The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) (12 page)

“Hey.”

When she raised her head up to look at him, the shimmering glisten of held-back tears and the turned-down tightness of her full lips brought him up short.

She’d heard what he’d said to Carter.

“Pamela—”

“I was coming to tell you I’m really tired so I think I’ll go to bed. Alone,” she added, when he took a step toward her. “Good night.”

Son of a bitch!

He watched her stiff retreat and wanted to run after her, but what could he say? He couldn’t deny what she’d heard. Maybe Carter had done him a favor by calling. He hadn’t lost focus, but maybe he
had
gotten…distracted. He was in the home stretch. He wouldn’t let himself get sidetracked.

Now if he could only get his screaming, frustrated body to cooperate.

…

Pamela hunched over the espresso machine, needing the jolt of caffeine after another sleepless night. Day three of her marriage to a ghost. Marcus would leave before she got up in the morning and would return after she went to bed. The only evidence he’d been home the past few days was the stack of dishes that slowly grew in the sink.

She was glad for his absence, not sure she wanted to face him. She oscillated between arousal, at the memories of her back against the wall and him thrusting into her, and anger that he’d used her and that she’d made it easy for him.

The front door opened and she whirled around, her hand flying to her chest. Marcus walked in, sweating through shorts and a gray Stanford University T-shirt. She checked the clock on the oven. Seven fifteen.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, willing her heartbeat to return to normal.

“It’s my house.”

“You could’ve fooled me. I haven’t seen you in two days.”

“I didn’t think you’d miss me.”

“I didn’t.” She turned back to her coffee, adding cream and sugar. Peering over her shoulder, she saw him place his palms on the granite counter and lean against it, stretching his legs behind him. “You run?”

“Every day.” He straightened, then brushed past her and opened the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. He twisted the top, tilted his head back, and swallowed the contents.

The strong column of his throat, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the sleek muscles of his thighs… Pamela cursed the flush of heat that pooled in her core. Still, she ogled him, unable to look away.

When he was done, he tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin and looked at her.

Busted.

Heat swept across her face and neck and she stared into her mug, shuffling her feet against the floor.

“Are we going to talk?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Our wedding night.”

“No.” She headed out of the kitchen.

Marcus blocked her exit. “The call I had with Carter wasn’t what it sounded like.”

“Move.”

“We need to get past this.”

“I’m past it. In fact, I’m over it. Move.”

“You’re acting childish,” he chided, like he was talking to a recalcitrant teen.

She tensed and tightened her fingers on her cup. “And avoidance makes you mature? Where were you the past two days? What were you doing? I stayed here. You left. That’s childish.”

“I was working on the revised letter of intent.”

She blinked. “So?”

“So, I sent it to Holcombe.”

“A letter of intent? Is that your offer?”

“For all intents and purposes, yes. It’s a nonbinding preliminary agreement that sets everything in motion. It’s the first step toward a contract.”

“So he accepts the letter of intent and signs the contract? That should be fast, right?”

“This isn’t a residential transaction. It’s more complex, more involved. We speak to the employees, check vendor contracts, and conduct environmental studies. We look at their financial records and—”

“What’s the bottom line? How long until he signs the contract?”

“Four months.”

“Then it’s over?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“You’re kidding, right? We have sex and five minutes later you’re telling Carter your plan worked.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It was a mistake that won’t be repeated.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “Is that how you want to spend the next four months?”

“Let’s not complicate matters. We know where we stand. We’ll use the time to strengthen your social position with Holcombe.”

He studied her and she held his gaze, forcing her expression to remain neutral. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of glimpsing her inner turmoil. Finally, he nodded and stepped aside.

Pamela forced a smile. “Good. Now there’s no need for you to waste any more time on
this
end of the deal.”

Chapter Twelve

The wedding of Pamela Harrington and Marcus Pearson made the front pages of both the Style and Business sections of the
Washington Post
. The local media foamed with eagerness to get the scoop on the sudden marriage of the old-money DC socialite to the self-made real estate mogul.

How long did they know each other?

Where did they meet?

And Pamela’s personal favorite: when was she due?

Everyone wanted their turn in the spotlight, and invitations poured in. Over the next month, they settled into a routine. Marcus left for work early each morning while she volunteered at the shelter. In the evenings, they could be found at a fund-raiser for breast cancer awareness, a dinner party at the Indian consulate, or a concert to benefit a District magnet school.

There wasn’t a repeat of their wedding night, although the kissing and touching in public was taking its toll on her in private. Whether she filed reports or tossed and turned in bed, she drowned in the memories of his body pressed tight against hers and the sexy friction of his powerful thrusts.

Needing a break from the public displays of affection, she sent their regrets to the Lupus Research benefit. She wanted to relax at home with takeout, a bottle of wine, and a reality-TV marathon on cable.

She unlocked the door and juggled her purse and bags inside. After kicking the door shut with her foot, she walked into the foyer and stopped short. Marcus stood in the great room, his tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up over muscled forearms, holding a stack of envelopes.

