“Huh?”
“Your eyes, are they green or blue?”
“Blue,” she said. “Yours?”
“Brown.”
Like his hair. Or was it black? With so little light, distinguishing color was impossible. Her gaze moved to his mouth. Full lips, with a bowlike top.
Then the most inappropriate thought flipped through her brain. She wanted to kiss him. Or him to kiss her. Either one would work. Not!
She flew out of his arms so fast she tripped again. Only he wasn’t there to catch her this time. Landing with a thump on some boxes, Katie went one way, sending the boxes another. She landed on her butt and it may have hurt. She wasn’t sure; that was one of the advantages of having a frozen tush.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight. Tense.
“Yeah.” Hell no! How could she be okay when she had almost kissed a stranger, when she was getting married in two weeks? Married to wonderful, nice, sweet, handsome Joe.
It was the darkness. The dark created an intimate setting. That’s all. That’s all it could be. Because she loved Joe. She did.
Oh, God, her stomach hurt again. She rose, placed one hand on the wall and…and she felt…Thank God!
“Watch your eyes.” She flipped the switch.
Light. Glorious, beautiful light filled the room. She blinked. No more intimacy issues. Now she would see things clearly. The brightness burned her corneas. She blinked again. Then she focused on the man standing a foot in front of her. All six feet plus of…of a body double for Antonio Banderas. Not good! Not when Antonio had starred in all her sexual fantasies since…well, for as long as she’d been having sexual fantasies. There was only one thing she could do.
She turned the light back off.
Les sipped at her glass of merlot, a good wine from California’s Napa Valley region, and tried to see, without being caught trying to see, if the man sitting to her left wore a wedding ring. That would explain why, other than one quick nod and the shadow of a smile, he’d gone back to reading the paper. Just her luck, the first guy who sparked her wow voice and he’d rather read about—she followed his bedroom eyes to the paper—earthworm farming. Great!
She hadn’t been so lucky with the man sitting three stools down. Oh, no. Brad, as he’d introduced himself, moved to the empty stool beside her and started sending her come-on-baby smiles and telling her all about his big new car, his big new job, his big boat, and his big bank account.
The only thing he hadn’t bragged about was his big penis. Which meant he had a little bitty one. Probably no bigger than the tan line he had around his left finger where, obviously, he’d taken off his wedding band. Ugh. She hated cheaters.
Which was one of the many things she’d loved about Mike. He would never have cheated on her. He had been, without a doubt, the most loyal, honest, caring person she’d ever known. She touched the ring between her breasts.
“So, how about it?” Mr. Cheater’s question brought her out of her reverie. “You game?”
“Game for what?” She twirled her glass in her hands.
“Dinner. And wherever that leads us, sweetcakes.”
Sweetcakes? She counted to three, glaring daggers.
“Bartender,” Brad hollered so loud she flinched. “Get this lady another drink. She needs to mellow out a little.”
She gritted her teeth. “Sweetcakes doesn’t need another drink. Sweetcakes isn’t feeling—”
“Oh, yes you do. I can tell when a woman needs a drink, and you need one.” He leaned in. His breath smelled like a blue-cheese burger with onions and a side of stale beer.
Suddenly, the guy to her left dropped his paper. He stared dead-on—as in you could be dead soon—at the man needing a breath mint and crowding Les’s breathing room. “Did it ever occur to you that she was with me?”
Brad’s mouth dropped open. “But you two didn’t…Sorry!” He dug money from his pocket, dropped it on the bar, and left.
Les didn’t watch him leave. She was too busy studying her potential worm farmer, who she’d just noticed didn’t wear a ring or have a cheater’s band. Interesting. Very interesting.
“Thanks,” she said. And again she heard it.
Wow.
“Tell me you just cut that light off, and it didn’t blow!” Carl tried to control the emotion in his voice, but on the inside all he could think was, Fuck! It was bad enough he was trapped with any woman when he really wanted to stay a hundred feet away from them all, but no, he had to be stuck with—
“I cut it off.”
