A Daring Proposition (5 page)

“As for timing, it’s the first or second of October or else we have to wait another month. Next week, in other words. All you have to do is go to the office the same day and—”

“You mean, you go into one room and I go into another,” he cut in sardonically. “And when we both come out…” A burst of laughter, husky and masculine, was accompanied by a shake of his head. “Really, Red, it would be a lot easier to handle the normal way.”

It was there suddenly, the panic she’d felt when she first met him, like a splintering of glass inside. She stood up, preparing to leave.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Listen here,” he said sharply. “Listen and sit down!” She did, at the very edge of the chair. “The fact is,” he said disgustedly, “I can’t think of anything much more degrading than this situation you’ve outlined—a man in one room and a woman in another, and strangers running back and forth with test tubes. The lack of privacy, if nothing else…”

He sighed at her expression. “Red, I don’t want to sleep with you,” he said harshly. “I want peace and freedom out of this marriage, not clinging ties. But the whole experience would be quicker, more private and a great deal less distasteful than that scene in the doctor’s office—which, after all, may have to be
repeated
more than one time. I—”

“Don’t,” she said tightly. “Don’t say any more.” She struggled inwardly to gain control. The images were all so easily there, brought on by his suggestion of sex for
her
sake: images of naked flesh and pain and the sound of crying.

She managed to look back at him, finally. “If you want to call it off, I can certainly understand. We’re just so…different.” She hesitated. “For that matter, I have a little fuel to add to the fire.”

“What?”

“It’s Robert. He hasn’t long to live, and, well, he’s all I have. He’s got his heart set on seeing me settled. He isn’t around much, really—he disappears to his room most nights by seven. But I would have to ask you not to disillusion him—not to lie, but if you do cross paths, to simply be careful about what you say.”

“You don’t think the illusion of newlyweds might be difficult to maintain with separate bedrooms?” Brian inquired dryly.

“He hasn’t been upstairs in years because of his arthritis. There would be no reason for him to know that.”

“Well, my mother and Robert sound like two of a kind. She’s not a person one can explain this sort of marriage to. You wouldn’t have to cross paths often, either—my family lives in Minnesota—but if and when you do, she’ll be delighted at the idea of you and the marriage and the grandchild. Home, children…you’re just the image of the perfect wife.”

His tone was so heavily sarcastic that it almost made Leigh flinch.

“Come here, Red.”

Her eyes widened at the unmistakable command, couched in misleading gentleness.

“Why?” she asked warily. She stood up again, but made no move to approach him.

“Because I keep getting the ridiculous idea that you’re afraid of me. If we’re going to be around other people occasionally, I think we’d better establish the rules of the game.” In a few long strides, he had reached her side, grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the door. “Damn it, if you don’t quit looking at me like that… I like my women warm and willing, Red, get that through your head. We’re going for a walk. There are two million people walking around Chicago. Do you think you could manage to feel safe enough with me out there?”

***

But they did not go for a walk. Brian drove the short distance to the Field Museum instead, and with busloads of senior citizens, uniformed schoolchildren, families and groups of teenagers, they stood in line to pay the entrance fee. It had become a sultry September afternoon, perfect for an outing, and the museum was swarming with people.

When they were finally through the entrance doors, Brian scanned the massive lobby and its clusters of people with an expression of satisfaction. Loosely resting his hands on his hips, he inquired gravely, “Dinosaurs or mummies?”

He was insane. “Mummies,” she answered dryly.

He held out his hand, which she didn’t take. “People do it all the time,” he announced. “Fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters. I’ve even been known to take my secretary’s arm on the rare occasion we have to cross a street together. There’s nothing intimate about a hand. Five fingers—everyone has them.”

She took his hand, more or less to shut him up. He was being insufferably patronizing, making her feel like an absolute fool for allowing him to glimpse emotions that no one had guessed at in years. And yes, of course there would be occasions in public when perhaps their hands would have to touch.

His palm was cool and dry, and once his fingers had closed over hers, consciousness of his touch, his male presence, sent a shivering pulse all through her, as if she were connected to an electric current. Not meeting his eyes, she simply walked with him, aware that he was nearly a full head taller than she was, that there was a faint but distinctly masculine scent about him, that he had the sort of magnetism that made other heads in the crowd—male and female—turn to look at them.

