Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance)

by Julie Kistler

  “Aren’t we done?” Bridget asked, and the judge hurried to add, “Oh, I’m supposed to... May I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Michael Trippett Ashby.”

  And the Studs clapped politely, while old Jed gave out a big “Yahoo!”

  With a sheepish smile, Tripp took her hand in his, flashing their combined rings at their entourage. Married. They were really and truly married.

  Bridget gulped.

  And then a catering truck wound its way up the mountain to dispense mountains of fancy food and drink, along with a harpist Mrs. Ashby had hired to provide background music. Bridget’s Rent-a-Dad was first in line for refreshments, scooping himself huge helpings before he wandered away. If anyone noticed he was gone, no one said anything.

  Bridget relaxed a little once he’d left; that was one lie put to bed without discovery. Although she thought Kitty Belle might want to know why he hadn’t stuck around to kiss the bride, Bridget was eternally grateful he hadn’t.

  So she relaxed in the warmth of Tripp’s attention, and she ate and drank whatever was put in front of her, which turned out to be quite a lot. Every time she turned around, Tripp was at her elbow, refilling her champagne glass.

  She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. She hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to get good and sloshed after living with all this unbearable tension.

  Ki and Deke stayed long enough to offer a cappella versions of “Brown-eyed Girl” and “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” in honor of Bridget and Tripp respectively, which were much appreciated by everyone but Kitty Belle, and then they, too, prepared to depart, with Steve not far behind.

  Even Studs had real lives to get back to, it seemed. The supposedly happy couple walked his old pals to the door to say goodbye.

  She didn’t realize exactly how much she’d had to drink, until she couldn’t seem to get any words out past her slippery mouth. “Thanks for coming,” she said slowly, working hard to get everything out in the right order. “I know it meant a lot to Tripp to have you here.”

  Beside her, Tripp gave her a reassuring squeeze. She hoped she’d said that right. It was like talking through cotton balls.

  But if she was tipsy, none of the Studs seemed to notice. Or maybe they were feeling the effects of all that champagne themselves.

  “Aw, Tripp, you know how we feel,” Ki said awkwardly. He offered a hand. “Best of luck and all that.”

  Right behind him, Steve said lightly, “I should say congratulations on a job well-done, but I think you’re just plain lucky, Ashby. You’re getting a lot better woman than you deserve.”

  Deke was less restrained than his friends. He grabbed Bridget, gave her a hot kiss and said, “I don’t leave until I kiss the bride, especially when she’s as pretty as this one.”

  Dangling there in Deke’s arms, Bridget giggled, but Tripp looked less than pleased. He pulled her forcefully back against him. “I’m the only one kissing this bride.”

  The others backed off in a hurry, as Steve gave them a measuring glance. “I think you’ve been holding out on us, Tripp. This seems pretty darn real to me.”

  Bridget tried to focus on the tips of her white shoes, but it was pretty far down there, and she was having trouble concentrating. What did Steve mean by that, anyway? But her brain was too foggy to figure it out. Meanwhile, Tripp made some offhand joke about Steve’s delusions.

  “Okay,” Steve returned doubtfully. “That’s your story—you stick to it.” But as he slipped out the door, he leaned in long enough to whisper, “Who are you trying to fool, Ashby?” before he, too, departed.

  “What was that all about?” Bridget asked, but Tripp didn’t say.

  He just pulled her into his arms and pretended they were dancing. “You’re supposed to dance at your wedding,” he muttered.

  “Okay.” She held on, trying to follow his steps, but mostly just sliding from foot to foot, spinning in a haze of champagne and confusion. She’d never heard of anyone dancing to harp music, but it didn’t seem to matter. In Tripp’s arms, nothing mattered. She smiled to herself, closing her eyes, hanging on, letting him carry her along on this dreamy dance to nowhere.

