His Chosen Bride

by Marcia Evanick

  “Why? It wasn’t as if you were planning to come a-calling, was it?”

  Mason cringed inwardly at the sarcasm dripping on her words. Gillian had obviously been very upset about the lack of attention he had focused on his future bride. Curious, in spite of himself, he asked, “Did you want me to?”

  Her hard glare should have turned him to stone. Without saying a word, she turned away and stared out the side window into the night.

  Mason silently sighed and turned right at Washington Boulevard. The quiet setting of the country club and expensive suburban homes fell away to tall buildings, congestion and noise. It was after midnight and still the streets were crowded with cars, blaring horns and the distant sounds of sirens. People, huddling in groups, occupied nearly every stoop, taking advantage of the warm spring night.

  He glanced over at Gillian as he turned off Washington and headed into The Blades. Her face was turned away, so her features were hidden from his view, but not from his. memory. Gillian had the most unusual eyes. They were the color of a summer sky—piercing light blue. A man, if he was fool enough to try, could surely fall into them and float away to heaven. Her cheekbones were high, and her nose was classical The overbite he remembered from his youth was gone. Gillian’s straight teeth gleamed white in a mouth which was slightly on the generous size. Twice tonight he had caught himself staring at that mouth, wondering what it would taste like. Dangerous thoughts for a man who professed not to want anything to do with Gillian.

  Her blond hair was swept up into some tousled style that looked sexy as hell. It bared the smooth skin of her neck, and the occasional disobedient wisp of hair that escaped the half-dozen pins he had spotted softened the style. Tiny blue-stoned earrings pierced her ears, and the long expanse of throat was bare of any jewelry. He didn’t know what he would rather wrap around her throat—a string of diamonds to complement her beauty, or his hands for the way she caused a reaction he couldn’t control. He didn’t want to respond in any way to Gillian. He forced his gaze back to the road.

  A moment later his glance slid off the road once again. This time it slid over her shoulders and the lush curves of her breasts. The blue sequined dress hugged every curve, leaving him a good idea of what his future bride would look like naked. The maddening thing was, it also allowed every man who saw her in that dress the same vivid picture.

  When she was standing, the dress ended very demurely just above her knees. It was the only modest characteristic the garment displayed. Problem was, when she sat down, the hem slid up her thighs, which now gave him a very generous view of her legs. Gillian had legs that could make a grown man cry. He was a grown man, but he refused to cry, or even acknowledge the heat that invaded his gut every time his gaze accidentally landed on those splendid limbs.

  He pulled his gaze away and silently cursed his overimaginative hormones. This wasn’t about Gillian, the woman he would be marrying in a little over two months. Gillian and his hormones never encountered each other on such a level before. Hell, as far as he knew, they had never been in the same room together. It had to be the dress that was causing this unusual reaction. The sooner she was out of it the better off he’d be.

  Mason groaned a curse at the mental image that thought caused.

  “Did you say something?”

  His fingers gripped the wheel so hard they turned white, but he didn’t look at her. He expertly maneuvered the car into a parking spot directly in front of her building. “I asked if it’s safe for me to park here.”

  “You don’t need to get out. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself in.” She reached for the door handle.

  “I promised your grandmother I would see you safely inside.” He turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys, glancing up and down her street. The building next to hers had a group of six men sitting on the steps. Six very big men. He raised one brow and said, “Nice neighborhood.”

  “I happen to like it,” Gillian snapped.

  Catcalls, hoots and whistles filled the air as Gillian opened the door, got out and started toward the building.

  “Lord save me!” cried one of the men. “I’ve gone to heaven and I’m seeing angels.”

  “Mamma, check out the babe!” came from another.

  A third called something that made Gillian cringe.

  Gillian stopped before reaching the double doors to her building. Her spiked heel tapped out a deadly little tune on the concrete walk before she turned her attention to the group of men making lewd and suggestive remarks. “Chico, does your wife know you’re out here making rude comments to the neighbors?”

  “Oh, Gillian, you’re the best thing that’s happened to us tonight. We’re just having a little fun.”

  Gillian felt Mason come up and stand beside her, but she didn’t look in his direction. This was her neighborhood, and the day she would need his or anyone else’s help was the day they should strip her of her Witch Society membership card.

  Chico stood up and glared at Mason. “Who’s the man?”

  She felt Mason stiffen and take a protective step closer to her. Lord, save her from macho men. Mason, after all his indifference tonight, was now acting the role of a concerned date, and Chico had no right to hassle one of her escorts. “The man’s my date.” She shook her head at the group and walked to the door and began unlocking it.

  “You holler real loud if he tries anything funny, Gilly,” Chico said. “We’ll teach him some manners.”

  Gillian gave Mason a hard look, daring him to say something. The last thing she needed tonight was Mason and some of the locals getting into it. This evening was a disaster and all she wanted to do was to see it end. Mason looked mad enough to take on the group for their comments. The man had hardly spoken to her over the years, yet he could tell her she was dressed like a streetwalker. But let her neighbors, whom she saw every day, make a few remarks, and he got indignant. She flashed Chico a smile. “I’ll do that.” It was an empty threat, and Mason knew it, but it felt good saying it, anyway.

