Otherwise Engaged (13 page)

A
WALL OF
flashbulbs went off, blinding Molly. Pres dropped her hand and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Smile,” he breathed into her ear.

To her surprise, she
could
smile. In fact, she started to laugh. “This is crazy,” she told him as the volley of flashes kept going.

“Hold up your left hand,” he said into her ear. “Show ’em that ring.”

She did, and another huge volley of pictures were taken.

Pres held her tightly, and she suddenly became
aware that she was pressed up against him, from her shoulders all the way down to her thighs. He stood slightly behind her, his chest against her back, her bottom nestled quite securely against his leg. She was going to dance with Prestonight, and he was going to hold her this close. Except when he did, they would be face-to-face, body to body, heart to heart.

And then he was going to kiss her. He’d told her as much.

Molly tried to squelch the sudden feeling of anticipation that filled her. But she couldn’t make it go away. She wanted Pres to kiss her. She wanted to taste the powerful heat of his desire again.

He touched her lightly, running his fingers down her bare arm, and she couldn’t breathe. Lord, she was in big trouble here.

Pres felt Molly tremble and he held her tighter. “We’re almost done,” he said into her ear, trying to sound reassuring, trying not to let her hear how completely the softness of her body against his was throwing him.

“How many pictures are they going to take?” she wondered aloud.

“As many as we let them.” Pres took her hand,
gently pulling her with him away from the photographers and toward the resort dining room.

“Are they going to follow us?” she asked.

“Most of them probably already have tables reserved,” Pres told her. “Of course, they can’t use flash attachments in the restaurant.”

Molly glanced around, and Pres knew she was looking at the elegant restaurant for the very first time. “This is lovely,” she murmured, and he had to agree.

It looked particularly good tonight, all gleaming white linen tablecloths and candlelight. The big glass windows that filled the entire westward-facing wall captured the last streaks of the sunset, presenting a softly faded red-orange panorama of sky and clouds and ocean.

Dave Zigfield was the Saturday-night maître d’, and he was quietly elegant in his black tuxedo as he showed them to their table by the dance floor. Pres held out Molly’s chair, then sat down next to her.

“Champagne, please,” Pres commanded. “The best in the house.” Zig quickly and quietly disappeared.

“The best champagne in the house,” Molly
mused. “I should remember to become engaged to celebrity billionaires more often.”

Zig appeared almost instantly with a champagne bottle cooling in a wine bucket, silently setting two paper-thin, tulip-shaped glasses in front of Pres and then nearly as quietly popping the cork.

Pres could hear the sound of a dozen camera shutters closing as he and Molly lifted their glasses in a silent toast.

“I feel like a fish in a fishbowl,” she murmured, letting the sapphire ring catch the candlelight.

Pres let himself look at her. At first glance, her dress was rather plain. But on closer examination, it was clear that the pale blue color suited Molly, and the simple style proved the old adage that less is often more. The soft cotton nestled modestly around her curves, giving only a hint that the body underneath was utterly feminine. In some ways, it was far sexier than a tight-fitting, more revealing dress.

She glanced away from him, pink tingeing her cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He couldn’t help himself. Her silky brown hair was drawn up in a sophisticated tangle on top of
her head. Several tendrils escaped the clamplike device that was holding it all together, making her look even younger than she was. The effect was thoroughly charming. She wore but a trace of makeup, a bit of something on her eyes, some lipstick on her beautifully shaped lips. Mother of God, he wanted to kiss those lips again. …

Pres pushed back his chair. “Let’s dance.”

“But we were going to order first—”

“Change in plans.” He held out his hand. “Come on.”

“But the band’s not even playing. …” Before she finished her sentence, the conductor lifted his baton, and a sixteen-piece swing band began a slow, familiar melody. She stared up at Pres. “They’re playing ‘Stardust.’ That’s my favorite song.”

He smiled. “I know. Zander told me.”

Molly had to laugh as she let him pull her up out of her chair. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble for a charade. Finding out my favorite song, picking out this incredible ring … It seems almost a shame. All that effort wasted on a game of make-believe.”

