Prelude to a Wedding (19 page)

They lay as they had collapsed, too
exhausted, too sated to move. When his voice came, it seemed to
float between them.

"I have one question."

"Hmm?" Forming a word took too much
energy.

"Don't your parents live outside
Phoenix?"

"Uh-huh."

"A boathouse? In Arizona?"

She poked at his ribs and got a muffled
chuckle in reward. "Shows all you know. Yes, a boathouse in
Arizona. There's a lake with sailing and swimming and everything.
Mom and Dad have lakefront property, and a little, enclosed
boathouse."

He seemed to accept that. After a minute or
two, he mentioned in an offhand way, "You know I have this other
fantasy, too." He stroked his palm over her skin, from hip, over
fanny, waist, back, shoulder and neck, then back down. "And for
this one we don't have to go to Arizona, or even leave the hotel.
We only have to move about ten feet to accomplish it."

He drew her up, disregarding her halfhearted
protests, and she saw they were heading for the bathroom.

"It has to do with being hot and wet and
close," he murmured into her ear before stooping to snag the bath
sheet from the tumble of objects at the foot of the bed. A froth of
royal blue wove in among the other items. "Are you ever going to
show me this nightgown?"

She stifled a throaty chuckle. "I did show it
to you, remember?"

"I meant on you, this time."

"I thought you had a fantasy you wanted to
show me first."

He looked from her to the gown swirled at
their feet, then back to her.

"Will you promise to show it to me
later?"

"Later," she promised. "Much later."

Chapter Nine

Since his purchases hadn't run to such
necessities as a clean shirt or a change of underwear, their first
stop late Saturday morning was Paul's Evanston apartment.

Bette immediately liked the four-story
red-brick building with the general air of solidity. At this time
of year, with the leaves gone from the neighborhood's many trees,
his top-floor apartment's bay window gave a glimpse of the lake a
few blocks away.

But the view was one of the few things that
could be said for the near-barren living room. A door topped a pair
of file cabinets and held a computer and accoutrements.
Brick-and-board shelves for books, an old TV and mismatched stereo
equipment. A rugged old couch and one side chair. That was it.

A leaden mass formed in her stomach. It was
all too clearly a reflection of the resident. The landing place of
someone who wanted to be prepared to take off again.

"Not quite as homey as your place, huh?"

He sounded almost defensive as he stood just
inside the door and waved her in, and she didn't have the heart to
agree as wholeheartedly as she might have otherwise. "No."
Searching for something else to say, she added, "It's a nice
neighborhood, Paul."

"Yeah," he agreed, brightening a little. "It
is. Here's the kitchen." His gesture took in a cubicle as Spartan
as the living room, although its 1940s-style appliances looked
considerably less used than the living room furniture. "I eat out a
lot," he explained.

"And the bath." It was mostly screened from
view by towels and shirts hanging from door corners, shower curtain
rod and doorknobs, but it appeared to be the same vintage as the
kitchen.

"And the bedroom." A king-size mattress and
box spring sat directly on the bare wooden floor with the pillows
and comforter rumpled from the last time he'd used them. A
canvas-covered director's chair at one side held a clock radio and
a stack of books on its seat. She suspected that under the pile of
clothes on the opposite side of the bed resided the chair's twin. A
tiny dresser stood next to a closed closet door. "Not much storage
space," he muttered. "Closet barely holds the suits and stuff, so
the other things . . ." He shrugged.

"That's the tour, complete in thirty-four
seconds, no need to tip the tour conductor."

He smiled a little lopsidedly, and she
couldn't resist leaning in as they stood in the doorway of his
bedroom and kissing the corner of his mouth. Immediately, she felt
embarrassed by the gesture. They'd shared a night of passion, but
affection was something else.

"I'll . . . I'll just wait out here while you
get your things," she said, trying to make her retreat to the
living room seem less like scuttling than it felt.

