“She has a job!” he protested.
“Well, she doesn’t work twenty-four hours a day, does she? I don’t understand why you aren’t pining to be together every free moment.” Her stare was level, as if she were discussing the newest color of chrysanthemum. Who’d ever have guessed she was dissecting her son’s love life, of all things? “I have seen no evidence of any lust on either side.”
“Lust?” he sputtered. “Lust?”
“Well, of course. And I blame you, Tripp. You should be wooing the girl, sending her flowers, arranging a romantic tête-à-tête now and again. I’ve seen you with women before. I know you can do it—and quite well, from all the gossip I’ve heard.” While he was still digesting that piece of information, Kitty Belle coolly announced, “If you want to make a success of this match, you’ll have to turn up the heat in your romance.”
“Turn up the heat?”
“Exactly. Why, when your father and I were engaged...” Her eyes took on a wistful glow. “We nearly had to be pried apart by our fathers. There’s something very stirring, very provocative, when you first make the promise of a life together. It’s intoxicating. Every time I looked down at my ring, I got a little tingle, to know that I would soon be married to your father. I felt so romantic, so loved.”
“Things are different now,” he tried. “It’s a new era.”
“Some things never go out of style,” she said flatly. “And lusting after your fiancée is one of them. And that reminds me. You have to get her a ring. I’m ashamed of you, not even remembering to buy an engagement ring for your new fiancée.”
He could hardly protest that Bridget already had an engagement ring and didn’t need another one. “All right,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I certainly hope so.” There was suddenly a new sparkle in her eye, and she clapped her hands together happily. “I’ll tell you what, Tripp. Since you don’t want the engagement party I was planning, I will scrap the whole thing.”
“No party? But that’s great, Mom.”
“Provided, of course, that you take the initiative. You can arrange a small, intimate dinner, just for the two of you, and present her with the ring over dinner. That will give the two of you a chance to be alone.” She pressed one eyelid down in a very heavy wink. “To be alone, if you catch my drift.”
“I’ve got it,” he said darkly. She might as well have written Make Love To Bridget on a ten-foot banner and hung it from the chandelier.
“Good. Have fun, darling.”
And then she was gone, sliding out of the drawing room as slippery as an eel, before he could grab her and tell her he couldn’t possibly do what she was asking.
Bridgie was going to have a fit.
* * *
BUT BRIDGIE WAS ALREADY having a fit.
“Tripp,” she murmured into the phone. “Is that you?”
“Yes. Why are you whispering?”
“Because I’m at the office and I don’t want my secretary to hear me.”
“Bridgie, you’re the boss. You can say whatever you want.”
“Will you cut me some slack here? This is important.” She paused, and he imagined her checking her phone for wiretaps. “Tripp,” she started again, in that same harried, suspicious whisper, “I found out that Newman Niles, the senior partner—the most senior partner—knows your mother. His wife is on some board or committee with her or something.”
“So?”
“So, if your mother tells his wife, Niles will know! But he already knows I’m engaged to Jay. Everyone in the firm knows. They think it’s fabulous that one of their own is going to marry Jay Philpott, the most promising senatorial candidate to come out of Chicago since Carol Moseley-Braun. I’m big news here! But if your mother tells his wife, and Niles knows I have two engagements going, the whole damn firm will think I’m cheating on Jay—”
“Slow down a minute, Bridgie. My mother won’t tell your boss, okay? Problem solved.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
He felt a certain triumph when he said, “I scored a major coup. I got her to agree to tell only people on the approved guest list. And that’s her relatives in Alabama, a few harmless people in Ashbyville, my three best buddies from college and our household staff. And that’s it. A total of about fifteen people.”
“You’re sure she won’t tell anyone else?”
“She promised.”
“Okay.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I guess if it’s only that many people... I mean, what are the chances one of them would say anything that would get back to Jay, here in Chicago? And there’s even less of a chance of my family in St. Paul finding out, which is certainly good. I mean, I already told my dad and my sisters that I was engaged to Jay, so they would be very confused if suddenly I was engaged to you, too. Or instead. Or whatever.”
“Bridget, you’re babbling,” he said kindly. “Have you had a bad day?”
“Of course I’ve had a bad day! I’ve spent the whole day worrying myself sick about this stupid engagement you talked me into. I’m a nervous wreck!”
“Relax, sweetie. There’s nothing to get excited about.”
A long pause hung on the phone line. “Did you just call me sweetie?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” Women got fried about the most bizarre things. Was there something wrong with “sweetie”?
“And you wonder why I’m a nervous wreck!” she returned. “Tripp, please don’t make this worse than it already is.”
He shook his head hard. Had he missed something? Or was Bridgie acting completely irrationally?
“I can’t take this,” she murmured. “I’m losing it. Here I am, trying to think up excuses to keep Jay away, because I don’t want to tell him where I was all weekend—not that he would ask, because he trusts me, of course. Even though maybe he shouldn’t trust me after this fiasco, and even though he would be really, really mad at me for doing this with you, since he has this tiny little spot of jealousy where you’re concerned—”
“He’s jealous of me?” Tripp smiled, enjoying that idea.
