Three Grooms and a Wedding

by JoAnn Ross

  They passed tavernas where old men sat outside in the sunshine at rickety tables, drinking coffee and playing tavli—backgammon. And countless churches, freshly whitewashed in celebration of the recently passed Easter week.

  The temple crowned a hilltop overlooking the Saronic Gulf.

  “It says here,” Blythe read from the guide book they’d bought in town, “that this temple, along with the Parthenon and the Poseidon temple in Sounion, forms an equilateral triangle.”

  “Fascinating,” Gage said.

  But his attention was not on the stone ruins but on Blythe. She’d changed from the linen slacks and silk blouse she’d worn for traveling into a calf-length, hibiscus red dress that bared her arms and clung enticingly to her legs. Until this moment, Gage had never realized exactly how sexy a woman’s calves could be.

  She heard the hunger in his voice, looked up from the page, and although his eyes were shielded by the dark lenses of his sunglasses, she could literally feel the desire radiating from him.

  “I was referring to the temple.”

  Gage shrugged. “You know what they say about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder.” And Blythe was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sight on any continent.

  Although she was no longer some naive schoolgirl, Blythe felt herself blushing. Dragging her attention back to the text, she said, “The missing sculptures were purchased in 1813 by King Ludwig I of Bavaria.... Gage, are you listening?”

  “I’m hanging on every word,” he assured her, even as he found himself wondering what she was wearing beneath that clinging crimson dress.

  “You’re the one who suggested sight-seeing.”

  “Don’t remind me. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “But that was before I discovered what time Greeks ate dinner.”

  “We could always change our plans.”

  For some strange reason he could not comprehend, he found himself thinking of how Patrick and Alexandra had reportedly made love within minutes of meeting. And although he and Blythe had been leading up to this night for months, Gage found himself wanting to make it one she’d remember for the rest of her life. One they’d both remember. What he wanted, he realized, was the kind of romantic interlude they’d someday tell their grandchildren about. Heavily censored, of course.

  “It’s only a few more hours. I suppose I can hold out. If you can.”

  Blythe laughed. “Far be it from me to ruin your fantasy.”

  He grinned at that, a quick, sexy grin that made her heart turn somersaults. “Don’t worry. As it happens, where you’re concerned, I’ve got a million of them.”

  He was not, Blythe thought, alone in that regard. Because she had several of her own she was looking forward to sharing.

  After returning to the hotel, Gage called his contact once again from the temperamental pay phone in the lobby. Although it took three tries, he was finally able to get through to the office in Athens.

  “There’s been a slight problem,” he reported to Blythe, who was counting out drachmas for the brightly colored postcards she’d selected from a rack on the registration counter.

  Blythe slipped the postcards into her purse, along with her change. “Why am I not surprised? I suppose she’s on her way to some other island?”

  “No, she’s still on her way here. But they got a late start. The last report has the yacht scheduled to arrive sometime after midnight.”

  “Oh.” As much as she wanted desperately to talk with Natasha, Blythe was disappointed that the woman’s untimely arrival would interfere with their plans.

  “You know,” Gage suggested mildly, “Natasha has to be in her eighties. Even as lively as she admittedly seems to be for her age, the lady undoubtedly needs her beauty sleep.”

  “That’s probably the case,” Blythe agreed quickly.

  “And, since we’ve waited this long, I suppose morning would be soon enough to interview her.”

  “She’d be fresher,” Blythe said, getting into the spirit of the conversation. “So, her memory would undoubtedly be better.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Gage said, pleased they were able to settle things so easily. He glanced down at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ve got some things to take care of. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine.” More than fine, Blythe considered. Because she’d be preparing for what she knew was going to be the most important night of her life.

  “Terrific.” He kissed her, a brief kiss that ended too soon and left behind a flare of heat. “I’ll be at your door at nine on the dot.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Blythe promised. “With bells on.”

