Beckett's Convenient Bride (13 page)

She dealt in fiction, not fantasy, but if she ever wanted to try her hand at fairy tales, she knew who her Prince Charming would be. And with a bit of role reversal, just how she would awaken him.

His eyes opened suddenly. Kit stepped back, tripped over the shoe she'd stepped out of before going into the bathroom, and flailed her arms. “Dad-blast it—darned shoe! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

Sitting up, he flexed his shoulders, and she realized that as rocky as she still felt, he looked as if he felt even worse. He must think she was crazy, the way she'd been hovering
over him, staring down while he slept as if she were trying to put a curse on him or something.

What was the feminine version of voyeur? Voyeuress?

“There's a row of machines down at the other end,” he said, his voice verging on raw. “While I'm still dressed, I could check it out if you're interested.”

She shook her head. Her stomach was fidgeting after only a few bites of that sub. Not queasy, just tense. “I'm fine, but thanks. There's plenty of hot water left, but not much soap. I used almost a whole bar on my hair. There wasn't any shampoo, just two measly bars of soap, but I had to get rid of the smoke smell.”

“No problem. We'll go shopping first thing in the morning.”

“I might not wake up real early. Can we get a wakeup call?”

“Why bother? First one up wakes the other, and we'll go from there.”

He stood, stretched and massaged his temples. Kit had stepped back, but the room was small. Smoke, clean male sweat and red hot peppers. Bottle it, and you'd have the world's most effective aphrodisiac.

Quickly, before she could blurt out anything embarrassing, she turned and folded down the covers. Kicking her shoes aside, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around her ears. If she pretended to be asleep when he came back, she might be able to stay out of trouble.

His shirt was off before he closed the bathroom door behind him, revealing a tanned, wedge-shaped back with a few intriguing scars, which she did her best to ignore. Yawning, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on recreating the story of
Gretchen's Ghost
from the first line.

It was a lost cause. The picture that emerged on her mental screen resembled an X-rated video—one that left her feeling flushed and restless.

S
ometime during the night another line of thunderstorms came through. Hard rain pelted the window. Lightning flashed, and a loud blast of thunder brought Kit instantly wide-awake. Carson was beside her in an instant. “Shh, hush, honey, it's only thunder.”

Carson had been awake for the past hour, sorting through the mess they'd left back at Gilbert's Point. Trying to keep his mind off the woman in the next bed—a woman who was becoming far too important to him on the basis of a two-and-a-half day acquaintance.

Trying to keep from doing what he was doing now, which was climbing into her bed. Maybe not in it, but close enough.

“I know that,” she shot back in a breathless whisper, but her pulse was going a mile a minute. “I'm not afraid of storms, I was dreaming—something about an explosion…I think.”

Holding her against him, he rocked back and forth. All he could think of to say was, “There, there,” and it wasn't enough. With everything that had happened to her—happened around her, at least—it was no wonder she had nightmares.

He'd had the occasional nightmare, himself. But then, he was a cop. He'd seen far worse things than drug-related shootings. He'd been out of the picture for several weeks during which time family matters had become increasingly important. He might have lost his edge.

Then again, he might simply have lost his mind.

Minutes passed, minutes during which Carson became increasingly aware of the heat of her body, the delicacy of her bones—aware of other things he tried hard to ignore. Like the heat rising from her skin, the scent of motel soap and warm, sleepy woman, and that subtle fruity-spicy fragrance that was hers alone. He could've sworn there was nothing that smelled like that among the amenities provided by the establishment.

She was wearing his T-shirt. He didn't know what she was wearing underneath—didn't want to know.

God, talk about an imagination! Maybe he should try his hand at writing fiction. The kind of fiction that was passed around and snickered over by adolescent males.

Down, boy! Wrong time, wrong woman, wrong circumstances.

Her cold hands were moving up and down his sides. They did little to cool the rising heat of his body. Neither did the fact that he was sitting on the side of her bed, twisted into an awkward position that was going to put a crick in his back if he didn't shift pretty soon—preferably to a horizontal position. Kit had somehow managed to come up on her knees, the covers trailing around her hips,
her head, shoulders and hands touching him while her tidy little rear end was aimed in the opposite direction.

“Aren't you, uh, uncomfortable?” he ventured.

“Just cold. I can't seem to stop shivering.” He was still working on an excuse to hand over some money and make a run for the border when she said, “Please? Bad things always make me cold. When the police came to tell me about Mama and Father, I thought I'd never be warm again.”

Yeah, talk about her family, he thought desperately. Talk about the weather—about anything to get his mind off his rampaging hormones. She called her folks Mama and Father? That said something about their relationship.

