Rescued in a Wedding Dress

by Cara Colter

  “And I always thought wine was made with grapes.”

  He hoped to make her laugh, but somehow his tone didn’t quite make it. Tonight he had gone down there with an expectation of maybe there being some kind of chance for them.

  For him to build a life different than the one of unabating loneliness he had always known. A life different than what his family had given him.

  But that fury resided in him. And he was not sharing that legacy with her. Someday, if he followed that look in her eyes, there would be children, too. They did not deserve the Whitford legacy, either. Innocent. His unborn children were innocent, as once he had been innocent.

  The ugly truth now? He had liked the feeling of his fist smashing into that man’s face.

  He would have liked to just leave, but he could tell she was quickly disintegrating toward shock.

  “I think we need something a little stronger than chicken zinfandel,” he suggested.

  “I think there might be some brandy above the fridge. Chuck drank…” she giggled “…everything.”

  She was staring at him with something hungry in her eyes. She reached out and touched him, her hand sliding along the still coiled muscle of his forearm. There was naked appreciation in her touch.

  He recognized in her a kind of survivor euphoria. He felt it sometimes after a sparring match. A release of chemical endorphins, a hit of happiness that opened your senses wide.

  Tomorrow she would wake up and think of his hands smashing into that man, and feel the fear and doubt that deserved.

  Tonight, she would think he was her hero.

  He pulled his arm away from her, poured her a generous shot of brandy, made her drink it, but he refused one for himself.

  One loss of control for the night was quite enough.

  “Houston.” She took a sip, stared at him, drank him as greedily as the brandy. And he let her. Drank her back, saved her every feature, the wideness of her eyes and the softness of her lips.

  “I think you’re bleeding,” she gasped suddenly.

  He followed her gaze down. A thin thread of red was appearing above the belly line on his white shirt. So, the knife had not dropped instantly. At some level, had the physical threat triggered his rage?

  Excuses.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, frightened.

  If he was, adrenaline was keeping him from feeling it. “Nah. A little scrape. Nothing. A long way from the heart.”

  If his arm was hanging by a thread at the moment he suspected he would do the manly thing and tell her it was nothing.

  “Let me see.”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  But she pointed at a chair, and because he was going to savor every single thing she gave him tonight—he sat there obediently while she retrieved the first aid kit. “Take off your shirt,” she told him.

  Who had he been kidding when he’d said his injuries were not close to the heart? It was all about the heart. The walls he had tried to repair around it were crumbling again, faster than he could build them back up.

  Now his heart was going to rule his head. Because he knew better than to take off that shirt for her. He was leaving. Why drag this out?

  And he did it anyway, aware he was trying to memorize the kindness of her face, and the softness in her eyes, the hunger in her.

  He undid the buttons with unreasonable slowness, dragging out this moment, torturing himself with the fact it would not be him who fed that hunger. He let the shirt fall open. He didn’t need to take it off, but he did, sliding it over his shoulders, holding it loosely in one hand. The tangy scent of his own sweat filled the room, and he watched her nostrils flare, drinking him in.

  She knelt in front of him, and her scent, lemony and clean, melted into his. Even though she was trying to be all business, he could see the finely held tension in her as her eyes moved over his naked chest.

  It seemed like a long time ago that he had first seen her, known somehow she would change something about him.

  Make him long for things he could not have.

  But he could have never foreseen how this moment of her caring for him would undo him. Her tenderness toward him created an ache, a powerful yearning that no man, not even a warrior, could fight.

  Not forever.

  And he had been fighting since his hand had first tangled in her hair, had found the zipper on her wedding dress.

  “Oooh,” she said, inspecting the damage, a tiny thin line that ran vertically from just below his breastbone to his belly button. “That’s nasty.”

  He glanced down. To him it looked like a kitten scratch.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the police?” she said. “You’ve been stabbed.”

  “No police.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  “You wouldn’t understand it,” he said harshly. “All it would take would be for one snoopy reporter to be monitoring the police channel, and it could be front page news. What a nice human interest story. Especially if anyone did any digging. The son of an armed robber foils an armed robbery.”

  “Your father’s shame isn’t yours.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said wearily. “You know after my dad was arrested, and my mom left, I got a second chance. A great foster home. For the first time in my life I had food and clothes and security.

  “Then in high school there was a dance. I danced with a cheerleader. Cutest girl in the school. And some guy—maybe her boyfriend, or just a hopeful, I don’t remember—came and asked her what she was doing dancing with a thug.

  “And I nearly killed him. Just the way I nearly killed that man tonight. And I liked the way it felt. Just the way my dad must have liked the way it felt when he was hitting people, which was often.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said uncertainly. “That you liked it. You just did what you had to do. He was huge. Any kind of holding back might have turned the tide in his favor.”

  He laughed, aware of the harsh edge to it. “That was the first two punches. He was already done when he hit the ground.”

