Kelly frowned hard. "No."
His gaze was crystal blue. "Yes."
"No, no, no." She took a step back. "I know the man I met. He was — " She stopped and flapped a hand. "He wasn't you."
The Dean in front of her raised a pair of dubious brows.
Kelly huffed a breath. "He was...fun, mellow. Personable. And he wouldn't be...doing what you're trying to do."
Those supercilious brows dove downward. "He wouldn't be trying to honor his marriage vows?"
"No! I mean — " Kelly stopped, frustrated. In fact, she had suspected just such craven behavior of 'her' Dean.
The present Dean looked satisfied. "Consider that you knew me for less than forty-eight hours."
"But — "
"You were bound to discover I wasn't exactly the man you had imagined."
"Well yes, but this is something else — "
"The intensity of emotion that prompted us to the altar could not possibly have lasted." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "Were you planning to give up on the marriage at that point?"
Kelly found she had to look away from his questioning gaze. "This isn't the same thing at all."
"Why not?"
Kelly felt her heart pick up speed even though she knew there was a difference. "You. Were. Hypnotized. You don't even remember me. It's like — an accident. You said so yourself!"
He paused, then spoke with careful enunciation. "I don't walk away from accidents."
Kelly's heart beat faster. This was a crazy argument. Of course they weren't married, except in the most technical sense. And yet he sounded grimly earnest. "Divorce wouldn't be walking away. It would be...taking care of the accident."
He gave a sharp shake of the head. "Divorce is a coward's way out. I've always thought so. Once a vow is made, it should be kept."
Kelly's heart beat now at the rhythm of panic. These were words she might have spoken herself, a bare week ago. "This is different," she insisted, her voice hoarse.
"A promise is a promise," he stated calmly.
"You weren't yourself." To put it mildly.
His lips thinned. "I wish I had the luxury of discussing this further but other matters press. I need to resolve this tonight."
"Tonight!"
He uncrossed his arms. "My flight home is at eight. You can be on it. My wife, with all the rights and privileges thereto."
Kelly's mouth opened and closed. She started to laugh. "Tonight."
"Don't worry about the time crunch." He shifted his attention to his briefcase, closing the lid. "You'll only need to pack for your immediate needs. With the exception of giving notice to your employer, my people can handle all the details at this end; closing your apartment, storing your things, et cetera, et cetera."
She laughed harder. "You've got to be kidding."
His gaze centered back on her. "Marriage. Fulfilling promises. That's my offer, Miss Williams. Take it or leave it."
Her laughter died as she met his unwavering gaze. He was absolutely serious. He actually meant to fly her home with him. He didn't know her, he couldn't possibly like her, yet he was that committed to keeping his word.
Kelly swallowed. She'd only met one man in her life as committed. Her father, the minister, who'd taught her from the cradle the importance of integrity.
Dean snicked closed the latches of his briefcase. "A call to me here at the hotel by seven will get you a ride to the airport in time."
Kelly licked her lips. She wouldn't do it. She wasn't married, not really.
"Think it over, Miss Williams. I'll be in room 814."
"No," she said, but her voice cracked.
"You need to think it through." He stood.
"No." What was there to think through? "You don't love me. You don't even know me. We're in Nevada, we should get a divorce."
"Room 814," he said. "Just in case."
###
Five hours later, Troy's lazy voice crackled over Dean's cell phone. "So, has she called you?"
Seated at the mini-office he'd created on the table in his posh Las Vegas hotel room, Dean turned another page in the quarterly report he was reviewing. "No, she hasn't called. Apparently neither my money nor my social position were sufficient incentives." He paused. "Lucky for you."
"Lucky for me?" Troy guffawed. "This was all your idea, Dean. I didn't tell you to go marry a showgirl. All I said was — "
"Yes," Dean interrupted. "I know what you said."
Troy barreled on anyway, gloating. "What I said was for you to do what you wanted for forty-eight hours, instead of what you should."
