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Authors: Laurie Breton

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BOOK: Sleeping With the Enemy
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“He’s just cocky right now.  He got his driver’s license yesterday.”

“Ye gods.  You have my sympathy.  I’d be a basket case if I were you.” She waved the glass of milk in a circle to indicate the flowers, the tablecloth, the candles.  “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“It just felt right.” He glanced at his watch.  “Excuse me.  I have to check the roast.”

It was lean and juicy and pink in the middle, just the way he liked it.  Jesse took it from the oven and transferred it to a platter.  He was draining the potatoes when her voice floated out to him from the living room.  “Hey, you have all of Michael Starbird’s books.  Are you a big fan?”

He nearly dropped the potatoes into the sink.  Clearing his throat, he said, “I like his work.  Do you?”

“Are you kidding? I’m his biggest fan.  His stuff is sexy and terrifying.  It keeps you right on the edge of your seat.  He’s always one step ahead of me.  Just when I think I have it figured out, he takes the story in a whole different direction.”

She came into the kitchen and watched him arranging the potatoes around the edge of the serving platter.  “I thought you stuffy English teacher types only read dead guys,” she said.  “Like Shakespeare and Milton and Chaucer.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.  “Those dead guys,” he said, “happen to have written some pretty impressive stuff.”

She walked to the table, plucked an olive from a serving dish, and popped it into her mouth.  “I guess it’s a matter of opinion.  Give me Zane Grey any day.”

He grinned.  “You like cowboy stories?”

She folded her arms across her chest.  Instead of concealing her breasts, it brought them into vivid relief.  “I like his cowboy stories.  I read
Wildfire
when I was eleven.  For a year afterward, I pestered my parents to let me have a horse.  Not much space for horses in the city.”

“Kind of racy for an eleven-year-old.”

“I was precocious.”

They kept their dinner conversation impersonal, discussing books they’d read and movies they’d both seen.  She remarked on how delicious the meal was.  He inquired about her drive up from Boston.  They shared brief anecdotes about the difficulties of parenting teenagers.  While she talked, his eyes followed the clean line of her collar down that milky-white throat to the dark vee of the green shirt, his memory filling in what the fabric hid from view.  She tilted her head, and the dangly earrings rattled like wind chimes.  He’d always thought gaudy jewelry looked trashy until he’d seen it on Rose Kenneally  On her, it looked exotic, and sexy as hell.

They finished the main course, and she set down her fork.  “Jesse,” she said, “I think we should cut to the chase.”

He paused, napkin in hand, not certain how to respond.  “Meaning?”

“Look, you really went out of your way to make this a lovely evening, and I appreciate it.  But all this dancing around each other is getting us nowhere.  I have to work tomorrow, and I have a four-hour drive ahead of me.  Can we just get to the issue at hand and get this over with?”

Feeling a little foolish, he set down his napkin.  “You’re right,” he said.  “I’ll clear away the dishes, and then we can talk.”

“Let’s talk now.  I’ll help you with the dishes afterward.” She shoved aside her plate and clasped her hands together on the table so tightly her knuckles went white.  “The reason I asked to see you was to discuss your marriage proposal.”

His throat had gone dry, and his glass was empty, but he couldn’t figure out a graceful way to get up and refill it.  “That was my assumption.”

“I’ve given this quite a bit of thought.  And in light of certain recent events--”

“What events?”

She looked at him, opened her mouth, then closed it hard.  “Last Sunday,” she said, “I caught my seventeen-year-old daughter in bed with her boyfriend.”

He’d never had a daughter, but as a parent, he knew how crushed she must have been.  Trying to soften the blow, he said, “And she’s still among the living?”

Her green eyes went appreciably warmer.  With a wry smile, she said, “All bodies alive and accounted for.”

“I know it hurts, but it’s pretty normal behavior.”

“That’s what my sister told me.  She reminded me of how randy we were at that age.  But I have to tell you, it threw me.  I’ve been thinking hard about what you said, about the city being a crummy place to raise kids.  The world isn’t what it was when my folks were raising us.  And there were two of them.  I’m all by myself, and I’m scared.  My kids are growing up too fast.  They both need some grounding.” She paused and took a deep breath.  “So I’ve decided to make you a counter offer.”

He leaned back in his chair.  “I see.”

