by Ruby Laska
“I see.”
“Do you like my hair? I fixed it as conservatively as I could.”
Now, it was clear, she was baiting him. Toying with him. Griff felt his insides begin to melt as he examined her hair. It was swept up in a red-glinting sort of pile on top of her head, but it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to call it conservative. Not with the little curls that had escaped and swooped their way about her face, grazing her chin and the nape of her neck. The whole thing was begging to be unpinned, in his opinion, and set free to cascade around her on the pillow as he –
“You’re turning purple,” Junior observed. “Shall I call an ambulance, or can we go now?”
It wasn’t just the dress, or the event, or the last of the sun slanting down on the steps of the cathedral as their taxi pulled up out front, Junior reflected. Griff was treating her differently. Doors held open. Hand at her back. His arm offered, and as she tried to step up to the curb, suddenly felt herself being almost picked up and re-deposited as gently as if she were made of glass.
He was treating her, she realized, with care. Protecting her. Protecting her secret.
Junior took a deep breath and took a tighter hold on his arm. No. She was not going to think about that, not tonight. The baby would be there tomorrow, and there would be plenty of time to deal with it—with him or her—later.
“This ought to be quite the event,” Griff said, echoing her thoughts. “Here, let’s go in here—maybe we can avoid a few of the vultures.”
He led her through a side door, away from the gaily-dressed throng clustered in the main doors.
Inside it was dim, and it took her a few seconds to accustom herself to the light. When she did, she drew in her breath in amazement.
The beautiful old cathedral was lit by candles. Each pew was festooned with white silk ribbon and white roses and white candles, and the shadows danced on the arched ceilings and the old stained glass windows.
“Hey, stranger, I didn’t know you were coming!”
A big, burly usher approached and playfully punched Griff on the arm. He caught sight of Junior and his eyes shot up as he stared openly.
“Hi, Drake. This is Junior Atkinson.”
The usher smiled at her, a smile that was a little too close to a leer. As he took her hand and leaned closer, she could smell that he’d been into the champagne already.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said neutrally, then tugged her hand back.
“You too,” he grinned. “Interesting name.”
“Her friends call her Junior Ass-Kicker,” Griff said, throwing an arm around her shoulder and squeezing. Junior grinned widely, and stepped carefully on her heels to keep from falling over.
“No kidding? Huh. Well, Griff, your mom’s already here, so—”
“Hey Drake, it’d mean a lot to me if you’d seat us closer to the back.”
Junior glanced from one man to the other; apparently the champagne haze didn’t dull Drake enough to miss Griff’s suggestion.
“Sure, sure.”
He offered his arm and Junior took it, bracing herself for the walk.
Luckily, it was a short one, as Griff deposited them in an empty pew near the back.
“Hey, catch you at the reception, okay? I’m still hoping you’ll give me a call at the bank.”
“Sure thing,” Griff said, but his eyes were already back on Junior.
“We’re late,” she murmured. Damn, this place was doing funny things to her. The organist had started up with some sort of hymn, and the lovely notes blocked out the chatter of their fellow guests just as the candle light illuminated only what was lovely in the huge church.
“No, we’re not. There’s no sign of the bride yet.”
“Well, there’s her mother. Same thing. We’re late.”
“Are not.”
They quit arguing to watch the bride’s mother, a lovely, elegant woman in a sleek silver sheath, being escorted down the aisle. Grandmothers and the groom’s mother followed, the women all expensively dressed, the ushers all handsome and confident.
It was a far cry from the church-supper and back-yard weddings in Poplar Bluff.
The bridesmaids trailed down, their dove-grey gowns baring their shoulders, their smiles demure and focused only ahead.
“Those girls are all beautiful,” Junior whispered, a little enviously.
“Yeah, if you like that sort of thing. Ross family only tangles with the right sort of stock, if you get my drift. Ugly ain’t allowed.”
