Suddenly Married (8 page)

“Noah, this is a beautiful room, what with the fire in the woodstove and everything. And the powder room is right across the hall. It’ll practically be like having my own suite—once you go upstairs.” She tried to smile. “It’s my fault, after all, that I’m not sleeping in my bed tonight. If I had checked the weather from time to time, I wouldn’t be stuck here, would I?”

He regarded her silently for a long moment before saying, “I left something out earlier.”

Her raised eyebrows asked, “What?”

“A man wouldn’t guess it to look at you, tiny as you are and all, but you’re a tough little thing. And a natural-born nurturer, too.”

“I rather like being seen as a ‘tough little thing,’”
she said, laughing softly, “but nurturer? I don’t think so.”

“Well,
I
think so. Just look at you, chin up and shoulders back, stranded in a virtual stranger’s house, and you’re worried about me.”

In truth, she
had
wanted to make him feel better. Had he seen it on her face? In her stance? It’s positively spooky the way he knows these things about you, she told herself. “I’m not worried about you. Why would I be worried about you?”

“Because somehow, you know I feel like a complete jerk for making you think I wanted to
buy
you. And even though you were the one whose feelings got hurt, you’re trying to make me feel like
less
of a jerk…though I don’t deserve it.”

Except for the “deserve it” part, Dara could only shake her head and sigh, because yet again, he’d hit the target.

Noah stood and walked toward her. He was beside her in an instant, hands on her shoulders, face mere inches from hers. “I’m sorry that I insulted you. Believe me, that’s the last thing I wanted to do. I know it made me seem like a clumsy oaf, spelling out my plan the way—”

“Seem?” she put in, grinning.

“Okay. So I
am
a clumsy oaf.” He returned her grin. “But I honestly thought it was a good idea, one that would help us both out of a bind.” He spoke slowly, tentatively, as if testing her reaction.

Biting her lip, she looked away.

“It’s getting late, and I know you’re tired. I’ll go now, so you can get some sleep.”

But she was only half listening as she struggled with her thoughts. The way he looked just now, all apologetic
and embarrassed, she’d almost agreed: it is a good idea.

“‘Want me to help you make up the couch?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. I think I’ll make myself another cup of tea, watch some television—if it won’t disturb you, that is.”

“Are you kidding? You could probably set off a bomb in here and we wouldn’t hear it upstairs.”

Dara nodded. “Good. Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded, too. “Right. In the morning, then.”

Without the slightest warning, his arms encircled her, one hand on the small of her back, the other cupping her nape. He stood for a long, silent moment, studying her with eyes that glittered like blue diamonds, lips pulled back in the barest hint of a smile. Stepping forward, he clasped her to him. She felt his soft breaths on her cheek, heard the quiet sigh issue up from deep inside him, felt the steady
thump, thump, thump
of his heart. The warmth of it was so complete, so sure, that Dara relaxed, resting her cheek against his chest. The embrace was almost unbearable in its tenderness, and she had no desire for it to end, ever.

But it must end. Now. Without looking away, she backed out of his grasp.

“Good night, Dara.” He sighed. “Sweet dreams.”

And he was gone.

She had a feeling she wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep. Not because of the narrow couch. Not because of the snow that continued to fall. Not even because she had proof positive of her father’s wrongdoing.

But because she’d be thinking of Noah Lucas, and the way his blue, blue eyes had lit up when she’d almost admitted his idea had merit.

N
oah lay on his back, hands clasped under his head, and stared at the ceiling. A brisk wind had kicked up, went prowling and howling through the yard like an angry, lone wolf. As the snowflakes steadily hissed and pecked at the windowpanes, Noah was reminded that he had a houseguest.

Would Dara be asleep by now, snug and warm under the green plaid quilt he’d brought her? Had she put on the pajamas he’d tucked between the comforter and the sheets…the two-sizes-too-small pajamas Francine had bought for him half a dozen Father’s Days ago?

