WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

by Naomi Horton

  Montreal. She was heading to Montreal to marry Alain DeRocher.

  Swearing breathlessly, he was out of bed in the next heartbeat. Not even bothering to shower or shave, he pulled on his clothes and grabbed his car keys and was out the door in under ten minutes, heart hammering against his ribs.

  She would still be there, he told himself with forced calm as he wheeled out of the driveway. She hadn't left yet. He wouldn't be too late.

  * * *

  If she could just stop crying, damn it, everything would be fine.

  Andie gritted her teeth and battled against a fresh flood of tears, refusing to give in. Poor Alain. He was looking frazzled and harried and worried half to death, and his mother obviously figured her future daughter-in-law was a nut case.

  Even the staff in the huge château had started looking at her a little oddly. She knew they were whispering about her in the back corridors, rolling their eyes in that expressive Gallic way when they saw her starting to puddle up again for no reason.

  Just thinking about it brought tears to her eyes and she fought them gamely. Two days. She'd been here with Alain and his mother for two days, and they had next to nothing accomplished.

  There was so much to do. The invitations. The catering. The church. The reception. Plane tickets to buy for her family. Plans to make for the honeymoon.

  The honeymoon. Fresh tears welled up and spilled, and she swallowed hard, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. This had to stop. She had to get a grip on herself. She had a wedding to plan. A life to plan.

  Alain was talking about kids already, and they hadn't even chosen the menu for the wedding reception. James, he'd told her this morning. He wanted to name their first son James. It made her laugh for some reason, thinking of her with a son named James. Thinking of herself married.

  Flowers. Damn, she still had to choose the flowers…

  * * *

  Getting to Montreal had been the easy part. He'd stood in SeaTac airport and had calmly told the ticket agent that if he didn't get on the first plane headed east, he would purposefully and calmly start taking the place apart.

  But there had been a screwup in Denver, connecting flights that didn't connect. He'd gotten himself rerouted to Dallas, then to Atlanta, then to Chicago, missing the critical flight out of O'Hare by ten minutes. There had been a choice: wait until morning and go straight through to Montreal, or cut across to New York, catch a commuter to Toronto, backtrack to Montreal.

  He'd done it finally, only to find that DeRocher and his bride-to-be were at the estate somewhere outside Quebec City.

  Bride-to-be. The word gnawed through him as he swung the big import through a series of curves on the winding road that led – he hoped – to the DeRocher place. At least he hadn't been too late. There was still time.

  If he could find the damn place. He glanced at the rough map the kid at the last gas station had drawn for him, trying to read it and stay on the road, wondering if he should have turned left back at that last crossroad.

  Bride-to-be.

  If he could find the place. If he wasn't too late.

  * * *

  "Roses, of course." Alain's mother said it slowly and clearly, as though Andie weren't really comprehending. "White and pink. And lilies. Just a simple bouquet is so effective, don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely," Andie said with a bright smile, not having a clue what she'd just agreed to.

  "And we must settle on the wine for the reception. Alain does have a wonderful cellar here, of course, so that shouldn't be a problem. Oh, and we must decide once and for all on the dessert course."

  "Triple-Threat Chocolate Surprise," Andie said wistfully.

  "Triple what?" Alain's mother looked at her strangely. "Never heard of it. Sounds frightfully rich. I'll see if Cook can find the recipe." She gave a sniff. "I was thinking of Crème brûlée."

  "Whatever." Andie swallowed a sigh, looking longingly at the door. She wished she had the courage to simply get up and walk out. Some fresh air would be nice. But she had a wedding to plan.

  "Crème brûlée will be fine, Mrs. DeRocher."

  * * *

  Snapdragons.

  Conn looked at the bedraggled bouquet in his fist and cursed himself. Why the hell he'd given in to the whim to buy the things in the first place was beyond him. She'd take one look at them and kick him out for the fool he was.

  If he ever got in.

  He looked at the door in front of him and took a deep breath. It looked about a foot thick, as though someone thought it might have to hold out marauding armies. But it was by God not going to hold him out. Lifting his fist, he pounded on it again.

  It whipped open and a tall, broad-shouldered woman glared at him, asking something in rapid-fire French. When he shook his head, she said, in heavily accented English, "You must go to the back. All people to help with the garden, to the back!"

  "I'm not—" He caught the door just as it was slamming closed, planting himself firmly in the way. "I want to see Andie Spencer."

  "Andie? Spencer?" She made the names sound exotic and foreign. "Non, non. C'est impossible. Go to back door. Gardeners to back door."

  Conn drew in a deep breath to argue with her, then just stepped by her. "To hell with it," he muttered, ignoring her angry protests. Striding down a center hallway the size of a football stadium and trailing an increasingly wrathful contingent of distraught servants, he bellowed Andie's name a time or two, deciding he'd wasted enough time.

