Rules of the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “I’ll dance with you,” said one of the older men, the spot on the linen tablecloth surrounding his empty plate dusted with yeast roll crumbs. His glaring wife poked him in the ribs.

  Jake settled his napkin on the table. “I got this.”

  Gwendolyn’s soft laughter sounded like snow landing on angel wings.

  Jake took her hand and got to his feet in one fluid movement, pushing his chair back with a bump of his knees. He couldn’t help noticing the sensuous curve of her breasts beneath the silky fabric of her V-neck dress. She smelled as enticing as she looked, a girl-next-door combination of vanilla and cream that contrasted with the glossy sophistication of her appearance.

  It was surreal, the force of instant attraction. Oddly, he found himself resenting her for stirring his desires. He didn’t like feeling out of control. He didn’t have to dance with her. Or pretend to be her date. He could just walk away.

  That was the thing. He did not want to walk away.

  Bottom line? He wanted her. His desire tasted smoky and loamy, lingering more real than the taste of the champagne he’d been drinking. He wanted to taste her. Crush those glossy red lips with his. Take possession of them. One sip of sin and the daydream kindled, burning into his mind the image of long summer nights and sweaty flesh pressed hotly together.

  She walked backward, swishing her hips, leading him out onto the dance floor.

  Reluctant to draw her too near him for fear she’d steal his heart away, and feeling awkward dancing with someone other than Maura, Jake draped one arm around her shoulder instead of her waist.

  The packed dance floor caused her to wriggle closer, forcing him to drop his hand from her shoulder to the middle of her back. He could feel the outline of her bra, and his body hardened. He was in over his head.

  “I was right,” she murmured, looking up at him through a fringe of auburn hair.

  “About what?”

  “You’re a good dancer.”

  “I’m out of practice,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  He didn’t want to get into the reason. Especially not with someone he would never see again. “Are you ready to tell me your name?”

  “You don’t want to tell me why you’re out of practice, huh?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then I’m not going to answer your question.”

  “Fine,” he said. Gwendolyn.

  “You’ve got a stubborn streak.”

  “Ditto.” He glided her around an amorous couple groping each other. She was light on her feet, more graceful than Maura. He quickly squelched that disloyal thought.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did you rescue me?”

  “My friends say I have a damsel-in-distress complex.”

  “Do you?”

  He shook his head, not so much as an answer, but denying the idea she was a defenseless flower. This woman had grit. “You weren’t in distress.”

  “You’re right. If I hadn’t gotten into the wedding, what was the worst that would have happened?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I would have been embarrassed.”

  Now he was doubly intrigued. If she didn’t really care whether she’d gotten into the wedding or not, why was she here? “Your skin looks pretty thick to me.”

  And soft, very soft. The only thing that stood between his palm and the bare skin at the small of her back was the silky material of her dress.

  He felt sweat gather on his brow and prayed she didn’t notice.

  She canted her head, her eyes bright, inquisitive. “How come a guy like you isn’t married?”

  “I’m picky,” he said. “How about you?”

  Distress flickered across her face for half a second, and she quickly dropped her gaze. “Like you. Picky,” she said, but he could tell from the way her lashes fluttered that she wasn’t being totally honest.

  He leaned down to her ear. “What’s his name?”

  She stiffened. “Who?”

  “The guy who put you off men?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Ah, so there was a guy. “Whoever he is, the man’s a dumbass for letting a woman like you get away.”

  A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. He’d pleased her. He hadn’t been trying to please her. He was just being honest, and he meant every word.

  The band eased into a slower tune, “Kiss You,” and more people drifted onto the dance floor, pushing them even closer together.

  Their hips touched.

  Jake heard her sudden, sharp intake of breath. The trumpet player tugged a mournful note from his instrument and the sound slid right down Jake’s spine to lodge in the center of his chest. The resonant vibrations throbbed through him, pounding rhythmically with each squeeze of his heart.

  The fruity taste of champagne mixed with the earthiness of his desire. It tasted as right as this felt. His eyes fixed on her raspberry-colored mouth and he found himself wondering what she tasted like. Fruity bubbles no doubt, but beyond that he was certain she would also taste of mystery, spice, and adventure.

  A light sheen of perspiration dewed her forehead, matching his heated skin.

  He had a snapshot image of her tangled in his bedsheets, her head cradled on his pillow, hair spread out like an auburn fan as she gazed up at him. He imagined her lips puckered in a playful pout, her shapely legs drawn up beneath his long-sleeved white dress shirt, the pink of her perky nipples peeping at him above the open collar.

  He shook his head to dispel the vision, but it didn’t want to leave, clung sticky like cobwebs.

  “Please tell me your name.” Yeah, he was begging now, but the suspense was killing him.

  “Shh.” She pressed an index finger against her lips. “No talking. Just dance.”

  Frustrated, he propelled her across the floor, the movement carrying her away from him, but he tugged her back, her hair flying out gracefully behind her. They moved as one unit, as if they’d been dancing together all their lives, gliding and swaying, sliding and whirling.

  Christ, she was hot.

  And that mouth. So close. So kissable.

