Grady's impatient shrug dismissed both the apology and the effort to turn the conversation. "She seems like a nice woman, Paul. A good person. Try not to be as stupid as the rest of us. Try to make it work."
Paul stared, astonished by Grady's intensity. They'd been friends since grade school, and he couldn't remember if they'd ever had a conversation like this.
Handing money to the bartender, Paul felt grateful for the mundane occupation. At least something remained normal in a world developing more and more unfamiliar corners.
* * *
BETTE WATCHED PAUL weave through the crowd, and considered this trio. Michael Dickinson, perceptive and rather intense. Grady Roberts, accepting and trading on his charm. And Paul. The man who said he believed in no strings and keeping his options open, yet clearly the glue that held the three of them together.
"They're great guys," Michael said, appearing not to notice when her hand jerked, dragging the wine glass an inch across the table. With an offhand directness that belied the scrutiny he focused on her, he added, "Of course, Grady's a bit spoiled from having things go his way so much."
Michael clearly liked Grady, yet had no delusions. "Probably understandable when you grow up good-looking, wealthy and smart and then add your own success," she said.
"Yeah, that'd do it."
She smiled. She liked his dryness.
He looked over to Paul and Grady at the bar. "I guess it's understandable, too, that Paul's the way he is."
She felt her lips stiffen. "What way is that?"
"Oh, sort of a fly-by-night character. Not willing to be tied down long enough so anyone else can rely on him."
"He is not." She tried to keep the hostility out of her voice, but heard her own indignation.
"Isn't he?" His quietness didn't soothe her.
"He definitely is not." What sort of idiot could be his friend for fifteen years and not see the truth about Paul? Why are you so angry at him for saying exactly the same things you've said to yourself? she wondered. "He's devoted to his family and friends. Who's the one who keeps all of you in touch? He's a well-respected professional, who gives his clients honesty and impartiality. Plus he has the loyalty of the people who've worked for him." At least the ones he wasn't trying to drive crazy. "Look at Jan Robson. You don't have that sort of relationship with an employee when you're a 'fly-by-night character.' "
"Don't you?"
"No!"
"No," he agreed.
The mildness finally reached her. The adrenaline surge faded and she examined Michael. His lips twitched and a dimple appeared high on his left cheek.
"You're a rat," she informed him. "A tricky, wily political rat."
The grin completed its escape. "I just wanted to know if you'd seen through the Paul Monroe facade."
"Facade?"
"Mmm-hmm." He grew serious. "Not that he doesn't believe in it - at least parts. That's what's such a shame."
A skittering of panic trembled through her and settled in the pit of her stomach. Michael reached across the table to put his hand over hers. "He's not always the free spirit he pretends to be."
She thought she understood what he was saying: Paul did look beyond the moment - with people and responsibilities - but he didn't want to admit it. And that frightened her, because it gave her hope.
"Hey, Dickinson, get your hands off my date." Paul clunked down two glasses with a mock glare, but in his eyes, she saw something flare to life. A hint of possessiveness, of claiming? "Find yourself your own woman."
* * *
PAUL WAS EVERYTHING Bette could ask for in a date. Funny, attentive, entertaining. He was also elusive, unattainable and distant.
He was driving her crazy.
They joked and laughed and talked. They had long conversations on the phone when she should have been working. He called to say nothing more complex than good-morning. He brought Chinese food to her office for lunch. They met Grady and Michael twice more that week for dinner. They pored over real estate listings she had compiled, with Paul volunteering plenty of opinions, most of which involved the idea that she shouldn't live so far away - whether from him or her work, he never quite specified. They saw a movie.
He never touched her.
Well, that wasn't quite true, she admitted to herself. He touched her just enough to drive her mad. Just enough to make her consider raking her fingernails along a brick wall to get rid of the frustration of envisioning circumstances when she would press them into his back, but never having the satisfaction of doing it.
He looped an arm around her shoulders at the movies, then never drew her closer. He brushed his fingers across her collarbone while helping her with her coat, then never ventured lower. He touched his lips to hers each night when he drove her home, then never pressed the kiss deeper.
Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.
Now it was Friday. In frustration she'd told him she needed to work late to catch up, hoping to escape his tormenting presence for one night, just long enough to regain some control.
He'd appeared at the office shortly after five and sat patiently waiting for her, until she wanted to scream. Instead, she'd given up and gone for a sandwich with him, and they'd come out of the tiny deli to find the sky streaming a combination of rain and snow.
"I don't think it's safe to drive tonight."
"Paul, it's not even really snowing. Look at the roads. It's more like slush." Spending dinner trying not to fantasize every time she looked across at his mouth had left her more than a little irritable.
"Slush," he repeated, shaking his head as if verifying his worst suspicions. "Slush can be very dangerous. You know, they don't even make slush tires. That's because no tire in the world can help you in slush."
"You're right," she agreed, abruptly changing tacks. Maybe she could at least cut the evening short. Go home now, spend a few hours alone, try to regain some sanity. "You've been driving way too much. I've tried to tell you it wasn't necessary to take me home every night, and I'm glad you're finally being sensible about this."
