Prelude to a Wedding Read online

  As he had before, he ended the caress with a fleeting brush to the first swell of her breast. She felt an ache there, an ache of deprivation, and it brought a sound to her lips that she was grateful his mouth muffled.

  But he must have heard it, or sensed the frustration, because his hand returned to that spot, pressing lightly, then circling until he cupped the weight of her breast in his palm. Through the folds of cotton and the slide of lace, she felt the rub of his thumb. His touch fueled her ache the way someone tends a fire, keeping it burning steadily yet brighter and hotter.

  She felt her own hands dispensing with the buttons of his shirt. When she reached the waistband of his jeans and paused, he jerked the tails out with one impatient hand, and she finished the task.

  She didn't have a chance to hesitate. He brought her hands to his chest, spread them wide against his taut skin, then pressed them tight by trapping them between their bodies as he leaned into her. His fingertips stroked a path from her collarbone down, across the smooth skin where it curved, and lower. Then he turned his hands and skimmed the backs of his fingers over the same tingling territory, only to start again. The draped folds of the V neck retreated a little farther with each movement. She felt her breast swelling and rising against the lace of her bra. She shifted restlessly. He stroked down, his fingertips easily sliding under the lace, not quite grazing where she most wanted the touch, then skimmed up. And started again.

  Under the lace, his fingertips tempted and teased. If he didn't touch her, and soon—

  Her breath came in on a gasp and released on a moan. His fingers had found the peak, already pebbled and proud. They lingered, stroking and circling.

  He muttered something, then twisted, turning their bodies so she no longer rested against the seat, but across him, in the circle formed by his right arm and his body.

  "Paul, I don't think . . . I don't think this is a good idea." The habits of a lifetime formed the words, though she felt unconnected to them.

  "We're well beyond the idea stage, Bette. Don't you think?"

  He gave her no chance to answer as he returned to her mouth, but she must have been well beyond thinking, because she found her arm straying from his back to his shoulder, and some part of her knew it was to allow him greater access.

  Her bra strap slid over her shoulder. She didn't know if it was her movement or his that was responsible, but she knew the result immediately. His hand curved around her inside the loosened lace, treasuring the weight of her breast, his thumb caressing her nipple. She heard his moan mingled with her own.

  He wrenched his mouth from hers, and their breathing came in oxygen-depleted gasps. But he couldn't seem to bear to be away from the taste of her skin as his lips formed wet, openmouthed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. She knew what would happen and she wanted it. Oh Lord, she wanted it.

  Sensation was all that was left in the world. The sensation of his mouth on her breast, his hand sliding across the curve of her thigh. The pull on her nipple, the feathering touches near the juncture of her thighs, were promises of the rhythm, of the touches she most desired. The desire rose in her throat, escaping as his name, a soft moan of a syllable.

  "Paul."

  He raised his head, and she felt the force of his look, demanding that she meet it.

  No teasing, no amusement in those eyes now. Just intent desire.

  But he had reined that all in. Barely. For the moment. For long enough to ask her. For that was the other thing she saw in his eyes: a question. He left it up to her. She could say no and he would abide by that, but he wanted her. Now.

  The weight of the decision crushed her with something like disappointment. If he hadn't stopped, if he hadn't left her to answer— But he had.

  They had to stop.

  But she'd hesitated too long. His mouth met hers, his tongue passing the restraints of her lips with bold certainty. The exploring was past. His tongue set up a rhythm that echoed in the brush of his fingers against her. The stroking, thrusting excitement of it foretold how their bodies would match in another union. And that thought pushed her closer to him, tightened her fingers on him until her nails pressed into the hard flesh. But it also let the future slip back into her mind, to voice its demands and expectations.

  This single moment couldn't be separated from what could follow—would follow—if they didn't stop.

  They had to stop.

  The union her body craved would mean a blending of lives to her. But to him? How could someone who refused to look beyond the moment give her the permanence she needed?

  He couldn't. She knew that. As she knew that if they made love, in the end, she would feel so much pain.

  Ah, but first there would be such pleasure. Under her touch, his muscles contracted, and she shivered at the controlled power. Such a delicious aching pleasure . . .

  If they didn't stop . . . soon . . .

  He groaned and shifted, so he could slip his hands beneath the lace edge of her panties.

  No. No, she had to stop it—now.

  "Paul." She broke away from his tips and gasped the name. "No."

  She had to stop . . . She had to stop before—

  "No." She pulled away from him and reached for the car door handle.

  —before she couldn't stop.

  * * * *

  She refused to hide just inside the door as she had the other times. In the living room she gathered the real estate listings, straightening them inefficiently with hands that trembled and shoving them haphazardly into a folder.