  He’d sworn off one-night stands. Promised himself no more. He was ready for a real relationship and he wasn’t going to have that with a woman who wouldn’t even tell him her name.

  Junk food. She was like junk food. It sounded delicious until you scarfed it up, and got caught in the logy hangover of fat, salt, and sugar.

  But dancing with her made him feel alive again in a way he hadn’t felt since Maura.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and his heart jumped right up into his mouth. He made a strangled noise, half groan, half sigh. She tilted her chin, angling her head in order to slide him a sideways glance. The movement, languid and curious, was identical to the one Maura used to give him when she was in a romantic mood.

  Jake’s gut twisted into knots.

  A strand of hair fell loose from the pin at her temple and wilted over her face. She reached up to tuck it behind one perfectly shaped ear studded with an emerald earring that matched her dress. Whenever he looked at her, inhaled her vanilla and cream scent, all he could think about was forbidden secrets and starlit nights.

  The music shifted into a song with a tempo so slow they were barely moving. He tightened his hand around her waist, breathed in her smell, heard the sound of blood pounding against his eardrums.

  He peered into her eyes and caught a glimpse of naked vulnerability that gutted him, and he understood why she was here. She was getting over a broken romance, a love affair gone sour, and this was her version of whistling in the dark.

  The woman was hurting … and she’d crashed a wedding to blunt her pain and loneliness. Hell, he understood terrible loneliness. Felt it when he was swinging at home plate in a stadium filled with thousands of fans. Felt it when his friends dragged him out of the house to go clubbing or play po
ker. Felt it when he was by himself in that king-sized bed late at night.

  His damsel-in-distress-rescuer instincts kicked into hyperdrive. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right. That she wasn’t alone. That he was here and no one would ever hurt her again.

  Then just as quickly as it had fallen, she zipped her guard back up, locking herself inside her ivory tower, hiding her emotions beneath those long, thick eyelashes. What would it take to breach that wall?

  “I’m thirsty,” she said matter-of-factly, stepping away from him so quickly that she almost collided with another couple.

  “Whoa.” He took her elbow and guided her off the dance floor. Her muscles tensed beneath his fingers and she twisted from his grip.

  “I’ll get you some water,” he offered.

  “I can get it myself.”

  He met her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, it was a nice dance. Thank you.” She smiled but sounded sad, like there was a rain cloud hanging over her Sunday picnic.

  “Am I being dismissed?” he asked.

  Her shoulders sagged, and she hoisted a halfhearted smile. “I’m just tired of dancing.”

  “Is there something else you’d like to do instead?” He didn’t mean it suggestively, but he heard the innuendo. He thought about clarifying, but figured that would make things worse.

  “I’m calling it a night,” she said.

  “What? You’re leaving before the chicken dance?” Desperate. He was desperate to keep her here a little bit longer. “Everyone knows it’s bad luck to leave before the chicken dance.”

  As if wired into his desperation, the band launched into the chicken dance polka.

  She smiled for real this time. “You set that up.”

  “No, but I’ll take credit for it if it will get you to stay.” He motioned her toward him. “C’mon …”

  Everyone was on the dance floor now, even little kids.

  Jake held out his hand to her. “Please.”

  She cut her eyes at him, shook her head, but in good-natured defeat slipped her palm into his. He edged her back onto the dance floor. They joined the flock doing the silly dance. Elbows flew as people misstepped, laughed, bumped into each other.

  When the chicken dance melted into a slow waltz, their gazes met again. She did not walk away with a chunk of the crowd that left the dance floor. She was intrigued, and unless he missed his guess, she was as stumped by their chemistry as he was.

  He spun her around the room. The chandeliers shifted colors, darkening to midnight blue against white side lighting. Jake glanced up and for the first time saw the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.

  Mistletoe.

  How could he pass up mistletoe?

  He wanted her. That’s why he used the mistletoe as an excuse, a pretense to explain his motives instead of what they really were—lust. Plain and simple. Okay, maybe not so plain, because his desire was rocking off the charts. And maybe it wasn’t so simple either, because he’d sworn off this kind of impulsive behavior, yet here he was, going for it.

  Back on track. He had to get his life back on track. But …

  He.

  Wanted.

  Her.

  Jake pressed his lips to her forehead. Felt feverish heat. Was it his heat or hers? Both? He tracked his mouth to the slight dip between her eyebrows and the top of her nose.

  She tilted her face up to him and he kissed his way down the bridge, her hair brushing against the back of his hand as he cradled her cheek. Kissed the sweet tip. Heard the soft hum of her breath. Smiled. Pressed his lips in the cozy indentation between her nose and her upper lip. Inhaled her feminine fragrance. Felt her tremble.

  “Jake,” she whispered, and curled her hand into a fist.

  To protest? Resist? He didn’t give her a chance.

  He closed his mouth over hers.

  She reached up and knotted her hands at the back of his neck, tugging his head down. He tasted champagne on her lips. He kissed her sweetly, softly, as if it was the first kiss either of them had ever received.

  She parted her teeth and a quiet gasp slipped out. He swallowed that gasp. Tasted heaven. Smiled wider.

  Gwendolyn.

  God, he wished he knew her name.

