Runaway Vegas Bride

by Teresa Hill

  Except, she was in his apartment, having made herself at home at least enough to make a pot of coffee and have what looked like the remains of an English muffin and peanut butter. Probably hadn’t been much to choose from here, Wyatt knew, thinking it didn’t sound half-bad.

  He had coffee, put a muffin in the toaster for himself and found the peanut butter. He ate standing in the kitchen, looking at her legs as she finished her phone call, came to kiss him good-morning and tell him she needed to go by her apartment before the funeral to put on her black suit.

  Wyatt frowned.

  Had he missed something? Was this her taking care of him some more, or had there been some agreement he’d completely forgotten about on her moving in here?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he claimed.

  “I checked with the funeral home. Everything’s in order. Still no word from your father—”

  “I really didn’t expect him to make it, Jane.”

  “Okay. All four ex-wives are coming.”

  “Great.” Wyatt could just imagine fights breaking out over the seating arrangements among the wives.

  “I wouldn’t normally mention anything to do with the will right now, but Lucy’s afraid you might get questions about it at the service. Apparently, some of the exes are quite anxious about…I guess, Leo had been very generous to them and some of their children over the years—”

  Wyatt shook his head and laughed. “Yes, he was a very generous man. I’m sure they’re all hoping for the same in his will. Honestly, I can’t remember exactly what he did in his most recent will, even though I drew it up for him. He changed it a lot.”

  “Well, I thought I should warn you, that you might want to dodge them today.”

  “I have a feeling they will not be delayed on any questions about money. God, they want everything they can get from him, right to the end.”

  “I could do my best to run interference, once I figure out who’s who,” she offered.

  “You’re going to protect me from the money-grubbing ex-wives?” He loved that she wanted to try, but she looked like a pixie next to most adult women.

  She frowned. “I can do it. I’m not afraid of anybody. Plus, they take one look at me and expect me to be a pushover, so I have the advantage going in. I’m much tougher than I look.”

  He wanted to come right back with, Jane, women do not protect me. But clearly, she thought she needed to, and it was kind of sweet, once he’d gotten used to the idea and as long as it was temporary. Say, until they got Leo in the ground, he supposed.

  And since Jane’s particular brand of comfort included her sweet, generous, willing body in his bed, was he really going to object? Even if the whole Jane-moving-in feeling left him…uneasy. Grateful, at the moment, but uneasy.

  “Okay, tough girl,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do against the four of them.”

  He drove her to her townhouse, not surprised to find it neat, efficient, comfortable and without a single thing out of place. This was definitely Jane.

  “A great investment,” she told him, as they walked in the door.

  “I never doubted it for a second,” he said, standing in the living room, looking around while she got dressed in the back bedroom.

  The walls were a cheery yellow, the old, hardwood floors gleaming, a brick fireplace dominating the room. And the whole place smelled like her. He wished he could just stay here all day instead of having to face the funeral.

  Jane returned a few minutes later in one of her signature power suits, this time in black, but with what he thought might be another camisole underneath it instead of the usual prim, white blouse. This one was a silky-looking, light grayish-blue thing that left her throat and a bit of her chest bare.

  “Stepping out of your comfort zone once again?” he teased, because teasing her sounded like a good idea, like a good thing to help him get through the day.

  She was so cute when she was being teased, particularly about her clothing. “I just thought, maybe I’ve been in a rut lately. You don’t think it’s inappropriate, do you?”

  “Not at all. In fact, women have always looked their best for Leo. I’m thinking we’re in for something akin to a fashion show in funeral apparel.”

  “Really? Maybe I should change.”

  “No. Trust me. This is perfect.”

  He’d gotten to her side by then, seen that it was indeed a silk camisole, slipped the jacket off one shoulder and seen the tiny little straps that held the camisole up and all that delicious skin of hers underneath. With the jacket on, she looked perfectly professional and even somewhat modest. Perfect for Jane. But underneath was all that skin, and he’d be the only one who knew.

  They drove to Remington Park to pick up Kathleen and Gladdy, who were waiting at the curb for them as they arrived.

  “Look at them,” Jane said. “They look like they’ve been at the salon all morning. Their hair just so, their best jewelry on, great shoes. Are those gloves? Wyatt, they’re wearing gloves. I’m feeling intimidated by the fashion choices of two eighty-something-year-olds.”

  “You come from a family of good-looking women, Jane. You’re going to be gorgeous when you’re eighty.”

  He got out of the car, kissed each of them on the cheek, telling them they looked fabulous and that Leo definitely would have approved. They beamed up at him as he helped them into the car, then, almost in unison, pulled out white lace hankies and dabbed delicately at the corners of their eyes, the perfect vision of class, high fashion and bereavement.

  They arrived at the funeral home to find a mob scene, though they were there a full forty-five minutes early. The funeral director met them at the door. Kathleen stepped up and identified herself as the widow, obviously expecting the great respect due to her, even if she and Leo had only been married for a few hours.

  Wyatt wondered how that would go over with the four ex-wives.

  The director apologized for the lack of space to accommodate the crowd and promised his staff was opening another room and setting up more chairs as they spoke.

