The Notorious Groom (Desire)

by Caroline Cross

  Decorated in shades of cream, taupe and blue, the spacious room held the usual complement of furniture, plus a couch and a pair of chairs grouped around a marble-faced fireplace on the far wall, at a right angle to the trio of French doors that opened onto a wide terrace.

  Like the rest of Willow Run, it was classy. Not to mention comfortable, attractive and a heck of a lot nicer than his previous domicile.

  So why did he feel so out of sorts? he wondered as he moseyed over to the windows, twitched back the sheers, and stood looking out at the velvety green lawn bounded by its beautiful banks of flowers.

  That was easy. If he had to take a guess, he would say it was because he’d had all the goodness he could take for one day. The room was good. The view was good. Chelsea was being good. Orter and old Lampley, within the confines of their holier-than-thou personalities, had been good.

  As for Norah...well, he had to give her credit. Although clearly unnerved by their kiss, she’d done her darnedest to be a good postceremony hostess, serving refreshments, signing papers, anxiously making small talk until Lampley and Orter had finally left. She’d presented him with the keys to the carriage house—his new garage, she explained—and had given him and Chelsea a tour of it, the grounds and the house, as well as the rundown on Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, who came in three days a week to cook, clean and maintain the yard All in all, she’d been so good she probably qualified to have her picture next to the word in the dictionary.

  With a disgusted snort, he turned his back to the windows and strolled over to the bed, where he sat and bounced a few times to test the mattress. Great. No lumps, no squeak, no sag. And, hallelujah, it was king-size. There would be no more bumping his head on the wall or having his feet stick into space the way they had on the fold-up bed at the bungalow.

  So who cares? Why don’t you drop the prerense and admit what’s really on your mind? Like what the hell possessed you to kiss Boo that way?

  He gave a little groan and flopped back on the mattress.

  For the life of him, he didn’t know. Or maybe he did, but just hated having to admit that it had been something as stupid as a childish resistance to doing what he was told. One minute he’d been standing there, thinking there wasn’t much to getting married. In the next moment, when he heard Orter and Lampley dismiss Chelsea’s claim that it was time for a kiss, he’d been overwhelmed by the sort of defiant I’ll-show-you response that had gotten him in such trouble as a kid.

  Which wouldn’t be such a big deal except he was no longer a kid, he was somebody’s father. And up until a week ago, he would have sworn he’d outgrown such immature behavior. Just as he would have sworn that he was an impeccable judge of women, capable of assessing their attributes—or lack thereof—at a glance.

  Yeah? Well, it seemed he was wrong on both counts.

  He muttered a curse that would have cost him a bundle if Chelsea had heard it.

  All right. There was no getting around the fact that he’d behaved immaturely. He would learn to live with it. But as far as his judgment about women was concerned—now, that really hurt.

  Still, he had to admit that for years, his playful threat to kiss Boo had been predicated on certain expectations. Like the notion that her skin would be dry and rough. That her mouth would be tight and prim, and her body bony and shapeless. And that at his first touch, she’d stiffen up like a starched sheet hung out in a hot wind.

  Instead, what skin he’d felt had been petal smooth And her mouth, though untutored, had been soft, sweet and shyly eager. Even her scent had been a surprise—a faint, exotic blend of tropical flowers instead of the old-maid lavender fragrance he’d expected.

  As for the rest of her—well, all it had taken was the touch of his tongue to her lips to make her melt against him like a punctured balloon. That alone had so surprised him, it had taken him longer than it should have to identify the source of the pressure suddenly nudging his chest.

  Eventually it had dawned on him that it was her breasts. Her small, aroused breasts. At which point his mature, discerning, adult response had been to thrust her away at the same time he’d thought, Whoa. When had she grown those?

  Eli flinched at the memory, then caught himself. Okay, so maybe he’d been a little less than smooth. That didn’t mean the encounter had been a total disaster. He needed to look at the bright side: he’d always wondered what Boo had hidden under those voluminous dresses.

  Now he knew.

  “Eee-liii. Come on! You’ve got to come see.”

  Sighing, he climbed to his feet. “All right. Hold your horses. I’m on my way.” He shoved the boxes against the wall, then went out the door and down the hall, to where Chelsea stood, waiting impatiently.

  The instant he was within reach, she grabbed his hand. “Finally.”

  Amused, he let her pull him into her room, only to come to an abrupt halt as he looked around in amazement.

  His room might be nice, but hers was fit for a fairy-tale princess. The dresser, desk, bookcase, table and chairs were all a gleaming white, trimmed in gold. So was the elevated platform bed, reachable by a baroque ladder and draped with jewel-colored hangings. There was a mound of tasseled, oversize velveteen pillows in one corner and a full-size rocking horse in another.

  But what stopped Eli in his tracks were the walls. Painted mural fashion, they made the room appear to be a chamber in a fantasy castle. Two walls gave the illusion of being inside, looking out through a series of vaulted windows at a wall walk. Ropes of ivy softened blocks of gray stone, while pennants flew against a sunny blue sky, demanding respect from a distant countryside.

  The other two walls held mystical scenes, one of a benign magician holding sway over a friendly dragon, the other of a unicorn accepting gifts from a group of young admirers.

