Never a Bride

by JoAnn Ross

  Instead of tossing the studs onto the nearest flat surface, as she would be apt to do, he placed them carefully away in the rosewood box atop a black lacquered chest.

  Next came the bow tie, which joined the studs in the box. Then the shirt, which he folded before placing it in the woven hamper in the closet. The first time Blythe had seen him do this, she’d burst out laughing. When Alan had proven unamused, she’d learned to keep silent.

  Still behaving as if he were all alone in the room, he sat down on the bed, took off his gleaming black dress shoes, which he slipped first into soft cloth protectors, then returned to their original box on the top shelf of the closet.

  It was then that he looked up at her. “Is something wrong?”

  She hadn’t taken off so much as an earring. “No.” It was a lie. Something was wrong. Blythe suddenly felt as if she were about to make love to a stranger. She forced a smile. “I thought it might be rather exciting to be undressed by the Doctor of the Year.”

  Her voice, made husky from uncharacteristic nervousness was one he’d never heard from her before. From the surprised, yet pleased expression that moved over his face, Blythe realized that he mistook her deepened tone for desire.

  “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as his eyes swept over her. “It might be a nice change, at that.”

  He rose from the bed and walked toward her, his stocking feet making no sound as they left long narrow footprints in the plush pewter carpeting.

  He ran his fingers over her bare shoulder before dispensing with the back zipper with no less skill than she would have expected from one of Town and Country’s Top Ten facemakers. The dress slid down her body, a gray silk pool at her feet.

  She stepped out of her high heels, allowing him to strip away her strapless silvery gray teddy trimmed with lace.

  “Lord, you’re sexy.” He ran a palm up her leg, stroking the silky flesh above the lacy top of a thigh-high stocking. “If only all those old fossils in the surgery department could only see you now. You’d fill the CCU single-hand-edly.”

  Once again she felt uncomfortably like one of Alan’s possessions. Once again Blythe tried to convince herself she was overreacting. It was just his way, she reminded herself.

  “You don’t need to give your opponents heart attacks to become chief of surgery.”

  He laughed at that. “Probably not. But perhaps we should keep it in mind. As a last resort.”

  Dispatching with the rest of his own clothes, he drew her down onto the gray-and-white pinstriped sheets and lay down beside her.

  Blythe waited for the expected warmth and was disappointed. It would come, she assured herself. The trick was to relax.

  The only sound in the room was the occasional rustle of Egyptian cotton sheets, and their breathing—his rough and ragged, hers distressingly even. Try as she might to lose herself in the moment, and the man, arousal proved illusive.

  He looked down at her, his gaze puzzled and shadowed with disappointment. “Tell me what you want.”

  “You.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her open mouth against his. Wantonly, desperately, her legs captured him in a vicelike grip. “I want you.”

  His hands slid beneath her hips and he thrust into her, claiming possession of her body, even as her rebellious mind remained out of reach.

  Blythe arched against him and called out his name on a fractured, broken sound.

  She was, after all, a superb actress.

  When he felt her body shudder, Alan gave in to his own release, collapsing onto her with a groan of satisfaction.

  “Alan?” Blythe whispered some time later. Although she hated to complain, he was getting heavy.

  His only response was a soft snore, making her realize he’d fallen asleep.

  Blythe had planned to spend the night. But after she’d lain awake for hours, listening to her fiance’s deep breathing and the sound of the surf below the steep cliff, she left the bed and gathered up her discarded clothing.

  She left him a brief note. Then drove home. Alone.

  * * *

  IT WAS SNOWING in Telluride, Colorado. Fat, white flakes floated down from the night sky like feathers. Overhead, a full moon cast a shimmering silver glow over the frosty landscape.

  The only sounds were the crunch of sleigh runners across the snowy ground, the huff of the horse’s breath and the jingle of harness bells.

  Beneath the thick lap rug, Alexandra snuggled up against her new husband and wondered what she’d ever done to have fate bless her so.

  “I’m so happy.” She smiled up at him. Her face, surrounded by the lush white ermine hood, was glowing with all the heartfelt emotion she was feeling. Her smile was nothing less than beatific; snowflakes glistened like diamonds in her thick dark eyelashes.

  Patrick smiled down at her. “I was worried you’d regret not having an elaborate Hollywood wedding.”

  The idea of eloping to Arizona had proven ideal. After the brief ceremony, wanting to postpone the press blitzkrieg they both knew they’d face, they’d driven her Rolls to Colorado.

  Now, five days into an idyllic honeymoon, Alexandra knew they’d made the right decision. Their love was too special to share with others.

  “My only regret is that we have to go back at all,” she said. The truth of her words was echoed in her liquid dark eyes.

  “We don’t have to.” His expression was absolutely serious. “Not if you’d really rather not.” Patrick’s willingness to turn his back on fame and fortune was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him. She’d never met a man who loved her just for herself, instead of her looks, or her perceived sexuality, or what she could do to boost his career.

  “I know you mean that.” Alexandra also realized that if he did back out of the deal with Xanadu Studios, Walter Stern would make Patrick pay in ways she couldn’t begin to imagine. The man was ruthless. She had not a single doubt that if she ever crossed him, he would step on her with no more thought than he would a cockroach.

