Not Quite Married (11 page)

“Of course, Clara.”

“Last Thursday, when Dalton interviewed you, did you come here to the house?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Around two? I believe you might have been napping then, as well. Now that you’re awake, how about if I put some fresh sheets on your bed, tidy your room and get the vacuuming out of the way?”

What could she say? The dust bunnies were piling up. No reason to jump all over Mrs. Scruggs, who was only doing what she’d been hired to do. It was Dalton she needed to have a little talk with. “Yes, of course. Carry on.”

And Mrs. Scruggs did carry on. She vacuumed, made beds, dusted, did laundry and roasted a lovely leg of lamb with new potatoes and glazed carrots. She also whipped up a fresh and tasty-looking asparagus salad and a burnt-almond torte for dessert. Then she bustled on out the door at a little after four with a promise to return the next afternoon to make dinner again.

Dalton got home at a quarter of six. Clara met him in the front hall. He wore one of his perfectly tailored, impossibly expensive suits and he carried a Lederer alligator briefcase that cost as much as a Subaru. In fact, he looked so handsome and pulled-together she wanted to sidle up nice and close, breathe in the scent of his aftershave—and kiss him hello.

But of course, she did no such thing. Especially not right now, when she was seriously pissed off at him.

He smiled at her. “Clara.” And then he sucked in a long breath through his nose. “It smells great in here.”

“That would be the leg of lamb cooked by the housekeeper you hired on Friday.”

“The impressive Mrs. Scruggs.”

“The one and only.”

“How’s she working out?”

“She’s fabulous. But Mrs. Scruggs is not the issue.”

Twin lines formed between his dark eyebrows. “There’s an issue?”

“Dalton, you do not get to hire someone to take care of my house and to cook my meals—and apparently to play nanny to my baby when the time comes—without even mentioning it to me.”

“Clara...” He said it in a chiding way. It was very attractive, the way he said it. It was fond and also a little bit intimate.

And that pissed her off even more. “I had no idea she was coming. I woke up from a nap and found her putting the dishes away.”

“She’s a housekeeper. She’s
supposed
to put the dishes away.”

“You hired her without even consulting me. And then you didn’t bother to tell me she was coming.”

“Even excellent takeout gets old. I’m tired of it. And I’m more than happy to pay someone to do the housework I don’t want to do—and
you’re
not supposed to do.”

“Maybe I would be happy about hiring someone, too, if you’d asked me. Which you did not.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“And you did. At first, I thought she was a home invader.”

That kind of got to him. For a split second, he actually looked a tiny bit regretful. “I had no idea she would frighten you.”

“She didn’t do it on purpose. She was trying to be quiet. And I got over it. It’s not the real issue. The real issue is that this is my house and
I
decide who comes to work in it. Also, you gave her a key. You don’t just get to give people keys to my house.”

“She’s bonded and insured.”

“Give me the keys to
your
house. I’ll find some people to give them to and then not bother to mention what I’ve done.”

“Clara.” Tender. Patient. “I think you may have some issues with control.”

That had her gaping. “
I
have issues with control?”

He took a step toward her. “Clara...”

“Stop that.”

One black eyebrow arched. “Stop what?” He took another step.

“Getting closer.”

He looked way too pleased with himself. “I like being closer.”

She almost fell back, but it seemed a bad idea to show weakness. “Um. Mrs. Scruggs?”

“Yes?”

“I like her,” she grumbled. “She can stay.”

“See?” Too smug by half. “I knew she was the right choice.”

“But don’t do anything like that again. If you want to hire someone or change the way things work around here, you come to me and we discuss it. And I have to give my approval ahead of time if someone’s getting a key.”

“Fair enough. Agreed.”

“And how much does the amazing Mrs. Scruggs charge, anyway?”

“I hired her.” Mr. I-rule-the-world was back. “I’ll pay her wages.”

“Once again, Dalton. That wasn’t the question.”

A frown of mild irritation. “If I’m paying her, you don’t need to worry about the cost.”