If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Dara, the maroon silk of his pjs looking lush against her creamy skin as she sat cuddled in front of the cozy fire, long, dusky lashes dusting her freckled cheeks as she sought a peaceful night’s sleep on a stranger’s sofa.

He hadn’t seen freckles on a female since grade school. Dara’s dotted the bridge of her nose as if they’d been sprinkled there by a guardian angel. He wouldn’t have noticed them at all if he hadn’t pulled her into a
hug under the sixty-watt lightbulb in the kitchen fixture. At the time, his only thought had been how incredibly
lovely
she was. Now, he thought, the faint, almost undiscernible speckles gave her a girlish, innocent look that went perfectly with chin-length auburn curls that bounced and bobbed with every turn of her head.

She had a quick, natural smile that immediately put others at ease. And those eyes, as big and wide as a doe’s, glimmered with mischief when Angie and Bobby had challenged her to a spirited guessing game, then later glowed warm with sympathy when he described his pathetic past.

He’d told her he believed she was an honest woman, a hard worker with a heart bigger than her head. Well, she’s all that and then some. The proof? Dara’s attitude toward his blithe compliments. He’d clearly embarrassed her, as evidenced by her downcast eyes and the pink blush that had colored her cheeks. And that puzzled him. Puzzled him plenty. Because it had been his experience that most women lived to be flattered, whether the praise was bona fide or blarney. Surely a woman as gorgeous as Dara had had those attributes pointed out to her many times.

But if that was true, why hadn’t she reacted the way other women he’d known before her had? “Oh, stop Noah,” they’d say, giggling, striking shy poses, fluttering their lashes. “You’ll make me blush.”

Dara
had
blushed!

She’s something else! he told himself, grinning into the darkness. There were likely a thousand clichés to describe her. Pretty as a picture. Sharp as a tack. Sweet as cotton candy. But there’s nothing cliché about Dara! No, sir. She’s one of a kind.

If he ever fell in love again, it would be with a woman like Dara Mackenzie.

He ran the thought past his brain another time or two.
If
he could fall in love again…Why can’t you love again? he wondered.

But the answer was there, as plain as the night-black ceiling above him: he hadn’t felt the heart-tugging stirrings of romance because he hadn’t given it—or himself—a real chance.

Noah scrunched the pillow up under his neck, linked his fingers atop his chest. Have you been deliberately choosing women without a single solitary maternal bone in their bodies? Not deliberately, maybe, but subconsciously, he’d sabotaged the would-be relationships, right from square one.

Until now.…

What was different about this one? Why was he being so ham-handed now?

Because didn’t he owe it to her memory to try to keep the promise he’d made on the night Francine died?

You just answered your own question. Francine hadn’t just asked him to “Get a woman in here, fast.” She’d made her demand plain and simple: “They need a mother to look out for them. They need a woman’s touch.”

A woman’s touch. Noah grunted, one side of his mouth tucked in, hands back up under his head again. Kids aren’t the only ones who need a woman’s touch.

Francine hadn’t been the perfect wife, but she’d been pretty close. He’d never worn a shirt that hadn’t been pressed to perfection. Never left the house with a button missing or unpolished shoes. She could have been a chef in some fancy restaurant if she’d wanted to, and
the joke around the house was, her house was so clean folks could eat right off the floors. She’d alphabetized the spice rack, the pantry, the linens. And in the clothes closet, his shirts hung in color-coordinated order…grouped by sleeve length and fabric type.

Sometimes he thought she was too hard on the kids, insisting they tow the line, always, no matter what. But “mothering” was her job, and they were terrific kids. Who was he to argue with her methods, when the results were so obvious?

Besides, how many wives would insist that their husbands find their children a mother substitute, as soon as possible? And that’s what this is all about, he reminded himself. Angie and Bobby.

