THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  He met her gaze frankly. "I said, I think I'm losing my mind."

  Which was, perhaps, putting it mildly. She wasn't hung up on Dev? None of this sighing around for the past few days had anything to do with her and Dev – or not in a man-woman sense anyway.

  It had to do with Dev and Lily?

  Chan did his best to get a grip on it. He'd always known that understanding relationships wasn't his strong point, but he couldn't remember ever having been so messed up as to have got the participants wrong before.

  "So you're not sighing after ol' Dev, huh?" he said after a moment. He felt just a little bit better.

  "You thought I was?" Madeleine sounded amused.

  "You acted like you were."

  "I acted like he was my friend."

  "Those were friendly kisses?"

  "Honest to God, Richardson, what is it with those kisses? You weren't… You aren't—" she gave a small gasp, then giggled "—jealous, are you?"

  "Of course I'm not jealous! Why the hell would I be jealous?"

  "Well, I don't know." Madeleine pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "I don't really know a lot about men. I guess I figured you could be territorial, you know. Like resenting him because you think I'm yours just because I'm staying in your camper."

  "You're not mine, Decker."

  "You'd better believe I'm not," she replied with just as much force.

  Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Chan supposed Madeleine was doing some sort of silent boundary building.

  He was trying to reassess exactly where things stood. He wasn't very good at that, either. It would be nice, he thought, since guys were expected to know how to deal with women, if somebody would give you a game book. He sighed and stretched out on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

  "Richardson?"

  "Huh?"

  "Would you have slept with that waitress if I hadn't been along?"

  He sat up with a jerk. "Where the hell did that come from?"

  "You were flirting with her. Would you have—"

  "No, I damn well wouldn't have. Honest to God, Decker, what's the matter with you? Do you think I go to bed with every female who smiles at me from coast to coast?"

  So maybe there was a bit more righteous indignation in his tone than he had a right to, but, damn it, she didn't have to ask questions like that!

  "I just wondered," Madeleine said. "I mean I know you haven't been getting any … er, well, I mean, I don't think you've been getting any … er…"

  "Rest assured, Decker, you're absolutely right. I haven't been getting any … er, well," Chan said sarcastically.

  "That's another reason I've been thinking I ought to go back to New York."

  "So I can have sex?" He was incredulous.

  "Well, you must miss it," she said reasonably. "And you keep talking about kisses."

  "So sorry."

  "Are you?" She turned suddenly serious. "Sorry you kissed me, I mean?"

  I give up, he thought desperately. He stared at her. "Hell, Decker, what do you think? Did I act like I was sorry?"

  "Well, I don't think so," she said, her tone almost diffident. "But I really haven't kissed a lot of … I mean, I've hardly ever—"

  "And don't give me any crap about inexperience! I won't believe it. You weren't kissing me with any lack of experience!"

  There was an instant's pause. Then, "I wasn't?"

  "If that was inexperience, believe me, kiddo, you're a natural."

  "I am? I mean, I am." She giggled again. "Of course I am!" The giggles positively bubbled out now. She got on her knees and leaned over the bunk so her head hung down toward his. "Richardson?"

  "What?"

  "Kiss me."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  She didn't have to ask him twice.

  He kissed her.

  It might have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but…

  He kissed her.

  He'd wanted it for so long, had done it in his mind so many times, had hung on to the memory of that last kiss so tightly that he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

  He kissed her.

  He stood up slowly, not answering her, not speaking at all. Just stood and came to her so that his face and hers were on a level, their eyes probing each other's in the darkness, their breaths mingling as he closed the distance between them.

  And then he touched his lips to hers. A light touch. A feathering. The barest hint of pressure. And then release. Touch. And go. Touch. And go. Touch. And…

  And then he didn't go. He stayed, lingered, savored. And felt the heat rise within him, felt the fires, banked so long, now flame to life. And he raised his hands and took her face between them, held her gently. He let his thumbs graze her cheekbones, his fingers trace the line of her ears, as all the while, slowly and sweetly his lips melded with hers.

