by Raina Lynn
Normally, he at least smiled at her jokes, no matter how dark the humor. This time, his eyebrows lowered in speculation. Had he begun to see through her defensive armor? She hoped not. Then she remembered Vicki’s observation about her verbal barbs, and she tried to feel a little more hopeful. She and Mason were two reasonably intelligent human beings. If both of them worked hard enough, maybe they had a chance.
Whatever Mason had been thinking, he shifted gears, smiled warmly and reached to her. She glanced at his outstretched hand. As was to be expected, every eye in the place was on them. Jill stiffened her spine and laid her palm across his. He drew her to him and chastely kissed her on the lips. Their guests sighed in contentment at the romantic gesture.
Jill’s feet seemed to have more common sense than the rest of her and kept wanting to carry her out to the car. She would see this through, though, no matter how painful it became.
The minister took his prearranged place by the cheery fire, and Mason and Jill stepped before him. With the exception of holding her hand, Mason stood at rigid military attention. She wondered if he’d faint if someone yelled “boo.” She was half tempted to try—anything to ease the impossible tension.
Before long, they’d recited their vows, Mason’s baritone as clear and stiff as his backbone. Hazarding a guess, Jill figured she sounded pitiful. When he slipped the ring onto her finger, she morosely thought it ought to feel heavy—like a link in an iron chain—but it didn’t. Then Vicki handed her Mason’s ring. The prisoner image returned to mind. She felt as though she were chaining the man she loved to a dungeon wall.
“You’re thinking too much,” he whispered, a warning glint in his eyes.
The minister looked confused, but Jill blushed in understanding. “Semper Fi, Bradshaw.” As she slid the ring into place, a yearning blossomed deep inside that the symbol would someday have substance.
The ceremony came to a close, and Mason tilted her chin up for the traditional kiss. His lips brushed across hers, light and undemanding, holding a hint of experimentation and far too much of what she interpreted to be male relief over a task completed. Jill ached from wanting the kiss to be a real one, offered in passion, but she settled for quietly savoring the taste of him on her lips.
Politely, they accepted the minister’s congratulations and their guests’ applause while the photographer did his thing. Frankly, she’d have preferred to do without a photographic record. As condemned as she felt, she assumed she looked the part.
With all the life of automatons, they went through the ritual cake-cutting and champagne toasts—except her glass was filled with sparkling apple cider.
“You two are doing fine,” Vicki murmured over their shoulders as guests broke up into various knots of conversation.
“The incarcerated usually do.” The comment slipped out before she could stop it.
Mason bristled. “Excuse us a minute, Vicki.” Then he took Jill by the upper arm and steered her into the kitchen. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he whispered furiously. “Has everything become a sick joke?”
“Actually, it has.” It could have been another flippant remark, but this one she meant.
He seemed to sense the subtle difference, and the anger leached away, easing the implacable set to his shoulders. “You’re making me feel like an ax murderer.”
She almost told him that it beat feeling like the Bride of Frankenstein, but she kept that one to herself. “Sorry. I’ll try to do better.” Self-indulgently, she studied his beloved face. This wonderful, honorable man belonged to her, though his heart did not. But maybe now they were married, he wouldn’t be feeling so much pressure, and they could see where they stood. Maybe.... Dream on, Jill, she chided herself.
“Shall we go out there, face the crowd and smile until our face muscles cramp?” she asked.
He frowned at her.
Oops. “Sorry.”
He cradled her face in his hands. “We’re going to make it, Jill.”
He sounded so positive. Maybe hope wasn’t so farfetched after all. “If you’re sure.” She swallowed. “What do we do now?”
Sighing, he gestured toward the door. “Smile until our face muscles cramp.”
She laughed, and he led her to the family room where Vicki had set up the buffet.
“What’s your favorite food?” he asked.
“Chili dogs. Why?” She sat down and checked her watch. Only eight-thirty. Hours to go yet, but she’d made it through the hardest part.
