The One-Week Marriage

This was an awful moment—one of many Izzy knew she’d have to endure now that she’d promised to go through with this farce. She hoped she hadn’t done a very stupid thing—that her foolish desire to be near her boss hadn’t run roughshod over her sensible need to leave him—rationalizing a reason for staying.

Riddled with guilt and self-doubt, she forced a smile. “Let’s start with that purple polo and poultry outfit.”

The flight to Tranquillity Island was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Izzy was exhausted from the long, trying day. She hadn’t finished making wardrobe changes and fittings at Tant Mieux until nearly eight. Seamstresses had stayed late, a clear indication that the bill had been substantial enough for special considerations.

Izzy brought most of the selections back with her, but the things that needed a bit more altering arrived at nine-thirty.

She took a shower before remembering the nightgowns were lost somewhere in the mountain of boxes and sacks piled around her room. The hotel’s white terry robe hanging in her closet caught her eye, saving her from having to dig in all that stuff, wrapped in a bedsheet.

Wearing the robe and matching slippers, she began to towel-dry her hair. A knock at the door brought her head up, then she remembered. Mr. Parish sent a hotel employee out to purchase suitcases for her. No doubt they had arrived. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she peered through the peephole. Unable to see anybody, she cracked the door as far as the security latch would allow. “Hello? Who’s there?”

The knock boomed again, this time from behind her. She spun, startled. The sound came from the door that adjoined her room with Mr. Parish’s.

“Peabody?”

“Yes, sir?” She wondered what he might want her to do at this hour. She wasn’t exactly dressed for dictation.

“I’ve ordered some food. I thought you might be hungry.”

Stunned, she sank against the door. It clicked shut. “Food?”

“Peabody, I can’t hear you. Let me in.”

“Oh—uh...” Accustomed to doing as he bid, she scurried to the door and threw it wide.

He stood there grinning, looking marvelous in beige slacks and a short-sleeved knit shirt, the same bright hue as his eyes. When he scanned her, his grin skewed wryly. “Bad timing?”

At first she didn’t register what he meant. Then she remembered she wore nothing but a robe. With suddenly restless fingers she touched her towel turban. “I—I just.” She motioned loosely toward the bathroom.

“I gathered that.” He indicated a dining table, set with two covered dishes and a big carafe. “Come. Eat while it’s warm.”

She peered down at herself. The big robe swallowed her from her chin to the top of her terry scuffs. She certainly wouldn’t show any skin he hadn’t seen before—and precious little of that. Deciding she could use some food, she stepped into his room.

“It was nice of you to think of me, Mr. Parish.” Usually on business jaunts he had dinner engagements with clients. On most of those occasions she went along, took notes, rummaged through files in his briefcase, whatever he needed to make the meeting go smoothly. After dinner, she went to her room and read herself to sleep. Never had he ordered room service for them to share.

“You’re doing me a favor, Peabody.” He pulled out her chair and she took a seat at the glass-topped table. “The least I can do is feed you.” He smiled, and she hurriedly turned to gaze out the window. His smiles were too disturbing to experience while wearing nothing but a robe.

She noted with some irritation that her lack of proper attire didn’t unsettle him in the slightest. Of course, being a worldly bachelor, seeing half-dressed women was no big event to him.

She concentrated on the view outside the picture window From their room on the twentieth floor, she scanned Miami’s meandering coast, lights adorning the shoreline like a brilliant crown. Farther out, on the dark water, scattered twinkling lights marked oceangoing vessels as they crept across the sleeping sea.

A sound caught her attention and she turned back. Her boss seated himself on the far side of the table—which wasn’t far enough. She crossed her legs, her foot skimming his shin. Her slipper fell off.

“Oh...”

“What?” He glanced up from placing his napkin in his lap.

She shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My slipper—it...”

He looked down. The white scuff was clearly visible beside his brown loafer. “I’ll get it.” He bent, ducking beneath the table.

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pa—”

He took her ankle into his hand, cutting off her breath. As he lifted her foot, her robe skimmed off her knee, revealing a show of leg. She could see all this through the glass. And because it was glass, there was no stopping the light from passing right through. Mr. Parish had a good clear view, too. Izzy cursed the table for not being made of thick oak.

He remained bent there holding her ankle for a fraction of a second longer before slipping the scuff onto her foot. Did Izzy sense a momentary hesitation, or was it merely a hallucination brought on by the woozy feeling his touch generated in her brain? She had to admit, she wasn’t feeling up to her usual, alert self.

He let her go and ducked back out. Brushing a fallen lock of hair off his brow, he grinned. “Cinderella, I’m happy to report the slipper fits.”

She dragged her feet beneath her seat and adjusted her robe over her knees. “Actually it’s a little big.”

He removed the cover from both their meals and gave her a cynical look. “That’s my Peabody. Ever the hard-nosed realist. Not a touch of romance in her soul.”

She stared at her plate, deciding a close inspection of her cheese soufflé was better than giving him the chance to see the pain and longing in her eyes. Her ankle sizzled unmercifully from the caress of his fingers.

