Poor Belle! He’d always been tense with her, striving to match her perfection. “I was clumsy because I was trying too hard.”
“And with me, you don’t have to?”
“With you I’m...” He nearly said “home.” Instead, he finished with “...comfortable.”
“I’m glad.” Quickly, she added, “I’m not sure my feet could take the punishment.”
Their swift movements cut off further conversation. Soon, as the rhythm increased, they were both fast-stepping and breathing hard. Others paused to watch them, a development Marshall could have done without.
The music segued into a slower song. He and Franca were adjusting to the pace when people began staring off to the right and sneaking pictures with their phones. Peering over them, Marshall saw Caleb and Linda dancing in a classic waltz position. Both preschoolers wore earnest expressions as Caleb counted aloud: “One two three, one two three.”
Franca stood on tiptoe to watch. “Oh! How cute.”
“Priceless.” I wish they were our children. Or rather, he meant, my children. Didn’t he?
After a minute, Marshall tugged her into his embrace again. Time faded from awareness as they followed the changing patterns of the music. When other men cut in, Marshall squelched a flare of annoyance. But as the best man, he had other duties. He danced with the bride, the matron of honor and the bride’s mother. Red-faced and with a tendency to giggle, Zady’s mom, Delilah, brought uncoordinated energy to her dancing. Marshall was glad to relinquish her to her husband.
Another musical transition led to a rock song with the screaming lyrics, “I can’t take it anymore!” Startled, Marshall caught Franca’s gaze across the floor.
He’d been distraught that night in the parking garage, wrenched by his mother’s rejection. Catching Franca similarly howling had struck him as oddly reassuring. Now they made their way toward each other.
“They’re playing our song.” Franca draped her arms over his shoulders.
“Feeling better?” He encircled her waist.
“Better than what?”
“That night.”
“No comparison.” She swayed against him. Although everyone else was gyrating wildly, it was obvious to him that this was a love song.
“I’m six inches off the floor,” Franca said. “I drank too much champagne.”
“Weddings are magical.” Marshall spoke close to her ear. “We could dance all the way home.”
“Not me. I have a half-hour drive.”
The music stopped. Into his mic, the DJ said, “I’m informed that the bride and groom are about to cut the cake. Don’t miss getting your slice!”
People pushed by. Why were they in such a rush? The towering cake took up an entire side table. Did they believe it would run out?
The surging crowd made the room stuffy. Through the large side windows, the night appeared cool and inviting.
“Do you want dessert?” he asked. “Or would you rather take a walk?”
“A walk sounds lovely. Maybe it will clear my head.”
After detouring for Franca to collect her purse, Marshall guided her outside. The only person who appeared to notice their departure was Nick, facing them at the cake table with the guests pressing around it. He winked.
Marshall supposed he might be criticized for abandoning his best-man duties, but he’d completed most of them. Besides, if the groom didn’t care, why should he?
Marshall wasn’t usually one to flout the rules. Now he was ready to crash through a thicket of them.
* * *
FROM THE BLUFFS, palm trees screened Franca’s view of the sparkling harbor. A fresh breeze filled her lungs, although rather than sobering her, its invigorating effect added to her sense of unreality. She could almost fly, not that she was foolish enough to attempt it.
The scene dissolved her hurt and uncertainty. For tonight, she didn’t care that Marshall was too judgmental to rely on as she navigated through an uncertain future. His tender side was exactly what she needed at the moment, so why not enjoy herself?
Marshall’s arm anchored her as they strolled along the walkway. When they stopped at an overlook facing the ocean, the music resumed from the wedding chapel, muted but loud enough to serve as a melodic undercurrent. Below, light twinkled from a yacht cruising toward its mooring.
“Some evenings I can hear the music from the wedding chapel on my balcony.” Leaning on the rail, Marshall’s lean body shielded her from a gust of wind.
“You live that close?”