“It’s not entirely make-believe. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to seduce you.”

“You know, come to think of it, I
have
kind of noticed.”

“How’m I doing?”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t suppose you’d give up if I told you that you didn’t stand a chance?”

“Give up? No way.”

Pres drew her into his arms, easily, naturally, as if she belonged there, and for half a second she could almost believe that she did. He was as easy to dance with as he was to talk to. And he was remarkably easy to talk to. He was open and direct—at least when it came to talking about
her
problems and
her
secrets.

He’d yet to reveal any of his own.

And Molly knew he had his secrets. A man like Preston Seaholm
definitely
had secrets.

He lifted her chin, and lowered his mouth to hers, and then, dear Lord, he was kissing her. His mouth was so soft, his lips so gentle. It was a sweet kiss, a tender kiss, soft and slow and heartbreakingly romantic. It was so different from the
all-consuming way he’d kissed her before, yet somehow it seared her just as completely.

He tasted of champagne, sweet and heady. Molly didn’t want to stop kissing him.

He didn’t want to stop, either, but he did. “God, lady, you get me going,” he breathed in her ear, holding her even closer.

Molly could hear his heart pounding, beating a rhythm that was almost as crazy as her own.

“You stopped smoking.” She had to say
something
, and it seemed curiously appropriate.

Pres nodded, his cheek smooth against hers. He must have shaved right before he met her for dinner. It seemed sweet and totally unnecessary, and it made Molly’s heart flip-flop. When was the last time a man had gone to such trouble for her?

“I had my last real cigarette forty-six hours, seventeen minutes, and five seconds ago,” he told her.

She pulled back to look into his eyes. She felt alarmingly light-headed. “Last
real
cigarette?”

“Last night I had just a couple of drags of—”

“Oh, Preston, that’s cheating. Just because you don’t have the whole thing doesn’t make it less real. If you quit, you quit. No cheating,” she
admonished him. She gave him a long look. “You seem to be doing okay, cheating aside.”

“It’s killing me,” Pres admitted. “I’m in serious agony.”

“Don’t be in agony on my account,” Molly said. “Have a cigarette.”

“No.” He leaned forward, once again capturing her lips with his.

Molly felt herself melt as his tongue lazily explored her mouth. But just as quickly as he began kissing her, he pulled back. “The only time I’m not dying for a cigarette is when you kiss me,” he whispered. “And that’s because when you kiss me, I’m too busy dying for you even to think about smoking.”

He lowered his head for another kiss, and Molly couldn’t resist. She knew that his soft words were just that—soft words. But combined with his intoxicating kisses, they made her breathless and hopelessly off balance.

He kissed her harder now, deeper, longer, with an explosion of incendiary passion that made her cling to him. They’d long since given up all pretense of dancing. The other couples on the hardwood
floor flowed around them as Pres kissed her again and again.

She was doing this for the photographers, she tried to convince herself. If it weren’t for the fact that she and Pres had to make the photographers believe they were truly engaged to be married and deeply in love, she would never kiss anyone this way. Not in public.

“Molly, come back to my suite with me.” Pres’s voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged. He rested his forehead against hers. “Please?”

He’d asked her to his suite here at the resort. It was probably exactly like the room where Zander was hanging out, watching videotapes with Pres’s friend Dominic. It was elegant, it was lavish, but it was impersonal and cold.

And the sad truth was, if Pres had asked her to his bungalow, if he’d invited her into the privacy of the place that was truly his home, she would have gone.

If he’d given her just a little bit of himself, she would have given him her heart.

But he hadn’t. He’d offered her nothing but the false closeness of physical intimacy.

Molly fought her disappointment. She should
be grateful. She should be glad. She’d come dangerously close to getting in too deep with a man that she didn’t even know—that she probably would never truly know.

“Come on, Molly,” he pressured her softly. “Say yes. I swear you won’t regret it.”

Won’t regret it? She already did.

“I can’t, Pres,” she whispered.