  “Houston, you did an honorable thing tonight. Why are you trying to change it into something else?”

  “No,” he said softly. “Why are you?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Because you always want to believe the best about everybody even if it’s not true.”

  “How come you haven’t spent your life beating people up if you like it so darn much?”

  “I learned to channel my aggression. Boxing.”

  “There you go.”

  “Not because I wanted to,” he said, “but because I didn’t like the way people looked at me after that had happened.”

  “You want to be a bad guy, Houston. But you’re just not.”

  He got up even though she wasn’t finished. He could not allow her to convince him. He knew what he was. He knew what he had felt when he hit that man. Satisfaction. Pure primal satisfaction. He tugged his shirt on. “I have to go.”

  “Please don’t.”

  That man could see through her veneers as ruthlessly as he had disposed of his own. That man saw everything that she wanted to hide.

  Her need was naked in her eyes, in the shallowness of her breath, in the delicate color that blossomed in her cheeks, in the nervous hand that tried to tame a piece of that wild hair.

  Her gaze locked on to his own, her green eyes magnificent with wonder and hunger and invitation.

  He was aware of reaching deep inside himself to tame the part of him that just wanted to have her, own her, possess her, the two sides of his soul doing battle over her.

  He took a step toward the door. She stepped in front of him. Took his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes.

  Her lips grazed his lips. He had waited for this moment since he had tasted her the first time. He felt the astonishing delicacy of her kiss, and the instant taming of that thing in him that was fierce.

  Not all the strength of his warrior heart could make him back away. He
had promised himself he would take whatever she offered tonight, so he would have something to savor in the world he was going back to.

  So he took her lips with astounding gentleness and a brand-new part of him, a part he had no idea existed, came forward. It met her tenderness with his own. Exploring what she offered to him with reverence, recognition of the sacredness of the ritual he had just entered into.

  This was the dance of all time. It was an ancient call that guaranteed the future. It was a place where ruthless need and tender discovery met, melded and became something brand-new.

  His possession of her deepened. With a groan, he allowed his hands to tangle in her hair, to draw her in nearer to him. He dropped his head from the warm rhapsody of her mouth, and trailed kisses down the slender column of her throat, to the hollow at the base of it.

  With his lips, he could feel her life beating beneath that tender skin.

  “Please,” she whispered, her hands in his hair, on his neck.

  Please what? Stop, or go forward?

  His lips released her neck, and when that contact stopped, it was as if the enchantment broke. Some rational part of him—the analytical part that had been his presenting characteristic, his greatest strength, his key to his every success—studied her.

  The half-closed eyes, the puffiness of the lips, the pulse beating crazily in her throat.

  Storing it.

  But an unwelcome truth penetrated what he was feeling. He could not take what she had to offer, for just one night. You didn’t just kiss a woman like her and walk away from it unscathed, as if it was nothing, meant nothing, changed nothing.

  She would be damaged by such a cavalier taking of her gifts.

  Besides, she was not fully aware of what she was offering. The brandy on top of the shock had made her vulnerable, incapable of making a rational decision. If there was ever a time the rational part of him needed to step up to the plate it was now.

  He was not the hero she wanted to see.

  “I’m going,” he said.

  “Please don’t,” she said. “I’m scared. I know it’s silly, but I feel scared. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Perhaps he could be a hero for just a little while longer, though it would take all that was left of his strength.

  It was so hard to press her head into his chest, let his hands wander that magnificent hair. It was hard to move to the couch, to allow her to relax into him, to feel her shallow breathing become deep and steady, to let her feel safe.

  He had another fault then, as well as fury that years had not tamed. He was no hero, but a thief, because he was going to steal this moment from her.

  Steal it to hold in his heart forever.

  After a long time, her grip relaxed on his hand, her lips opened and little puffed sighs escaped. She had gone to sleep on him. He slipped out from underneath her sweet weight, laid her on the couch, looked for something to cover her with.

  He tucked a knitted afghan around her, looked at her face, touched her hair one more time.

  He glanced around her apartment, noticed the poster on the wall, and was mesmerized by it for a moment. He took a deep breath and moved away from all it represented.

  Though he was now beyond weariness, he went back to his office, the one he would turn over to Miss Viv tomorrow.

  There was a new stack of letters in defense of Prom Dreams. Just in case he wasn’t feeling bad enough, he read them all.

  A picture fell out of the last one. It was of a beautiful young woman, at her university convocation. The podium she was standing by said Harvard.

  Dear Mr. Whitford:

  I recently heard that Second Chances was thinking about canceling their Prom Dreams program. I would just like you to know that five years ago, my school was chosen to participate in that program. You may find this hard to believe, but being allowed to choose that beautiful dress for myself was the first time in my life that I ever felt I was worth something.

  He set the letter down.

  No, he came from the very neighborhood her school had been in. He knew how hard it was to feel as if you were worth something.

