"I had to see you -" He broke off, then started again. "There are more things that need to be said between us." She felt him nearer.
"I know, that's why I called you yesterday."
"You called?" His voice was low.
She twisted to see his face, but he was too close, and she saw only her own desire reflected there. She looked back to the water. "I left a message at your apartment."
"I haven't been home." His fingertips brushed her hair behind her ear, perhaps so he could see her profile more clearly. "I needed to talk to you, Bette. There's something . . . Something happened Thursday. There was a fire."
The strain in his voice chilled her. Turning, she tried to read in his face what this fire had meant to him. He wasn't injured, at least on the outside. But inside?
"A fire?"
"Dad's building."
"Oh my God -"
"No." He gripped the arms she'd instinctively extended to him. "It's all right, Bette. He's fine. Nobody was seriously hurt. There's a lot of damage, and it'll be a mess for a while. For the firm. For Dad. But it's not much compared to what could have happened."
His hands traveled up her arms and across her shoulders, finally coming to her throat. He spread his fingers under her hair to caress her nape while his thumbs stroked the line of her jaw. In the shadows, wavering with the water's reflection, she saw his eyes just as surely caressing her lips.
"I learned something from that fire, Bette. Afterward Dad talked about his life, and my grandfather, and I started to see - I've been wrong. Wrong and blind and stubborn. That's why -" he dropped a kiss on her mouth as light and powerful as a laser's beam "- why I came here." Another kiss. "I had -" Another kiss "- to see you, to tell you . . ." Desire flared between them without lightening the shadows around them. "Oh, God, Bette. I need you."
He held her face between his palms and sank into her mouth.
She felt the need, the tension in him. She felt confused, uncertain - Why had he come? What had this fire meant to him? What was this change in him? But those were questions for the future, because beneath the confusion and uncertainty, she also felt the sure steady beat of her love for him.
He needed her now. He wanted her now. Now was the moment she had. She'd take it, and she'd give it.
Instinct led them to the wide cushioned seats that edged the back of the boathouse, because in the inky darkness they couldn't see anything. Not even each other. But touch led them where their eyes could not, the way to ease the ache, the way to fill the needs, the way to love each other.
And even in the dark, she could see the face of the man she made love with, the man she loved.
She would always see his face. It was her fantasy, more powerful than any schoolgirl could imagine. Yet it also haunted her, because it lacked one element - the love, the deep, committed love of the man making love to her.
"Bette?"
She didn't answer. She didn't want him to know she was crying.
He had come after her, but why? He might have followed one of his impulses, the desire of the moment to see her, be with her, make love with her. Or he might have felt her speech in his office had been an ultimatum, designed to close him in, trap him, bind him. Tears would only add to that impression.
"Bette, there's something I have to ask you."
She held her silence like a shield, protecting him from her tears, protecting herself from his questions.
No, not a shield, a restriction. She was doing what she'd sworn not to do, holding back from him out of fear.
"Bette. Do you really love me?"
The tears slipped loose.
He'd just made it all very simple. She hadn't planned it. It had just happened. But she did love him.
"Yes. I really love you."
Her voice flowed with love, but also with the tears. He shifted, putting a palm under her chin to lift it and levering himself above her to try to look into her eyes.
"Bette, don't cry." Paul's hoarse plea made her cry more, and his fingers, gently rough, couldn't stop the flow.
"God, Bette -"
"It's all right, Paul." She'd known what he could give her, and she'd risked it anyhow. She'd lost her heart, but by losing it she'd also found it. This time she had to tell him that side of it, too. "I knew . . . I knew . . ."
"You knew what?"
"How it would be, but it doesn't matter now -"
"How what would be? You're driving me crazy with these elliptical comments, Bette. I don't know what you're talking about, but experience tells me I'd hate it like hell. We've got to talk. Really talk. That's why I came down here. To talk to you, to tell you -" He broke off as if suddenly struck by the difficulty of expressing what he was about to say.
"To tell you . . . things," he finished lamely. The emphasis he put on the last word indicated it had great meaning, but she couldn't begin to fathom it.
"Things?"
"Aw, hell. I can't tell you here. Not with this, and with you crying and thinking what you're thinking. I know you, Bette, and you can't tell me you're not looking seven steps ahead and coming out on the totally wrong path."
She felt slightly stunned by the spate of words, and more than a little confused. "Now who's talking in elliptical comments?"
"I am. And it's going to stop. Starting now, we're going to take this one step at a time. And the first step is to tell you - No. Better yet to show you."
"Show me?"
"Yeah. C'mon, I'm going to show you exactly what I have in mind for the first step."
* * *
"PAUL, THIS IS the airport."
"Boy, I sure am glad I didn't get bus tickets then. We'd have been in a lot of trouble."
He sounded odd, almost giddy and a little nervous. Not at all like himself.
"Paul. Just this once. Answer me straight. What are we doing here? What's all this about a first step, and showing me?"
"I'll tell you. But not until we're inside."
She couldn't sway him from that as they turned in his rental car and made their way to the main entrance to the airport.
"Okay, we're inside," she reminded him. "Now tell me what this is all about."
