Prelude to a Wedding

by Patricia McLinn

  Paul didn't give a damn about that. But the idea that he might be moving in a direction Walter Mulholland would have ordered, even for different reasons, left an uneasy feeling.

  The odd thing was that neither the uneasiness nor the reflexive 180-degree change of subject could dilute the warm feeling that had settled somewhere deep in his chest. Very odd.

  * * * *

  He'd looked as if he'd just been informed he owed ten years' back taxes and the IRS was at the door. Or, worse, that baseball historians had discovered a grave error and they were taking away the Cubs' last World Series championship, even if it was back in 1908.

  She'd read too much into the smallest things, things like his planning ahead how they would spend the night together at her place. Then his sister had skirted too close to the "m-word" and Bette had seen that look on his face.

  Horrified. Numbed. Panicked.

  Over the next two weeks, as Paul Monroe wove himself deeper and deeper into her life, Bette reminded herself of that look.

  It was as much a part of him as the way he loved to tease her, as the way he liked her home, as the way he appreciated her warmth to his sister, as the way he held her and made her crazy. She had to remember that.

  When he took her to dinner most nights, when he drove her home every night and sometimes to work the next morning, she reminded herself of that look.

  When his voice turned mellow as he confided in her, when his hands turned sultry even as he made her laugh, when his eyes turned soft as he smiled at her, she reminded herself of that look.

  But it kept getting harder.

  Chapter Ten

  Bette stood in front of a filing cabinet Wednesday evening, returning a folder—the Centurion file. In their cautious way, they'd asked for a proposal on the services her firm could offer, and she'd sent it off that morning.

  But when her office door swung open, the Centurian account was forgotten. Almost before the door clicked shut, Paul had his arms around her from behind and his mouth on her neck.

  "Mmm. Lord, you taste good." He nipped at her skin. "You should have quit work hours ago."

  "There's a lot to do—"

  "You've always got a lot to do. Too much. But this time I forgive you, because it means you're still here. I've missed you."

  "I saw you last night," she pointed out, trying valiantly to maintain a reasonable tone when her hormones were doing the samba.

  "Mmm-hmm. But not this morning. Or yesterday morning."

  He had a point. After they'd spent all their time together from Friday evening until Monday morning, he'd started the week with an appraisal of the stock of a north suburban collectibles shop being liquidated. She'd been the one to point out it made more sense for him to commute there from his Evanston apartment than from her house. She'd felt a momentary stab when a look flashed across his eyes that might have been relief. Maybe he'd been trying to figure out how to ease away already. But he'd made sure to see her each day. Besides, she'd thought with something between a mental grimace and a grin, he probably wouldn't have thought far enough ahead to see they were setting a pattern.

  It had been left to her to be the practical one, and practical she'd been.

  But practicality had its price. After three days of waking up in his arms, the past two mornings had felt surprisingly empty.

  "We had dinner together both nights." Was she reminding him or herself?

  "Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all." His mouth traveled lower on her neck. The openmouthed kisses carried the veiled hint of his teeth, reminding her of the power behind his tenderness. "Some things you just can't do at a restaurant."

  His hands slid up her ribs, opening to capture the weight of her breasts, then curving to press warm palms against quickly tightening nipples. His movement had drawn her tighter against his chest. She felt the melting warmth inside her, the warmth that needed the heat of his body. She arched more firmly into his hands and dropped her head back to his shoulder.

  Shifting, he brought her even closer as he circled and molded and teased her breasts.

  He knew how to pleasure her. In such a short time, he knew her body, her responses, so well. She wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor right here, right now, and to have him display that knowledge in the most intimate way imaginable.

  What would she do when he left her? She squeezed her eyes shut against the fear.

  This moment. Take this moment, but build no expectations that there will be others. She'd made her choice, to take her moments with Paul and deal with life without him when that came. But she hadn't known the moments would be so wonderful or the prospect of living without them so terrifying.

  "Paul." She planned to lift her head, to gain that much control over herself, but the muscles wouldn't obey and she felt hot stinging tears at the corners of her eyes. After a lifetime of using the present to build toward a clearly foreseen future, she didn't even know how her muscles would react in the next second.

  And yet it felt so right to be in his arms.

  By her ear, his breath rasped harsh and irregular. It was a sound of pleasurable torment, and it flashed across her mind to wonder if she was not alone in this drowning pool of jumbled emotions.

  She covered his hands with hers, and slowly lowered them to her waist. He didn't fight it, but circled her tightly, squeezing the breath and some of the tension out of her.

  "Paul."

  Her murmur was distracted, at best, as he bent and touched his tongue to the point of her collarbone just inside her blouse's neckline. Her moan was involuntary. If he kept that up, in another second they'd be right back where they'd been.

  Abruptly, he raised his head without letting her go.

  "Bette, how about spending Thanksgiving at my folks' house?"

  She was surprised. Maybe stunned. She twisted around to get a better view of his face.

  "Are you serious? Thanksgiving's more than two weeks away."

  "So?"

  So? So, the man she'd come to know quite well over the past month would rather not plan an hour ahead, much less two weeks. A tremor vibrated at the base of her stomach.

