Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Mac unsnapped her seat belt and yanked open the heavy door. “Race you to the backseat.”

  Dry and crisp, the night air closed around her. Her nipples pebbled under her shirt as she scrambled from the car and let the door slam shut. The interior light revealed Joe’s crumpled brow and slight frown. She’d fix that—Mac whipped off her panties, dangling them from her finger with what she hoped was a come-hither smile. As opposed to a desperate, take me now because I’m freaking the hell out grimace.

  Joe, bless his male-to-the-core heart, got with the program and exited the car.

  “You got a head start,” he said. “That’s cheating.”

  “Got a problem with cheating?”

  “Nope.” He opened the Lincoln’s back door. “I’ll get in and keep quiet, shall I?”

  “Good man. You might also want to drag a condom out of your wallet before you sit on it.”

  She got a raised eyebrow and a smile that made her thighs quiver.

  “Anything else, Ms. Impatient?”

  “Take off your shirt, and pray this old junker’s suspension will hold.”

  Joe laughed while doing that sexy as hell guy-thing of hooking his tee shirt over his head from the rear, which she’d never in her life managed to do. Then he slid onto the Lincoln’s long back seat, the car giving a loud squeak in the silence as it was jostled with his moving weight. Her belly gave a little flutter at the thought of all the noise they’d be making in a few minutes’ time.

  She opened the door and got in beside him, pulse whirring faster than her sewing machine at full speed. God, he looked amazing, sitting there half turned toward her, muscles rippling under his skin and across his flat stomach, his hiking shorts sitting indecently low on his hips because he’d unbuttoned them in the few moments she’d spent taking off her top.

  “Shut the door,” he said. “And come here, MacKenna.”

  She shut the door and slithered across the seat, straddling his lap but keeping her bottom off his strong thighs.

  “I love the way you say my name.” Mac traced her fingertips up his stomach to encircle his nipple. Goose bumps popped out on his skin at her touch. “As if you’re thinking dirty thoughts about what you’d like to do to me moments before you do them.”

  His hands stroked up the back of her thighs and under her skirt, cupping her bared cheeks and giving them a little squeeze. “Can you guess what dirty thoughts I’m thinking right now?”

  Her core muscles clenched hotly as her imagination ran wild. “Tell me.”

  The interior lights clicked off, the cooling engine’s tick and the rasps of their ragged breathing the only sounds in the still night air.

  “I’d rather show you,” he said and kissed her.

  Somehow, between kisses, Joe managed to send her bra flying into the front seat. He raised her higher onto her knees, lips closing on the tip of her breast, tongue sucking and swirling around her nipple until she begged for mercy. Every kiss was a match to tinder, every touch a wildfire waiting to happen. From the inside out she burned, flushed and breathless as his fingers slid between her thighs and found her ready.

  Mac’s hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t help him roll on the condom. Couldn’t even see the damn thing to help since even with moon and starlight turning the desert landscape pewter, very little light made it inside the car. Still straddling his legs, she arched backward to give him room in the confined space, her arm hooked over the Lincoln’s front seat.

  Strong hands spanned her waist.

  “Come back to me, MacKenna,” he said. “Come back here now.”

  The timbre of his voice had changed from rough and desperate to a deeper, softer tone that made her shiver with the need she heard in it. She let go of the front seat, her hands drifting to rest on Joe’s shoulders, to the bunched muscle and smooth skin that moved under her fingertips. He stroked hands up her thighs, guiding her in the darkness until the thick length of him slid through her folds and nudged against her opening. She pressed down, taking just the head of him inside, her nerve endings singing at the sheer pleasure of the accommodating stretch to surround him. His hands tightened on her bottom, keeping her still so she couldn’t sink onto his hard length. His chest rose and fell in jagged breaths, pushing against her budded nipples.