  The laughter of Chico and his companions followed them into the building.

  Gillian unlocked her apartment door, took a step in and flipped on the lights. “There, I’m in and safe. Your duty is done.”

  Mason stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He glanced idly around the room before saying, “Nice place.”

  “As in ‘nice neighborhood’?” Gillian tossed her keys and purse on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. She really didn’t like Mason’s condescending tone when he referred to her neighborhood. She liked living in the Garden Heights district. She especially liked living in this building. People here needed her.

  “Your neighborhood has the worst reputation in the city, but your apartment is nice.”

  Gillian glanced around and tried to figure out what feature had caught Mason’s attention so much that he would label it “nice.” She thought the apartment was nice, but her nice and Mason’s nice were at different ends of the spectrum.

  The tiny kitchen was an ordinary one with oak cabinets and white-tiled countertops. The living room was large, and the ten-foot-high ceilings gave it an even more spacious feeling. All of her furniture had been purchased used, and the Oriental rug covering most of the wooden floor was threadbare in spots. The bedroom and bath were out of view at the rear of the apartment.

  Decorating wasn’t one of her passions, but she did manage to give the place a homey, lived-in feel. She purchased things because she liked them, not because they coordinated with anything else. Her couch was a greenand-white check that would have looked right at home in the country, but the green matched the green in the oriental rug. The two red wing chairs also matched the rug, and the glass coffee and end tables somehow managed to go with the group. A huge marble fireplace that took up nearly an entire wall was no longer working. She had filled the hearth with huge Boston ferns and set a porcelain three-foot-high dragon to guard the bushy forest.

  All in all, the entire roo
m looked relaxed. Just the way she wanted it. It was disconcerting to hear Mason regard her home as nice. She would have expected him to turn up his nose at such a simple abode. “Thanks for the compliment about the apartment, but I like the neighborhood, too.”

  Mason walked over to the porcelain dragon and stared down at the silver-and-purple beast. “What ever possessed you to move to this neighborhood after you graduated from college?”

  “It was where I was needed the most. Garden Heights was, and still is, extremely short on social workers.”

  “Maybe that’s because one of them turned up dead last year.”

  Gillian shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t want to think about poor Maureen O’Hare and the way she had died. Guilt assaulted her every time she did. Maureen was too young, naive and innocent to have been sent out into the neighborhood a couple of blocks over from where Gillian lived. Maureen had been hired to replace Gillian after she left the agency over a year ago to start her own business. The case should have been Gillian’s.

  “I like living here.”

  “You like coming home every night to whistles and lewd suggestions from the neighborhood thugs?”

  “Chico and his buddies are harmless.” Chico and his pals put on a good act at being tough. They had to. It was that, or let the neighborhood be overrun by some gang who would snatch their children and bring in drugs. Chico had a beautiful young wife named Maria and two gorgeous daughters to protect.

  “They sure didn’t act harmless!” Mason glanced at the array of silver-framed photos scattered across the mantel.

  “Listen to their hearts, Mason, not their words.” Gillian wasn’t in the mood to defend Chico and his friends or to entertain Mason. She wanted to get out of this torture contraption called fashion and put her feet up and enjoy a cup of tea. Who in the hell invented high heels, anyway? She kicked the offending shoes under the coffee table and wiggled her toes.

  She frowned as Mason picked up a framed photo of her and her siblings, Raine, Cullen and Kent. She knew that photo by heart. It had been taken at an amusement park the week before she was pledged to Mason. She had been twelve when the photo was taken and looked exactly as she had the first time Mason had seen her. By the way Mason kept glancing at the photo and then back at her, she knew he was trying to compare the then and now versions of Gillian Barnett.

  Mason replaced the picture on the mantel without a comment. “The Council thinks you listen too much with your heart and not your mind.”

  “The Council knows my gift.” She cautiously sat in one of the wing chairs and fumed. What right did Mason have to tell her how to think? He might be her husband soon, but he wasn’t her keeper. No man was ever going to tell her how to think. If she preferred to look for the good inside every person she ran across, that was her choice. Every heart had a story to tell, and she was curious as hell about what kind of story Mason’s heart could tell.

  Annoyed at his pacing and with the fact that he just didn’t leave, she snapped, “Sit down! You remind me of a tiger I once saw in a cage.”

  Mason stopped pacing at the side of the other wing chair but didn’t sit. “I think we need to talk.”

  Gillian glanced heavenward and sighed. She couldn’t stand another minute in this dress, feeling vulnerable with half her bosom hanging out. She had made an utter fool of herself showing up at the society’s party dressed for seduction. Mason never so much as batted an eyelash. “If it’s going to be a lengthy conversation I want to get changed first.”

  Mason waved his hand toward her bedroom door. “Please do.”

  She rose and slowly walked toward the bedroom. “There’s coffee in the cabinet above the maker. I could use the caffeine.”

