Accidentally Married to the Billionaire 1(32)

Marj looked down, looked away from him, lifted her hand to swipe beneath her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No, I’m the furthest thing from all right. Don’t say sweet things like that to me. You don’t mean them and I just got done with a guy who didn’t mean a damn word he said to me and it didn’t end well. So don’t. Just because you want me to do something, don’t flatter me and try to lead me on. That’s bullshit and I’m not built for the games. I played them myself for a long time, trying to snare a man. Then I got played and I figured out a few things like the fact that I’m not the kind of woman who wants to play with anybody’s feelings. And I damn sure don’t want mine toyed with.”

She stood and tossed her napkin on the table with finality. With a strange puffing noise, the linen napkin that had landed on a votive caught fire. Angry orange flames licked up the fabric. She seemed like she was frozen there. Brandon took her arm and pulled her back, dashed his own spring water on the blaze and watched the once-exquisite table scape transformed into a sodden, grayish mess. The stink of smoldering fabric and smoke settled on the table. He knew he should say something but nothing appropriate, nothing the least bit romantic or persuasive sprang to mind.

“Wait till I tell Britt. She always said I had a flair for the dramatic. I tried to flounce off with what was left of my dignity and I set the table on fire,” she said with a sudden peal of laughter.

Brandon looked at her. She wasn’t mortified. She wasn’t falling all over herself apologizing. She wasn’t angry or blaming him. She was laughing. He felt something uncoil in his chest, and there was a sense of rightness to it. A laugh rumbled from him in answer to hers. Soon, her eyes were streaming from laughter, and he was sure he’d heard her snort at least once. He offered his handkerchief.

“If you promise not to ignite it,” he warned and she nodded, wiping her eyes.

The waiter came out onto the rooftop with a silver domed tray and surveyed the damage with admirable aplomb.

“Allow me to take your meals down to the warmer while I clear this away and provide you with a fresh table setting,” he offered.

“No, thank you. If you wouldn’t care to bring the food to our suite, I think we’ll eat there. As my wife originally suggested,” Brandon said pointedly.

“Does this mean I can take off my shoes? They aren’t exactly being nice to my toes,” she said, taking his arm confidentially.

The waiter followed them down in the elevator and managed to set up the lavish meal, complete with the three undoused votive and the champagne bucket, on a large tufted ottoman. He’d offered to set the vast dining room table in the suite, but Marj had instantly refused.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m in a boardroom. If this is our wedding dinner, I’d like it to be cozy,” she said, shivering prettily in the air conditioning.

Brandon knew a cue when he spotted one and turned on the gas fireplace so the flicker of golden flames played across the wooden floor before the sofa and ottoman. Marj seized one of the oversized cushions from the couch and plopped it on the floor beside the makeshift dining table and sat down. She lifted the dome off her plate and ooohed, suitably impressed by the presentation of her seared wedge of maple glazed sea bass, her cauliflower gratin with a perfect twist of lemon zest on top. She took a bite, then another.

“Oh no. That’s butter. The good kind,” she murmured and took another bite.

Brandon ate, watching her the whole time. There was truth to what he’d said, more than he’d realized until he saw that it upset her, and something seemed to wrench him. Because he did not want to hurt her. He wanted to protect her even from himself and his agenda. Even if it meant that he had to give up his father’s fortune and corporation to do it.

She looked up and caught his gaze.

“I guess I got pretty upset on the roof. I didn’t mean to set a fire,” she said.

“Don’t apologize. I said something that you took issue with. Perfectly normal response, igniting the dinner table,” he said.

“I had a point to make. Conflagration seemed like the best way to make sure you paid attention,” she shrugged with good humor.

“If anyone ought to apologize, it’s me. I overwhelmed you with some probably unexpected ideas. I hope not—unwelcome, but unexpected at least. Maybe I said it badly, that I like you and I’m attracted to you and this would be a much easier situation to bear if I’d said my vows to someone I felt more lukewarm about,” he said, “Does that make more sense?”

“Not really. Does it make sense that I wish I’d had less to drink last night and a clearer head to make decisions? Because this isn’t what’s best for either of us.”