His Wife for One Night. Molly O'Keefe
told herself, over and over again, that if it was an afterthought, Jack would end it. And because he didn’t end it, hope lived on.
Part of her—a big, stupid part, stupid like dumb, stupid like a fool—believed that he’d invited her here because he wanted to share this moment with her. The realization of all those dreams. Dreams he’d told her about when they were kids in the back of his truck, the desert stretching out around them like the lunar landscape.
Water to the world had been his dream. A pump and drill that could build wells in the deserts of Asia and Africa. She’d been following his progress on the internet. Going into her office at night to cheer him on from her little corner of the thirsty world.
Too many nights doing that. Too many years holding the memory of him close, despite his absence.
Too many years of patiently caring for the ties that bound them together.
Marriage.
His father.
The Rocky M.
Jack had done her a favor five years ago when everyone’s lives fell apart. And she was doing him a favor now. It wasn’t as if his father could care for himself.
But Mia was kidding herself. She knew that.
Jack McKibbon was never going to see her as a woman. A real wife. Someone to love.
She pressed her head harder into the door, the pain almost distracting her from the sucking pit of embarrassment and disappointment in her stomach.
It was time for a divorce. She’d do this favor for him tonight. Play the loving wife, face down whatever gossip and scandal the night had in store and then it was time to let him go.
To let the past go.
She had to, because this situation was killing her.
She stood up, the shaking under control. Her emotions in check. No need to get dramatic, she thought. If there was one thing she knew, it was that life always went on. And she could stand here, crying over something that was never hers to begin with, or she could put on her big-girl pants and do what needed to be done.
She glanced at her watch. She had a really wrinkled dress, some makeup, jewelry that looked like torture devices and a whole bunch of instructions from her sister on how to look like a woman rather than a ranch hand.
Tonight she’d be Jack’s wife.
Tomorrow she’d work on that divorce.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK SHRUGGED into his suit jacket as he stared down at the aerial shots of the militia compounds surrounding the villages where he and Oliver were digging their wells in Darfur.
The compounds had been built up. More than before, despite the cease-fire. Going back next month wasn’t going to be easy.
As if it was ever easy.
Mustering up enthusiasm was impossible.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?” he said, distracted by the desk full of papers. Christ, if Oliver could just do this meet and greet by himself, at least one of them could get some work done tonight. “Jack!”
“Mia!” He spun. “Sorry, I got—” Jack had some expectations of how Mia would look, stepping out of her bedroom. And he’d be lying if he said those expectations were high. She was a rancher on a hardscrabble pocket of land two hundred miles from here—and she worked that land hard.
Ranching life didn’t leave much time for shopping. Or dress wearing.
So the version of Mia standing in the doorway to her bedroom was both expected and a sharp, shocking surprise.
“Distracted,” he finished lamely.
The dress, black and simple, was still wrinkled and didn’t fit. Too long at the knee and too tight at the bust. Probably her sister, Lucy’s. Mia looked uncomfortable just standing in the high-heeled shoes with the sexy bow on the side; he dreaded thinking of her walking in them.
That’s what his head noticed anyway.
His body was busy noticing other things and nearly roaring in approval. Her skin, God, her skin was like caramel. And the rustic gold bangles she wore at her wrists made her look like an Incan princess. Her hair was long and loose, the curls riding her back and he wanted to touch those curls, feel them clinging to his fingers, twining around his hand.
But her body…oh, man.
Growing up, he’d thrown a lot of punches against the mouths of boys who’d been too vocal in their admiration for her young body. And he’d gotten used to not looking at her below the chin, out of respect. Friendship. Because he knew how much her curves bothered her. Embarrassed her.
She didn’t seem embarrassed now.
The black dress skimmed her breasts, revealing the pillowy tops, the perfect round contours, the mysterious black valley that divided them. And he knew, as awkward as she might feel in that dress, not a single man would notice.
Because all they would see was her beauty.
“I’m going to have to punch out a lot of guys tonight,” he murmured, and she smiled.
“I doubt that.” She smoothed the front of the simple dress. “It’s wrinkled.”
“Putting it in a duffel bag will do that,” he said.
“Oh, and suddenly you’re Mr. Fashion?” She narrowed her eyes, the years melting away under their teasing. “That’s not even your suit, is it?”
“Of course it is,” he said, running his hands over the too-big jacket. “I’ve just lost some weight.”
Mia stepped forward and pulled the tie from where he’d stuffed it in his suit jacket. She flipped up the stiff edges of his collar and settled the tie around his neck. He lifted his chin, standing willingly under her ministrations. She’d tied his tie on his prom night with Missy Manning, on his graduations from high school and college. The day they got married.
It was the only time in his life, other than the day of their wedding, that Jack actually felt like a husband.
She was close. So close he could see the freckles across her nose, the small scars along her chin where she’d fallen into the barbed wire when they were kids.
Her lips…
He blinked and looked back up at the ceiling.
What a marriage, he thought. He must be the only husband who’d never had a wedding night.
Sometimes he got the impression that Mia wanted something physical between them. She’d watch him a little too long, her eyes dilating, her breath hitching—principal signs of animal attraction.
But he’d told himself since he was twenty years old and she’d been fifteen that nothing would ever happen between them unless she started it.
And she never had.
“Well,” she sighed, patting his tie. “It’s a little crooked, but no one will notice.”
“It’s great, Mia,” he said through the tension in his throat. “Thank you.”
“We’re a fine pair,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s go cause a scandal.”
And just like that, this night, this torturous night that he’d been dreading with every fiber of his being, was fun. An adventure.
He offered her his elbow and she slipped her hand, small but so strong, up next to his ribs and then around his arm. He felt the pressure of her fingers, the weight of her palm, through his skin and down into the muscle.
“Let’s go,” he murmured and opened the door to the night.
They crossed the moonlit path from their cabana suite to the glittering