On The Way To A Wedding

by Ingrid Weaver

  She couldn’t argue with him there, she thought, remembering her own grief before she’d learned the truth. “Maybe you should tell them.”

  He looked through the sheer curtain to the street below, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. “No,” he said finally. “All it would take would be one slip and we’d be right back where we were before the crash. This is the only way. They might be miserable, but at least they’re safe.”

  And what about you? she wondered, watching the tension vibrate through his body. He’d always been so strong and determined, so completely sure of himself. She’d never seen him like this before. The same misery she’d seen in the faces of his family was reflected in his own.

  She uncurled from the chair and walked toward the window until she stood behind him. The urge to touch him was so strong, she lifted her hand. Her palm was a breath away from his back before she caught herself and moved to his side.

  “I remember the way I felt when my father died,” he said. “Mixed up with all the grief was a crazy kind of anger that he’d deserted us. My family’s probably feeling something like that. And when they find out it’s all a lie...”

  “They’ll forgive you.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “How old were you when your father died?”

  He hesitated. “Fifteen.”

  She thought of the twins, of how solemn they’d looked ten minutes ago. “But that means Barb and Tina...”

  “They’re exactly the same age I was when our father died. They never knew him, though. He was killed the week before Christmas. They were born the following March.”

  “Oh, Nick,” she murmured. “How awful.”

  “Yeah. He was shot while he was chasing two punks who had robbed a liquor store. He was a cop, too.” He crossed his arms and turned to look at her. “I’m putting them through it again, Lauren. Another funeral, another round of mourning. I should be the one protecting them, not causing them more pain.”

  “You’ve felt responsible for all of them since you were fifteen, haven’t you?” she asked. “When your father died, you probably assumed his role as the man of the house, right?”

  “I did as much as I could. I was only a kid, but I grew up fast. From the looks on their faces, that’s what’s happening to Barb and Tina. They’re usually so easygoing. Now they’re being forced to face...” He paused, then shook his head. “I was going to say they’re forced to face reality. But this isn’t reality. It’s a hoax. A lie. They’re crying for nothing.”

  “It’ll be over soon.”

  “Not soon enough.” He gestured toward the papers that he’d strewn around the couch. “This isn’t my style. I need to go out. I need to talk to the kind of sources that wouldn’t know the Web from a sewer grate.”

  Concern made her forget her own self-imposed limit, and she lifted her hand to grasp his arm. His skin was warm, stretched taut over hard muscle. It had been days since she’d touched him. She felt as if it had been too long. “But you can’t go out yet. Your injuries—”

  “Are practically healed.”

  “What if someone sees you?”

  “I’ll have to change my appearance, that’s all.” He looked down at where she clung to him, then covered her hand with his. He lifted his head, and the vulnerability that she’d glimpsed moments before was gone. Instead, his gaze gleamed with determination. And something more, something that sparked between them, warming the skin he touched, stirring awareness on a level that wasn’t only physical.

  She shouldn’t be trying to stop him from going out. She should be eager to get him out of her home and out of her life. She hadn’t wanted him here in the first place, had she? And the longer he stayed...

  He moved his hand until their fingers aligned, then twined them together and pulled her nearer. “Tomorrow. That’s when I’ll go.”

  She was so close she needed to tip her head back to look into his face. She lifted her other hand and flattened it against his chest for balance. “Be careful.”

  “Are you worried, Lauren?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because of your story?”

  “Yes.” She felt smooth, warm cotton slide under her palm as she moved her hand upward. A pulse throbbed hard in the side of his neck and she looked at it, fascinated by the sheer vitality he emanated. “Where will you go first?”

  He didn’t reply. He caught her other hand in his, lowered it to her side and stepped closer. She moved away when she felt his toes nudge hers, but for every step she took, he followed, guiding her backward until the wall stopped her retreat.

  Neither of them spoke. The slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the soft whir of the air conditioner and the sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears. Tension hummed, growing with each motionless second. Lauren felt the heat from his body and the whisper of his breath on her cheek and then gradually, finally, there was more.

  It started as a light pressure, no more than a hint of contact, but at the first brush of his chest across her breasts, Lauren gasped.

  Nick eased their joined hands against the wall on either side of her and leaned closer, fitting his body to hers in a wordless, full-length... kiss.

  Lauren looked at his mouth, feeling her lips tingle with the need to touch him there, to make the kiss a real one. Her pulse quickening, she lifted her gaze to his.

  A quiver coiled through his tightly flexed body. He held her gaze as boldly as his weight pinned her in place.

  Oh, God. What were they doing? This was madness. She . shouldn’t kiss him. She shouldn’t touch him, either. This wasn’t the way she handled her emotions. She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want to need anyone.

  She twisted her wrists, trying to loosen his grip on her hands. “Nick, no,” she murmured. “Please. We can’t.”

  “No?”

  “This isn’t what we agreed on.”

  Gradually the glaze of passion faded from his eyes. In its place was a dawning realization of what they had almost done. He blew out an unsteady breath, then released her hands and pushed himself away from the wall. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I guess I lost my balance again.”

