The Best Man's Bride

by Anne McAllister

  “And I did have,” he maintained stubbornly. “It would have been irresponsible to start a family then.”

  “And you’re never irresponsible!” Ha.

  So maybe her retort was snarky, and maybe it wasn’t entirely true or fair. But it was the way she felt, as if he could do whatever he wanted and she was just supposed to adjust.

  Jack’s jaw worked. He ground his teeth. “Never said I didn’t want a family. I said it wasn’t convenient then.”

  “Oh? And when will it be? Next month? New year? In five years?” She stared at him, her expression pure challenge.

  There was a pause. She watched his Adam’s apple move. Then Jack said evenly, “How about now?”

  Celina’s jaw didn’t exactly drop, but she certainly didn’t believe what she was hearing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said sharply.

  “You said you wanted to start a family. I’m willing.”

  “Well, I’m not. Talk about irresponsible! My God, Jack!” She picked up her fork and stabbed one the potatoes that were getting cold on her plate.

  Jack looked at her fork protruding from the potato. “Is that me?” he asked.

  “Yes! No! I don’t know! Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Complicating things! We’re divorced, Jack. We aren’t starting a family. We’ve ended one – one that never should have begun.” Her voice was shaking. So were her hands.

  “I don’t agree,” Jack said. “It isn’t over. I never wanted the divorce. I still don’t.”

  She stared at him. “And where were you while it was becoming final? All over the world. Not fighting to save it.”

  His jaw tightened. “Yeah, well, that was obviously a mistake. I was angry, Celie. I told you that. I thought you knew me well enough to know I’d never find some groupie and take her to bed.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” she said bitterly.

  One of Jack’s brows lifted. “Whose sins am I paying for?”

  She didn’t answer at once. She never wanted to answer. But in a way, he was right. Not entirely right, but there was a bit of truth to what he said. “My father’s,” she said in a voice so quiet he probably couldn’t hear her.

  But clearly he did. “Ah, hell, Celie. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. So was my mother. She kept trying to pull things together. To make them work. She’s still trying. I don’t want to end up like my mother!”

  “You won’t, Celie,” he said fiercely. “I won’t do that to you. Ever.”

  She shook her head, pulled the fork out of the potato and laid it on the plate. “It’s too late, Jack.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  She stared at him.

  “It’s not,” he insisted again. “We can make it work.”

  “Like my mother has made it work? No, thanks.”

  “It won’t be your parents’ marriage.”

  “No, we’ll screw it up ourselves. We already have. There are no do-overs in life, Jack.”

  “Says who?”

  “I say.”

  “Didn’t you ever think, wow, I screwed that up? I need to do better next time?”

  “Of course, but –”

  “Well, I screwed up, Celie. I wanted the band, I wanted the music, I wanted –” his mouth twisted “– the fame and the glory and the fortune. And I went after it. Partly because I wanted it for itself, and because I didn’t want to be tied to the family ranch, to have my destiny carved out for me without my ever having made a decision that that was what I wanted.” He stopped abruptly, breathing hard. She could see his chest rising and falling.

  “I understand,” she began because she thought she did.

  But he shook his head and cut her off. “But most of all, I wanted you.”

  Celina stared at him. Most of all ... I wanted you?

  “It’s the truth, Celie,” he said roughly. “Ever since I met you, I’ve wanted you. You’re more important to me than any of it.”

  She stared across the table at him, dazed. Disbelieving. Those were words she never expected to hear Jack say. And she didn’t know what to make of them.

  They caught her completely off-guard, got under her skin. She didn’t know if she could trust them – if she could trust him.

  She ducked her head, twisted her fingers in her lap.

  Jack shoved back his chair and got up. She looked up at him warily, then looked down and away as he hunkered down next to her chair. “We can make it work, Celie.” His voice was hoarse. “We’re not your parents. I believe in us.”

  Oh God, sincerity. At least it sounded like sincerity. It also sounded suspiciously like song lyrics. Celie turned her head away.

  “I’ll show you, Celie. Give me a chance.”

  It’s not just you – she wanted to tell him. I’m not enough for you. But she couldn’t say a word.

  Jack rose again and came around behind her and began to knead her shoulders. They were so stiff, rigid, like rigor mortis had set in. His thumbs felt like heaven as he pressed them into the cords at the base of her neck. She stifled a moan.

  Warm breath teased her ear, then she felt him nuzzling her hair. And God help her, she was powerless to resist the beseeching, the gentleness, the touch of the one man she had ever loved.

  “Oh, Jack.” She couldn’t stifle the moan this time.

  She felt his smile against her temple. Then he kissed her there, kissed the tips of her ears, then nibbled along the side of her jaw until, finally, eons later, at last he touched her mouth.

  Friends kissed, Celina tried to tell herself. Of course they did.

  But there was nothing friendly about the way Jack was kissing her. This was a kiss between lovers, a kiss infused with passion, with promise.

  And Celina couldn’t stop her heart beating faster. She couldn’t shove him away. Before she even realized it, she was kissing him back desperately, hungering for him as she’s never stopped hungering for him.

  She didn’t believe. She didn’t trust. But she was powerless to push him away.

