Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series)

by Patricia McLinn

Then there were no words. But whispers. Warmth. Moist darkness. Movement. Moans. Fire. Wet lightning.

  Rhythm. Explosion.

  * * *

  SHE STILL BREATHED, her heart still beat, her body still felt the damp weight of him against her, so there had to be a basic resemblance to the woman she'd been before.

  But she knew. She knew she was different. She'd lost her heart.

  Somehow, when she flew apart in his arms just now the piece of herself she'd been trying so hard to hold on to had slipped through her fingers and into his.

  What am I going to do?

  The question arose from reflex. There was nothing to do. Too late now.

  "Bette?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Come spring, I want to take you sailing."

  He didn't move from her, but he turned his head so his next words wouldn't be muffled against her skin. "You'd like it. Out on the lake. You can skim along the coast, watching the city. You know there's traffic, noise and people with problems, but you're far enough away that all you see is the beauty of the city, the strength of the skyline, the green of the parks. Or we can go way out, where there's nothing but us and the water and the sky. Out in the middle like that, it's a place to tell dreams and secrets."

  "It sounds magical."

  "It is." Her content ruptured as he raised his upper body from hers. "Well?"

  "Well what?" Without his body as a blanket, she felt the room's chill.

  He was nearly glaring. "Will you?"

  His impatience fueled hers. "Will I what?"

  "Will you go sailing with me next spring?"

  The direct question surprised her, but also made her wary.

  She'd accepted his comments as vague daydreams in the afterglow of lovemaking. Paul Monroe didn't make dates for spring when winter hadn't even started.

  If she pushed the point, he'd surely back off. That would hurt, but it wasn't as bad as the alternative. Because if she didn't push the point, she'd be seduced by the mist of hope, with nothing substantial behind it.

  "When?"

  "The first fine Saturday in May." No hesitation. Almost as if he'd been planning the answer before she asked.

  "Yes, I'll go sailing with you the first fine Saturday in May."

  A smile lit his eyes, setting the green-tinted flecks glinting against the gray. "Then it's a date," he promised, kissing her with intent.

  What had she done?

  What did it matter?

  The hope was so woven into her life, her heart, that she had no chance of holding herself apart from him. She loved him. Completely. Undeniably. And maybe, just maybe, her hope would pay off.

  "You know, there was just one thing wrong with this."

  She had a hard time taking in his words. "Wrong?"

  "Uh-huh. You know, different from my fantasy."

  She'd caught the gleam in his eye. "Oh? What was that?"

  "We were supposed to make slow, lazy love."

  "Hmm. You don't think that qualified?"

  "Not a chance. Guess we'll just have to try again."

  She made a move as if to get up, although with him sprawled atop her she couldn't budge. "Well, let me know when you want to give it another try, and I'll see if I can schedule you in."

  He gave her an insolent look. "You don't look too busy to me right now, and I think -" he flexed his buttocks and rolled against her where they were still joined, grinning wickedly at the moan she couldn't suppress "- now would suit me just fine."

  * * *

  "I STILL DON'T think we've gotten that quite right. It doesn't quite match my fantasy."

  Paul sat behind his desk, pulling on his socks, while she retied her dress. She gave a deeply martyred - and utterly fake - sigh. "You mean we'll have to do it again?"

  "Afraid so. We'll just have to keep at it until we get it right."

  "Maybe we're doing something wrong, Paul. Are you sure it was the couch?"

  "Now there's a thought!" He snagged her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. "Maybe we should try the desk."

  Fighting laughter, she twisted away from him. She spread her hands wide on the desk to try to regain some balance. A printout of a letter lay open in front of her, next to the legal pad he'd been making notes on when she came in. The letterhead and a few phrases in the letter caught her eye.

  "What is this, Paul?"

  "What's what?" He looked over her shoulder, but seemed uninterested. "That's a letter from the Smithsonian."

  "The Smithsonian?"

  "Uh-huh. They want me to be on a panel of consultants they're forming."

  "They just asked you?" But the letter was dated more than a week ago, and then she saw another phrase, and she knew this was not the first time the offer had been made.

  "They've been asking for a while. Middle of September, I guess they made the official offer."

  September. He'd known all fall. He'd been thinking about it all fall, and he hadn't told her. An amazing opportunity, the chance of a career, a credential in his field that could make a resume.

  The trip to Washington, snippets of comments from his father, from Jan, from Michael all came together and told her what she'd been too involved to see before.

  He'd had this offer all along. All these weeks they'd been together, and he hadn't told her.

  She pulled away and stood up, hardly noticing he didn't try to hold her.

  What had she thought? That he cared enough about her to truly share his life with her? Just because he hadn't walked away from her yet, because he'd looked two weeks ahead to ask her to spend Thanksgiving with his family, or even months ahead for some vague date to go sailing, had she thought he was changing his whole way of living, of existing? She was a fool. He'd shown all along how he operated.

  She straightened her back and lifted her chin.

  "They made this offer nearly three months ago and you've been holding them off, delaying giving them an answer?"

  "Sort of."

  "What does 'sort of' mean?"