Dean closed his eyes. His stomach twisted, the way it did every time he recalled Troy's misbegotten hypnotic suggestion. Do what you want instead of what you should. Ridiculous. How could he have wanted to fly off to Las Vegas? How could he have wanted to strike up with some — some show dancer? And marry her!
Still, it had happened. It was fact. And Dean had had to deal with the consequences of his actions; soberly, responsibly, and completely. He'd had to offer her his name and his home.
"So you're coming back a single man, after all." Troy sighed. "I suppose that'll make Felicia happy."
"Felicia?" Dean frowned, unable to fathom what this young woman, a distant relative on his mother's side, had to do with anything.
"Never mind," said Troy, with a chuckle.
Dean decided to heed Troy's advice. He had enough problems without worrying about Felicia Thurgood, whatever might be wrong with her. She was blessedly not his responsibility.
So Dean turned his attention to the one person who might, at a stretch, be deemed his responsibility. "How's Robby?" he asked Troy.
"Better," Troy returned promptly. "Or at least your little half-brother will be better, now that I can tell him you aren't on the hook any more."
Dean's fingers worried the sheet of paper he'd been turning. "So he's still there."
"Where else would he be?"
Dean stifled a sigh. Robby, nine years old, really shouldn't be one of his responsibilities. Dean hadn't married a European rock star less than half his age and gotten her pregnant, despite the obvious inability of the woman to deal with real life, let alone a child. It was almost a mercy Robby's mother had killed herself by skiing drunk in the Alps a few months after his birth.
Now Dean frowned. "I thought Robby's father might have put in an appearance by now."
Troy made a scornful sound.
"I sent a telegram," Dean protested.
"To a yacht in the Mediterranean? Besides, even if he got it, your father isn't about to interrupt his pleasure for your convenience."
Dean rubbed his forehead. This was most certainly true. Kirk had never interrupted anything, ever, for Dean's convenience. "I'll send a personal messenger," he told Troy. "It's the third time Robby's been suspended from school this year, and it's almost summer vacation. Kirk is going to deal with this."
"Kirk is, huh?" said Troy.
Dean ignored the disbelief in his cousin's tone. "Keep an eye on the brat. I'll be home first thing in the morning."
"Not a problem." Troy sounded aggrieved. "Little pest dogs my every step."
Dean spent a pleasant moment imagining his half-brother dogging Troy's every footstep. It was precisely what his trust-fund cousin deserved. "My condolences," he said dryly, and rang off. Then he drew in a deep breath and, no longer diverted, let his gaze wander to the clock radio on his hotel nightstand.
Seven-thirty, the red numbers announced.
Seven thirty. Half an hour past the deadline. She hadn't called. She wasn't coming.
Dean felt a sinking in his gut. Guiltily, he realized the sensation was relief.
She hadn't called, she wasn't coming. He didn't have to be married to her. He didn't have to live with her. He didn't have to — to —
Dean leaned his head back on the chair and huffed a sigh. He didn't have to live with her tempting tail in front of him. He didn't have to resist
her dangerous allure. He didn't have to be reminded, over and over, that he was more his father's son than he'd ever wanted to admit.
His eyes closed tight. It was a hard lesson to learn at thirty-eight years of age, that he was completely vulnerable to his hormones. The whole time he'd been alone with her in the conference room, he'd had to struggle to keep his mind on the matter at hand. He'd had to work like mad to keep her from guessing his true thoughts.
Was she as soft under that sweat suit as he imagined? Would her skin be as silky, her flesh as giving?
Dean opened his eyes and released a rough laugh. Oh, he liked sex as much as the next man, but on his terms, and under appropriate conditions. These were not his terms, nor were conditions the least bit appropriate. It was all too much like one of his father's tawdry misalliances. He and this Kelly had absolutely nothing in common. There was nothing on which to build a true and mutually respectful relationship. He didn't even know her, for God's sake. But that didn't matter. In the conference room with her he'd still wanted —
Dean jerked himself forward in the chair. All right, enough. He knew perfectly well what he'd wanted. He didn't have to dwell on the unexpectedly crude side of his nature. She hadn't called, she wasn't coming. He didn't like the idea of divorce. It was a sin Dean had promised himself he would never commit, but in this case it was for the best.
