Tucker

by Emily March

  She wanted him. She wanted to roll around in the sheets with him until she lay exhausted, out of energy, drained of this red-hot fury churning inside her.

  That’s terrible, Gillian. That would be using him. You are not that kind of girl.

  Bet he wouldn’t mind.

  As they exited the secure side of the airport, a driver waited holding a sign that read T. MCBRIDE. They had no checked luggage, and it dawned on Gillian that they hadn’t stopped by his place to pack anything for him. “You don’t have a suitcase.”

  “I’ll pick up what I need. No big deal.”

  The driver ferried them to the hotel, the same one where Jackson and Caroline had stayed with Coco and her crew in those terrible days after the plane crash. Afterward, Caroline had raved about the hotel’s luxury, and the kindness the staff had shown during that trying time. Jeremy had taken Gillian to some upscale places, but this was a big step up from anywhere she’d previously stayed.

  They didn’t even have to check in but were escorted straight up to their suite. Gillian stood in the center of a small living area, gazing around a little in awe as Tucker murmured something to the bellboy. Then the door shut, and they were alone, and she felt suddenly unsure and awkward.

  Tucker said, “It’s two bedrooms, Glory. I didn’t want to assume. I’m going to take the one here on the right, and you are welcome to join me or not. No expectations. No pressure.”

  She cleared her throat. “You really are a gentleman, Tucker.” Drat it. “I want you to know I’ll settle up with you at some point. I pay my own way.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He studied her with a long look. “You are wound tighter than a two-dollar watch right now, sweetheart. If I know anything about women, this spa appointment is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

  “Do you have a massage scheduled too?”

  “No. I’m not a spa kind of guy. While you’re getting pampered, I’ll probably make a run to the T-shirt shop. You might take a look in your bag and see what I missed. I can pick it up while I’m out. Then, to be honest, I’ll probably take a nap. I expect we’ll have a late night, and I’d hate to fall asleep on the craps table.”

  “I don’t know how to play craps.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you. There’s a lot I can teach you while we’re here in Vegas. All you have to do is ask.”

  Gillian couldn’t help it. Her gaze stole past the open door of the bedroom he’d claimed as his own. At that moment, thoughts of Jeremy were very far away.

  Unfortunately, they returned following a fabulous massage that left her peaceful and relaxed when she sat to enjoy a delicious spa lunch of champagne, chicken salad, and fresh mixed fruit. Her server was the spitting image of Erica, sans the baby bump. The young woman was attentive and sweet as could be, and Gillian left her an excellent tip, but by the time she sat in the stylist’s chair for makeup, blow-dry, and style, her mellow mood had disappeared. On top of her encounter with the Erica doppelgänger, she now sat in a salon that was bursting with babbling, bubbling brides.

  They were everywhere. When Gillian said as much to her stylist, the woman laughed. “Oh, and this is the slow season for brides in Las Vegas. You should see it on Valentine’s Day. You can’t throw a bag of rose petals without hitting a bride around here, then. Speaking of weddings, we just got our new polish colors for June. Some beautiful pastels. Would you like to see them?”

  “Pastels? I don’t know that pastels suit my mood.” Gillian went with lady-killer red.

  At the end of her spa afternoon, she returned to their suite, propelled by three glasses of champagne and a slow burn. She looked great, she knew, but oh, such ugly emotions churned inside of her. She arrived to find Tucker’s bedroom door firmly shut, a long-stem red rose lying atop a note on the coffee table that read: Meet here at 5:00 for cocktails.

  She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. All she needed to do was dress. She headed toward the second bedroom, trying to recall what Tucker had packed for her. Shoes, she remembered, because he’d pulled out her go-to pair of black heels and her “dinner with clients of the bank” little black dress. Dang it, the bra she was wearing didn’t work beneath that dress. Had he packed underwear? OMG, had she been so out-of-control that she let Tucker McBride go rummaging through her panty drawer?

  She stepped into the second bedroom and stopped abruptly. “Whoa.”

