"The hell I am."
"The hell of it is, you are. It might scare you, but be honest with yourself. Bette's the only woman you've ever made the commitment of pursuing. You told me yourself, something about her 'just clicked.' You may not have known it then, and you may not like it now, but it looks to me as if your heart's been committed pretty much right from the start."
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Maybe not. But you know what I'm talking about."
Chapter Eleven
* * *
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
Bette half sighed at the demanding note in Paul's voice. He'd been so odd lately. One minute the man she'd first met, full of humor and teasing. The next minute a brooding, belligerent stranger. And the minute after that the man who could make her blood simmer with something as simple as a look.
They'd gotten past the scene Thanksgiving Day by pretending it didn't happen. She knew the underlying tension remained, however, no matter how well buried it was.
"Down to State Street." She finished pulling on her coat. If he hadn't arrived before she left, she would have left him a note. Then he could have made the decision whether to come out to her place, as he did most nights, or not. She couldn't help but think his moods might be the result of feeling pressured, so she was conscious of giving him room. "I have some last-minute things to pick up for Christmas."
"Last-minute? It's barely into December."
She relaxed at the lightness in his voice. But she repeated doggedly, "Last minute for me. Especially since Centurian is interested enough to want a more detailed proposal. I'll have to work extra hours to get it ready."
"I don't see how you can work extra hours when you're already working twenty-four a day," he grumbled. "Besides, they probably won't do anything until after the first of the year."
"I know, but I want to get it to them quickly, so if there's a delay, it's on their end, not mine. So I have to do it before I leave for Arizona next week for my parents' anniversary."
"Oh. Yeah. When's your flight?"
"Wednesday morning."
"And you won't be back until 7:45 the next Monday night?"
"That's right."
They'd gone through this routine of her telling him the date of her departure at least three times.
As haphazard as he could be about times and dates, she was beginning to wonder if there was more to this than met the eye. Each time he seemed to have only the vaguest recollection of when she was leaving, but knew her return flight by heart.
Oh, how she wanted to believe it was because he didn't want to be apart. Just as she wanted to believe that there'd been more behind his getting her to the real estate office too late to make the bid. Maybe even as she wanted to believe there was more behind these odd behavior shifts than simple moodiness.
But then she would realize all over that Paul Monroe believed only in the moment. Not a future together.
"I'll go with you."
"Go with?" He couldn't mean to her parents', so -
"Yeah, you know, as in accompany you to State Street."
"Shopping?"
"You don't have to sound so surprised. I have been known to enter a store now and then."
"But, as you said, it's barely December."
"I didn't say I was going to do Christmas shopping."
She knew she should say no, she knew that having Paul around would surely prevent her from finishing all the tasks she'd planned. But she couldn't resist.
"All right, let's go."
Shoppers teemed in the streets, bringing the taxi to a near stop, so they decided walking the last few blocks would be faster. While Paul paid off the driver, Bette noticed drifts of people piling up in front of the broad expanse of glass in front of one of the stores.
"Hey, the window decorations," said Paul, hooking an arm around her waist and drawing her in to his side as they started down the street.
"Uh-huh. They do that every year." The words were dismissive, and she knew she really should be starting on her errands, but her feet slowed as they neared the display of mechanized bears skating on a mirror pond.
She couldn't even pretend to be surprised when her own voice offered, "We could look at the decorations first, sort of get in the mood."
But Paul's amazement showed. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't have much time -"
She waved his caution away. "It hardly takes any time at all," she said. She wondered at her blitheness - for about half a second, the time it took for the smile to light his eyes. Then she was lost.
It did take time, but she found she didn't begrudge an instant of it.
Hand in hand, they walked from window to window, oohing and aahing with the best of the kids, then moving on to the next department store to start all over. From a street vendor, Paul bought roasted chestnuts because Bette said she'd never had them.
"Don't you want any?" she asked after the third of the rather gamy-tasting morsels warmed her mouth as well as they had her hand.
"No thanks. I don't like them."
"Then why'd you buy so many?" She looked at the large paper container in dismay.
He shrugged. "I like the idea of them."
Her laugh seemed to catch him by surprise.
But when she threw her arms around his neck, he showed no surprise in responding to her kiss, only desire. He turned her kiss from a brief, affectionate gesture to a caress of lips and tongue and teeth. Layers upon layers of cloth buffered their bodies, but their mouths met, naked and honest.
When the basic requirement for oxygen forced them apart, Bette was sure she wasn't the only one rocked by the intensity of that kiss at the State Street corner. Paul's eyes looked opaque, with bright flecks of green against polished pewter. With his hair flaring color in the glow of tiny fairy lights, he looked almost fierce, and unfamiliar. Not at all like the man she'd come to know.
She pushed her hair back from her face in some futile instinct to reorder her thoughts along with her appearance. "I, uh, guess Dickens would be proud, huh?"
He stared at her. "Dickens?"
"The chestnuts," she supplied weakly.
