Kitabı oku: «Baby for the Tycoon», sayfa 6

“I really do wish you’d been here for the wedding. I guess I should have made sure you knew that.”

Her mom slapped the knife down onto the counter. “You guess?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, putting a little more force into the chopping. “I guess I should have.”

“I am your mother. Is it so wrong for me to wish you’d wanted me here enough to—”

“Oh, this is so typical,” she said. “Why should I have to beg you to come to my wedding? I’ve lived in California for over five years. When I first moved here, I invited y’all out to visit all the time. You never came. No one in the family has shown any interest in my life or my work until now. But now that baby Peyton is here, you’ve descended like a plague of locusts and—”

“My land,” her mother said, cutting her off, her hands going to her hips. “And you wonder why we didn’t want to come before now, when you talk about us like that.”

Wendy just shook her head. Once again, she’d managed to offend and horrify her mother. Somehow, her mother always ended up as the bridge between Wendy and the rest of the Morgans. The mediator pulled in both directions, satisfying no one.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I don’t think you’re a locust. Or a plague.”

“Well, then, how did you mean it?”

“It’s just—” Bracing her hands on either side of the cutting board, she let her head drop while she collected her thoughts. She stared at the neat little carrot circles. They were nearly all uniform. Only a few slices stood out. The bits too bumpy or misshapen. The pieces that didn’t fit.

All her life, she’d felt like that. The imperfect bit that no one wanted and no one knew what to do with. Until she’d gone to work for FMJ. And there, finally, she’d fit in.

Her mother just shook her head, sweeping up the pile of diced celery and dumping it in the pot. “You’re always so eager to believe the worst of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“It most certainly is. All your life, you’ve been rebellious just for the sake of rebellion. Every choice you’ve made since the day you turned fifteen has been designed to irritate your father and grandmother. And now this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Remember when you were fifteen and you and Bitsy bought those home-perm kits and gave yourselves home perms four days before picture day at the school?”

She did remember. Of course she did. Bitsy had ended up with nice, bouncy curls. But she’d been bald for months while her hair grew back out. Her father had been so mad his face had turned beet-red and her mother had run off to the bathroom for a dose of his blood-pressure medicine.

That had not been her finest moment.

“Or the time you wanted to go to Mexico with that boyfriend of yours. When we told you no, you went anyway.”

“You didn’t have to have the guy arrested,” she said weakly. She couldn’t muster any real indignation.

“And you should have told him you were only sixteen.”

Also, not her proudest moment.

“And don’t try to say we were being overprotective. No sane parent lets their sixteen-year-old daughter leave the country with a boy they barely know.”

“Look, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was such a difficult teenager. I’m sorry I never lived up to your expectations. But that has nothing to do with who I am now.”

“Doesn’t it?” Her mom swept up the carrots Wendy had been chopping and dumped them into the pot, lumpy, misshapen bits and all. She added a drizzle of oil in the pan and cranked up the heat. “You’ve rushed into this marriage with this man we’ve never even met—”

There was a note of censure in her voice that Wendy just couldn’t let pass. “This man that I’ve worked with for years. If you’ve never met him, it’s because you never came out to visit.”

Her mother planted both her hands on the counter between them and leaned forward. “Jonathon seems like a very nice man. But if you married him solely to annoy us then—”

“Oh, Marian, don’t be so suspicious.”

Wendy spun around toward the kitchen door to see her father and Jonathon standing just inside. She and her mother had been so intent on their own conversation that neither of them had heard them enter.

The two men had obviously come to an understanding about the argument upstairs. Her father had his arm slung over Jonathon’s shoulders as if they were old buddies. The smile on his face was downright smug.

Jonathon looked less comfortable. In fact, he rather looked like he’d swallowed something nasty. Slowly his gaze shifted from her mother to her. Obviously, he heard everything her mother said to her. And he didn’t like it.

Nine

“I’m sure,” Wendy’s father was saying, “that our little Gwen here has grown out of her rebellions.”

Jonathon swallowed the tight knot of dread in his throat. “Mrs. Morgan, I assure you—”

But Wendy’s mother sent both of them withering glares and he was smart enough to shut up when a woman wielding a butcher knife sent him a look like that.

Wendy pointed the tip of her own knife in her father’s direction. “You stay out of this.” For the first time in years she felt as though she and her mother were actually talking. She wasn’t about to let her father muck it up.

