Marrying Marcus. Laurey Bright

lifted the tote that she’d previously put essentials into, assuming that she would stay the night at the Crossans’.

      “I’ll just change my clothes,” she said, capitulating. Her cotton trousers and shirt were wet and grubby. “I won’t be long.”

      One thing about the past few hours, she’d scarcely had a chance to think about Dean and his bride-to-be.

      Marcus’s apartment was a direct contrast to the cheery muddle Jenna and Katie lived in. The main room was large and airy, the sofas long and luxurious and precisely aligned about a solid rimu coffee table that held one elegantly formed pottery dish. Theirs was invariably cluttered with magazines, paperback books left open and facedown, junk mail, the TV remote control, probably an opened snack food bag and quite likely a hair dryer and bottles of nail polish.

      Marcus’s books and magazines were arrayed on shelves, probably in alphabetical order, Jenna thought, and there wasn’t a sign of clutter.

      The spare room he ushered Jenna into was equally sparse and neat. “The bed’s made up.” He placed her bag on the end of it. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll give Katie a ring to let her know you’re here and break the bad news about your flat.”

      She unzipped the bag, shook out the skirt and top she’d packed, and hung them in the empty wardrobe to get the creases out.

      Shutting the door, she caught her reflection in the mirror on the outside. Her face looked lifeless, her mouth pale and tremulous. Rummaging in the bag, she brought out a lipstick and swept a little color over her lips, then rubbed at her cheekbones with her knuckles. At least she could make an effort not to look like a Victorian maiden about to go into a decline.

      In the living room, Marcus was replacing the receiver on the phone. “I’ll have a shower and get out of these clothes.” He still looked remarkably well groomed, despite the wet patches and dirty splashes on his shirt and trousers. “Are you hungry?”

      She hadn’t thought about eating. Marcus was probably starved. “I could cook something while you’re in the shower, if you have anything…”

      “I’ll take you up on that. Raid the freezer. Use whatever you want.”

      Forty-five minutes later they sat down in the dining area to honey-glazed chicken with rice and peas. “This looks great,” Marcus told her. “And it deserves a good wine to go with it.”

      He poured a New Zealand Chardonnay for them both and smiled at her as he sipped at it, but he didn’t offer a toast.

      Apparently having a broken heart hadn’t destroyed Jenna’s appetite after all. She ate everything on her plate and finished the wine in her glass.

      Marcus refilled it. They didn’t talk much, and when he pushed away his plate she said, “I didn’t make a dessert, but you have cheese in the fridge.”

      “I’ll get it and put coffee on.” He cleared their plates and returned with a couple of cheeses and some crackers on a ceramic square. “Coffee coming up. Do you want more wine?”

      “Why not? I’m not going anywhere.”

      Marcus filled her glass again, and she lifted it to her lips. She could feel the alcohol-induced flush on her cheeks.

      Slicing himself a piece of cheese, Marcus shot her a quizzical look. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

      Unaccountably irritated, she said resentfully, “I don’t need you to tell me that!”

      “Okay.” He held up a hand in a gesture of truce. “Take some time to wallow in your misery. But remember there’s a life out there waiting for you.”

      And she’d already wasted four years of it. “You’re right,” she said, and raised her glass. There was no point in dwelling on what might have been. “Here’s to the future,” she said resolutely.

      Marcus matched her gesture, giving her a look of approval.

      Jenna drained her glass. “Is there more of this?”

      He hesitated, poured some for her, then emptied the remains into his own glass.

      By the time they left the table, the world looked a whole lot better. Marcus vetoed her feeble effort to deal with the dishes, and when she yawned, he said, “You’ve had a long day. Bedtime, I think.”

      “Yes.” She blinked at him, not moving, and yawned again.

      Marcus gave a low laugh and stood up, grasping her hands to haul her to her feet. The room tilted, and when he released her hands she clutched at his arms to steady herself. “Ooh! Too much wine.”

      “Very possibly,” he agreed, and slid an arm about her waist to guide her. “Come on.”

      In the spare room he led her to the bed, switched on the bedside lamp and stripped back the covers for her. “Can you manage now?” he asked, straightening. “You know where the bathroom is.”

      “Yes. Thank you, Marcus.”

      “You might not be thanking me in the morning.” He surveyed her with critical amusement and a hint of tenderness. “Good night, Jenna.”

      He bent and brushed his lips over hers—a fleeting kiss of friendly comfort, but enough to upset Jenna’s already precarious balance, and as he lifted his head she swayed, so that instinctively he put his arm about her waist again to steady her.

      She leaned against him, thankful for the solid feel of him, and her hands slid around his shoulders. She raised her face, found his mouth with hers and kissed him with fervor, her eyes closed, fiercely shutting out all thought. She didn’t want to think, only to feel something other than grief and humiliation.

      And Marcus, perhaps understanding her need, returned her kiss beautifully, satisfyingly. He put his other arm about her and brought her closer, making her feel warm and wanted. Like a desirable woman.

      But then he drew back, and his hands left her waist to curl about her arms and hold her away. Although his eyes glittered disturbingly and there was a flush on his angular cheekbones, his voice was steady. “Enough. Get some sleep, Jenna. I’ll see you in the morning.” Then he walked to the door and shut it firmly behind him.

      Jenna slept surprisingly well but woke with a leaden feeling in her chest and a slight headache.

      A hangover, she supposed. All that wine last night…

      She closed her eyes again. That only brought the memory more vividly to her mind, and she groaned. She and Marcus, of all people, locked in a passionate kiss. What had possessed her? And now she was going to have to face him. She could hear him moving about already, the bathroom door closing, his footsteps in the passageway.

      No use cowering in bed, he would probably come and rout her out of it, anyway. Reluctantly she threw back the covers and got up.

      By the time she’d showered and dressed, the aroma of frying bacon was wafting through the dining area. Trying to look casual and unembarrassed, she went to the kitchen where Marcus was standing at the stove, breaking eggs into a pan. “That smells good.”

      He turned and smiled at her. “Good morning. I heard the shower and figured you’d soon be ready for breakfast.”

      “Can I help?”

      “Make toast if you like. The bread’s over there.”

      It wasn’t until they’d finished eating and she’d had her second cup of coffee that she gathered the courage to say, “About last night…I’m sorry.”

      “What for?”

      “For being so…stupid. I’d had too much to drink or I wouldn’t have…”

      “Kissed me?” His lips curved. “I wondered if you’d remember. You needn’t apologize, Jenna. It may have escaped your notice, but I enjoyed it.” He paused. “I thought you did too.” His eyes held a question.

      Heat