From the moment of their conception, the children had given his life meaning and hope. Once born, it took little more than a toothless smile to brighten his dull world. And now that they were old enough to hold two-way conversations, they’d become companions of a sort, filling his lonely days with questions and observations that kept him from growing old before his time: “Why is the sky blue, Father?” and “God lives in the sky because He can see everything better from there.” They were loving little beings that deserved to be loved right back…by a woman’s gentle hands.…

In the morning, he’d try again to convince Dara to marry him. He hadn’t spent all those hours on his knees for nothing in the years since he’d lost Francine. Dara was the woman God intended him to spend the rest of his days with; Noah knew it as he knew the earth would continue spinning.

He’d phrase the question a bit more romantically this time, so she wouldn’t be insulted, wouldn’t feel like a heifer on the auction block. You’re a buffoon, he
chided, remembering the way he’d presented the idea initially, a callous dolt to have put it so bluntly. Francine would surely have scolded him soundly for being an insensitive lout. And the reason she’d chasten him would be simple: she wanted only the finest for her children, and how was he to provide the mother they needed if he scared the woman off?

Now there’s an idea, he thought, sitting up. How would Francine have said the same thing?

As he gave it some thought, her voice echoed in his head. “The children need a good woman in their lives,” she’d have insisted.

Yes, his kids deserved the best, and he’d done everything humanly possible to provide it. But he didn’t know how to embellish an outfit for Angie, as Francine would have. And even he could see that the rooms of this new house were stark, almost puritanical in their plainness. But what was he to do? Even if he knew which doodads to buy, where would he put them!

A woman would know. And Dara, his prayers had convinced him, was that woman. Somehow, he had to convince her of that, for the children’s sake. And for my sake, he added.

He’d be a good husband, as good as he’d been for Francine—maybe even better, thanks to her constant tutelage—but he’d never let himself forget who’d made it possible for those precious treasures named Angie and Bobby to come to live in his world.

Not even if Dara did agree to marry him.

Not even if one day he grew to love her.

Dara tossed and turned on the couch, wishing she’d let Noah open up the sofa bed. But even if he had, it wasn’t likely she’d get any sleep.

Thoughts of him filled her mind as steadily as the snowflakes piling up against the French doors. Noah had said they had a lot in common. One thing they shared was a desire to say things straight out.

“It’ll be a win-win situation,” he’d said.

And maybe it would…if not for the fact that she had a little pride. Of course she wanted to clear her father’s name, but that was no reason to get married…not even to someone as appealing as Noah Lucas. In the old days, plenty of people consented to arranged marriages to merge kingdoms, to pay debts, to secure a safe financial future for their families. But these aren’t the old days! We’re living in a modern world, where men and women marry for love! she told herself.

She rolled onto her back and focused on the ceiling fan above her head. Its brass trim reflected the brightorange firelight glowing in the woodstove. But nothing, it seemed—not the soothing warmth of the fire, not the comforting heft of the downy quilt—could distract her from one dismal thought: This may well be your only chance at marriage and family, Dara Mackenzie.

She’d dated dozens of men since her sixteenth birthday but had rarely seen any of them on more than one occasion. “You’re too picky, Dara,” her mother would say when she dismissed yet another eligible bachelor. “Do you want to end up an old maid? Don’t you want me to be a grandmother?”

Fact was, she wanted that more than just about anything. But if it meant she had to settle, then maybe she’d have to resign herself to life as a single woman.

“What’s wrong with Jeremy?” her mother had wanted to know. “He’s handsome and successful and—”

“And he talks too loud,” Dara had said.

“What about Matthew?” she’d asked. “He owns his own business.”

“And that’s the
only
thing he can talk about”

“David seems nice.…”

“But he isn’t a Christian.”

“I give up!” her mother had said, throwing her hands into the air in vexation.

But she hadn’t given up. Instead, Gloria Mackenzie had scouted around town, searching out potential sonin-law material. Feeling she owed it to her mother to at least try to find a common interest with the men, Dara agreed to dinner at Tersequel’s, movies at Palace Nine, sailing on the Chesapeake Bay. When she came home from the outings, the message light on her answering machine would be blinking. “Well,” her mother’s excited voice would ask. “How’d it go? Call me!”