“Why?” He’d been squinting, trying to make her out, praying she didn’t look as good as she sounded or smelled. Yet here he was, with a redhead who’d upstage that auburn-haired underwear model from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Oh, he’d felt her when she’d been close and knew she had potential, but face it, men were visual creatures.
“Because it hurt my eyes.”
It had hurt his eyes, too. Not the light, but seeing her. His mind had photographed the image of her standing there looking a lot scared and even more beautiful. And seeing a scared, beautiful woman had thrown his want-to-be-a-hero instinct into high gear. Ah, but it had been that instinct that had gotten him so deeply in trouble with Amy.
He inhaled and let it out slowly as Katie Ray’s image flashed in his mind again. He couldn’t recall exactly what she’d been wearing or what color it was, but damn, if he couldn’t recall that the body beneath her clothes was curvy in all the right places. So curvy that in that flicker of a second, he’d re-dressed her in a few of Victoria’s little outfits. The green, sheer one. Or blue, to match her eyes.
Not that the color of her outfit or her eyes mattered. It was the color of her hair that did him in. And it was long. God, he loved long, red hair. Especially the dark auburn shade. He remembered its texture. Silky soft, sweeping down her back. So exquisite it’d taken major willpower not to run his hands through it. To bury his nose in the strands and breathe.
He shook his head to clear the images from his mind. “Fine,” he growled. “Leave it off for a minute, but then it’s got to come back on.”
He had to find a way out of here. No way in hell did he want to spend the next thirty-six hours with a soft-feeling, sweet-smelling female who’d already managed to get under his skin. One who evoked his want-to-be-a-hero instinct.
Why the hell had he told her about his mother? Okay, he knew why. Because he’d heard a familiar pang of grief in her voice. Because…their throwing-up adventure had thrown him back to the chemo days.
You don’t have to come in here, his mom would say. But he hadn’t been able to stay away…not when he knew she needed him. So they would sit on the john floor, take turns throwing up and laughing about it. Fuck, it hurt to remember. So he pushed those thoughts back into the darkness where they belonged. Thoughts of Red stormed in and took their place. Of how she’d smelled, of how soft—
He blamed this on the be-a-gentleman gene that he’d inherited from his dad—the one he wished he could get surgically removed.
Not that the gentleman gene was as dangerous as the hero instinct. He’d wanted to be Amy’s hero. To save her. He’d failed. Just as he’d failed to save his mom.
No! He’d already shut down those thoughts.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Ready for what?” Her soft reply whispered over him. Damn, even her voice made his jeans feel tight. Of course, it probably wasn’t just her, but the fact that he hadn’t buried himself inside a woman in over a year. Damn he missed that, too.
“Turn the light back on, Red.”
Chapter Seven
Les smiled up at her hero of the hour. “I appreciate your getting rid of him.”
“My plea sure.” His bedroom eyes twinkled.
Plea sure. Remember that? She did remember…vaguely.
“I’m Leslie.” She extended her hand. His warm palm melted against hers, and she saw a flash of brightness and heard a big…crash of thunder. Just a storm ou
tside—not emotional fireworks. Then came another lightning flash, but she barely noticed.
She barely noticed that the bar went utterly dark, that the electronic hum of the heater, the TV, and the ovens in the kitchen all stopped. Ah, but she noticed how his palm fit against hers, how his musky, masculine scent filled her lungs. The silence hung, but only for a flicker of a second, because the groans and moans of people wanting their dinner chased it away.
“I think the storm has finally arrived,” Les said, feeling jumpy, not from the weather, not from the darkness, but from a closeness and sexual awareness she hadn’t felt in ages.
“Yeah.” The man’s voice rang deep, husky, close. He continued to hold her hand. “Are you scared of storms?”
“No.” The whisper of his breath caressed her cheek.
“Are you sure?” His thumb passed over the back of her hand. “Because you’re trembling.”
