A Proper Wife

“Dammit,” Frank muttered, “kiss the babe and get it over with, OK?”

Ryan’s heartbeat rocketed. He clasped Devon’s face between his hands. Slowly, his eyes locked with hers, he bent to her and kissed her gently, his lips barely parting hers.

He felt the sudden tremor sweep through her, a tremor he knew she’d tried, and failed, to prevent. Fire licked along his veins and his arms went around her, his mouth never leaving hers. His kiss deepened, his lips moving over hers, the tip of his tongue making a hidden, silken foray into her mouth. The faintest sound rose in her throat, trembled on her lips as it passed from her kiss to his mouth.

Pop!

The cork exploded from a bottle of champagne under the expert touch of the caterer Miss Brimley had hired.

Ryan stared down into Devon’s flushed face. “Devon...” he said softly.

“Congratulations, young man,” the judge said.

“Good luck, my boy,” James said. “I know you’ve done the right thing.”

Frank was more direct. “Old pal,” he said glumly, “I think you’ve lost your marbles.”

Ryan looked at his bride again. She was standing as far from him as she could get and still be in the same room. Miss Brimley was on one side of her, Bettina on the other. They were both babbling away and Devon was nodding her head as if she were listening, but Ryan knew instinctively that she wasn’t. As he watched, the pink tip of her tongue snaked out and lightly touched the center of her bottom lip where an almost indiscernible swelling remained as the passionate mark of his kiss.

His body knotted like a fist. Hell, he thought, and suddenly he wondered if Frank might not be right.

At dusk, Ryan stabbed his key into the lock of the ornate oak door of his three-story brownstone in the East Sixties. Devon stood beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

Married, he thought. I am married.

He knew it intellectually. But that didn’t change the fact that he sure as hell didn’t feel married. It had all happened so quickly—he’d been a bachelor on Monday and now here it was, only Friday, and he was a husband.

But he wasn’t a husband. Not really. He was married, but being a husband meant something more. If he’d been a husband, he’d lift his new wife into his arms as the door swung open, he’d carry her over the threshold...

Devon moved past him into the marble-floored foyer.

“Is the entire house yours?”

The sound of her voice startled him. She hadn’t spoken directly to him since the ceremony.

Ryan put down her suitcase and nodded.

“Yes.”

“It’s... it’s very handsome.”

He nodded again. “Thank you.”

“How many rooms does it have?”

He had to think about that. Did it have eight or nine? It all depended on whether or not you counted the gym in the basement.

“Nine,” he said, frowning. What in hell was the matter with him? he thought as he tossed his keys on the hall table. He wasn’t a rental agent, showing the place to a prospective client.

It was just that it was weird, having her here, knowing she was actually going to live here—for a few months. He had lived in this house for seven years. In all that time, he had never shared it with anyone. Women came and women went; some of them spent a night, maybe two. Once in a great while—a very great while—he let a woman spend a long weekend.

But he’d never let one move in. Hell, he’d never let anybody move in, not even a housekeeper. Housekeepers, cleaning ladies, caterers—none of them were live-ins.

Ryan didn’t like sharing his space.

Now, he’d contracted to share it with Devon, and for six entire months.

A thin trickle of sweat beaded on his forehead. How come he hadn’t thought of that? He’d been so damned busy convincing her to go through with the marriage that he’d never given a thought to the logistics of it.