Unwrap Me Daddy

by Natasha Spencer

  No guests had been invited, which seemed to indicate that the ceremony was some sort of hole-and-corner affair, hastily arranged and hastily assembled. As promised, Tom Sinclair had tucked Caroline’s trembling hand into the crook of his black-suited elbow, escorted her forward, and then taken his place beside Ben, as witness; Marilou stood next to the bride, as second witness. Of everyone in attendance, only Sophie, looking like a happy little butterfly in sunny yellow lace, seemed completely at her ease. And excited.

  Capable Marilou, with the wheels already set in motion way before this, had needed merely to finish off last-minute details. Thus the flowers, and the chosen colors, and the genial Rev. Paul Lawton to officiate, and her own filmy carnation bridesmaid’s frock.

  As for Caroline, she had purchased her wedding gown several months ago, without benefit of Marilou’s advice or interference. This much she wanted—needed!—to do on her own. Given the admiration showing on various expressions when she appeared, Caroline had chosen well.

  A simple floor-length design, with straight bodice and softly shirred waist, the silk charmeuse A-line skirt displayed a narrow panel of lace to match its sheer cap sleeves. Flat in front, drawn back into the hint of a bustle in back, the dress fit her slender figure with panache and elegance. No veil; only a small headpiece of pearls, rhinestones, and white silk roses.

  The traditional rites began: listen to this, make promises to that; words and movements that flowed by as a blur. One flash, and it was over, even the quick public peck by her groom that gave away nothing.

  Somewhat dazed, Caroline stood looking down at the tasteful diamond band he had placed on her finger. For better or for worse, she was married. She was a wife.

  Congratulations and hugs and felicitations swirled around her, seeming to lift her up like thistledown and swirl her into the midst, as well. But Tom’s reassuring wink helped bring her back to earth, and reality6.

  Afterward, she couldn’t help asking, in the limo designated for the bridal couple’s use, how her new husband had managed to put aside business cares long enough to attend his own wedding.

  “Oh ho. I detect a touch of sarcasm there,” he chortled, in perfect good humor. “Listen, Marilou has arranged a reception at the Sherman Club. That okay with you? I like that dress, by the way. Fetching. Although you could’ve gotten one that showed more skin.”

  “It’s a bit late to be asking if arrangements are okay, isn’t it? I mean, everything’s already set? Or would you consider changing her plans at the last minute?”

  One word description for her new husband: Cocky. Correction. Three word description: Cocky as hell. She sighed, wondering if Ben would continue to assign Marilou every task concerning “arrangements” for her marriage, as he had done for their wedding.

  No, by God. She would not allow it. Just let her settle in, take hold of the reins, and continue. Managing this house, this coupling, this child, was her business, and hers alone. Not one iota for some outsider.

  At the Sherman Club, an exclusive and opulent place on the outskirts of Austin whose décor ran to silver and mirrors and cold black marble, a few dozen of Ben’s closest friends were gathered. One of whom was Lila Sampson, who lightly but determinedly rapped the circulating bridegroom on his shoulder.

  “You sly fox,” she complained. “Never lettin’ on one mention about gettin’ married. Hey, you two have somethin’ goin’ on for years here, or what?”

  “Well, now, Lila, not that I would plan on telling you all my secrets, but this took us by surprise, too. Last-minute decision, and all. Here, have some champagne.”

  During the peak of the revelry—clearly most of these guests were prepared to celebrate any gala occasion, at any time, especially if liquor were involved—Caroline managed to escape to the sanctuary of a beautiful ladies’ room. There, propped onto a round divan that reminded her of Miss Muffet’s tuffet, she could steal a moment to breathe.

  She had arrived at the Ten Buck on Thursday. Today was Saturday, a full week and two days later. In that time she had been honored by Ben’s presence exactly twice: once for half an hour, in a formal little sitting room, while he skimmed through correspondence; once at supper, in between a trip from here to there and back again.

