Always Mine (5 page)

“You're married, too, Izzy.”

“And I'm going to have to do something about that, I realize. Did you get very far in finding out what it takes to annul—” She broke off at the odd expression crossing her friend's face. “Let's not talk annulments then. Let's talk happy husbands and winsome wives.”

“‘Winsome'?” The word made Emily grimace. “What the heck are you talking about, Isabella?”

“I don't know.” She laughed. “I know nothing about how this coupledom thing is supposed to work.”

“Is that how you see you and Owen? Are you a couple now?”

“No. That wedding thing was impulsive, spontaneous, and we place the blame entirely on you and Will.”

“Hey, we didn't force that ring on your finger.”

Izzy smiled a little at the memory of Owen beside her, the flash of his smile and that wild—and absurdly right—feeling she'd had as he slid the narrow band down her left ring finger. Common sense hadn't kicked in until the next morning, when he'd caught her in the lobby, trying to sneak out of the hotel. She'd been in the checkout line, tugging on that matrimonial symbol. “Did you know window cleaner is the best method to remove a ring?”

“I'll put that in my reference librarian files,” Emily said, rubbing her thumb over her own wedding band. “Though I'm planning to keep this one on forever.”

“I believe it.”

Emily frowned a little. “Owen didn't seem to.”

“It's just that he's in a cantankerous frame of mind,” Izzy answered. “He's been pretty much set on moody since the day we walked in here.”

“Will thinks he's upset about Jerry.”

“Me, too,” Izzy admitted. “And maybe beyond the grief that you would expect. But I don't know what to do about it.”

“Chicken soup sans Sanka flavoring?”

“That's the best I have to offer so far.” Though her mind drifted to those kisses they'd shared since she'd moved in. Granted, they'd been more for show than for seduction, but the sparks had been there all the same. Their Las Vegas experience had been similar. An instant, fiery attraction that at the time had seemed serendipitous and delightful. The sensation of his arms around hers had been just like the books said, a “coming home” sort of feeling that even someone who'd never had a real home could recognize.

On the dance floor, she'd fit her cheek in that hollow where his shoulder met his chest and she'd be as comfortable as if he were her pillow, but also tingly and twitchy at the same time. Her skin had shivered at his slightest touch, and when he kissed that sensitive corner of her jaw, her knees had gone soft.

“Izzy. Izzy!”

She blinked, coming down to earth as Emily sharply called her name. “What? What?”

“Our heroes are calling for dessert,” she said. “Where were you?”

“Oh.” She put the teapot on the tray, added mugs, made room for a cold jug of water and two glasses. “Here and there. You know me. The proverbial rolling stone.”

They climbed the stairs, but reaching the landing, Izzy transferred the tray to her friend. “I forgot napkins. Take this in and I'll be back in a jiff.”

It was slightly more than that because she had to find a new package and then practically gnaw her way into the shrink-wrapped plastic to get to the rainbow of folded paper. She clutched a handful as she approached the doorway of the large master suite.

The sight there made her pause. Emily sat in Will's lap, just as she'd sat on Owen's a few nights before. Will's arm was curled about his wife's waist in a gesture that was protective and possessive. They both wore playful expressions and were feeding each other cookies as if they were pieces of wedding cake.

The tenderness of the moment had Izzy's heart flip flopping uncomfortably in her chest again, as if someone were turning a pancake. She'd grown up in a number of households during her childhood, and though most were those of aging female relatives, a time or two she'd been in a home led by a married couple. The husband-and-wife teams had always fascinated her. They were Italian households, so there were often a lot of loud voices and chaos in the kitchen, but the few times she'd witnessed a moment like this between a man and a woman it had skewered her heart.

Because she didn't know how to make that happen for herself. When she'd seen it, she'd tried memorizing the moves and deciphering the dynamics, but she'd been aware that her background was too full of
Zia
Sophias and solo Pop-Tart breakfasts to comprehend the ins and outs of the couple thing.

Still, it was pretty to look at.

Her gaze drifted toward Owen. He was apparently immune to the sweet domestic drama playing out just a few feet away from him. His attention was focused on the football game on the screen, and he didn't look as if his discussion with Will—
I must have made an error in judgment—
had offered him any ease. His expression was stony and when he shifted on the bed, he winced.

Her heart rocked again and she had to force herself to stride into the room, wearing a smile. “Hey,” she said. “It's time for your pain relievers, Owen.”