"Oh. Yeah, I guess." He considered her a moment longer, then grinned, slowly and meaningfully, a movement of his lips unlike his usual quick humor. "I thought you might have meant something else."
"Something else?" She heard the breathlessness in her voice, corroborating that her heartbeat had not slowed from its sprint.
"Yeah, I've always had the feeling that behind all those closed Victorian doors, old Charles knew a thing or two about passion."
He didn't wait for her answer, but tucked her back in by his side, and headed for a store entrance.
"We'll start here with Marshall Field's," he said.
"It's not Marshall Field's anymore. They were bought out years ago."
"It'll always be Marshall Field's to me. These are just some out-of-town interlopers."
Grinning, she followed docilely, unable to remember a single thing on the list tucked in her purse, and too content to bother looking.
"I've got an idea," Paul announced. "Let's have dinner in the Walnut Room."
The restaurant had been a tradition for decades when the store had been Marshall Field's, especially at Christmastime when an elaborately decorated tree rose from the center of the room to a point some two stories higher. She opened her mouth to say she'd love to eat there, but before she could get a word out, he jumped in.
"I know, I know. You have a lot of things to do. But there's always a line. I'll stand in line while you shop. So you won't be wasting any time." He slanted a look at her that reminded her of their first few dinners together. "After all, you do eat. That's one thing I have learned about you. Sometimes even lunch, despite the way you misled me at first." He shook his head disapprovingly. "Telling lies."
"Purely self-defense. I was trying to protect myself from this maniac who'd burst into my life."
He smiled into her eyes, and
she knew his voice would be low and intimate even before he spoke. "Now aren't you glad your ploy didn't keep me away for good?"
She couldn't give him anything other than the truth. "Yes. I am glad."
Though glad seemed entirely too mild, she thought as she reached the department where she hoped to find a special calendar for her father.
As she ticked off items on her list, her mind kept drifting back to the man waiting in line, and waiting for her.
Two months ago, she would have made this same shopping trip, have made the same purchases. In fact, without Paul distracting her, she probably would have accomplished more in the same amount of time. But she wouldn't have enjoyed it half as much.
She accepted another package from the salesclerk, exchanged wishes for happy holidays, and moved aside to consult her watch. She still had ten minutes before she was supposed to return to the Walnut Room. With four more items on her list, she should make use of every minute. She really should . . . But she didn't want to wait another ten minutes to see Paul.
She stepped off the escalator at the Walnut Room's floor and scanned the line. There, at the front, she caught the glow of Paul's hair. He turned, and then she felt the impact of his smile.
She was in love with him.
She reached him as the hostess indicated they were to follow her, and he took her hand. "Perfect timing."
"Yes, perfect." Perfect.
She was in love with a man who gave her laughter and joy, but could never give her what she most wanted - the promise that they would spend every Christmas together.
* * *
IF HER PLOT had worked, Paul was waiting, just inside his office door.
Norma had double-checked his schedule for Bette to be sure there were no conflicts - the last thing she wanted was to have one of his clients show up.
Norma had been discretion itself.
First, not asking why Bette was asking if Paul's schedule was clear. Then, just now, when Bette had arrived, calmly gathering her things, and saying she needed to leave early for a dental appointment she'd totally forgotten about, and would Bette please inform Paul. She'd quietly locked the door behind her.
So Bette stood alone in the outer office. Facing the closed door that separated her from the inner office, where Paul worked alone right now.
If he'd believed what she'd told him earlier, he thought she was home packing for her early-morning departure for Arizona.
When she'd told him it would be better if he didn't come to her house until later this evening because she needed time to get ready, he'd said exactly what she'd hope for - that he'd stay late at the office and use the time to catch up on some work. In fact, his ready acceptance had irked her at some level. So he thought she'd sacrifice part of this last evening with him in order to neatly fold slips and shirts?
At home her suitcase waited, already packed. She'd left work in the early afternoon to do that, and to find exactly the right thing to wear for this return trip downtown to Paul's office.
Now she stood, just outside his door, trembling between nerves and anticipation.
It might not be the kind of spur-of-the-moment inspiration he'd have had, but he'd shown he appreciated her planning . . . at least in some areas of their relationship.
Areas such as soft, clean sheets, fluffy bath sheets and scented candles. And her lingerie.
Bette fought an urge to giggle. It used to be she only considered if something was clean and appropriate for wearing under a certain blouse or dress. But now she found that every morning her choices were affected not only by how she would look, but by what was easy to get into and out of . . . especially out of.
Maybe she wanted to give him something to remember her by while she was gone. Maybe she wanted to give herself a final memory. Just in case it was a final memory.
She sucked in a breath and turned the door handle.
Paul - tieless, first two buttons opened, cuffs rolled to mid-forearm - looked up from behind his desk as she walked in, surprise heating immediately to pleasure, and beyond. It was the look she needed to keep going. "Bette! What are you . . .?"
Perhaps he saw something in her face, because his question trailed off as she closed the door and leaned against it.
Without taking her eyes from his, she let her coat slide off her shoulders and down to the floor in a heap.
