The Best Is Yet to Come & Maternity Bride

by Diana Palmer

  He lifted his shoulders. "Nice little boy, though," he said, changing the subject. "A real character."

  "You like children, don't you?" she asked, smiling up at him as they walked on. She didn't object to his arm around her shoulders, and he didn't offer to move it. She felt its warm weight with pleasure, measuring her steps to his as they walked along the wide sidewalk and traffic came and went on the street beside it.

  "Yes, I like kids." He glanced down at her. "You don't really know much about me, do you?" he asked.

  "Well, I know that you like to eat, that you make a lot of money, that you're always busy and that you have a big heart." She smiled self-consciously. "But, no, I guess I don't know a lot about you." Except that I love you, she could have added. He stopped walking and turned her toward him, his big hands gentle on her shoulders, while around them Jacksonville's night lights shone colorfully and the noise of the traffic seemed to dim suddenly.

  "Stop running," he said unexpectedly.

  She couldn't see his eyes in the dim light. She wished that she could, because his voice sounded strange.

  "I…I don't understand," she said.

  "Yes, you do." His chest rose and fell heavily. "Ivy, I know that I hurt you, all those years ago. But now that you're older, maybe you understand a little better that men can be unreasonable when they're aroused and frustrated."

  The feel of his warm, strong hands biting into her shoulders made her feel giddy. She stared up at him in the darkness, wanting to take that one step that would bring her body into close contact with his. She wanted him to hold her, so that she could deal with all the fierce emotions he aroused. Ben had never made her feel any of the confusion and delight that Ryder did.

  "That was a long time ago," she said, choosing her words. She stared at the front of his sweater. "Ryder, it's still…early days."

  "Ben again, is that it?" His hands tightened. "By God, I'll knock him out of your head…!"

  He bent, finding her mouth with his. He was rough without meaning to be. The feel of her soft, warm body in his arms stirred him almost beyond bearing. He groaned harshly against her shocked mouth, lifting her higher, devouring her in a silence where the loudness of her heartbeats drowned out the traffic.

  Ivy felt hot all over as he kissed her, and she wanted so desperately to give in to the sensations he was arousing. But he gave her no room to respond. And when she felt the faint tremor in his bruising arms, she pushed at his shoulders. His ardor frightened her because it was violent. Violent, like Ben…

  Ryder heard her say the other man's name and drew back instantly, putting her back on her feet with a jerky movement. His face was suddenly hard. "Damn Ben!" he ground out.

  He turned away, ramming his hands into his pockets. His heartbeat was choking him. He was on fire, and all she could manage was Ben's name, Ben's memory. He wanted to hit something.

  Ivy realized belatedly what she'd done. She hadn't meant to blurt out her dead husband's name, it was just that Ryder's violent behavior brought back nightmarish memories.

  She moved toward him, but he wouldn't face her. She reached out and gently touched his spine above his belt buckle. He stiffened at the light contact.

  "I know what you think," she began softly. "But you're wrong. It wasn't because…"

  A huge tractor trailer roared past, drowning out what she was trying to say. By then, Ryder was walking again, impersonally drawing her along by her elbow, back to the hotel.

  "Ryder," she tried again when they were in the lobby.

  He handed her the key to the suite. "You might as well go on up," he said tersely. "I've got a stop to make."

  Before she could argue, he was gone, in the general direction of the hotel lounge, taking his misapprehensions with him. Ivy threw up her hands and went up to the suite.

  Perhaps they were fated to be apart, she thought as she lay sleepless in bed. She wanted so badly to give in to Ryder, to get close to him, to love him. But she didn't understand his anger, his roughness with her. He couldn't know that when he was rough, he reminded her of Ben, and she couldn't tell him. As long as there were secrets between them, there was no hope of loving.

  That night, the old nightmare came back. Ben was looming over her, shaking her, accusing her of cheating on him with Ryder. He stripped her, laughing drunkenly, and forced her down into the mattress with hands that hurt. He smelled of whiskey, and she began to scream.

