Lone Star Wedding (6 page)

Now they had her baby, and she had theirs. And she was so confused and so utterly tired. Why, lately she'd become as boring as Hannah. That was why she'd decided to come into San Antonio tonight. She'd needed to get out, to have a little fun. She'd been a long time without a man.

Smoothing a hand down her narrow hips, she settled a demure smile into place and set off for the club down the street. It shouldn't take her long to find what she needed.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” she whispered to herself.

She wet her lips and eased her hips into a traffic-stopping sway. Pushing through the nightclub's door, she glanced casually around. Music blasted, but she was more interested in the heads that turned as she entered.

All she'd thought about for weeks was her troubles. Tonight, she just wanted to have a little fun.

Tonight, Maria Cassidy felt very pretty, indeed.

 

“What was her name?” Hannah asked.

Parker's silence forced her to stop fiddling with the pink flamingo directly in front of her and look at him across the small table for two. He was wearing a gray suit and conservative tie. He had no business looking so utterly rugged and appealing.

“Her name
is
Jolene. Divorce doesn't change people irrevocably, Hannah.”

A shudder went through Hannah. Ignoring her meal, she leaned forward, wishing there was some way to make Parker see that he was wrong. Divorce
did
change people. Oh, they usually recovered, but not without scars.

She'd been thinking about Parker ever since he'd left her sitting on the stairs after their walk last night. She'd thought about canceling their dinner date for tonight, but
she hated to go back on her word, even if she
had
agreed to have dinner with him while she'd been speechless over the revelation that he'd been married.

He'd said once was enough. Since Hannah wasn't looking for anything less than forever, this could very well be the last time she saw him. First, she wanted to open his eyes to the possibility that he was wrong about divorce. She wanted him to realize that it wasn't something people did without heartache. Couldn't he see that most people mourned the end of a marriage? What he did for a living wasn't illegal. She wasn't so sure about unethical. She wished Parker didn't view it as a swift and final ending. Pain and loneliness didn't often end with the judge's decree.

So she'd kept her date for dinner, but she'd insisted upon meeting him here, at The Pink Flamingo. She wanted to be close to home. For some reason she felt that as long as she remained on her own turf, so to speak, there would be less risk to her heart.

Spearing a lettuce leaf, she said, “
Is
she pretty? Never mind. You don't have to answer that. Your wife would have had to be pretty, wouldn't she, Parker?”

“That depends. Was that a compliment or an insult?”

She shook her head, because it was neither. It was just a fact.

Parker Malone kissed like a dream, he had a quick wit and a sharp mind. He made her think, and he kept her on her toes. Tonight, she was being careful not to let him sweep her off them. Going back to her salad, she said, “Where is she now?”

“Last I knew she'd moved to Cleveland.”

“Do you miss her?”

He lifted his glass of wine to his lips. “No.”

“Did you love her?”

He shrugged. “I thought I did. Later I realized it wouldn't have mattered who the girl was. I'd finished college and had started practicing law. It was time for the next step. I took it. A few years later I took the next one and got a divorce.”

“You're a cynical man, Parker.”

“That's what she said.”

Hannah wondered if Jolene had loved Parker. Probably. She'd read somewhere that women lived their lives through their hearts, and men lived theirs through their minds. What men thought, women felt.

“Adrienne has a theory as to why the divorce rate is so high today.”

Parker swirled the wine in his glass. He didn't want to talk about divorce, or marriage, either, for that matter. Actually, he didn't feel like talking, period. He would have preferred to find a quiet corner, or a quiet room. His house came to mind, but hers would have sufficed. Hannah, on the other hand, didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave.

He took another sip of his wine, not quite certain what to make of her tonight. She'd worn her hair up. She probably had a reason for choosing the brown tweed pantsuit, but if she thought it detracted from her beauty, she was wrong. It covered, but it sure as hell didn't hide. When he'd left her yesterday evening, he'd been feeling extremely lofty. Very sure of himself and of her. Tonight it seemed he was back at square one.

“Sex.”

He choked on his wine. Coughing into his hand, Parker said, “Did you say sex?”

She nodded sagely.

“Do you mean adultery?” he asked.

