Prelude to a Wedding (25 page)

It might not be the kind of
spur-of-the-moment inspiration he'd have had, but he'd shown he
appreciated her planning . . . at least in some areas of their
relationship. Areas such as soft, clean sheets, fluffy bath sheets
and scented candles. And her lingerie. Bette fought an urge to
giggle. It used to be she only considered if something was clean
and appropriate for wearing under a certain blouse or dress. But
now she found that every morning her choices were affected not only
by how she would look, but by what was easy to get into and out of
. . . especially out of.

Maybe she wanted to give him something to
remember her by while she was gone. Maybe she wanted to give
herself a final memory. Just in case it was a final memory.

She sucked in a breath and turned the door
handle.

Paul—tieless, first two buttons opened, cuffs
rolled to midforearm— looked up from behind his desk as she walked
in, surprise heating immediately to pleasure, and beyond. It was
the look she needed to keep going. "Bette! What are you . . ."

Perhaps he saw something in her face, because
he let the words trail off as she closed the door and leaned
against it.

Without taking her eyes from his, she let her
coat slide off her shoulders and down to the floor in a heap.

She smoothed a nervous hand down the
wrap-front knit dress and wondered if she'd lost her mind. Maybe.
But the look in his eyes left her very sure she hadn't lost her
senses. He knew why she'd come.

"If memory serves me, you're supposed to be
on the couch, Paul." Nerves, and something rawer, made her voice
low and breathy.

His look never wavered as he dropped his pen
onto the pad on which he'd been writing, and stood. Slow and
deliberate, he moved to the couch and, obeying her slight gesture,
sat down.

Shaking knees didn't prevent her from taking
the three steps that brought her in front of him. Trembling hands
didn't stop her from undoing the dress's tie at her waist. The
weight of the material swung the sides open, and she knew he could
see what was underneath. She knew, because she'd tested it in front
of her bedroom mirror, wondering all the time if she'd feel like a
fool when she did it in front of Paul.

He swallowed sharply. She watched his Adam's
apple drop and rise and she felt her own tension ease. She felt a
lot of things, but none of them was foolish.

She eased one knee onto the couch near his
thigh and supported herself with a hand on the cushion by his
shoulder, as her blood pulsed hotly under the lace and satin of the
midnight-blue bustier. If he didn't touch her . . And damn
soon.

"Uh, Bette?"

"Hmm?"

"I have a question."

Was he going to ask what she thought she was
doing? Oh, Lord, if it wasn't obvious, maybe she wasn't doing this
as well as she thought.

"What?"

"Have you gotten me a Christmas present?" At
least his voice sounded as strained as his face looked. She moved
her free leg, and one side of the dress slipped behind it,
revealing more of her body to him.

"A Christmas present?" She bent to touch her
lips to his temple, and absorbed the hard, demanding beat there.
His skin felt hot under her lips. This close, she could feel, the
heat of him, holding off the chill of her state of
near-undress.

"Uh-huh." He went even stiller when she moved
to the other temple, leaning across him, close enough that his
breath teased the tops of her breasts. "I know you shop early, so I
wondered if you'd already gotten my present."

She noted his assumption that she would get
him a present, but felt too absorbed by the way his pulse first
hesitated then sprinted to comment on that.

"No. Why?"

"I know you like to save time, and I can save
you some time shopping."

"Oh?" She leaned back enough to see his eyes,
and felt a deeper heat when she met his look.

"Yeah. I know exactly what I want."

"What's that?"

"This."

He pushed the dress off her shoulders and
down her arms. His palm cupped her left breast possessively,
weighing it, testing it, molding it. His thumb hooked over the
bustier's edge, stroking the bare flesh and catching her nipple
tauntingly.

"You like that, don't you, Bette?" he asked
when the nipple hardened and peaked.

Swaying a little toward him, she gave him the
answer they both knew, but he seemed to need to hear. "Yes."