  Chapter 7

  Brushing her palms nervously over her skirt, Lauren surveyed her apartment, trying to make sure that there were no more traces of Nick’s presence. The stack of spare bedding was gone. So were his disorganized, overflowing piles of notes. There were no stray boots or crumpled shirts or doughnut crumbs. To a visitor, her home would seem exactly the same tidy, serene, neutrally decorated place it had always been.

  Neat. Clean. Sterile. Empty.

  She couldn’t possibly be missing him, could she? This was the first time he’d gone out since she’d brought him here, and she had to admit she was concerned about him. At least he’d agreed to use the items she’d brought home from the station, and he’d borrowed her car, so as long as he was cautious...

  Nick? Cautious? She chewed the inside of her lip, trying to get her anxiety under control. Worrying was pointless. If anyone knew how to take care of himself, it was Nick. She knew he’d be back. Still, it seemed as if his absence was as tangible to her as his presence had always been.

  She glanced at the flowers she’d placed on the dining table. Neatly aligned wineglasses sparkled on the linen cloth, along with the silver trays that would hold the food she had picked up on her way home from the station. A pair of crepe paper wedding bells hung from the light fixture, and another pair decorated the table that would hold Angela’s gifts.

  Maybe it was just as well that Nick had gone out tonight. This bridal shower was going to be difficult enough to get through without worrying about hiding a man in her bedroom.

  Smoothing her hand over her hair, she found her gaze straying toward the corner by the window. Instantly she remembered the feel of Nick’s hands holding hers, and the weight of his body and the smoldering intensity of his blue eyes....

  “No,” she said. There was no one to hear it but
herself, but perhaps she needed to hear it more than he did. After all, she had been the one who had touched him first. And she had been a willing participant in what had followed. Even now, the memory of his body pressing against hers...

  “Enough,” she muttered. All right, so her body responded to his. Considering the circumstances—and the blatant sex appeal of the man—that was understandable. But she’d built her life on her ability to control her emotions, and she wasn’t about to change.

  The soft knock on the door made her jump. She glanced at her watch, then smoothed her palms over her skirt again and went to answer it.

  It was Angela, and she was early. She grinned and held up a bottle of wine in each hand. “Estelle and Salimah said they’d come, so I thought I’d better bring some more supplies.”

  “You’re the guest of honor, Angela,” Lauren said as her sister swept into the apartment. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “No, I didn’t need to, but I wanted to.” She paused to brush her cheek against Lauren’s, then went to the kitchen and stored the bottles in the fridge with the others. “Can I help?”

  Following her, Lauren shook her head. “Everything’s under control.”

  “I really appreciate your doing all this. Especially considering what’s been going on with you.”

  She started. “What do you mean?”

  Angela turned around, her smile quizzical. “The plane crash. You’re handling things remarkably well.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Are your feet better now?”

  “Yes, they’re fine, but don’t worry about me.”

  “There you go again.” She slipped her arm around Lauren’s waist as they walked back to the living room. “I know there’s more going on than the plane crash, you know. That’s another reason I wanted to help.”

  Her gaze darted around the room, in case she had overlooked something of Nick’s. There was nothing in sight, so she forced herself to relax. “Really?”

  “It’s the whole wedding thing.”

  “We’ve talked about this before, Angela. Believe me, I’m over what happened. It’s ancient history.”

  “You always say it doesn’t bother you, but I realize how you feel about marriage in general.”

  She gave her sister a quick hug of reassurance before she pulled away. “It’s no secret that I feel marriage isn’t for me. But it’s what you want, and it’s obvious Eddy makes you happy. I do want you to be happy, Angela.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  It was true, Lauren thought as she listened to her sister go on about what a wonderful man she was marrying. Angela positively glowed with happiness. Maybe marriage really would suit her, maybe the love she felt for Eddy would overcome the odds as well as their family history.

  Resolutely she stopped herself from dwelling on her aversion to matrimony. She wasn’t throwing this party in order to cast a pall of gloom over Angela’s good spirits. She loved her, despite the differences in their personalities and their ways of dealing with the world. And by concentrating on making sure Angela had a good time, maybe she’d be able to forget about her own problems for a while. After the tension she’d been living with lately, it would do her good to have a break.

  Over the next few hours, Lauren did exactly that. Everyone she had invited came, and soon the apartment was filled with almost two dozen of Angela’s friends and coworkers. Not everyone was happily married, of course. Salimah was in the middle of her second divorce, and kept one of Angela’s extra bottles beside her elbow for most of the evening. One of the secretaries from the accounting firm had just separated from her husband of twenty years, and kept jumping up to phone home to check on her children. Yet the general mood soon settled into that special, festive intimacy, the kind that was unique to a gathering of women.

  When the time came for Angela to open her gifts, the conversation tapered off. Those who couldn’t find seats on the furniture kicked off their shoes and sat on the carpet. Lauren perched on the arm of the couch and handed her sister the brightly wrapped box on the top of the pile.

  “I am not wearing a hat made out of the bows,” Angela said immediately. “So put away the camera, Estelle.”