"See Gate B23?"
She scanned the monitors for B23. "Departing for Las Vegas," she read.
"Right."
"We're going to Las Vegas?"
"That's right. I bought a pair of tickets for this flight right after I landed here."
"I don't understand. You want to gamble?"
"I hope what I have in mind is more along the lines of a sure thing."
The husky timbre of his voice sent a thrill down her backbone. "What is it you have in mind, Paul?"
"I have in mind getting married."
"Married?" Her mouth formed the word, but she didn't think she spoke it. No matter what tricks her respiratory system might be doing, her mind hesitated to accept what she'd heard. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. I'm also sure, positive, and certain. A little anxious, but also eager."
Behind all the glib words, she saw a doubt in his eyes, and when he expressed it out loud she knew she'd cry, right here in the middle of Sky Harbor Airport.
"If you'll have me. Will you marry me, Bette?"
Twice she tried to swallow the tears. But she couldn't stop them, certainly not enough to get out any words. Instead, she placed her palm against the faintly bristled curve of Paul's jaw and stretched to touch her lips against his, even as she continued to cry.
He took her face between his hands and kissed the tearstains on her cheeks, then returned to her mouth. Deep and hot and dark, he still somehow managed to make the kiss tender. And full of promises for the future. Oh, Lord, so full of promises.
They broke apart to gulp in air and smile giddily at each other.
"I don't have any luggage."
"That's okay, I don't have much myself, only a few things I'd left at my parents' house. We'll buy what we need." The green flecks in his eyes heated, sharing the memory and the anticipa
tion. "After all, we're veteran shoppers for this sort of trip. But first, I have to know: Is that a yes?"
"Yes, that's a yes."
They stood, grinning at each other for a full minute before Paul grabbed her hand and headed for the departure gates. "That's us," he said as the boarding of the Las Vegas flight from Gate B23 was announced.
Bette's head was in too much of a spin to notice much except the compact energy of the man next to her as they passed through security and continued toward the gate. Then, as abruptly as he had showed up at her parents' front door, Paul stopped.
Two strides short of Gate B23, he pulled back suddenly on Bette's hand. She felt the smile on her lips freeze as she looked at him. His gaze went from the gate back to her, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it.
"I can't do this, Bette."
She pulled in a breath of pure pain.
For an instant she thought she might collapse. But she didn't. Numbness and pride held her up.
She felt only gratitude that her legs held steady as she pivoted and started back down the corridor. Later, she knew, the numbness would recede and the hurt would be nearly unbearable. But she would bear it.
And she would love Paul Monroe despite the pain.
"No! Bette, wait." He caught her after two steps, none too gently pulling her around to face him. "You misunderstood!"
"What did I misunderstand, Paul? Your proposal? Did I take it too seriously? Was it a joke? Were you teasing, was that it?"
"God, no, I wasn't teasing. And I wasn't joking. Look at me, Bette. It's a basic matter of believing. No time to make a list or keep to a schedule or create a seven-step master plan. You either believe me or you don't. Right now."
His demand allowed only instinct, no thought. "I believe you."
Some of the tension went out of his hold on her, but none of the intensity. "Good. Because I meant every word I said. You're in my life for good, whether you like it or not, and I want to be married to you, Bette Wharton. But not Las Vegas style. We can't get married that way. It's not the right way for us."
"I . . . I don't understand."
"I've sworn to stop doing what my grandfather wouldn't have wanted and start doing what I do want. Eloping to Vegas was reflex action. But it's not what I want and - Hey!" His eyes lit up with something a shade hotter than laughter before his voice changed. "You were really willing to elope with me, weren't you? No plans, no schedule, just hop on a plane and go get married."
"Yes."
The single word said more than all her explanations could have.
"What do you know about that?" His grin tilted. "That's the nicest thing you could ever have done for me, Bette."
He caught her closer.
"But I want the whole damn thing with you, Bette. I want to go back to your parents' house and be introduced as their son-in-law to-be. I want to take you home to Lake Forest and watch my parents' faces when we tell them the good news. I want to hear Judi squeal. I want to get congratulated by Grady and Michael. I want to go looking for the perfect house for us to buy - together. And I want to marry you in a church, with a minister and flowers and a veil and pictures and a cake and one hell of a reception. I want as many of our friends and relatives as we can cram in to be there when we make those promises about forever and ever."
"You do?"
"I do." She watched his eyes acquire a familiar glint, and she realized that her love for this man might never stop growing. "See, I even know my line already. 'I do.' "
She laughed. She couldn't help it. It was one of the things she loved about Paul Monroe, this ability to make her laugh. Because, his joy in making her laugh, in drawing that out of her, was one aspect of his love for her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you for making my fantasy come true, Paul," she whispered against his lips. "My whole fantasy."
His arms tightened across her back, almost fiercely. But his voice was soft.
"Any time, Bette. Any time."
Their mouths met with a tenderness that belied the desire trembling in their bodies. The desire that would be as much a part of their lives together as the tenderness. And the laughter.
Paul rested his forehead on hers, though he couldn't resist dipping to take her top lip between his in a caress that evoked memories and promises between them. Then he loosened his arms enough to meet her eyes.
