by Joss Wood
But if she had to judge by his inscrutable face a repeat of that wasn’t likely.
Ross sighed, clenched the hand that rested on his thick thigh and lifted one eyebrow. ‘I’m not going to stand here and play guessing games with you. Say what you want to say and let’s get this done.’
He wasn’t going to make this easy for her and she couldn’t blame him. ‘I’m sorry I walked away.’
‘You flew six thousand miles to tell me that?’
‘Yes...no... That was part of it.’ Ally pulled off her cap and glasses and tossed them to the sand. Her hair tumbled down and a couple of strands caught the evening breeze and danced around her face. She held them back with one hand. ‘You hinted that you might love me.’
‘It wasn’t a bloody hint. I came right out and said it,’ Ross retorted, obviously unhappy with the idea.
‘Do you still? Love me?’
‘Unfortunately it’s not an emotion I can switch on and off, despite some major effort on my part,’ Ross snarled. ‘Is there a point to this? Because if you’ve come to rub my nose in it then you can just sod off again.’
Ally gathered what little courage she had left and forced out the words that would change her life for ever. ‘I’m trying—very badly—to tell you that I feel the same.’
‘So?’
Ally frowned, puzzled. ‘I thought you might want to know that.’
Ross said in a deadpan voice, ‘Am I supposed to drop down, put my feet in the air and wait for you to rub my stomach? You’re confusing me with my dog.’ Ross pushed himself up and sent her a hot glance. ‘Hearing that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot—especially since I know that there’s nothing backing it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ally cried, her heart pounding with fear. She was losing him all over again, and this time it hurt even more.
‘So you love me, huh? So what? What does that mean anyway? Words are empty unless you’ve got the guts to back up the words with action, Jones. Got any action, sweetheart?’
Ross looked at her for a long time and when she didn’t speak again sent her a look full of disappointment.
‘Didn’t think so.’
He clicked his fingers and Pic stood up and sent her a longing look. At least he seemed sorry to leave her behind.
Ally watched his broad back walk away from her and a surge of anger pumped up from her belly and heated her veins. Without thought she hurtled across the sand and punched him in the shoulder. Ross took a half-step forward before spinning around.
‘What the hell, Jones...?’
Ally felt the heat in her face, down her throat, mottling her throat. For good measure she let her fist fly into his shoulder again, just to make damn sure he was paying attention. ‘You want action? You want proof that I love you?’
‘It would be nice,’ Ross replied, rubbing the spot where she’d punched him. ‘And don’t hit me again!’
‘Proof? Well, okay, then. Does packing up my stuff and renting out my apartment count?’
Ross’s eyes half closed and his entire body went on alert. ‘It depends where that luggage is heading.’
‘It’s in storage at the moment, waiting for me to tell them where to send it,’ Ally retorted. ‘Okay, let’s try something else out and see how it fits your definition of—’ she made air quotes with her fingers ‘—action. I tried to resign from Bellechier so that I could come back here to you.’
‘And they didn’t accept your resignation, so you’re stuck with the job you love above everything else?’ Ross twisted his lips and lifted up his hand, looking suddenly weary. ‘Look, Ally, until you are actually ready to tell me that you’re coming back here for good, let’s just table this conversation, okay?’
‘I’m ready to come back here for good.’
Ross blinked and blinked again, looking confused and adorable. He ran his hand across his jaw. ‘That’s not funny, Al.’
‘I’m not joking. And if you gave me a minute to explain, instead of just jumping to conclusions, then we could stop talking and start kissing—and I really want to get to the kissing part.’
Humour, relief, anticipation finally sparked in his eyes, so Ally let out the breath she was holding and took his right hand in both of hers.
‘Sorry, I just need to touch you.’
Ross bent his knees so that he could look directly into her eyes. ‘Explain, sweetheart, please. You’re taking years off my life here.’
‘Tu es beau. Tu me fascines. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Tu es l’amour de ma vie. Ma chérie tu me fais très heureux.’
‘Not any clearer...’
‘It’s funny that I can find exactly what I want to say in French, but in English not so much.’ Ally blew out a breath, frustrated with herself. ‘All these phrases are running around my head and I can’t adequately translate them. They don’t work in English.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to try, sweetheart, before I explode from frustration.’
Ally sucked in her cheeks and lifted emotion-saturated eyes. ‘You are beautiful,’ she whispered softly. ‘I’m passionate about you. I want to be with you for ever. You are the love of my life. You fascinate me... Not necessarily in that order.’
Ross placed his forehead against hers. ‘Yeah...that’ll work.’
‘Je t’aime, Ross.’
‘That one I don’t need a translation for. Je t’aime back, sweetheart.’
