The Princess Bride

by Diana Palmer

  He laughed coldly, glaring at her. “You didn’t say you wanted a bouquet.”

  “You can give Carla one later and save her the trouble of having to catch mine.”

  He cursed roundly.

  “Go ahead,” she invited. “Ruin the rest of the day.”

  “This whole damned thing was your idea,” he snapped at her, tugging roughly at his constricting tie. “Marriage was never in my mind, until you started throwing yourself at me! God knew, an affair was never an option.”

  She searched his averted profile sadly. As she’d feared, this had been, in many ways, a shotgun wedding. She mourned for the old days, when they were friends and enjoyed each other’s company. Those days were gone forever.

  “Yes. I know,” she said heavily. She leaned back against the seat and felt as if she’d been dragged behind the car. She’d lost her temper, but it wasn’t really his fault. He was as much a victim as she was, at the moment. “I don’t know why I should have expected you to jump with joy,” she said when she’d calmed a little. “You’re right. I did force you into a marriage you didn’t want. You have every right to be furious.” She turned to him with dead eyes in a face like rice paper. “There’s no need to go on with this farce. We can get an annulment, right now. If you’ll just have the driver take me home, I’ll start it right away.”

  He stared at her as if he feared for her sanity. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked shortly. “We’ve just been married. What the hell do you think it will say to my executives and my stockholders if I annul my marriage an hour after the ceremony?”

  “No one has to know when it’s done,” she said reasonably. “You can fly to Jamaica and I’ll go back to New York with Lettie until this all blows over.”

  “Back to modeling, I suppose?” he asked curtly.

  She shrugged. “It’s something to do,” she said.

  “You have something to do,” he returned angrily. “You’re my wife.”

  “Am I?” she asked. “Not one person in that church would have thought so, after you kissed Carla. In fact, I must say, her dress was much more appropriate than mine for the occasion, right down to the veil.”

  He averted his eyes, almost as if he were embarrassed. She leaned back again and closed her own eyes, to shut him out.

  “I don’t care,” she said wearily. “Decide what you want, and I’ll do it. Anything at all, except,” she added, turning her head to stare at him with cold eyes, “sleep with you. That I will not do. Not now.”

  His eyebrows arched. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I just said,” she replied firmly. “You can get…that…from Carla, with my blessings.” She almost bit through her lip telling the flat lie. Pride was very expensive. She closed her eyes again, to hide the fear that he might take her up on it. “I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise, looking for happily ever after, dreaming of satin and lace and delicious nights and babies. And all I’ve got to show for it is a secondhand lust without even the gloss of friendship behind it and an absolute edict that I’m never to think of having a child.”

  He sat back in his own seat and stared straight ahead. Yes, he’d said that. He’d been emphatic, in fact, about not having children right away. He’d withdrawn from her in the past two weeks, so deliberately that he’d given the impression of a man being forced to do something he abhorred. He’d arranged a quick ceremony, but he hadn’t let his secretary—Carla—arrange the flowers. He’d left that duty to another subordinate. He wondered what the hell had gone wrong. Only two sparse and not-very-attractive flower arrangements had graced the church and Tiffany had been denied a bouquet. He knew that it was deliberate, that Carla was somehow involved, but there was no way to undo the damage. By the time he saw the flowers it was far too late to do anything. Carla’s dress and the kiss had been as much a surprise to him as it had to Tiffany. She wouldn’t believe it, though. She was thinking of the things he’d denied her.

  She’d been denied more than just flowers, at that. She hadn’t had a photographer, a ring bearer, flower girls and attendants, a reception—she’d lacked all those as well. And to top it all off, it looked as if he’d wanted to kiss his secretary instead of his new bride, in front of the whole assembly.

  His eyes sought her averted face again, with bitter regret. He’d fought marrying her from the start, hating his weakness for her, punishing her for it. This had been a travesty of a wedding, all around. She was bitter and wounded, and it was his fault. He studied her drawn countenance with haunted eyes. He remembered Tiffany all aglitter with happiness and the sheer joy of living, teasing him, laughing with him, tempting him, loving him. He could have had all that, just for himself. But he’d let his fears and misgivings cloud the occasion, and Tiffany had suffered for them.

  He drew in a long breath and turned his eyes back to the window. This, he thought wearily, was going to be some honeymoon.

  In fact, it was some honeymoon, but not at all the sort Tiffany had once dreamed about having. Montego Bay was full of life, a colorful and fascinating place with a long history and the friendliest, most welcoming people Tiffany could ever remember in her life.

  They had a suite at an expensive resort on the beach, and fortunately it contained two rooms. She didn’t ask King what he thought of her decision to sleep in the smaller of the two rooms; she simply moved in. She paid him the same attention she’d have paid a female roommate, and she didn’t care what he thought about that, either. It was her honeymoon. She’d had no real wedding, but she was going to have a honeymoon, even if she had to spend it alone.

  King had brought along his laptop with its built-in fax-modem, and he spent the evening working at the small desk near the window.

  Tiffany put on a neat beige trouser suit and fixed her hair in a soft bun atop her head. She didn’t even worry with makeup.