He grinned, but she saw his eyes heating in a most dangerous way. She needed to get away from him. She needed a respite from this constant arousing of her desire with never any satisfaction.
"I'll take the train."
"The train?" He looked thwarted for a moment, but quickly gathered himself. He gave her a long, considering look. "The train's the very worst thing you can do. Do you know what slush can do to train tracks? Make them a veritable death slide."
"I've never heard that before."
He made a scoffing sound. "Of course not. You think the railroads would let you know a thing like that? They'd lose all their commuters for the whole winter." He perked up, as if seeing the possibilities in the vision he'd created, and she wondered again at his ability to make her see humor even while he was making her lose her mind. "In fact, commuters by the droves would stay home all winter. No more driving, no more taking the train, just settling in for the winter at home in front of the fireplace and next to a good woman."
"Or man."
He tilted an eyebrow at her. "I'm not making judgments, but that's not my style."
"I meant," she explained severely, "that a lot of the commuters are women."
"Oh. Yeah, of course. I was speaking from a personal point of view."
"Uh-huh," she said with disapproval. But it hadn't been such a bad point of view. With a little imagination, she could visualize herself snuggled next to Paul in front of a fire, maybe with soft music in the background, a glass of wine, and without too many clothes. Settling in for the winter.
Tipping her chin up, she looked at him more closely in the eerie glow of streetlights diffused by sleet.
Four days ago, she'd reopened the door she'd earlier tried to close. But it hadn't led into a new stage in their relationship the way she'd expected it to.
On Monday, the day she'd crossed that emotional threshold, she'd been braced for the consequences. She wouldn't have been parti
cularly surprised if he actually had taken her right then and there in his office. When he invited her to dinner with his friends instead, and left her at her front door with a near-chaste kiss, she'd thought he was showing an unsuspected tenderness, almost a delicacy.
But after Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, she was inclined to say the hell with delicacy.
She'd made her decision. Why wait for winter? Waiting wouldn't change who he was, and it wouldn't give any guarantee of safety for her heart. Nor would it change how much she wanted him. It was time to fly.
Now.
"So where shall we stay?"
"What?" His eyes met hers. Confusion showed for half a second, then only a blaze of instant fire. Like being struck by a bolt of lightning, one moment there was nothing, the next unadulterated sizzle.
She'd never been so happy to be singed.
As much as she'd tried not to, she'd wondered about the reluctance she'd detected in him. But that look, that one flash in his eyes, vaporized her doubts.
"Since you're not going to drive me home tonight, and taking the train would be such a reckless thing to do, what are we going to do for accommodations tonight?"
"I know just the place," he said.
She figured that now he'd explain how his apartment in Evanston would be a safe choice, since it wouldn't mean as long a drive in the "treacherous" slush.
"There's a great little hotel not far from here. You hardly notice it from the street, but inside, the lobby's all polished wood and plush furniture. The rooms look like a spread from some magazine on English country homes. The perfect place to wait out a slush storm."
Surprise opened her mouth to the first thing in her mind.
"How do you know about this place?" she asked
The glint in his eyes looked positively devilish in the eerie light.
"Not how you're thinking, you suspicious woman, you. I can tell you with a totally clear conscience that I have never waited out a storm, slush or otherwise, with a woman at that hotel. In fact, the only times I've been there have been with a man - Michael. It's where he stays when he's got business downtown."
"I wasn't asking for explanations. I didn't think -"
He cut off her protest with a kiss on her nose. "No, of course you didn't." He looped his arm more securely around her shoulders and guided her footsteps. "It's not far," he said, mentioning an address off Michigan Avenue.
"What if they don't have a vacancy?" she offered halfheartedly.
"Michael said they cater mostly to businessmen, so weekends should be pretty quiet."
"Oh."
They'd gone almost two blocks - in a direct route this time, she noticed with some satisfaction - when she stopped short. "Wait a minute. We can't go to a hotel, Paul. We don't have any luggage. It'll look like . . . like . . ."
Her voice wound down. It would look like exactly what it was - two adults deciding to spend an impromptu night together at a downtown hotel. He would surely tell her it didn't matter what anyone else thought. And deep down, she really didn't care what anyone else thought; being with Paul was right for her. Still . . . she cringed at the idea of going into a hotel without luggage. It seemed such a blatant announcement of something that should be private.
"All right."
"All right?" Just that easily, he was willing to let the opportunity to spend the night together go - willing to let her go?
"Yep. We'll go to Water Tower Place first."
"Water Tower Place? Why?"
"We have some shopping to do."
Chapter Eight
* * *
BETTE MENTALLY CHECKED the contents of the shopping bags she'd accumulated, then looked at her watch. Nine minutes left before she was to meet Paul.
Unexpectedly, a bubble of laughter rose in her. Who would have guessed how much fun this would be, this rather sexy kind of scavenger hunt?
They'd started off together, buying tote bags after a long, intricate discussion of exactly which ones they should get. Paul had wanted to buy matching ones because, he said, it was a visual symbol to any astute bellboy that this was an established couple. She had opted for different ones because it might look less like just-bought goods. Paul had prevailed, and for a moment as the clerk rang up the purchase, she'd considered how odd it was for Mr. For the Moment Only to be the one to want them to appear as a couple.
