Never a Bride

by JoAnn Ross

  “Exactly.” He ran his hand down her hair, before cupping her chin and holding her unsettled gaze to his. “You can’t deny that what we shared wasn’t any routine, run-of-the-mill sex.”

  “No, but—”

  “I love you, Cait.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t even know me.”

  “I know enough to understand that what I feel for you is a helluva lot more than physical. I know I’ve never felt this way about any other woman in my life. I know I want to spend the rest of my life making love with you.

  “And most of all—” he bent his head and kissed her downturned lips “—I want to make babies with you. A passel of smart-mouthed, gorgeous redheaded kids with tempers just like their mother.”

  Sloan Wyndham might be a brilliant writer and director. But he was obviously crazy.

  So what else was new? Cait wondered. Most of her parents’ friends were more than a little off center as well.

  As wrong as she knew he was, Cait found herself unwilling to argue after their incredible lovemaking. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He reached out and uncurled her fingers from the fist they’d unconsciously tightened into.

  “You don’t have to say anything.” He lifted their joined hands and without taking his eyes from hers, brushed his lips against her knuckles, causing her pulse to jump. “I just thought it only fair that you know how I felt. So you could get used to the idea.”

  When he kissed her again, on her frowning lips, Cait told herself it was time to leave. Now. While she still could. “I should get back to my room.”

  His teeth nipped gently, tantalizingly at her chin. “Don’t tell me you’d be so cruel as to make me spend another night all alone in this ridiculously romantic bed?”

  “It’s not a ridiculous bed.” He moved on to her earlobe, creating a renewed stir of desire.

  “Not for lovers. But it’s not exactly the kind of bed a man would choose to sleep in all by himself.”

  Although the fire had died down, a silvery light from a full moon outside the window streamed through the white lace curtains, draping the room in shadows while making her skin gleam like starshine.

  Gazing down at her, Sloan wondered, as he had for days, what exactly it was about Cait that had so completely captured both his mind and his heart. She was stunningly beautiful, granted. But he’d been living in California for nearly a decade and had known other women equally as lovely. She was intelligent. But so was her friend Blythe, and although he admired Blythe Fielding’s brains, tenacity and talent, and yes, her sultry, sexy dark looks, he certainly hadn’t found himself wanting to lick every inch of the actress’s fragrant skin the moment he’d met her.

  Like he’d wanted to do with Cait. And like he was wanting to do again.

  “Don’t leave me, sweet Cait.” Love, more than desire, had him pressing his lips against her bare shoulder. “Not tonight.” Not ever he thought, but had enough sense, after her less than enthusiastic response to his spontaneous dec-laration of love, not to say.

  His hands cupped her breasts as his lips skimmed hotly along her shoulder blades. He was jumbling her senses all over again.

  “All right,” she said on a soft sigh of surrender. “You win, Sloan.” She turned in his arms and lifted her face to his. “I’ll stay the night.”

  Even as Cait warned herself that tomorrow morning she would have to find some way to convince Sloan that this stolen night together was all they were going to have, all they could have, Sloan was vowing to convince her that if she’d only allow herself to trust him, they could both end up winners.

  * * *

  SHE’D MADE A fatal mistake. The thought reverberated in Cait’s mind, ricocheting around like bullets. During the long, love-filled night in Sloan’s bed, she’d shared more passion than she’d experienced in a life-time. But now, in the clear bright light of a new Maine morning, she knew that by letting her guard down, she’d opened herself up to a vast amount of heartache.

  She didn’t want to love him. She didn’t want to believe that he could possibly love her. Love was fleeting. Transitory. Love hurt.

  It did not take a mind reader to sense the change in Cait once the sun had risen over the rocky east shore of Castle Mountain. Even as she lay in his arms, Sloan could feel her retreating back behind emotional parapets she’d spent a lifetime constructing.

  “Regrets so soon?” he murmured against her temple.

  When he ran his palm from her shoulder to her hip, Cait was amazed that after the incredible night they’d shared, it only took a touch of his hand to create that now familiar heat.

  “Of course not,” she lied quietly.

  Even as he told himself not to push, impatience had him needing to know. “But something’s wrong.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I enjoyed last night, Sloan.”

  “So did I.” He pressed his lips against her fragrant hair.

  “More than I could have imagined.”

  “I know the feeling.” Sloan waited for the other shoe to drop. He did not have to wait long.

  “The thing is,” she continued haltingly, “I think we need to keep it in perspective.”

  “In perspective?” If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own tumultuous feelings, she would have heard the terse warning sound in his tone.

  She opened her eyes and found herself looking directly into his. “I’ll admit that the chemistry between us has been amazingly strong from the beginning. Add to that the fact that we’re both single, unattached adults and it was probably inevitable that we’d end up in bed together.”

  He could hear this one coming. Having never been rejected by a woman, Sloan realized that if he’d given the matter any thought at all, which he never had, he might have expected a sting to the ego. What he could never have foreseen was this icy, overwhelming fear.

  “Sounds reasonable to me.”

  “But now that it’s happened, I think the best thing for us to do is to get on with our own lives.”