  "Ivy, wake up!"

  She shuddered as the feel of real hands shaking her got through the fog of sleep. She jerked up, her eyes wide open and tear filled, her body sweaty in its white cotton gown.

  "Are you all right?"

  Not anymore, she could have said. He'd been in bed, judging from the navy-blue silk pajama bottoms clinging to his lean hips. His torso was bare, his dark, hair-roughened chest exposed to her fascinated eyes. His hair was tousled, his face hard as he stared down at her with glittery gray eyes.

  "You were screaming like a banshee," he muttered, his gaze drawn involuntarily to the darkness of her nipples under the thin gown as he stood over her, both hands propped on his lean hips.

  The wedge of black hair on his chest arrowed down toward his flat stomach, and that was sensually revealed by the low waist of his pajamas. He looked big and sexy and dangerous, here in her bedroom, and the sight of him was making her mouth dry. Incredible how his half-nude body affected her, when she'd never liked looking at Ben when he was that way. But Ryder was different. It made her tingle all over to look at him. She frowned slightly. Would he know?

  Nervously she raised her drowsy, fascinated eyes to his. "I had a nightmare," she said.

  He nodded. "About Ben, I gather."

  "Yes."

  "It simply amazes me that you still care that much, after everything he did to you."

  She lowered her eyes to his bare chest, involuntarily sketching the perfection of it. "He was my husband," she said huskily. "I owed him fidelity, if nothing else."

  He started to speak, but the words choked him. "Even after death?" he bit off.

  She closed her eyes. How could she tell him what her obsession for him had done to Ben, to her marriage? There was simply no way to put it into words.

  "Get up," he said unexpectedly, running an irritated hand through his already ruffled dark hair. "I'll pour you a drink."

  He'd had some brandy and snifters sent up earlier, she knew. But she didn't like liquor. It had caused her too much pain.

  "You know I don't drink," she began.

  He glared at her. "Well, I do when the occasion calls for it. And you can't tell me you don't need something to help you sleep. Come on."

  She got up without wanting to. She didn't have a robe and she hesitated, standing nervously beside the bed in the thin white cotton gown that molded her breasts gently before falling to her ankles. With her long hair loose around her shoulders, bare save for the spaghetti straps of the gown, she looked like a fallen angel.

  "I'll try not to stare," he said quietly. He turned away, leaving her to follow him into the suite's luxurious living room, complete with sofa, chairs and coffee table.

  He poured brandy into two snifters and handed one to her before he joined her on the sofa. She was curled up in one corner of it, her legs under the gown.

  "Still afraid of me?" he asked, sprawling back against the other end of the sofa. "I'm no more dangerous than any other man. But in my case, I'd need a blatant invitation. Does that reassure you?"

  She stared down into the brandy snifter at the pale amber liquid. It was probably some rare, expensive vintage, but she wouldn't have known. When Ben had gone on binges, plain bourbon had suited him.

  "I'm afraid of most men," she said after a minute. The nightmare had knocked the stuffing out of her, and she felt so tired of the pretense. "You try living with threats and violence for three years and see how it affects you."

  His face hardened. "I know he hit you at least once," he said tersely. "Only a blind man could have missed the bruis
es. I told you, that's why I stayed away. Jean swore you were passionately in love with him. I know all too well how women can delude themselves about men they care for."

  She didn't know how to handle it. He had a totally wrong idea about her loyalty to Ben, but there was no way she could correct it without telling him things she didn't dare. While she hesitated, she sipped the brandy and the silence between them began to lengthen. Across from her, Ryder sipped from his own snifter, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table. He looked worn. Probably he was, because he lived at twice the pace a normal man did.

  Ivy sighed. The taste of the brandy wasn't unpleasant, but she wasn't used to alcohol and she didn't really like the effect. Her head started swimming in no time and she felt all too relaxed.

  "What if you hadn't stayed away, Ryder?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his.

  His face went taut. He emptied the brandy snifter. "If you think you can sleep now, we'd better call it a night," he said, rising.

