Wickedly Charming (25 page)

She was waiting for him. She, Mellie, a woman who prided herself on her independence. Waiting for a man. Because she needed his help.

She sat on the uncomfortable couch in the giant living room, with the television on behind her. She had it turned to a movie channel, so she wouldn't see news headlines, afraid she might see herself or her book.

She had on all of the lights, including the weird lights that shone down on the art. The curtains were closed, though. She had made herself a cup of chamomile tea—this room had everything—but that hadn't really calmed her down.

She was afraid he wasn't going to show up. Why would he, really? It wasn't his problem. He had written the book, yes, but his name wasn't on it. Besides, the book was acclaimed. The writing was not just good, it was spectacular—everyone said so. The book was passionate and heartwarming, it was well-paced, and it made its point.

Mellie had done none of that. She had provided the raw materials, and Charming had created a masterpiece.

She leaned on a pile of overstuffed pillows. Her problem really wasn't the
Gotcha!
interview. It was the way the
Gotcha!
interview made her feel.

It made her feel as if someone had pulled back a curtain and revealed her for the fraud she was.

Charming couldn't make that feeling go away, no matter what he came up with. Even if he showed up.

Besides, something was happening to him. He had called from the Kingdoms and he had his daughters with him. Which meant that his ex-wife had done something screwy again.

The last time he had gone to the Kingdoms, he'd had to rescue his abandoned daughters.

Mellie wondered what had happened this time.

She wondered if he would tell her when he showed up.

If he showed up.

Mellie ran a hand over her face. She had no idea what the next day would bring. She and LaTisha were leaving, and they would have a meeting with the publisher. Things Would Get Decided, whatever that meant.

Mellie had even used her laptop to refer to all those cases that the reporter and LaTisha had mentioned. James Frey, whose book started as a novel, but whose agent sold it as memoir, which meant it was “truthful,” when it was not. The scandal when people discovered he'd made up parts of the book must have been unbearable.

After Frey, there were a handful of others, leading to the charge the publishing world didn't know how to handle dicey legal aspects. And she was in that category now, lying about writing a book, promoting it as if it were her own.

The phone rang, startling her. She grabbed the receiver.

“Yes?” she asked, expecting LaTisha.

“Hi, Mellie. It's Charming.”

Like he had to introduce himself. Like she wouldn't recognize that voice. Like it didn't make her feel warm and tingly all at the same time.

“This is some room you reserved for me,” he said. “You didn't have to pay for it.”

“You're doing me a favor,” she said.

“The girls are asleep,” he said. “You want to come down here and talk? I really shouldn't leave them alone.”

“Sure,” she said. “I'll be down there in a minute.”

He gave her the room number, and hung up.

She clutched the receiver for a moment. He had come. Even though he was having some troubles of his own, he had come.

In spite of her best intentions—she didn't want to have expectations, she didn't want to think of him as anything other than a friend and business associate—in spite of all that, her heart beat just a little faster.

She combed her hair, freshened her make-up, slipped on a new dress, because she couldn't go see him looking sloppy and terrified.

Then she grabbed her key, let herself out of her room, and headed down the hall.

Charming should have asked for one more T-shirt, but he hadn't thought of it when he was at the desk. He had been thinking of his daughters only, thinking of nightshirts, thinking of the evening ahead. And while a large T-shirt would double as a nightgown for his daughters, it wouldn't cover anything except his chest.

He hadn't realized he would need something to change into before he saw Mellie.

After he hung up the phone, he opened the closet door in the master bedroom. There he found freshly laundered robes with the hotel's monogram on the right breast pocket. As if he wanted to show up at the door like some low-rent Lothario in an ill-fitting bathrobe and nothing else.

He settled for washing his face, wetting back his hair, and using the mouthwash the hotel had so thoughtfully provided. But he couldn't do anything about the smoky smell on his clothes or the mud on his shoes. He finally just took his shoes and socks off. The carpet was soft and plush, and he felt better, just doing that little bit.

At that moment, Mellie knocked softly on the door.

He hadn't told her to be quiet, but she had figured that out. He liked that about her. She knew what other people thought, and adjusted her behavior accordingly.

Unlike Ella.

He sighed, wishing he could get thoughts of his ex-wife out of his brain.

Then he pulled open the door, and all thoughts of Ella fled. Mellie stood in front of him, looking more vibrant than she had on television, as if seeing her in person added a whole new dimension. He had forgotten just how beautiful she really was.

She looked exhausted. And defeated, even though he could see that she was trying to hide it. Her eyes were red, and he wondered if she'd been crying.

Before he even had a moment to think about it, he extended his left arm and pulled her close.

She felt good leaning against him, soft and round and warm. He buried his face in her black hair, enjoying the scent of her mixed with the rose of her perfume. He had wanted to do this from the moment he met her.

This woman didn't need a man like him groping her.

But right now, she looked like she needed a hug, and he was more than willing to provide it.

The problem was, he was more than willing to provide a lot more.

He eased her inside and closed the door. Then he leaned back just enough to see her face.

She tilted her head up to his. He looked in those emerald eyes, so sad and tired, and got lost all over again.

