A Bride For Saint Nick

by Carole Buck

  There were ways to find out, John reflected. A blood test could prove his paternity. Or disprove it, as the case might be. The thing was—

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly.

  Leigh blinked, watching him with wide, wary eyes. “Wh-what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated, meaning every syllable. “I’m not talking about what Stone did to you. That matters a lot. It matters that you were…hurt. It matters that you had no one to help you.” He paused, renewing his vow of atonement. He pledged himself to protect her from this moment forward, too. He was ready to give anything, including his life, to safeguard her from further harm. “But Andy is Andy, Leigh. He’s your son. I love you. I want to be a husband to you And I want to be a father to your little boy. A real father. Biology be damned.”

  “Oh…John…”

  “I’d like to help give him the baby brother he wants,” he continued, astonishing himself more than a little. “And maybe a baby sister, too. That chance I talked about Saturday morning—”

  Leigh silenced him by lifting her right hand and pressing her fingertips against his lips. Despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the tearstains on her cheeks, she had never looked more beautiful.

  “It’s yours, John,” she told him in a dulcet voice. A soft flush stole up into her face, tinting her skin the same delicate shade of pink as the bouquet of roses Suzanne Whitney had once received from Nicholas Marchand. “Now and forever. It’s yours.”

  The burden of the past seemed to fall away. The future opened, fresh and whole.

  “No, sweetheart,” the man who’d once been known as Saint Nick whispered to the only woman he’d ever loved, brushing his mouth against her cheek and tasting the salt of her tears. “It’s ours.”

  And then he kissed her.

  Anthony Stone snapped the plastic tomahawk in half and dropped the pieces to the floor. Lifting his foot, he stepped down on one of the strings of beads that clung to the broken handle. He ground the garish ornaments beneath the heel of his shoe until they shattered into powder.

  “You think you can bribe my boy with your cheap presents?” he muttered angrily. He knew all about the tomahawk. And about the man who had given it. His source had been extremely informative on the subject.

  He kicked the plaything aside with a vicious swipe of his foot. His son wouldn’t want it anymore, he told himself. And even if he did…

  Screw that. He wouldn’t.

  Anthony Stone walked out of the toy-strewn room and stalked down the hallway. He booted open the door to Suzanne Whitney’s bedroom.

  He stood on the threshold for several moments, surveying the pale, pristine decor. He snorted contemptuously, his ire rising in reaction to what he viewed as yet another indication of the inbred deceptiveness of the opposite sex.

  Touch me not, the room said.

  Saint Nick’s blond, blue-eyed ladyfriend had said much the same thing the night he’d finally taken her, five and a half years ago. Pleading, she’d been. And crying. Trying to persuade him that she didn’t want what he damned well knew she wanted. What they all wanted.

  Touch me not.

  He had touched her, he remembered with lewd satisfaction, his body stirring. Hard. Soft. Nasty. Nice. And he was going to touch her again. He would make her touch him, too. In any way—in every way—that pleased him.

  Maybe he would do it in here, in this nice, clean room.

  There was an old-fashioned looking glass standing in the far corner of the room. The sight of it made Stone smile. He could imagine watching himself in it as he had Suzanne again. He would order her to watch, as well. She would act as though she didn’t want to, but she would come around. Her kind always did.

  He’d given her a chance, he reminded himself with a sneer, crossing to a chest of drawers set against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. He’d been willing to forgive her for her past once she’d borne his son. All she’d had to do was keep herself pure. To keep herself exclusively for him.

  She’d done so for a time, or so his source had assured him. But in the end, she’d succumbed to her own weak nature and betrayed him.

  He pulled open the top drawer. It contained lingerie. He rummaged through the undergarments, comparing their chaste simplicity with the slinky nightgown Suzanne had been wearing the night he’d come to her. He’d known she would have it on. He’d overheard Nick talking to her about it on the phone.