Mason glowered at her. “I don’t think those are on the caterer’s menu. Even if they were, I’m not bringing my bride a plate full of junk food.”
Jill managed to bite back the snappy retort that came to mind, but another one tumbled out anyway. “Whatever. I’m yours to feed. Then again, isn’t that the whole point of—”
“Knock it off,” he mouthed so no one could hear. “You gave your word.”
She looked up at him, only now realizing he still held her hand. “Sorry. Momentary lapse. I guess the scared spit-less aren’t very trustworthy.”
He muttered something reassuring under his breath and filled her plate with a little of everything.
Later at his apartment, the exhausted slump to Mason’s shoulders didn’t escape Jill’s notice as he unlocked and shoved open the door. He lived in a better part of town than she did, but the rental complex still wasn’t anything to brag about. So much for the image of the wealthy publisher.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to step inside. Somehow, coming “home” felt more final than the ceremony. Sort of like the difference between a criminal being sentenced in court and actually being locked into the cell.
“Not so fast.” Mason caught hold of her arm and gently turned her around.
Jill had only thought being his unwanted, unloved wife would kill her. Experiencing his gentle touch and knowing he only acted out the expected motions really would. She raised her eyes to his. Big mistake. In the sharply defined lines of his lean face, she saw the strained tenderness of a man every bit as miserable as she was.
“Isn’t it a little late for second thoughts?” she asked in tired resignation.
Clearly irritated, he lowered his dark eyebrows. “I’m a dinosaur, remember? We don’t have second thoughts. Not about things like this.” Before she had the chance to respond, he swept her into his arms.
“Bradshaw, are you out of your mind?” she shrieked, latching onto his neck.
“I’m carrying my bride over the threshold.” His entire face smiled except his eyes, but he was giving his best. The least she could do was meet him halfway.
Through the heartache, she doubled her efforts to smile back. “What’s the plan now, oh tyrannosaur mine?”
His grim determination took on a softer cast. It made her glad she’d attempted the regular humor. If left to her, Mason’s every smile would be real. Her hold on his neck loosened to something less than a panicked death grip, and she savored the warmth of his skin in the cool, April air. Desire shivered through her body. Not very bright, she chastised herself silently.
“What’s my plan?” Mason repeated. Brushing a kiss on her lips, he strode inside. “We work our way through this one day at a time.”
Afraid to trust her voice, Jill nodded in simple agreement and concentrated on the next step—whatever that might be. They had slept together exactly once. That night, passion had overcome them so quickly she didn’t remember taking her clothes off. But the raging need of eight months ago was a far cry from cold-bloodedly setting up housekeeping with a man who felt only obligation toward her. The traditional wedding night held all the appeal of delivering her baby on the freeway during a snowstorm.
She squirmed in a subtle request to be set down. When he complied, she marched down the short hallway. “What’s in your spare bedroom?”
“Why?”
Emotions rose too close to the surface for her to dare answer. The first door on the left was the extra bedroom— and future nursery. Inside, she f
ound a couch that looked suspiciously like a sleeper. “Does that thing unfold?”
“Again I ask, why?” came the wary masculine voice from behind her. “What are you up to?”
She whirled around. “I think I’ll crash here until we get the terms of our marriage straightened out. Tomorrow we’ll start cleaning out my apartment. Wilson’s brother has a pickup truck we can borrow.”
His hazel eyes darkened. “This is going to be a real marriage, Jill.”
“Fine. I just don’t think it’s necessary to add sex to our problems.”
Slowly, pointedly, he crossed his arms and glowered at her stomach.
Jill blushed to her toes. “You know what I mean, Bradshaw.”
“No, I don’t, Mrs. Bradshaw,” he growled, his throat working to swallow his anger. “Care to explain?”
“Not particularly.” By her estimation, Mason had aged ten years during the past six hours. It half destroyed her to know she was the cause. Granted, she hadn’t gotten pregnant by herself, but that didn’t change the basic situation.
