The Marriage Bargain (10 page)

“Thanks. It’s always nice to have a family member as your drug pusher.”

Alexa gasped. “You smoke?”

Nick shook his head. “Used to. Quit years ago.”

“Yeah, but when he gets stressed or upset, he regresses. Do you believe he doesn’t think it counts as long as he doesn’t buy?”

Alexa chuckled. “This is very enlightening, guys. We need to get together more often. Tell me, Maggs, does your brother cheat at card games?”

“All the time.”

Nick reached down and snagged Alexa’s fingers, pulling her up from the chair. “Show me the rest of the store while this guy finishes up.”

Maggie chuckled and settled herself into the empty chair. “He’s just afraid of what I’ll tell you next.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Nick led her away from the crowd. With an instinctive motion, he stopped in a shadowed corner by a sign entitled RELATIONSHIPS. He guided her so her back pressed against the bookshelf, then dropped her hand. Nick shifted his feet and cursed under his breath at his sudden uneasiness. He hadn’t planned what to say, just knew he had to break the tension between them before he got crazy and dragged her into his bed. Somehow, he needed to bring the relationship back to friendship. Back to older brother/younger sister camaraderie. Even if it killed him.

“I want to talk to you.”

A slight smile twitched those bee-stung lips. “Okay.”

“About us.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t think we should go to bed with each other.”

She threw back her head and laughed. Nick didn’t know if he was annoyed at her amusement, or fascinated by her open beauty. This was a woman who enjoyed life and gave out a full belly laugh. Not one of those calculated smiles or slight chuckles. Still, he hated when she laughed at him. Even though he was older, she dragged him back to a time when he was endlessly trying to be cool, and she thwarted every step.

“Funny, I don’t remember offering you my body. Did I miss something?”

He frowned at her casual disregard of their problem. “You know what I’m trying to say. The night of the party got out of hand, and I take full responsibility.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

“Stop being a smart mouth. I’m trying to tell you I was out of line and it won’t happen again. I had too much to drink, I was pissed about Conte, and I took it out on you. I intend to stick to our original agreement, and I’m sorry I lost my control.”

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry for contributing to the whole episode, too. Let’s put it behind us.”

Nick didn’t like her terming such sexual heat as an episode, but ignored the twinge. He wondered why he wasn’t feeling relief at her easy agreement. He cleared his throat. “We have a long year ahead of us, Alexa. Why don’t we try to build on friendship? It will be better for appearances and for us.”

“What’d you have in mind? More poker games?”

An image of her sprawled in his lap flashed in his mind. Of full breasts pressed against his chest. Of squirming, soft, female flesh all over him, ready to burn up in his arms. As if on cue, he looked up and read the title of the book right beside her in full presentation.

How to Give a Woman Multiple Orgasms.

Shit.

“Nick?”

He shook his head and tried to clear the fog. Was she multi-orgasmic? She shook in his embrace over a simple kiss. What would her body do if he treated her to a full-blown sexual treatment, using his lips and tongue and teeth to push her over the edge? Would she scream? Would she fight her response? Or take it with pleasure and give it all right back?

“Nick?”

Sweat formed on his brow as he pulled his focus from the book and back to reality. He was a damn chump. Two seconds after stating they could be friends, he had her coming in his fantasies.

“Ummm, right. I mean, sure, we can play card games. Just not Monopoly.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “You always sucked at that game. Remember when Maggie made you cry when you landed on Boardwalk? You tried to bargain but she wanted cash. You didn’t speak to her for a week.”

He glowered. “You’re thinking of Harold, the kid who lived down the street. I’d never cry at a game.”

“Sure.” Her crossed arms and expression told him she didn’t believe him.

Aggravated, he dragged his fingers over his face and wondered how she made him lose it over a Monopoly game that never happened.

“So, we’ll be friends. I can live with that.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

“Is that why you came to the poetry reading?”

He looked in her face and lied through his teeth. “I wanted to show you I can compromise.”

He wasn’t prepared for the sweet, sunny smile that curved her lips. She looked genuinely pleased, even though he admitted he’d done it for smooth sailing ahead.

She touched his arm. “Thank you, Nick.”

Startled, he pulled back. Then fought embarrassment. “Forget it. Are you going to read tonight?”

Alexa nodded. “I better get back. I’m usually the last one. Go ahead and look around.”

