MARRIAGE BY MISTAKE
by Alyssa Kress
Published by 4 Dolphins Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Alyssa Kress
Cover Design Copyright 2011
by http://DigitalDonna.com
Discover these and other titles by Alyssa Kress at her Smashwords profile or at her webpage, http://www.alyssakress.com
The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank the members of the ever-evolving critique group, all of whom have given immense support and help in creating this and other stories: Julie Woolley, Kathy Bennett, Cathy Yardley, Rose Murray, John Lovelady, and to Ruth Barges of blessed memory.
Dedicated to David
Table of Contents
On a sidewalk in downtown Boston, two thousand miles from home, Kelly Williams should have been standing on the brink of sweet success. Instead, she caught the distinctive whiff of failure.
Jet-lagged and dazed, Kelly braced herself against the people jostling to get to work, her cowboy boots and snug jeans at odds with the tailored suits and designer outfits of the crowd. She peered up at the big, glass office building matching the address of the business card she clutched in one hand. At the roof, huge metal letters spelled out SINGLETON INDUSTRIES.
Please. She was supposed to believe the building was named after Dean? Dean the devil-may-care, Dean the definitely not-at-all-serious Singleton? This big, fancy office building, not to mention the corporation it housed, was named after the casual smile of a man she'd met sliding quarters into a slot machine in time to the song he'd been whistling?
The man she'd foolishly allowed to become her lover, and more, two nights ago?
"Drat," she muttered, wishing her upbringing allowed her to use a word that was much, much stronger.
The whiff of failure was becoming a positive stench. Here Kelly'd thought she was going to do something strong for a change, take action when a man walked out on her, instead of sit huddled in her apartment, crying.
So she'd begged off work and maxed out her credit card — only to end up at this phony address Dean had put on his sham of a business card.
She was no closer to the bum than before.
With a furious groan, Kelly spun away. She tried to calm down, but it was so...stupid. Indeed, she'd been so stupid since three days ago when Dean had looked up from the slot machine and into her face, his easy grin fading. She'd been sucked in by his seemingly awkward, apparently sincere, charm.
Oh, he'd been an operator, all right. He'd got her, a seasoned chorus girl, to believe every honeyed word and warm look he'd tossed her way. He'd acted like he understood her desire to desert the life of glitter in order to build a real home, a home with a man who truly loved her. Kelly supposed he had understood that part, for he'd used it. He'd sweepingly declared he was that man. He'd said they were made for each other.
And she'd believed him.
She'd married him.
Just so he could have a one-night stand.
An awful pain constricted Kelly's chest. She'd been in love, while he'd — he'd — She gritted her teeth and shook the pain away. Uh-uh. No matter what he'd intended, she wasn't going to cry.
She was going to seize her self-respect.
Kelly brushed a windblown strand of hair from her eyes and straightened her shoulders. She would declare to Dean, the world, and herself that she deserved to be treated better. She didn't deserve to have a man marry her, and the very next morning sneak out on her.
Her smoldering anger burning once more, Kelly narrowed her eyes and turned back to the black glass office building. Her gaze traveled up to the huge metal letters and her brain began to function again.
Okay, so the building wasn't named after Dean, but he'd known about it. He'd put this address on his fake card. There was a good chance he was related to whoever actually did run Singleton Industries.
Yes, maybe he was related. Maybe someone inside the building knew Dean.
Better yet, maybe someone knew where Dean was.
The possibility galvanized Kelly. She strode toward the busy revolving glass door at the base of the building and joined the crowd filing into the lobby.
A gleaming black elevator took her to the top floor, the one indicated on the phony business card. Kelly's jaw set as she took in the expanse of elegant marble, the partitions of polished oak paneling, and the humming professionalism.
Dean, the man who didn't even wear a watch, wasn't going to be found here.
But she didn't expect to find him, Kelly reminded herself. Just her next clue. An address — a real address — would be nice.
Her cowboy boots clicked on the smooth wood floor as Kelly approached the closest cubicle, one that looked like reception. The fringes of her lucky faux-deerskin jacket flicked over the marble countertop as she held out the well-worn business card. "Do you — Well, have you ever heard of this guy?" she asked with a polite smile.
The woman on the other side of the marble counter skimmed Kelly's smile and looked down at the card, the one Dean had given her the night they'd met. The incandescent lights gleamed on the receptionist's sleek chignon as she gave the card a good, long stare. Then she looked up to give Kelly an even longer stare. "That's his personal card," she finally said, sounding suspicious.
