Loving Jessie

by Dallas Schulze

  “Matt!” Jessie thought she might have screamed his name, but all that came out was a whispery moan that barely penetrated the warm silence of the night. If she’d had a lifetime to try, she never could have imagined this first touch of a man’s hands on her breasts—Matt’s hands, his palms newly callused from working on his brother’s house, his long fingers lifting and supporting her yielding flesh as his thumbs brushed across the tight points of her nipples.

  “God, Jessie. You feel incredible.” His voice was husky, barely recognizable. She stared up at him, and it was like looking into the face of a stranger. Need had tightened the skin over his cheekbones, and even in the dim light, his eyes held a clear blue fire that seared. “Soft,” he murmured, his stroking fingers sending shock waves of feeling through her body. “You’re so soft.”

  He wasn’t, she thought, dazed by the swift power of her own arousal. Every inch of him was hard and firm and male. His eyes on her face, he caught her nipples between thumb and forefinger, plucking not quite gently, dragging a shattered moan from her throat. Her eyes closing, she let her head fall back. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have slid down against the wall and melted onto the floor.

  “Let me come in with you, Jessie.” His breath was warm against her throat, the wet stroke of his tongue making her shudder.

  She wanted to say yes. She wanted him to take her inside and show her where all this heat was leading. It was, perversely, the very force of her own desire that made her hesitate. A woman didn’t remain a virgin for twenty-nine years by letting her hormones rule her head. She’d kissed other men, let them touch her, though never quite so intimately, but she’d never felt tempted to go beyond a few kisses and a little light petting. And now, here she was, standing on the front porch with Matt’s hands under her shirt, the night air warm on her bare breasts, and all she could think was that she wanted more. It frightened her that a lifetime of restraint could be swept away so quickly.

  “I can’t,” she whispered shakily and felt a new tension hum through him.

  “Why not?” Matt licked a quick, hot line along her collarbone, his hands still cupping her breasts, kneading gently.

  Because I’ve never done this before. Jessie knew that was all she had to say. How hard could it be to say three simple little words? I’m a virgin. It wasn’t a guilty secret, not something she should feel embarrassed about. Their wedding night was less than a week away. He was certainly going to find out the truth then. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. It seemed too…personal, which was ridiculous, considering where his hands were at the moment. Besides, that wasn’t the real reason she was refusing him—or not the whole reason. She was scared to death of the way he made her feel, of the heat that had flared so quickly and unexpectedly between them.

  “We’re getting married next week, Jessie.” It was a statement, but Matt’s tone made it coaxing, inviting. His hands on her breasts made it almost irresistible. If he kept touching her like that, she was going to start whimpering.

  “I want to wait,” she said, even as every nerve in her body called her a liar. Her body didn’t want to wait. It wanted everything he was offering, and it wanted it now. She swallowed hard and met the blue fire of his eyes.

  Matt could all but taste the need in her, could feel it in the faint tremor that ran through her body. He could change her mind, he thought. It wouldn’t take much. But he wasn’t a hormone-raddled teenager, and Jessie wasn’t some girl he was trying to talk into crawling into the back seat with him. She’d said no, even if her body was signaling a definite yes. He could wait until both answers were the same.

  Would she be saying no if it was Reilly asking to spend the night?

  The thought was enough to have him stepping back, his hands sliding away from her body. He’d already promised himself not to go there. There was nothing to be gained by worrying about what Jessie did or didn’t feel for Reilly. Nothing but trouble. If thoughts were an antique map, that was one area that would definitely be labeled “here lie dragons.”

  Looking down at Jessie, he saw the uncertainty in her eyes and the lingering need. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to drag her to the floor and ravish her. What he allowed himself to do was brush his fingertips over her cheek.

  “I guess miniature golf brings out the beast in me,” he murmured, smiling a little.

  The light tone was what she needed. Her smile was a bit fragile around the edges, but it was enough to chase the shadows from her eyes.

