Five's A Crowd (13 page)

“Well, according to Woody—nothing,” she began, no longer able to meet Holden’s eyes. “I thought you’d be angry with me because of that newspaper article—because of Geoff—but Woody assured me you wouldn’t be. So,” she said, then hesitated. She cleared her throat. “So I guess I’m apologizing for thinking I should apologize. And for not being quite the sophisticated woman of the world I let you think I was.”

He took three small steps in her direction. “Meaning?” he prompted.

“Mean-ing,” she pronounced carefully, finding she had to clear her throat again, “that I’m not real adult about…about…um…”

“Going to bed with a man and then saying thanks, it’s been fun?” Holden supplied, and Taylor didn’t know whether to kiss him or slug him in the jaw.

“Yeah. That,” she said gruffly.

“Going to bed with a man who is well known for his affairs, his total lack of commitment?”

“That, too.”

“A man who never said a word about love, or marriage, or even if he would be around in the morning?”

“All right, all right!
Yes!
There’s no reason to draw blueprints on this, is there? I think we both get the point. Can I slink away now?” She looked past him, up the half flight of stairs and to the sliding doors that looked out over the small landing leading to the roof. “Holden? Is the condo on fire?”

“On fire?” He looked at her dumbly for a moment, then whirled around to run up the stairs three at a time. “My
potatoes!”

Potatoes?
she mouthed silently, watching him tear up the stairs and out to the smoking grill. She could have gone then. Could have tiptoed back down the stairs—or hopped down them carrying lead weights to make more noise, because Holden was already long gone and wouldn’t hear her. But she couldn’t help herself. The look of comic dismay on the man’s face had her melting all over, full of love for him now as she would always be—and
liking
him so damn much that she was nearly bursting with it.

She followed him up the stairs, stopping off in the kitchen for the tongs Thelma kept in the drawer next to the sink. “Here,” she said moments later, holding the utensil out to Holden, who had lifted the cover of the grill and was now trying to fan away the smoke with his hand. “Try taking the potatoes off the grill and putting them in that sand bucket.”

“Thanks,” he said, his cheeks running with tears from all the smoke. “Damn it, Taylor, would you look what you’ve reduced me to?”

“Crying?” she teased, beginning to think she might just have lost her mind.

“No, damn it—
cooking!”
He dropped the charred potatoes into the sand bucket and pushed her back inside the condo, sliding the door closed on the worst of the smoke. “I’m going to kill Thelma when she gets home. Her and her bright ideas!”

“It’s the soap opera,” Taylor supplied helpfully. “Thelma’s a born romantic, you know.”

“She’s a born meddler, and so are Tiffany and Woody.” And then he smiled, putting out his hand and running his fingertip down Taylor’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without them. Or without you. Taylor—”

She backed away from him, holding out her hands as if to ward him off. “No, Holden,” she said firmly. “I’m not doing this again. We’re attracted to each other. We have been from the first—as you’ve already said, and as I’ve agreed. We went to bed together. But that’s it. Call it a mistake, call it a one-night stand, or call it two adults who knew what they were doing and did it very well. Isn’t that what you said? But don’t ask me to do it again. I’m just not strong enough.”

His grin was wicked, more than wicked. “You want a celibate marriage?” he asked, reaching into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out the ring she had hidden so well between her mattress and box spring.

Thelma!
Taylor thought before she couldn’t think at all, because Holden Masters was down on one knee in front of her—his clothes and face smudged with smoke, his hair falling into his eyes—and he was saying something that sounded an awful lot like, “I love you, Taylor. Please marry me.”

MASTERS NUPTIALS STUN MORNING
JOGGERS
byline Nancy Marsh

OCEAN CITY, NEW JERSEY (AP)—

With early-morning joggers, circling sea gulls and a few excited tourists also present, this family resort town was the scene yesterday as Taylor Angel, professional physical therapist, and Holden Masters, All-Pro quarterback, said their vows on the beach in an intimate, surprise dawn ceremony.

The bride was ethereally beautiful in an off-the-shoulder, ivory silk gown as she was escorted over a long sea green carpet that led to the shore, attended by the groom’s stepsister, Tiffany LeGrand, and her matron of honor, Thelma Helper.

Masters, resplendent in a custom-fitted tuxedo, awaited his bride at the water’s edge, his stepbrother, Woodstock LeGrand, serving as best man.

Other than the bride’s parents, Edward and Mary Angel, and Masters’s agent, Sidney Feldon, this reporter was the only invited guest at the ceremony, and the happy couple will be granting me an exclusive interview upon their return from their honeymoon hideaway.

Masters, now the highest-paid player in the history of the National Football League, will report to training camp as planned, August 1.

“S
HE REALLY LAID IT
on with a trowel, didn’t she?” Holden remarked as he listened to his bride of a little more than twenty-four hours read the story in the newspaper that had come up to their suite at the Taj Mahal on their breakfast tray. “The Nose must be kicking himself up and down Broad Street, knowing he’s been scooped by a local reporter. God, but that makes my day!”

“And it’s not a bad picture of all of us, even if Sid was yelling about getting sand in his new Gucci loafers. Besides, I thought I had made your day,” Taylor teased, putting down the newspaper and climbing back into bed beside her husband. “At least, I believe that’s what you said no more than an hour ago. I distinctly remember you lying there—breathing rather heavily for such a seasoned athlete—and saying, ‘Taylor, you’ve—’”

Holden pulled her against him, kissing her forehead. “You know what I mean. Love me as much as I love you, Mrs. Masters?”

“I
adore
you, Mr. Masters,” she answered, laying her head against his shoulder. “I’d adore you if you were flat broke—although that doesn’t mean I’m going to ask you to turn down that new contract. I’m no dope, you know. But you’re still not getting a massage. Not until after we take a run on the beach.”

“You’re a hard woman, Taylor Masters,” Holden groused, pushing himself up and away from her, climbing out of the bed and stretching his arms over his head as he pretended to walk toward the bathroom.

She had just snuggled down against the mound of pillows, smiling in obvious satisfaction, when he turned and swooped onto the bed, taking her into his arms and kissing her until she had to pull away to catch her breath.

Taylor wriggled slightly beneath him, doing things to his insides he hadn’t believed possible. “Something tells me we’re not jogging this morning, are we?” she asked, lifting her head to nibble at his earlobe.

Holden grinned down at her. “Darling—exercise is exercise.”