He watched her go back to the crowd and wandered through the shelves. He listened absently to the next poet, who recited lines through the muted wilderness music, and wrinkled his nose. God, he hated poetry. The spilling out of emotion, messy and unbridled, for any stranger to pick up and share. The convoluted comparisons between nature and rage, the endless clichés, and the confusing imagery made a man question his intelligence. No, give him a good biography or a classic like Hemmingway. Give him the opera, where within the fierce emotions there was control.

A familiar, husky tone spilled over the microphone.

He paused in the shadows and watched Alexa take the small stage. She joked a bit with the crowd, thanked them for coming, and introduced her new poem.

“A Small Dark Place,” she said.

Nick prepared himself for high drama, and already started forming some compliments in his mind. After all, it wasn’t her fault he didn’t like poetry. He was determined not to make fun of something so important to her, and even give encouragement.

“
Hidden between soft fur and smooth suede;

My legs cramped and folded beneath me.

I wait for the end and for the beginning,

I wait for the bright, clean light to bring me back;

To the world of glittering colors and of perfumed scents that attack my nostrils;

To the world of sharp tongues, snaking out to shred soft smiles. I listen as ice tinkles against amber liquid.

Heat burns within, a reminder of a suicide from the past; a reminder of a silent murder.

Seconds…minutes…centuries…

The sudden knowledge twists my belly; I am home. I open my eyes to the blinding flash of a door opening.

And wonder if I will remember.
”

Alexa folded the piece of paper and nodded at her audience. Silence settled over everyone. Some people wrote feverishly in their notebooks. Maggie gave a whoop. She laughed and stepped off the stage, and then she began to gather empty cups and chat as the night came to a close.

Nick stood alone and watched her.

A strange emotion bubbled up inside of him. Since he’d never experienced it before, he couldn’t seek out a name. There was little left in life that touched him, and he admitted he liked it that way.

Tonight, something changed.

Alexa had shared an important part of herself with a room of strangers. With Maggie. With him. Open for criticism, vulnerable to the whims of others, she took what she felt and made him feel it, too. Her courage stole his breath. And as much as he admired her, doubt rose up inside of him like a monster out of a swamp and he wondered if beyond all his rationalizations he was just a coward.

“What’d you think?”

He blinked at Maggie, then tried to focus. “Oh. I liked it. I’ve never heard her work before.”

Maggie grinned like a proud Cub Scout mother. “I keep telling her she can get an anthology published, but she doesn’t seem interested. Her real passion is BookCrazy.”

“Can’t she do both?”

Maggie snorted. “Sure. Me and you would do it in a heartbeat, because we never miss an opportunity. Al is different. She’s happy just by sharing—she doesn’t need the glory of publication. She’s been printed in some magazines, and she goes to a critique group, but that’s more for the others than her. That’s our problem, bro. Always has been.”

“What?”

“We’re better at taking. Part of our childhood screw-ups, I guess.” They both watched Alexa as she escorted her patrons out the door with her usual good humor. “But Al found her way by doing the opposite. There’s nothing she won’t do for someone.”

Maggie suddenly turned on him. Her eyes blazed with a fierceness he remembered from the old days. Her finger jabbed into his chest. “One warning, pal. I love you dearly, but if you hurt her, I’ll personally kick your ass. Got it?”

Instead of rising to the bait, he surprised himself by laughing. Then he dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “You’re a good friend, Maggie May. I wouldn’t be so quick to judge yourself as a taker. I just hope the right guy sees that one day.”

She stepped back. Her mouth dropped open. “Are you drunk? Or an imposter? Where did my big brother go?”

“Don’t push your luck.” Nick paused and glanced around the bookstore. “What’s going on with the expansion?” He watched his sister’s eyes widen, and he held back a chuckle. “Don’t worry—it’s no longer a secret. Alexa admitted she wants the money to add a cafe. I gave her the check but figured she’d ask me for a consult.” His sister blinked and refused to speak. Nick frowned. “Cat got your tongue, Maggie May?”

“Oh, shit.”

He quirked a brow. “What’s the matter?”

Suddenly, she busied herself with the lone coffee cups and cleaning up the table. “Nothing. Umm, I think she may be embarrassed because she’s hiring someone else to do it. Didn’t want to bother you.”

He fought a surge of annoyance. “I have time to help her.”

Maggie laughed but it had an odd, desperate tone. “I’d leave it alone, bro. Gotta go. See ya.”

She took off in a flurry. Nick shook his head. Maybe Alexa didn’t want him involved in her project. After all, she had cited many times their relationship was based on a business contract.