  Sloan had never thought of himself as a violent man. But at this moment, he wanted to grab hold of her shoulders and shake some sense into that beautiful head. He wanted to tie her to the gauze-draped bedposts and keep her hostage, making love to her over and over again until she realized there would be no getting on with their individual lives.

  “Are you saying,” he asked slowly, carefully, “that you don’t want me to do this ever again?” He cupped her breast, thinking, as he had so many times last night, how perfectly the softly rounded flesh fit in his hand. “Or this?” His mouth covered hers in a swift swoop; his tongue thrust into the dark recesses as his hand moved over her rib cage, her stomach, then lower still, where warm moisture pooled in response to his deep kiss and stroking hand.

  “Dammit, Sloan—” she protested, even as her mutinous body arched like a bow, seeking relief.

  Despite a flash fire temper she’d admittedly worked hard to control, she’d always been proud of her self-control. Until she’d met a man who, with a devastating smile, a hot look, or a single touch, could shatter such hard won control.

  “I love you, Cait.” His fingers slipped into her with a silky ease. His thumb caressed the pink nub that was ultrasensitive after the long night of lovemaking. “And I’m going to make love to you whenever and wherever I get the op-portunity.”

  This was no mere Hollywood screenwriter. Sloan Wyndham was obviously a sorcerer, dabbling in black magic. He was doing it to her all over again, with his wicked touch and dark taste. Clouds drifted over Cait’s mind. She couldn’t think. All she could do was feel.

  Her warm flesh glowed. Her eyes drifted shut. Sloan watched her fly. Higher and higher. And then, he held her as she came floating back to earth.

  It was a long time before either of them spoke. Cait lay in his arms, confused and conflicted, until she was certain her quaking legs could hold her upright. Then, without a word, she left his bed
. And his room. Moments later, he heard the rumble of ancient pipes and realized she was taking a shower.

  With a muttered curse, Sloan crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep from opening that adjoining door and taking her beneath the pulsating stream of warm water.

  She might be able to wash away the physical evidence of their lovemaking, Sloan thought. But she couldn’t wash away the truth—that as unlikely as he would have thought it only a week ago, he and Cait Carrigan were destined to be together.

  Sloan was not all that surprised when Cait continued the silent treatment over breakfast. Nor did she speak during the brief plane ride to the mainland.

  They were sitting side by side in the Bangor terminal, awaiting the boarding call for the flight to Boston when she suddenly turned to him.

  “When we get back to L.A., I have an important job to do. I can’t allow myself to be distracted.”

  Once again he resented being referred to as a distraction. Once again he held his tongue. Because, although he wanted her to think of only him, Sloan realized that to distract her now, while she was attempting to apprehend a mur-derous psychopath, could end up getting her killed.

  “Point taken.” He reached out and took her hand, the gesture more friendly than seductive. “Although I’m not going to change the way I feel, I promise not to push, Cait. Until that creep is back behind bars where he belongs.”

  Cait didn’t miss the fact that Sloan left open the possibility of a renewed relationship after her undercover assignment was completed. But, still unable to believe that his alleged feelings for her would last that long, she allowed herself to feel relieved.

  “Thank you.” She managed a smile.

  As he watched the warmth of that smile slowly turn her eyes to a brilliant emerald, Sloan prayed that the case of the escaped Surfer Rapist would be brought to a quick and safe—for Cait—end.

  And then, he vowed, he had every intention of making the luscious Cait Carrigan his. Forever.

  Later, as the jet raced the sun across the country, Sloan considered the irony of his situation—that he, the offspring of an escaped murderer and a rebellious, runaway Philadelphia socialite was going to marry a cop.

  He was going to have to tell Cait the truth, he mused as he sipped a Scotch and stared down at the vast Nebraska plains. If his mother wasn’t still alive, locked in the misty labyrinth of her own mind in that overpriced, spalike funny farm, he might have been able to keep his lifelong secret.

  But Sloan knew that he couldn’t have done it.

  He loved Cait. And that being the case, he owed her the truth of exactly who—and what—he was.

  Ancient dreads rose unbidden like specters, darkening his mood and making Sloan wonder if Fate was about to teach him, yet again, exactly how ephemeral happiness could be.

  10

  DREADING WHAT SHE KNEW would be a confrontation, Blythe called Alan at his home from her dressing room. She’d already been unable to meet his plane at the airport; now, thanks to continued problems on the set, she wasn’t going to be able to make his all-important dinner.

  “Sturgess here,” the male voice on the other end answered abruptly.

  “Hello, Alan,” she began carefully, “it’s Blythe.”

  “Where are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m afraid I’m still at the studio.”

  “The studio? What are you doing there?”

  She could imagine his dark brows crawling up his patrician forehead. A typical surgeon, Alan Sturgess lived his life in warp drive. He was always on his way to someplace or from someplace, and inevitably he was in a hurry. He was punctual to a fault and had little patience with slackers.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Blythe, we’re already overdue. Even if we were to leave here right now, we’d still miss most of the cocktail hour.”