“Separate beds doesn’t get us off to a good start.”
“I’m eight months’ pregnant. Sex isn’t a good idea.”
“All I’m asking from you is to share a mattress. Since you mentioned it, though, I’ve read up on pregnancy.”
“You would.”
He ignored the jibe. “Sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So stop the excuses and tell me the real reason.”
The anger that had flared moments ago once again blasted its way to the surface. She planted her hands on her hips. “Okay, how’s this? I’ve had all the loveless sex I intend to. Is that real enough for you?”
“I told you. I’m not your ex-husband.” Each syllable was enunciated with brittle precision. He opened his mouth to say more, but she cut him off.
“You’re worse. You’ve got enough integrity to fill Carnegie Hall. You’ll fake caring until you’ve conned yourself into believing it’s real.”
Deepening displeasure glittered in his eyes, triggering warning alarms in her head.
“Jill,” he ground out slowly, “we’re exhausted, stressed, and we’ve both had one helluva day. I won’t force you to share my bed, but if you don’t, you’re jeopardizing our chances of making this marriage work.”
“Hormones got the better of us once. I assume that once I’m not pregnant anymore, it’ll happen again,” she said. “How do you expect me to make love with you when all I’ll be is an available body?”
Pride warred with fury for control of his face. Pride won; resolve followed quickly. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Jill.”
All the starch drained from her. “We’ll talk about sleeping arrangements and/or sex when I know it’s me you want.”
The wall between them thickened. They couldn’t have made it more impenetrable with actual mortar and brick. With crisp efficiency, Mason tossed the couch cushions into a neat stack in the corner and flipped open the bed.
“If you’ll excuse me, Jill, your room is down the hall. I’d like to put the sheets on this thing.”
“Wait a minute, Bradshaw. You’re not giving me your room!”
The muscles worked in his jaw as he wordlessly brushed past her to grab sheets and blankets from the linen closet.
“I won’t take your bed.”
“So you said,” he snarled tightly. “But I won’t be there. Remember? All I’m doing is giving you the better mattress.”
She wanted to strangle him. “Would you stop being so damnably gallant?”
The look he gave her seemed to question her sanity. Then he took a long-controlled breath. “Jill, it’s almost one o’clock. If you want to fight, let me get some sleep first. I’ll make a better opponent in the morning.” With a flick of his wrist, the sheet billowed out across the thin, lumpy bed.
Hysteria flooded her, and she fled to the master bedroom before erupting into tears again. The emotional storm worsened when she stood beside the masculine, dark-walnut bed with its familiar mahogany-colored comforter. Eight months ago, their child had been conceived here. Her hands involuntarily came to rest over her grossly distended abdomen. Disturbed, the baby kicked beneath her fingers, and Jill closed her eyes. It wasn’t fair that one night in the arms of the man she loved had turned both their lives into such a nightmare.
Taking a deep breath, she dropped her purse onto one of the matching bedside tables and draped her coat across a wingback chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Mason set her duffel bag just inside the doorway. Her heart constricted, and she waited for him to break the silence, hoping he would—but he didn’t. They shared a long, indecipherable look.
“Good night, Jill.” He turned off the hall light and closed himself in the spare bedroom.
She found herself in total darkness except for a faint strip of light glowing from beneath his door. With a heavy heart, she changed into a nightgown and slipped between the cold sheets. For nearly a year, she’d fantasized about being married to Mason, sharing his bed, his life. Spending their wedding night alone hadn’t been part of the picture. The choice had been hers. Only time would judge whether she’d made a mistake.
From the other room she heard a crash followed by a muffled and irritated “ow.”
“Good night to you, too, my love,” she whispered. “Maybe we’ll do better tomorrow.” She rolled onto her side, hugged his spare pillow to her chest and tried to sleep.