  If he knew her name this could be real. Could be something more. The strangest feeling came over him. There was an undeniable mind-body connection between them. A synergy of energy.

  He raised his head, looked down into her eyes.

  The waltz came to an end. The band took a break. Microphone in hand, the wedding planner announced the cutting of the cake.

  She stepped back from him. “It’s been real, Jake, and it’s been fun. But like Cinderella at midnight, I’ve really got to run.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jodi Carlyle’s Wedding Crasher Rules: Fight the urge to

  tell the truth.

  Her heart was a gun chamber, her blood bullets. Each pump shot a fresh stream of hot fluid circling throughout her body. Jodi snatched up her coat from the back of her chair, grabbed her purse from underneath the table where she’d left it and darted out the nearest exit.

  Hurried footsteps pounded behind her. She feared that if she turned, she’d see Prince Charming back there trotting after her with a glass slipper.

  No way. No more glass slippers. She wasn’t falling for that fairy-tale stuff again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice …

  Hurry! Get to the coach before it turns into a pumpkin.

  “Wait!”

  His urgent voice blinded her. She walked as fast as she dared in high heels. Saw nothing but a blur of walls. She felt dazed, and light-headed—remembering his kiss, that devastating, mind-warping, incomparable kiss that clipped every thread of her self-confidence.

  The footsteps slowed but they were still behind her. She picked up her own pace through the lobby, felt rather than saw heads turn as she flew by. She zoomed past the front desk, the concierge, the bell captain, and tumbled, gasping, out of the building near the valet stand.

  She trembled there a second, trying to remember where she was, who she was, and what the hell she was doing.

  “Taxi?” asked the valet. “Or do you have a car?”

  She shook her head.

  “Gwendolyn, wait.”

  She turned and there he was behind her. One half of him hidden in night shadow, the manicured beard cloaking the bottom part of his face, leaving her only a quarter for assessment. He looked at her as if he knew her inside and out, his brandy-brown eye pensive, the black pupil swelling big as a marble. And his powerful mouth—how it tormented and vexed her!

  Her lungs emptied. The man shoved every carnal instinct she possessed—and until she met him she hadn’t realized she had a lot—into overdrive.

  He took a deep breath, inhaled her spent air, and, it seemed, inhaled her.

  Her mind was a tumbler, and she was whirling, spinning, fumbling. Unable to find the right combination that would crack open her brain and unlock his spell.

  She stepped back. He stepped forward.

  “Hey, maybe I’ve been painting it on a little thick, but please don’t let me chase you off. I had fun tonight and it’s been a long time since …” He waved a hand. “You don’t want to hear my backstory. Upshot? I like you. From the minute I spotted you headed into the wedding I wanted to know more about you.”

  “That’s … um, nice.” This felt way too much like a grand gesture for her comfort, and her heart pounded harder.

  “Would you like to go get a cup of coffee and just talk?” He looked like a seven-year-old with one present left to open on Christmas morning, and he hadn’t yet gotten what he’d asked for.

  “I appreciate the offer.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think so.”

  “We didn’t have a chance to eat cake, and I have it on good authority the diner across the street makes the best German chocolate cake in town. Can’t end a wedding without cake, right?”

  She did love cake, a
nd she couldn’t resist the plea on his face. Normally, she would have scuttled out of there, but tonight was special. She’d faced her fear, and not only survived but thrived. As long as she kept this in perspective, she’d be okay.

  It was only nine-thirty, but it felt as if the clock was striking midnight. If she stayed she risked losing her mysterious, wedding-crashing, Gwendolyn mystique. But if she left, she’d be turning back into plain old, boring, rule-following, good-girl Jodi.

  This evening had been delightful. She wanted to end it on an up note. Wanted to cup the flame of happiness in her hands so that the winds of time didn’t blow it out.

  For better or worse, instead of telling the valet that yes she did need a taxi, Jodi nodded at Jake.

  He slipped his arm through hers and spirited her along to the diner on the opposite side of the road. “Open 24 Hours” buzzed in blue neon. Big, sparse flakes of wet snow spiraled from the night sky, drifting down and landing like sprinkles of kosher salt in his beard.

  They exhaled at the same time, their breaths puffing out billowy and white. In unintentional unison, they hunched their shoulders forward against the cold, and he slipped his hand from around her arm to encircle her waist.

  Maybe she should have been put off by the proprietary gesture, and she was certainly not going to romanticize this. For sure. Ryan had made her cynical, but as she turned her head and caught the sunshine smile spreading across his face, she felt an amazing surge of hope. Then again, maybe it was just champagne making her loose and malleable.

  Either way, it felt terrific.

  He pushed open the glass door, ushered her inside. A sign instructed them to seat themselves. It was too early for the bar crowd, too late for the bulk of dinner diners. He found them a booth in a far corner near a window away from most of the customers, but a place where they could watch the snowfall. He took her coat, shrugged out of his own, and hung them both on a nearby coatrack.

  She sat down, wondering why she was doing this. She did not pick up random men at weddings she’d crashed. Or for that matter, weddings she hadn’t crashed. She’d never done anything like this in her life.