Married by Mistake!

by Renee Roszel

  Jule covered her face with a scarf, even though no one knew what Jack Gallagher’s new bride looked like. So, after the armada of press followed the limo out of the drive, heading on their red-herring trek to Springfield, Lucy, Jack and Nate scrambled into Hirk’s butter-and-egg truck. Nate got up front and drove into town while Jack and Lucy pressed close together in the windowless back.

  As they hopped out of the truck at the prearranged parking lot, Nate trotted around to meet the couple. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Lucy was struck again by how nice-looking he was. Shorter than Jack and with dark blond, shaggy hair, he had a muscular football player’s build. He stretched out a hand. “Jack, you old dirt-bag.” After the brief handshake, he pulled his friend into a bear hug. “I’ve been praying for this day for a long time.” He stepped away from his friend and gave Lucy a big, satisfied grin.

  She smiled back. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to visit, Nate,” she said. “But I want you to know I think you’re very good.”

  His brows lifted. “Why, thanks.” He winked. “The woman has taste, but you always said so.” He squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “Someday we’ll have to sit down and have a nice long visit about this lunk you—”

  “That’ll be fun, Nate,” Jack cut in. “But right now, your cab’s here. You don’t want to miss that flight, man. ”

  Nate gave his friend a shrewd look. “Oh. sure, I’m the one in a hurry.” He laughed, then gave Lucy a kiss on the cheek. “Be happy, you two.”

  Jack picked up Nate’s knapsack and shoved it at him.

  “Go!” he ordered.

  As the shorter man loped toward the waiting cab, his bass laughter filled the air.

  Lucy watched him go, then waved as he headed out of town toward Springfield and the airport. When she turned to Jack, he was watching her. She made a doubt ful face. “Be happy? He sounded like—”

  “Method actor,” Jack mumbled, turning to get their bags. “Nate puts himself into his roles. A little nuts, but a good friend.”

  Lucy nodded. “Oh. Well, whatever, he was really convincing, wasn’t he?”

  Jack set their bags on the pavement and closed the back of Hirk’s truck. “He convinced me,” he said without making eye contact.

  He indicated his rental car, parked not far away, and Lucy had to give him and Damien credit. They’d worked out their escape with flawless precision.

  “Let’s go, Mrs. Gallagher.” This time he looked at her and grinned. Hefting their bags, he headed toward the car.

  She smiled, joining in the game. “Okay, but there’s just one thing—Mr. Gallagher.”

  He put down the suitcases beside the car trunk and faced her. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never been on a honeymoon before,” she teased. “What does one do?”

  He propped a hip against the back of the car, scanning her with amused warmth. “One does very little, but two...” He wagged his eyebrows mischievously, and even in the face of such outlandish suggestiveness, she found herself laughing.

  Naturally, he was kidding her with the sexual innuendo. There was his French girlfriend, Desiree, to consider. Still, for some crazy reason, Lucy couldn’t think of an argument that could make her rethink this trip with Jack to one of America’s quaintest honeymoon spots. When he opened her door for her, she slid inside feeling more contented than she had in a long time.

  Now that the reality of the situation was staring her squarely in the face, Lucy thought she could come up with one argument against the trip. They were sharing a room.

  Jack had explained it, though. What if somebody called? he’d said. Lucy had left a number in case of emergencies. That meant Stadler could check on them. Two rooms would give them away as surely as an admission on the front page of the newspaper.

  Some time later, Lucy yawned in spite of her anxiety. The day had been long and stressful. She’d napped on the fifty-mile drive along curvy country roads, among the forested rolling hills, but she didn’t get any real rest. Thankfully, their dinner had been waiting for them in their room—a tray heaped with luscious varieties of breads, meats, cheeses, fruits and a tasty gourmet coffee. Even faced with the epicurean repast, Lucy hadn’t been hungry and had only picked at the food.

  “Do you want to take the first shower?” Jack asked, breaking into her troubled thoughts.

  She snapped around to look at him. “Me?” she squeaked.

