Undressed

by Heather MacAllister

  “So,” she prompted Austin. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

  Reluctantly, he quickly recited what he was wearing, ending with, “and a vest and cravat in Bridal Blush pink.”

  “And?”

  “Is there supposed to be anything else?”

  “You tell me. Are you wrapping your package? Or are you leaving it unwrapped so it’ll be easier to sneak away and exchange presents during the reception?”

  “Cara!” He strangled her name.

  Good.

  Since that evening at the falls, Austin had determinedly wooed her. And she had determinedly resisted.

  Until Dallas had called her. “Would you give the guy a break? You want emotion? He’s emoting all over the place. I can’t take it anymore.”

  So Cara had relented. She’d never gotten around to canceling the wedding, anyway.

  But she invoked a no-sex rule. Not to punish Austin, but to make sure she wasn’t distracted by sex before she knew that they had a true emotional connection.

  Like that had been a problem.

  So the sex ban had become a game of holdout. Who would crack first? Who would beg the other?

  There would be only winners in this game.

  Austin cleared his throat. “I’ll unwrap my present if you’ll unwrap yours.”

  “Don’t be silly!” Cara laughed. “I never wrapped mine.”

  She heard the breath hiss between his teeth just as the wedding coordinator entered the room. Ha. Perfect timing.

  “Are you ready, Cara?” she asked.

  “I am so ready.”

  IT HAD TO HAVE BEEN the longest ceremony in the history of weddings.

  Then there had been the ten million photographs because all kinds of people wanted a picture of their Chrysanthemum Wedding. Right now, Austin hated chrysanthemums. And wedding photographers.

  “You’re being so patient,” Cara cooed at him.

  They were being arranged in yet another pose, this time on the top steps with the rest of the wedding party below them. “I am not.”

  “Are you thinking about my present?”

  He looked down at her. Deliberately he moved his hand and squeezed her bottom through the beaded dress.

  “So you are!”

  Her impish laughter faded as Austin continued to knead and caress her. “They have enough pictures,” he said.

  “They have enough pictures.” She sighed.

  And that was it. Austin had reached his breaking point. For the past three months, he’d waited. He’d given her time and space, though not a lot of time and only a little space. He’d respected her boundaries and even understood her reasoning. He didn’t like it, but he understood it.

  He’d proposed after a week.

  She’d turned him down.

  So he’d proposed after two weeks.

  And she’d turned him down.

  The next day, he’d arrived on her doorstep with a basket of massage oils and massaged just her hands. He pretended each finger was a different part of her body and demonstrated what he planned to do with that body part when he had the chance.

  The day after that, Cara proposed to him.

  Now, Austin took her hand and led her through the chrysanthemum petals and down the aisle.

  No one stopped them.

  Cara’s mother hurried after them. “Stop looking at each other like that!” she instructed through a clenched smile. “People are talking. Remember the video. Stand up straight, Cara. Make sure you hold the bouquet—Wait! Where are you going?”

  “To give Austin his present.” She smiled up at him and he felt his knees buckle.

  “Oh. Now? Should I send the videographer with you?”

  “No,” they both answered.

  “But—”

  “See you at the reception!” Cara called as Austin helped her into the limousine.

  It was a short, tense drive to the Wainright Inn and a shorter, tenser elevator ride up to the bridal suite. There was no way Austin was going to touch his bride. If he did so, he would abandon all civilized behavior. He glanced at her. She wore a smug expression.

  Smug? She was smug and he was desperate. “You planned this.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You truly wanted me insane with lust during our wedding?”

  She leaned up against him and licked his ear. “You betcha.”

  “That tells me you’ve never driven a man insane with lust before. It’s not slow and tender and pretty. It’s raw and elemental and…goal oriented.” He was sweating.

  “Promise?” she asked in a provocative voice.

  They literally ran off the elevator. Austin swiped the key card, drew her inside and had her pressed up against the wall in a deep kiss before the door latched.