The next thing he knew, he was kissing her—his mouth over hers, his hands on her cheeks (how had that happened?), his body pressed against hers.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, kissing him back, making soft sounds in her throat.

He had a moment of clarity—just barely—remembering his daughters, and somehow he maneuvered Mellie into the master bedroom. He wondered—briefly—if she minded the scent of smoke, then realized that if she did, she would have pulled away from him by now. And then he had another moment of clarity as he debated whether or not to close the door.

If he closed the door, he was breaking a promise to his daughters that he would be accessible this night.

If he left it open, he was violating his own standards of decency.

Of course, if he let go of Mellie, he wouldn't have this dilemma, but he wasn't willing to do that.

All of this ran through his mind as he continued to kiss her, enjoying the taste of her, the feel of her pushing against him, the smoothness of her skin beneath his hands.

He almost forgot his door dilemma when Mellie solved it for him, by pushing the door shut with one stockinged foot. Had she been wearing shoes when she arrived?

He didn't know, and he really didn't care.

Her hands slipped down the back of his pants, and his hands slid away from her face, unbuttoning her blouse.

She stepped away for a half-second—he felt an actual physical sense of loss—and then she smiled at him, doing the unbuttoning herself.

Before she took the blouse off, she unbuttoned the top button of his shirt—a silent command to join her—so he did, fingers fumbling with his own buttons as he watched her shirt slide off.

She was wearing a white lace bra that revealed as much as it concealed. With a practiced movement, she unhooked it, and it fell away, revealing still-perfect breasts.

He couldn't breathe.

She had to help him with his shirt, with his pants, and then he helped himself, kicking off the rest of his clothes, as she wriggled out of her skirt. She playfully pushed him backwards on the bed, and then tumbled on top of him, her body over his.

She kissed him and wrapped her arms, her legs, her entire self around him, stealing his breath, stealing his mind, stealing everything except this moment, this woman, these sensations.

He lost himself in them, and loved her like he had never loved anyone before.

They ended up lying kitty-corner on Charming's gigantic bed, their heads almost sliding off the side. Mellie propped herself up on one elbow. Somewhere along the way, Charming had lost his glasses. His face had a naked look, a private look, as if she were seeing him like no one else saw him.

His cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes so bright that they looked alive, his mouth bruised. She nuzzled his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her.

He felt good. He felt better than good.

He felt marvelous.

She straddled one leg across his hips. She had never ever made love like that before. She had never felt such urgency before, which, she supposed, reflected badly on both husbands. Although she doubted it was the fault of her first. She was so young and inexperienced. Her second tried, but he hadn't really cared for her.

Not like this.

And she hadn't cared for him.

Not like this.

She wrapped her arm around Charming's chest, putting her ear against his rib cage. She could hear his heart beating.

She had fallen in love with him, against all her best efforts. Deeply, irrevocably in love.

He was going to break her heart, and at this moment, she really didn't care.

“Wow,” he said, his hand twined in her hair.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

They lay in silence for several minutes, listening to each other breathe. She wanted to say so much—
I missed you. I can't believe you got here.

I love you.

But instead, she said, “Thank you for coming here.”

“My pleasure,” he said, laughter in his voice.

She flushed, not realizing until just now that she had unintentionally spoken a double entendre.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” he said, easing himself back just a little. He put a finger under her chin, and raised her head so that she was looking directly at him. “This really upset you.”

“No.” She shook her head without moving away from his gentle touch against her skin. “I'm not upset at all.”

“I meant,” he said with a smile, “the interview.”

“Oh.” Her bad mood suddenly hovered. She sighed. “Yeah. That upset me. LaTisha thinks I committed fraud.”

“And LaTisha is?”

“My publicist.”

“Well,” he said, “publicists are such legal experts.”

She smiled in spite of herself.

“What did you tell her?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Except what we agreed on.”

“And right now, that's not enough,” he said.

She nodded, and put her head back on his shoulder. She didn't want to look at him. She felt tears threaten—and she never cried.

Why did this make her tear up?

It only took a moment for the answer to come. He had broken through her defenses. She was more emotional than usual—and so she actually felt how deep her disappointment went.

For decades, she had worked to repair the image of stepmothers. She had fought the fairy tale, and just as it looked like she was going to win, someone pulled the rug out from underneath her.

“You didn't commit fraud,” he said. “We have an agreement between the two of us. If we did anything wrong, it was not informing your publisher.”

“But it seems like we did something wrong,” she said.

He sighed. “We probably did. But it's not something that'll tank the book or your wonderful publicity work. You have to remember the publisher wants the book to do well as much as we do.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered into his neck.

His fingers played with the skin along her rib cage, moving but not quite reaching her breast.

“We can resolve this, Mellie,” he said. “I promise.”

Then he kissed her again. She kissed him back. And as he rolled them away from the edge of the bed, as his clever hands found parts of her he had neglected before, she forgot her worries, she forgot her fears.

She forgot everything but him.

He didn't know how long he had lost himself in her.

But when he finally surfaced, sated and pleasantly exhausted, he remembered: The girls.

