by Lisa Plumley
Dylan grinned and rinsed. Tough job.
He twisted off the water and ran his fingers along the smooth pink marble walls, feeling his grin widen. Memories of his night with Stacey tumbled over themselves in his mind, better than a dream and twice as erotic. They'd made good use of that inviting pink marble shower and bathtub, he remembered as he reached for a towel to dry off with. Good, mind-blowing use.
They'd also taken advantage of the corner table, the bed, the armchair in the sitting area ... his body still thrummed with the lightning touch of her hands and mouth and skin on his. God, he and Stacey had come together as though they'd been made for each other.
Which was only natural. They had. He'd never met a woman who intrigued and tempted and fascinated him more than Stacey. Until her, he'd never known what love could be. He was lucky as hell she'd taken a second chance on him.
A second chance on them.
Lucky, lucky. Dylan had half a mind to forgo packing and head down to the casino. As good as he felt today, he was practically guaranteed to win big. But he'd promised Stacey he'd pack their things while she made use of their pre-paid massages in the hotel fitness center, and he wasn't about to disappoint her by breaking his promise.
In any case, he still had some loose ends to tie up with the honeymoon surprises. Whistling, he shook his head, sending water droplets pinging across the pink marble, then rubbed the sandpapery hotel towel over his water-beaded body and stepped out of the shower. Time to get packing.
Sunday had already arrived, bringing with it the end of the honeymoon charade. And the end of their weekend together.
He shouldn't mind, Dylan told himself as he rumpled his fingers through his hair and examined his jaw in the mirror, deciding whether or not to shave. It wasn't as though they wouldn't be seeing each other back home in Phoenix. After last night, anything felt possible between him and Stacey.
He leaned toward the mirror, rubbing his hand along his jaw, and decided he ought to at least try to look civilized for her sake. Resigned but still whistling, Dylan reached for his razor and glimpsed something shiny on the vanity. Curiously, he bypassed his razor and picked up the smooth circle of gold that had caught his eye instead. As soon as his fingers touched it, his whistled tune stuttered to a surprised stop in his throat.
It was Stacey's ex-wedding ring.
Dylan rubbed the thin gold band between his fingers, watching it glimmer beneath the bright vanity lights. He'd never seen her without it. The fact that Stacey had left it behind now could only mean one thing.
"Whoo-hoo!" he hollered, jigging naked into the honeymoon suite. "She loves me, girl!" he yelled at Ginger. With his dog frolicking at his heels, Dylan jived to the window and whooshed his arms overhead like a Super Bowl fan doing the Wave of Love. "Hey, Las Vegas! She loves me!"
Ginger hunkered down and tucked her muzzle onto her paws, her hind-end wagging along with her tail. "Stacey loves me!" he told her, grinning like an idiot.
His dog joined in the celebration with a sneeze and a roll-over that left all four paws lolling in the air. Dylan gave her belly a vigorous rub, his mind and heart still reeling with the significance of Stacey's actions. She hadn't said the words last night, not that he remembered—and he would've definitely remembered—but her leaving behind her ex-wedding ring could only mean one thing. Not only did he love her ... Stacey loved him back.
Too happy to hold still, Dylan got up and cha-cha'd across the suite. "She-e-e-e loves me, cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-CHA!"
The door swept cautiously open. Stacey came in with her purse slung over her shoulder, wearing sandals, a long sarong skirt splashed with tropical flowers brighter than her lipstick had been last night, and a matching vibrant orange tank top. She looked gorgeous. She looked bemused, probably at the sight of him dancing naked around the suite. She looked ... a lot less interested than he'd hoped she'd be, seeing him dancing naked around the suite.
Dylan smiled and boogied toward the woman he loved, slipping the shiny gold harbinger of all his happiness safely onto his pinky so he wouldn't dance it off.
"Good morning!" he said, crushing her to him for a fast kiss. Grabbing her hand, he twirled Stacey away from him and back again, then caught her waist and two-stepped them both into the sitting area. "How was your mass—"
"Dylan, stop! Stop! This is terrible," she cried, wrenching out of his arms. She pushed herself away from him, gazed up and down his body and, squeaking out a startled sound at the sight, buried her face in her hands.
"Geez, you seemed to like everything okay last night," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.
A huge snuffle came from behind her hands. Her shoulders shuddered, and he could see her trying to get a hold of herself long enough to speak. "This c—c—can't be happening," she wailed.
"It was just dancing." What the hell kind of massage did they give in this place anyway, to leave her in a mood like this? Dylan stepped toward her, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. "I'll go put on a towel or something if you want me to."
Stacey sniffled and peeked through her fingers. "Oh. Oh!" Her hands went to her sides, making desperate little fists against her skirt. Again her gaze whipped over him, and a blush rose in her cheeks. Laughter, slightly hysterical and utterly confusing, burbled from her lips. "Oh, Dylan, I didn't mean that."
