Marrying Mr. Right. Carolyn Greene

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      As a teenager, Greg had been big for his age. But now... now his shoulders seemed to swell out of the dark suit jacket that was, for him, quite uncharacteristic. In contrast to his torso, his hips seemed narrow in the tailored slacks that hugged his long legs.

      No, this was no teenager anymore. And if she weren’t convinced by his nearly brutal masculinity, the firm set of his angular jaw told her he was used to getting what he wanted...no matter what it took.

      His dark hair fell in casual disarray across furrowed brows. His eyes were deep-set, and his scowling made them appear more so.

      He shook the papers at her as if to snap her from her slack-jawed stare back into the present. “Do you have any idea how much trouble this is going to cause me?”

      A droplet of perspiration that couldn’t be blamed on the late-April weather trickled between her breasts. Christina’s gaze traveled down the neatly typed heading on the paper that was now crumpled in Greg’s big fist: Christina Cline vs. Gregorio Primo.

      A movement behind her distracted her from Greg’s fury, and when Donald touched her elbow Christina was grateful for the interruption.

      “Is something wrong, dear?” He lowered his voice and spoke into her ear. “Want me to get rid of him for you?”

      He was being unusually possessive tonight, acting for Greg’s benefit as if he lived here rather than just visited after work and on weekends. And as if their relationship were more than a convenient arrangement to satisfy their respective needs.

      The idea of her fiancé taking on Greg was enough to jolt her out of her stupor. She was touched by his unnatural display of machismo, especially since their promises to each other would be in name only.

      The two men were as opposite as if they’d come from different planets. Donald was as fair as Greg was dark. At thirty-five, his wispy blond hair was thinning prematurely, whereas Greg’s thick brownish-black locks shone under the incandescent porch light. And Greg’s tanned six-foot frame dwarfed Donald’s medium, deskbound build. Even their attitudes were oppositas. Greg’s reputation around Morrison Heights was, to put it mildly, less than sterling. And he was full of barely controlled energy, a condition that gave him the appearance of leaning forward even though his posture was perfectly erect. Serious-minded Donald, on the other hand, would someday run for a local political office—with Christina and the children he promised her by his side—and with no fear of any past indiscretions being exposed. His hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, he looked as though he’d rather be reading the stock report than dealing with this unexpected intruder.

      “Uh, no, this is...” Her voice trailed off as she lifted the latch on the screen door and pushed it open. Where was Miss Manners when you needed her? For the life of her, Christina had no idea how one should introduce her fiancé to her husband.

      Current husband, that is.

      Greg stepped inside, filling the foyer with his massive bulk. How was it that, after all these years, he could still make her heart go flip-flop? Christina stepped back in a futile attempt to put distance between them. She would have to broach the subject of their relationship very carefully.

      “Donald, I’d like you to meet Greg Primo...an old friend from high school. Greg, this is Donald Winkler, my fiancé.”

      Greg raised one dark eyebrow. Christina mentally cringed as she waited for something unpleasant to hit the fan. He had just opened his mouth to speak when a rapping sounded at the screen door.

      “Greggie, what’s taking so long? The mosquitoes are eating me alive out here.”

      Even in the dark, the woman’s platinum-blond hair glowed like a defective nuclear reactor. Christina noticed the barely suppressed sigh Greg gave before he opened the screen door to her. As his companion stepped inside, it was easy to see why the mosquitoes considered her a fieast.

      She was tall; Christina guessed her height at close to six feet, even without the three-inch heels. But it was the elastic tube top, filled to overflowing and suspended by two narrow shoulder straps, that riveted her attention. The image brought to mind a life-size Hollywood Heather doll gone amok. Christina tried not to stare in amazement.

      Her gaze was drawn upward to the woman’s face. It was difficult to tell her age, what with all the makeup she wore, but her bright red smile seemed genuine and friendly.

      “It’s okay, hon. I get those kinds of looks all the time,” the woman informed her.

      Christina snapped her mouth closed, certain that her reaction had prompted the announcement.

      “Some people think it’s too much,” the stranger babbled happily on, “but when you’re aiming for a stage career, you have to go with the theatrical look.” She peered at Christina through her spider-leg lashes. “Maybe we could get together sometime and I’ll give you a makeover.”

      Suddenly Christina felt frump. Was that why Greg had changed his mind about staying married to her? Had he been disappointed with what he saw on their wedding day?

      No, such a thought was ridiculous. Even so, she self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest. Then, in a burst of nervousness, she uncrossed her arms, captured a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and tucked it behind her ear. Mindful of the grass stains on her knees, she mentally chided herself for not paying more attention to her own appearance tonight. She felt certain her female visitor meant well, but it stung to have it pointed out that she could use some work.

      The woman looked up and, apparently noticing Donald’s openmouthed fascination, smiled broadly.

      “Pardon my manners,” she said to Christina, but her attention swiveled to Donald. “I’m Katrina Humboldt, but you can call me Trina. That’s my stage name.” As she thrust her hand forward, the movement caused her breasts to bobble like overfilled helium balloons.

      The action didn’t go unnoticed by Donald. He licked his lips and blinked twice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, taking her hand in his.

      Considering the circumstances of Donald’s and her unusual marriage arrangement, his enthusiastic response to the bombshell didn’t stir any jealousy. But it did make her feel invisible in comparison.

      This was getting out of control. She needed to get rid of Greg, and quick. Otherwise, she ran the risk of having her secret exposed, and possibly in a way that would hurt an innocent person. Because her marriage to Greg was over before it had a chance to begin, it had never seemed fully real to Christina, so she had pushed it to the back of her mind. She hadn’t purposely withheld the information from Donald. Rather, she had put off telling him since she still felt foolish about having done something so impulsive and uncharacteristic. Now she wished she’d had the foresight to mention it sooner.

      Greg cleared his throat. “I hate to break up this touching introduction, but I need to speak to Christina...in private. Excuse us.”

      At that, he took Christina’s elbow in one hand and placed his other hand at the small of her waist and guided her into the living room where Donald had been reading earlier. Greg’s touch was matter-of-fact, but Christina hated how her skin tingled beneath the gentle pressure of his fingers. As if unaware of the conflicting feelings that battled within her, he paused briefly to stare at the watercolor painting of an enormous sunflower that hung over the fireplace. His mouth twisted in distaste. “I hope you didn’t pay money for that.”

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