Which didn’t entirely explain why at nearly midnight on Saturday, he was still sitting in the kitchen sipping twenty-year-old scotch with Wendy’s father and uncle. He’d been there for hours, listening to them tell stories about Texas politics and—as her father colorfully called it—“life in the oil patch.”

Her family was entertaining, to say the least. And that was the sole reason he hadn’t headed to bed much earlier. This had nothing to do with the fact that Wendy was now sleeping in his bed.

He’d been dreading sleeping in the same bed, but that was unavoidable now. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now he couldn’t get her mother’s words out of his head.

After reminding Wendy over and over again that his own motives were selfish, why did it bother him to think that hers might not be so pure? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he hated the idea that their marriage was just one more rebellion in a long line of self-destructive behaviors. Worse still was the idea that she’d quickly lose interest in him once the tactic failed to shock her parents.

If she offered herself to him, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Even knowing what he did now, the temptation would be too sweet.

To his chagrin, he actually felt a spike of panic when her uncle stood, tossed back the last of his drink and said, “Jonathon, I appreciate the hospitality—and the scotch—but I know I’ll regret it tomorrow if I drink any more.”

Wendy’s dad stood as well. “Marian is gonna have my hide tomorrow as it is.”

Jonathon held up the decanter toward Wendy’s father. “Are you sure I can’t offer you another?”

“Well…”

But Hank slapped his brother on the arm in a jovial way. “We’re keeping him from his bride.”

“Don’t remind me,” her father grumbled.

“No man should have to entertain a couple of old blowhards when he has a lovely new wife to warm his bed.”

Jonathon nearly smiled at that, despite himself. He liked Wendy’s family far more than he wanted to admit. He knew she found them overbearing and pretentious, but there was something about their combination of good-ol'-boy charm and keen intelligence that appealed to him.

Besides, the longer he kept them here, shooting bull until all hours of the night, the greater the chance that Wendy would be fast asleep by the time he got up to the bedroom.

However, before he could even offer them yet another drink, Wendy’s father and uncle were stumbling arm in arm up the stairs to the guest bedrooms where they were staying. He winced as they banged into the antique sideboard his decorator had foolishly put outside his office. And then cringed as her father cursed loudly at the thing. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that all of their fumbling didn’t wake Mema.

He waited until they vanished down the upstairs hall before he followed, turning off lights as he went. That afternoon, he and Wendy’s father had moved Peyton’s crib from the nursery to the master bedroom. Ironic, since it had only just arrived in the past week. They’d moved the spare mattress up from the garage and now the guest-bedroom-turned-nursery was once again a guest bedroom. Throughout the process, Wendy kept insisting that her family should just book rooms at one of the many hotels in town. Mema had looked scandalized. Marian had looked offended. And Wendy had eventually caved.

And so, after thirteen years of living completely by himself, he now had six additional people under the roof. Maybe he should buy a bigger house. One with more bedrooms. Though a dozen bedrooms wouldn’t have saved him from this. When the family of your new wife was visiting, they all expected you to share a room with her. There was just no way around that.

After putting it off as long as he could, he finally bit the bullet and let himself into the master bedroom. The room he’d be sharing with Wendy. His wife.

Despite his numerous prayers, she wasn’t asleep.

She sat up in the bed, her back propped against the enormous square pillows his decorator had purchased—personally he’d never been able to stand the damn things and wasn’t entirely sure why he continued to pile them on the bed every morning.

Peyton was asleep on Wendy’s chest, her tiny fist curled near her face so that she sucked on one knuckle. Wendy was on his side of the bed. The bedside lamp was on and in her other hand, she held a Kindle.

He glanced at the bedside table. Scratch that, she held his

Kindle.

She looked up as he closed the door behind him. Try as he might, he couldn’t force himself to walk into the room more than a step or two.

Wendy smiled sheepishly. “Sorry to steal your Kindle,” she whispered. “She fell asleep here and I didn’t want to risk waking her by digging around for my own book.”