He stared at her for a minute, then shook his head. "I'd better get dressed anyway."
"Really!" she cried, trailing him to the half-packed suitcases lying open on the bed. "I just—just—"
Stacey faltered and stopped, her gaze slanting over him as he yanked a pair of denim shorts from his duffel bag and pulled them on. "I just ... do you do this often?" she asked in a small voice.
"You mean the naked boogie?"
She nodded, not looking at him. He grinned and touched her chin. "I'm not sure. This is the first time I've tried it," Dylan admitted, leaning down to whisk his fingertip over her lips, making her draw in a quick breath in reaction.
"But," he added, smiling gently, "I'm pretty sure I could only manage it when I'm in love. Deeply, crazily in love."
Her lower lip wobbled. An instant later, her face crumpled into a wail louder than the first one had been. Turning away from him, Stacey sank onto the bed in a disconsolate heap, sending clothes toppling to the floor. A bottle of shampoo thumped down and rolled beneath the bed, joining whatever else lurked in the wasteland beneath a hotel bed's dust ruffle.
"Stacey?" He knelt beside her, taking her hand between both of his and squeezing. This was more than a reaction to bare naked joy dancing. "What's the matter? Did something happen during your massage? Was it something I said? Did I do something, any—"
She shook her head. A tear dropped onto his wrist, then another. Whatever this was, it was serious.
"Honey, whatever it is, I can help," Dylan went on, rubbing her hand softly between his. "Just tell me what's the matter."
"You—you'll hate me," she choked out between shuddering breaths. Stacey shook her head again, pressing her lips together. Still they trembled, and another tear coursed over her cheek. "It's—it's too awful."
"There's nothing you can say that'll make me hate you. What's the matter?"
He raised his hand to brush away a tear from her cheek. She grabbed his hand, spreading his fingers and staring at the gold band on his pinky. Her gaze lifted to his.
"I was keeping it for you," Dylan told her, slipping it off. "You left it in the bathroom." He held the ring out to her.
She took it and wrapped her fist around it, then promptly started crying harder. She folded both arms around her middle, shaking her head. "I thought I didn't need it," Stacey whispered, looking up at him through shimmering, tear-filled eyes. "I thought we—you and me—that we—"
"We can!"
"We ... Dylan, I wrecked everything. Just now. Everything. I was at the masseuse's, having the most wonderful massage—" Sniffling through her tears, she rifled through her purse and pulled out an apple, a dayplanner, a box of cond
oms. "Here," she said absently, handing them to him. "I got these while I was out."
"The economy jumbo pack," he remarked, turning over the box. He tossed it into an open suitcase. "I didn't know they made these."
"You just have to shop around," Stacey muttered, sniffling again. Elbow-deep in her purse, she dropped her wallet onto the black silk comforter, followed by a bottle of calcium supplements, a roll of tape, and a jump rope. Dylan raised his eyebrows. A jump rope?
She spread her arms wide, scowling down at her purse. "Where are my tissues?" she demanded in a quavery voice, picking up her bag and giving it a hearty shake. Things rolled and clanked together inside. How much more could possibly be in there?
"So you're having the massage," he prompted, handing her the box of hotel tissues from the nightstand. "Then what happened?"
She blew her nose, then stared up at him mournfully. "Please don't be mad."
"I won't be mad."
"Swear it."
What had she done? "Cross my heart," he said, whipping his hand in an 'X' over his chest. He sat beside her on the bed, shoving things aside with his hip to be closer, and wrapped his arms around her. "I love you. Nothing can change that."
Her face crumpled. "I wrecked the whole honeymoon charade!" she wailed, burrowing her face in her hands. "I—I hadn't had my coffee yet, and I was feeling sooo good after last night, and the massage was so ... Oh, Dylan, there's no excuse."
Stacey got up and paced toward the sitting area and back. Balling her hands into fists, she met his gaze dead-on. "The masseuse recognized me from our picture."
"Our picture?"
"Our winning picture. From yesterday. 'Say we won!', remember?" She pantomimed snapping a picture, then grimaced.
"That's not so bad," he said. "Maybe she—"
"She caught me, Dylan. She asked me, point-blank, why I was using two names." Her gaze swerved guiltily to his. "I couldn't lie, not like that! I—I spilled everything, the whole story," she whispered.
Her hands shook as she leaned over to pick up the fallen clothes from the floor and stuff them into one of the suitcases. "It's finished."
"Wait. You think I'll be mad at you because you couldn't tell a bald-faced lie?"
Hell, that was one of the reasons he loved her—because she was so kind-hearted. Because she was the kind of woman who'd go out of her way to help her family.
Her family. The family Stacey felt sure she'd let down, because she thought she'd given away the honeymoon charade.
"Don't you get it?" she asked, not looking at him as she shoved things back into her purse. "The masseuse knows Aunt Geraldine. She's a personal friend, remember? She's probably on the phone with her right now. My family will never forgive me when word of this gets out."