  When she heard a sound at the door, she froze. He was just outside. She could practically feel him there, standing and looking at the solid wood door with its rectangles of high windows.

  He hadn't said anything, done anything when she had wrenched away, hurriedly straightened her clothes and snatched the keys from the ignition, barely pausing to say, "I have to go, Paul. Good night." As a farewell it wasn't much. If he rang the bell—demanding an explanation—would she have the strength not to answer?

  But he didn't ring. And in another endless moment or two she heard his car pull away from in front of her house. When that faded to silence, she let out a deep, long breath and went to the door. She opened it cautiously.

  There on the step sat a trio of pumpkins, a round one, a tall one and a squat one. When she started laughing she knew she was in trouble.

  Oh, she was in a lot of trouble.

  Chapter Five

  Bette Wharton was everything Paul could ask for in a business associate. Polite, professional, cordial, accommodating. She was also elusive, unattainable and distant. She was driving him crazy.

  She managed to be tied up on another line each of the four times he called Monday. Each time her assistant, Darla, asked if she could be of help. Finally, Darla pointed out they needed his decision on which secretary he wanted as his permanent temporary. With less than his usual good humor, he muttered that they should send him whomever they felt like.

  So, starting Tuesday morning, he had Janine Taylor to place his calls to Bette Wharton several times a day. And he had Janine Taylor to tell him with polite indifference that Ms. Wharton was not available at the moment, several times a day.

  Wednesday, he had an appraisal to do for a gregarious Lionel train collector in a small city about two hours away, but he called three times with the same results. The fourth time, when he'd finally pried himself clear of the collector and was on his way back, he got the recording that said her office had closed for the day. After quick calculations of train schedules, he took a chance and called Bette's home number, acquired from information.

  On the fifth ring, he heard her breathless "Hello," and his blood started moving as if it had been dammed up for the past three days.

  "Bette, it's Paul. How about some dinner tonight?"

  The pause was long and telling. He thought he could hear her resolve hardening. "No, thank you, Paul."

  That was all. No explanation, no nothing. She'd left him nothi
ng to grasp on to.

  "You have plans?" He tried to make it sound understanding.

  "I'm sorry, Paul. I don't think it's a good idea—" She broke off so abruptly, he knew she remembered Sunday night and what else she hadn't considered a good idea. That gave him renewed hope, which he needed after her next sentence. "I don't care to see you, Paul. Good night."

  The click was nearly as soft as her voice.

  He stayed irked all that night and the following day. Irked enough not to get much sleep and irked enough to resist the temptation to call her office again the next day. But not irked enough to kill the urge to see her.

  Part of him wondered at that. But it was a small part, easily drowned out by the parts that wanted to discover the secrets in her eyes, to make her laugh when she thought she should frown, to feel the heat of her passion so it fueled his own desire like a race car's high-octane. He'd be damned if he'd meekly fade out of her life.

  It was the challenge that attracted him, he reminded himself.

  When he arrived at Top-Line's office a few minutes after six Thursday evening, he was told that Ms. Wharton had left for a meeting with a client.

  He looked from Darla's bland brown eyes to the closed door of Bette's office, and back. He pivoted on one heel and walked out. Marching out the blocks with punishing steps, he reached the broad sidewalk of Michigan Avenue and turned right toward Mama Artemis's with some vague intention of finding a spot where people would be glad to see him.

  A client. A meeting with a client. A client like him? A meeting like the one they'd had a week ago, full of laughter and exchanged glances and the implicit possibility of more?

  He startled a few people by stopping abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk and swearing vehemently. "A client? She's meeting with a client?" Most of the people kept walking, parting and passing him like a rock in a stream, although he thought he noticed a few trying to hide smiles. They were all women.

  * * * *

  "You can come out now. It's safe, he's gone."

  Darla clearly intended irony, but Bette had a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach that if Paul Monroe had stuck around, she wouldn't have been safe.

  "I don't know why you don't just go out and have some fun with the guy."

  "I told you I—"

  "Have a schedule to keep." Darla completed the sentence in unison with her.

  Bette frowned. "Besides, Darla, you were the one saying just a few days ago that all Paul Monroe looked fit for was funny business."

  "I didn't say that's all he was fit for, unless you include certain other activities under the heading of funny business." Heat swept into Bette's cheeks, more in memory than embarrassment. "A woman would have to be blind to miss that man's potential in that area, and I may be married, but I'm not blind. Besides," Darla added with a pugnacious tilt to her chin, "I've never seen anyone in more need of funny business than you."

  "Really, Darla, I—"

  "Really, Bette," she mimicked. "You work too hard. You schedule your life down to the minute and you don't leave any time for fun."