“Let me take those.” Dropping the mail on the table behind the sofa, he relieved her of the bags.

Even after a long day, he smelled wonderful. She inhaled deeply, taking in his intoxicating blend of soap, deodorant, and man. He looked tired, rumpled, and sexy.

How was that possible?

“I thought you were working late,” she said, kicking off her shoes and following him into the kitchen.

“I changed my mind.” He put her purchases down and riffled through the bags, sniffing. “Chinese? Enough for two?”

They hadn’t spent much time alone together since their wedding night. Far away from society’s prying eyes, there was no need for their pretense. No cause for him to twine his strong fingers with hers, for his hand to rest tantalizingly low on the small of her back, for his lips to meet hers in an adoring kiss.

When she hesitated, his lips tightened into a thin line. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll—”

“Yes, there’s enough.”

“And I can join you? We don’t have to talk.”

She nodded.

“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “I was going to grab a quick shower. You don’t have to wait for me.”

He squeezed her arm as he passed, sending a flux of sensation through her body. Her hands were unsteady as she placed the takeout containers on the counter.

Breathe, Pamela. Just breathe.

She could handle this. They could press pause on the movie that was their public life and enjoy a polite dinner at home.

Without touching.

After heading into her bedroom to freshen up and change her clothes, she put away a few groceries, then got out the dishes they’d need to eat. She’d opened the wine and poured a glass when Marcus padded into the kitchen.

The lights caught the burnished gold strands in his hair, still damp from the shower. He wore jeans and a navy-blue polo shirt that added compelling depth to his eyes. Leaning back against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest, the movement molding the shirt to his muscles underneath.

“It smells so good. I can’t wait to get my hands on it,” he said.

She groaned. She knew the feeling.

“How’s the deal coming along?”

“Still doing our due diligence. Everything checked out in the legal arena with zoning, building codes, title, and survey. Next we move to financials.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Guess you’ll have to put up with me for a little longer.”

After dinner, they cleared the dishes. Pamela thought Marcus would go into his office to do work, but he surprised her by grabbing his laptop and sitting next to her on the sectional. She moved her legs to give him room, and he took them and put them back on the chair, draping his left arm loosely over her knees. Her breath caught, the casual touch evoking the memory of his long, strong fingers gripping her thighs as he consumed her, stroke after relentless stroke. He gave her a quick smile before returning his attention to his computer screen.

She stared at his profile, then picked up the remote and turned on one of the all-news networks. “Is that the Senator?” she asked, stunned to see her father’s face flash across the screen.

“Looks like your father was on Capitol Hill today. Have you talked to him since the wedding?”

“Once.”

He’d called her after receiving another phone call from Dorothy Hanover about Pamela’s continued absence from the Mires Club. With her extra duties at the shelter plus her and Marcus’s additional social obligations, Pamela didn’t have the time or inclination to attend the frivolous meetings.

“Need I remind you a Harrington has been an active member of the Mires Club for generations?”

Time and distance had done little to dim the disappointment in the Senator’s voice.

“I’m not a Harrington anymore.”

“You’ll always be a Harrington, Pamela,” he said quietly, before disconnecting their call.

He was right. Despite what everyone thought, she wasn’t a Pearson. When things ended between her and Marcus, she would have to go back to being Pamela Harrington. But that didn’t mean she would return to her father’s house and continue fulfilling
his
duties. She was no longer that same person.

She changed the channel and settled in to watch a marathon of one of her favorites, a reality show about fashion design. After a few minutes she realized something was missing. The cadenced tapping of Marcus’s keyboard. She turned her head to find him watching her.

“Why don’t you give him a call? Invite him over for dinner?” he asked.

“No.”

“It might help.”

She glared at him. “Spare me your fake concern. We both know you only care about my relationship with the Senator because it still affects you getting your precious Holcombe!”

The words exploded around them, leaving the air thick with fallout.

“Are you angry at me for caring or at your father for not caring enough?”

She turned off the television, her interest in the show decimated, and stared out the window, blinking back tears.

“Does he miss me? Not what I did for him or the place I held in his life, but
me
?” she asked, her eyes glued to the city lights reflected in the canal’s dark waters.

“I saw him at the country club.”

“You did? When?”

“Before the wedding. He loves you, Pamela. Maybe he doesn’t show it the way you want him to, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She shook her head, not ready to accept his words. They sounded nice, but she’d had almost thirty years of experience with her father. She hadn’t felt his love in a long time.

Marcus leaned back on the couch, pulling her with him. She laid her head against his chest, his muscles solid against her cheek.

“Pamela?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you remember the gala at the Harrington Estate, when your father said he wouldn’t have picked me for your husband because I wasn’t one of you?”

She raised her head slightly. “Sure.”

“Was that his veiled way of disapproving because I’m white and you’re black?”

