The Billionaire's Bride Page 6

  But not J.T.

  The thought of him had her mind tripping to the other purchases she’d made: an assortment of lingerie to accompany each outfit, because if there was one rule Marnie lived by—or at least had when fashion and foundation garments had been front and center on her list of things to worry about—was that what a woman wore beneath her clothes was just as important as the clothes themselves.

  She’d brought every last lacy bra, sheer panty and flattering camisole with her to Mexico. In fact, J.T. had already glimpsed most of them that first day when she’d baldly pawed around in her luggage when he’d dared her to find something practical.

  Yes, he’d seen them. But, he hadn’t seen them on her. Major difference, that. She ran her hands down the front of the black tank top, over her breasts that were pushed up to a gravity-defying angle thanks to a cleverly constructed underwire contraption.

  Oh, no, he hadn’t seen anything. Yet.

  The yet part had her taking a deep breath. Was that where this was heading? Was that what this was: A now merry widow in a merry widow kicking up her heels for the first time since the worst of her mourning had passed?

  Or could it be more than that?

  Marnie wasn’t sure when it happened or even exactly how, but she was beginning to like J.T., as infuriating as she still found him to be at times.

  Pot calling the kettle, she thought, but then Marnie was the first to admit she had an overpowering personality. Her brother used to tease her that the only reason Hal had married her was that Marnie had done a Mount Vesuvius on him, erupting in a dazzling display that had left the poor man entombed in ash before he’d had a chance to flee.

  She’d punched him for that. But Mason wasn’t far off the mark. Truth be told, she had “worn the pants” in their relationship, as the saying went. But Hal hadn’t been unhappy about it and neither had she. Sure, sometimes Marnie had wanted him to be a little more outspoken and assertive, a little less malleable and content with the status quo in his life, but she’d loved him.

  She wasn’t consciously trying to compare the two men, but she couldn’t imagine a man more different from Hal than J.T. And now they were going on a date.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a date.

  She fiddled with her hair, trying to decide what to do with it. Perhaps she and J.T. were just two people who would be passing a companionable evening together. Like they had the night before. Two Americans sharing a bit of wine and camaraderie on foreign soil.

  Until that kiss.

  She pushed the memory away and reached for her brush. She’d cut her hair really short about six months after Hal’s death. Really short. Even her sister-in-law Rose had been shocked by the spiky mess it had been until it grew out to something softer. But it had been so easy to take care of. And Rose, who had lived on the street for a time, could understand and appreciate Marnie’s need for shortcuts with a baby to care for and a household to run solo.

  Well, Marnie’s hair was long enough now that she could scrape it all back into a ponytail with the aid of a few well-placed pins on the sides. The look brought out her eyes, which she played up with a little more shadow on the lids than she’d worn in years. She added an extra sweep of blusher to her cheeks, which had some color already thanks to a couple of days of sunshine, then she stepped back to survey the overall effect in the bathroom’s small, cloudy mirror.

  A stranger seemed to stare back.

  And yet, not a stranger. The face was thinner now, leaner through the cheeks so that it had a more sculpted appearance. But this was the old Marnie. The one who had always taken delight in dressing up, fussing with her hair, painting her nails, dabbing on perfume, and choosing just the right earrings to go with an outfit. And this pair of dangly chandeliers was indeed perfect, she decided, turning her head from side to side so she could admire them in the mirror.

  She heard J.T.’s vehicle pull up outside. Butterflies fluttered to life in her stomach as the Jeep’s door slammed shut. When she was barely sixteen, Mason had teased Marnie about being a diva. Pre-Hal, she would wait upstairs in the house for a boy to arrive, and only after he’d been let inside and had cooled his heels in the living room, would she descend in dramatic fashion, rescuing him from her brother and father’s obligatory grilling.

  “There’s nothing wrong with making them wait,” she had explained to Mason at the time.

  But she broke her own rule now, yanking open the door even before J.T. had a chance to raise his fist and knock.

  “Hmm.”

  That was all he said. But she wasn’t so rusty at this—whether it was a date or not—that she didn’t recognize male appreciation when she heard it.

  “Hello.”

  “You look incredible,” he said.

  She smiled her thanks. He looked incredible, too, in his light-colored slacks and short-sleeved button-down linen shirt. Casual elegance was the phrase that came to mind and she found herself surprised again not only by how well J.T. wore clothes, but by the kind of clothing he seemed to prefer. The man had pretty refined taste for a bounty hunter, which told her he must make a decent living doing what he did.

  Danger apparently paid well. The thought was sobering, but she pushed it aside. One evening out. That’s all this was. That’s all it could be. She was leaving the following day.

  “So, what did you have in mind?” she asked as she settled into the passenger seat and pulled the belt across her lap.

  Laughter rumbled from deep in his chest. “Now there’s a question I don’t mind hearing from a beautiful woman.”

