Til Death Do Us Part (26 page)

“Perry, you must do the honors as man of the house, now that Uncle George is no longer with us.” Oralie Sutton slipped her arm through her husband's.

Perry Sutton opened the first bottle of champagne and filled flutes for everyone, then lifted his glass for a toast.

“To Cleo and her husband,” Perry said. “We wish them every happiness.”

There were several murmurs of “To Cleo” from among the small crowd.

Aunt Beatrice practically shouted, “Happiness to Cleo and Simon.”

One by one, Cleo's family gathered around the table, waiting for the bride and groom to cut their wedding cake.

Slipping his arms around Cleo, Roarke placed the silver knife in her hands, then covered her hands with his, and together, they sliced the first piece of cake.

“You must feed it to each other.” Beatrice's eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I'll freeze the top layer for y'all to share on your first anniversary.”

Of all the silly things for her aunt to have said, Cleo thought, when Beatrice knew good and well that there was no chance she and Roarke would celebrate their first anniversary. As soon as the identity of the would-be killer was discovered and Cleo was pregnant, Roarke's job would be completed.

Continuing their charade of being happy newlyweds, Cleo put a piece of cake up to Roarke's mouth and he bit into the delectable concoction. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to the side of his mouth and wiped away a smudge of frosting. Realizing what she'd done, Cleo stared into Roarke's sky-blue eyes—eyes that were smiling at her. He grasped her hand, brought it to his mouth and slid her finger between his lips, licking off the frosting. Cleo shivered. Her mouth gaped. She sucked in a deep breath.

For the next hour and a half, Roarke and Cleo gave award-winning performances. All the while Cleo prayed for deliverance, Roarke observed the group of suspects. And that's how he thought of Cleo's family. As suspects. After all, one of them had already tried to kill her.

He wasn't sure what lay at the root of Cleo and Daphne's problem, but even to an untrained eye, the animosity Daphne felt for her cousin was obvious. Roarke's gut instincts told him that a man was involved somehow. He couldn't help wondering if that man wasn't the pretty boy, whom he'd found out was a lawyer named Hugh Winfield,
the son of the head of the law firm that handled all of the McNamaras' personal and business concerns.

Daphne had kept herself draped around Winfield like a vine around a trellis. But the odd thing was that Cleo seemed totally unconcerned. Maybe Winfield wasn't the man.

Cleo leaned over and whispered to Roarke. “I can't take much more of this. My feet are hurting. I've got a killer headache, and if I have to keep smiling this way much longer, my face is going to crack.”

“Would you like for me to swoop you up in my arms and carry you upstairs?”

“No! I think we've put on enough of a show for one day,” Cleo said. “Why don't you see how many more of Trey's and Aunt Oralie's questions you can answer, while I run out to the kitchen and ask Pearl to bring our supper upstairs to my suite? I think everyone will understand that we want to be alone on our wedding night.”

“Do you suppose Pearl could round up some beer for me? I'm not much of a wine drinker.”

“If necessary, I'll have her send Ezra into town to buy some. Any particular brand?”

“Anything domestic will do.” Roarke grinned.

When Cleo started to walk away, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her up against his chest, then kissed her. “Don't be long, darling,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.

The moment Cleo exited the room, Trey Sutton, dragging his thin, blond wife with him, approached Roarke on one side, while Oralie Sutton closed in on him from the opposite side. Across the room, Daphne ran the tips of her long, red nails up and down Hugh Winfield's chest while she stared provocatively at Roarke.

“So, you knew Cleo when she was in college?” Trey asked. “Surely you weren't a student, too.”

“No, I wasn't a student,” Roarke replied.

“How did the two of you meet?” Oralie smiled ever so sweetly as she played with her cultured pearls.

“Mr. Roarke was dating a friend of Cleo's, Mother,” Trey said derisively, his hazel-brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Don't you remember Aunt Beatrice telling us the whole story? Cleo and Mr. Roarke were attracted to each other years ago, but didn't pursue a relationship because he was dating a friend of hers.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Oralie patted her son's arm affectionately. “But then, Beatrice is such a romantic little creature and prone to…well, shall we say…fantasies.”

Oralie's mocking chuckle got on Roarke's nerves far more than Trey's unmannerly inspection. What the hell was the guy doing—measuring him for a suit or a coffin? From the short time he'd been around Cleo's family, Roarke already knew one thing. He didn't like any of them. With the exception of Beatrice.

