The Unwilling Bride

by Jennifer Greene

  “Paige? It’s me. I know you’re there—I also know damn well you won’t pick up if you’re working—but just try not to erase the message this time, would you? I’m shooting you a big fat check in the mail, more than even I’d hoped for. You’re temporarily rich, you crazy hermit. But I need to talk to you about orders ahead, and how soon you’re going to be finished with what pieces. Just give me a ring in the next couple days. And write that down, Paige, so you don’t forget.”

  Harry Sims. She could never mistake his voice. Harry was the only man in her life, and he was a godsend. She’d never wanted anything to do with the hoity toity art world. As far as she was concerned, cameo carving was no different from being a plumber. It was what she did. Her chosen work. And she just wanted to be left alone to do it in peace.

  But Harry made that possible. She mailed him her work; he sold it. He did all the marketing and business, the art shows and art world nonsense. He’d found her ten years ago, tracked her down when he saw one of her cameos at a jeweler’s in Boston. They’d been instantly compatible. The art world was his love, where she hated it, and Harry was gay—not that anyone would know that to look at or talk with him. But he respected her choice of solitude and anonymity, respected other people who were different, never made judgments or asked questions that were none of his business. Too many people had done that to him.

  Her affection for Harry was real, but the message on the answering machine was forgotten as fast as she heard it. Just then, she had an entirely different man on her mind.

  She pulled the sweatshirt over her head while she was still climbing the stairs, yanked off the rubber band holding her braid while she was stomping through the hall. In two minutes flat, she planned to be in a hot shower and washing that man right out of her hair like the song went.

  There were reasons Stefan was seeping under her skin. It wasn’t his Russian Cream. The damn man had an irresistible sneaky sense of humor; he’d made her laugh and he’d made her think, and he’d about torn out her heart when he talked about his conflict of loyalties. A man that hopelessly idealistic needed protecting. She’d been a rebel herself—but not like him. He sounded so alone. He sounded as if he’d always been stuck bucking the tide, to live how he believed. Men that good were rare and special, and yeah, Paige understood perfectly well why she was drawn to him.

  It was the other part she didn’t understand.

  Her whole body felt shaky. Weird. Achy. Selfaware. She wasn’t used to feeling desire, wasn’t used to this pipe-bomb blast of stupid, rich, butter-soft… yearning. She had almost made love with him on the cracked leather couch in the den, and a no had never even crossed her mind. She wasn’t used to a man turning her inside out. Physically or emotionally.

  And it couldn’t be allowed to happen again.

  She flipped on the bedroom overhead light. No surprise, her gaze zoomed straight to the jade cameo on her dresser. And no surprise, her instinctive response to the woman in jade was an uneasy, unsettled edginess. The cameo was a beautiful piece of art, which was hunky-dory. But there was something about that woman that personified free, abandoned sensuality—and grated on Paige’s nerves like a child’s piercing cry.

  There was nothing admirable about wanton behavior, nothing to respect in a woman who let her hormones run free. Paige wasn’t “abandoned.” She wasn’t irresponsible. She had spent ten years building up inhibitions, and she wanted every one of them. Maybe once she’d been a selfish, careless teenager, but that was a bridge long down. She wanted to be exactly who she was now: a disciplined woman who knew damn well how to control inappropriate behavior. Or she had. Until this afternoon with Stefan.

  Impatiently she tossed her sweatshirt over the jade cameo—covering it completely. And then flicked off the light and headed straight for the shower. She flipped the faucets on full blast, finished stripping down and stepped in. The hot water sluiced down her skin, soaking, steaming. She willed it to make these shaky, edgy feelings disappear.

  Sometime, she wanted a family and children. That dream had never been off her table. She’d never planned a celibate life-style. There were times, whole long lonely nights, when she craved someone to love. And to be loved by.

  It wasn’t a man she was afraid of. But he had to be the right man. A professor or a teacher, maybe. Someone quiet, someone distracted and absorbed by work the way she was, someone she could talk with, someone she felt safe with when the lights went off at night.