  Kitty Belle and the judge were dancing, too, and there were so many flowers.... Pretty colors swirled around her. The pink of Kitty Belle’s beaded dress, and the flowers—big pink roses and little white stars—with garlands and wreaths of greenery everywhere.

  “I didn’t want it to be green,” she said stubbornly. “Who made it green?”

  She felt her eyelids beginning to close, and then Tripp was there, like he’d been all night, to scoop her up in the nick of time.

  His body was warm, and she could feel his heart beating, steady and strong, against her own. Maybe she should’ve swooned a little earlier.

  Too much champagne, she thought dizzily. Too much Tripp.

  “Wow,” she managed, as he hoisted her and her beautiful white dress into his arms to carry back to his bedroom. She leaned her head down on the lapel of his dinner jacket. It felt cool against her cheek. “This was part of the fantasy. Do you remember? At my apartment? You called, and you were so sweet.”

  “Was I?” he murmured, bending his own head closer, nuzzling her hair.

  Was he really nuzzling her hair? That was nice, wasn’t it?

  “Yes,” she breathed, “you were. Sweet, I mean. You were going to send Jay packing, do you remember?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, you were. And then you were supposed to sweep me up in your arms, and carry me down the hall, where we would make mad, passionate love amid the tumbled quilts, and our hearts would beat as one.” She sighed with the sheer perfection of it. “Doesn’t that sound great?”

  “Certainly does,” he said in a rough, strange voice. Clearing the door of the bedroom, he set her down carefully on her pretty white shoes. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, flexing against his shoulders, shamelessly using him for balance.

  “Wow,” she said again. She moved a shaky finger to trace the clean, hard line of his jaw. “Is this real, or am I dreaming?”

  “You’re not dreaming,” he informed her dryly. He detached her hands and left her standing on her own two feet. “You’re drunk.”

  She did feel a tad wobbly. “Nonsense. I’m not drunk. I don’t even drink.”

  “You did tonight.”

  “You.” She pointed a finger at him, but it wouldn’t stay still. “You gave it to me.”

  He started to loosen his tie, to undo his collar, but Bridget teetered to one side and he stepped quickly to catch her. He murmured, “I guess I gave you a little too much, huh?”

  “Guess so,” she whispered breathlessly. She was smiling and she didn’t know why. She just felt so heavenly. Daring and sexy and...heavenly. Looping her arms around his neck, she turned her face up to his. “You are so gorgeous. There ought to be a law.”

  “There probably is,” he muttered. He lifted her up again, cradling her very nicely, until he deposited her carefully in the middle of the big brass bed.

  And then he turned to leave.

  “Wait.” She sat up so fast, her head began to spin. With one hand at her forehead, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to clear out the rest of our guests.” But his gaze flickered over her. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she said loftily.

  His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

  “What kind of trouble could I get into?” Tossing herself backward into the deep cloud of lacy white bed linens, she made a big whoosh with her skirt. “You know, Tripp, this is the best wedding I ever had.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  And then he was gone.

  * * *

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG to pay off the photographer and the harpist, and then the judge offered to escort Kitty Belle back to her hotel. And that was that.

  Hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants,
Tripp surveyed the damage. There were empty champagne bottles littering the living room and the kitchen, and the flowers were starting to droop. He really ought to clean up the table with the food on it. That was going to be a mess by tomorrow.

  He really ought to, but he wasn’t going to.

  Ripping off his tie with one hand, Tripp undid the top button on his formal shirt with the other. He took a deep breath. No, the house could fend for itself. He had more pressing problems. Like what he was going to do with Bridgie.

  He had to go back in there. He’d promised he would.

  But it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Not with her all pliant and soft, all clingy and agreeable.

  Hell. This was like being in Hell with the thermostat on high.

  Her voice echoed in his ears. ...You were supposed to sweep me up in your arms, and carry me down the hall, where we would make mad, passionate love amid the tumbled quilts, and our hearts would beat as one.

