“Oops,” a slinky young thing said in a husky voice. “I guess I’m busted.”
Tossing aside a blanket, she sat up all the way and scooted up right behind him. The twenty-something brunette, who wore enough makeup to do a TV soap proud, dangled herself over the seat and began to play with his hair.
“Do I know you?” he demanded, batting her hands away. Déjà vu all over again. Hadn’t he spent the better part of the day asking strange women who they were?
“Oh, you naughty boy! I know you remember me. From the club. You were playing tennis,” she drawled, sidling herself in closer, breathing right in his ear, “and I was drooling all over your little white shorts.”
He groaned, remembering. What was her name? Something with an F. Felicity or Francesca or Fifi or something. She’d kept making lousy jokes about the kind of love match they could play, and how much she admired his “strokes.” At the time, he’d just figured she was very young and very bored, and he hadn’t taken any of the crude remarks seriously.
But it was a different matter when he was whizzing along a major highway at fifty miles an hour, trying to drive and get her tongue out of his ear at the same time.
“Stop that!” he ordered.
But she paid no attention. As she took it into her head to get even closer, clambering over into the front seat, a speeding minivan careened by, honking all the way. Trying to avoid a collision, Tripp swerved sharply to the right, dumping Fifi and her minuscule jeans into the steering wheel, and almost sending all of them up over the curb and through the front window of a Chicago Red Hots franchise.
“Find a seat and stay in it,” he growled, skewering her with the nastiest look in his repertoire. He’d been brought up on the doctrine that an Ashby was polite and charming, no matter the circumstances, but today his manners were definitely fraying around the edges.
“Oh, come on—” she started, already scooting over his way.
“Just sit there and shut up.” Tripp held her off with one hand while he drove with the other.
He took the first turnoff, into the parking lot of a small strip mall, the kind that lined every highway and byway in suburbia. This one boasted a variety of outlet stores.
He pulled the car to a stop. “Look, I don’t know what you thought you were doing, stowing away in my car...” She started to speak but he held up a hand, cutting her off. “But I can make a pretty good guess. Did you happen to talk to my mother yesterday?”
“Well, yes, I did. When she told me how you’re always talking about me—”
“Talking about you? I don’t even know your name!”
“Oh, sure,” she said with a giggle. “There’s no point in trying to hide it anymore, Tripp. Your mother told me all about this major torch you’ve been carrying for me.” Pursing her lips into a kiss shape, she reached over to pinch his cheek. “Once I knew about it, I had to do something. You are so cute, and I am such a romantic. So here I am, Tripp. Take me—I’m yours!”
“Oh my God,” he muttered. How did he tell her he had no intention of taking her anywhere but home? As kindly as he could, he said, “I appreciate the interest, but I have to tell you—my mother is wrong. As a matter of fact, I think my mother is out of her mind.”
But the woman in his passenger seat just smiled. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t even know your name,” he protested.
“Of course you do.”
“Look, where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”
Her smile grew more smug. “Not telling.”
“Don’t play games with me,” he said darkly. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Not telling.”
There were little flares of anger sparking in his brain. Tripp Ashby never lost his temper, but he was perilously close at the moment. He had had a truly awful day, and it was barely noon.
“You won’t tell me?” he tried again, and she shook her head stubbornly. “Okay.” He leaned over her and shoved open her door. “Then you can get out here.”
“Get out? Are you kidding?”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
Her mouth hung open. “You—you’re dumping me?” she sputtered. “Here? This is a discount mall! What if I see someone I know?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really care. I just want you out of my car.”
“No way,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and hunkering down in her seat.
“Come on. Game’s over. You can run right into one of these places and call for daddy’s limo.” He gave her a thin smile. “Or better yet, you can call my mother and tell her to come and pick you up.”
“This is outrageous!” she stormed.
He figured he could last as long as she could. Finally, after several long moments of glares and curses, she got out.
And Tripp was free. For the time being. But who knew what the next stunt was going to be?
Quickly, under a good head of steam, he used his car phone and dialed his mother at home in Ashbyville. Arguing with Kitty Belle was about as satisfying as going one-on-one with a will-o’-the-wisp, but enough was enough. Time to get some satisfaction from his mother.
“Ashby residence,” the butler droned.
“Get me my mother,” Tripp said tersely, steering with one hand as he held the telephone with the other.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your mother is not in at present.”
“When do you expect her back?”
“I’m not precisely sure, sir. She’s gone out of town.”
Tripp set his jaw. Leave it to Kitty Belle to set him up and then take a powder. “Where is she?”
“I believe she went to Minnesota, sir. Rochester, Minnesota.”
Rochester, Minnesota? Who in the world did Kitty Belle know there? Palm Springs or Lake Geneva, he might’ve expected, but Minnesota? This was a new wrinkle. “Have her call me as soon as she gets back, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” the butler said, politely dropping the receiver.
Damn it anyway. Now what was he going to do?
He had been planning on heading home, but the idea of some other crazy young woman—singing in his shower or camped out in his kitchen or playing hide-and-seek in his closet—dissuaded him. Where to?
