The Inconvenient Bride (6 page)

Sierra smiled. “This is my bargain. I wanted to do it.”

“Who is he?”

“My brother-in-law's brother.”

Pam gaped.

“It's not incest!” Sierra said hotly.

“I know! I'm just…just…surprised. He's not the brother-in-law who's an arrogant jerk, then?” She remembered Sierra muttering more than once about Rhys's bossy know-it-all brother.

“Er, well…he has one or two redeeming qualities,” Sierra muttered, cheeks burning.

“He is the jerk!”

“Yes, but he's not
only
a jerk!” Sierra protested. “Besides it was his idea!”

“He just walked up to you yesterday and said, ‘Let's get married?'”

“Actually, he did.”

Pammie's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because he's madly in love with me?” It was a joke, of course. But Pammie didn't hear that.

She looked vastly relieved. But still she said, “You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” Sierra lied briskly. “Now I'm just off to work. But I'll be back this afternoon and we can deposit the check. Is Frankie awake?”

“Yes. Go on in. He'll be really glad to see you. He missed you last night.
Star Trek,
” she reminded Sierra.

Sierra banged her palm against her forehead. “I forgot.” Two evenings a week Frankie, Pam and Sierra watched old
Star Trek
videos. “We had to go out with his father,” she
explained. “I'll try not to miss the next one. Put the check away. I'll go say hi to Frankie.”

Frankie was eight. When Sierra had moved into the apartment at the other end of the hall he had been a five-year-old bundle of energy—all arms and legs and boundless enthusiasm, his dark hair forever mussed, his blue eyes alight with excitement as every day he stopped by Sierra's flat and told her about his adventures.

In the past year and a half his adventures had become less physical. He'd been home more, in school less. But the adventures he told her had become no less enthralling. He had created his own cast of characters and provided adventures for them. He wrote the stories on the computer, then printed and illustrated them. Frankie had his mother's skill with a pen and pencil.

He was at his desk already, even though it was just past eight. He was still in pajamas, but he was intent on his work, his head bent over his paper.

When he heard her footsteps he turned, and a grin lit his face. “Hey, Sierra. Come see! I'm makin' the most humungous tree house! It's got a sun porch an' a movie theater an' a hangin' staircase.” He jabbed the paper in front of him.

Frankie's characters always lived in great places—detailed places that were masterpieces of fantasy and engineering that were actually even more fascinating than the adventures they had.

Sierra crossed the room and bent to study his latest creation. “Wow. I'd like to live in a place like that.” She ruffled a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

“Pretty neat, huh? I'll build you one someday,” Frankie promised. “A real one. When I'm an architect.”

When he was an architect…

That was his true love. For all that he created fanciful stories, the houses were a bigger passion. Becoming an architect was Frankie's dream. The day she'd first met him, he'd said, “I'm gonna be an architect.”

“When I'm an architect…” was almost a daily refrain.

Lately just hearing those words hurt and made Sierra worry that they might not come true. But today they didn't pain her the way they had. Now she could actually smile and tap the end of his nose and say, “A house like that? I'm going to hold you to it, buddy.”

Frankie grinned. Then he sobered. “You missed
Star Trek
last night.”

“I had to go out.”

“Where?”

“To dinner with a…with a friend.” She would explain about Dominic later. Now she gave him a tap on the nose. “I'll catch you later, pal. Gotta run. Got to be uptown in—yikes!—twenty minutes.”

Pam was waiting in the living room, her cheeks aglow with color for the first time since the doctor had told her Frankie needed a transplant a month ago. Since then she'd been looking like her world was crumbling around her feet. Now she looked nervous, worried, and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

And when Sierra came back into the room, Pammie clutched her hands and started to cry.

“Stop that!” Sierra commanded, horrified. She snatched a tissue from the box on the desk and thrust it at Pammie. “Stop it right now!”

