Three Grooms and a Wedding

by JoAnn Ross

  Afraid she’d decide to get up, fall in the pool and drown if he left her out here alone, Gage said, “That’s okay. I’ll just drink out of the bottle.”

  “Whatever.” When she waved his words away, he noticed something interesting. The diamond that used to weigh down her left hand was missing.

  He sat down in the chair beside her, tipped the bottle to his lips and allowed the champagne to slip down his throat. The last time he’d drank sparkling wine had been when he’d graduated from the police academy. But this expensive French vintage was a helluva long way from the cold duck he’d bought at Ralph’s supermarket for that occasion. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Independence day.”

  Gage didn’t grin. Not on the outside, at any rate. But he wanted to.

  “Sounds good to me.” He took another drink and decided that although he preferred beer, or the occasional Scotch, this wasn’t half-bad.

  It was odd, Blythe mused through the haze clouding her mind. Usually being anywhere around this man stirred her up, tangled her emotions and left her feeling nervous and confused. But for some reason, tonight Gage seemed to be having a calming effect on her.

  She turned toward him. The dress hitched up a little bit more. “Have you ever been engaged?”

  “No.” Deciding there was no point in not being totally honest, he added, “I came close once. To a girl I went to college with.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “It didn’t work out.” It didn’t hurt now because it hadn’t hurt then. “We had kind of an unofficial agreement. Then, when I turned down a slot at law school to enroll in the police academy instead, she decided she didn’t want to marry a cop.”

  Blythe looked out over the pool again and sipped her champagne as she considered that. “Sending your husband off to work each day, not knowing if he would be killed, would probably take some getting used to,” she said finally, thinking how many times she’d worried about Cait.

  “I suppose,” Gage agreed. “But that wasn’t the reason.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her eyes, as they returned to his face, were as wide and dark as a midnight sky. A man could disappear in those eyes, if he wasn’t careful. Gage had always considered himself a careful man. “If it wasn’t the fear of danger—”

  “It was the money.” Thinking back on it, Gage realized that it had been his pride, rather than his heart that had been wounded by the broken romance. “Law enforcement isn’t all that lucratively rewarding. So she married some hotshot criminal attorney she met while attending a murder trial where I testified for the prosecution. They live in Santa Barbara now.

  “In Montecito, actually, in a French regency mansion with a live-in housekeeper, a yard man, a former wanna-be actor hunk to clean the pool, and a genuine British nanny for their three kids. Apparently when it comes to the legal profession, crime pays very well.

  “In his spare time, he plays golf and screws around. She drinks and screws around.”

  Gage knew because Sandi Cunningham still called him about three times a year when she was drunk and needy. Having learned his lesson where the woman was concerned, he never took her up on her invitation to get together for old times’ sake.

  “That’s so sad.” Goose bumps rose on Blythe’s arms as she thought how close that scenario was to the unpleasant marriage plan Alan had sketched out for her earlier.

  “I’ve always thought so.” The night breeze was ruffling the semitropical trees surrounding the pool. Gage saw her slight shiver and misunderstood its reason. “It’s getting cold. We’d better get you inside. And to bed.”

  The way he was looking at her made her head spin. Or perhaps, Blythe thought hopefully, it was the champagne. “So we’re back to that.”

  She’d lifted her chin in a challenging way that dared him to kiss her. As tempted as he was, Gage feared that if he allowed himself so much as one little taste, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And besides the fact that making love to a woman in her condition would be unconscionable, he was discovering that he was a selfish man.

  When he did make love to Blythe Fielding—and Gage had every intention of doing exactly that—he wanted to be damn sure she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

  “Back to what?” He stood up, plucked the half-empty glass from her hand and placed it on the table beside the bottle.

  “You wanting me.” She allowed him to help her to her feet. “Me wanting you.”

  Even though he knew she wouldn’t have made such a confession under normal conditions, Gage was pleased by the admission.