He didn't look away from the game. “I don't need anything.” His voice was surly.

“Except a mood transplant, maybe,” she murmured, dropping the napkins by the lovebirds and heading for the bedside table where the big bottle of ibuprofen sat.

“I heard that,” he said, still not looking at her.

“Oops.” She made a big play of putting her hand over her mouth. “Did I say something I shouldn't have?”

His mouth twitched, then his eyes shifted her way.
Their startling blue slammed into her, and it was she who rocked this time, her whole body, rolling back on her heels as she saw the spark of amusement catching fire in his gaze. “Okay, I'm being inhospitable, as well as cranky, and you're an angel to put up with me.”

She took in a careful breath to give herself time to camouflage the way that reluctant, self-deprecating humor affected her. It was as good as a spin on a Las Vegas dance floor. Her head felt just as dizzy.

For the next half hour, he applied himself to being a more genial host. He turned off the TV, he accepted a couple of pain tablets and three cookies, he complimented Emily and poked at Will. That was like Las Vegas, too, the way the two couples meshed with such ease.

Izzy truly relaxed for the first time since moving into Owen's house.

All four of them were smiling as Will and Emily bid Owen goodbye. Izzy followed them down the flights of stairs, all the way outside to Will's truck.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Emily said, whipping around. “I brought you something.”

“A present?” Izzy grinned. “For me?”

Emily's mouth turned down in a grimace. “Well, not exactly a present, but maybe things you'll be just as happy to see.”

“Huh?”

Will was already scooping a cardboard box out of the bed of the truck. Emily leaned in to grab another
and place it on top. “I'll put them in the living room,” Will said, starting off again.

Izzy watched him with resignation. “Are those what I think they are?”

“Hey,” Emily said. “You should be happy to get the clothes. I hope they'll be suitable for this climate, but they should be fashionable, since you just shipped them to me to hang on to right before we went to Vegas. The other box is full of books, I think. I've had it for a few years.”

“Right,” Izzy said. “Thanks.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” What could she say? She couldn't complain. There were more than half a dozen friends all over the country who never refused her request to store some stuff for her. And she probably could use the clothes.

“Iz?”

“I'm good. Thanks,” she said with false brightness. “You've done me a huge favor!”

Emily was looking at her with suspicious eyes. Izzy made her mouth stretch wider into a big smile. Her relaxing respite was over, but her best friend didn't need to know that. Izzy didn't want anyone to know how much it dismayed her to think of her belongings catching up with her—especially at Owen's.

O
wen was enticed down one flight of stairs by the smell of some kind of simmering sauce that had to include tomato, onion, garlic and basil. Two days had passed since Will and Emily's visit, and he was damn tired of the four walls of the master bedroom suite. He'd started watching medical programs on the Discovery Channel, and the odd conditions highlighted by some of the shows were starting to seriously disturb him.

He found his wife in a corner of the living room, her back turned to the staircase as she bent over a couple of cardboard boxes. Her position tightened her khaki pants across her backside and Owen smiled
to himself. Yeah. Way better view than what was available upstairs.

Settling on the last step, he gave himself a few minutes to indulge in a purely masculine occupation—appreciating the physical charms of a beautiful woman. He wasn't going to feel guilty about it, either. For God's sake, he was a guy after all, a bored one at that, and it wasn't a crime that Isabella Cavaletti's sex appeal could spark a pleasant smolder in the center of his libido.

He might be down, but he wasn't dead.

Two days ago her attractions had been stretching his nerves thin, but since that visit from their respective best friends, Izzy had been more businesslike. Instead of her cheerful chatter, she'd turned quiet and polite—downright preoccupied.

He'd decided against prying into her change of disposition. It was no concern of his.

So he could just sit on the step and ogle the outside of her appealing package and leave her inside alone. His gaze followed the line of her spine as she went from bent over to cross-legged on the floor beside the boxes. She reached inside one and pulled out a hardback book. Her shiny black hair swung forward on each side, the split revealing a patch of smooth skin at the nape of her neck.

The spot looked soft and vulnerable and was perfectly sized for a man's mouth. He let his mind wander to the idea, his hand rubbing the stubble on
his jaw. If he were smooth shaven, he might place a kiss there, as his hands slid down her sides to her slim hips. She would be warm and pliant as he drew her back against his body, crossing his arms over her flat belly so that rounded butt of hers was tucked against his hips.

