Prelude to a Wedding (17 page)

"All right."

"All right?" Just that easily, he was willing
to let the opportunity to spend the night together go—willing to
let
her
go?

"Yep. We'll go to Water Tower Place
first."

"Water Tower Place? Why?"

"We have some shopping to do."

Chapter Eight

Bette mentally checked the contents of the
shopping bags she'd accumulated, then looked at her watch. Nine
minutes left before she was to meet Paul. Unexpectedly, a bubble of
laughter rose in her. Who would have guessed how much fun this
would be, this rather sexy kind of scavenger hunt?

They'd started off together, buying tote bags
after a long, intricate discussion of exactly which ones they
should get. Paul had wanted to buy matching ones because, he said,
it was a visual symbol to any astute bellboy that this was an
established couple. She had opted for different ones because it
might look less like just-bought goods. Paul had prevailed, and for
a moment as the clerk rang up the purchase, she'd considered how
odd it was for Mr. For the Moment Only to be the one to want them
to appear as a couple. But then there'd been no time to give the
matter further thought. She had shopping to do.

They'd agreed to meet in forty-five minutes
at the front entrance to Water Tower Place. She'd gone directly to
a drugstore, tossing into the mesh basket a toothbrush and
toothpaste, a disposable razor for her legs, deodorant and a small
perfume vial, plus trial-size shampoo and moisturizer in case the
hotel didn't provide them. Then, trying to tell herself not to
blush like an idiot, she added a foil packet to her collection.

She'd spent most of her time in Marshall
Field's, buying a change of clothing for the morning: jeans and a
white oxford-cloth shirt, which weren't extravagant since she could
always use spares. With her tweed suit jacket and flat pumps, she
at least wouldn't look blatantly like a woman wearing her Friday
night clothes on Saturday morning.

Her last stop was lingerie, for a change of
underwear. Now, with nine minutes left, she glanced across the
aisle that separated the lingerie basics from the frivolous and saw
a royal-blue froth of lace and sheerness. She knew she had to have
it. She was woman enough to know it would draw lights to her eyes,
and practical enough never to have owned anything like it.

Stifling the habit of checking the price
first, she found the right size and headed for the counter.

Oh, she'd been with men before. A couple. But
she couldn't imagine having had the nerve to wear something like
this for them. This was a gown to wear for a man who could make her
laugh, but never laughed at her. She felt a swelling in her heart
as she accepted the bag with the gown. She'd wear this for Paul,
and she'd have no shyness about it. He would see her vulnerability,
and he would honor it.

With her final few minutes, she found a rest
room and transferred the contents of her shopping bags to the
tote.

As she hurried through the heavy glass doors,
she caught sight of Paul immediately. Grinning, he held up his bag
to show off its packed state. She thought his looked lumpier than
hers, and there was definitely a sharp edge poking against the soft
fabric. She felt it against her calf as it dangled from his hand
when he wrapped her into a tight embrace and kissed her hungrily,
right there on Michigan Avenue.

"C'mon, let's get a cab," he said a little
huskily.

She'd have been lucky to achieve even husky
if she tried to talk, so she settled for nodding. She didn't care
that it was impractical to take a cab the few blocks to the hotel.
It was faster, and it gave them an excuse to sit cuddled together
in one corner and share another, long, lingering kiss. He seduced
her mouth, luring her upper lip between his, tempting her with
forays of his tongue and teeth. Kissing her in a way that left her
feeling a little vague all through the process of paying off the
driver, checking in and finding their room.

If Paul had kissed her like that earlier, she
might never have noticed that they didn't have luggage. And then
she wouldn't have had any excuse to funnel this shivery feeling of
anticipation and trepidation into a show of great curiosity about
what he'd bought.

They stood side by side just inside the door,
before slowly moving in. Thick carpeting and drapes shut out the
city's noise, making the drumming of her blood louder in Bette's
ears. Soft lights she knew wouldn't hide the flush heating her
cheeks, a flush of awareness. Before them the room stood, plush and
cozy. All it needed to complete the country-house look was a
fireplace.

