The Marrying Man (9 page)

They'd been talking about him.

And you didn't have to have a degree in psychology to know Cat didn't think much of him. The woman had flat out begged her housekeeper to postpone her vacation just so Cat wouldn't be left alone with him.

Last night he'd entertained a few convoluted and highly erotic fantasies about Cat and him and a hot tub. Now he felt as if he'd been pushed under a cold shower and left there to think about where he'd gone wrong.

Tough luck, McKendrick. That's what you get for forgetting why you're here.

***

Cat watched in dismay as her own children signed on with the enemy. The only one who hadn't fallen under the cowboy's spell was Jack and that was only because he was sick in bed with the twenty-four hour flu that had been making the rounds.

"It's not going to last," she said as the little turncoats marched off to their respective rooms to make a day list of responsibilities.

"It'll last," said Riley, sifting through a huge mound of orange index cards.

"They're having fun now," she predicted, "but just you wait until the novelty wears off. Then you'll find out what running a household is all about."

"Sit down."

She blinked. "What?"

"Sit down," he repeated.

She sat down at the kitchen table. "Better make it fast, McKendrick. I have galleys to do on my latest book."

"Your book can wait."

"No," she said carefully, "my book can't wait. That's how I pay my bills."

He plucked a stack of unopened envelopes from the wicker basket in the middle of the table. "That's the problem, Zaslow. You don't pay your bills."

She felt her cheeks redden. "Of course I pay my bills." She glanced at the postmark on one of the envelopes. "Maybe I don't always pay them on time, but I do pay them."

"Do you know what you're doing to your credit rating?"

She glared at him. "Do you know what my bank balance is?" Writing murder mysteries had proved to be extremely lucrative. "I doubt if my credit rating is in any trouble."

"Guess again, Zaslow. You have enough red flags after your name to start your own communist country."

"Very funny, cowboy, but you're not scaring me."

"Somebody should. I found three unanswered letters behind the television in the family room."

"Wonderful," she snapped. "You've proved your point. I'm a mess. Does that make you happy?"

"Happy?" He gestured broadly toward himself. "Look at me! Do I look happy?"

"Yes," she lied. "You look ecstatic. You look like you've waited all your life to find someone like me." Her words resonated in the air between them. She wished she could reach out and grab them, erase them from his memory bank, but it was too late. Her words were out there and even if her intent hadn't been provocative, the effect definitely was.

***

The last time Riley had been at a loss for words was the time he shared a hotel employees' elevator with a topless Las Vegas showgirl named Bambi.

This was worse.

Her expression didn't waver. She didn't blush. There was no indication that her words were anything more than a flip wisecrack meant to knock him down a peg or two. But he felt those words in the center of his chest and they seemed to be growing bigger, more important, with every second that passed.

He cleared his throat. "Make a list," he said. "Write down everything you do on an average day."

"I'm the mother of five," she said. "I have no average days."

"Humor me," he said. "Write down every damn thing you do from the time you open your eyes in the morning until you close 'em again at night."

Her expression grew darker. "Not everything."

"Yes," he said grimly. "Everything."

She pushed the paper and pen away from her. "Not in this lifetime."

"All right," he relented. "Forget the personal stuff." Women got a little touchy when it came to bathrooms.

"Thank you." She pulled the paper and pen back toward her and began to write.

And write.

And write.

He paced the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of black coffee, drank it, then paced some more. Finally he couldn't restrain himself. "What in hell are you doing?" he bellowed. "The Secretary of State doesn't have a day like that."

He watched, fascinated, as she looked up at him, then looked through him as if he weren't standing there in front of her. She gave her head a quick shake as if to clear away the cobwebs.

"Sorry," she said. "A great plot idea occurred to me and I didn't want to let it slip by."

"I thought you were writing up your daily schedule."

"I was but as soon as I wrote 'load the dishwasher,' I flashed on a brilliant idea where the perp stashes the bloody murder weapon in the dishwasher with the Thanksgiving dinner dishes and washes away the evidence."

He wasn't entirely sure he liked the way her mind worked.

"You're awfully quiet," she said with a grin. "Do I make you nervous?"

"I went to Harvard, Zaslow. I know the difference between fact and fiction."

The grin widened. "Are you sure you do?"

Truth was, she unnerved the hell out of him, sitting there all innocent and beautiful, bathed in the morning sunshine that spilled through the kitchen windows. "How'd you get started writing murder mysteries anyway?"

