Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (20 page)

"It seems so sad. I loved my grandfather. He was a wonderful man. He had such dreams for me, for the whole family. He was always telling me how we would do wonderful things in this country, building our lives, our successes. I learned so much from him. He could see the family's success unfolding, step by step."

If the steering wheel hadn't required both his hands right then, he might have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her.

Yeah, she'd learned a lot from her grandfather, all right. She'd learned to sacrifice happiness today in hopes of success tomorrow.

"I guess you could say the same thing for Walter Mulholland, Only I didn't fall for the indoctrination."

"Indoctrination? It wasn't like that with my -"

"As far as rebellions go," he cut off her protest, "it wasn't much, but the episode Judi told you about was my formal declaration of independence."

She seemed to forget her earlier objection in concern for him. That shouldn't have warmed him so.

"What happened, Paul?" she asked.

"Not much, really. He had it all mapped out. Where I'd go to school. What I'd study. Where I'd get my law degree. How I'd fit into the firm. When and where I'd buy a house in the right neighborhood and memberships to the proper clubs. Who I'd marry - at least that she'd be 'our kind.' Hell, he probably had a schedule for our sex lives so he'd have a great-grandchild produced on order."

Without looking at her, he could feel her eyes on him.

Strange, he could also feel understanding in them.

"I refused to go along. My senior year in high school, I turned down admission to his Ivy League choice and signed up to enroll at Northwestern instead. Not exactly a felony. But you would have thought so to hear Walter Mulholland. The old fool actually threatened to disinherit me, as if I gave a damn about his money." His laugh died abruptly. "I found Judi huddled on the stairs, crying her eyes out. She was just a baby, all skinny arms and skinned knees, and she thought he was kicking me out of the family or something."

It sounded foolish spoken out loud after all these years. But the feelings were still raw and powerful. The anger. The determination. The triumph. Walking out as the old man ranted futilely.

Then finding Judi, and knowing he was fighting for more than himself. He had to break free, so he could prevent her from being caught in Walter Mulholland's straitjacket.

A staccato horn reminded him he'd been sitting at a stop sign too long for the patience of the driver behind them.

He drove. And waited, wary of what Bette would say next. He didn't want questions. He wouldn't be able to take sympathy. He couldn't abide platitudes.

The touch on his arm was light, fleeting. Perfect. He glanced at her and saw the smile she tried to produce. He felt a closeness to her that went beyond the physical.

"You know, she still has skinny arms," Bette said.

"What?"

"Judi. She still has skinny arms. We should be thinking about what to feed her tonight."

He slid the car into a parking spot amid Evanston shops and restaurants. Turning off the ignition, he twisted to face her, his knee touching hers. He wanted to kiss her. To take her face between his palms and let his tongue sink into the warmth and sweetness of her mouth. But he knew that would be only the start of what he wanted - and couldn't have, here on this downtown street.

He contented himself with brushing the side of his thumb along the slant of her cheekbone, the tilt of her upper lip, the rounded point of her chin.

"Okay, what shall we feed my ravenous sister?"

They decided on pizza, after a survey of the neighborhood where he'd parked. Just before they got out of the car in front of his apartment, he pulled her close for a quick, hungry kiss.

"One thing, let's agree now that we'll go back to your place tonight," he told her. "That way we don't have to worry about getting Judi out of the way."

She gave him a quizzical look, as if he'd said something surprising, and he wondered if he'd presumed too much.

He sure as hell knew he wanted to be with her, but maybe she didn't feel the same. Maybe she wanted time away from him. Maybe -

"Okay."

The word had never sounded so good.

It carried him through a dinner surrounded by laughter, easy conversation and the certainty that Judi and Bette had hit it off. He was oddly touched by that. Especially when Judi admitted to feeling she'd never gotten over the tomboy stage. He'd known his sister wasn't sure yet of her attractiveness as a woman, but he'd never heard her refer as openly to it as she did to Bette. She clearly felt her vulnerability would be safe with this woman.

