And for a split second forgot they were Robbie’s lips beneath his. Surprised at how soft, how womanly she felt. He moved his mouth against hers automatically, deepening what he’d intended as an impersonal gesture into something far more intimate. Her lips parted and he took her invitation instinctively, until he heard the minister’s discreet cough.
This is Robbie! What in the name of God am I doing?
He jerked his mouth from hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, unable to meet the shocked look he knew he’d see in her eyes.
He couldn’t believe he’d done that. Robbie was his friend.
He escorted her down the aisle, stood beside her in the small reception line, accepted the congratulations of his colleagues and hers as they filed by. He even managed to be cordial to Karen Smith, to put his arm around his new wife and pretend that he and Robbie had married for the usual reasons. But he never looked at Robbie.
Until he saw the couple at the end of the line, speaking with Susan and Stan. Then he leaned over to ensure that his words reached only her ears. “You invited Pete and Marie.”
“You never actually said not to.”
“I told you I didn’t want them here.” It was hard enough getting through this charade, putting Robbie through it, lying to her parents, allowing her to lie to them, without this. Yeah, Pete, my man, you’re absolutely right. I’ll sacrifice anyone, including my only real friend, in order to get my man. Or in this case, my son.
“But you never came right out and said don’t invite them.”
They were heading toward him, a striking couple with Pete towering over his petite dark-haired wife. Con held out his hand to his sometime partner, thankful to Robbie for one thing. She’d made him angry as hell, wiping out all traces of the bizarre moment in front of the altar.
“Con. It’s good to see you, man,” Pete said, his grasp firm. Pete was a professional arbitrator, and Con had to hand it to him. He did his job well. Con almost believed Pete meant the words.
“Congratulations, Con. I’d hoped the love bug would get you,” Marie said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“You’re looking good, Marie,” Con said, focusing on her pretty features rather than her words. She looked nothing like the tense unhappy woman she’d been when he’d first met her.
“Yes, well—” she glanced shyly up at Pete “—we’re expecting again.”
“Congratulations!” Robbie said, hugging Marie. The two had met only once before. It was at Pete and Marie’s wedding when Con had had to show up as part of a couple or be assigned to some bridesmaid, but they’d hit it off right from the start.
“Wait’ll you hear Con’s news—” Robbie began.
“Not now, dear,” Con interrupted, jabbing Robbie in the side. He wasn’t ready to hang out more of his dirty laundry. Hey, Pete. You know the night I got that woman killed? I also impregnated a woman whose name I didn’t know, a woman I don’t even remember screwing.
Robbie glared at him—he’d probably bruised her ribs on top of everything else—but she let the moment pass, smoothing things over for him as Pete and Marie promised to talk with them later.
Robbie saw them through the small reception following the ceremony, as well, showing everyone that theirs was a match made in heaven. She made jokes about his terser-than-normal attitude, convincing their guests he was simply a very impatient bridegroom. He played along as best he could—and was eternally grateful to her.
Not that he told her so. He didn’t know how.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS OVER.
Back in shorts and a tank top, her wedding suit safely tucked away, Robbie looked around her empty apartment one last time. Her truck was loaded with everything she was keeping, and Con was waiting outside to drive her home.
Home.
Why was it that Con’s place had always felt like home—until today? She searched the floors of her bedroom closets. Empty. She knew they were. Con had already double-checked everything for her— every cupboard, every shelf. She was stalling. There was nothing of hers left here.
It was just that she wasn’t sure there was anything for her at Con’s house, either. She felt awkward moving in there, having no place of her own to run to when she needed to regroup.
And all because of that kiss. The second Con’s lips had touched hers, everything had changed. She knew that was what was bothering her. Knew, also, that she couldn’t talk to Con about it.
She used to be able to talk to him about anything. But she couldn’t talk to him about that kiss, couldn’t bear for him to learn that it had mattered so much to her, couldn’t bear to see his pity. The only way she was going to get through this was to pretend she hadn’t responded to him with such embarrassingly obvious passion, to act as though the kiss had been as meaningless to her as it had been to him.
If things were normal between them, she could have made him laugh about it, treated the whole thing like the joke it should have been. But she had a scary feeling that things weren’t ever going to be normal between them again. They’d only been married a few hours and already there was a chasm between them, forcing them apart.
She needed a cigarette.
SHE WASN’T ALONE again until much later that night when she was in her room, furiously making her bed. Con had helped her carry in all her things. He’d set up her water bed without complaining once. Moving and filling that bed was something he’d done for her many times before, though not usually without cursing her and her taste in mattresses a time or two. Even something so mundane was no longer normal. But she was moved in; she had her stuff in her own bathroom—and they’d accomplished everything without once mentioning that kiss.
Their wedding supper was nothing to write home about, but by the time they’d made it to the kitchen for some sustenance, she’d been ready to eat. They’d had tuna-melt sandwiches followed by a companionable after-dinner cigarette. They were both still wearing the shorts and shirts they’d put on for moving.
