When She Falls Page 3

  Only…fucking Cam.

  He finally looked up at her. The rumpledness that had swarmed him earlier was replaced with an unnamable sense of emptiness. Was this Cam the businessman she had never witnessed during their brief marriage?

  “How much do you know about the current housing market? Other than it bombed several years back?” he asked her.

  Lydia shook her head and said, “Only what I read in the paper.”

  “Well, the really smart people who predict market trends are expecting there will be a shortage in rental housing, so there is a big push on buying current rental properties or properties that could be converted into rental properties. In the case of the Hatfields, the eye would be on executive suites for traveling business people. You know the types. The extended hotels?”

  Lydia nodded. “Which did you buy?” Lydia asked.

  Cam sighed. “I bought a building to be converted into fifteen rental units in Montmartre. It’s a nice little piece of property that Hatfield was eyeing for a new Hatfield Hotel location.”

  Now it was Lydia’s turn to groan, which felt entirely unusual and even Cam raised an eyebrow. “Paris?” she said. “You stole a property for rental units in Paris from Ronald Hatfield?”

  Her voice pitched at an awkward angle, and she swallowed to regain control of herself, snatching up her glass of wine and taking a healthy sip.

  Cam shrugged and smiled at her around a mouthful of pizza. “It was a great property, and Hatfield was ignoring the closing on it. So I came in with a better offer, finalized it, signed the papers, and gave the investment firm a very nice spot of land.”

  Lydia noticed that he didn’t call it his investment firm, although she could be fairly certain he became the principal upon his father’s death. The notion stilled her rambling thoughts for a moment, but then she remembered what that investment firm had done.

  “All right.” She eased out her breath before continuing, “That is business, and I am assuming, perfectly acceptable within the dealings of real estate.”

  She waited a moment hoping for a sign of affirmation from Cam, but he just sat across from her at the peninsula, chewing pizza. He had removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She struggled to keep her gaze from his forearms, the fine dusting of hair, the slight tan, and the rippling muscles. There was something about a man’s forearms that could always drive Lydia nuts. Something about the defined muscles that suggested power, confidence, and capability. Add a good watch, and she was lost. Cam wore an expensive diving watch. The fucking bastard.

  Lydia went on. “So perhaps your business dealings will remain…” she searched for a word that spoke to what she meant without sounding repulsive. “Anonymous until after I have secured a contract with Mrs. Hatfield.”

  Cam’s smile vanished.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Ronald Hatfield was in the Bahamas because his wife insisted he take her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.” He shrugged, picking up another slice of pizza. “So when the deal closed, I sent Mrs. Hatfield a very nice bouquet of very expensive flowers and thanked her for distracting her husband with a lovely Bahamian vacation.”

  Cam smiled his megawatt smile, and Lydia turned her head away, feeling her perfectly simple and fail-proof plan crumble to pieces at her feet.

  “Did you sign the card yourself?” she asked.

  “Forever in your debt, Cam McCray,” Cam sang into the room, and Lydia reached for the wine bottle to refill her glass.

  She kept her spine straight, away from the supportive back of the stool, and took another large swallow of wine. Likely her largest swallow that night although it was still early.

  “Let’s look at this problem from a different angle, Lydia.” He drew her gaze back to him. “What is it that you truly need from me? Do I need to actually be present or can you just give off silly banter about things that I do that amuse you?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m sure there must be something, and if there isn’t, I’m very good at making things up.”

  She wanted to laugh suddenly. The feeling so unexpected she almost let it go.

  “Evelyn Hatfield wants us to be her guests at a charity gala next week. She said she cannot wait to see what devilishly handsome man I scooped up.”

  Cam held her gaze steady, and she could not look away.

  “A charity gala. That seems fairly harmless. I can get through that without speaking too much on the point.” He paused. “Lydia, did you tell this woman we would be there even before you had spoken to me?”

  Lydia’s shoulders twitch as if she wanted to shrug.

  Cam smirked again, and tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked furiously. This was why she had made this man go away five years ago. He brought out too much of her fucking self for her liking, and he made her feel guilty for all of her shortcomings, whether real or imagined. She had known it would be a bad idea to send Cam that email, to drag him back into the mess she had made five years ago. But she had done it because she had not seen any other way around the issue. And now he was here, and she felt like a stupid idiot.

  “That is just the first part,” she managed. “She has invited us to her birthday party. Much like that Bahamian vacation, Mrs. Hatfield has a taste for extravagant celebrations it would seem. She wants me to get to know the family and understand the personalities that I will be dressing.”

  “Easy.” Cam picked up his beer. “We’ll have some cake, sing a little happy birthday, and you’ll have the account of a lifetime.”

  His giant smile was infectious, and Lydia really wanted to smile with him. She wanted to fold herself into his warmth, his happiness, his encouragement, but she still had to make things harder.

  “It’s a weekend event at the Lockridge Manor in the Berkshires.”

  The smile slid from Cam’s face. “Week-end?” he said.

  Lydia nodded.

  “How many days is that?” Cam asked.

  Lydia held up two fingers.