  When it came to companionship, Marilou had actually provided more than Caroline’s own husband-to-be. Along with so much necessary information. A tour of the whole house, and an introduction to the household staff, and a quick cool meeting with Mrs. Wyeth that established boundaries (i.e. who was boss; who wasn’t). A notebook listing the names and telephone numbers (land and cell) of neighbors, friends, family members, employees, business associates, medical professionals, repairmen, and the like. Another notebook detailing all the ingredients of Sophie’s brief life, from birth records to her current first grade at Marigold Elementary, and a schedule of all her current activities.

  In fact, Marilou had generously put herself and her office, a much smaller and simpler room adjoining Ben’s lair, at Caroline’s complete disposal.

  In this way, the new mistress of the Ten Buck learned a few more facts about Ben’s personal life that hadn’t shown up in his dossier: both his parents were gone, killed in a plane crash about ten years ago; his only brother, the family black sheep, had disappeared some time before that, and no one had seen or heard of him since.

  Of Ben’s first, deceased wife, no mention had been made—not even to identify her by name— and Caroline had felt it neither the time nor the place to ask. Amongst a rank of photographs scattered about the family room, on the mantel and side tables and a shining grand piano, not one showed her face. Had he been too overcome by grief to allow such evidence of her existence?

  Ben had no hobbies of which anyone was aware, other than the very lucrative one of making money. Likes? Dislikes? Mainly, that honor and integrity must rule, in every aspect of life. Laudable.

  What on earth had she gotten herself into? She had silently asked that very question a few dozen times since her arrival, and, no doubt, she would continue asking it from now into forever. So many uncertainties left dangling in mid-air, without resolution; so many details up for grabs. All because she had been unable, so far, to pin her elusive groom down to discuss and determine those important issues.

  That must change. She was not about to sit on the sidelines. She would take on her own share of responsibilities in this marriage, and run with them.

  “There she is,” hallooed several voices, when Caroline at last emerged once more into the glare of the public eye. “C’mon, Miz Taggart, we’re waitin’ to drink some toasts in your honor.”

  She managed a feeble smile. All these last-minute guests were trying to make this a true celebration, without knowing any background details; and she appreciated their effort.

  Meanwhile, Ben, who had deliberately parked himself beside her, was putting on quite a show. Which didn’t fool her for an instant. Strange, how the mere feel of his arm around her waist seemed not so much support as entrapment. Oh, yes, he beamed his sunny grin all around the room, and occasionally even let a ray or two overflow upon her. As if he were the happiest man on earth, and this his happiest day.

  For the future, Caroline would make sure she remembered how casually and how easily he managed to pull the wool over so many pairs of eyes.

  A world-class photographer, who had already gotten his formal shots, was now wandering around, snapping candids. Guests willingly posed for the wedding album everyone realized could only be superlative.

  After an elaborate dinner, which Caroline felt almost too keyed-up to sample, and a variety of wines, mixed drinks, and the requisite champagne, the party began breaking up. With polite farewells —or, with a more boisterous leavetaking from those happily in their cups—the room slowly emptied.

  The easy Texas twilight was giving way to full dark, pinpricked by low-set landscaping lights, garish neon lights, sodium street lights, and the colored lights of restaurants or store fronts. Seen at a distance, from the Sherman Clu
b’s third-story dining room, it was a magical fairyland sight, and Sophie was entranced.

  Or would have been, if she and little Becca Sampson weren’t yawning in tandem.

  By eight o’clock, Lila approached the bridal couple with both girls in tow.

  “Time to be off,” she informed her hosts. “Billy and I will settle these two in bed once we get home. Although they’re both tired enough they’ll prob’ly fall asleep on the way.” At Caroline’s look of surprise, Lila’s brows raised. “Oh, you didn’t know? Good ole Ben here asked if Sophie could spend the weekend with us. Some honeymoon privacy for the newlyweds, wink wink.”

  Caroline’s hands, with the spiffy new diamond band that attached her to the Ten Buck as surely as any of its branded livestock, clenched into fists behind the skirt of her charmeuse dress. “Thank you, Lila,” she managed a fast recovery. “That’s very kind of you and—Billy?”