  He was still trying to get his body to relax after that little speech. Make mad, passionate love amid the tumbled quilts. She was talking nonsense and he reacted like a stallion, raring to go. Where did she get this stuff, anyway? Did she really feel that way, or was she too drunk to even know where she was and who she was with?

  He didn’t know. He couldn’t trust her, or himself.

  And until he could, he wasn’t going to touch Bridgie. One touch that’s all it would take.

  And just like that terrible, terrifying morning on her couch, he’d be stripping off her clothes and making love to her in ten seconds flat.

  No, he had to keep his hands off. He’d already taken advantage, every way but that one. She was his friend, and she trusted him, and he already owed her too much that he could never repay. What kind of man would make love to her under these circumstances, taking advantage yet again?

  “Not this kind,” he said under his breath.

  She was supposed to marry a senator. She was supposed to go places and be somebody responsible and upstanding, and not somebody who slept with old friends just for the fun of it.

  He was trying to be noble again. And he sure as hell wasn’t very good at it.

  Hell. That was the word for it.

  Well, he might as well get it over with. Slowly he ambled back down the hall, easing the door open a crack. Cautiously, he swung it open the rest of the way.

  He sagged with relief. She was asleep, passed out cold half off the bed. Her hair spilled around her, soft and dark against the white lace coverlet. Part of her dress, the puffy, starchy part of her skirt, was wedged underneath her, and she still had her shoes on.

  He considered whether he ought to go now, while the going was good, or try to do something about the awkward position she was in. Would she care that she was wrecking her fragile dress? Already, she’d crumpled the skirt, and she was risking ripping the lace if she thrashed around while she slept.

  She had looked so beautiful in that white dress, standing beside him in front of the judge.

  Tripp smiled to himself. He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell her, but she was simply breathtaking in that dress. It was very demure, with its high neck and long sleeves, yet tempting at the same time. The top was all lace, but it fit tightly to her body, and every time she breathed, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. He’d spent most of the day watching her breathe, wishing he could touch her, wishing he could mold his hands to her body as closely as that dress did.

  He suddenly had a horrifying thought. Would she wear the same dress to marry Philpott? Did women do that?

  Surely not. Women were sentimental about that kind of thing, right? But Bridgie wouldn’t be sentimental about this wedding. Why should she? It was all just a sham.

  And she was a frugal, commonsense sort of person. After investing in one dress, why buy another?

  “Wear that dress for Philpott?” he growled. “Over my dead body.”

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t let her sleep in it. She was going to be uncomfortable enough with the hangover she was working on, and adding a tight dress to the picture was really cruel.

  Come hell or high water, he was going to have to get it off her.

  “Bridget?” he tried softly. “Are you awake?”

  Not a whimper. She snoozed on.

  He came closer. “Bridgie?”

  Nothing.

  “Aw, what the hell?” he muttered. “As long as she’s conked out, it’s safe.”

  So he slipped off her shoes, and then eased her back up onto the bed, gently shifting her over onto her stomach. Carefully, he fiddled with the tiny buttons all the way from her neck to her waist.

  “Damn dress,” he swore. Either his fingers were very clumsy, or those buttons were very small. Finally, after an eternity, after he had seriously begun to think dresses were meant to be ripped, not unbuttoned, he got every last one of those little loops unhooked from all the little buttons.

  His mouth went dry as he gazed down at her bare back. He couldn’t resist drawing one finger down the line of glowing flesh revealed by the gaping dress. Her skin was so soft, so smooth, so warm under his finger.

  “Ooooooh.” She shivered softly.

  He jumped back.

  Slowly, bonelessly, she rolled over onto her side. The dress only partially rolled with her, slipping off one shoulder and catching on her arm. Her eyes still closed, she made a soft, sleepy little noise, aimlessly pushing away at her dress, as if she felt caught.

  Tripp just stood there, watching her, unable to take his eyes away.

  “Tripp?” she asked drowsily. “I’m...stuck. Can you...?”