“I'd love to hear your version of this wild, whirlwind courtship.” Daphne sauntered across the room, her long, curly black hair swaying with each movement of her broad shoulders. “I've never thought of Cleo as the type who could inspire such hot passion in a man. Especially a man like you.”

Oralie's cheeks flushed. She cleared her throat. “Daphne! What a vulgar thing to say.”

“Was I being vulgar, Mr. Roarke?” Daphne brushed by Marla Sutton, who clung to her husband's arm, her eyes wide with wonder and her mouth slightly parted.

Slipping her arm through Roarke's, Daphne manacled his wrist. She scratched his skin just above his wristwatch.
He grasped her hand, holding it tightly, then tilted his head downward enough so that he could whisper in her ear.

“I find everything about you vulgar, Ms. Sutton.” He spoke so low only Daphne could hear him. “Especially the way you're coming on to me.” He jerked her hand away from his wrist and smiled when he saw the look of disbelief on her face.

Roarke stepped back, away from the smothering bodies and the prying eyes. He saw Aunt Beatrice looking forlornly at him from across the room where she stood beside Perry Sutton. With her eyes, she pleaded with him to continue the charade, to consider Cleo's pride before speaking.

“I think we should get a few things straight. Up front,” Roarke said.

Aunt Beatrice's mouth opened on a silent gasp. Her green eyes widened in fear. She took several hesitant steps in Roarke's direction.

“I'm a private man and I don't think the details of my relationship with Cleo are any of your business. But since y'all are her
family
—” he practically snarled the word “—and know all about Uncle George's will, then I should tell you that Cleo and I rushed into this marriage so that she could fulfill the stipulations of that will.”

Beatrice gasped. Tears glazed her eyes. Oralie nodded, a self-satisfied smile on her face. Trey laughed aloud.

“I knew it!” Daphne stared at Roarke.

“Oh, you misunderstand, Cousin Daphne,” Roarke said. “If it hadn't been for Uncle George's will, Cleo and I would have had a chance for a longer courtship, but the end results would have been the same.”

“What do you mean?” Trey asked.

“Cleo and I would have married. We just wouldn't have been in such a hurry. You see, I've been waiting all my
life for a woman like Cleo.” Roarke glanced at Daphne. “I'm damn lucky she agreed to marry me.”

Silence hung heavily in the room, like a rain-filled cloud on the verge of explosion. Roarke scanned the room, quickly taking note of each person. Seeing Beatrice's bosom heave with a sigh of relief. Catching the little secret glance between Trey and Daphne. Observing the tightening of Hugh Winfield's soft jaw. Noting Marla's nervousness. Detecting Oralie's vaguely disguised anger. And recognizing Perry's unemotional demeanor for what it was—a habitual mask he used to hide behind.

“While I have y'all's undivided attention, I might as well go ahead and make something else perfectly clear,” Roarke said.

A communal hush filled the air, as if everyone had taken a deep breath and were waiting for his revelation before exhaling.

“I know that someone in this family took a shot at Cleo right after her uncle's funeral. Let me warn you. If you're smart, you won't ever try to harm my wife again. Because if you do, when I catch you—and I will catch you—you're mine.”

“How dare you accuse one of us of wanting to harm Cleo!” Oralie said.

“Just who do you think you are, coming in here, making threats like that?” Trey lifted his chin defiantly, but made no move to shorten the distance between himself and Roarke.

“I'm Cleo's husband.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, stretching the material of his dark blue suit taut over his wide shoulders. “And in case anyone doubts that I'm capable of backing up my promise of retaliation, I think you should know that I spent over a dozen years
in the Special Forces. I know a hundred and one different ways to kill a person.”

Oralie and Beatrice gasped in unison. Marla cried out. Trey, his face ashen, instinctively stepped backward. Daphne licked her lips. Perry remained silent.

“Now, if y'all will excuse me, I'll go out in the kitchen and find Cleo. We would appreciate not being disturbed tonight.”

When Roarke exited the room, he paused briefly in the hallway, trying to discern where the kitchen might be. Hugh Winfield's voice rang out loud and clear.

“I'll speak to Father about what can be done legally to rectify the situation. Surely once I tell him about this man he'll be more forthcoming with information about Cleo's personal legal matters. And I'll run a check on Simon Roarke immediately.” Roarke grinned.
Yeah, you do that. Unless you've got some powerful friends, you'll never get any information on me. My army files won't be available, and Dane Carmichael will make sure you learn only what I want you to know.