She smoothed a nervous hand down the wrap-front knit dress and wondered if she'd lost her mind.
Maybe.
But the look in his eyes left her very sure she hadn't lost her senses. He knew why she'd come.
"If memory serves me, you're supposed to be on the couch, Paul." Nerves, and something rawer, made her voice low and breathy.
His look never wavered as he dropped his pen on the desk, and stood. Slow and deliberate, he moved to the couch and, obeying her slight gesture, sat down.
Shaking knees didn't prevent her from taking the three steps that brought her in front of him. Trembling hands didn't stop her from undoing the dress's tie at her waist.
The weight of the material swung the sides open, and she knew he could see what was underneath. She knew, because she'd tested it in front of her bedroom mirror, wondering all the time if she'd feel like a fool when she did it in front of Paul.
He swallowed sharply. She watched his Adam's apple drop and rise and she felt her own tension ease. She felt a lot of things, but none of them was foolish.
She eased one knee onto the couch near his thigh and supported herself with a hand on the cushion by his shoulder, as her blood pulsed hotly under the lace and satin of the midnight-blue bustier. If he didn't touch her . . . And damn soon.
"Uh, Bette?"
"Hmm?"
"I have a question."
Was he going to ask what she thought she was doing? Oh, Lord, if it wasn't obvious, maybe she wasn't doing this as well as she thought.
"What?"
"Have you gotten me a Christmas present?"
At least his voice sounded as strained as his face looked. She moved her free leg, and one side of the dress slipped behind it, revealing more of her body to him.
"A Christmas present?" She bent to touch her lips to his temple, and absorbed the hard, demanding beat there. His skin felt hot under her lips. This close, she could feel the heat of him, holding off the chill of her state of near-undress.
"Uh-huh." He went even stiller when she moved to the other temple, leaning across him, close enough that his breath teased the tops of her breasts. "I know you shop early, so I wondered if you'd already gotten my present."
She noted his assumption that she would get him a present, but felt too absorbed by the way his pulse first hesitated then sprinted to comment on that.
"No. Why?"
"I know you like to save time, and I can save you some time shopping."
"Oh?" She leaned back enough to see his eyes.
"Yeah. I know exactly what I want."
"What's that?"
"This."
He pushed the dress off her shoulders and down her arms. His palm cupped her left breast possessively, testing it, molding it. His thumb hooked over the bustier's edge, stroking the bare flesh and catching her nipple tauntingly.
"You like that, don't you, Bette?" he asked when the nipple hardened and peaked.
Swaying a little toward him, she gave him the answer they both knew, but he seemed to need to hear. "Yes."
"You feel so wonderful. And you look . . ." He pulled her forward sharply, so she fell against him while he buried his face between her breasts. She felt the rasping moistness of his tongue against her skin and shivered with it. Slowly, he eased her all the way down to his lap, and raised his head and looked at her.
She felt herself responding, her blood pooling deep in her body at the desire in his look, her lips curving at the glint of humor. He'd pulled a tighter rein on his control. For now. They both knew what pleasure there'd be in testing how much longer it would last.
"You look like the most beautiful package
I have ever seen," he said. He stroked her from hip to belly to waist to abdomen to breast, burning the feel of his touch into her through the thin fabric. He slid the narrow straps off her shoulders and freed her breasts, letting his fingers trail one by one over peaks already hard, until she wanted more, much more. He tongued each, briefly, tantalizingly. "A beautifully wrapped package, too. But you know what happens to wrapping paper Christmas morning."
Something blazed in her, but she wouldn't give in to it. Not yet.
When he raised his head, she forced her fingers to move slowly, deliberately. Open one button of his shirt. Then the next. And the one after. Complete one task, then start on the next.
"In my family," she told him, pulling out the tails of his shirt, and helping him slide it off before opening the waist of his slacks, "we carefully remove the tape and fold the paper neatly."
Her primness was marred only by a soft gasp at the end when he guided her hands under his loosened waistband and around him.
"You would," he groaned. Quickly, he shed the rest of his clothing and dragged the hosiery down her legs. "Not me. I rip."
One word, and he would. She knew it, and it thrilled her.
But sense prevailed - this time, she thought with a wicked grin to herself and a defiant mental promise that there would be a next time. She bent her head, dipped her tongue into his ear, then whispered, "There's no need to rip in order to unwrap, Paul."
"No? Then there'd better be a fast way to undo this thing."
"There is."
"How?" She heard the break of control in his voice, felt it in his urgent hands. "How the hell does this -"
"There -"
"But, it doesn't -"
"Yes. It has -"
A growl reverberated against her skin in the vicinity of her breastbone, the sound a mixture of frustration eased and satisfaction anticipated. "Snaps."
Abruptly, she felt the couch's smooth cool leather against her back, the lace and satin bunched around her waist, the heat and weight of her man above her. Around her. Inside her.
"Ah, Bette . . ."
"Yes."
"God . . . so good. So damn good."
Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) Page 18
