Million-Dollar Bride

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “Can I sleep on top of the covers?”

  He had never met anyone like her. “If you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable.”

  “But one of us should probably sleep under the covers.”

  “Your choice.”

  “Okay, I’m fine on top.”

  “Good, so am I.”

  “But we’re both—”

  “Eliza, do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Stop talking.”

  The memory of how he’d stopped her before filled the room. “Oh,” she said with breathy awareness. “I’ll just scoot down here and try to go to sleep.”

  He half wished she’d put up more of a fight. “Good idea,” he said and slid down beside her.

  ELIZA AWAKENED at one point, shivering and cold. Dawn sliced through a gap in the drapes and cast an eerie glow across the motel room. It took several minutes before the memory of where she was and why filtered through the haze of sleep to find her, but oddly, she wasn’t startled by the strange surroundings or the soft, reassuring sounds of Mack’s breathing.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she rolled over until they lay face to sleeping face and she could look at him as much and as long as she wished. He didn’t look like the man she’d always pictured as her soul mate. She didn’t know how, exactly, but she’d imagined her bridegroom would look different, somehow. It was too bad she couldn’t recall the details of the man she’d seen in the mirror. Maybe he’d looked like Mack, although she really couldn’t be sure.

  Her lips curved with a tender smile. Why was she thinking about a man who probably didn’t even exist when she was lying next to Mack? She wanted to spend what time she had drowning in the delicious sensations she felt just looking at him. He wasn’t handsome, exactly. His face was too angular for that. But his features were strong and appealing. And she liked his hair as it was now, mussed and relaxed, with a few dark strands falling like shadows across his forehead. In sleep, he lost the precise, proper look of a man of purpose and became approachable, touchable and oh, so desirable.

  MacKenzie Cortland. Even his name pleased her, and she tried it on for size. Mrs. MacKenzie Cortland. Eliza Cortland. Not that she would ever use it, of course. Or ever speak it aloud. Or even whisper it in private. But here, in the dusky, dusty confines of Cabin 5, she allowed herself to pretend—just for a moment—that MacKenzie Cortland belonged, in name and body, to her.

  She lifted her hand and came within a breath of stroking his cheek with her fingertip. But what would she say if she awakened him? How could she tell him she’d just wanted to know what it felt like to touch him, her husband, in the first, sweet moments of dawn? And how could she possibly explain that she had been so reckless and foolish as to fall in love with a man who rightfully belonged to another?

  THE MOMENT HE OPENED his eyes and saw Eliza watching him, Mack knew he was in trouble. There wasn’t time for her to mask her expression, and he recognized it for what it was…a wishful, wistful longing. A desire born of needs he knew nothing of, but understood very well. Without a second’s consideration, he surrendered to impulse and reached for her, pulling her into his arms and into an embrace he suddenly wanted more than anything else. He moved his head on the pillow and felt her warm breath on his face an instant before he pressed his mouth to hers.

  Passion awakened in him, fierce and pulsing, as if it had lain too long asleep, and he kissed her with ruthless possession. Her response fed his hunger, greedily taking pleasure from his touch and demanding more. Her body sought the curve of his and nestled against him in seductive petition. Her silky skin stroked his neck as her arms slid around him, drawing him closer…closer….

  He kissed her long and thoroughly, taking the time to learn the shape of her lips, the taste of her skin, the untouched yearning of her generous heart. His fingers worked the buttons of her dress, freeing the material so he could push it back and reach the tender pulse points beneath. He kissed her throat, her neck, the soft hollow of her shoulder, and returned to her lips to begin again, imprinting the feel of her in his mind, memorizing the details that made up the one-and-only Eliza.

  Another button slipped free, inviting him to explore the smoothness of her breastbone, the gentle slopes of her body, the lusty fullness of her breasts. She wore a nylon slip beneath the dress, but no bra. Miz Vangie’s wardrobe obviously had its limitations, he thought, as his hand slipped between the crisp cotton dress fabric and the slick, sheer synthetic. Eliza caught her breath in a quicksilver gasp as his hand closed over her breast.