It would have been nice seeing her mother bounce a grandchild on her knee before she died. Sometimes, great waves of guilt washed over Dara, knowing her “pickiness” had been the reason it hadn’t happened.

She’d known what kind of man she wanted since her stuffed animal and dolly tea party days: a man exactly like her father.

But what kind of man stole nearly a quarter million dollars, for…Only the Lord knows why…so only the Lord should condemn him, she thought.

Since learning about his crime, Dara had tried to focus on his good qualities, such as the way he volunteered to play Santa at Johns Hopkins Children’s Oncology every Christmas, stuffing his big green bag with toys he’d bought with his own money.

Now she had to wonder, had it been his money?

And what about the summer when their next-door
neighbor had been laid up with a back injury and he’d mowed the Jensens’ lawn, from spring thaw straight to the first frost.

He’d gone grocery shopping once, all by himself, to buy food for a family displaced by a house fire. Had he paid the bill with money he’d earned? Or had he borrowed from Pinnacle’s till to finance his charity work?

She hadn’t been too nonplussed about her solitary status, because in her heart, Dara believed the Lord had chosen her mate long before she drew her first breath. It was merely a matter of finding him, she kept telling herself.

He’d be tall and handsome.

She guessed Noah to be five foot eleven, at least. And he certainly filled the “good-looking” category.

Her intended would be a good and decent man. One who was successful and hardworking. And he most certainly would be a devout Christian.

Like Noah Lucas.…

The only negative, really, was the fact that she didn’t love him and he didn’t love her.

Dara sighed, rolled onto her side. Could you love him? she asked herself. Yes, she probably could—if she’d let herself—because he had all the qualities of a fine, upstanding husband and then some. His easy manner with his children, though, was probably Noah’s most redeeming trait, because it had been that that made Dara see him as something other than a pencilpushing stuffed shirt. When he looked at them, it was as if the rest of the world and everything in it ceased to exist. His voice automatically gentled when he talked to them, and the big hands that could probably
perform that “strong man rips phone book in half” trick combed tenderly through their hair.

Those same hands had touched her, too, testing the softness of her cheeks, bringing her close enough to kiss.

What would it have been like, she wondered, if Noah had kissed you? Would the golden mustache have tickled? Would those full lips have felt as soft as they looked?

Exhaling harshly, Dara rolled onto her back again, frowning at the night-blackened blades of the ceiling fan. Stop it, she scolded. Stop it right now. You have no business thinking such things about a man you barely know!

But that wasn’t true. Wasn’t true at all.

She
did
know him, not in ways measured by calendar pages but in her heart. It didn’t make sense that she felt so secure, so protected, so comfortable in his presence…in his arms. Didn’t make sense that she understood the reasons he was drawn to Francine back when he’d been a lonely orphan. (Was he still an orphan? How old did a man have to be to shed that title?) Didn’t make sense that when his voice had gone all ragged with pent-up grief, she’d wanted to console him with big hugs and little kisses and reassuring words, the way a mother comforts her child when a nightmare has wakened him.

That
especially
didn’t make sense, because the feelings bubbling inside her now were not in the slightest maternal.

Yes, she could love him.

If she was honest with herself, she’d have to admit that maybe, just maybe, she loved him a little bit already.

* * *

The soft sounds of their pajama feet scraped across the kitchen’s white-tiled floor, announcing their approach. Dara had been up for hours. Actually, she’d never gone to sleep at all. She sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading yesterday’s newspaper, when Angie and Bobby ambled into the room, rubbing sleep-puffy eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Bobby asked around a yawn.

“The snow got too deep for me to drive home, so your dad invited me to sleep on your couch.” They looked so adorable, so angelic with their tousled hair and sleep-pinked cheeks, that she wanted to hug them. “C’mere,” she said, giving in to the feeling, “and gimme a hug.” Dara extended her arms, and the children fell into them as if they’d been doing it every morning of their lives.