His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

yellow latex gloves from her hands, which she dropped into the sink. “I’ve already cleaned the master suite. With your permission, I’d like to show you what I’ve done.”

      “Sure.” Cia was halfway to the stairs before the raucous clang of a big, fat warning bell went off in her head. “You, um, cleaned the master suite? The bathroom, too?” Where there was a noticeable lack of cosmetics, hair dryer or conditioner.

      Her heart flipped into overtime.

      Satanás en un palo. The maid had cleaned Lucas’s bedroom while Cia slept in her room down the hall. They might as well have put out a full-page ad in the Dallas Morning News—Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Wheeler Don’t Share a Bedroom.

      While the maid politely pointed out the sparkling tile and polished granite vanity in the master bathroom, Cia listened with about a quarter of her attention and spent the other three-quarters focusing on how to fix it.

      Lucas had royally screwed up. Not on purpose. But still.

      “So you’ll be back on Wednesday?” Cia asked when the maid finished spouting about the cleaning process.

      “Tomorrow, if acceptable. This week, I have Wednesday off. And then back again on Friday.”

      Of course she’d be back tomorrow. “Fine. That’s fine. Your work is exceptional, and I’m very pleased with it. Please let me know when you’ve finished for the day.”

      The maid nodded and went off to clean, oblivious to Cia’s ruined day. Cia called the shelter to let them know she’d be unavoidably late and sent Lucas a text message: Come home before eight. I have to talk to you.

      The second the maid’s compact car backed out of the driveway, Cia started transferring her clothes into Lucas’s bedroom. Fortunately, there was a separate, empty walk-in closet inside the bathroom. It took twelve trips, fourteen deep breaths and eight minutes against the wall in a fetal position, forehead clamped between her fingers, to get all her clothes moved.

      Toiletries she moved quickly with a clamped jaw, and then had to stop as soon as she opened the first dresser drawer, which contained tank tops and drawstring shorts. Sleepwear.

      She’d have to sleep in the same room with Lucas. On the floor. Because there was no way she’d sleep in the same bed. No way she’d sleep in it even if he wasn’t in it. No doubt the sheets smelled all pine-tree-like and outdoorsy and Lucas-y.

      And, boy, wouldn’t the floor be comfortable? Especially with Lucas breathing and rustling and throwing the covers off his hard, tanned body as he slept a few feet away.

      God, he better be several feet away. What if he pounced on the opportunity to try to sweet-talk her into bed?

      What if? Like there was a snowball’s chance he’d pass up the opportunity. And after last night, with the dress and the warm hand on her shoulder all evening and the way he kept knocking down her preconceptions of him, there was a tiny little corner of her mind afraid she’d let herself be swept away by the man she’d married.

      Her feminine parts had been ignored for far too long—but not long enough to forget how much of a mess she’d been after the last time she’d jumped into bed, sure that this was finally the right man to heal the pain from losing her parents, only to scare yet another one away with colossal emotional neediness.

      She was pretty passionate about whatever she touched, and there weren’t many men who could handle it, especially not when it was coupled with an inadvertent drive to compensate for the gaping wound in her soul. Until she figured out how to be in a relationship without exposing all the easy-to-lose parts of herself, the best policy was never to get involved—or to get out as quickly as possible.

      There had to be another way to solve this problem with the maid besides sleeping in the same room with Lucas. What if she moved her stuff to Lucas’s room and got ready for bed there but slept in her room? She could get up early the days the maid came and make up the bed like she’d never been there. Or maybe she could pretend the maid hadn’t met her standards and dismiss her. Maybe moving her stuff was a total overreaction.

      Her phone beeped. She pulled it from her back pocket. Incoming text from Lucas: What’s wrong? What do you need to talk about?

      She texted him back: It’s an in-person conversation. BTW, how did you find the maid?

      In thirty seconds, the message alert beeped again. Lucas: She just started working for my mother and came highly recommended by your grandfather. Why?

      Abuelo. She moaned and sank to the floor, resting her forehead on the open drawer full of sleepwear.

      Well, if anything, she’d underreacted. The maid was her grandfather’s spy, commissioned to spill her guts about Cia’s activities at the shelter, no doubt. Abuelo probably didn’t even anticipate the coup of information coming his way about the living arrangements.

      It was too late to dismiss her. Imagine the conversation where she said a maid who was good enough for Lucas’s mother wasn’t good enough for Cia. And was she really going to fire a maid who probably sent at least fifty percent of her take-home pay back to extended family in Mexico?

      Not only did she and Lucas need to be roommates by tomorrow, she’d have to come up with a plausible reason why they hadn’t been thus far and a way to tell the maid casually.

      With a grimace, she weaved to her feet and started yanking tank tops out of the drawer, studiously avoiding thoughts about bedrooms, Lucas, beds and later.

      Beep. Lucas: Still there? What’s up?

      Quickly, she tapped out a response: Yeah. No prob with the maid. Late for work. Talk 2U tonight. Have a good day.

      She cringed. Wait until he found out his wife telling him to have a good day was the least of the surprises in store.

Seven

      Lucas rescheduled three showings he could not afford to put off and pulled into the garage at home by five, thanks to no small effort and a white-knuckle drive at ten over the speed limit. Suspense gnawed at his gut. Something was wrong, and Cia being so closemouthed about it made it ten times worse. Most women considered it worthy of a hysterical phone call if the toilet overflowed or if they backed the car into the fence. With his wife, the problem could range from serious, like the shelter closing down, to dire, like her grandfather dying.

      Cia’s car wasn’t in the garage or the driveway, so he waited in the kitchen. And waited. After forty-five minutes, it was clear she must be working late. More than a little irritated, he went upstairs to change. As he yanked a T-shirt over his head, he caught sight of the vanity through the open bathroom door.

      The counter had been empty when he left this morning. Now it wasn’t.

      A mirrored tray sat between the twin sinks, loaded with lotion and other feminine stuff. He picked up the lotion and opened it to inhale the contents. Yep. Coconut and lime.

      In four seconds, he put the cryptic text messages from Cia together with the addition of this tray, a pink razor, shaving cream and at least six bottles of who knew what lining the stone shelf in the shower.

      The maid had spooked Cia into moving into the master bedroom. Rightly so, if the maid had come recommended by Cia’s grandfather, a detail he hadn’t even considered a problem at the time.

      Man, he should have thought of that angle long ago. In a few hours, Cia might very well be sleeping in his bed.

      He whistled a nameless tune as he meandered back to the kitchen. No wonder Cia was avoiding home as long as possible, because she guessed—correctly—he’d be all over this new development like white on rice. Her resistance to the true benefit of marriage was weakening. Slowly. Tonight might be the push over the edge she needed.

      At seven o’clock, he sent her a text message to find out what time she’d be home. And got no answer.

      At