“Mmmm,” Junior responded. He hadn’t meant anything by his words, she was sure, but they went straight to her heart. The Ross family…the right stock.
She clutched her satin bag a little tighter.
The organ rang out the first notes of The Wedding March, and all around her the expectant congregation got to its feet. Griff helped her up and then held on, wrapping her hand in his.
And there she was. A bouffant cloud of tulle, escorted by yet another elegant and confident member of the Ross family. The bride’s gown was miles of silk and pearls and lace. As she approached Junior could see through the veil that the bride was grinning broadly.
“Hey, dork,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth as she passed. “Glad you could make it.”
Griff stood straight and chuckled softly. “She always did adore me,” he said.
And then the bride was at the alter, joined by her groom, and Junior couldn’t quite see them clearly because suddenly her eyes weren’t focusing quite right. In fact they seemed to have something in them, some irritant. Not tears, certainly, because all of this—the church, the music, the candles, the gown, the groom—all of this left Junior feeling no emotion at all.
Certainly not longing.
“Hard right,” Griff hissed through his teeth and yanked her around a huge floral arrangement near the dance floor. “Man, that was a close one.”
Junior rolled her eyes. “Griff, we can’t keep avoiding your mother all night.”
“I didn’t avoid her. I talked to her.”
“Yes. About five words, after the receiving line.”
“Listen,” he scowled at her. “You don’t know what she’s capable of. You’re better off never finding out.”
Junior sighed. Honestly. The man could single-handedly tear up her house in one day, but his own mother made him quake in her shoes.
She tugged her arm out of his tight grip, and strode purposely after Mrs. Sylvia Ross.
“Excuse me,” she said, marching right into the conversation that Griff’s mother was having with another elegant older woman. “Sylvia?”
“Yes?”
Junior paused, disconcerted. The woman managed to convey more in that single syllable than most people can fit into an entire conversation. Her perfect brow arched slightly, and there was just enough steel in her smooth voice to let Junior know that she didn’t appreciate being interrupted.
Still, she hadn’t marched over here for nothing. Taking a deep breath, Junior stuck out her hand.
“I’m Junior Atkinson. Griff’s friend.”
A tiny hesitation, and then Sylvia’s face magically morphed into an intimate smile. She grasped Junior’s hand—only the very ends of her fingertips, actually—and gave them a delicate squeeze.
“Oh, how lovely! I was wondering when I would have the chance to meet you. Junior, please let me introduce you to Betts Colburn. Betts and I chair the Gold Coast Preservation Society Ball together.”
Obviously this was supposed to mean something to Junior. She offered her hand to Betts, who gave her a slightly chillier version of the smile that Sylvia had produced.
“That’s great,” she said. “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry to interrupt you ladies, but—well, Griff has told me so much about you, and...”
The lie died on her lips as she faltered. But Sylvia was clearly more practiced in the social niceties of batting obvious half-truths about.
“Isn’t that marvelous! Oh, dear, he is such an elusive
one! I had no idea that he had found someone special.”
At this, Betts’ ears obviously pricked up.
“You and Griff are serious, dear?”
“Well, I--”
“Where are you from? I know Atkinsons in Winnetka, and Kenilworth—”
“I’m not from Chicago, actually. I live in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.”
Silence.
“It’s…well, it’s about an hour outside of St. Louis. County roads most of the way, though.”
“Er…is that a rural area?”
Now Junior was getting a little annoyed. Even after five minutes she was catching on to Sylvia’s palette of expressions, and “disdainful” was clearly coming into play.
“Well, yeah,” she said, taking a firmer stance on her high heels, which had begun to cut into her flesh about five minutes after the end of the ceremony. “Yeah, I guess you could call it rural. Pretty much everybody there’s involved with farming in some way or other.”
She could sense Griff approaching, and for his benefit, added in a louder voice, “‘Fact we mostly all have a pig or two in the back yard. My aunt’s got a whole shelf full of trophies for her hams. Won ‘em at the Boone County Fair—y’ever been?”