“I most certainly do have to consider the cost. She’s working for me.
I
should pay her wages.”

“Clara, we don’t need to argue about this.”

“No, we don’t. And we’re not. We’re
discussing
this. How much does she charge?”

“You’re like a damn bulldog when you set your mind to something, you know that?”

“Whereas you are so easy-natured and laid-back.” She piled on the irony.

“I’m just trying to be helpful, just doing what I can to make things easier on you.”

“I had a question back there. You didn’t answer it.”

“What question?”

“How much does my new housekeeper charge?”

“Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

That did it. She leveled her darkest scowl at him and threatened, “I’m not going to ask you again, Dalton.”

His expression turned infinitely weary. And then he actually quoted a figure.

It was more than she wanted to pay, but having seen what Mrs. Scruggs could accomplish in a day, she knew that the housekeeper would be worth it. “All right. I can manage that.”

A muscle ticked in his square jaw. “But you’re
not
going to manage it, because
I’m
going to pay Mrs. Scruggs, and my paying her is only fair.”

“Fair? Suddenly you’re all about what’s fair?”

“I’m living in your house, using your upstairs office and not paying rent. Paying the housekeeper—whom
I
hired—is the least I can do.”

When he put it that way, it sounded way too reasonable. “All right. You can pay her for as long as you’re staying here. But as soon as you move out,
I
pay her.”

“Agreed.”

She eyed him warily. “There’s a gleam in your eyes. I don’t trust that gleam.”

“Gleam? Clara, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And then the baby kicked. She winced and rubbed her side.

“Let me feel.” He said it softly. Hopefully.

And she just stood there, staring up at him as he took that last step that brought him up close and personal, and then put his warm, long-fingered hand over hers.

It felt good, his hand on hers. It felt really, really good.

“Um...here.” Her voice kind of broke on the word. And then she slid her hand out from under his and clasped it, moving it to where she felt the kick. “Yeah.” She smiled in spite of herself. “That’s it.”

“I feel it,” he agreed as the baby poked at his palm, then poked again. He was watching their hands, all his attention on the movement beneath them. And then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. His were the clearest, most beautiful blue right then. “Clara...” His voice was rougher now, even lower than usual.

She just stared up at him, still annoyed with him for not even telling her about Mrs. Scruggs, and at the same time swept up in the moment, in the intimacy of it—their baby kicking, her hand over his. She should have glanced away.

But she didn’t.

And he saw it, saw the yearning in her eyes. She knew he saw it by the way he said her name. Again. “Clara...”

Step back
, her wiser self commanded. But she didn’t listen to her wiser self. It felt too wonderful, to be so close, so...connected. It made her forget that she was pissed off at him, forget the hurt that still lingered between them, forget that if she
was
going to kiss him, first she wanted to talk to him.

Really
talk to him. For a long time, in detail. She wanted to know all the things he’d never told her on the island. About his parents and his childhood, about his work—did he actually
like
being a banker?—about his marriage to Astrid and what had gone wrong with it. About why he sometimes seemed like two different people: the domineering, oh-so-well-bred banker on one hand. The sexy, adventurous charmer from the island on the other.

Who
was
he, really?

But his hand was on her belly, and his eyes were holding hers. His briefcase dropped from his other hand and hit the floor with a definite
thunk
.

And when he lowered his mouth to hers, well, there only seemed one thing to do in response to that.

Lift it up and take it.

Chapter Six

D
amn. It’s good to be home
, Dalton thought as Clara swayed toward him.

Her lips—softer even than he remembered—met his. He breathed in the sweet, unforgettable scent of her skin. She let out a tiny moan.

And broke the kiss.

Too soon.

But he wasn’t deterred. He let the hand on her stomach slide on around to clasp her lower back, bringing her belly, so full with their baby, to press against him. It felt good, that hard roundness pushing at him. Insistent, undeniable, this new life that they had made.

He lifted his other hand to cradle her face. “Ah, Clara...”

She scowled up at him. “I don’t know why I just kissed you. I shouldn’t have. It’s wrong.”

