Suddenly...Marriage!

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Oh?” Was he talking about himself? she wondered. No, she doubted it. If anything, now that she’d told him, he probably just thought of her as some oddity: a white elephant.

  “At your age,” Grant speculated, “you’ve probably built up a lot of expectations about the whole thing. A man thinks about that. What if he doesn’t live up to the expectations? What happens to the frailest part of him—his ego—then?”

  “That’s nothing for you to worry about,” she assured him.

  “Why not?” Grant asked, smiling. “After all, I am your husband.”

  “Until morning’s first light,” she reminded him. And then they’d get it annulled. Her own words played back in her head and she smiled at him. “Sounds like the groundwork for a fairy tale, doesn’t it?”

  Because the moment seemed right, he slipped his arm around her shoulders in comfortable companionship. An almost unbearable sweetness zipped through him with lightning speed as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “A beautiful, unattainable virgin. A storm swirling around the castle. A miserable, world-weary prince of industry,” he enumerated, then nodded. “Yes, I’d say we have all the necessary ingredients for a better-thanaverage fairy tale.”

  He’d piqued her curiosity. She’d need this for the interview, she told herself. And if it satisfied her own curiosity, so much the better. “Tell me more about this world-weary prince.” She looked up at him. “Just what part of the world has you weary?”

  She’d told him something private; he thought it only fair to reciprocate in kind. A mental game of strip poker, he mused. “Trying to find the right woman.”

  Cheyenne raised her head. He’d said that before, and she didn’t believe him any more now than then. “Oh, puh-leze. There are women six-deep all around you.” She saw the amused expression on his face. “Normally.”

  “I said the ‘right woman,’ not a legion of women,” he corrected her.

  Although he had to admit that finding the right woman would be a little scary to him as well. It would mean changing his life, reordering his priorities. Was he really up to that? Maybe, because a part of him felt he might be trembling on the brink. He honestly wasn’t sure.

  “Funny,” he said, “we seem to have something in common.”

  She rolled her eyes, bracing herself for a line of bull, secretly hoping not to hear it. She really didn’t want to think of him in that light But as a race, men were disappointing creatures. “You’re not going to tell me that you’re a virgin, too, are you?”

  Grant laughed so hard that he almost choked. He hadn’t been able to lay claim to that for almost a quarter of a century. “No, I’ve been the fortunate lover of some very beautiful women.”

  “Emphasis on ‘been.’” she guessed. Leeriness took hold. Now that she had told him her requirement, he was probably going to “proclaim” his intentions.

  Did she think so little of him, Grant wondered, as to believe that he was going to lie and declare that he was going to give up women if she would only go to bed with him? If she came to his bed it would be because she wanted to, not because he lied to her.

  “No, emphasis on ‘lover.’ I am a lover of women, Cheyenne,” he told her honestly. “I love the smell of them, the feel of them. The way they look up at you with that come-hither look.” He looked at her pointedly. “You have it, too, by the way.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She had never, never led a man on. “I do not.”

  “Trust me, it’s there, whether you know it or not.” His mouth quirked at the indignation that rose in her eyes. “But we were speaking of me, not you. I think women are truly remarkable, wonderful creatures. But as for sharing my life with just one, I’m afraid I haven’t met her yet. And I’ve already told you, I don’t want to end up like my father. So, in a way, we’re the same. Both of us don’t want to emulate a parent, and both of us are looking for forever. The only difference is that you won’t even enter the bakery for a sample.”

  “While you try to sample every cookie you come in contact with,” she countered.

  That would have landed him in somebody’s book of records years before now. “You’re giving me a lot more credit than I could possibly ever live up to.” He laughed. “If I made love with every woman who crossed my path with a flirtatious little smile, I’d have been dead a long time ago. Buried with a smile on my face, I grant you, but still dead.”

  She should have been repulsed, not attracted, she thought. And yet, she found herself charmed and beguiled. Just as he probably planned.

  Sorry, won’t work, she thought, I’m sleeping alone tonight. Even if I have to lock myself in a closet to keep you away from me and me away from you.

  Suddenly aware of something entirely different, Cheyenne held up her hand to stop him from talking. “Listen.”

  Grant hadn’t heard anything. He looked around. “To what?”

  “Nothing,” she answered enthusiastically. “No howling, no moaning, no battering trees against the house. Nothing,” she repeated.

  Cheyenne crossed to a window and placed her hand against the pane of glass. It was pitch-black outside, but she felt sure she would have been able to detect the wind, to feel it vibrate against the pane. The glass remained calm against her hand.

  “Think the storm has passed us?”

  Grant stood beside her, looking at her profile rather than at the world outside the window. It was only human nature, he guessed, to want something you couldn’t have. To want something that might, in the long run, be bad for you.

  “Actually,” he said softly, “I think it’s just settled in for a while.”

  “But listen, it’s died down.”

  The words faded from her lips as she turned to face him and saw the way he was looking at her. As if she were a glass of water and he were dying of thirst, would die of thirst if he couldn’t have her.