  He picked up the pen from his desk, and let it slide through his fingers. "It means I told them I had several factors to consider, and I wouldn't be giving them an answer until I felt satisfied with the way things would work. It's not like they gave me a deadline and I've blown it. They said they don't mind waiting for my decision."

  She watched an uncharacteristic shadow of defensiveness cross his face, and guessed he was thinking about the bid on the house, feeling guilty over something that she'd actually felt relieved about. Maybe she still owed him an apology on that score, but not now. She wasn't going to be sidetracked.

  "What is there to decide, Paul? Are there drawbacks?"

  "Yeah, there are drawbacks," he shot back with something close to bitterness. "You sound just like my father, and he learned it from the master - Walter Mulholland. Just because it carries you one more step up that great career ladder doesn't make it automatically the right move."

  He paused. Just like my father . . . learned it from the master. A glimmer of understanding crossed her thoughts, but slipped back as he continued, slow and controlled. "I'd have obligations to them. I'd have to be in D.C. a certain number of days each month. It would cut into my business here. I have obligations to clients here. Loyal clients."

  "And of course," she started silkily, "it would entail having to look ahead enough to keep some sort of schedule. Even if only for a few days a month."

  The smoothness of her tone didn't fool him. He flicked her a look, then made a sound that could have meant anything. A noncommittal sound. Under her breath, she swore.

  "What?" His sharpness indicated he'd caught the drift of her sentiment, though she didn't bother to clarify.

  She knew exactly how this situation with the Smithsonian had come about.

  He'd probably been all friendly and helpful at first, making them think he was exactly the sort of person they needed, leading them on to believe he'd be there when they needed him. Then, at the last minute, he'd backed off and left them to be th
e ones to make the final move.

  Just the way he had with her.

  She swore under her breath again, then turned to stare blindly at the bookcase in front of her.

  Oh, he'd worked it perfectly. He had pulled her along. He'd pushed and prodded and chased - up to a point. Then he'd backed off and waited for her to make the next step. At each level, he'd forced her to make the final decision whether to go on to the next. Until there was only that final step to take toward him - to give her heart.

  Well, she had. And now she'd just have to live with the resulting pain. But she wasn't going to live with it alone. He wouldn't take the step himself, but by God she wasn't going to let him pretend she hadn't.

  Pivoting, she faced him.

  "I love you, Paul."

  For all the uncertain anger bubbling inside her, Bette knew her voice carried conviction.

  Heaven help her, she did love him. In a way she knew she'd never get over.

  As she watched, his eyes lost their narrowed look of defense, then widened in astonishment. They stayed wide, but into them leaped a flame that seemed to add a glow to his entire face as he rose and started toward her.

  She held him off with one outstretched arm.

  Desire wasn't enough this time. There was more to say. Words that desire couldn't burn away.

  Her glimmer of understanding grew brighter, bright enough to illuminate the connection between past and present, between father and son, grandfather and grandson.

  "I love you, and that's my problem."

  He frowned at the word problem but she went on. "You pretend you're a free and easy spirit who doesn't commit to anything, but we both know that's a lie. You're committed to your business and your friends and your family. And probably, in your own way, you're committed to me. But that's not the kind of commitment I want. I want the kind that doesn't wince at the word marriage, that makes plans for a home and a family, that arranges a life together. The kind that doesn't need options left open because loving each other is the best option there is. The kind that doesn't mind strings."

  Looking at Bette, Paul imagined for an instant that he could feel those strings she said bound her to him breaking loose, snapping so hard and so fast that they rebounded back to whip at him.

  God, she was going to leave him.

  "That's what I've wanted as long as I can remember, Paul. I knew from the beginning that you wouldn't - maybe couldn't - give that to me. You were totally honest about that. That's why I tried so hard to stay away from you. But you can be persistent. And charming."

  Her mouth, still red and swollen from their passion, lifted on one side in a smile that squeezed his heart. And in his pain, he lashed out.

  "Are you saying I seduced you? Sold you a bill of goods? Because I didn't. I never made you promises I didn't keep."

  "No. You never made promises. You were honest. At least about that. But you haven't been honest with yourself."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No-o-o." She drew out the negative. "You probably don't. But I should have seen it before. That first night you practically spelled it out. Your whole life has been spent opposing your grandfather. Whatever his expectations and goals were for you - school, career, attitude toward life, marriage, family - you did something different."

  He didn't bother denying it. It was true. He'd been determined from the start not to do what Walter Mulholland ordered. "And what about you? Haven't you spent your whole life living up to your grandfather's expectations? No time for fun, only time for work and advancement. Life goals and schedules and step-by-step plans."

  Her eyes opened wide and he saw their blue intensified by pain, then they narrowed. "I see now. All this time, you've thought I was just like your grandfather, haven't you? That what my grandfather taught me was what your grandfather tried to force on you. Maybe you've even worried that I'd try to run your life, to remake you like your grandfather did."