It had been so long since he made love with his daughters in the next room that he couldn't remember the last time.

Then his stomach growled, and Mellie laughed.

“Sounds like you need sustenance,” she said.

“Only if you intend to ravish me again,” he said.

She smiled. “Of course I do,” she said. “But I think I can wait until you've had something to eat.”

He laughed. It shook his entire body. “I'll call room service,” he said.

“Will that wake the girls?” she asked, and he loved her for asking that question.

“Not if we do it right.” He got out of bed, went to the closet, and pulled out one of the robes. He slipped it on, then grabbed the other and tossed it to her.

She caught it and rubbed her face against it before slipping it on. That moment of unconscious sensuality caught his eye. She had so many facets—he was only just beginning to see them.

He belted his robe, then grabbed the phone and pressed the number for room service. He ordered an assortment of pastries, fruits, and cereals as well as some eggs.

“You were hungry,” she said as he hung up.

He smiled at her. “The girls will want something to eat when they wake up. I figured we won't eat all of this, so there will be something left over for them.”

Mellie tied her robe and slipped off the bed, her expression serious again. “Why are the girls traveling with you? I thought they were in school.”

He sighed. He didn't want to discuss this, but it was a perfectly normal question. In fact, it was a sensible, concerned question.

But Mellie had enough on her plate. She didn't need his burdens too.

She walked over to him and, from the back, slipped her arms around his waist.

“I won't break,” she said as if she could read his thoughts. “And I'm smart enough to figure out that you wouldn't pull the girls from school unless something went seriously wrong. Did the bullying come back?”

“No,” he said. “You solved that.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” she said.

“I wouldn't have been able to tell the girls what to do without you,” he said. “You helped more than you could know.”

He couldn't see her face. She pressed it against his back for a brief moment, then let her arms drop. She walked around in front of him, and pulled open the bedroom door.

“We'll need to be able to hear room service,” she said.

“I told them to knock softly,” he said before remembering she had overheard his side of the conversation.

He glanced at the clock. They told him to expect them in twenty minutes. He figured five had gone by already.

“If you don't want to tell me, that's okay,” she said, in a tone that sounded almost convincing.

He sighed, then closed the bedroom door. He didn't want any chance of the girls overhearing this.

He lowered his voice, and told Mellie about his encounter with Ella. When he got to the parchment and what it did, Mellie's face paled.

“Ella wanted to annul her relationship with her children?” Mellie whispered, as if she understood his unwillingness to speak that too loudly.

He nodded.

“Did she know what a dangerous spell that is?”

He swallowed hard. “I'd like to believe she had no idea.”

Mellie bit her lower lip. Clearly she disagreed with him. “That's why you went to the Kingdoms. To get rid of the document.”

“And to get a protection spell on us. No one connected to Ella can get near us.”

“Good,” Mellie said.

He opened the door. The girls' room was still dark. He wanted to go check, to make sure they were both sound asleep.

“Go,” Mellie said. “I'll wait.”

He glanced at her. “How do you know what I'm thinking?”

“If I were you, I'd want to check on them right now,” she said.

He smiled, then headed across the living room. He stopped at the girls' room and peered inside, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dark.

Both girls slept, curled against each other. He could hear their soft rhythmic breathing.

But he couldn't help himself. He went inside the room, and adjusted the covers, not because they needed adjusting, but because he wanted to make absolutely certain the girls were all right.

When he had reassured himself, he stepped quietly out of the room, then made a detour to the main door. He braced it open slightly. That might discourage the room service attendant from knocking.

But he couldn't leave the now open door. He was too nervous.

He hovered there until the service elevator dinged. He peered out the door and watched as a room service waiter wheeled the heavily laden cart toward the room.

Charming held the door open. As the waiter came close, Charming put a finger to his lips.

The waiter nodded. Charming helped him inside, then added an elaborate tip, and signed the ticket.

The waiter left without saying a word.

Charming locked the door after him.

Mellie stood in the doorway of the master bedroom. Charming beckoned her. She walked over as he took the lids off the two plates of scrambled eggs. He added silverware, then nodded toward the bedroom. She smiled, got a glass of water, and took the plate into the room as he grabbed some napkins.

Then he went in, not closing the door entirely.

Mellie sat on the sofa near the windows. She looked fetching and vulnerable in that bathrobe. It was much too big for her. She curled her legs on the sofa, and leaned against the arm rest.

“What happened to you today was really serious,” she said so quietly he had to strain to hear her. “I'm sorry I bothered you with my very small problem.”

“It's not small,” he said. “It's important.”

“Not as important as your daughters,” she said.

Her words warmed him. He sat down in the armchair so that he could see out the open door. He wanted to know if his daughters got up.

“I needed to keep them out of LA for a while,” he said. “This worked perfectly.”

Suddenly it felt as if there was an awkwardness between them. He balanced his plate on his knees and took her hand.

“I'm happy to be here,” he said. “What happened to you is our problem, not yours.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It's mine, Charming.”

“No,” he said. “It's ours. We'll solve it. And here's how I think we can do it.”