As she sensed his erection just layers of denim and cotton behind her, she'd push back, giving her hips a little wiggle while making a sound that was supposed to be a moan, but was much closer to a sob…

A sound that was supposed to be a moan but was much closer to a sob?

Where the hell had that come from? But then he knew, because he heard it again—Izzy's shoulders trembled and she let out another quiet, choked-off sob.

“Izzy?” he said, without thinking. “Is everything okay?”

She whipped around, and that's when he realized maybe he should have thought first. Maybe he should have thought to take himself back upstairs and leave her to whatever was on her mind. He wasn't supposed to be concerned with the inside of her package even though it was fairly obvious that from the spiky-lashed and tear-drenched chocolate of her eyes, Izzy wasn't too happy.

“How did you get down here?” she asked.

“One stair at a time,” he admitted. “On my ass.”

“Owen!” she started to scold, then, apparently realizing there were tears on her cheeks, she dashed
them away with the backs of both hands. “Owen, you shouldn't be doing that on your own.”

“I've been on my own a lot the past couple of days,” he heard himself grumble. Oh, hell. Now he sounded like he was complaining about her lack of attention when he'd been wishing for that very thing since he'd let her back into his life.

She made a face. “I'm sorry, I know you must be bored. I've just felt a little less…talkative than usual.”

He was such a rat. There she was with tears still drying and she was apologizing to
him.
“What's the matter, honey?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, and scooted around on her bottom to face him. “Not a thing.”

He glanced at the book in her lap, then flicked his gaze toward the boxes behind her. “What do you have there?”

“Oh. Emily brought them over. She's been storing the boxes for me. One contains some clothes and the other a bunch of books from my childhood.”

“Yeah? What's the one you have there?” Curiosity about a book wasn't curiosity about
her,
he told himself.

She held it up. “
Eight Cousins,
by Louisa May Alcott. One of my favorite books as a kid, along with the sequel,
Rose in Bloom.
”

He knew Louisa May Alcott, of course, but he had never heard of these two titles. “Does some annoyingly good little girl die?”

She put a hand on her chest and made a mock gasp. “Are you referring to Beth in
Little Women?
For shame, to cast aspersions on one of the most beloved fictional characters of all time. I cried for hours when I read that book the first time.”

“Yeah? Well, boys, when they are forced to read that book or watch that movie, we use our imaginations to invent ways to hurry that dreary thing to her ultimate destination.” But Izzy had mentioned crying, so he figured he could bring it up. “
Eight Cousins
must have a storyline like that one if you're teary-eyed now.”

An embarrassed flush crawled up her neck, and she made another quick swipe at her cheeks. “No, no. It's a cheerful story about an orphan girl who is taken in by her large family and becomes a much beloved member—particularly by the seven boy cousins she's never met before.”

“So why'd it make you cry?”

Her gaze slid away from his. “Call me sentimental. I haven't seen this copy in a long time and it reminded me of how much pleasure I got out of reading it as a child.”

Remembrance of pleasure would make her sob? It didn't jive, but hey, he'd promised himself he wouldn't pry.

So he lifted his head and sniffed the air. “Something smells really good.” He remembered in Vegas that she mentioned coming from a large Italian family, no surprise given her last name and the Medi
terranean warmth of her olive skin and big brown eyes. “Is that something from your childhood, too? A woman named Cavaletti surely learned her talent in the kitchen at a young age.”

“Both my
nonnas
and a
zia
or two could make a grown man weep with what came out of their stock pots.”

Weep? Hmm, more crying. “Yeah? What about your mom? Or is she a rebel like you and skipped out on the cooking lessons?”

“She skipped out on a lot of things,” Izzy murmured, but then her gaze narrowed. “Did you just call me a rebel?”

“Ms. Just-Say-No-to-Dewey? What do you think?”

“I think you might be right. Though, truly, moving on from Dewey is—” Breaking off, she laughed. “Don't get me started on the Dewey decimal system. We'll be here all night and I won't even notice your eyes glazing over.”

“So what will we talk about then? I
am
bored.”

“I don't know.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and he found himself fascinated with the tiny gold ring threaded through the rim of her left one.

Rebel, all right. No run-of-the-mill piercing for Isabella Cavaletti. She had a different kind of adornment, one that made him think of that sweet delicate shell of ear and how if he let himself follow it with his tongue, he could suck on her tender lobe without getting a mouthful of jewelry.

It would just be a mouthful of Izzy.