Just as he had wanted.

He made a note to bring it up later. He helped lock up, and walked his wife to her car. “Did you have dinner?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No time. Want to pick up a pizza on the way?”

“I’ll throw something together for us at home.” His tongue tripped on the last word. Odd, he started to think of his sanctuary now as partly hers. “Won’t take long.”

“Okay. See you at home.” She turned, then spun around. Opened her mouth. “Oh, Nick, don’t forget—”

“The salad.”

Her eyes widened, and her powers of speech seemed to desert her for a moment. She pulled herself together with a speed he admired. And she didn’t even question how he knew. “Right. The salad.”

Then she turned and walked to her car. Nick began to whistle as he made his way toward his BMW. He was definitely learning. He liked catching her by surprise. About time he got the upper hand.

He whistled most of the way home.

Chapter Seven

Nick shut the door behind him and fell into the leather chair. He stared at his drawing board and curled his hands into tight fists to stop the itch. He wanted to create. He envisioned materials such as limestone and brick, with flowing images of glass and sleek curves. The pictures danced behind his closed lids at night, and here he was, owner of Dreamscape Enterprises, and stuck most of the day in board meetings.

He cursed under his breath. Okay, so the board members aggravated him, with the pencil-pushing tactics and money-grubbing ideas. Most of them opposed the waterfront contract, believing the company would go bankrupt if he took the job and couldn’t deliver. The board was right. He had a simple solution.

Don’t fail.

Conte’s party was Saturday night and he still hadn’t secured a business meeting. Hyoshi Komo hadn’t called either. Stuck at square one, the only thing to do was wait for the man to make his move, and count down the hours to the party. Maybe Conte was waiting to see how the social function turned out before seeking a meeting, unlike he told Alexa.

Alexa.

Her name alone was a punch in the gut. He remembered the way she shrieked and shook her head and bounced around the living room in a victory dance after winning chess the night before. A grown woman acting like a child. And once again, he had laughed his ass off. Somehow, as beautiful as his companions were, their slick wit only rippled the surface. Alexandria made him connect with a deep belly laugh, like he was young.

His direct line buzzed. He picked up. “Yes?”

“Did you feed the fish?”

Nick closed his eyes. “Alexa, I’m working.”

She made a rude snort. “So am I. But at least I worry about poor Otto. Did you feed him?”

“Otto?”

“You kept calling him Fish. That hurt his feelings.”

“Fish don’t have feelings. And yes, I fed him.”

“Fish certainly do have feelings. And while we’re discussing Otto, I wanted to tell you I’m worried about him. He’s placed in the study and no one ever goes in there. Why don’t we move him into the living room where he can see us more often?”

Nick dragged a hand down his face and prayed for patience. “Because I don’t want a fish tank ruining the look of the main rooms. Maggie gave me the damn thing as a joke and I hated it on sight.”

Frost nipped through the receiver. “Messy, too, aren’t they? I guess you don’t do humans or animals. I’m sorry to inform you, but even fish get lonely. Why don’t we get him some company?”

He straightened and decided to put an end to this ridiculous conversation. “No. I don’t want another fish, and he will not be moved. Do I make myself clear?”

The line hummed. “Crystal.”

Then she hung up.

Nick cursed, grabbed the nearest stack of papers from the last board meeting, and got to work. The woman actually bothered him at his job about a fish.

He pushed the image of her out of his mind and resumed his work.

…

“He’s gonna be mad.”

Alexa bit down on her lower lip and wondered why Maggie’s words caused a chill to run down her spine. After all, Nick Ryan was no alpha male. Sure, he’d be a little put out from the situation, but he always remained rational.

She surveyed the living room filled with dogs. Lots of dogs. Puppies and mutts and purebreds and hound dogs. Some crowded the kitchen, bumping into tables as they ate their food and slurped water. Others kept up a furious pace as they explored their new home, sniffing in corners and moving from room to room. The wire-haired terrier chewed on a throw pillow. The black poodle jumped on the couch and settled down for a nap. The mutt looked about ready to lift his leg by the speaker, but Maggie grabbed him and threw him into the back yard before he did serious damage.

The worry blossomed into a full-fledged panic attack.

Maggie was right.

Nick might kill her.

She turned toward her friend. “What should I do?”

Maggie shrugged. “Tell him the truth. You’re only taking them for a night or two until the shelter can make other arrangements. If you give them back, they’ll all be put to sleep.”

