Stand-in Groom (11 page)

She briefly closed her eyes, then told him the truth. It was the least she could do. “I do trust you,” she said, gazing at him in the candlelight. “It’s my own self I don’t have any faith in.”

Johnny struggled to understand. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “You don’t trust
yourself …
?”

“To stay away from you,” she finished softly, glancing up at him almost shyly, her eyes filled with chagrin.

He was stunned. Of all the things he’d expected her to say, that was last on the list.

“Every time I’m near you, I want … things I shouldn’t want,” she admitted quietly. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you kissed me. …”

She looked away from him, as if embarrassed, and Johnny reached for her hand, moving out of his own chair and into the seat next to hers, wanting to reassure her she was not alone. “Is that really so awful?” he asked.

“Yes.” She spoke vehemently, her blue eyes sparking as she looked up at him, but still, she didn’t pull her hand away.

He tried to make a joke. “Last time I checked, no one went to hell for kissing.”

“It’s not the kissing—it’s where those kisses would lead that has me worried.”

Where those kisses would lead … They wouldn’t lead anywhere—at least not if he kissed her here,
in the resort’s restaurant. And not if he kissed her anyplace else, either. Not unless both of them absolutely wanted it to.

Johnny leaned even closer to her, catching her chin with his other hand. Her skin was as soft and as smooth as he remembered, and he felt a wave of giddiness. He was going to kiss her. Right now. The way he’d been dying to kiss her since Vegas. “Let’s try it and see exactly where it will lead.”

“John—” She tried to pull away and he let her go.

But his soft words kept her from standing up and running away. “The Farbers are watching.”

Johnny saw her glance across the room, saw all of her uncertainty and trepidation in her eyes. But he saw longing too. And he knew without a doubt that she wanted him to kiss her—as much, if not more, than she
didn’t
want him to kiss her.

He leaned forward, closing the gap between them, capturing her mouth with his, drinking her in. Whether she parted her lips willingly or in surprise, he didn’t know—and he didn’t care. For every inch she gave him, he was determined to take a mile. He pulled her closer, touching the softness of her arms and the delicate fabric of the dress that
covered her back. He kissed her harder, deeper, feeling her hands against the back of his neck, first tentatively, then possessively, as she kissed him with equal abandon.

And he knew in that instant that he was dead wrong. This kiss wasn’t just a kiss. It didn’t lead nowhere. In fact, it did quite the opposite. It led directly to temptation. It burned an unswerving path out of the restaurant, into the lobby, and up the stairs to the second floor, where they had adjoining suites. It pushed open the door to Chelsea’s bedroom and flung them both down upon her bed, arms and legs intertwined, clothing quickly removed until they were pressed together, skin to skin, soft flesh against hard muscle, straining to become one.

The images that flashed into his mind were sharp and clear. Chelsea, naked, on her bed. Pale skin, perfect and smooth. Blond hair like spun gold fanned out against the stark white of the sheets. Her smile of welcome as she reached for him. Her soft hands gliding across his body. Her drawn-in breath and the expression of sheer pleasure on her face as he filled her …

With herculean effort, Johnny pulled back,
away from Chelsea’s lips. He watched her eyes flutter open, watched her pulse pounding in her delicate throat.

His own breathing was ragged, and as she met his eyes he knew he’d only succeeded in thoroughly proving himself wrong.

“Okay,” he said, reaching for alternatives. “So we
don’t
kiss. We can spend tomorrow together and just … not kiss.”

She put her head in her hands. “How did I ever get myself into this?”

“Tomorrow’s our last day here. I just want to be with you, Chelsea. I want to
talk
to you—”

She didn’t even lift her head. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

“I can be strong enough for both of us.”

“But if you can’t?”

“I can,” he insisted. “This is about more than just sex. I want to go to the beach with you tomorrow. I want to show you this great place to snorkel—I want to spend the day with you.”

She rested her chin in her hand, looking at him for several long seconds before she spoke, searching his eyes, as if trying to read his mind. “And what about tonight?”

