RUNAWAY

by Christie Ridgway

  Hell. Had he said that out loud? It was all well and good to tell himself he was going to stay tough guy, but with those stupid meds in his system he was not in full control of himself. Five weeks. He hadn’t meant to let her know he cared that much to keep count.

  But for God’s sake! Five damn weeks and not once had he heard from his wife.

  She looked down, guilt stamped all over her face, so yeah, he’d definitely spoken his thoughts aloud. “I know how long it’s been,” she said, studying the carpet under her feet. “And I imagine you’ve spent the entire time trying to figure out the quickest, easiest way to undo what we did.”

  It took both people in the same place to do that, or at least knowing where both people were to do that. She could have been next door or in the Netherlands for all Owen had known. “More like I’ve been trying to figure out why we did what we did.”

  Without looking at him, she slid the tray from the bedside table and held it over his lap. “Scoot up a little bit. I made lunch.”

  Scooting up wasn’t all the easy with three bum limbs, but he wasn’t about to whine for help. And when she placed the food in front of him, he couldn’t stop a half-smile from crossing his face. “You didn’t forget.”

  She’d made him a grilled cheese sandwich that included sliced onions and tomato. His favorite. Sitting beside it was a glass of milk poured over ice.

  “It wasn’t that I had to remember. They’re my favorite, too, right?”

  “Right.” That had been the craziest thing about those three days in Las Vegas. So much of it had felt so right. The way she fit against him, the way she liked her grilled cheese with onion and tomato, the way she took her milk over ice. But it was beyond preposterous to marry someone because their lunch choice mirrored your own. He’d realized that when she’d run away and not contacted him for five long weeks.

  “I’ll never hear an Elton John song and not remember—”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head. Somewhere into day two of their time together they’d made the mutual—and surreal—confession that they’d both misheard the chorus to the popular Elton John song “Tiny Dancer” as—

  “Hold me closer, Tony Danza,” she sang softly.

  Owen winced. “Though it’s nowhere close to being as dim as thinking Prince is singing ‘Pay the rent, Collette,’ in ‘Little Red Corvette.’”

  She frowned at him, her full lower lip pushing into a pout. He’d probably once considered that cute. “It wasn’t me who thought Creedence Clearwater’s song about a bad moon rising boasts that immortal line, ‘There’s a bathroom on the right.’”

  Now he frowned. “It’s a common mistake.”

  Even her snorts had a delicacy to them. “Says the guy who attended way too many fraternity beer bashes.”

  “Hey…” Well, there was a little truth in that, though how could she know? They hadn’t spent time talking about their college years. He grimaced. “We’re complete strangers to each other, aren’t we?”

  A flush rose up her neck and she looked away again. “Eat your lunch.”

  He picked up half the sandwich with his good hand. “What about you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She’d eaten like a bird those days in Las Vegas. And drank like a fish? But no, although they’d spent a fair amount of time in the bar at their hotel and also poolside with those froufrou, umbrella-topped drinks, he didn’t think alcohol had played a major role in the tipsy feeling he’d felt in her company—and in the spur-of-the-moment decision they’d made to say “I do” to the strains of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

  “I blame Will and Emily,” he muttered. “We were under the influence of their first-love vibes.”

  He heard a small, heartfelt sigh and shot Izzy a disgruntled look. That was the kind of thing that had gotten them into trouble five weeks ago. Those sweet little sighs, that soft look on her face, the dreamy expression in her eyes when she’d looked at her best friend, Emily, who had happened to run into Owen’s best friend, Will, at the hotel. The other two had been childhood summer sweethearts and then lost touch after Will’s parents had died, leaving him the sole support of his five brothers and sisters.

  Their chance meeting had ended in Will and Emily making a date for drinks later, and they’d each dragged along their best friend. So there it was, Will and Emily, Owen and Izzy. They’d been witness to hours of amusing reminiscing, which included the long-ago vow the other two had once made to each other. “If only,” Owen said now, “they’d not dreamed up that stupid promise to marry each other if they both weren’t wed by thirty.”