  Joe lowered her down a little more, her internal muscles squeezing greedily around him, trying to urge him deeper. Finally, he relented, and she took all of him. Every. Single. Inch. With him snugged tight inside her, Mac leaned in, breasts smooshing against his chest as she framed Joe’s face in her hands. Her thumbs scraped over the soft bristles covering his chin, up to the smooth, warm lips that parted for her with a little pressure. Parted in a smile that made her heart inexplicably ache with the intensity and intimacy of the moment. So tuned into her, Joe released her bottom and traced slow circles up her spine. Gone from his touch was the sudden, desperate need for possession, because he already possessed her, body, mind, soul. And he always would.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  His hand stilled on her nape, fingers loosely holding her in place. His sharp swallow in the silence was audible.

  “As in, ‘oh God, yes-yes-yes’?”

  Mac pressed her mouth to his, ran the tip of her tongue into the seam of his lips, and sighed as he opened to her, allowing her to explore his mouth with deep, drugging kisses. His arms banded around her, locking their bodies together in the most intimate of embraces.

  He was hers. She was his. It was all so simple.

  She pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Yes, I’ll marry you tomorrow, Joe.”

  He seemed to swell inside her, and his hips bucked up, driving himself even deeper. She moaned and dug her nails into his shoulders, her back arching in the pure, sweet pleasure of their connection.

  “You will?” he rasped.

  Her head dropped forward so in the darkness their gazes locked.

  “I will.”

  He laughed, a belly laugh that shook them both, and he kissed her again until she was lost. Then he moved within her until neither of them was laughing, but clinging together as the sensations carried them away.

  “Mac?”

  A tap came on the other side of the bathroom door. Mac lowered her mascara brush and cocked her head.

  “I’m leaving for the chapel now,” Joe said. “Just call the concierge, and give them ten minutes’ warning when you want the driver to arrive.”

  “Will do.”

  Joe had arranged everything while she’d still been in bed sipping her morning coffee. He’d found a wedding chapel that could fit them in and had gone out to get two plain wedding bands and her engagement ring resized. Then they’d both picked up a wedding license and driven to the suit hire place to rehire a suit for Joe, plus an off-the-rack gown for Mac. It wasn’t perfect, but as Joe pointed out, they were eloping.

  She hadn’t allowed him to see the dress—the not-seeing-the-bride tradition she wasn’t prepared to give up. Hence Joe getting changed in the bedroom while Mac got ready in the bathroom. Joe would leave for the wedding chapel thirty minutes early, and she’d meet him there.

  “Have you got the rings? The marriage license? Wallet, keys, phone?”

  An exasperated sigh came through the door. “Of course…dear. Or should I say, Mrs. Whelan in less than an hour’s time.”

  Less than an hour. Her stomach gave a topsy-turvy roll, and she pressed a firm hand to it. “Shut up, and let me finish getting beautiful since you kept me up until two this morning.”

  He laughed. “You know I’m bound by guy-law to remind you you’re already beautiful. Don’t be late.”

  “A bride is meant to be late on her wedding day,” she said, but he must have moved away already because he didn’t reply.

  A moment later, she heard the clunk of the hotel door closing.

  Mac finished applying the last coat of mascara—waterproof, of course, because she was no eejit—and left the bathroom. A harsh strip of sunlight split through the
drapes, cutting a white path toward the closet where her gown hung. She followed it, bare toes curling on the warm carpet. After unzipping the garment bag, she paused to run her fingertip along the edge of the gently scooped neckline. The dress’s simple shape would skim over her curves in a flattering line. It wasn’t fussy or crafted with Mac’s once girlish dreams in mind, but she thought she could still make Joe’s breath catch when he saw her walk down the aisle.

  Her cell phone rang, and she let go of the dress, crossing to her nightstand. Her gaze zipped around the room, scanning the tops of the other nightstand and the hotel dresser, where Joe had emptied his pockets every night—just in case the man had forgotten something. She tapped the talk button before her mind had time to catch up with the fact that it wasn’t Joe’s name flashing on her phone but her mother’s.

  “Hello? MacKenna? Are you there?”

  Her mother’s voice blasted into her ear. Heat in the form of tiny stinging prickles crept over her scalp and seeped down to her cheeks. Keep it together, she ordered herself, and sank onto the bed.

  “Hi, Mum,” Mac said. “I’m here.”

