“That’s a long way off. I’ll deal with it if it happens. If we want this reconciliation to look real, then you’ll join me.”
“When it happens. I hate lying to everyone.”
“Would you prefer I call Brock and have him tell the staff we’ve decided to turn in early?”
Her cheeks heated at the implication and so did that coal in the center of her pelvis that Flynn seemed to be able to ignite at will. Would they have sex again tonight? Did she want to? Yes. The strength of her desire for him scared her.
He stroked her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Lauren will be there.”
Renee winced as he unintentionally twisted the knife of guilt inside her. Yet another person being deceived. She liked Lauren. They had a lot in common, both being transplants and opening new branches of existing businesses, and she hoped they’d be sounding boards for each other.
But what choice did she have except to play along?
She gestured to her jeans and casual sweater. “I’ll need to shower and change.”
And then she’d face Flynn’s fellow Maddox employees and pull off the best acting job of her life. For her future child’s sake, everyone had to believe the fairy tale Flynn had chosen to tell.
Eight
R enee cataloged the dimly lit bar as she entered with Flynn on her heels. Small, trendy, high-end clientele, and judging by the specials written on the blackboard in fluorescent green marker, expensive.
Flynn’s hand snaked around her waist, and his lips and warm breath touched her ear. “Head for the tables in the back.”
To onlookers his embrace would look intimate, but in reality he’d issued a command in a low, don’t-argue-with-me tone, and his firm grip ensured she wouldn’t chicken out and run.
She made her way down the center aisle between the large bar taking up most of one wall and the Rosa Lounge’s green, glass-topped tables with tall, black-lacquer bar chairs lining the opposite. The voices reached her even before she spotted the long table where a half-dozen well-dressed twenty-and thirty-something patrons sat.
Lauren’s auburn head lifted. She spotted Renee and Flynn and waved. Conscious of other heads turning, Renee fought off her nervousness and returned the gesture. One familiar face stood out in the crowd. Brock’s.
Renee’s stomach muscles seized. Brock, like his mother and father, had never been crazy about Renee, which made Brock’s holding on to the divorce papers a bit unusual. He should have been eager to get rid of her. She wasn’t sure she believed the tale he’d told Flynn about feeling guilty about breaking up the marriage. Brock rose from his seat at the head of the table and approached her.
“Renee. Welcome back.” His eyes and voice were as cool as his handshake. Had Flynn told Brock the truth? Had he told anyone?
“Thank you. It’s…good to be back,” she added, since it was probably expected of her.
Flynn’s arms encircled her waist, and he spooned her back from shoulders to knees with the muscled planes of his body. A wave of awareness and warmth washed over her as he leaned forward until his slightly bristly cheek pressed hers. “Everybody, this is Renee. My wife.”
A chorus of hellos rained on her, then Flynn added, “You remember Celia and Lauren.”
“Yes. Hello again.” Both women’s welcoming smiles seemed genuine.
“To Brock’s right is Elle, his executive assistant. To Lauren’s left is Jason, one of Madd Comm’s ad execs and Lauren’s husband.” Renee nodded at each new person, since Flynn didn’t release her to shake hands. “Next is Ash, another ad exec, and you’ve already met Gavin.”
The names came so fast she hoped she could remember them. “Hi, everyone. Thanks for including me tonight.”
She slid into the empty chair Flynn pulled out for her. Flynn shifted his chair close enough for his leg to press hers beneath the table. He offered her a menu with one hand and stretched his other arm along the back of her chair, then he twined a lock of her hair around his finger and gave a gentle tug.
She shivered. Renee’s nape had always been ultra-sensitive—a fact Flynn knew all too well. She glanced up to see Celia, Elle and Lauren watching. Lauren winked and snuggled closer to Jason. Elle’s gaze flicked to Brock and lingered before turning back to her menu. Was she reading Brock’s expression to see how the boss felt about Renee’s return?
The waitress arrived. “What can I get you?”
“A Diet Coke, please,” Renee said.
“Bushmills,” Flynn replied, naming the Irish whiskey he’d preferred for as long as she’d known him.
Celia leaned forward. “No martini? The Rosa Lounge is known for them.”
“You’re not pregnant, too, are you?” Elle asked.
Alarm trickled through Renee as all eyes focused on her. “Not that I know of.”
She added a smile and hoped everyone would let the topic pass.
“Renee and I always wanted a large family. Maybe this time around we’ll make it happen.”
Flynn’s words sent her heart crashing against her rib cage and brought her shocked gaze to his. A tender smile eased over his lips as he stroked her cheek with his knuckle. If she didn’t know this was an act, she’d swear the love softening his eyes was real.
He’d wanted to make the reconciliation look believable, and he’d taken a giant step in that direction by laying their plan on the table for everyone to witness their success or failure.
