by Anne Stuart
“I like the way you say my name.”
Her eyes flew open. “Don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t flirt with me. And don’t deny that was what you were doing. I’ve got enough on my mind without that.”
He reached for another French fry and popped it in his mouth. She had to admit he had a disturbingly sexy mouth. “What’s on your mind, then? Cold feet? Having second thoughts about dear old Edward?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Edward is everything I’ve ever wanted in life, and we’ll have a wonderful life together. It’s only natural to feel nervous when you’re about to take such a major step in life.”
“You don’t take too many chances, do you?”
“Not if I can help it. I like security. Surprises disturb me.”
He sighed. “You can’t control life, Susan. It has a habit of throwing curve balls when you least expect it. You need to learn to duck or bat.”
She liked the way he said her name, too, she thought dismally. “I was never very good at softball,” she said. “I can simply refuse to play.”
“Life is hardball. But you’ll miss a lot if you’re too scared to take chances.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Aren’t you?” He reached for another French fry, and she glared at him.
“Take one more and you die,” she said. “Order your own if you want fries.”
“I’ll take that as an invitation.” He rose and went to the counter, and her eyes followed him with dubious fascination. She should be home in bed at this hour, not having a midnight rendezvous with a dangerous man. And there was no question about it, Jake Wyczynski was a dangerous man indeed, at least to Susan Abbott.
He slid back into the booth, a cup of coffee in his hand. Edward would have stayed put, snapping his well-manicured fingers until the harried waitress came to take his order.
“You can’t find truly great French fries outside of this country and Canada. It could be what I miss most,” he said.
“Every place in the world has McDonald’s.”
He laughed, a low, lazy laugh. “That’s what you think. I keep away from big cities if I can help it.”
“Where do you live? For that matter, who the hell are you?” she demanded, sliding over to the corner and curling her feet up underneath her. She’d given up fighting for the moment. She’d come to her haven, the one place where she was certain she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew, and he was there. There were some things not worth fighting. An hour’s conversation over coffee and French fries wouldn’t do any harm. Besides, she was curious.
“I don’t want to talk about me.”
“Tough,” she said sweetly. “What have you got to hide?”
“Unlike you, a hell of a lot.”
“What makes you think I don’t have anything to hide?” she demanded, oddly offended.
“You’ve lived a blameless life, haven’t you? Straight As in the proper prep school, one of the seven sisters colleges, the perfect daughter, the best friend, the proper fiancée. Always doing and saying the right thing.”
It shouldn’t have wounded. She smiled tightly. “You’re very astute.”
“Except that I don’t think that’s what you really are. I think that beneath that polished, perfect exterior is wild woman trying to escape.”
“Nope,” she said. “There is no wild woman inside me. You’re a romantic.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me how you know my godmother, who has to be the most elusive human being on this planet. Where do you live, and what do you do for a living? And don’t brush me off with some glib answer. I’m curious. Consider it a gift of charity. I need to be distracted from the pressures of my wedding. Entertain me.”
He toyed with his cup of coffee, and she looked at his hands. They were rough, scarred, tanned and oddly elegant as they encircled the thick mug. Good hands, gentle but strong.
“All right,” he said. “Where do I live? Right now it’s in an abandoned garage in the middle of your family’s property. That’ll be home for another week. Then I’ll head to Spain, then on to East Africa, and then I’m not sure.”
“You don’t have a home?”
“Several, in fact. Nothing particularly elegant. The old farmhouse in Spain is probably in better shape than the other places, but that’s because I spend more time there. A hunting cabin in the Northwest Territories of Canada. A tiny cattle ranch in Argentina. A truly disreputable house in Venice. A number of other places scattered throughout the world.”
“So instead of Indiana Jones you’re really a jetsetting millionaire, traveling between your many homes?”
He laughed. “Nope. I don’t like to be tied down. I have a knack for making money when I need it. Louisa says I’m the luckiest human being she knows, but I’m not so sure of that. I just have a certain ability to know what will work and what won’t.”
“So you basically wander the world, making investments like some banker? It sounds boring.”
He laughed. “The last job I had was building bridges in East Africa. Trust me, it wasn’t boring in the slightest.”
“How do you know Louisa?”
“She’s my aunt. Married to my uncle Jack for forty-eight years, until he died in his sleep. Damned tame way for the old man to go, too.” He sighed. “She’s a character, your godmother. A holy terror, not afraid of anything or anyone, with the biggest heart and the deepest laugh.”
“She sounds like the stories I’ve heard of my aunt Tallulah,” Susan said faintly.
“I imagine they’ve got a lot in common.”
“It’s probably just as well she didn’t come for the wedding. She’d be sorely disappointed in her godchild.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve already pointed out what a good little girl I am. Always doing and saying the right thing. Do you think someone like Louisa would appreciate such a boring little paragon?” She couldn’t keep the faint bitterness out of her voice.
“The thing about Louisa,” Jake said in a soft voice, “is that she knows people. She’d see right through you to the woman beneath. I think she’d love you.”