  “Your here is in Las Vegas, so your Facebook photos tell me.” She sniffed twice, insult in every huff. “We’re Facebook friends, remember—actually, we’re family. I shouldn’t have to find out you’ve gone on vacation from social media.”

  Worst mistake ever, accepting her mother’s Facebook friendship when Cheryl had figured out social media was a great way to meet men a couple of years ago. Obviously Mac’s brain hadn’t been working efficiently when she’d uploaded a couple of Vegas pictures for Holly and the girls’ benefit.

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Mum. A friend’s wedding. She got married at The Venetian Casino two days ago.”

  Mac heard some computer clicking sounds down the line.

  “You went for a wedding?” Her mum’s tone changed from hurt to gooey. “I’m just looking through your photos again. Is she the pretty brunette you’re standing with at the M&M’s shop?”

  “That’s the one. Her name’s Kerry. She’s Joe’s sister.”

  “You went with Joe? Oh, how romantic! Are you planning something wonderfully outrageous like a Vegas wedding of your own? I’ve always wanted to do that. I nearly did with Hamish, remember?”

  Mac’s fingers tightened around the phone. No, she didn’t remember. Was Hamish after Louis the two timer or before Scott the dull? Her mum’s love life after her parents’ divorce was littered with not-quite-up-to-scratch men. None of the men compared to Mac’s father, so none of those relationships lasted more than six months. But to give her mum credit, she’d been discreet while Mac was a child. It was only when she grew older and then into independence that she realized her mother was a serial dater with a terrible track record of broken relationships.

  “Why didn’t you, Mum? Why didn’t you run away to Vegas and marry him?”

  Something in her tone must’ve struck a chord as her mum’s breath hitched.

  “Hamish was a good man, but I had to be honest with myself and him about wanting to put in the effort day after day to make it work.”

  Blood began to thud in Mac’s eardrums in time with her pounding heart. “Did you love him?”

  “I thought I did,” she said. “I thought it was love. And perhaps it was, but it was a soap bubble kind of love. Not the tough, dig-in-your-heels kind of love that can survive the real world.”

  Mac huffed out a sigh. “How do you know the difference?”

  “I’m the last person to advise you on that.” Her mother chuckled. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your holiday. When you get home, you can tell me all about it, and show me your photos—bring Joe with you, of course.”

  The man Mac was meant to be marrying in—she stole a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand—thirty minutes’ time.

  “Okay. Love you, Mum. Gotta run,” she said and disconnected.

  Thirty minutes. Holy. Shit.

  Mac got a stranglehold on her emotions—panic leading the stampede—the same way she did as a wedding planner when an unforeseen catastrophe screwed something up at the last minute. She put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on action, not reactions.

  She called the concierge and requested her ride. Then shrugged off the hotel robe and slipped on the dress. Checked her reflection to make sure she hadn’t mussed her hair, stepped into the new, pretty white heels she’d bought to go with the dress. Applied a final dash of crimson lipstick and blotted carefully. She tucked her phone, lipstick, tissues, and the room key card into a white clutch purse she’d purchased with the heels. Turning off the lights, she left the hotel room.

  Down she went to the crazy-busy lobby, past the golden fountain, and out into the mid afternoon heat. Admiring glances and knowing smiles were directed at her from tourists and guests, and she fixed her mouth into a smile. Because that’s what you did on your wedding day. A nod at the driver as he opened the door of the luxury car. She slid onto the plush leather seat, holding her purse in her lap, her smile still in place as the driver pulled away from the hotel. They waited for a break in the traffic so the limo could drive her to the chapel. Take her to Joe—kind, clever, generous, funny, sexy, perfect Joe.

  The man she’d only known for seven weeks.

  The limo’s turn signal ticked, ticked, ticked. Cars lined up behind them, waiting to merge with the steady lanes of traffic. A horn blasted continuously.

  The man who’d already nearly married the wrong woman once and who had been badly hurt.

  Soap bubble love or dig-in-your-heels love?

  The sun beat against the vehicle’s windows, making the interior suffocatingly hot. Even with the AC blasting.