  “Yeah, as in husband. Here he comes now.” Introductions flowed back and forth: a pale, too-slender bride, and a tall, lanky redhead whose whipcord frame probably gave the lie to any perception of laziness.

  Bending down, Caroline enveloped Sophie in a good-night hug and thanked her for being such a vital part of this special day. Even half-asleep, the little girl beamed. It took so little to make her happy—merely love, attention, and approval. Just like a tropical plant, waiting to bloom.

  The room was nearly empty when Ben finally turned to look at his bride, full-on, straight and square, with a little quirk to his mouth.

  “Well, now,” he said softly.

  At the almost insulting purr of his voice, the hair actually began to rise on Caroline’s arms.

  “I hope you’re not too tired. Thought I’d treat you to a real nice hotel, over in downtown Austin. Come on, the limo is waiting for us. And I’m anxious to see what exactly you’ve got under that dress.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was not what she expected.

  But, then, whatever was, when it came to this man and his behind-the-scene machinations that no one could read in advance, nor understand?

  They had entered a splendiferous room, on the sixth floor of a splendiferous hotel, far enough above the busy streets to provide the view of a twinkle of moving lights. While Ben busied himself at the bar, Caroline eased out of her white satin slippers and padded barefoot to the window.

  “What d’ you think of the place?” he invited, turning to survey her with watchful eyes.

  Had she noticed, just then, she would have silently reflected that those watchful eyes made up his usual expression. Although humor seemed to be his typical way of dealing with any stressful situation, the humor that engaged his wide mouth never quite reached his eyes. Watchful, careful eyes. Did such caution come from an issue of trust?

  “What do I think? Luxurious, of course. Thank you, Ben; it’s far more than I’m used to.” She would give him that much, at least, since he seemed to be waiting for it.

  Silken moss green and old rose framed every window, covered several chairs, draped the bed and bench. Cool, restful, comforting. How was that color scheme to fit everyone’s accepted idea of a wedding night, when passionate reds and blacks ought to dominate?

  “Want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve about had my quota for the day.”

  “Huh.” He raised his glass to her, took a few hasty swallows, then set it aside. Liquid courage, for what lay ahead? “I’m no great shakes as a lady’s maid, but how about some help with whatever you’re trying to do?”

  She had raised both arms to reach for something to unfasten at the back of her dress, without success. Her involuntary wriggles translated into a sexy little dance, as she struggled to grasp hold, that would have attracted the attention of the most hardened of men. And Ben Taggart was hardened in only one way.

  “I would appreciate that, very much,” she was forced to admit.

  Caroline emitted a little gasp as she felt him instantly behind her, quick to take advantage. Pressed against her upper shoulders, his fingers, as they sought and smoothly moved the concealed zipper downward; pressed against her lower backside, that very hardness, ripe and ready for use.

  Bending his head, he blew a warm breath to the nape of her neck. Then touched his lips to the spot. Then took a light but possessive nip at her skin. Caroline gave another gasp and shivered.

  “The valet put our bags in the bathrooms—one for each of us,” he told her huskily. “Why don’t you go get gussied up in that fancy rig you bought and join me in bed?”

  She fled.

  When she returned to the main suite, some time later, the lights had been dimmed, music was playing softly in the background from some built-in apparatus, and Ben was lying stretched out naked upon the king-size frame. At least, she assumed he was naked, but he had been thoughtful enough of her sensibilities to at least pull a sheet of rich Egyptian cotton up to his middle.

  Caroline was no prude, nor was she some shy virgin who might faint at the sight of male nudity. She was, however, principled. To fall into bed with a man in whose company she had spent so little time seemed somehow very wrong—even though she had agreed to it; even though that man was her legal spouse. She was finding it quite difficult to reconcile reality with the absurd.

  Meanwhile, she must admit this was a fine-looking specimen, indeed. Tough, and muscular, as befits a cowboy who spends much of his life in the saddle, with whorls of brown hair across his chest that trailed down impressive abs to where bare skin stopped and the sheet began.