  “Maybe they should post warning signs,” she offered.

  “I’ll write the surgeon general tomorrow.” He closed his fingers around the hand she lifted to his face. He’d never doubted his self-control before, but tonight he was a little too aware of the quiet darkness around them, of the fact that, despite her denials, her body was humming with the same tension that gripped him. He knew it wouldn’t take much to change her mind, to have her clinging to him, warm and very willing. The temptation of it had him taking another step back, needing that little bit of physical distance between them.

  If Jessie wanted to wait for the wedding, they would wait for the wedding. It was only a few more days. No big deal.

  It was going to be a very long week.

  Chapter Ten

  Time was accelerating, Jessie decided. It was the only possible explanation for the way the remaining few days before the wedding seemed to fly past, leaving her scrambling to get everything done. There had to be an anomaly in the warp and weft of time itself.

  When she took a moment to think about it, she hardly recognized herself in the woman who stared back at her from the mirror with crazed eyes. She’d once apprenticed to a temperamental French chef who delighted in rewriting the menu as the dinner crowd began arriving, and she’d never once lost her cool, not even when he’d told her that her bouillabaisse—made to his specifications—was fit only for slopping hogs. And what had happened to the woman who’d once helped cater a wedding for more than two hundred and managed to remain calm even when the wedding cake had been delivered an hour before the ceremony and was found to be lovingly inscribed “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Isaac”?

  That woman could certainly handle the arrangements for a small not-quite-formal wedding with one hand tied behind her back. As it was, she felt as if she needed the use of both hands in order to more effectively tear her hair out.

  It had been Matt’s suggestion that they have the wedding at the Willow Inn. There was a small, rustic chapel, with a wisteria-covered arbor. It wasn’t blooming at this time of year, but the thick network of vines provided a rustling green ceiling over the brick floor beneath. As Lurene said, it was romantic without being schmaltzy.

  The inn also had plenty of room for the reception and a staff to help with the arrangements. It would make things easier, Matt had said. And it should have. It would have. If it hadn’t been her wedding and if she hadn’t discovered that she was as bad as any other bride about wanting everything to be perfect for her wedding day.

  But everything had finally fallen into place—or been bludgeoned there—and now, here she was, minutes away from getting married, and everything was perfect except for one small problem: The bride was seriously contemplating the possibility of crawling out a window and running away.

  She might have done it, too, if it hadn’t been dark outside the window. Since they were spending the first night of their brief honeymoon in one of the bridal suites here at the inn, they’d decided to have an evening wedding, with a dinner reception following. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it did make running away a bit more difficult. It would be just her luck to run screaming into the night and fall into the artificial lake and drown—just her and the imported swans and the five million or so golf balls that had been lost in the murky green depths over the last forty-odd years.

  Sighing, Jessie turned away from the window and caught sight of herself in the big mirror that covered most of one wall of the room set aside for the bride’s use before the c
eremony. The woman who stared back at her looked oddly unfamiliar. A combination of skillfully applied makeup and nerves made her eyes look huge and dark and drowning deep. A light dusting of blush added color to her pale face, and a warm peach-colored lipstick emphasized her full mouth.

  Lurene had taken charge of her hair, pulling the honey-colored mass into a soft knot on top of her head and then carefully easing a few strands loose to curl invitingly around her face. The style managed to be both innocent and sexy, teasing and inviting.

  It had taken her two full days and a trip to San Jose to find the dress she wanted, but it had been worth the tedium of looking at endless yards of silk and lace, and dozens of pearl-encrusted bodices. She’d chosen a simple tea-length gown made out of heavy silk satin. Layers of petticoats supported the full skirt and rustled softly when she walked. The gently old-fashioned style suited her. She considered the pure white color a sort of in-joke that only she would get. No one, including her bridegroom, would ever think that she might be wearing white for the most traditional of reasons.