  He looked at her, searching for her thoughts, her feelings, her desire to stop…or proceed. The expression in her eyes was cloudy with excitement, and he didn’t wait for further invitation before he trailed a line of kisses down the open V and dampened the thin nylon with several enticing strokes of his tongue. He grew tired of being separated from her by even such a thin layer of clothing, and in a moment, he moved his hand to impatiently pull the strap off her shoulder and release the swell of her breast. Her fingers pushed beneath the collar of his jumpsuit and dug lightly into his shoulders as he drew her into his mouth. His suckling drew a quiet, nearly inaudible cry of pleasure from her lips, and the sound wounded him with its honesty.

  Simultaneously, he felt a contradictive rush of protective emotion and physical desire. He wanted to protect her and possess her, to explore her mystery and to respect her secrets. But he couldn’t resist the temptation to continue touching, kissing, giving pleasure and taking pleasure in the giving. Eliza was so easy to please, so eager to respond. And he wondered how he had lived all his life without realizing how unpredictable and sweet life could be.

  He knew the moment she became aware of just where they were heading. He recognized the subtle shift of her attention from the physical to the practical. He could feel the tension as it skimmed across her body in a nearly indiscernible ripple. For the space of a heartbeat or two, he thought about sabotaging her doubt with a rush of new sensations, with dozens of soul-devouring kisses that would once more shift the balance of reason and passion. But he had never taken anything that wasn’t his, and married or not, Eliza did not belong to him.

  With more regret than he cared to admit, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, unsettled by the tension in his own body, caught lonely and needy by the sharp protest of his heart. If he’d gone on, if he’d pressed for intimacy, would she have denied him? Would he have used the excuse of the ceremony to seduce her? Would she have pretended to believe the marriage was for real? And if she hadn’t, would he have had the sense to stop on his own? Eliza was right about avoiding further complications. She was completely right and he…He was awash in desire.

  “Mack.” Her voice was a thoughtful whisper beside him. “You kissed me.”

  He frowned at the ceiling. “Yes.”

  Silence ticked like a clock, measuring the questions huddled in the bed between them. “You kissed me,” she repeated in a hushed and wondering voice. “And I wasn’t even talking. There was no excuse for it.”

  “No,” he agreed, confirming the suspicion that she couldn’t quite put into words. “There was no excuse for it at all. Except that I wanted to kiss you.”

  She sighed and rolled onto her back beside him. For several long minutes, they each stared overhead. “Mack,” she said finally. “I wanted to kiss you, too.”

  I know, Eliza. He didn’t answer her aloud, though. He couldn’t say anything else without putting them both in danger. So he lay, focusing on the ceiling and wondering why doing the right thing had suddenly become so frustrating.

  Chapter 11

  Water spewed from the shower head in a lukewarm drizzle, unaffected by Mack’s efforts to adjust the pressure and temperature. He twisted the knobs again in frustration and decided that even the showers in this place were conservative—not too hot, not too cold. Normally that would have suited him fine, but he’d been counting on a cold shower to shock some sense into him. Not to mention shocking some of
the foolishness out of him. He couldn’t believe after everything that had happened to him yesterday how his body went into red alert just lying in bed next to Eliza. How could he be attracted to her? He barely knew her. Amazing.

  And he was married to her. Even more amazing. He stuck his head under the low-pressure stream and let the water wash over him. Cortlands must be turning in their mausoleums all across the country. The family history was liberally seasoned with long engagements that inevitably led to long marriages. Divorce didn’t occur in the Cortland dynasty, because the men chose their brides the same way they chose their suits…with deliberate attention to quality, style and the proper fit.

  He considered Eliza and decided that he had already seen evidence of courage, resolve, ingenuity and a sense of humor—all qualities he admired. And as to style…well, any woman who could carry off wearing such dissimilar raiment as a bridal gown, her birthday suit, a prim flannel nightgown and a 1950s shirtwaist with saddle shoes didn’t have much to fear when it came to fashion. But proper fit was something else entirely… and there was no way in heaven or hell that Eliza Richards would ever fit into the staid, sedate and ultraorthodox Cortland family. And he wouldn’t want her if she did.