Turning her gaze back to her mother, she continued as if the men hadn’t entered at all. “I’m not a rebellious teenager anymore. I’m a grown woman. With a job I love. I may not have married the next political golden boy and I may not be VP of Twiddling My Thumbs at Morgan Oil, but I’m successful in my own right. And a lot of people would be proud to have me as their daughter.”

“It’s not that we’re not proud,” her mother began. “But—” “Of course there’s a but. There’s always a but.” Her mother ignored her interruption, slicing to the point of the matter as easily as she sliced through the joints in the chicken. “But you’ve always delighted in rebelling against your father at every turn. If I thought for a minute that marrying Jonathon and raising Peyton was truly what you wanted—”

“It is.”

“—and not just another one of your rebellions then I would support you wholeheartedly.”

Wendy threw up her hands. “Then support me!”

“But I know how you are. If Mema or Big Hank, let alone your daddy, announced that the sky is blue, the very next morning you’d run out and join a research committee to scientifically prove that it’s not.”

“You make me sound completely illogical.” Wendy shook her head as if she didn’t even know how to defend herself against her mother’s accusations. “It’s like you haven’t heard anything I just said.”

“Well, you tell me whether or not this is just rebellion.” Her mom propped her fists on her hips. “Everyone in this family thinks Hank Jr. and Helen should raise Peyton, except you. Do you have any logical reason why you’re so darned determined to raise this baby?”

Jonathon had had enough. He stepped away from her father. Pulling Wendy back against his chest, he said calmly, “I believe that’s the point, isn’t it? Everyone in the family except for Wendy. And Bitsy. Since Bitsy didn’t want her brother raising her daughter, shouldn’t that be enough for everyone?”

Marian snapped her mouth closed, narrowing her gaze and setting her jaw at a determined angle. He’d seen that look often enough on Wendy.

“You didn’t know Bitsy,” she said to him, obviously making an effort to moderate her tone. “Bitsy was never happy if she wasn’t stirring up trouble. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but has it occurred to either of you that naming Wendy guardian might just have been her way of creating conflict from beyond the grave?”

He felt Wendy pulling away from him, tensing to speak. He tugged her back soundly against him and said, “I may not have known Bitsy. But I know Wendy. I know she’s going to make a wonderful mother.”

Her mom studied him for a second, apparently searching for signs of his conviction. Finally, she nodded. “Hank Jr.'s wife, Helen, sees that baby as little more than a crawling, crying dollar sign. Peyton is a fast ticket to a bigger chunk of Mema’s estate. Helen will fight you for that baby.”

“Helen has three boys of her own that she’s done a crappy job raising,” Wendy pointed out. “If she hadn’t shipped those boys off to boarding school the second they were old enough to go, maybe I’d see things differently.”

“Just be prepared. Helen’s like a bulldog with a bone when money’s involved.”

“That may be true,” Jonathon said. “But Helen isn’t here now. And we have all weekend to convince Mema that we’ll be the best parents for Peyton.”

Her mother harrumphed. “Don’t think Helen hasn’t figured that out as well. Mark my words, girly, you might be glad we came to visit you here instead of waiting for you to come to us. This might be your only chance alone with Mema to convince her that you and Jonathon are the happy, loving couple you want us all to believe.”

There were few things that terrified Jonathon. He thought of himself as a reasonable and logical man. Irrational fears were for small children. Not adults.

At nineteen, he’d spent a solid hour in the dorm room of a buddy, holding the guy’s pet tarantula in his hand to get himself over his fear of spiders. At twenty-three, about the time he’d made his first million, he’d spent three weeks in Australia learning how to scuba dive. That trip had served the joint purpose of getting him over his irrational fear of sharks and his equally irrational fear that FMJ would go under if he wasn’t available 24/7.

He now took annual diving vacations. After the first, he’d stayed closer to home.

He was a man who faced his fears and conquered them.

Which didn’t entirely explain why at nearly midnight on Saturday, he was still sitting in the kitchen sipping twenty-year-old scotch with Wendy’s father and uncle. He’d been there for hours, listening to them tell stories about Texas politics and—as her father colorfully called it—“life in the oil patch.”

Her family was entertaining, to say the least. And that was the sole reason he hadn’t headed to bed much earlier. This had nothing to do with the fact that Wendy was now sleeping in his bed.