  He appeared to consider that for a moment. “Not bad,” he decided. “While not exactly the fantasy I had in mind, it definitely has possibilities.”

  His grin warmed her all the way to her toes. He walked her across the courtyard, to her arched blue door, where he kissed her one last time. This kiss was longer. And hotter. And tested his resolve more than any thus far today.

  Reminding himself again that he’d always been known for his patience, Gage reluctantly broke the heated contact, even as he wondered idly when he’d become such a masochist.

  * * *

  AS SHE WAITED for evening, Blythe felt like Maggie the Cat, stuck on that hot tin roof. Finally, unable to remain alone in her hotel room any longer, she decided to walk down to the docks and buy some flowers she’d seen for sale in one of the stalls. And some candles, she considered, as she glanced around the room. Tonight was going to be a very special night. She wanted to set a lushly romantic mood.

  Not that it would be difficult, she assured herself as she walked back up the hill forty-five minutes later, shopping bags in hand. The island was tailor-made for romance.

  A tangy salt breeze perfumed with flowers ruffled her hair and the Mediterranean sun shone warm on her face. Despite her eagerness to talk with Natasha, Blythe couldn’t remember ever feeling happier.

  She heard a car engine behind her and turned, thinking—hoping—that it might be Gage. The welcoming smile faded from her lips as she realized the battered pickup truck loaded with produce was definitely not their rental jeep. The driver shouldn’t be pushing the engine so hard, she thought, listening to the protesting rattle of the motor. The hill was steep and the truck was old.

  She moved over to the side of the narrow, twisting road as far as she could, giving the driver room to pass. When the strident blast of a car horn pierced the perfumed air, she glanced back over her shoulder.

  It was then she realized, with an icy flash of awareness, that the truck was headed straight toward her.

  * * *

  AS HE DROVE BACK to the hotel, Gage’s mind was, admittedly, not on the case. Instead he was thinking about Blythe. And the romantic evening he’d just completed arranging. Caught up in a silken web of sensual fantasies, he was only vaguely aware of the ancient produce truck in front of him.

  Old instincts, however, died hard and he did notice on some subconscious level that the truck, which was being eaten alive by rust, had no license plate. Which, he supposed, probably wasn’t all that unusual for a farm truck here on the island. The muffler was shot and dragging on the ground, which, given the age and condition of the truck, also wasn’t a surprise.

  What didn’t fit was the fact that the truck seemed to be going too fast for the dangerous driving conditions.

  It disappeared around a tight corner. A moment later, Gage followed.

  It was then his heart stopped in his throat.

  He saw Blythe, strolling up the road. With the truck headed straight toward her. He laid on the horn and punched the gas pedal to the floor. Time took on a slow-motion feel as he was forced to watch the murderous events unfold.

  For a fleeting instant that seemed to last an eternity, Blythe stood frozen to the spot, unable to move. Unable to breathe. When the blast of the jeep horn shook her from her fear-induced paralysis, she dropped her shopping b
ags, turned and began desperately scrambling up the rocky cliff. It was either that or over the side.

  Her heart was threatening to burst out of her chest. When a rock she’d grabbed hold of broke free, she nearly fell directly into the path of the truck which was looming even closer. Just in time, her fingers closed around an outcropping of stone and she managed, just barely, to hang on as the bumper of the truck whizzed past her legs.

  There was the grating scrape of metal against rock. Then the roar of the engine as the truck continued on up the hill, followed by the ear-piercing screech of brakes as Gage pulled the jeep to a shuddering stop. He was out of the driver’s seat like a rocket.

  “Are you all right?”

  Although she couldn’t hear his words over the cacophonous pounding of her heart in her ears, she could see the tortured fear on his face. In his eyes.

  “I’m fine.” She clung to him, her voice shaky, but amazingly strong, considering the circumstances.

  “We’re taking you to a doctor.”