Deciding suddenly, he took a sharp right turn and got off the highway, headed for the tollway into the city. He headed for Bridgie.
* * *
BRIDGET PUT ASIDE the paperwork for a contract offer she was working on, leaning back in her big leather chair. She filled her mind with all those lovely zeroes in the settlement offer, trying to recapture the joy she’d felt in the meeting with her client and the opposition lawyers. Ahhh, yes. She smiled to herself, repeating a simple mantra.
Calm. Collected. In control.
But then the door to her office crashed open. She looked up, and her heart stopped.
“What are you doing here?” she cried, popping back up so fast, she almost fell out of her chair.
Didn’t he know he was supposed to go away gracefully when his phone calls went unanswered?
Oh, God. He looked like a warrior. He looked wonderful. It was as if Zeus had just stepped down off Mount Olympus and shown up on her doorstep.
Conflicting emotions—a little joy, a little fear, the overwhelming need to smooth his perfect hair away from his perfect face—swept through her.
But then the righteous indignation hit. Damn you, Tripp Ashby. How dare you do this to me again? He was a ridiculous childhood crush, and he had no place in a mature woman’s life.
“I tried to stop him,” Marie said smartly, wedging herself around him and into the doorway.
But Tripp ignored the intrusion. Speaking directly to Bridget, he announced angrily, “You wouldn’t answer my calls. I knew you weren’t in a meeting this long. I knew you were lying to me.” He slammed a hand down on her desk, with a sharp crack that made her jump in her seat. “Everyone else is acting crazy today—certifiable. And now you, too. Don’t do this to
me, Bridgie!”
She closed her eyes, pretending she hadn’t heard. That nickname. It was so familiar, so friendly, so cute. She hated it. He was the only one who ever called her that, and she couldn’t bear to hear it.
Of course, she’d never heard it spoken in quite that way, in that tight-lipped, seethingly furious tone. But then, she couldn’t recall ever seeing Tripp mad before.
She thought she’d seen him—and memorized him—just about every way he came, from the champion athlete, glorious and beautiful as he smiled through his sweat, to the cynical student, giving her a lifted eyebrow or a sardonic glance to puncture the pretensions of higher education.
She’d seen him in his skimpy track uniform, in jeans and a sweatshirt, in his graduation cap and gown. She’d even seen him in a suit and tie, like he was wearing today.
But she’d never seen Tripp in a real, fit-to-be-tied, mad-as-a-wet-hen, full-blown, passionate rage. Not directed at her, anyway.
“Well?” he snarled. He stuffed a fist into his jacket pocket, ruining the line of his suit. “What’s going on, Bridgie? What’s wrong with you?”
His tall frame and broad shoulders seemed to overwhelm the small space of her office. His body vibrated with power just barely held in check, and his blue eyes were so dark and so angry, she flinched under his gaze. The Tripp she knew was easygoing, laid-back, cool as a cucumber. And his handsome, aristocratic features never, ever looked as fierce as this.
“You’ve never been to my office before,” she said lamely. It was all she could think of.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked again, leaning in on her over the desk.
“Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”
“I’ve been calling you all day. I’ve left ten or twelve messages.”
“Eleven,” Marie piped up helpfully.
Tripp retreated long enough to neatly close the office door in Marie’s face, and then he turned back to Bridget. “So why didn’t you return my calls?”
Bridget stood up, bracing herself on her desk, trying to muster up some dignity in the face of this onslaught. She was still about a foot shorter than Tripp, so it didn’t balance the relative inequity of their positions, but it somehow made her feel a little better to be up on her feet.
She retreated to competent attorney mode. “I work here,” she said crisply. “They pay me to work, not to return personal phone calls.”
“Eleven messages,” he fumed.
“I was busy!” she fumed right back.
“You couldn’t possibly be that busy!”
“Yes,” she said, “I was.”
“Bridgie! I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Leaning in on her from the other side of the desk, so close she could feel the warm puffs of his breath on the tip of her nose, he looked deep into her eyes, giving her a puzzled, searching gaze. “You’re my last hope, and you won’t talk to me. This is so unlike you.”
“Oh, please!” She spun on her heel and marched out from behind the desk, turning her back on him, pretending to look out at the view. There was no view, but she didn’t care. “As if you would know what I’m like or unlike,” she said under her breath.
“I heard that.” He sounded wounded. “Of course I know. I’ve known you for fifteen years.”
“Sixteen,” she corrected automatically. At thirty-four, she’d known Tripp just shy of half her life. God. Was she already thirty-four? How had that happened? She was supposed to be so much farther along her life plan by now, but somehow, things had just slipped away....
Well, no more.
“Okay, sixteen. But all of a sudden, you think I don’t know you? What is this all about? Bridgie, I am a desperate man. My life is a disaster. I don’t have time for this. Will you please tell me what’s going on with you so we can get past it and get on to the real problem?”
His life was a disaster. She felt like a creep and an ingrate. She felt like the worst sort of traitor. But enough was enough!
“Maybe I just don’t have time for this anymore,” she tried. “Maybe I’m tired of running around looking out for you when I have better things to do.”
