THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  He never had any trouble with it! What was she taking so long for? He felt a soft brush against his chest and opened his eyes and glanced down. Madeleine's head was bent, her hair brushing against him as she concentrated and, finally, accomplished the task. She undid the snap, then eased down the zipper. The backs of her fingers grazed against his erection, which pressed against the soft cotton of his shorts. At first he thought it was accidental. Then as his jeans slid down his hips, her fingers skimmed against him again.

  He'd had enough of being a research object. He went into action. He put his hands on her waist to hold her right where she was, and then he kissed her. He kissed her full and hard and with every bit of the pent-up, unsatisfied hunger he'd been traveling with for weeks.

  Her eyes widened, she tried to pull back, but he wouldn't let her. She'd said she wanted this, after all.

  "Chan!" she gasped at last when he broke for a breath. "You can't. What about my research? What happened to your being a guinea pig?"

  "Changed my mind," he said, kissing her again. "If you can change your mind, I can change mine."

  "But—"

  "This is a two-person deal we cooked up here, Decker. It isn't just you doin' research on me. It works both ways. Let's see you be factual and objective about this."

  And then he fell back on the bed and pulled her with him. It was the craziest bout of lovemaking he'd ever been part of. It was sweet and silly and tough and tender and warm and wild by turns.

  He kissed her until she stopped protesting and kissed him with a fervor equal to his own. He fumbled with her buttons and her buckle and took every bit as long as she did. Her sneakers, however, were considerably easier to remove than his boots, tangled as they were in his jeans. He didn't show all the finesse with which he was capable of removing a woman's clothes. But what he didn't display in finesse, he made up for in eagerness.

  And Decker met him at least halfway.

  Her hands were all over him, stroking and kneading, rubbing and teasing. Driving him wild. And he returned the favor with all his skill. He ran his hands over her body, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, in its milky white softness, in the way her breasts fit in his hands just the way he always knew they would.

  He made her straddle him and he sat up and kissed them, cupping them in his hands as he tasted them, suckled on them, each in turn. And then he nuzzled between her breasts while his hands slipped down behind her and lifted her against him, his fingers brushing against the dampness between her legs.

  "Chan!" It was a whimper, a moan, an eager pleading. And just hearing it almost made him lose control.

  He pressed himself against her, bit down on his lower lip, recited to himself the genealogy of his father's favorite cow. And finally he dared breathe again, dared slide his fingers up once more to touch her wetness. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that's it. Yes. Are you ready, Decker?"

  The only answer was another whimper. Her hips lifted, arching so that he could raise himself and probe against her center. "Like that, Decker?" He almost couldn't get the words out. He was trembling, his body beginning to shake. "Do you?"

  "Yes, Chan! Come on. Yes!"

  He liked it, too. A lot. Almost too much. He wanted to savor it, make it last. But the one ounce of rationality he had left reminded him that they would be here a week. They had time. They had a bed. They had each other.

  He drew her down on him, brought the two of them firmly and finally together. It almost ended for him there, but he held on. Stopped. Then slowly, gently began moving, rocking, sharing.

  Loving.

  Loving Madeleine Decker?

  He didn't consider the implications then. Then he didn't consider anything at all. He simply felt, surged, shouted his triumph, and savored the bliss of feeling her body contracting around him, of feeling the shudders that coursed through her, that caused her to collapse, trembling against him.

  And finally he eased backward, still coupled with her, two made one, in the wide king-size bed.

  She lay with her head tucked beneath his chin, her cheek against his chest. Her arms were wrapped around him, he could feel the individual press of her fingers against his back. Then she eased them out, stroked his sides, then, one hand still against his ribs, the other slid down to stroke his hip. Her breathing slowed, but still it stirred the curling hair on his perspiration-damp chest.

  And even now he could feel that she was a part of him, that they were still joined, that he was a part of her.

  Of Madeleine Decker?

  The tiniest of warning signs began to go off in his head.