  The man who’d never forgive her if she left him at the altar.

  But a man whose heart she’d break if their marriage failed. If she failed him. Oh God. She’d fail him. She’d fail him, hurt him, and cause another scar on his heart that this time he mightn’t recover from.

  Mac shoved open the car door and scrambled onto the sidewalk. The driver yelled, but she didn’t stop to argue or apologize. She hoisted up her dress, and as fast as her heels would allow, she ran back into the hotel.

  Chapter 19

  Joe was all out of excuses.

  Trapped in an elevator. A flat tire. Anaphylactic shock if Mac had somehow inhaled a shrimp cocktail by accident.

  He’d waited until she was thirty minutes’ late before calling her, after reassuring the marriage celebrant that his bride-to-be was definitely on the way. But his call had gone straight to voice mail. As did his next calls, spaced five, ten, twelve minutes after that. He called the hotel’s front desk and was connected with their room—no answer. Then the car service, but the driver who’d been sent to collect Mac wasn’t answering his cell phone. Dispatch would get back in touch with Joe as soon as they could.

  Mac wasn’t coming.

  He sat in the Lincoln, parked at the rear of the chapel with the engine running, the AC blowing cold air on his already cold face.

  There was no trapped elevator, no flat tire, no shrimp cocktail. She just wasn’t coming. But he still had to see for himself.

  With ice stiffening his veins, Joe drove to The Venetian. Everything seemed brighter, louder, gaudier. The neon signs screamed, the sun blistered, and the body odor of the sweaty tourists crammed into the elevator with him more noxious than ever. The distance from the elevator to the room stretched out in an endless walk that went on and on.

  He swiped his key card, and the door clicked open. He stood in the doorway, the only sound the hum of the AC. There was no need to call Mac’s name; her two suitcases were gone. Joe walked straight to the closet and slid open the door. Inside hung the empty garment bag that his suit had come in, but not a second one. This time, at least, his runaway bride had returned her own wedding dress.

  He checked the dresser and the nightstands for a note, something to tell him what the hell was going on. There—on his pillow,
a note written on the hotel’s branded paper.

  Joe,

  I’m so sorry I let you down, but I can’t marry you—not like this. If I had stayed, one look at you, and I would’ve let you convince me of forever all over again. But we would’ve been making a mistake. The timing isn’t right, and the last thing in the world I want is to make a mistake that will eventually hurt you more than I’ve already done. I’ve taken your nanny’s ring with me to keep it safe. It’s on a chain around my neck, close to my heart, like you are. Shit. I’m running out of paper. I love you, Joe, I’m SO sorry.

  Mac.

  Joe crossed to the window and looked down on Las Vegas Boulevard. So many emotions, so many urges fought for domination inside him that he was rendered helpless. He wanted to head to the airport and confront her. Demand further explanation. Kiss her until she changed her mind. Never kiss her again because she’d bloody run instead of talking to him. Take back his nanny’s ring. Tell her to keep the feckin’ ring because he’d never love another woman the way he loved her.

  But there’d be no chick-flick chase to the airport; no swelling orchestral accompaniment as he ran through the terminal to stop Mac boarding the plane.

  She was gone. Point made.

  Joe yanked off his jacket and removed his tie. Toed off his shoes and threw them across the room. Swore while stripping off his suit pants and shirt, and dumped them on the back of a chair. In socks and boxer shorts he stretched out on the bed and hit the remote, surfing until he found a football game. Pissed off heartbreak would have to do as company tonight.

  Twenty hours of air travel and airports didn’t do much to improve Joe’s mood. He strode out of Invercargill airport into a bleak, heavily clouded afternoon, the damp chill working deep into his bones as he loaded his suitcase into a waiting taxi. He sank into the back seat, and the driver had to ask twice where he wanted to go.

  Bluff and the ferry terminal, that’s where he wanted to go. A one-hour buffeting of salt spray to clear his head before the inevitable return to his life. He told the taxi driver Mac’s address. While he wanted to slink back to Stewart Island, he needed to see Mac first.