  She probably had the sexy stuff hidden away, he decided, lifting a pair of cotton panties from the drawer. He would make her take it out and show it to him, just like he’d made her show him the sleek, ivory silk nightgown.

  No, he corrected, a sly smile tugging at his lips. It wouldn’t be exactly the same as it had been five and a half years ago. It would be better. Because this time around he would get to watch Suzanne put on the garments before she took them off.

  He would make her do it slowly, he promised himself with an anticipatory snicker. Real slowly. Both the putting on and the taking off.

  He rubbed the panties against his cheek for a few seconds, fantasizing about the looming moment of reckoning, then tossed them carelessly aside. He did the same with a nylon bra. Finally he simply grabbed a fistful of the flimsy garments and flung them around the room.

  He slammed the top drawer shut and opened the others. Their seemingly prim and proper contents infuriated him. Frustration exploded within him. He yanked the bottom drawer completely out of the bureau, upended it with an expletive, then dropped it to the floor with a crash.

  He whirled around, facing the bed. His breath sawed in and out in rapid pants. That was where she’d done it, he told himself furiously. Suzanne had lain there on that creamy-looking quilt and she’d opened her legs for another man. Or men. She’d let others have what was supposed to be his and his alone. He could see her doing it.

  He stalked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, rubbing the palms of his hands against the smooth surface of the coverlet. A moment later he flopped back on the mattress.

  His source had believed that he would be glad to hear that Suzanne Whitney was moving on with her life. That he would be pleased to learn that she’d found a “good man” to ease her loneliness. His source had believed this for the same reasons that she’d believed he regretted his so-called crimes.

  One of those reasons was that he’d told her so.

  As for the other…

  “Mmm.” Leigh sighed as the man she was going to marry lifted his mouth from hers after a long, lingering kiss. The kiss was part of what had turned into a very protracted—but extremely pleasurable—process of bidding John Gulliver a temporary adieu.

  They’d gotten out of bed.

  They’d more or less put their clothes back on.

  They’d finally managed to cross to the door of John’s hotel room. Eventually, one or the other of them would open said door and she would walk out of it.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you now?” John asked, smoothing her hair back from her brow with gentle fingers.

  She smiled up at him, knowing her heart was in her eyes. The kiss he’d bestowed in response to her declaration that the chance he wanted was his had flowered into an incandescent passion. The result had been several sweetly searing hours of lovemaking. Her body still throbbed with the echoes of sensual bliss.

  Their joining had been an exorcism of all that had been wrong in their pasts and a celebration of all that would be right about their future. Every touch had been an affirmation of shared intentions. Every sound, a pledge of trust and truth. It had been the most overwhelmingly wonderful experience of Leigh’s life and she could hardly wait to repeat it.

  But first she had to get home to her little boy. To…their little boy. To the child they would nurture together as husband and wife.

  “I’d like some time to talk with Andy first,” she told him, caressing the angle of her lover’s lean cheek. A hint of new beard growth sandpapered her fingertips, sending a thril
ling little tingle dancing down her arm. “As I said before, he and I have a little unfinished business from this morning. But we’ll be waiting for you at seven.”

  “And the pizza I’ll be bringing.”

  “That, too,” she agreed with a throaty laugh. “I suppose I’m doomed to eating pepperoni from here on out?”

  “Majority rules in pizza toppings, sweetheart.”

  Leigh pretended to pout. She felt deliciously giddy. Innocent as an infant in some ways. Profoundly adult in others.

  “I am open to…persuasion.” John slid his hands slowly down her arms as he spoke. His dark eyes glinted provocatively.

  “Oh?” she challenged as strong fingers encircled her wrists.

  “Think of me as a member of Congress.”

  She let herself be drawn into another embrace. The acutely sensitized tips of her breasts brushed against his chest. She felt them tighten against the stretchy fabric of her bra. The sensation triggered a liquid fluttering between her thighs.