  He filled his hands with the lukewarm water and splashed it on his face, shaking his head to sling away the excess moisture. There wasn’t even any reason for him to be thinking about it. As she had been quick to point out, the marriage might be legal, but it wasn’t real and could be annulled without fault on either side. And there was no question that it should be. So why was he plagued by a persistent and mutinous desire to consummate this strange union with Eliza and spend the day—maybe several days—making long, passionate love to her?

  He tried again to regulate the temperature, but no matter which way he turned the taps, the spray remained unchanged. Maybe that doctor had been wrong and he actually did have a concussion. It was possible that his muddled reasoning this morning was a direct result of the bump on his head. Anyone who’d been knocked unconscious by a frying pan—make that anyone who’d been hit with a frying pan and then used as a battering ram—had a legitimate excuse for behaving as if he had mincemeat for brains. And his body had suffered significant trauma during this little adventure…which, come to think of it, didn’t do anything to explain his sexual “pertness” this morning.

  But no matter. He hadn’t spent the past thirty-four years as a Cortland without learning to control himself, his emotions and his circumstances. And this would be no different. Eliza was an earthquake in the otherwise-serene landscape of his life, and from this moment on, he would treat her as such. He’d phone Leanne again after he got out of the shower. He’d say whatever he had to say, promise whatever he had to promise, to persuade her that he was an innocent bystander in the crazy events that had made a shambles of their wedding day. And eventually she’d believe him—or pretend to, anyway. And his life would go back to the way it had been before Eliza had rumbled through it.

  A draft of air whisked past him suddenly and he looked around, fully expecting to see a gap in the wall joists or a crack in the window above the shower stall, but everything looked solid and sta—

  The plastic shower curtain made a popping sound and billowed toward him. Startled, he jerked back, slipped and grabbed for support, catching the hot-water knob in both hands and barely preventing a fall.

  “Mack?”

  “Eliza—!” Hot water gushed from the shower head in a sudden burst, and he scrambled out of the stall, nearly falling over her in his haste to avoid being broiled.

  Eliza grasped his forearm to steady him as an ocean of steam poured into the tiny bathroom. “What happened?” she asked in alarm. “Are you all right?”

  He looked down at the not-so-supple plastic curtain that was plastered across him from shoulder to hip and somehow wasn’t surprised when it began a slow slide off his slick body. “Couldn’t you have just knocked on the door like a normal person?”

  Her chin came up and she dropped her hand from his arm. “I did knock. You obviously didn’t hear me.”

  “Right.” He was rather pleased with the succinct syllable and the way it snicked through the humid, heated air. “And of course, you couldn’t have waited two more minutes for me to finish my shower, could you, Miss Impulsive?”

  Her eyes sparked in anger and she shoved a towel into his hand. “That’s Mrs. Impulsive to you.” She spun on her heel, nicking his big toe with the clunky sole of her borrowed saddle oxford as she left the bathroom and closed the door decisively behind her.

  Hell, Mack thought, as he reached around and shut off the waterfall behind him. Now what was wrong with her? It wasn’t lack of sleep, that was for sure. She had gotten plenty of shut-eye. Certainly more than he had. She hadn’t lain awake trying to convince herself she wasn’t really attracted to him. She hadn’t watched him sleep or memorized every part of his face or counted the number of times he’d sighed in peaceful dreams. Oh, no, she’d slept like a baby, leaving him to deal with a strange bevy of unexpectedly tender and absolutely inappropriate emotions.

  Damn it, he had a right to be irritable. A healthy annoyance was probably the best thing for him…probably his only real means of defense, as well. Eliza looked rested and pretty this morning. A single smile from her might send his resolve packing. A thread of her laughter could trip up his best intentions. She was impulsive and unpredictable and, for God only knew what reason, he found her profoundly seductive.