"His — ?" Kelly blinked. "You mean...it's real?"
Confusion now tinged the receptionist's earlier suspicion. "Of course."
Of course. Kelly drew her hand back to look at the card, herself. It was real. It was real. That meant — Her breath rushed into her lungs. Her head jerked up. "Then he's here."
"Excuse me?"
"He's here." Heat immediately flooded Kelly's veins. He was there. She'd found him. Broad smile, gleaming eyes, aura of sincerity and acceptance. Handsome. Oh, handsome as all get out. Something inside her convulsed with an emotion that felt a lot like longing.
Kelly instantly pulled herself back from that brink. Not longing. None of his sincerity stuff had been real. He hadn't loved her. He'd left her. "I see, the card is — ahem. What I mean is, could you tell me where to find him, please?" Kelly did her best to disguise her riotous emotions behind another polite smile.
The receptionist tapped the end of her pen on her desktop. "Well, since you have his personal card..." She turned to glance at a computer monitor looming at her side. "According to this, Mr. Singleton is in a conference right now."
"Mr. Singleton? Is in a conference?"
"That's right." The receptionist turned back to Kelly, stone-faced.
Kelly looked back at her — and laughed. Apparently Dean was a close enough relative he'd been put in a job that rated a 'Mr.' from the company receptionist, but had to pay for it by sitting through a business conference. She could just see him, lounging in the back of the room and folding paper airplanes. Oh, it was a sad fact that despite the many choices of men available to a dancer in a glamorous Las Vegas production, Kelly always managed to pick the goof-offs, the dead-beats, and the lying bums.
The receptionist glanced back at her computer. "The conference is supposed to last all day, but there will be a break for lunch."
"Lunch!" Kelly's eyes went wide.
The receptionist regarded Kelly thoughtfully. "You do have Mr. Singleton's personal card, so I suppose it would be all right if you waited."
Kelly gaped at the woman. She was supposed to wait for Dean, the scum-sucking slug, until lunch? The horrible part was that she could feel the 'good girl' part of herself starting to agree to this delay. She didn't like to make trouble. Why not wait?
And then Kelly remembered Dean had used the very same word yesterday, right before he'd left her.
Wait.
Pressure built behind Kelly's forehead. The memory was painfully clear. Wait, Dean had said, while strolling with a smile toward her front door. He would only be gone for a minute, to pick up donuts and coffee. Be right back, he had said.
And Kelly had believed him. Of course she had. She'd loved him.
And now she was supposed to wait? In the wake of her deep pain over the betrayal roared a powerful combination of anger and fear. If she sat back, obliged — waited — for a man who'd done that, what would it make her?
Kelly looked straight at the receptionist. "I'm not waiting."
"What?"
Before she could chicken out, Kelly sidled around the marble counter.
"Now, just a minute," squeaked the receptionist, rising from her seat.
But Kelly was already stalking down one of the polished halls. Reason told her it could take a while to track Dean down in this big office building. Common sense screamed she was stepping out of bounds, but she couldn't stop now. She was determined to retrieve her self-respect.
"This way?" Kelly twirled to face the receptionist, who was scuttling after her down the hall. "You might as well tell me, honey, or I'll be opening every door in the place."
"Now, really, you can't — "
"Oh, can't I?" For once in her life, Kelly would. Heart pounding, she twirled forward again, groped for the first closed door she saw, and whipped it open.
She found a glossy wood table and a dozen black leather chairs — all empty.
"Wait — " the receptionist squealed.
There was that word again. The worst part was Kelly had waited. She'd waited amid the tousled bed sheets, a stupid smile on her face, expecting to see Dean come back through the door. She'd waited long after it had become clear he'd gone farther than the corner donut joint. She'd waited until she'd had to admit she'd done it again, let herself get used. Even despite the extraordinary precaution she'd taken. Even so!
But this was it, the last time.
"Call security," Kelly heard someone order behind her. She felt alarm, an amazed shiver at her own gall, but her rage, and a kind of fear, overwhelmed everything. If she stopped now, she'd never be able to look herself in the mirror again.
He'd promised her love, then sneaked out. She could not wait to deal with that.
Kelly wrapped her hands around the knob of the next door down the hall, telling herself she was going to keep on trying if it took all day, if it took all night —
Kelly flung the door open and stopped dead. A dozen business-suited professionals seated around a convex table stared at her in shock.
But the business-suited professionals filling the room were not what stopped Kelly's heart. What did that was the one man standing at the head of the table, a pointer in his hand and a fancy Italian designer suit stretched across his broad shoulders.
