by Jule McBride
Only hours later, he’d shattered all her earthly dreams.
“Lillian…”
She stared through the veil as the minister said, “Do you take Shane to be your lawful husband?”
For an instant, she couldn’t find her voice. Emotions crowded in on her: the heartfelt longing for Shane she was trying to fight; the anticipation of Brandon’s powdery softness cuddled to her breast.
She swallowed hard. “I do.”
“And do you, Shane, take Lillian….”
Shane’s face, so stark and solemn, seemed to mirror the emotions in her soul. The sheer weight of their surroundings—the high arched stone ceilings and imposing windows—seemed to bear down on them, accounting for the seriousness she saw in the watery translucent depths of his eyes. She felt now as if he could see straight through the veil into her heart. Suddenly, she felt sure he’d always seen through her—and that he’d loved her anyway. He didn’t, really. But it would be wonderful if such a thing was true.
He said, “I do.”
The minister nodded. “I join you now as husband and wife.”
She became conscious of her nerves again—her staggering pulse and shaky knees, and braced herself for the necessary touch of Shane’s lips, assuring herself the kiss held no significance. It was only a performance. The altar was the stage; the congregation, the audience. Now if only her leading man would grin or wink, Lillian wished. If only he’d do something clownish or inappropriate, some damn cute thing to remind them they were playacting…
But Shane’s gaze was more serious than ever as his fingers caught the veil’s edge. Her lips parted in silent anticipation and her traitorous hands trembled on the flower stems.
Get it over with, Shane! her eyes pleaded.
When his dark hand paused on the filmy material, he seemed to hold a handful of Lillian’s bunched, little white lies. Her breath caught—as if his lifting the veil could actually remove those lies. As if his kiss was something magical that could transform her, change her from Delilah Fontenont into someone who really was Lillian Smith. Or Lillian Holiday. A woman who had a real husband and a son named Brandon.
It couldn’t. But right then, Lillian wished for it. Suddenly, her eyes stung. She should have known they would. She always cried at weddings. Gently, Shane lifted the veil and brushed it from her face. As he stepped closer, her breath caught as his roughly tender fingers slid beneath her chin. Cupping it, he lowered his lips. “Lillian,” he sighed, simply.
Then his firm warm lips pressed hers, his supportive hands gliding down her sides, his languorous tongue flickering, then going so deep that Lillian felt the timeless kiss melt her; his mouth vanished and she felt only warm smoky tendrils curling inside her. Very definitely, this was more than wedding decorum allowed.
Leaning back, he stared at her. His eyes, sometimes so unreadable, now held desire that shook the core of her. This kiss never should have happened.
“Your performance was worthy of an Oscar,” she murmured, her husky voice so low no one could hear.
“Well, for my acceptance speech,” Shane returned softly, “let me tell you it wasn’t a performance.”
She was afraid of that. “You swore you wouldn’t kiss me like that again,” she whispered.
“I lied, Lillian,” Shane whispered back.
“But I don’t want you to do it,” she said. And then she swallowed hard, because she was the one who was lying.
Everything in his eyes said he knew it.
“I THINK IT WENT WELL,” Lillian managed lightly.
Shane lounged against the doorjamb, watching her wiggle the key in the apartment lock, his gaze trailing down her long legs. It was late. He felt heavy, full and faintly aroused—from the aged red wine Jefferson favored, and the oysters and caviar at the buffet arranged by Jefferson’s private club, and from playing the part of Lillian’s husband—cutting the cake and dancing with her for the benefit of the few wedding guests.
It went well? Was that all Lillian meant to say about their wedding? About the fact they were now legally husband and wife? “Yeah,” Shane agreed, “I think everybody had a good time.”
“I’m sorry your brother wasn’t there.”
Shane was, too. He hadn’t phoned Doc, but there was something, well…wrong with that. Doc should have been best man. Their aunts should have been there, too. Aunt Dixie Lynn, especially, would skin Shane alive if she knew he’d gotten married. That the marriage wasn’t for love wouldn’t bother Dixie Lynn in the least, if she knew—no more than would Shane’s working undercover. She’d just say, “Any woman fool enough to marry my nephew for any reason is good enough for me.” And then Dixie Lynn would pump Lillian with questions, find out about the plans to adopt Brandon, and start calling Lillian “niece.”
