Not Quite Married (13 page)

Unfortunately, he was right. Dalton gave it up and moved aside.

Ryan circled around him and headed for the side hall and her bedroom.

Dalton really wanted to follow. But he knew what would happen when he got to Clara’s room. She would ask him to leave so that she and her good friend Ryan could have a little quality time together. And then he
would
leave—after making himself look like a jealous fool.

No. Better not to issue a challenge he couldn’t hope to win.

So he conceded the field. For now. He went upstairs and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Then he settled in his temporary office and dealt with messages and email for a while, ears tuned for the sound of footsteps in the foyer downstairs.

He never did hear Ryan leave.

After an hour upstairs, he grew impatient. So he went down. A glance out the front window in the dining room showed him that the other man’s quad-cab was no longer parked at the curb.

“Dalton?” Clara called to him from the great room. He went on back there and found her sitting on the sofa, propped up on the pillows, her laptop open on her stretched-out legs. She closed it and set it on the coffee table beside her. “Ready for dinner?”

He nodded. “I’ll dish it up.”

“May I please eat at the table like a normal person, without you on my case to sit on the couch?”

“Why not?” He didn’t see that it could hurt. She seemed rested. And her color was good.

He set the table and put out the food. They sat down together and ate.

“Excellent,” she said. “The admirable Mrs. Scruggs knows her way around a leg of lamb.”

He probably ought to keep his mouth shut about Ryan. But to hell with that. “So, what did your good buddy Ryan have to say for himself?”

She sipped her ice water. “Not much. He just wanted to see how I was doing.”

“I didn’t hear him leave. How long did he stay?”

Another sip of water, followed by a wary look. “Half an hour or so.” Her voice was a little too offhand.

Leave it at that
, he told himself. And then didn’t. “What is it with you two, anyway?”

She set down her glass. Slowly. “Rye’s my friend. Has been since the second grade. We’re the same age, so we went up through high school together. We just always got along. We both like camping and hiking, so over the years, we’ve gone on a lot of wilderness trips together.”

“Always as...just friends?”

She thought that one over—and then answered obliquely, “Ryan’s always been there for me whenever I needed him.”

So he asked her directly, “Are you in love with him?”

“No.”

“Were you in love with him in the past?”

She ate a glazed carrot. Slowly. “No. And where are you going with this, Dalton?”

“I’m just trying to understand, that’s all.”

“You’ve never had a really close woman friend?”

“No.”

“What about Astrid?”

“We’re on good terms now. But no. We’re not what you would call close.”

“Well, try and imagine that. A really close friend who just happens to be female. Rye’s like that for me, a really close friend who’s a guy. We trust each other and enjoy being around each other. We have a good time together. And we’re there for each other.”

“Has he ever been in love with you?”

She met his eyes—and then glanced away. Bingo. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t
want
to answer it.”

* * *

Clara started to warn him to mind his own business.

But then she couldn’t quite do it.

Because of the kiss they’d shared in the hallway earlier. And the way they’d talked honestly together, lying on her bed, side by side, facing each other. Because of the way he’d touched her face and stroked her hair—so tenderly, as though he really did care.

Because he’d said she was his, and when she’d called him on that, he hadn’t backed down. He’d insisted that he wasn’t going away, and he’d seemed to mean it.

Every day he spent with her brought her closer to believing that he really did want more from her than a chance to do right by the baby they’d made. That he really did still want
her
, that there was more between them than their mutual obligation to their child.

No, she wasn’t sure of anything. Not yet.

But tonight he had let her know him a little. And that gave her hope, all shiny, bright and new.

She said, “Rye’s always claimed to be in love with me.”

Dalton’s jaw got that twitch in it and his blue eyes flared hot. “I knew it.”

She took a bite of the excellent lamb. “You don’t understand.”

He made a low, growly sound. “You just told me straight out that the guy wants you. And an hour ago, he was in your bedroom with you.”

“It’s not like that, not at all. Not to mention, have you
looked
at me lately?” She patted the giant mound of her belly.

He seethed where he sat. “I look at you all the time. You’re beautiful.” What a fine thing to say. Too bad he was grinding his teeth as he said it. He went on, “Before Ryan was in your bedroom with you, I told you that
I
want you—which means I’m not okay with him being in your bedroom.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh—or groan. “He’s my
friend
, Dalton. How many times do I have to say it? There is absolutely nothing romantic or sexual going on between Ryan and me.”

He wouldn’t leave it alone. “But you almost married him and you just said that he’s in love with you.”

“I said he
claims
he’s in love with me.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“Not really. I think it works for him to believe he’s in love with me. I’m safe to be ‘in love’ with, because I’m his friend and I don’t want anything from him but to
be
his friend. And he knows that. He’s not ready to get serious with a woman, but he can tell himself that if I’d only give him a chance, he would go for it.” She cut another bite of lamb. “He’s kind of a player, actually. The women come and go.”

Dalton looked at her sideways. “Have you ever told him what you just told me?”

“Repeatedly.”

“And he tells you you’ve got it all wrong, right?”

“That’s only because once he admits I’m right, he’ll have to start asking himself why he doesn’t fall for someone who’ll fall right back.”

“Women,” he muttered. “Always making the simplest damn things so complex.”

“Speak up.” She cupped her hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

“Clara. He’s a guy. Guys aren’t all that deep.”

“That’s just not true.”

“Yes, it is. He wants you or he doesn’t. He’s told you that he
does
. When you try to argue with him about it, he
still
says he wants you. He was going to marry you, for God’s sake! You should take the man at his word—and stay the hell away from him.”

“You haven’t been listening to me, Dalton.”

“Yes, I have. I heard every word you said.”