She was dressed in a white tank top and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle boxer shorts. Her legs were stretched out in front of her. How a woman as short as she was had ended up with legs that long was a mystery, but damn, they seemed to stretch for miles.

Her skin was creamy white, her legs lightly muscled, ending in perfect, petite feet. And her toenails were painted a sassy iridescent purple. He had to force his attention away from her bare legs, but couldn’t make his gaze move all the way up to her face. He got caught on her arms, which were just as bare as her legs and somehow nearly as erotic.

In all those years that they’d worked together, he hadn’t

ever seen her in something sleeveless. Her upper arms were just like the rest of her. Small and lean, but lightly muscled. Unexpectedly strong.

There was something so intimate about the sight of her holding Peyton on her chest, dressed for bed. In his bed.

His muscles practically twitched with the need to cross the room and pull her into his arms. To do all kinds of wicked things to her body. Or maybe to just sit on the bed next to her and watch her sleep.

That thought—the idea that he’d be content without even touching her—that was the thought that scared the crap out of him. Physically wanting her, he could handle that. He’d been fighting his desire for her for years. He always won that battle. But this new urge to just be with her. He didn’t even want to know what the hell that was about.

Suddenly his master bedroom seemed way too small.

That new house he was going to buy—the one with a dozen guest bedrooms—apparently the master would need to be four times bigger. He was going to have to move out to Portola Valley to find a house big enough.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” Wendy asked.

He dragged his gaze up to her face. She was frowning in that cute way she did, biting down on her lower lip in a half frown, half sheepish grin. He walked closer so that he didn’t have to speak louder than a whisper. “Why?” he asked.

“You’re mad that I borrowed your Kindle.” She flicked the button on the side to turn it off. “I didn’t even think. That was a horrible invasion of your privacy.”

He wanted to stand here watching her sleep and she was worried that reading from his Kindle was an invasion of his privacy. She had no idea.

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

“Are you sure?” Despite the whisper, her voice sounded high and nervous. “Because you look really annoyed.” If anything, he probably looked as though he was trying not to kiss her. Good to know she interpreted that as annoyed. “It’s just a Kindle. Not a big deal.”

Then he crossed automatically to his side of the bed. The side she was sitting on. He took off his watch and set it on the valet tray on the bedside table. The familiarity of the action calmed his nerves. Of course, normally there wasn’t an empty baby bottle beside the lamp, but still…

“Did you have trouble getting her to fall sleep?” he asked as he pulled off his college ring and dropped it beside the watch. Then he hesitated at the simple gold band on his left hand. Since he’d slept in Peyton’s nursery last night, he’d had both rings and the watch on all night. This was the first time he’d taken off the wedding ring.

“No.” Wendy rubbed at her eyes a little before arching her back into a stretch. “I think she’s finally getting used to the new feeding schedule. I woke her at eleven for that bottle and she went right back to sleep…”

Jonathon looked up when he heard her voice trail off. Like him, she was staring at the ring on his hand. Her gaze darted to his and held it for a second. He watched, entranced, as she nervously licked her lips. Something hot and unspoken passed between them, once again stirring that need to kiss her. To mark her as his own. To bend her back over the bed and plow into her.

Thank God, Peyton was asleep on her chest, keeping him from doing anything too stupid.

He yanked the ring off his finger and dropped it onto the tray beside his watch and his class ring.

Her gaze dropped to where his watch and rings lay on the nightstand. Then it snapped up to his face again. She gave another one of those wobbly, anxious smiles. “I’m on your side of the bed, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I’ll move. Just give me a second.” Bracing an arm at Peyton’s back, she half sat up, then hesitated. Peyton squirmed and Wendy’s frown deepened.

“Just lie her down in the center. She can sleep there.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” Was it wrong that he was scheming to get Peyton in the bed between them? A little devious maybe, but not wrong. He wouldn’t make a move on Wendy as long as Peyton was in the same room. But having her in the bed was a stroke of genius. Better than an icy shower, he was sure. And less conspicuous. Besides, he even had sound scientific reasoning in his corner. “I’ve been reading this book on—”

“Attachment parenting?” she asked as she waggled the Kindle. “I’ve been stalking your Kindle, remember?”