  Worse, it was Jack who finally broke off the kiss.

  He was breathing hard. There was a hectic flush across his cheekbones, and he winced as he stood up.

  He was aroused, no question about it. Celina knew Jack. She knew the signs. She knew what came next. What she didn’t know was how she would find the fortitude to say no. She was breathing hard, too, and in danger of melting on the spot.

  Then Jack stepped away, went back around the table, sat down opposite her again, and began to cut his steak.

  Celina looked at him, stunned. What on earth?

  Jack looked up long enough to meet her gaze, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

  “Your stomach was growling,” he told her. “You’re hungry. We have time. Eat.”

  Celina had never felt less like eating in her life. Her skin was on fire wherever Jack’s fingertips had touched. Her lips felt bee-stung from his kiss. And somewhere deep inside her where she most needed to be permafrost forever, she was melting fast.

  And Jack was watching her. He knew what was happening. Just the way he had always known. There had always been a connection between them – one that even her most stringent resolutions seemed helpless against.

  Celina bent her head, refusing to look at him. But she could still feel his gaze on her. It was as physical as a touch, and whether she wanted it to or not, it made her whole body quiver with longing.

  No, she told herself. No. You can’t!

  She picked up her fork and determinedly began to eat.

  Slow had never been Jack’s modus operandi.

  He was an action man, always had been. And trying to convince Celie that they belonged together, that their marriage was worth fighting for the way that Celie would do it – slowly, methodically, logically – was getting them nowhere fast. Or slow.

  It was also driving him out of his mind.

  It was great that she’d come to his room that afternoon. He was thr
illed that she’d finally listened.

  But once she’d listened, she’d left! Ready to be friends, for God’s sake!

  Friends! It made him want to spit.

  She had no idea. And convincing her her way wasn’t going to happen before the next ice age. So he had to do it the only way he knew how.

  He’d got her here, thanks to twisting Jonas’s arm. That hadn’t been the easiest thing he’d ever done. Joe had had a few fierce words to say about Jack not hurting Celina again.

  “Again?” Jonas had weighed the word, then found it lacking. “Hurting her more! Lucky for you she’s a survivor,” he’d snarled. “Otherwise you’d be a dead man now.”

  “I’ve been a dead man since she left,” Jack had said roughly.

  It was true, and it had had the virtue of shutting Jonas up. For a minute, anyway. Then he’d said, “Just a warning, Jack. Don’t you dare screw this up. Again.”

  And Jack had sworn, “I won’t! God –” he’d rubbed a palm down his face “– Joe, come on. I need another chance. Did everything run smooth for you and Hope?”

  At least, at that, Jonas had had the grace to look abashed. “No, of course not,” he’d said. He’d hesitated a moment more, then said, “Fine. I’ll ask Simon. Or Max. One of them should know of a place you can go.” He’d shaken his head. “It still seems a little dramatic, Jack. Couldn’t you just reason with her?”

  If he had five years, maybe. But Jack didn’t have five years. He had three more days. With luck. And if he hadn’t convinced her by then, she’d walk back out of his life.

  And that was unthinkable.

  He’d meant what he said. He hadn’t wanted his father and grandfather determining what he was going to do. He’d wanted the band to replace that.

  But the band couldn’t replace Celie. If he hadn’t known that before, after two years of feeling as if he’d lost half of himself, he knew it now.

  Nothing could replace her.

  “I missed you,” he said, fixing her with a long look, all the while stolidly cutting his steak because he needed something to do with his hands if he wasn’t going to use them to seduce her. Yet.

  She was still looking at him as if he’d grown two heads.

  “Every damn day I missed you,” he growled.

  She flicked a quick gaze in his direction, but then bent her head and picked up her knife and fork again.

  “I came after you,” he persisted.

  That caused her eyes to flick up again, but still she didn’t speak.

  Jack pressed on. “I got the divorce papers right before Thanksgiving.” His mouth twisted. “Hell of a Thanksgiving present.”

  “People don’t give Thanksgiving presents, Jack.” Her voice was low.

  “And now I know why,” he said grimly. “I was in Stockholm, and Tobe gave them to me after the concert.” He shook his head. He could still remember the ice-cold feeling that had shivered through his veins when he’d opened the envelope. He swallowed. “I got on a plane that morning. Went back to Ames.”

  She stopped eating now, her fork halfway to her mouth, her lips slightly parted. God he wanted to taste them again.

  But he wasn’t doing it now. Now he had to make her understand how it was with him. Jack pulled himself together, forged on. “You were gone. There were strangers in the house who were wondering why this guy was banging on their door on Thanksgiving.”

  Her eyes widened. “You really went ...” Her voice died. She stared at him.

  Jack shook his head. “Hell of a shock, Celie.”

  She pressed her lips together. Didn’t speak again. Didn’t put the fork to her mouth, though, either.

  “So I went to your grandparents’ farm.”

  Now she did set her fork down. She stared at him, her mouth an O.

  “And to their neighbors when no one was home.” His mouth twisted at the memory of his increasing sense of helplessness and desperation.

  “They weren’t –?” She stopped herself. “They were in Texas at Uncle Dan and Aunt Grace’s.”

