Magical Weddings (104 page)

Still on one knee, Bennett leaned forward, his attention fixed on Mallory’s mouth. Her hand shot to his chest to stop him. She could have jumped halfway to the high ceiling with the adrenaline rushing through her veins at the thought of being kissed by him again, and knowing they were completely alone, in the near darkness, for the rest of the night. She felt like she was nearing the top of a roller coaster, about to go over, wanting to scream in terror before the terror even started.

And she was terrified.

“I’m hungry,” she blurted. “Are you hungry?”

His nostrils flared. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, his eyes still on her lips. “Famished.” He looked up at her then, his blue eyes making sure she understood what he really meant.

She swallowed a knot in her throat. He smirked and stood, pulling her to her feet. Together, they went to the buffet tables and nibbled silently, two chipmunks storing up for winter, too intent to talk. She felt him watching her, watching every bite she took. When she finally glanced at him, he looked away. The same thing happened twice more, but the last time, she caught him staring and they laughed.

He lunged forward, his face suddenly serious, and grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “This is not satisfying me. I gave it my best, but it just won’t do.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but she had no idea what to say to him. All she could do was shrug.

“We have no choice,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her on the edge of her lips. He pressed his cheek to hers when he was done. “We must…cut the wedding cake.” He left her standing there, missing the feel of him against her face until his words sunk in.

She spun on her heel. “What? You can’t cut the cake! Pemberly and Jordan might want to come back in the morning and cut it themselves.”

“Mallory, really.” He lowered his head and stared at her from below his eyebrows, the cake knife in hand. “Those two will want to do
other things
in the morning, things much more thrilling than cutting this cake, no matter how magnificent it is.”

She inhaled sharply, then frowned, confused. “In the
morning
?”

The cake knife fell on the floor, along with Bennett’s jaw.

“What?” Mal reached down for the knife, took a napkin and polished it, then handed it back to him. She wasn’t about to let him start whacking away at the beautiful cake with a butter knife.

He took the long silver blade from her. “Thank you.” He surveyed the cake, walking around the table, looking for a way to slay the dragon. “Do you mind me asking your age?”

“Twenty-six. And you’re going to have to stand on a chair and start at the top. We have to save the top layer for the bride and groom at least.”

“Why is that?” He dragged a chair over, tested its stability, then stepped up onto it.

“There is a special box for it, so they can freeze it. Then they eat it on their one year anniversary.”

Bennett looked down at her. “Tradition?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, then. You and I can freeze the second layer. We’ll meet back here in a year’s time to share it. We’ll share a slice with Ferguson—I mean, Parson Brown.”

She tried not to get too excited about seeing 007 again. A year was a long time. If he was serious, which he couldn’t be, he wouldn’t want to fly back from England just for a slice of cake. Even if the day had been pretty memorable for all of them.

“Can you take this?” He lowered the 6” round, top layer. She took it and set it on the table, then fished the little square box out from under the long sparkly cloth. “Here is the next.” He lowered the 8” layer. Orchids jutted out of the sides like arms, the body of a snowman flailing for its balance. “And now, for our private reception…”

He stepped off the chair with the 10” layer of cake. The smell of it surrounded them, gave the impression that everything around them was edible and would taste like heaven. Only Mal already knew that, didn’t she? She’d tasted heaven on and off again all afternoon.

She licked her lips while staring at his, then jerked her gaze away before he noticed. At least she hoped he hadn’t noticed.

She fetched a couple of plates and forks. He laid a thick slice on the plates, then handed one to her. She raised her fork, ready for the cake to take her mind off the man’s lips, but he stopped her.

“Tut, tut, tut. I believe it is also tradition that I feed my slice to you, darling.”

He picked up a small portion of his cake and brought it close, lifted it to her mouth, hanging his own mouth slightly open, mimicking her as she allowed him to feed her. He was so mesmerized she couldn’t help but tease him, grabbing his wrist and hold it still while she licked the crumbs off his finger.

She’d expected to shock him, but he looked intensely turned on instead. Whoops.

She pretended not to notice and took her turn, holding out a small piece of her cake, waiting for him to open his mouth again.

“Come on,” she said. “Fair’s fair.”

He set his plate on the cake table and opened his mouth, those blue eyes staring into her soul as he took the cake, then wrapped his lips around her fingers. She shuddered and pulled them back. He swallowed the cake and licked his lips.

“Fair’s fair,” he growled. He took her hand again, then sucked on each of the two fingers she’d fed him with.

“I know what you’re doing,” she breathed.

“Are you certain?”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“Probably.”

“Because we’re here alone for the rest of the night.” She pulled her hand back and retreated. She was out of her depth. She’d been warned all her life about situations like this.

“Just you and me,” he purred, stalking her again.

It was a dance she was used to now, walking backward away from him while he followed. A tango without music. Only this dance was a lot more dangerous in the dark. She had to stop playing along.

“And I just happened to be the only girl available.”

He stopped, straightened, lifted his chin so he was no longer looking at her through his eyebrows. “Are you mad? You think…” He grunted in frustration. “You believe I’m some randy bastard who must have a woman in his bed every night, and any woman will do?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He nodded emphatically. “I believe that is exactly what you said. You think I’ve been kissing you just because I felt like kissing someone, don’t you?” He threw his hands in the air and stomped away a few yards before turning back. “Well? Don’t you?”

“You make it sound so silly, but it isn’t. There is no reason for someone like you to even be attracted to someone like me. You dress like James Bond—”

“Careful, Ms. Mayhue. You’re being a snob again.”

“You
look
like James Bond. You
move
like a…a panther. You
kiss
like you’ve practiced on hundreds… None of that has anything to do with money, by the way. And you’ve obviously had sex
in the morning
!”