  “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she chided, even as warmth shimmied up her spine.

  “I’ll try to stay in the moment.” He secured his own belt and then started the engine. “There’s a nice place up the coast in Ensenada where I thought we could get dinner. It’s a bit of a drive, if that’s okay with you. But the view’s worth every mile.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  And it was. The wind had picked up since the morning, making the waves dance white, but the horizon remained clear, promising another gorgeous sunset.

  They listened to Martha Reeves and the Vandellas for part of the way, and then he flipped in a CD of Gladys Knight and the Pips’ greatest hits.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am you like quality music. My brother is an AC/DC fan.”

  J.T. groaned. “You have my sympathy,” he said.

  “Family vacations were hell,” she said. “We drove out to the Grand Canyon when I was twelve and every time he had dibs on the radio, he was tuning in to some heavy metal station or another.”

  “I have a younger sister. She likes pop music and even went through a phase where she listened to rap.” His lip curled in distaste. “Rap. I know plenty of folks like it, but it’s hardly in the same league as the hits from Classic Motown.”

  “In my teens, I liked Top 40,” she admitted. “Just for dancing purposes, you understand.”

  “Uh-huh. What happened?”

  Hal had happened. He’d been the person to introduce her to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Four Tops, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye and the Supremes. There’d been no going back to pop after that. Marnie could appreciate other kinds of music. She even owned a few CDs by other artists. But Motown’s classic rhythm and blues remained her favorite.

  “I don’t know.” She adjusted the folds of her skirt. “I guess I just don’t dance much these days.”

  He stilled her hand with one of his own. Giving it a squeeze he said, “I’ll see what I can do to change that.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE restaurant J.T. chose was not far from a bustling resort full of Americans and Canadians and other English-speaking guests. Even so, he spoke in fluent Spanish to the appreciative waiter, who quickly brought them a bottle of wine, a chilled chardonnay this time.

  They were seated on a tiled veranda that overlooked the ocean. The veranda was partially enclosed, for which Marnie was grateful since the evening air had
begun to cool. She draped the sweater she had brought around her shoulders and, taking a sip of her wine, regarded her dinner companion across the linen-covered tabletop.

  “How many languages do you speak?” she asked.

  “Five fluently.”

  “Only five?”

  “I’m trying to learn a couple of others.”

  Some of the people she knew struggled with English. Intrigued and a little in awe, she asked, “What are they?”

  “English, of course. Spanish, French, Italian—”

  “Ah, fluent in the romance languages, I see,” she interrupted.

  He winked. “My specialty.”

  “I’ll be the judge,” she replied. “What’s the fifth?”

  “Japanese.”

  Okay, she was well past awe at this point, but she asked, “And the ones you’re learning?”

  “I know a little—very little—Chinese and some German, but not enough to order in a restaurant without being surprised at what gets brought to the table.”

  “Well, then I’ll be thankful we’re not in Berlin or Beijing,” Marnie said.

  From the hunky look of him, she never would have figured J.T. for the studious type, and yet no one picked up foreign languages, especially to the point of fluency, without some serious time cracking open the books or spending months abroad. It seemed an odd avocation for a bounty hunter, and she said as much.

  But he only shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable when he replied, “Learning a language never goes to waste. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  “Is that a reminder of our first meeting?”

  “Not at all.” But he was grinning. “Just a point of fact.”

  “Say something to me in Japanese.”

  He arched one sandy eyebrow. “Most women would have requested French.”

  “I like to be different.” She sipped her wine. “I like to keep you guessing.”

  “Well, you’re succeeding,” he admitted.

  He rattled off a phrase, the cadence of which was so different from English that she couldn’t help but smile.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Uh-uh.” He sipped his wine and leaned forward, his gaze reflecting the candle that flickered in the center of the table. “Translation will cost extra.”

  “That implies I’m in debt to you already.”

  “Well, you do owe me a dance.”

  The music had started a few minutes earlier, soft and low so as not to compete with the diners’ conversations. But already a few couples had made their way onto the floor in front of the band.

  J.T. scooted back his chair and then came around the small table to offer Marnie his hand. She slipped it into his grasp, for all the world feeling as if she were acquiescing to more than a mere tour of the dance floor.

  He led her to it and then gently guided her around the half-moon shape, his hold on her was loose and yet sure, his steps flawless. He’d done this before. A lot. He was too good at it not to have. Just as he was good at languages and God only knew what else. She was beginning to realize there was much more to J.T. than what first met the eye. And that scared her. So much so that for the first time in her life, Marnie felt out of her league.

  His breath stirred the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail. He lowered his head slightly and she felt it caress the curve of her neck, warm but full of the promise of delicious heat. She shivered.

  “Cold?”

  “No.”

  Hot. She was burning up, burning with need. She’d felt this before, and yet not quite. Something about these sensations was new, bigger. It was an all-consuming bonfire compared to the warm glow from a hearth. It terrified her.

