The Bride Means Business

He looked at her lips. They were slightly parted, the edges of her perfect teeth—courtesy of the braces he still remembered—showing. She was breathing in quick, shallow gulps. He could practically smell the scent of her arousal, and the erection that had been teasing him since she opened the door roared to full, throbbing life. His hand reached for hers, their gazes locking in a desperate, wordless exchange. Taking her small hand in his, he carried it to his chest.

She sucked in a strangled breath, her eyes darting to their hands—

And the tidal wave of sudden, rigid-muscled, bodyshaking rage that possessed him when he thought about her running straight from his arms into those of his brother blasted through him without warning, knocking down any fragile barriers he’d sandbagged against it.

“How many men have those hands touched?” he demanded, as he flung her hand from him.

For an instant, he thought he saw anguish pass over her features. Then, if it had ever been there at all, the desperate emotion in her eyes vanished. Tossing her head to throw back her hair, she smiled. “Dozens. And every single one of them tells me I’m the best thing he’s ever known.”

He could kill her. He really could kill her.

Reading his eyes correctly, she hastily stepped back. But she just couldn’t shut that smart mouth of hers. “You asked for that, Dax. You know you did.” She paused, and weariness drew at her pretty face; again, for a moment, she looked so sad that a little part of his heart almost reached out for her before he shoved it back into hiding. “If I told you the truth, you’d think I was lying, anyway.”

“You aren’t capable of telling the truth,” he snarled. Truth? What truth?

In self-preservation, he transferred his attention to the last photo.

And was shocked speechless for a moment. It was a close-up of Jillian. She was cradling an infant in her arms, a newborn whose blond fuzz barely dusted the tiny head. She was holding the child up close to her, looking into its face, and the tenderness in her expression dug into him like a sharp blade. His hands were shaking and he shoved them into his pockets. Was it hers? Where was it? The sight sent sharp arrows of pain through him again.

That should have been my child.

But she hadn’t loved him enough to have his babies.

As if she’d followed his thoughts, she said quietly, “That’s my friend Deirdre’s first child. He’s a whole lot bigger and a whole lot livelier now, but he sure was precious then.”

His shoulders slumped as the tension leached out of him, and with a small shake of his head for what should have been and never would be, he gave up the inspection and escorted her out the door.

As Dax drove up the hill and pulled into the circular driveway fronting Charles and Alma’s house—or was it Dax’s now?—Jillian steeled herself. The last time she’d been here had been the day after they’d died, when the funeral director had asked her to pick out clothing in which the couple could be buried. God save her from ever having to choose another loved one’s final attire.

“Why are we stopping here?”

Dax gave her an unreadable glance as he killed the engine. “We’re dining here.”

She stared at him a minute. “I hope you’re joking.”

He looked puzzled. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She couldn’t eat here. No. Absolutely no way. “Dax...the past few times I’ve been in this house haven’t exactly been easy moments for me. I thought you meant we were eating out or I’d never have agreed to come with you.”

He uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat and came around the car to open her door. “Get out.” His voice was clipped.

He was determined to make her life a living hell, she thought in resentment. She never should have told him coming to the house bothered her; he was far to quick to seize on things and rub them into her skin.

“Get out or I’ll get you out.” The menace in his voice convinced her he meant it.

Slowly, she swung her legs out of the car and stood, ignoring the hand he extended, and walked up the wide, shallow flagstone steps before he could touch her.

Following her up, he reached around her to open the door. As he turned the knob, he hesitated and looked down at her.

She averted her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was feeling, and after a moment, he pushed the door inward and she preceded him into the spacious foyer. Mrs. Bowley, the housekeeper who’d been there since they were small, bustled through the swinging door from the kitchen and hurried down the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Jillian!” The older woman enfolded her in a warm, cinnamon-y smelling embrace that catapulted her back in time. Funny how some smells always made you remember certain things. Mrs. Bowley’s scent always relaxed her and gave her the warm, secure feelings she’d known in childhood. When the housekeeper stepped back, her faded blue eyes were swimming with tears. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m fine.” She gripped Mrs. Bowley’s hands. “I’ve been worried about you. Have you been all right?”