  Melded … melted. Either. Both.

  He didn't know where he left off and she began. He didn't know which breath was his and which was hers.

  And kissing wasn't going to be enough before long. He wanted more, needed more, ached for more. More touching, more savoring, more tasting, more mingling of his and hers.

  He shifted his weight to push himself up, to haul himself onto the back of the bench, to bring them closer, to slide his body onto the bunk next to her.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and held him where he was. She drew her mouth slowly away from his. He could hear her heart hammering. Or was it his?

  "Decker?"

  She bowed her head. "My mistake, Richardson."

  "Mistake?"

  "Leading you on. I told you I wasn't very experienced." She lifted her gaze and looked at him ruefully. "What you said … it went to my head. I wanted to try it again. But I … I can't…"

  He sucked in a sharp breath. "Yeah," he said gruffly. He sank down onto his bunk and hunched over, shutting his eyes, trying to will his aroused body into a calmer state. It wasn't easy. Especially when she didn't move, just hung there watching him.

  "I'm sorry, Richardson," she said softly.

  He gave a half laugh. "So'm I."

  "Do you hate me?"

  "Yes."

  She gasped. "You do?"

  He turned a rueful glance on her. "Mostly, Decker, I hate my mother."

  "Is there anything I can do? I mean—" he knew if he could see her she'd be blushing "—besides … besides that."

  "Go to sleep, Decker."

  "You're sure?"

  He rolled himself onto the bed and briefly buried his face in the pillow. "I'm sure."

  He heard her shift, heard the bunk creak, then settle. Far off he heard the sound of a semi downshift, coming down the pass. Closer by there came the soft hoot of an owl.

  "Richardson?"

  He gave serious thought to pretending he was asleep. Then he heard her roll over and knew she was looking down at him.

  "What?" he said.

  "You kiss very well."

  * * *

  Well, he did. So she said so.

  It was important to be honest.

  Sort of. As honest as she dared, anyway. She was in over her head on this trip with Chan Richardson, and she knew it. The wisest thing – the sanest thing – would be to say she couldn't swim.

  She wasn't quite honest enough for that.

  Why not?

  Because … because she wanted to find out what would happen next.

  She felt like a child given the end of a string and told to follow it into an enchanted forest. Every step into this new world brought her new knowledge, new friends, new insights into herself. And now … even though she sensed she was losing her bearings, she couldn't find it in herself to head back.

  The one rational bit of her left had surfaced last night when she'd suggested going back to New York.

  But was she getting on a plane today in Salt Lake City? Was she doing the sensible thing and calling it quits?

&n
bsp; No.

  Why?

  Because she wanted to know what happened between Lily and Dev. Because she wanted to see Reno and Calgary and Prescott and Window Rock and the dozens of other places in between. Because she liked this new person she was becoming, this one who got involved in people's lives, who knew how to drive, who dared to kiss Chan Richardson, who dared – she smiled at this – to ask him to kiss her.

  That, she admitted because she was being honest with herself, was the main reason she was staying.

  Because of Chan Richardson.

  Not that she thought she was going to marry him. Not that he'd suddenly become her perfect man. Heaven forbid.

  But he was an interesting man, a tantalizing man, a man she liked being around, whom she wanted to know better.

  "All knowledge is useful," Antonia always said.

  Madeleine was willing to admit she'd learned some things from Chan. She touched her lips, then smiled. She suspected he might have a few more things to teach her.

  She would have to be careful, though, she knew that. Not just for herself, but for his sake, too. She couldn't play games the way she'd played them the night before. She might not know a lot about men, but she knew better than to tease one. Chan Richardson was a good man, a surprisingly tolerant man, but even a good man could be pushed too far.