Ally smiled through her tears. ‘As I said, I tried to hand in my resignation but Luc wouldn’t accept it. He felt that I could work from here and spend a week in Geneva every six weeks or so. I’d need an office, a high-speed internet connection, a laptop...’
Ross straightened and rested his other hand on her hip. ‘Done, done and done.’
‘And I need you. I don’t care about the job if I have you.’ Ally wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I do a little bit—’
Ross chuckled. ‘A little bit?’
‘Okay, a lot. But not if it means being alone, being without you,’ Ally said, staring at her smaller hand in his.
Then she started to spill her soul.
‘I don’t want to work fourteen-hour days and go home to an empty apartment. I want to work six-hour days and play with your dog while you surf. I want to learn to cook so that we can drink wine in the kitchen together as we make our meals. I want to listen to you tell me about your day and your crazy staff and I want to do the same. I want to walk upstairs with you at night, make delicious love with you and fall asleep to the sound of your heart thumping beneath my ear. I want to love you. I want to be loved by you.’
Ross pulled her into him. ‘You’ve got it, darling. All of that and more.’
He stared down into her face for a long time, still drinking her in.
‘I can’t believe you are here.’ He held her narrow face in his large hands and ran his thumbs across her bottom lip.
‘Is this when the kissing starts?’ Ally demanded, laughing at him.
‘This is when everything starts, my darling,’ Ross replied, his heart thumping. ‘You...me...our lives. I love you.’
Ally sighed, closing her eyes in pleasure at his words. ‘I love you. I’ve never said that to anyone before.’
‘Well, I like it that I’m the first man you’ve said it to, but I intend to be the last man you say it to.’
Ally shook her head. ‘No... I mean, you don’t understand. My dad never told me he loved me andy while the Bellechiers say it with impunity
, I’ve never been able to say those words. I was always too...scared.’
Ross’s arms held her firm against his chest. ‘Don’t ever be afraid to say them—to me or to them. It’s a pretty powerful phrase.’
Ally listened to his heartbeat, content to stand on the light, bright, sunny beach. ‘How did it go with your dad? I wanted to ask you, but—’
Ross tipped her head up with a finger under her chin. ‘We’ll talk later... I think it’s high time the kissing began.’
Ross started at the corner of her mouth and felt the tilt of her lips as she smiled, felt the last little eddies of tension swirl away as his hands ran over her shoulders, down her arms, up her sides. Holding her ribcage with both hands, he spread his fingers so that his thumbs brushed her nipples and they immediately flowered under his attention. Her tongue met his in a long, lust-soaked tangle and he went from hard to concrete in a nanosecond.
She was back in his arms, in his life, for good, for ever, and it felt more than right.
It felt like perfection.
‘Let’s go back to your place,’ she suggested, desperate to get her hands on him.
Ross shook his head and lifted her chin so that she looked directly into his love-soaked, passionate eyes.
‘From now on there is no your place or my place; we’re in this together. It’s all ours, sweetheart. You and me...’
‘And Pic,’ Ally added quickly, her hand on his head.
‘And Pic.’
Ross jogged down the beach, picked up his surfboard, and when he returned slung his arm around her shoulder and guided her home.
‘About Pic... Can you please talk to him about drinking out of the toilet bowl? It’s his latest trick and it’s gross. He listens to you.’
‘Pic, don’t drink out of the toilet bowl,’ Ally told his—their—dog, her smile wide.
‘Arf!’ Pic barked his agreement and two seconds later, let out a volley of barks again.
Ally placed her hand on his head and sent Ross a naughty grin. ‘And yes, Pic, of course you can keep on chewing on his flip flops.’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from DON’T TELL THE WEDDING PLANNER by Aimee Carson.
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ONE
Man, what a lot of work just to get hitched.
Matt weaved his way through the sightseers enjoying the ballroom of the historic Riverway mansion, a plantation that had once taken part in producing 75 percent of the world’s cotton, but was now reduced to group tours and a venue for weekend events. He knew he was headed for the outdoor, private wedding reception when he spotted two Southern belles in authentic dress.
Choosing a Civil War theme to celebrate a marriage seemed wrong. But who knows, maybe the couple enjoyed the irony? Regardless, given the authentic mansion worthy of Scarlett O’Hara and the costumes of the guests, the wedding planner was either a genius...or insane. Matt was pulling for the latter, because he absolutely needed Callie LaBeau to be insane. If she were a reasonable, rational individual, she’d refuse Matt’s request. Which meant his plans to fly in, fix his problem and fly back home would be over. And he’d be screwed.
Catching up with the two ladies in 1800s dresses, petticoats rustling beneath, wasn’t hard. Their hoopskirts caught as they tried to open one of the French doors leading to the backyard, and their attempt to cross the threshold side by side didn’t work out so well.
Matt bit back the grin and the fatigue of thirty-six hours on two hours of sleep, pulling open the other door.