Lillian caught his gaze, a slight smile curving her lips. “What are you looking at?”
“The prettiest bride alive.”
“You wear a suit well yourself.”
“Thanks.” He considered stepping over and embracing her from behind. He wanted her close right now; wanted his arms wrapped around her waist while he burrowed against her neck and pulled in deep breaths of her. His eyes settled where her lace dress hugged her lower curves, and he was conscious of the lazy heat teasing his belly, just a slow-circling spiraling push of arousal that Lillian’s every soft breath seemed to stir. He leaned, almost impulsively, swiftly threading his fingers through hers. They hadn’t been alone since he’d kissed her at the wedding, and for hours he’d wanted to pull her in front of him as he did now. “C’mere. I want to talk to you.”
Their bodies weren’t even touching, only their hands were linked, but her voice was oddly husky. “Yeah, Shane?”
He had no idea what he wanted to say. Oh, he knew how he felt. He ached for her—and he felt guilty. If he had a brain in his head, he’d phone Fin and end this damn charade before he did any more damage. Trouble was, he didn’t want to leave Lillian even though he knew this had to end before tomorrow morning when Ethel came. Were the agents right? Was Shane too deeply involved?
His throat felt strangely raw. “You were a beautiful bride today, Lillian.”
“Oh, husband of mine,” she said lightly, “like I said, you didn’t look so bad in wedding clothes, yourself.”
Before he’d kissed her at the altar, he’d cupped the moist silk of her chin. Even as he did so again, he was remembering the agents bursting into the apartment yesterday. He’d called Fin; apparently the guys staking out Lillian’s thought Shane was arresting her.
Now Lillian nodded toward the open door. “As good as we look, I guess we’d better change into jeans, go over our notes and make sure we don’t forget any pertinent facts tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” His eyes never leaving hers, he dropped a finger from her chin to her lace-covered shoulder. “What say, we take the night off?”
She smiled. Her eyes were slanted with drowsiness and, in this light, they looked lighter, flecked with almond. “Just what did you have in mind?”
What I have in mind every time I look at you. Settling his palms on her waist, his eyes drifted over the up-swept hair he wanted to unpin. “Maybe seeing your hair down.” He never had. At least not dry.
She chuckled softly. “Now there’s a worthy activity. Any other ideas?”
Shane could think of nothing worthier. His eyes drifted to where her lace-edged neckline made dappled shadows on the swells of her breasts. “What about my carrying you over the threshold? Would that qualify?”
“Oh, Shane, we’d better not—”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re married now.”
“Exactly.”
He lifted her easily, so quickly she couldn’t protest, and held her against his chest—an arm around her back, the other under her knees. Finding her lighter than he expected, he took a step back to compensate, then he glided over the threshold. As he elbowed the door shut behind them, she wrapped an arm around his neck.
>
He headed down the long unlit hallway.
“No, Shane,” she protested gently, sensing where he was headed. “I’m so worried something will go wrong tomorrow. I’m afraid I won’t get the baby. We really need to study tonight.”
“You’re Lillian Holiday,” he returned. “Previously Lillian Smith. You’re five-foot-eight. Weigh a hundred and thirty pounds, but right now you feel lighter. You grew up in a little white brick house with ivy and a picket fence, and you like gumbo and raw oysters. When we kiss, you’re going to taste of warm red wine, sugary white icing, tangy cocktail sauce, ice cream and—”
“But, Shane—”
“No buts, Lillian.” His voice was low, his breath lingering near her lips. “You live at 390 Liberty Terrace, work for high financier Jefferson Lawrence and even though you profess to hate it, you secretly love to be tickled—”
“Please, Shane—”
“Don’t ‘please-Shane’ me. You also love kids and reruns of bad television shows from the seventies. Besides that, you’ve got a body any man would kill to hold, just the way I’m holding it right now.”