  Madeleine didn't want to go too far. But if they set out the ground rules beforehand…

  * * *

  "So," said a faint, far-off voice that Julia recognized immediately despite the long-distance echo and crackle, "what have you heard?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" The voice was suddenly stronger, though whether it was due to improved phone transmission or concern on the part of the caller, Julia wasn't sure. "Not a word?"

  "Not a word."

  "But they've been gone weeks!"

  "Almost a month," Julia agreed cheerfully.

  "Do you think that's a … good sign?" Antonia was clearly doubtful.

  "Well, you know what they say, 'No news is good news'."

  "Honestly, Julia, you'd think a woman of your education wouldn't stoop to clichés."

  "Well, fine. What do you think happened?"

  "He might have killed her."

  "What?"

  "Oh, not literally," Antonia said hastily. "It's just that Madeleine can be, well, exasperating at times."

  "So can Chan," Julia admitted.

  "So you think they're just happily exasperating each other?"

  "I'd say it's a good bet. They've kissed, you know."

  "Well, I should hope," Antonia said. "Madeleine might be exasperating, but she's not slow."

  Julia laughed. "Do you think you might want to rephrase that?"

  "You know what I mean," Antonia grumbled.

  "Yes. I'm sure she's all that's proper. That's one of the reasons I think she'll make a good match for Channing. He needs a woman like that. A challenge and all."

  "Madeleine's a challenge," Antonia said. "I can guarantee that." She paused. "So, you think we can breathe easy for the moment, do you?"

  "I think so. I hope so," Julia said. "I'm sure they're still together, anyway. I feel quite confident that Chan would call and berate me if anything disastrous had happened. He always does."

  "Why is it," Antonia wondered, "that children are always so ready to blame their mothers?"

  "I can't imagine," Julia said. "I've finished my part of the guest list. Have you finished yours?"

  * * *

  Reno, Nevada. The biggest little city in the West. Or that's what they called it, anyway. And as far as Chan was concerned, they were right. It was certainly more city than he was used to spending time in. After a month of small-town rodeos and all-night driving, it was not only an oasis in the desert, it was an oasis in the rodeo schedule that was his life.

  Every year he looked forward to it – to the neon and the nightclubs, to the cowboy golf tournament and the blackjack games, to wandering down Virginia Street just soaking things up, checking things out. He looked forward to a little dancing, a little playing, a little drinking with his buddies. All the performances were in the daytime. He could – he had – stayed up all night.

  This year, with Madeleine in tow, he anticipated there would be a slight crimp in his plans.

  Some dancing, yeah, if he was lucky and she knew how; although, after the driver's license business he had learned not to take things for granted. There'd be a little less playing and a little less drinking. Of that he had no doubt. He wasn't sure yet about the staying up all night – living with Madeleine was more unpredictable than riding any bull he'd ever known – but a guy could hope.

  He could plan. He could dream. He could anticipate.

  How could he have guessed he'd have to spend four days in a hotel room with an ice pack between his legs?

  He couldn't even blame it on Madeleine. Not directly at least. And even indirectly he had to stretch the truth pretty far to attribute it to her. She was in the stands when it happened. He wasn't even thinking about her. He'd made a beauty of his first ride. It was on a tough son-of-a-gun bull, and he was bailing out when it happened. His foot slipped in the dust and he skidded, almost doing the splits.

  He got, pure and simple, a groin pull.

  The groin pull was the major occupational hazard of bull riders – less notorious than getting gored or being stepped on – but still painful as hell. And you didn't get much sympathy, either. You got smiles and snickers from those to whom it hadn't ever happened. You got "Sure as hell sorry, fella. Glad it's not me," from the ones who knew firsthand what you were going through.

  Chan knew it well. He'd done it before. He felt the snap and pull even as it happened. It was all he could do to haul himself to his feet and limp to the fence while Lily distracted the bull.

  Climbing the fence would have made him see stars, but he used arm leverage to haul himself up. Once over it he slumped down on the ground back behind the chutes and wished the pain would go away.

