Marry Me (6 page)

"The wine too. I'll open it so you can have a glass when you get home."

"Perfect," Faith replied, though she imagined Angela would drink it all before she ever had a chance to taste it.

They strolled out, Lucas guiding her down the sidewalk with a hand on her arm.

Angela called from the porch, "When will you be back?"

Faith glanced up at Lucas. His expression promised any number of delights, not the least of which would be food.

Faith peered at Angela and said, "I have no idea, but it'll be very late."

* * *

Angela hid behind the drapes, watching as Faith got into the car with Lucas Merriweather. The vehicle was a limousine, complete with a uniformed chauffeur who held the door as she climbed in.

It was typical that Faith would have the cash to buy such a pretty dress, that she was skinny enough to wear it, that she'd stumble on a man like Merriweather.

They'd grown up together, raised by Gracie who'd urged them to choose a path and confidently strut down it. She'd insisted they could succeed at whatever they tried.

Well, the advice had worked for Faith. No matter what she touched, she turned it into gold. But for Angela, the universe was fickle, and she never managed to thrive.

She was twenty-five, her unemployment about to run out,
her job search going nowhere. In a few weeks, when she couldn't pay her rent, she'd lose her apartment and have to move back in with Faith and Gracie.

It was the story of her life that she failed at everything, and Gracie ended up rescuing her. If Gracie had ever lifted a finger to assist Angela, rescue wouldn't be necessary. Gracie had opened every possible door for Faith, but not Angela.

Gracie had introduced Faith to Harold. Gracie had convinced him to hire Faith as his housekeeper. Angela still couldn't figure out how Gracie had persuaded him to marry Faith, but he had, and now, Faith had inherited his estate.

Gracie played favorites, preferring Faith to Angela. Angela could have been wedged into Harold's orbit. But no. With Gracie, it was all Faith, Faith, Faith.

Faith had Harold's fortune, while Angela remained where she'd always been:  broke, miserable, and alone.

Harold had been dead for months, and Angela didn't understand why Faith hadn't spent any of the money. She claimed she was saving it for when the kids were older, but why worry about the future? They needed stuff immediately—like a bigger house.

Faith should purchase one up on the hill so they could gaze down on the valley and thumb their noses at people who were poorer than they were.

If Angela's financial situation continued to worsen, and she was forced to move home, she wasn't about to sleep on the extra bed in Peanut's room. She would demand that Faith hire a realtor and start looking at property. There was no reason they shouldn't live according to their means.

The limousine vanished from view, and Angela scoffed with disgust.

Faith had said she'd be out late, and from how she'd been making cow eyes at Merriweather, they'd probably wind up in the sack. They probably weren't even going to supper. They were probably heading to a hotel.

Angela couldn't imagine prim, proper, saintly Faith falling into bed with Merriweather on the first date, but his charms were legendary. He showered his lovers with jewelry and other expensive gifts, and on one wild occasion, he'd picked up
some model for a weekend getaway and had flown her to Paris on a private jet.

If Faith ended up in Paris, Angela would slit her wrists.

She went to the kitchen, where she dumped the flowers in the sink. She'd told Faith she'd put them in water, but Gracie could deal with them. Or Faith could take care of her own damn flowers.

Angela uncorked the wine, poured herself a glass, and began to drink.

* * *

Faith buried herself in the food, trying not to glance up. Lucas was staring at her so intently that she felt like a rabbit hiding from a hawk, while knowing that—when she least expected it—the hawk would swoop in and devour her.

Since they'd climbed into his car, he'd said very little. Through the ride to the restaurant, the seating at the best table, the excellent service as the waiters fawned over them, he'd been silent and…smoldering. Yes, that was the word.

Smoldering.

With each passing minute, his attention was more unbearable, but not in a bad way. There was so much sexual tension between them that she was ready to throw down her fork and invite him to sneak off to the bathroom.

They could lock themselves in a stall, and it would only take a few seconds to finish. Maybe then, they could come back to the table and converse like two ordinary people.

"Why are you staring at me?" she finally inquired.

"I like watching you."

"What are you thinking about?"

"You know what," he responded. "You shouldn't have to ask."

"Do you ever think about any topic but sex?"

"No."

"Humor me. Tell me one thing that's on your mind—besides sex."

"You're so beautiful tonight."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Normally, I'd have skipped the dinner altogether and taken you straight to the nearest motel."

"Why didn't you?"

"I doubt you'd have agreed, and my ego couldn't have stood the shock of your rejection."

She laughed, glad the tension was easing.

"I don't like you." She stopped and scowled. "Or maybe I do. I can't decide."

"Why does it matter?"

"I don't fall into bed with men I hardly know, and I most especially don't sleep with men I don't like."

"What about my grandfather? Where was he on your list?"

"Don't be obnoxious," she scolded.

"I can't help but be curious what it was like between you and Harold. I'd like to have sex with you, but—"

She was offended by his bluntness. "How do you really feel? Don't hold back on my account."

"I never will."

She grabbed her napkin and fanned her face. The wine, coupled with the man and the innuendo, was making her crackle with emotion. She was ready to ignite again and wondered if it would become a permanent condition when she was in his presence.

