“I can hardly forget,” she said slowly. But what about her dream of a small garden wedding, with family and friends? This was going to be some kind of extravaganza.
“Jay,” she tried, “it’s not too late to keep this under control. We can still have the kind of wedding we want, and then maybe do some big monster reception later, for all your people. What do you think?”
“I wish I could say yes, darling.” He stood up from the table, dropping a quick kiss on her cheek. “But you and I have a responsibility to the people working so hard to get me elected.”
“But this is my wedding,” she protested.
“It will be beautiful and you will be beautiful.” His teeth flashed white and even in a bright grin, the one that looked so good on the six o’clock news. “Trust me, darling. It will be wonderful.”
“But—”
“Look, it’s getting late,” he told her. “I hate to go, but I’ve got a bunch of paperwork waiting for me.” He took her arm, leading her toward the front door, where he winked at her. “I’d love to stay, but with my luck, there’d be a hundred reporters waiting to snap my picture sneaking out of your apartment at the wee hours.”
“Can’t look bad for the voters,” she said. She tried for a playful tone, but it came out a little harsher than she’d intended.
“Sorry, darling. I know you’re disappointed.” He gave her a comforting squeeze. “But right now, the voters have to come first. I have to get elected before I can make waves.”
“I know.”
“Love you. Don’t forget to pick a site off that list, will you? Just call Lawrence and tell him which one you want.” And after a quick kiss good-night, Jay was on his way, back to his paperwork and his campaign manager, back to saving the world.
Alone at last. She massaged her temples, trying to stave off a headache.
But tonight, with Jay, had been really awful—she felt guilty that she didn’t want green bridesmaid dresses, she felt guilty that she didn’t know about Iranian caviar, she felt guilty that she didn’t want to share her wedding with two thousand people she didn’t know, and she felt guilty keeping him away from his real work.
Jay was so good and kind and selfless...sometimes it was really irritating. Sometimes she just wanted him to eat a greasy cheeseburger pumped full of preservatives and carelessly throw the foam container on the ground.
“Oh, God, Bridget,” she moaned out loud as she fell into bed. “Are you really going to be able to pull this off?”
If she was this cranky after just one evening, if she couldn’t even commit to environmentally aware bridesmaid dresses without getting fussy, how could she possibly marry Jay?
She wondered idly if any local convent needed a new nun.
But then she regained her composure, sat up, smoothed the quilt over her lap and tried to be rational about this. “So you had a bad night. You lapsed. It won’t always be like that. Jay is a good person, and he loves you, and he will understand if you’re not always as strong as he is. Once he’s elected, things will relax, and he won’t even notice that you don’t always remember to recycle your pop cans.”
The effect of her calm words lasted about ten seconds. “I want out,” she wailed, ducking down under the covers. “I’m a coward and a wastrel and an abuser of fluorocarbons—and I don’t think I’m strong enough to get married.”
Not to Jay Philpott, anyway.
And then the phone rang. It was muffled by the blankets over her head, but it was definitely the phone.
“If that’s Jay, asking me if he can add a thousand more people to the list, the engagement is off,” she muttered, thrusting a hand out from under the bedclothes to feel for the phone. “Finito, expunged, over and done with, dead as a doornail.”
“Hi, Bridgie,” a deep, sweet voice murmured in her ear. “Did I wake you?”
Her heart leapt to her throat. Hope blazed inside her.
“Tripp,” she whispered.
She was feeling very vulnerable, and the sound of his wonderful voice in her ear tipped her right over the edge into surrender.
Tripp—her savior! He would send Jay and his lofty ideals packing, and then he would sweep her up in his arms, telling her that he loved her, that he had always loved her. He would carry her down the hall to this very bed, where they would make mad, passionate love amid the tumbled quilts, and their hearts would beat as one. And then her life would be perfect....
Except, of course, that that was never going to happen. He might be willing to thrash Jay, just on principle, but the sweeping business was a pipe dream.