  It thrilled her.

  “Who are you?” she asked, because she wasn’t sure of her own identity at that point.

  He pulled back enough to look at her. His gaze was steady and determined. “I’m just a man.”

  Somehow, Marnie doubted that.

  When the song ended, he escorted her to their table. One of his strong hands rested on the small of her back, his long fingers curving slightly around her waist. The contact was simple, gentlemanly even. It made her think sinful thoughts about the other places on her body she would like his hands to touch, explore.

  At the table, he pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit.

  “I’m not sure I like this,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t play fair.”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  “See. That’s what I’m talking about.” She sipped her wine. “Not fair at all.”

  The waiter returned then to take their orders, delaying further conversation.

  “Want me to order for you?”

  “I think I can handle it all on my own, thanks,” she said, determined to take back some of the control she had already relinquished. “After all, this menu comes with English subtitles.”

  “I recommend the grilled swordfish verde,” J.T. said. “That is if you like cilantro.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “A time or two.” He shrugged.

  “Oh?”

  His eyes twinkled mischievously when he added, “You never know where a job like mine will take you.”

  She ordered beef tenderloin with mango salsa.

  J.T. placed his order effortlessly in Spanish and then said something else to the waiter, who smiled broadly and nodded before glancing briefly in Marnie’s direction.

  After he’d gone, Marnie said, “Was it flattering?”

  “What?”

  “The remark you made to the waiter about me.”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  She was the mother of a four-year-old. Of course she didn’t miss a thing. She had eyes in the back of her head, or so she had convinced Noah, and hearing so well honed that she could make out the sound of the cookie jar lid being lifted even when she was standing under the shower spray.

  “Well?”

  “I said you were beautiful and he agreed.”

  “Then I am flattered.”

  They talked companionably as they waited for their meal, and then during it, trading bites of their dishes.

  “You surprised me by ordering red meat,” he told her.

  “Why is that? Women do eat red meat, you know.”

  “It’s just that where I’m from every woman is either a vegetarian or on a diet.”

  And where would that be? she wondered, but decided not to ask. This was a fairytale. One that would end when the sun rose again and she packed up to head home.

  So Marnie said instead, “Maybe I am on a diet. Atkins, you know. You get to eat all the red meat you want.”

  “It would be a shame for you to lose any weight seeing as how every pound is so perfectly distributed.”

  “Hmm. Very smooth, J.T. Who needs a foreign language to seduce a woman when complimenting her on her weight will do the job nicely? Of course, say that with a French accent and you can do with me what you will.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Since that wasn’t a definitive no, I have hope.”

  “That was my intention.”

  She smiled slyly, enjoying the byplay. Enjoying the delicious food and stimulating conversation almost as much as the fact that she didn’t have to cut up someone else’s meat or remind him not to blow bubbles in his beverage. Her mother was right, Marnie realized. She’d needed this break from responsibilities to recharge her batteries.

  When they finished with their meal, J.T. ordered dessert: a chocolaty confection that should have had the word sin tucked somewhere in its name. And even though Marnie had politely refused when the waiter asked if she cared for something other than the coffee she’d requested, J.T. told the man to bring two forks.

  “I’m not going to have any,” she insisted, even though sharing had been her plan all along. She never actually ordered dessert when she went out to eat, but
she always managed to have some.

  But J.T. only smiled. “I think you will. You won’t be able to resist.”

  Her gaze stayed on his mouth, and she remembered what it had felt like pressed against her own. Tempting, very tempting.

  “Is it that good?” she murmured.

  “Better.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to sample it, just to see if you’re right.”

  “You won’t regret it,” he said.

  But she was beginning to wonder. Even as she was enjoying herself, flirting recklessly, she was beginning to question whether she would regret this entire evening once she was back in Chance Harbor, wedged again into that uncomfortable, yet comforting rut. Maybe it was not wise to sample so fleeting a sensation as this evening afforded. It might make returning to the obscure and mundane that much more difficult to accept.

  Even so, a moment later she used that extra fork to cut off a sliver of the dessert. It melted in her mouth, a few dozen calories worth of heaven. She sighed her appreciation.

  “Well?” He cocked one eyebrow.

  “It seems you were telling the truth,” she said. “This is worth every sit-up, jumping jack and leg-lift I’ll have to do in the morning.”

  “Glad you think so.” Then he leaned forward and raised a hand to her mouth. “You have a little bit right here,” he said, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. “Got it.”

  “Thank y—” She wasn’t able to finish when he licked the chocolate off his finger.

  “Delicious,” he said. Then he leaned forward again.

  “Is there more?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  But it was his lips he used this time, kissing her thoroughly as they sat there on the veranda.

  She was at a loss for words afterward, but apparently he was not so afflicted. “Check, please,” he called.

  Still she took satisfaction that he had called out the words in English.