"You feel so wonderful. And you look . . ."
He pulled her forward sharply, so she fell against him while he
buried his face between her breasts. She felt the rasping moistness
of his tongue against her skin and shivered with it. Slowly, he
eased her all the way down to his lap, and raised his head and
looked at her.

She felt herself responding, her blood
pooling deep in her body at the desire in his look, her lips
curving at the glint of humor. He'd pulled a tighter rein on his
control. For now. They both knew what pleasure there'd be in
testing how much longer it would last.

"You look like the most beautiful package I
have ever seen," he said. He stroked her from hip to belly to waist
to abdomen to breast, burning the feel of his touch into her
through the thin fabric. He slid the narrow straps off her
shoulders and freed her breasts, letting his fingers trail one by
one over peaks already hard, until she wanted more, much more. He
tongued each, briefly, tantalizingly. "A beautifully wrapped
package, too. But you know what happens to wrapping paper Christmas
morning."

Something blazed in her, but she wouldn't
give in to it. Not yet. When he raised his head, she forced her
fingers to move slowly, deliberately. Open one button of his shirt.
Then the next. And the one after. Complete one task, then start on
the next.

"In my family," she told him, pulling out the
tails of his shirt, and helping him slide it off before opening the
waist of his slacks, "we carefully remove the tape and fold the
paper neatly."

Her primness was marred only by a soft gasp
at the end when he guided her hands under his loosened waistband
and around him.

"You would," he groaned. Quickly, he shed the
rest of his clothing and dragged the hosiery down her legs. "Not
me. I rip."

One word, and he would. She knew it, and it
thrilled her. But sense prevailed—this time, she thought with a
wicked grin to herself and a defiant mental promise that there
would be a next time. She bent her head, dipping her tongue into
his ear, then whispering, "There's no need to rip in order to
unwrap, Paul."

"No? Then there'd better be a fast way to
undo this thing."

"There is."

"How?" She heard the break of control in his
voice, felt it in his urgent hands. "How the hell does this —"

"There—"

"But, it doesn't—"

"Yes. It has—"

A growl reverberated against her skin in the
vicinity of her breastbone, the sound a mixture of frustration
eased and satisfaction anticipated. "Snaps."

Abruptly, she felt the couch's smooth cool
leather against her back, the lace and satin bunched around her
waist, the heat and weight of her man above her. Around her. Inside
her.

"Ah, Bette . . ."

"Yes."

"God . . . so good. So damn good."

Then there were no words. But whispers.
Warmth. Moist darkness. Movement. Moans. Fire. Wet lightning.

Rhythm. Explosion.

* * * *

She still breathed, her heart still beat, her
body still felt the damp weight of him against her, so there had to
be a basic resemblance to the woman she'd been before. But she knew
. . . she knew she was different. She'd lost her heart. Somehow,
when she flew apart in his arms just now the piece of herself she'd
been trying so hard to hold on to had slipped through her fingers
and into his.

What am I going to do?

The question arose from reflex. There was
nothing to do. Too late now.

"Bette?"

"Hmm?"

"Come spring, I want to take you sailing." He
didn't move from her, but he turned his head so his words wouldn't
be muffled against her skin. "You'd like it. Out on the lake. You
can skim along the coast, watching the city. You know there's
traffic, noise and people with problems, but you're far enough away
that all you see is the beauty of the city, the strength of the
skyline, the green of the parks. Or we can go way out, where
there's nothing but us and the water and the sky. Out in the middle
like that, it's a place to tell dreams and secrets."

"It sounds magical."

"It is." Her content ruptured as he raised
his upper body from hers. "Well?"

"Well what?" Without his body as a blanket,
she felt the room's chill.

He was nearly glaring at her. "Will you?"

His impatience fueled hers. "Will I
what?"

"Will you go sailing with me next
spring?"

The direct question surprised her, but also
made her wary. She'd accepted his comments as vague daydreams in
the afterglow of lovemaking. Paul Monroe didn't make dates for
spring when winter hadn't even started. If she pushed the point,
he'd surely back off. That would hurt, but it wasn't as bad as the
alternative. Because if she didn't push the point, she'd be seduced
by the mist of hope, with nothing substantial behind it.