“Well, maybe more like impatient. He just doesn’t understand why I still hang around with you.”
He’d only met Jay Philpott once, but he was less than impressed. In his admittedly biased opinion, Philpott was too good to be believed. He was handsome enough, in a bland, political way, and he had a plastic smile that women voters seemed to love.
Philpott knew facts and figures on every issue under the sun, and he seemed to spend a lot of time and effort making it look as though he really cared about whales and screech owls, migrant workers and Haitian refugees.
He didn’t take insults personally, always turned the other cheek, paid his taxes on time and had never been caught in any kind of indiscretion.
But nobody, nobody was really that good. There had to be a skeleton in the closet somewhere.
“Why would he be jealous of me?”
“Maybe because I’m always leaving him in the lurch while I run off and rescue you,” she said cynically. “There might be a hint there about who goes where on my priority list.”
“Yeah, well, the guy’s not good enough for you, anyway. If he hassles you about where you were, just dump him.”
“Oh, that’s charming! I’m the one who agrees to be engaged to somebody else while I’m wearing his ring, and if he says a word about it, I’m supposed to dump him.”
Tripp smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“You’re impossible. Listen, I have to go. Jay’s coming in a few hours to pick me up, and I have to think of what I’m going to tell him. Oh, no,” she cried, “I left my ring in the pocket of the jeans I was wearing in Lake Tahoe. And I can’t leave work and go home to find the stupid thing. What will I tell him if he sees my naked finger?”
“Just tell him you forgot to wear it. Big deal.”
“You don’t understand. Jay is perfect. He would never forget his ring. How can I tell him I did?”
“He
’ll forgive you.”
“Oh, I know he’ll forgive me. He always does. But sometimes, you know, I just hate needing to be forgiven.”
“Bridgie,” Tripp tried again, “I really think you should forget trying to live up to Philpott’s standards. He’s inhuman. You’re not. You make mistakes. That’s life. But speaking of rings...”
“Yes? What? Hurry, will you? I need to get off the phone.”
He reconsidered. Maybe Bridgie would find it more amusing if he gave her the ring as a surprise. He smiled. He found he liked that idea a lot. Even if it was only a sham, even if it wasn’t a real engagement, he still thought she’d enjoy knowing he’d picked out something pretty just for her, and then gone to the trouble of arranging a romantic dinner.
“Listen,” he said slowly, “did you say you were having dinner with Philpott tonight?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because you can’t. You’re having dinner with me.”
“Tripp, I can’t. I have plans.”
“Get rid of him,” he ordered. “I’ll wait for you at your apartment. Can you make it home by seven? Will that give you enough time to get rid of Philpott?”
“Well, it would, if I were going to, but—”
“You will unless you want him to run into me. I’ll be there, waiting.”
“Tripp, don’t—”
“Do you want Philpott to come into your apartment and find me there?”
“God, no!” She shuddered, and Tripp took that to mean she wasn’t planning on letting the two of them meet up. Good. “But you can’t wait for me there,” she told him. “You don’t have a key.”
“Just be there at seven. And don’t worry—I’ll take care of everything.”
Why did it seem like he had said those words a hundred times in the past few days?
* * *
EVERYTHING WAS READY. And he actually felt nervous.
He’d had to run around like a crazy man to find a ring he liked, get to the gourmet grocery store he liked and then talk Bridgie’s doorman into letting him into her apartment.
“I’m her fiancé,” he’d said sheepishly. And once he’d flashed the ring at the guy, he was inside without a whimper.
Dinner was now well underway, and as far as he knew, everything was perfect. He’d whipped up a simple fettuccine Alfredo, which he knew was one of her favorite dishes, plus he’d brought salad, wine and a two-layer chocolate cake with fresh fall flowers arranged on the top.
For the final touch, he set the ring box neatly in the middle of the flowers.
The last time he’d been this nervous about a date, he was eighteen years old. She was the captain of the cheerleading squad, a bona fide older woman of twenty-one, and he was so jumpy, he’d almost hit her with the car door when he held it open for her.
But there was no time to think about the women in his past. The woman in his present was about to come home, and he wanted to impress her.
He lit the candles on the oak coffee table, and then turned off all the rest of the lights. Bridgie’s living room was now lit with a romantic glow, aided by the lights of Chicago’s skyline visible through the window.
“Very nice,” he allowed, just as he heard the door twist open.
“Tripp, are you here? Why is it so dark in here?” she called out. “Oh, there you are.” She looked around at the candles and the cutlery, she looked at him and she said, “Oh my God.”
“Do you like it?”
She swallowed. “What is this for?”
“For you, of course.” Tripp edged over to take her coat and her briefcase, but she jumped back the second he touched her. “Bridgie, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, but her voice was shaky, and her pupils were huge.
Bridgie had the prettiest eyes—they were a deep, dark brown, so dark they almost looked black. Her eyes reminded him of darkness, of mysteries, of nighttime. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Her black, thick lashes seemed to make the color even more striking, especially against her pale, creamy skin.