  Taken all together, the effect was light, airy, fanciful—tailor-made for his daughter.

  “I told you it was cool.” Clearly gratified by his reaction, Chelsea smiled with the self-satisfied air of someone in possession of a wonderful secret. “The last time I saw it, Miss Brown had just started. She worked on it all this week so it would be done by today.”

  He dragged his gaze from the walls to stare at his daughter. “Miss Brown did this?”

  “Yeah. Especially for me.” She clambered up the ladder and onto the bed, talking as she went. “She’s a really good painter.”

  “I guess so.” He looked around again, trying to square the idea of drab, ultraconventional Bunny-Boo creating something so whimsical. It was about as unexpected as the way she kissed. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

  Chelsea, thankfully, was focused on more practical matters. “Hey, Eli?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you get my suitcase from the car yet?”

  “Yeah. It’s down in the entry with the rest of our stuff.”

  “Can I go get it? This dress itches.”

  “Sure.”

  She scrambled down the ladder, jumping the last foot to land on the floor with a thump. “And can we order a pizza? I’m hungry.”

  “Sure.”

  “What about Miss Brown?”

  “What about her?”

  “Shouldn’t we ask her if it’s okay?”

  “I don’t need permission to order a pizza, Chelse.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I know that. But shouldn’t we ask if she wants some?”

  He considered. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Then you probably want to know that her room’s the very last one at the other end of the hall.” She skipped toward the door.

  “Well, yeah, but...hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  She rolled her eyes. “To get my suitcase, silly.” Matching action to words, she sashayed out of the room.

  Eli stared after his daughter. Well...shoot. First that business with the kiss. Now this. He didn’t get it. Chelsea knew this was a temporary marriage. So what did she hope to accomplish? When it came right down to it, females of any age were nothing but t
rouble.

  Bemused, he walked out into the hall, crossed the open gallery above the main stairway and strode down the corridor of the opposite wing. Stopping before the last door as instructed by his daughter, he knocked. “Hey, Boo. You in there?”

  After a considerable wait, the door opened. Norah looked uncertainly at him. “Elijah?”

  “Nope, it’s the Easter Bunny.” Noting her bare feet and the way she was clutching the front of a shapeless brown sundress, he realized he must have interrupted her while she was changing. But that wasn’t what made him stare.

  What made him stare was her hair. Freed from its usual prim confinement, it fell to her waist, as thick, straight and glossy as a brown satin curtain.

  “Eli? Is something wrong?”

  He jerked his gaze to her face. “Not a thing. I was just noticing your hair. It’s...long.”

  “What?” Her hand flew up to touch the place where her bun should have been. “Oh, dear. I forgot. I hope you don’t think—that is, I heard the knock and...” Color bloomed in her cheeks. Tipping her head down, she reached up, gathered the heavy mass in her hands and twisted it into place, haphazardly securing it with a quintet of hairpins she extracted from a pocket. “There,” she said breathlessly. “W-was there something you needed?”

  He propped his hand against the doorjamb. “I thought I’d order a pizza for dinner. Is that okay with you?”

  There was a fractional hesitation before she answered. “That’s fine.”

  “What’s the matter? You have something else in mind?”

  She hesitated again, then said apologetically, “Actually, there’s a lovely duck à l’orange ready to go in the oven—”

  “Duck?” He stared at her in disbelief. “As in Daffy? I bet you didn’t run that past Chelsea.”

  “Oh, dear. You’re right. I guess ordering pizza might be a better idea.”

  No kidding. “What kind do you like?”

  “Me? Well, I... cheese is fine,” she said, smoothing her collar.

  It figured. No unconventional pineapple or daring anchovies for Boo. Although, given that hair—

  Damn. What are you thinking? The way matters were going, the next thing he knew all her fidgeting with the neck of her dress was going to make him think about her breasts and—

  Okay. That’s it. No more champagne for you.

  Disgusted with himself, he started to turn away. “One cheese pizza coming up.”

  “Wait!”

  He checked his movement. “Yeah?”

  “Do you...” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Do you need some money?”

  He would have been insulted if anybody else had asked him that. But she was just so damn earnest. “That depends,” he said, his curiosity getting the better of him. “How much are you offering?”

  She worried her bottom lip. “Oh. I’m not sure. Let me check my purse....” She ducked back before he could protest and disappeared from view.

  Yep. She definitely needed a keeper. He considered the partially open door, then shrugged and gave it a nudge. After all, they were married.

  He strolled inside. Although this room was roughly identical to his in shape and size, the walls had been painted like Chelsea’s. But these gave the illusion of being inside a gazebo, each wall made to resemble an arched, flower-bedecked lattice panel, with a view to a garden that overlooked a distant lake.

  Adding to the illusion were the room’s furnishings, which included a half dozen willowy trees in big brass tubs, a pale, silvery green carpet, a canopy bed draped in pale netting, and a pair of low overstuffed couches done in a white-on-white awning stripe.

  Eli had never seen anything like it. He looked over at Norah, who stood with her back to him in front of an ornately carved dresser, rummaging through her purse. “This is great,” he said.

