The Man She'll Marry Read online

  Now the teasing was forgotten. Crying females scared him. They always had. Even his sister and niece. Abby took shameless advantage of the knowledge, too, and she was only twelve.

  But Cinnamon wasn’t trying to wheedle something out of him. Her bawling was genuine. His chest felt tight. He wished he could help, but the woman had plenty of smarts and an advanced degree in business, while he’d barely squeaked through high school, graduating at twenty. A guy like him had nothing to offer her.

  And no business watching her fall apart. He looked longingly at the door, but unfortunately his escape was blocked by Fran and her sobbing friend.

  “It’ll all be okay, hon,” she soothed, her arm around Cinnamon. “C’mon, let’s go into the great room and sit down.”

  Cinnamon ducked under her grasp and visibly pulled herself together. Attention fixed on the oak floor, she swiped at her eyes and sniffled. “I…I’m fine now.”

  So she said. But tears continued to stream down her cheeks. She wasn’t through crying yet.

  Fran caught his eye. “There’s a box of tissues in the powder room.”

  Nick nodded. On his way to the bathroom he passed the large, sliding-glass door along the wall of the dining room, which opened onto the veranda. Beyond that were the kitchen and the basement stairs, leading to the garage with its door to the side yard.

  He thought about sneaking out either exit, but Cinnamon needed those tissues. So he retrieved the box and returned to the great room, where a cozy fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace.

  The two women sat side by side on the long sofa, their backs to him. He saw their reflection in the floor-to-ceiling ocean-view windows across the room, backlit by the tiny lights on the veranda.

  Cinnamon’s bowed head rested in her hands, her short, dark, spiky hair sticking up between her fingers. She wasn’t crying anymore, though. Wasn’t talking, either. It was Fran’s voice he heard, though she spoke so softly he couldn’t make out the words.

  He wondered what had happened to cause Cinnamon to break down in front of him. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. He’d hand over the tissues and leave. As Nick trudged reluctantly into the room the oven timer buzzed.

  “That’s the bread.” Fran jumped up. “Excuse me.” With a worried look Cinnamon didn’t see, she glanced at Nick and jerked her head toward Cinnamon.

  No way could he leave, now.

  Sniffling, Cinnamon reached for the tissue box. “Thanks,” she said, blowing her nose.

  With a stiff nod he backed toward the pair of armchairs catty-corner to the sofa. He didn’t sit, though, because he wouldn’t be here long enough for that.

  Her red, swollen eyes met his, then skittered away, but he saw the bleak expression there. With the dark smudges of makeup on her cheeks she sure didn’t look like an executive anymore. Not so pretty, either.

  Then why did he suddenly want to kiss her? He imagined cupping her face between his hands, lowering his head and teasing her lips until the shadows vanished from her eyes. Then he’d deepen the kiss and—Get real, fool.

  Frowning, he stuffed his hands into his back pockets and cleared his throat. “You done crying?”

  She nodded and tried to smile but didn’t quite make it. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve had a rough few weeks, and I guess they finally caught up with me.”

  The way she was looking up at him, he figured she expected him to say something. He shrugged. “I’ve had a few of those myself along the way.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t cry, though, did you?”

  Inside he had—every time some kid called him a stupid moron. “Men aren’t supposed to.”

  “Corporate vice presidents aren’t, either. Of course, now that I’m an ex-corporate vice president…” She laughed, a dry noise that sounded as if it hurt.

  So she’d lost her high-level job. Given all those tears, that must have stung badly. He searched his mind for the right thing to say. “A woman like you should be able to find a new job fast.”

  She pulled in a shuddering breath, and for a moment he feared she’d cry again. To his relief she sat up straight and squared her shoulders. This time she looked squarely at him.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  Holding her head high allowed him a nice view of her long, slender neck. He’d always liked necks, and hers was about perfect. Was it as smooth as it looked? He would never know, and he had no business thinking that way. What in hell was wrong with him?