  “Sure you don’t want a drink?” His look gave her a slow, lecherous once-over; his grin gave her a case of bridal-night nerves. “Then, c’mere, wife of mine. Pretty as that outfit is, I’d like to get rid of it, if you don’t mind.”

  Caroline did mind. Exceedingly. The man might feel quite comfortable in his own frame, but she never had. Less so, now, with faint scars still needing to be healed, and a body hardly considered voluptuous after its ordeal.

  Hesitantly she made her way toward him. Tiny pink rosebuds trimmed the straps of her negligee, which was made of a nearly sheer white batiste that floated around her ankles—her only bulwark against whatever was about to happen. Over which she had no control.

  Backlit, her figure was outlined in blurry detail that, observing it, deepened the smoke of his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks.

  “Carrie,” he whispered. Taking hold of the nightgown’s hem, he gently tugged her forward, into his grasp.

  Absent he might have been for far too long, from the ranch and from her existence; but present he certainly was now. His right hand slipped under the fabric to skim upward over her bare calf, her knee, her thigh, to the very cleft that waited for his touch. Before her eyelids drifted shut and her trembling body swayed toward him, she saw that the sheet had suddenly tented itself, in anticipation.

  Suddenly, in the midst of what was feeling so delightful, so almost depraved, Ben gave a great shout of laughter and pulled himself upright, haunches planted on the mattress and feet flat on the floor. “Ha. Gonna make me work for it, huh?”

  Hooking that one exploratory hand around her waist, as if to prevent any escape, he yanked the modest maiden gown up over her head in a swift motion. Caroline cringed. Even in dim light, even by the least exacting of standards, surely the imperfections of her form could never meet his expectations.

  Still, he seemed not to notice. Because, at the moment, he was more interested in visiting the most delightful, the most delicious of torments upon all that he had laid bare. Seated as he was, his curly head on a level with the niche he sought, Ben began applying himself diligently with touch, tongue, teeth in a series of bold caresses that left her weak-kneed and whimpering. In fact, he worked so much magic that she could feel her muscles beginning to quiver, her bones softening into mush, her internal juices heating and flowing.

  Caroline let out a little whine. Then a moan. Helplessly her hands dropped down to tangle into his hair, urging him closer, tighter.
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  After a few minutes, he surged upward without warning and, giving an animal growl, captured her breasts. A firm grasp, first, to cup and knead. Then a rough nuzzling and suckling of each, that sent sweet fire deep into her womb and left her teetering on the edge.

  Finally, he burst forth with another great laugh and pulled her onto the bed beside him.

  “C’mon, my little puritan. I’ll bet if you relax, you might really enjoy this night. So let’s see what else you can do.”

  She could surrender, utterly and completely, to physical bliss.

  And so she did.

  Chapter Nine

  Caroline awoke to the muffled sound of a waterfall.

  Having slept in a number of contrasting beds in the past few months, she needed to regain full consciousness to accurately pinpoint her location. The hospital? The rehab center? Her own room, sadly gone forever? The pretty suite at Ten Buck?

  No.

  The luxurious hotel room in downtown Austin. And the sound of water rushing came from Ben’s shower.

  Smiling with complete and utter satisfaction, she stretched both arms over her head as sinuously as a cat. There was the good feeling of long-dormant muscles pushed to discomfort by hard use, and the slight reminiscent soreness of an interior having been filled and overflowed beyond capacity.

  “Wow,” she murmured. “Wow.”

  They had coupled that first time, she and Ben, for what seemed to be hours, into a state past exhaustion. He had arranged her acquiescent limbs into a number of interesting positions, and introduced her to pleasure beyond meaning with every one of them. Following his lead, she had tried to return the favor with as much panache and energy as he had given her. Put your hand here, and cup, her besotted brain instructed. Put your mouth there, to sip and swirl and suckle.

  Once he had finally finished with her, they had fallen apart to drift into weary slumber. Sometime after midnight, she had been aroused by the poking and prodding of what felt like a telephone pole against her backside, and shifted position to accommodate. Then, again, just as early dawn light was stealing into the room, he had piled on top of her limp, overworked body to take her again, with very little foreplay but a great deal of enthusiasm and passion.