Kiss an Angel (3 page)

"Excuse me, Mr. Markov."

He didn't respond.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Markov? Alex? I think we need to talk."

The lids over those pale amber eyes drifted open. "About what?"

Despite her tension, she smiled. "We're total strangers who've just gotten married. I think that gives

us a few things to discuss."

"If you want to pick out names for our children, angel face, I think I'll pass."

So he did have a sense of humor after all, if only a cynical one. "I mean that we should talk about how we're going to get through the next six months before we can file for divorce."

"I figure we'll just take it day by day." He paused. "Night by night."

Her skin prickled, and she told herself not to be foolish. He'd made a perfectly innocent remark, and

she'd merely imagined that husky undertone of sexual innuendo. She fixed a bright smile on her face.

"I have a plan; a simple one, really."

"Oh?"

"If you'll give me a check for half of what my father is paying you to marry me—and I think you'll agree that's only fair—the two of us can go our separate ways and end this awkwardness."

An expression of amusement flickered across those granite features of his.

"What awkwardness are you talking about?"

She should have known from her experiences with her mother's lovers that a man this good-looking wasn't going to be blessed with brains. "The awkwardness of finding ourselves married to a stranger."

"We'll get to know each other pretty well, I imagine." Again that husky undertone. "And I don't think the two of us going our separate ways is what Max had in mind. As I remember it, we're supposed to live together and play husband and wife."

"That's just like my father. He's a little dictatorial when it comes to running other people's lives. The beauty of my plan is that he'll never know that we haven't been living together. As long as we don't set up housekeeping in Manhattan, where he can walk in on us, he won't have any idea what we're doing."

"We're definitely not setting up housekeeping in Manhattan."

He wasn't being as cooperative as she'd hoped, but she was enough of an optimist to believe he only needed a little more persuasion. "I know my plan will work."

"Let me get this straight. You expect me to hand over half of what Max is giving me to marry you?'

"How much is that, by the way?"

"Not nearly enough," he muttered.

She'd never had to haggle, and she didn't like doing it now, but she couldn't see that she had a choice.

"If you think about it, I'm sure you'll realize that's equitable. After all, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be getting any money at all."

"This must mean you're planning on giving me half the money in that trust fund he's promised to set up for you."

"Oh, no, I'm not planning to do that at all."

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Somehow I didn't think so."

"You misunderstand. I'll pay you back as soon as I have access to my trust. I'm only asking for a loan."

"And I'm refusing it."

She knew then that she'd made a mess of it. She had a bad habit of assuming other people would do

what she herself would do if she were in their shoes. For example, if she were Alex Markov, she would certainly loan herself half the money just to get rid of her.

She needed to smoke. Badly. "Could I have my cigarettes back? I'm sure that only one of them was faulty."

He withdrew the crumpled pack from the pocket of his slacks and handed it over. She quickly lit up,

shut her eyes, and drew the smoke deeply into her lungs.

She heard the sizzle, and by the time her eyes sprang open, the cigarette was already in flames. With a gasp of dismay, she dropped it. Once again, Alex swept up the butt and embers with a handkerchief.

"Maybe you could sue," he said mildly.

She pressed her hand to her throat, too stunned to speak.

He reached over and touched her breast. She felt the flick of his finger on the inner swell and jumped back, even as the sensitive flesh beaded beneath the satin. Her gaze flew upward to those unfathomable golden eyes.

"A spark," he said.

She covered her breast with her hand and felt the trembling of her heart beneath her palm. How long had it been since a hand other than her own had touched her there? Two years ago, she remembered, when she'd had her last physical exam.

She saw that they had reached the airport, and she garnered her courage. "Mr.

Markov, you have to realize that we can't live together as man and wife. We're strangers. The whole idea is ridiculous, and

I'm going to have to insist that you be more cooperative about this."

"Insist?" he said mildly. "I don't believe you have a right to insist on anything."

