Marriage With Benefits (14 page)

The sip of wine she’d taken sprayed all over the flagstone patio. “That wasn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke. We’re partners, and we’re amazing together. Why ruin a good thing with a divorce?”

“Why?” Fire shot from her expression and singed the atmosphere. “Why? Because we
agreed.
If you don’t file for divorce, I can’t access my trust fund and I’ll tear up the Manzanares contract. We both have a huge stake in this.”

Interesting how her argument summarized the deal instead of listing the evils of marriage. He shrugged. “But the divorce isn’t necessary if I give you the money for the shelter.”

She sprang to her feet and both palms slammed the table, rattling the dishes. “Are you sure you have a business degree, Wheeler? You’re forgetting about a minor detail called operating expenses. Without the trust fund, I won’t have a dime once we open the doors. The residents have to eat. There are administrative costs. Utilities.”

Like that, they were back to
Wheeler
and insults. And logic. No, he hadn’t considered the operating expenses because his involvement in any deal ended the moment papers were signed. Poor excuse, regardless, and a huge miss. It had been much easier to coax her into his bed.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “What if we could get donations for operating expenses? Would you still want a divorce?”

Her eyes flared wide, deepening the blue. “What have you been drinking, Wheeler? Our whole agreement centers on the divorce.”

Okay. He’d botched this up. Clearly. He’d opted to go with money as his negotiation instrument and had ignored what he’d learned about Cia over the past few months.

Figure it out, or lose everything.

Pulse tripping with a rush of sudden alarm, he rose and cornered her against the table. The heat between them, the absolute beauty and inexpressible pleasure of making love—that was his best bargaining tool, his best shot at getting her to stay.

Her arms came up and latched into a knot across her chest. She was not budging an inch.

“Darlin’,” he said and slid a hand through her curtain of hair to cup the back of her silky neck. “I’ve been drunk on you since the moment you said I look like a Ken doll. Loosen up a little. We’re just talking.”

The rigid set of her shoulders and the corded neck muscles under his fingers were the opposite of loose and getting tighter by the moment. “Talking about how you’re second-guessing our divorce.”

He leaned in and set his lips on her forehead, mouthing his way down to her ear. “Not second-guessing. Presenting a possible alternative. Can you blame me? Honey, the things you do to me are indeed mind-blowing. I’d be a few cows shy of a herd if I was willing to give that up so easily.”

His hands found her breasts, and she moaned. “Animal analogies. That’s sexy, Wheeler. Talk to me some more like that.” Her arms unknotted and fell to her sides, melting into pliancy as he sucked on her throat. She didn’t move away.

“You like that? How about this?” He backhanded the dishes to the ground, and amid the crash of breaking pottery, set her on the table, splaying her legs wide to accommodate his hips. Her dress bunched at her thighs and hot pink flashed from the vicinity of her center. “You make me crazier than a monkey on fermented melons. Hotter than a rattler on asphalt. Shall I go on?”

“No. No more animals.”

She was laughing, and he captured it in his mouth, then parted her lips and tasted the wine lingering inside with firm strokes of his tongue. She arched against him, rubbing her heat against his blistering erection.

He worked a hand under her bottom and pushed, grinding that heat hard against his length. “You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me. I want to be inside you every minute of every day. I want your gorgeous naked body under me, thrashing with climax, and my name on your lips. I cannot get enough of you.”

Her body spasmed, and she moaned again, her chest vibrating against his. He pulled her dress over her head and feasted on the sight of one very sexy hot-pink bra and panty combo.

It needed to come off now. He needed to touch her.

With one finger, he hooked her bra and dragged it down across her taut nipples, popping them free. He took one in his mouth, rolling it across his tongue, nibbling and sucking, and she pushed against his teeth, begging him to take her deeper.

He sucked harder. Her nails bit into the back of his head, urging him on. His erection pulsed, aching to be free of the confines of his clothes.

Not yet.

He dragged his tongue down the length of her abdomen and fingered off her panties, then knelt between her legs to pleasure her there.

“Do you like this?” he asked. “Do you like the way I make you feel?” He treated her to a thorough openmouthed French kiss square in the heart of her wet heat. She bucked against his lips, seeking more.

“Yes.
Yes.
”

She was so responsive, so hot. Fingers deep inside her, he flicked her sweet nub with his tongue. “What do you need?”

She whimpered, writhing as he held back from granting her the release she sought. “You, Lucas,” she said on a long sob. “I need you.”

The syllables uncurled inside him, settling with heavy, warm weight, and only then did he realize how much he’d burned to hear them. He vaulted to his feet. His clothes hit the patio, and he had a condom in his hand in record time.

His luscious wife watched him with dark, stormy eyes, one leg dangling over the edge and one leg bent up, opening her secrets wide. A wanton gift, spread out on the table, just for him.