Johnny took a deep breath. “I can say good night to you at the door to your room and then walk away. I can do that.”

Her eyes lingered on his lips and she didn’t try to hide her attraction for him as she looked back up into his eyes. “And what if I tell you I want you to kiss me again? What if I ask you to come into my room and spend the night with me? Would you be strong enough to turn me down?”

“I don’t know—” He cut himself off as he held her gaze, as he, too, let her see how badly he wanted her. “No,” he said honestly. “No, I wouldn’t be.”

Time seemed to stretch way out as they looked into each other’s eyes, the truth laid out on the table before them.

Chelsea was the first to look away. She took a sip of her water, knowing that it wouldn’t help at all to cool her down. “Tomorrow, if you see the Farbers at the beach,” she said, amazed that her voice could sound so normal, “tell them I’ve had too much sun—that’s why I’m not with you.”

Johnny nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

The waiter appeared, carrying Chelsea’s salad and his swordfish steak.

Johnny looked up at him. “Sorry for the inconvenience,”
he said, “but can you have room service bring this up to our rooms?”

“No problem at all, sir.” The food disappeared back toward the kitchen.

Johnny got to his feet, holding out his hand for Chelsea. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s make it look good for the Farbers.”

Chelsea stood and he pulled her close, looping his arm around her shoulders. She caught a glimpse of Susan Farber’s knowing smile as they left the restaurant.

If Susan Farber only knew …

Chelsea was stepping into the warm water of a bath when the phone rang. Thinking it could only be Moira, she sat down among the bubbles and reached for the telephone’s bathroom extension.

“It’s about time that you called,” she said as a greeting as she nestled the phone against her ear.

There was a pause, then a voice that was decidedly
not
Moira’s spoke. “I don’t know who exactly you expect this to be, but it’s not. It’s me.”

It was Johnny Anziano. Chelsea nearly dropped
the receiver into the bubbly water. She was undressed and in the bathtub, which seemed an utterly inappropriate place to have a conversation with him.

“I thought you were Moira,” she admitted.

“Well, I’m not,” he said.

She stood up, water sheeting off of her as she reached for her towel. But she stopped mid-grab, catching sight of her reflection in the big mirror over the double set of sinks. She was naked, her body glistening in the dim light of the candle she’d brought into the bathroom. But so what if she was naked? Johnny couldn’t see her. And if she got out of the tub to talk to him, the water would be cold by the time she got back in.

Besides, it would be fun to talk to him, knowing that he’d damn near have a heart attack if he knew where she was and what she was doing. She could just imagine the look on his face. …

She sat down among the bubbles, smiling at the thought. “What’s up?”

“You know, it just suddenly occurred to me that we could talk on the phone.” His voice was smoky and resonant—and capable of sending shivers down her spine and heat coursing through her
entire body. “You’re over there and I’m over here, and the door’s locked between us, so the whole temptation thing is pretty much taken care of.”

He was right. They could talk on the phone without running the risk of winding up in each other’s arms. And she wanted to talk to him. She
liked
talking to him. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You.”

She opened her eyes. “That’s not fair. How come we can’t talk about
you
?”

“We can take turns,” he suggested. “I’ll ask you a question, and then you can ask me one.”

“How come you get to go first?”

Johnny laughed. “All right.
You
go first.”

“Okay.” Chelsea gazed up at the moisture dripping down the steamy tile walls. It seemed to gleam in the candlelight. She sank down into the water until the bubbles covered all but the tops of her breasts. “Let’s see. … What kind of car are you going to buy with the seventy-five grand?”

He laughed again. He had a really fabulous laugh. “Who says I’m going to buy a car?”

“The woman at Meals on Wheels told me you
drive an ancient VW Bug,” Chelsea told him, sinking farther into the water, so that the back of her head was wet, careful not to drop the receiver in. “Allegedly, the car’s already died, but both you and it refuse to acknowledge that.”

“That car’s a classic,” Johnny told her. “I might spend a few hundred dollars getting a tune-up, but no way am I buying a new car.”

