Texas Wedding. Kathleen O'Brien
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of hard, half-naked muscle bearing down.
Every primitive instinct told her to run, but he blocked the way. She backed up on clumsy legs, knocking against the dresser, sending her earrings and wristwatch clanking to the wood floor.
He didn’t even seem to hear it. He just kept coming. Finally, she ran out of room, and her shoulder blades met the wall. He slammed the heels of his hands onto the plaster, just inches from each side of her head. His face was so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.
“This is what you’d planned all along, isn’t it? What a fool I was, to think even for a minute that…” He set his jaw into a right angle of fury. “Right from the start, this was just a nasty game of bait and switch.”
“No. No, I just realized this afternoon—”
“The hell you did. Don’t give me that crap, Susannah. You’re not a fool, and neither am I. You never intended to keep your end of the bargain.”
She tried to deny it. But she couldn’t. Consciously, she’d meant what she said. But somewhere, deep inside, she had always been praying that she wouldn’t have to do this.
“Right.” He loaded the syllable with disdain. “But did you ever consider the possibility that your game might just backfire on you?”
“No—it wasn’t a game—how could it—”
He lowered his lips to her neck and spoke his next words against her skin. “Did it ever occur to you that I might decide not to just slink away with my tail between my legs? That I might decide to claim what’s due me?”
“No, that never occurred to me,” she lied, swallowing hard. “I trust you to be sensible, and—”
“You trust me?” He threw his head back, laughing harshly. “That’s a good one, sweetheart. According to that prenup, you don’t trust me with the dinner forks. And obviously you didn’t trust me not to bring a bucket of STDs to the marriage bed, either.”
He bent his elbows slightly, and tilted his body toward her, just close enough that the heat and the pressure reminded her how powerful he was. He’d always been tall, even as a teen, with the promise of potency to come. But this was a man’s body, with all the promises fulfilled.
She tried to go numb. She didn’t want to feel the angles of his hips against hers. She didn’t want to be aware of the muscles in his legs, rippling with tension. She didn’t want to remember how this same body had once covered hers with tenderness.
“You obviously believe I’m an immoral bastard—and eleven years ago you told me I was a murderer, too.” His rough voice scraped her nerves. “What would stop a man like that from asserting his conjugal rights…with whatever force it required?”
“Nothing.” She pressed her head against the wall, struggling to create distance. “You’re obviously stronger than I am, Trent. Nothing can stop you except your own conscience.”
But did he have one? And what about her conscience? She had agreed to a sexual relationship, in exchange for this marriage. If she could anesthetize her conscience, perhaps he could do the same.
For a minute, she thought he might. He let his body press forward even farther, until the granite of his chest met her breasts. His heat scorched through her nightgown. Too fast for her to react, he thrust his knee between her legs and cocked it up, pressing it hard against the aching spot at the apex of her thighs.
She twisted against the wall, trying to escape both him and the hot desire that traitorously shot through her. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to prevent this, but she could fight. She didn’t have to make it easy for him. She pushed against his chest with her palms, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain.
He let her squirm for a moment, just long enough for her to realize how helpless she truly was. And then, without warning, he stepped away.
If she hadn’t been propped up by the wall, she might have fallen. Her breath was coming so fast, it was as if she’d been running for hours.
He, on the other hand, looked as cool and contemptuous as ever. He picked up his shirt and began walking toward the door.
When he put his hand on the knob, he turned.
“It’s not my conscience stopping me,” he said, looking her over with a cool appraisal that somehow managed to be as insulting as if he’d spit in her face. “It’s my standards. I don’t much care for liars, or frigid, manipulative bitches. The truth is, sweetheart, you’re not worth it.”
CHAPTER TWO
YEARS AGO, Trent had learned that there’s no frustration, no pain or fury, no mental monster of any kind, that can’t be tamed by a treadmill—assuming you go fast enough and stay on it long enough.
This morning, with Susannah’s double cross less than twelve hours behind him, he’d logged about ten miles on the gym’s machine before he felt even semi-normal. He started Mile One with his cell phone in his hand, fingers itching to call a lawyer, any lawyer, and file for a quickie divorce.
Instead, he dialed up the treadmill speed and jogged till he sweated out some of the poison. Somewhere along the repetitive rubber highway, he found enough sanity to remember why he’d agreed to this marriage in the first place.
It hadn’t been just to help Susannah. It hadn’t even been just because he’d been fool enough to dream that this might be their second chance.
He’d also done it for Chase.
Originally, Chase had been Susannah’s chosen temporary husband. It had made sense. Chase was her best friend. He was unattached and, even more importantly, he was a born saint. The original Mr. DoGood. So he had been perfectly happy to marry her with no demands, no strings attached.
But then Josie Whitford had come along and hit Chase like a bolt of lightning. The poor guy’s dilemma had been painful to watch. Love or loyalty? Passion or past promises?
Trent had to say one thing for Susannah: though she was as cold as a meat locker toward Trent, she did seem to have a soft spot for Chase. When she’d realized the problem, she’d come to Trent and laid out a deal.
The way she figured it, Trent should marry her. If he hadn’t screwed up their relationship eleven years ago, she said, she wouldn’t be in the market for a husband in the first place. So Trent owed her. If he’d help her meet the husband clause in her grandfather’s will, she’d consider the debt paid.
Trent knew she was desperate, even to suggest it. He knew she would have exhausted all other options, sane or crazy, before coming to him.
Everyone knew she’d tried to break the will legally, of course. But though old man Everly had been mean as a snake and the biggest male chauvinist in Texas, he’d also been clever and controlling, and he’d apparently found a lawyer who was his match.
The resulting will was apparently ironclad. Arlington had left Everly tied up so tight Susannah couldn’t sell a single peach tree, not one pebble on the property, no matter how much she needed money. Not till she got married, and stayed married, sleeping under the same roof with her husband for a full year.
Trent was surprised the will hadn’t required a check of the honeymoon bedsheets, to prove all marital obligations had been met. The nasty old bastard.
It had been tempting all on its own, to think of thwarting old man Everly.
But what really made Trent agree to the deal was his own soft spot for Chase, his childhood friend. He’d agreed to take Chase’s place. Minus the saint and celibacy stuff, of course. He was willing to help Susannah by presenting himself at the altar, not on it.
And look where he’d ended up anyhow. Lying right on that slab. Staring at the longest, coldest year of his life, beside a marble-hearted bitch who just happened to look like a girl he used to love.
But at least Chase was