  A dress lay spread upon the bed with a flat, black velvet jewelry box and a folded note beside it. Her mouth went dry when she read Tucker’s bold, masculine hand. Red is the color of fire and blood, of strength and power and passion. You wore red the day we met. I hope you’ll wear it tonight. Red suits you. —T

  She blew out a breath and reached for the dress. It was a silken sunset, a bold, rich red shot through with a golden shimmer. She held it against herself and turned toward the mirror. The neckline plunged, but not trashy low. The hem was a little shorter than she ordinarily wore, but not so short that she’d be uncomfortable. She had to try it.

  She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her top and turned to throw it toward the bedside chair. That’s when she noticed the shopping bag. She murmured, “More?”

  Oh, yes, more. Definitely more. Lingerie. Red. Perfect for the dress. And shoes. Not just any shoes, but—OMG—Christian Louboutin. Glossy, sleek red snakeskin with stiletto heels.

  Now, her heart began to pound, and she sank into the chair. She’d never owned a pair of Louboutins. They were wildly expensive and ridiculously impractical, but how, oh how she’d always coveted a pair. She never would have spent the money on them. She’d never received them as a gift. Not from Jeremy, and he’d loved to see her in high heels.

  Tucker McBride gave her Louboutins. He’d given her the shoes, the dress, and the lingerie. The spa. This hotel. The last-minute trip. Everything first class!

  From the man who just two days ago talked about eating worms for fuel.

  Red is the color of fire and blood, of strength and power and passion. Red suits you.

  “Oh, Tucker.”

  Finally, she reached for the item she’d saved for last. Her mouth was dry as she opened the jewelry box. “Oh, Tucker,” she repeated in a breathy voice upon recognizing the antique hair combs, the ones from the cave. How did he happen to have these with him? Why would he give them to her? She couldn’t accept a gift like this. Any of it, really. It was all too much.

  And yet, he’d gone to so much trouble, so much thought. Gillian couldn’t throw his generosity back in his face either. And Tucker wasn’t the type to make a grand gesture like this if it wasn’t something he wanted to do.

  I’ll be gracious and accept his gifts. Maybe insist the combs are simply a loan.

  Her conscience appeased, she giggled like a schoolgirl and dug in.

  Everything fit. At two minutes to five, she touched up her lipstick, tucked it, her ID, a credit card, and a couple of tissues into the bra pocket she always carried in her luggage and gave her reflection one final look. “Fire and strength and passion,” she murmured. Yes. Tonight, Tucker was right. Red suited her mood.

  She opened the bedroom door and stepped out to meet her date. Tucker stood at the bar, mixing what appeared to be martinis. Seeing her, he froze. “Holy hell, Glory.”

  She gave him a slow once-over. A suit. A gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, and a necktie! Red with black stripes. The Spit and Polish Tucker far exceeded her fantasy. Her fingers itched to reach for that tie. “Holy hell, yourself. The T-shirt shop, Tucker?”

  He flashed a grin that she felt clear to her Louboutin-shod toes. “The dress was in the window. I couldn’t pass it up. Great decision I made, by the way. You look incomparable.”

  “Thank you. For the compliment, the dress, the shoes—oh, the shoes! And, for—” She touched one of the hair combs, then waved her arm around the suite. “For all of this. It’s too much. Way too much.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “But the expense! I didn’t—”


  “Enough. There’s oil and gas on my family’s ranch, Gillian.” He handed her a drink. “You are welcome. I enjoyed shopping, and the shoes were for me as much as for you. I intended to give you the combs on Valentine’s Day, but the timing was never right. Now, tell me about the spa. Did you run into anyone famous?”

  She sipped her drink. Funny how Jeremy never missed a chance to let people know he had money, but Tucker came from generational wealth and never let on. That was so much more attractive.

  “Gillian? Famous folk?”

  She shook away the thoughts of her ex. “If I did, I couldn’t see them for all the brides.”

  “The brides?”

  She told him about the bundles of bubbling happiness in the salon. Tucker frowned. “I didn’t think about all the weddings when I chose Las Vegas for your escape. That was bad planning on my part.”

