It's a Wonderful Wife (20 page)

“I assumed you'd have a huge pile of work on your desk that you'd have to deal with first,” she said, lifting the cracked wineglass to examine it. “I was going to call again right around now and see how close you were to coming back.”

“And had you given any thought as to how I was supposed to explain my wife's sudden disappearance to the good folks of Castle Cove?”

She lowered the glass to her lap, her cheeks turning as red as the wine bottle. “I thought I'd leave that part up to you.” She shot him a sheepish smile. “Since I remembered how quickly you came up with a fake aunt I had to go tend, and how you hadn't wanted me running off with the pool boy, I figured whatever lie you came up with would probably be better than mine.”

“There are a couple of glasses in the cooler beside you,” he said just as the cork popped free and shot toward the trees. “So while I was supposed to be telling everyone my wife . . . Oh, let's go with her getting hit by a bus while crossing Fifth Avenue as she rushed to a rustic boot sale,” he said before she could answer. “So while I would be here fending off condolences, you would be climbing in your motorhome and driving away?” he asked—even as he wondered if this conversation wasn't counterintuitive to starting a
real
relationship with her. But dammit, he wanted to know what had been going through that creative mind of hers when she'd made the decision to hide here by pretending to be his wife. Was it because she truly did feel she knew him well enough to borrow his name, or did she see him as just another rich client who was more than capable of dealing with the consequences?

She froze in the act of opening the cooler and slowly turned to him, then dropped her hands to her lap and stared down at them. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “My only defense is that when I found myself sitting in an Ellsworth parking lot with my car full of camping equipment and Wiggles staring up at me from her cage, I panicked.” She looked at him with eyes that appeared slightly panicked right now. “I didn't know where to go or what to do. And right then I realized that for the very first time in my life, I was completely alone. Until . . . until I . . .”

Jesse carefully set the wine down on the other side of the books, then reached over and gently pulled her onto his lap and pressed her head to his chest. “Until you what?”

“Until I remembered the night I hid in your camper and how you made me feel like everything was going to be okay.” She tilted her head back to look up at him, and Jesse was relieved to see the hint of a smile. “I imagine you weren't very happy to find yourself dealing with a drunken woman who'd just been jilted, but I think you should know you probably saved my life that night.” Her smile blossomed when he arched a brow. “I'm not exaggerating. You gave me the courage to stop
dreaming
about leaving and
just leave
, which saved me from dying of sheer boredom before my fortieth birthday. And you know how?”

“How?”

“That night and the next morning when you treated me like a grown, intelligent woman, I finally started feeling like one.” She dropped her gaze and actually snuggled into him. “And then I remembered how safe and peaceful I'd felt the three times I'd visited Hundred Acre, and I thought . . . Well, I started my car and headed back down the coast, confident that if I could just get to your island I wouldn't be alone anymore. But when I reached Castle Cove and found out you weren't here, I panicked again.”

She glanced up, not a hint of a smile in sight. “Ken Dean found me sitting in his parking lot, slumped over the steering wheel of my car, bawling like a baby. It wasn't until he called me Mrs. Sinclair that I realized even though you weren't here, the island was still a perfect hiding place for me and Wiggles.” She dropped her gaze again. “I'm sorry,” she repeated.

“I'm not,” Jesse said as he tightened his embrace on a heavy sigh. “In fact, I'm glad your first instinct was to come to me.”

She looked up, her eyes skeptical. “I've wondered since you walked in that salon why you're not freaked out about the mess I've made of your life.”

“Oh, Mrs. Sinclair,” he drawled, leaning forward while draping her over his arm and lowering his mouth to within inches of hers. “Are you not aware your husband makes his living cleaning up messes?” he finished in a whisper, his lips not quite brushing hers.

And that's where he stayed—hell, he even stopped breathing—as her eyes searched his while she appeared to have a conversation with herself, which apparently ended when she muttered something about being outvoted and her hand slipped around his neck and she lifted her head.

It took Jesse two full heartbeats to realize
she
was kissing
him
, another heartbeat to confirm he wasn't dreaming, and one more to decide he was skipping dates three through five and moving directly to six.

Date six was when they got to spend their first night together, wasn't it?

Only this time in bed
together
.

Damn. He was so busy planning his next move he hadn't realized she'd broken the kiss. And he definitely hadn't heard what she'd said. “Excuse me?” he asked when she hid her face in his neck, her cheeks feeling unusually hot against his skin. “I'm afraid I missed that”—although he was pretty sure he'd heard the words
make
and
love
in there somewhere.

Sweet God, was attention deficit disorder contagious? Because he'd never had a problem staying focused before, and sure as hell not when he had a beautiful woman in his arms.

“I . . . I said I want to make love to you,” she whispered into his shoulder.

Here? On top of a cold granite ledge? Or can you wait until we get down to the camper and my comfortable, warm bed?

Jesse realized he'd said part—if not all—of that out loud when Cadi suddenly stiffened one second before he nearly rolled into the fire when she just as suddenly shoved him away.

Would someone
please
tell him when he'd forgotten how to seduce a woman?

Oh, right. In college, when Bram had made sure any coed majoring in husband-hunting knew his handsome, wealthy grandson was available, and Jesse had started focusing on running from women instead of chasing them.

“What the—hey!” He scrambled to his feet when he realized the one woman he
did
want was walking away. “Look, I'm sorry,” he said, chasing after her and catching hold of her sleeve. “I didn't mean that the way it came out.”

She stood facing the woods. “No, I'm sorry,” she rasped, sounding like she'd swallowed an entire pond of frogs. “I knew coming here tonight was a mistake.”

“Then why did you?” he asked, letting go of her sleeve.

