Perfect Proposal (5 page)

She
stopped so quickly he nearly ran into her, took a breath then
turned to face him. Snowflakes settled on her hair, bright white
against the dark black, glistening in the street lights like a
halo. God, she was so beautiful even when she was pissed at
him.

When he
opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand to stop him. “No,
it’s fine. I thought we were somewhere we’re not. Don’t worry about
me. I’ll take the subway home.”

Fuck
that. Home was not on the New York City subway. Not anymore. Her
home was in D.C. With him.

When she
started to turn away again, he clamped his hands on her shoulders
stopping her. “Rosie, listen to me. I want to marry
you.”

“
Bullshit. You were ready to bolt when I mentioned
it.”

“
You surprised me, that’s all. I was fixin’ to ask you in the
hotel tonight. Honest.” A flake of snow affixed itself to her
eyelash and he brushed his thumb lightly over her eyes to remove
it.

She
caught his hand and held it away from her. “Sam, please. You don’t
have to pretend.”

“
I’m not pretending, baby.”

“
Then explain why you reacted the way you just did. Because I
don’t want you to propose to me because you feel
obligated.”

“
Obligated? Damn it, Rosie. I’ve been trying to propose to you
for the past three months. I was fixin’ to propose to you during
our trip to Hawaii but that trip got cancelled because of that mess
with Chad. Then I figured I’d do it when he got back but
then…”

“
But then he got shot.” The suspicion that had filled her voice
faded. “Then you got called to San Francisco for that contract
negotiation.”

“
Yeah, and by the time I got back, I figured I’d take you to
Paris this week and propose there, but then you said you made
arrangements to come to New York for your mom’s birthday and…damn
it, Rosie, I didn’t want to wait any longer and have anything else
get in the way. But I also didn’t want to propose in front your
family.”

What
made him think anything about this would go smoothly, considering
all the other times his plans had been interrupted? He took a deep
breath and dove in, prepared for the worst while trying to stay
positive, hoping for the answer he’d thought he’d expected the
first time.

Screw
it. His plans had just been shot to hell. He wasn’t going to be
able to propose in their suite at the Waldorf. There wouldn’t be
candlelight and flowers and champagne; he was going to have to do
this on the corner of Forty Ninth and Third Avenue. Not the most
romantic place for a proposal, but he was going to make damned well
sure she believed him. Right here. Right now.

Ignoring
the pedestrians skirting around them and the few who stopped to
watch, ignoring the honking horns of the cabs, he lowered himself
to one knee. The slush soaked through the fabric in an icy grip,
not to mention the pavement was fucking hard. His knee was gonna
hurt like a sonovabitch if he had to be down here for too long, but
if he was going to do this, he was going to do it
properly.

He
reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the small blue box and
flipped it open to display the ring, though he tried to shield it
from onlookers. Last thing he needed was to get robbed. Though the
locals strode past, not sparing them a glance, a half dozen
tourists from the cameras slung around their necks stopped to
watch, three of them holding up cameras, the rest cell
phones.

“
I love you, Rosalinda Maria Ramos. My life is better with you
in it, with you beside me. You make me laugh, and I can’t imagine
life without you.” Okay, that sounded cheesier than it had when
he’d written it. “Will you marry me?”

“
Oh Sam. You’ve been carrying a ring around with you this whole
time?” She covered her mouth with her hand, and a sheen appeared in
her eyes despite her rapid blinking. “You really were planning on
proposing tonight?”

He
didn’t have time to respond before her eyes narrowed and he
realized she was staring at the ring as if it were a coral snake,
not a three-carat solitaire. “That’s a Tiffany box, isn’t
it?”

“
Yeah. I picked it up during my last trip up here. I’ve had it
sized for you and everything. I thought maybe you’d like to
register at some of the stores while you’re shopping with your mama
tomorrow.” After he’d made love to her all night.

The tip
of her tongue darted over her lips. He’d never seen her so unsure.
Didn’t all women want a Tiffany ring? He could have sworn that was
the place those darned romance movies mentioned. So why didn’t she
look convinced?

“
Did you show that to my mother?”

“
No.” Had Carlos said something to his wife without him
knowing? And if he had, or even if he hadn’t, what had her mother
said to Rosie to make her doubt him, damn it?

“
Just to make it clear—I am not after your money or the size of
the diamond you can buy me.”

What the
fuck? “I never thought you were with me because of money.” Where
had this come from? “You can say no, and I promise I won’t be mad.
You’ll still have your job at Hauberk and I’ll always take care of
you, Rosie, no matter what happens between us.”

It would
hurt like hell not to see her but…wait a minute, he was proposing
for fuck’s sake, not breaking up with her.

He
climbed to his feet, a sick feeling grabbing at his gut. The life
he’d planned for them both, hell, even the plans he’d made for them
tomorrow—accompanying her and her mother through the Fifth Avenue
stores, pretending not to be interested when she registered them
for wedding presents, spiralled into a dismal abyss that had his
head pounding and his stomach ready to hurl.

Disappointed that they weren’t given the expected “yes of
course I’ll marry you” response, the tourists moved on. Or maybe
they were secretly laughing that she’d obviously turned him
down.

Fan-fucking-tastic, ten to one, this would be on YouTube
within an hour posted as “proposal gone wrong.” Damned thing would
probably go viral, and he’d never hear the end of it from the guys
back in D.C. Or New York. Or any of his other offices, either.
Which would be nothing compared to the dreariness of life without
Rosie in it.

He
touched his thumb to her chin and tilted it up until she met his
gaze. “Rosie, I love you. I want to marry you. I want you in my
life forever. I thought you loved me too.”

“
I do. I love you more than anything, but…” She stared across
the street.