That playful, suggestive tone of hers was like a kick in the gut. Maybe he’d still need that cold shower. “I should just sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She leaned over and rolled Peyton from her chest to the center of the bed. Then came up onto her hands and knees to climb over the still sleeping baby. The thin cotton of her boxer shorts clung enticingly to her bottom and his groin tightened in response to the sight.

She had no idea just how far from ridiculous he was being. This was him at his most practical.

Hell, forget the floor. He’d just sleep in the shower. With the cold water on.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” she said, tossing the pillows on that side of the bed onto the floor—the side that from this moment on would always be her side of the bed. “When I think of all the things you’ve done for me in the past few weeks…”

“Don’t make me into some kind of hero. You know why I married you.” The problem was he was no longer sure he knew why he’d done it. “My motives weren’t altruistic.”

At least that was true.

She flashed him a smile that was a little bit sad. “I know. But neither are mine. And I’m not about to kick you out of bed.”

Ten

“Not about to kick you out of your own bed,” she corrected, a blush tinting her cheeks.

As if she wasn’t irresistible already.

He wanted to argue about the sleeping arrangements. Dear God, he did. But he couldn’t logically make an argument for sleeping in the tub. Besides, he’d doubt he’d fit.

“Oh, I get it,” she said with teasing concern. “You’re embarrassed about your body.”

Clearly she was trying to hide her own embarrassment.

“Wendy—”

“You’re probably all pasty white under those dress shirts, huh?” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Maybe you put on a few extra pounds over the holidays? Is that it? Is that why you’re standing there like a statue, refusing to get undressed?”

He wasn’t about to tell why he really wasn’t getting undressed. If she hadn’t figured out how thin her tank top was and how much that turned him on, then he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

“Hey, I won’t even look,” she teased, making a great show of rolling over to face the wall. “Now I can’t see you. You can even turn out the light if you want.”

Rolling his eyes at her silliness, he reached over and turned off the lamp before starting on his buttons.

“I guess you made peace with my dad,” she said after a minute.

“I guess so,” he admitted, slipping off his shirt and tossing it vaguely in the direction of a nearby chair. He toed off his shoes and socks. “He’s not such a bad guy.”

“No.” Her voice was small in the darkness. “He’s not. Everyone comes around eventually.”

He hesitated before unbuttoning his jeans. He hadn’t slept in anything other than his underwear since college. He didn’t even own a pair of pajama bottoms. First thing in the morning, he was buying a pair. No, twenty pair. Maybe thirty just to be safe.

A moment later he lay down so close to the edge of the bed that his left shoulder hung off the side. His awkward position was still not uncomfortable enough to block out the scent of her on his pillow. It smelled warm and feminine and faintly of peppermint.

He lay there stiffly, eyes resolutely closed, keenly aware that she too was still awake. He searched for something to say. “I never knew you liked the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

Damn, was he smooth or what?

He heard her roll over in the dark and prop herself up on her elbow. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He turned just his head to look at her, but found himself eye to eye with Peyton. Her tiny face was seven inches from his. Her lips pursed as she dreamed about eating. He remembered his niece doing that, from all those long years ago when he used to help feed his sister’s kids. Lacey would be in college now. He felt a powerful punch of longing. The kind he normally kept buried deep inside. To push it back down, he rolled up onto his elbow to look at Wendy.

At least he understood the longing he felt when he looked at her. Pure sexual desire. He got that. He could control it—at least, he thought he could. God knew, he’d controlled it so far. But this unfamiliar longing to reconnect with his family? That was new and terrifying territory.

He doubled his pillow under his head, allowing him to look over Peyton to where Wendy lay. She’d moved the night-light in from the nursery, a glowing hippo that cast the room in pink light and made Wendy’s skin look nearly iridescent. When he looked back up at her eyes, her gaze darted away from his, as if she was all too aware of the desire pulsing through his veins.

