McFarlane's Perfect Bride by Christine Rimmer Page B

the color of a ripe plum.
    She pushed the brew button on the coffeemaker and took the chair across from him. “What else?”
    â€œUh. Excuse me?”
    â€œIt seemed as though you had more to say.”
    â€œI did. I do.”
    She folded her hands on the tabletop. “I’m listening.”
    He raked his fingers back through his hair. “It’s only…I’m sorry, but I can’t give you more than this summer. This, right now, that’s all I’m ready for. I’m not…cut out for anything more.”
    Her red-kissed brows drew together and he knew he wasn’t making much sense.
    He confessed, “I, well, I was a lousy husband, you know?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t know.”
    â€œI was. Just lousy. All that really mattered to me was my work. I wanted to take what my father and grandfather had started and make it more. New, exciting locations, each one-of-a-kind, each a luxury boutique hotel with stylish rooms, signature restaurants, bars and destination spas. I considered marriage and children as no more than something that was expected of me, something I needed to get out of the way so I could focus on my work, on growing the McFarlane House brand. So I fulfilled what I saw as my obligation to acquire a spouse, to procreate. I found a beautiful woman with the right pedigree and I married her.”
    â€œYou…you didn’t care for her at all?”
    He shrugged. “Looking back, I think I told myself Icared. But really, being brutally honest now, I didn’t care enough. Yes, I told my ex-wife I loved her, but it was just because I knew it was something I was supposed to say. And it’s only by necessity that I’m trying to figure out how to be a halfway decent dad for CJ.”
    â€œBut, Connor, you are trying. That’s what matters.”
    â€œNo. I’m doing what I have to do, fulfilling my responsibility to my son. Period. I live for my work, and I’m not husband material. I can’t see that changing. I’m just not a family man.”
    She caught her lower lip between her even white teeth—and then let it go. “Clearly, it’s not going to do any good to tell you that you’re a better man than you think you are.”
    He stuck with the truth, painful as it was to reveal. “I think you want me to be a better man.”
    She gazed at him for a long time. And then, finally, she conceded, “Yes. That may be true, to an extent. I would like you to be the best you can be. Tonight, though, I see that you already are a good man. A man capable of honesty. Of trust. And I understand what you’re telling me. I already knew—or at least, I knew the part about how you’re not up for anything long-lasting. We talked about it before, remember?”
    â€œOf course I remember. I remember everything. Every look. Every smile. Every word we said.” He swore low. “I sound like an idiot, some hopeless fool…”
    â€œNo. You don’t.” She reached out her hand to him. He met her halfway, in the middle of the table. Palm to palm, they wove their fingers together. “You don’t sound like a fool, not in the least.” Her soft mouth trembled on a smile. “I’m so glad that you’re here. That it’s not over, after all.”
    He shoved back his chair and stood. She stood with him. And then, hands still joined, in unison they stepped toward each other around the table. Once she was close enough, he reeled her in. She felt like heaven in his arms.
    â€œNo, it’s not over,” he said, staring down into those beautiful misty eyes. “Not yet…”
    â€œNot yet…” she echoed, lifting her mouth to him. He took it. Wrapping her tighter, closer, he kissed her deeply, learning all the sweet, wet surfaces behind her parted lips.
    When he lifted his head, it was only to slant it the other way and claim her lips again. He could have stood there in