Everything But Perfect, page 11
“Come back on your first anniversary. We’ll make it special,” Charlie added.
Mitch turned and smile. “We’ll do that,” he promised.
Cheyanne didn’t dare say a word. Her mind was still reeling on what having a baby with Mitch would be like—a pipe dream that was never going to happen.
****
Hours later, only half way home, Mitch pulled off the road, finding a wayside with huge park. It was a lovely spot for being the middle of nowhere. “We’ll eat here.”
“Fine.”
He shut down the engine then turned in his seat. “Is that all your ever going to say to me? Fine?”
“What was I supposed to say?” she snapped, feeling the tension build. He hadn’t said more than two words to her for the better part of an hour.
“How about Wonderful choice, Mitch, or…hell, I don’t know.” He paused, forcibly dragging in a breath. “Your continuous fine is getting on my nerves, sweetheart.”
She almost said fine again, clamping her lips shut. It was just a word. He didn’t need to go ballistic over her saying it.
He climbed out of the car, walked over to her side, opened the door, and held out his hand. Uncertain of wanting to take it, she did not want to start another useless argument with him, either. She set her palm against his, felt the now-familiar spark between them and climbed out of the car with his help.
“We’ll go over by that bench,” he suggested, twerking his head in the direction. On the far side of the park was a bench, secluded from everyone else. Although the middle of nowhere, there were a few cars and folks using the wayside for gainful purpose.
Mitch let go of her hand, reached back into the car for the basket. As they moved there together, her emotions took control. She’d had enough of the silent treatment, pursing her lips and allowing a loud sigh to come out of her chest.
“Are you ever going to talk to me?” she asked, sitting on the bench as Mitch moved to the other side.
“What do you want me to say to you?”
“Gee, I don’t know…It looks like rain.”
“It looks like rain,” he muttered, opening the basket and removing the foil-wrapped items.
Her eyes drilled his. “Dammit, Mitch!”
His face tipped, even though he was now smiling she did not feel the love coming from him. “It looks like rain. It’s what you told me to say.”
“Why are you being this way?”
“What way is that?”
“Defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive.” He unwrapped a chicken sandwich, set it on a paper plate, and then handed it to her.
Cheyanne accepted the plate, but pushed it away from her. She wasn’t hungry anymore.
His eyes went to the plate. “Now you’re not eating just because you are mad at me?”
“I’m not mad…” she started, closing her mouth when his brows arched high enough to touch his hairline. “I’m not…I’m just confused.”
He reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of wine, a bucket of cheeses, and another bucket containing caviar with crackers. “None too shabby of a picnic,” he muttered.
“Yes, none too shabby,” she grumbled, grabbing the plate.
Five minutes later, Mitch was still not openly making conversation with her.
“Okay, you win,” she blurted out.
“I win what?” he asked, finishing off the caviar by using his fingertip.
“You win. If you don’t want to talk to me, you don’t have to, but it’s going to a long four months if this is how you plan to treat this marriage.”
His attention riveted from the empty caviar dish onto her. “This isn’t a real marriage,” he said firmly. “This is a business deal. You said so yourself and why we left a honeymoon a day early.”
She opened and closed her mouth, staring at him, flabbergasted by the lack of emotion put to those words. It may not be a real marriage, but this week proved they were connected—in some form.
“Did you think it was a marriage, where I would need to talk to you at all hours of the day?”
“Y—you…we…you made love to me,” she replied, feeling the gut kick increase, tenfold.
“No, I did not make love to you. I had sex with you. There was no love involved.”
Wow! Could it have gotten any colder outside?
Cheyanne had no answer to this, the callous cruelty of his words sending shivers down her spine.
“Sex is sex, nothing more. Recreational fun. When we get home, we’ll have sex again, likely until blue in the face. But I don’t love you and you don’t love me, so don’t pretend you’re hurt by my saying it aloud,” he said.
“Now, Mitch…I would prefer it if you’d shut up,” she warned.
“Just a minute ago you were complaining I wasn’t talking to you. Make up your mind.”
Cheyanne shoved back her plate, stood and made her way back to the car—tried to make her way. Mitch reacted quickly, reaching her and stopping her. He whipped her around to face him.
“Running away again?” he asked cruelly.
“Go to Hell!”
She barely had time to blink before his mouth tipped at the corners and a half breath later, crushed hers, Mitch punishing her for speaking what her heart felt. To save herself from a total loss of dignity she bit his lip.
“Fuck!” He drew back, looking ready to kill. “What the hell was that for?”
She whipped back around and made it to the car without falling apart. Trembling head to toe, she stood by the door, waiting until he came to her.
Mitch returned to the bench, packed up the picnic, and then came toward her. There was mutiny in his gaze. He moved close, Cheyanne stood her ground, and he leaned near her ear while she did everything she could to control her body’s reaction to him.
His lip did not look too bad, then again, she hadn’t done it to draw blood, just to cause him enough of a jolt to back away and leave her alone.
“You ever fucking bite me again…,” he warned.