  She’d never had this kind of trouble holding on to her resolve before, never felt so tempted to give in, just this once, and to experience that dizzying, wild ride that always beckoned to her mother.

  Struggling, she tried to keep her mind on her work. She had to think of something other than Grant O’Hara. Something other than wanting him. “I’d like to take a few photographs here in the morning before we leave.”

  “Whatever you want.” And I wish to hell it were me, he added silently. He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late and if I don’t let you go now, I might be tempted to try to change your mind about that promise of yours.”

  She knew that if anyone could do it, he could. She was grateful that he didn’t press his advantage. Leaving, Cheyenne quickly kissed his cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said hurriedly. “See you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  He blew out a long, weary breath as he watched her go. Grant traced the outline of her lips along his cheek. Sleep well?

  “Not much chance of that,” he muttered to himself.

  Chapter Eight

  The night seemed endless. Sleep, if it came at all to Grant, arrived in tiny parcels. And when they were emptied, it left him more tired than before.

  That was because of the dream.

  Every time he fell asleep, he dreamed of her, of Cheyenne, and of a wedding that hadn’t happened. A wedding where she came to him, dressed not in that green velvet costume that was now ruined, but a traditional wedding gown. A long, sleek wedding gown that hugged her body like a reverent prayer and caught the light of the candles in the church.

  It seemed to gleam, casting a trail of stars before her as she slowly made her way to him down a very long aisle.

  He could feel his anticipation, his desire, growing with every step she took closer to him. He could feel each step as it pulsed and reverberated within his chest, echoing in the beat of his heart.

  And then, suddenly, she was beside him. Promising to always love him, always cherish him, to give herself to him for all time. There was no hazy feeling that usually accompanied dreams, telling dreamers that wh
at they saw wasn’t real. This wasn’t like the other, occasional dream he had, in which the bride’s face was hidden from him. This was real. He knew, as their hands joined, that he had found the woman he’d longed to find and was binding himself to her for eternity.

  When he kissed her, not waiting for the priest’s behest, Grant felt a joy radiating through him that was a perfect blend of excitement and peace. The kiss pulled him further into the belief that this wasn’t a dream, because he felt just the way he had when he’d kissed her by the fireplace. Alive, stimulated and ready to take on the whole world.

  And then it all vanished in a thunderclap. The vows, the church and Cheyenne, all gone. Grant was alone again. Alone in his bed.

  Alone in his life.

  The starkness of it, the deprivation that shot through him like the shaft of an arrow, made Grant wake up with a start, sitting bolt upright. His heart hammering in his throat, a sheen of perspiration covering his body, he looked around, reorienting himself.

  He was in his house on the island. In his bedroom. A bedroom half a hallway away from hers.

  It might as well have been on the other side of the moon for all the difference it made, he thought glumly. Even with the effects of the dream still beating in his system, he wasn’t about to do something as sophomorically reprehensible as slip into her room while she was sleeping.

  It was still dark outside. Grant fell back against the bed with a sigh, fidgeting inside, even though his body lay exhausted on the bedding.

  It’d been a dream. Nothing more, just a dream.

  Any moment now, his pulse and his breathing would return to normal. Any moment now. Damn her, anyway.

  Muttering to himself, scrunching the pillow beneath his head, Grant challenged sleep to find him once more.

  When it did, he dreamed of her and of the wedding all over again.

  In the end, he felt like Sisyphus, doomed to push a boulder up the steep hill, only to have it come tumbling back down at him, again and again for all eternity. By five o’clock, Grant gave up and went to prowl around the kitchen, his disposition making him more apt to chew coffee grounds than to brew them.

  He discovered he wasn’t the first one up.

  Swallowing a curse, he ran a hand through his hair. He’d needed coffee more than a shower or a shave, and was now, as he looked at Cheyenne’s back, painfully aware of the lack of both.

  “What are you doing here?” he half growled before he managed to get himself under control.

  Banking down the flash of nerves that jumped to the surface like beads of water on a hot skillet, Cheyenne took a breath to steady herself before glancing at him over her shoulder.

  “Making coffee. Power’s back,” she informed him with forced casualness. “You don’t realize how dependent you get on electricity until it takes a powder.”

  “Takes a powder?” he echoed.

  “Sorry, a holdover from the past.” It was what she heard the other waitresses at the diner say whenever one of her mother’s boyfriends disappeared. “Looks like another one of her beaus’s taken a powder. ” It had just slipped out. Probably because she felt a little frazzled this morning. She hadn’t slept very well last night

  She’d certainly dreamed enough, though. It felt as if she’d spent hours dreaming, even though each time she looked at her watch, very little time had passed. Having dreamed so much, she didn’t feel as if she’d rested at all.

  God knew, there was nothing restful about what she had dreamed.

  “You don’t have to do that” Grant crossed to the small work island in the middle of the room. “Miles or Sarah will—”

  “Sarah’s probably still sick and Miles is undoubtedly still asleep at this hour. This isn’t exactly the shank of the morning yet. Actually—” she turned from the coffee maker “—I’m surprised to see you up.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, sliding in on the stool. He took a deep breath. The rich aroma of coffee tantalized him. That, and the sensual scent of her. He cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind that easily. “Coffee ready yet?”

