Everything But Perfect (12 page)

Mitch let go of her hand, reached
back into the car for the basket. As they moved there together, her emotions
took control. She’d had enough of the silent treatment, pursing her lips and
allowing a loud sigh to come out of her chest.

“Are you ever going to talk to
me?” she asked, sitting on the bench as Mitch moved to the other side.

“What do you want me to say to
you?”

“Gee, I don’t know…It looks like
rain.”

“It looks like rain,” he
muttered, opening the basket and removing the foil-wrapped items.

Her eyes drilled his. “Dammit,
Mitch!”

His face tipped, even though he
was now smiling she did not feel the love coming from him. “It looks like rain.
It’s what you told me to say.”

“Why are you being this way?”

“What way is that?”

“Defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive.” He
unwrapped a chicken sandwich, set it on a paper plate, and then handed it to
her.

Cheyanne accepted the plate, but
pushed it away from her. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

His eyes went to the plate. “Now
you’re not eating just because you are mad at me?”

“I’m not mad…” she started,
closing her mouth when his brows arched high enough to touch his hairline. “I’m
not…I’m just confused.”

He reached into the basket and
pulled out a bottle of wine, a bucket of cheeses, and another bucket containing
caviar with crackers. “None too shabby of a picnic,” he muttered.

“Yes, none too shabby,” she grumbled,
grabbing the plate.

Five minutes later, Mitch was still
not openly making conversation with her.

“Okay, you win,” she blurted out.

“I win what?” he asked, finishing
off the caviar by using his fingertip.

“You win. If you don’t want to
talk to me, you don’t have to, but it’s going to a long four months if this is
how you plan to treat this marriage.”

His attention riveted from the
empty caviar dish onto her. “This isn’t a real marriage,” he said firmly. “This
is a business deal. You said so yourself and why we left a honeymoon a day
early.”

She opened and closed her mouth,
staring at him, flabbergasted by the lack of emotion put to those words. It may
not be a real marriage, but this week proved they were connected—in some form.

“Did you think it was a marriage,
where I would need to talk to you at all hours of the day?”

“Y—you…we…you made love to me,”
she replied, feeling the gut kick increase, tenfold.

“No, I did not make love to you.
I had sex with you. There was no love involved.”

Wow! Could it have gotten any
colder outside?

Cheyanne had no answer to this,
the callous cruelty of his words sending shivers down her spine.

“Sex is sex, nothing more.
Recreational fun. When we get home, we’ll have sex again, likely until blue in
the face. But I don’t love you and you don’t love me, so don’t pretend you’re
hurt by my saying it aloud,” he said.

“Now, Mitch…I would prefer it if
you’d shut up,” she warned.

“Just a minute ago you were
complaining I wasn’t talking to you. Make up your mind.”

Cheyanne shoved back her plate,
stood and made her way back to the car—tried to make her way. Mitch reacted
quickly, reaching her and stopping her. He whipped her around to face him.

“Running away again?” he asked
cruelly.

“Go to Hell!”

She barely had time to blink before
his mouth tipped at the corners and a half breath later, crushed hers, Mitch
punishing her for speaking what her heart felt. To save herself from a total
loss of dignity she bit his lip.

“Fuck!” He drew back, looking
ready to kill. “What the hell was that for?”

She whipped back around and made
it to the car without falling apart. Trembling head to toe, she stood by the door,
waiting until he came to her.

Mitch returned to the bench,
packed up the picnic, and then came toward her. There was mutiny in his gaze. He
moved close, Cheyanne stood her ground, and he leaned near her ear while she
did everything she could to control her body’s reaction to him.

His lip did not look too bad,
then again, she hadn’t done it to draw blood, just to cause him enough of a
jolt to back away and leave her alone.

“You ever fucking bite me again…,”
he warned.

“You’ll what?” she snapped. “Not
talk to me? Wow! Something new and exciting to happen in this non-marriage.”

His cold glare could have cut
glass. “No, sweetheart. I will take you over my knee and teach you a very
valuable lesson.”

She was about to add an opinion
to this, but he quickly interrupted. “Get in the fucking car, Cheyanne.”

She did, once inside of it snapping
on her seatbelt. In his present state of mind, she wasn’t taking any chances
being splattered on the highway.

Mitch then climbed in, started
the engine, gunned it, and tore out of the parking lot, spinning gravel under
the tires.

They made great time getting back
to New York.

Chapter Thirteen

Figuring they would return to New
York, Mitch would take her to the Ribbons estate, and they would go on to
wherever each wanted to go, she was surprised he took them straight to his
apartment. More irritated, than surprised.

Cheyanne walked to the elevator
in the lobby, trembling inside. Pretending the honeymoon as an extended
vacation, pretense no longer worked as the lift doors opened and he pushed her
inside, his hand at the small of her back, urging her forward.

Once inside the elevator, he said
nothing. When the doors slid open to his penthouse apartment, he still said
nothing. He then opened the apartment door, let her walk through first, and he
followed, closing her firmly into the lion’s den.

