Just a Little Misgiving (Shades of Deception, Book 3) (13 page)

"You just proved my point. Good night. I'm going to bed."

Faith turned for the stairs, but before she could take a single step, she felt his fingers clamp tightly around her arm, then snap her around to face him.

"You asked for this, so don't try running away. Go to the study, or else..."

"Or else, what?" she challenged, refusing to let him intimidate her.

"Or else I'll simply follow you to your bedroom." His gaze lowered to her bosom and his eyes narrowed. "And I really don't think you want that, Faith."

"Are you threatening me? You wouldn't dare—"

"I dare a lot. And frankly, I'd love to hear you beg after having your nails sunk in my back half the night."

"Don't give yourself that much credit, Myles."

He pulled her against him and thrust a hand into her hair, loosening it from its pins, while his head lowered to hers.

She tried twisting away, knowing just how vulnerable she was to him. A primitive passion made her body respond immediately to his hardness pressing between her thighs.

"Stop it," she said urgently, trying to push him away at the same time her body rebelled and greeted his upward thrust with an answering movement. "I don't want you."

"I think you do. So let's find out."

Myles locked her against him. He insinuated his hand beneath her dress and found her heat. His fingers slid easily against her. She tried not to cry out, but she did, her legs buckling.

"That's what I thought," he said, pressing deeply inside her. "I'd never resort to force with you, Faith, but then again we both know I'd never have to."

"Please," she whimpered. "Please..."

"Please, what? Take you on the floor, against the wall? Or up to the bedroom you were so eager to escape to? We can do all of that, but not before questions are answered." He slowly withdrew his hand.

She wanted to cry—in frustration that he'd left her aching with the need for release, with hurt pride that he'd made her succumb so easily. She was angry with herself for letting him win. Keeping that anger in mind, she was able to gain a semblance of outward control, even though her breathing was still close to a shallow pant.

Not trusting herself to speak, she strode toward the study. Once inside. Faith prowled it restlessly, trying to think, trying not to give him an edge by getting more unnerved than she already was, and avoiding a portrait of her sister on a carved oak credenza.

Myles entered the room, his coat off, black tie dangling, tuxedo shirt a quarter unbuttoned and revealing a portion of the chest hair that had caressed her breasts the night before. The drink in his hand was generous. She declined the sparkling water he offered with a quick shake of the head, her unbound hair brushing her shoulders to remind her with a sensual pang of the way he'd loosened it.

By silent, mutual agreement they kept a physical distance between each other. Myles took a generous swig of his drink while he wandered over to the credenza and opened a drawer. Casually he took out a photo album, flipped it open, and held it out for her examination.

Faith's heart seemed to skid to a halt as her gaze locked on the picture of a wedding party: Gloria in her white gown, beaming and radiant, Myles looking pleased and much younger, a dashing, handsome groom. He was smiling and looking at...
her.
Faith. Her smile looked strained, her complexion pallid. And her eyes were focused on Myles, revealing sadness. Longing.

How could he look at this and
not
know?

"We'll start with this. If you want to make good on your earlier suggestion, I've got scissors and glue in my desk drawer."

Her stomach bottomed out as if she'd just been dealt a bodily blow. Her words, born of anger and agony, came back with clarity. She felt as if she'd spit on something holy.

She couldn't look at the photo and dropped her gaze. Only once had she seen the pictures, when good manners dictated she subject herself to look at the proofs the happy couple had selected. Next to the wedding it remained one of the worst moments of her life.

"Don't you have something to say?" he demanded. "Or maybe some artistic guidance on how we should go about doing this."

He quickly moved around to his desk, taking another gulp of the Scotch before setting the glass on the wood with such force the liquid sloshed over the rim. He opened a drawer and rummaged around before finding the necessary tools. Holding up the scissors, he offered them to her.

"Come on, Faith. Let's get started. You cut. I'll paste."

"Stop it, Myles!" she cried miserably.

"Just a little snip here, a little snip there and we'll patch this baby together."

"I can't—oh, God, please. Enough!"

He threw the scissors down.

"What's wrong, Faith? Artistic prerogative? You want to do it by yourself? Okay. I'll just sit and watch."

Her legs were shaking. Forcing herself not to drop her face into her hands and weep, she commanded her unsteady feet to take one step at a time until she stood in front of the credenza. Her hands were trembling as she closed the gaping album.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, unable to bring herself to look at him, feeling the biting glare of his eyes fixed on her bent head.

"Are you? Are you really?"

"Yes!" she said. "Of course I am. It was a horrible thing for me to say."

"It was, Faith. And totally unworthy of you."

"All right, Myles. I'm ashamed I let my temper get the better of me."

"Is that all it was? Temper?"

She made herself look at him levelly. With desperation she sought to protect her emotional nakedness, her dark need for secrecy.

"What else could it have been? I was angry. I lashed out. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"You did. You hurt me deeply."

She looked away, cringing inside, hurting for them both. But mostly for Myles, for inflicting a wound on the man she loved more than life itself.

"It wasn't... intentional." Unable to stand the censuring silence, she asked, "Why didn't you just tell them the truth, Myles?"