He’d been dreading sleeping in the same bed, but that was unavoidable now. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now he couldn’t get her mother’s words out of his head.

After reminding Wendy over and over again that his own motives were selfish, why did it bother him to think that hers might not be so pure? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he hated the idea that their marriage was just one more rebellion in a long line of self-destructive behaviors. Worse still was the idea that she’d quickly lose interest in him once the tactic failed to shock her parents.

If she offered herself to him, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Even knowing what he did now, the temptation would be too sweet.

To his chagrin, he actually felt a spike of panic when her uncle stood, tossed back the last of his drink and said, “Jonathon, I appreciate the hospitality—and the scotch—but I know I’ll regret it tomorrow if I drink any more.”

Wendy’s dad stood as well. “Marian is gonna have my hide tomorrow as it is.”

Jonathon held up the decanter toward Wendy’s father. “Are you sure I can’t offer you another?”

“Well…”

But Hank slapped his brother on the arm in a jovial way. “We’re keeping him from his bride.”

“Don’t remind me,” her father grumbled.

“No man should have to entertain a couple of old blowhards when he has a lovely new wife to warm his bed.”

Jonathon nearly smiled at that, despite himself. He liked Wendy’s family far more than he wanted to admit. He knew she found them overbearing and pretentious, but there was something about their combination of good-ol'-boy charm and keen intelligence that appealed to him.

Besides, the longer he kept them here, shooting bull until all hours of the night, the greater the chance that Wendy would be fast asleep by the time he got up to the bedroom.

However, before he could even offer them yet another drink, Wendy’s father and uncle were stumbling arm in arm up the stairs to the guest bedrooms where they were staying. He winced as they banged into the antique sideboard his decorator had foolishly put outside his office. And then cringed as her father cursed loudly at the thing. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that all of their fumbling didn’t wake Mema.

He waited until they vanished down the upstairs hall before he followed, turning off lights as he went. That afternoon, he and Wendy’s father had moved Peyton’s crib from the nursery to the master bedroom. Ironic, since it had only just arrived in the past week. They’d moved the spare mattress up from the garage and now the guest-bedroom-turned-nursery was once again a guest bedroom. Throughout the process, Wendy kept insisting that her family should just book rooms at one of the many hotels in town. Mema had looked scandalized. Marian had looked offended. And Wendy had eventually caved.

And so, after thirteen years of living completely by himself, he now had six additional people under the roof. Maybe he should buy a bigger house. One with more bedrooms. Though a dozen bedrooms wouldn’t have saved him from this. When the family of your new wife was visiting, they all expected you to share a room with her. There was just no way around that.

After putting it off as long as he could, he finally bit the bullet and let himself into the master bedroom. The room he’d be sharing with Wendy. His wife.

Despite his numerous prayers, she wasn’t asleep.

She sat up in the bed, her back propped against the enormous square pillows his decorator had purchased—personally he’d never been able to stand the damn things and wasn’t entirely sure why he continued to pile them on the bed every morning.

Peyton was asleep on Wendy’s chest, her tiny fist curled near her face so that she sucked on one knuckle. Wendy was on his side of the bed. The bedside lamp was on and in her other hand, she held a Kindle.

He glanced at the bedside table. Scratch that, she held his

Kindle.

She looked up as he closed the door behind him. Try as he might, he couldn’t force himself to walk into the room more than a step or two.

Wendy smiled sheepishly. “Sorry to steal your Kindle,” she whispered. “She fell asleep here and I didn’t want to risk waking her by digging around for my own book.”

She was dressed in a white tank top and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle boxer shorts. Her legs were stretched out in front of her. How a woman as short as she was had ended up with legs that long was a mystery, but damn, they seemed to stretch for miles.

Her skin was creamy white, her legs lightly muscled, ending in perfect, petite feet. And her toenails were painted a sassy iridescent purple. He had to force his attention away from her bare legs, but couldn’t make his gaze move all the way up to her face. He got caught on her arms, which were just as bare as her legs and somehow nearly as erotic.

In all those years that they’d worked together, he hadn’t

ever seen her in something sleeveless. Her upper arms were just like the rest of her. Small and lean, but lightly muscled. Unexpectedly strong.

There was something so intimate about the sight of her holding Peyton on her chest, dressed for bed. In his bed.