  “I’m going to the restaurant to have supper,” she announced.

  He looked up from his monitor, with quiet, strangely subdued eyes. “Do you want company?”

  “Not particularly, thanks.” She went out the door while he was getting used to being an unwelcome tourist.

  She sat alone at a table and ate a seafood salad. She had a piña colada with her meal, and the amount of rum it contained sent her head spinning.

  She was very happy, all of a sudden, and when a steel band began to play to the audience, she joined in the fun, clapping and laughing with the crowd.

  It wasn’t until a tall, swarthy man tried to pick her up that she realized how her behavior might be misinterpreted. She held up her left hand and gave the man a smile that held just the right portions of gratitude and regret. He bowed, nonplussed, and she got up to pay her bill.

  King was out on the patio when she returned, but he looked at her curiously when she stumbled just inside the closed door and giggled.

  “What the hell have you been doing?” he asked.

  “Getting soused, apparently,” she said with a vacant smile. “Do you have any idea how much rum they put in those drinks?”

  “You never did have a head for hard liquor,” he remarked with a faint smile.

  “A man tried to pick me up.”

  The smile turned into a cold scowl. He came back into the room slowly. He’d changed into white slacks and a patterned silk shirt, which was hanging open over his dark-haired chest. He looked rakish with his hair on his forehead and his eyes glittering at her.

  “I showed him my wedding ring,” she said to placate him. “And I didn’t kiss him. It is, after all, my wedding day.”

  “A hell of a wedding day,” he replied honestly.

  “If I hadn’t gone all mushy, we’d still be friends,” she said with a sad little sigh as the liquor made her honest. “I wish we were.”

  He moved a little closer and his chest rose and fell roughly. “So do I,” he admitted tersely. He searched her sad eyes. “Tiffany, I…didn’t want to be married.”

  “I know. It’s all right,” she said consolingly
. “You don’t have to be. When we get back, I’ll go and see an attorney.”

  He didn’t relax. His eyes were steady and curious, searching over her slender body, seeking out all the soft curves and lines of her. “You shouldn’t have grown up.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.” She smothered a yawn and turned away. “Good night, King.”

  He watched her go with an ache in his belly that wouldn’t quit. He wanted her, desperately. But an annulment would be impossible if he followed her into her room. And she’d already said that she didn’t want him. He turned back to the cool breeze on the patio and walked outside, letting the wind cool his hot skin. He’d never felt so restless, or so cold inside.

  Tiffany awoke with a blinding headache and nausea thick in her throat. She managed to sit up on the side of the bed in her simple white cotton gown. It covered every inch of her, and she was glad now that she’d decided not to pack anything suggestive or glamorous. She looked very young in the gown and without her makeup, with her dark hair in a tangle around her pale face.

  King knocked at the door and then walked in, hesitating in the doorway with an expression of faint surprise when he saw the way she looked. His brows drew together emphatically.

  “Are you all right?” he asked curtly.

  “I have a hangover,” she replied without looking at him. “I want to die.”

  He breathed roughly. “Next time, leave the rum to the experts and have a soft drink. I’ve got some tablets in my case that will help. I’ll bring you a couple. Want some coffee?”

  “Black, please,” she said. She didn’t move. Her head was splitting.

  When he came back, she still hadn’t stirred. He shook two tablets into her hand and gave her a glass of water to swallow them with. She thanked him and gave back the glass.

  “I’ll bring the coffee in as soon as room service gets here,” he said. “I don’t suppose you want breakfast, but it would help not to have an empty stomach.”

  “I can’t eat anything.” She eased back down on the bed, curled up like a child with her eyes closed and a pillow shoved over her aching head.

  He left her against his better judgment. A caring husband would have stayed with her, held her hand, offered sympathy. He’d fouled up so much for her in the past few weeks that he didn’t think any overtures from him would be welcomed. She didn’t even have to tell him why she’d had so much to drink the night before. He already knew.

  Minutes later, he entered the room with the coffee and found Tiffany on the floor, gasping for breath. She couldn’t seem to breathe. Her face was swollen. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at him with genuine panic.

  “Good God.” He went to the phone by her bed and called for a doctor, in tones that made threats if one wasn’t forthcoming. Then he sat on the floor beside her, his expression one of subdued horror, trying to reassure her without a single idea what to do. She looked as if she might suffocate to death any minute.

  The quick arrival of the doctor relieved his worry, but not for long.

  Without even looking at King, the doctor jerked up the telephone and called for an ambulance.

  “What did she eat?” the doctor shot at him as he filled a syringe from a small vial.

  “Nothing this morning. She had a hangover. I gave her a couple of aspirins a few minutes ago…”

  “Is she allergic to aspirin?” he asked curtly.

  “I…don’t know.”

  The doctor gave him a look that contained equal parts of contempt and anger. “You are her husband?” he asked with veiled sarcasm, then turned back to put the needle directly into the vein at her elbow.

  “What are you giving her?” King asked curtly.

  “Something to counteract an allergic reaction. You’d better go out and direct the ambulance men in here. Tell them not to lag behind.”