  “Not so stupid now,” Izzy said, perching on the end of the mattress, beyond where his feet were propped on pillows. “They’re moving in together.”

  Owen looked over. “Huh?” Last he remembered, right before they’d been called out to the fire, Will had been wondering how two such smart single guys like themselves had somehow got themselves hitched.

  “I talked to Emily last night. Apparently what Will went through during the fire gave them both a clearer perspective on the promise they made in Las Vegas to love and cherish. They’re a real couple now.”

  “Huh?” he said again. Will had come by his hospital room but had not a said a word about what he’d worked out with his wife. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to rub it in. “Really?”

  “She’s packing boxes as we speak, and his ring is back on her finger.”

  Owen’s gaze jumped from Izzy’s face to her left hand. She’d had a ring, too. A simple gold circle that had come as part of the “Blue Suede and Gold Band” wedding package at the Elvis Luvs U Wedding Chapel. He remembered how her hand had trembled in his as he’d slid it down the short length of her slim finger. He remembered the tremulous smile on her lips and the glow in her eyes and how that dizziness he felt now he’d felt then, too, because she was so damn pretty and so…

  His.

  He’d liked the thought of that. He’d believed that what they’d had was real and could really work.

  Before she’d left him and not bothered with a phone call or even an e-mail for thirty-seven days.

  What was real was that he’d been an idiot. They’d both been idiots in that wedding chapel. “What the hell were we thinking?” he ground out again.

  She shrugged, then studied the bedspread beside her. “I’d been having a pretty stressful time at the librarians’ convention. Not everyone is onboard with doing away with Dewey.”

  “Yeah. I remember having to pull you from a debate with a couple of crazies wearing T-shirts reading ‘Melvil Now and Forever.’”

  “Melvil Dewey.” Izzy nodded. “Outside of Emily, I’d been a pariah for the five days before I met you. It was refreshing to have someone who looked at me with such, um…um…”

  “Lust?” he provided helpfully.

  She gave him that pouting frown again. “I was going to say approval.”

  His snort wasn’t nearly as elegant as hers. “If that’s what you want to call it, Izzy.”

  “Huh.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Now I know why Bryce says he’s the romantic brother in the family.”

  Owen wondered just what the hell his brother was doing talking himself up to Owen’s wife. “Was he flirting with you?”

  “You don’t have to look like it’s such a shock.”

  “No. I—”

  “He called me a chocolate-and-apricot fairy.”

  Chocolate-and-apricot fairy? Owen blinked. “My brother Bryce said that? He was flirting with you.”

  Izzy crossed her arms over her chest. “What? I don’t strike you as a tasty fairy?”

  No. He looked at her full mouth, the sparks in her brown eyes, the warm flush along her cheekbones. She struck him as…she just struck him. Right in the gut.

  And then lower.

  He curled his right hand into a fist to keep from reaching out for her. Even then, and even in the left hand that was casted, he could remember the texture of her soft, warm skin against his palms. He could rememb
er sliding his hand down her neck and the thrum of her heartbeat against the pad of his thumb. His hands knew her, the sleek curve of her body from ribcage to hips, the dip at the small of her back, the resilient, round pillows of her behind when he urged her closer as they danced.

  If he closed his eyes, he could feel her warm breath against his face.

  He opened them, then jerked as he realized it really was her warm breath against his face. She was leaning over him to take away the tray. “You’re sleepy,” she said. “You need to rest.”

  With the view of her pretty breasts pushing against the clinging fabric of her shirt in his sight lines, he didn’t think there was a chance in hell he’d be resting anytime soon. Sleep would be out of the question unless it was to dream about kissing her mouth, cupping those breasts and rubbing his thumbs over her nipples to bring them from soft blossom to tight buds.