There'd been no time to give the matter further thought. She had shopping to do.
They'd agreed to meet in forty-five minutes at the front entrance to Water Tower Place. She'd gone directly to a drugstore, tossing into the mesh basket a toothbrush and toothpaste, a disposable razor for her legs, deodorant and a small perfume vial, plus trial-size shampoo and moisturizer in case the hotel didn't provide them. Then, trying to tell herself not to blush like an idiot, she added a foil packet to her collection.
She'd spent most of her time in a department store, buying a change of clothing for the morning: jeans and a white oxford-cloth shirt, which weren't extravagant since she could always use spares. With her tweed suit jacket and flat pumps, she at least wouldn't look blatantly like a woman wearing her Friday night clothes on Saturday morning.
Her last stop was lingerie, for a change of underwear.
Now, with nine minutes left, she glanced across the aisle that separated the lingerie basics from the frivolous and saw a royal-blue froth of lace and sheerness. She knew she had to have it.
She was woman enough to know it would draw lights to her eyes, and practical enough never to have owned anything like it.
Stifling the habit of checking the price first, she found the right size and headed for the counter.
Oh, she'd been with men before. A couple. But she couldn't imagine having had the nerve to wear something like this for them.
This was a gown to wear for a man who could make her laugh, but never laughed at her. She felt a swelling in her heart as she accepted the bag with the gown. She'd wear this for Paul, and she'd have no shyness about it. He would see her vulnerability, and he would honor it.
With her final few minutes, she found a rest room and transferred the contents of her shopping bags to the tote.
As she hurried through the heavy glass doors, she caught sight of Paul immediately. Grinning, he held up his bag to show off its packed state. She thought his looked lumpier than hers, and there was definitely a sharp edge poking against the fabric. She felt it against her calf as it dangled from his hand when he wrapped her into a tight embrace and kissed her hungrily, right there on Michigan Avenue.
"C'mon, let's get a cab," he said huskily.
She'd have been lucky to achieve even husky if she tried to talk, so she settled for nodding. She didn't care that it was impractical to take a cab the few blocks to the hotel. It was faster, and it gave them an excuse to sit cuddled together in one corner and share another, long, lingering kiss.
He seduced her mouth, luring her upper lip between his, tempting her with forays of his tongue and teeth. Kissing her in a way that left her feeling a little vague all through the process of paying off the driver, checking in and finding their room.
If Paul had kissed her like that earlier, she might never have noticed that they didn't have luggage.
And then she wouldn't have had any excuse to funnel this shivery feeling of anticipation and trepidation into a show of great curiosity about what he'd bought.
They stood side by side just inside the door, before slowly moving in.
Thick carpeting and drapes shut out the city's noise, making the drumming of her blood louder in Bette's ears. Soft lights she knew wouldn't hide the flush heating her cheeks, a flush of awareness. Before them the room stood, plush and cozy. All it needed to complete the country-house look was a fireplace.
But no fire was needed to provide heat. Her imagination was taking care of that. From where she stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes traveled up the wide and generously pillowed expanse. Oh, Lord, the bed . . .
"So what do you have in your bag
?" she asked in a brightly forced voice. She gave his tote's strap a tug, but he held tight.
"Uh-unh. Let's see yours, too." His voice sounded huskier than before.
"Okay. We'll take turns. But you go first."
He gave her a sideways glance, then rested his tote on the edge of the bed and unzipped it. "Okay, first item." Humor overlaid the deeper note in his voice. He produced a chrysanthemum stem with three perfect yellow blooms on it and held it out to her.
"Where in the world did you find flowers?"
"That wasn't so hard. The hard part was packing it."
She giggled a little, and inexplicably, her nervousness eased.
"I tried for roses, but there must have been a run on them. Some sort of romantic epidemic hitting the city."
"This is lovely. I love yellow chrysanthemums."
"I know. I remember the flowers by your front walk."
She couldn't say anything to that, so she leaned across the corner of the bed and kissed him lightly. She heard his quick intake of breath, and backed up hastily.
"Your turn," he ordered.
Opening the bag, she gave a quick laugh. "Nothing so frivolous as flowers."
"Jeans? Is this something kinky I should know about?"
Despite his teasing note, she felt her cheeks warming. "They're for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow. Ah, I see." He said that as if thinking of tomorrow somehow betrayed today - or tonight. "I suppose you're planning to be incognito when we leave in the morning."
"At least inconspicuous," she said more sharply than she'd intended.
He gave her an unreadable look, then reached into his bag. It was a clear nonverbal change of subject.
"Next, we have one bottle of white wine. Chilled to perfection, thanks to its recent sojourn in the Chicago night air."
Back to teasing. She was glad. Tonight she wanted to forget the differences between them. Tonight, at least this one night, was to explore this other thing between them.
"One blouse, to match the jeans," she responded, keeping her voice light. She caught an expression in his eyes she couldn't interpret, then it was gone and he was pulling out his next item.
Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) Page 12