He kissed her, covering her mouth and her body simultaneously, then entered her with a groan, filling her, and squeezed his eyes shut to savor the hot, slick pressure.

They were awesome together. How could she deny it? How could she walk away? No other man could fulfill her like he could.

She needed him.

She only thought she wasn’t in the market for a long-term marriage, like she’d once insisted she didn’t want him like this. She was wrong, so wrong, about both, and he had to convince her of it.

Relentlessly, he drove her off the edge and followed her down a brilliant slide toward the light.

Later, when Cia lay snuggled in his arms in their bed, she blasted him with the last word. “The divorce is happening, no matter how hot the sex is. I asked you to marry me because you’re a close-the-deal-and-move-on guy. Stop talking crazy and do what you’re good at.”

Yeah, he excelled at moving on. Always on the lookout for the next deal, the next woman, the next indulgence. Matthew was the solid, responsible one.

Was.
Not anymore.

Lucas pulled Cia tighter into his arms without responding. Matthew was gone. Lucas had assumed his place at the helm of Wheeler Family Partners. Lucas owned a house constructed for marriage. With these shifts, life could be whatever he wanted.

He wanted what Matthew had lost. With Cia. For the first time in his life, Lucas wasn’t interested in moving on. But how did he convince Cia to stick around? Maybe she was right and he wasn’t cut out for long-term. Gray sheep didn’t spontaneously turn white overnight.

But the shifts had already occurred, and he didn’t have to stay on the same path. This was it, right here, right now. If he wanted to change the future, he had to figure out how to make it happen.

Eleven

W
hen the doorbell chimed, Fran Wheeler was the very last person Cia expected to view through the peephole. She yanked open the door and summoned a smile for her mother-in-law. “Mrs. Wheeler. Please come in.”

“I’m sorry to drop by unexpectedly.” Fran stepped into the foyer, murmuring appreciatively at the way Cia had decorated the living room. “And please, call me Fran. Formality makes me feel old, and if I wanted to be reminded of my age, I’d look in a mirror.”

“Of course. Fran, then. Lucas isn’t home, I’m afraid.” Cia waved at the couch. “Would you like a seat? I’d be happy to get you a drink while you wait, if you’d like.”

Coolly, as only a pillar of Dallas society could, Fran cocked her head, and the chic style of her blond hair stayed firmly in place. “I’m here to see you. Lucas is with his father at a boring real estate seminar, so I took a chance you’d be home alone.”

Uh-oh. Well, she was way overdue for the tongue-lashing Fran likely wanted to give her for refusing the pearls. “Your timing is good, then. I took the day off from work. The offer of a drink still stands.”

A squawk cut her off. Fergie couldn’t stand it when someone had a conversation without her.

Fran glanced toward the back of the house. “Was that a bird?”

“A parrot.” Another squawk, louder and more insistent. “Fergie. She was a wedding present from Lucas.”

“Oh.” Fran’s raised brows indicated her clear interest, but she appeared reluctant to ask any further questions.

Cia’s fault, no doubt, as she had no idea how to break the awkward tension. The divorce loomed on the horizon. She was sleeping with this woman’s son. The mechanics of a relationship with a mother figure escaped her. The odds of successfully navigating this surprise visit were about the same as winning the lottery without buying a ticket.

Squawk.

“Fergie probably wants to meet you.” Cia shook her head. “I mean, she’s a little temperamental and likes people around. If you’re not opposed to it, we can sit in the kitchen. She’ll quiet down if we do.”

“That’s fine.” Fran followed Cia into the kitchen and immediately crossed to Fergie’s cage. “Oh, she’s precious. Does she talk?”

“When she feels like it. Say hello to her. Sometimes that works.”

Cia poured two glasses of iced tea.

Fran and Fergie exchanged hellos several times, and Fergie went off on a tangent, first singing the national anthem and then squawking, “Play ball!” to the older woman’s delight. Fran laughed and praised the bird for a good five minutes. Cia wasn’t about to interrupt.

Finally, Fran joined Cia at the breakfast table and sipped her tea. “The last few weeks have been difficult, and I wanted to thank you for the shoulder. It meant a lot to me that you stayed with us the afternoon Andy’s father died and then all through the funeral and…” She took a deep breath. “Well, you know, you were there. So thanks.”

“Oh, um, you’re welcome.” Cia’s tongue felt too big for her mouth, swollen by the sincerity of Fran’s tremulous smile. “I know how it feels to lose a parent. I was glad to do what I could.”

“You’re very good for Lucas—did you know that? Andy says you’re all he talks about at work. My boys are everything to me, and I’m grateful Lucas has found someone who makes him happy.” The older woman reached out and clasped Cia’s hand. “We got off on the wrong foot when I pushed too soon for a relationship with you, but I’m hopeful we can start over now.”