  Gillian shook her head. “Are you kidding? All of this? This is a fairy tale, Tucker. You’ve given me a fairy tale just when I needed one.”

  It was true. She did feel like Cinderella on the way to the ball when he escorted her to a limo that took them to the restaurant where he’d made dinner reservations. The food was fantastic, the wine sublime, and the company ever so entertaining. Tucker kept her laughing, mostly with stories about the shenanigans he and Jackson and Boone had created during their youth. When they debated whether or not to have an after-dinner drink, he checked the time with the pocket watch he wore on a chain on his vest.

  “Tell me about the watch,” Gillian asked as she sipped a cognac a few minutes later. “Is that the one you mentioned you found in Enchanted Canyon?”

  “It is. And the chain is from the trunk in the cave.” He reached up and readjusted the comb in her hair, then let his fingers trail through her curls. “I took it from the trunk the same time I removed your combs.”

  “I’ve never noticed you wearing it before tonight.”

  “I haven’t worn it before.” He removed the gold watch from its vest pocket, unhooked the chain, and handed it to Gillian who flipped it open and read the engraving. To My Love.

  Tucker said, “I wore it this morning because Angelica left a strange note on my door last night.”

  “Strange?”

  He nodded. “She suggested I start wearing the watch and then quoted some French guy who said, ‘Everything comes in time to those who can wait.’”

  “I’ve heard that quote. I don’t know the French guy, though.”

  “Me either. But I decided to get on my woo-woo and listen to Angelica. Her hunches are uncanny, so I figured I’d wear the watch.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Gillian said, handing it back.

  Tucker returned it to his pocket, and conversation drifted toward upcoming summer events at the Fallen Angel Inn and Last Chance Hall. Gillian relaxed and enjoyed the moment, though she never completely rid herself of the anger toward Jeremy that simmered beneath everything. Like Tucker said, red suited her. Anger was red, but so was strength and passion. She was strongly, passionately furious with that lying, cheating duffer, and she was absolutely, positively going to enjoy herself tonight in the company of this handsome, generous, witty, sexy-as-sin guide to her survival, Tucker McBride.

  If her gaze kept straying to the three sets of brides and grooms also dining at that time, well, she was simply practicing her survival S: Size up the situation, before taking another sip of cognac.

  After dinner, they walked to the nightclub where he’d reserved a table. The place was loud, the drinks strong, and the music classic rock. It was just what she’d asked for, just what she’d thought she’d wanted, but after half an hour of dancing, Gillian realized that rather than easing her simmering temper, the music and movement fueled it.

  Being surrounded by literally dozens of members of bachelorette parties didn’t help anything.

  When the live band took a break, she suggested they head somewhere else.

  “I’m game for leaving. Want to try the casino for a while?”

  “Why not? I’m feeling lucky!”

  She meant it too. She would have to be a real witch not to feel lucky with a man like Tucker at her side, having given her this fairy-tale escape. She gave him a sidelong glance and found him staring at her with warm admiration in his eyes. She smiled at him, and he took hold of her hand.

  They strolled through the shopping mall toward the casino, pausing to window shop when something caught their eyes. Tucker wanted to buy her a necklace, but she refused to allow it. When he admired a tacky Fat Elvis T-shirt, she bought it for him and had it sent to their hotel suite. They were laughing at a risqué coffee cup he’d purchased as a joke for Jackson when Gillian looked up to see even more brides headed her way.

  She ducked into a shop that sold Judith Leiber purses to avoid them, and a bag brought her up short. It was a novelty clutch, a princess castle, covered in crystals. She wanted it beyond reason. Unable to help herself, she picked it up, opened it, and checked the tag. Holy Moses!

  She quickly set it back down. A middle-aged sales clerk asked in a perky tone, “May I help you?”

  “No, thank you. Just looking.”

  “Let me know if I can show you anything.” The clerk turned to another customer and repeated her question.

  “You like it?” Tucker’s tone of voice told her all she needed to do was ask, and he’d buy it for her.

