Seeing Red (2 page)

“Are you kidding? This thing’s just getting started! Perfect excuse to party. We’ve got sun, sand, all-you-can-drink booze courtesy of your last alimony check. Oh, and cake. I don’t even care what kind.”

“You eat the cake. I’m going to bed.”

He clucked his tongue and shook his head at her girlfriends. “She always was a party pooper. There was this one time when she was twelve—”

Before he could relay the embarrassing tale, Meg smacked the back of his perfectly coiffed head.

“Ow! Keep that up and you’ll be a divorcee again in no time.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he put his hands up, already backing away.

“All right. All right. I’ll tell ’em.” He spun on his bare foot and took off at a canter toward the geek huddle.

Yep, he fit right in with them…bunch of cerebral know-it-alls.

“All right, lady,” Sharon said, moving behind her. She picked up the train of Meg’s off-the-rack dress and held it off the sand. “You lead, I’ll follow.

Meg didn’t need another prompting. She stomped toward the resort, gripping her dress’s front hem, and didn’t look back as the first droplets of rain tickled her face.

Why bother?

Chapter 2

The girls got Meg unzipped, hung her dress, and left her to commune with the silence in her empty bungalow. Well, hers and Seth’s. It was registered to Mr. and Mrs. Rozhkov, which entitled her to be there. Now there was just the small matter of where her mister would be sleeping.

Perched on the edge of the king-size bed, she fidgeted with the backs of her pearl earrings a moment before removing them. Sleeping with Seth wouldn’t actually be something she’d classify as a problem. Might even be nice.

He stood in stark contrast to everything her ex was. Where Spike had been average in height and slim in build, Seth was powerfully built and well more than a foot taller than Meg’s five-feet even. How different would it be with a man that size? He’d probably treat her like a chew toy. Tiny pocket-sized wife.

She rolled her eyes at the thought, and folded her fingers over the borrowed earrings. She wasn’t cut out to be anyone’s wife. Hadn’t she learned that lesson?

Contrary to what she told the girls, she wasn’t quite ready for bed. More than anything, she’d just needed some space—some time to contemplate this thing she’d done, and figure out what would happen next. No one had really thought that far out in advance. When she and Seth went home to North Carolina, were they supposed to share an address, at least on paper? Did anyone really care where he lived?

It wasn’t like he needed her to get a green card or anything. He was well employed and the concept of deportation probably didn’t even hit his radar screen.

Blowing out a breath, she reached for the phone on the nightstand and lifted it from its base. She dialed Carla’s room number.

“He’s fine. He can stay,” her friend said without waiting for Meg to say hello.

“I don’t want to burden you. You’ve got your three—”

“And Ariel, too, while her parents pack. What’s one more?” Carla interrupted. “The baby is asleep. The kids are watching old cartoons and having a late snack. Toby can barely keep his eyes open. If he falls asleep there on the sofa, why move him?”

Maybe she was right, but… “Carla, it’s just that I’m not used to leaving him with anyone. He didn’t last a week in preschool at age three, and he’s always so high-energy at playdates, I was too mortified to ask the moms to babysit. I know he’s a handful.”

“Hey, what good is having friends if they’re not your village? I’ll treat him like one of my own kids. Trust me. Nothing he can do is going to shock me, and if he does somehow manage to stun me, I’m not going to judge you for it.”

Tears prickled at the corners of Meg’s eyes and she wiped them away before they could track down her face. “I’m glad you’re home, Carla. Besides Sharon, there hasn’t really been anyone around with all my family being up north.”

“I understand what you’re feeling. Went through it in Ireland for a while, not having a network besides Grant’s dad. Took some time, but finally, I had to start taking those ladies in the village up on their offers of help. First couple of months after Jill was born were hard on all of us with her colic and being tongue-tied. If it weren’t for those ladies taking Adam and Emma to the park and bringing us meals, I might have had more than that one meltdown. People aren’t supposed to be their kids’ one and everything. It’s stupid to even try.”