  A boisterous, effusive, gregarious and exuberantly sexual man…like Stefan. Holy kamoly. Whatever that irrepressible Russian did to turn her inside out…this was all very simple. And her mind covered the entire discussion and analysis in a single word. No.

  “Stefan, what on earth are you doing?”

  Stefan looked up. It would seem pretty obvious what he was doing. Paige’s house had an old-fashioned coal shute leading into the basement. The shute was no longer used for coal, but the opening was handy for throwing wood inside, and once he had her basement full of firewood, he’d started stacking it. Hot work. So hot that he’d naturally stripped off his flannel shirt or he would have been outright broiling.

  All this, he thought, she was way bright enough to figure out without asking. On the other hand, she did look magnificent with her hands on her hips and her eyes blazing—a true Valkyrie. The warrior-woman effect was a teensy bit sabotaged by her floppy socks and pale pink sweatshirt, but Stefan sensed he’d better not risk a grin. “Well, lambchop, I needed to do something for you. I felt bad that I upset you yesterday.”

  “You did not upset me.”

  He let that little fib pass on by. “Well, I felt to blame. I felt buckets of guilt. I felt…a good friend would not upset another friend. I did not want you to think I was a turkey.” He noticed her hands slip from that aggressive posture on her hips. The word “turkey’ “seemed to do it.

  “For heaven’s sakes, Stefan. I never thought you were a turkey.”

  “Well, in meantime, I see how fast your wood stove and fireplace are eating wood. Need more before winter is over. I cut wood for my house, easy enough to cut some for you, too. I have physical energy to burn, as I explained before, so you are doing me big favor by providing this chore.” He paused. “I also think that hauling wood is not good for you. You could hurt your hands on work like this. You need your hands to make cameos.”

  “My hands are always a mess, Stefan. It wouldn’t make any difference if I got another cut or a scrape.”

  His eyebrows arched in a disbelieving frown. “Either you have problem with vision or you have bolt loose in head. I have seen your hands many times. They are not a mess. They are strong, beautiful, exquisite hands.”

  “I…” Heaven knew what she started to say, but she abruptly swallowed it, and weakly fell back on correcting his language. “When you’re trying to tell someone they’re crazy, the term is screw loose, not bolt loose.”

  “Boy, good thing you explained that, toots, because I really had that confused. I could have sworn you told me the word ‘screw’ was not politically correct. I will remember next time that this is an exception when it’s okay to screw. Good thing I have you to help me with my struggling language, huh?”

  She sank onto the basement steps as if she were suddenly exhausted, and rubbed two fingers on her temples. He couldn’t hold back a grin then. She seemed confounded by the direction the conversation had turned. And though he was increasingly challenged to keep up the bumbling-Russian-with-the-language routine, it was sure hard giving up something that worked so well.

  Her eyes, he noticed, darted all over the basement from the dark cobwebbed corners to the woodpile to the pipes in the ceiling. Everywhere, but on his bare chest. He considered pulling on his flannel shirt, and then thought, no.

  “Stefan,” she said, “I don’t think I’m up for explaining, but just forget the word ‘screw’ completely, okay? When you want to tell someone they’re crazy, just tell them they’re crazy.”

  “Okeydoke.”
>
  “In fact, it might be best not to tell anyone they’re crazy. Even if they’re plumb wacko. It’s just sort of…rude.”

  “Okeydoke.”

  “And about your hauling and stacking all this wood for me—”

  Stefan gently interrupted. “Actually we were talking about your wonderful help with my learning the language. I could not be more grateful. And I was wondering if you might try an outing with me. You know. In the real world.”

  “An outing?”

  “Da. I was thinking about dinner. Taking you out.”

  “Stefan, I don’t think-”

  “The thing is, it is not obvious to me, the language mistakes I am making in public. If you were with me, you would see what I am doing and saying incorrectly. This is a huge imposition, I know. Maybe you would be embarrassed to be seen with a Russian immigrant who does not have cool language skills—”

  Her head shot up. “It’d be a cold day in hell before I was embarrassed to be with a friend, Stefan.”