  “Ow!”

  She was lucky he heard her, being insane with lust as he was.

  “What?” he panted.

  “My veil. It’s smashed up against the wall and all the pins are stabbing me in the head!”

  “Take it off.”

  “I can’t! My hair—I’ll never get it pinned back up!”

  “Does it have to be pinned up?”

  “Yes!”

  Austin pulled her into the living room. “I’ll be careful. No running my fingers through your hair.” He kissed her throat, urgently moving to the bodice of her strapless gown where her breasts swelled demurely.

  He didn’t want demure. He wanted flesh in his hands. He wanted nipples in his mouth. His fingers brushed the edge of her dress and he met resistance.

  He pushed. “Is this glued to you or something?”

  “Taped,” she answered breathlessly. “So it won’t slip.”

  Austin stared at her. “But…how do I get to you?”

  “You sit on the bed.” Cara kissed him, walking him backward as she did so. “And you get out your present.”

  His present nearly burst through the zipper. As Austin dropped his pants and sat on the bed, Cara stood in front of him and shimmied the beaded sheath over her hips, bunching it at her waist.

  Austin went dry-mouthed as she revealed white lace-edged stockings hooked to long garters that were attached to a lacy thing just below her waist. Austin didn’t care about the lacy thing. He barely noticed the lacy thing. What he did notice was that there was nothing below the lacy thing except Cara’s dark blond curls.

  Best. Present. Ever.

  She straddled him and Austin had to consciously remind himself to breathe. She started to lower herself and he said, “Wait.”

  Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, past the lace-topped stockings, he gripped her bare buttocks. “I need to do this,” he murmured.

  Bringing her to his mouth, he gave her the most intimate of kisses.

  “Auuusstinnn…” Cara moaned and clutched his shoulders as he used his tongue to excite her, learning her scent, her taste and the places that made her gasp and squirm. He laved her with a rhythm that had her gasping and rocking against him.

  And then, “Austin—stop.”

  Not the words he’d expected to hear. In fact, hadn’t she meant to say, “Don’t stop?”

  “Please.” She tugged at his hair. “Trust me, this will be the only time I ever stop you, but I want our first time to be together.”

  “Okay.” He should have been more eloquent, but that was all he had.

  Gazing into his eyes, she lowered her body onto his, sheathing him within her warmth. Austin’s eyes were squeezed shut so tightly he saw purple spots. He’d waited so long. He’d wanted so long.

  “Don’t move or I’ll explode,” Austin whispered, and opened his eyes to find her looking at him with a tender expression.

  They sat, joined together, and smiled at each other. “What are you thinking?” Cara asked dreamily.

  She expected him to think? “Um, something incredibly romantic.”

  “What?”

  Afterward, he’d teach her not to ask complicated questions when they were in the throes of passion.
>
  “I’m thinking that my bride didn’t wear panties on her wedding day.” He grinned. “I find that incredibly romantic.”

  “Austin, that’s not what I meant.”

  He thrust upward, making her gasp and effectively distracting her.

  Wearing a wicked grin, she returned the favor.

  Austin took over, guiding her hips in a quick rhythm that had them both shuddering their climaxes within moments.

  “Wow.” Cara looked shocked. “That was fast.”

  Austin exhaled. “I needed that. I so needed that.” Resting his head on her shoulder, he added, “I may live now.”

  “Hmm.” Cara stretched her arms over her head. “I feel much more relaxed.”

  Austin nuzzled her throat. “I’ve been practicing my massage techniques. Want to skip the reception?”

  “They’d come find us. My mother would get the manager to unlock the door.”

  “Any manager would know better than to unlock the bridal suite when the bride and groom might be inside.”

  “We don’t have time, anyway.” Cara shifted and then raised an eyebrow at Austin. “Really? Already?”

  He smiled. “The fire blazes anew.”

  “That’s some fire.” And Cara began a slow, rhythmic rocking.

