The Inconvenient Bride (8 page)

“On Tuesday afternoon. Just like that.
You don't even know each other! You don't even like each other! You threat
ened him with his tie when you busted into his…
” Once more Mariah's words died. There was a bit more silence, then a slightly thready, just a little bit hysterical laugh. “And that's when it began, huh?”

“Not really,” Sierra said quickly. “We really stayed well away from each other after that. I mean, he thought I was really going to rip off his family jewels. He wasn't exactly enamored. But he was…”

“Curious?”

“I guess you could say that. And, well, so was I. We ran into each other a few times. At your shower. And then at the hospital after Steve and Lizzie were born. We were just sort of…aware. But nothing happened—until your wedding. We had a little too much champagne at the wedding. And we were on our own after the reception. We had to go back to Kansas City to catch a flight out in the morning and—”

“I get the picture,” Mariah said. There was a pause. Then she said, “Why didn't you say anything? If you've been seeing him—”

“I haven't been! It was, like, a one-night-get-it-out-of-our-system event. But it didn't,” Sierra said. “I hadn't seen him since.”

“Until Tuesday,” Mariah said dryly.

“Until Tuesday,” Sierra agreed. “And he showed up at Finn's studio and asked me to marry him.”

“Why?” Then, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry.” Mariah backed off at once. “I didn't mean that. But—wait a minute. Maybe I did. Three months? Sierra, are you—?”

“No! I am damned well not! You're the one who got pregnant, ‘Riah,” Sierra said sharply. “Not me.”

“Right,” Mariah said. “Right.” This last was a sigh. “You love him.”

Sierra wet her lips and took a breath. “Yes.”

Mariah didn't say anything for a moment. She was clearly trying to rethink everything she knew about her conserva
tive, businesslike brother-in-law—
and
her purple-haired impulsive sister.

“Does he love you?” she asked finally, apparently having decided that given everything else she had misjudged, that might be possible, too.

“No,” Sierra admitted. “He doesn't. He married me because we're dynamite in bed together. And because—” she sucked in a breath and plunged on, making a full breast of it, “because Douglas kept shoving suitable women down his throat.”

“Oh, surely not!” Mariah protested at once.

“He was,” Sierra insisted. “Every few weeks he'd have another candidate for Dominic to look over. All marvelous, eminently suitable women. Not like me.”

“But that can't be why he married you,” Mariah countered. “He couldn't be so dumb.”

“Thank you very much!”

“I don't mean that you're unsuitable, but that he wouldn't marry just to spike Douglas's guns!”

“Yes,” Sierra said. “He would. He did.”

“But—”

“And now we have to make something of it. Something that will work. That will last. I want it to last, ‘Riah,” Sierra said urgently.

“What does Dominic want?”

“I think he wants it to last, too. He booked me out today. I went to Finn's and I'd been replaced.”

“What?” Mariah was somewhere between outrage and astonishment.

“I was furious at first, too,” Sierra said, “but then I talked to Bruce. Dominic had called yesterday and booked me out—so we could go on a honeymoon!”

Her sister was silent for a moment. Regrouping. Sorting things out. Thinking. That was Mariah, all over. Steady. Dependable. Insightful.

“So he must want it to work, too,” Sierra went on. “Don't you think?”

She didn't realize how badly she wanted Mariah to agree until she asked. It was, she realized, why she'd called her sister in the first place. The recipes had been the excuse, the catalyst that would allow her to tell her sister news she should have told her as soon as it had happened.

But she'd been afraid to then.

She'd been afraid that Mariah would tell her she was an idiot, that there was no way on earth Dominic and she could ever make a successful marriage, that impulsive trips to the city hall, based on no more than lust and a desire to annoy someone else, were destined for divorce court before the month was out.

And she'd had no reason to believe that Mariah would have been wrong.

But now they were going on a honeymoon.

Now it was more than lust and irritation at his father. He was taking time for her. He wanted to be with her, to get to know her. Perhaps to learn to love her.

