when he lived there. The only difference was that he'd pitied those drunks. He didn't feel anything but anger for Margery McBride.
As he turned at the next corner, a breeze from the west made him shiver. It was a hell of a night for a walk.
Halfway up the block, the square came into sight. It was located in the exact center of downtown, with benches and a bandstand. He'd attended two Christmas Eve services there with the McKinneys and Holly, had sat through a concert with a local bluegrass band last summer with them and their friends. At the time he'd felt out of place, an intruder who didn't belong. Looking back, though, he realized that he'd had a good time.
Gloria had guessed right. Holly had gone to the square. She was standing in the shadows in the bandstand, her arms folded across her chest, her head bowed. Tom entered the park and quietly climbed the closest set of steps. Walking up behind Holly, he wrapped her coat around her shoulders, then left his hands there for a moment. There was something he should say, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Offering comfort and sympathy wasn't among his usual skills.
She curled her fingers around the edges of her coat and pulled it tighter, then gave a heavy sigh, followed by a sound that was mostly choked laughter. "Remember on your birthday, when we were talking, you asked what had happened when I turned twelve?"
Though she didn't look at him to see, he nodded.
"My mother was in one of her rare gotta-prove-I'm-a-good-mother phases. She insisted that I have a party—the biggest, best, most fabulous birthday party anyone in Bethlehem had ever seen. I begged her not to do it, but she insisted. Dad was out of town—he traveled a lot on business—so he couldn't help me. She invited my entire class, including the kids whose favorite pastime was making me miserable." She did look at him then, offering a wan smile. "It might surprise you, but I wasn't always this popular or self-confident. When I was twelve, I was a homely, clumsy, insecure mess."
He couldn't imagine that. She gave the impression of having been born beautiful, gregarious, well liked, and self-assured. But people changed. Look at him. There wasn't so much as a hint of the Flaherty Street
punk he'd once been left in him now.
"Planning the party consumed Margery's life. She was so excited that she even forgot to keep a drink in hand at all times. I actually dared believe that everything might turn out all right, after all. Then the party came. She was so drunk she could barely stand up. She was loud, vulgar, and her temper was explosive. I won't bore you with all the details," she remarked, rubbing one hand lightly over her cheek. "Suffice it to say that it came as an incredible relief when she passed out face-first in my birthday cake. And that I wished she would suffocate in the frosting."
He still didn't know what to say, but he took a stab at it anyway. "So that's when you learned that wishes don't come true."
She gave him a long, steady look before turning to lean beside him. "Some wishes, maybe. Others…"
"What is she doing here?"
"I swear, she came for the sole purpose of ruining tonight. She's got some sort of instinct about special times, and she never misses doing whatever she can to turn them into disasters."
"The evening's not ruined."
This time her look was chastising. "If you think I'm walking back into that ballroom after the display she put on…"
"No, I wasn't going to suggest that. I just meant that we could go back to the inn, have a dance or two, a glass of wine, and … talk." That last part made him wince inwardly. He suspected that the last thing most women wanted to do as part of their Valentine's Day dates was talk. It was a sure bet none of her friends at the dance would be wasting time on words when they got home.
She stood motionless for a moment, then suddenly shivered, as if she'd just realized how cold she was. She slipped her arms into her coat sleeves and tightly belted it, then walked to the top of the steps. "That sounds nice."
They got into his car and drove the short distance to the inn. At her request, they went in the front door, where the night clerk and another of the inn's employees, a young girl who he thought was about Sophy's age, were chatting over a game of solitaire. The clerk glanced at them, then at the grandfather clock, and said, "Gosh, you're home early. We weren't expecting you until the clean-up crew danced you out the door. What hap—" Her gaze shifted toward the back of the inn, and her features took on a worried look. "Mrs. McBride has been so quiet back there that we figured she'd gone to bed early. She didn't…?"
Holly's smile was still wan. "Yes, she did. Do you know if anyone is in the library?"