"Dean," Kelly breathed.
Or was it? He looked so odd in that suit, as if he were born to it. His jaw was unexpectedly clean-shaven and the dark curls Kelly had loved to tousle were ruthlessly tamed.
Most peculiar of all, he stared at her in the same manner as the rest of the people in the room. As if he'd never seen her before in his life.
Kelly felt a hard bump in the progress of her quest. He was supposed to shrink back in guilt. He was supposed to crumple in shame and panic. And for heaven's sake, he was supposed to look like Dean. Faded blue jeans, crooked grin, come-get-me eyes.
This man looked like he'd been carved from a slab of Massachusetts granite. His lips were a straight slash of severity and his glacier-blue gaze was steady. Indeed, not a single part of him moved as he stood there, pointer upraised. Strong and cool, he looked like — a king.
He looked like he could be the actual, real-life head of Singleton Industries.
Kelly felt a shiver run down her spine. Her rage slipped. Was this Dean?
But a commotion behind her — security? — propelled her back into action. "Okay," she said, and straightened. "Okay, so you didn't feel anything, the way I did. That's no crime. But — " She drew in a steadying breath against a sudden upwelling of pain. Two days before she'd hoped for so much, been so happy. "But why'd you have to go and make promises?" she whispered.
That's when she caught it, finally, his reaction. He flinched. Five hours flying and maxing out her credit card — for a flinch.
The next instant strong arms seized her from behind. Security. It was almost laughable. He was the dirty rotten crumb, but she was about to be thrown from the premises.
"Let her go."
The words emerged from Dean. Yes, he heard himself say them, but he felt like he was watching the whole drama from the end of a very long hall. Or as if he were in the type of nightmare where one needed to escape dire disaster, but could not move one's arms or legs.
It had happened. The fallout he'd been dreading, the consequences of his 'lost weekend.'
But staring at the woman who'd interrupted his annual meeting of vice-presidents, Dean could not believe the fallout was this bad. In skin-tight blue jeans and a jacket that strained at her breasts, all under a kittenish face framed by a great quantity of blond, upswirled hair, she looked like she'd stepped out of some adolescent boy's wet dream.
Or out of one of his father's. Yes, the woman standing at the door of the conference room looked exactly like one of Dean's father's ridiculous, inappropriate women; a showgirl, an actress, or a lingerie model.
As if that weren't bad enough, Dean had no idea who she was.
Jeff and Frank, the two security guards, stopped to look at Dean, their gazes questioning his odd command.
The woman looked at him, too, her full lips parted.
She might have been his father's type, but she was not his. Desperately, Dean assured himself of this fact. He was a sober man, a responsible one. A throwback to good, old-fashioned New England stock. This woman's presence before him, her knowledge of his name, her — her outrageous assertion he'd made her promises simply could not be.
But a deep abyss opened inside him. He'd also thought it impossible he could have been sitting in the leather chair of his study at home one minute, and wandering a seedy neighborhood he didn't recognize the next — a neighborhood clear across the country, no less.
But it had happened.
He had to believe now that anything was possible.
"Let her go," Dean repeated quietly.
The guards released her. As Dean saw her go free, he realized that any kind of chaos could ensue.
It was a moment that begged the mettle of a man who'd created his own billion-dollar, cutting edge biogenetics company, someone who could make a decision despite a flurry of wild and contradictory stimuli.
So Dean made himself move. Through the heavy fog that surrounded him, he put down his pointer and strode across the room. With a smooth, efficient gesture he took his own hold of the woman.
As he made contact, his arm muscles jumped. To give himself a better grip, Dean told himself.
"We're going to talk," he affirmed, looking down at her. "Alone."
Her brows pulled together.
He didn't want an argument about it, so Dean didn't wait for one. Turning to his vice-presidents, he made a brisk apology, something far too terse to make up for ending this important annual meeting. Then he led the woman from the room.
She did not acquiesce, but neither did she resist. Dean could only hope she didn't realize his hand was trembling where it connected with her fake leather jacket.
He had no idea who she was, no memory of her face, and not an inkling of her name.
But Dean kept a bland expression on his face as he directed the woman down the busy hall to his office. It wouldn't do for any of the employees they passed to guess there were a good forty-eight hours missing from their meticulous chief's memory.
Two days gone. Completely vanished.
Dean nearly reeled every time he thought about it. How could he have lost that much time, just forgotten?
Okay, so he'd been hypnotized. Dean shuddered to think of how easily that had been accomplished. But no matter how deep a trance he'd fallen into, he should have been able to remember his actions. He should have been able to know, one way or another, if he'd followed his stupid cousin Troy's suggestion.