Clearing his throat, he shifted on the step, then shifted his gaze off her pretty face. “Um…uh…” The boxes. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Why do you have Emily storing your stuff?”

“Oh.” She looked embarrassed again. “Would you believe I don't have my own place?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“I shamelessly take advantage of my friends, and every one of them ends up with a box or two or three of Izzy-belongings. My work means that I travel all over and I don't have an actual home base, if you know what I mean.”

No. He had no idea what she meant. “You don't…you don't have an address?”

“I have a P.O. box, but I take care of my bills online. It seems odd to a lot of people, but it works out fine for me.”

“What about…” He couldn't wrap his mind around it. “Television. Car. Coffemaker.”

“I rent a car when I need one. Most hotel rooms come complete with TV and coffee service.”

Still…“You
are
a rebel. Or should I say a rolling stone?”

Izzy shrugged. “Good phrase. I use it myself. I'm definitely footloose, that's for sure. I travel all over the country and enjoy the different sights I see and the friends I make.”

Yeah, but for how long did she enjoy them? She
moved from place to place and, unlike a turtle, didn't even bother carrying her house on her back. He remembered Bryce had told him that Izzy had arrived at the condo with only a single small suitcase.

“So you really like living like that?”

“It's good,” she said, sounding defensive. “It's a good life.”

“I guess.” If you didn't like roots or stability or your very own Wii game system. Not to mention a place where your relatives could track you down…Okay, maybe he could see an upside.

But he suspected Izzy couldn't see a thing, because her gaze was back on her copy of
Eight Cousins
and he could detect the distinct glint of tears in her eyes again. He found himself scooting back a step, and cursing his boredom again, because coming down the stairs and seeking her out had been a mistake. What he'd seen and heard—what he'd found inside Izzy—was hitting him right where he didn't want her anywhere near.

His heart.

 

In the master bedroom suite, Izzy took plates off the tray that Bryce had carried up the stairs and passed them to the two brothers who were sitting at places set on a card table she'd found stashed in a closet. Bryce pretended to swoon as he breathed in the smell of the lasagna that she'd made from the sauce she'd simmered two days before.

“I love your pretty fairy wife,” he told Owen. “She's beautiful, she cooks and she even told me I don't have to worry about doing the dishes later.”

“Stop flirting,” his brother answered. “And damn right you're going to do the dishes.”

Bryce groaned. “Me and my big mouth. Would it aid my cause if I complained about the looooong board meeting Granddad presided over today? I doodled through an entire pad of paper.”

Izzy pulled out her chair and sank into her seat as Owen gave Bryce a considering look. “The day you waste time doodling is the day I put on ballet slippers and dance in
Swan Lake.
”

Bryce clapped his hands over his ears. “Not another word. Don't burn that image onto my brain!”

Owen glanced at Izzy. “Bryce can take in the details of a meeting, plan another and write up the report on a third all at the same time.”

“Not to mention managing my fantasy baseball team,” Bryce said, around a bite of lasagna. “Oh, God, this is good, Izzy. Really, I'm
so
marrying you.”

She had to smile at him. “But I'm already married.”

Bryce's eyes brightened. “About that…”

“Don't go there,” his brother warned.

Don't go there. But they had gone there, Izzy thought, for no less than a thousand times, and then had not even gone on to discuss the next step—an annulment—since she'd moved into Owen's condominium. Of course, they'd been pretty much keeping
to their corners these days. Though she knew Owen was going stir-crazy, she hadn't felt much like being his entertainment or distraction. That box of books that Emily had delivered seemed to sit on Izzy's shoulders, weighing her down. It was good to have Owen's brother here to give them both another focus.

“Did you hear that, Isabella?”

She started, directing her attention toward Bryce again. “What?”

“I was saying that you two have a reprieve from the Marston machine even when the 'rents get back from their cruise. Right after, Mom's on tap for a benefit she's organizing and she's roped Dad into helping her with the last-minute details.”

Izzy thought of the elegant older woman. “Something for the symphony, I suppose?”

“Nah,” Bryce answered. “She abhors the symphony.”

Owen smiled, and Izzy instantly noticed. He hadn't been doing much of that lately, and it looked good on him. He had strong white teeth and the smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Mom has the pearls and the blue blood, but to give her credit, she's no snob,” he said. “She really abhors the symphony just as much as she loves the opera, Springsteen and the Stones.” He looked over at Bryce.