The Fiancée Fiasco (17 page)

"Are you kidding?" From his position by the desk, Win shot Roseanne a dark look. "For years I've bent over backward to make sure they never find out. Meanwhile, that bastard was
proud
of it."

Roseanne watched the tension knot beneath Win's dress shirt. "How'd you find out, yourself, then?"

He turned back to glare into one of his computer monitors. "On my sixteenth birthday he brought me into town with him from the ranch—we grew up several miles outside town. I was thrilled. He'd never brought one of us into town with him before." Win uttered a brief, humorless laugh. "I soon found out why he kept us so far away. At his townhouse he had a woman. An attractive young woman. All smiles and lipstick. My daddy introduced her to me as his 'friend.'"

Roseanne snorted.

Win twisted sharply to glare at her. "You got something to say?"

"Yeah." Her smile was wry. "That word 'friend.' It's the same word my dad used to describe his relationship with his receptionist."

Win's eyes bore into her.

The laugh Roseanne gave wasn't as light as she'd intended. "Until the day he moved in with her, of course. After that, it was kind of hard to pretend."

For a moment, Win continued to stare. "Your father deserted you?"

"Me, my three sisters, and my mother. Yes."

"So," he said slowly. "You understand." His expression shifted. "And then some. At least my daddy stuck around."

"Yes," Roseanne agreed.

Win shook his head. "Four daughters. I suppose that's what happened when you were eleven."

"Pardon me?"

"You told me you had to start taking care of getting your own way when you were eleven."

"I did?" Roseanne was startled. "When?"

Win walked back toward her from his desk. "On the airplane coming down to Houston."

"You remember that?"

There was a moment's hesitation as he came to a halt in front of her. "I remember everything you've ever told me, Roseanne."

"What, like you've got a photographic memory or something?"

He lightly cleared his throat. "Or something. Now I get it. What you have against men who divorce their wives. You figure they're all like your daddy, a man who abandoned some poor woman and her four daughters."

Roseanne shrugged.

"What happened afterward? Did you ever hear from him again?"

"Oh, he called on the phone about a week after he moved out." Roseanne smiled faintly. "I managed to get a private minute to talk to him. I was sure if I could get him alone he'd admit the whole thing was a joke."

"I take it it wasn't a joke."

Roseanne shook her head, remembering. "He put his girlfriend on the line. I think she tried to say something comforting, but I started to scream. I hung up the phone, ran up to my room, and cried for five hours straight. When I was done I swore I'd never cry over another man as long as I lived."

Win's gaze was close on her. "You made a few other decisions that day, didn't you?"

She nodded. "I swore I'd never end up in my mother's position. She hadn't been in the job market for fifteen years. She had four school-age daughters and was accustomed to the income of a medical doctor. Sure, there was child support, but it was still a mess."

"Hence your push to make partner at CovMarch."

"Right."

"And the lectures about independence from men." His mouth curved into a rueful smile.

"Well, yes, that sort of independence is very important to me. For obvious reasons."

"Yes, obvious." Win leaned his weight against his office chair. "Now a whole pack of things seem obvious. Like why you've been so adamant about keeping me at arm's length." He gave a gruff laugh. "Hell, I must look like a very sorry proposition to you."

Roseanne's heart stopped. "That all depends...
Did
you desert your wife, Win?"

His gaze dropped. In that instant Roseanne understood that even after the confidences they'd just exchanged, she'd crossed some invisible line. He turned aside while shoving a hand through his hair. "According to most people that's what it was, yes."

"Win." She heard her voice come out pleading as she took a step toward him. "Why did you divorce Sylvia—really?"

He turned to shoot her a deeply pained look. "Don't ask me that. Please."

"Why not—?"

"Please." Right next to her now, he took her face between his hands. He was so close she could feel his lips move as he urgently murmured, "Don't think about what I am. Please. For however long we have left. Don't ask. Just—just kiss me." Then he put his mouth over hers.

At that moment, alone in his office and with his lips desperately searing hers, Roseanne wasn't about to refuse him anything. She let him crush her to him, only dimly remembering he was evading an important question. He was so warm and solid and—and—valuable. She eagerly clung to him, paying kiss for kiss.