"What, that you were a surrogate for Gloria, and leave it at that? Or maybe just pretend you weren't pregnant at all while Carol shot questions like hoops?"

"You could have let them think what they wanted."

"Oh, just act like it wasn't mine, then. What kind of man do you take me for, Faith? I could shout to the world you're having my baby while you're trying to hide it like an out-of-wedlock minor."

"That's ridiculous." She raised her chin up and glared at him, all of her horrible suspicions boiling to the surface. She couldn't ignore them anymore. She
had
to know.

"Do you know what I think, Myles? You want a baby maker, not a woman. You want me because I'm carrying your baby, not just for myself. Go ahead, admit it."

"That's not true. I
do
care about you. Both of you."

"You couldn't prove it by me. It's always the baby this, the baby that. Never just about us."

"Maybe if I could quit worrying about my child being born illegitimate, I'd have a lot more room in my brain to think about just us."

"That's it, isn't it?" She smacked her forehead as though a light had just come on. "How stupid of me not to guess. You want the baby to have your last name, don't you? Don't you?" she accused.

"Of course I want my baby to have my last name. Joint custody and written permission to use it on the birth certificate don't cut it either. I provide for my own. As far as I'm concerned, a man who doesn't own up to his responsibilities—especially a wife and child—isn't fit to breathe. I couldn't hold my head up if I let that happen. It turns my stomach to think about my child being born a bastard."

"The only bastard around here is you, Myles Wellington. You made me think you wanted me, when it was nothing but an act to get me to sign on the dotted line."

His eyes glittered with fury. "I haven't lied to you about my feelings to get my way."

"Does that mean when you came to Denver, you didn't have plans to do just that?"

Her breath caught, waiting... waiting...

"Yes," he said, flustered now. "No. I mean at first maybe, when I thought we could keep it platonic, I was going to get you to agree to a short marriage—in name only. But that changed. I didn't just want the baby to have my name. I'd hoped you might want it too. Only you just keep throwing it back in my face."

"And only because you didn't offer it to me first."

"Not offer it to you first?" he repeated. "Do you care to clarify that statement?" His eyes narrowed to a slit.

"No! I—" How could she have said such a stupid thing? Faith blanched, then said in a strained voice, "You make me feel... incidental. Icing on the cake in a nice, tidy two-for-one package. Face it, if it weren't for the baby, you wouldn't have come for me. And for that, I almost wish it was any man's baby but yours."

"How can you say such a thing?" he said sharply. "After we nearly drowned in disease and death, we're given this incredible miracle like it was a kind of light leading us to the end of a black tunnel, helping us to find each other and make it through."

His eyes sought hers, piercing and full of troubled emotion. "Together, Faith. Not you and the baby. Or me and the baby. The three of us surviving. Committing. Being a family." He shut his eyes, sighing tiredly. "No wonder you never got married, woman. You make it so damned hard for a man to propose."

The ground seemed to open up and swallow her whole. She was suddenly dizzy, trying to keep her balance, hanging tenuously to the edge of the world by the strength of her nails.

"You..." she whispered. "You mean..."

"What do you think I've been trying to get to all night?" He looked down at her. His eyes were guarded as though he were waiting for a rejection. "I want you to marry me. For the baby, yes. But in this case. Faith, it's the baby that's... incidental."

She was shaking. She could feel tears streaming from her eyes and running down her face. His fingertips traced them as his expression turned tender, expectant.

"You... you want to marry...
me?"

"You. Sleep, fight, love, grow old with me."

"I—" her voice caught on a sob. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes, Faith. A simple yes will do."

She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest, rubbing her tears into the warmth of his skin, the crispness of his hair.

"Yes," she said, the word muffled. She raised her head, her face beaming with joy, and cried ecstatically, "Yes!"

A slow smile spread from his lips and ended in a laugh.

"I could strangle you for making this so difficult. I feel like I've just trekked down a hot path through hell. The scenery's lousy, and the sound effects are even worse."

"You want to marry me," she said again, not caring if she was babbling. "When? When do you want to marry me?"

Myles tilted his head, considering. "What say... next month."

"Only we don't have a date picked out yet." She chuckled.

"We could..."He paused and grew serious. "We could send Carol pictures."

Her mouth trembled. "I'm so sorry for what I said. Forgive me, Myles."

"Not only forgiven. Forgotten." He nodded toward the album. "I took that a little too far. If it bothers you, I'll pack it away."

"No." She looked from the album to Gloria's portrait, feeling for the first time unthreatened, able to accept. "She's part of your life. And part of mine. I think it would be very wrong of us to pretend she never existed."

"We exist." His hand lowered to stroke over her stomach. On cue, the fluttering came. Myles cupped her face and whispered, "We do exist, we three."

Their mouths met, hungry and gentle, injured and mended, seeking assurance and receiving it. Their kiss was fire and pure spring water.
Life.

"Dance with me," he murmured.

"I'd rather make love."

"Who said we couldn't do both?" He threaded his fingers through her hair and moved sinuously against her. "The dance I have in mind starts with music and you in my arms, but it ends between the sheets."

Chapter 10