"When?"

"The first fine Saturday in May." No
hesitation. Almost as if he'd been planning what to say before she
asked the question.

"Yes, I'll go sailing with you the first fine
Saturday in May."

A smile lit his eyes, setting the
green-tinted flecks glinting against the gray. "Then it's a date,"
he promised, kissing her with intent.

What had she done? What did it matter? The
hope was so woven into her life, her heart, that she had no choice
of holding herself off from him. She loved him. Completely.
Undeniably. And maybe, just maybe, her hope would pay off.

"You know, there was just one thing wrong
with this."

She had a hard time taking in his words.
"Wrong?"

"Uh-huh. You know, different from my
fantasy."

She'd caught the gleam in his eye. "Oh? What
was that?"

"We were supposed to make slow, lazy
love."

"Hmm. You don't think that qualified?"

"Not a chance. Guess we'll just have to try
again."

She made a move as if to get up, although
with him sprawled atop her she couldn't budge. "Well, let me know
when you want to give it another try, and I'll see if I can
schedule you in."

He gave her an insolent look. "You don't look
too busy to me right now, and I think—" he flexed his buttocks and
rolled against her where they were still joined, grinning wickedly
at the moan she couldn't suppress "—now would suit me just
fine."

* * * *

"I still don't think we've gotten that quite
right. It doesn't quite match my fantasy."

Paul sat behind his desk, pulling on his
socks, while she retied her dress. She gave a deeply martyred—and
utterly fake—sigh. "You mean we'll have to do it again?"

"Afraid so. We'll just have to keep at it
until we get it right."

"Maybe we're doing something wrong, Paul. Are
you sure it was the couch?"

"Now there's a thought!" He snagged her wrist
and pulled her onto his lap. "Maybe we should try the desk."

Fighting laughter, she twisted away from him.
She spread her hands wide on the desk to try to regain some
balance. A letter lay open in front of her, next to the legal pad
he'd been making notes on when she came in. The letterhead and a
few phrases in the letter caught her eye.

"What is this, Paul?"

"What's what?" He looked over her shoulder,
but seemed uninterested. "That's a letter from the
Smithsonian."

"The Smithsonian?"

"Uh-huh. They want me to be on a panel of
consultants they're forming."

"They just asked you?" The letter was dated
more than a week ago, but with the mails, maybe he hadn't had it
long, maybe . . . Then she saw another phrase in the letter, and
she knew this was not the first time the offer had been made.

"They've been asking for a while. Middle of
September, I guess they made the official offer."

September. He'd known all fall. He'd been
thinking about it all fall, and he hadn't told her. An amazing
opportunity, the chance of a career, a credential in his field that
could make a resume.

The trip to Washington, snippets of comments
from his father, from Jan, from Michael all came together and told
her what she'd been too involved to see before. He'd had this offer
all along. All these weeks they'd been together, and he hadn't told
her.

She pulled away and stood up, hardly noticing
he didn't try to hold her.

What had she thought? That he cared enough
about her to truly share his life with her? Just because he hadn't
walked away from her yet, because he'd looked two weeks ahead to
ask her to spend Thanksgiving with his family, or even months ahead
for some vague date to go sailing, had she thought he was changing
his whole way of living, of existing? She was a fool. He'd shown
all along how he operated. She straightened her back and lifted her
chin.

"They made this offer nearly three months ago
and you've been holding them off, delaying giving them an
answer?"

"Sort of."

"What does 'sort of' mean?"

He picked up the pen from his desk, and let
it slide through his fingers. "It means I told them I had several
factors to consider, and I wouldn't be giving them an answer until
I felt satisfied with the way things would work. It's not like they
gave me a deadline and I've blown it. They said they don't mind
waiting for my decision."

She watched an uncharacteristic shadow of
defensiveness cross his face, and was sure he was thinking about
the bid on the house, feeling guilty over something that she'd
actually felt relieved about. Maybe she still owed him an apology
on that score, but not now. She wasn't going to be sidetracked.