  “Need anything else?” he asked, eyeing her guardedly.

  She shook her head.

  “Then I’ll be leaving.”

  He got out of there as fast as he could.

  Chapter Two

  Appalled at her temporary lapse of self-control—blubbering like a weak fool in front of a man she barely knew!—Cinnamon cringed on the sofa until the click of the front door signaled Nick’s departure.

  In her mind she saw his uncomfortable expression. He was so eager to get away from her he’d practically sprinted to the door. She released a groan of humiliation, and buried her face in her hands.

  But rehashing and getting stressed over what had just happened would only make her feel worse. It would be better for her to occupy her mind another way—perhaps a to-do list for the rest of the evening and tomorrow. But for that she needed her Palm Pilot, which, unfortunately, was in the laptop bag Nick had taken up-stairs. Since she felt emotionally exhausted and not ready to move, she settled for composing the list in her head, imagining little bullet points arranged in chronological order.

  First, find the kitchen and assure Fran that she was okay, because darn it, she was. Then head upstairs to the suite to wash her face and comb her hair. After dinner a tour of the Oceanside and—

  “The bread is cooling, the potatoes are simmering and the roast is nearly done,” Fran announced.

  Cinnamon jerked in surprise. Deep in concentration, she hadn’t heard her friend come into the room.

  “Great.”

  Frowning, Fran glanced around. “Did Nick leave?”

  “A few minutes ago. I was about to come find you.” Scooping the handful of used tissues from her lap, Cinnamon stood.

  “Toss those in the fireplace,” Fran advised. She aimed a concerned gaze at Cinnamon. “Are you feeling better now?”

  Her unwelcome outburst was the last thing Cinnamon wanted to discuss, but knowing Fran, she’d push and prod until Cinnamon answered the question. As she wandered to the fireplace she let out a sigh. “I’m drained and totally embarrassed, but yes, definitely better.”

  Fran nodded. “I suspect you needed a good cry, and if you can’t do that with your best friend…” She shrugged. “What I’m saying is, don’t waste your energy feeling embarrassed.”

  “Nick isn’t my best friend. I just met the man, and he saw me at my worst.” Face hot both from the heat of the fire and humiliation, Cinnamon lobbed the used tissues into the flames. Hissing, the yellow tendrils flared up, obliterating all traces of paper. If only she could wipe out her problems so easily.

  “What he saw was a woman hurting—nothing to be ashamed of,” Fran said. “Anyway, it’s over now. How about a quick tour before dinner, ending at your room? I’m sure you want to freshen up.” She pulled a screen in front of the hearth.

  Grateful for the new subject, Cinnamon managed a smile. “Sounds good.”

  “We’ll start right here, in the great room.” Fran waved her hand toward the huge area, which, aside from the big, comfortable furniture, was mostly floor-to-ceiling glass and open space.

  “It’s beautiful, perfect for parties,” Cinnamon commented. She wandered to the chest-high bookcase separating the great and dining rooms, crammed with paperback books. “If I’d known about these, I wouldn’t have brought my own stash. I can’t wait to see the rest of the place.”

  Fran nodded. “My apartment is in the basement, which I’ll show you later. If you need to do laundry, the washer and dryer are down there, too. Let
’s start with this floor. This way to the dining room.” She beckoned Cinnamon past the bookcase. “Even though I could eat in the kitchen and sometimes do—” she glanced at the adjacent room “—I like to take my meals here, because of the ocean view. Wait till tomorrow morning and you’ll understand.” Pausing a moment she frowned at the floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. “Though, the windows need a good washing. Remind me to ask Nick about that.”

  The little white lights on the veranda seemed to wink at Cinnamon. Nick had winked at her, too. She frowned. “He’s a big flirt.”

  Her friend, who was headed for the pearl-colored counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen, stopped and pivoted toward her. “Nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation,” she said, shifting the loaf of bread that was cooling on the counter. “As I recall, you didn’t mind.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Cinnamon scoffed. “The man is married with a daughter. He shouldn’t be flirting.”