Quick and clean. Before things got too embarrassing.
Dean gathered the papers on the table. He'd waited until the last minute to leave for the airport, afraid his eagerness to escape his fate might interfere with his duty. Now he'd have to rush if he wanted to make his flight.
He stuffed his papers in his briefcase, jerked into his jacket, and hoisted his carry-on over his shoulder. Before he could reach the door, however, there was a knock.
Dean froze. No. It was just...room service, yes room service, with that coffee they'd never delivered. Breathing again, he put his hand on the knob and swung the door wide.
It was not room service. His wife stood in the hall, her nose in the air and an array of mismatched suitcases laid around her feet.
Dean's heart did a staggered double-beat.
"Two months," she said crisply. "We'll give it a two month trial period. I keep my apartment and take a leave of absence from my job. I can manage that — barely."
Dean could hardly hear her for the blood rushing through his ears. Black pants hugged her hips like a second skin. A stretchy top did the same for her ripe, perky breasts. "Two months," he croaked.
"You were right," she said. "A promise is a promise." She rolled her shoulders. "At least, it's a promise if you're the man I made it to."
The words brought Dean's gaze up from her body. "Who else would I be?"
"I don't know." She shrugged again. "That fellow loved me."
The blood, so hot, went cold in Dean's veins. "Pardon me?"
"You don't." Her eyes averted. "So I'll give it two months, two months to figure out who you are, to see if there could be love."
Dean felt a growl, low in his throat. "I never said I loved you."
She looked over at him, surprised. "Sure you did."
"When?" Dean challenged.
She looked down her lashes. "Well, for one time, right there in our wedding vows."
He stared at her.
"So what do you say?" She hitched her purse higher over her shoulder. "Two months, that's my offer. Take it or leave it."
Dean was still staring. She was right. He had uttered the words. He must have, but — he couldn't have meant them.
"So?" She narrowed her eyes. "Are you taking or leaving?"
Just looking at her, even now, Dean could feel the lust pull, low down in his gut. Lust, not love. It was never going to be love, not in a million years.
The fierceness of her expression began to wilt. "You could say something."
He looked at her. Yes, he could say something. I lied to you. I would have said anything to get you into bed. To get what I wanted.
"I'll call a bellhop." Dean turned. "We'll need help if we hope to make that flight."
CHAPTER FOUR
As Kelly walked up the jetway, faux tiger-skin purse clutched in one hand, she reminded herself this was only going to be two short months of her life. She'd fly to Boston with the guy, cohabit with him in some safe fashion, and then be done with the whole moral quagmire. She started down the aisle of the plane.
A dark voice rumbled behind her. "We're here."
Kelly suppressed a shiver at the timbre of that voice, and its false familiarity. "Here? Oh, you mean the row." She stopped to glance at the number above the seats. "Four?" They were barely inside the plane.
"That's right," Dean said. "Would you like the window or the aisle seat?"
Kelly looked down at the spacious upholstered seats and the little table between them. Oh, she realized, first class.
"Um, I like to look out the window," she answered. Hugging her purse to her chest, Kelly shouldered her way to the seat. She didn't check to see what Dean was doing. So far she'd managed to get by without looking him square in the face since their conversation outside his hotel room door. It was all too bizarre. He shared Dean's name, he owned Dean's body — but he wasn't really Dean.
She wasn't really married to him.
At least, that's what she planned to prove. There was no connection between this man and the one to whom she'd made holy vows. She'd satisfy her conscience, the voice in her head that had been shouting she was a hypocrite, that she couldn't live up to her own standards.
A promise was a promise.
Kelly sank into her seat. Dean — or whoever he was — lowered into the seat beside her. Little shivers ran up and down Kelly's arms. All right, she responded to the guy's body, but they weren't properly married. In fact, she didn't think it would take as long as two whole months to prove it. That's what she'd told her boss, Rudy, in persuading him to hire a temp to fill her job on the chorus line. She'd also reminded Rudy that she'd pulled him out of more than one hole of his own. Now it was her turn to get pulled out of a hole. And she would get out of it. A mere two months and she'd be back in her own life, no worse for wear.