"It's a valid question," he claimed. "If I'm going to seduce you, it seems only fair that I know if my grandfather had you first."

His comment was vulgar and demeaning, and she was furious. "That was an awful thing to say."

"Was it?"

"Apologize right now or I'm leaving."

He reached out and took her hand, and to her disgust, she didn't pull away. She liked it when he touched her, and he gave her such extreme pleasure, merely by pressing his skin to her own.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Thank you."

"Did you like Harold?"

"Very much. He was kind to me."

"Did he like you?"

"Yes."

"He could have married any woman in the world. Why pick
you? Why at the very end of his life?"

"He trusted me. He knew I'd do as he'd requested."

"And what was that?"

"None of your business."

She sipped her wine and studied him. He was studying her too, as if trying to read her mind, but he'd never be able to. She might share Harold's secrets someday, but it would be because
she
thought the time was right. He'd never pry them out of her otherwise.

"Why didn't he wed Gracie?" he asked. "She's closer to his age. If he'd chosen her, I wouldn't be so suspicious."

"She's a con artist—which he understood—while I'm revoltingly loyal and have a heart of gold."

"A bank account of gold too, thanks to him."

"Yes." She shifted forward in her chair so they were a few inches apart. "Can we talk about something besides money?"

"If you'd return what you stole, we could call it even and move on."

Faith rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You never give up, do you?"

"No."

"I've seen pictures of you in gossip magazines"—she was determined to change the subject—"and every time, you're with someone new. Do you have commitment issues?"

"Damn straight."

"No wife and home and family for you?"

"No. Not for me. I had quite enough when I was growing up."

"I pity you."

"You shouldn't. I'm willing to bet that my life has been more exciting than yours."

"You were married once," she said, "briefly, when you were very young."

He shrugged, but didn't reply.

"Are you ever in contact with her?" she asked. "Have you ever wondered what happened to her?"

At that moment, the waiter passed their table, and Lucas gestured for the bill. The waiter handed it over, and without glancing at the total, Lucas stuffed a wad of cash in the folder.

He pushed back his chair and stood. "Let's go."

"I'm not done eating."

"I am."

He walked around to her, leaned down and whispered, "I want to get you out to the car. I want to be alone with you."

His warm breath tickled her neck. Goosebumps slithered down her arms. She peered up at him, and he touched his lips to hers in a quick kiss that was so potent and so unexpected that it nearly knocked her shoes off her feet.

"Come on," he murmured.

"Okay, but since you didn't let me finish, you'll have to feed me again sometime."

"I'll insist on it."

He helped her stand, and they left. The other customers checked them out, the women in particular watching them go. She suffered a vain, possessive thrill that she was the one leaving with him, and she shook her head at her foolishness.

One date—probably the only one they'd ever have—and she was already telling herself they looked good together, that they belonged together. She had to get the stars out of her eyes, had to remember who she was and who
he
was. He was chasing after her with the worst motives, and she couldn't forget it.

As if he'd sent a secret signal to his driver, his car was at the curb. The man held the door as Faith slid into the rear seat. Lucas entered after her.

A bottle of champagne had been opened, and Lucas grabbed it and poured her a glass.

"Are you trying to impress me?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Aren't you having any?"

"I want something else."

"What?"

"You."

"I don't know if I'm ready."

"I'll get you ready."

"You're awfully sure of yourself."

"I am; I admit it."

He took her glass, downed the contents, and threw it on the
floor so he could lean in and kiss her.

This time, he abandoned any restraint. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands roaming over her torso. Before she realized what he planned to do, his fingers slipped under the fabric of her dress to caress her breast.

She gasped with surprise and drew away. Nervously, she peeked over her shoulder at the driver.

"Don't worry about him," Lucas said. "He can't see us or hear us."

"Are you positive?"

"Very. No one on the street can see in either."

Which meant she wasn't the first woman he'd seduced in his backseat. Did it matter? They weren't teenagers; they were adults and could proceed if they felt like it. Did she feel like it?

Angela often accused her of being too straight laced, and Faith supposed she was. It was too much, too soon:  the rich man, the fancy car, the chauffeur. Still, there was a divider between him and them, and the car windows were tinted.

Lucas clasped her nipple, twisting it with finger and thumb, and she purred with pleasure.

"I never took you for a coward," he said.

"I'm not."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Not you."

He kissed her again, as he continued to play with her nipple, and she couldn't resist what he was offering. He was electrifying, and she would participate in whatever game he instigated—at least for the moment.

Gripping her waist, he shifted on the seat and lifted her up and over, so she was on her knees and straddling his lap. With her crotch suddenly pressed to his, she could feel his erection. He was hard for her and wasn't ashamed to let her know it.

Her breasts were bared, and he stroked the soft mounds until she was breathless with anticipation. Then he blazed a trail down her neck, her chest, to suck on her eager nipple.

For an eternity, he bit and laved and nibbled until she was begging him to stop. She was in trouble, overwhelmed to the point where she couldn't remember what she was doing or why. Alarm bells began to chime.

If she wasn't careful, they'd have sex—in his car, with the chauffeur taking furtive glances in the rearview mirror. Is that what she wanted?