Fortunately, the office had cleared out. There was nobody to see the kiss, to make the usual false assumptions.

This was only casual. No big deal.

That's all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Roseanne surveyed the array of cosmetics spread like a waiting army on the counter of the guest bathroom sink. It was an impressive assortment, her daily standards augmented by a panic-stricken sortie during the lunch hour to a department store near Win's office.

Tonight, the Sons of Texas ball, was to be her grand finale, after all. She wanted to look stunning.

Roseanne gazed into the mirror over the sink and grimaced. Who was she kidding? She'd never attain stunning, not even with the new dress Win had bought. Stunning would be impossible for Roseanne under any circumstances, but certainly when Win's ex-wife, Sylvia, was in the room. Now there was a stunning woman.

Not only a stunner, but a woman who still held Win's heart in the palm of her dainty hand.

Sighing, Roseanne opened some eyeshadow. She'd noticed how Win's behavior had grown increasingly abstracted over the course of the day. He was clearly anxious about seeing Sylvia again. By now he probably realized that the Sons of Texas ball would be fraught with romantic memories. Perhaps he'd come to regret deciding to convince his ex their relationship was over. Bringing another woman on his arm tonight would put the last nail in that coffin.

As she smoothed light lavender over her eyelid, Roseanne assured herself that she didn't care what Winthrop Carruthers thought or felt about his ex. He was passing out of her life tomorrow. She was getting on a plane back to Seattle. Once she had that retainer agreement for Covington March signed, he could love whatever woman he pleased.

She hadn't gotten emotionally close to him or anything. No disaster like that. She was still heart-free, wise, and independent. Oh, yeah. If there were butterflies in her stomach now it was only...stage fright. Tonight's ball would be her most public performance yet as Winthrop's fiancée.

The effect of the lavender eyeshadow with the lavender dress resulted in a lavender overload. Wincing, Roseanne reached for the makeup remover. She twisted off the cap and splashed some onto a cotton ball.

As she carefully wiped the lavender from her eyelid, she admitted there had been one dicey moment, though, just this morning. The thick screen normally separating their betrothal charade from reality had dissolved. Even now, simply remembering the moment made the butterflies in her stomach dart about crazily.

Win had found her in bed, still asleep, at six-fifteen. "You've got fifteen minutes, girlie-girl, to hop out of that sack and get yourself fit to be seen," he'd warned. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he'd then asked, "How the hell did you manage to sleep through the alarm? It's set at top volume."

"It is just too early to be conscious," Roseanne had bitterly complained. She tried to snuggle deeper into the covers. "You're a madman. Give me five more minutes."

"Five more minutes, my eyes. I know what you're angling for, and I won't be fooled like I was yesterday. Here—" Win took hold of her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Oh, sweet Lord," he exclaimed. "What did you do to your face?"

"My face?" Reaching up, Roseanne felt a gooey glaze on her nose. "Oh, that," she grumbled, both relieved and embarrassed. How could she have forgotten? This was why she'd slept with her face carefully off the sheets and pillowcase all night. "It's a facial."

"A facial?" Win bent closer, his brows drawing together. "But it smells like..." He stopped and stared down at her. "It smells
edible
."

"Oh." Roseanne frowned, thinking. "You know, it might be. It's made of yogurt, wheat germ, honey. And a little oatmeal."

"Oatmeal?" A slow smile spread across his face. "It's not only edible, it's breakfast!"

"Hey. What are you doing?"

Win had lowered his face close to hers. "Jus' tryin' a sample." He brushed his tongue by the corner of her mouth, then grinned. "Not bad."

"Winthrop Carruthers, don't you dare eat my facial!" She wasn't sure exactly how to stop him, though. His weight was trapping her under the covers. But she was able to squeeze out a hand and then jab him in a spot she'd discovered between his ribs.

The jab was a success. She'd nailed Win's ticklish spot. He flinched and made a grab for her hand. "Oh, no you don't."

The next minute they were wrestling. While Roseanne hit as many of Win's ticklish spots as she could manage, he found a few of her own.

"Truce, truce!" Win begged, barely able to get the words out through his laughter.