Tripp just stood there for a long pause, not saying anything, and she was dying to turn around and look at him. But she knew that’s exactly what he wanted, and she absolutely refused to give in and do things his way. She had some gumption, after all.
She wasn’t going to look at him. She didn’t want to look at him. If she looked at him, she’d weaken. If she looked at him, if she let herself drink in that straight, classic nose and that clean, beautiful jawline, those dreamy blue eyes and...
Oh, hell. This was far worse than just looking.
Steeling herself, she spun around. Yes, he was still there. Yes, he was still Tripp.
Still trouble with a capital T.
Chapter Three
Stiffly she asked, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Maybe because I’m stunned,” he said, in a tone so bleak and so hurt, it was like a knife in her heart.
The man was really very good at this. Manipulative should’ve been his middle name.
“Don’t think I’m buying this,” she told him.
“Buying what? I’m not selling anything, Bridgie.”
“Don’t call me Bridgie,” she muttered. “It makes me feel about five years old.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “I’ll bet you were cute when you were five.”
“Oh, Tripp...”
He was getting to her, just like he always did. What kind of a creampuff was she? Calm, collected, in control, she told herself. She looked him straight in the eye. A mistake. Tripp had the most beautiful blue eyes this side of Mel Gibson. She looked away.
“So what’s the scoop, Bridget?” he asked, drawing out her name to make the point that he was deferring to her wishes. “Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you,” she returned. “But I told you—I’m very busy right now. I don’t have time to fool with you. Not today. And not within the next year and a half.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true,” she protested. “In case you didn’t know, I am extremely busy here. My billable hours are number one in the firm. And besides that, I’ve taken on a new project. A political project. And it’s going to keep me tied up for a long time.”
“Congratulations,” he said with a small smile.
“Thank you.” Stiffly, twisting her new diamond ring around on her finger, she added, “Because, you see, I got engaged yesterday.”
That got his attention. “Who to?” he demanded. “Not that Philpott guy? Is that what you meant by a political project? He’s running for something, right? Aw, Bridgie, tell me you didn’t.”
She refused to pay attention. So what if Tripp didn’t like Jay? Who cared what Tripp thought? He didn’t run her life, or choose her fianés. He was nothing to her—nothing. And the sooner she got that across to both of them, the better off they’d be.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” She held her chin high. “Jay loves me very much. We’re going to get married and accomplish great things together. I have it all planned.”
Tripp’s steady, devastating gaze held her. “Good luck,” he said finally.
“Thank you. But I’m not going to need it.”
“Uh-huh.” He set his jaw, still watching her, still giving her the once-over, as if he were trying to see inside her head, right into the workings of her brain. “And so this new engagement, that’s what made you decide all of a sudden that you don’t have time for me?”
“Well, yes.” Somehow the ring on her finger felt huge and clumsy, as if it were weighing down her whole hand. She stuck both hands behind her and stood up straighter. “Surely you can understand that with all this going on in my life, it’s just not appropriate for us to...for me to...for us to go on with the way things have always been between us.”
There was a pause.
“You know, you’ve really changed,” he said finally. His eyes narrowed. “I can’t quite figure out what it is.”
She didn’t appreciate him staring at her like that. It was unnerving. “I, uh, got my hair cut,” she said quietly. She ruffled the blunt edges of her short, dark bob. “That must be it.”
“No, it’s not your hair.” His eyes were pensive and very blue as he considered her. “It’s cute, though. But it’s not your hair. No, there’s something else. Like your attitude.”
“That’s silly.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, anywhere but at him while he gave her the once- and twice-over.
“No, it’s not silly. I mean, you’ve always been so serious—”
“So I’m even more serious now, because I’ve signed on to be a political wife, is that it?” She sighed. “Don’t start with me, Tripp. You’re always needling me to lighten up. It hasn’t worked yet, and it isn’t going to work now.”
She wondered whether she had become even more serious. Maybe she had. All her ducks were in a row, and all it would take was one more step to be the person she had always wanted to be. Perfect. How dare Tripp think she needed to lighten up? How dare he look at her like that, as if he’d never seen her before?
“I never noticed how...”
“How what?” she asked quickly. She was sure it wasn’t going to be flattering.
But Tripp surprised her. “How beautiful you’d become,” he said softly. “I guess I always looked at you and saw the girl I met in college, good old reliable Bridgie. But you’ve really changed. It seems a pity to waste you on Philpott.”
Bridget breathed in cool air. This was truly bizarre. Tripp was treating her like some femme fatale or something.
“Nothing has changed,” she said awkwardly. “Except the haircut.”
“I guess that must be it, then,” he returned lightly. “Pretty cute.”
Suspicious of this softer side of Tripp, she asked, “Is this some new tactic to get around me? Because it isn’t going to work. I know you too well.”
“Tactic? I’m crushed.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the king of tactics. I ought to know.” Hand on hip, she demanded, “How many times have you talked me into taking a day off work to run down to Saks and buy your mother’s birthday present because you forgot?”
Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance) Page 3