“You’ll what?” she snapped. “Not talk to me? Wow! Something new and exciting to happen in this non-marriage.”
His cold glare could have cut glass. “No, sweetheart. I will take you over my knee and teach you a very valuable lesson.”
She was about to add an opinion to this, but he quickly interrupted. “Get in the fucking car, Cheyanne.”
She did, once inside of it snapping on her seatbelt. In his present state of mind, she wasn’t taking any chances being splattered on the highway.
Mitch then climbed in, started the engine, gunned it, and tore out of the parking lot, spinning gravel under the tires.
They made great time getting back to New York.
Chapter Thirteen
Figuring they would return to New York, Mitch would take her to the Ribbons estate, and they would go on to wherever each wanted to go, she was surprised he took them straight to his apartment. More irritated, than surprised.
Cheyanne walked to the elevator in the lobby, trembling inside. Pretending the honeymoon as an extended vacation, pretense no longer worked as the lift doors opened and he pushed her inside, his hand at the small of her back, urging her forward.
Once inside the elevator, he said nothing. When the doors slid open to his penthouse apartment, he still said nothing. He then opened the apartment door, let her walk through first, and he followed, closing her firmly into the lion’s den.
She could barely react to his movements, Mitch a caged predator ready to devour.
He moved swiftly to a bar on the opposite side of his living room, pouring a drink. He then raised the bottle. “Want one?”
She shook her head, absorbing the surroundings. Plush cream carpeting, expensive artwork, dark leather furniture, papers lying on a low table, the man was obviously a dedicated worker to bring his work home. Her eyes found his and locked on.
“You’re going to need one when I’m through with you,” he suddenly warned, downing the contents of his glass in one fell swoop. He quickly shook his head to ward off the sting to his throat.
“What do you mean…when you’re through with me?” she whispered, the lump in her throat choking out her words.
He moved forward swiftly, literally stalking her. “Exactly what it sounded like.” A half-second later, she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, his growl sent down her throat as he probed deep with his tongue.
She tried to push him away but Mitch was too strong when angered, and she didn’t dare bite him again—already forewarned of the consequences. She simply allowed the kiss to happen. Sooner, or later, he would release her. This did not happen. The kiss progressed into uncontrollable.
Mitch scooped her into his arms and headed straight for a dark hallway, Cheyanne locking her hands behind his neck as not to have him drop her. It was not that she felt closeness to him now. After all, he was treating her like an employee, not a wife. Her holding on was instinct, nothing more.
“Where are we going?” Her eyes went reaching for his.
“To the bedroom.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Why?” His sinfully devilish smile made her ill at ease.
“Why not?”
“Mitch, please…you can’t keep having sex with me…” she tried to say.
He wasn’t listening. “I can and I will, and you are not to complain.”
“What you are doing is wrong,” she warned. “I need time.”
He looked at her strangely, mid-way to kicking open the door leading to a master suite. “How is making love to my wife wrong to you?”
“I’m not your wife. I’m just the giver of company shares to you, and it’s not love…it’s sex. You said so yourself.”
“So?”
“I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“Liar. You sure as hell wanted to have it with me before, when at the inn. What’s the difference?”
By now, he had her standing at the side of his bed, removing her T-shirt and starting for the button on her jeans. Cheyanne was trying to stop this madness from happening, yet every time she pushed at his hand or failed at keeping him away, his smile returned, deeper and more dangerous than before, and he kept the control.
“Please, Mitch… this is wrong.”
He drew back only far enough to state his anger aloud. “Stop fighting it, Cheyanne. You know I’m going to win.”
“No, I will not stop fighting you,” she warned. “This should not be a game you can win. Besides, I’m not on the pill. There will be consequences if you do not control yourself.”
This fact must have finally registered into his brain. He stopped, releasing his hold on her, and took two steps back. “Hell of an excuse, sweetheart. Too bad I have ample remedies for that.”
He then stepped to his nightstand, opened the top drawer, and removed a packet of condoms. He tossed them at her, Cheyanne just barely catching the foil packet. “Now try to tell me I should stop.”
She threw the condoms at his head, pissed that she no longer had a readied excuse. He, in turn, stepped forward, shoved her backward, and he continued right where he left off, removing her jeans.
She wanted him, in that there was no doubt. The more he touched her, the more that want increased. His male hardness pressed against her body, his masterful touch; the stirrings inside her to continue, but she wanted the love, and that was missing from all of this.
Protesting weakly, in the end Mitch conquered her, tamed her, and made himself the victor in their ongoing war. Whatever preconceived notions she might have had toward this marriage being a farce, they were obliterated the second her entered her, condom-less, making her his.
Kisses that were burning themselves brightly in her brain destroyed everything else, and she no longer functioned of free will. She forgot about the battle lines, the games, and lost her identity in this one moment—prey to predator, husband to wife—consequences to these actions be damned.
Exhausted, she tried in vain to regain control of her senses. Her body ached for this man, yet, she felt betrayed by her own skin. Her heart had stilled, abandoning consciousness for one brief moment.