  Cam nodded. “I thought as much.”

  He was silent, just looking at her, and she let her body swim into the chocolatey goodness of his eyes. His gaze had always had this effect on her. It stilled her with their resoluteness and charmed her with their forthrightness. She absorbed it now, letting the coolness of his surety wash through her, and she believed for almost a moment, that everything was going to be all right.

  “Two whole days.” His voice was soft, thoughtful. “I’ve always wanted to see the Berkshires,” he said strongly then, a burst of energy in the lull of a storm.

  Lydia tried to smile. “Ronald Hatfield must hate you,” she whispered, the pizza now forgotten on the counter between them.

  Cam shook his head. “Ronald may hate me, but Mrs. Hatfield is going to love you!” He poked her shoulder as if to solidify the point.

  “Do you even know her first name?” Lydia asked.

  Cam smiled. “No idea, but I don’t think it will matter much if Ronald kicks my filthy arse out the door before I can give her a by your leave.”

  “Evelyn.” She noticed the smirk on his face and tried to ignore it.

  “Evelyn Hatfield, I hope you liked the flowers. They were terribly expensive,” Cam muttered.

  He stood and walked over to the windows overlooking the street outside. She was bereft at the loss of nearness, but she swallowed and pretended she did not feel that way at all.

  But he turned around, and his gaze pierced her. “I suppose we should settle on the details of this thing then.” There was something in the set of his jaw that had Lydia’s back going up. “I never do a business deal without getting something in return.”

  “Do you still hide all of the comfortable furniture in the den at the back?” he asked first.

  Lydia’s cream-colored furniture always made him uncomfortable, but after a long day of air travel, it made him downright grumpy. Who on God’s green earth decided white furniture was a good idea?

  Lydia blinked at h
im but finally stood, picking up her wine glass and walking from the room. Cam grabbed a fresh bottle of beer from the fridge and followed her. The hallway ran through the center of the townhouse from the front door to the back, the stairs to the second floor rising up on one side, the front sitting room and kitchen opposite. Tucked behind the stairs was a small den. It was here that he found Lydia, curled into a worn leather armchair sipping at her ever present wine glass.

  “The Hatfields have three daughters,” she began, “Rebecca, Tabitha, and Sarah.”

  He made his way to a chair opposite hers, taking in the immaculate work space of the desk in the corner of the room, the bookshelves lined with binders with labels like Spring Outdoor/Tent and Traditional French Country. The labels were beautifully stenciled, and Cam worried for a minute if Lydia was spending too much time in the stationery aisle again. He sat, bending one leg over the opposite knee and waited to hear the rest of this bizarre situation in which he found himself.

  “Rebecca is the one getting married. She just left Vassar with a degree in French literature. She is marrying the son of a well-known political figure from Connecticut, and she wants a very old English wedding.”

  Cam tilted his head, regarding Lydia with care. “I supposed you could say we had an old English wedding.”

  Lydia closed her eyes. Was she thinking of him and his costume that day? He turned out in what he had thought was proper dress only to find his bride to be erupting over his attire. Kilt, sporran and even Ghillie brogues. It had taken a lot of coaxing, flippant promises, and some inaccurate but effective Scottish words in his thickest accent to bring her around. Lydia slowly opened her eyes, and he smiled at her.

  She gave no reaction except to keep speaking.

  “Sarah is due to finish her degree at Oxford next year and is very much attached to a certain gentleman at Harvard. Should Rebecca’s wedding go well, I have the chance of securing Sarah’s next year. Sarah has already expressed admiration for the designers that we carry at the shop, and the breadth of knowledge our staff contains on the latest wedding trends.”

  “Your staff?”

  Cam didn’t miss how Lydia’s face darken ever so slightly.

  “My mother,” Lydia murmured, and Cam smiled.

  “How is Mrs. Baxter? Still fixing your braids?”

  Lydia uncrossed and recrossed her legs, pushing herself higher in the leather chair.

  “She’s her usual self, thanks.” The words were so heavy with sarcasm he expected them to leave a bruise.

  “So Mrs. Hatfield is giving you Rebecca, and you’ve already managed to hook Sarah in the course of events,” Cam said, changing the subject. “What of Tabitha?”

  Lydia blinked. “I’m not sure Tabitha will be in the market for a wedding for some time,” she said.

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ll see when you meet her,” was all Lydia said.

  Cam set his beer on a side table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So if I agree to this little charade, you will land not only one wedding with a substantially known public figure, but two.”

  “And perhaps three if the youngest daughter, Tabitha, ever takes an interest in it.”

  Cam raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s currently more concerned with her rugby team’s standing in the collegiate bracket,” Lydia said.

  “We all need to have dreams, Lydia.” He smirked.

  She didn’t make any indication that she’d heard him, but the light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. He wondered not for the first time if his efforts to help her, to help Lydia Baxter find what it was that would make her truly happy, were wasted.

  “So I play the part of the doting husband, and all is well. That’s at the charity gala and this birthday bash for Mrs. Hatfield. That’s it?”