He glared past her pointed finger. “And you, obviously, have
not
.”

Sore feet were forgotten as Mal fled to the stairs and ran up them. Her face felt like it was on fire, even though she told herself, with every step, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. She’d never intended to share that kind of personal information with anyone but the man she married, if she married.

No.
When
she married. She was going to have a life. She was going to meet people—men—and she would kiss a helluva lot of them. Then she’d pick one who had anything but blue eyes, marry him, and find out why people didn’t just have sex at night, in the dark. Of course they made it look good on screen, but that was acting, wasn’t it?

She groaned. She was incredibly naïve and she knew it. She just hadn’t wanted anyone else to know it, especially the man who made her toes curl just by walking into the room. Even when he’d been furious over the mess she’d made of the place, or the mess she’d made of their one chance to spend some time together.

“What an idiot,” she muttered as she stormed into the brides’ room. She glared at the elegant furnishings, the beveled mirror, and swore this would not be the only time she ever got to use a room like that. She whipped off her blouse and skirt and shoved them into her bag. If they wrinkled too much, she’d buy new ones. She would need a new wardrobe anyway.

She ripped the clip out of her hair and threw it. Standing there in her underwear, she realized she’d left the door unlocked, but didn’t care.
Go ahead. Walk in. Take a good look at my granny panties and then convince me you wanted me for me.

“Hah!”

She heard pounding on the stairs and grabbed her jeans, jumping into them like the building was on fire, realizing she would rather throw herself off the balcony than let him see her granny panties!

He stomped down the hall, to the door, then past it. A door crashed open, then shut. The men’s dressing room was on the other side of the wall.

She quieted her breathing and listened. He muttered. Something crashed and shattered against the wall and she jumped. She guessed it was the equivalent of her throwing the hair clip.

“Isn’t there any alcohol on this bloody island?” he shouted.

She found her t-shirt and gasped when she pulled it on. The cloth was cold. Now that she wasn’t storming around the room, the temperature started to register. She’d hoped to spend the rest of the night hiding out, but it looked like the only place warm enough was close to the fire.

She picked her jacket up off the floor and winced. Her water bottle had soaked half of it. There was no way she could wear it.

Damnit!

She puttered around the room, making sure she’d put everything back in her bag, then took the candle to the bathroom and peed, praying the tank had enough water for one flush. The seat was still ice cold when she stood up. It took the hot water too long to reach the faucet, so she washed with cold. By the time she left the bathroom, her teeth were chattering. It didn’t matter if the devil himself were standing next to the fire, she was going to keep him company.

She tried not to look directly at St. John when she returned to the ballroom. Her wet coat she hung around the shoulders of a chair facing the flames, so it could dry. She glanced to the side, which was a mistake. St. John squatted in front of the fire, tossing in logs. There was a fresh load of wood piled on top of the few left from their first haul, and fresh snow on his hair. He wore the only pair of jeans she could ever call formal, a classic sweater, and leather shoes. Apparently, he hadn’t gone upstairs just to look for a stiff drink.

She tried to glance away before he caught her staring, but failed. Not wanting to look like a coward, she faced him and stepped closer to the fire. A chill raced up her spine like a cold little Hot Wheels car and she folded her arms, trying to hold her body still. She should have stuck her cold hands in her pockets instead because the feel of them on her bare arms made her jump.

“Here.” He grabbed his sweater and pulled it over his head, then held it out to her.

She looked up the length of a muscular arm, to a pale blue t-shirt that wrapped around his body like an affectionate woman—like Mal would like to do. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was freezing and he looked like a heater. She was hallucinating.

“I’m fine,” she said, and pushed the sweater away. It probably smelled too lovely to be good for her.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He straightened the sweater, pulled the bottom open, then put it over her head. Then he stood there and waited for her to put her arms through and wear it like a big girl.

“Thank you,” she said, just to throw him off.

He snorted at her, then bent to the fire again. He’d moved one of the Louis XVI couches over and placed it about six feet out from the hearth. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “There are two couches, if you would rather not share one.”

She looked at the couch again. Not the most comfortable looking thing, which was probably for the best. A bed, they did not need. “One is fine.”

“If we remain close…to the fire…we will need less wood. I promise not to allow it to burn out.”

“Thank you.” She moved to the couch and sat on the end. He dusted his hands together, then sat on the other end. There was one large, empty cushion between them. It seemed as long as a couch itself. Crossing the expanse would be awkward. Again, probably for the best.

“I apologize,” he said, “for losing my temper.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Lots of visitors have a hard time with Utah’s liquor laws.”

He huffed. “I was not referring to alcohol, Ms. Mayhue.”

He wasn’t even calling her
Miss
anymore. And apparently they were back to discussing lips and the activities thereof. Great.

“We both know I’m the one who needs to apologize. I’m sorry I doubted your motives. I’m sorry if I made you feel like—”

“A playboy?”

She nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”

The conversation dissolved into silence. He never said he accepted her apology. After a while, she stopped waiting for him to.

London called, finally breaking the quiet dome that had enclosed them.

“The bride and groom are leaving. The helicopter is taking them to the Waldorf in Park City. The skies have cleared enough.”

St. John answered his phone and apparently got the same report from his sister because he moved over to the windows the same time Mal did.

“The last of the guests won’t be far behind. We’re going to pack up a few things, then come for the rest in the morning. Are you two staying warm out there?”

“Yeah. But separately.”

“Bummer.”

“See you in the morning.”

The helicopter took off then, making conversation impossible. St. John tucked his phone in his lovely jeans and watched. In an attempt to keep from staring at him, she watched the helicopter for a flash of white wedding dress, which was easy to see when the vehicle hovered close to the arched windows and Pemberly waved like a maniac. If the door wasn’t shut tight, she might have fallen out.