not a happy bride. A broken Picasso bride, or maybe a ghost bride from some terrifying urban legend—a confused wraith who would never find her way out of the mist.
She touched her damp cheek, as if she needed to confirm that she was made of solid flesh. Her new diamond ring sparkled in the mirror.
After all this time, she was really Trent Maxwell’s wife. For one year, anyhow. Not exactly the “forever” she used to dream of.
Suddenly, hard knuckles rapped against wood.
“Susannah?”
Staring at the door, she put her left hand against her heart, which once again thump-jogged in place.
Stop that, she commanded it. But her heart ignored her.
“Susannah? Are you all right?”
He didn’t turn the knob. He probably knew it was locked. Not that the flimsy button would have kept him out if he’d really wanted to come in. And he would come in, sooner or later, if she didn’t emerge. The Fates had blessed Trent Maxwell with a lot of gifts, but patience wasn’t one of them.
She’d fallen for Trent when she was just a kid—not all that much younger than her little sister Nikki was now. Susannah had thought she was so grown-up, ready to be in love. Now, watching Nikki struggle with hormones at the oh-so-mature age of sixteen, she knew better.
It had all been dreams. She’d fantasized about standing at the altar beside him. She’d dreamed of cooking him spaghetti and darning his socks, though she had no clue what that meant.
But those dreams had gone up in flames—quite literally—eleven years ago. Since then, she and Trent had barely exchanged fifty civil words.
Now here she was, a thirty-year-old woman, embarking on a one-year marriage of convenience. How dry those words sounded! They didn’t capture any of the heart-skittering anticipation. He was only ten yards away, and waiting for her to come to bed. This would be a real marriage, he’d insisted. And, because she needed a husband, she had agreed.
But maybe she wasn’t trapped. She had one last hope—a piece of paper hidden in her nightstand that somehow might miraculously save her.
She tried to imagine handing it to him. Tried to visualize his face as he read it. What would he say? They’d been so close once that they could finish each other’s sentences. But the bitter years lay between them now like a continent of ice. Her new husband was a stranger to her, and she had no idea how he would react.
“Susannah?”
His voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. That would come later. Later, when he read the paper. When he found out what her plans were for this, the first of their 365 nights of married life.
Her gaze returned to the pieces of woman reflected between the finger-written letters. Mrs… Her eyes shone. Trent… Her lips were parted, vulnerable.
Who was that woman? Suddenly horrified, she drew her eyebrows together. That woman looked like a victim.
Ridiculous. No one had abducted her, tricked her or sold her into wedlock. The bargain had been her idea, the only sensible escape from an impossible situation. It was just that marriage to Trent had seemed so much more manageable when it was weeks, days, even hours in the future, instead of right here, right now.
But she could handle it. She wasn’t weak. Ask anyone, from the lowliest fruit picker on her payroll to the richest buyer on the market. You could even ask her grandfather’s ghost, which was probably still prowling the halls of Hell, carrying his favorite switching strap.
They’d all tell you. Susannah Everly faced her problems. She took her medicine. And she did it with her chin held high.
“I’m coming.”
She reached in and punched off the shower. Enough. She wasn’t weak.
She unknotted the towel and let it slide to the ground. Then she plucked her gray, shapeless nightgown from the counter and tugged it over her head.
Hideous.
Perfect.
She wrapped her fingers around the warm doorknob and twisted.
Showtime.
“I’m sorry, Trent. I…”
Her voice dwindled off. The silent shadows of the bedroom momentarily disoriented her. Was he gone? Instead of the hot voice she’d expected to hear accosting her, demanding an explanation, she was met only by quiet currents of dark air and the faint smell of roses.
That must mean Trent had opened the east window—the roses had climbed as far as the second-story sill this spring and seemed to be trying to nudge the glass open with their pink-and-yellow faces.
She took a deep breath. She adored those flowers, just as she cherished every inch of Everly. She mustn’t forget that. She might have grown to hate Trent, but she’d never stopped loving this beautiful ranch, set like a jewel in the middle of a thousand acres of peach orchards.
She was doing this to save Everly.
As her eyes adjusted, she finally saw Trent. He leaned against the window frame with his back angled to her, staring down into the side yard, though she knew he couldn’t see much except the grapevine trellis that covered the wicker patio loungers.
Half his body was in shadow. He wore no shirt. Moonlight turned one muscular shoulder and arm to marble, then glimmered against the silver tip of his belt buckle before being swallowed up by the black of his pants.
Her heart tried once again to escape, but she squared her shoulders and forced it into submission. She had made promises. Maybe he’d let her out of them, and maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, this had to be faced.
“Trent?”
He tilted his head toward her. “Well, hello,” he said with a smile that just caught the moonlight. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d climbed out the bathroom window.”
“No.” She tried to match his sardonic tone, and she was glad that he probably couldn’t see her flush. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”
“You think it’s silly?” He moved toward her with a lazy confidence, as if he knew he had all the time in the world. As if he owned this night. As if he owned her, which, in a way, he did.
“Why silly? Are you trying to tell me you’ve really been in the shower all this time?”
She’d never been a good liar. The only person she’d ever needed to lie to had been her grandfather, and her pride had forced her to battle it out with him, toe-to-toe, instead. So now she hesitated just a moment too long.
Trent reached her just as she was opening her mouth to say yes, yes, of course I’ve been in the shower.
One eyebrow rose in that classic, mocking arch as he shook his head slowly. He laid his finger against her lips.
“No,” he said. “Don’t bother to fib. If you’d been under water all this time, you’d be as wrinkled as a raisin.”
Instinctively, she folded her hands into fists. He glanced down at them, and his grin deepened. “Shall we look?”
Damn him…he was so cool, so amused by her discomfort. When he touched her hand, she had to resist the urge to slap him. He hadn’t bought the right to mock her.
But he had bought the right to touch her. He’d been very clear about that. No way in hell was he going to sign on for a year of chastity. “I’m no saint,” he had said, with that maddening smile that made it impossible to tell how he really felt. “So you’d better decide whether you can deal with sharing my bed for a whole year.”
He took one of her hands, gently pried open the fingers and held it up for inspection. Her fingers were warm and damp, but smooth. No wrinkles. She’d been in the shower a total of maybe five minutes, just long enough to scrub off her makeup.
“So