Bette tentatively suggested she and Judi could go shopping together sometime.

Judi pounced on the offer. "Really? When?"

"Uh, I don't know. Any time, I guess."

"Really? Like maybe this week? Maybe Thursday? I have early classes, so I could take the El downtown and look around first, then get your opinion. Do you think?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Are you sure? That wouldn't be an imposition?"

Bette hesitated and Paul wondered if she would plead the demands of her schedule. She might have wondered, too, because her smile held some surprise. "I'm sure. It would not be an imposition."

"Great! There's this holiday formal coming up, and I want the absolutely perfect dress. I just know you've got great taste and you won't try to make me buy something that makes me look fourteen, like Mom always does." Judi smiled glowingly at both Bette and Paul. "You might be good for something after all, Paul," she added.

He grinned, but grumbled, "Yeah? I was good enough to teach you how to sail, and to play basketball and tennis."

"Yes, but there are other things in the world, you know. I've always wanted a sister, and maybe you're finally going to get around to providing me with one."

Paul felt as if a cell door were being slammed in his face. The only way he could give Judi a sister was by marriage. Even the word conjured up prison bar images. And the man closing the door on him was his mother's father.

The "right" marriage was one of those links Walter Mulholland had planned to chain his grandson to the "right" life. He would have approved of Bette Wharton as a hostess, as a helpmate, as a mother to his great-grandchildren. The old man would have seen Bette's business sense, her ambition, her dedication and her dignity as business assets.

Paul didn't give a damn about that. But the idea that he might be moving in a direction Walter Mulholland would have ordered, even for different reasons, left an uneasy feeling.

The odd thing was that neither the uneasiness nor the reflexive 180-degree change of subject could dilute a warm feeling that had settled somewhere deep in his chest. Very odd.

HE'D LOOKED AS
if he'd just been informed he owed ten years' back taxes and the IRS was at the door. Or, worse, that baseball historians had discovered a grave error and they were taking away the Cubs' last World Series championship, even if it was back in 1908.

She'd read too much into the smallest things, things like his planning ahead how they would spend the night together at her place. Then his sister had skirted too close to the "m-word" and Bette had seen that look on his face.

Horrified. Numbed. Panicked.

Over the next two weeks, as Paul Monroe wove himself deeper and deeper into her life, Bette reminded herself of that look.

It was as much a part of him as the way he loved to tease her, as the way he liked her home, as the way he appreciated her warmth to his sister, as the way he held her and made her crazy. She had to remember that.

When he took her to dinner most nights, when he drove her home every night and sometimes to work the next morning, she reminded herself of that look.

When his voice turned mellow as he confided in her, when his hands turned sultry even as he made her laugh, when his eyes turned soft as he smiled at her, she reminded herself of that look.

But it kept getting harder.

BETTE STOOD IN
front of a filing cabinet Wednesday evening, returning a folder. The Centurion file. In their cautious way, they'd asked for a proposal on the services her firm could offer, and she'd sent it off that morning.

But when her office door swung open, the Centurian account was forgotten. Almost before the door clicked shut, Paul had his arms around her from behind and his mouth on her neck.

"Mmm. Lord, you taste good." He nipped at her skin. "You should have quit work hours ago."

"There's a lot to do -"

"You've always got a lot to do. Too much. But this time I forgive you, because it means you're still here. I've missed you."

"I saw you last night," she pointed out, trying valiantly to maintain a reasonable tone when her hormones were doing the samba.

"Mmm-hmm. But not this morning. Or yesterday morning."

He had a point. After they'd spent all their time together from Friday evening until Monday morning, he'd started the week with an appraisal of the stock of a north suburban collectibles shop being liquidated.

She'd been the one to point out it made more sense for him to commute there from his Evanston apartment than from her house. She'd felt a momentary stab when a look flashed across his eyes that might have been relief. Maybe he'd been trying to figure out how to ease away already.