"You kiss me like that again, Bette Wharton, and you better be prepared to tell me you've had fantasies about airports." Her chuckle was still a little frazzled, and his brows rose above suddenly hopeful eyes. "Have you?"
"No!" This time she laughed outright.
His disappointment sighed deep and long, and he pressed a quick, hungry kiss to her lips before settling his arms more comfortably around her waist.
"So, how long do you think it'll take you to plan a wedding like that?"
"Oh, so I'm going to do the planning?"
He grinned. "I'm learning to enjoy thinking about the future, but would you really want me to plan a wedding? With schedules and deadlines and stuff?" He seemed to take her wrinkled-nose grimace as a no. "I bet you could get my mother to help. And I'll consult. So, how long will it take you to plan a big wedding like that?"
"I don't know. Nine months, a year maybe?"
"A year!"
"I really don't know, Paul. I haven't done it before, you know."
"I tell you what, since you're a rookie at this, I'll give you eight months and a little time to spare - say the last weekend in August."
"I feel a 'but' coming."
His grin sent a deliciously hot shiver through her.
"But -" he drew out the word as he ran his hands up her arms and along her shoulders "- the honeymoon comes first."
The pads of his thumbs reached lower, skimming the points of her collarbone, stirring her body to recognition of the sensations those thumbs could create if they strayed lower, and lower still. She felt a small shudder ripple through her, and saw from his eyes that he felt it, too, had wanted to feel it, had been trying to create it.
"We'll turn in these tickets to Vegas and see how far that'll get us toward the most exotic, most romantic, most sun-drenched, most secluded place we can get to with the least possible delay," he said.
She went into his arms without hesitation. "Just like a kid, wanting dessert first."
-The End-
Wedding Party
Patricia McLinn
Chapter One
Michael Dickinson continued efficiently sorting his mail despite the telephone tucked between his ear and shoulder. His calm, assured voice carried into the receiver over the noise of two dozen people pursuing three dozen tasks around him. As he spoke, he dropped envelopes, postcards, fliers and magazines into separate piles—discard, read immediately, pass on to someone else, read in that distant someday when he had time.
Another pile held one envelope. Addressed in a nearly illegible masculine hand, it had been among the mail he’d picked up from home when he returned to Springfield this morning after another whirlwind sweep through Illinois.
“I understand your concern for the party,” he said into the telephone. He listened a moment, then answered with no betraying inflection of dryness. “Yes, of course, and your concern for the candidate, too. We all want Joan to win the election. If there is a perception among the voters that she tilts at windmills, you’re right to say that could hurt her candidacy. It’s my job to ensure they don’t have that misperception.”
As Michael spoke, his eyes rested on the single envelope.
“Yes, I will mention that to the candidate. Thank you. I’ll let you know. Goodbye.”
He hung up and reached for the envelope. Without making any move to open it, he turned it over in his hands.
Paul never wrote. Not even at Christmas. The phone was invented for a man like Paul Monroe. Michael suspected that if Bette hadn’t insisted, the formal wedding invitation he’d received two weeks ago would instead have been delivered in
the same manner as the request to be in the wedding party: “Hey, Michael, we’re getting married. Why don’t you leave your sleazy politics for a while and come join Bette and me? I want you to be best man. Bette suggested co-groom, but I told her that’d be a little kinky for a straight arrow like you.”
Michael had heard Bette affectionately admonishing her fiancé in the background. He knew Paul well enough to recognize the invitation as a way to tease Bette, tease him and mask the sentimentality of the request, all at once. He’d been touched. And honored. And he’d said yes.
So it was hard to imagine what Paul could be writing about now.
If he had been a cynic, he might have wondered if Paul Monroe had decided he’d prefer Grady Roberts as his best man, since Grady was well on his way to making millions, while Michael was only chief aide-de-camp for long-shot United States Senate candidate Joan Bradon.
But Michael wasn’t a cynic—he had that on the authority of Joan Bradon, who had overcome plenty of cynics in her fifty-odd years. What he was, said Joan with her usual precision, was a skeptic. “A cynic presumes the worst. A skeptic suspends judgment until the proof’s in,” she’d told him once. “And since you’re never easy to persuade, you’re our resident devil’s advocate, finding the holes in time to plug them before we face the light of public scrutiny.”
Michael accepted her label, but for his own reasons. A cynic would remember too many weddings, ceremonies whose memories outlasted the love they were supposed to celebrate, and say this one would be no different. A skeptic could look at Paul and Bette and believe there was a chance it could be different.
Before Paul’s call, if he’d thought about it, Michael probably would have assumed Grady would be best man. After all, Paul and Grady went back to grade school. Michael was the latecomer in the group. He’d met them in the first hour of their first day of college.
Without ever saying much, he and Paul had seemed to understand each other from the start. Grady . . . well, Grady was Grady. But for all Grady’s astounding good looks, easy charm and moneyed background, Michael had envied him only one thing. And he’d buried that resentment so long ago and so deep he didn’t think even Paul had gotten more than an inkling of it. Certainly Grady hadn’t.
Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) Page 21