  “I realize that, Alan. But I got tied up. We’ve been having the worst day. First, the rain machine wouldn’t work, then Martin found out that you could see right through my underpants when I got wet—”

  “What!”

  At least she’d momentarily sidetracked him, Blythe considered. “Don’t worry, we fixed it,” she said quickly. “The wardrobe mistress sewed in an extra panel. She told me it’s what they do with all those athletes on those cotton brief commercials.”

  “Isn’t that a useful piece of information. And to think that there are actually people who fail to take the movie business seriously.”

  And unfortunately, Blythe thought, she was engaged to one of them. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Alan,” she said quietly. Firmly. “I understand that you’re disappointed, but—”

  “Disappointed doesn’t begin to cover it. You knew how important this dinner was to me, Blythe.”

  Yes, of course she did. “I know, darling.” Blythe wearily rubbed the back of her neck and rotated her shoulders, attempting to work out the knots caused by the stress of the overly hectic and frustratingly long day.

  “But I certainly didn’t plan for all these problems,” she said, a hint of irritation creeping into her tone as well. “And although I realize that my work isn’t nearly as important as a tummy tuck or face-lift on some aging star or socialite, I happen to take it very seriously.” There was a moment of silence.

  “You don’t sound yourself tonight,” he said finally, obviously surprised by her uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Are you all right, Blythe?”

  She sighed. “I’m just tired. And wet. And cold.”

  “You’re trying to do too much,” he said with obvious concern, reminding Blythe that he had her own best interests at heart. “What with making this film while trying to get your own project off the ground, not to mention planning a wedding, you’re burning the candle at both ends.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But I don’t really have any choice.”

  “I warned you that forming your own production company would be a mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake. I’ve been acting since I was three years old, Alan. It’s time I had some artistic control.”

  “You could always retire,” he suggested, not for the first time since they’d decided to get married. “As you said, darling, you’ve been working since you were a child. Perhaps it’s time you took a break.”

  They’d had this discussion before. She had tried to explain about her need to work, to which he’d countered that as the Chief of Staff’s wife, she would have plenty to do to keep her busy.

  What he couldn’t seem to understand was that making movies was in her blood. She could no more envision giving it up—especially to host afternoon teas for other doctors’ wives—than she could imagine giving up breathing.

  “Alan—”

  “I know,” he said, “I’m pushing again.” She could hear his resigned sigh over the wires. “But if you weren’t spending all the hours you’re supposed to be sleeping trying to research some sixty-year-old Hollywood murder mystery, you wouldn’t be so worn out at the end of your day, darling.”

  He couldn’t understand her obsession with Alexandra Romanov’s murder. Truthfully, Blythe didn’t really understand it herself. All she knew was that since she’d first heard the story, she’d not been able to put it out of her mind.

  “Not everyone has your energy, dear.” Her voice softened to that of a woman coaxing a man to reason. “But I understand how important this evening is to you, and I’m truly sorry I’m going to have to disappoint you again.

  “All I can say is that I promise things will get better as soon as this picture wraps. And I hope you won’t mind too much attending without me.”

  “Of course I’ll mind not getting a chance to be with you.” His own tone had softened as well. It was deep and warm and radiated with that inimitable self-confidence she imagined his patients found vastly reassuring. “You’re won-derful company, Blythe, darling. Not to mention being a marvelous asset.”

  Thinking that he made her sound like one of the thoroughbre
ds he’d invested in as a tax shelter, Blythe didn’t answer.

  “And since everyone knows that Menninger prefers his staff to be happily married,” Alan continued, “it certainly wouldn’t have hurt to remind everyone that we’re tying the knot. But, I’ll understand if you don’t feel up to so-cializing.”

  Blythe fought down the unbidden surge of resentment that he’d actually be willing to use their upcoming marriage to further his career. Exhausted as she was, she’d probably misinterpreted his words. Alan might not admire her choice in careers, but she’d never harbored a single doubt that he loved her. And only wanted the best for her.

  “Thank you, Alan.”

  “May I offer another suggestion?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t I drop by after dinner? That way we can still spend some quality time together.”

  He was the only man Blythe knew who actually used that clichéd term in conversation. But he was also intelligent, and handsome, and he loved her enough to put up with her impossible schedule.

  “I’m sorry, Alan,” she said. “But I’m afraid any time spent with me tonight would be a total waste.”

  There was a moment of disappointed silence.

  “You need to take better care of yourself. Making yourself ill won’t get your project produced.”

  He was right on the money about that, Blythe admitted. “I promise to go to bed the minute I get home.”

  “You know,” he suggested offhandedly, “Peter Oliver just returned from Maui with his new wife. He says the islands are an ideal spot for a honeymoon.”

  Blythe dragged a hand through her hair. “Alan—”

  “We have to pick a spot, Blythe. The wedding’s in less than a week and you still haven’t let me make any reservations.”

  “I know.” She opened her mouth to explain that she’d had too much on her mind to even think about a honeymoon, then realized that all she’d be doing would be making his point for him.

  “Why can’t we just stay home?” she suggested instead. “We can turn off the phones, and—”