She could barely react to his
movements, Mitch a caged predator ready to devour.

He moved swiftly to a bar on the
opposite side of his living room, pouring a drink. He then raised the bottle.
“Want one?”

She shook her head, absorbing the
surroundings. Plush cream carpeting, expensive artwork, dark leather furniture,
papers lying on a low table, the man was obviously a dedicated worker to bring
his work home. Her eyes found his and locked on.

“You’re going to need one when
I’m through with you,” he suddenly warned, downing the contents of his glass in
one fell swoop. He quickly shook his head to ward off the sting to his throat.

“What do you mean…when you’re
through with me?” she whispered, the lump in her throat choking out her words.

He moved forward swiftly,
literally stalking her. “Exactly what it sounded like.” A half-second later,
she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, his growl sent down her throat as he
probed deep with his tongue.

She tried to push him away but
Mitch was too strong when angered, and she didn’t dare bite him again—already
forewarned of the consequences. She simply allowed the kiss to happen. Sooner,
or later, he would release her. This did not happen. The kiss progressed into
uncontrollable.

Mitch scooped her into his arms
and headed straight for a dark hallway, Cheyanne locking her hands behind his
neck as not to have him drop her. It was not that she felt closeness to him
now. After all, he was treating her like an employee, not a wife. Her holding
on was instinct, nothing more.

“Where are we going?” Her eyes went
reaching for his.

“To the bedroom.”

She stiffened in his arms. “Why?”
His sinfully devilish smile made her ill at ease.

“Why not?”

“Mitch, please…you can’t keep
having sex with me…” she tried to say.

He wasn’t listening. “I can and I
will, and you are not to complain.”

“What you are doing is wrong,”
she warned. “I need time.”

He looked at her strangely,
mid-way to kicking open the door leading to a master suite. “How is making love
to my wife wrong to you?”

“I’m not your wife. I’m just the
giver of company shares to you, and it’s not love…it’s sex. You said so
yourself.”

“So?”

“I don’t want to have sex with
you.”

“Liar. You sure as hell wanted to
have it with me before, when at the inn. What’s the difference?”

By now, he had her standing at
the side of his bed, removing her T-shirt and starting for the button on her
jeans. Cheyanne was trying to stop this madness from happening, yet every time
she pushed at his hand or failed at keeping him away, his smile returned,
deeper and more dangerous than before, and he kept the control.

“Please, Mitch… this is wrong.”

He drew back only far enough to
state his anger aloud. “Stop fighting it, Cheyanne. You know I’m going to win.”

“No, I will not stop fighting you,”
she warned. “This should not be a game you can win. Besides, I’m not on the
pill. There will be consequences if you do not control yourself.”

This fact must have finally
registered into his brain. He stopped, releasing his hold on her, and took two
steps back. “Hell of an excuse, sweetheart. Too bad I have ample remedies for
that.”

He then stepped to his nightstand,
opened the top drawer, and removed a packet of condoms. He tossed them at her, Cheyanne
just barely catching the foil packet. “Now try to tell me I should stop.”

She threw the condoms at his head,
pissed that she no longer had a readied excuse. He, in turn, stepped forward, shoved
her backward, and he continued right where he left off, removing her jeans.

She wanted him, in that there was
no doubt. The more he touched her, the more that want increased. His male
hardness pressed against her body, his masterful touch; the stirrings inside
her to continue, but she wanted the love, and that was missing from all of this.

Protesting weakly, in the end
Mitch conquered her, tamed her, and made himself the victor in their ongoing
war. Whatever preconceived notions she might have had toward this marriage
being a farce, they were obliterated the second her entered her, condom-less, making
her his.

Kisses that were burning
themselves brightly in her brain destroyed everything else, and she no longer
functioned of free will. She forgot about the battle lines, the games, and lost
her identity in this one moment—prey to predator, husband to wife—consequences to
these actions be damned.

Exhausted, she tried in vain to
regain control of her senses. Her body ached for this man, yet, she felt
betrayed by her own skin. Her heart had stilled, abandoning consciousness for
one brief moment.

Mitch rolled onto his back,
almost gloating at what he did. Beads of perspiration lingered on his chest
like dewdrops at dawn. She could not help it when she slowly trailed her finger
over his chest, overwhelmed by the desire of wanting him so badly that it hurt.
Still, she knew she should not want him at all—which hurt more than imaginable.

Cheyanne lay side by side with
Mitch, catching her breath. “Too bad you have to force yourself into a woman
who doesn’t love you,” she said tartly, trying to fight against the madness
ripping her apart. It was either that or admitting she was falling for a man
she could not have.

“Don’t,” he said.

Her head tipped toward his. “Don’t
what?”

“Don’t start up with me now.”

She sat up, quickly moved to the
side of the bed and hung her head in shame. She meant to fight this out with
him, but one word had stopped her cold. One simple
don’t.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Hell, she’d been here all of thirty
minutes. Mitch hadn’t even given her a tour of the place yet, just had sex with
her, and if that did not belittle her, nothing would.