“
But what?” He’d still been a kid when he’d learned a rejection
always followed that damned word.

He could
practically see smoke coming from her ears as the cogs turned
inside. Was she worried that he was still in love with his old
girlfriend, Jill? No, that couldn’t be it. While he still grieved
Jill’s death, Rosie knew he’d finally been able to move forward.
She’d accepted that long ago. Or was it something her mother had
said to her while they were preparing dinner?

“
What do you want, Rosie? Deep down inside? Do you love me
enough to put up with all of my flaws?”

She
pursed her lips, but he caught the slight upward tug at the sides.
“Well, it’s true that you do have a lot of bad habits. Like how you
leave wet towels on the floor. And all that hair in the sink after
you shave.” Her nose curled. “Most women only have to deal with
guys’ beard hair. I had to contend with you shaving your head
too.”

He
touched his hair, still not used to not feeling skin. “Is that why
you wanted me to grow it out?”

“
No.” She shook her head, breaking eye contact. “I like you
with a shaved head, but I wanted…” A blush rose up her throat. “I
kind of like the idea of being able to bury my fingers in your
hair. To hold you when you’re…well, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows as a blush crept up her neck.
When you’re..
.going down
on her? The way he liked holding her by the hair when she went down
on him? Well, wasn’t that an interesting thought? And fucking
sexy.

Except
there was one question she still hadn’t answered
conclusively.

Once
again, he lowered himself to one knee. Ah, shit on a stick, he
could have at least moved out of the damned puddle. “Will you,
Rosalinda Ramos, do me the honor of marrying me?”

She
cradled his face in her palms and leaned her forehead against his.
“Yes. Of course I’ll marry you. I love you, Sam Watson. I’ll even
sign any prenup your lawyers want me to sign, just to shut up
anyone who thinks I’m marrying you for your money.”

He
wrapped his arms around her waist and stood, lifting her off her
feet. Not caring about the big shit-eating grin on his face, he
carried her to the waiting limo. Once they were safely ensconced
inside, he removed the ring from its box and slid it on her finger.
Damned if it didn’t look perfect. Satisfied, he pulled her onto his
lap. “Now, who the hell thinks that you’re with me because I have
money? I want names.”

“
Mainly the women at the club. And sometimes the clients.
Noelle.”

Ah, that
little gold digger. “I have never worried that you’re with me
because of my money. Ever. As for anyone else who thinks
differently…well, I have a fucking big sharp stick they can sit on.
I know you love me. And I love you.” Unable to resist, he added,
“Even with all your bad habits.”

“
My bad habits?” She sat up and folded her arms across her
chest. “Name one.”

“
Shall we start with all those hair products you have
cluttering up our bathroom counter?” Not that he’d trade them for
anything. “Then there’s your fondness for pickled eggs.”

She
poked him in the chest. “Hey, I like pickled eggs.”

He
grimaced. “They are disgusting. Just sayin’.”

The limo
pulled up to the curb on Park Avenue. The hotel’s doorman opened
the door, then politely stepped back, holding an umbrella over them
as Sam climbed out.

Sam
turned around and held out his hand, lacing his fingers with hers
when she placed her palm in his. Hand in hand, he led her through
the lobby with its magnificent chandelier, skirting the ornate
clock in the middle of the aisle. As they passed, the concierge
caught his eye and nodded discreetly.

Once Sam
opened the door to their suite, Rosie’s eyes widened at the
profusion of red roses filling dozens of vases throughout the main
room, plus the trail of rose petals leading into the bedroom. As
he’d arranged, a bottle of champagne sat nestled in its silver ice
bucket, fresh strawberries and pineapple piled around the chocolate
fountain.

“
It’s beautiful.” She reached out and plucked the closest rose
from its vase, held it to her nose.

He
snagged the remote to the stereo and pressed a button. As he’d
planned, the first song from the playlist of romantic music he’d
chosen for the evening serenaded her as she followed the trail of
rose petals into the bedroom. The covers of their king-sized bed
had been turned down, the red of the petals brilliant against the
white sheets. The concierge and his staff had set up everything
exactly as he’d asked.

It was
perfect.

Except
for the remnants of rice pudding in his lap and the frigid wet wool
where he’d knelt in the street.

Ignoring
both, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her snug, moving
them back and forth as the track changed to Diana Krall’s The Look
of Love.

“
I love this song.” Rosie snuggled against him, apparently
unconcerned that he was probably getting her dress wet
too.

“
It’s all in the details, Rosebud.” He moved them around the
room. Rosie relaxed against him as the track changed to an old slow
Nat King Cole song. “I told you. I wanted to do it right. I wanted
you to be surrounded by beautiful things when I proposed to you. I
wanted you to have a beautiful memory of today, a perfect
memory.”

“
Oh, Sam, I don’t need perfect.”

“
No, but you deserve perfection. And I wanted to give it to
you.” Sam pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You know, I even
asked your father for permission this afternoon.”

“
You
dundo
.”
She leaned against his arms to stare up at him. “Even if he’d said
no, I would have married you.”

She
moved like a dream against him, at one point lifting her leg from
his knee to his hip in an erotic caress. He caught her leg beneath
the knee before she could put it down, held her open against
him.

Standing
there, swaying to the music, he slid his hand down her leg to her
ankle and held her in place while he ground his hips against her
mound. A tidal wave of love surged through him, overwhelmed
him.

She
stared up at him, her eyes reminding him of earlier that evening
when her nephew had climbed onto his lap. The tyke had the same
eyes, the same thick fringe of dark lashes, even the same shape of
her lips. At the time he’d been swamped with the thought that one
day that might be his own child he’d hold, a child who would look
just like Rosie.