  King didn’t argue, for once. He did exactly as he was told, cold all over as he took one last, fearful glance at Tiffany’s poor swollen face. Her eyes were closed and she was still gasping audibly.

  “Will she die?” King choked.

  The doctor was counting her pulse. “Not if I can help it,” he said tersely. “Hurry, man!”

  King went out to the balcony and watched. He heard the ambulance arrive an eternity of seconds later. Almost at once ambulance attendants came into view. He motioned them up the stairs and into Tiffany’s bedroom.

  They loaded her onto a gurney and carried her out. Her color was a little better and she was breathing much more easily, but she was apparently unconscious.

  “You can ride in the ambulance with her, if you like,” the doctor invited.

  King hesitated, not because he didn’t want to go with her, but because he’d never been in such a position before and he was stunned.

  “Follow in a cab, then,” the other man rapped. “I’ll ride with her.”

  He muttered under his breath, grabbed his wallet and key, locked the door, and went down to catch a cab at the front of the hotel. It was a simple exercise, there was always a cab waiting and a doorman to summon it.

  Minutes later, he was pacing outside the emergency room waiting for the doctor to come out. Strange how quickly his priorities had changed and rearranged in the past few minutes. All it had taken was seeing Tiffany like that. He knew that as long as he lived, the sight of her on the floor would come back to haunt him. It had been so unnecessary. He’d never bothered to ask if she was allergic to anything. He hadn’t wanted to know her in any intimate or personal way.

  Now he realized that he knew nothing at all, and that his ignorance had almost cost her her life this morning. Nothing was as important now as seeing that she had the best care, that she got better, that she never had to suffer again because of a lack of interest or caring on his part. He might not have wanted this marriage, but divorce was not feasible. He had to make the best of it. And he would.

  Chapter 8

  But the thing that hadn’t occurred to him was that Tiffany might not care one way or the other for his concern. When she was released from the hospital later that day, with a warning not to ever touch aspirin again in any form, her whole attitude toward her husband had changed. Every ounce of spirit seemed to have been drained out of her.

  She was quiet, unusually withdrawn on the way back to the hotel in the taxi. Her paleness hadn’t abated, despite her treatment. The swelling had gone, but she was weak. He had to help her from the taxi and into the hotel.

  “I never asked if you had allergies,” King said as he supported her into the elevator. He pushed the button for their floor. “I’m sorry this happened.”

  “The whole thing was my fault,” she said wearily. “My head hurt so bad that it never occurred to me to question what you were giving me. I haven’t had an aspirin since I was thirteen.”

  He studied her as she leaned back against the wall of the elevator, looking as if she might collapse any minute. “One way or another, you’ve had a hell of a wedding.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, I have.”

  The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors opened. King abruptly swung her up into his arms and carried her to their room, putting her down only long enough to produce the key and open the door.

  She let her head rest on his broad shoulder and closed her eyes, pretending that he loved her, pretending that he wanted her. She’d lived on dreams of him most of her life, but reality had been a staggering blow to her pride and her heart. They were married, and yet not married.

  He carried her into the sitting room and deposited her gently on the sofa. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you think you could eat something?”

  “A cold salad, perhaps,” she murmured. “With thousand island dressing, and a glass of milk.”

  He phoned room service, ordering that for her and a steak and salad and a beer for himself.

  “I didn’t know you ever drank beer,” she mused when he hung up.

  He glanced at her curiously. “We’ve lived in each other’s pockets for as long
as I can remember,” he said. “Amazing, isn’t it, how little we actually know about each other.”

  She pushed back her disheveled hair with a sigh and closed her eyes. “I don’t think there’s a drop of anything left in my poor stomach. I couldn’t eat last night. I didn’t even have breakfast this morning.”

  “And you don’t need to lose weight,” he stated solemnly. He scowled as he searched over her body. “Tiffany, you’ve dropped a few pounds lately.”

  “I haven’t had much appetite for several months,” she said honestly. “It wasn’t encouraged when I was modeling. After I came home, and we…decided to get married, I was too busy to eat a lot. It’s been a hectic few weeks.”

  He hadn’t missed the hesitation when she spoke of their decision to marry. He hated the way she looked. The change in her was so dramatic that anyone who’d known her even a year before wouldn’t recognize her.

  His heavy sigh caught her attention.

  “Do you want to go home?” she asked.

  The sadness in her eyes hurt him. “Only if you do,” he said. “There are plenty of things to see around here. We could go up and walk around Rose Hall, for example,” he added, mentioning a well-known historical spot.

  But she shook her head. “I don’t feel like sight-seeing, King,” she told him honestly. “Couldn’t we go home?”

  He hesitated. She was worn-out from the rushed wedding, the trip over here, her experience with the allergic reaction. He wanted to tell her that a night’s sleep might make all the difference, but the sight of her face was enough to convince him that she’d do better in her own environment.

  “All right,” he said gently. “If that’s what you want. We’ll leave at the end of the week. I’ll try to get tickets first thing in the morning.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Room service came with their orders and they ate in a strained silence. Tiffany finished her salad and coffee and then, pleading tiredness, got up to go to bed.