by Caro Carson
How many times had her ex-husband mocked her for that?
Once, Helen, just once, would it kill you to be late to formation when I want to have sex with my wife? Not every chick in the military is as uptight as you are, thank God.
The headache that had started to recede came back in full force, but Helen couldn’t let a little thing like physical pain stop her. She had orders to obey.
She’d taken an oath for the army long before she’d made any vows with this Tom Cross. Unlike a husband, the army would never change its mind. Legally, she had to be in Texas by 1200 hours tomorrow, or she would be AWOL—absent without leave.
A real commitment like that made decisions easy. She would bid farewell to this Tom Cross, give him back his ring and hit the road. There was no other option.
The sound of the running water stopped. Helen marched out the bedroom door, head throbbing. The sheet trailed behind her like a train, a mockery of a wedding gown. This wasn’t a real marriage, anyway, thank goodness. She wouldn’t survive another goodbye like the one that had ended her real marriage. This was just a one-night stand. She’d never had a one-night stand before, but how hard could it be to say goodbye to a stranger?
There was no dark-haired man in the gilded living room. Instead, there was breakfast for two, a beautiful table set with linens and silverware and more roses, white and pale pink and pastel yellow, forming delicate bouquets in mini crystal vases.
Roses are always going to make me think of sex with you.
Not just sex, but sex with you. She’d forgotten that part. There’d been something special about him.
Or at least she’d thought so while under the influence—obviously, or she wouldn’t be here right now, staring at a wedding breakfast while her stomach churned and her mouth felt like it was full of cotton.
She walked up to the table, gathering her train around her. Silver domes were keeping the plates warm. Nothing about this beautiful table said one-night stand. It was her idea of a real wedding breakfast, every detail of it lovely, as if the man who’d ordered it had wanted her to have the best. She could be the pampered bride of the perfect man.
Tears stung her eyes.
She could be a sucker. Any man could play the prince for twenty-four hours. Her ex-husband had pulled it off for several months, actually, before the two years of misery had begun. This Vegas guy was being charming for one meal. Helen wasn’t going to get all mushy because some man she’d frolicked with in a king-size bed was being charming for one meal.
She ignored the sparkle of the ring on her finger as she grabbed a crystal goblet and chugged orange juice like it was water from a canteen during a twelve-mile road march.
Better. She plunked the empty goblet down and lifted a silver dome. The heavenly scent of bacon made her mouth water. She took one bite before reaching for the carafe of coffee. It would help her headache and keep her awake for the eighteen-hour drive that lay ahead of her. She held the strip of bacon between her teeth, so she could use two hands to pour.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
That deep bass—Helen whirled around, cup in one hand, carafe in the other, bacon dangling from her teeth.
Good God, he was gorgeous.
I slept with that?
Mr. Cross had short, thick, black hair, yet his eyes were an arresting, brilliant blue. He leaned more toward rugged than pretty, with the great bone structure that could sell expensive watches or yachts in a magazine for men who wanted to be more manly. But no—it wasn’t that rugged handsomeness that would make men want to be like him. It was the way he carried himself, the way he stood before her with only a towel wrapped around his waist, unselfconscious despite being half-naked, that really knocked her out. Confidence was sexy to her. A man with an athletic body and a handsome face who seemed in charge, in control—and comfortable to be so—was sexy as hell.
I slept with that!
Well, damn, she was impressed with herself.
He smiled at her, a real smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and revealed some perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Where had she found this man?
She didn’t realize she was smiling back as he walked across the room toward her—confidently, of course—until he took the dangling strip of bacon from her mouth. Her smile faded as she looked into those blue eyes. He was really looking at her. Only her. All his attention was on her.
“Good morning,” he said again. He tossed the bacon onto the table, slid his arms around her and kissed her.
She melted instantly, going completely boneless in some kind of Pavlovian response that required no conscious thought at all. The cup and saucer slid from her fingers to hit the floor with a crash, the carafe landed with a thud in the tangled train of sheets, but she wouldn’t fall, not as long as he held her in his strong arms. She made a little sound, a whimper of longing, a pant of excitement, and he broke off the kiss to cup the back of her head in his hand and whisper over her lips. “I thought I dreamed you. You’re real.”
They stared at each other a moment, then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She couldn’t keep any thought in her head, except to know she could surrender, she could lose herself and let go, and she’d be safe and happy and a part of him. She was glad when his hands untucked the sheet, grateful when he nudged her back toward the couch, where they fell together as they pushed yards of sheets and one plush towel out of their way. She was greedy to touch him once more, to feel again all that strength and power and male grace. She wanted it all, forever.
Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
I do.
His body filled hers completely, and the whole world became just the two of them and the way they felt, the way they made each other feel, the way they moved together. They whispered their amazement to each other in syllables that never became full words—ah, oh, ess—and in words that never became sentences—my, you, there. They climaxed together, then lay still, catching their breaths in silence.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
Mrs. Cross started to cry.
