The Marriage Agenda: The Marriage Conspiracy / The Billionaire's Baby Plan

“I cannot wait.” She gave him a look, one that told him just what she thought of his driving so fast.

He grinned back at her, not sorry in the least.

Dekker drove around—at a sedate speed—for another fifteen minutes. “Just to make certain I shook those fools.”

The dashboard clock said it was 9:33 when he pulled up in front of the tidy one-story house that Joleen had been calling home for a little over a year.

“We’d better hide this car,” he said. “If our ‘friends’ decide to cruise the neighborhood, it would be a dead giveaway.”

So Joleen got out and moved her own car from the small detached garage at the side of the house. Once Dekker had parked in the vacant space, she went to get Sammy. “And put those tin cans in the recycling bin,” she said as she leaned in the car to free her son from his safety seat.

Dekker, who stood behind her at that point, made a put-upon sound in his throat and muttered, “What? You? Anal?”

She pulled her head out of the car just long enough to make a face at him before she reached back in to scoop Sammy out of the seat and into her arms.

* * *

Joleen’s house was very much like a lot of the smaller houses in Mesta Park. A classic prairie cottage, it had no hallways. Living room, dining room and kitchen opened into each other, a bedroom off each. The single bath was tucked between the two back bedrooms.

Joleen had the room off the kitchen and Sam had the one in the middle. The largest bedroom, in front, with a nice window facing the porch but without direct access to the bath, served as her guest room. Dekker carried his overnight bag in there as Joleen took her son with her into her own room. She swiftly changed out of her wedding dress and into a pair of capris and a crop top.

Then Sammy had his bath. He went right down when she put him to bed, turning his face toward the wall and sighing in tired contentment. Joleen tiptoed from the room, switching off the light and pulling the door quietly closed behind her.

She found Dekker sitting in the kitchen, his back to the window, at the old pine table she’d picked up at a yard sale and refinished herself. He’d changed clothes, too. Now he wore faded jeans and an OSU T-shirt.

She tipped her head at the open Rolling Rock in front of him. “I see you managed to find the beer.”

He picked up the bottle and toasted her with it—then set it down without drinking from it. “What a damn day.”

“You said it.” She got herself a Coke from the fridge and dropped into the chair across from him. “At least Uncle Hubert didn’t get falling-down drunk.”

“That’s true. We need to be grateful for small favors. But I have a request.”

“Name it.”

“Can we stop having weddings for a while?”

She raised her right hand, palm out. “I do solemnly swear. If there is another weddin’ in the next five years, we will not have a thing to do with it.”

He leaned back in the chair, crossed his feet in front of him and tipped his beer at her again. “But what if it’s cousin Callie’s?”

“Callie is on her own.”

“You think I believe that? If Callie and that cowboy tie the knot, you’ll be planning the menu and helping her pick out her long white dress.”

“Think what you want.”

“And what about Niki?”

“What about her?”

“What if she decides to get married?”

“My baby sister is thirteen. I will not allow her to get married in the next five years.”

“Maybe Camilla—”

“Dekker. Please.”

“I think she likes the ice cream man. A lot.”

“She likes them all a lot. But they never do last, and you know that as well as I do.”

“Who’s the cynical one now?”

“I’m not bein’—” She cut herself off. Something had happened in his face, though his body remained just as before, slouched in the chair, totally relaxed.

“Don’t tense up,” he said low. “Pretend nothing has changed.”

“Well, all right.” She sat back herself, crossed her own ankles and drank from her Coke.

He winked at her. “You’re a champion.”

“Thank you. And what, by the way, is going on?”

“Keep your eyes on me.”

“Okay…”

“I heard something. I think there’s someone outside the window behind me—and don’t shift your focus there.”

“You mean—?”

“Reporters. It looks like they’ve found us, after all. But don’t say it—don’t say anything about it. Whoever’s out there won’t be able to hear much through the window, but the view of your face through those lace curtains should be pretty good, considering that the overhead light is on and the shades are up.”

She understood. Whoever it was might be able to make out her words as her lips moved—though why it should matter, she wasn’t quite sure.

Dekker said, “I want to give our uninvited guest a little taste of his own medicine. And do not start frowning. Please.”

She put on a big smile.

“Don’t overplay it.”

She toned it down.

He shifted forward, drawing his legs up and resting his forearms on the table. “Lean toward me.”

Still grinning—but not too hard—she mimicked his pose, which brought their noses within inches of each other. “Now what?”