He heard Aunt Beatrice making angry, mother-hen sounds about respecting Cleo's marriage, but he didn't hang around to listen to anything else.

The kitchen had to be on the first floor somewhere. It was just a matter of opening a few doors. Suddenly, he wanted to whisk Cleo away from all the madness downstairs, away from her suspicious, uncaring family. Part of his job as Cleo's hired husband was to act as her bodyguard, to protect her from harm. And he intended to do just that. But after meeting her relatives, Roarke wanted to do more than simply protect her physically. He wanted to protect her emotionally. His gut instincts warned him that Cleo's kindred felt very little love for her.

If Roarke had his way, that bunch of vultures would never get their claws into Cleo again. They would never rip her apart and leave her bleeding. In the weeks to come, he would do everything in his power to take care of Cleo and keep her safe.

But what he intended to do right now was find his wife, take her upstairs and enjoy his wedding night.

“W
HY DIDN'T YOU
come out and meet my husband?” Cleo watched Pearl while the housekeeper hand-washed the pots and pans she had used in preparing the upcoming evening meal.

Other than Aunt Beatrice, Cleo supposed she loved Pearl better than anyone else in the world. Pearl had been Cleo's true friend for as long as she could remember.

“I don't approve of this hasty marriage of yours.” Pearl kept her back to Cleo. “No matter what you or anyone else tries to tell me, I know why you married that man.”

So, that was how it was, Cleo thought. Pearl had never been one to mince words, to keep her true feelings to herself. Uncle George had relished his and Pearl's heated disagreements over everything from politics to religion. Pearl came from a long line of Southern Baptist conservatives and would fight to the death for her convictions.

Taking one tentative step at a time, Cleo made her way across the polished wooden floor, past the tile-topped center island and toward the row of daffodil-yellow cabinets.

“And just why do you think I married Roarke?” Cleo halted a couple of feet behind Pearl.

“You married him because of your uncle George's will.” Pearl placed the last pan in the drain board, wiped off her age-spotted hands on the large, white apron and turned to face Cleo. “You went and bought yourself a husband. That's what you did. You paid for a man to get you
pregnant. And as soon as he does, you'll get yourself one of them quickie divorces.”

“Is that what Aunt Beatrice told you?”

“Your aunt Bea said this Mr. Roarke swept you off your feet and the two of you were madly in love.” Pearl frowned, turning the corners of her wide, thin lips downward and creating a row of wrinkles across her brow. Looking directly at Cleo, her sharp gray eyes narrowing, she shook her head and grunted. “Yep, that's what she told the rest of 'em, too, and they didn't believe her any more than I did.”

“Don't you think I'm special enough that some man would fall madly in love with me and sweep me off my feet in a whirlwind romance?”

“Child, I doubt that the man's been born who's good enough for you.” Swallowing her sentimental emotions, Pearl tilted her silvery white head to one side and surveyed Cleo from head to toe. “You deserve better than a bought husband. You deserve a man who'll worship the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, Pearl!”

When Cleo threw her arms around the old woman's thick waist, Pearl wrapped Cleo in her embrace, stroking Cleo's hair as if she were a child.

“Your uncle George was a stubborn old fool to have written such nonsense in his will.” Pearl wrapped her arm around Cleo's waist and led her over to the pine drop-leaf table. “He thought sure you'd marry Hugh Winfield. Had that boy all picked out for you, he did. I tried to tell him that old Hubert's son wasn't man enough for my Cleo Belle. I told him, one morning when he was sitting at this very table…I said to him, a Thoroughbred filly like our Cleo needs her a rogue stallion, not some ‘lead him around by the nose' gelding.”

Pearl's comment made Cleo smile, not just because she had fairly accurately described Hugh Winfield and Simon Roarke, but because her comparing people to animals reminded Cleo of the game she and Pearl had been playing since she was a small child.

“I'm sure if Uncle George hadn't taken ill suddenly and been in the hospital when I found Hugh in Daphne's bed, he would have reconsidered the stipulations in his will.” Cleo pulled out one of the maple splat-back chairs for Pearl, and after the housekeeper sat, Cleo pulled out another chair and joined her.

“Now, there's a pair for you.” Pearl's round, fat face crinkled with tiny lines when she smiled. “Daphne and Hugh. I'd say those two deserve each other. A black widow spider and a cockroach.”