“I typed this out in a hurry.” She unzipped her purse and took out a piece of paper.  Handing it to him, she said, “Of course, this is just a draft.  I’d want it drawn up legally.  And you may want to add a few items.  Which I’d agree to as long as they’re reasonable.”

He took it from her.  At the top, neatly typed, were the words
Prenuptial Agreement
.  Below that, ordered and numbered, were her marital expectations.  He glanced at her quickly to gauge her seriousness.  Her grim expression gave him his answer.  Jesse quickly scanned the agreement, then returned to the top and began reading more slowly.

“It’s a simple business arrangement,” she explained.  “We agree to stay married for twelve months.  At the end of that time, we reassess.  If the marriage isn’t working out to our mutual satisfaction, we split, neatly and painlessly.”

“Let me be sure I understand,” he said, still reading.  “If you want out, for whatever reason, I won’t be able to stand in your way.”

“I won’t be able to stand in your way, either.  The agreement is reciprocal.  We simply agree, here and now, that if either of us decides not to continue the marriage, we’ll get a simple, no-fault divorce.  And each of us will leave the marriage with the financial assets and obligations we entered it with.”

“What about the baby?”

“It’s all spelled out under number three.  If we split up, the baby lives with me.  But you’d be allowed liberal visitation rights.  And of course, you’d be expected to pay child support.”

“Of course,” he said dryly.

Sounding defensive, she said, “It’s not as cold-blooded as it sounds.  It’s not as though we’re a couple of starry-eyed teenagers looking for romance.  We’re two adults trying to make a rational adult decision.  I’ve already been through one messy divorce, and I don’t intend to go through another one.  I figure a year will give us both time to see if we’ve made some monumental mistake.”

He hadn’t expected this.  After five years as a bachelor, Jesse Lindstrom was ready for a real marriage.  But while he’d been lighting candles and arranging flowers, Rose had been working on an arrangement of her own, one that sounded more like a corporate merger than a marriage.  Obviously, they weren’t on the same wavelength.  Hell, they weren’t even in the same ballpark. 

Jesse rested both elbows on the tabletop and leaned forward.  Coolly, he said, “And if we decide the marriage was a mistake? What happens then? You pack up my baby and waltz back to Boston? I get to see my kid at Christmas and for a week during the summer?”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.  “Not necessarily.  There’s a good chance that I’d stay and raise the baby right here in Jackson Falls.”

If she’d intended to mollify him, it wasn’t working.  “And if you don’t?”

“Look,” she said quietly, “nobody’s forcing you into anything.  If this doesn’t happen, it won’t kill either of us.  I can walk out the door right now, and nothing we’ve said here tonight will ever leave this room.”

“And you’ll take my baby with you.”

In the flickering candlelight, she was breathtakingly beautiful.  And resolute, the stubborn angle of her jaw declaring more clearly than words could say that she had no intention of backing down.  Jesse tossed the prenuptial agreement down on the table and blew out the candles.  “Go ahead and have your agreement drawn up,” he said.  “I’ll sign it.”

 

***

 

“I don’t suppose,” Devon said, “that you’d care to explain to me again exactly why I have to meet these people?”

In black jeans and a black silk shirt, she was the picture of righteous indignation, her slender arms crossed, stereo headphones dangling casually around her neck.  “Because,” Rose said as she packed tuna sandwiches in the picnic basket, “Jesse and his son are driving all the way from Jackson Falls, and I expect you to be hospitable the entire time they’re here. 
Capisce
?”

“I don’t believe this,” Devon said.  “This is so bogus! You expect me to waste my weekend baby-sitting some sixteen-year-old kid whose idea of a good time is probably wading through cow patties, when I could be with my friends, doing something I want to do.  In case you forgot, I
do
have a life.”

“That would be hard to forget, wouldn’t it?” Rose said, and her daughter had the grace to blush.

Luke opened the freezer and took out an ice cream bar.  “Do you think we’ll be done by two?” he said, tearing at the wrapper.  “Because I’m supposed to be at Jason’s house by two for band practice.”

“No,” Rose said in exasperation, “we will not be done by two.  We’re going to the museum.”

“Oh, joy,” Devon muttered.

“And we’re having a picnic in the park.  Then we’re coming home to watch the videos I rented. 
Together
.” She swiped an errant strand of hair away from her face.  “I already went through this with both of you.  Why is the concept so difficult to grasp?”