  It was so easy, he mused, to arouse her fiercely passionate nature—and her instinctive sense of loyalty toward those she cared for. How amazing, that she had yet to see how alike they were. The devil made him press just a little harder. “I would feel badly if I upset you again. It is okay. I would understand if you felt embarrassed about being with me—”

  “That’s absolutely ridiculous.” She lurched to her feet. “I’d be proud to be with you, anytime, anywhere. We’re going to dinner and that’s that.”

  “Well…if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Okeydoke,” he said genially. “Seven o’clock tonight then. I pick you up here. That sound like a peachy keen plan?”

  “I…yes. I think. I…” She shook her head suddenly, as if trying to clear a fog from her mind. She did not seem very clear about who had just talked who into going to dinner. “I’m going back to work, Stefan.”

  “Good idea.” He slapped the wood dust from his hands as he watched her swivel around and climb the stairs out of sight. The little swish in her fanny easily raised his body temperature ten degrees.

  It was the look in her eyes, though, that aroused the temperature in his heart.

  He had given up a great deal in his life. Work, friends, family, country—all to appease his sense of honor and what was right by his conscience. It didn’t matter if those choices were easy or hard. When the lights were off, a man had to live with himself.

  Still, he had never loved before—not a love from the gut. Not a love that defined loyalty and commitment to another person, beyond all other factors, beyond rhyme or reason. He was not there yet with Paige. But he intuited that he was on that cliff ledge, facing a risk he had never fathomed before. For so long, he had blindly believed there was nothing he couldn’t sacrifice if he had to.

  Not her. Even now, even this soon, he had the frightening, uneasy feeling that he would lose part of himself if he lost her. How to win her, though, how to discover her true feelings, struck him as the toughest battle he’d ever faced. And no outcome was assured.

  Paige thumbed through the hangers in her closet. Jeans, jeans, shirt, jeans, overalls, shirt, shirt, dress…

  Her fingers hesitated on the hanger, and then she yanked out the dress. It hadn’t seen the light of day in a couple of years. Abby had given it to her. Abby had superb taste in clothes—which she told both sisters enough times to make their eyes cross.

  As mercilessly as they teased Abby about being a clotheshorse, though, she invariably picked out stuff for her and Gwen that suited them. Doubtful Abby would be caught dead herself in a simple burgundy sweater dress that had no particular claim to an instyle or savoir faire. But it was comfortable. It fit like a worn-in old friend. It had long sleeves, turtleneck and was midcalf length. It covered everything.

  Stefan had mentioned Palmer’s, and the restaurant just wasn’t a jeans place. A dress was simply more appropriate, and there wasn’t a single reason not to wear it…other than a generic panic at the implications of going out on a date—and specifically a date with Stefan.

  After fumbling for five minutes in her drawers, she finally found a slip and stockings. She pulled those on, then the dress, then chased into the bathroom before she lost her nerve. There was makeup in the bathroom. Abby had given her all those bottles and tubes, too—after lengthily ranting on about Paige being incapable of picking the right colors and makeup on her own.

  She could have. She just hadn’t. For a few more minutes, she scrabbled around with pots and tubes and mascara wands, then checked the mirror. She still had to braid her hair—it wasn’t as if this was a finished product yet—but the reflection in the mirror still appalled her. The face paint looked great, but the damn fool woman in the mirror had helplessly, infuriatingly scared eyes. Paige wasn’t afraid of a tornado, for Pete’s sake, and she never ran from a problem. Never had, never would.

  But damn. Wherever this disgusting coward streak was coming from, she needed some moral support from the Mounties.

  As fast as she could pelt downstairs—carrying heels—she grabbed the phone and punched in her sister’s number at work. As soon as she heard Abby’s voice, she snapped, “Darn it, what am I supposed to wear for jewelry with this dress?”

  Abby, thankfully, was notoriously efficient. She never had a problem picking up a conversation midstream. She answered as smoothly as if she’d been waiting for this precise question for months. “Gram’s garnets, of course. The color’s perfect. They’re right in your left top drawer in a white box. Who is he?”