“Right there.” He gestured across the street toward a two-story home atop a rise. With its columns and the lacy trim beneath the eaves, the architecture brought to mind New Orleans.
“On the ocean? That must have cost a fortune!” Franca felt her face growing hot despite the breeze. “I’m sorry. That’s the champagne talking.”
“It cost a totally unreasonable amount,” Marshall said. “But my father left me enough to invest and still buy my dream home. Now all I need is...” The words trailed off.
...a family to fill it. She understood. “I’ve never imagined my dream home.”
His low chuckle rumbled through her. “How can you not imagine it, if it’s your dream?”
“I’m too befuddled to untangle that sentence.”
“Let me simplify,” Marshall said. “What kind of house appeals to you?”
“A comfortable one. Warm colors, and a large kitchen.” She’d grown up in a modest house with gingerbread-style trim and furniture that, while solid, was so worn that her mother had eventually thrown it out because the thrift shops wouldn’t take it. But what had mattered were the gleeful interchanges around the dinner table, and the abundant laughter. “I never fantasized about Prince Charming or the perfect wedding, either.”
“How did you and Belle become roommates?” His teeth gleamed in the darkness. “You’re totally different.”
“The college housing office paired us.” They must have seemed similar on paper. Both had been nonsmokers who went to bed early, and they’d been focused on earning their degrees, hers in psychology, Belle’s in business administration. “We had a lot in common.”
“You could have fooled me.” Marshall shook his head. “When she described in detail her plans for her wedding, right down to the cake decorations, I thought I’d strayed into the twilight zone. We hadn’t even discussed marriage.”
“Is that why you...” Realizing she had no right to pry into his reasons for the breakup, Franca switched to, “Did they include bridesmaid’s dresses big enough to eat Chicago?”
He chuckled. “Accurate description.” He’d viewed the photo on her phone, she recalled. “It’s cold. May I entice you to enjoy the view from my house, madam? Perhaps with a glass of wine?”
“I’m already giddy,” she protested, but weakly. It did sound like fun.
“You can sleep it off in my guest bedroom,” Marshall offered.
Her answer ought to be a resounding no. Instead, Franca replied, “You’re just showing off.”
“How so?”
“Bachelors don’t have guest bedrooms, they have couches,” she said.
“There’s a couch in my study.” Against the moonlight, Marshall formed a muscular silhouette. “But you’d be more comfortable in one of the spare bedrooms.”
Franca slapped his arm. “Spare bedrooms, plural? Now I know you’re bragging.”
“In the morning, I’ll cook you breakfast in my catering-size kitchen,” Marshall continued.
“Why not have your chef do it?”
“The upstairs maid could serve you breakfast in bed.” He frowned. “Or would that be the butler’s job?”
“Tell me you’re kidding!”
“The cleaning crew mucks the house out twice a month,” Marshall assured her. “That’s the sum total of my staff.”
“Don’t you rattle around in your mansion?” Franca’s curiosity was growing.
“I only bought it a few months ago,” Marshall prote
sted. “I’ve hardly had time to rattle. Or throw parties and create happy memories.”
How different he sounded from the guy she remembered from their university years. “You have a sentimental side.”
“That surprises you?”
“It makes you dangerous.” Had she actually said that aloud?
“You have to explain that comment.” Taking her arm, Marshall continued their walk, heading away from the wedding chapel. When she stumbled on a rough patch of concrete, he caught her by the waist.
“I can’t explain it,” Franca said. “I’m not sure what I meant.”
That was a lie. The truth was that a tenderhearted Marshall threatened her determination to keep him at bay. Which she hadn’t done very well this evening, had she?
“I’d better head home,” she concluded.
“You may not be sober enough to drive,” he pointed out.
“This from the man who just offered me a glass of wine?”
“And the use of his guest room.”
Franca yearned to tour his mansion and to watch this very masculine man cook breakfast for her. Even though she was almost certain it was the champagne addling her brain, she said, “I am a little curious.”