Air caught in her throat. His touch, so simple, sent messages throughout her body. Messages that said she’d gone too long without feeling this. Feeling alive.
“Maybe I’m a little scared,” she lied. Or was it a lie? What was the emotion dancing in her stomach if it wasn’t fear? And just what was she afraid of now?
The lights flickered back on. The crowd in the restaurant cheered and the magic of the moment evaporated like a drop of water on a hot, sunbaked sidewalk. But in spite of the cold and storm outside, Les felt hot. Not sexually hot. Okay, maybe she did feel that way a little. But mostly the heat was like…like she stood too close to a flame. And who wanted to get burned?
The hero holding her hand pulled away. Almost too fast. Les tucked her hand in her lap and the diamond ring between her breasts felt colder than before.
She glanced at her watch and fiddled with the band. Five thirty. Where was Katie? She didn’t look up but felt the man staring. “My friend’s late.”
“Mine, too,” he said, and just like that he poked his nose back into the paper. Something about his fast retreat told her that, while they might have had a moment, even a magical one, he wasn’t interested in taking it any further. And while she hated admitting it, further didn’t interest her, either.
“Thanks again.” She butt-scooted off the chair and went to wait in the crowded restaurant. Crowded—lots of people, where she waited alone, where she realized how lonely she really felt.
After trying to call Katie and getting no answer, Les wondered if she should just go to Katie’s house and wait. It wasn’t like her to be late. Katie was…well, a bit of a perfectionist. Not that she expected so much from other people, but just from herself.
A trickle of uneasiness slid down her spine.
“Where are you, Katie?”
Katie hit the switch and the light flooded the room again. She blinked. Carl blinked. They stared at each other like strangers. And they were strangers, but not really.
For the last—she checked her watch—hour, they’d been together in the dark. She’d hit him, scratched him, kicked him. They’d shared memories about the death of a parent, or in her case, parents. And, oh yeah, they’d thrown up together. Not that it meant anything, but oddly, it did. Les was the only other person alive who even knew about her nervous-stomach situation.
Funny how being trapped in the dark with a stranger could seem so, well, intimate. She felt herself blush.
The silence grew awkward. Carl’s gaze shifted around the room. “Pay dirt!”
“What?” Katie folded her arms over her chest, hoping to snatch a bit of warmth.
“There’s a door behind this stack of boxes.” He pushed the stack away far enough for him to slip between them and the wall. The sound of a doorknob turning filled the room.
“Is it locked?” Katie moved in and peered through the crack. What she saw made her take a quick step back. Carl held a gun in his hands.
“I didn’t know you had a gun,” she accused, remembering the feel of that cold metal against her ear earlier.
His brown-gold eyes cut to her. “You’re not going to freak out on me again, are you?”
“I didn’t ‘freak out.’” The Rays didn’t freak.
“Yeah?” He touched his scratched face. “How did I get these?”
Well, if they did freak, they apologized. “I already said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, you did. Go stand over there.” His voice lowered, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Why? Did you hear something?” Her words seemed to ring too loud. While the room rang too quiet.
“Just do it.” He breathed the words like an order.
“You’re a tad bossy,” she muttered, but moved back. Hands clenched, she listened. The click of a knob filled the silence. The sound of a metal door squeaking open came next. Followed by the sound of footsteps—Carl’s footsteps. His footsteps walking away, while her size sevens were left behind. Alone. And alone sucked. Bossy or not, she wanted him back.
“Carl?” she whispered.
Carl didn’t answer.
From his car, parked down the street, Tabitha’s murderer stared at the dark house and remembered two people were still in there. Panic started to drum through his chest. Closing his eyes, he banged his head on the steering wheel. What should he do? What should he do? If they had cell phones, the police would already have arrived. Then again, he remembered Tabitha complaining about no cell phone service on her block. Maybe they were really trapped. He still needed to take care of them. But maybe not just now.