Cia shut her eyes for a blink. What was she supposed to do? She wasn’t just sleeping with Lucas; they were married. And it wasn’t over yet. Abuelo could still get suspicious if Fran happened to mention Cia’s aloof brush-offs. Dallas was a small town in all the worst ways.

“Fran, you aren’t to blame. It’s me.” Might as well lay it all out there. “I just don’t know how to be around a mother-in-law. Or a mother, for that matter.”

Okay, she hadn’t meant to lay it
all
out there. Tears stabbed at her eyelids, and Fran’s expression softened.

“There aren’t any rules, honey. Let’s just sit here, drink tea and talk. That’s all I want.”

Yeah, she could pretend all day long this was about keeping the heat off and guarding against her grandfather’s suspicions. It wasn’t. Fran was offering something she couldn’t refuse—friendship.

Cia nodded and cleared her throat. “That sounds nice. What would you like to talk about?”

“Tell me about the shelter. I’ve been looking for a volunteer opportunity. Can I help?”

And for the second time in less than a week, Cia’s heart splattered into a big, mushy mess. A man she could get over in time. A mother? Not so much. And now it was too late to back away.

With her nerves screaming in protest, Cia told Fran every detail about the shelter and how she’d picked up where her mother left off. Silently, she bargained with herself, insisting the cause could use a good champion like Fran Wheeler and evaluating the possibility of still working with her after the divorce.

But she knew Fran wouldn’t speak to her again after Lucas divorced her. That was better anyway. A clean break from both mother and son would be easier.

Way back in the far corner of Cia’s mind, a worm of suspicion gained some teeth. What if Lucas had put his mother up to coming by in some weird, twisted ploy to get her to reconsider the divorce?

No, he wouldn’t do that. She pushed the doubt away.

Lucas was honest about everything, and he hadn’t mentioned staying married again anyway, thank goodness. For a second after he’d casually thrown out
long-term,
her pulse had shuddered to a halt and her suddenly active imagination had come up with all sorts of reasons why it could work. All pure fiction.

His suggestion had been nothing but an off-the-cuff idea, which he hadn’t been serious about in the first place. Exactly why she was ignoring all the feelings Lucas had churned up when they’d stood outside the old hotel—she’d be gutted if she gave him the slightest opening.

Besides, there was no
alternative
to divorce. The trust clause stated she couldn’t file for divorce. He had to.

As she ushered Fran to the door with the promise of meeting her for lunch next Monday, Cia had herself convinced she and Lucas were on the same page about the divorce.

*

The green dress Lucas bought Cia for the Friends of the Dallas Museum of Art benefit gala was her favorite. Sheer silk brushed her skin like a cloud, and the neckline transformed her small breasts, giving her a bit of cleavage. She’d twisted her hair into an updo and a few rebel tendrils fell around her face. Sexy, if she did say so herself.

Lucas, criminally stunning in an Armani tux, came into the bathroom as she stepped into her black sandals. He swept her hand to his lips and zapped heat straight through her tummy.

The man had touched her as intimately as possible, in more ways than she’d imagined existed. Yet a simple kiss on the back of her hand turned her knees to jelly.

“Mrs. Wheeler, you are indeed ravishing.” He pulled a flat box from the pocket of his jacket. Without taking his eyes off her, he opened the lid and offered her the box.

Cia glanced inside and her already weak knees almost pitched her to the travertine tile.

“Lucas,” she squeaked, and that was the extent of her throat’s ability to make sound.

He extracted the necklace and guided her to the mirror, then stood behind her to clasp the choker around her neck. Emeralds set in delicate filigreed platinum spilled over her collarbone, flashing fire and ice against her skin. Every eye would be drawn to the dazzling piece of art around her neck, and no one would even notice her cleavage.

“It reminds me of you,” he murmured in her ear, not touching her at all, but his heat, a signature she recognized the moment he walked into a room, raced up her bare back. “An inferno captured inside a beautiful shell. All those hard edges polished away to reveal a treasure. Do you like it?”

Did she
like
it? That was akin to asking if she liked the sun or breathing. The necklace wasn’t jewelry, the way every other man on earth gave women jewelry. It was a metaphor for how well he understood her.

Lucas had an uncanny ability to peer into her soul and pluck out her essential desires, then present them to her.

Similar to his mother’s pearls, this necklace represented all the frightening, unexamined things in her heart, which Lucas never let her forget. Neither could she forget he’d very pointedly failed to mention the things in
his
heart.

“I can’t keep it.” Her hand flew to the clasp, only to be stilled by his.

“Yes. You can. I insist.”