“I don’t understand why you have to drag us along just because you have a date,” Devon said.  “You’re both a little old to need a chaperon.”

Rose opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the doorbell rang, and Chauncey set up a racket that the neighbors could probably hear from four blocks away.  Through gritted teeth, she said, “Luke, will you please shut him in the bathroom?” Then she leveled a pointed glance at Devon.  “Best behavior! Is that understood?”

Still sullen, but too curious to miss out on whatever was about to happen, Devon rolled her eyes and leaned against the refrigerator as Rose went to open the door.

Jesse was wearing mirrored sunglasses that concealed his eyes and gave him a slightly dangerous look.  His hair was windblown, and there was a ruddiness to his cheeks, as though he’d spent time outdoors on a windy day.  The imperfections only served to make him more appealing.  “Hey,” she said.

Jesse took off the glasses.  “Hi there.”

“Come on in.  Hi, Mikey.”

Rose performed quick introductions, and the kids eyed each other warily.  Casting about for an ice-breaker, she said,  “Mikey plays sports.”

“How nice,” Devon said, her expression deadpan.  “I just adore jocks.”

Rose shot her a warning glance, as Jesse said, “What about you, Luke? Do you play football?”

“Guitar,” Luke said.  “I’m in a band.”

Mikey’s eyes narrowed, and he examined Luke as though he’d just landed from another planet.  “What kind of stuff do you play?” Jesse asked.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.  Mostly metal and rock.  All the good stuff.”

“Right,” Jesse said. 

The kids were silent all the way to the museum.  As she directed Jesse through the congested Boston traffic, Rose glanced surreptitiously in the rearview mirror.  Devon had put on her headphones and was pretending she was somewhere else.  The boys, one on each side of Devon, were staring out their respective windows, pointedly ignoring each other.  “Nice car,” Rose said.  “I thought you drove a truck.”

“It’s my cousin Leo’s.  I borrowed it for the day.  I didn’t think we’d all fit in your Honda.”

“Good call.”

Rose adored the Museum of Fine Arts.  Growing up in South Boston, she hadn’t been exposed to that kind of culture.  To Patrick MacKenzie, there was little difference between a rare Monet and the card-playing dogs that hung on the wall in Dub Mooney’s bar.  Her father didn’t dislike art; he just spent too many hours working to feed and clothe his family to waste his precious free time gaping at fancy paintings.  As a result, Rose had visited the museum only once as a kid, on a fifth-grade field trip.  And then she’d taken an art history course in college.  That course had opened up to her an entire world of which she’d previously been ignorant, and she’d fallen instantly, irrevocably in love.  Eddie, of course, had never understood her fondness for the place.  To Eddie, anything he couldn’t turn a profit on was insignificant.  So she’d left him home.  Instead, one Saturday morning each month for the past ten years, she’d dragged her kids, kicking and screaming all the way, off to immerse them in Culture.

Jesse paid their admission fee, and they stood uncertainly in the lobby until Luke announced that he was headed for the mummy room.  “Good idea,” Rose said.  “Why don’t you take Mikey with you? I’ve never met a boy who didn’t like mummies.”

The boys eyed each other coolly, but as Rose had expected, Mikey’s curiosity won out, and they headed off in the general direction of the mummies.  Devon was next to disappear; Rose turned around and she was gone, vanished like a wraith into the crowd.  “Think we’ll ever see them again?” Jesse said.

“Don’t worry.  We have a standard operating procedure.  In exactly two hours, we’ll meet in the coffee shop.  Have you been here before?”

“Once, about four years ago, when Betsy Moreau brought her art class here on a field trip.  I tagged along as a chaperon.”

She wondered who Betsy Moreau was and whether she’d been more to him than a colleague.  And then she chided herself for wondering.  Jesse Lindstrom’s past was none of her business.  She was marrying him to give her baby a father, not because she desired any romantic entanglement with him.  Rose squared her shoulders.  “All right, then,” she said briskly.  “What’s your pleasure?”

“I’ve always been partial to the nineteenth-century French Impressionists.  Monet, Renoir, Sisley, Pissarro.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “For a country boy,” she said, “you know your art.”

“Ayuh,” he said.  “Us Down Easters may run around barefoot and marry our cousins, but once they turn us loose, we catch on to book learning real quick.”

BOOK: Sleeping With the Enemy
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