  “Married?” Fran’s jaw dropped. “Where in the world did you get an idea like that?” She rounded the counter and headed into the kitchen, Cinnamon following.

  “When he mentioned his daughter. May I have a glass of water?”

  Fran opened a pearl-colored cabinet door, which seemed to glow in contrast to the apricot-colored walls. “Help yourself. Abby is his niece,” she continued as Cinnamon took a glass. “Her mom, a single mother and Nick’s older sister, starts work at the cranberry factory, which I suggest you tour, at seven-thirty. She drops Abby at Nick’s and he drives her to school. FYI, at the moment he’s between girlfriends—single and definitely available.”

  “Oh.” Cinnamon didn’t understand her relief at the news. She wandered to the sink. The window above it faced the same direction as the dining and great rooms. “After Dwight, I guess I’m paranoid.”

  “Not all men are like that snake.”

  “You mean pursuing a subordinate—that would be me—while separated from his wife, convincing said subordinate that once the divorce came through, she was what he wanted, starting a sexual relationship, and then changing his mind and going back to his wife? Which forced the subordinate to resign? Gee, I hope not.” No tears now. She was too angry at Dwight and her own foolish self to cry.

  “You’ll get past this.”

  “I know.” She sounded a lot more convincing than she felt.

  Fran bustled to the stove and peered into a simmering pot. Then she turned her attention to Cinnamon. “Did you really love him?”

  For a moment Cinnamon considered the question. “I thought I did. Otherwise I never would have slept with him.”

  Fran gave her a curious look she couldn’t ignore. Knowing she was about to reveal an unflattering side of herself, Cinnamon bit her lip. “Dwight Sabin is successful, sophisticated, well read and fun to be with—all things I want in a husband. And I am so ready to get married. So when he left his wife and then pursued me…I was more than flattered.” And utterly foolish. She paused for a sip of water. “I never realized how other people saw our relationship until it was too late.”

  The snide looks and comments, some from supposed friends, had stung. Babette Cousins, another vice president, had called her a “scheming bitch determined to sleep her way up the corporate ladder.” Untrue, and so hurtful!

  “Boy, was I dumb.” Cinnamon managed a laugh, flat and humorless as it was. “If I ever again mention dating a man separated from his wife, will you just shoot me?”

  “I think you’ve learned your lesson.” Fran opened the lower of her two ovens, nodded to herself and turned it off. “And I truly believe you’re on the mend. That spicy undercurrent between you and Nick? I could actually feel the sparks—before you burst into tears.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Mortification scalded Cinnamon’s cheeks as she knocked her fist against her forehead. “I’m not interested in Nick. When I decide to date again, the man I choose will be ambitious and earn a big salary.”

  “That’s your choice, of course.”

  The slight edge to Fran’s tone puzzled Cinnamon. She frowned. “What’s that supposed mean?”

  “Let me answer that with a question. Counting Dwight, how many men have you been involved with over the past five years?”

  “In actual relationships? Three.”

  Fran nodded. “All corporate climbers and all slimeballs. I see a definite pattern here, and I suggest you rethink the kind of man you want. There’s more to life than ambition and money.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d grown up poor.”

  Cinnamon had. Her mother didn’t like to work, and flitted from job to job. They’d lived hand to mouth, often moving in the dead of night to avoid paying the rent.

  “But you earn more than enough to live the good life,” Fran pointed out. “You don’t need a male to depend on.”

  “True, but I want someone with the same ambitions and goals as me, a man who understands the importance of balancing a successful career with family. Anyway, for now I’m taking a break from men.”

  “That seems sensible.” Fran gestured beyond the kitchen. “If we want to finish our tour before dinner, we’d best get on with it.”

  AS NICK DROVE TOWARD Cranberry Grade and High School, his usually talkative niece was quiet, her head bent over a math book. Serious and a perfectionist by nature, this morning she radiated tension.