She jerked her head up, startled. “Why?”
“Because you have a fierce heart. You make me think of some fairy-tale princess, the whole world trapped inside you while you sleep.”
“Don’t start thinking you’re going to awaken me with a kiss,” she warned him, feeling a sudden knot in her stomach.
“Who’s talking about kissing?” he replied lazily.
“I’ve got to go.” She almost knocked her halfempty Coke over on the Formica counter in her haste to get away. She fumbled in her purse, and he reached out and put his hand over hers, stilling her agitated movements.
“My treat,” he said. “It’s the least Louisa would expect of me.”
His hand was warm, big, strong, and she couldn’t control the stray shiver that ran through her body. She jerked it away, rather than argue. “It’s been nice talking to you, Mr. Wyczynski.”
“Always polite,” he murmured wryly. “You don’t always have to come up with the polite lies, Susan.”
“You haven’t lived in civilized society recently. Polite lies are an important part of life.”
“All right. How about you don’t have to lie to me?”
She rose, staring at him, and she knew with sudden certainty that lying to Jake Wyczynski was more important than any of the small social lies the told daily. “I’d better get home and get to bed,” she said nervously. “I’ve got the week from hell ahead of me.”
Too late she realized how that sounded. “Not that I’m not happy and excited,” she continued quickly. “I mean, what bride wouldn’t be? It’s just—”
“Go home, Susan,” he said gently. “You can come up with excuses tomorrow.
He was wrong about her. She wasn’t a coward, not usually. But at that moment she didn’t have any fight left in her. With a faint, nervous shrug, she turned and ran.
Chapter Four
Susan didn’t sleep well. The French fries, what few Jake hadn’t eaten, sat in her stomach like a lump of lead. Every time she came close to drifting off, something would wake her up. The guest bed in her mother’s house was brand-new, state-of-the-art and hard as a rock. Perfect for bones and muscles, but hell to get comfortable in, she thought, punching her pillow at a little past six.
At seven she gave up, staggering to the kitchen to make some fresh coffee. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and shuddered. Her close-cropped hair stuck out all around her head, her face was pale except for the lavender circles around her eyes, and her mouth looked tight and drawn. The blushing bride looked like death warmed over, and if she didn’t get some sleep in the next three days, Edward was going to see her coming down the aisle and bolt in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t until she poured her second cup of black, strong coffee that she realized the notion of Edward running away filled her with profound relief.
“You’re being an idiot,” she said out loud. Indecision wasn’t her style, and now was a hell of a bad time to change her mind. Edward was everything she’d ever wanted. She certainly wasn’t going to back out now.
Grabbing a yellow, lined legal pad and a pencil, she took her coffee out into the small backyard that Mary had tended so lovingly over the years. Her mother had done wonders with the tiny yard, the ordinary little house, but she deserved better, and Susan had every intention of making sure she got it.
She drew a line down the center of the page, with yes and no on either side. The reasons to marry Edward were easy enough. One, she loved him. Two, the wedding was planned. Three, her mother loved him. Four, this was her childhood dream come true. Five, it would return the Abbotts to their rightful place in Matchfield society. Six, she loved Edward.
On the no side, there was nothing. Apart from a faint, indefinable sense of uneasiness that had to be normal prenuptial nerves, she could think of absolutely no reason why she wouldn’t want to marry Edward Jeffries on Saturday. Well, apart from his overwhelming mother.
It was all Jake Wyczynski’s fault, and by extension, her mysterious godmother Louisa’s fault as well. Everything had been just fine until he showed up, like some exotic jungle cat. Well, fine except for Vivian Jeffries’s horrible wedding dress, but she would have gladly worn that monstrosity in return for a little peace of mind.
She certainly didn’t need someone like Jake second-guessing her well-thought-out decisions. Uncertainty was perfectly normal in a bride—perfectly normal in anyone approaching a major life change. Maybe she should call the doctor and see if she could get some tranquilizers. Maybe she should take up serious drinking. No, she couldn’t do that. One of the few things she knew about her father was that he drank too much. It would be just her luck to inherit that tendency. Maybe she needed a honeymoon more than she realized.
Not that they were taking one. Susan was in the midst of changing jobs, so she was free, but Edward was a young man on the rise, and now was no time for him to be taking more than a couple of days off. The honeymoon would wait until they could do it right.
And Susan’s brand-new passport sat in her top drawer, with no chance of it being used.
She was on her second cup of coffee when her mother joined her on the terrace, the newspaper in one hand and a box in the other. Susan looked up at her warily.
“What’s that?”
“Another present from your godmother. Jake must have dropped it off early this morning.”
“Oh, God,” Susan groaned. “I don’t want to deal with it.”
“Susan! Louisa went to a great deal of trouble...”
“It’s not because of Louisa,” Susan said bitterly. “This week is complicated enough—I just don’t need any more distractions.”
“I’ll put it away, then, and you can open it and the others afterward.”
“That would be the intelligent thing to do,” Susan said. “And I’ve always been such a thoughtful, intelligent human being.”