And they would fail, she reminded herself. She would walk away—no matter how convincing Flynn might be in the role of the doting lover. Her sanity depended on escaping as soon as she’d fulfilled her end of their bargain.
Escaping before she broke.
A steady drumming beneath Renee’s ear nagged her awake. She fought her way out of the sleepy fog and grappled for her bearings.
Friday. Tile grout.
But she didn’t want to move from her snug spot. Warmth anchored her to the mattress. She opened her heavy eyelids and a male chest filled her vision. Her pulse jumped on a rush of adrenaline as she identified Flynn’s bed, Flynn’s arms around her and Flynn’s erection pressing the thigh she’d hooked over his hips.
She shouldn’t be here, but she must have fallen asleep after sex last night. Great sex. Exhausting I-can’t-come-anymore sex. The kind they used to share back in the days when they couldn’t get enough of each other.
Last night at the Rosa Lounge Flynn had used the ruse of their reignited love to touch her at every opportunity. He’d played with her hair, stroked her arm or shoulders and sneaked caresses on her thighs beneath the table, knowing that as per their agreement, she couldn’t object. Even though she’d been aware he was shamelessly taking advantage of her predicament, he’d still had her so turned on by the time they reached the house last night that they’d barely made it inside the front door before ripping off each other’s clothing.
She’d promised herself she’d leave his bed as soon as her legs regained the strength to carry her down the hall to her room, her shower and her bed. And yet here she was, with her limbs entangled in her husband’s and his scent clinging to her skin.
And she didn’t want to leave. That was exactly why she must. But she didn’t want to wake Flynn. Didn’t want to face him. Not after the way he’d played the besotted, possessive lover so convincingly in front of his brother and coworkers that she’d almost believed he still loved her.
Good thing she knew his love had died a very long time ago. He’d proved that time and time again by choosing not to come home.
Trying to slow her quick breaths, she slowly separated herself from him. She was almost free when his arms tightened, yanking her back and erasing the narrow gap she’d created between them. Her heart lurched.
“Going somewhere?” he asked in a gruff, sexy voice that rumbled through her like a passing train.
“I need to get dressed before the construction crew arrives.”
He inhaled deeply and stretched, pressing his torso more firmly against hers. His hand swept down her back and curved over her bottom, stirring up a hunger that should have been more than satiated.
“Flynn, let me up.”
He lifted slightly to look at the alarm clock, then sank back onto one elbow. “We have thirty minutes.”
The husky intent in his voice made desire coalesce in her midsection. “I’m probably not…fertile anymore.”
His palm skimmed upward over her hip, her waist, to cup her breast and thumb the nipple. A skewer of need pierced deeply and her flesh puckered. He nuzzled her temple. “You don’t need to be fertile for me to make you feel good.”
A pulse pounded deep inside her, and a craving for the satisfaction he could deliver swelled in her tummy. She fought it and shoved against his chest. She couldn’t allow herself to become desperate for his attention ever again.
“Flynn, we’re not supposed to be doing this unless the timing to conceive is right.”
“There are no written rules for our agreement.”
“Maybe there should be.”
He held her captive with his passionate gaze and powerful arms for several more seconds as if debating changing her mind. Part of her wanted him to. And that part was the very one she had to ignore.
He relaxed his hold. “Run if you must.”
She stiffened. “I’m not running. The builders will be here soon.”
She scrambled from the bed and searched the floor, the bed, the room for something to cover her nak*dness, but he’d removed her clothing downstairs. Short of dragging the sheet off his long, lean body or raiding his closet, she was out of luck.
She crossed her arms over her br**sts and backed toward the hall. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He sat up in bed. The sheets bunched around his nak*d hips, leaving his muscular chest and washboard abs on display—a mesmerizing view. “Tonight we’ll move your stuff in here.”
Panic knocked her breath from her lungs. “Flynn, I’m not sharing this room with you.”
“When is the nursery furniture going to be delivered?”
She dampened her suddenly dry lips. In the excitement over her new workspace, she’d forgotten her purchase. “M-Monday.”
“We’ll paint the guest room this weekend before tackling your kitchen and have it ready by the time the furniture arrives.” He tossed back the covers and rose in a rippling exhibition of firm, fit and aroused male.
Her fingers curled against the need to test his length and thickness. She blinked, tore her gaze from his morning erection, but she couldn’t as easily banish the memory of how he’d felt in her hand, her mouth and her body mere hours ago. “What part of ‘I am not sharing with you’ did you not understand?”
“I heard you, but moving you in here is our only option.”
“The third floor—”
“Isn’t ready. The floors still need to be sanded and refinished.” His gaze prowled from her head to her br**sts, hips, toes and then returned at an even more leisurely pace.
Her skin prickled in response. She wanted to cover up. She wanted him to cover up. Concentrating when they were both nak*d was beyond her capabilities. “The builder—”