His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

      Then he’d leave her empty, and she’d worked too hard to put herself back together after the last disastrous attempt at a relationship.

      She broke away, wrenched out of his arms and rasped, “All that proves is you’ve practiced getting women naked.”

      His face was implacable and his shoulders rigid beneath the fabric of his slate-gray button-down. He cleared his throat. “Darlin’, why are you fighting this so hard? At first I thought it was because you’ve been around so much misery, but there’s something else going on here.”

      “Yeah. Something else, like I don’t want to. Is your ego so inflated you can’t fathom a woman not being interested in you?”

      He laughed. “Hon, if that’s how you kiss a guy you’re not interested in, I’ll lick a sardine. Pick a different card.”

      How dare he throw her own phrase back in her face.

      “This is funny to you? How’s this for a reason? You might very well be the hottest male on the planet, but I am not willing to be your latest conquest, Wheeler.” Her hands clenched into fists and socked against his chest. For emphasis. And maybe to unleash some frustration. He didn’t move an iota.

      For who knew what ill-advised reason, he reached out, but then he wisely stopped shy of her face. “Is it so difficult to believe you intrigue me and I simply want to unwrap the rest of you?”

      “Yeah. It is.” She crossed her arms to prevent any more unloading of frustration. His chest was as hard as his head. And other places. “You’re feeling deprived. Go find one of the women who text messaged you earlier in the car and scratch your itch with her, because I’m not sleeping with you.”

      A smile curved his mouth, but the opposite of humor flashed through his steely gaze. “In case it’s slipped your mind, I’m married. The only person I’ll be sleeping with for the next six months is my wife.”

      Panic spurted at the back of her throat. Upon meeting her for the first time, he’d kissed her hand—how had she not considered that his old-fashioned streak didn’t end there?

      Of course, he’d also flat-out told her he wouldn’t sleep with another woman while she wore his ring. “Your wife just turned you down flat.”

      “For tonight anyway.”

      His supreme confidence pricked at her temper. So he thought he could seduce away her resistance?

      “For forever. Honestly, I don’t care if you sleep with someone else. It’s not really cheating.”

      The sudden image sprang to mind of Lucas twined with another woman, the way he’d been with her on the bed, his mouth open and heated against the tramp’s throat, then kissing her senseless and dipping a clever hand under her clothes.

      Her stomach pitched. Ridiculous. She didn’t care what he did. She really didn’t.

      “I care,” he said, his silky voice low.

      “Why? This isn’t a real marriage. You aren’t in love with me. You barely like me.”

      “We’re legally married. That makes it really cheating, whether I’ve had you naked and quivering in my arms or not. Have I made my position clear enough?” Fierceness tightened his mouth and scrunched his eyes and had her faltering.

      Anger. It was so foreign, so wrong on Lucas, she didn’t know what to do with it.

      “I think so.” She swallowed against a weird catch in her throat. So, maybe he wasn’t quite the horn dog she’d assumed. “Are you clear on my position?”

      “Crystal.”

      Relieved he wasn’t going to push some macho, possessive sexual agenda on her, she nodded. “Great. I’m glad we talked this out. It’s incredibly important that we handle this fake marriage like rational adults. Now we can go forward as we’ve discussed, as pure business associates, without any additional complications. Agreed?”

      Reflected torchlight danced in his eyes, obscuring his true thoughts. He leaned in and motioned her closer.

      With his lips almost touching her earlobe, he said succinctly, “Sweetheart, the only thing I plan to do going forward is regroup. And then, my darlin’ Mrs. Wheeler, all bets are off.”

      He turned on his heel and left her on the patio. She had the distinct impression he was both mad and plotting how to get even.

Six

      Lucas waited almost a week before cornering the lioness in her den, partially because he’d been hustling his tail off eighteen hours a day to secure at least one elusive client—which had failed miserably—and partially because Cia needed the distance. Pushing her was not the right strategy. She required delicacy and finesse. And patience. God Almighty, did she ever require patience. But when her thorny barriers came tumbling down … well, experience told him she’d be something else once she felt safe enough to let loose. He’d gladly spent a good chunk of unrecoverable work hours dreaming up ways to provide that security.

      He did appreciate a challenge. No woman he’d ever romanced had forced him to up his game like she did. He’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles that kind of effort would have him bowing out before sunset. Not this time.

      Cia’s routine hadn’t varied over the past week, so she’d be home from the shelter around four. Usually, he was mired in paperwork in the study or on a conference call or stuffing food in his mouth while doing research as he prepared for a late meeting with a potential client—all activities he could have done at the office.

      But he’d developed the habit of listening for her, to be sure she and her zero-to-sixty-in-four-point-two-seconds car made it home in one piece.

      Today, he waited in the kitchen and talked to Fergie, who so far only said “hello,” “goodbye” and imitated the microwave timer beep so perfectly he almost always turned to open it before realizing she’d duped him. He’d been trying to get her to say “Lucas,” but Fergie might be more stubborn than her owner.

      When Cia walked in the door, hair caught up in a sassy ponytail, he grinned but kept his hands by his sides instead of nestling her into his arms to explore that exposed neck.

      A woman named Dulciana had to have a sweet, gooey center, and he itched to taste it.

      “Hey,” she said in wary surprise. They hadn’t spoken since she’d laid down the law during his aborted celebratory poolside dinner. “What’s up?”

      “I have a favor to ask,” he said. It was better to get to the point since she’d already figured out he wanted something. Being married to Mrs. Psych Minor kept him honest. When the woman at the heart of the challenge was onto him, it made things so much more interesting.

      Guarded unease snapped her shoulders back. “Sure. What is it?”

      “WFP sold a building to Walrich Enterprises a few months ago, and they’re having a ribbon cutting tonight. I’d like to take you.”

      “Really?” Her forehead bunched in confusion. “Why?”

      He swallowed a laugh. “You’re my wife. That’s who you take to social stuff for work. Plus, people would speculate why I attended solo after just getting married.”

      “Tell them I had to work.” She cocked her head, swinging that ponytail in a wide pendulum, taunting him. So she wanted to play, did she?

      “I used that excuse at the last thing I went to. If everyone was curious before, they’re rabid now. You don’t have much of a social presence as it is, and you’re going to get labeled a recluse if you keep hiding out.”

      “You didn’t ask me to go to the last thing.” She smiled sweetly enough, but he suspected it was a warning for what would be an excellent comeback. “If I get a