Cleo burst into laughter, the action releasing all the bottled-up tension inside her. “And Trey is a weasel and poor little Marla is a timid mouse and—”

“Your aunt Oralie's been a snake all her life, and all the years they've been married, Perry Sutton's been a whipped dog. And dear Beatrice has always been a little lamb. Even now, and her sixty-three years old.” Pearl reached across the table and took Cleo's hands in hers. “Mr. George was so afraid you'd end up an old maid like Bea. It near broke his heart that she never married and had children.”

“Aunt Beatrice has no idea you told me about what happened all those years ago.” Cleo squeezed Pearl's hands, then released them and took a deep breath.

“She was brokenhearted when she lost her man.” Pearl shook her head sadly. “And the way it happened. Poor little lamb ain't never gotten over it. But thank the good Lord, you're made of tougher stuff. When that Emerson fellow
up and eloped with Daphne, you didn't roll over and play dead for the next thirty years like Bea did.”

Cleo needed Pearl's support as much as she needed her aunt Beatrice's. She realized she should have talked things over with Pearl before getting married, made the old woman understand the necessity of her drastic actions. But when Aunt Beatrice had suggested the idea of hiring a bodyguard who could also double as husband and potential father, Cleo hadn't been one hundred percent certain she would be able to go through with the plan. Only after a weeklong search and nearly two weeks of screening half a dozen contenders did Cleo decide she'd found the perfect man. Simon Alloway Roarke.

“Pearl?”

“What is it, Cleo Belle?”

“You can help make things a lot easier for me if you can accept my marriage to Roarke.”

“What sort of man can this Roarke of yours be if he's willing to be bought and paid for? That's what I want to know.”

“I'm sure he has his reasons for accepting my offer,” Cleo said. “Can't you see that he's essential to me right now? You don't want McNamara Industries to be sold and half the employees to lose their jobs, do you?”

“No, of course I don't.”

“And you want me to be protected against the person who tried to shoot me, don't you?”

“I suppose this Roarke fellow is a bodyguard as well as a hired husband.”

“That's exactly what he is, Pearl. He's a former Green Beret and has worked for the past several years as a top agent for Dundee Private Security.”

“You must be paying the man a small fortune for all his expertise.” Pearl slapped her meaty hand down on the
table. “I don't approve of divorce. You know that. But…well…all things considered, I'm willing to hold off making a final judgment until after I get to know this Simon Roarke of yours.”

Cleo let out a sigh of relief. “You'll go along with our little charade, then? You'll accept Roarke as my husband and cooperate with us?”

“I won't let on like I know a thing,” Pearl agreed. “But you've got to know that the whole bunch suspects something's fishy about your marriage to a man none of them ever heard of before yesterday.”

“It doesn't matter what they suspect, as long as they don't know for sure.”

“You'd have been better off to have told them the truth—what you did and why. And that if they didn't like it, that was just too bad. Wasn't no need for you to go letting your pride get in the way of the truth.” Pearl reached out and tenderly caressed Cleo's cheek. “It's Miss Daphne you don't want knowing that you had to hire yourself a husband, ain't it?”

“I could lie and say that I don't care what Daphne thinks, but—”

“But you're human and you do care.”

Smiling sadly at Pearl, Cleo shoved back her chair and stood. “The agency Roarke works for not only provides security, in my case a highly trained bodyguard, but it also does investigative work. While my new husband is protecting me, he's also going to work on discovering the identity of the person who tried to kill me.”

“I know there's little real love lost between that bunch of vipers and you, but it's hard for me to believe that one of them is capable of murder,” Pearl said.

The kitchen door swung open. Cleo and Pearl turned abruptly to see who might have overheard their conver
sation. Pearl's eyes narrowed to a squint as she observed their intruder.

Smiling warmly, Cleo crossed the kitchen. She rushed over to her husband and took his arm. “Come meet Pearl. She's been running this house since before I was born.”

Roarke allowed Cleo to lead him over to where the plump, elderly woman was rising out of her chair.

“Pearl, this is Simon Roarke. My husband.” Cleo waited for the housekeeper to say something, but when Pearl kept staring at Roarke, obviously evaluating every inch of him, Cleo cleared her throat. “Roarke, this is my dearest and oldest friend, Pearl Clooney, Ezra's wife and our housekeeper for the past forty years.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Clooney.” Roarke held out his hand in greeting.