“I found a way to Cameron Blackwell,” Robbie had told him. She’d been so caught up in wedding plans she’d forgotten to tell Con about her coup.
“Yeah?” He didn’t sound like he believed her.
“I made friends with his dog.”
“You what?”
“I spent part of the weekend hanging out in front of his place, you know, just thinking, getting the lay of the land, trying to figure out the best way to approach him—”
“You were trespassing, just waiting for him to show so you could pounce on him,” Con interrupted.
“Yes, well, his dog showed,” Robbie continued, “and we got to know each other.”
The look Con sent her was piercing. “Where’d he bite you?”
She was enjoying the cigarette much more than she should be. But at least it had come from Con’s pack.
“That part’s not important, Con. It wasn’t deep. It just bled a lot. And while I was waiting for the bleeding to stop, we got to talking. Cameron’s really a funny guy, Con. I liked him.”
“Of course he’s a funny guy. He writes comics.”
“Just because he knows what’s funny doesn’t mean he’s funny himself. Anyway, the main thing is, I’ll get my story.”
“He agreed to an interview? Because you got caught trespassing?”
Robbie fiddled with her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “Not quite,” she admitted. “He wasn’t too happy about that. And I had to promise him the interview would be strictly regulated by him, that I wouldn’t exploit him, but rather just get to know him a little better. Oh, and I promised not to tell anyone that he reads romance novels by the dozen.”
“He what?” Con’s gaze shot to her, a hint of humor in his usually somber eyes.
“He came running out of the house so quickly when he heard me scream that he still had the book he’d been reading in his hand. There was a whole wall of them in his study, too.”
Con studied her. “And you threatened to make something of it.”
<
br /> Robbie shrugged. She was a reporter. She had an obligation to the citizens of Phoenix. “I simply told him he had a choice. I’d tell my story, which was definitely going to give the wrong impression as I had so little to go on—or I’d tell his.”
Con’s mouth quirked into the half grin she loved so well but saw so infrequently. “You’re something else, Rob. I almost feel sorry for Blackwell.”
Warmth spread through her at his approving tone. And she blasted herself for the response. How would she get through years living with this man if she was going to go around reacting like a besotted idiot to every little thing he said?
“Where’d the dog bite you, Rob?” he asked, suddenly serious.
Damn. She’d hoped he’d forgotten about that.
“It doesn’t matter, Con. Really. It’s fine.”
“Then why avoid the question?”
“Look. I told you it doesn’t matter. Now drop it.”
“You don’t play around with dog bites. Did you have your doctor take a look at it?”
Damn his persistence. She wasn’t one of his suspects. “He had to look when he stitched it up, now, didn’t he?” she snipped.
Con ground out his cigarette. “God, Rob. It needed stitches? Show me where he bit you.”
She put out her cigarette, too. “No.”
He stood up, towering over her. “I assume the dog had all his shots?”
“Yes.”
“The wound could still get infected. Show me where he bit you.” He’d come closer.
He wasn’t going to give up. She knew that
“Show me.” He was standing right over her.
“Here. It’s right here,” she said, touching the underside of her right breast.
If she’d thought the location would shock him, embarrass him, get any reaction out of him at all, she was wrong. He didn’t miss a beat. “Show it to me,” he said, his eyes filled with nothing but concern. They could have been talking about her big toe.
Except they weren’t. And she was too aware of it— even if seeing an intimate part of her body apparently moved him not at all.
“Come on, Rob. Let me look.”
“Forget it, Randolph. My tits are my own.” She got to her feet, pushed past him and ran to her room, closing the door behind her.
She needn’t have bothered. He hadn’t followed.
Angrily Robbie forced the sheet corners around the bulky water-filled mattress.
How dare he think, even for a second, that he had any right to see her breast? For any reason.
How dare he think his first intimate sight of her was only going to be because of a repulsive little wound? How dare he not even realize it would have been his first sight of her?
How dare he not have passion in his eyes?
Robbie’s hands went limp, the sheet slipping away as she sank slowly to the floor. That was the real problem. Had been all day. She’d seen the distaste in Con’s eyes when the minister had asked him to kiss her that afternoon. And the memory was killing her.
It was one thing to assume she didn’t turn him on. It was another altogether to have proof.
She was hurting like hell and she didn’t have a clue how to deal with it. Con had never hurt her before. Because she’d never before allowed herself to want something from him he couldn’t give, never before allowed herself to hope he might someday want her.
She couldn’t blame Con. He’d die for her if she needed him to.
She just didn’t turn him on.
“Robbie?” His call was followed by a knock on her door.
Leaping up, she grabbed a sheet corner. “Come on in,” she called. The best way to get through this was just to pretend nothing had changed between them. She had to go back to looking at Con without feeling the touch of his lips on hers, without thinking about his taste, without imagining his passion.
She just hoped it wasn’t too late.
“I think we need to talk,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb.
Not yet. She wasn’t done forgetting yet. “Go away, Randolph.”
“You just told me to come in.” His head almost touched the top of the doorway.