  With a startled gasp, she dropped her pocketbook, clapped a hand to her chest and whirred. “Oh! You scared me!”

  He walked over to take a closer look at the wall that sported the lake. “I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to add a few speedboats or maybe some guys on jet skis, but still... You really painted this?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t miss the way she shrank back as he walked past her. What did she think? That he was going to toss her to the floor and have his wicked way with her? She seemed to have forgotten that he had peeled her off his chest earlier—and not the other way around. “Like I said...” He turned to face her. “It’s great.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise at the compliment. After a few seconds she even managed to regain a semblance of composure. “Th-thank you.”

  “So’s Chelsea’s. It was nice of you to do it for her.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, really,” she said instantly. Then, as if she didn’t know what else to do, she tentatively extended her hand. “Here.”

  He ambled toward her, not stopping until they were practically toe to toe, then gently plucked the pair of twenty-dollar bills from her trembling fingers and set the money on the dresser. “That’s real sweet of you, Boo. But I’ll pay for the pizza.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah. As long as you’ll make me a deal.”

  She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. “What kind of deal?”

  “I pay for the pizza and you—” he leaned closer, propped his hand on the dresser beside her and dropped his voice to an intimate murmur “—agree to take a walk on the wild side and try a bite of my...pepperoni.”

  Their gazes met for one endless second. And then her clear gray eyes widened as she finally seemed to realize that she’d been had. Her lashes swept down, hiding her expression.

  There was a prolonged silence. With the barest frown, he straightened, starting to wonder if he’d pushed her too far, when she took a shuddering breath and surprised him by saying, “I—I can’t.”

  He stared at her bent head. “Why not?”

  “Because...” She took another shaky breath and raised her head. “Because now that I think about it, I’m actually not very hungry. What I am is...tired. So I think I’ll pass on dinner and lie down and just...rest for a while. That is, if it’s okay with you?”

  Score one for Boo. He pretended to consider. “Well, yeah. Now that you mention it, it’s probably a good idea.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. You should lie down, maybe take a nap. That way,” he began as he strolled toward the door, “you’ll be rested for tonight.”

  “Tonight?” There was a pregnant pause. “Oh, b-b-but—”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to thank me.” He paused and glanced meaningfully at her over his shoulder. “You can show me your appreciation...later.”

  “Oh, no! I can’t! That is—”

  With a wicked smile, he turned and sauntered out the door.

  Norah couldn’t sleep.

  She lay faceup on the lush satin comforter and listened as the small china clock on the mantel chimed ten o’clock.

  She wished she could blame her insomnia on hunger. Only that wouldn’t explain why the mere thought of food made her feel bilious. Or why she was lying here in the dark, fully dressed, with her hair still firmly pinned up. Or why every time she thought she heard a sound in the hallway her pulse picked up.

  If she were honest with herself—something she always strived to be—she knew the real cause of her sleeplessness could be summed up in two words. Elijah Wilder.

  She’d made a mistake. More accurately, she’d made several.

  First, she hadn’t thought enough past the immediate goal of getting married. When she had considered it, she’d envisioned a civilized, adult arrangement—as if she and Eli were boarders in a rooming house or guests occupying separate rooms in a hotel.

  She had not foreseen knee-weakening, strength-sapping kisses.

  Or disturbing visits to her bedroom.

  Or veiled suggestions of more to come.

  Most of all, she’d never imagined her own improper reaction.

  But then, w
ho would have thought that kissing Eli would be the most frightening, marvelous, exciting thing she’d ever done? That she would enjoy every sensation and every second? That she would be sorry when it ended?

  Certainly not her. And even if she had, that did not automatically mean she wanted more.

  Did it?

  No, of course not, she assured herself as she watched the play of shadow across the stars painted on the ceiling. And even if she did, it didn’t really matter. The thought of doing with Eli even one of the licentious things she’d read about in books might be enough to set off a tickle of warmth deep inside her, but she knew Eli wasn’t really interested in her—no matter what he’d said about “later.”

  He’d been teasing her. Eli had always teased her. When it came to actually doing something, however, she was the last sort of woman he would seek out.

  Not that she blamed him. After all, the prettiest, most popular girls in town had been throwing themselves at him since elementary school, and she had no reason to think they’d stopped now that he was older. Not when he’d matured from youthful hunk to bona fide heartbreaker. By now he no doubt had so much experience doing truly wanton things with a variety of beautiful, sophisticated women that a mere kiss—or anything else—with someone like her would be completely unexciting.

  Besides, she’d been totally forthright about this being a marriage in name only. There was no way Eli could have misunderstood her intentions.

  Could he?

  She sighed. There was only one thing to do. She would have to make sure he understood. She would have to talk to him.

  Her heart rate skyrocketed at the thought. She knew it was cowardly, but she really, really hated the idea. He was just so unpredictable. She never knew what he was going to do or say. Or what she should do or say in response.

  Still, this marriage had been her idea. And she had assured Eli that no one would get hurt in the process. If she didn’t talk to him, and something went wrong due to a foolish, preventable misunderstanding, it would be her fault. What was more important, she was in his debt. If not for him, she would have lost Willow Run.