  "Pâté de foie gras, of course," Alain's mother was saying, frowning over the written list in her hand. "Lamb. Pheasant. Venison."

  "Venison?" Andie snapped back into consciousness. "You want me to eat Bambi at my own wedding?"

  Alain's mother blinked. "Bambi? Why, my dear, we—"

  "Andie! Damn it to hell, Andie, I know you're here! Andie!"

  The voice bellowed up from downstairs like a battle cry, and Andie went utterly motionless. Now she was hearing things, she decided calmly. She looked at Alain's mother, hoping she hadn't noticed anything.

  But she'd heard something, too. She stared at Andie for a horrified moment, then got to her feet. "What on earth—"

  And then, suddenly, he was there. Connor, all six-foot-one of him, wide-shouldered and thunderous, filling the room with noise and energy. Three servants tumbled in after him, all talking at the top of their voices, all falling instantly silent at the sight of Mrs. DeRocher.

  The silence stretched taut. Conn stared across the room at Andie, and she just sat there, staring back at him in astonishment. He looked terrible, his clothes wrinkled, hair in disarray, face heavily stubbled. It looked as though he hadn't changed his clothing or shaved in days. And he was holding a bunch of snapdragons, she realized numbly. He'd always known she loved snapdragons.

  "And who," Alain's mother asked regally, "are you?"

  "Connor Devlin, ma'am. And I'm here to take Andie home."

  "Home?" The elegant voice rose slightly with indulgent amusement. "I think, young man, that you are in the wrong house. Or certainly in the wrong century."

  "What are you doing here?" Andie's voice was just a furious whisper.

  "Taking you home," he repeated stubbornly.

  "You can't just come in here and—" Andie caught herself. Drew in a deep breath. "Connor, please leave. Now."

  "No damn way." To her astonishment, he grinned, shaking his head in that slow, deliberate way he had. "You're mine. And I'm taking you back to Seattle. Now."

  "Have you lost your mind?"

  "Young man, I think—"

  "Excuse me." Very gently Conn grasped Alain's mother by the elbow and escorted her to the door, shooing servants ahead of him like a flock of geese. Then, even more gently, he closed the door on the lot of them.

  Andie opened her mouth, then closed it again, not having the faintest idea of what to say. He'd lost his mind, obviously. Maybe he was having the same kind of premarital meltdown that she was.

  He looked at the flowers in his left h
and for a moment, then handed them to her. She took them automatically.

  "Andrea, I don't even know where to start."

  Andrea? She looked at him more closely. She couldn't remember him ever calling her Andrea. He really was in bad shape.

  "Conn, would you like to sit down?" she asked gently. "How about a cup of coffee?" She gestured toward the silver carafe on the low table by the fireplace. "A drink?"

  "I don't want to sit down, I don't want coffee, I don't want a drink. I want you." Slowly, as though half-afraid she'd bolt if he made a sudden move, he walked toward her. "You were right the other day when you said I couldn't see what was right in front of me. But it took damn near losing you to realize I love you. Probably always have."

  "You love me." She said it dryly, trying not to laugh. "Is this your idea of a joke, Devlin? Because it's not going to work. I am not coming back to work for you. Alain and I are getting married in four days, and—"

  "I love you."

  He said it almost defiantly this time, jaw jutting forward slightly, as though daring her to deny it. Andie just looked at him, her mind a sudden blank.

  "Well, damn it, aren't you going to say something?" He raked his hair back, looking exasperated and impatient, and started to pace. "I just didn't recognize it, that's all. I always figured love was … hell, passion. Fireworks. Hand grenades. I didn't know it felt like a warm blanket. I didn't know that what I've been feeling about you all this time was love."

  "Conn…" She had to stop, finding it difficult to breath. "Conn," she repeated softly, "is this some sort of revenge thing? Are you telling me this now to get even with me for—"

  "No, Andie." He walked across and put both hands on her shoulders, looking down into her eyes, serious and suddenly very calm. "I know you're in love with me. I know that. What I'm trying to explain is that I'm in love with you. Not just that I love you, but I'm in love with you. There's a difference."

  "I know." She tried to laugh, but it came out a sob.

  "I don't want you to marry Alain DeRocher, I want you to marry me. I want you to come back to Seattle and marry me and live with me. I want you in my life, Andie. Forever."

  "Blood brothers?" Her voice broke slightly and she gazed up at him, hardly even daring to believe.

  "Husband and wife." He settled his mouth over hers, kissing her lightly. Evocatively.

  The door behind them burst open, and Conn wheeled around, putting himself squarely between Andie and whoever was coming through.