Griff slipped his fingers around her upper arm and squeezed. Great—back with the vice grip. Black and blue marks were not going to set off her dress to advantage.
“Hey, sugar,” she drawled, and batted her eyelashes at him.
He ignored her. “Mom, this is Junior Atkinson. You may wish to call her Annabel. Junior, this is Sylvia Hester Ross, of the Cleveland steel Hesters, and the—well, I guess the law business Rosses, but since Dad’s father was a bricklayer I don’t know if—”
“That’ll do, dear,” Sylvia sniffed. Her companion had perked up considerably.
“Hey, Mrs. Colburn. How’s the daisy business?”
“Roses, dear, not daisies.” Mrs. Colburn offered her hand—again with the limp fingertip thing—and Junior was not terribly surprised to see that she was much warmer to Griff. Women—of any age—love a rogue, she reflected.
“Oh yeah, roses. The rosemeisters society.”
“Actually, we call ourselves rosarians. But it’s sweet of you to remember.”
“Sadly, Griffin’s memory is a bit spotty,” Sylvia cut in. “He cannot, for instance, remember simple social conventions, like rsvp’ing, for instance.”
Her smile stayed in place, but the disapproval came through loud and clear.
“Hey, Mom, I cleared it with Aunt Janet—”
“I know, dear, I heard all about that call. Last night,” she added, speaking to Betts. “In the middle of the night, if you can imagine.”
Betts’ eyes widened. More fodder, no doubt, for the gossip machine.
Junior could sense Griff’s tension spiraling at her side. Abruptly, she felt sorry for him. She’d thought his description of his mother had been harsh, but as it turned out she really was a shrew.
“Actually, Mrs. Ross, I find that Griff’s memory is pretty terrific,” she said sweetly. “Do you know, he remembers every minute of our first, mmm, night together?”
The smile on Sylvia’s face froze.
“And he has such attention to detail. I swear the man has tried to count ever freckle on my, uh, face.”
“What is, it, my dear, that you do for a living?” Sylvia said, hard little breaths behind each word.
Before she had a chance to reply, Griff spoke up.
“She’s a designer, Mom. Jewelry.” He caressed her neck tenderly and fingered the pink feather, which was drooping to the side. “It’s the latest. Maybe it hasn’t gotten to Chicago yet. She’s burning up both coasts. Gwyneth Paltrow was wearing one of Junior’s necklaces in the latest People. You ought to check it out.”
“I’ll…do that. But Junior,” Sylvia said, “I thought you told me your people were rural.”
“Oh, they are. I just do most of my client work over the Internet.” Junior smiled, baring her teeth. “We got us a hookup in the shed. My little home office. Plus that way I can keep an eye on the pigs.”
“I see.” Sylvia, clearly bearing no doubt whatsoever that she was being toyed with, squared her shoulders. “I really must go see if I can help Janet with anything. The mother’s duties at a wedding are endless. And I certainly know all about a mother’s burdens.”
“I’ll come help too,” Betts said, nodding. “It was delightful to meet you, Junior. And Griff, so good to see you looking well.”
“You too, Mrs. C. Okay, Mom, catch you later,” Griff said. Junior felt the vice grip on her arm loosen as the tension left him.
Junior turned to Griff and found herself folded in Griff’s arms.
Then he promptly began waltzing her across the dance floor—dead opposite of the direction his mother had gone.
“So, you’ve faced the dragon,” he said into her ear, as the music changed and he pulled her a little closer.
“So, you can dance,” she responded, conversationally, thought his warm breath in her ear made her a little hoarse. “Wouldn’t have thought you could.”
Griff shrugged. “Lessons. Endless lessons. I finally figured the only way out was to get it right.”
“Well, you certainly did, at that,” Junior murmured, as Griff somehow spun her in slow, tight circles until she closed her eyes and felt like she was floating.
“Hey, this isn’t like you,” Griff said, after a while, his lips brushing her hair. “You’re letting me lead.”
