A Wife for One Year. Brenda Harlen

you don’t have a bed in your second bedroom,” she pointed out.

      “We’ll move my desk out and your bed in. If anyone asks why, we’ll explain that we wanted to have a guest room for your sister when she comes to visit.”

      She considered this and finally, reluctantly, nodded. “But what if she really does want to come for a sleepover?”

      “How often does she stay at your place?”

      “Hardly ever,” she admitted, stabbing a piece of cauliflower with her fork.

      “Then we’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”

      She nodded, although not entirely happily, as she nibbled on the tender-crisp vegetable. “Your condo is almost a half-hour drive from South Ridge High School,” she pointed out. “I can be at work from my apartment in less than ten minutes.”

      “So you’ll have to get up a little earlier in the morning,” he acknowledged.

      “I’m more concerned about how long my car will last with the extra miles I’ll be putting on it every day.”

      “We’ll get you a new one.”

      She frowned. “You’re not buying me a new car.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because.”

      He lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes. “What kind of an answer is that?”

      “A valid one,” she said stubbornly.

      “Are you forgetting that I’m rich now?”

      “I didn’t marry you for your money.”

      “Actually, you did.”

      She flushed. “Okay, I did. But only for a small part of it and only for Becca.”

      “Because she needs the surgery,” he acknowledged. “Just like she needed new shoes when you took that fifty bucks off me back in high school.”

      The color in her cheeks deepened. “She’s a kid from a single-parent family in the wrong part of town—I just want her to have a chance.”

      “And she does,” he told her. “Because she has you in her corner.”

      “And you,” Kenna said. “You were the one who found Dr. Rakem.”

      “I just made some inquiries.” He opened the folder the waiter had left on the table, added a tip and signed the tab.

      “And then checked his references and arranged the consult.”

      He just shrugged, because it really hadn’t been the big deal she was making it out to be.

      “I don’t know how to express how truly grateful I am,” Kenna said softly.

      “Getting naked might work,” he said, because the mood had become entirely too serious and he wanted to see her smile.

      Her lips did curve, even as she shook her head.

      Then her gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about our wedding night...”

      His brows rose along with his interest.

      “...and I decided it might be fun to strip—I mean, see the Strip.”

      And that quickly, his hopes were dashed.

      “You want to play tourist, don’t you?”

      “Absolutely,” she agreed.

      He pushed his chair away from the table and offered his hand. “Then let’s do it, Mrs. Garrett.”

      * * *

      Seeing Las Vegas through Kenna’s eyes was like seeing it for the first time all over again. She gaped at everything, from showgirls in glamorous costumes to working girls in almost nonexistent costumes; she paused to admire landmarks of famous hotels and the wares of unknown street artists; she sighed over a diamond bangle in the window display of Cartier but bought a rope-and-bead bracelet from a young boy’s folding table.

      She seemed as wary of the casinos as she was fascinated by them. When he fed a fifty-dollar bill into a slot machine and told her to pull the handle, she shook her head and tucked her hands behind her back, as if she was afraid to touch it.

      He thought he understood her reticence. She’d grown up in a home where money had always been in short supply, so to feed it into a machine for the thrill of watching the drums roll and the lights flash and possibly—although not likely—hearing the bells clang was completely foreign to her.

      “The key to gambling—whether it’s slot machines or roulette wheels or card tables—is to never bet more than you can afford to lose.”

      “But a lot of people forget that, don’t they?”

      “Some get caught up in the excitement of the game,” he acknowledged. “They forget that they’re putting their money down for entertainment rather than an investment, and they get frustrated by their losses, certain their luck will change with the next hand, spin of the wheel or pull of the handle.” He took her hand from behind her back, unfurled her fingers and wrapped them around the knob. “I promise I won’t let you get carried away.”

      She looked at him and nodded, her fear of the machine outweighed by her trust in him. That unfailing trust was the double-edged sword that had kept him from acting on his feelings for her for the past decade, because he would never forgive himself if he hurt her. He pushed those thoughts—and his wants—aside and, keeping his hand over hers, pulled down the lever.

      She held her breath as the reels spun, slowed and finally settled.

      “I got a lemon, cherries and a bunch of grapes—what does that mean?”

      “It means you lost.”

      “Oh.”

      “To win a single-coin bet on this machine, you need three matching symbols on the center line.”

      He prompted her to pull the lever again.

      “Two oranges and a banana.”

      This time, she started the machine spinning on her own.

      Cherries. Banana. Banana, cherries, grapes, orange, lemon.

      The machine spit out five coins.

      Her eyes lit up, and her obvious joy speared straight into his heart.

      “What happened?”

      “The fruit salad—” he pointed to the third icon “—is like a wild card that pays out every time.”

      “So I won.”

      “If you consider five coins winning,” he said. “Actually, most slot machines don’t even use coins anymore—they just keep track of credits and give you a receipt when you want to cash out.”

      “How much of your money am I losing every time I pull down this handle?” she asked him.

      “Twenty-five cents.”

      “Oh.” She smiled. “You can afford that.”

      He got a kick out of watching her watch the machine. The pulse in her throat would speed up as the drums spun around, her hands would clench into fists. He found himself mesmerized by that pulse point, tempted to touch his lips to it, to savor the warmth of her skin and taste her excitement. How would she respond if he did? Would her breath catch? Would her heart race? Would she realize she wanted him as much as he wanted her?

      The drums stopped spinning and the excited light in her eyes dimmed just a little when the symbols didn’t match.

      She got a couple more payouts of five coins, but grew increasingly disheartened as his initial fifty dollar investment whittled down to forty, then thirty.

      “You just keep pulling this