  He lounged in a tufted velvet chair beside their dining table, which was tucked into the huge bay on the far side of their room. He appeared relaxed, his hands resting on his knees. He looked right at home, a little oversize for a turn-of-the-century room crammed with lace, fringe and curios, but otherwise, right at home. At her high-pitched question, he canted his head, his grin growing inquisitive. “Aren’t you the one I’m honeymooning with?”

  Her cheeks burned and she felt silly. After all, he hadn’t suggested that he join her. “Oh-uh-sure. I guess.”

  She had busied herself unpacking when they’d first arrived, so she scurried to the cherry armoire with beveled-mirror doors, gathered her toiletries and an oversize T-shirt and escaped to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, she was combing and fluffing her hair, standing on the room’s second-floor wraparound veranda. The view she had was the inn’s secluded back lawn, complete with an English-style garden with winding stone paths and discreet lighting. A gurgling fountain, strategically lit, was resplendent as the garden’s centerpiece.

  The night was surprisingly warm for this time of year. She inhaled the fresh air, smiling at herself, at her foolish, momentary trepidation. After all, this was Jack.

  As if on cue, the bathroom door clicked open, and she turned, her smile fading. There he stood, dressed in nothing more than a towel, once again looking too male for a room awash with cabbage rose and wisteria chintz fabrics. He stopped when he noticed her standing there, her comb stalled halfway through her hair.

  “Jack—what—what...”

  He grinned at her and ambled across the polished floorboards to lounge against the doorjamb. “I think it’s called a towel, Luce.”

  She scanned his bare chest, still glistening with water droplets that twinkled amid a light matting of chest hair. Swallowing hard, she leaned all of her weight back on her bare heels. Against her will, her gaze roamed lower. She gulped around the lump forming in her throat. The towel seemed insufficient, he was such an imposing presence. And his legs, bare and powerfully built, were long and bronze. Her mind chided, Jack has legs that are exactly what a man’s legs ought to look like.

  There was movement as a muscle bulged in his thigh. Lucy gathered that he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Her gaze lifted, but she winced when she discovered she was focusing on the towel again. As he moved, there was the trace of—of...well, areas beneath that towel that were extremely anatomically correct, and she shouldn’t be staring.

  “I forgot to get any shorts.” When her gaze skittered to his face, he was half grinning at her. The golden light that filtered up from the garden spotlights gave his eyes a mysteriously lethal quality. “I usually sleep in the raw,” he said. “Sorry.”

  She swallowed, or at least tried to. Her throat had gone dry. He looked so lazy, so nonchalant, leaning there in the doorway, which wasn’t fair somehow, for she had gone as stiff as a board. “No problem,” she finally wheezed. Then she went on combing her hair. He nodded and turned away. She watched for a few seconds, agitated. With effort, she finally forced herself to turn her back on him.

  He padded across the Oriental rug. The click of the bathroom door told her he was safely out of sight. But she didn’t turn, didn’t reenter the room. She kept combing and fluffing like an automaton, her thoughts on a subject far more disturbing than personal grooming. After another few minutes, when she heard the bathroom door open again, she found herself needing to turn around. To savor him with her eyes.

  This time he was wearing a pair of dark blue shorts. Even though they were baggy and almost reached his kn
ees, they hid all too little of his bothersome anatomy. He went to the closet and took down a folded blanket. Flipping it open, he laid it on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He didn’t face her, but folded the blanket in half on the dark pine planks. “Fixing up a bedroll.”

  She frowned. The wood was hard and the blanket was thin. “You’ll get all stiff.”

  With a chuckle and a shake of his head that she didn’t understand, he straightened to look at her. Her confused frown was a wordless request for an explanation, but he only shrugged, his grin fading. “Look, Lucy. You can’t be suggesting that we share the bed.”

  She blinked. Of course she wasn’t suggesting such a thing. It wouldn’t be decent. After all, he was a man and she was a woman. “Well...I suppose...”