He had time. Time to think straight. Time so he could focus. Time to make the laughing stop, because the laughing always messed with his thoughts and he didn’t want to make a mistake. He couldn’t make a mistake.
Time to check on his next bride. He picked up his phone and dialed her cell number. It rang…and rang twice more before going over to voice mail. He punched in her home number.
No one was there, either. Where was she? Her answering machine picked up. “Hi, you’ve reached Katie. I’m sorry I’m not home right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Hearing her voice made him remember seeing her for the first time. She had sat across his desk and smiled at him so prettily. Just remembering made his body tighten with need. Need to see her in her dress, to see the fear in her eyes, to control her, to hear her cry and beg him to forgive her.
Did he have time?
Les checked the time again. Katie was more than an hour late. Where was she? She tried Katie’s home phone again. No answer. Snagging her purse, she walked out of the restaurant, giving the man still waiting at the bar a quick glance.
Then, remembering Katie’s key, she checked her pocket to make sure she hadn’t lost it. It was still there. Pulling her jacket closer, she walked out of the restaurant and took off for her car.
“Carl?” Katie called out his name again and held her breath and waited, praying she wouldn’t hear shots being fired or him screaming out. She counted to ten and then couldn’t stand it anymore. “Carl?” She called louder.
“Yeah.” Footsteps echoed. “Good news. Bad news.” He walked out from the small opening between the boxes and the wall.
“What?” she asked, and noticed he’d put away the gun.
“The good news is, if you have to p…use the bathroom, you can go. The sink’s not working but the toilet is. Bad news is there isn’t a way out.”
“Not even a window?” She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off another chill. That’s when she noticed all he wore was a black, short-sleeved polo shirt and jeans. He had to be cold.
“Afraid not.” He ran his hand across his chin, where his five o’clock shadow seemed to have gotten a couple hours’ head start. A rasping sound filled the room.
“So we’re stuck in here,” she muttered, and had one of those I’m-going-to-cry moments. Of course, she wasn’t really going to cry. Or at least she was going to try really hard not to.
He studied her. “I’m not giving up yet.”
“Aren’t you cold?” Her words created a puff
of vapor.
“Where’s my coat?” He looked at her with a pinched brow.
Turning around, she grabbed his coat from the floor and handed it to him.
“Not for me. Put it on. You’re freezing.”
“I’m not that cold,” she lied.
His gaze lowered to her breasts. “Could have fooled me.”
Vaguely remembering he’d already pointed this out, she went on instant nipple alert and pulled the ends of her sweater over her breasts. “That’s rude.”
“But true.” He took the jacket from her. “A damn shame your wedding planner was too cheap to heat the whole house.”
“Probably would cost a fortune to heat all of it,” Katie defended Tabitha because…because it felt wrong not to.
With the coat still in his hands, he stepped closer. But instead of donning the coat himself, he slung it over her shoulders and gave it a quick tug to cover her breasts.
She stood there trying to decide whether she should argue about accepting it. A firm believer in picking her battles, she decided this wasn’t worthy. The fact that the jacket felt so good had nothing to do with it, either. Well, almost nothing. She snuggled deeper into the coat’s warmth and tried not to think about how good that masculine warmth had felt to lean against.
Carl walked over to the door that led to the hall and studied the doorknob. Kneeling, he checked out the lower door hinges.
“If I had the right tools, I might be able to take the damn thing apart.” He glanced over his shoulder at her.
She had slipped her arms into his jacket and it now hung open. Noticing his gaze fall to her breasts, she zipped it up.
“Thank you,” he muttered, and refocused on the door.
“You know,” she said, “we might find some tools in these boxes.” And something to wear, so he would wear his coat. At least then she wouldn’t have to smell him all around her. “We should go through them.”
Her attention shifted to him again. Still kneeling, with his back to her, he wore his dark brown hair combed straight back. It was thick and hung to the back of his collar, the edges flipping up. His shoulders were wide and his torso tapered into a thinner waist.
Weddings Can Be Murder Page 5