  He reached one hand up and rested it on her hair. He lifted it and touched her ear. He'd never thought about Madeleine Decker's ears. They were small, delicate ears. His hand slipped down to brush against her shoulder. She had narrow, slender shoulders. He remembered her shoulders better than her ears. He'd seen them hunched over the computer often enough when she was working on her dissertation.

  This was Madeleine Decker.

  The Madeleine Decker his mother expected him to marry.

  His hand stilled. His mouth got dry.

  "This doesn't mean we're getting married," he said.

  Madeleine's hand stilled on his hip. Her head jerked up. Stunned jade-colored eyes stared at him bare inches from his face. Then, a shuttered expression came over them. Slowly, deliberately, she shoved herself away from him. The two were no longer one. They were separate.

  "Of course it doesn't," she said and casually picked up her shirt.

  Chan watched her. There was something about her movements, some deliberateness that made him think she hadn't heard him right. "I didn't marry any of the other women I've ever had sex with," he told her.

  Madeleine, in the process of gathering up her jeans, stared at him. There was an odd spark of fire in her gaze. "Did they ask you?"

  "Well, no, but—"

  "And I'm not asking you, either!" she said, and her voice was suddenly as close to shrill as he'd ever heard it. She grabbed her duffel bag and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Chan stared after her, equal parts confused and amazed. "Women," he muttered, then decided that was too general and unfair to the species in general. "Decker!" he fumed. He shook his head, shut out the light, and crawled under the covers.

  He wasn't certain when it dawned on him that she wasn't coming out. Maybe an hour after the water stopped running. Maybe when the light went off and the door stayed shut.

  He frowned. Now what?

  He staggered out of bed and went over to the door. "Decker?"

  No answer.

  He stared at the door. Jiggled the handle. It was locked. "Decker?"

  Nothing.

  "Decker! I know you're in there. You're too big to fit through the heating vent."

  "Shut up and go away!"

  "Well, at least you're awake."

  "I'm trying not to be. Go away."

  He rolled his eyes. "Decker, what in hell is going on? You can't sleep in the bathroom."

  "Can't I." It wasn't a question.

  "For God's sake!" He rubbed a hand through shaggy, uncombed hair. "What's the matter? You liked it. Damn it, Decker, I know you'd like it. We both did."

  "Bully for us."

  "So what are you mad about?"

  "You figure it out."

  Him figure it out? Ha. He wasn't a bloody mind reader. He was a man. And as such, he didn't have a prayer. Figure it out? How the hell could you figure out what went on in the head of a woman who made mad passionate love with you one minute and locked herself in the bathroom the next and yelled that she wouldn't ask you to marry her, either?

  Hell, she hadn't even let him finish his sentence, he thought. He'd been going to say, "Well, no, but they wanted me to ask them."

  Obviously Madeleine Decker didn't want him to ask her! And a good thing, too, he thought, because he'd be damned if he would! He stalked away from the door and yanked on his jeans and shirt and boots and grabbed his hat off t
he dresser. He didn't need this grief. He needed a buddy and a beer – or maybe more than one. It had been a hell of a long while since he'd tied one on.

  "So long, Decker," he yelled. "Hope you enjoyed your research. The bed's all yours."

  * * *

  He was damned if he was going to tell her he'd fallen for her. So what if he had? He'd had crushes before. Miss Dickens, his eighth-grade math teacher. Lola Fargazer, the girl he took to the senior prom. That blond Cheyenne Dandy, what's her name. Well, hell, a guy couldn't be expected to remember every girl or woman he'd entertained serious thoughts about, especially when he was half a dozen beers down the road to self-pity.

  Crushes were crushes. You had 'em. You got over 'em. You sure as the devil didn't marry 'em. God, just imagine what it would've been like being married to the Dandy. Or even Lola Fargazer. Miss Dickens would've been too old for him.

  And Madeleine Decker?

  Madeleine Decker was wrong. All wrong. Had been wrong from the very start.