She shook her head, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I should have been more specific. Adrienne is convinced
that having sex before marriage is today's couples' downfall.”

“Let me get this straight. The thirty-something blond bombshell and former beauty queen in the bright pink miniskirt who called me ‘sugar' thinks people should wait until they're married to have sex?”

She nodded again, as if pleased that he was getting this. “I have to say I agree with her. And I'm not just saying that because I'm—”

She turned suddenly, smiling at the waiter who'd just appeared at their table. Parker's mind came to a screeching halt.

Hannah's lips were still shaped around a word that began with “w.” She wasn't just saying that because she was
what?

Wise?

Winsome?

Waiting?

Was that it? She was waiting?

When Parker coughed this time, it wasn't from the wine.

“W
ould either of you care for dessert?”

Parker ignored the interloping waiter and continued to stare at Hannah. She was smiling now, but her lips had been pursed slightly, dammit, and he wanted to know why. She'd said she happened to agree with Adrienne, who evidently believed there was a direct relationship between sex and the divorce rate in this country.

Had Hannah been about to say she was waiting or hadn't she?

Waiting for what? Christmas?

“Parker, you remember Jason, don't you?”

He glared at the kid who'd run into him a week or so ago.

The boy's Adam's apple wobbled nervously. “I'm sorry about the other day, sir. I'll pay for the tie, or the dry-cleaning bill. Or if you want, I'll have Adrienne deduct your dinner from my paycheck.”

“That won't be necessary, Jason,” Hannah said. “Will it, Parker?”

Parker's lips twisted. He didn't want the kid's money. Hell, he would have paid
him
to take a hike. Running a finger inside the collar of his shirt, Parker said, “Forget it. I have other ties. Did you want to order dessert, Hannah?”

Hannah nodded, and said, “Gerard's chocolate mousse is always a sure hit.”

The boy gasped. Hannah smiled guilelessly. And Parker
conceded defeat. The woman was one step ahead of him all the way.

“You heard the lady,” he said to the young waiter. “Bring us each a chocolate mousse. This time, I'll take mine in a bowl.”

Jason hurried away before his blush had made it past his neck. Hannah was almost sure something had shifted deep inside of her. Parker was a sharp-tongued lawyer who could have read Jason the riot act, demanding retribution, making degrading, demoralizing comments. Instead he'd let the boy off the hook. He wasn't as ruthless as he wanted people to believe.

There was absolutely no reason she should suddenly want to touch him. And yet she leaned forward, and slowly placed her fingertips over the back of his hand.

Dishes clattered on the other side of the room, and people murmured in low voices at a nearby table. Parker remained perfectly quiet, his gaze trailing in the direction Jason had just taken. When he finally looked at her, his blue eyes had darkened and were filled with intensity. It was easy to get lost in the way he was looking at her, easy to see why his female clients felt inclined to tuck their underclothes into his pockets.

“If you're not careful,” she said quietly, “people are going to discover that you have a soft spot in your heart.”

Parker was aware of the sultry tone in Hannah's voice. And he could feel the gentle warmth in her touch. He tried to decide whether either of those things were provocative in nature. They certainly stimulated him.

“I'm not feeling particularly soft, Hannah.”

Her smile changed slightly. “I'm not touching that—” she shook her head when he quirked one eyebrow in silent expectation “—line.”

An innocent virgin, her? In this day and age? A twenty-
seven-year-old woman with her build and sassy grin? No. Uh-uh. Absolutely not. Unexperienced virgins didn't laugh that way, move that way, touch and smile and react that way. Virgins were timid and unsure. Hannah seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

And Parker liked what she was doing very, very much.

 

“Ah, Hannah. You are planning another beautiful wedding,
sí?
”

“Yes, Consuela.” Hannah glanced up at Parker first, and then down at the elderly woman who was taking a walk with her husband. “I'm working on three. Four, if you count my mother's. I'm also planning a party following a Bar Mitzvah, two engagement parties, and eight birthday celebrations.”

“You should concentrate on the weddings,” the woman said, her smile young-looking in her old, wrinkled face. “It is what you were born for, I think.”

Hannah's exhilaration grew. “You know weddings are my favorite.”