  Looking at herself in the big mirror, Jessie had to admit that she looked as close to beautiful as she was ever likely to come. Brides were supposed to be beautiful. It seemed to be a universal law. Were they also supposed to feel this sick churning in the pit of their stomachs, this near-terrified conviction that they were about to make the biggest mistake of their lives?

  She wished she hadn’t sent Lurene out to find her seat before the ceremony began. Right now she could use a dose of the other woman’s acerbic common sense. Lurene knew the full story behind this marriage and thought it made sense, Jessie reminded herself, clutching at that thin bit of reassurance. Then again, with two divorces behind her, maybe Lurene wasn’t the ultimate authority on marriage.

  Jessie’s gaze fell on the bouquet of roses and baby’s breath that lay on the table. The roses had come from her grandfather’s garden, lovely apricot-colored blooms that seemed lit from within. Looking at them now, she blinked against the sudden sting of tears. She would have given almost anything to be able to talk to him right now. Would he tell her she was out of her mind, or would he give her his blessing and then walk her down the aisle?

  Someone tapped on the door, and Jessie jolted as if it had been gunfire. Her skirts swirled around her as she spun to face the door, eyes wide and startled. She had to swallow before she could speak, and her voice came out high and tight.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Penelope—call me Penny, dear—Adamson stepped into the room. Penny was middle-aged and comfortably plump, with steel-gray hair and twinkling blue eyes. She looked like a Norman Rockwell painting of Mrs. Claus, or like someone who should be toddling down Main Street in Mayberry, exchanging recipes with Aunt Bea and scolding Barney for some foolishness. But beneath that mild-mannered exterior lay a mind like a steel trap. She was the wedding coordinator for the Willow Inn, and Jessie was fairly sure that, if she still retained any sanity, it was thanks to Penny’s organizational skills and ruthless good cheer.

  “Everything’s ready for you, my dear. Oh, don’t you look lovely.” Penny moved forward, her step surprisingly light and quick for a woman her size. Her round face beamed in a smile. She reached out to tweak a soft fall of lace into place on the bodice. Her hand made a twirling gesture, and Jessie found herself turning obediently.

  “Perfect,” Penny said happily as Jessie faced her again. “You look just perfect. Prettiest bride I’ve ever seen, I swear.”

  Jessie was willing to bet that she’d sworn the same thing to every bride she’d ever assisted, but the words were nonetheless welcome. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Wait until you see your sweetie,” Penny said. “That man gives new meaning to the phrase tall, dark and handsome. And those eyes! My goodness, but they’re enough to make even my old heart go pitter-patter. Watch your skirt against the door, my dear.”

  Jessie found herself outside with no real memory of how she got there, a testament to Penny’s years of practice at shepherding terrified brides. The air was soft and warm. The brick pathway on which she stood was dusted with rose petals. At the end of it, she could see the twinkling lights that nestled among the leaves on the arbor and the soft glow beneath. Without her grandfather, the traditional walk down the aisle had seemed a lonely proposition, so she’d decided to simply wait for Matt at the altar.

  Great. Fine. Except maybe she didn’t want to do this at all. Music flowed down the pathway toward her.

  “There’s your cue, my dear.” Penny gave her a gentle nudge, and Jessie found herself walking toward the arbor, her fingers knotted around the stem of her bouquet, her knees weak and her breath coming just a little too fast.

  There was still time to call it off, she reminded herself. No one was going to make her say “I do.” She could just walk out there and tell Matt she’d changed her mind. He would understand. Okay, so maybe no one would understand being jilted in front of thirty people, but he would get over it.

  The music washed over her. Matt had arranged for the string quartet, and the light, airy sound of violins seemed to float on the evening air. He’d said it was something by Beethoven. Or was it Brahms? No, she was almost positive it was Beethoven, but, really, how could you tell them apart when the songs didn’t have any words and had names like opus five or symphony number nine? Or they were in French, which was fine if you lived in Paris but not much help if you lived on this side of the pond.