  “You’re suggesting I bribe you into changing your position on the pepperoni issue?” she queried a bit breathlessly.

  “Something like that.”

  “I thought—” she went up on tiptoe and feathered her lips back and forth across his “—bribes were illegal.”

  “Not if you call them—” tongues touched and teased for a heady second or two “—campaign contributions.”

  “So, how much would I have to…contribute…to persuade you to switch to the anchovies-and-black-olives point of view?”

  “A lot.” John showed his teeth in a roguish smile that did nothing for the stability of her pulse. “Black olives are marginally tolerable. But anchovies are disgusting.”

  “This, from a man who encourages a preschooler to put pickle relish on pancakes?”

  “Well…”

  They both laughed. Then kissed. And kissed again. By the time they broke apart, they were both snatching air into their lungs in shallow, unsteady pants.

  “Oh…my…” Leigh managed, leaning back against the door. She was a little surprised she didn’t collapse to the floor. Her legs felt wobblier than gelatin.

  “Oh, my…indeed,” John raspily concurred, nuzzling the side of her throat.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds, a heated delight ravishing her senses. When she finally forced her lids open again, she found herself focusing for the first time on the bed they’d recently vacated.

  “Oh, Lord,” she gasped, genuinely shocked by what she saw. There was no shame in the untrammeled ecstasy she and John had given each other, but…Well, she hadn’t realized that the two of them had left so much physical evidence of what they’d done underneath—

  Er, make that on top of—

  Uh, no, more like tucked between and rolling around in—

  “Leigh?” her partner in passion asked, lifting his head. “What is it?”

  She felt herself blush from collarbone to hairline. In a small, stifled voice she replied, “The b-bed.”

  “The…bed?” John frowned at her for an instant, then glanced over his shoulder. He looked back at her, clearly perplexed. “What’s wrong with the bed, sweetheart? Aside from the fact that we’re not in it, of course.”

  “It’s a mess, John!”

  “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “I’ll call Edith in housekeeping.”

  The implications of this proposal were nothing short of appalling. “I can just imagine what she’ll say.”

  “Why imagine?” The riposte was wryly knowing. “Wait a couple days and I’m sure you’ll be able to find out, verbatim.”

  Leigh groaned, the heat in her cheeks racheting up a degree or two. He was right. News of their tryst would be all over town before the end of the week. Possibly before the end of the day.

  “Don’t worry, love.” John dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’ll tidy things up myself. Better yet, I’ll smuggle the sheets out when I come to your house tonight. You can wash them while Andy and I have a guy-to-guy discussion.”

  “A guy-to-guy discussion?” She decided to let his outrageous suggestion about the bed linen pass. If John Gulliver actually thought she was going to spend this very special evening doing laundry, he had another think coming. Maybe two. “About what?”

  “You and me.” The expression in John’s eyes turned tender. Leigh’s heart did a long, slow swoon in response. “Getting married.”

  You and me. Getting married.

  Heavens, that had a marvelous sound to it!

  “John—”

  “Actually, I thought I’d ask his permission.”

  “You…what?”

  “How do you think Andy would react if I requested his mom’s hand in holy matrimony?”

  Leigh blinked several times, then startled herself by giving the inquiry some genuine consideration. The notion of John seeking a nuptial okay from a preschooler was funny, of course. Yet, inherent in the humorous scenario was a touching concern for a little boy’s feelings.

  “Leaving aside the possibility that you may have to explain to him that ‘matrimony’ isn’t some kind of pasta product?” she asked after a few seconds.

  “And the issue of why in the world I’d volunteer to spend the rest of my life with a…girl.”

  “Yes, well, there is that,” Leigh acknowledged with a quirky giggle, admiring the dead-on invocation of her son’s disdain for members of the opposite sex. “But to get back to the original question. I think Andy’s main response if you ask him for my hand in marriage will be rampant curiosity about why you don’t want the rest of me.”