  It was going to be bad enough when he learned about the elopement. By following her heart, she’d already risked Patrick paying for her own act of rebellion. She certainly wasn’t about to make things worse by costing Xanadu its biggest project of the year.

  Forcing an encouraging smile, she pressed her gloved palm against his cheek. “You’ve written a wonderful book, Patrick. And it’s going to make a marvelous movie.”

  “With you as the star, how can it miss?”

  “We make a good team.”

  “The best.” He put his arm around her and drew her closer. “I suppose you’re right about seeing the film through,” he agreed reluctantly. “I did give my word.”

  Unlike so many other men she’d known, Alexandra understood that to Patrick, his word was a sacred bond. Knowing how he felt had made their wedding vows even more special.

  “But after it’s wrapped, I’m insisting on taking you away for a real honeymoon,” he promised. “How would you like to take a Grand Tour of Europe?”

  Knowing also how her rugged American cowboy felt about any artifice, she couldn’t envision him happily sipping champagne cocktails at some Paris sidewalk cafe. But he would, she knew. For her.

  “Do you want the truth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d rather go to your ranch.” Linking her hands around his neck, she kissed him. “I want you to show me Wyoming.”

  Her tongue circled his mouth. Their breath, rising like little white ghosts on the icy night air, mingled.

  “I want to learn to fish for trout, with those pretty make-believe flies you’re always tying and I want to take long hikes with you in the mountains and I want to ride horses.”

  He slipped his hand beneath the blanket. “How about riding your husband?” he asked huskily.

  As he pressed his hand against that secret place, heat flared, making her forget all about the cold.

  Her answering laugh was filled with sensual promise.
/>
  “Absolutely.”

  Surrendering to the power of her husband’s exquisite kisses, Alexandra closed her eyes and imagined she heard bells ringing.

  And ringing. And ringing. The chimes of the telephone filtered into her consciousness, jerking Blythe from a deep sleep.

  “Hello?” The sheets were hopelessly tangled and she had her arms wrapped around her pillow as if it were her lover. Her mind was still fogged with the sensuality of her dream. “Oh, good morning, Gage.

  “No,” she lied, struggling to a sitting position. The pillow slid off onto the floor. “Of course you didn’t wake me. I’ve been up for hours.”

  She dragged her hand through her tangled hair and tried to concentrate on what he was saying, which was difficult when his husky voice was strumming sensual chords she told herself were left over from her dream.

  “You’ve found her? Really? Where?”

  When Blythe heard where the former makeup artist was living, she was stunned. “Bachelor Arms? That’s Cait’s building.”

  She shook her head in disbelief as she thought about how many times she’d visited Bachelor Arms in the past weeks. To find out that Natasha Kuryan was the elderly, eccentric woman Cait had mentioned that first day was incredible.

  “Of course I want to meet with her.” She glanced over at the clock. “Why don’t I meet you there in an hour?”

  Blythe hung up. But the brief conversation stayed with her all during her shower and while she dressed.

  It was only as she drove to Bachelor Arms that Blythe realized that Gage Remington’s voice bore a remarkable resemblance to Patrick Reardon’s in her dream.

  12

  THE SUN WAS STREAMING through the window when Cait finally woke. She opened her eyes, her gaze colliding with Sloan’s. He’d obviously been up for some time. Long enough to shower and shave and dress.

  “Hi.” She felt suddenly, strangely, shy.

  “Hi.” He eyed her with concern. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She looked at the bedside clock, groaned, and hitched herself up in bed. “I’m late. I was due at headquarters an hour ago.”

  “I already called and told them you’d be in later.” Her hair had dried into a mass of ungovernable red waves.

  “What did they say?”

  “After the day you had yesterday, what could they say?” He brushed the tousled curls away from her face with a heartbreakingly tender touch. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” At his disbelieving look, she said, “All right, I’m a little sore. But I’m okay.”

  He was more concerned about her mental health. Although she’d been trained to blow bad guys away, Sloan didn’t believe Cait could easily shrug off killing another human being.

  He pulled her closer, fitting her against him. “Your captain left a number for you to call later.”

  “The police shrink,” she guessed flatly.

  “It probably wouldn’t hurt to talk about it.”

  “Talking won’t change anything.”

  “No. But it might help with the nightmares.”

  Her eyes widened. A vague memory stirred, but she’d been so out of it... “Did I—”

  “You had three, that I could count,” he informed her. “None of them very pleasant. Just think about it, okay?” Sloan traced her downturned lips with a fingertip.

  “All right.”

  She snuggled against him, savoring his warmth. His strength. They remained quiet for a long, pleasurable time. Once again Cait considered how fortunate she was to have this man in her life.

  “Thank you.” It was barely a whisper.

  “For what?”

  “For loving me.”

  He pressed his lips against her tousled hair. “Hell, that’s the easy part.”

  While she’d been sleeping so restlessly, he’d lain awake, thinking of all she’d been through, thinking of how he was going to tell her the dark, hidden secrets she deserved to know. Ugly truths that might drive her away.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said later, as Cait dressed, getting ready to go downtown.