Do what you want, instead of what you should.
Dean could feel his hand start to tighten around the woman's forearm. With an effort, he relaxed it. Surely even if he had followed Troy's idiot suggestion, it couldn't have involved this woman, stumbling beside him in her too-high-heeled boots. It simply couldn't. She wasn't — He wasn't — No.
"Please hold my calls," Dean requested his assistant, as soon as they entered his anteroom. Ignoring Mrs. Barnes' startled glance, he ushered the other female through. Whatever was going on, Dean wanted to hear about it in private.
Therefore, smiling inanely, he closed the door to his inner sanctum in his executive assistant's face.
And then it was quiet. They were alone.
Dean released his hold on the unknown woman with a deep, silent breath. He took a discreet step to the side. She rubbed her arm where he'd been holding her. And their eyes met.
She was still angry. Dean both saw and expected that. What he didn't expect was the punch it delivered to his gut. It was almost as if...he felt responsible.
Either that, or he was getting aroused.
Dean drew himself up. He was not getting aroused. Well, yes, he could see now that she was pretty, on top of the obvious sexual stuff. Her eyes were an extraordinary shade of green, and...appealing. Her complexion was peaches and cream. And there was a certain healthy vitality about her.
But that didn't mean he was attracted to her.
Nor was he responsible for her mood.
"Please," he said, at his most government-grant formal. "Have a seat."
She narrowed her eyes. "You must be kidding."
Her tone was a slap in the face, but Dean didn't let it show. He was an expert at not letting emotions show, especially pain. "Suit yourself," he replied mildly.
She crossed her befringed arms over her chest. "You don't seem too surprised to see me."
"I...wouldn't say that."
Her eyebrows raised. "So you are surprised." She sounded oddly bitter about it. "You didn't think I'd have the nerve to come after you even — even after what you did."
After what he did? Dean calmed another guilty sinking in his gut. He couldn't have done anything to feel guilty about.
No, not even if the longer they stood together alone in his office the more he became...aware of her; of the way her lips curved up at the corners, of the silky look of her hair. A small, hot ball began to form deep inside him.
But he refused to believe he'd done anything irresponsible, anything reprehensible.
He was in no way like his father.
Meanwhile the woman's fingers visibly tightened on her upper arms. "And now I come here and — and, my God, Dean. This office. Your name on the — on the building. And that
suit — " She paused, as if overcome by this last item on the list. She lowered her arms and snorted. "Is there anything you told me that was the truth?"
Dean stopped breathing. She glared at him, as if she had no idea of what she'd just said. In, out. Dean made himself breathe again. "I do not lie," he said, very softly.
Her eyes widened.
He made his voice even softer. "I never lied to you."
"Huh." Her gaze turned derisive. "How about 'wait?'"
"Wait?"
"Oh, come on." She laughed. "You aren't going to pretend you forgot."
Dean stared at her.
"Well." She put her hands on her hips. "Are you?"
You forgot. The ball of heat inside Dean should have winked out then. She'd just given herself away. But it didn't wink out. In fact, it was no longer a discrete ball but an over-arching sphere. He was reacting to her, vigorously, but not because there was any history between them.
Oh no, it was all becoming crystal clear. Her presence here, his reaction to her — it was all beginning to make sense.
"You know too much," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"'I forgot.' You know too much. How to get my goat. What to say. It's too damn convenient."
Her eyes widened. "Ex-cuse me?"
Dean took a step back. A man who'd lost two days of his memory was in a vulnerable position. An unscrupulous individual could take advantage. Or merely a mischievous one, one without any sense of propriety or limits.
And Dean happened to know just such an individual. "Troy sent you."
"What?"
She seemed incredulous, too much so, and Dean felt all the pieces come together. Her arrival at his important annual meeting, the impression of sex kitten she exuded, his reaction to her.
"Troy, my beloved younger cousin." Dean wanted to make it clear the jig was up. "He was there during the hypnosis, he gave me the suggestion. Now he thinks to turn the screw even further. Send some blond sex goddess to my office during the vice presidents meeting. Very funny."
The woman stared at him. "Sex goddess?"
An incredible burden rolled off of Dean. He was so relieved he laughed. "You nearly had me there, for a minute."
"I — I beg your pardon?" She managed to sound both indignant and incredulous.
"You must be an actress." Dean smiled at her. "You've obviously been trained to express and elicit emotion."
She merely stared at him, open-mouthed.