“I can't help it. I know you said he loves you, but do you love him? It's like you're selling your soul and I'm just…just…
letting you!
”

“Of course I love him,” Sierra said, and wondered if she was lying or not. “I'm
not
selling my soul! I'm giving Frankie a chance.
Dominic
is giving Frankie a chance.”

“And you'll be all right?” Pam was still worried.

“I'll be fine. I'm going to live in a posh apartment and be Mrs. Dominic Got Rocks. How could I not be fine?”

“Money isn't important,” Pammie protested, then had the
grace to look abashed because they both knew that in this case—in Frankie's case—it was.

Sierra gave her friend a gentle hug. “I know that. Dominic knows it, too.” At least she hoped he did.

Still Pammie shook her head and dabbed at her eyes.

Sierra gave her one last squeeze. “I have to get to work. I'm going to be late. I'll see you later. Call your doctor and tell him it's a go.”

 

“So, did you get a wife?” Shyla grinned as Dominic strode in.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” He gave her a blithe smile as he breezed through the reception area, grabbed his mail off her desk and strode into his office. Over his shoulder he saw Shyla staring after him openmouthed.

He shut the door and it banged right open again.

“Who?” Shyla demanded. She'd been his secretary for seven years. She knew him as well as anyone. She didn't stand on ceremony with her boss.

“You don't know her,” he said brusquely.

“Not the persistent Marjorie then.” Shyla had been deflecting Marjorie for him. Her eyes narrowed. “What did you do, grab the first woman you met?”

“No.” He made a pretense of riffling through his mail, hoping if she was ignored, she'd go away.

She didn't budge. “Who?” she asked again.

“Her name's Sierra,” he said finally when it was clear she wasn't moving until he answered.

“And who is Sierra? Sounds sort of familiar?” Shyla got a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were mentally going back through all the women in Dominic's address book.

“My sister-in-law's sister,” he said grudgingly.

Shyla's eyes went round. “The purple-haired one?” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

Dominic glared. “She's a stylist. It's her image.”

Shyla wiped the astonishment off her face. “Of course,”
she said solemnly, but her eyes were twinkling and her lips were twitching.

“You liked her!” Dominic reminded her sharply.

“I said she was the only woman I'd met who could back you down,” Shyla agreed, nodding her approval once more.

“Not the only one, obviously,” Dominic replied dryly. “There's you.”

“Besides me,” Shyla said cheerfully. Then she grinned. “You and Sierra. How about that?” She looked positively gleeful. “I'll bet Daddy had a cow.”

“Close,” Dominic admitted.

Shyla laughed. “I'd like to have seen it. Good for you.” Then she sobered. “But surely you didn't marry her just to annoy your father. Did you?” she pressed when he didn't reply at once.

Dominic glowered at her. “Of course not!” There was the sex, too, but he didn't see any reason to be specific.

Shyla looked relieved. She nodded, smiling, and gave him a quick hug. “Then, congratulations. I'm so happy you've fallen in love at last.”

In love?
Dominic blanched. Not quite! But he didn't think a denial was what Shyla wanted to hear. Edgily Dominic stepped away and pulled out one of the letters from the mail pile. “Get me the file on Harker,” he told her. “This is a business. We have work to do.”

 

And God knew he tried, for the entire day, to do it.

He studied the Harker file, twisted his tie around his fingers, and found instead that he wasn't thinking about Harker but about Sierra's activities with his tie the previous night.

He tossed the file aside. Obviously he needed to do something, not just read. So he paced his office, trying to compose a reply, something about the advances of the communications industry, but his mouth went dry as all he seemed to able to think about was the ways Sierra had communicated her desire.

He slammed his fist into his other palm. Then he punched the intercom, and told Shyla to bring the letters she'd finished so he could read and sign them.

He saw—but scarcely read—the words on the page. In his mind he was seeing instead images of Sierra's parted lips, her creamy skin, that tiny dusting of freckles just above her breasts.