  "Your mother might not appreciate your inviting people to a holiday dinner without letting her know," she said.

  "She knows."

  "She does?" Bette feared her voice squeaked unbecomingly. The tremor in her stomach intensified and spread.

  "Sure. So will you come?"

  "I'm sorry, Paul," she said. "I usually spend Thanksgiving with Darla's family, and I've already accepted her invitation this year."

  She wouldn't be able to avoid wondering what it might have been like to be with him. She had no lingering concerns about being with his family, so what caused this odd sensation? If this had been any other man than Paul Monroe, she might have thought it was nerves over an invitation some could view as significant, perhaps even a statement of serious intentions.

  But this was Paul, and she knew better.

  "That's all right, Bette. You go right ahead and go to the Monroes for Thanksgiving."

  The disembodied voice of Darla Clarence floated into the office. Bette spun around in Paul's arms and they stared at each other. His look of astonishment quickly gave way to amusement.

  "Darla?" Bette called out.

  "Go on, girl, you say yes to that invitation right this second."

  "Darla, where are you? How did you hear that?"

  "I'm in my office, and I can always hear what you're doing in there."

  Bette's mouth worked, but her vocal cords didn't, so she only mouthed the words: "Oh, my God."

  "And I say you should go right ahead and take the boy up on his invitation," Darla continued. "You've spent the past three Thanksgivings with us, you probably want something different for a change. Maybe their turkey won't dry out like mine. I've been hoping he'd get around to asking."

  Bette studiously ignored the quirked eyebrow Paul directed at her. "But, Darla—"

  She wasn't sure what she was goin
g to say, but it didn't matter, because Darla wasn't listening. "But, nothing. Just say, 'Thank you very much, Paul, I'd love to come to your parents' house for Thanksgiving." '

  Paul looked a hair's-breadth short of laughing as he prompted her, "You heard the lady."

  Bette knew when she was licked. Even with the unsettled sensation back in full force, she found it impossible not to smile as she followed orders. "Thank you very much, Paul, I'd love to come to your parents' house for Thanksgiving."

  "You're welcome, Bette." He pitched his voice slightly louder. "And thank you, Darla."

  "You're welcome," came back the reply.

  Paul grinned at Bette, then kissed her hard. Her heart swelled, but so did the trembling in her stomach. And now she knew what she feared: hope.

  * * * *

  That Saturday she went shopping with Judi for the second time. Paul groused, "You spent the morning working and the afternoon with my kid sister." The first was a familiar complaint, but she suspected her growing friendship with his sister pleased him.

  She and Judi found a wonderful dress for the upcoming college formal, and after Judi returned to campus, Bette and Paul occupied the evening by making up for the time apart.

  She finally got around to wearing the royal-blue negligee. He took it off her without ripping it. Barely.

  The next day, he surprised her by insisting she accompany him to dinner at Mama Artemis's home. Surely he had to realize how people like Ardith and her family would construe his bringing her along . . .

  If he hadn't before, he must by now, she thought as she headed into the huge, old-fashioned kitchen to volunteer to help. The greeting had been warm, interested and arch. In the few minutes from their entrance until Ardith's nephews snared Paul to look at something in the basement, Ardith, her mother, her sister-in-law and even her teenage niece had made it clear they considered Bette and Paul an "item." Their bluntness had made her feel a little uncomfortable. Since she'd been too chicken to look at him, she could only imagine how it had made Paul feel— probably like running.

  Mama Artemis—a grayer, rounder, no less forceful version of Ardith—and the others shooed her out of the kitchen, where bustling seemed to be the only mode of movement. She was a guest, she was told, she was not to work. It was just as well. Not only wouldn't she have known what to do, she didn't think she could have kept up.

  She tracked down Paul and Ardith's two young nephews in the basement. They were making enough noise that they didn't hear her coming down the wooden stairs. When she got far enough to see them, she sat on the steps and watched.

  Taking up nearly half the neat basement, they had a huge, complicated track circling the edges of the biggest piece of plywood she'd ever seen, raised to waist-level by several sawhorses. In addition to the main route, there were smaller loops and shunts. Around the tangle of tracks grew a tidy, thriving community. The downtown sported a railroad station, of course, along with houses, shops, churches and schools. On the outskirts she spotted a few farms.

  Amid this imaginary world, Paul Monroe played with as much verve as the two young boys.

  Her lips lifted into a smile, but she denied the simultaneous urge to cry. He truly was a kid at heart.

  She was very quiet the rest of the night.

  * * * *

  Bette had found a house she wanted to buy, and Paul hated it.

  He hated the house.

  It wasn't a bad-looking building, but it was all wrong for her. It didn't have character, or charm. And, most of all, it was several towns west of Elmhurst. Another twenty minutes of driving wasn't going to stop him from making the trip, but this distance couldn't be counted in miles.

  He hated the process.

  Bette worked too damn much as it was, and now she spent all her spare time talking to loan officers and house inspectors. Since he'd made his feelings clear about this house right away, she didn't talk of her progress to him. He should have felt grateful; instead he felt left out.

  He hated the idea.

  And that was what really bothered him because he wasn't sure why he hated it.