"No, it's all yours. Could I bring you a glass of wine or maybe some dessert?"
Holly looked from her to the young woman, who stood in silence. "Why don't you let Bree do it? Do you mind?"
Abruptly twisting around, Bree knocked half the cards to the floor. "S-sure," she said, her face red. "I—I'd be happy to, if—if you're sure you don't mind."
She was still standing there, blushing and bewildered, when Holly led Tom though the lobby, past the family portrait, and into the library. The built-in bookcases that filled most of the space were cherry, and the thin strips of wall surrounding them were painted deep red. There were two windows on the west wall, with sills wide enough for seating, and a stone fireplace on the north. The wingback chairs were leather, the tables cherry, the lamps brass. It was what he'd had in mind for the office in his apartment, but the designer hadn't captured it.
Holly shut off all but two lamps, then switched on the stereo that filled one bookcase shelf. The music was quiet, unobtrusive, and perfect for dancing.
Before he could do more than remove his overcoat, there was a knock at the door. Bree came in. She carried the tray so unsteadily that he heard the silver clinking and actually saw one wineglass sway before she set it on a cherry table with a sigh of relief. "Would you like me to pour for you?"
"No, thank you. We'll take care of it."
She rushed out, closing the door behind her.
"A relative of yours?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"I can't think of any other reason for a levelheaded businesswoman to keep such a klutz around."
Holly shrugged as she filled two glasses with wine. "Maybe I'm soft at heart." She said it as if expecting him to laugh, but she'd get no argument from him. She'd expended some effort at creating an illusion of herself as hard-hearted, but not many people were fooled by it.
Drawing her into his arms, he rested his cheek against her hair and easily found the rhythm of the music. As they moved together, he rubbed his right hand slowly up and down her spine, occasionally pressing her closer, mostly just savoring the feel of her. So soft, so feminine, and yet strong. Oh, the things he could do to her, with her, and the things she could do to him…
"This is nice," she murmured, her voice little more than a whisper, a breath of sound that disappeared almost before it formed.
"Nice" wasn't a word he used very often, but, he realized with a start, she was right. Holding her like this, with no one to disturb them, nothing to come between them, was very nice.
Holding her even closer, with nothing at all between them, would feel even better, he admitted as his could reacted to hers. For a perfectly nice conclusion to the evening, they could dance their way upstairs, remove each other's clothing, and spend the rest of the night—hell, the rest of the weekend—sharing the most incredible sex either of them had ever known. She wanted it. He wanted it. Why shouldn't they have it?
Because he respected her, remember? Because she was the only woman he'd ever wanted from whom he hadn't simply taken what he wanted and walked away. Because he wanted more from her than mere sex—even the most incredible sex he'd ever known.
Because he didn't want to treat her like every other woman in his life. He didn't want other people to think of her the way they thought of the women who'd come before her.
He wanted to marry her.
She rubbed enticingly against him, a movement that had little to do wi
th the music and everything to do with what he was thinking, what he was feeling. It would be so easy to peel off her dress, to strip off his own clothes and lay her down, slide inside her, find the pleasure and the satisfaction she promised with every look, every move. So easy to tilt her head back, like so. To lower his head until his lips brushed hers. To accept her silent invitation, to slide his tongue inside her mouth, to lift her so her hips pressed hard and welcoming against his erection.
She clung to him, sucking his tongue, wringing a strangled groan from him with no more than the easy thrust of her hips. Her fingers rubbed up his neck over taut muscles, then slid into his hair, pulling him nearer while she greedily demanded more from their kiss.
So damn easy … and almost more than he could manage to stop.
He forced her back a few inches, dragged in a searing breath, then gasped as she boldly caressed him. "Holly." Her name was little more than a groan, his efforts to keep her hands off his could halfhearted at best. "Listen—there's something I want— Wait—"
Her smile was sensual, her hazel eyes hazy. "We can talk later. Right now I want—we both want—" She freed her hands and touched him again, not in an overtly sexual way this time, just rested her hands possessively on his upper arms. The effect on him, though, was overtly sexual, and painful, and pleasurable.