“Uh-uh. Not wrong. Very, very right.”

“You piss me off. And we should talk first. There’s so much to say.”

“Shh.”

“See?” She pouted up at him. “Now you shush me.”

“Shh...”

He dipped his head and their mouths touched again, brushing. So sweet, the scent of her, Ivory soap and apples, all clean and fresh and crisp.

This time, she didn’t jerk away.

Instead she opened on a sigh. He deepened the contact—not too much. Enough to run his tongue along the edges of her upper teeth. On the island, sometimes they would kiss for the longest time, sitting on the white sand beach under the shade of a big umbrella, or in bed, their bodies joined, holding out against the rising wave of pleasure, making it last.

Kissing and kissing until he knew he couldn’t hang on one second longer. He was going to go over the edge and there was no way he could stop it...

She always tasted so good, like sunshine and sugar cookies. And freedom, somehow. All the freedom and ease and fun he’d never allowed himself.

Oh, there had been women. Lots of them. Before Astrid. Before he’d decided it was time to find the right wife, before he’d finally accepted that the thrill of being wanted by a stranger never seemed to last beyond the first encounter.

So he’d given up on one-night thrills. He’d pursued and married Astrid. And had it all gone to hell.

Only to meet Clara, on the island, while he was still reeling from how completely he’d messed up the commitment that should have been for a lifetime.

Clara.

It had never occurred to him that a woman could be so many desirable things at once. Thrilling and funny and cute. More than cute, beautiful. A pure temptation and a true companion.

Clara. He had found her when he wasn’t ready. And then he’d blown it royally. He’d let her get away.

He wouldn’t make that mistake a second time.

And it was so good, to be kissing her again. It made him ache. It made him hard. It made him want to
keep
kissing her.

He only cared that they didn’t stop. He eased his fingers up into the warm, thick fall of her hair and cradled the back of her head, gathering her marginally closer.

Her hands slid upward, hesitating at his chest. For a second, he was afraid she would push him away.

But no. With a soft little moan, she grabbed his shoulders. And then she twined her arms around his neck.

And kept on kissing him.

He took advantage of that long kiss to touch her some more, to learn again the silky texture of her skin, to track the tempting indentations of her spine. He clasped her waist, thickened now with the baby. But still, that feminine curve was there, inviting the span of his hands.

He knew it couldn’t go on forever, that kiss. Still, a groan of regret escaped him when she took her mouth away from him and settled back onto her heels.

She looked up at him, mouth plump and red from kissing him, eyes soft as melted chocolate, cheeks beautifully flushed. “Kissing,” she said, reproaching him. “We shouldn’t be kissing.”

“Too late.” He bent and scooped her up under the knees with one hand, keeping the other at her back.

“Dalton!” She laughed in spite of herself as he cradled her snugly against his chest. “Put me down.”

“Bed or couch?”

“Put me down,” she ordered again, shoving at his chest a little—but she was still laughing.

The bed was closer. He carried her through the arch to the side hallway, detouring into the master suite, taking her straight to the bed and putting her down on it, then dropping to sit beside her. “Scoot over.”

“What?”

“Make room for me.” He toed off one shoe and it fell to the rug.

“Wait a minute, Dalton. We have to—”

“Too late.” He dropped the other shoe, turned and swung his stocking feet up on the bed, using his shoulder to nudge her a little more over to the center of the mattress, clearing the space he needed beside her. “Ah. There.” He raised his arms and laced his fingers behind his head. “That’s better.”

“You’re going to get your gorgeous designer suit all wrinkled.”

“Sometimes a high price must be paid.”

She’d rolled to her side so she and her giant belly were facing him, and she braced her elbow in the pillow, her head on her hand. “You remind me of the island Dalton right now...so free and fun and easy.”

“I
am
the island Dalton.”

She only looked at him, her expression growing serious. “Tell me about your parents.”

He didn’t particularly want to talk about them. They had done their job, fed him, clothed him, brought him up to be a functioning member of society. And now they were gone. What was there to say about them?