  A kid shouldn’t be so uptight. He decided to lighten up her mood. Rounding a bend in the tree-lined, winding road he gestured out the window. “Just look at that sky. Not a single cloud. If I didn’t know better I’d think spring was around the corner instead of months away.”

  “Uh-huh,” Abby replied without raising her head from the book.

  Braking at a four-way stop, he frowned his disapproval and waited for the compact in front of them to go. “Don’t you think you studied enough?”

  She flipped her shoulder-length hair behind her ear, and Nick caught her worried look. “In case you forgot, the practice math bee is today.”

  “How could I, when that’s all you talk about? It’s only a warm-up, kid, so relax.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, tightening her lips in the familiar way that reminded Nick of her mom.

  Nick snorted. “The heck you are.” The compact turned, and he headed forward. “You’re so tense, you’re about to snap. I can’t imagine what you’ll be like before the real math bee.” Which was Friday morning, in Portland.

  “Don’t you get it? Even if this is a practice, I have to be the best.” Her small brow furrowed. “If I don’t win, I won’t get invited to the math camp in Virginia this summer. So puh-leeze let me study.” Her attention returned to her book.

  “Suit yourself.” They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  His niece had been jabbering since third grade about the exclusive camp, a program designed for kids twelve through eighteen. Each age group competed for math bee state champion, and only the winners were allowed in.

  Abby really wanted to go, and Nick figured she stood a strong chance. But winning a coveted invitation wasn’t enough. The two-week program cost a bundle. A special math grant paid for the tuition, but room, board and airfare were the responsibility of the family—in this case, Nick, since Sharon couldn’t pay. Not with her bills. As it was she barely scraped by. And with the cranberry factory up for sale and rumors of possible layoffs or worse…

  He stopped himself. He wouldn’t think about that, not with Abby in the car. Both he and Sharon had agreed there was no sense adding that worry to the kid’s already burdened little shoulders.

  He glanced at his niece, whose lips moved as she whispered to herself. She deserved to go to the camp with other kids like her. Who knew what could come out of that? Maybe a scholarship to college. Nick didn’t have the smarts to go that route, but Abby did. She’d be the first person in the Mahoney family to attend and graduate from college.

  Then, who knew? She might end up vice president of some cor
poration. Like Cinnamon. Except she’d lost her job.

  Beyond the trees lining the ocean side of the street, morning sunlight dappled the water. Squinting, he reached for the sunglasses above the visor. He’d thought about Cinnamon way more than he wanted, first on the drive home last night and later while lying in bed. After working hard clearing dead brush from around Fran’s foundation yesterday he should have fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  But no, he’d spent a frustrating few hours fantasizing about her. Massaging the strain from her beautiful nape while she poured out her troubles. He would nuzzle the sensitive place where her neck and shoulder met, making her groan with pleasure. She would angle her face just so, silently begging him to kiss her. First he’d taste the tears. Then, when her lips parted and her breathing shallowed, he’d take her mouth in a deep, hot kiss.

  His body stirred to life and his hands stroked the steering wheel the same as he wanted to stroke and arouse her body. Pretty soon she’d forget all about crying and losing her job…

  As if she’d ever want you.

  Nick scowled, but that was the truth. The females he dated didn’t have advanced degrees. They laughed often and partied hard. They wanted what he wanted—good times and satisfying sex. Which wasn’t always enough…and one reason why he never stayed with the same woman for long. But it worked for him.

  Cinnamon was smart, educated and classy, a woman as far out of his reach as the moon. Unless he wanted trouble and a bucket of pain, he’d best remember that.

  “We’re almost at school,” he said, waiting for Abby to get her nose out of the math book. “Now, I want you to listen to your uncle Nick.”

  She let out a sigh far too world weary for a twelve-year-old. “What?”

  “You’re going to ace the practice math bee and win the real thing,” he stated as he turned onto Gray Whale Street, where the school was. “I know it—” he thumped his chest “—in here.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “You only feel that way ’cause I’m your niece.”