  Oh, she was nice enough. Damn nice. A good sport. Worked hard. Never complained. Even got her driver's license and had probably driven ten thousand miles. She was funny and cheerful and she knew exactly how to rub his leg so it wouldn't hurt quite so much. Pretty, too. He liked her hair all blowsy and tangled, he liked the way her eyes spit green fire at him. He liked the way her breasts just fit in his hands. And when they made love – well, hell, she damn near burned him down.

  But she was Madeleine Decker, for God's sake. A Ph.D. candidate in philosophy. The daughter of a long line of distinguished scholars. The woman his mother had set him up with!

  And even if Madeleine was the greatest woman on earth, he was damned if he was going to let Julia Richardson pick out his wife for him!

  "I'm an adult, damn it," he snarled into his beer. "Aren't I?" he demanded of Dev and Gil and a half a dozen others who were seated with him at a table near the bar. "I can make my own decisions!"

  Dev looked at him sideways. "Yeah."

  Gil grinned. "Sure."

  Kevin Skates nodded knowledgeably. "Maddy bossing you around is she?"

  "Decker? Naw." Chan shook his head. "It's my mother."

  * * *

  "Ma?"

  "Channing? Are you all right?"

  "No, damn it! 'M not all right."

  "Has there been an accident? Are you hurt? Is Madeleine—"

  "Damn Madeleine!"

  There was a pause. Then a change in tone, no longer worried, now disapproving. "Channing, do you know what time it is?"

  He fumbled to get his watch out from beneath his shirt-sleeve, then peered at it blearily. "Almost four-thirty."

  "The question was rhetorical," his mother said. "What's the matter with you?"

  "I'll tell you wha's the matter with me! You! You and your lousy ideas! 'Go see Madeleine.'" He mimicked her tone. "'She's perfect for you. You'll enjoy her. Think how enlightening it will be.'" He stopped long enough to draw a breath, then went right on. "It was enlight'ning all right. I learned a hell of a lot. And I wish I di'n't know any of it. Lemme tell you, Ma. Stick to bulls and mamma cows for your matchmaking from now on 'cause with people, your ideas stink!"

  "Chan—"

  He hung up on her.

  * * *

  It was a reasonable hour, at least reasonable for her – Julia had stopped trying to find a reasonable hour in both Wyoming and Bali – when she called Antonia.

  There was a bang and a crackle and several thumps before it was answered, as if the receiver had been dropped then fumbled for.

  "Now what?" came a sleepy, somewhat cross voice.

  "Awfully sorry to wake you, Tonia," Julia said cheerfully, "but I thought you'd want to know – I've heard from Channing. He was a wreck. Absolutely livid." She smiled with satisfaction. "We're almost there."

  "I've just got off the phone with Madeleine, too. Yelled and ranted and carried on for half an hour or more. She sounded dreadful," Antonia said. "It was almost worth being awakened for. I think we ought to book the church."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  Of course it didn't mean they were going to get married!

  Madeleine knew that. But he didn't have to pick that very moment to bring it up, did he?

  What kind of a man made mad passionate love with you one minute and announced that he wasn't going to marry you the next? It wasn't as if she'd asked him to!

  On the contrary, she'd been doing it to find reasons that she shouldn't.

  The trouble was, she hadn't.

  The trouble was, she'd loved it.

  And the biggest trouble of all was … she loved him.

  "I love Channing Richardson." She sat on the bed and said the words out loud. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. This was never supposed to happen.

  So much for new and deeper levels of intimacy. She would love to have told her mother what it had got her, but she didn't want her mother to know.

  There was no way on earth she was going to tell her mother she'd fallen in love with Chan. Why should she? What good would it do?

  Chan wasn't going to marry her. He'd already made that abundantly clear.

  The whole mess was beginning to seem a lot like the fiasco with Scott who had happily made love with her and taken advantage of her and hadn't wanted to marry her, either.

  And she had precipitated that lovemaking, too, she remembered with consternation. It was true what they said, being well educated didn't make you smart. God knew Madeleine would apparently never learn.