  Lydia shrugged, her slight shoulders moving against the leather with a soft squeak. “I think that’s it. Unless Ronald Hatfield challenges you to an arm wrestling match right off, and the whole thing is done.”

  Cam took a moment to look at her, this woman he had wed in such haste five years ago, a woman he still loved even if she didn’t want to admit to returning the sentiment. And watching her there, in the now near darkness of the late evening, he knew what it was that he would ask for in exchange for his help.

  “If I am to act the gallant husband to convince this woman you are a solid and respectable choice for her business, I would demand something in return.” He paused, watching for a reaction from his wife, knowing he wouldn’t get one. “For the duration of this arrangement, I would like to act in the role of your husband in word and truth,” he finished.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” she asked, her voice as steady as he had expected it to be with just the right sprinkling of swears.

  Cam didn’t buy her unflinching facade. He knew the real Lydia Baxter enough to know that his words had made her nervous, even if she didn’t show any outward sign of it.

  “That means you will allow me into your life in every way a real husband would. I will live in this house. I will share meals with you. I will attend social functions with you.” He paused before adding, “And I will share your bed.”

  Again, there was no reaction until—

  “I’ll expect parameters to be set around that last part,” she said, and Cam was quick to smile.

  “That means you are considering it.” He slapped his palms to his knees and stood up.

  “That is not what that means,” Lydia nearly shouted as she stood up, too.

  Cam kept his back to her as he grinned, relishing the moment of being proven right with her sudden outburst. He was getting to her. He ignored her then, however, and picking up his beer bottle from the table, left the room. Lydia came after him as he had expected, at a deceptively sedate pace as he also had expected. He had reached the kitchen by the time she caught up to him.

  “I am just making very clear where my points of negotiation do not lie,” she said, entering the room.

  She stopped so abruptly in the doorway, he looked up to see if she was all right. She was frozen there, three steps into the kitchen, her bare foot white against the dark floor boards, her hand raised as if she were making a point. The light flashed against the purple lacquer on her fingernails, and for a moment, she looked like an odd piece of art.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He looked down at the counter where the remnants of dinner lay scattered.

  “Cleaning up,” he said. “Isn’t that what a proper houseguest would do?”

  She blinked at him, her long, brown hair framing her face so that she sort of resembled an owl. “You never clean up.”

  He absorbed the soft sound of her voice as it wove between the sounds of falling rain. She looked vulnerable. With her eyes wide and her hand outstretched, palm open, she looked every bit the innocent woman. Something pulled inside his gut, wrenching in a way he had thought long forgotten. So he once again changed the subject.

  “What parameters are we setting around that last part now that you’ve accepted my counter offer, wife?”

  Lydia came to life at that. “I did not accept your offer.”

  Cam laughed, scooping paper plates and soiled napkins together in a pile. “Of course, you haven’t. So what parameters? Does this include just the part where we make love like hormone crazed teenagers or where I put my toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom sink?”

  Lydia had made it to the counter then as well and reached for the half-empty bottle of wine. He leaned in while her eyes were diverted, and when she blinked up, his face was only inches from hers. If he leaned in just a little more, he could feel her lips against his, feel the rush of sensation as he took in her heat.

  But instead he just said, “Because I am open to either the right or left side…” He paused, heard her suck in a breath, saw her eyes blink. “Of the sink for my toothbrush,” he finished.

  Lydia backed up so abruptly the bottle tipped. He caught it before it could top
ple off the counter, a small chuckle leaving his lips.

  “I guess you feel strongly about the arrangement of toothbrushes on your sink,” he said, grabbing his pile of rubbish and heading for the garbage.

  “I don’t care where you put your fucking toothbrush,” she said, and he laughed again.

  “I bet you care a great deal where I put my toothbrush, Lydia Baxter.”

  “Well, I’m thinking of a few creative places just now actually.”

  He smirked at her as he opened the fridge to put away the wine.

  “As far as sharing the bed, you will remain on your side at all times—” she began.

  “What if I get an explicit invitation to your side of the piece of furniture currently being discussed?”

  Lydia eyed him. “Such an invitation will not be offered. Thus, it will not be discussed in these negotiations.”

  “Ah, so you are negotiating now. Terrific. Please continue.”

  He gestured for her to go on as he relaxed against the marble counter by the fridge. She continued to glare at him, but she did, in fact, go on.

  “I don’t see the need for negotiations,” she said. “You will behave as I say for the duration, and we will not have a problem.”

  “Behave as you say?” He raised an eyebrow. “The last time I did as you asked I found myself getting kicked out of the place I called home by the woman I called wife. Let’s go with another plan, shall we?”

  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” Lydia asked.

  Cam tilted his head. “Why would you think I wasn’t?”

  Lydia leaned against the counter, throwing her head back, frustration clear on her face.

  “Because I met you on a fucking pub crawl, Cam.” The strain was evident in her voice. “You have never been the pragmatic, goal-oriented type.”

  He frowned. “You mean the type that fits the idea of the perfect man you have stuck in your head?”

  She looked at him, her hair falling along the sides of her face. He remembered tucking her hair behind her ear, letting the long strands run through his fingertips.