"Thank God," Roseanne gasped. "I was afraid I'd have to give in first."

Their legs were now tangled amid the sheets. Win was poised on his hands above Roseanne's prone upper half. The laughter that had warmed his eyes flickered down to a smoldering fire.

Rather than fright at the message in his gaze, or even an uncomfortable thrill, Roseanne felt a deep and reassuring warmth. In that moment she felt safe and cared for, content and...at home. Yes, more than anything else, she felt at home.

But Win stayed true to their agreement. He didn't press toward what his gaze said he wanted. Slowly, he sat back from her. With an unusually hoarse voice, he asked, "You ready to get up and get dressed now?"

Feeling pretty sure she was more relieved than disappointed, Roseanne lifted her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Even in the moment, she knew it
was
only a moment. Yet her voice was hoarse, too. "I can be ready in fifteen—provided you clear out of here."

"Oh." Win stood awkwardly and quickly turned. "I'll be waiting for you in the living room."

It had been the last light-hearted moment of the day. For the rest of it, Win had been in his most otherworldly state. He'd barely noticed when Roseanne had switched the car radio from his music to her news on the drive downtown, and he'd worked straight through lunch. On the way home, she'd had to remind him to stop at the cleaners to pick up his tuxedo. He'd come out with the garment in its plastic bag, his face perfectly expressionless.

All day he'd been thinking about Sylvia. Roseanne was sure of it.

Now she looked in the bathroom mirror and wondered if she shouldn't try green for her eyeshadow. The lightest touch of mint-green. It would be different, an accent to the dark liner she'd already put around her eyes and the pale lavender of her dress.

If she couldn't be beautiful at least she could be unique.

Win was sitting on the living room sofa when Roseanne finally emerged, as dressed and groomed as she was going to get. He'd evidently been waiting for some time. A magazine was propped tiredly in his hands and one ankle was crossed over the opposite knee. All he'd had to do was shower, shave, and pull on his suit.

He looked up as she came into the room. Something flickered behind his eyes.

Roseanne could feel the dress crisp and tight around her, the air cool on her bare shoulders. She'd gone to town on her eyes, making sure they appeared darker and larger than they really were.

Feeling an uncharacteristic pang of nerves under Win's scrutiny, she asked, "Will I do?"

He slowly closed his magazine and set it to one side. "You'll do." In his voice was a touch of the same hoarseness it had held that morning in her bedroom.

As she clasped and unclasped her purse, Roseanne wondered why Win hadn't gotten up from the sofa. Usually he was dreadfully correct about such ceremony. "Uh...Are you ready to go?"

Finally, he rose stiffly to his feet. "You know, we don't have to do this."

She froze. "What are you talking about?"

"We don't have to go to the dance."

Cold fingers speared through her insides. "Of course we have to go. It's the main event."

His gaze averted. "Over the past ten days I bet enough people have gotten the message I'm not going to remarry Sylvia. Showing up at the dance is not a necessity."

The cold fingers inside Roseanne turned to ice. She supposed all day had been leading toward this. He wasn't ready to take this final step, to throw his involvement with another woman in his ex-wife's face.

Her voice came out cool and professionally neutral. "Are you saying you do not want to attend the dance?"

"Well, I—"

"Or possibly that you are afraid to?"

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and narrowed his eyes. "Now, what would I be afraid of?"

"Exactly." Snapping her purse shut one final time, Roseanne led the way to the front door.

"Afraid," Win muttered. "Who is she kidding?"

~~~

The huge hotel ballroom was hardly large enough to contain all the pretenders to the title of "sons of Texas," meaning descendants of the original founders of the glorious and unequalled twenty-eighth state of the Union.

Up above, glittering chandeliers rivalled the sequins and diamonds sparkling below on the well-heeled femininity prowling the polished parquet floor. Dotted among the colorful gowns were the dark suits worn by the scions of Texas oil barons and Texas cattle rangers. These were men who moved with the air of kings and conquerors.

Roseanne, surveying the crowd, wondered how Sylvia and Win had managed to make contact ten years ago in the midst of so much humanity. By her side tonight, Win stood straight and stiff, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes, however, peered into the crowd with a keen, searching expression.