  “It appears your husband was an extremely well-known and well-loved man, Mrs. Gray,” the director told Gram.

  “Oh, he was,” she said, she and Gladdy clinging to each other, hankies out and at the ready.

  Inside, they walked past a large room overflowing with women, just as Wyatt expected. He saw more of the gloves that had so surprised Jane, more white hankies, a few hats here and there, and an abundance of jewelry, especially diamonds.

  Jane stopped in her tracks. “There must be five hundred women in there.”

  “You expected less?” Wyatt asked.

  “And you’re right. It looks like a funeral-wear fashion show. Like somebody put out a casting call for over-fifty models. I didn’t know there were this many gorgeous women of a certain age in this city.”

  “The Gray men have always been blessed with a gift for finding attractive women,” he said.

  Speaking of which, he thought he saw more than one ex-girlfriend of his own in the crowd. Just what he needed today. He eased closer to Jane and put a proprietary hand low on her waist, just a touch above her bottom. She all but melted under his touch, easing into his side as if she belonged there. It just felt so good to have her close.

  “Look out. Money-grubbing ex-wives ahead,” he said, seeing two of them, maybe even three. It had been a long time since he’d seen Number Three and wasn’t absolutely sure he’d recognize her anymore.

  “Which ones?” she began, then stopped once again at the sight of them, sitting prominently in the front row in the little room reserved for immediate family. “Fur? They’re wearing fur? In May?”

  “Fashion faux pas?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It just seems a bit much.”

  Both women got up and approached him, each trying to edge out the other to be the first to reach Wyatt.

  He was amused to see that Jane took her protective duties seriously. Sh
e planted herself firmly in their path, sticking out a hand and introducing herself, then asking if they’d met Leo’s widow.

  Faces fell at the word widow, concerned looks came out, and both women stood a little straighter, shoulders back, chests out, as if they were getting ready for inspection or as if there might soon be an all-out battle for the former affections of Leo Gray.

  Kathleen bore their scrutiny with good grace and a hint of steeliness Wyatt couldn’t help but admire, launching into an account of her love and devotion to the man.

  “Good move, Jane,” Wyatt said admiringly, as she came back to his side and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “That should stall them for a while. Gram and Gladdy can hold their own against anyone, particularly in things concerning a man.”

  Another ex-wife walked into the room, obviously recognizing Wyatt and making a beeline for him.

  “Number Three,” Wyatt warned. “She looks like she might step right over you, if you try to get in her way, Jane. Number Three always was kind of mean.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Jane said, taking Wyatt by the arm and leading him away.

  He went willingly, following her down the hall and through a door marked Private that turned out to be a walk-in closet with cleaning supplies and paper products. Jane shut the door behind them, plunging the small, windowless space in total darkness. Wyatt felt her reach for him, her hand landing on his arm, then his chest.

  His arms closed around her, fitting her body to his, tucking the back of her head against his shoulder, his other hand wandering down until it rested low on her waist. “Distract me, Jane,” he whispered, nuzzling her delicious neck.

  “In a funeral home?”

  “You could do it,” he told her, pressing her up against the wall, telling himself he could kiss her here, just for a minute or two. “Leo wouldn’t mind a bit. And I don’t see any reason to go back out there just yet.”

  He endured the funeral, mostly by thinking of those few stolen moments in the closet with Jane, kissing her, his hands wandering, her complaining that he’d left her all mussed up.

  Just the way he liked her.

  Even with the distraction, it was still nearly too much to fathom, being in the same room for the last time with Leo’s body, with all these people who knew and loved him, all these women who wanted him and his money, and then Wyatt imagining a world without him.

  He did get a kick out of the pretty women there, just the effort they’d obviously made to look their best for Leo one last time, and the over-the-top, downright theatrical mourning. The place was filled with sobs and delicate tears and hankies.

  Wyatt held on to Jane’s hand and tried to block out the tributes Leo’s friends made to him, to his love of life, his energy, his exuberance, the sheer joy with which he approached each and every day.

  Someone had insisted on a reception in Leo’s honor afterward at Remington Park, something else which Wyatt endured, keeping Jane close to him, allowing her to act as a buffer between him and the rest of the world.

  Thankfully, by early evening, he was once again back in his own apartment, alone with Jane. He hadn’t asked if she’d wanted to or planned to come back here with him. He’d just brought her and kept her, because that’s what he’d wanted.

  And now she was standing there, just inside the door, in her little black suit with the pretty gray-blue camisole, looking up at him as if she was ready once again to give him anything he wanted, anything he might need to get through the day.

  What kind of man argued with that?

  He’d have to be crazy.

  “Jane?” he asked, in a warm, sexy tone that had her heartbeat kicking up a notch as he closed the door behind them once they got into his apartment.

  “Yes?” she answered, thinking if he had some sort of distraction in mind, if that’s what he needed, she was certainly willing.

  He claimed her, that big, glorious body of his crowding her until her back was pressed against the wall, and his body settled against hers. She brought her hands up instinctively, not pushing him away, but resting against his chest, on his shoulders, then winding around his neck.