But no fire was needed to provide heat. Her
imagination was taking care of that. From where she stood at the
foot of the bed, her eyes traveled up the wide and generously
pillowed expanse. Oh, Lord, the bed . . .

"So what do you have in your bag?" she asked
in a brightly forced voice. She gave his tote's strap a tug, but he
held tight.

"Uh-unh. Let's see yours, too." His voice
sounded huskier than before.

"Okay. We'll take turns. But you go
first."

He gave her a sideways glance, then rested
his tote on the edge of the bed and unzipped it. "Okay, first
item." Humor overlaid the deeper note in his voice. He produced a
chrysanthemum stem with three perfect yellow blooms on it and held
it out to her.

"Flowers! Where in the world did you find
flowers?"

"That wasn't so hard. The hard part was
packing it."

She giggled a little, and inexplicably, her
nervousness eased.

"I tried for roses, but there must have been
a run on them. Some sort of romantic epidemic hitting the
city."

"This is lovely. I love yellow
chrysanthemums."

"I know. I remember the flowers by your front
walk."

She couldn't say anything to that, so she
leaned across the corner of the bed and kissed him lightly. She
heard his quick intake of breath, and backed up hastily.

"Your turn," he ordered.

Opening the bag, she gave a quick laugh.
"Nothing so frivolous as flowers."

"Jeans? Is this something kinky I should know
about?"

Despite his teasing note, she felt her cheeks
warming. "They're for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Ah, I see." He said that as if
thinking of tomorrow somehow betrayed today—or tonight. "I suppose
you're planning to be incognito when we leave in the morning."

"At least inconspicuous," she said more
sharply than she'd intended.

He gave her an unreadable look, then reached
into his bag. It was a clear nonverbal change of subject.

"Next, we have one bottle of white wine.
Chilled to perfection, thanks to its recent sojourn in the Chicago
night air."

Back to teasing. She was glad. Tonight she
wanted to forget the differences between them. Tonight, at least
this one night, was to explore this other thing between them.

"One blouse, to match the jeans," she
responded, keeping her voice light. She caught an expression in his
eyes she couldn't interpret, then it was gone and he was pulling
out his next item.

As their respective piles of purchases grew
on the bed, a trend developed. To her deodorant, toothbrush and
toothpaste, new underwear and socks, he answered with a pair of
wineglasses, a pillar candle, a tape player and two moody
instrumental cassettes, a box of chocolates and a fluffy bath sheet
she could easily imagine would accommodate two. It was almost as if
he'd read her mind back on that sidewalk when she'd imagined a
winter's night with him.

"Geez, aren't you ever romantic, Bette?"

Even with his eyes glinting at her and his
voice rough with the combination of laughter and desire, she found
herself chafing at the comment. So she'd considered tomorrow
morning. So she'd given some forethought to the practicalities of
staying overnight in a hotel. So she wasn't the kind who thought
only of the moment . . . So she wasn't what Paul, with his music
and wine and flowers, considered romantic.

Unthinkingly, she reached into her nearly
empty bag and yanked out the small foil package.

Even before Paul's eyes went to what was in
her hand, then came back to meet hers, she knew what she held.
Everything else between them, the humor, the irritation and the
tension, flowed away in a wash of awareness. The need that had
brought them to this place surged through her, and, she knew from
the sudden tautness of his stance, through him, also.

"On second thought, I withdraw that
question." She couldn't help but react to the low note in his
voice.

Hers shook a little, but she got the words
out. "I believe in being prepared."

She couldn't believe that with all the heat
of desire flaring between them, amusement still lingered in his
eyes.

Without a word, he reached into his bag and
withdrew something, which he then held out for her inspection. Four
packets just like hers.

"Four? Four!" And she understood now how he
mixed the humor and the desire, because she simultaneously wanted
the release of laughter and craved the tormenting pleasure of his
hands.

"I believe in being prepared, too."

"For what, a harem?"

He made a sound deep in his throat, only half
a chuckle. The other half was declaration and question, rolled into
one. One corner of her mouth lifted, as she let her eyes answer the
rest.