Meg padded across the shiny, dark wood floor and zipped Sharon’s earrings into her jewelry pouch. “So I’ve discovered. Listen, if he—”

“Get some sleep,” Carla interrupted again. “Or go for a walk on the beach, now that the rain has stopped. Have a fruity drink. Go down to the spa for a massage. Whatever. Go do something for yourself while you have the chance.”

“Maybe…” Meg set the phone’s base back on the nightstand. “Maybe I’ll go have a drink in the cabana.”

Carla chuckled quietly on her end. “Might as well get your money’s worth since it comes with the room, although I imagine most folks do far more salacious things behind those curtains.”

“Yeah, well, there’s the issue of me having no one to do those salacious things with.”

“I could think of one man in particular who would be glad to volunteer. And it wouldn’t even be a sin.”

Meg rubbed her palm against her closed eyes and groaned. “Are you seriously condoning this? What has gotten into you and Sharon?”

“I’m not condoning anything, although I do think you need to let your hair down, figuratively speaking. So, you have sex with a guy you’re technically married to. Are you really going to feel guilty about that next week or next month? Just be upfront about it.”

Meg stepped into the simple black flip-flops she’d discarded earlier at the bedside and rolled her tight shoulders. Guilty? No, not that. Chagrined? Possibly. Maybe even a bit resentful toward Seth for going along with it. What was he getting out of this thing, anyway, if not a green card? Perhaps she should have asked before signing on that dotted line.

* * * *

Seth didn’t often find himself questioning his sanity. He’d done a lot of stupid shit in life, but for the first time, he worried he’d gone too far.

Sharon had promised not even a year ago that she’d find the cure to his lonely heart problem, so when she’d dropped in on him at work—which wasn’t near her home by any stretch of the imagination—and offered to buy him lunch, naturally he’d been suspicious. But then, over empanadas, she’d dropped the bomb on him: Meg needed a stand-in husband.

He’d asked, “What’s that got to do with me?”

Sharon had blinked like a coquette and wore a grin Satan himself couldn’t have matched. “Don’t you see, big boy?” she’d said. “This is your in. An all-access pass to prickly Meggie.”

“Why would I torture myself that way?”

“Come on, you’re a scientist. Can’t you see the potential? Sure, maybe it’ll start out as a charade, but you’ll get to spend some time together, and maybe you can charm her.”

“Me?” He’d laughed. Charming, he was not. Charm was something men like Grant and Curt had, and he’d always envied them for it. They had the kind of swagger with which they could seize attention from nearby women without even looking at them. As for him, he was lucky if women didn’t run off shrieking. That had happened once, but maybe that had more to do with his bald head and the villain beard he’d had at the time than his size.

“Do you trust me?” Sharon had asked.

He’d said “yes” without having to think about it. Sharon believed in true love, and if she thought this was his means to it, he’d give it a shot.

If the scheme worked, it’d be spectacular. Any man with half a brain would give his less-favored nut to be with Meg. Yeah, she was a bit of a shrew, but he’d seen her laugh before, and it was a magical thing the way her face lit up. That had been years ago, though. He’d be hard-pressed to remember her laughing in recent memory.

He put his feet up on the fabric-covered ottoman in front of him and crossed his legs at the ankles.

During a long sip of his beer, he pondered what Sharon had told him right before the bride-less wedding reception. She’d said, “Trust me on this. The way to Meg’s heart is through silence. Don’t talk her to death. She thinks small talk is annoying. Don’t stare. Don’t fidget. Don’t make her uncomfortable.”

“Is she a cat or a woman?” he’d asked.

“Hey, maybe she was a cat in one of her past lives, but that’s a perfect analogy for Meg. Don’t go to her thinking you’ll be able to cuddle and pet her belly unless you want to get scratched. Let her come to you.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Sharon had shifted her weight and chewed at her bottom lip a while before answering. “Well, if she doesn’t, you let me deal with it. I’m good at guilt.”

