was fully, magnificently aroused. A twelve-year-old girl didn't need to see that. Neither did her mother or anyone else.

“Just a kiss, Donna,” Mike said. “It won't hurt her to see a kiss. Besides, Katie's not with you.”

The older woman, the widow, had seen their kiss, not the divorcee. Sherry's knees wilted in relief. Of course, they were pretty wilted to begin with.

“Hon, that was
not
just a kiss. That was foreplay. And I do not need any reminders of what I'm missing. Take it inside, mister.”

With a laugh Mike walked Sherry the few paces to his front door, holding her in place. Every step made her more aware of just how aroused he was, and as her awareness increased, so did her longing to know what it would be like to make love with this man. His reasons for refusing made her want it all the more.

Her blood raced with the pounding of her heart, echoing the beat sounding through the hard wall of his chest. He obviously desired her. Could he want her enough to get past his dislike? Could she have a few more minutes of this make-believe love?

Then he closed the front door and walked away. “I need a shower,” he said as he vanished into his bedroom.

Sherry took a deep breath and sank into a chair before her knees gave way. So nothing would happen tonight. But that didn't mean nothing would happen tomorrow. Or the next night. She had months. As long as she didn't fool herself into thinking she'd have forever, she'd be fine.

She knew better than to think he could fall in love with her. But she was so tired of having nothing at all.

 

Juliana called the next Tuesday night. She was marrying Kurt Collier at three-thirty on Wednesday afternoon, not
Friday before the party. Would Mike and Sherry be their witnesses?

“Absolutely. But isn't this a little sudden?” Sherry didn't know whether her concern was for her sister or herself. No matter when Juliana married, the reception would still go on. Sherry had nervous megrims at the thought of going back in that house.

“Who are you to be talking about sudden?” Juliana laughed. “We were getting married anyway. We're just moving it up a few days.”

“I take it you're smitten, then.”

Juliana actually giggled. Sherry didn't think she'd ever heard her sister giggle. At least not in the last few years.

“I am not smitten, Sher. I'm smashed flat. I know it won't last, but while it does, I intend to enjoy every minute.”

“What about Kurt? Is he smitten?”

“I…don't know.” Juliana's uncertainty came through loud and clear. “How can you tell?”

“Does he at least touch you? Nicely?”

“
Oh,
yes. Very, very nicely.”

“Well then, if he's not smitten, I think he's at least been slapped around a little.” Sherry smiled. She hoped Juliana's rush marriage would work out better than her own.

Not that Sherry's marriage was so bad. They got along fine. But if she could make herself stop wanting what she couldn't have, things would be a lot more comfortable.

“So you'll be there?” Juliana asked.

“Sure. We're both working nights. I'll twist Mike's arm and get him there. No problem.”

Mike sighed when she told him about the wedding but made no other protest. It took place on the beach before the same judge who had married Mike and Sherry not quite two weeks earlier. He lifted an eyebrow when he recognized them and the bride, but made no comment otherwise.

Juliana's bridegroom had Sherry swallowing down envy. Not because Kurt Collier was possibly the prettiest man she'd ever seen. She far preferred Mike's hard-edged good looks to Kurt's gilded perfection. But Kurt behaved like a besotted bridegroom, gazing into Juliana's eyes, kissing her fingers as she spoke her vows, repeating his with a deep resonance that had Sherry fighting back tears. She was fairly certain Kurt's apparent devotion wasn't real, but he put on a good act. And who knew? Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was sincere. Sherry hoped so. Juliana deserved some happiness. And so, damn it, did she.

But when the wedding was over, Mike had some kind of meeting. He gently detached his hand from Sherry's too-needy grasp and shook Kurt's in congratulations. He kissed Juliana's cheek and wished her well.

Sherry hugged everyone, accidentally on purpose including Mike in the hugs, and left with her husband, despite Juliana's invitation to join them for dinner. Kurt's obvious, unspoken gratitude when she turned them down made Sherry's envy swell up like an evil green toad, big enough to choke her.

She wanted that, wanted someone who was eager to be with her and only her. No, not just someone. She wanted it from Mike. Instead, he couldn't wait to get away from her.

Sherry dropped him off in front of the bank. He leaned back in before closing the door. “Don't bother coming to pick me up. I'll catch a ride or I'll walk. It's not far, and I'd rather you just went on to the club. People there can take care of any trouble.”