The housekeeper gave her a watery smile. “It’s been hard. I keep expecting Miss Alma to come flying down the steps, or Charles to come out of his study with his nose buried in the paper.”

“I’m sure.” Jillian draped an arm around her sloping shoulders. “I can’t quite accept it yet, either.”

“Having Dax come home has been wonderful. And of course, there’s—”

“Mrs. Bowley.” Dax’s voice was warm but firm. “Could you please bring us the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Right away, dear.” The older woman gave Jillian one last fond smile as she turned away.

Dax crossed the hall and opened the door of Charles’s study. Only she supposed it was his study now. She looked at him, uncomprehending, before she realized he wanted her to go into that room, rather than into the parlor opposite it, where guests were usually entertained. Or at least, where Charles, and Dax’s parents before him, had entertained. It was difficult to remember that this was Dax’s home now.

As she passed him and entered the room, he asked, “Would you like a drink?”

“A glass of sherry would be nice,” she said. He disappeared again, and she dropped her purse in a wing chair as she idly walked to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. She couldn’t stand to sit in here in the dark, and it was still light outside. Perching on the wide ledge, she stared at the familiar scene without really seeing it.

Crossing her arms, she lifted each of her hands to the opposite shoulder and massaged her neck for a moment. If she spent much more time in Dax’s company, she was going to need a massage therapist on a permanent basis.

He returned with her drink, and one of his own, and walked across the rug to hand it to her. At the same moment, Mrs. Bowley bustled in with a small tray. She deposited it on the table beside Jillian and left again.

As he switched on the floor lamp behind the desk, Dax said, “Come sit down. There are some things I want to ask you about.”

She frowned as she settled into the wing chair, trying to ignore the way his casual olive pants pulled across his thighs when he propped one hip on the edge of the massive cherry desk. Across his definitely-all-man thighs. She swallowed. She should have smacked his face when he’d taken her hand in her condo.

Why hadn’t she? She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. It was as if she’d lost all willpower, all independent thought, when he’d looked at her with those lazy, sexy eyes of his. They’d told her, without words, that he was remembering how wild and incredible their lovemaking had been. And she’d felt her body softening, yearning for him even though she knew he despised her.

And she despised him, of course.

But it stung her pride that he’d been the one to move away. He’d been quick to spoil the magic in the moment, too, and old hurt rose in her throat. Why was he so determined to think the worst of her? It struck her that he’d been just as determined to condemn her seven years ago. It was almost as if he wanted to believe she was a woman with fewer morals than the owner of the infamous Chicken Ranch.

“What do you know about Piersall Industries?” The curt question scattered her whirling thoughts, and she had to consider it for a minute.

“Other than the fact that it’s your family’s business that manufactures steel beams for construction?” She shrugged. “Not much. If you’re hoping I’ll walk you through the family finances, you’re out of luck.” And she couldn’t resist adding, “Charles and I didn’t talk much about business when we were together.”

“Don’t be childish,” he told her. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. I already know about your affection for my brother. What I want to know is whether or not you can explain to me how Charles dug this company into a hole so deep I may not be able to get it out.”

She had been staring at him angrily until his last words penetrated, and she sat up straighter, unable to believe her ears. “What? You must have misread something. The company should be in great shape. Charles was always looking for charitable causes that would help offset the chunk of change the IRS demands. He’s been one of Baltimore’s most generous patrons of a number of community projects.”

Dax smiled grimly. “Yeah? Well, it looks like he’s been a little too magnanimous. Although it’ll be a while before I know for sure. He seems to have been the world’s worst record-keeper.”

“He hated that end of it,” she admitted. “Charles was a people person, remember? But he had employees to manage the finances. Have you talked with Roger Wingerd about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to get familiar with the current setup before I started questioning people.” Dax rubbed the back of his neck as he picked up a thick sheaf of papers and handed them to her. “You probably won’t understand this, but it’s a copy of the quarterly financial report. It’s not good.”