  "That's not true. How about this weekend? I'm going on a trip—"

  "Only because your mother made you feel guilty when you first said you couldn't go." True, but Bette wasn't about to admit it out loud. "And if you can look me in the eye and tell me you haven't already packed three days' worth of work and arranged a couple business meetings up in Minnesota, I'll eat my hat. Better yet, I'll promise to keep quiet about the whole matter."

  Bette said nothing. Did the Fifth Amendment hold in dealing with scolding assistants?

  "Humph." Darla produced a sound somewhere between disgust and triumph. "All I have to say, young woman, is you better start penciling in time on that schedule of yours for exactly the kind of funny business Paul Monroe can provide, or you're going to be old before your time."

  Darla opened the door, then added a parting shot over her shoulder. "And while you're at it, schedule in some hanky-panky, too."

  * * * *

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Monroe, the office informs me that Ms. Wharton has left for the weekend."

  Left for the weekend by ten o'clock on a Friday morning? Bette Wharton? Paul wanted to snarl at the voice on the intercom. But he restrained himself.

  When Janine went on, he noted for the first time all week a hint of humanity beneath her efficient exterior. "I believe she flew out early this morning for a weekend trip." Janine hesitated, then added in her usual tone, "Can I put through another call for you, Mr. Monroe?"

  Since she hadn't managed to "put through" the one call he'd wanted, he thought that bordered on sarcasm.

  "No. Thanks. I have a call to make, but this one's private so I'll put it through myself."

  Let her inform her cronies at Top-Line that he didn't consider his calls to Bette Wharton as anything more than business. And let her also tell them that he had private calls to make.

  "Grady, it's Paul," he said when he got through. "What do you think about taking the afternoon off for a last sail of the season?"

  "I think it's too damn cold, for starters."

  Actually, Paul thought so, too. The three-day rain that had washed away Indian summer had eased yesterday, making the lingering cold all the more noticeable. But he needed something to vent this restlessness, and the lake had always been good for that.

  "And it's supposed to rain again," Grady added.

  "Afraid your good looks will melt?" The taunt about his friend's blond, blue-eyed handsomeness was too old to hold much sting.

  "I don't know, but I'm not going to risk it. Not now. I've got a big weekend planned with Cindi."

  "Who's Cindi? No, never mind. I'll just get her confused with the two hundred other women you've dated this year whose names end in 'i.' " Paul leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk. Maybe he wouldn't go sailing, but talking to Grady reminded Paul that some things in life don't change. "I'll bet you a pair of tickets to the Cubs' opener that Cindi spells her name with an 'i' on the end."

  A slightly sheepish silence followed. "Yeah, she does. But it's no bet," Grady protested. "I didn't bet."

  Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady, Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. "That's okay, Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway."

  He hung up, feeling more like himself than he had all week.

  * * * *

  The sense of well-being lasted less than twenty-three hours.

  He couldn't find anything to do.

  He called Tris, but got his cousin's machine in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He didn't want her asking nosy questions, anyhow. She'd read too much into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael . . . He'd go see Michael.

  He didn't bother to give the idea a second thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield, whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer's fertile crop even with last summer's reduced to brown stubble.

  His mind followed its own track.

  Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let relationships happen—or not happen—as the Fates decreed. And he'd always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that path with Bette and forget her. He depressed the accelerator another five-miles-per-hour's worth.

  The outside of Michael's Victorian house looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.

  "Boy, am I glad to see you."

  Paul groaned. "Don't you think you got enough free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down? Thirty? Forty? I don't think I'll ever breathe right again after all that plaster dust."

  "Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled labor."


  "You complaining?"

  "Absolutely not. In fact, I'm offering you a chance to hone those skills. Painting's very marketable these days. And I need to get this done while I still have the time."

  "Is that your way of telling me Joan's running for the U.S. Senate?" With Michael on state senator Joan Bradon's staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.

  "I'm not telling you anything, Monroe. Read your morning paper."

  "Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh, what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket."

  As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he felt the weight of Michael's wondering, the questions ceased.

  Spreading paint across the patched, multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse of color.

  The drawback was that his mind, free to wander, returned to the topic he'd tried to drive away from Bette.

  A sound reminded him of Michael, painting woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him . . . tell him what? That he'd met a woman he found attractive. So? Big news flash.

  He tried to divert his mind; the first topic he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some months.

  "So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come you didn't rope her into this drudge work?"

  The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I believe Laura's doing very well."

  Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"

  "She moved to California at the end of last month."

  "Why?"

  "She had an offer for a better position in a senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation, so—"

  "Don't give me that bull. What happened?"

  At the rawness of the question, Michael rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson might pull out of him in such moments.