“Right there,” he said, pointing
at a closed door.

Cheyanne headed to it, locking
the door behind her. She then let the tears fall unchecked while running the
tap, hoping to drown the sound of her sudden sobbing. She could not even look
at her reflection in the mirror, afraid of what she might see. A woman in love?
Or, a fool in the making? Both had the potential to destroy her.

Five minutes later, Mitch tapped
on the door. “Cheyanne?”

“Go away,” she muttered.

“Let me in.”

“No.”

She could not control her tears
and did not want his pitying look.

“Open the door,” he said firmly.

“Please, Mitch…just leave me
alone for one lousy second.”

He rattled the handle, and she
held her breath, hoping the lock stayed firm.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“I’m fine, Mitch. Just go away.”

“You don’t sound fine to me. Open
the door.”

“No!”

“Okay, suit yourself.”

She could hear his footsteps
retreating from the door, her sigh burning a hole in her chest.

Never, in a million years, had
she thought he would use a key to get to her. He found her sitting on the floor
near the tub, wrapped in a plush towel, still crying.

Mitch scooped her into his arms,
carried her back to his bed, laying her out on the quilt. He then kissed the
top of her head, turned off the light, and left the room.

Cheyanne cried herself to sleep.

****

The following morning she found a
note on the nightstand.

Be
back by five. Stay put.

Mitch

Five? He left her alone without
saying a word?

His penthouse apartment turned
into a veritable prison for the next eight hours. With nothing to do to idle
away the time, she snooped through everything she could, just to get a feel for
the man, but his place was as empty as his soul; nothing personal, nothing that
gave her a sense of who he was… nada.

She’d resorted to dusting,
washing windows, and vacuuming the floor. Not that he deserved a clean
apartment, but boredom was dreadful, so a few domestic chores hadn’t killed her.

She dreaded five o’clock.

At noon, she made a light lunch
out of whatever he had in the refrigerator. At two, she watched boring
television. At four, she found a book to read, curled up on the bed, and was so
engrossed into the thriller plot twist, she never heard the door open.

“Honey, I’m home,” Mitch said
loudly, scaring her out of her wits.

Cheyanne set down the book,
jumped off the bed, and moved toward the living room. She found Mitch taking
off his tie, standing near the bar.

His gaze met hers. “Miss me?”

If it was not for the
ingratiating smile gracing his face at that precise moment, she might have
answered him. Instead, he poured a scotch, offered her one, and then set down
the bottle when she refused. He looked exhausted, as if life had finally caught
up to him.

“Did you eat?” he asked, moving
toward the sofa.

“No. I was waiting for you.”

“Good. We’re going out to
dinner.”

“I can’t go out to dinner. I have
no clothes here.” She certainly was not going to wear previously worn clothes
unwashed to a restaurant.

Mitch tipped his head toward the
door of the apartment. “You do now.”

Cheyanne turned that way. By the
door were four of her suitcases.
What the…?

“I took the liberty of stopping
by the estate on my way home. Rosa had everything packed. The top box is for
tonight.”

Cheyanne moved slowly toward the
suitcases and another silver wrapped box, same as what her wedding dress came
in. Her breath stalled in her lungs. She did not want another present from him,
clearly remembering what happened the last time she opened one of these boxes.

“We’ve been invited to dine with longtime
friends of mine. Get changed. They expect us to be there by six.”

She turned to face him. “You
could have told me sooner. I can’t be ready by six. I need a shower…at least a
half hour for hair and makeup.”

“Then you had better take a quick
shower and go a little faster on the hair and makeup. I don’t keep friends
waiting, Cheyanne.”

He sat down, put up his stocking feet
up on the low table, and opened a newspaper. Over the top sheet, he smiled.
“Clock’s ticking, sweetheart.”

She growled at him, grabbed two
of her suitcases, and carried them into the bedroom. On her return trip, she
stated her objections—loudly. They were literally eating her from the inside
out.

“You said I did not have to live
with you. Now, my clothes are here, I’m eating dinner at your friends. Would
you please make up your mind? I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you
and it’s starting to wear thin.”

He gave her an odd look, stood,
then tread quickly toward her. “I’ve changed my mind about the living
arrangements. You’re staying here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

“The contract said…”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap! You
never even looked at the contract before signing it. And nowhere in it does it
state living arrangements. I made that up, just to get a rise out of you.”

She grew hot under the collar
quickly over this news. This wasn’t the initial plan—should she say…
her
plan.

“I’m not some infant who needs
constant care, or a stray puppy you found on the street and might soil your
carpeting when you turn your back,” she said.

His quick smile should have
warned her of what was coming next. Unfortunately, she was too angry with him
to take head of the telltale facial twitch.

“I don’t trust you not to shout
it from the rooftops about this marriage. I want you here until I can trust
you. What’s so terrible about that?”

Her eyes widened. “What’s so
terrible…?” She trailed off, gathering stream. “So, in other words, if I’m
hearing this right, I’m to stay here the full four months?”