Marriage by Mistake

Thurgood, whatever might be wrong with her. She was blessedly not his responsibility.
    So Dean turned his attention to the one person who might, at a stretch, be deemed his responsibility. "How's Robby?" he asked Troy.
    "Better," Troy returned promptly. "Or at least your little half-brother will be better, now that I can tell him you aren't on the hook any more."
    Dean's fingers worried the sheet of paper he'd been turning. "So he's still there."
    "Where else would he be?"
    Dean stifled a sigh. Robby, nine years old, really shouldn't be one of his responsibilities. Dean hadn't married a European rock star less than half his age and gotten her pregnant, despite the obvious inability of the woman to deal with real life, let alone a child. It was almost a mercy Robby's mother had killed herself by skiing drunk in the Alps a few months after his birth.
    Now Dean frowned. "I thought Robby's father might have put in an appearance by now."
    Troy made a scornful sound.
    "I sent a telegram," Dean protested.
    "To a yacht in the Mediterranean? Besides, even if he got it, your father isn't about to interrupt his pleasure for your convenience."
    Dean rubbed his forehead. This was most certainly true. Kirk had never interrupted anything, ever, for Dean's convenience. "I'll send a personal messenger," he told Troy. "It's the third time Robby's been suspended from school this year, and it's almost summer vacation. Kirk is going to deal with this."
    "Kirk is, huh?" said Troy.
    Dean ignored the disbelief in his cousin's tone. "Keep an eye on the brat. I'll be home first thing in the morning."
    "Not a problem." Troy sounded aggrieved. "Little pest dogs my every step."
    Dean spent a pleasant moment imagining his half-brother dogging Troy's every footstep. It was precisely what his trust-fund cousin deserved. "My condolences," he said dryly, and rang off. Then he drew in a deep breath and, no longer diverted, let his gaze wander to the clock radio on his hotel nightstand.
    Seven-thirty, the red numbers announced.
    Seven thirty. Half an hour past the deadline. She hadn't called. She wasn't coming.
    Dean felt a sinking in his gut. Guiltily, he realized the sensation was relief.
    She hadn't called, she wasn't coming. He didn't have to be married to her. He didn't have to live with her. He didn't have to—to—
    Dean leaned his head back on the chair and huffed a sigh. He didn't have to live with her tempting tail in front of him. He didn't have to resist her dangerous allure. He didn't have to be reminded, over and over, that he was more his father's son than he'd ever wanted to admit.
    His eyes closed tight. It was a hard lesson to learn at thirty-eight years of age, that he was completely vulnerable to his hormones. The whole time he'd been alone with her in the conference room, he'd had to struggle to keep his mind on the matter at hand. He'd had to work like mad to keep her from guessing his true thoughts.
    Was she as soft under that sweat suit as he imagined? Would her skin be as silky, her flesh as giving ?
    Dean opened his eyes and released a rough laugh. Oh, he liked sex as much as the next man, but on his terms, and under appropriate conditions. These were not his terms, nor were conditions the least bit appropriate. It was all too much like one of his father's tawdry misalliances. He and this Kelly had absolutely nothing in common. There was nothing on which to build a true and mutually respectful relationship. He didn't even know her, for God's sake. But that didn't matter. In the conference room with her he'd still wanted—
    Dean jerked himself forward in the chair. All right, enough. He knew perfectly well what he'd wanted. He didn't have to dwell on the unexpectedly crude side of his nature. She hadn't called, she wasn't coming. He didn't like the idea of divorce. It was a sin Dean had promised himself he would never commit, but in this case it was for the best.
    Quick and clean. Before things got too embarrassing.
    Dean gathered the papers on the table. He'd waited until the last minute to leave for the airport, afraid his eagerness to escape his fate might interfere with his duty. Now he'd have to rush if he wanted to make his flight.
    He stuffed his papers in his briefcase, jerked into his jacket, and hoisted his carry-on over his shoulder. Before he could reach the door, however, there was a knock.
    Dean froze. No. It was just...room service, yes room service, with that coffee they'd never delivered. Breathing again, he