She was wearing a dark suit with a white blouse. In another place, her attire might have seemed severe. But here, in the flickering glow of the candles, she was a study in light and shadow. Shadows played across her face, softening the line of her cheek and her mouth, fading into the whiteness of her throat, where her blouse gapped open at the top button.
He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, a thumb to brush below the curve of her lashes. She was so still, so quiet. So unlike his Bridgie.
He wanted to kiss her. His mouth ached with the need.
All it would take was a small push forward, and he could take her in his arms, he could lower his lips to hers, he could bury himself in her sweetness, in her goodness, in her trust.
He wanted her. Tripp couldn’t ever remember wanting anything more, and it rocked him down to the core.
No matter how often this damn animal attraction kept pushing at him, he was determined to push it right back. Bridget was his friend, and she trusted him. How could he stand here, wanting her so badly, it made his jaw clench? Talk about betrayal. Talk about taking advantage. Talk about ruining everything.
He couldn’t let this happen. Not with Bridgie.
Immediately he backed off, reaching for her coat and her briefcase. Under cover of shoving her things in the closet, he tried to regain some semblance of self-control.
“It smells great in here. What are you making?” she asked, but he started speaking at the same moment, trying to break the looming silence.
His question—“Do you want to change your clothes before we eat?” —came out on top of hers.
And then she said, “Sure, I’ll go change,” just as he answered, “Fettuccine Alfredo,” in response to the wrong question.
“Fettucini Alfredo is my favorite.”
Politely, he responded, “I know.”
And they both laughed self-consciously.
Damn. How could things be so damn clumsy with Bridgie? That was what was so special about her, about them, that there was never an awkward moment between them. Until now.
Thankfully, she seemed more able to handle things than he was. She excused herself to change out of her business suit, and he served the food for lack of anything better to do.
When she came back, dressed now in a long, white silk blouse over skinny black jeans, he had everything ready.
They sat on the floor around the coffee table—he’d somehow thought the floor would be more fun than the dinner table—and at least the food furnished them with plenty of ammunition for small talk.
“So how did you manage to get in here?” she asked, taking a long sip of her wine.
He finally cracked a smile. “Your doorman was pretty agreeable. He buzzed me right up. I guess he figured I couldn’t be too dangerous if I was carrying a couple of bags of groceries and a bakery box.”
“I’ll have to speak to him,” she said severely, but she was smiling, too, so Tripp figured it couldn’t be too bad.
“And how did you get rid of old Philpott?”
Bridget flushed. “Could you call him Jay, please?”
“Sure.” Tripp leaned back against the sofa, stretching out his long legs. With a measuring gaze, he asked, “So how did you get rid of old Jay?”
“I was terrible.” She bent over her plate, fiddling with a stray strand of pasta. “I told him I had a headache. Straight off a 1950s sitcom. I said I was going to take some aspirin and go right to bed. He wanted to come up with me, you know, tuck me in or something, but I talked him out of that, too.”
“He wanted to tuck you in?” Tripp didn’t like the sound of that. He suddenly had the overwhelming need to rearrange Jay Philpott’s features.
“I blew him off. I lied to him,” she murmured. “I’m a terrible person.”
“You’re not a terrible person. Hey, it got him out of your hair for one night, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I know, but...” Bridgie’s eyes shone large and
dark across the table. “I hate being so dishonest. How can I carry on this charade with you and not tell him?”
“Did he give you a hard time about the ring?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. He even offered to buy me another one if I couldn’t find it. You know Jay. Always thoughtful. Always perfect.”
“You can’t marry that guy, Bridgie, do you hear?” His voice was deliberate, dangerous. “Over my dead body.”
“Two fiancés, and you don’t want me to marry either of them,” she said mockingly.
“Neither of them are good enough for you.”
His gaze held hers, across the table, across the candlelight. He wished he knew how to read her expression. He wished he’d thought to wonder what she was thinking years ago, so this wouldn’t all be so new to him now.
“Did you like my little surprise?” he asked softly.
“The dinner, you mean? It was great.” She licked her lips. “Although I’m not quite sure I understand the point of it.”
“We’re officially engaged. I thought we should celebrate.”
“Oh, I see.” She cocked her head to one side, sending the dark, glossy waves of her short pageboy spilling to one shoulder. “Sometimes, Tripp, you are such a mystery to me.”
Ditto, he thought, but he rose from the table rather than pursue the question.
“Ready for dessert?” he asked, carrying in the cake.
“Wow. A cake, too? Chocolate, of course. You really know how to turn a girl’s head,” she teased.
“I hope so.”
He set it down in front of her, waiting for her reaction.
“Isn’t that pretty. Tiger lilies, right?” She bent over closer. “What’s that in the middle?”
She picked up the jeweler’s box.
Her eyes went wide. “For me?” And her hands trembled as she pulled off the ribbon and pried it open. “Oh my God.”
“It’s an engagement ring. Since we’re supposed to be engaged, it seemed like the right thing to do. I, uh, hope you like it,” he said gruffly.
But Bridget surprised him. She burst into tears and threw the box at the cake.
“What? What did I do wrong?”
Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance) Page 10