He raised his hands to her wrists, but that didn't stop her from sliding her arms around his neck, from pulling his head down for another kiss. This time she was the one doing the teasing, her tongue mimicking his own earlier thrusts, and he let her, let it go on too long, until he was too hot, too hard, until his skin had become slick with sweat and his hands unsteady, until, sweet hell, he didn't want to stop her at all.
"Holly…" His voice was guttural, harsh. "I want—"
"I want, too," she murmured, leaving a trail of damp kisses along his jaw and down his throat, loosening his tie, unfastening a button or two.
His eyes closed, and he dragged in a deep breath for strength, then blurted out what he had to say. "Will you marry me?"
* * *
Holly had never known sexual ardor could be cooled so quickly, so effectively, with four small words. She stumbled back a step or two, felt the table with their wine behind her, and spun around to drain one glass, then the other, in quick succession. She wanted to pretend she hadn't heard him, or that she couldn't possibly have heard right. She wanted to go on as if he'd never asked the question, wanted to ask if he'd had too much to drink when she wasn't looking, or if he'd just decided to go freaking crazy!
She took a deep breath, clasped her trembling hands tightly together, and said in her best faked-calm voice, "Should we do the polite thing and ignore words you surely did not intend to say to me, or laugh about it and then forget it?"
"I did intend to say them, and only to you." Looking as unruffled and in control as if he were in one of McKinney Industries' boardrooms, closing a multibillion-dollar merger, he circled her to reach the empty glasses, refilled them, and offered her one. She wanted the drink desperately but shook her head rather than let him see how badly his question had unsettled her. With a shrug, he placed it on the table beside her, then took up a position leaning against the mantel a few yards away. "I want to get married, Holly."
"To me," she said skeptically, and he nodded. "When did you reach that decision?"
"Last weekend."
Funny. She'd thought they were playing a drawn-out game of seduction. The dinner, the dances, the almost-a-kiss good night… She'd thought they were leading up to sex, to one hell of a fling. She'd never dreamed he would offer a marriage proposal!
"You have to admit we're a good match."
Oh, no, she didn't. "I'm not your type. You're not my type. You like society blondes. I like men who go away when told. The only thing either of us knows about relationships is how to stay out of them. This is ridiculous!"
"If you didn't think we were a good match, you wouldn't have been pursuing an affair with me for the past fourteen months."
"An affair—a few nights, no more! Not a lifetime commitment!" She was tempted to pound her fist against his chest to drive home her point, but feared getting so close to him. A few more touches, a few more kisses, and the devil only knew what she might agree to.
"So I'm raising the stakes a bit. If you'll think about it rationally, it makes sense. We each find the other interesting. We each want to have sex with the other. We're both in business, so we each have an understanding of the demands on the other's time. Neither of us wants children, so that's not a problem. You've got money of your own, so that's not a problem, either. It seems perfectly reasonable to me."
"Reasonable," she echoed, then shifted into a syrupy-sweet voice. "My, oh my, what more could a woman possibly want?"
"Tell me, and I'll give it to you," he said seriously.
She turned away, going to the window to stare out into the night. It truly was the most outrageous suggestion anyone had ever made to her. Get married? Not in this lifetime. To Tom Flynn? Not in a million lifetimes. She just wanted to ravish his could, to have fabulous, wicked sex with him, then walk away. She wanted eight or sixteen hours of his time, twenty-four tops. Not the rest of his life!
"Look," she began, striving to keep her voice level. "Let's write this off as too much wine, too much dancing, too little sleep, whatever, and forget it ever happened, okay? Now … I believe I've had enough surprises for the evening. I'm going to bed. Thank you for taking me to the dance. I had a—" Unable to utter the word that would be an absolute lie, she simply left it out and went on. "A time."
