His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

he coaxed Fergie to say his name.

      But every time he said, “Lucas. Looo-kaaaas,” she squawked and ruffled her feathers. Sometimes she imitated Cia’s ringtone. But mostly the parrot waited for him to shove a piece of fruit through the bars, then took it immediately in her sharp claws.

      At nine-thirty, Lucas realized he didn’t know the names of Cia’s friends and, therefore, couldn’t start calling to see if they’d heard from her. There was avoidance, and then there was late.

      Besides, Cia met everything head-on, especially him. Radio silence wasn’t like her.

      At eleven o’clock, as he stared at the TV while contemplating a call to the police to ask about accidents involving a red Porsche, the automatic garage door opener whirred.

      A beat later, Cia trudged into the kitchen, shoulders hunched and messy hair falling in her face.

      “Hey,” he said.

      “Hey,” she repeated, her voice thinner than tissue paper. “Sorry. I got your messages.”

      “I was kind of worried.”

      “I know.” The shadows were back in full force, and there was a deep furrow between her eyes he immediately wanted to soothe away.

      “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It was unavoidable. I’m sure you saw my stuff in your room.”

      None of this seemed like the right lead-up to a night of blistering passion. “I did. So we’re sharing a bedroom now?”

      She squeezed her temples between a thumb and her middle finger, so hard the nail beds turned white. “Only because it’s necessary. Give me fifteen minutes, and then you can come in.”

      Necessary. Like it was some big imposition to sleep in his bed. He knew a woman or two who’d be there in a heartbeat to take her place. Why couldn’t he be interested in one of them instead of his no-show wife, who did everything in her power to avoid the best benefit of marriage?

      Fearful of what he might say if he tried to argue, he let her go without another word and gave her twenty minutes, exactly long enough for his temper to flare.

      He was married, mad and celibate, and the woman responsible for all three lay in his bed.

      When he strode into the bedroom, it was dark, so he felt his way into the bathroom, got ready for bed and opted to sleep naked, like normal. This was his room and since she’d moved into it without asking, she could deal with all that entailed.

      He hit the button on the TV remote. She better be a heavy sleeper, because he always watched TV in bed, and he wasn’t changing his habits to suit anyone, least of all a prickly wife who couldn’t follow her own mandate to be home by eight.

      The soft light of the flat screen mounted on the wall spilled over the empty bed. He glanced over at it. Yep, empty. Where was she?

      A pile of sheets on the floor by the bay windows answered that question. “Cia, what are you doing over there?”

      “Sleeping,” came the muffled reply from the mass of dark hair half-buried under the pile.

      Since she still faced the wall, he turned the volume down on the TV. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”

      “Yes, I can.”

      “This bed is a California king. Two people could easily sleep in it without touching the entire night.” Could. But that didn’t necessarily mean he’d guarantee it. Although, given his mood, he was pretty sure he’d have no problem ignoring the unwilling woman in his bed.

      After a lengthy pause, she mumbled, “It’s your bed. I’m imposing on you. The floor is fine.”

      The martyr card. Great. A strangled sigh pushed out through his clamped teeth. “Get in the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

      “No. That’s not fair. Besides, I like the floor. This carpet is very soft.”

      “Well, then.” Two could play that game. “Since it’s so comfortable, I’ll sleep on the floor, too.”

      With a hard yank, he pulled the top sheet out from under the comforter, wrapped it around his waist and threw a pillow on the floor a foot from hers. As he reclined on the scratchy carpet, she rolled over and glared at him.

      “Stop being so stubborn, Wheeler. The bed is yours. Sleep in it.”

      Coconut and lime hit his nose, and the resulting pang to the abdomen put a spike in his temper. “Darlin’, you go right ahead and blow every gasket in that pretty little head of yours. I’m not sleeping in the bed when you’re on the floor. It’s not right.”

      She made a frustrated noise in her throat. “Why do you always have to be such a gentleman about everything?”

      “’Cause I like to irritate you,” he said easily.

      She flipped back to face the wall. As he was about to snap out more witticisms, her shoulders started shaking.

      “Hey,” he called. “Are you crying?”

      “No,” she hissed, followed by a wrenching sob.

      “Aw, honey, please don’t cry. If it’ll make you feel better, you can call my mother and yell at her for teaching me manners. Either way, I’m not sleeping in the bed unless you do.”

      This pronouncement was greeted with a flurry of sobbing. Every ounce of temper drained away.

      Obviously, his manners weren’t as well practiced as he’d bragged, and he’d been too worked up to remember arguing and prickliness were Cia’s way of deflecting the comfort she sorely needed but refused to ask for.

      He scuttled forward and cursed the binding sheet and sandpaper carpet impeding his progress, but finally he wormed close enough to gather her in his arms. “Shh. It’s okay.”

      She stiffened as the war going on inside her spread out to encompass her whole body. Then, all at once, she surrendered, melting into a puddle of soft, sexy woman against him, nestling her head on his shoulder and settling her very nice backside tight against his instantly firm front side.

      Hell on a horse. He’d only been trying to get her to stop crying. He honestly expected her to kick him away. The sheet chafed against his bare erection, spearing his lower half with white-hot splinters. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. It didn’t help.

      Prickly Cia he could resist all day long. Vulnerable Cia got under his skin.

      Her trim body was racked with sobs against his, yet he was busy trying to figure out what she had on under that pile of sheets. Moron.

      He shut his eyes and pulled her tighter into his arms, where she could sob to her heart’s content for as long as it took. His arousal ached every time he moved, but he stroked her hair and kept stroking until she fell still a million excruciating years later.

      “Sorry.” She sniffed into the sudden silence. “I’m just so tired.”

      He kept stroking her hair in case the torrent wasn’t over. And because he liked the feel of its dark glossiness. “That wasn’t tired. That was distraught.”

      “Yeah.” A long sigh pushed her chest against his forearm. “But I’m tired, too. So tired I can’t pretend I hate it when you calm me down. I don’t know what’s worse, the day I had or having to admit you’ve got the touch.”

      His hand froze, dark strands of her hair still threaded through his fingers. “What’s so bad about letting me make you feel better?”

      She twisted out of his arms and impaled him with the evil eye. “I hate being weak. I hate you seeing my weaknesses. I hate—”

      “Not being able to do everything all by yourself,” he finished and propped his head up with a hand since she was no longer curled in his arms. “You hate not being a superhero. I get it. Lie down now and take a deep breath. Tell me what