  Why had she come into the bathroom, anyway? To stir him up? Get his blood pumping? Raise his body temperature? He pressed his fingers into a wad of soft terry cloth. Had she come in just to bring him a towel? He winced, realizing he’d overreacted to her completely innocent and thoughtful gesture.

  Sighing in frustration, he rubbed the terry cloth over his wet hair and wiped his face. Then, looping the towel behind his back, he made several passes across his shoulders before dropping it to his hips and doing a little rumba. He then brought it around to wipe his chest and legs before dropping it and reaching for his coveralls. The moment he stepped into the jumpsuit, the material clamped around his ankle with a cool, clammy wetness. Water from the runaway shower had collected on the floor, forming a puddle right where he’d dropped his clothes before stepping into the shower. The jumpsuit was soaked from the thighs down and all along one side from neck to sleeve.

  What was he supposed to do now? Hang them out the window? And then what? Stay in the bathroom until they dried? On the other hand, parading around the motel room in his jail-house-issue boxers was not a particularly attractive option, either. Tough choice. Make that no choice.

  Reaching down, he picked up the boxers with his thumb and forefinger and held them up while they dripped like a leaky faucet onto his bare feet. He let go and the underwear dropped with a splash on the floor. And he’d had such hopes for this morning, too. Retrieving the damp towel, he wrapped its abbreviated length about his waist and opened the door. “Eliza? Could you… give me a hand?”

  She stopped leafing through the outdated catalog to look at him. Sitting in the middle of the bed, her legs criss-crossed beneath the pouf of the pink skirt, she looked like a pale pink tulip sprouting from the center of the sea-foam green cotton sheets. With a slight and maddening smile, she brought up her hands and gave him a round of applause.

  “Very funny. Come on, Eliza. I need some assistance here. My clothes were on the bathroom floor and they got a little…damp. Do you think you could find something for me to wear?”

  She held up the catalog. “This might work for you.” She tapped the picture of a trench coat. “With some black socks and shoes? What do you think?”

  “Very classy, but I had something a little more immediate in mind.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’ll deliver.”

  “They’ll deliver me straight to jail in that outfit, with or without Miz Vangie’s frying pan. Come on, now, give me a—” He held up his hand, his palm out. “Help me find something to wear. P
lease?”

  Tilting her head to the side, she looked him over from toe to towel, adding a hot flash of awareness to his already overheated irritation. “Scrawny towel, isn’t it?”

  “It’s adequate.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “If I had a couple of safety pins, I could fix you a bedspread toga. But I have to be honest with you, Mack. I don’t think it would be very flattering.”

  His lips tightened. “You wouldn’t be enjoying this so much if you were the one without anything to wear.”

  “You know, you’re right.” She began to hum softly as she resumed leafing through the catalog.

  He couldn’t believe it, she was humming. “Fine. I’ll take care of this myself.” He walked toward the bed and was gratified to see a glint of wariness in her eyes. Ignoring her for the moment, he picked up the phone from the floor and set it on the bedside table. He dialed zero and waited for someone in the motel office to answer.

  Eliza felt his eyes on her and nonchalantly turned a page in the catalog. All right, so adding to his irritation was probably not the wisest course she could have chosen this morning, she thought. But then, he hadn’t taken any pains to put her at ease, either. Impulsive, he’d said. As if it was something to be ashamed of. As if she was responsible for everything that had happened. As if she had completely ruined his life.

  Even if most of what had happened was her fault, he didn’t have to keep pointing it out. As if she didn’t know what a tangle they were in. They? Make that what a tangle she was in. Mack was going to walk out of this cabin a free man. He’d have to get the marriage annulled, of course, but she couldn’t see that as being much of a problem. It had only taken a few misunderstandings and a couple of signatures to do the deed. How could it take more than a statement of the truth and a signature to undo it? In fact, when all was said and done, she’d probably be lucky if he didn’t sue her for impersonating his wife or some such thing. And if he didn’t think of suing her, his fiancée undoubtedly would.