“Damn it!” He jumped out of his chair again and stood, hands braced on the desk, head bent, as he took deep lungfuls of air and tried to get her out of his mind.

He couldn't.

But not because he was in love with her, like Shyla thought! Absolutely not. It was just his libido. Hormones. All that testosterone which finally had someplace to go!

He wondered if Sierra was up yet. Maybe he could ring her, get her to meet him at his place for a quickie. God! What was he thinking? He
never
thought things like that!

Well, not never. Today, it seemed, he did.

All the while his assistant Kent Traynor discussed the Harker buyout with him, Dominic's mind wandered. He found himself idly staring at Traynor's solid navy tie and wondering if his wife had ever—

“—don't you think?”

“What?” Dominic jerked back to the moment, aware that he felt oddly flushed and disoriented.

“Think it's a good deal,” Traynor was saying. “The Harker buyout,” he clarified when Dominic didn't reply at once.

“Oh. Yes, yes. Yes, I do.” Which he supposed he did, based on what he'd read in the file yesterday. He sure as hell hadn't been able to focus on it this morning.

“So we should go ahead?” Traynor got to his feet.

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose we should.” Dominic checked his watch, still wondering if he would have time for Sierra before a one-thirty meeting.

“I'll get right on it then,” Traynor said happily.

“You do that,” Dominic said and reached for the phone.

She wasn't home. He supposed she might have gone to his place, but Lupe, his cleaning lady, said there was no one else there. Disgruntled, he called her agent.

“Of course I know where she is,” he said. “Right where she's supposed to be. At Gibson Walker's.”

“Until when?”

“Until they're finished, of course.”

Dominic ground his teeth. “How far ahead is she booked?” Then, hearing the answer, he said, “Unbook her.”

“What?”

“She's got other things to do.”

“What?”

“She's on her honeymoon,” Dominic said and banged down the phone.

 

He was in Gibson Walker's reception room, when she came out of the studio that evening. Toby Hart, one of the models, had his arm looped over her shoulder and was feeding her one of his ritual lines of bull when she spied Dominic across the room.

He was tapping his foot and glancing at his watch and glaring in annoyance at Edith, Gib's office manager, who stood guarding the inner door with the ferocity of a pit bull.

Sierra smiled. “Hey. Hi!”

“Who's that?” Toby asked.

“My, um, husband?” It wasn't supposed to sound like a question, but somehow it did.

Toby hooted. “A husband? Our Sierra has a husband?” He started to laugh.

Dominic stepped up and with deceptive casualness removed Toby's arm from her shoulders and replaced it with his own. His fingers felt like steel as they curved into her upper arm. “She has a husband,” he said with steely smoothness.

Toby grinned, still thinking it was a joke.

Then, “You're late,” Dominic growled.

Sierra blinked. “For what?”

“This.”

Before she realized what was happening, his lips were on hers. It was a humdinger of a kiss. Fierce, passionate, possessive.

It said, “She's mine,” in no uncertain terms. And Sierra, eyes flickering open for an instant, saw that Toby had received the message. As had Edith and Gibson, and Charlee and Cara and Dave, the other models, Sebastian, the ad agency rep, and Lisa, the makeup artist. They stood in a clump in the studio doorway, jaws sagging, as Dominic staked his claim.

Fair enough, Sierra thought. If he could brand her as his, she could do the same to him.

So, shutting her eyes, she returned his kiss with all the fervor, passion and hunger that had been growing inside her all day. She looped her arms around his neck and plastered her body against his—and felt an instant response.

His possessiveness became desire. His passion became hunger. And hers was equal to it. What had started out as a simple branding fire had turned into a full-fledged conflagration. And when they finally pulled apart, it was to stare at each other in wide-eyed astonishment.

“Wow,” Toby said, which just about summed it up as far as Sierra was concerned.

Dominic exhaled sharply and grabbed her hand. “We're going home,” he said.