“Because I thought . . . because . . .” He saw her pull in a deep breath, and Jesse actually took a step back when she turned to face him, even as he fought a grin. “Because my
tiny otter brain
finally came up with a reason my heart and la—that my heart couldn't dispute.”

“Which was?” he said carefully, still unsure whether she wanted to smack him or kiss him again. And what was she talking about, that her brain had come up with a reason? No, her
tiny otter brain
. He couldn't believe he'd called her an otter out loud—which probably made him about as bright as a gecko.

“It reminded my—me, that for as much as I might need the practice, I'd already learned my lesson about recreational sex back in college.”

“Recreational sex?” Jesse repeated, getting a little angry himself. “As opposed to what—procreational sex?”

“No, as opposed to the intimacy two people share when their relationship is heading somewhere.”

“Like to the altar?”

“Yes,” she snapped. He saw her take another deep breath. “And since you obviously don't need the practice,” she said calmly, “I think I'm better off focusing on getting my
mind
ready for when Mr. Right comes along and leave the sex part for when I finally meet him.”

“And how do you know
I'm
not Mr. Right if you won't even give us a try?”

Her chin lifted. “Contrary to popular consensus, I'm not so naive as to believe you'd marry someone like me, so what would be the point for our sleeping together?”

Pretty sure they'd had this conversation already—and not particularly liking it this time, either—Jesse folded his arms over his chest to keep from grabbing her. “What makes you think,” he quietly asked, “I would never marry someone like you? Like you
how
?”

“Old-fashioned,” she snapped, spinning around and marching down the ledge again as she continued listing her shortcomings. “Unsophisticated. Untraveled. Unworldly.” She stopped and spun back to face him, her cheeks now blistering red. “You'll find the
future
Mrs. Sinclair's runabout tied in your harbor slip one hour after sunrise tomorrow morning.”

“You forgot unethical,” he said as she started to turn away, making her face him again.

“What are you talking about? I'm a highly principled person.”

“So if you see your fake engagement to Stanley and pretend marriage to me as harmless, is it safe to assume you don't see anything wrong with clients paying over six figures for homes they thought were being designed by a licensed architect?” He walked toward her. “You started designing houses for your father when you were
fifteen
, and for the last five years you've also been designing them for Stanley. Including
mine
.”

“Wh-who told you that?”

She'd turned so suddenly pale, Jesse was a bit worried she might actually faint. But he stopped three paces away, because . . . hell, because he still wanted to grab her. And because even if he had to take an ax to that brand-new runabout, he wasn't letting her leave this island until she got over the notion she wasn't good enough for him.

This was one argument he refused to lose, dammit, because he refused to lose
her
.

“A man has a lot of time to think while flying to four continents in eighteen days, and I believe I was somewhere over the Mediterranean when it finally dawned on me that Stanley hadn't designed the house I saw in that model.”

“You can't know that,” she whispered. “You're guessing.”

“I make my living following my hunches. Like when I realized a thirty-year-old bachelor who's into orgies wouldn't stay five days, much less five years, in Whistler's Landing unless he was hiding from something or someone. And then there's the fact that a man who
is
hiding would never design a house made almost entirely of glass.” Jesse dropped his arms to his sides and closed the distance between them, careful not to show his relief when she stood her ground. “And only a woman,” he said softly, gently clasping her chin to lift her gaze to his, “would worry about creating a child-friendly outdoor patio nearly as big as the house itself, or bother with little details like a huge fire pit and a sunken wading pool shaped like an open clamshell disguised as a fountain, or think to put a real working periscope rising out of the roof.”

“You . . . you saw all that on the small model in only a short time? Even the periscope?”

“The first thing we competition-crushing executives learn,” he said with a slight nod, “is to pay more attention to the small details than the large ones.”

She pulled her chin free but didn't step back—or drop her gaze from his. “How do you know I didn't just add those details when I built the model from Stanley's plan?”

He shook his head. “The entire house was designed around the children—beginning with its location.” He grinned when her eyes flared briefly in surprise. “You didn't want a passel of kids sitting up on that high ridge exposed to everyone and everything; you wanted them to feel the island wrapping around them like a security blanket, giving them a safe place to land after spending the day exploring their hundred-acre playground.” He chuckled. “Hell, I just realized that catwalk is both a physical and metaphorical means of escape.” He lifted his arms away from his sides. “You didn't make a mistake coming here tonight, just like following your instinct to come here three weeks ago wasn't a mistake. Come to me again, Cadi. Let me be your security and your bridge to the world.”

One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Well, hell; it would have been nice if his brothers had dropped him a clue about how hard it was to actually
catch
the woman of your dreams.

Four. Five. Damn, his chest was starting to hurt.

Six. Jesse caught Cadi with a groan of relief that came out as a whoosh when she threw herself against him, then swept her off her feet before her brain could start talking again and carried her back up the ridge to the fire. He sat down on the blanket without letting her go, then cupped her face and tilted her head to look at him. “Starting now, let's agree to ignore anything weird the other one says. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said hoarsely, lifting her hand to his jaw. “And we'll also agree to ignore anything . . . awkward either of us does, okay?” she whispered, looking a bit worried.

Figuring that
awkward
fell in the
weird
category, since he didn't have a clue what she was talking about, Jesse nodded. “Definitely a deal.”

Worry faded, but skepticism walked in. “So if some . . . ah, some of our parts seem a bit rusty, we'll just pretend not to notice?”

Did the woman have
any
idea in how many directions he could run with that question—not one of them suitable even for his ears? He touched his forehead to hers with a heavy sigh. “Oh, thank God. I was a little worried you'd start laughing when I started creaking from an old high school football injury,” he said, only to remember too late he'd already admitted to never playing football.