A Proper Wife

“There’s a guest suite on the top floor,” he said tonelessly. “It has its own bathroom and small sitting room. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”

Devon nodded. Her heart was still pumping crazily, her shoulders ached where his fingers had bitten into her flesh, but she was determined to show no reaction.

“I’m sure I will,” she said, and she strode from the kitchen.

It wasn’t easy, getting her suitcase up the stairs and down the hall, but she managed.

Once inside her rooms, with the door safely locked, she breathed easier.

Her quarters were more than satisfactory, they were elegant. Under other circumstances, she’d have viewed the marble fireplace, the four-poster bed, and the garden below the windows with pleasure.

But these were not other circumstances. This was her wedding night, and she was spending it alone.

Not that it was a real wedding night. It was all a fraud. That was what she’d told Bettina when her mother had insisted on stuffing a white lace nightgown into Devon’s suitcase.

“I certainly won’t need that,” she’d said, her mouth curling with distaste.

But she should have needed it. A girl’s wedding night was supposed to be a wonderful thing.

And this one could have been. She could have spent the night lying in Ryan’s arms. No matter how strong their dislike for each other, there was no denying the power of the sexual attraction between them. Even down in the kitchen, she’d sensed that the tightly restrained violence in him could just as easily have become fiery passion.

Devon gave a little sob of despair as she spun away from the window. She undressed quickly, pulled on an old flannel nightgown and crept into the big four-poster bed.

Six months, she thought as she drew the blanket to her chin, that wasn’t so long.

But a night could last an eternity when it was your wedding night and you were spending it alone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS Friday, the start of the long July 4th weekend.

Ryan would have thought half of Manhattan would be on its way east to the Hamptons or north to Connecticut by now, but it didn’t look that way, not as he pulled open the door to The Watering Hole. Judging by the blast of music and the press of bodies, the bar was doing Friday night business as usual.

Ryan peered over the heads of the crowd toward the bar. It was going to take half the damned night to reach it, he thought irritably. Didn’t these people have anywhere else to be?

“Hi, there.”

Ryan looked down. A petite brunette with chocolate-brown eyes, a pouty, crimson mouth, and enough cleavage to endanger a midget, was smiling at him.

Ryan nodded. “Hi.”

“Crowded, isn’t it?”

“That it is.”

Someone jostled the brunette. “Whoops,” she said, giggling as she fell against Ryan. “Sorry about that.”

Ryan smiled. He doubted that she felt the least bit sorry. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were sparkling. Her hands were pressed lightly against his chest and so was most of that impressive cleavage.

She was going to make some man very happy tonight, but he didn’t even feel a twinge of pain that it wasn’t going to be him.

“Sorry, darling,” he said, “I’m meeting somebody.”

“Oh.” Her smile grew even poutier. “Lucky somebody.”

Ryan’s lips twisted. “Yeah,” he said. He gave her a regretful smile, then worked his way past her, through the jammed room and to the bar.

He spotted Frank dead ahead, perched on one stool while valiantly defending another. Grinning, Ryan came up behind him.