Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (24 page)

Paul - tieless, first two buttons opened, cuffs rolled to mid-forearm - 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 his question trailed 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 on the desk, 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.

"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, 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, dipped her tongue into his ear, then whispered, "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 next 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. "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 the answer before she asked.

"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 chance of holding herself apart 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 printout of 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?" But the letter was dated more than a week ago, and then she saw another phrase, 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 guessed 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.

"What is there to decide, Paul? Are there drawbacks?"

"Yeah, there are drawbacks," he shot back with something close to bitterness. "You sound just like my father, and he learned it from the master - Walter Mulholland. Just because it carries you one more step up that great career ladder doesn't make it automatically the right move."

He paused.
Just like my father . . . learned it from the master.
A glimmer of understanding crossed her thoughts, but slipped back as he continued, slow and controlled. "I'd have obligations to them. I'd have to be in D.C. a certain number of days each month. It would cut into my business here. I have obligations to clients here. Loyal clients."

"And of course," she started silkily, "it would entail having to look ahead enough to keep some sort of schedule. Even if only for a few days a month."

The smoothness of her tone didn't fool him. He flicked her a look, then made a sound that could have meant anything. A noncommittal sound. Under her breath, she swore.

"What?" His sharpness indicated he'd caught the drift of her sentiment, though she didn't bother to clarify.

She knew exactly how this situation with the Smithsonian had come about.

He'd probably been all friendly and helpful at first, making them think he was exactly the sort of person they needed, leading them on to believe he'd be there when they needed him. Then, at the last minute, he'd backed off and left them to be the ones to make the final move.