"I kind of thought—" He broke off, but she
saw him glance from his rumpled bed to her and back, and she had a
pretty good idea what he'd thought. She didn't mind the thought,
but hadn't a clue how to express that. But he obviously took her
hesitation as a no. "Okay. This shouldn't take long. I've just got
to find some clean things." He turned into the bedroom, then back.
"I ought to stop by the cleaners and take some of this stuff in,
too."

She hid a smile. The cleaners were going to
make a small fortune. "Okay."

She wandered around the living room, looking
at his eclectic mix of books and tapes, absently noting that the
papers spread out by the computer dealt with his business, and
looked professional and detailed.

The sounds from the bedroom finally drew her
back. She'd pretended not to notice when he swept the bathroom
clean by heaping clothes and towels into his arms. Now he'd formed
a pile in the middle of the bedroom floor, and with his back to
her, was busy searching out additions for it.

The search entailed digging through the
layers on the chair with as much care as an archaeologist. He
apparently hadn't found a shirt to his liking yet, because he wore
none. But he'd put on a pair of jeans. Snug jeans that curved
tautly over his derriere.

Bette swallowed. Heat ran through her system
with deliberate speed, melting away the awkward shyness and the
quiet protests of sore muscles.

She could slip into the room, sneak up behind
him, mold her palms to the shape of the seat of those jeans, then
rub up to the bare skin of his back, across the muscled width of
his shoulders, and down again. Her fingers would snag in the
waistband of his jeans on the return trip, maybe delve inside a
bit, enough to feel the smooth hard skin.

Just before she pushed him too hard with her
teasing touch, the split second before he would have to turn and
tumble her into the bed, she would pull her fingers away and send
her hands once more on their downward path to where they had begun.
Only this time they'd go farther, around to— Bette gasped and
jerked at the shrill bleat just over her head, but Paul didn't even
turn around.

"Get the buzzer, will you? Michael said
something about stopping by today."

She held one steadying hand over her heart as
she used the other to press the button that released the
ground-floor door. She opened the apartment door. Quick footsteps
echoed up the stairs, along with a grim mutter about people stupid
enough to live on the fourth floor without an elevator, then a
young woman's head topped the stair railing. As soon as she made
the turn and spotted Bette, she started talking.

"Who are you?" she asked with open
curiosity.

Bette didn't need to ask the return question.
The crown of chestnut hair, the sparkle in gray-green eyes and the
energetic grace of her casually clad body proclaimed the young
woman to be Paul Monroe's sister.

When she grinned, abruptly and blindingly,
the likeness was startling. "Never mind," she instructed, just as
Bette opened her mouth for a neutral reply. "I know who you are.
Mom told me all about you. And the pumpkins."

She managed to make the latter sound wicked
and depraved, or maybe that was just Bette's conscience. Here she
had been thinking lascivious thoughts about a man when his kid
sister must have been just outside the building. It made her feel
illogically guilty. Had her sister-in-law, Claire, ever had such
thoughts about her brother, Ronald? Oh, she knew they had two kids
and all, but did Claire really have those kinds of thoughts about
Ronald?

A giggle tickled her throat, and that made
her feel guiltier.
Get hold of yourself, Bette
.

"Hello, I'm Bette Wharton, a friend of
Paul's. You must be Judi."

Judi shook her extended hand with enthusiasm
and studied her. They stood just about eye to eye. Judi Monroe had
a lithe athlete's body encased in sweatpants and three layers of
shirts, a free-fall tumble of hair and a mobile, restless face. She
looked very, very young, and Bette experienced a renewed wash of
guilt. What interpretation would this girl put on the situation,
finding her here in her brother's apartment?

"Geez, count on Paul to bring you here for a
rendezvous!"

Bette gasped. "No—"

Judi went on, pitching her voice to reach the
brother she obviously expected to be in the other room. "Paul,
couldn't you have taken her someplace better than this! You should
have a little more class." She shook her head in disgust as she
swung a heavily loaded backpack off her shoulders and onto the
desk, then called out again. "And some imagination!"