Chapter Two
The woman beneath him started to laugh—or at least for a second, Tom thought she was laughing, because they’d laughed together last night.
This was different.
“Helen?”
She had one hand over her eyes, her ring hand. The sight of that diamond and gold band choked him up, too, a sob of gratitude sticking in his throat, gratitude that he’d finally met the woman he’d dreamed of. His wife. His wife.
His wife was crying.
“Hey, Helen. What’s going on?” His voice came out a little more husky than normal, emotion making his throat tight, because she was wonderful, and he didn’t want this wonderful woman to be upset. About anything. Ever.
She took in a shivery breath, one he felt through her whole body and his, joined as they were. He kissed her hand and she lifted it away. Her eyes were closed and her lashes were wet, although no tears had spilled over. He brushed her hair away from her cheek, savoring their physical closeness, skin against skin, and he waited. His wife often paused before speaking, but she always answered him. He loved that about her. He would never have to cajole, beg or plead with her to talk to him. She was the last woman in the world who’d resort to giving him the silent treatment.
Helen opened her eyes, those beautiful warm brown eyes, and looked at him the way she’d been looking at him since their eyes had first met across a crowded casino.
“I...” She cleared her throat.
He waited.
“I can’t believe I did this.”
“This?” He raised one eyebrow as he looked down at her. “This seems to be what happens whenever we’re in the same room. We’ve been doing this all night.”
He smiled gently at Mrs. Tom Cross. It was an emotional morning. C
rying was a normal reaction at weddings. He kissed the corner of her eye before a tear of joy could slip away.
The slight salt on his lips did something to him. To his heart. He felt it expand, like a lion stretching in the sun, full and satisfied. Content—he felt supremely content, heading into the rest of his life as a married man.
“All night?” She looked away, and pressed her fingertips into her forehead, like someone trying to think hard. “Yes, of course we have.”
“Of course,” he echoed her, and shifted some of his weight off her. “It was our wedding night.”
She shielded her eyes with her hand as if looking at him was as painful as looking into the sun. “It really was?”
He frowned. She hadn’t meant that to sound like a question, surely.
She held her hand out a little way to look at her wedding ring. “This is really...real?”
Another emotion tried to crawl up the back of his throat, threatening his contentment. He swallowed it down and kissed the tip of her nose. “Is that question really real?”
She didn’t smile.
He suddenly couldn’t, either. “You’re serious. You don’t remember?”
She looked away again, concentrating, but after a moment, she shook her head. “No.”
Alarm tried to choke him, but he beat it down. This was temporary. They’d had a lot to drink and not a lot of sleep. Helen would remember.
He’d tell her. “We picked out that ring together. It nearly made us miss getting the marriage license. Vegas may be 24/7, but even their government offices close at some point. We got there in the nick of time, just before the stroke of midnight, Cinderella.”
She didn’t smile. She didn’t even hold his gaze.
“You don’t remember buying the ring?” Alarm, panic—he swallowed them down, but damn, they made it hard to speak.
She looked at him, eyes bright with unshed tears.
He spoke as gently as possible. “What do you remember?”
“Um...just...”
Helen took another shivery breath beneath him. He made sure most of his weight was on his forearms, tensing his arms, his shoulders. It didn’t change anything; her breathing was still too shallow, too rapid.
He could barely breathe at all.
Tom remembered that she’d loved her dress. She’d been so happy with what she’d called the perfect dress. He wanted her to remember happiness. “Don’t you remember your dress?”
She shook her head.
“The ceremony?”
“No.”
Our vows? You said you loved me, and you would love me forever. You promised.
Even if he hadn’t been choking on this sense of dread, he wouldn’t have said those words out loud. Begging someone to love him never worked. He’d learned that early in life.
“Tell me what you remember.” His voice was quiet and gruff. It didn’t sound like his voice, nothing like the soldier he was, even as he gave her a command: “Tell me.”
“Just...this. Kind of.”
“This,” he repeated impatiently. “Sex?”
She nodded.
She remembered the sex. That was all.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His heart simply stopped beating.
She placed her palm over his heart, but only to push against him, bracing herself as she shifted a bit like she was going to get up.
He was still inside her. What was the proper etiquette for this? Was he supposed to beg her pardon and withdraw? What was the damned etiquette?
He pulled out of her body, breaking their connection, feeling his heart tear out of his chest at the same time. The misery on Helen’s face tore at him, as well. Regardless of what she remembered, she was still his wife, and it was still true that he didn’t want her to be upset, ever.
He wouldn’t allow it. He was a warrior, an officer in the US Army, trained to move forward, not to give up. He wouldn’t surrender to this heartbreak. He’d fight to ease his wife’s current pain. He could fix this.
He caressed her cheek once more with his thumb. “If you didn’t remember our wedding, then what was this? Don’t say it was just sex. There’s more to us than that. Why did you just make love to me?”