  In Las Vegas, she’d danced so close to him he’d felt the hard little berries brush against his shirt front and had barely stopped himself from hauling her, he-man style, over his shoulder and into his hotel room. After their marriage, though, she’d run off before they’d had a chance to share in any connubial bliss. No wonder she was still stirring up his libido, now that he was so close to her—and lying in a bed. Lucky he was temporarily incapacitated.

  Though, hell, was he? What did a man need to make love? Not his ankle or his foot, anyway. And obviously, he thought, shifting on his mattress, the most relevant portion of him was working just fine.

  Shifting again, he watched her walk toward the door with the tray. Did Izzy know about that cute little sway of her behind?

  “Why did you offer to do this?” he suddenly asked. He knew why he’d taken her up on it. If he lost sight of her again, who knew how long it might be before he could track her down in order to end their farce of a marriage? And more, he wanted a chance to dissect exactly why they’d followed Will and Emily’s crazy idea and gotten married five minutes after their friends. He hoped that by breaking down that decision, the attraction he’d felt for the woman wouldn’t have a chance to ever come together again.

  She shrugged. “Would you accept it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

  Like his notion that bringing her into his everyday life would prove there was nothing left of the attraction he’d felt for her in the land of lust and lost wages, he thought. They said whatever happened in Vegas was supposed to stay in Vegas, after all.

  His gaze tracked the sensual roll of her hips as she kept on walking, and the sexiness of it gave another undeniable tug to his libido. Which just went to prove there was no damn truth in advertising.

  Chapter Three

  O wen ignored his mother’s long-suffering sigh and watched Izzy enter the master bedroom carrying yet another tray—this one bearing two glasses of white wine for the women and two bottles of handcrafted beer for Owen and his dad. He hadn’t taken any meds since yesterday, so Owen figured he could enjoy a good brew.

  His mom shot him a disgruntled look and turned her attention to the younger woman. “Isabella,” she said, “your new husband’s being very close-mouthed about your wedding. Please tell me a detail or two.”

  “Well…” Izzy bent to put the tray onto the narrow coffee table in the room’s sitting area.

  There was a couch, an easy chair that he was sitting on and an ottoman that was being used to prop up his lower legs, as well as a second matching chair, all gathered around a fireplace. Owen’s dad had busied himself setting a small fire inside it when he’d first arrived. Now that he’d helped Owen in and out of a shower—thank you, plastic stool and a waterproof covering for his cast—his father kneeled to light the kindling and logs. As the autumn dusk settled outside, the reflection of the flames provided a camouflage for the blush Owen suspected was warming Izzy’s cheeks.

  “Our wedding?” Izzy repeated. “I, um…”

  June Marston took the wineglass the younger woman handed over and returned an easy smile. “At least tell me about your dress.”

  Izzy shot Owen a look. Oh, yeah. Her dress. While like every other man he knew he wasn’t particularly style-conscious, no way could he forget that dress. Strapless. Spangled. Low cut in the cleavage area. High cut in the leg area.

  And fire-engine red.

  In Vegas you could rent just about anything, and he’d shelled out a couple of twenties for ten minutes with a poof of white stuff that she’d pinned in her hair as a veil and a bouquet of white roses she’d held in her hand while they repeated their vows. He remembered thinking she looked as sweet and spicy as peppermint candy, and his mouth had watered in anticipation of sampling her flavor.

  “My dress, uh…” The next look she shot him snapped him out of his happy little reverie. Get me out of this, it said.

  He supposed she didn’t want to tell his mother she’d married him wearing a barely there dress and a pair of scarlet, spike-toed high heels that had made him swallow, hard, so he wouldn’t let out his groan of lust—or “approval,” as some others liked to term it.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Mom, that reminds me. Izzy wants you to tell her something. She was asking about what I was like as a kid, and I thought you’d be the best source for that.”