"I found a dead body near my rosebushes."

"Right," he said, not believing her for a minute, "and a six foot rabbit on the porch."

"You asked, McKendrick."

Maybe she was telling the truth. "So what were you, a homicide detective?"

"I answered phones and typed envelopes by day and wrote freelance by night."

"Before you got married?"

"No." A shadow flickered across her face. "After David died. I'd been working as a staff reporter at
Newsweek
when we met but there was no way I could juggle that and full-time motherhood."

"From
Newsweek
to typing envelopes?"

"Money was tight and I'm not afraid of hard work."

"So where does the body come in?"

"We were still living on the lower East Side of Manhattan in David's old apartment. I was pushing Sarah in her stroller and I saw something funny behind Mrs. Mazzelli's rosebushes."

"Mr. Mazzelli?"

"Bingo, cowboy. And he was clutching the little woman's cat's eye glasses in his hand."

"You look downright nostalgic."

"I am," she said. "It was serendipity."

A beautiful woman who waxed poetic over a corpse. "So what happened after you found the body?"

"I called the police, I hung around, I asked questions. Nobody paid much attention to the little housewife with the new baby and the four rowdy little boys. Eight weeks later I sent
Roses Are For Killing
on to Max who managed to sell it for more money than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. And the rest, as they say, is history."

"Have you found any more corpses in the rosebushes?"

"No, but I believe we make our own luck."

His eyebrow lifted. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning I'd sleep with my light on if I were you."

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or check his insurance policy. "Admit it, Zaslow, you're not your average mother of five."

"And you're not exactly my idea of the quintessential time management expert." She made a big production out of looking him over, head to toe. She also made it obvious that her inspection was meant to get on his nerves. It didn't. He liked it. "You should have a sunken chest, a high-pitched voice, and a pocket protector."

He struck a Schwarzenegger pose. "I don't."

She swallowed. "I've noticed."

There it was again. That indefinable tug in the center of his gut. That voice in his ear that kept saying,
This is the one.

Her gaze was steady as she looked up at him. His grasp on reality was anything but. Her blue eyes seemed smoky, darker than they had a moment ago. He moved closer. His blood pounded in his ears. Her lips parted a fraction. His hunger was a living, breathing force.
Kiss her. That's what this is all about. Kiss her and get on with it.

***

He was going to kiss her.

Cat knew it in her head, in her heart, in the way her blood moved through her body like a river seeking its source.

And the amazing this was, she was going to let him.

She was under an enchantment, that's what it was, some kind of erotic magical spell that made normally sane women do things their mothers had warned them against years ago.
Like kissing a stranger.

And he was a stranger. Just because Max had thrown them together was no reason to think otherwise. She didn't know much of anything about Riley McKendrick. Oh, she knew the basics -- Nevada born, Harvard educated -- but she didn't know one single thing of importance about the man who was preparing to take her in his arms.

Does it matter, Cat? You know everything you'll ever need to know about him.

He held out his hand to her and she placed her own hand in his. A shock of recognition sizzled through her body, the certainty that something much more powerful than she could ever understand had brought her to this moment in time.

She stood up. He drew her into his arms. She'd wondered if she would ever know this feeling again, this powerful surge of light and heat that made everything else fade to nothingness.

Now she knew. It had been waiting deep inside her, waiting for the right man and the right moment to bring it back to painful, glorious life.

He cupped her face with his massive hands and her eyes fluttered closed. She was a strong and successful woman who prided herself on her independence but as he brought his mouth down to hers, she wondered if she'd ever truly known about the wonders the world had to offer.

Wonders as simple as a man's mouth open and hot against yours, wonders as wild and intoxicating as the touch of his tongue against your lips, seeking, demanding, urging you to open for him, forcing you to acknowledge that what was happening between you was as fierce and demanding as a force of nature--and even more untamed.

Her hands came up between them and she placed her palms against his chest. It wasn't enough. She wanted to rip past the layers of clothing until it was skin to skin, heat to heat, hunger to hunger. She wanted--

The kids! The footsteps thundering through the hall were coming closer.

She pushed Riley away, feeling guilty as sin but alive. Alive to the moment and the man and the wonder of it all and she wished she could feel that way for the rest of her life.

***

Being a man had its drawbacks, one of which was making itself obvious as Riley struggled back to a mere mortal plane of existence. He quickly crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and occupied himself with checking for orange juice or some other damn thing while he waited.