  “A new neighbor. And don’t ask. I’m not sure of this.”

  “I won’t ask. But you either call me tomorrow or I’ll shoot you. And Paige?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t wear those stupid tan leather shoes. You’ve got some black ones up in the closet that’d look great. And there’s Shalimar in the bathroom. Spray a little on.”

  “I was never going to wear the tan shoes.” Paige instinctively tucked her hand behind her back—the one that was holding the tan shoes. “And this isn’t a Shalimar type dinner. It’s just a plain old ordinary dinner.”

  “Ah. Well, wear the Shalimar anyway. It’ll make you feel good. You’ll relax more if you feel good. And listen, you dimwit. Everything the militant feminists told us about guys is wrong. They’re not the enemy. That whole half of the human species is definitely a little weird, a little alien, but the world’d be utterly tedious and boring without them. Take it easy. Don’t get fretful. It’s just a guy. Just a dinner.”

  “What is all this advice? I’ve never been fretful in my entire life…” She heard the sound of knuckles rapping on her front door. “Oh, God. He’s here.”

  Her sister barely sneaked in a “Good luck” before Paige whisked the phone back onto the receiver and hustled to answer the door. It wasn’t seven yet. It wasn’t even a quarter till. She was still supposed to have plenty of time to do the earrings and hair and shoe stuff.

  Yet she forgot all that the instant she saw him. There were reasons why she was worried about this dinner, but she forgot those, too. Stefan had trimmed his beard, had cut his hair. The topcoat was new, and so, she suspected, was the navy sport coat and slacks. The tie was navy and had a pattern of American flags on it, and was hanging askew, tied tight enough to strangle him. His black eyes skimmed over her face and figure faster than a cat could lick cream, but before she could say anything—before he even stepped in—he cleared his throat and confessed, “Paige, I am hugely nervous.”

  Her heart instinctively melted. All those schoolgirl nerves dissipated faster than smoke. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. And he was a friend who needed her. “For heaven’s sake, Stefan. You know me. No one’s going on this dinner but us. What on earth is there to be nervous about?” As soon as he stepped in, she closed the door and aimed straight for his tie. It wasn’t a matter of choosing to be physically close to him. He was going to choke on that tie if someone didn’t fix it.

  He lifted his chin
so she could work. “I am not doing so well with my culture gap. I seem to have formed habit of saying wrong things in public situations. I look okay?” He immediately qualified that question. “I not want to look Russian. I want to look American. Fit in with the guys.”

  If he wanted to look like other men, he was always going to fail, she mused. But that wasn’t because of his background. It was because of his incredible sexy black eyes and the devil’s smile and a towering height that was always going to be damn hard to hide in a crowd. She stepped back to look him over. The tie was better. No matter how hard he’d brushed that hair, it was already starting to look disheveled, but the trimmed beard at least made him look a bit more tamed. A bit. “You look very American,” she assured him. “And the tie is adorable. You spiff up extremely well, Michaelovich.”

  “Spiff up?”

  “It means that when you dress up, you really look different—you shape up great, look really handsome.”

  “Ah. Well, you also spiff up, my lambchop. In fact, you steal my heart, you are so damn beautiful.”

  She certainly didn’t believe that, but for an instant she couldn’t seem to swallow. Positively the sweater dress wasn’t tight or suggestive, but it definitely draped her figure differently than the kind of pouchy, poochy pair of sweats he usually saw her in. He noticed. She’d meant to put her hair up, not leave it loose and messy. He noticed the flowing sweep of her hair, too, and clearly approved. Legs, figure, hair, even the soft shine of her lip gloss…Stefan noticed. And the look in his eyes kindled every feminine nerve in her whole body.

  Her tongue eventually moved. In fact, it started rattling as she spun around and aimed for her winter coat in the hall closet. “Really, there’s nothing to be worried about. We’re just going to have an easy dinner. Nothing’s going to go wrong. I’ll help you out, if you get in trouble with the language…”