“You could have blown your chances tomorrow by coming here tonight.”
“Tomorrow doesn’t matter. This matters.” He handed her several handwritten sheets of paper. “Here.”
“What’s this?” Her mind raced and her heart pounded as she glanced down at the nearly illegible scrawl that covered line after line.
“A handout. You told me that things stick better when you see them on paper.”
“You made me a NASCAR handout,” she said, the words barely making it past the sudden lump in her throat.
“Actually, it’s about me. My past. My present. Our future.” At her sharp glance, he added, “I love you, Skye.”
Her gaze scanned the words and the meaning of what he’d done and said crystallized.
She shook her head. “I’m really touched, but I can’t . . .” She hadn’t thought she had any more tears to shed, that she’d cried them all during the trip home, but she was wrong. “We don’t have a future. We can’t have a future. You want to get married and I don’t.”
“Then that’s that.”
His words hurt a lot more than they should have considering she was the one who’d turned him down. “I’m really sorry,” she started, but he didn’t give her a chance to say more.
“We don’t get married. We live together.”
“What?”
“I want to be with you regardless of the situation.” He stepped toward her.
He looked so handsome wearing a plain red T-shirt with the team’s racing logo on the front. The soft cotton outlined his broad shoulders and molded to his biceps and heat zipped along her nerve endings.
But he didn’t just stir her physically.
It was the way he looked at her, his blue eyes so dark and intense and purposeful, as if the entire world revolved around her and only her.
For the first time, Skye felt truly special. Precious. Worshipped. Loved.
His strong fingers lifted her chin and his gaze locked with hers. “It’s your call,” he told her. “I want to marry you, but if you don’t want to marry me, that’s okay. As long as you want to be with me, because I want to be with you. I want to make love to you every night and wake up to you every morning. Granted, I would rather have a ring on my finger and a piece of paper that tells the world I’m your one and only, but if you’re not ready for that, it’s okay. I’ll take what I can get. If you love me. Do you?” A worried light filled his blue eyes and tugged at her heart.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly eager to ease his mind. “I love you. I really do.”
He grinned, his lips parting, revealing his straight white teeth. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Skye stared deep into his eyes. The intensity of his feelings for her mirrored what she felt inside, and suddenly it was all that mattered.
She loved him and he loved her and things would work out between them. With or without marriage. Because they would make it work. Together.
“So you would forget all about marriage just for me?” His grin widened and he shrugged. “I can’t promise I wouldn’t bug you about it every now and then. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d really like to be married to the mother of my half-dozen children.”
“Half of a half-dozen,” she cut in, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Three is a good number.”
“Five.” “Four.”
He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “See there? We’re already starting to see eye-to-eye. Before long, we’ll be finishing each other’s sentences and you’ll be begging me to walk down the aisle.”
“I don’t beg.”
“I definitely remember some begging. Of course, I think it was in regards to me licking candy off a certain part of your anatomy.”
“That wasn’t begging. That was forceful instruction.” “Ah,” he said, dipping his head to deliver a warm kiss to her waiting lips. “Married or not,” he told her when he finally pulled back, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you,” he said again. “I love you.”
The words slid into her ears and filled her with a joy unlike anything she’d ever felt before. A feeling that would have sent her running for a cookie and her sanity not very long ago because Skye Farrel didn’t believe in love or like or ’til death do us part.
But then Clint MacAllister had upended her life and turned her belief system inside and out, and now she not only believed in those things, she lived and breathed them.
She also had a new craving that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the dark, delicious man standing in front of her.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She smiled. “I’m wondering if that’s a Tootsie Pop in your pocket, or if you’re just glad to see me?”
He grinned. “I ate the Tootsie Pop on the plane.” “That’s what I was hoping you would say.” And then she kissed him.
Epilogue
“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” Skye stood in a makeshift dressing area in one of the enormous garages behind pit road at Daytona International Speedway. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around a stack of engraved place cards.
“Stop worrying,” Xandra said as she slid on the three-inch Prada pumps Skye had chosen for her bridesmaids. “You look great.”
Skye turned toward the floor-length mirror that had been brought in and eyed her reflection. She wore a traditional A-line strapless satin wedding gown with a pearl-encrusted bodice. The result of a month-long trek through every bridal shop in Dallas and Houston and Austin after she’d asked Clint to marry her.
It had taken her six months of living and loving together, but she’d finally come to the realization that she wanted to marry him not because it meant something to him, but because it meant something to her. Because joining forces with him wasn’t about giving up her sense of self, but adding another dimension to her personality. Being with Clint didn’t make her feel oppressed. Rather, she felt empowered. Smarter. Sexier. Stronger.
Skye wanted to need him, and she wanted him to need her, and she was no longer afraid of a little piece of paper that confirmed as much.
But while Skye had opened her heart to marriage, the wedding itself was an entirely different story. Especially since she was about to do something so traditional in a very untraditional setting—Victory Lane following the Daytona 500.