  “It’s not about the fire, Cara. It’s about the love that fuels the fire.”

  She gripped him and moved faster.

  “Well, maybe a little about the fire.”

  THE RECEPTION WAS UNDER WAY when Cara and Austin slipped into the ballroom at the Wainright Inn.

  “Oh, look. She’s just glowing,” a guest commented to Mrs. Brantley. “What is that shade of pink?”

  Mrs. Brantley smiled tightly. “Bridal Blush.”

  1

  UNBRIDALED

  GINA WELLS SURVEYED the wine list at Lily’s on Lakeway, one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in Austin, Texas, and ordered a bottle of zinfandel. She would have also liked to order dinner, but Gina was only here as a place holder for Monica Teague, her insanely busy employer. Monica was a professional fund-raiser, something Gina had never heard of until she became her personal assistant. Gina’s job was to be another set of arms, legs, eyes and ears for Monica. To think for Monica. To be Monica when Monica couldn’t be Monica.

  Like now. Monica was supposed to meet Ford O’Banion, her fiancé, here for dinner. She was running late, so she’d sent Gina to hold the table in case Ford was running late, too.

  And he was, no surprise there.

  The wine arrived and Gina had the waiter pour her a glass. She’d changed the dinner reservation four times already. The only reason she’d gotten a table tonight was that she’d stretched the truth and said that Monica and Ford wanted to sample the food because they were considering having their wedding reception at Lily’s.

  “So you want a chef’s tasting menu.” The hostess’s voice had warmed and Gina had guessed that a tasting menu was expensive.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Gina had told her. She was in no position to refuse.

  So when Monica started calling from her meeting late this afternoon, Gina informed her that somebody was going to have to keep this reservation, or Monica and Ford would never dine at Lily’s again.

  As Gina sipped her wine, her Monica cell vibrated. Gina carried two phones. One was exclusively for calls from Monica, or for when she asked Gina to make calls on her behalf and wanted her own name to appear on caller ID. The other, a handy iPhone, was Gina’s. “Hi, Monica.”

  “Is Ford there yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get away. These people cannot make up their minds. Keep him company for me until I can get there, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  As Gina punched off one cell phone, the other buzzed. It was Ford, Monica’s fiancé.

  And Gina’s crush.

  “Hey, Gina, is she there?”

  Even distorted by the speakerphone in his car, his voice made her smile. “Not yet.”

  “Whoo. Good. I just left Round Rock so, depending on traffic, I’m about forty-five minutes out.”

  “Wow.” Gina had already stalled for a half hour and the waitstaff was hovering and sending anxious glances toward the kitchen.

  “I know, I know. Do me a favor and order a calla lily for the table, would you, Gina?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.” His typical sign-off.

  He owed her a lot, actually. And the closer the wedding drew, the more favors he casually asked of her. She knew he had no idea how many little, and not so little, tasks and errands she’d performed on his behalf, and she knew she’d keep doing them because then she had an excuse to interact with him.

  Was that not pathetic?

  Gina had fallen hard for the man who was going to become her boss’s husband. And no wonder—she saw him more than Monica did.

  Ford O’Banion was founder and CEO of O’Banion Green, an environmental-consulting company. Going green was hot right now, and Ford was as insanely busy as Monica.

  The two of them had met last year at a green fund-raiser Monica had put together. Ford had been one of the sponsors.

  For several weeks, they’d seen each other every day and had become disgustingly besotted. Gina missed those days. She’d actually had some free time—whole evenings when the Monica cell didn’t buzz.

  Gina took a swallow of wine. Ford’s favorite.

  The campaign had ended in a celebratory Festival of Green and that night, caught up in the high of a successful fund-raiser, Monica and Ford decided to get married.

  Ever since, they’d been trying to mesh schedules—with Gina acting as chief mesher.

  She liked them both. She did. Well, she liked Ford in a different, completely inappropriate way, but they both deserved happiness. They were good people doing good things.