I
F SHE'D
had to guess what Dominic's apartment would look like, she'd have imagined acres of polished teak, furniture of chrome and leather and steel, white walls and the perfectly positioned piece of abstract art.

She would have missed by a mile.

His apartment, she knew, was in an elegant pre-war Fifth Avenue building. They were greeted by a doorman who said, “Good evening, Mr. Wolfe,” and whose eyes widened only momentarily at his purple-haired companion. They crossed a spacious marble-tiled lobby and walked beneath crystal chandeliers. They rode up five floors in an elevator with exquisite inlaid wood paneling on every wall. They stepped into a graciously appointed vestibule with carpet so thick Sierra felt as if they were standing on a cloud. There were only four doors besides the elevator on the floor. Dominic opened the one facing Fifth and stood back to let her enter first.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You live in a tree house!”

Dominic laughed. “Yeah. More or less.” He sounded somewhere between boyish and sheepish and he seemed to be watching her closely.

She couldn't contain her delight at the apartment with its nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that looked right out over the treetops of Central Park. The living room walls weren't white at all, but the soft blue of a spring sky, and the paintings on them were not abstract either. There were several, all almost primitive representational pieces.

The largest was one of a large cottage by a broad sand beach that reminded Sierra of Dominic's house out on Long
Island where she had given Mariah a baby shower. Two more were various aspects of a low-slung peach-colored house with white shuttered French doors. The house was set amongst almost jungly foliage and overlooking a tropical turquoise sea. Two more were beach scenes with children playing in the surf. Sierra didn't know the artist, but she felt an immediate kinship.

“This is your house!” She indicated the painting of the cottage. “How did you get an artist to come and paint your house?”

“My mother painted them all when I was a kid. She wasn't really an artist.” There was both pride and defensiveness in his voice.

“She certainly was,” Sierra said warmly. “They're all wonderful. I don't know about the others, of course. But she's really captured the spirit of your house.”

In fact she could almost feel the love of the Wolfe family home emanating from the painting. It was a feeling she remembered associating with the house the only time she'd visited it. At the time it had seemed odd. Not the sort of feelings she'd ever have expected to get from anything connected to high-powered, hard-edged Dominic Wolfe.

It was, perhaps, one of the things that had made her think there might be more to him than she'd guessed. She remembered she'd come home from the shower even more curious and aware of him than ever.

“Where were the others done?” she asked.

Dominic's expression grew shuttered. “Our family place in the Bahamas.”

“It's gorgeous. I love the Bahamas. I've been there on photo shoots. You must go there every chance you get.”

“Not anymore.” He turned away and she felt as if a wall had crashed down between them.

Too late she remembered Mariah telling her that a long time ago he'd been going to get married in the Bahamas and something had happened. She hadn't been listening then.
She'd been telling herself she didn't want to know anything about Dominic Wolfe. Now she wished she'd paid more attention. Clearly it was still a sore point.

“Well, it's nice to have it because it's your mother's work,” she said after a moment. “And you must enjoy remembering that.”

He turned back from staring out the window and his smile was only a little strained. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So,” she said brightly. “Show me the rest.”

He showed her a state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining area that was comfortable rather than grand. Then he led her into behind the kitchen to what had once been servants' quarters. One room he had turned into a den with a comfortable sofa, stereo, television and pool table. The other was, he said, “The gear room.”

Sports gear, he meant. There was a bin full of soccer balls, footballs, basketballs and baseballs. The walls were lined with racks containing fishing rods, tennis racquets, baseball bats, hockey and lacrosse sticks—all looking well used. There was a serious-looking backpack hanging from a hook on the wall, and beneath it was a row of cleats, skates, both ice and in-line, tennis shoes and hiking boots.

She remembered a profusion of sports gear at the house on Long Island, too, now that she thought about it. But she'd assumed it was left over from childhood or from his brothers, Rhys and Nathan. She'd never imagined Dominic would take time for it.