Tossing the packets haphazardly toward the
nightstand behind him, he reached across the corner of the bed for
her, pulling her to him.

They'd been so careful not to touch, and now,
in kiss after kiss, she knew why. The lightning she'd imagined in
his eyes earlier was in their bodies, jolting from one to the other
at each point of contact, Intensifying each time their lips came
together, drawing power when his mouth roamed across her throat,
her shoulders, her abdomen. Releasing energy in a line of fire
through her when his tongue plunged into her mouth with deep,
instinctive significance. She arched beneath him, hardly knowing
how they'd come to be on the bed instead of beside it.

Fingers fretted with buttons. His shirt was
jerked off and tossed aside. Her blouse was opened and skimmed away
by urgent hands. He cupped her breasts, his gentleness straining
against ungentle desires. She felt the delicious rasp of lace and
his hand against her flesh, and knew how right this was.

She wanted more. She wanted his mouth on her,
as it had been that moonlit night in her garage. It was almost as
if the weeks between had disappeared, and this was a simple,
natural continuation of the desire they'd felt then. Or maybe it
was an unending desire, always there, a lightning waiting only to
be tapped.

Then his mouth was around her, open, wetting
the lace and hardening her nipple to an exquisite ache, and she had
no mind for thought, no room for remembered sensation because there
was only now. This moment.

She stroked his shoulders, wanting to imprint
the smooth, strong feel of them into her hands. He suckled, and she
gasped with the pleasure. Then he added to it with fingers that
stroked and circled her other breast.

Air came in gasps for both of them when he
trailed his mouth lower, tracing the curve of her ribs, taking a
nibbling bite at the side of her waist.

The tickling made her want to laugh, but she
didn't have the breath for it. She'd never realized laughter and
lust could be so closely allied; they certainly never had been for
her before. No, it took Paul to show her this, to show her that the
lightness of laughter didn't have to be eclipsed by the dark
passion pulling at them. Not when the laughter was such an integral
part of what they had together, not when the passion was strong
enough.

Oh, Lord, it
was
strong enough. He
flicked open the waist of her skirt, and hauled down the zipper so
the material rode over her hips. Not satisfied, he slid one hand
lower, under the hem, and skimmed up her thigh and beyond to the
top of her pantyhose, then immediately started back, dragging the
hosiery along. She'd barely helped free her legs from the
encumbrance when he was tugging at her panties and slip all at
once. He clearly intended her to be naked as quickly possible.

Naked.
The word sparked an image of
blue froth, carefully saved for last in their game of
show-and-tell.

"Wait." She gasped the demand, so it sounded
more of a plea. Only a small part of her recognized the way he
froze.

"Wait?"

Fighting the weight of desire, her eyes
opened wide as she understood he was questioning more than the
word. As he had in her garage, he let her see the desire and
longing in his eyes, but also the question. He was leaving it up to
her. She could stop this.

"No." She shook her head quickly, hoping to
make him see he'd misunderstood. "I have one more thing to show
you."

"To show me?" His question was followed by a
grumbling curse that didn't entirely mask his relief. But he let
her remove herself from his hold, and she dived for the tote at the
end of the bed, extracting the negligee. As she stood, her loosened
skirt slid lower on her hips and with an impatient twist, she sent
it to the floor. Feeling a little shy, yet not really
self-conscious, she held the floating material up to her, resting
the straps at her shoulders.

"See?"

Oh, yes, he saw. Oh, God, yes, he saw. He
swore to himself that he would never again make the mistake of
thinking Bette was not romantic. She was romantic enough to just
about kill him, and all she had to do was stand two feet in front
of him holding up a bit of filmy material.

Through the sheer fabric he saw the lace of
her bra, he saw the wetness he'd added to it, he saw the straining
points he'd felt against his hands and mouth. And he could see her,
smooth and pale beneath it. Lower, the draping skirt of the gown
revealed the paleness of her simple, straight slip. Beneath the
layers of material he knew what he would find there, too: heated
silk. If she put on that blue torment now, so that he caught
glimpses of her with more than his imagination, he'd want to rip it
off her. But he also saw her eyes. The gown meant something to
her.