Hard-nosed realist, ha! He couldn’t be more wrong. She was without a doubt the biggest, stupidest romantic fool who had ever lost her slipper—and her heart—to a man. If that weren’t so agonizingly true, she would not be on her way to a private island paradise, pretending to be his wife!

His wife.

She had a quick, disturbing revelation. Not until this moment did the true scope of that status hit her. As his wife, she would be expected to spend a certain amount of time alone with him—in a room much like this one.

Panic racing through her, she peered at him. The fact that he was watching her shook her badly, and she could only stare.

An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t look so worried, Peabody.” He reached across the table, his hand closed as though he held something. “You’ll like being Mrs. Parish.” With a sexy wink, he slipped a golden wedding band onto her finger.

CHAPTER THREE

THE next morning at eight o’clock, Izzy found herself being handed onto a small, sleek jet by one of two pleasant-looking men in black uniforms and pilots’ caps. When she and her boss entered the cabin, Izzy was struck by the exquisitely appointed white leather interior and plush carpeting. The seats were as big and cushy as armchairs, and were separated by small tables, making each grouping an intimate setting for two. There were three such seating areas on either side of the aisle. Two couples were already on board, seated across the aisle from each other in the forward table groupings.

Izzy tried not to show stunned surprise when her boss’s hand went to her waist in a display of husbandly affection.

The fraud had begun in earnest.

“Did I tell you how nice you look today?” Mr. Parish whispered.

She went stock-still and stared. “No.” His smile was warm and believably loving. If Izzy didn’t know better, she would have been convinced her boss was truly devoted to her. Ha!

“Then you should be told. You look lovely—darling,” he reaffirmed, this time louder.

She lifted her chin and forced a smile. He might as well be complimenting himself. He picked out the dress! She had to admit, the sleeveless frock was beautiful, fashioned out of sand-colored faille and splashed with tropical blossoms and ferns. With its above-the-knee, sarong-wrap skirt, it offered an occasional flash of thigh. Coupled with ankle-strap sandals with high, wedged heels, Izzy didn’t think she looked much like an executive assistant. At least not one who could actually type and take dictation.

“Why, thank you—lovikuns.” The ridiculous pet name just popped out. Miffed about his manipulations to get her involved in this hoax, she couldn’t keep her feelings completely buried. “You know I live for your approval.” She fluttered her lashes, noting how his forehead wrinkled ever so slightly, though he maintained his devoted-spouse expression.

He coaxed her down the aisle. With the touch of his hand scorching her waist, he bent to whisper, “Lovikuns?” Her ear tickled with the brush of his lips. “Don’t overdo it, Peabody.”

He took her hand to help her up to the raised seating area. She was surprised when he touched the chair’s arm and it swiveled out for easy access. Once again, she kept her surprise to herself. Mr. Parish didn’t seem inclined to buy his own plane, at least not yet, so she wasn’t accustomed to such unexpected frills. Clearly Mr. Hugo Rufus had a lot to lose if he couldn’t find a way to make Yum-Yum a household word again. She wondered how much longer the sweet old man could hold onto his fancy plane.

Once Izzy was settled, Mr. Parish slid into the chair on the other side of the small, marble-top table they shared. Gathering her hand into his, he lifted her fingertips to his lips and brushed them with a kiss. “I think of this trip as a second honeymoon, darling.” His eyes held such tenderness she had an urge to turn around to see who he was talking to, but at the last second she remembered her role.

And he said not to overdo it?

“My very thoughts.” Her smile was more like a smirk, since she faced away from the other guests. Withdrawing her fingers, she dropped her hand to the table. “But, don’t you think we should meet these nice people—lambie-pie?”

His lips twitched wryly at her smart-aleck endearment, but he was hardly in a position to reprimand her, and she knew it. “Of course, darling.” Placing a hand over the one she had removed from his, he swiveled to better see those in front of them. He squeezed her fingers. Not enough to give her pain, just reinforce his warning that she not overplay her hand.

Without giving him the satisfaction of a glance, she swung her chair toward the aisle, too, trying not to look too disconcerted. Mr. Parish had touched her more in the past ten minutes than in the entire three years since she’d started working for him. The lingering contact was doing erratic things to her breathing.

Izzy noticed that the other two couples had turned their chairs outward, also. She took a quick survey of Mr. Parish’s rivals for the Yum-Yum account. A middle-aged couple sat across the aisle and forward in the cabin. They both wore navy-blue suits and thin-lipped smiles, looking like sallow, humorless bookends.

The other couple was seated on the same side of the aisle as Izzy and her boss. They appeared to be around Mr. Parish’s age, tanned and trendy, the kind of moneyed couple you might see at a swanky Club Med. The blonde with a casual, windswept coif looked as if she might have a tendency to be snooty, the way she peered down her nose. Or she might simply have a stiff neck. Izzy decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Her husband had the brawny bulk of a football fullback. His hair was white-blond and thinning, his swarthy face too reminiscent of a pit bull to be considered handsome. They both wore California chic summer clothes, and seemed to have a predilection for gold jewelry.