His muscles practically twitched with the need to cross the room and pull her into his arms. To do all kinds of wicked things to her body. Or maybe to just sit on the bed next to her and watch her sleep.

That thought—the idea that he’d be content without even touching her—that was the thought that scared the crap out of him. Physically wanting her, he could handle that. He’d been fighting his desire for her for years. He always won that battle. But this new urge to just be with her. He didn’t even want to know what the hell that was about.

Suddenly his master bedroom seemed way too small.

That new house he was going to buy—the one with a dozen guest bedrooms—apparently the master would need to be four times bigger. He was going to have to move out to Portola Valley to find a house big enough.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” Wendy asked.

He dragged his gaze up to her face. She was frowning in that cute way she did, biting down on her lower lip in a half frown, half sheepish grin. He walked closer so that he didn’t have to speak louder than a whisper. “Why?” he asked.

“You’re mad that I borrowed your Kindle.” She flicked the button on the side to turn it off. “I didn’t even think. That was a horrible invasion of your privacy.”

He wanted to stand here watching her sleep and she was worried that reading from his Kindle was an invasion of his privacy. She had no idea.

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

“Are you sure?” Despite the whisper, her voice sounded high and nervous. “Because you look really annoyed.” If anything, he probably looked as though he was trying not to kiss her. Good to know she interpreted that as annoyed. “It’s just a Kindle. Not a big deal.”

Then he crossed automatically to his side of the bed. The side she was sitting on. He took off his watch and set it on the valet tray on the bedside table. The familiarity of the action calmed his nerves. Of course, normally there wasn’t an empty baby bottle beside the lamp, but still…

“Did you have trouble getting her to fall sleep?” he asked as he pulled off his college ring and dropped it beside the watch. Then he hesitated at the simple gold band on his left hand. Since he’d slept in Peyton’s nursery last night, he’d had both rings and the watch on all night. This was the first time he’d taken off the wedding ring.

“No.” Wendy rubbed at her eyes a little before arching her back into a stretch. “I think she’s finally getting used to the new feeding schedule. I woke her at eleven for that bottle and she went right back to sleep…”

Jonathon looked up when he heard her voice trail off. Like him, she was staring at the ring on his hand. Her gaze darted to his and held it for a second. He watched, entranced, as she nervously licked her lips. Something hot and unspoken passed between them, once again stirring that need to kiss her. To mark her as his own. To bend her back over the bed and plow into her.

Thank God, Peyton was asleep on her chest, keeping him from doing anything too stupid.

He yanked the ring off his finger and dropped it onto the tray beside his watch and his class ring.

Her gaze dropped to where his watch and rings lay on the nightstand. Then it snapped up to his face again. She gave another one of those wobbly, anxious smiles. “I’m on your side of the bed, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I’ll move. Just give me a second.” Bracing an arm at Peyton’s back, she half sat up, then hesitated. Peyton squirmed and Wendy’s frown deepened.

“Just lie her down in the center. She can sleep there.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” Was it wrong that he was scheming to get Peyton in the bed between them? A little devious maybe, but not wrong. He wouldn’t make a move on Wendy as long as Peyton was in the same room. But having her in the bed was a stroke of genius. Better than an icy shower, he was sure. And less conspicuous. Besides, he even had sound scientific reasoning in his corner. “I’ve been reading this book on—”

“Attachment parenting?” she asked as she waggled the Kindle. “I’ve been stalking your Kindle, remember?”

That playful, suggestive tone of hers was like a kick in the gut. Maybe he’d still need that cold shower. “I should just sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She leaned over and rolled Peyton from her chest to the center of the bed. Then came up onto her hands and knees to climb over the still sleeping baby. The thin cotton of her boxer shorts clung enticingly to her bottom and his groin tightened in response to the sight.

She had no idea just how far from ridiculous he was being. This was him at his most practical.

Hell, forget the floor. He’d just sleep in the shower. With the cold water on.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” she said, tossing the pillows on that side of the bed onto the floor—the side that from this moment on would always be her side of the bed. “When I think of all the things you’ve done for me in the past few weeks…”

“Don’t make me into some kind of hero. You know why I married you.” The problem was he was no longer sure he knew why he’d done it. “My motives weren’t altruistic.”

At least that was true.

She flashed him a smile that was a little bit sad. “I know. But neither are mine. And I’m not about to kick you out of bed.”