Nonetheless, she pulled the phone under the covers with her, cradling Tripp against her shoulder and snuggling back into the bed.
“It’s good to talk to you,” he said in his sweetest, most sincere tones, and she melted a little bit more.
“You, too,” she told him. “I’ve missed you.”
“Oh, Bridgie, I’m so glad to hear you say that. Listen, I’m sorry about the other day, in your office.” His voice dropped, taking on a huskier edge. She sighed and sank down into her soft bed, enjoying the feel of his voice ruffling her nerve endings. “I would never hurt you for the world, Bridgie. You know that, don’t you? I don’t want to lose your friendship. It means everything to me.”
“Oh, Tripp...”
“Still pals?”
“Still pals,” she whispered. How could she hold out? He’d called just when she needed him most. “Where are you? You sound really far away.”
“I’m in Tahoe, at the cabin.”
“The Studs cabin?”
Her cozy dreams began to curl up around the edges. That damn cabin. Every year for as long as she’d known him, he’d trekked to that cabin to drink beer and carouse with his low-life, studly friends. And if that wasn’t insulting enough, he had never, not even once, invited her to the stupid place. Boys only. Off-limits.
So what was this, a drunken prank or something, in the middle of an all-night party? Although the connection was very bad, she thought she could hear music in the background. For a second or two, it boomed very loud, and then it died out completely.
“So,” she said frostily, “what are you doing at the cabin? I thought the Studs’ annual rendezvous was in the summer. Don’t tell me you called a special meeting? Just couldn’t wait till next year to toss back a few brewskis with the boys?”
“I’m here alone. Refuge.” His voice crackled over the line, and she had to hold very still to make out the words. “Refuge from the bimbo brigade. It was the only place I could think of where they couldn’t follow. Bridgie, can you come here right away? I need you.”
Her heart twisted. She’d always wanted him to ask her to the cabin. For a long time, she had been insanely curious about just what it was like, and why they returned so faithfully, year after year.
But why was he asking now, after so much time had passed? “Tripp, you’ve never invited me up there. I thought it was a boys’ club kind of thing.”
“I know. But I need you now. Only you. You won’t let me down, will you, Bridgie?”
She sat up and pushed the quilts aside. “What’s wrong, Tripp? You sound terrible.”
“I am terrible. Will you come? I’m begging, Bridgie. No questions asked...for old times’ sake.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I can. What is it? What’s wrong?”
But as she pressed closer to the receiver, anxious to get his answer, all she heard was a series of high-pitched, outrageously stupid giggles. And then the line went dead.
She just sat there, looking down at the phone. What was this all about?
From his tone, she would’ve thought he was in mortal danger. Mortal danger from a giggling bimbo? Had one of them tied him up to torture him?
Replaying their conversation over one more time, Bridget made up her mind. This might be her last Tripp Ashby rescue mission, but she was going to go for it.
She had precious little time left in which to act silly and irresponsible, to
go gallivanting off tilting at windmills. Soon enough, she’d be the staid, respectable wife of a senator, whose wildest activity was pouring tea for Girl Scouts.
So she was going to Lake Tahoe. Going after Tripp.
At last she’d get to see the lair of the Studs, that off-limits den of iniquity. And she would pry that anonymous, giggling no-brain off Tripp while she was at it.
Chapter Four
“Plane to Reno, rental car to Tahoe,” she repeated to herself, poking into her pocket to make sure she had the reservation slip for the car and the directions to the cabin. When she traveled, Bridget was in the habit of checking her travel documents every five minutes whether she needed to or not.
After satisfying herself that it was where it was supposed to be, she refolded the all-important sheet of paper with the directions on it and slipped it safely into the outside pocket of her briefcase.
That document was precious. Without a phone number for the cabin, she hadn’t been able to call Tripp back to find out how to get to him. Information provided a number, but when she dialed it, the recorded message told her it was no longer in service.
No longer in service? She began to worry. Maybe something dire really had happened to Tripp. She remembered the maniacal giggling just before the phone cut out, and she made a reservation on the next flight.
