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Her relationship with Lucas was as equitable as possible. How much more of an asset could she be?
Regardless, all through dinner she thought about Fergie. And the house. She wore the Versace and the diamond rings her husband had selected. The scales in her mind unbalanced, and she was ashamed Matthew had to be the one to point out how little she’d given Lucas in return for throwing his strengths on the table.
She’d been so focused on making sure she didn’t fall for his seduce-and-conquer routine, she’d forgotten they had an agreement.
Their partnership wasn’t equitable at all, not with her shrewish behavior and giving him a hard time about attending a social event. She should have been glad to attend, but she wasn’t because her husband was too much of a temptation to be around.
Lucas didn’t try to kiss her or anything at the end of the evening, and she reminded herself four times how pleased she was the back-off messages were sinking in.
She slept fitfully that night and woke in the morning to dreary storm clouds, which she should have taken as a warning to stay in bed.
A young Hispanic woman in a crisp uniform was scrubbing the sink when Cia walked into the kitchen.
The girl smiled. “Buenos días, señora.”
Cia looked over her shoulder automatically and then cursed. She was the señora, at least for the next few months. “Good morning,” she responded in Spanish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Mr. Wheeler hired a maid.”
Of course if he’d bothered to tell her, she would have. Men.
“I’m to come three days a week, with strict instructions you must be happy with my work.” The girl bobbed her head and peeled yellow latex gloves from her hands, which she dropped into the sink. “I’ve already cleaned the master suite. With your permission, I’d like to show you what I’ve done.”
“Sure.” Cia was halfway to the stairs before the raucous clang of a big, fat warning bell went off in her head. “You, um, cleaned the master suite? The bathroom, too?” Where there was a noticeable lack of cosmetics, hair dryer or conditioner.
Her heart flipped into overtime.
Satanás en un palo. The maid had cleaned Lucas’s bedroom while Cia slept in her room down the hall. They might as well have put out a full-page ad in the Dallas Morning News—Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Wheeler Don’t Share a Bedroom.
While the maid politely pointed out the sparkling tile and polished granite vanity in the master bathroom, Cia listened with about a quarter of her attention and spent the other three-quarters focusing on how to fix it.
Lucas had royally screwed up. Not on purpose. But still.
“So you’ll be back on Wednesday?” Cia asked when the maid finished spouting about the cleaning process.
“Tomorrow, if acceptable. This week, I have Wednesday off. And then back again on Friday.”
Of course she’d be back tomorrow. “Fine. That’s fine. Your work is exceptional, and I’m very pleased with it. Please let me know when you’ve finished for the day.”
The maid nodded and went off to clean, oblivious to Cia’s ruined day. Cia called the shelter to let them know she’d be unavoidably late and sent Lucas a text message: Come home before eight. I have to talk to you.
The second the maid’s compact car backed out of the driveway, Cia started transferring her clothes into Lucas’s bedroom. Fortunately, there was a separate, empty walk-in closet inside the bathroom. It took twelve trips, fourteen deep breaths and eight minutes against the wall in a fetal position, forehead clamped between her fingers, to get all her clothes moved.
Toiletries she moved quickly with a clamped jaw, and then had to stop as soon as she opened the first dresser drawer, which contained tank tops and drawstring shorts. Sleepwear.
She’d have to sleep in the same room with Lucas. On the floor. Because there was no way she’d sleep in the same bed. No way she’d sleep in it even if he wasn’t in it. No doubt the sheets smelled all pine-tree-like and outdoorsy and Lucas-y.
And, boy, wouldn’t the floor be comfortable? Especially with Lucas breathing and rustling and throwing the covers off his hard, tanned body as he slept a few feet away.
God, he better be several feet away. What if he pounced on the opportunity to try to sweet-talk her into bed?
What if? Like there was a snowball’s chance he’d pass up the opportunity. And after last night, with the dress and the warm hand on her shoulder all evening and the way he kept knocking down her preconceptions of him, there was a tiny little corner of her mind afraid she’d let herself be swept away by the man she’d married.
Her feminine parts had been ignored for far too long—but not long enough to forget how much of a mess she’d been after the last time she’d jumped into bed, sure that this was finally the right man to heal the pain from losing her parents, only to scare yet another one away with colossal emotional neediness.