“You can put your gear in here, too,” he said. “Or you can leave it with your stuff upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Sierra echoed as he flipped off the light and led the way back to the living room.

“Mmm. I had it moved.” He picked up her tackle box of styling tools and started up the spiral staircase.

It reminded her of Frankie and she knew he would love it. He would love the whole apartment. It looked like it had
been designed by a nine-year-old boy. But she barely stopped to think about that now.

She was trying to bend her mind around the “I had it moved” bit.

“I didn't know where you'd want things,” Dominic was saying as he led the way up the stairs, “so I just told them for now to put everything in here.”

He went into the room directly across from the stairs and flipped another switch. As light spilled into the room, Sierra stopped dead.

It was as if her apartment had been recreated right here. Her futon with its faded striped madras bedspread was against one wall. Against the other was her fish tank, complete with Buster and Gomer.

“Hi, guys,” she said in an oddly breathless voice to the imperturbable goldfish swimming around just as if they'd always been here.

Her own bookcase, hand-painted blue, complete with clouds, and filled with her most loved books, was tucked next to the fish tank. She spied her tiny television, her portable stereo. Everything. Even the rather rickety old oak table that she loved—the one that had been in her grandparents' house when she was a child—the one that everyone else she knew was always threatening to throw out.

Dominic hadn't had it thrown out.

He set her tackle box full of makeup gear on it now. “Okay?”

Sierra was still walking around touching it all, wondering at it, awed that, with one wave of Dominic's checkbook her whole life seemed to have moved uptown.

“Did they forget anything?” he asked. “They said they left the stove and refrigerator there, but that your neighbor said they stayed with the apartment.”

“They do,” Sierra said absently. Then she realized what he'd said. “They asked
Pam?
”

Dominic shrugged. “They asked a neighbor. Someone who came to see what was going on.”

“Pam,” Sierra said. She'd seen Pam at lunch and her friend hadn't said anything about it. She must have been amazed that Sierra hadn't said anything either. “When did they do all this?”

“This afternoon.”

How could they have done it so fast?

As if he'd read her mind, Dominic said, “It didn't take long. There wasn't that much. You can go through it and decide what you want to keep. I told them to bring everything that was yours.”

And they'd set it up exactly as it had been in her apartment. Amazing.

Sierra grinned. “So we can come in here anytime and recreate our wedding night?”

He actually blushed, and the heat of the kiss they'd exchanged at Gibson's—which had been burning gently but persistently ever since—flamed suddenly once more to life.

Dominic grabbed her hand and towed her to the door. “Not on your life, sweetheart,” he said. “I have a lot bigger bed right this way.”

His bedroom was vast. Simple. Almost, but not quite, stark. Unlike the other rooms in his apartment, it had a thick plush carpet on the floor. She could feel her boots sinking into the pile as she stood and stared at the bed.

It was approximately twice the size of her whole apartment. With its hunter-green duvet, it didn't look so much like a bed as a playing field.

And that thought made
her
blush. It sat against the far wall on a raised black lacquer platform. And against the matching black lacquer headboard was a scattering of pillows in toning colors. For an instant Sierra's gaze flickered upward, just to be sure there were no mirrors on the ceiling.

Dominic caught the movement and grinned. “Wishing?”

“No!” She blushed hotly again.

“I always thought it was tacky. But there might be times…” His voice trailed off suggestively, speculatively, and their gazes locked together so fiercely it seemed to Sierra they were almost welded by the heat of the exchange.

After a long moment she cleared her throat. “There might be times,” she agreed.

His eyes widened for an instant, and the color in his cheeks deepened. He hesitated just for a second, then he took both her hands in his and drew her close. “I imagine we can manage without.”

 

He knew he shouldn't be so eager.

They hadn't even had dinner yet. And it wasn't like he was going to have to take her home, for God's sake!

She
was
home. In
his
home. Permanently.

But telling himself so made no difference.

