His Wife for One Night Read online

  “I think it’s time for a divorce.”

  Jack blinked at Mia’s words, his mouth suddenly dry. The apprehension exploded in his stomach again, darker, uglier. “Us?”

  Mia’s smile was slight, her eyes unreadable. “Yes, us.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed, her breath fanning his cheek. She smelled like toothpaste.

  “Is there…someone else?” he asked. He hadn’t thought of it, not really. There wasn’t any time in his life for him to find anyone else and it never occurred to him that she would be looking.

  “Someone else?” She laughed. “Someone besides my childhood friend who married me as a favor and who I’ve seen all of five times in the five years we’ve been married?”

  He couldn’t read her anger. Did she want more? Then why the divorce?

  “I want…I want a real marriage,” she said, lifting her chin. “Your mom is gone. She can’t hurt my family anymore. And I want a family. A husband who lives with me. Works with me. Builds a life with me. Loves me.”

  He stiffened, unable to process what she was saying. She wanted a family? Kids?

  “And that’s never going to happen with you, Jack, is it?”

  Dear Reader,

  When I was five my parents took us on our first backpacking trip to Montana and Wyoming. We returned several times and some of my first memories are of the Rocky Mountains and Glacier National Park. One of those memories is falling off a horse and hitting my head on a rock. Despite this early brush with equine disaster, I wanted to be a cowgirl. Out West. With braids.

  The next year, my parents booked a week at a Dude Ranch. My brother and his friend ate it up. They got to help with the horses, hang out with the cowboys, do cowboy stuff. I got to sit in the lodge and color. I was not happy. My parents were able to get my cousin and I on a little trail ride with a cute cowboy holding the reins. I remember being put on that horse and feeling it twitch under me. I remember how far the ground was from my feet. I remember how big that horse was and how little I was.

  I started to cry, got sick and that was the end of the trail rides.

  My mother-in-law owns a horse farm and I have since made my peace with those giant animals and even enjoy riding them. But I am no cowgirl. Despite that, I’m totally fascinated. So dreaming up my heroine Mia Alatore was a pleasure. Tough and salty, a crunchy outer shell around a vulnerable, gooey center. What’s not to love? My hero Jack was a tougher nut to crack. He’s a scientist closed off from his emotions, only able to think of relationships in terms of experiments and hypothesis. Getting these two to their happily ever after took some hard work! But it all pays off in the end. Please drop me a line at www.molly-okeefe.com to tell me what you think. I love to hear from readers.

  Molly O’Keefe

  His Wife for One Night

  Molly O’Keefe

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This book is as close as Molly O’Keefe is going to get to fulfilling her childhood dream of being a cowgirl, since there are very few cows or horses in downtown Toronto where she lives with her husband and two children.

  Books by Molly O’Keefe

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  1365—FAMILY AT STAKE

  1385—HIS BEST FRIEND’S BABY

  1392—WHO NEEDS CUPID?

  “A Valentine for Rebecca”

  1432—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR

  1460—BABY MAKES THREE*

  1486—A MAN WORTH KEEPING*

  1510—WORTH FIGHTING FOR*

  1534—THE SON BETWEEN THEM

  1542—THE STORY BETWEEN THEM

  1651—THE TEMPTATION OF SAVANNAH O’NEILL**

  1657—TYLER O’NEILL’S REDEMPTION**

  1663—THE SCANDAL AND CARTER O’NEILL**

  To all the teachers

  who engaged and encouraged me.

  Especially, Mrs. Jordal,

  for not holding that math homework against me.

  Mrs. Nelson, who handed me The Thorn Birds

  and started this whole adventure.

  Ms. Mayes,

  who taught me it’s not good until it’s properly

  punctuated. Ms. Weidman, who gave the misfits

  a place to go and showed me art is equal parts

  emotion and intellectual choice.

  And Pillen.

  Pillen who taught me how to analyze and

  improve, hide my nerves, buy a proper jacket,

  get over the hard stuff and disappointments

  and that the only thing better than hard work

  is hard work with chocolate.

  Thank you, all of you.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MAPS were…wrong.

  Jack McKibbon flipped through the latest topographical charts and compared them to last year’s. The permanent compound was being built too far away from the new drill site. His crew would have to take a damn bus between the two. He’d been staring at these maps for an hour and there was no other way to interpret the information.

  Someone had screwed up, and considering they were heading back to fix the pump and redrill in El Fasher next month, these kinds of errors could cause serious problems.

  He patted through the files, the aerial photos of the well site that needed repair and the embassy report on the recent cease-fire between the Sudanese government and the JEM rebel forces in the Darfur area until he felt the hard edge of his cell phone. The desks in hotels were never big enough.

  He flipped open his phone and hit speed dial without even looking.

  “Jack?” Oliver, his partner and friend, answered. “Is Mia—”

  “Have you looked at the maps?”