He let her get as far as the lobby before he spoke again. His voice was clear enough to carry to the registration desk and beyond. "I don't want to forget that it ever happened, Holly I want to get married. To you."
Behind the counter, Peggy gasped. Bree, seated on a tall stool, stared openmouthed. Holly felt like slapping both women—hell, and the man, too. Instead, she all but ran down the hall to the kitchen and into her apartment, where she slammed and locked the door, then leaned against it for good measure.
A marriage proposal! That was the last thing she'd ever expected to hear from Tom. Acceptance of her offer to make his wildest dreams come true, yes. Polite rejection, maybe. A marriage proposal, never.
And such a romantic one at that. No hearts and flowers for this man, no, sir. Instead, he'd used words like "rationally." "Interesting." "Understanding." "Reasonable." If she were ever inclined to accept any man's proposal, it sure as hell wouldn't contain words like that.
Not that she would ever be so inclined.
A light tap on the door made her jump. She jerked away as if the door could somehow transmit some measure of Tom's craziness to her, then guardedly asked, "Who is it?"
"It's Bree. I forgot to tell you that you had a message from Miss Winchester. She said that she and her sister were taking your mother home with them to spend the night and that you shouldn't worry about her."
"Damn. I'd hoped Mitch would lock her up in jail."
"Your own mother?" Bree sounded scandalized, apparently realized it, and quickly apologized. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business. One other thing."
"Yes?"
"Congratulations."
Holly unlocked the door and opened it a few inches. "I'm not getting married."
"Oh. But … he said you were."
"He's misinformed." And arrogant. Egotistical. And a liar, too.
"Oh. Well. Proposing after the Sweethearts Dance … it's just so romantic. And he seemed so certain…"
Overconfident. Smug. Presumptuous.
"He's awfully handsome. And rich. And he seems like a—a good catch."
Conceited, overbearing, and—hell, where was a thesaurus when she needed one? "He is handsome," she agreed cattily. "And rich. And I'd rather catch a cold."
"But—"
"End of discussion. Thank you for delivering the message. Good night." She closed the door in Bree's face, then immediately jerked it open again. "
Not a word of this to anyone. Do you understand? What happened here tonight is between you, Peggy, Tom, and me."
A guilty look crept into Bree's eyes. "But Peggy—I, uh, all right. I won't say anything to anyone."
Not wanting to know what Peggy had already done, Holly closed and locked the door again. The man had incredible nerve. He'd made her forget the unpleasantness at the dance. Hell, he'd damn near made her forget her name. And then he'd gone and spoiled it all with that stupid suggestion. She should be undressing in his suite instead of her dressing room, should be facing a long, steamy night instead of throwing things across the room.
This was undoubtedly the worst Sweethearts Dance ever, and it was all Tom's fault.
Of course she had trouble sleeping. And what little sleep she got was disturbed by dreams that were sad, silly, and ridiculous. They starred handsome, sexy, perfect Tom, and Holly. In a wedding dress. Holly with her hair bleached blond. Holly in virginal white lace running through a throng of well-wishers, seeking escape like a panicked rat in a maze.
Rolling onto her side, she stared out at the early morning sky, bright with stars. "Someone up there has a sense of humor," she whispered sourly. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I made that wish. I just wanted his attention, his could, sex. I never wanted this."
No response. The stars just seemed to twinkle even brighter, as if amused by her predicament.
Holly wasn't amused then, or three hours later when she finally gave up the pretense of resting, got dressed, and wandered from her apartment in search of caffeine. The kitchen staff was already at work on breakfast and the Sunday dinner desserts, but that didn't stop Edward from swinging her around in an embrace.
"I have the perfect cake in mind. A sponge cake delicately flavored with amaretto and wrapped in white fondant, each layer draped with an ivory fondant lace handkerchief and—" Abruptly he broke off, and his animation turned downward into a pout. "Unless, of course, he has his own pastry chef and you would prefer that he make the cake."
FIRST KISS Page 10