His murmured recitation continued. But with every step, his heart was wrenching with guilt. He knew better than to try to take her to bed. He wasn’t anymore truthful than she. And if he answered Ethel Crumble’s questions tomorrow, Ethel might actually decide they could adopt. Not that they’d get the baby immediately. Surely, they’d have to undergo weeks, maybe even months, of waiting and red tape.
They? Where had that come from? His heart skipped a beat. Quickly, Shane reminded himself it was Lillian who wanted a son, not him. And that he might not be staying here another day, much less months.
He heard her soft, near-silent catch of breath as he entered the bedroom. Another as he flicked on the bedside lamp and laid her across the bed. Wordlessly, he sat beside her on the mattress—their hips touching, the lace of her pretty dress feeling rough when his warm palm resettled on her hip.
Delilah Fontenont, a.k.a. Lillian Smith.
Lillian Holiday.
Shane never guessed he’d get this close to her, much less become her legal husband. He’d never imagined her looking this gorgeous, lying in bed on their wedding night. The red lampshade’s dim glow had turned her dress and the poreless skin of her cheeks pink. And seeing how red highlights danced in her hair nestled on the rose-touched pillows, Shane forgot everything: that she was a fugitive and he was a lawman. And that she sincerely thought he would help her adopt Brandon.
He reached, removing pins from her hair and setting them on the bedside table. When his eyes swept past the open bathroom door, the quick glimpse he caught of his reflection in the mirrors reminded him he had no real rights here. He was deceiving her. Maybe it was he—not she—who was all smoke and mirrors.
Her smile was too flip. She was trying to make light of what was happening. “Excuse me? Did I miss something? Did you just put me on the bed, Shane?”
He didn’t smile. His unflinching eyes settled on hers. “Isn’t that where a man puts his bride?”
A tremor shook her voice. “C’mon. What exactly are we doing here?”
“This.” He drew a last pin from her French twist, then raked a hand beneath her nape. Loving the touch of the silken strands between his fingers, he fluffed her hair across one of the myriad pillows, then toyed with a stray lock, where it brushed her shoulders. Like him, Lillian was torn between common sense and desire. He could read that plainly in her seductively slanted eyes. “We’re not really married, Shane.”
His eyes pierced hers. “Things have changed, though, haven’t they?” They’d exchanged vows. His voice hit a rough, hoarse patch. “Look, Lillian, I never guessed getting married would mean anything, but…” It did.
So did the laughs they’d shared, and the long nights they’d spent talking about their lives. He thought of lines Lillian had spoon-fed him, so he could tell Ethel why he’d be a good father: I want to share the things I love with my son, Brandon—woodworking, fishing, hiking. I want to take him to see Texas and Louisiana, all the places where I grew up.
But suddenly, those didn’t seem like rehearsed make-believe lines anymore, and Shane craved the boy and family that would never be his. As his gaze swept down the bride he wanted to possess, he felt the familiar seven-year ache that hurt both his body and heart. It was a hollowness he’d felt while watching her through windows, or following behind her, feeling like her love-slave as he tailed her at a distance.
Oblivious of his thoughts, she nodded slowly. “I guess it’s hard to make wedding vows without…” She paused, swallowing hard. The room was warm without air-conditioning and suddenly very still and silent; her eyes darted downward, as if she’d just become conscious she was lying in bed with him leaning over her. “Without the vows meaning something,” she finished.
He murmured, “Everything means something, Lillian.”
Her smile was gentle. “How wise. What else do you know?”
“About you?”
She nodded.
“A lot.” The slight, faintly lopsided turn of his lips made his eyes crinkle. “You’re Lillian Holiday,” he recited again. “Very recently married. Five-foot-eight. One hundred and thirty pounds. And when I kiss you—”
“I’m going to taste like cocktail sauce.”
“Don’t forget the wine, icing and ice cream.”
Her voice was a near whisper. “What’s a kiss without ice cream on top?”
Shane leaned closer. “A whole lot hotter.”