But she didn’t have any idea where she was going, and that was going to make a rescue difficult. Finally she gave up and called one of the other Studs. She figured Steve Chambliss, the most settled of the four, would hassle her the least, and she’d been right. Steve had been curious, but otherwise perfectly willing to come across with the info she needed.
She had the niggling suspicion that maybe the Studs cabin wasn’t such a big-deal secret after all.
Winging her way west from Chicago, over scenery that had grown increasingly beautiful the farther they flew, Bridget buried her nose in the Nevada guidebook she’d picked up on her way out of the airport.
Under the general heading of Lake Tahoe, she skimmed through information on the Donner Party, the 1960 Winter Olympics, a casino where the dealers wore togas, and last but not least, the Cupid’s Arrow Chapel of Perpetual Motion, where you could get a ski-by or jog-by wedding, depending on the season, all on the spur of the moment. Not only that, but they had an Elvis impersonator on staff to perform the ceremony!
“This is some place I’m going to,” she murmured. “The Donner Party and Elvis weddings, all in one state. At least all those quickie wedding chapels will be handy if Tripp takes a liking to one of the bimbo brides.”
“What did you say, dear?” asked the sweet little old lady next to her, who was clutching a copy of Reno Rules: Winning Strategies for Serious Gamblers.
“Nothing,” she said weakly. She was only now aware that she was entering a different world.
Meanwhile, she knew the average rainfall and temperatures for most of Nevada, she knew what highways to take from the Reno airport to Tripp’s remote cabin on the shores of Lake Tahoe, and she knew where to find a cash machine or a wax museum if she should need one. But she had no idea what she was going to do once she got to Tripp’s place. None.
Somehow, she had expected a plan to come to her. No such luck.
“Fasten your seat belts,” the pilot announced, and Bridget dug in for the landing.
And then she was caught up in the bustle of finding her luggage and dragging it out to her rental car, or more precisely, rent-a-rugged-little-thing-with-a-ski-rack-on-the-top. It was apparently what people drove when they went skiing.
Bridget was the first to admit she knew very little about such things. Even though she was on her way to Ski Land U.S.A., she had no parka, no boots and definitely no skis. If she couldn’t get by inside, she wasn’t going to do it.
“I can’t think of a more idiotic sport than skiing,” she muttered, as she fumbled with the map with one hand and drove with the other, navigating the winding road heading south out of Reno.
Skiing was exactly the sort of daredevil stunt Tripp had always loved. A naturally gifted athlete, he thought hurtling down mountains at the speed of light was great fun. And he’d had the broken limbs to prove it.
Bridget had tagged along on a ski trip exactly once, on a college-sponsored outing to Vermont. While Tripp learned to balance his moguls and his ski bunnies, Bridget spent all her time holed up in the chalet, doing a slow burn over her hot chocolate.
“That was probably the first time I swore never to speak to him again,” she reflected. It certainly hadn’t been the last.
But she couldn’t stay grumpy, not when all around her the scenery was so spectacular. Snowcapped, craggy peaks, impossibly tall pine trees, clear blue skies... It was truly beautiful.
No wonder the Stud boys had looked forward to escaping here. Calm and serenity, the two things she found herself struggling to achieve, seemed to come with the territory.
Although there was a bit of a chill in the crisp autumn air, the sun was beaming brightly, and Bridget rolled down the window of her bouncy little vehicle to better commune with nature. It wasn’t long before she eased over a hill and into view of Lake Tahoe itself. Crystal blue water, stretching off to forever, lay in a huge, flat bowl carved out of the mountains.
But there was no time to gape at the scenery. Following the rather cryptic directions she’d pried out of Steve, Bridget headed for the turnoff onto the tiny, private road that led to the cabin. She went past it the first time, threw the car into reverse and backed up on the highway for about a mile, and finally wheeled in.
“Oh, well,” she said under her breath. “There was nobody coming.”