She winced. “What if he still makes me get rid of them?”

“Take them to your apartment.”

“Too small.”

Maggie threw up her hands when she spotted the look. “Hell, no, I’m not taking them to my place! I’ve got someone coming over and he’ll be a lot warmer than a puppy. You’re on your own.”

“But, Maggs—”

Maggie gave a wave. “Gotta go. Man, I’d love to see the show when my brother walks in. Call me on my cell.”

The door shut.

Alexa surveyed the room, now in puppy chaos, and decided she’d been a little too impulsive. She could have reasonably told the shelter she’d take a few, then brought them to her apartment. But no, she’d been mad at Nick for being a cold-hearted monster about the fish, and decided to teach him a lesson. Except now she was just plain scared.

The hound dog gnawed at the table leg. She pulled herself together and prepared her battle plan. She’d put them all in the spare room and maybe Nick wouldn’t notice. He never went in that room. She’d bring all their toys and food and sneak them out the back for their walks. She convinced herself the strategy would work, and herded the group down the hall. She dumped out a whole bag of play toys and made sure most of them ran after her. Then she shut the door, gathered up the sleeping puppies on the couch, the food and water bowls, and some spare newspapers. She raced out and got the last stray from the backyard, and set up the room so the dogs would be comfortable.

Alexa stared worriedly at the beautiful loveseat and chair in swirling patterns of silver and gray. Damn, why did Nick have to be rich? No one’s spare room looked this good, with slate carpeting, pewter tables with ornate scrolling, and throws that cost more than her whole comforter set at home. She ran her fingers over the soft, precise stitches of an afghan. She needed some old blankets, and she bet her husband didn’t have one. She decided to go on a hunt upstairs but she heard the key in the lock.

Panicked, she threw the afghan over the chair and shut the door behind her. Then she hurled herself down the hallway and skidded to a stop in front of him. “Hi.”

He looked suspicious already. Blond locks slipped over his forehead and his eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t trust her to be nice. Guilt squirmed within, but she ignored the emotion.

“Hi.” He looked around the house and she held her breath. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I was just about to cook dinner. Unless you’re tired and want to go to bed right now.”

One brow shot up at her hopeful tone. “It’s six o’clock.”

“Right. Well, I bet you have a lot of work to do, huh? I’ll bring your food upstairs to your office if you want.”

Now, he looked plain irritated. “I did enough work today. I want to relax with a glass of wine and watch the ball game.”

“Are the Mets on?”

“Don’t know. They’re not in the playoffs anyway and they didn’t make the Wild Card. The Yanks still have a chance.”

She squirmed with pent up annoyance. “They’re too far back—it’ll never happen. New York won’t be getting in the series this year.”

He let out an impatient breath. “Why don’t you watch the Mets upstairs?”

“I want the big TV.”

“So do I.”

Crankiness hit her hard. Alexa grabbed onto the emotion, grateful the fear had melted away. She turned her back and stalked into the kitchen. “Fine, I’m calling in my favor.”

He hung his black wool coat in the closet, then stood in the doorway. She took out ingredients for the salad she wouldn’t eat and cut up vegetables for a stir-fry. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured her a glass. “What did you say?”

“I’m calling in my favor. I want to watch the Mets game downstairs on the big TV. I want you to stay upstairs and watch the Yankees game, and I don’t want to hear a sound. Not a cheer, or a yell, or a ‘Go Yankees’ rally. Got it?”

When she looked back, he gaped at her in sheer amazement, as if she’d sprouted horns. She tried to ignore how adorable he looked, with his mouth slightly open, and those incredible shoulders stretched against the pale gray down shirt. Why did he have to be so damn attractive? The shirt sleeves and collar were still crisp after hours of wear. His charcoal pants still held the crease down the middle. He had unfastened the buttons by the wrist and rolled the material up in his usual fashion. Light-colored hair sprinkled over his forearms and strong fingers gripped the delicate wine glass with a power that made her fidget when she thought of the other things he could touch. She tried not to ogle him like a teenager and focused on chopping.

“You’re insane.” He actually took a few moments to gather his powers of speech before continuing. “These favors are supposed to be used for important things.”

“My choice. My favor.”

He stepped closer. His body heat pulled and tantalized and tortured her mental sanity. She ached to lean back against his chest and let his arms clasp around her waist. She craved to feel all that muscled strength support her and pretend they were a real life married couple. They’d neck in the kitchen and make love on the heavy oak table amidst the wine and pasta. Then share dinner and talk quietly and watch the Mets game together. Alexa forcibly swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed away the fantasy.