  “Sure.”

  Having never seen her dressed for work in anything but undercover clothes, Sloan was relieved when the sight of the dark blue uniform didn’t cause an instantaneous, knee-jerk response. How much had changed in less than three short weeks, he mused. How much he had changed.

  “I thought maybe this evening,” he suggested. “If you feel up to it, after your debriefing.”

  The strangely guarded tone made Cait stop in the act of tying her black shoes to glance up at him. His expression could have been cut from granite. But there was a vulnerability in his eyes that tugged at some elemental chord deep inside her.

  “Sloan? What’s wrong?”

  Although she’d assured him—and the captain had confirmed during their phone conversation—that the debriefing was merely routine, Sloan knew that having to relive such a horrifying incident was bound to be incredibly difficult.

  Feeling like a world-class jerk for giving her one more thing to worry about while she was on her way to headquarters to answer questions about yesterday’s officer-involved shooting, he forced a smile. “Nothing.” He crossed to where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, bent down and kissed her. Desire stirred. He tamped it down.

  “How about letting me drive you to headquarters?”

  Cait opened her mouth to assure him it wasn’t necessary. Then, as last night’s terror came flooding back, she changed her mind. “I’d love to have you with me. But I may be a long time.”

  “I’ll wait.” He brushed his lips against hers in a soft, reassuring way. “For as long as it takes.”

  They both knew he wasn’t talking about her meeting with police brass.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Blythe stormed as she marched away from Bachelor Arms. Her frustration surrounded her like a crackling electrical field. Beside her, Gage reluctantly decided that although he’d never believed it possible, right now the actress was actually sexier than she appeared up on that larger-than-life silver screen. As she raked her hand furiously through her dark hair, he caught the glimpse of a very good quality four-carat diamond engagement ring. She’s also taken, pal, he reminded himself. And even if she wasn’t, Blythe Fielding was definitely out of his league.

  “Hey, it’s only a little setback.” Ten years in the police department, and another six months running his own detective agency, had taught Gage patience.

  “The clock is ticking, dammit. I only have seven more months to get this project to the editing stage. Then I’m scheduled to do another picture for Walter Stern.” Her frustration etched deep lines into her forehead. “We don’t have time for any setbacks.” When he didn’t answer, Blythe shook her head in disgust. “What kind of old lady takes a cruise to Greece?”

  “I think cruising is pretty popular with the senior crowd,” Gage suggested mildly.

  Irritated that Gage was taking this so well, Blythe glared up at him. “I’m sure the fact that you’re being paid by the day has nothing to do with your willingness to let this investigation drag on forever,” she ground out.

  The fact that he’d taken a lot worse verbal abuse on L.A.’s mean streets kept Gage from being overly angered by her insinuation that he’d cheat her. Early training supported by years of experience had taught him that escalating the antagonism level did nothing to diffuse a difficult situation. Instead, he gave her a steady, bland look.

  “If I thought you meant that, I’d suggest you take your movie—and your enigmatic Russian movie star—to some other P.I.”

  His tone was annoyingly calm. As was his expression. But looking up at him, Blythe could sense the flintiness of his gaze behind the sunglasses. She also heard the edge of steel in those mild words.

  Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I was so excited when you called and told me you’d found her.” She glared back at the pink apartment building
. “Why couldn’t Natasha Kuryan be the kind of old lady who spends her days in print cotton housedresses crocheting scratchy afghans?”

  “Now you’re talking about my great-grandmother,” he said. “Who’s still happily living in the same house where she was born ninety-seven years ago in Show Low, Arizona and never misses Wednesday night choir practice or Saturday night bingo.”

  He gave her a slow, friendly grin. “And as much as I love Gram to pieces, she never, in a million years, would have considered moving to Hollywood and trying to get a job putting makeup on movie stars.”

  His smile captured Blythe’s attention, reminding her suddenly of this morning’s sensual dream. She felt the warm color rising beneath her cheeks and hoped Gage would take it for lingering anger.

  “Point taken,” she said. “So, now what?”

  “The super said she’ll be back in five days.”

  “In five days I’ll be in Maui.”

  On her honeymoon. It crossed Gage’s mind that she didn’t exactly sound real eager about the prospect. Reminding himself that Blythe’s relationship with her fiancé was none of his business, he shrugged.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her, then fill you in on all the details when you get back.”

  “If Natasha knew Alexandra, I don’t want to wait until I return. I want to know everything you find out right away.”

  “Fine. I’ll fax you at the hotel.”

  “I’d rather you call.”

  Gage considered how less than thrilled he’d be if his new bride was spending their honeymoon talking on the telephone with another man and decided that the good Dr. Sturgess must possess a great deal of patience.

  “Fine. It’s your nickel. If you want to pay for long distance calls, it’s okay by me.” He glanced down at his watch. “In the meantime, how about lunch? I’ve run across some discrepancies in the bio Xanadu concocted for Alexandra. Which wouldn’t have been unusual for the time,” he allowed, telling Blythe nothing she didn’t already know. “It opens up a few leads I’m thinking of pursuing. But I need your okay first.”