She tilted her head, then grunted and smacked her lips. “Call me ‘Pearl.'” She didn't accept his outstretched hand. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You're going to take good care of my Cleo Belle?” Pearl's words were part statement and part question.

Realizing the old woman wasn't going to shake his hand, Roarke withdrew it, then slipped his arm around his wife's waist and drew her up against him. “Yes, ma'am, I plan to take good care of Cleo.”

Letting her gaze travel from Roarke's intense blue eyes to the tips of his size-twelve shoes, Pearl pursed her lips and then grunted again. “Yep, I do believe you just might be man enough, all right.”

Shaking her head, Cleo rolled her eyes heavenward. Roarke grinned.

“You two escaped your own wedding reception, huh?” Pearl asked. “Can't say I blame you. A little of that bunch goes a long way.”

“We're planning to go upstairs and stay there,” Cleo
said. “Do you suppose you can serve our dinner in my room?”

“Getting an early start on your wedding night?” Pearl looked directly at Roarke.

“Yes, ma'am. You understand how it is with newlyweds,” he said.

“I'll bring supper up around six,” Pearl said. “That should give you time to unpack. Ezra done took your bags upstairs.”

“Roarke likes beer,” Cleo said. “Do we have any?”

“Ezra's got some.” The corners of Pearl's mouth lifted in an almost smile. “You let me know what else your man likes to eat and drink, and I'll be sure to pick it up at the grocery store.”

Cleo pulled away from Roarke, gave Pearl a big, loving hug, then turned back to her husband. Arm in arm, they walked across the room and opened the door.

Pearl called out to them, “A wife should use her husband's Christian name. If she doesn't, people wonder why.” With that said, the housekeeper turned her back to them and busied herself by checking the apple pie in the oven.

Neither Cleo nor Roarke replied. They looked at each other and smiled.

“She's right,” Cleo said. “I've got to stop calling you ‘Roarke.' It's just that somehow I don't think of you as Simon.”

It had been a long time since anyone had called him “Simon.” He preferred to be called “Roarke,” even by the women he dated. Using his last name was more impersonal. And that's the way he liked his relationships. Impersonal.

Roarke led her out into the narrow hallway between the kitchen and the sunroom. “Maybe it would be easier
for you to call me ‘honey' or ‘darling' or something like that instead of forcing yourself to call me ‘Simon.'”

“No, I'll call you ‘Simon.' I suppose this is just the first in a long line of concessions I'll have to make while we're married.”

“We're both going to have to make some concessions for the duration of our marriage,” Roarke said. “After I unpack and we settle in upstairs, I think it would be a good idea for us to discuss setting up some ground rules. Each of us needs to know exactly where we stand, so that we can present a united front to your family and to your employees.”

Roarke followed Cleo up the back staircase. “Pretending to be happily married isn't going to be easy, is it? Maybe Pearl was right. Maybe I should have been totally up front with everyone. Just told them that I hired you.”

“I overheard you admitting to Pearl that it matters to you what your cousin Daphne thinks,” he said. “And I have a hunch that it matters to you what your employees think. You'd prefer for people to speculate about our marriage than to pity you for having no choice but to buy yourself a man.”

Directly in front of the door leading to her suite, Cleo whirled around to face Roarke. “I did not have to buy myself a husband. I know at least half a dozen men who would have jumped at the chance to marry me. I chose to hire you because none of the men I know had your particular skills. I need someone who can protect me and unearth my would-be killer.”

“I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't attract a man, my dear Ms…. pardon me…my dear Mrs. Roarke.”

“No matter whom I married, it would have been a business arrangement.”

“Even if you'd married Hugh Winfield?”

“How do you know about Hugh?”

“I guessed right, then, didn't I?” Roarke's broad chest rumbled with laughter. “You and Daphne both wanted Fancy Pants Winfield, and your cousin won the prize.”

“Hugh Winfield is no prize.” Cleo opened the door to her suite. “Please come in and make yourself at home. We'll share these rooms for however long our marriage lasts.”

She took a step forward, only to be swept up in Roarke's arms once again. When she glared at him, he only smiled.

“It's customary for the groom to carry the bride over the threshold.”

“You did that downstairs,” she reminded him.

“That was for your family's benefit,” he said.

“Oh? And for whose benefit is this little show, Mr. Roarke?”

“It's for your benefit, Boss Lady. I thought it might help you get in the right mood for our wedding night.”