  “The maps? You brought the maps?” Oliver, a little more jolly than the average hydro-engineer, laughed.

  “Of course. I had all the files couriered, they arrived a while ago. I thought you’d want to get a jump on things.”

  “I can’t believe you brought your work to the hotel. One night is not going to make a difference, Jack. How about you take a break. We’re going to party. Mia’s coming—”

  “I’d hardly call it a party,” he said, sorting through the mineral reports. He needed to recheck that silver count. That could change the water table information.

  “There will be food and booze. By most standards, that actually is a party.”

  “It’s a fundraiser meet and greet,” Jack scoffed. Jack was head of research at Cal Poly where Oliver chaired the hydro-engineering department. They’d been working on a lightweight drill and pump that could withstand the extreme desert conditions of Africa and Asia. And over the past four years, these fancy events had become standard operating procedure, before and after every summer, Christmas and spring break spent in the field. But after the success of their drill during last year’s sabbatical, Oliver and Jack had brought so much prestige to the school that the administration had decided that more torture, in the form of these cocktail soirees, was in order.

  Particularly now, to raise some money for Jack and Oliver’s trip next month.

  Which would explain why they were here, on the cliffs of Santa Barbara, miles from the university, in an effort to bring up the big bucks from Los Angeles. Africa was a popular charitable cause in Hol
lywood.

  “Just try, Jack.”

  “Christ, Oliver. The university is trotting us out like trained monkeys—”

  “For Mia. Try to get your head out of the dirt for one night.”

  Right. Mia.

  “It’s been over a year—”

  “I know how long it’s been,” Jack said. A year and two months, almost to the day.

  The excitement of seeing her, when he remembered, was bright and hot, shooting out sparks.

  But these maps…

  “When is she supposed to arrive?” Oliver asked and Jack swore, checking his watch.

  “Any minute,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  He hung up and ran a hand over the scruff covering his chin. He’d wanted to be dressed—at least showered—by the time Mia showed up. As if being clean-shaven would somehow make this reunion easier.

  But the maps had arrived and he’d gotten distracted.

  Jack closed his burning, tired eyes. Jet lag dogged him. Not to mention the malaria he had barely recovered from. He was thirty-five and he felt a hundred and five.

  The truth was, he was tired of Africa. Tired of the sand. The heat. The militias. Of coming home sick, only to turn around a few months later to go back. He was tired of never being able to meet the need, of feeling like a failure every time he left. But he couldn’t tell Oliver. He couldn’t tell anyone.

  This had been his dream, water for the thirsty. And to give up on it now felt shameful. Selfish.

  And this whole situation with Mia was making his crappy mood worse.

  Calling Mia like this…not quite the reunion he’d dreamed about.

  I owe you, she’d written in response to his email asking her to come to this event with him.

  Owe me, he thought, turning the words over in his mind like a spit of meat over a fire. Logically, that was true.

  But there were thirty years of friendship between them. A thousand emails. Promises made and kept.

  Mia could be prickly. And his being out of the country for the past year had no doubt made her very prickly despite the daily emails.

  This reunion of theirs was going to be unpredictable. And not being able to prepare for Mia’s mood made him nervous. Was she going to be angry? Happy, like him, just to see each other?

  He didn’t know and it was making him crazy.

  Someone pounded on the door to his hotel suite. The windows rattled as if mortars were being dropped. There was a pause and then more pounding.

  It was her. Not that he could tell by the pounding. It was his internal barometer, which measured pressure and changing dynamics better than any equipment he carried into the field.

  Warning, that barometer whispered. Be very, very cautious.

  He ran his hand across the front of his worn T-shirt and crossed the room, his shoes soundless on the broadloom.

  He was surprised to feel his heart thudding in his chest. Nerves? he wondered. Excitement?

  A month ago he’d stared down a truck full of hostile militiamen and now he stared at the mahogany door, anxious about what stood on the other side.

  It wasn’t the same kind of anxiety. Mia wouldn’t have weapons. He hoped. But she’d be armed with something far trickier and more insidious. Something he couldn’t negotiate with and had never known how to handle.

  His past.

  He opened the door and as expected, it was her.

  Mia Alatore.

  And his heart slipped the reins of his brain and he was so damn glad to see her. To have her here. Selfishly, she just made him feel good. The world fell away, the maps disappeared, and his whole existence was Mia.

  “Good God, Jack, I thought I was going to drive right into the ocean before I found this place. You didn’t tell me we’d be hanging over a cliff.”

  A whole lot of attitude in a tiny package.

  She barely came up to his shoulder. Her too-big plaid shirt hung loose on her body. A ball cap, beat-up and white with dried sweat, sat low on her head, keeping her eyes shaded.

  She was the same. Exactly the same and part of him rejoiced. In a world gone crazy, Mia Alatore was the same.