He knew that to be true. He’d seen the number she’d done on Curt—a man generally not so easily swayed by the feminine persuasion. Sharon had a touch of magic about her in that way.

A small, feminine form cast a shadow at the left side of the cabana. The newcomer shuffled her feet in the sand as she traveled.

The cabana curtains swung gently from the caress of fingertips trailed along the seam, and Seth sat up straighter. He pulled his feet down to the ground and set his beer on the nearby table.

Meg stopped in the curtain gap, her eyes slightly round with surprise. She carried an empty glass in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were in here,” she said. She started to turn away, but he stood and was at the opening in two long lopes.

“Don’t leave. It’s a nice night.” He groaned inwardly, ridiculing himself over his unsophisticated remark. Was that really the best he could do? Telling her not to leave?

She tipped her face up to meet his gaze, and her chocolate-brown eyes seemed nearly black in the faint moonlight. An unusual combination, her dark eyes, pale skin, and bright hair. An odd sort of genetic bingo, where all the dots had connected to create a rather striking woman. And not striking as in “interesting-looking,” either.
 
At thirty—that’s what the marriage license had said, that she was thirty—she was pretty. Even when she was pointedly trying not to be, like right then.

Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and lips bunched at the right side of her face as she assessed him.

He swallowed. What had Sharon said?
Don’t stare, don’t make her uncomfortable.

Right.

Don’t make her uncomfortable.

He eased away from the opening and reclaimed his seat, reaching for his beer bottle.

No small talk.

He looked past her slim form at the waves in the distance and took another long swig of his Belgian ale.

She moved in his periphery, took a seat at the end of the bench farthest from him, and set her bottle and glass on the table.

When she was distracted with the bottle wedged between her thighs and focused on the corkscrew she worked into the stopper, he stole a glance at her.

She’d really dressed down since the ceremony and had trekked to the cabana without the slightest hint of makeup or artifice. In twelve years, he’d never seen her so…ordinary?

No, that wasn’t the right word. She’d never be that. Accessible, perhaps. That was a better word.

Maybe she hadn’t bothered that evening because she had no one to impress. He tried not to be offended at the thought.

“Dammit.” She blew out a sigh and let her head fall back, eyes closed, as she kept her grip on the bottle.

He caught his lips parting, ready to ask, “What’s wrong?” but Sharon’s admonition came to mind again. No small talk.

He was a scientist. Observation was a part of his job, so why not apply that skill set to relationships, as well?

Duh. The cork had broken off. Easy.

He wedged his hand into his front right pocket and pulled out the keychain he’d been carrying around in more or less the same configuration since he was thirteen. Prying the little knife open from the all-in-one tool, he extended his other hand to her. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll snake it out.”

She opened her eyes, righted her head to its natural position, and extended the bottle to him without meeting his gaze. “Fish it out, you mean.”

He grasped the bottle by the neck and drew it close. “I’m sorry?”

“You said snake. It’s fish. Snaking is what you do to drains.”

“Oh.” He nudged his loose hair behind his ears and focused his stare on the crumbly cork, broken off half an inch beneath the top. He brought the bottle up closer and squinted at the unfamiliar label. Wine wasn’t one of his vices. He liked his booze to come with a burn, not a headache. Something about all those tannins or sulfites always made him sick when he partook.

No wonder the cork was so brittle. The wine was ten years old.

“Top shelf, huh?” He drove his knife in at an angle, and administered slow, cautious tugs.

“Hmm. Came with the room. Sommelier said they owed us a bottle of champagne, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating.”

Ouch.

He worked the rest of the cork out in one piece and handed the bottle back to her before easing his knife from the stopper. She’d need it back more or less intact to close the bottle off…assuming she didn’t plan on drinking the whole thing in one sitting.