He could see she was about to lie back down, so he said, “No, not everyone loves Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Most people don’t even know they were a witty and subversive comic book before becoming a fairly cheesy movie marketed to kids.”

She gave a playful shrug, smiling, either because the topic amused her or because she was relieved he’d stopped looking at her like something he wanted to lick clean, he couldn’t tell which.

“That’s me, I guess.” She imitated his hushed tone, obviously no more willing to wake Peyton than he was. “A fan of things witty and subversive.”

“Yeah, I get that. What I don’t get is how I never knew it until now.”

“Oh.” She gave another shrug, this one self-effacing.

“For five years, you’ve dressed like the consummate, bland executive assistant.” Whispering in the dark as if this made the conversation far more intimate than the topic was. “Bland clothing in a neutral palate. Demure hair. Now I find out you’ve been hiding a love of violet nail polish and eighties indie punk rock.” He nodded toward her boxers. “Not to mention the Turtles.”

She frowned. “Punk rock?”

“The Replacements T-shirt you had on the other day.”

“You recognized them?” She gave him a pointed once-over. “And yet you don’t seem like a fan of eighties alternative.”

“I’m a fan of Google. And you couldn’t possibly have been old enough to attend the concert where that T-shirt was sold.”

“I’m a fan of eBay. And of defying expectations.”

“Which brings me back to my original question. Why didn’t I know this about you?”

She paused, seeming to consider the question for a long time. Then she sank back and stared at the ceiling. He watched her, lying there with her eyes open as she gazed into the dark, long enough that he thought she wasn’t going to answer at all.

Finally she said softly, “Working at FMJ…” Her shoulders gave a twitch, as if she was shrugging off her pensive mood. “I guess it’s been the ultimate rebellion for me. When you’re from an old oil family, what’s worse than working for a company that’s made their money in green energy.”

“We do a lot of other things too,” he pointed out.

“Well, sure.” She rolled back to face him. “But even then, it’s all about innovation and change. My family is all about tradition. Maybe when I was working for FMJ, I never felt like I needed to rebel.”

He felt his heart stutter as he heard her slip. When I was working for FMJ, she’d said. Not now that I am working for FMJ, but when I was. But she didn’t seem to notice, so he let it pass without comment.

“Working at FMJ,” she continued, her voice almost dreamy, “I felt like I had direction. Purpose. I didn’t need to define myself by dying my hair blue or getting my navel pierced or getting a tattoo.”

The image of her naked belly flashed through his mind. The thought of a tiny diamond belly-button ring took his mind into dangerous territory.

“A tattoo?” He was immediately sorry he asked. Please let it be somewhere completely innocuous, like her… nope.

He couldn’t think of a single body part on Wendy that didn’t seem sexy.

She gave a little chuckle. “One of my more painful rebellions.” Then—please God, strike him dead now—she lifted the hem of her white tank top to reveal her hip and the delicate flower that bloomed there.

He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out to touch it. For a second, every synapse in his brain stopped firing. Thought was impossible. Then they all fired at once. A thousand comments went through his brain. Finally, he cleared his throat and forced out the most innocent of them. “That doesn’t look like it was done in a parlor.”

As lovely as it was, the lines were not crisp. The colors weren’t bright.

Wendy chuckled. “Mine was done by a boyfriend.” She held up her hands as if to ward off his criticism. “Don’t worry, his tools were all scrupulously sterilized and I’ve been tested since then for all the nasty things you can get if they hadn’t been.” She gave the tattoo a little pat and then tugged her hem back down. “I was eighteen, had just finished my freshman year at Dartmouth and I wanted to study abroad. My parents refused and made me come home and intern at Morgan Oil. So I dated a former gang member who’d served time in county.”

Jonathon had to swallow back the shot of fear that jumped through his veins. She’d obviously survived. She was here now, healthy and safe, but the thought of her dating that guy made his blood boil.

He unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “And you wonder why your parents worry about you.”