He gazed into her eyes, searching for something. Finally he nodded. And tried to smile. And began to dance with her again. “This doesn’t mean I’m giving up, so don’t get any ideas.”

“We’re nearly strangers,” Molly said, feeling the need to explain. “You don’t know even the most basic things about me. You don’t know that I was an only child, that my mother died when I was in high school, that my dad still hasn’t gotten over it. You don’t know that my favorite color’s blue, and that if provoked, I can eat an entire sleeve of Chips Ahoy in one afternoon.” She paused, looking up at him. “And I don’t know anything about you.”

She hoped he would realize what she wanted from him—what she
needed
from him. Still, she knew it was a mistake to give him such strong
hints. Not only did it go against everything she believed to play relationship guessing games, but she knew that she absolutely couldn’t let herself fall for this man. She’d walked that road before. She couldn’t take that kind of risk again.

“Okay,” he said. “I was an only child too. My dad died about three years ago and Mom’s remarried.
My
favorite colors are the colors of the beach—blue, green, and white. If provoked, I can smoke two packs of cigarettes a day.”

Molly shook her head, trying to resist the urge to rest her head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the seductive sway of his body so close to hers.

“Not good enough,” he guessed, loosening his hold on her just enough so that every time he moved, his thighs brushed hers. “So what else do you want to know?”

Her mouth was dry. It wasn’t too late to change her mind and tell him yes, she’d go back to his suite with him. The look in his eyes told her he was hoping that she would.

She cleared her throat. “Everything. Anything. Tell me something that you’ve never told anyone else. Tell me one of your darkest, most horrible secrets.”

Pres smiled at her, and she couldn’t look away from the ocean-green swirl of his eyes. “I don’t have any horrible secrets.”

“Then why won’t you talk to the reporters about Merrilee Fender?”

Something changed in his face. There was a flash of pain in his eyes that he quickly smiled to cover up. “Good point,” he said, but he didn’t explain.

Molly couldn’t hold it in. “Oh my God, you still love her.”

His laughter was half-incredulous, half-exasperated. “Don’t be absurd.”

“There’s nothing absurd about it. She’s beautiful and—”

“I
don’t
still love her. The truth is, I never did.”

Molly stared at him. There was obviously much more to this than he’d let on. And he was just as obviously not going to say anything more.

“Why are we talking about my ex-wife?” he asked. “Can we
please
stop talking about my ex-wife?”

Molly looked away, wondering why he had married a woman he didn’t love. But she wanted
him to tell her about it because he wanted to, not because she asked. “I’m sorry.”

Pres lifted her chin.
“I’m
the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to sound so … Can we just forget about Merrilee tonight?”

Molly nodded and smiled, but her blue eyes were so subdued. “Maybe we should order our dinner now,” she said quietly.

As they walked back to the table Pres kept his hand lightly and possessively on her back. But it was all just part of the act. He knew damn well that despite the ring she wore on her finger, he didn’t possess Molly Cassidy in any way, shape, or form. And as much as he wanted to make love to her, he also knew it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

It might’ve happened. There was a moment on the dance floor when he’d kissed her and was sure he was heading straight for heaven. But then something had gone wrong.

Pres replayed their conversation over and over in his head, searching for something he might’ve said to offend, something he might’ve done. … Or maybe it was something that he
didn’t
say. … But what?

As he held Molly’s chair and sat down next to her at their table, as Zig came right over, dancing immediate attendance upon them, Pres realized that there was only one thing of which he was positive.

And that was that he didn’t have a clue.

Dr. Marsh Devlin, the island’s sole physician, was clearly confused. “So you’re
not
here to have a blood test for your marriage license. …”

“Because the engagement’s just a sham,” Pres finished for him.

Marsh crossed his arms and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in his crisp English accent. “Molly Cassidy is a delightful woman. When I heard that you two were engaged, I thought …” He looked down at his own shining new gold wedding band on his left hand and smiled.

Pres lowered himself into one of the chairs across from Marsh’s desk, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You thought what?”