Undressed By His Legal Services: Marry Me Again

Naomi’s eyes stayed on his for another second before she looked away. ”Fine. She shot my dad, went to jail, died about two years later. End of story.”

Dorian looked down at his plate. He wasn’t seeing the steak anymore. According to Adrian’s investigation, Marianne Bennett had gone to prison when Naomi was still young.

But Marianne Bennett had not died there. She was alive. And yet Naomi wasn’t lying. He had wondered whether she was ashamed of having a mother in prison and had simply told people Marianne was dead because death was easier to explain than murder.

But there had been no calculation in Naomi’s face just now. She believed it.

Dorian took a sip of wine, buying himself a few seconds. ”Did she have a proper funeral?”

Naomi’s forehead creased. ”No. She was cremated. Her ashes were sent from the prison.” She took another bite of food. ”My aunt had me scatter them to give me closure.” She had already returned to her food, perhaps deliberately. The subject was closed as far as she was concerned.

It was anything but closed for him. Someone had lied to her. Her family, presumably.

Why?

Dorian’s brain immediately began doing what it always did when something didn’t fit. Pulling at threads.

Looking for motive.

Marianne Bennett had been convicted of killing Naomi’s father. Two years into her sentence, Naomi was told she had died. Fake ashes were sent.

Why go through that much trouble?

He could find out. One phone call to Adrian and he would probably have the beginning of an answer by Monday.

That was the problem.

Naomi had expressly told him not to investigate her. He pushed a potato around his plate. He could tell Adrian to investigate without telling him the details afterward.

That was an absurd thought. What would be the point of an investigation he wasn’t allowed to hear the results of?

He could have Adrian find out and keep the file until Naomi was ready. That sounded marginally better.

It was also still investigating her behind her back. Dorian glanced at Naomi. She had started eating properly again, blissfully unaware that her accidental husband was mentally constructing loopholes around a promise he had made to her.

Still, not knowing would kill him. The mystery was sitting there now, scratching at the part of his brain that had built his entire career around finding the detail everyone else missed.

He could find out and say nothing. He would simply know. And when she trusted him enough to tell him more herself—

Dorian’s thoughts stopped.

Trusted him?

What the fuck? Why was he waiting for Naomi to trust him? Why did the idea of her trusting him suddenly matter enough to become part of his calculations?

Trust meant letting someone close enough to matter. That sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a relationship.

A relationship meant feelings. Feelings meant expectations. Expectations meant someone eventually leaving when he failed to be whatever they had convinced themselves he could become.

He had already done that three times. He knew how the story ended. So why the hell was he sitting there thinking about earning Naomi’s trust as though he wanted the chance to write a different ending? ”So...” Dorian dragged the word out as he looked across the island at her. ”About the contract. What exactly are we changing? Are we changing your clauses?”

Naomi paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. Considering they had just broken one of those clauses quite enthusiastically against the kitchen island, pretending the subject didn’t exist would probably be ridiculous. ”I guess we should.”

”Is this going to be a thing that keeps happening?” He exhaled. ”Are we dating? Are we... just fucking?”

That got a laugh out of her.

”That sounds like a weird question to ask a wife, don’t you think?”

Dorian almost smiled, but the question had come from somewhere considerably more serious than he wanted her to know.

What he really wanted to ask was much simpler and infinitely more dangerous. Where is this supposed to go?

Was it the beginning of something? Were they going to keep sleeping together until the six months ended and then simply walk away as planned?

He wanted to know. Unfortunately, asking would require admitting that he cared about the answer, and Dorian Heathcliffe was not capable of asking his own wife what the hell they were becoming.

Coward.

”Accidental wife,” he pointed out instead.

Naomi tipped her head. ”Well, it depends. I mean, if it’s just fucking, I’m good with that.” She sounded completely casual.

Far more casual than he felt. He hated that.

”You don’t think it will complicate things any more?” he asked.

She considered it. ”Uh... if we have rules around it.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. ”Rules? Around sex? What the fuck is that?”

Naomi laughed. ”It’s called being organized.”

”You want to organize sex?”

”We organized the marriage.”

Dorian leaned back slightly, studying her. ”I’m almost afraid to ask what these rules are.”

”The separate-bedroom rule still stands. That cancels intimacy of any kind.” Naomi continued. ”We keep our own rooms, we don’t start doing all the couple things, and we don’t confuse sex with the marriage becoming real. This can be physical without becoming emotional.”

he nodded toward her. ”Anything else, counselor?”

Naomi brightened slightly, apparently enjoying this now. ”And... we could make a timetable. Once a month.”

Dorian nearly choked. ”Absolutely not.”

Her eyebrows rose. ”Excuse me?”

”Once a month is ridiculous.”

”We survived perfectly well before tonight.”

”That was before I remembered exactly what I was missing. Twice a week.”

”Only on Saturdays.”

Dorian considered pretending to negotiate harder, but he had already secured substantially better terms than the original no-sex clause. ”I’ll take it.”

”So you will get Adrian to work on it?”

Dorian immediately shook his head. ”I think I should do that one myself.”

Naomi visibly relaxed. ”Oh, thank God! I’m so glad this isn’t awkward,” she said after a moment. ”I mean, I’ve wanted to fuck you for a bit now...”