  And she held out her hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Tripp,” she murmured again. “Stupid dress is stuck. Get it off.”

  What could he do?

  He reached for her wrist. It should’ve been quick work to strip the dress off, but his hands were clumsy, and she was so limp, so loopy. As he struggled, she giggled. Eventually, he maneuvered her into a sitting position, and then, edging onto the bed next to her, he peeled her right out of her lacy prison, letting the top of her dress pool around her waist.

  With one small wiggle, she was free of the whole thing. She kicked it casually off the bed.

  “Ahhhhh,” she said, sighing, leaning on him. “Better.”

  Better for whom? Oh, God. If he’d thought she was bad in the dress, he really wasn’t prepared for her out of the dress.

  She sidled up closer, and there wasn’t much covering her body.

  “Oh, Bridget,” he groaned softly. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  She didn’t answer, just fastened her arms around him and kissed him on the neck, right under his ear. She kept kissing him, making incoherent little noises and snuggling into his lap, while he tried to figure out how to get himself disentangled.

  He detached her hands several times, but she was very good at reattaching them somewhere else, somewhere worse.

  Her white silk camisole left absolutely nothing to the imagination, although his imagination was awfully good. One thin strap tumbled negligently over her shoulder, revealing a swell of creamy skin. As his rapt gaze followed the curve, brushing over her breast, he saw the peak of rosy nipples through the slick fabric of the camisole. Tripp put his hands way out to his sides, afraid to touch anything.

  And on the bottom. Hell. That was worse than the top. White lace stockings. A garter belt and panties that were barely there.

  Who dressed women like this? Who dressed Bridgie like this?

  “Bridgie,” he said, steeling himself as he cupped her chin, “are you awake?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes were open now, but they were still heavy-lidded. She slipped her hands inside his jacket, shoving it away. “Too many clothes,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think so,” he said unsteadily, but she was merciless, and with her smooth body climbing all over him, with her erotic little giggles filling his ears, his protests were halfhearted at best.

  Be
fore he knew it, she was all the way across his lap, plastered to the front of him, her breasts searing him through the cool silk of her camisole, through the heavy cotton of his shirt.

  “Bridgie—”

  “Oh, Tripp, you know what?” She stuck her finger across his lips, sounding very aggrieved. “You talk too much. No more talking. Just kiss me.”

  But she was kissing him. She had the sweetest, softest mouth, and she kept making greedy little moans that sent him right over the edge.

  He tried to hold on to the fragments of his self-control, but how could he, with her small, warm hands sliding inside his shirt, her round, enticing bottom pressing into his lap?

  His lap. He was so hard under her, it was painful. Aching for release, he knew he had to get out from under her before he died from frustration.

  He tried to lift her away, but his hands grazed her hips, where slender ribbons on each side were all that held her panties together. One twitch of a ribbon, and she would be bare.

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispered, letting his fingers linger, flirting with pulling those ribbons and filling his hands with her.

  But then she moved restlessly under his hands, edging around on his lap, and he ran into even more dangerous territory. One hand brushed the silky curve of her inner thigh, while the other spanned her round, firm bottom from behind. She pushed herself into his palm, and he felt her incredible heat, incredible wetness, through the silk of her panties.

  “Oh, Bridget, you feel so good,” he whispered. “How am I going to stop?”

  “But we’re not stopping,” she said, with a very naughty little laugh. “I want you.”

  There was a light, a fire, in Bridget’s deep, dark eyes, that he had never seen before. He knew she was a few drinks over her limit, but he didn’t think those sparks came from a bottle. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a wild tangle of mahogany waves and her eyes were wide and impossibly dark. Bridget seemed consumed with passion, obsessed with need.

  Tripp was feeling a few needs of his own, needs he was no longer sure he could deny.

  And sitting up just wasn’t going to do it. He nipped hungrily at her lips, pulling her more securely into his lap, fastening her arms around his neck. And then he fell backward into the bed, bringing her with him.