The race had ended a half hour ago, with last season’s rookie of the year, Tuck Briggs, taking first place in Clint’s #62 Chevy. Clint had overcome his fear by getting back behind the wheel for the qualifier of the Pespi 400, but he hadn’t changed his mind about retiring. He’d had his heyday as NASCAR’s hottest driver, and he was ready to pass the title to his protégé, and concentrate on making the three children he and Skye had agreed upon.
“I know you’re out of your element, but the dress really is beautiful,” Xandra said, drawing Skye’s thoughts back to the moment.
“It’s not very fancy,” Skye said, remembering the numerous dresses she’d tried on. No hoop skirt or layers of tulle or rows of sequins and rhinestones. Just satin and pearls. “But it’s floor length and white and it is a bona fide wedding dress, and I’m actually wearing it.”
Even more, she liked it.
She even liked the way the hairdresser had swept her blond hair up into a cascade of curls and secured it with several pearl-encrusted hair pins.
“I wasn’t talking about the dress when I said I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Skye told her youngest sister. “I was talking the reception and these.” She held up the place cards before handing them over to a very impatient Jiles, who’d flown in that morning to oversee the ceremony and the traditional sit-down reception being held at a nearby hotel. “I sat Mom between Clint’s Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Travis.”
“And the problem is?”
“They’ve been happily married for sixty-eight years.” Xandra let loose a low whistle as she swiped on cherry red lipdick from the previous night’s bachelorette party. The color matched
her fitted strapless, floor-length red dress. “That must be some sort of record.” She licked her lips. “The happily married is definitely a strike, but maybe it’s not a total loss. Did Aunt Myrtle have a career?”
“Never worked a day in her life.”
“Strike two.”
“She was too busy cooking for Uncle Travis. She makes the best homemade biscuits this side of the Rio Grande.”
“Strike three.” Xandra smeared her lips together before wiping the corners. “The reception should be even more interesting than the ceremony. I still can’t believe you’re getting married at a racetrack.”
“My fiancé owns the hottest racing team in the country. It’s only fitting that we get married in Victory Lane.” Besides, Daytona was where Skye had first realized her love for Clint. “Then again, maybe we should have done something more traditional. I wouldn’t want to jinx this.”
“Calm down.” Xandra eyed her. “If I didn’t know better, I would say all this wedding stuff is getting to you.”
“Are you crazy? It’s just a wedding, and I am not getting crazy over a wedding.”
Even one that included a sit-down dinner and an orchestra and dancing and two ice sculptures—one shaped like the infamous #62 in honor of Clint, and one that looked suspiciously like Skye’s good buddy Dinah the Vagina, though they’d told the guests it was a replica of Natural Bridge Caverns, which they’d visited on their first official date.
The sound of cheering and clapping drifted from outside, followed by an announcement telling the drivers to start their engines in salute to the bride-to-be. Skye knew then that it was almost time. Her nerves jumped and she drew in a deep breath.
“I’m calm. I’m cool. And I am not crazy.”
“No, I am,” Eve declared as she entered from an adjoining bathroom and held out her arms. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this. I don’t do red.”
“It’s cherry,” Xandra told her. “And you look good. You need a break from the whole Queen of the Damned thing.”
Skye was the oldest, obedient, conservative child, Xandra the young, do-no-wrong tomboy, and Eve the middle switched-at-birth daughter.
Eve was artsy with her grunge clothes and multiple piercings, and downright scary with her heavy makeup.
“Don’t tell me they don’t have French manicures in the Underworld,” Xandra told her older sister.
Eve held out her fingers, adorned with tons of rings, and revealed two inch long talons painted as pitch black as her hair.
Black nails?
“I wanted everyone to have nice, pretty white nails. Maybe a little clear polish, but no color. Jiles said colored nails clash with the dresses.”
Eve shrugged. “Black goes with everything, and at least I have nails.” She stared pointedly at her youngest sister.
Skye followed Eve’s stare to the tips of Xandra’s fingers. “You don’t have any nails,” she blurted, her heart pounding. “What happened to yesterday’s manicure?”
Xandra curled her fingers, hiding the chewed-down nubs. “When Mom took my Blow Pops again, I got really desperate. I haven’t rationalized how the substitution theory supports nail-biting, but I’ve been smoke-free for two months now.”
“But you don’t have nails,” Skye said again, her panic rising.
Xandra smiled. “Eve has enough for both of us.” “But hers are black. Black.” She heard the rising pitch in her voice, but she couldn’t stop it.
Months of planning and worrying and damning herself for doing either, caught up to her in one frantic moment where the fate of her marriage rested solely on her sisters’ nails.
“This is my wedding, not my funeral,” she shrieked. “I know at least one person who would argue that,” Eve told her.
“Yeah, and you know how much Mom likes to argue the point,” Xandra added.
“Girls, girls.” A man’s deep voice sounded and Skye glanced up to see her father standing in the doorway.
