Marriage of Revenge. Sheri WhiteFeather
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charm that drew them near. Them and their babies. Talia bred Bengals, felines that were originally created by crossing a domestic cat with an Asian Leopard Cat, giving the breed a striking resemblance to their wild ancestor.
“Do you have any kittens?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I sold the last litter. Thunder bought one of them.”
“Oh, that’s right. He named the poor thing Spot.” Aaron stroked a hand over Lacy’s leopard-like rosettes. “But what does Thunder know?”
“A lot more than you do.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She was enamored of the way Thunder was conducting his life. He’d settled down with the woman he loved and was eagerly awaiting the birth of their child.
Aaron placed Lacy on the floor and glanced at Talia’s stocking feet. “Do you have on those thigh-high hose? God, I love those things.”
Suddenly she felt naked. More exposed than just being shoeless. “You’re annoying me.”
“I’m preparing you for the husband-and-wife caper.”
“That’s what you meant by getting a jump on our day?”
“Yep.” He finished pouring his coffee. “We need to get comfortable in a domestic setting again.”
“We’ve never lived together.”
“No, but I’ve spent a lot of time here. That’s close enough.” He sat at the dining room table, an ancient oak piece that she’d refinished herself. “Why don’t you fix me breakfast?”
“Eggs and arsenic?” she offered.
He chuckled. “See? We’re married already.”
She wasn’t about to laugh. “In that case, I want half of everything you own.”
“Spoken like a true wife.” He sipped his coffee. “I was serious about breakfast.”
And she was serious about having sex and kicking him to the curb. Her coffee had already gone cold. As cold as her he-married-another-woman heart. She wondered what he would do if she hiked up her skirt, exposed her thigh-highs and climbed onto his lap.
He would probably love every screw-you stroke. She would do well to keep her urges to herself.
“Come on, Tai, I’m hungry.”
Was that a double entendre? She gauged his expression and got a deliberately bland look in return.
Bastard. He’d probably read her mind.
Giving up on her, he began preparing the breakfast he wanted, raiding her fridge and the copper pots she kept above her stove.
Aaron was an enigma, she thought. A city-slick investigator, a traditional Indian and a former Special Operations soldier.
He fixed enough eggs and bacon for both of them. He managed to stay immaculate, too. He didn’t get a spatter of grease on his white shirt or gunmetal gray tie.
“Did you compile a list of the Gamblers Anonymous locations in Nevada?” he asked.
“Yes.” She considered adding vodka to the orange juice he’d poured. To dull her senses. To keep her from craving him. They used to make love in her cramped kitchen, pressed against the counter, getting hot and wicked.
“You could be a brunette.”
She cleared her mind. “What?”
“While we’re on the case.”
“Why?” she asked, thinking about the dark-haired, dark-skinned woman he’d married.
He moved closer, then lifted a strand of her natural blond hair, letting it trail through his fingers. “Because it would change how you look, and we’re going undercover.”
His touch made her shiver, right down to the bone. She pulled away, refusing to let him make her weak. “Maybe I’ll be a redhead.”
He smothered the eggs, his and hers, with grated cheddar and jalapeno-spiked salsa. Then he sat down to eat his food. “That’d be sexy.”
She sat at the table too, irritated that he hadn’t consulted her about her eggs, even if he knew how she liked them. “A dowdy redhead.”
“Fat chance of that.” He delved into his breakfast, then changed the subject. “You better show up to the party on Saturday.”
“What for?” she challenged, wishing he would let sleeping dogs lie. “We’re not a couple anymore.”
“Sure we are.” He snared her gaze, pinning her in place. “You’re my new wife.”
Her irritation worsened. “Fake wife.”
“I wonder if my family will think you’re fake. Or if you’ll be able to impress them.”
She didn’t respond. She knew he was baiting her to attend his son’s birthday.
A bait she was sure to take.
Two
Saturday came too soon. Talia climbed in her sports car, a less expensive model than Aaron owned, and drove to Temecula, a vineyard-covered region in Southwest California, where the Pechanga Resort and Casino was located, an enterprise that provided revenues for tribal members.
She passed the impressive resort and followed the directions on the invitation to Jeannie’s house, a two-story structure with a white fence and a spray of colorful flowers.
Before Talia removed Danny’s gift from the trunk and ventured to the door, she smoothed her chic yet casual ensemble. She’d paired a trendy blouse with designer jeans and chunky-heeled boots that added four inches to her petite frame. She needed to pack a punch today.
She’d never been so nervous.
When she glanced at the other vehicles parked on the street, she noticed Aaron’s Porsche. It shined like a silver bullet with its custom wheels and convertible top. Talia’s car was black, like the onyx pendant around her neck.
She looked around for Thunder’s Hummer, but she didn’t see it. Apparently he and Carrie, his lovely fiancée, hadn’t arrived yet. The interesting thing about Carrie was that she was also Thunder’s ex-wife. They’d been married when they were teenagers, and after an emotional divorce, they’d reunited twenty years later.
Speaking of ex-wives…
She hoped Aaron had warned Jeannie that she was coming. Not that Jeannie wouldn’t be a gracious hostess. She and Talia had been uncomfortably polite to each other at first, but after Jeannie had given up on her troubled marriage and left Aaron, the women weren’t quite so uncomfortable.
After all, they’d ditched the same man.
Then again, Jeannie had moved on with someone else. Talia rarely dated. Instead she focused on her career. Which could be misinterpreted, she supposed, considering that Aaron was her boss. But she’d stayed at SPEC because remaining there had made her stronger. Seeing Aaron every day, especially while he’d been married to another woman, had shaped Talia into the femme fatale she’d always wanted to be. Of course sometimes she faltered.
Like now, she thought.
Finally, she got her emotions in check and removed Danny’s present from her trunk, hoping he was an artistic child. She’d bought him a slew of crayons, markers and kid-inspired paint sets.
She knocked on the door and a fair-haired man answered. He wore a polo-style shirt and slightly faded Levi’s. Medium built and casually attractive, he smiled at her.
“I’m Jim,” he said. “Jeannie’s husband.”
“I’m Talia.” She smiled, too. He seemed kind and genuine. She’d