“I don’t know.” As she looked up at him, the tears in her eyes finally spilled over, running into her hair. “I just...when you kissed me... I guess I remembered something.”
He kissed her again. If this made her remember, this is what he’d gladly do. He kissed his wife, until death do us part, forever and ever, amen.
She melted under his kiss, opening her mouth, kissing him, until she gasped—no, she cried—until more tears ran into her hair.
“Helen, Helen.” He dried the tear tracks with the pad of his thumb. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I need... I just need...”
He waited. She would tell him, talk to him, share her innermost thoughts with him.
“I need my clothes.” She pushed against his chest again, sat up, then grabbed a fistful of the rose-stained sheet and pulled it around herself. “I need my clothes.”
That kiss had been a start. She remembered something. She was just hungover. Some juice and water, some food—everything would be okay, just as he’d said.
“I think you need food,” he said.
“I need my clothes.”
He’d heard that tone of voice from her before, flat and uncompromising. It was how she spoke about her first marriage. About her ex-husband. Now she was using it with him.
He forced himself to smile. “Your suitcase is still in your car. You ran up here with nothing but the dress you had on. And me. We were all we needed.”
She seemed embarrassed by that. When he stood, she was definitely embarrassed, blushing and dropping her gaze.
He turned away from her. He picked up a silver platter from among the decorative roses he’d ordered as part of her first breakfast as his wife. “Food. How about some bacon?”
“How about a towel?” She held out the plush towel while keeping her face turned away.
First she made love to him, now she couldn’t look at him? No—first she’d stood in a wedding chapel and told everyone that he was everything to her, and now she couldn’t look at him.
Tom knew that routine. Dad putting a proud arm around his shoulders, introducing him as his son to other men. Dad refusing to even look at him after Tom had lost the hundred-meter dash. Dad driving away from the track, forcing Tom to run home, unwanted. Dad telling him he ought to thank him for the extra conditioning that he’d so clearly required. Thanks, Dad, he’d said sarcastically.
Tom tossed the platter back onto the table. Helen had pulled that towel off him, and now she needed to avert her eyes? He grabbed the towel out of her hand and retied it around his waist, sarcastically, if one could make a movement sarcastic. “Better?”
Helen’s face crumpled, just crumpled into tears, and the old wall that had so quickly gone up around his heart crumbled. She bowed her head.
Tom dropped to one knee by the sofa and ducked his head a little, trying to see her face. “I’m sorry. This is a rough way to start our first day. But I’m here with you, and you’re with me, and we’ll get through it. Some coffee, some food, a shower. You’ll feel better, and you’ll remember, dream girl, you’ll remember.”
Her head snapped up and she gasped.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Dream girl...” She remembered. He could see it in her face for one shining second.
Then it was gone.
Helen stood, clutching her sheet, and backed away from him. “I’m not your dream girl. I’m not anyone’s dream girl. I’m very sorry, but I don’t know you. You’re a stranger to me.”
Tom dragged himself to his feet, as if every inch of his six-foot-two frame was made of lead.
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Helen took another step back. “I realize last night...last night must have been different than this, but please believe me, I don’t remember.”
Tom tightened the knot on his towel, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he did was going to make her treat him as anything other than a stranger.
She held her palm up like a police officer telling him to stop. “I need my clothes, and I need to leave.”
He held both hands up, an innocent man who wasn’t putting up any fight.
She kept backing toward the bedroom. Not a cop, then. More like a beautiful princess retreating into her fortress. “Do you know what time it is? Is it noon?”
“Nearly two o’clock.” He dropped his hands.
She looked stunned for one second, then she started gathering up the trailing sheet quickly. “I have to go. I have to be somewhere by noon tomorrow—”
“I know. Fort Hood.”
Surprise made her hesitate for a moment.
My God, she really remembers nothing, nothing we said, nothing we planned.
It hurt.
Pain was an old enemy. Tom had learned to deal with it before he’d learned to drive a car. Thanks, Dad. Helen wasn’t locked in a fortress—his heart was. It had been for a long time, untouchable, invulnerable.
Until Vegas.
Until Helen Pallas. She was the one person who’d found her way to his side of the wall. She’d wanted to stay there, forever, the two of them safe and happy together, so certain they’d never feel pain in their little world for two that he’d let the wall disintegrate. With Helen by his side, he didn’t need to be on guard. Hopes wouldn’t get dashed. Love would never be withheld in chilling silence.
Please remember. “I was here this weekend because I’d flown in for a friend’s wedding. Vegas was the closest airport to the resort they married at, across the state line, in Utah. Then I came back to Vegas, and I saw you. Everything changed. We decided I’d cancel my return ticket and drive with you to Fort Hood instead.” Please remember.
She took another step back. “That’s crazy. This isn’t some kind of honeymoon road trip. I’ve got orders to report to Fort Hood. I’m an army officer.”