The old couple bid Parker and Hannah goodbye in Spanish, then ambled down the street, hand in hand. Inclining his head close to Hannah's ear, he said, “Do you know everybody in this neighborhood?”

They'd reached the back of her building. Going up on tiptoe, she plucked a leaf off a vine trailing up the stairs that led to her fire escape on the second floor. “I like people.”

Parker folded his arms and leaned one hip against a wrought-iron post nearby. They'd left The Pink Flamingo via a side door, and had decided to take the back alley to Hannah's place. She lived less than a block away. The trip had taken nearly an hour.

It turned out that Hannah couldn't pass any of the people
who were sitting on stoops or fire escapes facing the alley without saying hello. Parker hadn't minded. A long time ago he'd learned that some of the best knowledge was easily obtained by simply listening. He'd certainly learned a lot about Hannah. Her neighbors loved her. Of course they did. She genuinely cared for them, asking after grandchildren, brothers and sisters, even an old man's long lost cousin in Mexico.

“Do you know all your neighbors' relatives by name?” he asked quietly.

“Don't you?”

“Except for Maxwell Lewis, who I met when I handled his divorce a few years ago, I only know my neighbors by the cars they drive.”

She lowered her voice, being purposefully mysterious. “That wouldn't work on this street. Half the people who live in these buildings don't drive.” Angling her head toward the old couple who had ambled away, she said, “Manuel and Consuela have been married for sixty-two years, and they still hold hands. Just goes to show that romance isn't exclusively for the young.”

He waited until they were halfway up the stairs to say, “I'm not opposed to romance. I'd be happy to prove it to you.”

“You're too kind.”

Following her to the top, he said, “That's the first time I've ever been accused of that.”

He sensed her small smile, but she seemed to know better than to reply. She unlocked a heavy steel door, which swung in on silent hinges. Together, they stepped into a small sitting room. She flipped a switch, and the room was bathed in soft light.

Glancing around, Parker wondered why he was amazed when the room was exactly what he should have expected.
Once again, it wasn't the colors that made it uniquely feminine, but the style. The off-white carpet was soft beneath his feet, the beige overstuffed sofa with its gracefully curved back and all those lace-covered pillows could have only been purchased by a woman.

“Would you like something to drink, Parker?” she asked, opening a window and turning on a ceiling fan. “I'm afraid my only concession to liquor is cooking sherry and Chianti, a gift from a former client. But I have lemonade in the refrigerator.”

“Nothing for me,” he said, watching as she strode to an antique writing desk and punched the button on her answering machine. She listened to the beginning of each message, then fast-forwarded to the next. Wondering who she was hoping to hear from, he wandered to a unit of shelves across the room.

Her reading material ranged from coffee-table books to recent bestsellers, to Kafka, which further proved that Hannah Cassidy was a study in contrasts. Beige and lace. Kafka and an entire book devoted to comics. Cooking sherry and Chianti. A brown tweed pantsuit and that body.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“Four years.”

“It suits you.”

“Adrienne swears it needs a little pink. Preferably bright pink.”

He thought she sounded preoccupied. “Bright pink isn't your style, is it, Hannah?”

Hannah turned slowly. Her messages droned in the background. She barely heard. Parker was standing across the small room, one hand in his pocket, his feet spread a comfortable distance apart, his head tilted slightly. The lamp in the corner cast shadows behind him, deepening the cleft in his chin. She couldn't see the color of his eyes
from where she stood, but the sensual intent came through loud and clear.

Fumbling behind her, she turned off the answering machine. She'd just spoken to every neighbor she'd happened to see. How could she suddenly be at a loss for something to say to Parker?

There was something deliberate in the step he took in her direction, something just as deliberate in his smile. “What's your favorite color, Hannah? No. Let me guess. It's brown.”

She smiled. She couldn't help it. He thought he was so intuitive. “Nobody's favorite color is brown, but you're close. Actually, I like anything in the brown family. Honey, beige, tan, cocoa, cinnamon, coffee, terra-cotta.”

“Warm colors for a warm woman.”

He walked closer, his stride as smooth as that last line.

