Married By Mistake

threat that they hadn’t heard the last of this couldn’t dampen their triumph.
    “That’s marvelous, Sam,” Eloise said, laying a palm on his arm. When she realized what she’d done, her eyes widened. But before she could whip her hand away, Sam covered it with his own.
    “How about we adjourn to the café next door for a celebratory coffee?” he said. “Maybe even one with caffeine, Eloise, if your blood pressure is up to it.”
    She stiffened, and Casey braced herself for the usual retort that would singe Sam’s ego. But for once, he appeared to have realized exactly how he sounded, for he darted a look of apology at Eloise. “On second thought, I bow to your superior knowledge in these matters. You choose.”
    It was obvious Eloise liked that. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
    “Coffee, my foot,” she said. “It’s gone ten o’clock. This calls for champagne.”
    To his credit, Sam refrained from expressing any concern about the state of Eloise’s liver, or about the wisdom of buying champagne when an American sparkling wine would be better value for money. Instead he bowed, a gesture made awkward by the fact that he wouldn’t relinquish his grip on Eloise’s hand, and escorted her out the door.
    Adam tucked Casey’s hand through his own arm as they left the building. “Thanks,” he said. “What you did today went way beyond our agreement. I owe you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    W HEN THE PHONE RANG at some unearthly hour on Saturday morning, Casey pulled her pillow over her head to block out the noise.
    But Adam’s shout pierced her feather-and-cotton shelter. He thumped on the door of her bedroom, and before she could tell him to wait, in he stormed.
    He was brandishing the morning newspaper. “Eloise called to say we should take a look at this.”
    Casey sat up in bed and tried to ignore the fact that his white terry-cloth robe hung open to reveal his bare chest—a frankly yummy chest, its muscled firmness accentuated by just the right amount of dark, curling hair—and black boxers sitting snugly on his hips.
    She wasn’t doing a very good job of ignoring it—he had to clear his throat to get her attention. The appreciation wasn’t all one-sided, Casey realized as she followed the direction of his gaze and looked down at her nightdress. The thin straps had slipped off her shoulders, and the way she was leaning forward didn’t leave anything to the imagination.
    Casey grimaced and tugged her nightie back into place before she took the paper and read the headline: TV Couple’s Wedding a Sham.
    “Oh no!” A wedding photo—of her and Adam kissing—had pride of place on the front page. Around it were smaller photos of the two of them, taken, if she wasn’t wrong, right here in this house. “How did they—?” The photo at the bottom answered the question. It was their erstwhile housekeeper, Sue Mason. Only the picture was captioned, “Sue O’Connor, undercover journalist.”
    “How bad is it?” Casey couldn’t bear to read the words that laid open their private lives—their private lies— to the world.
    “About what you’d expect.” Adam scanned the article for what he presumably considered a choice extract, and read aloud. “‘Adam and Casey Carmichael, a doting couple in the public eye, sleep in separate bedrooms and seldom exchange more than the merest courtesies.’”
    “That’s not true,” Casey protested. “I mean, the bedroom part is, but how dare she say you’re courteous?”
    “Do you think this is funny?” he said.
    She shook her head. “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She squeezed her eyes shut, picturing her family reading this stuff and knowing the truth.
    “It’s not all bad,” Adam soothed her. “Listen to this. ‘Casey Carmichael is a kind and considerate employer, who always has a smile on her face. But one senses that beneath the vibrant facade—’” He stopped.
    “What does it say?”
    “Uh, nothing, it’s just—”
    Casey snatched the newspaper from him and quickly found where he’d left off. “‘One senses that beneath the vibrant facade is a woman hurt by her husband’s indifference.’” She stared at Adam. “I don’t know if that’s worse for me or for you.”
    “For you,” he said immediately. “It makes you sound pathetic.”
    “It makes you sound nasty,” she pointed out. “I’d rather be pathetic than nasty.”
    “But any self-respecting man would rather be