  Izzy latched onto the idea in a way that would have been flattering if he hadn’t known she just wanted to avoid the subject of their impromptu wedding. “I’d love to hear everything you can tell me about him.”

  Owen glanced at his father, now seated beside his mother on the couch. The older man wore a half-smile and sported an amused glint in his eyes. Nice dodge, he mouthed to Owen.

  You could fool some of the parents some of the time….

  And this time he’d succeeded in veering his mother onto a different track. He relaxed with his beer, letting her talk of his Little League years, then seasons of peewee football, followed by details of his high school endeavors.

  “Salutatorian,” his mother told Izzy. “He graduated second in his high school class. From there he went on to college where he was an economics major, heading for an MBA degree. Which I always considered a very useful field of study.”

  “Unlike how I’m employed today,” Owen couldn’t help put in, “because doing things like, I don’t know, saving property is just so…irrelevant.”

  His mother frowned. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She probably didn’t, but he still had a sharp chip on his shoulder left over from the discussions he’d had with his parents and grandfather years ago when he decided against a master’s degree and for a place in the fire academy instead. He watched Izzy rise from her chair to perch on the arm of his.

  “Not only property,” she said, touching his shoulder. “You save lives, too.”

  But not Jerry Palmer. That knowledge rushed in on Owen in a sudden, cold wave. Nausea churned his stomach and he felt clammy again.

  “Owen?” His father was looking at him with concern. “Are you all right, son?”

  Glancing around their small circle, he could see identical expressions on the faces of Izzy and his mom. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a half-laugh into his voice. “Well, except for the fact that I’ll have to put off beating you at golf again for a few weeks, Dad. Though by the time you get back from your cruise I should be up to it.”

  When the other three continued to study him with narrowed eyes, he lifted his hands, even the casted one, and pasted on what he hoped was a grin. “What’s there to be upset about? I have an unexpected vacation, a fire in the fireplace, the company of a beautiful woman and my loving family.”

  Maybe his grin worked. His mother gave a little nod and then turned to Izzy again. “Speaking of family…I’d like to hear all about yours, too.”

  “What can I say?” Izzy’s smile looked as effortless as his had been difficult.

  What could she say? It occurred to Owen that she’d never said. Not in Vegas—where admittedly they’d been living in a moment that had little room for family histories—and not in the t
hree days she’d been in this house with him, though he’d been sleeping a lot as he tapered off the pain meds.

  He slanted a glance at her now, happy to keep the conversation steered away from himself and how he was feeling. Guilty. Queasy. Damn downcast. None of these made for good conversation.

  “Izzy?” he prompted when she still didn’t speak.

  She shrugged, that smile still curving her mouth. “I’m Italian.”

  “Yes,” his mother said. “And your mother and father—”

  “I have the pair of them,” Izzy confirmed. “Can I get anyone more to drink?” She made to rise.

  Owen placed the weight of his cast over her thigh to hold her down. “You wait on me too much as it is,” he said. “People can help themselves.”

  “That’s the point of me being here, Owen,” she answered. “To take care of you.”

  “A wife doesn’t consider taking care of her husband a burden,” his mother said. “And a husband would feel exactly the same way. Wouldn’t you be there for Isabella if she was stuck in bed, Owen?”

  He looked up into Izzy’s face and the answer to his mother’s question struck him with full force. No matter how mad he was that she’d left him, if Izzy was stuck in bed, if she couldn’t get away from him like she’d done in Las Vegas, he’d use the opportunity to do more than make her meals or bring her the remote control. If she were on that bed over there, he’d be doing his damnedest to seduce her into letting him have more of those sweet kisses they’d once exchanged. He’d be exerting all his influence to let her let him undo those little buttons marching down the front of her shirt until he could look his fill at her pretty breasts.

  Yeah, some things didn’t stay in Vegas. Like lust.

  Her thigh hardened under his touch and he heard the little catch in her breath. Her tongue reached out to make a nervous flick along the fullness of her bottom lip.