  She got up, too, weaving a little as the alcohol worked on her. He was much taller when she wasn't wearing shoes. She paused just in front of him and stared up, entranced by the sheer impact of his masculinity in his state of undress.

  "Ben was all white without his clothes," she said dizzily.

  His jaw tautened. "I spend a good deal of my time in the field."

  "So did he," she pointed out.

  "Ben was fair. I'm not. I tan easily. Ivy…"

  She touched his chest, hesitantly. Her fingers were cool, but they burned his skin like a brand. He felt his body going rigid and his fingers went to her hand to pull it away from his aching body. But he couldn't quite manage to drag it loose. The scent of her drifted up into his nostrils, a clean, flowery scent that was hers alone.

  "Don't," he said quietly. "Not like this, when you're three sheets in the wind."

  She drew in a slow breath. "Just like old times," she said huskily. "You accuse me of trying to get away from you, when you're the one who pushes me away." She felt the pain of his rejection keenly in her intoxicated state, and tears choked her. She flattened her hand over his hair-covered breastbone, feeling the hard slam of his heart under the warm muscle of it. "Why?" she whispered.

  "Because it's never the right time or the right place," he said angrily. He caught her hand and pushed it over one hard male nipple and a furious heartbeat, trapping it there. "Feel me," he whispered roughly, while his free hand grasped her long hair and pulled her head back so that her eyes met his. "Feel what you do to me. I've never known a woman who could knock me off balance the way you do."

  "Is that all it is?" she asked sadly. "Just…desire?"

  His eyes were blazing and he was rapidly losing control. He had to get her out of here while there was still time. "You know how I feel about commitment, don't you?" he hedged.

  "You don't want it," she said. "You never have." She let her eyes fall and pulled her hand away from his body. "I'm sorry. I think I'm a little tipsy."

  "You're a lot tipsy," he corrected. "And it's time you went to bed."

  "Not as stoic as you look?" she chided gently.

  His eyes darkened as he stared down at her. "Not stoic at all," he said. "But I won't take advantage of you."

  "My legs feel funny," she murmured on a stifled giggle.

  "No wonder."

  She took a deep breath and felt the world vanish around her.

  Ryder caught her before she fell and carried her into the bedroom. She was a soft weight in his arms and as he laid her down on the sheets he had to fight his conscience every step of the way. He put her under the sheet and coverlet and drew them up over her breasts. She looked like an angel lying there, her black hair haloed around her gentle face, her eyes closed and her long lashes resting on her creamy cheeks. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, and he loved her desperately. But she was still hung up on her late husband, and he was no match for a ghost. With a vicious curse, he turned and left the room.

  He overslept the next morning for the first time in years. He hadn't managed to get to sleep until late, aching with his need for Ivy. When he got into the suite's living room, she'd already ordered breakfast, which had apparently just been delivered because the coffee she'd poured into her cup was steaming.

  "Oh," she said self-consciously. "I was just about to call you."

  She'd hoped she wouldn't have to. She had embarrassing memories of the night before. Her hands went to smooth her oyster blouse down over her dark slacks in an unconsciously nervous gesture.

  "Let's eat something," he said. "Then we might go sightseeing down to St. Augustine."

  "To the Castillo de San Marcos?" she asked hopefully.

  "There." He nodded. "And to the Ripley Believe it or Not Museum as well, if you like."

  She poured him a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table to him, her eyes lingering on the blue checked open-neck shirt he was wearing with his slacks. The color complemented his pale eyes, and sexy glimpses of his chest were visible in the opening. She remembered touching him there, and felt self-conscious all over again. Would she never learn to stop throwing herself at him?

  She sipped coffee slowly. "I'm sorry about last night."

  "I'll bet you are," he replied, his voice deep and curt. "Head hurt?"

  She grimaced. "A little. I took a couple of aspirin."

  "The sea air may help some. Try to eat something."

  She managed the toast, but nothing else. Eating wasn't easy with a hangover, as she was learning the hard way.