Jill slept in fits and starts. Mostly, she lay thinking about how bad it could have gotten if they tossed and turned beside each other all night, both miserably aware of each other’s proximity. As dawn finally showed up, she decided waking up in Mason’s apartment alone in his bed was only marginally better than sharing it with him all night would have been.
She listened for any sound in the apartment to tell her if Mason had gotten up for the day, too. After several minutes of silence, the only thing she heard was the furnace kicking on. Could he be in his room listening for her? Yeah, right. “The romantic stupidities never give up, do they?”
She really needed to make a trip to the bathroom, but wasn’t anxious to run into him until she had herself together for the day. Her comfy, knee-length, sleep shirt wasn’t even remotely attractive. Given the circumstances, the faded rabbit on the front with the slogan You’re No Bunny Till Somebunny Loves You made her self-conscious. Maybe she’d change first.
Her body’s demands became more strident. “I guess that eliminates that option.” With a moan of resignation, she folded back the rumpled blankets and put her feet on the floor. “If I’m lucky, seeing each other for the first time will be like having a tooth pulled. Over in a minute.” She looked down at the rabbit. “No, it’ll probably be more like a root canal. Long, drawn out and hideous.”
Padding down the hall, she saw that his bedroom door was still closed. She nearly cheered. When she finished in the bathroom, she had almost made it back when she heard his door open behind her.
“Good morning, Jill.”
Her heart leapt at Mason’s pleasantly raspy morning voice. “How did you sleep?”
She plastered a confident smile on her lips and turned to face him. He’d smoothed down his hair with his fingers if the furrows through it were any indication. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who slept on a sofa bed.”
He shrugged, yawned, then caught sight of the rabbit. His pupils contracted, and he winced. Dark beard stubble made the effect more pronounced. She pretended not to notice.
“So, how’d you sleep?” she asked.
“Fine.” The too insistent overtone failed to mask the lie. “Quite comfortable.”
Seeing no point in pursuing it, she said, “We need to congratulate ourselves, Bradshaw. We survived our first night as husband and wife. Now what?”
His shoulders rose then fell on a sharp sigh. “Have breakfast. Then we’ll see if Wilson’s brother will part with his pickup truck for the day and start moving your things.”
Relief flo
oded her. They had a plan. No casting around all day for something to say to each other. On the other hand, a day of quiet conversation might have been nice. The potential pitfalls made her shudder, though. “Moving is good.”
“Are you cold?”
“Nope. Hauling all my worldly possessions from one home to another isn’t my favorite contact sport.” She headed into her room. “The bathroom is yours. How do you like your eggs?”
“I’ll do them,” he said.
“No, you won’t,” she called back. “The least I can do is fix your breakfast.”
“I have an omelet every morning, Jill. Slicing, chopping and dicing helps clear my head for the day.”
She didn’t miss the defensive edge to the explanation. Mentally, she backed off. Apparently, the kitchen was his exclusive domain at that hour, and the better part of valor dictated that she leave it alone. “Ahhh, the old philosophy that if you’re awake, you won’t slice your fingers off?”
“Something like that.”
Later, when they met in the living room, he wore sweats and sneakers. She’d forgotten that he ran every morning. They watched each other for long moments, both struggling for a conversation opener. The tension became almost palpable. No normal newlywed couple should have trouble coming up with small talk the day after their wedding.
Jill couldn’t stand it anymore. “Give me a minute to change, Bradshaw,” she deadpanned. “I’ll go with you.”
“What!” His jaw sagged in horror. “You’re not having the baby at the corner of Fourth and Maple!”
She winked at him and watched the stiffness ease from his body.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I know when I’ve been had.” After a bare hesitation, he leaned over, kissed her cheek and headed out the door. “I’m only running two miles today instead of five like I usually do on the weekends. Be back soon.”
Jill touched her face, the afterglow of his lips warm and tingly against her skin. The affectionate gesture hadn’t seemed to give him any problems. In fact, she got the impression that he hadn’t thought much about it first.