The pit bull leaned forward. “Name’s Wirt. Fox McFarland Wirt, and this is the wife, Claudia.” He grinned at the pale, stiff-lipped couple across from him, then at Izzy and Mr. Parish. “Call me Foxie.”

Claudia smiled, but her smile, like her husband’s, lacked warmth. Nobody was kidding anybody. This trip was no pleasure jaunt. A huge account was at stake. The three couples would be hard-pressed to be more than superficially pleasant.

“Good to meet you, Foxie.” Mr. Parish smiled at the man, then his wife. “Claudia.” It was a good smile, and Izzy saw only friendliness there. She tried to make hers as engaging, but felt she was having little success. “This is my lovely wife....” He paused. When he squeezed her hand, she glanced his way, curious about the delay. It startled her when he took her chin into his fingers and drew her face toward his, brushing her lips with a light but soul-wrenching kiss. Her body went into quivering, melting shock as he angled her face around to press a kiss against her ear. “What in hell is your first name, Peabody?” he whispered. Izzy didn’t know how he managed to say anything with his tongue and teeth nipping and stroking. The man had more talents than she’d ever imagined.

Every mental circuit in her brain zapped and snapped, with downed wires writhing all over the place. Yet even with her brain gone haywire, she could detect his annoyance. Belatedly the substance of his question succeeded in rerouting to a functioning part of her brain. He wanted to know her first name. Clearing her thumping heart from her throat, she whispered near his ear, “Izzy.”

He shifted his gaze to clash with hers, his eyes conveying the message that he would never have guessed anything so appalling could possibly be her name. With a pseudo-devoted pat on her cheek and a dazzling smile, he faced the onlookers. His expression was believably apologetic. “Forgive me. She drives me wild. What were we talking about?”

Izzy felt so discombobulated she wanted to scream. He’d kissed her, sending every cell in her body into chaos—right there in front of everybody—then he’d crossly admitted that he didn’t recall her name! No, screaming was not enough! She wanted to...to...she eyed her boss with scorching intent. She wanted to scratch out his...to...to pluck out...those...those...

The tingling pleasure of his kiss continued to flow through her, making her light-headed. She was too intensely aware of him, of his scent, the lingering heat of his lips, his magnetic eyes gazing lovingly at her.

“You were about to introduce your wife,” Foxie said.

Izzy blinked, coming out of a stupor his soft stare brought on.

“Oh, yes. Foxie, was it?” Mr. Parish said. “My wife’s name is—Isabel.”

“Call me Izzy,” she cut in, grateful her lips worked, considering they still sizzled. She passed her fake husband an impertinent look, her emotions a roiling mix of anger, hurt and melancholy. “Lambie-pie loves the nickname, Izzy.”

His grin turned lopsided at her gibe, and though she saw a flash of reproach in his gaze, she knew the others couldn’t have noticed. “And I’m Gabe Parish.”

“Ah, right.” Foxie snapped beefy fingers. “I’ve heard good things about you, my man. The young genius of promotion in the Big Apple.”

Gabe lifted his gaze from Izzy. “And I about you, Foxie. L.A.’s hottest ad exec.”

“California, my man,” Foxie amended, with a guffaw “California’s hottest ad exec.”

“I stand corrected.” Gabe’s glance moved across to the bookends in blue. “And you are?”

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Hedda and Roger Miles. Chicago. The Miles and Unwin Agency.” Mr. Miles straightened his tie. His movements held a prim, brittle dignity that did nothing to indicate a desire to strike up a friendship.

“I’ve heard of your firm. Good solid reputation,” Gabe said. He still held Izzy’s hand. As he spoke he laced his fingers with hers. She continued to face Mr. and Mrs. Miles with an expression of interest, but it was difficult. Her heart ached because the intimacy of their entwined fingers was a superficial sham.

“And what do we call you?” Foxie’s voice boomed in the cabin. “Rog?”

Roger Miles turned close-set eyes on Foxie. With a sniff of his thin nose, he said, “Roger and Hedda.”

Foxie’s white-blond brows wagged upward as though he was amused by the man’s frigid tone. “You got it, my man. Roger and Hedda it is.”

Izzy scanned Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Clearly they weren’t planning to disguise their aversion to their competition, at least until in the presence of their host.

The pilot and copilot climbed aboard. As the crew disappeared up front, an attractive brunette, also clad in a black uniform, entered the plane and began to take drink and breakfast orders.

Not long after Gabe ordered two glasses of gourmet water with a twist of lime, Izzy braced herself for takeoff. She’d never enjoyed the experience. Glancing at her disturbing counterfeit husband, then around at his business rivals, she had a sinking sensation that the white-knuckled takeoff would be the least stressful experience she could expect for the next week.

Gabe only half listened to Claudia and Foxie Wirt name-drop about celebrities they buddied around with in Los Angeles. He smiled and nodded when appropriate, but knew half of what the couple said was bull.

His gaze drifted to Roger Miles, who looked like a bean counter in his conventional blue suit, wing tips and slicked-back graying hair. Gabe wasn’t fooled by the drab image. Roger Miles’s reputation in the advertising business was well-known. The man was sharp and creative and had won a lion’s share of prestigious awards.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.