  He was still sitting there when nearly everyone else had left and Madeleine came looking for him. She was gawking around until she saw him. Then she came on a run, dark hair flying.

  "What's wrong?"

  He grimaced. "No big deal. I just landed wrong."

  "When you got off? I saw you do the splits. Does it hurt?"

  "You could say that."

  She knelt down beside him. "Where?"

  "Think about it, Decker. I'm sure you'll guess." He winced, trying to haul himself to his feet and was even grateful when she leapt up and offered her outstretched hand to pull him the rest of the way, then steadied him when he got there.

  "Can you talk or should I see if I can bring the truck closer?"

  "Naw." He tugged his hat down on his head and picked up his gear bag. "It's okay. I can walk." But he moved slowly and it hurt like hell when he did so.

  "Stay here," she said finally. "I'll be right back."

  It was a measure of how much he was hurting that he did what he was told. He stood leaning against the side of one of the cars and waited until she brought the truck around. Then he climbed in. Even those few steps hurt.

  So did the long trek through the lobby to the elevator and the walk down the hall to their room. And it was a little like running a gauntlet. He kept running into well-wishers, fans, cowboys and other people he knew.

  "Great ride, Chan!"

  "Nice goin'!"

  "Be rootin' for you in the finals!"

  "Playin' golf tomorrow?"

  "Wanta go out on the town tonight?"

  He smiled and nodded at all of them, though he didn't think he'd make it out on the town tonight or be playing golf tomorrow. He thought he'd be lucky if he wanted to move.

  He was lying on the bed, still wearing his dirty riding pants and his shirt with the paper number on the back when Madeleine, who'd gone to put the truck in the lot, came in.

  "Shall I call a doctor?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing a doc can do. I
t just happens."

  "So what do you do about it?"

  "Ice it. Wait. Eventually it heals."

  "By Sunday?" That's when the finals were. The finals he had qualified for with his ride this afternoon. The finals that would pay off to the tune of $14,000. The finals that would improve greatly his chances of going to the NFR.

  "Let's hope," he said. He sighed and shut his eyes.

  "Let's do more than hope," Madeleine said. "Take your pants off."

  Chan's eyes snapped open. He stared at her. He didn't even move. She bustled over and grabbed the bucket off the dresser and headed for the door.

  Then she turned back. "What's the matter with you, Richardson? Can't you move?"

  "Er," he said.

  Madeleine rolled her eyes. "I'm going to ice you, not arouse you. Come on. Move it." She set down the bucket and took hold of his boots one at a time, pulling them off and dropping them on the floor. "There. Do you want me to take your jeans off, too?" She gave him a stern look, the sort his mother often gave him, then left the room.

  Chan, fumbling, took them off. But he knew damned well that Madeleine Decker bore no resemblance at all to his mother, and though she might only intend to ice him, them wasn't a doubt in the world but that she was going to arouse him, too.

  * * *

  It wasn't as if he was naked, Madeleine told herself. And even if he were, she was sure she could handle the situation. After all, she had a more extensive background of male nakedness than many women her age – many women, that is, with her relatively limited sexual experience.

  She had lived during her formative years among peoples who had different standards regarding appropriate dress than middle-class Americans, hadn't she? Thus her knowledge of the nude masculine form had not been limited, as so many young girls' was, to well-thumbed issues of National Geographic.

  And then, as well, she'd had Scott.

  But somehow even seeing Scott naked had never evoked quite the same reaction in her as the sight of Chan Richardson did in nothing but his shorts.

  They were not leopard-spotted shorts or tiger-striped or paisley silk or anything of the sort. They were plain white cotton briefs.

  "Tidy whiteys," Alfie once called them, giggling disparagingly about the underwear wardrobe of her current hot date.

  Well, to each her own, Madeleine thought. In her opinion they were the sexiest shorts on earth.