She gave a nervous chuckle. “Joe was actually a really nice guy. Besides, after spending the weekend with my family—”

“Let me guess, now he works for Morgan Oil? Interns for your uncle in Washington?”

“No. Even better. He went on to write a book about how to leave the gang life behind. He teaches gang intervention throughout Houston and travels all over the U.S. working with police departments.”

“You sound almost proud,” he commented.

She cocked her head and seemed to think about it. “I guess I am proud of Joe. He turned his life around.” Then she gave a little laugh. “Maybe my family should start a self-help program.”

“Tell me something. What’s with all the cautionary tales?” “What do you mean?”

“This is the second boyfriend you’ve told me about whose life was changed by meeting your parents.”

“I’m just warning you.” Her tone was suddenly serious. “This is what they do. They’ll find your weakness—or your strength or whatever—and they use it to drive you away from me.”

“No,” he said. “That’s what they’ve done in the past. That’s not what they’re going to do to me.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.” She looked at him, her expression resigned. “Can you honestly tell me you haven’t considered how helpful my uncle could be in securing that government contract?”

“That contract has nothing to do with this.”

“Not yet. But they’re doing it already.”

“I don’t—”

“You were up late drinking scotch with my dad and uncle, weren’t you?”

“How—”

“I can smell it on your breath. And you don’t drink scotch.”

“How do you know that I don’t drink scotch?”

“You never drink hard liquor.” Her tone had grown distant. “Never. You keep very expensive brands on hand at the office—and I assume here—for associates who do drink. You read Wine Spectator magazine, and can always order a fabulous bottle of wine. You don’t mind reds and will drink white, if that’s what your companion is having, but you don’t

really like either. You prefer ice-cold beer. Even then, you never have more than two a night.”

He leaned back slightly, unnerved that she knew so much about his taste. “What else do you know about me?”

“I know that anyone who has such strict rules for themselves about alcohol, probably has a parent who drinks. I’d guess your father—”

“It was my mother.”

“—but that would just be a guess.”

“You have any other theories?”

Between them Peyton stirred. He reached out a hand to place on Peyton’s belly to calm her. Wendy reached out at the same time and their fingers brushed. Wendy hesitated, then linked her fingers through his.

“I didn’t say it to make a point. I’m just…” She brushed her thumb back and forth over his. “There’s something about my family that makes people want to impress them. It’s made you want to impress them, or you wouldn’t have bent your no-hard-liquor rule.”

“My mom did drink,” he said slowly. “'Functioning alcoholic’ is the term people use now. You have any other old wounds you want to poke?”

The second the words left his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut.

Christ, he sounded like a jerk.

He opened his eyes, shoving up on his elbow to look at her. He fully expected to see a stung expression on her face. Instead, she just gave his hand a squeeze and sent him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted.

“Don’t apologize. I got a little carried away with the armchair psychology.” She was silent for a minute and he could hear the gears in her brain turning. “But since you mentioned it.”

“Okay, hit me with it. What horribly invasive question are you going to ask next? You want to know my deepest fear? Clowns. How much I’m actually worth? About—”

“Actually I wanted to know about Kristi.”

He fell silent.

“She was your—”

“I know who you mean.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, all but praying she’d let it drop. She shifted in the bed beside him. Fidgeting, but saying nothing. She wasn’t going to let it drop, and if he didn’t respond soon, she’d think Kristi was a bigger deal than she had been.

“She was just someone I knew in high school. Who told you about her?”

He wanted to know who to kill. He hoped it wasn’t Matt or Ford, because murdering one of his business partners would probably be the end of FMJ.

“Claire,” Wendy answered.

Well, crap. He couldn’t very well kill a woman. Especially when she’d just married his best friend.

“Don’t be mad at her,” Wendy continued. “I practically begged for information.”

“Why on earth would you beg for information about my old high school girlfriend?”

“I dunno.” She rolled over, but with his eyes squeezed shut, he couldn’t tell if she was rolling toward him or away from him. “As dead set as you are against love… well, no one feels that way unless they’ve been hurt.”

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