She sat up, squeezing the water out of her hair with her free hand, then reached for the soap. “What kind of man would prefer a museum artifact to a zippy new sports car …?”

“The kind of man who’s saving all of his money so he can open his own restaurant,” Johnny told her.

“Is
that
what you’re going to do with the money?”

“That’s right.”

She lathered up her washcloth. “What kind of restaurant?”

“The best,” he said. “The kind where people drop huge bills for dinner, and leave feeling they got the better end of the deal because the food was so good.”

“I had no idea,” Chelsea murmured, tucking the
phone under her chin as she ran the washcloth up her arm.

“Are you … splashing?”

“Splashing?” Chelsea asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It sounds like you’re splashing. Like, with water?”

The slightly rough texture of his voice seemed to slide exquisitely against her skin, like the sensation of the soapy washcloth against her breasts and stomach. “Really?”

“There it is again,” Johnny said. “Holy God, you’re in the tub, aren’t you?” His voice sounded odd—choked and tight, as if he were suddenly having trouble breathing.

She smiled, lifting one leg to run her washcloth from her ankle to her thigh. “I take baths at night to relax.”

She heard him draw in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was intimate and low. “So how’s it going? Are you relaxed?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

C
HELSEA FOUND HER
razor on the edge of the tub, and resting her leg along the edge, she began to shave. “Isn’t it your turn to ask me a question? A
real
question?”

She didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling. “Yeah. I guess I can cross ‘What are you wearing?’ off the list.”

“I guess so.”

“Maybe you should run more hot water into the tub,” he told her. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold.”

She’d turned off the air-conditioning and opened the windows before she’d run her bath-water.
It had to be close to eighty-five degrees in there. A bead of sweat ran down her neck and she used her washcloth to cool herself off. “Believe me, I’m in no danger of getting cold. It’s steamy in here.”

He drew in another deep breath. “I bet. Yow.”

“I’m still waiting for your question.”

“My brain is immobilized by the pictures my vivid imagination is creating.”

“
I
have a question, then,” she said. “I want to know where you learned to kiss.”

Johnny laughed. “Would you believe through years of dedicated practice?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, when I was seven, my mother and I lived next door to a kid named Howie Bernstein. Howie had a sixteen-year-old sister, and—I can’t remember her name, but she used to lecture us on how to kiss a girl. Apparently, she went out with a couple of boys who had no finesse—they did little more than grab and suck, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.” Chelsea closed her eyes, using her hands to rinse the soap
from her skin, letting his voice wash over her as well.

“So Howie’s sister was determined that Howie not grow up to be an insensitive jerk, so she regularly cornered him—and me with him—and told us that when we kissed a girl, we had to remember to take it
really
slow—even twice as slow as we thought. She said we had to pay attention to little details and take our time. I was only seven, but I can still remember her telling us that. So I guess I owe it all to Howie Bernstein.”

“God bless Howie Bernstein’s sister, whatever her name is.”

“Howie used to call her Butthead, but I know that’s not her real name.”

“Probably not.”

“She was beautiful and funny and smart. I remember wishing I had a sister like her. It got kind of lonely sometimes with just my mother and me.”

“What happened to your father?” Chelsea asked.

“He died in Vietnam when I was around three. I never really knew him.”

Chelsea closed her eyes. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” Johnny told her. “More now
than I was as a kid. I mean, I grew up in a pretty tough neighborhood, and a lot of kids had dads that beat the crap out of them—so I didn’t mind not having a father back then. But when I got older, I could’ve used having a guy around the house—you know, like a role model. But all I had were the stories my mother used to tell. About how my father wanted to go to college and become a schoolteacher, but his parents died when he was a kid, and he had no money. So he enlisted in the army, thinking he could sign up and serve for a few years and then go to school courtesy of Uncle Sam. He didn’t factor dying into the equation.”

“How did he die?”

“His transport plane was shot down. According to the stories, he was one of about seventy-five men who survived the crash, but he died trying to pull the pilot out of the plane. It was burning, and they could hear the pilot screaming, and my father was the only one who went in after him. The whole thing went up in a fireball, and they were both killed.”