  Her voice—laced with the sweet accent of her Hispanic heritage—was like a shot of whiskey right to his gut. He’d been to a lot of places, seen sex acts and rituals that would make a monk give up his robes. But nothing in the world was as sexy as Mia’s voice.

  “I’ll keep you out of the ocean, Mia,” he said with a smile. Her head jerked up and he got a good look at her wide amber eyes.

  There she had changed. Over the past five years, he’d seen her three times, not counting right now, and each time he saw her, her eyes had faded a little more. The fire and glitter worn soft over the years.

  He could see the years in those eyes, the darkness where there had only been light.

  “Did you have trouble?” he asked, leaning in to carefully kiss her warm, smooth cheek. She smelled like sunshine and horses.

  Oddly enough, two of his favorite smells. He could have stood there, sniffing her cheek all day.

  “No,” she murmured, ducking away and clearing her throat. “But they wouldn’t valet my truck. Some punk kid in a uniform made me park in the employee lot.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t make you park it in the ocean.”

  “Watch it, Jack,” she said with a smile and his chest swelled with fondness. “She’ll hear you and she doesn’t like water any more than I do.”

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Well,” she muttered, “like I said, I figure I owe you.” She stepped inside their room. Suite, actually—he made sure she had her own room off the living room. He didn’t want there to be any more awkwardness than necessary.

  “Nice place,” she said, looking around. “Better than the last dump. Being Indiana Jones must pay better than it did a year ago.”

  Christmas, a year ago, he’d asked her to come to Los Angeles, to sign some legal paperwork before he took his sabbatical. He’d paid little attention to the motel where they’d stayed, not realizing how crappy it was until she pointed it out.

  “The university is paying for this. It’s part of the…thing.”

  “The thing?” Her smile was brief but breathtaking, a lightning strike over the Sahara Desert. “You live some kind of life, Jack McKibbon, if people throwing millions of dollars at you is considered just a thing.” Her eyes were warm. Fond. He wondered for a minute if she was…proud of him?

  How novel.

  “It’s not at me, per se, it’s the university. I mean, it’s our research. Our pump. But the money is going to the university. For more research.” He was babbling, awkwardly talking about his work, which did not bode well for the night ahead. Another reason he hated these events.

  If people wanted to talk science, he could do that all day. But explaining the complex nature of water tables and the ever-changing political nature of Sudan in lay men’s terms was impossible for him.

  Oliver was better at that stuff.

  “Either way. It’s a good thing you do.” Her smile reached her eyes, crinkling the corners. “Water for the thirsty. Like you always dreamed.”

  He felt her measuring him, testing him through the years and choices that separated them. Seeing perhaps if she still knew the practical stranger that stood here, found in him the boy she’d known better than anyone else.

  He saw that girl he’d known. She was right there in that stubborn line to her chin. The nose that led her into more trouble than one half-size female should ever see.

  “I missed you. It’s been a long time, Mia,” he breathed, the words squeezed through a tight throat.

  She blinked, as if jerking herself out of a daze.

  “Where do you want me to put my stuff?” she asked, and the moment was shattered. She dropped her duffel on the floor, plumes of dust erupting into the air at the impact.

  “There works,” he muttered. Whatever was in that
bag couldn’t be in good shape. “You know, maybe I should have made it clear, but this is a formal thing…”

  Her eyes sliced through him. “You worried I’ll show up to your fancy shindig with dirt under my nails?”

  “No, well, maybe. And I don’t care.” He reached out his hands, showing her the red dirt that stained the skin around his fingernails. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. There’s going to be a lot of scrutiny—”

  “Because you’re Indiana Jones and making Cal Poly a whole bunch of money?” She said it as a joke and guilt clobbered him.

  You’re an ass, he told himself, bringing her here to be scrutinized and gossiped about.

  “No,” he said and took a deep breath. No other woman in his life owed him enough to stand beside him and face down the firestorm of academia gone wild. “I should have told you this in my email,” he said.

  “Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.” She crossed her arms over her flannelled chest and those curves she’d always worked so hard to hide were unmistakable.

  “Mia, I’m sorry—”

  “Out with it, Jack. You always were a wuss when it came to dealing the bad stuff.”

  That was a low blow and his temper flared. It was easy for her to judge him. She’d stayed. He’d left. Big freaking deal.

  “Fine, because the dean has accused me of having an affair with his wife.”

  She didn’t look at him. Not for a long time. The air conditioner kicked on, loud in the silence. He counted her breaths, the rise and fall of her chest, wondering why it mattered.

  “Have you?” she asked.

  “No, Mia. Of course not. But Beth…the dean’s wife, has been…” How did he put this? “Indiscreet.”

  “She wants to have an affair with you?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And you can’t just say no?” she asked, her eyes snapping.

  “It’s delicate,” he said.

  “You want me to tell her?” she asked. “You made me drive two hundred miles over the mountains two months before calving season, when I’m so busy I can’t see straight, to tell some woman to keep her hands off you?”