  “That’s not necessary.” She let go of him long enough to attempt to stand on her own and belatedly discovered her little show of independence was a mistake.

  “That’s it,” Gage said as he scooped her into his arms and carried her back to the jeep. “This is one case where you don’t get a vote, Boss Lady.”

  * * *

  “I TOLD YOU I was fine,” Blythe told Gage when they were alone again in her room after the brief examination.

  “It never hurts to check.” He was sitting beside her on the mattress and frowned at the bruise darkening her cheekbone. A cold, killing rage rose inside him as he considered how close he’d come to losing her. “Perhaps we should stay in tonight.”

  The scenario was admittedly attractive. But there was something else to consider. “You may be in danger.” There, he’d said it out loud.

  “Nonsense.” Leaning forward, she pressed a silky kiss against his scowling lips. “I’m not going to be frightened of some rustic farmer who’s never learned how to drive.”

  “What if he wasn’t a farmer?”

  He watched the shadow move across her eyes and realized that she’d considered that very same thing herself. “If he wasn’t,” she said simply, “you’ll protect me.”

  “I’m damn well going to try.” He pulled her against him and kissed her with hot and desperate passion.

  “Damn!” she complained when the long kiss finally ended.

  “What?”

  She held out her hand. “I broke a nail.”

  Although there was nothing remotely funny about what had happened, what had almost happened, Gage threw back his head and laughed.

  * * *

  THE RESTAURANT, a small, simple taverna, was perched like a bird’s nest overlooking the sea. Their waiter, a huge man with muttonchop sideburns and a curled mustache led them to their table, situated on an outdoor balcony.

  “This is incredible,” she said, after the waiter, who’d introduced himself as Stavros, had seated them, lit the candle in the hurricane glass, then left them with a carafe of wine he’d drawn straight from a nearby barrel.

  “It’s not bad.”

  Gage looked enormously pleased with himself. And no wonder, Blythe thought. She couldn’t have imagined a more unabashedly romantic spot to begin their fantasy night than dining beneath the stars, to the sound of the waves. “Is this another of Connor’s suggestions?”

  “Actually, I found it all by myself.”

  “But how? I thought you said you’d never been to Greece.”

  “I haven’t. But I am a detective,” he reminded her with a grin. “So, I just did a little detecting, and here we are.”

  “You really are incredible.”

  Talk about incredible! She was wearing a strapless white dress that revealed a weakening view of her voluptuous breasts, while the full, floaty skirt showed off her long legs. Her perfumed flesh gleamed golden in the flickering glow of the candlelight.

  “I just hope you still think so in the morning.”

  It was her turn to smile. “Oh, I have a feeling you needn’t have any worries in that regard, Gage.”

  He reached across the table and touched his fingers to the side of her face. “If that turns out to be the case, it’s because of you. Because of the way you make me feel.”

  His touch, the warmth of his gaze, made Blythe glad she was already sitting down. “Flatterer,” she said softly.

  “It’s the truth.”

  His expression turned immeasurably solemn. Blythe dipped her head to conceal her own turmoiled emotions.

  How was it that he could say things that coming from any other man would seem like some polished script, but from Gage were obviously the truth? Perhaps, Blythe mused, because the flattering words only echoed her own feelings.

  She’d never felt about another man the way she’d felt about Gage Remington from the beginning. And, she knew, she never would.

  Following the Hellenic paradox that the simpler the restaurant, the better the food, they began the meal with daffodil yellow zucchini blossoms stuffed with rice, bits of ripe, red tomatoes and oregano that proved to be every bit as delicious as they were pretty.

  Bowls of salad, lumpy with feta cheese and black olives, were followed by the main course—moussaka for Blythe, and chicken cooked in cinnamon-and-tomato sauce for Gage.

  “No, no. You are eating it all wrong,” Stavros scolded as he paused by their table long enough to refill their wineglasses. He literally plucked Gage’s fork from his fingers. “Women and chicken should both be picked up in the hands.”