  "I didn't mean I was sorry I got tipsy," she began.

  "If you're going to start making apologies for anything else, forget it," he said, without looking at her. "Finish your coffee and we'll go."

  That wasn't a promising start, but she supposed it was just as well not to dwell on her behavior.

  He drove them down the long, seaside stretch of U.S. 1 to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city. The magnificent old fort took Ivy's breath away. It was located on a stretch of land facing the Matanzas Bay, five miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Made of stone, the structure was gray and worn smooth with age. A moat surrounded it, with a wooden bridge that allowed tourists to enter.

  It had a long and proud history, belonging alternately to Spain, France and Great Britain, and then to America. It was, in fact, the oldest fort in the United States, dating to 1672. Ivy had read a tourist brochure on the way down from Jacksonville and learned a little about the old city. Ponce de Leon had landed here in 1513. He claimed the land for Spain, but in 1564 the French claimed it and established a settlement there. That settlement was destroyed by Spain the following year, and they founded the city of St. Augustine.

  The basic fortress of the present Castillo de San Marcos was completed in 1695, although the ground breaking for it was some twenty-three years earlier in 1672. Several protective earthworks were built as time passed. In 1825, however, the fort's name was changed to Fort Marion and remained so until 1942, when the original name was reinstated. The fort had withstood attack after attack. One siege against the Spanish fortress was launched by Carolinians in 1702. It lasted for fifty days and resulted in the destruction of the entire city—all of it, that is, except for the Castillo, which was the only structure still standing afterward.

  One thing Ivy had discovered from some other reading was that back in the late 1800s, the proud Chiricahua Apache tribe had been housed here after Geronimo's disastrous defeat. As they walked around the ancient structure, Ivy tried to imagine how the desert-dwelling Apaches would have felt in its damp confines. Except for the small green courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the walls, there was only the sky above to look at. She closed her eyes, picturing Spaniards in their armor tramping to and fro, followed by the early Americans who'd defended this place. The sense of history was strong here, and if there were ghosts, then surely the fort had them. So many memories, she thought.

  She shivered, both because of the atmosphere and the cool mist. She hadn't brought a
coat, but Ryder suddenly shrugged out of his nylon jacket and gently put it around her shoulders, holding it there by the lapels.

  "It's getting chilly," he remarked. "I hadn't thought it would be this cool."

  "I'm all right," she said softly. "But you'll get chilled without your jacket," she protested, looking up at him with liquid dark eyes.

  "My God, don't look at me like that when we're surrounded by people," he groaned. His hands were still on the lapels of the jacket, keeping it close around her, and behind them was a group of senior citizens following a tour guide over the gray stone fortifications.

  Ivy was thrilled by the effect she had on him. The power to arouse him was heady and sweet, and she couldn't resist exercising it. She moved just enough to bring his knuckles against her breasts. She expected him to turn the jacket loose then.

  But he didn't. His pale eyes held her dark ones in thrall while the wind blew and the fog misted and the tour guide's low voice droned on. Ryder's gaze fell to the jacket and his hands moved, deliberately caressing down to her taut nipples and back up again in a soft sensual tracing that made her knees go weak.

  His eyes moved back to hers and searched them slowly while his breath rasped deep in his chest and threatened to stop altogether.

  "You…shouldn't be doing this," she whispered brokenly. "And I shouldn't be letting you."

  "Then stop me," he challenged softly. He glanced over her shoulder. The tour guide was still holding forth, but the group was moving away from them, although they were on the same level, near one of the tiny guard stations fashioned of stone blocks.

  She could hear her own heart beating. She trembled a little with reaction and moved forward to rest her head on his broad chest.

  "Ryder," she whispered longingly.

  He registered her capitulation with a sense of wonder. She was vulnerable and he shouldn't take advantage of it. God knew, he'd tried hard enough to keep his distance, especially while she was still grieving for Ben. But this was asking the impossible. The feel of her was like a narcotic. He couldn't stop.

  "Stand still," he whispered. "If you cry out, we're going to have an audience."