“You’re using a favor in order to watch a lousy baseball game?”

“Yep.”

She threw the garlic and peppers in the skillet and he moved another inch. His belt rasped against her buttocks. Even covered in thick denim the threat of a more intimate touch made her hands tremble around the knife. His breath rushed warm against the nape of her neck. He placed both palms flat on the countertop and caged her in. “Favors are rare. Want to waste it on a stupid ball game that doesn’t mean anything?”

“I care about every game the Mets play. You, on the other hand, don’t take it as seriously because you’re complacent. Winning comes too easily. You take it for granted.”

He growled in her ear. “I don’t win all the time.”

She stuck to the topic of baseball. “Even after losing the World Series to the Sox you never lost your arrogance. Still didn’t respect another team.”

“Never knew the poor Yanks caused such a fuss.”

“It’s the fans more than the team. We know what it’s like to lose. And each game we win is a small victory we appreciate and never take for granted. We’re also more loyal.”

“Hmmm. Talking Mets or their fans?”

“See, you think it’s funny. If you experienced loss more, you’d be humbled. The win would feel even sweeter.”

He rested his hands on the curve of her hips. The length of his erection pressed against her rear. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.

The knife clattered on the chopping block. She spun around and bumped against his chest. He caught her by the shoulders and tipped her chin up. Sensual tension swirled and crested. Her lips parted in unconscious invitation at his admission. “What?”

A savage glint appeared in the depths of tawny eyes. “Maybe I’m starting to appreciate things I can’t have.” He ran one finger roughly down her cheek. Traced her lower lip. Pressed his thumb over the sensitive center of flesh. “Maybe I’m starting to learn about wanting.”

Her mouth went dry. She ran her tongue over her lips to dampen them, and the sensual tension twisted another notch. She poised on the edge of some discovery that would change their relationship, and she battled her instinct to jump over the cliff and to hell with the consequences.

Instead, she forced herself to continue their odd conversation. “So, you agree? You understand why the Mets are a better team?”

A flash of straight white teeth mocked her statement. “No. The Yankees are a better team. They win for one reason.” He whispered his comment against her lips. “They want it more. If you want something bad enough, Alexa, you eventually take it.”

She shoved at his chest and spun back around, wanting to brandish the knife on more than the vegetables. Typical, arrogant, Yankee fan. “I’ll call when dinner’s ready. Until then, I expect you’ll be upstairs.”

His laughter echoed through the kitchen. The chill settled around her as he walked away. Alexa held her breath as he started up the stairs, but the dogs were still quiet.

She raced into the living room, put on the baseball game, pumped up the volume, and went into the back room to check on the canines.

The afghan was torn to shreds.

She pried it out of the black lab’s teeth and stuck it in the bottom desk drawer. The paper was already dirty, so she cleaned up, spread fresh newsprint down, and laid some down over the couch and chair for extra insurance. She refilled the water bowls and figured they’d all have to go out again in another hour before bedtime.

She shut the door, sped into the kitchen, and finished dinner while shouting loud comments to her players.

Nick came down for his dinner and quickly went back upstairs. Exhausted from her trickery, she vowed from now on to be honest with the shelter. She managed to sneak the dogs out in small groups for the rest of the evening.

When the game ended and the Mets had won 4-3 over the Marlins, she did a quick victory dance, cleaned the kitchen, checked on the animals, and climbed the stairs to bed. Her muscles ached and her head spun, but she had been victorious.

She’d need to wake up before five a.m. to get all the animals walked, fed, and cleaned up before Nick left for work.

She winced but managed to shower quickly, and fall into bed. She didn’t even bother with a nightgown, but crawled immediately under the comforter and fell asleep.

…

Someone was in the house.

Nick sat up in bed and listened. A faint scraping noise echoed through the air. As if someone scratched a key against a lock and tried to jimmy the door open.

With quick, economical motions he padded on bare feet to the door and opened it an inch. Silence greeted him. Then he heard the sound.

A low murmur. Almost like a growl.

A chill ran down his spine and he thought over his options. Who the hell was in his house? The alarm hadn’t gone off, which meant the burglar had disarmed it. He didn’t have a gun or a bottle of mace. What else was used in the Clue game? A revolver, candlestick, knife, rope, or lead pipe.