He tried to think, to be rational, but he couldn't. It was impossible to think when he had Sierra Kelly—
Wolfe!
—in his bedroom.

There would be plenty of time to be rational—and have dinner—later.

He slid his hands up her arms, then down her back. Then he hooked his fingers under her tube top and peeled it over her head. Her bare breasts brushed against his chest.

He swallowed hard. Then he bent his head and kissed first one and then the other, felt her shiver beneath the cool wet touch of his tongue, and laughed softly.

Her fingers clutched at his hair. “You think you're so hot,” she said gruffly, that smoky edge of desire in her voice sending him closer than ever to the edge.

“Mmm,” he said and made the sound vibrate against her breast. “Real hot.”

Sierra's fingernails dug into his scalp. “Brave man.”

He nuzzled her. “You bet.” Then he set to work on the leather jeans she was wearing. They were harder to dispose
of than her skirts. His fingers felt like thumbs. He fiddled, he wrestled, he groaned.

Sierra grinned. “Thought you might like a bit of challenge.”

He steered her back to the bed and toppled her onto it. “I love a challenge.” He straddled her and, tongue caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration, at last he got the button undone and the zip tugged down. Peeling them off was another challenge. They hugged her long legs like a second skin. But finally he smoothed them off and stepped back.

She lay bare before him—but for the merest scrap of lace.

Sierra ran her tongue over her lips and the sight made his hormones jump, made his clothes feel too tight. He tugged at his tie.

“No!” Sierra sat up. “Mine.” And she scrambled forward, then knelt on the bed, slid her hands up his shirtfront and unknotted his tie. Then, one by one, she popped open the buttons on his shirt and peeled it slowly away from his chest and down his arms. She was so close that he could feel her breath stirring the hair on his chest. It made him shudder. She smiled and tossed his shirt aside.

“Very nice,” she said, her voice a throaty purr. And then her hands were on him again, rubbing up across the crisp hair of his chest, the smooth skin of his shoulders and down his arms. Their fingers locked together, clenched.

And then their lips touched.

That kiss at the studio had been a first course. An appetizer. Heady and passionate, hot and zingy, but insubstantial. This one rocked him back on his heels.

She tasted so good. Ripe and full and warm, as if it wasn't just her mouth kissing him but her whole being, body and soul. She kissed him the way no other woman ever had—as if just doing that was the most important thing in the world, as if she wanted only that—only him.

Her kisses were long and hot, then quick and short. They
were nips and nibbles, tastes and teases. She kissed him on the mouth, on the jaw, on the neck, on the chest. She loosed his hands to knot her fingers in his hair. And he kissed his way down across her chin and her neck. He pressed light kisses once more along the slope of her breasts, then laved her heated skin with his tongue.

“Wolfe!”

“What?”

She wrapped her arms around him and they tumbled together onto the bed. Their bodies tangled, wrestled, squirmed. Her fingers went to his belt and made quick work of it. He let her because he wanted her fingers on him. He yanked off her panties, then held still above her, as she lowered his zipper, knowing she would soon be touching him, flesh to flesh, where he needed her most.

But not yet. Not yet. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Slow, he told himself. Go slow.

Then her fingers were at his waist and she hooked her fingers inside his waistband and in one tug, slid both his trousers and his boxers right down to his knees.

“Ah, look what I found,” Sierra said softly. Her fingers found him, wrapped him.

He shuddered at her touch. It was exquisite, mind-blowing. He clenched his toes, his fingers, every muscle he owned. He held himself absolutely rigid and prayed to keep his control.

“Si-eeeeeerr-ah!” Her name whistled through his gritted teeth.

“Yes, Wolfe?” Her fingers rubbed him lightly.

He swallowed hard. Trembled. Quivered. “Don't. Stop.”

His breath came in quick, harsh gasps. And as much as he wanted to go slow, to draw it out, to make her as crazy as she made him, he knew it wasn't going to happen this time.