A Proper Wife

How would it be, sharing the breakfast table? Eating dinner with her? What would it be like, arguing over what TV program to watch or if the thermostat should be turned up or down? What would she say when he stayed late at the office, or met Frank for drinks instead of coming home after a long day? Would she bitch about dinner getting cold, or that he’d spoiled her plans for the evening when he hadn’t known she’d even had plans for the evening?

Theirs was not a real marriage; she wouldn’t have the right to complain about anything he did or didn’t do. He should have made certain she understood that in advance.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

He looked at her. She was standing in the center of the foyer, just under the big Orrefors crystal chandelier. Soft rays of light fell across her, turning her hair to silver. Spun silver silk, he thought, and his fingers curled against his palms.

“Ryan? There is a kitchen, isn’t there?”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “It’s down that hall.”

“Good.” Devon smiled. “I thought I’d make us some coffee.”

So, it was beginning. Not wanting to marry him was one thing but now that she had, she was going to go through the motions of being a wife.

“Fine. Coffee might be a good idea. We need to talk about—”

“—the ground rules,” Devon said. “I agree.”

She set off at a brisk pace, never pausing until they reached the kitchen. Devon threw on the light switch and looked around her. Ryan waited for her to gush over the size of the room and the multitude of up-to-the-minute appliances—Sharon certainly had—but Devon didn’t even blink.

“Where do you keep the coffee?” she said.

“In the freezer.” Ryan eased himself on to a high stool at the marble-topped counter. “The coffeepot’s on that shelf.”

He watched her as she measured the coffee into the filter. Her movements were brisk and efficient and when the coffee was finally ready, he tried not to smile as she filled two mugs and handed him one. He knew she was waiting for his response; for some reason, women seemed to think making a good cup of coffee ranked as one of life’s great mysteries.

“Is it OK?” she said after he’d taken a sip.

“It’s fine,” he said, and he let the smile come. “Not quite as good as mine, but I suppose that’s because you’re not familiar with this particular filtering system.”

Devon smiled politely. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will. Not that it matters.” Her smile sweetened. “The coffee tastes fine to me, and this is probably one time in a million I’ll be making it for.you.”

Ryan’s brows drew together. “Well, of course, I have a housekeeper, but she generally doesn’t come in until ten—”

“If you think I’m going to be doing kitchen duty,” Devon said pleasantly, “you’d better think again.”

Oh, how wonderful it was to see the wind go right out of his sails! She had waited for this moment ever since he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her right after the ceremony. Until that kiss, she’d gone through the week feeling sickeningly sorry for herself.

But that was over now, thanks to him. That kiss—that very public display of macho intent—had changed everything.

What did he think he’d acquired today? A woman to play at being wife for six months? One who’d cook his meals, iron his shirts, sleep in his bed? He’d never coerced a woman into his bed, he’d said, but he’d never mentioned how many he’d seduced into it.

That kiss had shown his true intentions.

She’d been so stupid, not hammering all the details out in advance. But they’d hammer them out now, and to hell with the consequences. She wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around anymore.

“I didn’t expect you to,” he said with a frosty smile. “I told you, I have a housekeeper. As for breakfast coffee, I’m quite capable of making my own.”

“How nice for you.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “And,” he said coldly, “while w

e’re on the subject of how things are done around here, I suppose you should be aware that I often work late at my office.”