  There was a chorus of laughter and a few boos. Estelle, a former neighbor of Angela’s who looked like a white-haired pixie, shook her head. “Oh, no. I intend to get a picture of your face when you open that one. It’s from me.”

  Angela checked the tag. “And so it is. Thanks, Estelle,” she said, ripping into the paper. She tipped the package and peeked inside, then grinned. “Just what I’ve always wanted,” she declared, pulling out what appeared to be a knot of red-and-black lace.

  Lauren leaned to the side to get a better look. It was a fireengine red garter belt trimmed with black bows. Angela pulled two black lace stockings out of the package and held them up just as the flash went off.

  The next gift was more traditional, an embroidered tablecloth, but the one after that was a set of satin sheets. Lauren took a sip of her wine, imagining how it would feel to sleep on sheets like that, or to lie naked on them with someone like Nick....

  She tightened her grip on her wineglass and reached for the next gift, which happened to be hers. The cut of the nightgown she’d finally decided on was modest at first glance, but the sheer silk would flow over the wearer’s skin like water. While her sister stroked the fabric appreciatively, Lauren had a sudden image of wearing that nightgown herself... and having a large, masculine hand mold that silk against her body, and watching a pair of steel blue eyes spark with passion.

  Clearing her throat, she passed Angela another gaily wrapped package. Inside was a can of whipped topping and a bottle of maraschino cherries.

  There was a moment’s silence, then a general burst of laughter, as well as several explicit suggestions on the best places to use the topping. Lauren fanned her face with her hand before passing her sister a heavy, rectangular package. At first glance it appeared to be a recipe book, but one look at the illustrated instructions and it was clear that the book would seldom be used in the kitchen.

  By the time all the gifts had been opened, the women were down to the last of the wine and had dissolved into giggles. Naturally, the conversation turned from weddings to the wedding night and the best things to look for in a man.

  “Good looks and height,” Estelle said.

  “So he can sweep you off your feet and carry you up a staircase,” someone added. “Like Rhett carrying Scarlett.”

  “In that case he’d better be strong, too.”

  “Of course, it’s how tall he is when he’s lying down that really matters, if you know what I mean.”

  Angela clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. “Shame on you, Estelle,” she gasped.

  “He’ll need stamina, too. And a good appetite, if he’s going to do justice to all that whipped cream.”

  Lauren thought of Nick’s love of sweet food, and the healthy appetite he’d shown when it had been his turn to fix dinner. He was a tall man, too, and judging by what she had felt when he’d held her against the wall with his body—

  She choked on her wine, coughing as she put down her glass. She’d hoped this party would take her mind off her situation with Nick, not make it worse.

  “But if the man is all that wonderful, how will you ever keep him at home?” someone asked.

  Angela picked up the garter belt and let it dangle from her finger. “I thought that’s what this was for.”

  “Only if you tie him up with it,” Salimah grumbled.

  “Hey, there’s a thought.”

  “Or better yet, lock him in the bedroom. Keep him all to yourself.”

  “Oooh, I like that idea. Imagine coming home to some tall, good-looking—”

  “Strong, energetic—”

  “Hungry hunk of a lover you keep hidden in your bedroom.”

  Yes, she could all too easily imagine it, Lauren decided, rising to her feet. Keeping her gaze firmly away from her own bedr
oom, and the closet where Nick’s things were hidden, she went to the kitchen. Bracing her hands against the counter for a minute, she took a few deep breaths before she set about making coffee.

  Feminine voices and laughter reached her from the living room, and she knew the conversation was yet again turning to sex. Normally it wouldn’t bother her. Even though in her opinion sex was highly overrated, there was no denying it was a part of life. Just because it wasn’t a part of her life didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy some lighthearted banter about it.

  She set down the cream and sugar containers with a clatter. It had been six years since she’d been to bed with a man. She remembered the occasion clearly. Harper hadn’t even tried to hide his dissatisfaction that time. She’d attributed it to prewedding nerves. She hadn’t known then that it was because he’d just spent the afternoon with another woman.

  Time had dulled the pain she’d felt. The humiliation had lasted longer. The worst of it was, she should have known better. She never should have made herself vulnerable in the first place. She’d been getting along just fine on her own, keeping her emotional barriers strong, holding herself aloof from the chance of involvement with anyone. That’s the way she’d always been, until Harper had started to work at Channel Ten.

  He’d been a smooth operator. He’d have to have been, in order to talk his way past the barriers that had served as her defense since the time she was eight. Still, she hadn’t let her defenses down entirely. No, he’d touched her hopes but he’d never touched her heart. That had been one of their problems. He’d claimed that she was too cold, that she couldn’t let herself love anyone, that it was her fault he’d sought another woman to make up for what Lauren lacked.

  There was no denying that Harper had been a rat, but he’d been right to put some of the blame on her. She didn’t do well with emotional intimacy. She knew it, she’d always known it. That’s simply the way she was. Marriage might be fine for people like Angela, but Lauren had long ago come to grips with her own inadequacies. She’d turned them around and had made her desire to distance herself an asset. She had a successful career and a promising future. She didn’t need marriage or a man to make her life complete, did she? It was possible to live without sex, wasn’t it?