She stiffened her spine. "I'm not going to be bullied, Mr. Markov."

He sighed and shook his head, regarding her with an expression of regret that she didn't believe for a minute was sincere. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this, angel face, but I guess I should have

figured it wouldn't be that easy with you. Maybe I'd better spell out the ground rules right now, just so you'll know what to expect. For better or worse, the two of us are married until six months from today. You can walk away any time you want to, but you'll have to do it on your own. And in case you haven't figured it out by now, this isn't going to be one of those modern, talk-things-through-so-we-can-compromise marriages like you read about in all those ladies' magazines. This is going to be an old-time relationship." If anything his voice grew softer, more gentle. "Now what that means, angel face, is that I'm in charge, and you're going to be doing what I say. If you don't, you'll suffer some pretty unpleasant consequences. The good news in all this is that after the time's up, you can do whatever you want. I won't give a damn."

A wave of panic gripped her, and she fought against succumbing to it. "I don't like being threatened. Maybe you should just come right out and tell me what these consequences are that you're holding

over my head."

He settled back into the seat, and the small upward tilt of that hard mouth sent a shiver of dread down

her spine.

"Aw, angel face, I'm not gonna have to. By tonight you'll have figured it out all by yourself."

2

Daisy hovered in the far corner of the smoking section at the USAir gate, taking such quick drags on her cigarette that she was getting light-headed. The plane, she had discovered, was heading for Charleston, South Carolina, one of her favorite cities, and she tried to take that as a positive sign in a chain of events that had been growing more disastrous by the minute.

First, Mr. High-and-Mighty Markov had refused to go along with her plan.

Then he'd sabotaged her luggage. When the chauffeur had unloaded only one overstuffed carry-on bag from the trunk instead of the full array of suitcases she'd packed, she'd assumed there'd been a mistake, but Alex had quickly set her straight.

"We're traveling light. I had the housekeeper repack for you during the wedding ceremony."

"You had no right to do that!"

"We'll carry them on instead of checking them." He'd picked up his own much smaller bag and she'd watched with astonishment as he'd set off, leaving her to follow. She'd barely been able to hoist her cumbersome piece of luggage, and her ankles had wobbled on her too-high heels as she'd dragged it after him. Feeling miserable and self-conscious, she'd struggled toward the gate, certain everyone she passed was noting her holey nylons, scorched gold lace, and bruised gardenia.

When he'd disappeared into the rest room, she'd hurried to buy a fresh pack of cigarettes, only to discover that she had nothing but a ten-dollar bill in her purse. With a sense of shock, she'd realized it

was all the money she had left in the world. Her bank accounts were closed, her credit cards canceled. She'd returned the bill to her wallet and bummed a cigarette from an attractive businessman instead.

Just as she stubbed it out, Alex emerged from the rest room, and as she saw the way he was dressed,

her stomach sank. The well-tailored dark suit had been replaced by a denim shirt that looked soft from many washings and a pair of jeans so faded they were nearly white. Frayed cuffs fell over scuffed brown leather cowboy boots.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, suntanned forearms lightly dusted with dark hair and a gold watch with a leather band. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Of all the things her father had done to her, she'd never imagined he'd marry her off to the Marlboro Man.

He came up to her, his own carry-on bag dangling easily from his loose grip.

The fit of his jeans showed narrow hips and legs that went on forever. Lani would have been in ecstasy. "That was the final boarding call. Let's go."

"Mr. Markov—please—you don't really want to go through with this. If you'll just lend me a
third
of the money that's rightfully mine, we can put this behind us."

' 'I made a promise to your father, and I never go back on my word. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but it's a matter of honor with me."

"Honor! You
sold
yourself to him! You let my father buy you! What kind of honor is that?"

"Max and I made a deal, and I'm not going to welsh. Of course, if
you
insist on walking away, I won't stop you."

"You know I can't do that! I don't have any money."

"Then let's get to it." He pulled their boarding passes from his shirt pocket and turned away.

