Prelude to a Wedding (10 page)

"Contact with a prestigious museum like that
can't help but enhance your reputation and that can only aid your
business. It's the sort of opportunity you should cultivate." James
Monroe took a breath, and Bette could tell he was repeating a
question, more to drive home a point than to get an answer. "So,
are you going out there to discuss this opportunity with them?"

"I'm going out there." The coolness in Paul's
voice surprised her.

"But are you—"

Paul caught sight of Bette. Rising to take
the sugar and creamer as if they were too heavy for her, he cut off
his father. "Ah, good. Now all we need is something to mix them
with."

Without the usual amusement lighting his
face, the words fell flat. He seemed to realize that. As he
returned to his chair, he went on immediately. "Did you know my dad
was a heck of a shortstop thirty-five years ago? Reached the top of
the minor league system. Would have made it to the majors, too,
only—"

Paul looked up as his mother came through the
door with the coffee on a tray, and broke off.

"Are you two talking about baseball again?"
she asked with fond exasperation.

"No," answered her husband. "I was trying to
pin him down to make a decision, with as little success as ever. Or
at least to find out if he's making a trip to D.C." He faced his
son again, and his voice seemed to gentle. "And I was a borderline
shortstop at best. My making the majors was extremely
doubtful."

Nancy Monroe looked from one man to the
other. If she forced her smile, she did it very well. "Well, if you
do go to Washington, Paul, be sure to give Tris our love, won't
you?" She turned to Bette in explanation. "Tris is Paul's cousin.
James's sister's girl. She and Paul were always close. When they
were children . . ."

Nancy Monroe went on, skillfully drawing Paul
and his father into the newly directed conversation, and soon any
lingering tension dissipated.

Nearly an hour later, as they said their
thank-yous and good-nights at the door, Bette thought James Monroe
was about to question his son once more, but his wife touched him
lightly on the sleeve, and he let it fade.

As Paul pulled the car out of the drive, it
was obvious he, too, had seen the interplay. "Parents trying to
push their kids into making the same mistakes they did," he
muttered.

"I always thought parents tried to prevent
their kids from making the same mistakes they did," she commented
mildly.

He frowned at her, but then seemed to relax.
Before he turned back to the road, a quirk of humor lifted his
mouth. "That's one of those lines all parents are taught to feed
their kids, along with clean-up-your-plate,
don't-play-with-that-or-you'll-poke-your-eye-out and
someday-you'll-have-children-of-your-own-and-you'll-understand."

"Ah, the famous 'School for parents' where
they learn one thousand and one ways to say no."

He laughed, and the sound warmed Bette. She'd
brought him laughter. She'd changed his mood from bad to good. She
couldn't remember ever having done that for someone before.

Instinctively, she reached for him. But she
let the gesture fall short, her hand dropping to the seat between
them.

"That's the one," he answered. Without taking
his eyes off the road, he settled his right hand over hers where it
lay on the seat.

The rest of the drive was accomplished in
easy silence.

Easy was about all Bette felt capable of at
the moment.

Occasionally, the wheel demanded both of
Paul's hands, but his right always returned to hers. Resting her
head against the top of the seat, she watched the lights go by
without bothering to focus. She felt surrounded by the scent of
pumpkins, straw, dried leaves and Paul Monroe. She was replete with
delicious food and the satisfaction of laughter.

Languor seeped into her, until she wondered
if she'd have control over as simple a movement as raising her arm.
Did astronauts feel like this when they experienced weightlessness,
when a twitch translated into some large, slow, ungovernable
gesture and a step became a floating trip to unknown
destinations?

When they reached her house, Paul drove the
car directly into the garage, turned off the engine, pressed the
button to close the automatic door and shifted to face her. She
tipped her head just enough to see him.

"Bette?"

His voice came, husky and near. He trailed
the knuckles of his right hand down her neck, then pushed her hair
back, behind her shoulder. Her cocoon of languor took on heat and
sensation. She should be thinking ahead, considering what might
come next. But she couldn't. She should be alert, prepared. But she
wasn't. For once the present moment filled the screen of her mind
so fully that there was no room to preview the future.

"Bette."

Slowly she shifted until she could see his
features, strong and marked by lines of humor in the slash of
artificial light slanting in through the garage window. She didn't
believe she had enough energy to move, but somehow she must have
had, because she felt the soft prickle of his stubbled jaw under
her palm.

Then she experienced all the energy in the
world. It suffused her, pouring into her skin and bones and blood
when he turned his head against her hand and inscribed a circle
with his tongue.

She thought again of the odd buoyancy of
weightlessness as her arms rose, seemingly of their own accord, to
his shoulders. He moved in front of her, so the light cut a path
across his face, half-bright, half-dark. She could see nothing
other than his face before her. There was nothing else she wanted
to see.

He leaned into her, so she felt the weight of
his body against hers.

"You have the most amazing upper lip," he
murmured as he took it between his own, pulling slightly, then
testing it with his teeth.

"Family trait," she finally got out when her
lungs had produced enough oxygen to fuel the words.

He shook his head slightly, and since he
still had his mouth on hers, she felt it as a change of texture, a
sliding and melding. "No. I think it's a sign of great hidden
sensuality."

He kissed her, not hard, not deeply, but
thoroughly. A kiss that seemed to muffle every sound in the world
except their breathing and their heartbeats, that seemed to stifle
every thought in her head except the urge to get closer, to give
more to him.

Lifting his head at last on a low, quiet
groan, he rested his forehead against hers.

"That's something else," she told him when
she could once again control the motor skills necessary to form the
words.

"Hmm?"

"The sign of hidden sensuality—that's
something else."

He ran the back of his knuckles down her
throat once more, this time beyond the hollow at its base, across
the edge of her collarbone and softly along the rise of her breast.
"It sure is."