“It’s too…” Personal. Meaningful. Complicated. “Expensive. I’m sure you still have the receipt. Take it back.”

“The artist custom-made it for you. All sales are final.”

She shut her eyes for a beat. “That’s not the kind of thing you do for a woman you’re about to divorce. How are we going to make it look like we’re on the outs if you’re buying me custom-made jewelry?”

They had time, but they’d done such a bang-up job of making a fake marriage look real, reversing it presented a whole new set of difficulties. She wished she’d considered that before hopping into Lucas’s bed.

“Maybe I’m trying to earn your forgiveness,” he suggested, and in the mirror, his gaze locked on hers, a blue firestorm winding around her, daring her to ask what he’d done that required forgiveness.

Was this an apology for bringing up an
alternative
to divorce? “Forgiveness for an affair, maybe? You wouldn’t do that.”

His forehead tightened. “How do you know what I’m capable of?”

She spun away from the mirror, about to remind him that he’d been the one to convince her he’d never cheat. His black expression changed her mind. “Because I do. Only someone with a huge ego and a heaping spoonful of selfish has an affair. You don’t have the qualifications.”

They stared at each other for the longest time, and, finally, Lucas blinked, clearing his expression, and gave her a slow smile. “So maybe I’m trying to earn your forgiveness for slaving away at the office. Leaving you alone for days on end, crying into your pillow about how your husband never pays attention to you anymore.”

“That could work,” she said, then squealed as he backed her up against the vanity and slid magic fingertips up her leg, gathering green silk against his wrist.

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it, darlin’? Are you desperate for my hands on you? Like this?” His palm flattened against her bottom and inched under her panties, stealing her breath as he dipped into her instantly wet center.

Yes, exactly like that.

“We have to leave or we’ll be late,” she choked out and squirmed against his wicked fingers. “Rain check. You and me and a coat closet. Nine o’clock. We’ll pretend it’s the first time we’ve been able to connect in weeks.”

With his eyes blazing, he hooked the edge of her panties and drew them off to puddle on the floor. “How about we connect right now
and
I meet you in the coat closet? But only if you make it eight-thirty and leave your underwear at home.”

As if she could resist him. Within moments, he’d sheathed himself and they joined, beautifully and completely.

She clung to him, wrapped her legs around him and plunged into pleasure. Pleasure with an edge because her brain had left the building, and he’d ended up with a piece of her heart after all. She couldn’t find the courage to shut off what she was feeling.

When Lucas made love to her, she forgot all the reasons why the
alternative
wasn’t plausible. Lucas glided home slowly, watching her with a searing, heavy expression, and her heart asked, “What if it could be?”

The question echoed with no answer.

No answer, because Lucas was
not
presenting an alternative to divorce so they could continue having spectacular sex, no matter what he claimed.

Sex wasn’t the basis for a relationship. Sex wasn’t guaranteed to stay good, let alone spectacular. He hadn’t miraculously fallen in love with her. So why had he really brought up long-term?

And why was she so sad? Because his alternative hadn’t included a declaration from his heart or because it felt as though she didn’t know the whole truth?

It didn’t matter. This time she wouldn’t end up brokenhearted and disillusioned because she wasn’t giving Lucas the chance to do either.

They arrived at the benefit twenty minutes late, and it would have been thirty if Lucas hadn’t tipped the driver to speed. Regardless, heads swiveled as they entered the ballroom, and Cia struggled not to duck behind Lucas.

“What are they looking at?” she whispered. “I told you there was no such thing as fashionably late.”

“Maybe they know you’re not wearing any panties,” he said, a lot more loudly than she would have liked, and made her skin sizzle with a sinful leer.

She smacked his arm with her clutch. “Maybe they know you stuffed them in your pocket.”

The swish of fabric alerted her to someone else’s presence. Lucas’s mother. She stood right in front of them, and as far as Cia knew, still possessed working ears. Cia’s smile died as heat climbed across her face.

“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Wheeler,” Cia croaked. The fire in her face sparked higher. “I’m sorry, I mean Fran. You’d think it would be easy to remember. I don’t like being called Mrs. Wheeler, either. Makes me feel like an impostor.”

Where had that come from? She sealed her lips together before more stupid comments fell out, though dragging her son’s sex life into public had probably already killed any warm feelings her mother-in-law might have developed over afternoon tea.

The older woman’s cheeks were a little pink, but she cleared her throat and said, “No problem. I couldn’t answer to it for at least a year after Andy and I married. Such a big change in identity. Wait until you have kids and they start calling you ‘Mama.’ That one’s worse, yet so much more wonderful.”

Another couple joined them, and Cia was caught up in introductions instead of being forced to come up with a neutral response to Fran’s casually thrown out comment. It didn’t stop the notion from ricocheting through her head.