“Well, just for the sake of clarity between us, allow me to repeat myself. One, Ryan is my friend. I will not be avoiding him and he’s always welcome in my house. And two, he’s
been
my friend for the last twenty-plus years. I think I understand him better than you do.”

He glared at her for a full count of five. And then, at last, he asked with excruciating civility, “Could you do me one favor?”

“What?”

“When he comes over, could you bring him out here to the great room?”

She longed to tell him he was being ridiculous, that he should get over his jealousy of Ryan, as there was absolutely nothing to be jealous of.

But then again, it did seem important to him. And there was this tender new closeness she was starting to feel with him. She didn’t know where it might lead them, but she wanted to encourage it.

Plus, she really had no special need to have Ryan in her bedroom. She could take it to the sofa, if that made Dalton feel better.

“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll bring him out to the great room—but you should know that Rye’s friendship is important to me. He
will
be around. He’s not going away.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“But were you
listening
when I said it?”

“Yes.” Flatly, matter-of-factly. And maybe a little wearily, too. “Look. We’ll work it out, him and me, in our own way.”

Clara blinked and couldn’t help gaping.
We’ll work it out, him and me, in our own way
. It was word-for-word what Ryan had said when she’d told him to tell her if Dalton gave him trouble. What did they mean, exactly, when they said that? Was it some kind of guy code?

He must have noticed her surprise. “What’s the matter now?”

“How, specifically, will you ‘work it out’ with Rye?”

He didn’t answer. Suddenly, he was all about the leg of lamb again.

She refused to let it go. “Dalton. How?”

He chewed and swallowed. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“If there’s going to be trouble between you and Rye, of course I need to worry about it.”

“I didn’t say there would be trouble.”

“You didn’t say there wouldn’t, either.”

He dug into the asparagus salad. She kept her mouth shut and waited him out.

Finally, he sent her a grim glance. “Leave it alone, Clara. It’s all going to be fine.”

Did she believe him? Not exactly. He seemed much too determined. She had a very strong feeling that he would be taking the whole thing up with Ryan, just the two of them, one-on-one.

That felt like a bad idea.

But was it, really?

Or was it only what both men had told her? That they needed to work it out between them, without her trying to control the outcome?

She could easily get acid indigestion trying to decide how to proceed from here. Already she regretted being so frank with him about her relationship with Ryan. It was a sensitive subject between them, and Dalton didn’t need to hear right out loud that Ryan thought he was in love with her.

Except. Well, if she and Dalton were going to try to build something together, he deserved to know the truth about stuff like that, didn’t he?

Ugh. Who knew? She certainly didn’t.

“Finish your dinner.” He said it gently.

She left her fork where it was. Chin high, she met his gaze across the table. “I need for you and Rye to get along.”

“And I’m going to see that you get what you need.”

“You’ll be civil to him, maybe even try to get to know him a little?”

“Yes. I’ll get along with him.”

“Promise me?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You have my word.”

Chapter Seven

D
alton regretted his promise the minute it came out of his mouth. When two men got into it over a woman, anything might go down. Sometimes a man needed to prove a point and do it strongly. Sometimes words just weren’t enough. Things could get broken. Furniture. Heads.

He considered himself a civilized man. His well-bred, strictly controlled parents had seen to that. They were relentless in their calm, cold-blooded way. And they had drummed good manners and exemplary behavior into him, brought him up to be a pillar of his community. But in his heart, in his blood and his bones, he had a wild streak and he knew that.

The wild streak had its uses. It made him competitive, made him want to win. And that kept him at the top of his game at the bank, kept his instincts sharp and his mind focused.

The wild streak did, however, require effective managing.

Over the years, he’d learned a number of ways to keep it under control. The three top methods of wild-streak management? Sports, sex and not really giving a damn.

Sports were always useful. He worked out every day, played tennis and racquetball. He’d played football at Yale. Because there was nothing so satisfying as getting together with your peers and knocking each other around over a piece of pigskin.

As for sex, he and the wild streak had very few issues during the years he’d chased an absurdly long string of women. In fact, if he could have uninhibited sex with Clara right about now, the wild streak probably wouldn’t be all that obsessed with neutralizing whatever threat Ryan posed to his future with her. But Clara was in no condition for enthusiastic lovemaking—and they hadn’t reached that point again yet anyway.

And as for not giving a damn?

Not an option. Not when it came to Clara. He cared for her. A lot. From the very beginning, back on the island, she had somehow slipped right through all his carefully constructed and rigorously maintained defenses. Ending it when the vacation was over had failed to make him care less. In fact, as time went by, he only cared more.

And now there was the child, too.

Bottom line: he cared too much, she refused to marry him and they weren’t having sex. Even working out like a madman couldn’t neutralize the wild streak under these conditions. The wild streak needed an outlet. Spilling a little of Ryan’s blood would certainly take the pressure off.

Except that he’d gone and promised Clara he would get along with the guy. To her, that meant no violence.

It was a problem.

So at first, he tried not to think about it. He put the matter out of his mind. He ran four miles the next morning and the morning after that. Both days, he visited Quinn Bravo’s new gym, where he pushed his body to the limit, trying to open the valve a little and let out his pent-up frustration.

The next day, Thursday, he took Clara to see her doctor. The doctor looked her over and expressed approval that her blood pressure had gone down. Not only that, but the circles beneath her eyes had faded and her color had improved. The doctor’s prescription: Clara should keep on doing exactly what she’d been doing.

Clara groused all the way home. She’d had about enough, she said, of living between her bed and the couch. And
next
week, when she would see Dr. Kapur again, she planned to insist that the doctor allow her to get out of the house for at least a couple of hours each day.

Dalton tried to be sympathetic. He wasn’t really good at sympathy, but he understood that most people needed it. And for Clara, he was willing to make an effort to deliver it.