  “I always want you,” he said mildly. She was unsteady on her feet, weaving slightly. And no wonder, considering how much of that champagne she’d managed to drink before he’d arrived. “But you’re safe tonight, Boss Lady.”

  “Oh.” Those remarkable lips that had been taunting his sleep turned down. “What’s the matter? Don’t you find me attractive?”

  One of the skinny little straps had slid off one shoulder, revealing creamy flesh he had a strong, sudden urge to bite. The black silk had been cut to showcase a woman’s curves, which it did to distraction. And those hooker heels made her legs look as if they went all the way up to her neck.

  “Sweetheart, if you were any more attractive, I’d have to arrest myself for the thoughts I’m having.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, seemingly pleased with that.

  “I’m also surprised there isn’t a five-day waiting period before buying that dress.”

  More than pleased, she did a little show-off spin turn that had her wobbling on her spindly high heels. Catching her before she landed in the water, he scooped her up and swung her over his shoulder.

  It should definitely be against the law for a woman to smell this good, Gage thought as he marched back through the private gardens to the unlocked bungalow. It should be a felony for a woman to feel this good.

  “I always wanted to be swept off my feet,” she said on a silvery giggle as he carried her into the bedroom. “But tossing me over your shoulder isn’t exactly the most romantic style in the world, Gage. I mean, can you imagine Clark Gable lugging Vivien Leigh up that staircase like a sack of potatoes?”

  Hell. He should have known the bedroom would smell like her. Amused, irritated and aroused all at the same time, he dumped her onto the bed.

  “You want romance?” he growled as she bounced bonelessly on the mattress.

  Fed up with this entire situation that had been driving him crazy for months, he sat down beside her, caught her chin in his tensed fingers and closed his mouth over hers.

  Unlike the first time they’d kissed, there was no drawn out exploration, no teasing temptation. Her taste, headier than the French champagne she’d shared, exploded within him. Kissing Blythe was like a cool drink after days spent crawling across hot desert sands, like a warm and welcoming fire after being lost in a blizzard. It was everything he’d remembered. And more. Much, much more.

  It would have been easier if she’d resisted. Even for a moment. But instead, she gave without hesitation, throwing herself into the kiss with a desperate passion. Her mouth was like a fever, sending a burst of heat surging through him. Images of smoke and flames sparked in his mind.

  Reminding himself of the rules, he tried to back away, but then she was pulling him to her, down onto the bed, urging his body to press her deeper and deeper into the mattress.

  She was twined around him, her bare arms, her magnificent legs. Her breasts were flattened by the strength of his chest, her heart thudded fast and hard.

  He’d fantasized about this countless times since their first meeting. Experience had taught Gage that reality seldom lived up to the illusion. But with Blythe, amazingly, everything was exactly as he’d imagined.

  Gage knew what it was to want a woman. But never in his thirty-one years had he needed a woman like he needed Blythe at this moment. It was as if he’d been searching for her his entire life.

  Dragging his mouth away from
hers, he skimmed his lips down her throat, lingering at the soft spot where her pulse hammered wildly. The skimpy little straps had slid off both her shoulders; Gage nipped the fragrant flesh with his teeth.

  The love bite drew a soft moan from between her parted lips; as he soothed the faint wound with his tongue, Blythe murmured something that could have been either protest or encouragement. Then she arched against him, desperate to be touched. Gage took it for the latter.

  Yanking the dress to her waist, he freed first one pale breast from a wispy bit of scarlet silk, then the other. They spilled into his restless hands.

  “Oh, yes,” she moaned on a shimmering sigh of relief. “More.” She felt no embarrassment, only desperation.

  As his greedy mouth scorched her burning flesh, as his impatient hands made her burn, Blythe cried out. Here was the passion she’d been seeking, she thought through the smoke and haze clouding her mind. Here was the fire-storm she’d never experienced with Alan. Here was the danger she’d been secretly seeking.

  Blythe was not inexperienced. She’d known desire. Experienced yearning. But only with Gage had she discovered the true meaning of hunger. Only with Gage had she realized how thin a line there was between want and need.