  “Seeing you in that little suit reminds me of you on the plane to Vegas.”

  She grinned. “I liked our plane ride to Vegas.”

  “Me too.”

  As he said it, his hands skimmed over her, inside her jacket, down over the curves of her breasts, his mouth dipping into that spot on her neck that made her just crazy. She felt the heat of him seeping into her body, her blood pounding, her breasts heavy and aching, wanting his attention, his hands, his mouth.

  He took his hand and palmed her hips through her clothes, pulling her up and to his body, until she could feel he was aroused, as well, a little thrill shooting through her that she had done this to him. Her. Mousy little Jane. The Queen of Awkward Sex Jane.

  She’d never felt the least bit awkward with him.

  He took her in a flurry of eagerness and need, hands flying over her, taking the time to do nothing but push her camisole up, so he could get his mouth on her breasts, and pulling off her panties and throwing them on the floor behind him.

  His hot hands took her hips and lifted them, lifted her, holding her against the wall with his body as he unzipped his pants and down they went, along with his briefs. He started thrusting, teasingly, against the opening of her body, right there without actually being there, sliding along the mouth of that slick opening, sliding in, just a hint, then gone again.

  “Wyatt,” she begged.

  He didn’t tease her, didn’t make her wait, not in the three nights they’d spent together. He just came to her, filled her, gave himself to her, all need and raw emotion and blinding pleasure. She hadn’t known what to think at first, what to say, what to do, and then realized she didn’t have to do a thing, just give herself to him, that it was more than enough.

  She clutched at his shoulders, loving the feel of his big, hard body, the sheer bulk of the man. Her thighs fell open even wider, her legs clutching his hips, trying to get him where she wanted him, inside her.

  He wouldn’t let her.

  “What?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You,” he muttered, his mouth against hers, making it clear who was in charge here, who was in control.

  She let her nails sink into his back, her other hand into his hair. She whimpered, squirmed against him and that maddening, teasing rhythm he’d set, still not even inside her in that aching, empty space in her body.

  He shifted his weight and hers, holding her to the wall with one hand, the other slipping between her legs, finding that spot that just made her crazy, the one he’d been merciless with on the plane to Vegas, when she couldn’t make a sound for fear of anyone figuring out what they were doing.

  Now, pleasure heated and bloomed inside her. She pulled his hair, called out his name. She was completely his in that moment. He demanded absolute control, absolute surrender. She realized it had been his for the taking all along, whenever he decided to claim it as his own. She just hadn’t realized the power he held over her, the things he’d demand.

  He finally gave in to her, sinking deep inside her, the feeling exquisite. He froze there for a moment, her body throbbing around his, adjusting, making room, gripping. It just felt so good.

  He kissed her again, rocked her body ever so slowly against his with those hands that held her hips. She felt helpless, powerless, breathless, crying out, her body quivering with need.

  And soon, it was as if the whole world exploded around them, slipped away, leaving nothing but the two of them, their bodies, their pounding hearts, their mouths, every maddening, adoring, confusing thing she felt for him, swelling up inside her and spilling out, along with the tears seeping out her eyes.

  She couldn’t do anything but cling to him, lie there weakly against him as his body tensed, he called out her name and sank into her one last time.

  When she could still barely move, h
e slipped away from her, eased her down to stand on her own two feet. Which didn’t seem possible, as her legs felt like jelly.

  But he stayed close, holding her up with his body, as he shrugged completely out of his shirt, his slacks and underwear, even his socks and shoes. Then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his bedroom, laying her on the bed, undressing her himself and tossing the rest of her clothes away one by one.

  He was so gorgeous, standing there in the dim light of his room, gloriously naked, those tight hips, narrow waist, powerful thighs, broad shoulders, wicked smile.

  “That’s what you wanted to do to me in Vegas?” she asked.

  ‘That’s just the beginning of what I planned to do with you in Vegas,” he told her, then got into the bed beside her and pulled her on top of him.

  “Wyatt, I can’t,” she said. Her legs sprawled onto either side of his hips, her body still warm and wet and throbbing from what he’d already done to her. “I don’t have the strength to move.”

  “You don’t have to go far,” he said, growing aroused again.

  He shifted his hips this way and that, shifted her body, until he was once again inside her, then pulled her down on top of him, so that her breasts pressed against his chest, and took her hips in his hand, showing her what he wanted her to do, until she found the strength to take over the movement herself.

  He was so deep inside her this way, and the slightest rocking motion of hers just felt…it felt so good.

  “There you go, Jane. You like being in control. Remember?”

  She laughed weakly, moaned, thinking there were probably a lot of things she could do to him and thoroughly enjoy, things to experience, to learn, to want, to need. Time to explore, pleasures to seek, to discover.

  A moment later, any illusion of control she had had was gone once again. He pulled her hard against him and held her there, surging up and into her, taking what he wanted once more, what she was happy to give.

  His fingertips dug into her hips, and she ground herself against him, because being close just wasn’t enough. She wanted more, needed it, needed to be a part of him, someone who could never be completely separate from him again.