She had no checking account, no charge cards, and her father had ordered her not to contact him. With

a sinking stomach, she realized she had run out of options, and she picked up her bag.

Ahead of her, Alex reached the last row of chairs, where a teenage boy sat smoking. As her new husband passed by, the boy's cigarette went up in flames.

* * *

A little over two hours later she stood in the blazing afternoon sun in the parking lot at the Charleston airport and gazed at Alex's black pickup truck, taking in the thick layer of dust on the hood and the Florida license plates nearly obscured by dried mud.

"Just throw it in the back." Alex tossed his suitcase over the side of the truck but didn't offer to do the same with hers, just as he hadn't offered to carry it from the plane.

She set her jaw. If he thought she was going to beg him for help, he could think again. Her arms screamed in protest as she struggled to hoist the cumbersome bag over the side. She felt his eyes on her, and although she suspected that she'd eventually be grateful her father's housekeeper had managed to stuff so much into one carry-on bag, at that moment she would have given anything for Louis Vuitton's smallest tote.

She grabbed the handle in one hand and the hook at the bottom in the other.

With a mighty effort, she heaved.

"Need help?" he inquired with phony innocence.

"No .. . thank .. . you." The words came out more as grunts than civilized speech.

"Are you sure?"

She had hoisted it to shoulder level, and she didn't have enough breath left to reply. Just a few more inches. She wobbled on her high heels. A few more—

With a squawk of dismay, she and the bag fell backward. She yelped as she hit the pavement, then

yelped again out of pure rage. As she stared straight up into the sun, she realized the bag had cushioned her fall, which was the only reason she hadn't hurt herself. She also realized she had sprawled into an ungainly position, with her short skirt stretched tight across her upper thighs, her knees pressed together, and her feet splayed.

A pair of scuffed brown cowboy boots appeared in her peripheral vision. As her eyes slid up along denim-clad thighs and over a broad chest to a pair of amber eyes glinting with amusement, she mustered her dignity. Bringing her ankles together, she propped herself up on her elbows. "I
meant
to do that."

His chuckle had an old, rusty sound, as if it hadn't been used in a long time.

"You don't say."

"Yes, I do." With as much dignity as possible, she pushed herself the rest of the way into a sitting position. "This is what your childish behavior has led to, and I hope you're sorry."

He gave a bark of laughter. "You need a keeper, angel face, not a husband."

"Will you stop calling me that!"

"Be grateful that's all I'm calling you." He snagged the strap of her bag with three fingers of one hand and tossed it over the top as if it weighed no more than her pride. Then he hauled her to her feet, unlocked the door of the cab, and pushed her into the sweltering interior.

She didn't trust herself to speak until they had left the airport far behind and were traveling on a two-lane highway that seemed to be heading inland instead of toward Hilton Head, as she'd hoped.

Flat stretches of palmetto and scrub stretched on both sides of the road, and the blast of warm air coming through the truck's open windows whipped feathery strands of hair against her cheeks. Keeping her voice determinedly pleasant, she finally broke the silence. "Would you mind turning on the air-conditioning?

I'm getting blown to bits."

"It hasn't worked for years."

Maybe she was getting numb, because his announcement didn't surprise her.

More miles ticked by, and signs of civilization grew increasingly sparse. Once again, she asked the question he'd refused to answer when they'd gotten off the plane. "Will you please tell me where we're going?"

"It'll probably be easier on your nervous system if you wait to see for yourself.''

"I'm not taking that as a hopeful sign."

"Let's put it this way. The place doesn't have a cocktail lounge."

The jeans, the boots, the pickup with Florida plates. Maybe he was a rancher!

She knew that there were all kinds of wealthy cattle ranchers in Florida. Maybe they were taking a roundabout way south.
Please, God, let him be a rancher.

And let it be like a Dallas rerun. A beautiful house, tacky clothes, Sue Ellen and
J.R. cavorting around the swimming pool.