  “Just about.” It made the last of its gurgling noises as the ribbon of black liquid thinned and finally ceased pouring into the glass pot. Taking it, Cheyenne turned and filled a cup for him. He looked really worn around the edges. “You look like you partied all night.”

  He held his cup with both hands, as if somehow the caffeine could transfer itself directly into his bloodstream. He wondered if she was politely telling him that he looked like hell. He certainly felt as if he did.

  “Worse. I slept... and dreamed almost continuously.”

  She could relate to that. Pouring a cup for herself, she filled it only two-thirds to the rim, then added milk to make up the difference: the coffee turned from black to a light-brown.

  Slipping onto the stool next to him, she cocked her head. “Oh? Anything in particular? Or did it all fade away by the time you were awake?” Hers hadn’t. It had haunted her, so much so that she had been afraid to go back to sleep.

  “No, it didn’t fade.” If anything, the dream seemed to get stronger, reinforcing itself in his mind as he tried to shake sleep from his system.

  He realized with an oddly pleasing jolt that she was wearing one of his old shirts, its ends tied together at the waist. He liked the idea of his clothes touching her skin—almost as much as he liked the idea of touching her skin himself.

  After last night, she was very aware of the way he looked at her. Cheyenne glanced down and realized why he had that odd expression on his face.

  “I found this in the closet,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind. It fits better than Sarah’s blouse. I even slept in it,” she confessed, then added quickly, “I’ll have it cleaned and sent back to you.”

  He wondered if her scent would cling to it. The thought of putting it on, her scent surrounding him, aroused Grant. “That won’t be necessary. I have more.”

  She sipped a little of her coffee. “Old habits,” she admitted. “We had to take care of everything we had. If it was ruined, it was a while before it could be replaced.” Like the rubber boots she’d lost one year at school, she thought. Somehow, they’d gotten mixed in with the others in the cloakroom. And when it was time to leave, the only pair there was an old one with holes in the soles. She’d spent the rest of that spring with wet feet every time it rained. And it had rained a lot that year.

  “Were you very poor?” he asked.

  There was kindness in his voice, and sympathy. It would have been very easy to respond to that, to let herself accept it. And maybe once she would have. But she didn’t want his sympathy. She’d done just fine with her life. There was no need for pity.

  “Poor enough,” she answered carelessly. “So, what did you dream about that left you looking like forty miles of bad road?”

  He knew she was deliberately changing the subject. He’d done enough of that himself to know when the No Trespassing sign went up. “That bad, eh?”

  “Well,” she said, reconsidering, “maybe only ten miles.”

  A lie came to his lips, but he discarded it, curious to know how she would react to the truth. “I dreamed about you.”

  Pleasure sprang up, quickly followed by suspicion. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Us, actually,” he clarified. “We were getting married. Officially this time.” Draining his cup, he got up to get more. “In a church.”

  Pouring himself another cupful, Grant turned around to offer Cheyenne a refill. She was pale. Concerned, he set the pot down and quickly crossed to her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Cheyenne stared at him, though she didn’t see him as he was, but as he had been—last night and this morning. In her dream. Dressed in a formal tuxedo, so handsome it had hurt just to look at him.

  Blinking, she cleared her vision, then slowly shook her head. “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just that...” Oh, God, how did she say this?

  “Just what?” he almost snapped at her when
she didn’t finish. Anxiety had depleted his patience, leaving a dangerously low supply.

  This was bizarre, really bizarre. People just didn’t have the same dream at the same time. That was for science-fiction stories or experiments in hypnosis. And yet, what he was telling her, without realizing it, was that he had had her dream.

  “Just what?” he repeated. She looked as if she were going to faint.

  “I had the same dream,” she finally confided in almost a whisper. Unnerved, she clutched at straws. Maybe it wasn’t the same dream, just the same situation. “We were getting married again. In a church. I was wearing—”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “—a long white gown that seemed to catch the candlelight—”

  Cheyenne’s eyes grew wide with disbelief and awe. “—and glow as I came toward you,” she whispered. “And you kissed me—”

  Like a man under a spell, he completed the sentence. “—before the priest could tell me to.”

  Cheyenne covered her mouth with her hands, her mind scurrying around for some plausible explanation. “This is too weird. Too weird.” She raised her eyes accusingly at him. “What was in that wine you gave me?”

  She couldn’t be seriously suggesting that he’d given her some hallucinogenic drug. Even if she had taken one, there was no way to predict what she’d dream.

  “Fermented grapes,” he snapped. The next moment, he calmed himself. She was probably only unnerved— just the way he was. “Maybe our dreams are trying to tell us something.”

  Cheyenne struggled to make sense of this, to approach it logically. She knew what happened when things were viewed only emotionally. Complete and total collapse ensued.

  “Sure,” she said a bit too quickly, “it was on both our minds. It’s only natural. I mean, we were both in that ceremony yesterday and we both want to get this resolved as quickly as possible.” She glanced at him, waiting for him to agree with her interpretation. Anything else was positively spooky.