  Alain DeRocher stood there for a moment, eyes blazing. Then he gave a snort of laughter. "So it is you, Devlin. My mother thinks one of the gardeners broke in to kidnap my fiancée."

  "I am," Conn said bluntly.

  Alain nodded, a smile playing around his mouth. He was taller than Conn remembered. And heavier through the chest. If push came to shove – literally – it would be a close call.

  "I wondered if you'd get here in time." The smile widened. "I was getting a little worried actually. If you hadn't turned up, I didn't know what the hell I was going to do. Marry Andie and keep my mouth shut, or do the honorable thing and come out to Seattle to pound some sense into that thick skull of yours."

  Andie gave a whuff of indignation and stepped around Conn. "What do you mean, you didn't know what you'd do? I thought you loved me!"

  "I do," DeRocher said gently. "Problem is, sweetheart, you don't love me."

  "I most certainly do!"

  Conn nearly grinned. She sounded almost normal again.

  "You love Devlin, not me. I've always known it, but I sort of hoped … well, it doesn't matter now." Smiling, DeRocher walked across and held out his hand. "You're a hell of a lucky man, Devlin. I just hope you know how lucky. Because if you screw up and hurt her, I'll—"

  "I'm not going to screw up." Conn took DeRocher's hand and shook it firmly. "Not this time. This time it's love. And this time it's forever." He looked down at Andie, who was still staring at him as though not quite believing he was real. "Let's go home."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^

  Andie stood for a thoughtful moment at the top of the companionway leading down to the head. Then she turned and tottered back to where Conn was stretched out on the teak deck of the anchored sailboat, watching her in mild concern.

  "Are you going to be all right?"

  "False alarm." She was still looking a little pale, though, and she sat down beside him with a thump.

  "Damn it, Andie, if I'd known you were going to get seasick, I'd never have suggested this trip. You never used to get sick when we went sailing."

  "I'm not seasick. I'm pregnant. There's a difference. Although at the moment I couldn't tell you what it is."

  Conn had to laugh, reaching out to slip his fingers around hers. The twin bands of gold and diamonds on her ring finger caught the sun and glittered, and he ran his thumb over them wonderingly. Four months married, and he still couldn't believe it. And this time, he had no doubts at all that it was for keeps.

  Andie tipped her face up to the sun and he smiled again, seeing that some of the color had come back into her cheeks. This being pregnant routine wasn't that easy to get used to, either. Three months already. Six to go, and he'd be holding his first child.

  "We still haven't come up with an idea for a wedding gift for Margie and Frank." Andie spilled suntan oil on her fingers and started smoothing it along her arm and shoulder. "They're getting married in a week. I can't believe it."

  "I can't believe I nearly let you get away from me," Conn said quietly. "I can't believe I didn't see it. That I didn't know." He subdued a shudder, thinking of what his life could have been like if he hadn't gone after her.

  She'd be married to DeRocher now. And him? Hell, he'd probably be married to Liv Woodruff, and halfway to his third divorce.

  Andie smiled and reached down to unknot the beach towel she'd wrapped around her earlier. It dropped to her waist and she put her arms over her head and stretched like a cat, bare breasts already fuller with pregnancy. "I can't believe you nearly let me get away, either. I'd pretty much given up on you, and that's the truth."

  "Do you think that's a good idea?"

  "I won't stay out long enough to burn."

  "I wasn't talking about the sun. I was talking about me." Grinning, he rolled over and lifted up onto one elbow to nuzzle one sun-warmed breast, touching the nipple with his tongue and smiling as he felt it grow hard. "You're giving me all sorts of ideas here, lady."

  "Good ones?" Her voice was filled with laughter and she cradled his head against her.

  "Damn right." He slid his hand between her inner thighs and pushed them apart gently, knowing she wasn't wearing a thing under the towel but suntan. They'd made love a scant hour ago, but he was aroused and hard already, wondering if he'd ever get his fill of her. Doubting it.

  "Connor…" Laughing, she lay back languidly. "What are you up to?"

  "No damn good," he murmured, kissing the delicate, soft skin on the inside of her thigh. "I think your mother warned you about men like me."

  "Numerous times." Her breath caught. Caught again.

  Smiling, Conn traced a leisurely line of kisses up the soft swell of her belly and across her left breast, pausing there for an enjoyable moment or two. Then, finally, he found her mouth with his and kissed her even more leisurely.

  And wondered, as he wrapped his arms around her, how he had ever thought that love was a complicated thing.

  Love was looking down into his wife's eyes and seeing everything he ever needed to know. Love was waking in the night and watching her sleep beside him, her mouth still touched by laughter, and knowing it was forever. Love was the tight, warm hug he felt around his heart every time he even thought of her.

  Love was … his best friend. Forever. And always.

  * * * * *