"No. You don't understand. He didn't— This
isn't—"

Bette caught herself in time from adding the
"what it seems" cliché, but still couldn't find much of an
explanation. Perhaps because part of her cried out to defend Paul,
to say just how classy and imaginative and romantic and downright
passionate he could be. Only that was the very last thing she ought
to be telling his younger sister.

"We stopped by to pick up some, uh, papers.
That's all. We weren't—"

Judi glanced back with one eyebrow raised.
"You weren't?"

The wild thought occurred to Bette that the
younger woman sounded disappointed. Through some sense beyond the
normal five, she became aware of Paul. Turning, she found him
lounging in the doorway to his bedroom not far behind her, and she
had to fight the urge to go to him and put her head on his shoulder
and let him deal with this whole awkward situation.

"Damn! Why not? What the hell's the matter
with you, Paul?"

"Judith Marie." Paul's voice held censure.
"Stop swearing. You know how Mom feels about that."

Bette looked from brother to sister in
amazement.
That's
what he was responding to?

"Sorry," his sister apologized absently.
"Dorm talk. But how about this other stuff? Why aren't you—?"

"Shut up, Judi." It was mild but effective.
"It's none of your business. Quit embarrassing Bette."

Judi Monroe looked stricken for an instant,
then contrite. She turned wide eyes on Bette. "Did I? Embarrass
you? I didn't mean to. Sometimes my mouth just gets away from me.
I'm sorry."

Bette met her look and started to formulate
routine words of denial to smooth over the situation. Instead, she
found herself telling the truth. "You did embarrass me a little.
Maybe startled me is more accurate."

Judi nodded. "I do that to people sometimes.
I forget what I'm saying, and what I'm thinking just comes out. I
really am sorry."

Bette smiled. "It's fine. Don't worry about
it."

Judi's returning smile seemed to light the
room. "Thanks!"

Paul cleared his throat in a way that made
Bette flick a look at him. Did those changeable eyes of his hold an
added emotion? "So, Judi, what brings you here today?"

"I came to use your computer. I've got a
Russian history paper due Monday, and your keyboard's better than
my laptop. Especially the way I type."

Her eyes slid past her brother. Bette
wondered if she could see the bed and would draw incorrect
conclusions from its state. With Judi's next words, Bette knew she
could and she had.

"But if I'm in the way …" Judi let it
hang.

Paul was looking at Bette. All she had to do
was make the smallest sign and he'd get rid of his sister. She knew
that. An afternoon spent the way they'd spent the previous night
had definite appeal, but someone who balked at checking into a
hotel without luggage wasn't about to make such a clear declaration
in front of Paul's younger sister.

"Of course not," Bette supplied. It wasn't
exactly her place to issue the invitation, but apparently Paul
wasn't about to. "Your brother was going to show me some real
estate in the area. We just stopped off here to get some clothes—"
she ignored the choked sound of laughter from behind her "—that he
has to take to the cleaners," she added with emphasis.

Paul sighed gustily enough that Bette thought
she could feel his breath stir her hair. She glared at him, but he
ignored it, telling his sister with some disgust, "All right, you
can stay here and use the computer. I guess we're going to be
leaving soon."

Judi's face lit with the smile that was so
like Paul's. "Thanks. That's great. It's a killer paper, so this
will really help." She widened her eyes in a soulful look. "In
fact, I'll probably be here well into the night, so—"

"Don't you have a date tonight?" Paul
interrupted sternly.

"Nope. This paper's really important, so I
decided to work all weekend on it. I won't even go back to the dorm
for dinner, so—"

"No. Absolutely not." Paul was adamant.

"No, what?" Bette asked, confused.

"This human vacuum cleaner in the guise of my
sister intends to sit around my apartment eating all day, and then
she was going to try to wheedle us into bringing back some dinner
tonight," he explained, all the while frowning at Judi, who
appeared not a bit abashed. Even if his comments to Michael and
Grady hadn't forewarned Bette, she would have known that this
fencing between brother and sister was some sort of sibling
routine. She and Ronald had had enough of their own verbal
tugs-of-war for her to spot the similarity. "How many meals did you
get out of Michael while he was in the area this week?"