  The question remained: what was she going to do now? The smart thing – from an immediate self-preservation angle at least – would be to pack her computer, her duffel bags and what was left of her self-esteem and her heart and catch the next plane back to New York.

  In the long run she knew it was smarter to hang on. If she left now, her mother would undoubtedly find out. She and Julia would put their heads together, speculate, connive. It didn't bear thinking about.

  Of course she would have to face Chan, and that would be difficult. But they were adults, weren't they? Surely he wouldn't expect her to continue making love with him. She didn't imagine it would be in either of their best interests for her to try explaining that she didn't want to do it again because before, she hadn't actually been in love with him, but, heaven help her, she was now.

  No, she couldn't see Chan understanding that.

  She frankly wondered if Chan intended to come back. It was almost noon and she hadn't seen him yet. His one small duffel was still lying alongside the dresser, where he'd slung it last night. But she knew he didn't really need it. Most of his things were still in the camper. Which was probably where he was, too.

  She knew he was riding this afternoon in the first go-round. She wondered if he'd come back to the room and pick her up. She waited, uncertain whether she ought to. In the long run it didn't matter. He never came. And when she went out to look for the camper in the hotel parking lot, it was gone.

  She debated whether to go to the rodeo or not.

  She decided not.

  She didn't owe him that. It wasn't part of their deal. She was used to going, but it wasn't something they'd ever agreed upon. It was time she started considering herself and not complying with her mother's notion of good research or Chan's obligations. It was time she started seeing to her own needs.

  She typed right through the performance. She debated ordering room service, then thought she needed to get out. And she didn't want to be sitting there if he decided to come back. She had no intention of letting him think she was waiting for him.

  So she went down to the lobby, but the hotel was filled with cowboys, some of whom she knew, though happily not Dev or Gil or Kevin. Still, she didn't want to eat there. She went out and wandered down the street.

  She liked Calgary at once. The people were friendly. The city was clean. The air was pure. And she had a sense of having the best of three worlds – city and prairie and mountains right
at her fingertips. She lost herself in the moment, following a group of tourists into a local Italian restaurant and ordering a panzerotti with ham and cheese that was the most wonderful thing she'd smelled and tasted in what seemed like forever.

  She just wished she felt like eating it.

  The waitress looked worriedly at her when she finally gave up and asked for the check. "You're not well?"

  "I'm in love," Madeleine said, surprising herself.

  The waitress smiled sympathetically. "That'll do it every time."

  * * *

  The black duffel sat untouched Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Madeleine saw neither hide nor hair of Chan. She overheard in the elevator that he'd got thrown from his first bull Monday.

  "Ol' bull really plowed him down," the man said cheerfully.

  It was all Madeleine could do not to demand whether he'd been hurt. It wasn't any of her business, she told herself sharply. But all the same, she wondered. And she was almost relieved to have Dev hail her in the lobby Thursday evening.

  He swept her into a bear hug, then held her out at arm's length and said, "Hey, where you been?"

  Madeleine gave him her best imitation of a smile. "Around. I've had work to do."

  "Yeah. Chan said."

  Madeleine nodded, wondering if that was all he'd said. Probably. Chan wasn't one to broadcast his troubles.

  "You all right?" Dev asked. "You look like you been sick."

  "Allergies," Madeleine lied.

  "Too bad. But you guys'll be movin' on tomorrow, won't you? So you'll get away from whatever's bothering you."

  Would that it were that simple, Madeleine thought. In fact, she'd be taking her trouble with her. If Chan even let her come. She hadn't heard they were leaving, and she didn't know how to ask without telling Dev she hadn't spoken to Chan.

  "You got time for a drink?" he asked her. "I owe you one."

  "You do?" Madeleine cocked her head. "Why?"

  "Come with me and I'll tell you." He took her by the arm and steered her into the cocktail lounge right off the lobby. They got a small table in a secluded corner, and Dev said, "What'll you have?"