  He winked at her in understanding. “Don’t worry about it, Luce. I can handle the floor. Just because you climbed into my bed a hundred times when we were kids, doesn’t mean we could share a bed now. I mean, how can a man and a woman sleep together and—” he lifted a shoulder nonchalantly “—just sleep? That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

  He went about his work, gathering up one of the pillows from the bed.

  “Just sleep?”

  He looked at her, his expression charmingly candid. “What?”

  She rolled her comb nervously between her hands. Was she being ridiculously Victorian? After all, this was Jack. Why deprive him of a good night’s sleep simply because he was a man? Didn’t she believe in equal rights? “I’ll sleep on the floor,” she said.

  He eyed her dubiously, as though she’d said she planned to eat worms. After a second, he shook his head. “Not likely, Luce. Not while I’m around.”

  She gave him a perturbed pout. “Okay, then, you won’t sleep on the floor while I’m around. How do you like that?” He stared at her for a long moment. She watched as disquiet seeped into his eyes, and she wondered if he realized it was there. She smiled this time. Really smiled. “I won’t attack you, Jack. You can trust me.”

  His own grin was slow in coming, but when it came it was dazzling. She guessed that it was that very same smile that had knocked many a panting female off her feet. She sucked in an appreciative breath at the sight.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  She shook her head, startled at her sudden inability to form words.

  Picking up the pillow, he tossed it back onto the bed. “Thanks.” He refolded the blanket and returned it to the closet shelf. Then with a yawn, he reached for the bed coverings. “I think I’ll turn in, then.” She watched as he folded back the crocheted spread, then crawled beneath the mauve blanket. He reached for his bedside light, then stopped. “I’ll let you get in before I turn it off.”

  She dropped her comb, then stooped to pick it up, fumbled for a second before she could manage to grab it. “Uh—sure...” Walking like a zombie, she headed to the opposite side of the antique bed.

  Its headboard was a piece of art in itself, with luxuriant carvings of cherubs and roses. But right now, she wasn’t in the mood to admire the furniture. She laid the comb on the diminutive marble-topped commode on her side of the bed. When she glanced over at Jack, he smiled.

  Tentatively, she smiled back, plucking up the corner of her covers and sliding beneath them. “I’m in,” she whispered. The light was doused and she felt him move. “What are you doing?” she squealed.

  “I’m turning on my side.” There was silence for a moment before he spoke again. “Luce, are you sure this is okay with you?”

  She could tell by his voice that he was facing away from her, and she bit her lip. How stupid could she be? What did she think was going to happen? After all, this was dear, trustworthy Jack.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JACK waited. listening for the sound of her breathing to slow, grow even. After an hour of the torture of being so near her, straining not to move a muscle, he was finally sure she was sleeping. With infinite care, he shifted to his back, turning his head so that he could watch her.

  His breath hitched. She looked even more angelic in repose. The soft light filtering up from the garden paid homage to bone structure that was dainty, feminine; her features were almost ethereal. Fine blond hair lay tousled across her pillow, and his fingers itched to—to... He bit back a curse, knowing he should turn away, but his need for her was too overpowering to heed the dictates of his brain.

  His gaze roved hungrily to her mouth, just full enough to drive a man wild. Her lashes lay across her cheeks, looking like silver on porcelain, and he battled an urge to run his tongue across them, to kiss the milky lids of her eyes.

  With a shudder, he gave himself a stern order to look away, but his eyes disobeyed, lovingly scanning her face—memorizing every curve and hollow. Her skin was flawless, like cream, and he was in agony for a taste. He inhaled a sharp breath, trying in vain to squelch his frustration. Nothing did any good. His gut throbbed with unquenchable desire.

  Hell, this was his wedding night. He was in bed with the woman he had loved most of his life, and he couldn’t show her, couldn’t tell her all the things locked in his heart. She would hate him forever if she found out about his unscrupulous deception. And, damn him, he wouldn’t blame her.

  Almost from the first moment he’d arrived in Branson, he’d been manipulating her. He hadn’t known it would go this far, would never have started all this if he’d known.