  Oh God, she was almost there. Smiling faces turned in her direction. It seemed like a cast of thousands rather than the thirty they’d invited. Jessie’s eyes skipped over them, her heart thumping against her breastbone. Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell Matt that she’d changed her mind. Maybe she would just die of fright right here and now. It would certainly cut down on the explanations. She caught a glimpse of Reilly. He wasn’t smiling like everyone else. He looked concerned. Smart man. She wondered if he recognized her panic, or if he had doubts about the wedding itself. If that was the case, he could just get in line, she thought with a touch of hysteria.

  There was a subtle shift in the guests’ attention, and she saw that Matt had entered the arbor across from her and was walking toward the low altar where the minister waited. He was wearing a classic tuxedo, with a white shirt and cummerbund. His neatly combed hair brushed the collar in back, only a few shades lighter than the black fabric. And his eyes… Penny was wrong. They didn’t make her heart go pitter-patter; they made her knees weak and her skin feel too warm.

  Looking at him, Jessie felt a sharp tug low in her stomach. Hers, she thought. In a few minutes, every gorgeous inch of him could be hers. Blue eyes, broad shoulders and long, lean body, hers to have and to hold. Throw in brains, a wicked sense of humor and a smile that could melt a Hershey bar at twenty paces and it was hard to remember why she’d been thinking about calling the whole thing off.

  The plan had been for them to meet at the altar. Jessie didn’t realize her feet had stopped moving until she saw Matt walk past the waiting minister. She stood there, frozen, watching him approach, her hands damp, her eyes locked on his face.

  He stopped in front of her, so close that her skirt brushed against his legs. He was smiling, his eyes warm and almost amused as he took her hand. Jessie’s fingers clung to his, just as her gaze clung to his face. He leaned toward her, his voice low and for her ears alone.

  “The Jeep’s parked outside, ready for a quick getaway. Say the word and we’ll blow this joint. We can be in Fresno before they can catch us.”

  Jessie wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been an offer to run away. It was so absurd, so reassuringly normal. She giggled.

  “Are those my only two choices?” she whispered. “Get married or go to Fresno?” When he nodded, she sighed. “Marriage it is, then.”

  His quick grin chased away the last of her uncertainty. Looking up at him, all her doubts suddenly seemed distant and unimportant. How could she have been afraid of t
his? Of him?

  Smiling, her hand wrapped in the warmth of his, she walked with him to where the minister waited.

  The honeymoon suites at the Willow Inn were a careful blend of the naughty and the nice. Jessie curled her bare toes into the thick blue carpet and mentally sorted the room. In the “nice” column she put the comfortable overstuffed sofa and chairs upholstered in a rich floral print that picked up the colors in the drapes and carpet. There was a working fireplace, though it was too warm for a fire tonight, and a sort of entertainment nook, with a television and VCR tucked discreetly into a wall unit. It was all very warm and inviting, almost homelike.

  As long as she didn’t look at the bed. The bed definitely went onto the naughty side of the ledger. Tucked discreetly into a wide alcove, it still managed to dominate the room. It was approximately the size of a football field and covered by a black velvet spread, thick and heavy, so that it was like touching the fur of a sleek cat. She knew, because she’d surreptitiously petted it earlier. Pillows in deep shades of cranberry and blue were piled against the headboard. The final touch of decadence was the mirrored ceiling. Its mere presence made her heart flutter in her throat. The whole effect was like something out of the Arabian Nights, or maybe a porn film with better-than-average production values. It was lush and sensual and just a little dangerous.

  Just looking at it made Jessie feel too warm. She could keep her back to the bed, but that meant looking at Matt, which offered little by way of reassurance. He stood next to the coffee table, his back to her as he lifted the bottle of champagne that had been left chilling in a silver bucket, courtesy of the management. He was wearing pajama bottoms in a simple gray and blue stripe. The soft cotton rode distractingly low on his hips, and Jessie’s eyes skimmed helplessly over the solid muscles of his back, the narrow line of his hips.