Her hair tickled his face. In brushing it away, he encountered an ear, minus the usual hardware. Tonight it had been a couple of miniature chandeliers, which she'd removed before heading for the shower.

Talk, man, talk! As long as you're talking you can't get into too much trouble. “Why did the police come to tell you? Why not inform your grandparents and let them break the news?”

“They were on a cruise. They flew back from Cozumel and—and…”

Yeah, he could imagine. They'd probably been about as comforting as an empty ice tray. He ran his hands over her hair—soft, warm, alive—and made soothing noises, realizing as he did so that he had somehow shifted position until he was more or less horizontal.

And so was she.

Good thing he was still outside the covers.

But then, so was she. And she was no longer shivering.

Ah, jeez, he needed some kind of a fire wall here. A few thin layers of cotton weren't going to do it. His T-shirt, his boxers, plus whatever she was wearing under
neath. Which wasn't much. She wasn't wearing a bra, that much was obvious. When he went to ease her away so that he could think clearly, the back of his hand brushed across her small, soft breast. The nipple stood up like a ripe cherry, begging to be plucked.

Okay, this is not personal, parts of his brain that were still functioning insisted. The woman woke up in a nightmare and he just happened to be the closest thing at hand, right?

Wrong. Trouble had been brewing between them from the first moment he'd seen her clearly, leaning over him to see if she'd killed him or merely broken a few more bones.

“Honey, don't you think—” he began when she cut him off.

“I don't want to think. Not now…please.”

That made two of them. Holding her against him, he struggled for objectivity, trying to ignore the perfect alignment of their bodies. “Okay, I can understand that.” Was that his voice? It sounded as if his collar was about two sizes too small. “Just try to think about…”

About what? Home?

She didn't have one.

Her writing career?

According to what she'd told him she'd just had three months work wiped out. He didn't know if that ended her career, or what. He knew about as much about the writing profession as he did about ballet. Less, in fact. His folks had taken him to a performance of
Swan Lake
when he was twelve years old. He'd liked the girls, been interested in the athletics and had been terrified that one of his buddies would see him there.

They could talk about family. That had always been his bolthole when he was working a particularly ugly case.
As soon as it was over he'd buy a six-pack, head for his folks' house, using the side gate to reach his mother's garden, where he could sit and get quietly drunk. Listening to the birds, bugs and tree frogs always reminded him that there were still pockets of sanity left in the world.

Sometimes he needed reminding.

So he held her. If she needed an anchor, he could be here for her, at least until she was able to stand alone. Never mind his testosterone overload. It wasn't this woman in particular. Couldn't be. He hadn't known her long enough. No way would he take advantage of any woman just because they happened to be in bed together, sharing a single set of underwear. No way.

She had no way of knowing that he'd been going through a long, dry spell. Hadn't had sex since he'd more or less made up his mind to marry Margaret, and as theirs wasn't that kind of a relationship, he was long overdue some relief. His fault, maybe, for letting her get away with one postponement after another, but then, he hadn't exactly been in shape for a honeymoon.

Meanwhile, Kate, his mother, went right on cutting and pasting, humming snatches of wedding music. Of course, she also kept on washing her china plates, drying them and stacking them on a table out in the front hall. None of them could figure out what that was all about.

“If you're cold, we could get under the covers,” Kit suggested.

He stiffened. All over. “Honey, I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, it's late and we have a big day coming up, and besides…”

“Oh. I forgot about your sort-of Margaret.” Her attempt to laugh was so pathetic it hurt. She said, “I still smell like smoke. Sorry. Forget it. Rotten idea.”

“Kit—”

“Go to bed. I'm fine now, I just had a bad dream.”

Yeah, like he could just forget the whole thing and fall asleep anytime within the next decade. He was determined to make the effort, though.

And he did. Made the effort to sit up, at least.

“I just wish you weren't sort-of engaged,” she said so softly he wasn't sure he'd heard her at first.

And he thought, so do I, sweetheart. Oh, God, so do I!

The truth was, Carson was feeling less and less as if this arrangement with Margaret was going to be anything other than a disaster. Just because they'd known each other all their lives—just because neither of them had anyone else on the string, he'd thought they could make it work for his mother's sake. They both loved Kate, even if they didn't love each other. As friends, maybe, but he was beginning to realize that friendly love wasn't enough. Not when he could feel this way about another woman.

“I'm not actually engaged,” he said, and then felt like a rotten, opportunistic skunk. “I mean we sort of had this understanding—for my mother's sake.” Weasel mouth! “Look, I won't lie to you, Kit, right now I'd like nothing more than to spend the rest of the night—hell, make that the rest of the week—making love to you.”