  But it was too late to begin again. She was a married woman now. His wife. Only she didn’t know it. His original strategy had been to make her want the very thing she was. Unfortunately, now that everything had gone this far, that strategy was all he had left. So he had no choice but to go through with it.

  Tonight, when he’d come out of the bathroom wearing a towel, he’d thought he’d seen a faint spark of hunger in her eyes. The sight had so overwhelmed him, it took all his strength to keep from rushing to her, dragging her into his arms and making crazy love to her right there on the veranda. But somehow he’d managed to pretend nonchalance, to make do with recalling that tiny beginning of passion in her gaze.

  And now that memory gave him hope, even made him eager to forge ahead with his plan. He was in her bed. A miracle—or possibly the biggest mistake of his life. He choked back a blasphemy. What a damnable position to be in. He never intended to be a paper husband. He wanted to be a real flesh-and-blood lover, to show her they were meant for each other, body and soul.

  Yet he couldn’t risk moving too quickly, no matter how he burned to know her fully. He would wait and watch. Pretend not to care as he looked for the signs. He knew Lucy loved him. She’d told him so. He could only trust that before long, she would also want him the way he wanted her.

  He just had to do his part.

  She moved, suddenly facing him. When she snuggled with her pillow, he experienced a torrent of raw, mindless jealousy for that bag of feathers. Her lips parted slightly as though in invitation, and he stifled a groan of longing. She might look like an angel, but she was a natural temptress. Even sound asleep she could blow him apart.

  As he drank her in, watching her sleep, he felt his control faltering. This past week, while he’d pretended indifference to her nearness, his ability to restrain himself had been superficial at best. And now he could sense his hold slipping to dangerous levels. Unable to help himself, he turned on his side to face her, but gradually and with excruciating care, so he wouldn’t wake her and frighten her.

  The slender hand on her pillow twitched, as though beckoning. He glanced from her fingers to her face. Serene and lovely. Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer, asking that he be forgiven his weakness. His feelings for Lucy were too mighty to keep bottled up inside any longer. With great reluctance and guilt, he lifted himself up on one elbow. Dammit. This was his wedding night. At the very least, he had the right to kiss his new bride. Didn’t he? Leaning across the short distance that separated them, he placed a feathery kiss on those lips he cherished, lips that
rode his dreams hard and made him wake up in a sweat.

  He didn’t dare allow the touch to linger, yet when he drew away, he couldn’t retreat to his side of the bed. He put it off. Even knowing the risk of delay, he remained there, inhaling the clean scent of her hair, the sweet aroma of her skin.

  Her hand moved again, and she made a small sound that in the quiet affected him like a scream, almost giving him apoplexy until he realized she was dreaming. The rapid eye movement behind her lids made that obvious. Relieved, he soundlessly settled down to watch her, wondering what she was dreaming about. Her lips lifted in a smile that sent spiky shards of lust ripping through him. He reached out to her, then caught himself, pulling back his hand, fisting it.

  “Luce, darling, I hope you discover you love me,” he whispered roughly, “before you find out what I’ve done to you.”

  Lucy woke up feeling toasty warm, a nice change from the chill she’d felt during the night. She stretched, then frowned, confused. She seemed to be confined. Had she twisted herself up in the blankets trying to get warm?

  “Morning,” came a deep voice, so close it reverberated through her body.

  Her eyes popped open and she stared around. She was in bed, but she wasn’t lying where she should have been. She squinted, groggy and disoriented. Wasn’t that her pillow over there—empty? And if that was the case, and she was on Jack’s side of the bed, then where was...?”

  She jumped as the realization hit her sleep-dulled brain. Twisting around, she found herself staring into Jack’s neck. She shifted to look up. He smiled at her. “Morning,” he repeated. “Sleep well?”

  She pushed herself up on one elbow so that she could stare down at him. “What’s going on? Why am I—I...?” She swept an arm over them, unable to put her question into words.

  “Why are you snuggled against me?” he helped, still grinning an infuriating grin, as though the sleeping arrangement was more amusing than outrageous.

  She pushed up to sit. “Yes. Why?”