The one in an ugly yellow-colored dress tossed him an inviting smile. “Thanks.”
“Bathroom breaks must be a real bitch,” Matt said.
The lady in lavender laughed. “You have no idea.”
“Do either of you know where I can find Callie LaBeau?” he asked.
Lavender lady jerked her thumb toward one end of the outdoor reception. “Last time I saw her, she was over by the bar.”
Matt took that as good news. Alcohol would definitely be a requirement in a crazy setting such as this, hopefully softening the wedding planner toward Matt’s cause.
“I think she’s the only one in royal-blue.” Yellow dress sounded a little jealous.
Matt took the exit leading out to the twenty-acre grounds that smelled of freshly cut grass and held the crowd of wedding guests in Civil War costumes. Kerosene lamps sat on tables covered in white and dangled alongside Spanish moss in the giant oaks. The trees provided a canopy for the reception, the soft lamps casting a glow against the twilight sky.
He hoped the lamps were fake or the theme would soon be overrun by the yellow of firemen suits.
Fortunately, the lighting was low enough that Matt’s dark pants and white, button-down shirt blended with the attire of the staff posing as servants. As for the male guests, half wore blue Union uniforms while the others sported gray Confederate uniforms—given the choice of a Southern theme, most likely the bride’s side of the family. Matt scanned the brightly colored Southern belle dresses dotting the scene and spied one of royal-blue in front of an old-fashioned buggy being used as a bar.
Relief relaxed his shoulders. Today’s four-hour flight to New Orleans had been turbulent and hot, hopeless for snagging a few minutes of shut-eye. A cold beer would go down good about now.
He approached the makeshift bar and leaned a hip against the wagon. “Callie LaBeau?”
The woman turned, and Matt was hit with a vision of hair the color of dark honey, wide, brown eyes and a slim but clearly female body filling out the bust of her gown. Appreciation thrummed through his veins, but he ignored the distracting sensation.
“Matt Paulson.” He stuck out his hand.
“Colin called and said he was sending you my way.”
A palm briefly pressed against his. The soft skin and the drawl, as honey-soaked as her hair, brought to mind hot, Southern nights filled with heated skin and sweat-soaked sheets.
Stick to the plan, Paulson. Get in, take care of the problem and get out.
She released his hand and her lips quirked. “Though Colin didn’t mention he was sending you now.”
There was no irritation in her voice, only the calm tone of one who dealt with life’s surprises and upsets with grace and dignity. He liked her already.
She’d need that skill set for what he had in mind.
“Colin told me I could find you here.” He scanned the guests milling about. “I assumed you were scoping out a venue for an event. He didn’t mention I was walking into the middle of an actual wedding reception.”
“Colin’s a good friend, and I owe him a lot. But he’s an obsessed gamer,” she responded with a shrug that said it all.
Matt understood. Over the course of the past two years, he’d learned that the geekdom world was built on the backs of those whose lives revolved around the game. Outside social conventions often didn’t compute. His brother’s life currently consisted of work and spending hours immersed in the world of Dungeons of Zhorg, having traded one obsession for another. Matt just hoped Tommy’s current fixation lasted.
Because dungeons and dragons and trolls beat the hell out of crystal meth.
As always, the years-old ache in his chest hurt as he remembered a time when his brother was gaunt, paranoid and delusional. Sick and wasting away right in front of Matt’s eyes.
His stomach roiled, and he pushed the memories aside. “Should we meet up tomorrow or do you have a minute?”
“I’ll be out of town all day on Saturday. How long are you in New Orleans?”
“Until Sunday morning.”
She let out a huff of humor. “Now it is, then.”
Callie reached into the bodice of her gown. The sight of those graceful fingers dipping into her cleavage hiked his brow and tightened his groin. Fortunately, he kept his expression one of amused sarcasm rather than the truth: a sleep-deprived guy who found the sight a total turn-on. A grin curled her mouth as she pulled out a tiny pocket watch.
“I try to keep things as authentic as possible. As the one in charge, that makes things difficult. Working without my tablet has been a real pain.” She glanced at the time and blew an escaped strand of honey-colored hair from her cheek. “My assistant can keep an eye on things for a bit. But you only have twenty minutes until I need to prepare for the cutting of the cake.”
Twenty minutes wasn’t a lot of time to convince someone to do the impossible.
He ordered a beer and Callie requested a club soda. After she spoke with her assistant, who wore a similar gown in red, and looked a lot more harried than the wedding planner herself, they headed to a small bar along the back of the house that wasn’t in use.
“What I wouldn’t give to lean back in that seat right now.” Callie looked longingly at a chair at one of the few empty tables, like a student eyeing an espresso after an all-nighter. “But this dress makes relaxing impossible. And I’m tired of sitting up straight.”