She thought for a moment, wanting to give him an honest answer. “No. At this level it’s not about race anymore. It’s about money: where it came from, how much you have, and how long your family has had it. He didn’t care you were white. He cared that he couldn’t find your family’s name in the social register.” She touched his cheek with her fingers. “You know I don’t care, right? You know race has never been an issue with me?”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I know.” They stared at each other for a long moment. She could see the flecks of fire in his eyes, and they burned brighter with each second that passed. Her eyes fell to his lips and she remembered how they felt against her own.

Considering all they’d already done, what harm was there in one little kiss?

She closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his. With a groan, he deepened the kiss with a gentleness that stole her heart. She shifted and straddled his thighs, settling against his hardness. Heat blazed through the fabric of their clothing. She sank her fingers into his hair and held his head so she could deepen the kiss, sweeping his mouth with her tongue, wanting to taste every part of him.

He pulled free. “We’ve got to stop.”

“No,” she moaned, trying to recapture their kiss.

“Yes,” he said. “I am two seconds away from taking you to my room, throwing you on the bed, and repeating our wedding night—making love to you until neither one of us can stand. Not just tonight, but every night for the foreseeable future. Is that what you want? Are you ready for things to change?”

She wanted them to. She really did.

I’ve worked too hard and come too far to let anyone get in my way, no matter how enticing the package.

It would end. Once Marcus had the Holcombe, he would walk away without a backward glance, and where would that leave her?

Without a word, she climbed off his lap and sank down beside him. She stared out the window, their harsh breath the only sound.

Marcus grabbed the remote, flipped to the recorded list, and began playback of the reality show.

“Come here,” he said and gathered her to his side. She snuggled close, craving his comfort. “Did that model say they had to design evening wear out of trash bags?”

She tried to smile, dizzy from the volley of their emotions. “Last week all they had were materials from a pet store.”

“Why do people sign up for this stuff?”

Would she have “signed up” for this crazy adventure if she’d known her heart might get broken in the process?

“I don’t know.”

…

Two mornings later, when Marcus came back from his run, he found Pamela about to leave. “Are you going to the shelter?”

Pamela looked up from her iPhone, a bag tossed over her shoulder. “No. I generally don’t go on the weekends.”

“What about the day you did that workshop?”

She lifted her brows. “An exception. Because of the workshop.”

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“I have some errands to run. I thought you were going in to the office.”

“No. I wanted us to spend some time together. It’s been a long month.”

“Why?”

It was the same question he’d asked himself when he’d first thought of the idea. In the end he hadn’t answered the question satisfactorily to himself, but he had a good answer for her.

“The other night proved we don’t have to ignore each other to get through the next few months.” He lowered his voice. “Who knows, we might have fun.”

“I like fun.” Her tongue darted out and touched her lip, leaving it moist.

Warmth flooded him and he dragged his gaze from her mouth to stare into her eyes. “Me, too.”

She inhaled. “Do you want to come with me? Afterward, we could get lunch.”

“Yeah. Let me grab a shower.”

She smiled. “Good.” She lowered her lashes and bit her lip. “There’s something I have to do, and now you can do it with me.”

His breath quickened. “Oh?”

She nodded. “As long as you don’t mind that I’ll have to take off my clothes.”

Two hours later he held open the door for her as they stepped into the air-conditioned interior of a clothing boutique on M Street in their Georgetown neighborhood.

“Shopping? This is what we could do together that involved taking off your clothes?”

She grinned. “We’ve attended a lot of events and I need to expand my wardrobe. We’re invited to a party next week, and the Holcombes will be there.”

The store looked like a large walk-in closet, the wood floors and bright lights warm and inviting. Clothes and accessories hung tastefully off different fixtures, some spotlighted as though they were works of art. A thin, middle-aged woman appeared from a seamless door in the wall. She smiled when her eyes landed on Pamela.

“Hello, Miss Harrington. Welcome back.”

He clenched his jaw and crossed his arms. “Mrs. Pearson,” he corrected from behind her.

Pamela smiled. “Thank you, Hannah. This is my husband, Marcus Pearson.”

“That’s right, I heard about your wedding. Congratulations.”

Hannah led them through another door to a private sitting room in the back of the store. A gray love seat was situated in front of a half-moon-shaped wooden platform, surrounded on three sides by mirrors.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Nothing now, but I’d love a chai latte to go.”

Hannah nodded. “I’ll get that started. Now, after your call, I pulled a few dresses for you to try on, based on the event you described for me. They’re waiting in the room for you.” She pointed to another area cordoned off by white slatted swinging doors. “Press the button in the changing room if you need anything.” She disappeared.

Pamela pushed him back onto the love seat.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

He liked this playfulness in her. He hadn’t seen it much before now. She was lighthearted, carefree, and absolutely lovely.

“Do you need help getting out of anything?” he offered.

“I think I can manage.”

A minute later, she opened the door and stepped onto the platform. She put a hand on her hip. “What do you think?”

The dress was a silvery gray, with sparkles on top and a flowing skirt. He leaned back on the chair and stretched out his arms. “It’s nice.”

“That’s it?”

“The dress is nice.
You
look incredible.”

“So on a scale of one to ten, what would you give this?”