Junior smiled. His hands caressed her back, somehow pulling her even closer even as they glided around the floor. “I’m just throwing you a bone. I’m letting you lead now, but when we’re back at your place, look out.”
Griff cleared his throat, and Junior sensed that his temperature had just shot up a few degrees.
“I’m scared,” he whispered. “Very, very scared. Please be gentle with me.”
“No chance,” Junior whispered back.
And then she missed a step, as a sharp, familiar pain pulsed through her.
No. Not now.
“Excuse me,” she said, and slipped from his arms. As she made her way through the swaying couples, the magic of the dance evaporated, leaving an overcrowded, hot ballroom full of people pretending to like each other.
Another wave passed through her abdomen. The pain meant one thing. Her period.
There wasn’t any baby.
And if there wasn’t any baby, there wasn’t any reason for Griff Ross to spend one more minute in her life.
CHAPTER TEN
She was paler, if possible, than normal.
Griff waved the steaming cup of tea under her nose, but she only mumbled her thanks, not bothering to open her eyes. Sighing, he set it on the coffee table and slid onto the couch next to her.
“Hey, look, by the time your picture hits the gossip pages, we’ll be long gone,” he said, trying for a joke.
For once, he didn’t even get a smile for his efforts.
Damn his mother. He wouldn’t soon forgive her for the way she’d treated Junior. After their brief dance, Junior had returned from the ladies room saying she didn’t feel well and asking to leave, and she hadn’t spoken ten words to him since.
And he knew exactly what could cause that sort of symptoms.
He’d brought a girl home from college once, and his mother had dragged her into the breakfast room for coffee and “girl talk”. The poor thing had been near tears when she’d finally emerged an hour later.
His mother had looked triumphant.
Still, he was surprised Junior would let Sylvia intimidate her.
“Look,” he said. “No one cares what my mother says or does, contrary to her belief that the world revolves around her.”
That, of all things, got a ghost of a smile from her.
“I told her I was a pig farmer,” Junior said, a note of pride in her voice.
Encouraged, he snuggled in a little closer to her, and stroked her cheek. Her skin was surpr
isingly warm.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he murmured throatily. “I can just picture you in a pair of hip waders, mucking out the stall. Let’s go to bed and play Ride ‘Em Cowboy.”
But Junior turned away and the brief smile was gone.
Griff was perplexed, but not about to give up, not when that stretch of silky navy fabric was inching up her thighs. Not when her body heat was carrying her perfume to his senses, making him want to breathe and taste her.
For now, he willed his desire away, and took her hand, lacing her fingers through his.
“Other than Mom, though, did you have fun? I mean, some of my cousins are okay.”
“They’re lovely,” Junior said without conviction.
“I wish you could have seen Margaret when she was about twelve. All legs and arms, and she knew every dirty word in the book. Nearly gave her folks a heart attack.”
“So you weren’t the only bad seed in the Ross clan.”
Griff grimaced, then smiled. “I guess you’re right. I never looked at it that way before. And Drake—well, now that he’s rolling in arbitrage money he’s everybody’s hero—but he did spend a year in this pricy reform school, except no one ever called it that.”
Griff ticked off a few more cousins affectionately, then had a thought.
“Hey, why don’t we come up and visit Margaret and Jake when they get back from the honeymoon. I’ll show you a real Chicago weekend. I can promise you the bratwurst of a lifetime.”
“Maybe,” Junior mumbled, but Griff heard the waver in her voice and tilted her face to him.
Junior twisted out of his arms and stood. “I’m really tired,” she said. “Sorry. I think I’ll just try to get some sleep.”
Griff let her go.
It was the first time he’d seen her cry.
POPLAR BLUFF, 8 MILES
Junior shifted against the car door and closed her eyes. Griff had gotten her up at six, ready to go. Her head pounded and her cramps were worse this morning. The second day of her period was always the worst.
“I need a donut,” she moaned.