She nodded and drove away before the car that was stopped behind her could honk. She wished she could feel special because Mike showed concern for her safety, but he did it for everyone.

Then she looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Tug
glaring at her from the driver's seat of the car following. Had he seen her? Was he following them? Maybe he didn't recognize her. She'd cut her hair, after all.

She drove a little farther down the street, fighting panic. He couldn't do anything to her now. Could he? Surely even Tug wasn't that crazy. In fact, they'd just passed the Palm Beach Police Department a few doors down from the bank. Realizing then what she should do, Sherry turned at the next block, past a row of businesses. Tug turned, too. She would circle back to the police station, and if Tug was still following her, she would park and go inside.

Just before she made the next turn, Tug pulled into a parking place along the street, and Sherry breathed a sigh of relief. Those phone calls had her a little too spooked.

 

On Friday night the party was just getting into full swing when Mike and Sherry arrived. People had spread through the house, drinking and laughing, getting geared up for a Palm Beach party. He could feel her hand tremble through his tuxedo sleeve. He laid his free hand over hers, where she'd tucked it into the crook of his elbow, and leaned down to murmur in her ear. “Spit in his eye. I'll back you up.”

Her laugh sounded shaky, but he got one, as he'd hoped.

“I think I'll hold off on the saliva for now and just go for figurative spitting.” She smiled up at him. “I think you'll do perfectly for that. He won't be able to abide knowing I'm married to you.”

“My goal in life.” He winked and led her up to the door.

It stood open to the balmy night air, his new relatives collected in the spacious entry hall beyond. Three of them—Sherry's sister, her new husband and the girls' father—Mike already knew. The tiny dark-haired woman with the dramatic coloring and the stretched look, hinting
at more than one facelift, had to be the stepmother. He waited while Sherry kissed the air near the woman's cheek.

“Bebe. Tug.” She didn't look at her father even as she called his name. “I'd like you to meet my husband, Micah Scott.”

That was his cue. He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Bebe looked at his hand as if it were a dead fish washed up on the beach and took it in a two-fingered grasp, maybe worried that the fish smell would rub off. “How…nice to meet you, Mr. Scott. May I introduce—” She'd already let go to wave vaguely in her husband's direction.

“We've met.” Mike extended his hand. Would the man take it? Mike almost wished he wouldn't. He was in the mood for a fight, verbal or otherwise, over the way they treated their daughter.

But Tug Nyland smiled a big fake toothy grin and clapped Mike on the shoulder as he pumped his hand, unable to resist the hard-squeeze-handshake competition under his jovial surface. “That's right. In front of that club, wasn't it? The day you two got married. Tell me, was it before we met, or after, that you married my daughter?”

Mike kept the smile pasted on his face. He knew it was small, tight and hard, but he couldn't fake it the way these people could. He nodded.

“Nyland,” he said in both greeting and acknowledgment of the question. He didn't trust himself to say anything more.

“This is my other daughter.” Nyland's tone of voice said “the good daughter.” Mike clamped down harder on his mood.

“We already know each other.” Juliana used Mike's outstretched hand to pull him in for a quick, fragrant hug. She looked different somehow. Softer. Prettier. Marriage must agree with her.

“I was at their wedding,” Juliana was saying. “And they were at ours.”

“You went to Sherry's wedding?” Nyland stifled his outrage, barely. “Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come. Helped celebrate.”

Mike tucked Sherry against his side. He could feel her shaking, but none of it showed. He had no right to take pride in her gutsy attitude. She wasn't really his, except on paper. “Sherry wanted something small, very private,” he said. “I agreed.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Scott?” Bebe spoke, all polite refinement.

“Bodyguard?” Nyland put in his two cents.

“I work at La Jolie.”

“A…bartender?” The stepmother actually staggered as she assumed the worst. In shock, Mike assumed, or maybe horror. She went pale. Nyland went a deeper shade of red.

“I do a lot of things there.” Mike knew he only had to mention that he owned the club to soothe their sensibilities. Which was probably why he was enjoying this so much. “Sometimes I tend bar. Sometimes I do other things. Like deal with rowdy customers. Sherry's been working as hostess for us.”