  She tugged his shirt from his jeans with anxious hands; her fingernails dug into his back. The need to feel him against her, inside her, was as urgent, and as necessary, as breath.

  He could have her, Gage knew. Now. And despite the wine she’d drunk, he knew that there had been times, with some women, that he wouldn’t have hesitated. Because all those glasses of champagne hadn’t changed the unalterable fact that he and Blythe had been heading toward this moment for months.

  Before, only Alan Sturgess had stood in the way. But now, for whatever reason, the fiancé was gone, out of the picture for good.

  So why the hell was he hesitating?

  Unable to answer that question, he nevertheless backed away.

  “Gage?” Her eyelids fluttered open. Her lips were swollen from his kisses and trembled as a ragged breath slipped through them. Confusion, along with a lingering desire swirled in her liquid-jet eyes, threatening to undermine his resolve yet again.

  “I’m sorry.” His hands moved to her shoulders. He needed time. Time to steady himself. Time to understand what was happening between them. Time to comprehend why everything about this woman seemed both new and familiar at the same time. “I had no right to do that.”

  Her lips were unbearably dry. Blythe licked them and saw the blue flames rise in his mesmerizing eyes. “I wanted you to do that,” she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “I wanted you to kiss me. And touch me.” He watched her throat as she swallowed. “I wanted you to make love to me.”

  Gage groaned inwardly. Here he was, trying to be a hero, and the lady wasn’t helping. Not even a little bit.

  “I like to know that the woman I’m making love to knows which man she’s with.”

  The accusation cut like a laser through the fog clouding her mind. He could not have said anything that could have hurt her more.

  Blythe recoiled as if struck. “If you believe I thought you were Alan—”

  “No.” Filled with self-disgust, he took one of her suddenly icy hands and lifted it to his lips. “I’m sorry.” His eyes, as they met hers over their linked hands offered contrition. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Absolutely refusing to cry, Blythe bit her lip. For the second time tonight—the second time in her twenty-five years—she’d been prepared to throw herself at a man. And once again it was turning out to be a disaster.

  “You shouldn’t have said it,” she agreed. She sat up against the pillows and shot him her most quelling look. “You shouldn’t have thought it.”

  Her eyes were liquid pools of hurt and anger, her hair was a sable cloud around her bare shoulders, her skin was a creamy lure that had him second-guessing his misguided attempt at chivalry.

  Gage wanted to try to explain but realized he had no answers himself. “Look,” he said instead, “you’ve had a long, tough day and although I believe you about having never missed a flight, that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t get some sleep.” He reached out and stroked a broad palm down her tousled hair. “Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?”

  Even as she wanted to argue, Blythe admitted he had a point. She was suddenly tired. More than tired. Drained.

  “I may not be speaking to you tomorrow.”

  Her haughty tone, a vivid contrast to her warm and sensual appearance, made him smile. “I’ll take my chances.” He bent his head and brushed his lips across her frowning ones. “Good night, milaja,” he murmured. And then he was gone.

  Lying there, with her head still spinning from a combination of champagne and kisses, Blythe heard him let himself out of the bungalow.

  With a muttered curse and a groan, she forced herself to leave the comfort of the bed, undressed, put on a silk nightshirt and brushed her teeth. It was only as she slid beneath the sheets that his last words to her sank in.

  Had Gage really called her sweetheart in Russian?

  Impossible. Just as her knowing the unfamiliar word was impossible. Sighing, Blythe closed her eyes and drifted off on soft swells toward sleep, the endearment, and the puzzle, forgotten.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE LATE,” Alexandra accused.

  Patrick stood in the doorway to the bathroom, gazing at her, lounging in the hedonistic black marble tub, up to her lissome neck in fragrant bubbles, looking every bit the luscious sex goddess she was. She’d piled her thick hair atop her head in a riot of dark curls. A few tendrils trailed wetly down her neck, contrasting enticingly with her alabaster skin.