  “No. I just thought of how cute it would’ve looked in the princess window I did for Bliss. Remember? This bag is perfect for a princess bride.”

  “You want it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. I can tell. Don’t lie to me.”

  “No. I’m not lying.” She smiled wistfully and added, “I’ll admit if I were a bride and wearing a princess-style gown, and I had a billion dollars to waste, I’d buy it for my wedding purse. It’s definitely a special occasion bag, the sort of thing that would become an heirloom.”

  “Why a billion dollars?”

  She smirked and showed him the price tag. Tucker’s eyes bugged out. “For a purse shaped like a castle?”

  Reverently, she said, “It’s Judith Leiber.”

  She wandered away from the castle bag to another display featuring more classically styled purses. When she paused to flip through a catalog, Tucker stopped, tilted his head, and studied her. Absently, he pulled the watch from his vest pocket and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. “Gillian,” he began. “I have an idea. I think we should—”

  “Reeeeeeee!” squealed a customer in a loud, shrill voice. “I have to have this!”

  Dressed all in white, wearing a little puff veil and a beauty pageant ribbon that spelled out Bride, the woman appeared to be younger than Gillian, and she was surrounded by a group of five chattering girlfriends. A bachelorette weekend, most likely. Suddenly, unexpectedly, tears welled in Gillian’s eyes and started spilling. She turned around and blindly fled the shop.

  Tucker caught up to her moments later. “Whoa, there. Gillian, what did I miss? What just happened? What made you cry?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I’m having a meltdown!”

  “Okay, yes, that I can see. Why now?”

  “It’s so stupid. I’m so stupid. It’s all these brides. They’re everywhere. They’re happy and excited, and I’m jealous. I’m here with you wearing thousand-dollar shoes, and you’re ten times better looking than he is, and it’s a fairy tale, and I’m so lucky but … but … he got my sorority sister pregnant while he was engaged to me!”

  “Honey,” Tucker began.

  “I don’t care. I don’t love him anymore. Maybe I never did really love him. And why am I still thinking about weddings? I look at a six-thousand-dollar purse, and I think I want it to carry on my wedding day? How crazy is that? That’s the price of a good used car, and I’m single!”

  As Tucker took hold of her arm and guided her toward a bench beside a nearby fountain, she continued to rail. “I don’t really care about the purse. I care about the baby. A baby
is the main reason we scheduled our honeymoon for three months after the wedding. We wanted to make a baby on our honeymoon, and we wanted to be a couple for a year first before being a trio.”

  “That’s a lot of family planning,” Tucker observed.

  “I plan! That’s what I do! I want a baby, and now my eggs are just getting older and older. Before you know it, I’ll be thirty-five and classified a geriatric pregnancy. That’s even if I find someone who will make a baby with me.”

  She flopped down onto the bench, folded her arms, and declared, “Jeremy was wrong. It was about the dream. It wasn’t all about the wedding!”

  Tucker licked his lips. Blew out a breath. Then, he went down on his knees and took her hand. “Prove it to him.”

  “Prove what?”

  “That it’s not all about the wedding. That you don’t care about the planning—the music, food, playlist, invitations, and all the other sprinkles.”

  She blinked. Swiped the tears from her cheek. “How the heck would I do that?”

  “Marry me. Now. Tonight.”

  Gillian gaped at him. “What?”

  “Marry me. This is Vegas. It’s easy.”

  “It’s crazy, that’s what it is,” she replied with a little laugh. “You’ve lost your mind, Tucker.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I think you and I have as good a basis for a marriage as a lot of people. We like each other. We’re friends. I know as sure as Las Vegas is hot in July that we will be great together in the sack. We have similar values. I want kids. You wouldn’t have to worry about geriatric eggs. We could get to work on that project tonight. I’ll share your dream, Gillian. Marry me.”

  “Tucker. This is crazy talk. If this is about sex, I’ve already decided I want to sleep with you tonight.”

  “That works out great because I want to wait until we’re married to make love.”

  “No, you don’t. You want to sleep with me tonight!”