Although he had made sure to see her each day. Besides, she'd thought with something between a mental grimace and a grin, he probably wouldn't have thought far enough ahead to see they were setting a pattern.

It had been left to her to be the practical one, and practical she'd been.

But practicality had its price. After three days of waking up in his arms, the past two mornings had felt surprisingly empty.

"We had dinner together both nights." Was she reminding him or herself?

"Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all." His mouth traveled lower on her neck. The openmouthed kisses carried the veiled hint of his teeth, reminding her of the power behind his tenderness. "Some things you just can't do at a restaurant."

His hands slid up her ribs, opening to capture the weight of her breasts, then curving to press warm palms against quickly tightening nipples. His movement had drawn her tighter against his chest. She felt the melting warmth inside her, the warmth that needed the heat of his body. She arched more firmly into his hands and dropped her head back to his shoulder.

Shifting, he brought her even closer as he circled and molded and teased her breasts.

He knew how to pleasure her. In such a short time, he knew her body, her responses, so well.

She wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor right here, right now, and to have him display that knowledge in the most intimate way imaginable.

What would she do when he left her? She squeezed her eyes shut against the fear.

This moment. Take this moment, but build no expectations that there will be others.

She'd made her choice, to take her moments with Paul and deal with life without him when that came. But she hadn't known the moments would be so wonderful or the prospect of living without them so terrifying.

"Paul." She planned to lift her head, to gain that much control over herself, but the muscles wouldn't obey and she felt stinging tears at the corners of her eyes. After a lifetime of using the present to build toward a clearly foreseen future, she didn't even know how her muscles would react in the next second.

And yet it felt so right to be in his arms.

By her ear, his breath rasped harsh and irregular. It was a sound of pleasurable torment, and it flashed across her mind to wonder if she was not alone in this drowning pool of jumbled emotions.

She covered his hands with hers, and slowly lowered them to her waist. He didn't fight it, but circled her tightly, squeezing the breath and some of the tension out of her.

"Paul."

Her murmur was distracted, at best, as he bent and touched his tongue to the point of her collarbone just inside her blouse's neckline. Her moan was involuntary. If he kept that up, in another second they'd be right back where they'd been.

Abruptly, he raised his head without letting her go.

"Bette, how about spending Thanksgiving at my folks' house?"

She was surprised. Maybe stunned. She twisted around to get a better view of his face.

"Are you serious? Thanksgiving's more than two weeks away."

"So?"

So? So, the man she'd come to know quite well over the past month would rather not plan an hour ahead, much less two weeks. A tremor vibrated at the base of her stomach.

"Your mother might not appreciate your inviting people to a holiday dinner without letting her know," she said.

"She knows."

"She does?" Bette feared her voice squeaked unbecomingly. The tremor in her stomach intensified and spread.

"Sure. So will you come?"

"I'm sorry, Paul," she said. "I usually spend Thanksgiving with Darla's family, and I've already accepted her invitation this year."

She had no lingering concerns about being with his family, so what caused this odd sensation? If this had been any other man than Paul Monroe, she might have thought it was nerves over an invitation some could view as significant, perhaps even a statement of serious intentions.

But this was Paul, and she knew better.

"That's all right, Bette. You go right ahead and go to the Monroes for Thanksgiving."

The disembodied voice of Darla Clarence floated into the office. Bette spun around in Paul's arms and they stared at each other. His look of astonishment quickly gave way to amusement.

"Darla?" Bette called out.

"Go on, girl, you say yes to that invitation right this second."

"Darla, where are you? How did you hear that?"

"I'm in my office, and I can always hear what you're doing in there."

Bette's mouth worked, but her vocal cords didn't, so she only mouthed the words: "Oh, my God."

"And I say you should go right ahead and take the boy up on his invitation," Darla continued. "You've spent the past three Thanksgivings with us, you probably want something different for a change. Maybe their turkey won't dry out like mine. I've been hoping he'd get around to asking."