  The proclamation, pronounced as if he were an oracle handing down instructions atop Mt. Delphi, made Gage laugh and Blythe blush.

  As she watched him take a bite out of a sauce-laden drumstick, she was struck with a sudden feeling of déjà vu.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never gone on an old-fashioned American picnic.” Patrick plucked a piece of fried chicken from the wicker basket. They were at his ranch in Wyoming, sitting on an Indian blanket in a field of colorful blue and yellow wildflowers.

  “I told you I’ve been deprived,” Alexandra complained prettily. She watched his strong white teeth bite into the drumstick, remembered how those same teeth had thrilled her last night, nipping at the tender flesh at the inside of her thighs, and felt a surge of desire so strong it rocked her.

  “Poor baby.” Reading the hunger of another kind rising in her expressive dark eyes, he tossed the chicken aside and lowered her onto the blanket. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

  She twined her arms around his neck. “This is,” she sighed blissfully as he began unbuttoning her sleeveless denim blouse, “a very good beginning.”

  “Blythe?” Gage lowered the chicken leg to the plate. She’d suddenly gone as white as the tablecloth. She was staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. “What’s wrong?”

  Shaken by the image that had seemed so amazingly real, Blythe struggled to return her mind to the present. Which was difficult to do when, as impossible as it seemed, she could still feel Patrick Reardon’s wide dark hands cupping her breasts. His harshly cut lips closing around an excruciatingly sensitive nipple.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her dark eyes were wide and unfocused. Her hand, as he covered it with his, was ice cold. “Are you sick?” He glanced around, wanting the check so they could leave. Now.

  “No.” She shook her head, then gave herself another stiff mental shake. “I’m all right.” Her vision cleared and she viewed the unmasked concern—make that fear—on his rugged face. “Really.”

  The color was returning to her cheeks. Her hand, beneath his on the tablecloth, warmed. Whatever had been wrong had passed, Gage determined.

  “Was it something I said? Or did? The food?”

  “No.”

  How could she explain that she’d felt as if she’d suddenly been removed from the present and whisked back in time? How could she tell him that of all the dreams she’d h
ad about Alexandra and Patrick these past months, this one—occurring while she was fully awake—had been the most vivid yet? How did she reveal that she’d been imagining making love to one man—who’d been dead for more than sixty years—while anticipating making love to another?

  “I was just thinking about Alexandra and Patrick,” she hedged.

  “That’s not so surprising.” The couple had continued to infiltrate his mind as well, ever since Blythe had hired him to investigate the long-ago marriage. And murder.

  “Did your investigation reveal whether or not they’d ever taken a trip to Wyoming?”

  “Actually, they did. For their six-month anniversary,” Gage revealed. “Alexandra wanted to see Patrick’s ranch.”

  That explained it, Blythe thought with a rush of cooling relief. Falling under the spell of the stars, the romantic mood, and the man, she’d blended the story of their trip to Wyoming with her own feelings for Gage.

  “I was going to tell you before we left to come here,” he said. “But I found you drinking that champagne, and we got sidetracked. Then you spent most of the various flights from L.A. to Greece sleeping.

  “Then, selfishly having my own plans for tonight, I figured, since it wasn’t exactly an earth-shattering revelation, it could wait until tomorrow.”

  Somehow, Blythe wasn’t as surprised as she might have been. After all, in a way this had happened before, when she’d been in Hawaii with Alan, and had fantasized about making love to Gage in that hot spring in Colorado. Afterwards, she’d learned the location was where Alexandra and Patrick had spent their honeymoon.

  “So I couldn’t have known.”

  “Not from me.” He gave her a long look. Then he paused, as if carefully choosing his words. “But that doesn’t mean much. Not where those two are concerned.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I haven’t exactly experienced whatever flash you obviously just had. But I have had some incredibly realistic dreams that can’t be explained away by logic.”