She chuckled, then her throaty drawl turned as soft as the restraining hand she lifted to his shoulder. “Really, Shane, I…I don’t think we should pretend anymore. It’s not right to carry me over the threshold, or to kiss me the way you did at the church.” Or to make love to me the way your eyes say you want to. She might as well have said it out loud.
“But I did.”
She must have seen something timelessly male flicker in his gaze then, some feral light or predatory awareness, because a soft plea infused her tone. “Shane, we can’t forget we only got married because of tomorrow…”
His hand tightened possessively on her waist; the slow firm rub of his thumb caressed her side, teasing the white lace. “I don’t care about tomorrow,” he said. It wasn’t true. He cared a lot. But as he tilted his head down, hoping she’d let him kiss her, he found himself saying, “All I care about is right now, Lillian. Just you and me. And the present moment.”
“Shane…”
Once again, she’d only huskily murmured his name. Did she fear talking more—and admitting too much? Would another kiss threaten her control? She was definitely threatening his. He was so close that her breasts brushed his chest and their breaths mingled. He barely recognized his own voice; it had roughened to the point of hoarseness. “Why shouldn’t I kiss you?”
“Like I said, we’re married now.”
“Like I said,” he whispered back, descending the last inch separating them, “that’s exactly why we should.” As he captured her mouth, he did taste wine and sweet icing from their wedding cake, but Shane’s heart had a taste of a claiming he’d never known. She was his wife. Something had happened to him in that church. Shane didn’t know what. But in the eyes of the law, he and Lillian belonged to each other now. And if there was one thing Shane believed in, it was the law.
Against his mouth, she murmured, “Really, Shane, there’s so much we don’t know about each other.”
“You’re Lillian Holiday. You’re five-eight, a hun—”
“But you don’t understand…”
I understand better than you think, Delilah. But one look at you—and I’m swept away, drowning. He leaned back a fraction, his eyes suddenly blazing into hers because he knew she wanted him, and her denial was starting to gall. She made him feel so many things he wanted to fight. Hadn’t she guessed he was used to being alone and feared needing anybody—especially her? Didn’t she know the emotions he was feeling didn’t come easily to him? �
�I’ve wanted you a long time, Lillian. Can’t you understand that?”
“We’ve only know each other a few weeks.”
He had no answer for that, so he grasped her hand—roughly in gesture, softly in touch—and curled it against his chest, whispering, “I’ve dreamed about being with you.”
And he wanted to say more. To confess those dreams had haunted him for years. Feeling her trembling hand against him set his mind spinning and flooded his groin, making him throb with frustrated need. It was unbearable—the way her most innocent touch could arouse him so thoroughly.
Her lips suddenly parted, and the hand that wasn’t against his chest found his shoulder and clung. The soft rasp of her voice, the sweetness of her breath, undid him. “Shane, I admit I’ve…thought about this, too. About making love with you.”
Breath eluded him. “You want to…?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
He felt he’d waited a lifetime to hear it. He moved his body on top of her, his tongue parting her lips. He’d wanted so much more than this kiss—his emotions demanded it—but what exactly he ultimately wanted, he couldn’t quite admit. So, he gave with his tongue—diving deep in a wet possessive kiss, thrusting.
After a long time, he leaned away and saw her jaw was slack, her eyes dazed. She looked utterly beautiful in the wedding dress that had risen above her knees. His eyes never leaving hers, he removed his tie, then his jacket and shirt. When he was bare-chested with his belt open, his heated gaze strayed from her face to her toes.
Delilah.
He almost said her real name aloud. He could see hints of the dark wild woman he’d wanted so long ago. Determined to coax her out of the primmer Lillian, Shane leaned and cupped her face, sending a searing stare deep into her eyes. It was meant to pierce her soul—and did.
“Undress me,” she whispered.
Hearing the soft catching sigh of her voice, he felt a crushing tenderness for her that he knew he could never fight. Somehow, some way, he’d help this woman out of whatever jam she was in. And he’d bring her the release she was begging for with those glossy dark eyes.