She wasn't afraid of him. She knew on an instinctive level that he wouldn't take advantage of her. Still, to insure that he didn't get the wrong idea, she held up one hand in a halting gesture.

He took her hand in his. Before she could do more than gasp, she toppled into his arms.

He covered her lips with his as if he knew exactly what he was doing, and was enjoying it immensely. She could have fought the kiss, but the way he held her, as if she was delicate and special and a rare gift, was difficult to resist.

Impossible to resist.

She closed her eyes. Giving in to the delicious sensations pouring through her, she parted her lips and kissed him in return. She took a deep breath the moment his lips left hers. He smelled like summer and spice and man. Pressing one hand over his chest, she spread her fingers wide over his heart, inching upward to his neck. On some
level she was conscious of the whisker stubble on his cheek, of the broad bones and taut skin along his jaw, of the narrow little dip in the center of his chin, but she was more conscious of the warmth that was weakening her knees, and the desire that was quickly spinning out of control.

His lips left hers. Covering her hand with his, he brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into her palm. Hannah's eyes opened dreamily, his features blurring slightly, the dark blue of his eyes turning hazy and deep.

“You're beautiful.”

This close, her features had to be as blurry as his. It didn't matter. She wasn't beautiful, not the way her mother and Maria were, but that didn't matter, either. Because he was making her feel beautiful, and every woman alive knew that that mattered a great deal.

Lowering from her tiptoes, she said, “Are you sure I can't get you anything?”

“You can show me to the bedroom.”

“I could.” She made no move to do it, though.

“Hannah?”

She chanced a glance up at him, and slowly shook her head. “I'm trying to think of the right words to make you understand.”

“I understand the attraction that's between us. You can't deny that you feel it, too.”

Just like that, he kissed her again, without warning, devouring, cajoling, enticing. By the time he raised his mouth from hers, she was breathless all over again.

“You're a hard man to resist,” she said softly.

“There's no need to resist.” His voice was a husky murmur close to her ear.

“It's too soon, Parker.”

“The timing is perfect.”

A shiver of wanting strummed through her.

“You want this,” he whispered.

She practically swooned at the feel of his lips along the sensitive skin below her ear. “That's beside the point.”

“Honey, that is the point.”

“Maybe,” she whispered. “But…”

He paused, the sound of his deeply drawn breath loud in her ear. “I'm listening.”

“I'm waiting.”

There was that word again, Parker thought. “Define waiting.”

She wet her lips, straightened her clothes, took a deep breath. And finally met his gaze. “I'm waiting. For the right man. For a commitment. For forever.”

“You can't mean you're waiting for your wedding night.”

She pulled a little face. “Nobody can say that with absolute certainty. I mean, people with the best of intentions have been known to get carried away. After all, sex is a heady, pleasurable sensation.”

“I know how pleasurable sex is.” He decided to try a different tack. “Look, I make a very good living from clients who prove over and over that marriage and forever are two completely different concepts.”

“Maybe for some. I know what you're thinking, Parker. But there are still a few of us around.”

The implication hit him between the eyes like a sledgehammer. He didn't know whether she was a virgin—he grimaced at the notion—or one of those born-again virgins he'd read about. Either way, it was insane.

He must have said it out loud, because she bristled. “You're welcome to your opinion. I'll stick to mine. Attraction is nice, but so often it fizzles. Love lasts.”

“Love is overrated.”

Hannah could have argued. But she refrained. Instead she took a frank look at Parker. After quiet deliberation she decided that only someone who had never been in love could say such a thing with so much quiet conviction.

She crossed her arms and redistributed her weight to one foot, and finally said, “And sex isn't overrated?”

She thought his derisive snort was uncalled for.
She
shouldn't have to defend herself, or her morals, or her standards. She wasn't judging him, and he had no right to judge her. The more she thought about it, the more it rankled.

Parker didn't know how he'd ended up at the door. He must have followed Hannah there. Her mention of sex had wiped his mind clean of every thought except one. “You
have
been with other men, haven't you?”

Her head came up and her shoulders went back. “Define ‘been.'”

He knew he was out of line, but what the hell. He'd come this far. “Been with. Slept with. Made love with. Take your pick.”

“Would you like names?”

He would, yes. “That won't be necessary.”