It took three deep breaths to regulate her
lungs into some order, but when she did, she doggedly finished.
"It's a gap between the two front teeth." For emphasis, she tapped
her own closely spaced front teeth. "Like that old actor
Terry-Thomas had. A gap—" another tap "—is supposed to be the sign
of great sensuality." And another tap.

She wouldn't have thought he could move so
fast, but before she finished the final tap, he swooped in as if to
kiss her and instead caught her finger in his mouth and pulled it
gently in. Her eyes drifted closed. Her heartbeat skittered. Her
breathing stopped.

His tormenting mouth released her finger and
she tried to straighten herself. "Paul, I—"

He simply shifted his torment from her finger
to her mouth, slipping his tongue through her parted lips, and
drawing a moan that vibrated in her throat. His palm went to her
neck, as if to absorb that vibration, then skimmed the sensitive
skin, following the path his knuckles had traced.

As he had before, he ended the caress with a
fleeting brush to the first swell of her breast. She felt an ache
there, an ache of deprivation, and it brought a sound to her lips
that she was grateful his mouth muffled.

But he must have heard it, or sensed the
frustration, because his hand returned to that spot, pressing
lightly, then circling until he cupped the weight of her breast in
his palm. Through the folds of cotton and the slide of lace, she
felt the rub of his thumb. His touch fueled her ache the way
someone tends a fire, keeping it burning steadily yet brighter and
hotter.

She felt her own hands dispensing with the
buttons of his shirt. When she reached the waistband of his jeans
and paused, he jerked the tails out with one impatient hand, and
she finished the task.

She didn't have a chance to hesitate. He
brought her hands to his chest, spread them wide against his taut
skin, then pressed them tight by trapping them between their bodies
as he leaned into her. His fingertips stroked a path from her
collarbone down, across the smooth skin where it curved, and lower.
Then he turned his hands and skimmed the backs of his fingers over
the same tingling territory, only to start again. The draped folds
of the V neck retreated a little farther with each movement. She
felt her breast swelling and rising against the lace of her bra.
She shifted restlessly. He stroked down, his fingertips easily
sliding under the lace, not quite grazing where she most wanted the
touch, then skimmed up. And started again.

Under the lace, his fingertips tempted and
teased. If he didn't touch her, and soon—

Her breath came in on a gasp and released on
a moan. His fingers had found the peak, already pebbled and proud.
They lingered, stroking and circling.

He muttered something, then twisted, turning
their bodies so she no longer rested against the seat, but across
him, in the circle formed by his right arm and his body.

"Paul, I don't think . . . I don't think this
is a good idea." The habits of a lifetime formed the words, though
she felt unconnected to them.

"We're well beyond the idea stage, Bette.
Don't you think?"

He gave her no chance to answer as he
returned to her mouth, but she must have been well beyond thinking,
because she found her arm straying from his back to his shoulder,
and some part of her knew it was to allow him greater access.

Her bra strap slid over her shoulder. She
didn't know if it was her movement or his that was responsible, but
she knew the result immediately. His hand curved around her inside
the loosened lace, treasuring the weight of her breast, his thumb
caressing her nipple. She heard his moan mingled with her own.

He wrenched his mouth from hers, and their
breathing came in oxygen-depleted gasps. But he couldn't seem to
bear to be away from the taste of her skin as his lips formed wet,
openmouthed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. She knew
what would happen and she wanted it. Oh Lord, she wanted it.

Sensation was all that was left in the world.
The sensation of his mouth on her breast, his hand sliding across
the curve of her thigh. The pull on her nipple, the feathering
touches near the juncture of her thighs, were promises of the
rhythm, of the touches she most desired. The desire rose in her
throat, escaping as his name, a soft moan of a syllable.

"Paul."

He raised his head, and she felt the force of
his look, demanding that she meet it.

No teasing, no amusement in those eyes now.
Just intent desire.

But he had reined that all in. Barely. For
the moment. For long enough to ask her. For that was the other
thing she saw in his eyes: a question. He left it up to her. She
could say no and he would abide by that, but he wanted her.
Now.

The weight of the decision crushed her with
something like disappointment. If he hadn't stopped, if he hadn't
left her to answer— But he had.

They had to stop.

But she'd hesitated too long. His mouth met
hers, his tongue passing the restraints of her lips with bold
certainty. The exploring was past. His tongue set up a rhythm that
echoed in the brush of his fingers against her. The stroking,
thrusting excitement of it foretold how their bodies would match in
another union. And that thought pushed her closer to him, tightened
her fingers on him until her nails pressed into the hard flesh. But
it also let the future slip back into her mind, to voice its
demands and expectations.

This single moment couldn't be separated from
what could follow—would follow—if they didn't stop.

They had to stop.

The union her body craved would mean a
blending of lives to her. But to him? How could someone who refused
to look beyond the moment give her the permanence she needed?

He couldn't. She knew that. As she knew that
if they made love, in the end, she would feel so much pain.

Ah, but first there would be such pleasure.
Under her touch, his muscles contracted, and she shivered at the
controlled power. Such a delicious aching pleasure . . .

If they didn't stop . . . soon . . .

He groaned and shifted, so he could slip his
hands beneath the lace edge of her panties.

No. No, she had to stop it—now.

"Paul." She broke away from his tips and
gasped the name. "No."

She had to stop . . . She had to stop
before—

"No." She pulled away from him and reached
for the car door handle.

—before she couldn't stop.

* * * *

She refused to hide just inside the door as
she had the other times. In the living room she gathered the real
estate listings, straightening them inefficiently with hands that
trembled and shoving them haphazardly into a folder.

When she heard a sound at the door, she
froze. He was just outside. She could practically feel him there,
standing and looking at the solid wood door with its rectangles of
high windows.