  Her eyes were thickly lashed, as dark as a midnight sky over the Russian steppes. Those full lips, currently pouting prettily, were naturally the hue of ripe raspberries, which allowed her to forego messy lipstick except when she was about to go before the cameras.

  Alexandra Romanov was every red-blooded male’s sensual fantasy. And she was his.

  Ten months after their marriage, there were still times when Patrick found that idea overwhelming.

  “I’m sorry.” He unfastened the cuffs of his shirt. “I got held up at the studio.”

  As he entered the steamy bathroom, he was immediately surrounded by a fragrant cloud. It was the same scent that she smoothed all over her body each morning and evening. Only last night, he’d been the one to spread the lush pink cream over her silken flesh.

  He grew hard as he remembered the uninhibited way she’d pressed against his hand as he lingered over the skin at the inside of her milky thighs, remembered the way she’d first pleaded, then cried out in Russian.

  “I hate Walter Stern.” She called the studio head a nasty name in her native language as she lifted a lithe leg out of the water and began washing it with a pink bar of French milled soap.

  “You and half the western world.”

  His relationship with the man who’d brought him to Los Angeles, while never exactly friendly, had at least been cordial. Since he’d infuriated Stern by eloping with the studio’s biggest star, their working alliance had nearly disintegrated entirely.

  Walter continued to insist, to anyone who would listen—including those two gossip harridans Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons—that marriage had damaged Alexandra’s sex appeal, in turn endangering Xanadu’s profits.

  Personally, Patrick believed that Stern’s real problem was a deep-seated jealousy that he wasn’t the man sharing Alexandra’s bed every night.

  “So what exactly did Walter want now?” Alexandra asked.

  “I don’t know.” He dismissed the anxiety in her voice. She worried too much. Patrick supposed that came from being Russian.

  Lord knows—though she’d never revealed much about her past—if the newsreels coming out of that country were even halfway reliable, her earlier life back home in her native country couldn’t have been easy.

  He shrugged out of his shirt, t
ossing it uncaringly into a corner. “I waited around for a while, then, when he didn’t show up, I came home. To my wife.”

  “I’m glad you did.” She changed legs. Luminescent bubbles clung to her firm calves. Her lacquered toenails gleamed like rubies. “I was getting lonely. And impatient.” As intended, his gaze followed the glistening bar of soap from ankle to thigh. “So I had no choice but to start without you.”

  “Don’t worry, I have every intention of catching up.”

  He sat down on the silly pink velvet stool the decorator had placed in front of the gilt-framed mirror and pulled off his boots, one at a time. Then he stood up again and went to work on his pants.

  Watching her watch him unfasten the five metal buttons at the front of his jeans made Patrick feel a lot like the Black Angus breeding bull he kept back on his ranch in Wyoming.

  One of the things he loved about Alexandra was that from the first moment they’d met, she hadn’t bothered to play coy. She’d wanted him every bit as much as he’d wanted her. And hadn’t been afraid to let him know it. On the contrary, as they’d wrestled in the back seat of his Rolls, twenty minutes after meeting, Patrick figured it would always be a toss-up as to who seduced whom.

  Her expressive brown eyes darkened to nearly black as she gazed with uncensored desire at his erection. Her lips curved into a slow, womanly smile. When she licked her lips, his blood burned. “Is that for me?”

  “Later.” Naked now, he knelt beside the tub, picked up the bath sponge and dipped it into the velvet cling of water. “Much, much later.”

  With that erotic promise hovering in the air between them, Patrick proceeded to wash every inch of her lush, voluptuous body. The water cooled even as her flesh warmed. Alexandra was the most responsive woman he’d ever met, the only female he knew who could be brought to orgasm by kissing her breasts, or nipping at the cord at the back of her knee, or even touching the tip of his tongue at that soft spot behind her earlobe.

  “Enough!” Laughing, crying, cursing in her native language, she used all her strength to pull him into the tub with her.