“Now, I want you to kiss me.”

Joleen almost blinked—but stopped herself in time.

“Just do it,” Dekker whispered.

“But—”

“Humor me.”

“What good is—”

“Jo.”

That was all he said. Her name. It was enough to remind her of the trust she put in him, of what a true friend he was and always had been.

She would jump off a cliff for him if he asked her to. What was a kiss compared to that?

She leaned even closer.

And their lips met.

His lips were soft. Warm. She wondered if hers felt cool to him. And then she thought of their brief kiss at the courthouse.

This made it two times.

Two times in her whole life that she had kissed Dekker’s mouth—and both of those times were on the same day, their wedding day.

His mouth moved against hers. “Close your eyes.”

It was a most ticklish feeling, talking together, with their lips touching. She couldn’t help smiling. “Dekker, I know how to kiss.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, okay then. Prove it.”

Joleen rose to the challenge, letting her mouth go soft and her eyelids drift down.

Several seconds passed. Very lovely seconds.

Dekker’s mouth opened slightly against hers. She felt the warm flick of his tongue.

It was…shocking.

Dekker’s tongue. Touching the moistness just inside her lips.

Shocking.

But not the least bit unpleasant.

Some part of her mind rebelled. This, after all, wasn’t what the two of them were about. Not Joleen and Dekker. Brushing kisses—quick, fond pecks on the cheek—those were all right. But nothing mouth-to-mouth. Nothing involving wetness. Nothing including tongues.

However…

Somebody ought to teach those reporters a lesson. And this would do it—though she wasn’t quite sure how.

But Dekker knew. And that was good enough for her.

She sighed.

He made a low, teasing sound in his throat and went on kissing her. With tenderness. And considerable skill.

Not deeply, though. He never did more than skim the secret flesh right inside her mouth.

Not deeply…

A memory flared, bright as those photoflashes on her mama’s front porch earlier that night.

Herself at the age of eleven. Spying on a sixteen-year-old Dekker, who was with Lucy Doherty, his first serious girlfriend.

They were kissing, Dekker and Lucy. Sitting on that little iron bench in the corner of Lorraine’s backyard, kissing long and deep and slow. Joleen, behind the fence next door, could see them through the space between the fence boards.

So strange. All these years later. Here she was, her mouth against Dekker’s mouth. Thinking of him kissing Lucy Doherty, of her own naughty young self, with her snoopy little nose pressed to the fence.

The way he’d kissed Lucy, now that had been a deep kiss.

Joleen was starting to wonder what it might feel like if Dekker were to kiss her deeply when she realized he was pulling away.

She sighed for the second time and let her lashes drift open.

His blue, blue eyes gleamed at her. “Good job.”

“I aim to please.” The words came out as a throaty purr. Did she intend them to? She wasn’t sure. “Um, what now?”

“Now, we get up from this table and we go into your bedroom with our arms around each other. We want it to look as if, when we get in there, we’re going to do what newlyweds usually do.”

What newlyweds usually do…

The words set her pulse throbbing. Which was so silly. They were not really going to do what newlyweds do.

They were only going to make the reporter think that they would.

Why are we doing this, really? she wanted to ask. But she didn’t quite dare. She still faced the window, and the light overhead seemed way too bright, too revealing. Whoever was out there might know what she said. That would ruin Dekker’s plan—whatever his plan was, which she didn’t know yet.

She didn’t want that, to ruin her friend’s plan—her friend who, as of tonight, was her husband, too.…

But then, not really her husband. At least, not in that way.

“Ready?” he asked.

She swallowed. Nodded.

He held out his hand to her.

She laid hers in it—her left hand, the one on which she now wore the shining band of diamonds he’d given her at the courthouse. Holding on, he rose and came around to her side of the table, his eyes locked with hers the whole time.

He pulled her out of the chair and wrapped an arm around her, tucking her in close to the side of his big, hard body. It was six steps to her bedroom door. He flipped the wall switch as they passed it. The kitchen went dark. He drew her over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them.

She started to reach for the light switch, but he caught her hand. “No. Not the overhead light…” His breath teased her ear.

He left her, a shadow moving on silent feet, drawing the shades. Since her room was at a back corner of the house, there were two windows, one on the left wall next to the bed and one to the right of the headboard.

She remained at the door, waiting.

“And now?” she whispered, when both shades were lowered.

She heard a click as he switched on her bedside lamp. In its soft glow, he returned to her, took her shoulders in a gentle grip.