It had been a long time since she had stood that close to any man but Robert. She willed away the first moments of dread. Brian had gone out of his way to establish trust by setting the scene in a crowd. They wandered around, pausing at different exhibits, for the most part silently. Leigh felt a blend of amusement and simple relief at being ignored. It almost seemed that Brian had completely forgotten about her until, as she bent over a glass-tabled exhibit, her hair brushed in a wave over her eye. When she tried to untangle her hand from his to push it back, his hold on her tightened.

Unsmiling, Brian looked down at her, his own fingers brushing the strands from her face, tucking them behind her ear. “Do you have any idea how many people have stared at your hair, Red?” he questioned curiously. “That rich, dark copper color…”

Confused and wary of his soft tone, she said shortly, “I wish you wouldn’t call me Red!”

He shook his head at her. “Why the hell are you so skittish?” Deliberately, he wound an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close, reaching behind with his other hand to snatch hers. Her fingers curled in a fist; his own fingers covered her fist, preventing her from moving unless she wanted to make a graceless tussle in the crowd. “Can you believe it?” he whispered dryly. “Our shirts are touching. What’s going to happen? You’ve never seen anyone do this before, of course.”

She drew in a deep, furious breath. It was her own fault. If she hadn’t been so foolish as to let him see that she was afraid of him, she doubted if he would have pressed for any physical contact at all. If she could only relax, prove to him…

It happened after a time. The stiff mannequin she had become relaxed somewhere between ancient lyres and Indian cultures, as her muscles protested against her rigid control. In reward, his viselike grip loosened, and his arm simply rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers on occasion, perhaps by accident, brushing against her hair. The dread she had initially felt faded; the inner tension never quite disappeared, but to her surprise it was not altogether an unpleasant sensation. There was even a peculiarly enjoyable feeling of being encircled, protected; for a few moments she admitted to herself that she felt safer than she had in a long time. His arm was heavy; she was becoming slowly accustomed to his scent; and when he half turned once, the weight of one of her breasts crushed against the hardness of his chest. He didn’t seem to notice, and perhaps because of that Leigh did not instinctively jerk back. The warmth that flooded through her was more a result of sheer feminine awareness than panic.

By late afternoon they had checked out most of the exhibits, and most of the people seemed to be leaving the museum as dinnertime drew closer. Leigh felt pangs of hunger herself, but she was loath to say anything. She had no doubt that it would be back to their impersonal relationship once they left the museum, and that was what she wanted, of course. Still…

An unexpected confusion about her own feelings nagged inside as she allowed Brian to lead her into still another exhibition room. Although she’d often been to the museum as a child, she didn’t remember the place: it was an exhibit of gems, and everywhere there was the sparkle and silence of brilliance—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, moonstones, tourmalines. She stopped before a particularly fantastic moonstone, huge and oval in shape, indescribable in its beauty, and glanced up to share an appreciative smile with Brian.

His black eyes were oddly warm, lazy. “I suppose you’re going to want one of these stones for an engagement ring?” he questioned teasingly.

“No,” she said quickly, her smile fading. “I really don’t care much for jewelry, and I think under the circumstances the most we need to bother with would be simple gold bands.”

He stiffened slightly, as if her answer hadn’t pleased him, and shortly after that they headed down the stairway to end the afternoon’s excursion. They were almost the last ones out of the museum, and it was nearing six-thirty when they reached the entrance doors.

Brian paused in the marble porch, and turned an unsuspecting Leigh to face him with both hands on her shoulders. “Shall we finish listing all the rules, Red?”

Like the brush of a feather, his lips came down on hers, soft and sure. It was over almost before it happened, leaving a familiar yet elusive taste on her lips. “A kiss for company,” he explained sardonically. “It will seem pretty damn odd if we don’t, on occasion.”

Suddenly, his lips descended again, with only slightly more pressure. The taste, she discovered, was the lingering flavor of a mint he’d eaten earlier, and hinted at the taste of the man himself, a smooth, warm masculine flavor. But it was the feel of his hands on her shoulders that began the long, low shiver inside. Rules—his rules: the power of his hands…the way his black eyes stared intently down at her when his head bent back.