She yanked her bright yellow comforter out of a box. “Now I’m telling you to go.”
“I’m sorry, Rob. I screwed up. Big time. I just want you to know it won’t happen again.”
She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let him see how much his words were hurting her. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t been honest with him about the way she felt. It wasn’t his fault she was in love with him. And it certainly wasn’t his fault she was such a turnoff to men. “Forget it, Con. I have.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And, Rob? Keep a close eye on that bite,” he added, and was gone.
To spend his wedding night alone. Robbie spent the night trying to pretend that it was sweat and not tears soaking her pillow.
CON WAS UP EARLY the next morning. By the time he heard Robbie’s bathroom door open, the homemade biscuits were just coming out of the oven, and the bacon and potatoes were done. It was time to put on the eggs, stay busy, not think about her somewhere in his house getting ready for the day. She’d spent the night here before—such as that time he didn’t want her driving home in a monsoon and one night when she’d had too much to drink. And each time, she’d gotten up the next morning, too. There was nothing to it.
Except that she had stitches on the underside of her right breast. She’d have to be careful not to get them wet when she bathed. He spent the next several seconds thinking up different ways to keep them dry. Because he was worried about infection. That was all.
Breaking a yoke, he swore, then lit a cigarette, reminding himself of his game plan once more. He wasn’t sure what he and Robbie were going to do with the day, but whatever it was, he would make up for the ass he’d been the day before. Starting with breakfast.
Susan had invited them to drive up to Sedona for a cookout later in the day, and Con wasn’t averse to that. He’d be just as happy at home, working in the yard, but he’d made up his mind to do whatever Robbie wanted to do—and to be a good sport about it. Anything to get that hurt look out of her eyes. To get things back to normal. He should never have kissed her the way he had at the wedding. It was unforgivable.
And he could hardly stand to think about his moronic insistence she strip in front of him. When he’d heard that the dog had bitten deep enough to require stitches, he’d gone a little nuts. Dog bites were serious. He’d seen a guy with rabies once. He sure didn’t want to lose Robbie that way. Or any other way.
“Mmm, smells good,” she said, coming into the kitchen, her hair still wet from the shower. She picked up Con’s cigarette, helped herself to a puff, then put it out. “If I had time, I’d make you give me some of that.” She was watching him flip the eggs he was making for her.
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
She snatched a piece of bacon. “I’m covering the Fourth of July celebration at Patriots Square.”
“I thought you had the rest of the week off.”
“I called Rick this morning. Told him I could work.” She chewed on the bacon as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Con’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t he find it odd that you’d want to work the day after your wedding?”
“He assumed you had to go in.”
Con lit another cigarette. “What about your parents’ cookout?”
“I called them, too, told them we’d try to make it up there over the weekend.”
She didn’t want to spend the day with him. Maybe that was best.
“When do you expect to be back?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Later.”
Con ate their breakfast alone.
HE WAS THE ONLY ONE in the neighborhood doing yard work. Not many people celebrated the holiday that way. Which was fine with him. He had the world to himself as he clipped and trimmed, no friendly neighbors coming over to chat. Con hated it when they did that. He never had anyt
hing to chat about.
He finished trimming the bougainvillea bushes lining his wall, checked the irrigation on the fruit trees and wondered if Robbie would be home in time for dinner. Then berated himself for caring. He’d been eating dinner alone most of his life. If Robbie happened to stop over, it was no big deal. He’d never counted on it. Never needed it. He wasn’t about to start now.
“I figured I’d find you back here.”
Con swung around to find Stan Blair standing there. A good four inches shorter than Con, Robbie’s father was still a big man, an intimidating man. Especially if you happened to have just married his daughter.
“Stan! Something wrong?” Con asked, his sheers hanging from his fingers.
“Not that I know of. I just wanted to talk. You got a few minutes?”
Con dropped his sheers on the growing pile of brush and headed toward his back door, grabbing the towel he’d left on a lounge by the pool on his way.
“Come inside,” he said, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. “Where’s Susan?”
“I left her at the mall. Dilliard’s is having a sale.”
He’d gotten rid of Susan. This talk was going to be serious. Con pulled a couple of bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and handed one to Stan.
“Thanks.” The older man took the beer, but didn’t open it right away. Setting it down on the breakfast bar, he excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Con watched as Stan left the room, a hard knot of regret in his gut. If this were a perfect world, if a kid had the right to choose his father, Stan would have been a good choice for him. Not that Stan would have seen it that way. Con had always been a pain in Stan Blair’s ass.
He’d known that Robbie’s father wouldn’t have been happy about the wedding. But what could he possibly have to say about it now, after the fact?
Taking his beer with him, Con headed to the back of the house, as well, thinking he’d use this chance to clean up a little, at least change his sweat-soaked T-shirt.
His heart sank when he rounded the corner. Stan was in the doorway of Robbie’s room looking at his daughter’s unmade bed. Con’s door was open across the hall, leaving a clear view of his own unmade bed.
Shotgun Baby Page 8