She frowned up into his shadowed face. “Dekker, what—?”

“Wait here. By the door. Don’t get in front of the lamp. The light should draw him, but he shouldn’t be able to see anything, really.”

“But what are you going to do?”

Again, he refused to answer. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

“But—”

He touched her mouth for silence. “Just wait.”

She rolled her eyes at him and shrugged.

“Is that a yes?”

So she gave him the nod he seemed to require.

He went out through the other door—the one that led to the bathroom and Sammy’s room and from there, to the dining room.

Joleen slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs and propped her chin on her knees.

Great. Now she got to wait, while Dekker played detective.

And what was the point, she wanted to know?

He’d already asked those news people to leave. It hadn’t worked. He’d tried ditching them. Without success.

What else could he do?

She realized what and started to stand again.

But no.

She sank back down. She had told him she would wait here. Okay, she would wait.

And if he got himself into a fight tonight, he’d better be prepared to hear a few harsh words from her later. Because she would be sharing with him a large piece of her mind.

* * *

Dekker pushed open the door to Sam’s room and froze, listening.

Once he heard the shallow, even breathing that told him Sam was fast asleep, he moved forward. He stopped at the door to the dining room. The faint sliver of brightness beneath it confirmed what he remembered; there was a light on in the front of the house, the floor lamp Joleen had switched on low when they first came in the front door. Other than that—and the lamp in Jo’s room—the house was dark.

Good.

Dekker opened the door and slid through it, pulling it silently closed behind him. Keeping near the wall, he went beneath the arch into the front room, where that single lamp burned. He’d left the guest room door ajar. He ducked through it.

The shades were up in there. Dekker flattened himself against the wall by the window that opened onto the front porch. He waited.

Nothing. No sounds or movements beyond the window. He hoped that meant the porch was deserted, that the damn reporter was on the prowl around back, trying to get a look in Joleen’s bedroom window, to steal a shot of the famous Bravo Baby making love to his bride.

The window creaked a little as Dekker slid it up. He slipped back into the shadows, waited some more. He heard only innocent noises: a horn honking a block or so away; wind chimes on the porch next door; the intermittent bark of a lonely dog in the distance.

Dekker counted to three hundred. Slowly. Then he moved into the window again, to unhook the screen. It swung out. He held it clear and went through.

The porch provided no surprises. Keeping as much in the shadows as possible, Dekker moved down to the opposite end, by the front room, and slid over the rail to the ground. The night was clear, bright with stars. The waning moon rode high, and there wasn’t much cover on that side of the house. But he was in luck. No reporters lurked there.

Maybe they’d given up and gone away.

Or maybe they had moved around to the back of the house where he had hoped to lure them.

Swiftly and silently he covered the distance from the front porch to the back. He pressed himself to the wall at the end of the house and stole a look around the corner.

Yes.

The soft glow from the lamp in Jo’s room showed him a figure—male—in dark pants and shirt, perched on the side rail of her small back porch, craning to see through the narrow slit between the blind and the window frame.

Perfect, thought Dekker. Off balance, with his back to me.

He slid around the corner and made for the porch steps.

His target barely had time to turn and grunt, “Huh?” before Dekker grabbed his arm, twisted it up behind him and yanked him down from the rail and hard back against his own body, keeping the arm up at an unnatural angle—and getting a nice, tight lock around the neck.

The camera around that neck swung as Dekker’s captive struggled.

“Easy,” Dekker whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. We’re just going to have a nice little talk.”

The body in his grip stopped fighting him. “Whatever you say…”

Dekker knew that voice. He murmured a low oath. “Pollard.”

“Got me.”

“I thought you were a reporter.”

“’Fraid not.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Man’s gotta make a living, Smith.”

Dekker gave his captive’s arm a slight upward push. Pollard let out a sharp grunt of pain. Dekker whispered, “Who are you working for?” As if he didn’t already know.

“Look. Could you ease off on the arm a little?”

“I want some answers.”

“You’ll get them. Just back the hell off.”

Chapter 8

Joleen heard a thud on the back porch. And then faint scuffling sounds, followed by the mutter of low voices.

Dekker had found his man.

She listened for the heavy thumps and pained grunts that would have indicated a brawl in progress. She simply was not going to put up with any brawl on her back porch.

But no such noises occurred. So she kept her word and waited there on the floor of her bedroom, her back against the kitchen door, her knees drawn up to her chest.

Dekker returned to her the way he had left. He appeared in the doorway to the bathroom.

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