Page 17 of Kyle
Polishing off half of the sandwich, she reached for her glass of wine and nodded to the drink he had yet to taste. "Want some wine? I don't particularly care for sweet tea myself."
He had completely forgotten about the bottle he had chosen at random and nodded.
He watched as she hopped off the stool to get a glass and poured the rich dark red. Handing it to him, she sat back down. "You're one cold customer, aren't you?" he said bitterly.
Nothing in her expression betrayed the hurt his words had evoked.
She had learned from a very early age to hide hurt and pain.
"If you say so. I prefer to think of it as being realistic."
He considered her words, swirling the wine in his glass thoughtfully. Something about her composure, about the way she masked every emotion behind a facade of indifference, made him wonder what really went on beneath that surface. "Realistic, huh? I guess that's one way to cope," he said quietly, unable to shake the feeling that they were both playing roles in a drama that neither had auditioned for.
"I guess it is."
She studied him, ignoring the jolt to her system. He really was beautiful. Burnished brown hair was tousled as if he had spent some time running his fingers through the thick strands. His complexion was golden, his nose straight, lips full. "We come from very dysfunctional families."
She polished off the rest of the sandwich and used the napkin to dust her fingers. Reaching for the glass of wine, she leaned back and took a sip. "I've learned to live with it."
"And living with it means you accept this, this," he spread a hand. "This farce. You did not put up much of a fight."
That eyebrow lift again and the slight smile tugging at her lips as if she knew something he didn't.
"Did you?"
"I sure as hell did."
"And here we still are, hitched. I don't believe in knocking my head against a brick wall. One, it would only get my head bashed in and two, a complete waste of time. The powers that count already decided our fate. Sure, I could have refused and lose everything I damn well worked to accomplish, branch out and start my own company. Because I sure as hell wouldn't dream of working for the competition. Or I could fall in line and make the best of a bad situation."
Her gaze swept around the pristine kitchen. "It's a nice setup. We have lots of space where we can avoid bumping into each other. I love my work, and I spend a lot of time doing it. I enjoy coming up with designs that appeal to the eye. I have my own space. I cook sometimes because it relaxes me."
She smiled, the dimples peeping through. "Don't take that as an invitation or think that I intend to play the domesticated wife. There's a housekeeper who will come in after the holidays. We can choose whether to get along or not. I don't really care."
He had lost his appetite. Pushing the sandwich aside, he picked up his wine glass. "It's that cut and dried to you?"
"Yeah."
She finished the wine. "Has to be."
She rose and went to put the glass away. "Torturing yourself will give you an ulcer and put lines in that pretty face of yours."
He braced when she walked around to stand next to him. "The actress would not like that."
She patted his cheek slowly. "I'm not a complete bitch, honey. I can be, but I'm not, most of the time. Good night."
He watched her walk away, noticed the sway of generous hips. He had spent half the time trying not to stare at the nipples poking through the shirt and was incensed that what he felt wasn't disgust, but desire, plain and simple. And when she laughed, he felt dazzled and blindsided. Drinking the wine down, he felt ashamed and guilty that he was supposed to be in love with Carly and was lusting after a woman he was supposed to despise. And there was admiration deep inside his gut. She was cool, sophisticated and collected.
He knew her history. Knew how her mother treated her. The woman had been all over him, flirting and making it obvious she was open to a relationship. And her father, well, he was adifferent story. Pushing from the counter, he went to put his glass away.
Bracing against the counter, he looked outside. There was an arbor with wisterias twining through the slats. She was right about the place. It was a very nice setup and enough room for two people to avoid each other. That's exactly what he was going to do. He had his work, a prominent position. He was Kyle McCreary, heir to the entire thing, well, most of it. And he was going to continue seeing Carly, would find a way to see her, be with her. Because he fiercely reminded himself. He did not have the hots for the woman he had been forced to wed.
It was a fluke. She was obviously naked under the shirt, and it had been a normal reaction for a heterosexual male. And what the hell was she doing parading around the place half naked?
Plopping down again, he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. He was tired, bone-deep weary. He was going back to his suite and try to get some sleep. She had made some very good points. They could coexist and be okay. But one other thing stood out, and he was trying not to dwell on it. Sex. With her. With the hope and intention of getting her pregnant. His breath whooshed out, and he tried valiantly not to remember the shape of her nipples or the length of her legs. It meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him.
"It's stress, just stress and lack of sex. That's all."
Pushing from the chair, he marched from the room after turning out the light.