The private road to the cabin was lined with deep ruts, and she was glad her rugged-little-thing came equipped with four-wheel drive. At first she thought she must have made another mistake. This couldn’t be leading anywhere, could it? But after climbing up and winding around through trees thick enough to count as a forest, she finally came to a clearing.
And there it was—the mysterious Studs cabin.
It was a simple A-frame, two stories tall, made of weathered wood that glowed golden in the afternoon sun. A snow-dusted evergreen stood sentry on one corner, and a small wooden sign with the name Ashby etched into it told her she was definitely at the right place.
It looked perfectly normal, like any cabin on a mountain. It was also very quiet.
No wild parties. No giggling girls hanging out the windows. No beer bottles strewn around the grounds. Not even one dumb blonde running out the front door in her underwear. In fact, it looked very little like the Animal House of her imagination.
Gazing at it over her steering wheel, Bridget approached cautiously, trying not to spin any dirt or make any noise. Two cars—both jaunty red, both four-wheel drive, exactly like her own rental car—sat parked near the house. One for Tripp, and one for the bimbo du jour. The odd thing was that the hoods were up, and there were wrenches and tools scattered on the ground, as if both cars were in a state of disrepair.
She could’ve just barged right in, but she still wasn’t exactly sure what she was getting into. If Tripp was in there fighting off the advances of an amorous woman, she really didn’t want to see it. If, on the other hand, Tripp were in there succumbing to the advances of an amorous woman, she felt it was her moral duty to break it up.
So what should she do? Knock on the door? Start a fire? Call the police?
Tempting, but also temporary solutions. She had to think of something better, something more permanent, to get Tripp out of harm’s way.
Bridget pulled her little red vehicle off the road, squeezing between two fir trees, killing the motor only when she knew she was out of sight. And then she pulled out her suitcase and her briefcase, and crept carefully toward the front of the cabin.
There were wide windows across the front, but the drapes were drawn. After dropping her luggage off to one side, Bridget tiptoed closer to the windows. At the far end, she could see that the window had been cranked o
pen from the inside, and the curtains were blowing inward. By hunkering down and peering in just above the window ledge, she could get a fairly decent view of the living room of the cabin.
She felt like a Peeping Tom. “It’s for a good cause,” she reminded herself.
From her awkward position, she could see that it was a big, open room, mostly done in whites and creams, with some exposed beams and a large stone fireplace on the opposite wall. Furniture was minimal—a comfortable sofa in a nubby oatmeal fabric and a couple of cushy chairs—plus a fluffy white bearskin rug lying in front of the fireplace.
“Typical,” she muttered. “A bearskin rug for fireside seductions.”
The words had no sooner left her mouth than Tripp came charging into the living room, dragging with him a curvy blonde in a tight ski outfit. He had lipstick all over his face. He also had at least a day’s growth of tawny brown beard, and a very frantic expression.
Bridget narrowed her eyes.
“You have to leave,” he said roughly, as the blonde dug in her heels and clung to his arm.
“But how?” she protested. “The phone’s not working, and both cars are out of commission.”
Well, wasn’t that cozy. And I bet I know how the phone and the cars went kaput, Bridget thought unkindly. Miss Ski Pants knows how to pull wires with carefree abandon.
“You can walk down to the minimart,” Tripp tried. “It’s only a mile or so, and I think old Jedidiah has a truck.”
“I can’t walk that far,” the blonde cried, suddenly going limp and collapsing on top of Tripp. They both toppled onto the bearskin rug. “I seem to have sprained my ankle.”
“Oh, please,” Bridget snapped.
“Did you hear something?” Tripp asked as he tried to get himself out from under the blonde.
“Bears!” she screamed, plastering herself to his chest. “I told you I couldn’t go out there. There are bears!”
“Look, I’ll walk down to the minimart. I’ll get the truck.”
“Watch out, Tripp. Your ankle’s next,” Bridget said under her breath.
Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance) Page 5