Mitch rolled onto his back, almost gloating at what he did. Beads of perspiration lingered on his chest like dewdrops at dawn. She could not help it when she slowly trailed her finger over his chest, overwhelmed by the desire of wanting him so badly that it hurt. Still, she knew she should not want him at all—which hurt more than imaginable.
Cheyanne lay side by side with Mitch, catching her breath. “Too bad you have to force yourself into a woman who doesn’t love you,” she said tartly, trying to fight against the madness ripping her apart. It was either that or admitting she was falling for a man she could not have.
“Don’t,” he said.
Her head tipped toward his. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t start up with me now.”
She sat up, quickly moved to the side of the bed and hung her head in shame. She meant to fight this out with him, but one word had stopped her cold. One simple don’t.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Hell, she’d been here all of thirty minutes. Mitch hadn’t even given her a tour of the place yet, just had sex with her, and if that did not belittle her, nothing would.
“Right there,” he said, pointing at a closed door.
Cheyanne headed to it, locking the door behind her. She then let the tears fall unchecked while running the tap, hoping to drown the sound of her sudden sobbing. She could not even look at her reflection in the mirror, afraid of what she might see. A woman in love? Or, a fool in the making? Both had the potential to destroy her.
Five minutes later, Mitch tapped on the door. “Cheyanne?”
“Go away,” she muttered.
“Let me in.”
“No.”
She could not control her tears and did not want his pitying look.
“Open the door,” he said firmly.
“Please, Mitch…just leave me alone for one lousy second.”
He rattled the handle, and she held her breath, hoping the lock stayed firm.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I’m fine, Mitch. Just go away.”
“You don’t sound fine to me. Open the door.”
“No!”
“Okay, suit yourself.”
She could hear his footsteps retreating from the door, her sigh burning a hole in her chest.
Never, in a million years, had she thought he would use a key to get to her. He found her sitting on the floor near the tub, wrapped in a plush towel, still crying.
Mitch scooped her into his arms, carried her back to his bed, laying her out on the quilt. He then kissed the top of her head, turned off the light, and left the room.
Cheyanne cried herself to sleep.
****
The following morning she found a note on the nightstand.
Be back by five. Stay put.
Mitch
Five? He left her alone without saying a word?
His penthouse apartment turned into a veritable prison for the next eight hours. With nothing to do to idle away the time, she snooped through everything she could, just to get a feel for the man, but his place was as empty as his soul; nothing personal, nothing that gave her a sense of who he was… nada.
She’d resorted to dusting, washing windows, and vacuuming the floor. Not that he deserved a clean apartment, but boredom was dreadful, so a few domestic chores hadn’t killed her.
She dreaded five o’clock.
At noon, she made a light lunch out of whatever he had in the refrigerator. At two, she watched boring television. At four, she found a book to read, curled up on the bed, and was so engrossed into the thriller plot twist, she never heard the door open.
“Honey, I’m home,” Mitch said loudly, scaring her out of her wits.
Cheyanne set down the book, jumped off the bed, and moved toward the living room. She found Mitch taking off his tie, standing near the bar.
His gaze met hers. “Miss me?”
If it was not for the ingratiating smile gracing his face at that precise moment, she might have answered him. Instead, he poured a scotch, offered her one, and then set down the bottle when she refused. He looked exhausted, as if life had finally caught up to him.
“Did you eat?” he asked, moving toward the sofa.
“No. I was waiting for you.”
“Good. We’re going out to dinner.”
“I can’t go out to dinner. I have no clothes here.” She certainly was not going to wear previously worn clothes unwashed to a restaurant.
Mitch tipped his head toward the door of the apartment. “You do now.”
Cheyanne turned that way. By the door were four of her suitcases. What the…?
“I took the liberty of stopping by the estate on my way home. Rosa had everything packed. The top box is for tonight.”
Cheyanne moved slowly toward the suitcases and another silver wrapped box, same as what her wedding dress came in. Her breath stalled in her lungs. She did not want another present from him, clearly remembering what happened the last time she opened one of these boxes.
“We’ve been invited to dine with longtime friends of mine. Get changed. They expect us to be there by six.”
She turned to face him. “You could have told me sooner. I can’t be ready by six. I need a shower…at least a half hour for hair and makeup.”
“Then you had better take a quick shower and go a little faster on the hair and makeup. I don’t keep friends waiting, Cheyanne.”
He sat down, put up his stocking feet up on the low table, and opened a newspaper. Over the top sheet, he smiled. “Clock’s ticking, sweetheart.”
She growled at him, grabbed two of her suitcases, and carried them into the bedroom. On her return trip, she stated her objections—loudly. They were literally eating her from the inside out.
“You said I did not have to live with you. Now, my clothes are here, I’m eating dinner at your friends. Would you please make up your mind? I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you and it’s starting to wear thin.”
He gave her an odd look, stood, then tread quickly toward her. “I’ve changed my mind about the living arrangements. You’re staying here, where I can keep an eye on you.”