Making love? A voice mocked. You mean having sex, don't you?

Love didn't enter into the equation. No way. Too soon. Didn't make sense, he told himself as the heat of their joined bodies eddied up around them, sweet, musky and enticing.

“Me, too,” she said so softly he had to lean down to hear her.

And that was all it took. Because her mouth was there, and so was his, and once they touched, the rest was inevitable. Later he might tell himself that they'd both been
needy, if for different reasons, but at that moment, reason was the last thing on his mind. He was driven by sheer, blind lust for a woman he'd been attracted to almost from the first. Which was so absurd he would have laughed if he hadn't been feeling so damned desperate.

She tasted the way she smelled, like ripe fruit with a hint of spice. Not smoky at all. Inside, she was warm and needy, and so was he. In twisting around, the shirt she was wearing had ridden up so that her silken body rubbed against his, and she didn't feel cold at all. Just the opposite.

She twisted against him, and he groaned without removing his mouth from hers. More than lust—maybe not love, but far more than lust. The thought whipped through his mind and slipped away before he could deny it.

“Kit…?”

Kit knew what he was asking.
Are you sure?

“I'm sure,” she said firmly in answer to the unasked question. Or as firmly as she could when she was quaking inside like a bowl of jelly. Not from nerves—well, maybe from nerves, but from something else, too. She had read about the effect of acute desire, but never felt it before, not to this degree. Never even imagined it. Not that she hadn't done sex, because she had. Three times, in fact. She'd found it messy, uncomfortable and just a little bit boring. Eating popcorn and watching a good movie was far more exciting.

But the moment she'd touched this man's hard, dry palm when she'd been trying to pull him to his feet before he slid into the ditch, she'd felt as if every cell in her body had suddenly come alive. Felt a stab of awareness that tickled her in places where she'd never been tickled before. Actually, tickle didn't exactly describe the sensa
tion, but it was close enough. Too close, considering how terrified she'd been at the time.

“If you want to back out, you can,” she felt obliged to say, because she had more or less seduced the man. Done her best, at least. “My feelings won't be hurt. My goodness, I am an adult, after all.”

“Sure you are,” he mocked softly.

Kit could have argued, but right now that was the last thing she wanted to do. She sighed as his warm hand closed over her breast. He'd rolled over onto his side and was looking at her, his gaze lingering on the lower part of her body, clad only in the brief cotton underpants she'd worn under her dress. The heat in his eyes seared a pathway, causing her to catch a shuddering breath.

It would help if he weren't so beautiful. She couldn't remember ever thinking of a man's body as being beautiful. Actually, she hadn't thought much about men's bodies at all, other than the normal curiosity of any young woman. Since the age of eighteen she'd been far too busy scrambling to support herself by waiting tables and writing and illustrating the stories that had begun taking shape in her mind back in her closet days.

Carson Beckett was beautiful. Scars and all. Beautiful from the soles of his high-arched feet with the dusting of dark hair on top, to his beard-shadowed face with the twisty mouth, those incredibly blue eyes and the twin vertical lines that creased his lean cheeks.

Leaning away, he gave her a worried look. “Kit, you're not—that is, you're not a, uh—?”

“A virgin? Oh, for goodness' sake, of course not. I'm twenty-five years old, Carson.”

“Right. I just needed to be sure.”

The fact that he'd even thought it possible was probably insulting, but with his breath warm on her hair, his hands
making magic circles on her quivering middle, she chose not to be insulted.

Besides, he'd asked. Some men wouldn't have been so sensitive. The man who'd taken her virginity hadn't.

And then the past was swept away, along with any lingering doubts she might have briefly harbored. She gasped, covering his hand with her own as his fingers hooked under the elastic of her high-cut panties. He kissed her again, sipping like a butterfly, dipping in again and again for the nectar. Frantic with need, she stroked him wherever she could reach, savoring the feel of his lean, taut waist, his narrow hips, and wishing she dared touch him
there.

A small sound—part groan, part whimper, escaped her. As if it were the catalyst he needed, Carson covered her mound with his palm, cupping his fingers between her thighs. The T-shirt was twisted around her, baring her breasts, but wadded uncomfortably under her shoulders. How the devil was she supposed to get rid of her clothes? There was no graceful way to do it now, and she hadn't had the forethought to remove them before. If there was some sort of protocol to this business of sex, she wished she'd taken time to read the rule book.

Evidently Carson had read it. Sliding one hand under the elastic and the other against her hips, he lifted her and slid her panties down her bare legs. Tossing them away, he kissed the arch of her bare foot and she nearly screamed.