  Gina signaled one of the waitstaff and ordered the calla lily, a signature offering of the restaurant. It was also Monica’s favorite flower.

  The Monica cell buzzed. Gina sipped her wine before answering it. “Hi.”

  “Is he there?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  Monica exhaled. “Shoot.”

  Gina knew what that meant. “Suggest they take a dinner break.” The strategy had worked with overly long meetings before.

  “I did. They’ve ordered deli boxes.”

  “Leave and come back?”

  “Maybe. Let me think.”

  Poor Monica. So many times she worked with volunteers and nonprofessionals who used the meetings as social gatherings. That was fine for them, but a time sink for Monica.

  She was very, very good at what she did and Gina was proud to be a member of team Monica. Because of Monica’s ideas and leadership, millions of dollars had been raised for dozens of worthy causes. Monica worked on a flat-fee structure and groups sometimes balked. This was for charity—she shouldn’t charge for charity work, they thought. Monica would point out that it was the business of raising money, and the truth was that they would raise more with professional guidance than without it. Sometimes a group was ready to make a commitment and sometimes there were vocal holdouts, as there were tonight.

  Then it became a gamble—invest more time by sticking around to answer questions or cut and run.

  That would be one of the few issues Gina had with her boss. Monica didn’t know when to walk away.

  The calla lily arrived in a tall vase that soared above the table. The waiter addressed her. “The chef has asked me if he could begin serving while you wait for your other party. As you know, we allow two hours for a tasting menu and we’re already somewhat behind schedule.”

  “I am so sorry. They were unavoidably detained.”

  “The chef is concerned that his food will not be presented to its best advantage.”

  Gina could imagine the behind-the-scenes drama going on in the kitchen. And darn it, she was hungry. “I understand. Please tell him to start.�
��

  Clearly relieved, the waiter hurried to the kitchen. Gina hated to think what was going to happen when the chef realized that half the food would end up in Styrofoam boxes in Monica’s office fridge.

  The first course arrived almost immediately—an amuse-bouche of a tiny deviled quail egg sitting in a spoon.

  There were two of them.

  Gina ate them both.

  Next came a platter of various cold fish dishes, two of each, along with a menu card identifying each one. Obviously, the chef was trying to hurry things along as well as offer as wide a selection as he could.

  Gina felt a few pangs of guilt, but the hunger pangs were stronger. She scanned the card, trying to identify the two eyes staring at her. “Smoked salmon with caviar on a sliver of brioche with crème fraîche.” Okay, except that she couldn’t imagine dozens of them appearing at a wedding dinner. Gina ate a zucchini blossom stuffed with crab and truffle butter. Okay, now that was better. She skipped the grilled octopus, and selected two of several fancy tunas with long names and something that looked and tasted like a potato chip, but was apparently something else.

  Then she rearranged the plate so it wouldn’t look so snacked upon. In doing so, she knocked over an artful tower of scallops, polenta rounds, heirloom tomatoes and some wilted green stuff propped up with a couple of chives. So she ate the evidence.

  The food was really good. With her phone, Gina took a picture of the remaining samples on the platter, including the eyes. Monica hadn’t used Lily’s to cater any fund-raisers in the Austin area. Maybe she should consider them.

  She was making notes on the menu card when something made her look up.

  And there he was, Ford O’Banion, weaving through the tables, a smile on his face for her. Because she, Gina, was sitting here, eating his food and drinking his wine, and Monica was not.

  She drank in the sight of his endearingly smile-creased face and sympathized with the end-of-day tiredness she saw behind the smile. He was the type of guy who should be on the floor of his family room playing with a couple of kids and a puppy. Who would share a look with her before whisking them off for their bath—the puppy, too. She’d prepare their dinner accompanied by happy shrieks and laughter. Then they’d both tuck their babies in bed, smiling at the angelic little darlings. Then he would take her in his arms, murmur, “At last,” and they’d never get around to eating dinner.