  “So the neighbors said. But they didn’t have a clue where you were.”

  “In San Michele.”

  Which was why bloody Jonas owed him. Jack ground his teeth. “Jonas could have said.”

  “I asked him not to.” Celie’s voice was a bare whisper.

  “Because you knew we belonged together and you were scared to face it,” Jack said flatly because tact and finesse and all those good things were beyond him. Probably always had been.

  “Because I knew we had no business getting married in the first place, and I didn’t want to see you ever again ... because ... because of ... this!” She waved her fork at the room, at the dinner, at him.

  “Aw, Celie. No.”

  He wanted to get up and go to her again. But he had to stay where he was. He had done this much his way. He’d got her here. He’d spilled his guts. Now he needed to shut the hell up and let her process what he’d said.

  Celie needed to process. To think things through before she committed.

  So not like him.

  So Jack stuck another piece of steak that tasted like shoe leather into his mouth and chewed, doing his best to give her the time. For now.

  After he’d chewed and swallowed, he picked up the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses. Then he cast around for something to say. There were pictures of dogs on the walls. Hunting dogs. She’d liked talking about the dog.

  “So who’s got Roscoe while you’re here?” he asked. It was lame – a stupid thing to bring up.

  But oddly, she latched on to it. “One of the women who works in the kitchen,” she told him. “She watches him every time I have to travel with Maggie. She takes him hiking. I take him hiking most weekends. He loves that.” Her eyes lit up. “He loves boats and swimming, too.”

  “He has a boat?” Jack asked. So, color him jealous. He wanted to know who she went boating and swimming with.

  “The palace has a boat. Several of them. And a royal yacht as well,” she told him. “Some weekends Maggie and I go with Carlo and Anna and the children. When the nanny has a break, I help keep an eye on the kids.” She looked away, and it was easy to see that she didn’t want to go there.

  Neither did he. Jack poured more wine, then got up and added a log to the fire.

  “We should be getting back,” Celie said.

  “To what?” Jack countered. “We’re just going to be watching grass grow at the manor.”

  “I believe there’s cricket on television,” she said, completely deadpan.

  Jack grunted. “Same difference.”

  She laughed.

  It stirred something in his soul. They used to laugh all the time. At silly things. Simple things. Jack missed that as much as he missed her warmth, her gentleness, her passion. His throat felt tight at the very sound.

  Their gazes locked – and something electric arced between them. His breath caught and held. And he thought hers did, too.

  Then she pushed away from the table. “We really should go.”

  He got up, too, but he didn’t answer, just carried the dishes to the sink and began running water in the dish pan there. Within moments, Celie had joined him, bringing in her own dishes, then proceeding to clear the table while he washed up.

  “Whose place is this?” she asked. “Is it Max’s?”

  “A friend of his, he said,” Jack replied.

  “It’s ... nice.” She picked up a dish towel and began to dry the dishes as he washed. “I like it.”

  “Me, too.” He kept washing dishes, not looking her way. It reminded him of when he was a boy and he’d taken a fancy to a feral kitten he’d found in the barn.

  “You’re never gonna tame her,” his grandfather had told him. “Cats like her don’t settle.”

  But Jack hadn’t listened. Every morning, after doing his chores, he’d gone to the barn and puttered around. His grandfather had been showing him how to mend tack, so he’d taken that into the barn and worked on it t
here, letting the kitten get used to him.

  He’d brought his guitar out, too. He couldn’t play worth a damn in those days. But he’d liked messing around on it. And the noises he made seemed to interest the kitten.

  As the days went on, she had ventured closer, looked at him curiously. He’d lain down on the floor and had been enchanted when he’d felt the first tentative footsteps as the kitten had walked over his legs, then bounced up onto his back. He’d laughed, and the kitten had scampered away.

  But moments later, she’d come back, batting at him, walking across him, kneading his shoulder blades with her tiny needle-sharp claws.

  Good training, it turned out, for dealing with Celie.

  He drew out the washing up as long as he could. When they finished, Celie began putting the leftovers and things he’d brought along back into the bags to carry out to the car. Her movements were not quite as brisk as they had been earlier.

  “Why do you want to leave?” Jack said at last because if he didn’t press, it wasn’t going to happen and he knew it. “Are you afraid of what we still have?”

  Her arms were full of bags to take to the car when he spoke, and her gaze jerked up to meet his. “We don’t have anything,” she protested.

  “You don’t remember the kiss?” He took one last swipe over the counter top with the towel, then hung it on the rack and turned to her. “Let me remind you.”

  And before she could scurry out the door with her arms full of stuff to put in the car, he took two strides across the kitchen and kissed her.

  When he was seven, Jack had convinced his mother that everyone should open one present on Christmas Eve. In eighth grade he had aced debate. As a junior he’d been a member of the high school team that had won the Montana State debate contest. Three years ago, he’d persuaded Tobin Griffiths to manage South Face when Tobe had been a big-time manager and South Face had been nothing more than a two-bit band with sky-high hopes.

  Jack had always known how to make a case.

  But he’d never needed to make one more persuasively than he needed his kiss to persuade Celie now. And he knew it.