  Now he was driving her to the real estate office to make a bid on the house. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but the alternative was letting her go alone. At least this way, she was in the car next to him, a foot or so away.

  He wished he could delay the moment she'd walk into that real estate office and make the move farther away from him. If there were some way . . .

  "I think we should go see Jan and Ed."

  "Jan and Ed?"

  "Robson. And the baby. I haven't seen the kid since the christening. It'd be fun. We'll go pick up some Chinese and take them lunch. It's a perfect day for Chinese."

  "Today? Now? I want to be at the real estate office at noon to make the bid."

  They had pulled up at a stoplight. He turned to her, reached out to outline that tempting upper lip with his fingertip. "You could call them. From the way you explained it, it's not a firm appointment. Is it?"

  "Well, no, not really."

  He heard the uncertainty in her voice, and pressed his advantage. "Besides, when I talked to Jan earlier this week, she sounded pretty down. You know, new mother stuff. Feeling like she didn't have any contact with the adult world."

  "I guess that can happen when you have a newborn baby."

  "She practically begged me to come see her soon," he added.

  "I don't know . . ."

  "We'll just stop in and say hello."

  It didn't take much more for him to persuade her to call the real estate office and tell them she would be in later in the afternoon, although she did give him a pointed look when they arrived nearly an hour later at Jan's with Chinese food in hand to discover the new parents in obviously fine spirits.

  "This is great!" Jan said for about the eighth time since they'd settled around the dining room table. The sideboard sported a baby carrier flanked by an oversize box of disposable diapers and a stack of neatly folded terry sleepers. The food had long since been disposed of, and the conversation had proceeded in comfortable fits and starts, with Edward Robson, Jr. the recurring theme.

  "We really should be going now," Bette said for the second time, but with enough regret in her voice that Paul didn't feel guilty for ignoring it.

  "You can't leave yet," Jan said. "You have to wait and see Eddy. He should wake up any moment."

  She proved a prophet. Practically on the heels of her words came the dissatisfied sounds of a baby waking.

  "I'll get him," volunteered Ed before anyone else could react.

  Jan's eyes followed the direction her burly husband had gone, then she grinned at Paul and Bette. "He does dote, doesn't he?"

  As background to Jan's tales of her husband as a father, the baby's noise intensified, then changed to neutral commentary and finally to small sounds of pleasure.

  "Here he is," she announced as Ed appeared at the doorway with the baby, dressed in a minute version of a Chicago Cubs uniform. The baby puckered his brow and smiled at the same time.

  "I figured I'd put him in the Cubs uniform in honor of your visit, Paul," Ed explained.

  "You gave a newborn baby a baseball uniform?" Bette pretended disgust, but he caught the amusement underneath.

  "Sure. Got to start him out right."

  Jan nodded as she took the baby. "The Cubs outfit is from Paul and the Bears is from Ed. It's amazing how early the brainwashing starts, and it's so unfair. There's no cute little outfit for brain surgeon or engineer."

  Counterpointing their laughter, Ed, Jr. expressed a request.

  "Oops, I think it's lunchtime," said Jan. "We're about to find out how Eddy feels about Chinese."

  Somehow, as Jan and Bette moved into the living room to he more comfortable, it turned out that this was the best time for Ed to show Paul the deck he'd added to the house. Paul was relieved. As the two groups parted, he saw Ed cup a tender hand around his son's head, then stroke his wife's cheek, and envy pierced him. Would he ever kn
ow that fierce peace he saw in Ed? Would he and Bette ever exchange a look so full of love and understanding? Would he ever watch Bette nurture their child?

  It wasn't until they'd exhausted the details of deck construction and returned to the living room to find Jan coaxing bubbles from the baby that one level of his mind bothered to wonder why he'd focused his questions on Bette.

  He didn't know the answer; he didn't like the question.

  Avoiding the couch where he could have sat next to Bette, he chose an easy chair across from her. Too much family, that was his problem. Too much happy family and cute baby. A guy could take only so much.

  "Here, hold him a minute."

  Jan plunked Ed, Jr. into Paul's arms as she walked past where he sat.

  "Hey! I don't know how to—"

  "Of course you know how to hold a baby. You must be a natural," said Jan with a sly smile as she kept going out of the room, "because you're doing it exactly right."

  He glared in the direction she'd headed, but the muscles of his face rearranged as he looked down at the small person dressed in Cubs colors in his arms. A bottom well padded with diapers drooped between where his left arm propped the baby's shoulders and head and his right arm rested under the knees. In his hands, Ed, Jr. wriggled and smiled and felt incredibly alive.

  Paul met Bette's deep blue eyes, and felt something slam into him. Not the gentle warmth that so often seeped into him when they were together, and not the fierce flow of passion she could stir so easily. Something more visceral. Something as deep as the warmth and as powerful as the passion. And a hell of a lot more disorienting.

  A scene from some movie he'd seen flashed into his mind, the vision of an earthquake caught at its peak right along the fault line, where the ground heaved, trembled, then resettled itself into a new, unfamiliar landscape.

  And from the look in Bette's eyes, he thought she'd felt it, too. Somehow that was both less—and more—frightening.