  “Oh, I do, sweetheart.” John’s voice was husky. A distinctly masculine hunger flared in his dark gaze. “But I think it’s going to be a few years before Andy and I get around to a guy-to-guy discussion on that particular subject. I plan to do a lot of research in the interim. As for a man-to-woman discussion of the matter…”

  Anthony Stone had just finished prying open the lock on the gunmetal-gray box he’d discovered in the drawer of the nightstand next to Suzanne’s bed when he heard a gasp from the doorway.

  He turned.

  He smiled.

  “Hi, Ma,” he said to Donatella Pietra. “Surprised to see me?”

  Chapter 14

  Leigh drove home under the influence of unalloyed joy. Fortunately, her emotional intoxication didn’t impair her skill behind the wheel. She did, however, find herself grinning like a loon at nothing in particular. Likewise, singing along with a golden oldies station on the car radio in a voice that she freely admitted fell less than musically on the ear.

  This wasn’t to say that she couldn’t croon on key. She would argue vehemently that she could.

  The problem was, her key of choice tended to be…oh, somewhere in the neighborhood of a dissonant Q-flat—very flat! unbelievably flat!—minor.

  Flicking on the station wagon’s turn signal, she swung onto the tree-lined street on which her modest, two-story house was located. There was an expensive-looking sedan parked on the right-hand side of the road about fifty yards before her driveway. The vehicle was a tad pricey for the area. It also had outof-state license plates.

  Somebody must have a visitor, Leigh decided.

  Which, very naturally, steered her thoughts back to the guest who would be calling on her and her son in—she darted an eager glance at the dashboard clock—a little more than two hours. She could imagine Andy’s response when she informed him that John was coming over with dinner. His favorite grown-up hero and a pepperoni pizza? He would be in seventh heaven!

  As for his reaction when he heard the rest of the news…Well, she had to believe that Andy would be thrilled. He’d bonded with John Gulliver the moment they’d met and his affection had never wavered. And if John carried through with the idea of asking his “permission”…

  A happy laugh bubbled out of her as she envisioned the scene. Maybe she should coach Andy a bit in preparation for it, she considered mischievously. Give him a few tips on how to grill
an erstwhile suitor about his intentions.

  Leigh laughed again. She felt as buoyant as a helium-filled balloon. Freer than she’d ever felt in her life. The future was unfolding before her, beckoning her onward like the legendary Yellow Brick Road to Oz, and it looked absolutely beautiful.

  Sharing the truth about what had happened to her five and a half years ago had been the key to her liberation. She’d shed her shame. She’d finally let go of her fears. And in exchange, she’d been given more than she’d ever dreamed possible.

  John’s words echoed through her brain as she turned the station wagon into her drive.

  Andy is Andy, Leigh, the man she loved had told her after she’d confessed to the uncertainty that had racked her for so long. He’s your son. I love you. I want to be a husband to you. And I want to be a father to your little boy. A real father. Biology be damned.

  Her heart was full to the point of overflowing.

  I’d like to help give him the baby brother he wants, he’d gone on. There had been a hint of wonderment in his eyes as he’d spoken, as though he’d only just begun to gauge the depth of his paternal impulses. And maybe a baby sister, too.

  She would love to have a little girl, Leigh decided dreamily as she pulled up behind Nonna P.’s brown car. And she would bet Andy would love it, too, even though he professed to believe that all members of the opposite sex were—Now, whatwas that charming phrase she’d heard him and Bryan use last Thursday in the bookstore after story hour?

  Ah, yes. Doodoo heads. As in, “Sisters are doodoo heads cuz they’re…girls.”

  Leigh laughed a third time and reached for the car’s ignition keys.

  “We’ve got lots more sounds of the seventies coming up,” the announcer on the radio promised ebulliently. “Including a special salute to disco! But first, the headlines. Topping the news right now, a multistate search for a convicted killer. We go live to—”