Gone was the quiet, inconsequential academic who’d raised her. No neutral pants or matching sweater or round eyeglasses. Donovan Martin wore a black tuxedo that accented his broad shoulders and made him look taller. His salt and pepper hair had been slicked back. He’d left his reading glasses at home and his green eyes twinkled. Even better, he had nice, blunt-tipped, unpainted nails.
“Peace, Pops,” Eve said while Xandra whistled softly. Donovan smiled before giving both women a stern look. “Stop upsetting the bride.” His gaze shifted to his eldest daughter and a warm light filled his gaze. “Are you okay, dear?”
“I was, but now one doesn’t have nails and one has black nails and we have to take pictures and Jiles is sure to freak and I don’t know if I can handle a bona fide death threat right now and—”
Her words stalled as he pressed two fingertips to her lips. “Jiles is too busy to worry about something so minor. We’re about to start.” He glanced at Xandra and Eve. “You two had better get going. And keep your hands tucked under the bouquet.”
“If it’s any consolation,” he said to Skye once her two sisters had left to join the rest of the wedding party, “I saw the other two bridesmaids, Jenny and Lindy, over in the groom’s garage helping their husbands—Duke and Tuck, I think their names were—get dressed.” He smiled. “Their nails looked perfect.”
The comment eased Skye’s nerves a little and she drew a deep breath.
“I guess this is it,” she said as an acoustic guitar version of “Wind Beneath My Wings” drifted over Daytona’s PA system, signaling that the ceremony was about to start.
“I never thought I would see the day when my little girl would worry over nail color and wedding pictures.” Her father’s green eyes grew bright.
Skye smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were touched by all of this.”
He winked. “I have an image to protect, so don’t tell your mother. And speaking of your mother, she’s here and she’s calm. She only hyperventilated once and that was when we drove up outside and she saw the getaway car.
“She didn’t like Clint’s Hummer?”
“She didn’t like the words SHACKLED FOR LIFE painted in white shoe polish on the back window.” He patted her hand. “But she ate two of your grandmother’s chocolate-chip cookies and she’s fine now.”
Skye gave her father a serious look. “I’ve totally disappointed her, haven’t I?”
“You’re beautiful and healthy and happy. That’s not a disappointment. It’s a blessing. Your mother just has trouble accepting change. Her entire life has been about not getting married.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “She’ll come around. Just give her time. That’s what I do.”
“What you’ve been doing your entire life. You and Mom have been together a long time.” Skye stared into his eyes and asked the one question that had always haunted her. “Why?”
“According to your mother and her Holy Commitment Trinity, we’re a perfect match. We belong together.”
“And according to you?”
“I love her. I always have.” He winked again. “But don’t tell her that either.”
Skye slid her arms around his neck and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Daddy. For telling me the truth and for being here to give me away.”
“Are you kidding?” He hugged her back. “I wouldn’t have missed it for all the iguanas in South America.” He set her away from him and stared down at her. “But I do have one favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
“When you toss the bouquet,” he indicated the giant bunch of multi-colored Tootsie Pops sitting nearby, the sticks wrapped together with flowing white ribbon, “Toss it your mother’s way.”
Skye’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—”
“No, no,” he cut in. “At least not anytime soon. It’s taken me thirty-eight years to get her to finally refer to me as her life partner rather than the man who shares her orgasms. It’ll take a lot longer to warm her up to ‘I Do’.” He patted her hand. “But if, when the day ever come
s, I’m sure to need all the help I can get.”
“I’ll do my best,” Skye promised as she reached for her bouquet.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he held out his arm. “Ready,” she said and meant it.
She slid her hand through the crook of his elbow and let him lead her toward Victory Lane and the rest of her life with the man she loved.
About the Author
Award-wining author Kimberly Raye lives deep in the heart of Texas with her very own cowboy, Curt, and her young children. She’s an incurable romantic who loves Sugar Babies, Toby Keith and dancing to Barney videos with her toddler. You can reach Kimberly on-line at www.kimberlyraye.com, or write to her c/o Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Please turn this page for a preview of
SOMETIMES NAUGHTY, SOMETIMES NICE
available in October 2004 from Warner Books.
Chapter One
This was not happening.
She was an attractive, sexy, vibrant, sensual woman in the prime of her life. Not to mention she was the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., the leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sensual enhancement products for women. Sexy, vibrant women who made their living by selling a sexy, vibrant image to other women didn’t have gray hair.
Not down there.
That’s what she told herself as she set aside the King Kong Ultra Deluxe Number Five vibrator she’d been trying out—she always tested her own products during the developmental phase and perfected every flaw before handing a prototype over to her manufacturing division.
Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes and tried to calm her pounding heart.
Maybe it wasn’t really gray at all. Maybe it was a very light, silvery, blond hair that just happened to spring up among its very dark counterparts. A fluke, like the one hard, dark, skinny French fry always found at the bottom of a hot, piping order.
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