  Mason watched the enticing view of her sequin-covered bottom sway across the room before disappearing behind the door. The last thing in the world he needed was any more stimulation. He forced himself to look away from the closed door and not think about Gillian changing out of that dress. When she had mentioned getting changed, he had nearly shouted with joy. He couldn’t think straight while she stood before him wearing that dress.

  He turned toward the kitchen and the coffee. Anything she put on would be better than that dress. He was praying for a ratty old bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Something disgustingly big and bulky. Something that would hide the lushness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He didn’t want to be thinking about Gillian and sex, especially when he asked her what he wanted to ask her.

  He wanted Gillian to go to the Council and call off the wedding.

  Five minutes later he sat at the counter drinking a cup of coffee and trying to decide what was the best way to approach Gillian with his request. He couldn’t go before the Council and make such a plea. They had put him through college and law school and allowed him to achieve his chosen career. They were helping him put his younger sister, Kara, through med school, and they had granted his mother permission to remarry outside of the society. His mother deserved the happiness she had finally found with Walt Martin. How could he possibly refuse to do the one thing the Council had asked of him, to marry Gillian Barnett?

  Gillian would have to be the one to plead with the Council. There was no way around it. Surely with her gifts of love and compassion the Council wouldn’t sentence her to a loveless marriage. The Council had to be stern and insistent in their dealings and laws governing the society, but they weren’t heartless.

  Mason heard the bedroom door open and made the mistake of glancing up. The coffee he was in the midst of swallowing went down the wrong pipe as he spotted Gillian. She was indeed dressed in a robe, but it wasn’t bulky or ratty. The Oriental-style garment was made of pure silk and was brilliant red. It covered her from neck to ankle, but it was anything but discreet. Red silk wrapped around her body like a pair of lover’s hands.

  He regained his breath as she entered the kitchen, gave him a strange look and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” He frowned at his cup and silently dared the dark brew to defy him again before taking another sip. This time the liquid went down the right pipe and he risked taking another look at Gillian. The robe was indeed Oriental. The red silk was shot through with gold and black threads, making intricate patterns around the wrists, hem and lapels. Across the entire back was a delicately embroidered, fierce-looking dragon half-obscured by the flowing length of her blond hair, which she had let down.

  The way the silk clung to her every curve as she made her way into the living room and sat back down made him wonder what exactly she had on under the robe. Mason’s gut told him the change into the robe hadn’t helped one bit. His concentration was still shot to hell.

  He poured himself some more coffee and followed her into the living room. For the first time in his life he wished he wasn’t a warlock and banned from all alcohol. A witch or warlock could do unforeseen damage while intoxicated, hence the banning. He could surely use something a lot stronger than coffee right about now.

  “What did you want to talk about?” Gillian took another sip of coffee and set the cup down on the table.

  Mason placed his full cup next to hers and cleared his throat. “The wedding.”

  Gillian sighed. Now he wants to talk about the wedding? Where was he four months ago when all the plans were being discussed? Where was he when the Council wanted approval for the catered menu? Where was he - when her mother dumped six monstrous books of invitations in front of her and told her to pick one? She knew exactly where he had been—at work or at home enjoying his solitude. Her one and only phone call to him had netted her nothing but a pat “You handle it, Gillian. I have work to do.”

  “What about the wedding? Most of the decisions have been made, Mason. It’s a little late to make any major changes.”

  “I don’t want to make any changes. I’m sure whatever you’ve decided will be perfect.”

  Gillian raised an eyebrow at that one. Her tastes usually didn’t follow tradition
, a fact her mother and grandmother had repeatedly pointed out to her over the past couple of months. “What did you want to discuss then?”

  “I want you to do me and yourself a favor.”

  “What type of favor?” The intensity of his dark gaze was making her nervous. Whatever he was about to ask had to be important. From what she knew about Mason, he wasn’t the kind of guy who asked favors.

  “I want you to go to the Council and ask them to release you from your pledge.”

  The only outward sign of the shock that rocked her body was her eyes. She blinked twice. “Are you referring to my pledge to marry you?” No one had ever requested to be released from their marriage pledge before. It just wasn’t done.

  “Yes.”

  Gillian felt her heart skip a beat. Mason didn’t want to marry her! Well, that shouldn’t have surprised her. He had made it very clear more than twelve years ago that he didn’t want to marry her. And nothing he had done since then had given her any hope that he had changed his mind. “Why do you want me to approach the Council? If you don’t want to marry me, you should be the one requesting the release from your pledge.”

  “I can’t.”

  She could see by his expression that he was fighting some internal monster. “Why not?” She refused to allow her overzealous compassion to rule her head. Everyone had monsters to slay, including herself.

  Mason lowered his gaze to his hands before raising it back to her. “Honor.”

  Gillian felt as if she had just been slapped. Mason wouldn’t request the release because he felt honor-bound to the society, yet he thought it was okay for her to make such a plea. Her voice shook with anger. “You think I have no honor?”

  “I didn’t say that, Gillian.” He stood up and paced to the windows overlooking the street. “You misinterpreted my words.” He pulled back the heavy curtain and stared out into the night.

  “Then explain to me why you can’t go before the Council because of honor, yet I can.”

  Seconds ticked by before he asked, “Who paid for your education, Gillian?”