Sighing, Dean turned for his massive office desk. "When I called in after being missing for two days, Troy claimed he'd been frantic, looking for me, that he regretted the hypnotic suggestion, his little joke, but I guess that didn't last. He sent you."
Behind his desk now, Dean paused and threw the woman a cutting glance. "And I have a good idea what he wanted me to think about you."
Finally, the woman closed her mouth. But she wasn't ready to give up the game. "Hypnotic suggestion?" she repeated, very slowly. "Are you saying...you don't remember meeting me?"
"No." Dean met the little actress's eyes. "I'm saying I have never met you at all."
She was looking at him as if he'd just grown another head. "You deny it?" she finally asked, whisper soft. "You deny we even met after my show on the Strip?"
She'd been in a show? On the Strip? Dean's heart plunged. But no, no — She was an actress, a plant of Troy's. Of course. That's how she knew it was in Las Vegas he'd finally 'woken up' from his trance. It's how she knew the type of woman his father brought home, the type who'd happily prance naked on a spotlit stage.
He cleared his throat, doing his best not to envision this particular woman prancing naked. "Surely Troy explained everything to you, but for the sake of argument, I'll say it again. For two days I was following a hypnotic suggestion. I don't remember anything that happened. Which makes it easy for someone like you to help my cousin play this little trick on me."
The fringes over her chest began to rise and fall with her alleged emotion. "I don't believe this," she muttered. "I finally go to the trouble of tracking down the lout, confronting him, and he claims he was 'hypnotized.' Doesn't even remember me. That's cute. Convenient. And original."
"I'm not 'claiming' I was hypnotized. It's true." Dean nearly bit his tongue. He didn't need to defend himself. She knew.
She took a step back. "I'll tell you what's true. You're a lying...Casanova!"
Dean's fingers clenched into fists. Was she saying — ? All right, he'd admit he was attracted, maybe even aroused, but that was just from...surprise, and her acting ability. She wasn't his type; not understated elegance, sophisticated or genteel. And besides, she was only Troy's friend. Dean had never laid eyes on her before that morning. "We did not sleep together," he told her, low.
She shot him a gaze replete with scorn. "Oh, right. You forgot."
Dean's jaw tightened. He could not have, would not have, slept with a Las Vegas dancer. No, not even if watching the fringes rise and fall on her jacket was raising the temperature beneath his suit to about four hundred degrees.
But the woman wasn't done. With one hand, she pointed to a finger on the other. "How do you intend to forget this?" she wanted to know.
Dean forced his gaze from her chest. "Excuse me?"
She began pulling on the indicated finger, then held up an object that was too small for Dean to see. She shook it at him. "Our wedding ring, Dean. So please tell me, did you intend to 'forget' we were married, too?"
Dean felt his heart stop right in its place. Married? Right before he passed out from lack of oxygen, he dragged in a breath and reminded himself this was just Troy. Really playing hardball, even for a joke. He wasn't married. Not to her.
And yet — and yet — he couldn't remember those two days. Amnesia hadn't been part of Troy's suggestion. Why the hell couldn't he remember?
Slowly, Dean shifted his gaze to meet hers.
Her eyes glittered with anger and insult. It was hard to believe even an actress could pull it off.
"Here," she said, and threw the ring hard. It made a small thud as it hit the carpet behind Dean's desk. "So much for your promises," she whispered hoarsely.
Dean watched, immobilized, as she whirled and threw open the door. He saw a flash image of Mrs. Barnes and a lot of swinging fake leather fringe before the automatic spring returned his abused office door to its frame.
It should have become quiet then, but Dean's ears were ringing. For a long time he could only stand there, eardrums vibrating. Then he turned. His gaze went down to the floor.
The gold band lay behind the back wheel of his chair. Like a snake, waiting to strike.
Married, to a dancer on the Strip. Impetuously, foolishly tied to a woman with whom he had not a thing in common, who could only be charmed by his money, who made a living controlling the passions of others, and who could have no real feelings for him at all.
Married to the very kind of woman his father always married.
Dean stared at the ring and frowned. No. The ring was just a prop. Easily obtained. Interchangeable. Hardly proof of anything.
He bent and picked it up. The metal was still warm from her finger.
Dean felt a large area hollow out in his stomach. His fingers tightened on the ring. Prop?
Or evidence of what he'd actually done those two missing days?
The hollow in his stomach grew. No, Dean told himself. He was not his father.
But his eyes squeezed closed as he set the ring against his forehead. If only it all didn't make a horrible kind of sense.