  He knew, suddenly, that was as important as having a full belly. Maybe more. Because filling a belly was temporary. Making a person feel as if they were worth something, even for a moment, that was something they carried in them forever.

  He could not have Molly. He had decided that tonight.

  But still, he could live up to the man she had hoped he was. It could be a standard that he tried to rise to daily. Even as it was ending, something in him could begin.

  It could start with leaving a note to Miss Viv, telling her that Molly should lead this organization into its new future, that she had gifts greater than his to give Second Chances. The ability to analyze was nothing compared to the ability to love that she poured into this place.

  It could start with a few prom dresses.

  And it could start with an answered letter to his father.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS way too soon to love him, Molly thought, walking up the street toward the office the next morning.

  But there was no doubt in her mind that she was in love. Totally. Irrevocably. Wonderfully.

  The whole world this morning felt different, as if rain had come and washed it clean, made it sparkle.

  He had brought her to the place of his birth, thinking he risked something by showing her everything. Instead, she had seen him so completely it made her heart stand still, awed to be in the presence of a soul so magnificent, so strong.

  She smiled thinking of how he thought it said something bad about him that he had dispensed with that horrible young mugger so thoroughly.

  She suspected she would spend the rest of her life performing alchemy on him, showing him what he thought was lead was really gold.

  Molly shivered when she thought of him last night protecting her. Prepared to die to protect her if he had to. And then running that act of such honor and such incredible bravery through the warp of something in his own mind, and making it bad.

  He said he had lost control. But she didn’t see it that way. He’d stopped. If he’d truly lost control, “Jay” would never have gotten up and scrambled away.

  Houston didn’t lose control.

  If he did, last night would have ended much differently! Molly was aware of feeling a little singing inside of her as she contemplated the delightful job she was going to have making that man lose control.

  She was pretty sure it was going to involve lots of lips on lips, and that she was up for the job. Even thinking about it, her belly did the most delightful downward swoop, anticipating seeing him today.

  Maybe she’d dispense with the niceties, just close his office door and throw herself at him.

  Wantonly. There was going to have to be an element of taking him by surprise to make him lose control.

  Then again, today was a big day for them, a milestone, the unveiling of the new Second Chances that they had created together, that they would continue to create together.

  Maybe she would hold off taking him by surprise until the open house was over. But she’d tease him until then. The odd little touch, her eyes on him, a whisper when he least expected it.

  Her life felt so full of exciting potential. She could barely believe her life had gone from that dull feeling of same-same to this sense of invigorated engagement in such a short time.

  That’s what love did.

  Brought out the best. Empowered. Made all things possible. And healed all things, too.

  Molly could feel her heart beating a painfully quick tattoo within her chest as she mounted the stairs, and went in the front door of the office.

  Another day together. A gift. If things had gone differently last night they might not have this gift. It was a reminder to live to the fullest, to take the kind of chances that made a life shimmer with glory.

  Tish was already at her desk. She looked up, beaming.

  “There’s a surprise for you.�
�

  Molly’s eyes went to the huge bouquet of pink lilies on Tish’s desk. She started to smile.

  When she’d woken last night and found he had slipped away, she had thought maybe he planned to try to fight this thing. She put her nose to the flowers, and let subtle scent engulf her.

  But no, they were on the same page. He was going to romance her. It was probably going to be hard for a realist like him, too! Because lovely as they were, flowers weren’t going to cut it. They were the easiest form of romance.

  Tish laughed. “Those aren’t for you, silly. Those are from the next door neighbor congratulating us on our reopening. Your surprise is in Miss Viv’s office.”

  He was waiting for her, then. Had some surprise to make up for the disappointment of a kiss not completed, of not staying the night with her.

  She went to the closed office door, knocked lightly, opened it without waiting for an answer.

  A sight that should have filled her heart to overflowing greeted her. Miss Viv sat behind her own desk.

  Molly bit back the wail, Where is he? and rushed into the arms that were open to her. She had to fight back tears as Miss Viv’s embrace closed around her.

  “My word,” Miss Viv said. “Isn’t this incredible? Isn’t the office incredible? You’ll have to show me how to use this.”

  “I thought you didn’t like computers?” Molly teased.

  “There isn’t anything here I don’t like,” Miss Viv declared happily.

  “Where’s Houston?” Molly asked, casually.

  “I’m not sure,” Miss Viv said. “I haven’t seen him. Do you press this button to put the camera on? Molly, help me figure this out!”

  Molly complied, pulled a chair up to Miss Viv’s desk. Part of her was fully engaged in showing Miss Viv how to use the computer, hearing tidbits about her trip and the wonderful time she’d had.

  Part of her listened, waited. Part of her asked, Where is his office going to be, now that Miss Viv is back?

  She waited for the sound of the voice and the footsteps that did not come. For some reason, she thought of the time he had told her about waiting at the concert for his mother. This, then, was how he had felt.