“Don't you think?” she repeated.

“It's a start,” Mariah said. “Yeah, it's a start.”

She gave Sierra a couple of good family recipes that she said any idiot could manage. “Do the lasagne,” she said. “Rhys loves lasagne. Dominic will, too. Fix a salad. Make garlic bread. Easy. The least of your worries,” she said with considerable accuracy. Then she wished Sierra luck.

“Thanks.”

“If you need anything—ever—you let me know,” Mariah said, her protective big sister determination showing its face. “Rhys will kick his butt for you anytime you want.”

Sierra forbore saying that she thought Dominic was a match for his youngest brother.

Even though Rhys was a fireman and worked hard at a physical job much of the time, Sierra had seen enough of
Dominic recently to know he had muscles. Plenty of muscles.

And she didn't think he would suffer much interference in his life.

“We'll be fine,” she said. “I hope.”

“I hope so, too, kid,” Mariah said. “Good luck.”

 

Sierra went shopping for the few things she needed that Dominic didn't have. Then she lugged all the grocery bags home. The doorman had apparently accepted her right to be there for he helped her get them into the elevator.

“You know,” he said, “you can have them delivered.”

“Really?” It was amazing the things she had no idea about. “Thanks.”

She boiled the noodles, browned the meat and grated the cheese. Then she put the lasagne together, made a salad of mixed greens, mushrooms, red onion, black olives and Parmesan-flavored croutons, and made a garlic butter paste for the loaf of fresh bakery French bread she'd bought.

She set the table in the dining el where they could sit and eat, looking out over the park. It was considerably more civilized than the picnic she'd made for Frankie and Pam earlier that day, but it still felt very warm and cozy and tree-house-like. She put wineglasses on the table, dimmed the light slightly, then lit candles instead and shut the light off.

“Yes,” she said. It was perfect. Romance in a tree house.

And she would make sure they ate before they adjourned to the bedroom.

Where were they going on their honeymoon? she wondered. Jamaica? Italy? Greece? Cancún?

She had known people who'd gone to all those places. Probably Dominic knew somewhere even better.

She wished he had told her. But then she didn't blame him for keeping it a surprise. The anticipation was lovely.

Even lovelier was the realization that he cared enough to
want a honeymoon with her—that he, too, wanted their marriage to work.

It was six-fifteen. She thought he would be home any minute. She put the lasagne in to bake and opened the wine to let it breathe. She checked his stereo system and discovered that if she put on music in the den, the speakers were rigged so that she could hear it in any room in the house. She put on some soft romantic stuff, hoping that it wasn't music Dominic associated with seducing another woman.

And then she waited for him to walk in the door.

She waited. And waited.

She checked the lasagne. She checked the bread. She fiddled with the salad. She sipped the wine.

Six-thirty became six forty-five. Six forty-five became seven. Then it was seven-fifteen. Finally at almost seven-thirty, the front door opened.

Sierra smoothed damp palms down the sides of Dominic's shirt which she still wore. She'd hadn't felt nervous in years. She'd felt less apprehensive when she'd married him!

But that had just been an impulse.

Now they were getting down to what really mattered.

He wants this to work, too,
she reminded herself. Then she drew a deep breath and went to greet her husband.

 

Something smelled good. Better than good.

Delicious.

As Dominic let himself into the apartment, his stomach growled in anticipation, and his whole being responded with surprise.

He'd assumed Sierra would be there waiting for him. But he'd expected a few threats and not a little annoyance as his reward for having booked her out of work.

In fact, he'd been anticipating the pleasure of charming her out of her irritation. All the way home—all day, for that matter—he'd been looking forward to it. He fully expected to lose his tie and to feel her fingers digging into his ribs.
And he'd imagined catching her hands in his hand holding them over her head while he kissed her senseless. He would be rewarded with a deep flush on her cheeks and a hungry look in her eyes—and all would be forgiven and forgotten as he bore her off to bed.

But if he had to eat a delicious home-cooked meal instead, he supposed philosophically, he could probably manage that. Still, he was a little surprised she wasn't upset.