She knew the flicker of panic she felt must be reflected on her face, for a perplexed look came into his eyes. “A Christmasy sort of kiss,” he explained, “for the holidays, when people are surrounding you and the presents are being handed out. That’s an acceptable version, don’t you think?”

No, she didn’t think. Anything. A sudden, disquieting warmth was flooding her veins—as if she had just drunk a snifter of brandy.

“We’d better get all the rules out of the way, Red.” The smile was deliberately teasing as he raised her limp arms and placed them around his neck, tucking his own behind her back. His next kiss forced her lips helplessly apart. Like a series of shocks, she felt the thick, heavy texture of his hair in her fingers, the graze of his thighs against her own, the touch of his splayed fingers at the small of her back. His mouth covered hers so completely that she had to breathe with him; she had to inhale that taste, that bittersweet flavor of possession. It was an assault on her senses of the gentlest kind, but an assault nonetheless. Fear and dread started to rise in her, but had no chance to surface before he pulled back, staring at her with a grave, puzzled expression. His eyes were like black fire, as if he’d found something he hadn’t expected. That she was snow? Ice? “There are always those few souls left who believe in love, aren’t there, Red?” he asked wryly. “My mother is a strong holdout for love and marriage. She’ll need some convincing.”

“Fine,” she said faintly. Her knees felt wobbly, and it was going to take all the effort she could muster to just walk away without him knowing how she really felt. But at least it was done, and she hadn’t fled. Yet the teasing light was completely gone from his eyes as he insistently reached for her again.

Altering her balance, he pressed her whole body deliberately to the length of him, far too expertly enclosing her before she could slip away. Her breasts were crushed against the soft velour of his shirt, and she could feel his heartbeat marking time with her own. His right hand traveled up her back, blazing a trail of sensual pressure as his left hand cradled her head. His mouth dipped down. He tasted her frantic little “no” his tongue touched hers, very gently; and his fingers tangled in her hair, preventing her from breaking away. His lips lifted long enough to brush her eyes closed, and then came back to her mouth again, this time not gentle at all, but hard and hungry and starkly sexual in intent. His hips cradled hers. With a shock of sheer horror she realized he was not as immune to her sexually as she’d thought, that he was inviting her to…

The fear surfaced and exploded; her whole body suddenly trembled violently and she struggled to break away. He allowed their lips to separate, but kept his arms firmly around her for another moment. His voice was oddly ragged, almost hoarse. “Obviously, that was for Robert. A treat for him on occasion. You did say you want to be sure he thinks we’re…happy, Leigh, didn’t you?”

And then he let her go.

It wasn’t for Robert. She didn’t know what he was doing, but he wasn’t merely listing rules. It was deliberate and cold-blooded and… With long strides, Brian had already hastened down the wide marble steps, and she had to run after him. Flushed and furious, she reached the car just ahead of him, managing to get inside and slam the door even before he could open it for her. He slid into the driver’s seat meeting her eyes with an infuriatingly calm half smile.

“I don’t think there’s much question that we set an exact standard of rules, do you, Red?” His barely suppressed chuckle grated like sandpaper, but then he glanced at his watch with a frown. “I think we both owe ourselves a dinner, but unfortunately, I already have an engagement and I’m late as it is.”

“Good. If you’re late, I would rather take a taxi home anyway,” Leigh said curtly, her hand on the car door handle.

He revved the engine, ignoring her. Before she could open the door, he had backed out of the parking space. For the next ten minutes, neither of them said a word. Traffic was thick, inevitably congested around Chicago’s Loop. The gray haze of dusk marked the end of a long autumn day. A chilly breeze was sweeping off Lake Michigan in marked contrast to the warmth of the earlier afternoon, and Leigh felt a chill sweep over her as well, inside and out. The tall, broad-shouldered figure at her side no longer seemed to offer her protection, but spelled danger instead. He was remote, aloof, elementally alone. The antagonism she felt for him filled her, like a glass of bitter tea.