“I promise you, the sheets are clean.” Marshall halted at a crosswalk.
“You have guests often?” Franca asked as they waited.
“Only one so far. Reid—Dr. Winfrey—stayed with me for a few nights after he arrived from New York,” Marshall said. “Since he didn’t own a car, it was convenient for him to ride with me until he got situated.”
“That was kind of you.”
He shrugged. “Professional courtesy.”
The signal changed and they crossed. Nearing the house, Franca saw that what she’d glimpsed so far was actually the back of the house. A concrete staircase led up a rise and around to the front.
There, she discovered, the mansion faced a cul-de-sac. It served a handful of similarly large homes, each with a unique design.
“My first sight of this place gave me pause.” Marshall escorted her up the front steps to a broad porch. “I’d been living in hole-in-the-wall apartments, and I’d planned on buying something simpler. But I figured it would be a good investment.”
“That’s it?” Franca waited as he unlocked the door and deactivated the alarm. “It didn’t grab your heart and refuse to let go?”
“That, too.” He flicked a switch in the entrance hall. Overhead, a stained-glass chandelier cast amber and green light over the slate-tile floor.
The interior unrolled one delight after another: the spacious living room decorated in shades of aqua and peach, a dining room with a parquet oak table, a study that doubled as a workout room, the family room with big-screen TV—they were better than a showroom because Marshall’s spirit infused them.
Nothing prepared her for the kitchen, though. From the oversize cooktop to the double ovens, the built-in refrigerator and walk-in pantry, it would make any caterer catch her breath. Every surface, every window treatment, every lighting fixture contributed to an aura of welcome. Meals would taste better just by being fixed here.
Franca was almost embarrassed by her reaction. She’d never coveted wealth. But she could scarcely bear to live anywhere else after touring this place.
She searched for a neutral comment. “It’s stunning. I’d pictured you in someplace more formal.”
“Straight-backed chairs, dark woods and dim sconces?” Leaning against the center island, Marshall quirked an eyebrow. “That describes my parents’ house.”
A question occurred to her that might ease her sense of being caught up inside his personal realm. “Did you buy it already decorated?”
“The bones were here, but it was far too gloomy,” he said. “I worked closely with a designer.”
She sighed. “In spite of what I said, it suits you.”
“Does it suit you?”
Caught off guard, Franca blurted, “I love every inch of it.”
Marshall grinned. At ease in his palace, the rangy, rather stiff young man of their younger years had come into his own.
Franca had never experienced such longing around a man, despite the fact that they were spectacularly wrong for each other. Could she truly blame the champagne?
“I should go to bed.” She nearly added alone, except that might reveal how tempted she was to do otherwise.
“Let’s head upstairs.”
As they returned to the hall with its curving staircase, Franca sensed that this was her last chance to assert a measure of common sense and beat a safe retreat. Sleeping here, even in a separate room, posed a huge risk. But she’d never felt more protected and sheltered than in Marshall’s care.
Her feet barely touched the surface as she made her way up the stairs.
* * *
WHEN THE REAL estate agent had lured Marshall inside this house, there’d been a phantom along on the tour. Not that the house was haunted; rather, he’d sensed a woman’s reactions.
His future wife, he’d assumed. Didn’t everyone carry on conversations with “air people,” folks who weren’t actually there but who commented or argued in one’s head? His usual air people were his parents, constantly criticizing and correcting his actions. But the person in his head when he’d viewed the house, he finally conceded, had been Franca.
Tonight, she more than matched her phantom alter ego, greeting each room with an exclamation. Marshall was proud of the smallest touches: the crown molding, the custom cabinetry, the embellished towels accenting the upstairs hall bathroom, and the low bookshelves and window seat in the room he’d mentally designated as a future playroom. Each cry of admiration was like a caress.
In the doorway to the master suite, Franca stopped ahead of him and inhaled deeply.