Maybe she was. He hadn't seen her yet.

“Sier—” Her name dried up on his tongue as she sashayed out of the kitchen.

“Hi!” She gave him a cheery smile and a quick kiss before dancing away toward the dining area.

No complaints? No arguments? No need to charm her into a different mood?

Heck. But then, who cared?

She looked good enough to eat.

She was wearing one of his long-sleeved dress shirts, cinched at the waist with a belt. Dominic had never considered his shirts sexy in the slightest. But he'd never seen one on Sierra before!

Her legs were bare and her knees and several inches of tanned thigh were visible below the tails of his shirt. Even more smooth thigh flashed into view when she turned and he glimpsed the sides where the tails curved upward.

“Hi,” he managed. It sounded like a frog's croak.

Enough buttons were undone at the neck and below that she didn't appear to be wearing a bra.

What else wasn't she wearing?

“You didn't tell me you'd called Bruce.”

It was what he expected her to say, but her tone wasn't accusing. There seemed to be a soft, wondering, appreciative note in it.

He shrugged. “Well, it's not like I can't afford to support you.”

“I know, but I didn't expect it. I'm so glad.”

She was? Would wonders never cease? He reached for her, assuring himself that it was okay to do so now. He'd waited all day, after all.

They kissed. It was a long kiss. Eager on both their parts. Deep and hungry. It should have led straight to the bedroom.

But Sierra backed off. “First we eat. Food.” She smiled at him. “I got my mother's recipe for lasagne. Mariah gave it to me.”

Dominic did his best to tamp down his desire. “Right,” he said. “Food.”

“I hope you're hungry.” She was looking at him hopefully, her expression open and eager.

“Sure,” he said. “Even for food.”

She laughed as if he'd made a wonderful joke. “Good. Go wash up, then come and sit. It's ready.”

He was tempted to suggest they make a quick trip up to the bedroom first. But he didn't. She'd obviously worked hard to make dinner special. The least he could do was enjoy it. Any other time, he was sure he would. It was just that he'd been waiting all day to go to bed with her.

He dried his hands and went back to the dining room. She was serving the meal on his seldom-used dining table in front of the windows overlooking the park. She'd lit candles—tapers on the sideboard and at either side of the table. She'd put their plates directly across from each other. It looked cosy, intimate. A love nest.

Dominic felt edgy, wary, then chided himself. What was he wary of? Being trapped into marriage? Hardly. He was already married to her.

“Sit down,” Sierra said. She asked him to pour the wine.

He poured it, then handed her a glass. He was reminded of the last time they'd drunk together—at dinner with his father and Viveca and Tommy Hargrove. He remembered the toasts. Looking at Sierra he thought she did, too. She was looking at him with a bright, eager look in her eyes.

“To you,” Dominic said after a moment and touched his glass to hers.

“To us,” Sierra replied with a smile. Then she drank.

Dominic drank, too. Then he dug into the lasagne and the salad and the bread. It was excellent. Simple, but delicious. And even though he'd have happily forgone it and headed straight upstairs with her, he ate now with gusto. “Really, really good,” he told her, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

She hadn't eaten nearly as much as he had. She seemed to be watching him, waiting. “Good,” she said. “I'm glad. I'm not much of a cook. But I'm willing to learn.”

“You don't have to cook every night,” Dominic said.

“That's a relief. But I intend to do plenty. If it's okay with you. I was wondering what kind of foods you like.”

“Most anything. I'm not picky.”

“Italian? You like lasagne. Have you been to Italy? I always thought Italy would be a lovely place to go. I never got there, even when I was in France, can you believe it?” She was talking rapidly. Even more rapidly than Sierra usually did.

“You've never been to Italy?”

She shook her head. “There's a lot of places I haven't been. Jamaica. Cancún. Niagara Falls. The Poconos.”

Dominic blinked, trying to follow that, wondering what those places had in common. Maybe they were the only places Sierra had never been.