Kelly sniffed, pretending she didn't notice every single thing the man beside her was doing. He did not appear to be at all aware of her. As more passengers filed past them, he settled his briefcase on his knees and drew from it a thick sheaf of papers. He immediately began paging through them.
Kelly wished she had something to do, too, but even if she hauled out her paperback novel it wouldn't have been polite to read it now, not when she was sitting right next to her brand new husband. She tapped her fingers on her knee. Apparently this guy — Dean — didn't realize what was polite.
She stopped tapping her fingers and cleared her throat. "Uh, do you think we'll have a nice flight?" She didn't quite look at him as she smiled pleasantly.
He drew his stapled bundle of papers closer to his eyes. "I have no idea."
And that was that. He frowned at his papers while Kelly felt her face burn.
Two months — or less.
Meanwhile the plane bounced gently. They were leaving the gate. Dean actually looked up from his papers, but only to shoot Kelly a disapproving glance. "You need to put on your seat belt."
"What? Oh." Kelly looked down. Her lap was, indeed, unrestrained. Before she could do anything to correct the situation, he was leaning over her, reaching for the metal tabs. Mr. In-Charge.
His knuckles brushed her stomach as he shot the metal tongue home.
Kelly pressed back in her seat. Dean's breath drew in sharply. But neither one of them seemed able to avoid it: their eyes met. A spark arced between them, white-hot electricity, a moment of stripped-bare awareness.
Dean straightened abruptly and turned, grabbing up his sheaf of papers. Kelly hissed out slowly and craned her head to gaze out the window.
All right, so there was a physical thing between them. No big deal. Physical attrac
tion didn't make the man her husband. Kelly blinked out the window and struggled to even her heart rate.
Only love could do that.
###
They arrived in Boston two hours late. That meant Dean had been sitting beside the woman for seven hours straight. In that time they'd barely exchanged a dozen words. What was he going to talk to her about? The stock market, free trade problems? Or perhaps the number of sequins she could sew on a single costume?
Meanwhile, he noticed every time she crossed her legs, every time she shifted in her seat. He did his best to distract himself, delving deeply into the quarterly report, but it didn't work. He still noticed. Worse yet, he still responded.
It was embarrassing. Never had Dean experienced physical desire so unrelenting. His fingers actually itched. As they deboarded the plane, he decided he had to get away from her. Oh sure, he'd have to bring her home, settle her in, but following that duty some office emergency could take him back to the city. He could get out of her sphere.
Eager to put his plan into motion, Dean shepherded Kelly through the busy, early morning airport. He was careful to keep his hands off, though those hands longed to touch and lay claim. Thank God, Jackson and the car were already waiting at the curb. The porter was there as well, loading their luggage into the trunk. Dean only had to spend the time it would take to drive home with the woman. He could manage that.
"Oh, my word," Kelly muttered.
She was staring. Dean saw nothing but Jackson and the car, with the porter loading the trunk. "What is it?" he asked.
She shot him a glance. "That doesn't look unusual to you?"
"Doesn't what look unusual?"
She merely raised her brows.
Dean didn't get it. Hadn't she seen limousines in Las Vegas? Indeed, she must have viewed outfits far more ostentatious than his. Meanwhile, Kelly pulled from the shadow of his control and approached Jackson, hand outstretched. "Hi! I'm Kelly. How do you do?"
Jackson flashed a quizzical glance in Dean's direction, then turned to accept the lady's handshake. "Uh, how do you do?" He released Kelly's hand to open the back door. "Sir," he said to Dean.
"Jackson." Dean ushered his wife into the car, still wondering how she'd expected them to get home.
In the car, Kelly settled onto the seat and turned to face Dean. He immediately forgot his limo question in view of her obvious intent to converse. His hand jumped to his inside jacket pocket. "Excuse me." He withdrew his cell phone. "I have some calls to make."