“So you have,” Mary said, dumping the present in her lap. “Are you going to open it or am I?”
Susan tore the wrappings away, exposing a beautiful old leather box tied with thongs. She opened it, staring down into the contents in consternation.
“Well, what is it?” her mother demanded. “Some bizarre form of birth control? Camel jerky? I wouldn’t put anything past Louisa.”
Slowly Susan lifted the various items from the box and set them on the glass-topped table in front of her. An ancient passport, dated in the nineteen fifties, the photo torn away, the name barely readable except for the “Louisa,” every page of it stamped and visa’d with destinations and locales from every continent. There were photographs of various women from long ago, including one Susan recognized as Amelia Earhart and another she suspected was the famous Victorian traveler, Lady Hester Stanhope. The final item was an antique travel diary, bound in embossed leather. Empty, waiting to be filled.
“How very interesting,” Mary said mildly from over her shoulder.
Susan set the items back in the leather box with care. “Obviously my godmother doesn’t know much about me,” she said in a light voice. “I’m a homebody, not a world traveler. I’ve never even been out of the country.”
“You used to have travel posters all over your walls when you were a teenager,” Mary reminded her. “I remember you telling me that your life’s dream was to see Venice.”
“People change.”
“So you don’t want to see Venice?”
“I will sooner or later,” she said, strangely uncertain of any such thing. “In the meantime, I need to put a stop to these presents.” She rose, pushing the box away from her.
“I told you, I can simply put them away....”
“I don’t have the willpower. Jake will simply have to hold on to the rest, assuming there are still more to come, until after I’m married. I can deal with this.”
“And how are you going to find him?”
“I think I know where he’s staying,” Susan said.
“I don’t know if that’s a wise idea. You seem to react very strongly to Jake Wyczynski. I’ve never seen you get so upset. It’s quite unlike you. Maybe I should deal with it.”
“No!” Susan said sharply. “I’m not a complete coward. It’s my problem and I’ll deal with it. The man just gets on my nerves.”
“I never said you were a coward, Susan. I just worry about you.”
She kissed her mother briskly on one cheek. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control. I always do.”
“Yes,” said Mary, sounding less than happy with the notion. “You always do.”
JAKE SLEPT LATE, dragging himself out of his sleeping bag sometime in the early afternoon. He figured he might as well try to stay on African time rather than try to adjust for one short week. Besides, most of the things he was supposed to attend were at night, anyway, when he’d just be waking up.
He was on his second cup of coffee when he heard someone outside the old garage. He froze, definitely not in the mood for visitors, or anyone he’d have to justify his presence to. He had every right and permission to be camping there, but he preferred not sharing that information with the world.
Whoever was outside knew exactly where they were going. He heard measured footsteps on the rickety stairs, and he sighed, wondering whether he was going to be facing an irate groundskeeper or the local police.
He would have preferred either of those two unpleasant possibilities to Susan Abbott, her tall, slim body silhouetted in the doorway in the afternoon light.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said with a trace of smugness.
He didn’t move. He was only wearing an old pair of cutoff jeans, no shirt or shoes, but he was damned if he was going to cover himself up. After all, he hadn’t invited her—she was just going to have to put up with his lack of attire.
“I wasn’t trying to be mysterious,” he
said mildly.
She walked into the room, looking around curiously. She was dressed casually, in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, and he noticed dismally that he liked her breasts. It came as no surprise, but in her formal clothes he’d been able to keep his mind off them. He seldom found elegantly dressed women attractive. Put them in T-shirts or flannel and his hormones were far more likely to surge.
“You do your absolute best to be as mysterious as possible,” she corrected him gently. “Do you have any more of that coffee?”
“It’s instant,” he warned her.
She wrinkled her nose. “I would have thought you had higher standards.”
“I’m flexible. I’ll take my caffeine any way I can get it That’s the trick to enjoying life, you know. Savor the fresh-ground beans when you can, make do with instant if there’s no alternative.”
“Thank you for that scintillating view of life,” Susan said. She crossed the room, her sneakers making little noise on the old floor. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
He allowed himself a slow, tantalizing grin. “Anything you want, babe.”
She shuddered visibly. “Don’t call me babe,” she said in that patented frosty tone of hers.
“Is that all? I can always come up with sweetheart, honey, baby-cakes—”
“If you call me baby-cakes I’ll cut your throat.”
“It’s been tried.”
He’d managed to startle her. “You’re not serious!”
“Absolutely. I ran afoul of some street bandits in Alexandria a few years back and still have the scars to prove it. I’m harder to kill than you might think. But I doubt you find it surprising that someone would want to kill me.”
“I can sympathize,” she said drily.
“So what’s the favor?”
“Could you put on a shirt? I’m not used to having conversations with men who are barely dressed.”
“No,” he said. She wouldn’t look at his face, she wouldn’t look at his chest, she kept her gaze centered somewhere over his left shoulder. He was half tempted to turn and see whether Godzilla was creeping up behind him. “Anything else?”