“Is anything wrong?” Marshall asked.
“It smells like you,” she murmured.
Not the response he’d hoped for. “I assure you, I shower frequently.”
“It’s a good smell. But it’s late, I should head to my own room.” She turned abruptly and ran into his chest.
Marshall’s arms closed around her. He could feel her heart racing.
She pulled away, and reluctantly, he released her. “Care to see the dressing room? It’s equipped with a TV and a great sound system.”
“I’d better not. I mean, no thanks.” Her amber eyes blinked. “I’m afraid I’m not myself tonight.”
She was entirely herself, in Marshall’s opinion, the same intriguing person who’d drawn him magnetically fifteen years ago. He’d believed she was wrong for him, but tonight, she sparked magic in his bloodstream.
“Who else would you be?” he teased.
“I’ll tell you after I’ve slept off the champagne.” Franca scooted past him into the hall.
Despite his disappointment, Marshall respected her withdrawal. “Let’s get you settled in the guest room.”
“I’m not sure where it is.”
He placed his palm on the small of her back to guide her. “You’ll need towels. The linen closet is here, next to the bathroom.”
Opening the closet door, he tugged on a china pull to turn on the light and reveal the neatly stacked sheets and towels. He selected a bath sheet along with smaller linens. “Okay?”
Franca smiled dreamily. “Just fine.”
He couldn’t resist pulling her against him, despite the armful of linens that formed a soft barrier. Their foreheads touched, and as they leaned toward each other, it seemed to Marshall that they completed an electrical circuit.
Or she might be falling asleep.
“The bedroom’s just along here.” After unloading the towels in the bathroom, he steered her into a peach-colored room with golden-yellow curtains and an oak bedstead. “I hope you’ll feel at home. The bathroom’s stocked with guest toiletries, but if there’s anything lacking, just let me know.”
Franca stared at him as if reaching a sudden conclusion. “Marshall.”
“Yes
?”
She caught him by his tuxedo lapels. “Do you have to be such a frustratingly perfect gentleman?”
“Is that what I am?” If only he had a clue about women. Especially her.
“Damn straight,” she said, and tugged him toward the bed.
Chapter Nine
As she toured the house, Franca had become aware of an emotion unworthy of her: envy. Not of Marshall for owning this home, but of the woman who would someday share it with him.
Why her, whoever she would be? Why had Belle been the lucky one in college, even if that hadn’t ended happily? No matter how irrational it was, Franca ached to be selfish, just once. To take what she wanted instead of trying to recognize other people’s wishes and help them come true.
Tonight, she wanted to act on impulse. To grab Marshall and watch his surprise turn to excitement. To feel his mouth claim hers. So she did.
She stood on tiptoe, her breasts rubbing his chest and her palms stroking his neck while her tongue played along his lips. A deep shudder ran through him, as if a dam had burst. His tux joined her print jacket on the floor and he swept her onto the bed.
Lifting himself on an elbow, Marshall probed her with his dark gaze. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“More than I’ve ever been sure of anything.”
“Then stop talking.”
He kissed her again, gentleness shading into ferocity. Franca treasured the whisper of Marshall’s mouth trailing down her throat, the confidence of his hands as he released her dress, the joy of sharing her body with him.
She’d experienced nothing like this with the boyfriends who’d appeared briefly in her past. Why had she imagined Marshall was cold and distant? His passionate response thrilled her. And when he finally thrust deep inside her, Franca yielded to sensation.
Marshall withheld nothing, and neither did she. They became one wild creature, one glorious entity, one soul.
Everything else fell away.
* * *
MARSHALL HAD BOTH hoped for and feared the moment when he yielded to his desire for Franca and unleashed his long-suppressed recklessness. He’d always believed at some level that if he completely let go, he’d lose his direction, his purpose, and fail those he cared about. How absurd that struck him now.
The Would-Be Daddy Page 8