  '"That's bull -"

  She didn't seem to hear. "I won't ask for anything from you, Paul. I just want to be as honest as you've been. I love you, but I don't want to. God, I don't want to." Her voice held such hurt he almost reached for her, even as the words struck at him. "Because loving you means I want all those things with you that scare you so much - a home, a family, a future. So someday I think - I hope - I'll stop loving you. And then I'll leave."

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  SHE'D GONE.

  She'd said she loved him. She'd said she asked nothing of him. Then she'd left.

  He'd spent last night here in the office. Mostly pacing.

  When Norma arrived this morning, she'd put up with his growling for less than half an hour, then closed the door on him. That was fine with him. This way he didn't have to see Norma's glower.

  Oh, he knew Bette's trip had been planned a long time. But it came down to the same thing.

  She'd said she loved him. She'd said she asked nothing of him. Then she'd left.

  And she'd left him behind.

  Would she have asked him to come if he'd said yes to the Smithsonian, if he'd proved he was following the "right" path in life? Was that the price of admission to her heart?

  His rush of anger receded as quickly as it had come. No. That wasn't fair. That wasn't Bette's way.

  More likely she was trying to spare him. If her family was anything like his, bringing someone to a function like her parents' anniversary celebration would have been tantamount to an engagement announcement. Five days of expectant looks and probing questions; she'd known how that would rub against him.

  Your whole life has been spent opposing your grandfather .

  Yes, she'd been right there. By the time Walter Mulholland had died, his junior year in college, the pattern had become second nature. Whatever Walter Wilson Mulholland would have approved of, he didn't do.

  Including marrying Bette?

  He pushed the question away.

  Why hadn't he told her the things he'd been tempted to say? He could have told her he'd nearly decided to accept the Smithsonian offer, that after a couple months of talking with them he thought they'd worked out an arrangement that overcame the drawbacks. He could have told her he loved her. The words had been there, pushing to escape.

  Instead, she'd told him she loved him and she'd left.

  And he felt as if men with pickaxes were working in syncopation inside his head, heart and belly.

  "Paul." Norma Schaff's voice came through the intercom. "Grady Roberts is on line two."

  With a deep sigh, he dropped his feet from his desk and leaned forward to pick up the receiver.

  "Hey, Grady, what's up? But make it short. Some of us work for a living, you know, not just make a few phone calls and rake in a million."

  "Paul, I'm in my office and you know how I can see a lot of the financial district from here -"

  "If you're calling to brag about your view -"

  "Paul, shut up and listen, will you? There's a fire, a big one. It's your dad's building."

  Paul was out of the chair without realizing it. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I just checked with somebody's binoculars to make sure before I called you."

  "Thanks, Grady."

  He'd already started to hang up, when Grady's voice stopped him. "Paul!"

  "Yeah."

  "Paul, it looks bad. There are trucks all over. You may have trouble getting close. Be careful."

  "Thanks."

  He snatched his coat and, after a split second of hesitation, also grabbed the ratty raincoat left over from last spring, plus a hat from an undetermined source. Before he finished his hurried explanation to Norma, she'd dug out two umbrellas, a wool scarf and a pair of gloves, tucking them into pockets as efficiently as an experienced kindergarten teacher.

  By the time he gave up on the crawling cab and struck out on foot for the final three-quarters of a mile, he was grateful for every layer. The wind sliced sleet into his raw skin. Running made it worse, but st
ill he ran. Even when the sidewalks became as clogged with pedestrian traffic as the streets had been with vehicles, he ran, dodging and, when necessary, pushing through the crowds.

  Only when a police barricade blocked the way did he stop, and only then because a slicker-outfitted member of Chicago's finest snagged him by the sleeve.

  "Stay back!"

  "I've got to -"

  "Nobody's got to go in there, buster, but the firemen. Just back up here and let them do their job."

  Paul pulled in a couple deep breaths as he considered the pugnacious expression and broad shoulders of the cop. Then his eyes went to the building, belching smoke that seemed to hiss as it met the cold, wet air. Nobody could still be in there, at least not alive -

  "The people. Where'd they take the people? They must have evacuated -"

  A flicker of understanding lit the cop's eyes. "Around this corner, go to the middle of the block, there's an insurance company, glass all across the front, big open lobby. That's where they've been taking 'em. Leastwise the ones the ambulances didn't take."

  Ambulances. The word reverberated in Paul's head as he ran in the direction the cop had indicated.

  The lobby was a dizzying mass of people. People with mismatched jackets flung over their shoulders or with blankets wrapped around them. Some sitting quietly against a wall, others talking feverishly on phones or to anyone who would listen.

  Forcing himself to be methodical, Paul worked his way through three-quarters of the room before spotting a familiar face.

  "Miriam!" His father's associate had been out to the house with her husband many times for dinners both business and social.

  "Paul. What in the world are you doing here?"

  "I heard about the fire. I haven't seen - I can't find -"

  "He's fine, Paul. Everybody got out safely."

  Some of the tension went out of him. But he'd feel certainty only when he saw his father himself. "A cop said they were taking people to hospitals."

  She nodded. "Some smoke inhalation, and some shock, I think. But they've told us everyone's in good condition. Everybody was evacuated in time."

  "Do you know where he is?"