Wailing, Stacey threw down her purse and twisted her hands in front of her. "I'm sorry, Dylan. I wrecked this for you, too, and all you were trying to do was help Richard and Janie." She raised her chin. "I'll explain, though. You were doing things my way in the end, even though you didn't agree. I'm responsible. You won't—"
"No," he said, standing to pull her into his arms. She nestled against him with her head beneath his chin, softer than he'd dared hope for and all the woman he'd ever wanted. Dylan hugged her tighter. "No, you're not explaining anything," he said against the silkiness of her hair. "I love you, and I won't—"
"I love you, too."
Her whispered words arrowed into his heart, into his soul. God, he'd dreamed of hearing those words from her. And now the dream was real.
"At least there was one good thing in all this," Stacey said, shifting in his arms so she could look up at him. She gave him a quivering, hopeful smile. "At least I found you again."
"We found each other." Dylan's fingers touched her cheek. He kissed her, long and slow and sweet. "I wouldn't give up this weekend for anything."
Stacey stepped away, then breathed deeply, like a runner preparing for a long-distance race. "Me, neither," she said, and her smile steadied. "I'd better call Janie. And Aunt Geraldine," she said, raising her chin staunchly as she reached for the bedside phone. "I've got some explaining to do."
"No!" Dylan grabbed for her and captured nothing. She'd already slipped away from him.
She picked up the phone, then pulled her dayplanner from her purse. "I know I wrote the number of their hotel in the Bahamas in here someplace," Stacey muttered, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder as she turned pages.
He slapped his hand onto her dayplanner. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. "Dylan?"
God, it wasn't supposed to be this way. She loved him. He loved her ... too much to see her hurt by something that he'd set in motion. It was up to him to finish it.
"Don't call," he grated out. His gaze sought hers; Dylan drank in the sight of her, closed his eyes to concentrate on her scent and the feel of her next to him. He opened his eyes. "Don't call."
"What?" Stacey wrinkled her forehead. "I have to, I—"
"The masseuse doesn't know Aunt Geraldine. Neither did the mini-golf people or the breakfast serenaders or anyone at the Renaissance. The honeymoon surprises were a hoax."
He held himself rigidly, forcing himself not to touch her. "I arranged them all."
"You arranged ... ?" She shook her head and tried to pry his hand loose from her dayplanner. "That's sweet, but avoiding the facts won't make this go away. You know how I feel about the men in my life making decisions for me—not again, not after Charlie. I told you, and you listened. You wouldn't lie to me about—"
He slapped a receipt on top of her dayplanner page.
"You're just trying to make me feel better," she went on, riding over his actions with faster talking. "You—you ..." Her voice faltered and stopped as Dylan added another receipt to the pile.
"Aunt Geraldine paid for the hotel, but everything else was my doing," Dylan said harshly. "I knew you'd be here and I took advantage of the situation to try and win you back."
Her mouth dropped open. Stacey's gaze locked onto his, filled with surprise and dawning belief. She looked down at the growing pile of receipts, lifting one in her trembling fingers.
"The Renaissance," she read. "Tickets for the dinner show." She picked up the next. "Mini-golf passes, arranged by Las Vegas Travel. Massage package, hotel extras ..."
The receipts drifted to the floor, and pain drained the color from her face. Her eyes, when she looked at him, filled with tears. "All lies?"
Dylan's throat ached, making it hard to speak. "I already checked out by remote. As far as the hotel is concerned—and Aunt Geraldine—Richard and Janie had a fabulous honeymoon," he said. His hands fisted and flexed, wanting to touch her and ease her pain somehow, but it was too late.
He was the one who'd caused it.
"Your honeymoon charade is safe," he said.
Stacey's tears shimmered and fell. "Damn you, Dylan," she said softly.
He closed his eyes. You did the right thing, the only thing, he told himself.
It didn't matter. All he wanted was her.
He heard the phone being replaced quietly in its cradle, heard suitcases snapping shut. He sensed her presence, her warmth, in front of him, almost as though she'd reached out to touch him and withdrawn her hand at the last moment.
"Goodbye," Stacey whispered.
The next sound Dylan heard was the door closing behind her, leaving him more alone than he'd ever been.
He'd lost her.
They'd lost each other.
Chapter Ten
"I heard from Aunt Geraldine this morning."
At the sound of Janie's voice, Stacey looked up from her miserable contemplation of her first latte of the morning, glad to have company at the Phoenix café she and her cousin both frequented. Janie chugged toward her across the saltillo-paved outdoor seating area, waving a packet of something and grinning her elfin smile.
Elfin. It was the only way to describe pert, petite Janie, with her black pixie-cut hair, tilting green eyes and penchan
t for gauzy, pastel-colored dresses. She reached Stacey's umbrella-topped table, dropping shopping bags, her purse, and a whipped-cream-covered hot mocha onto the tabletop before settling in herself.
"You did?" Stacey asked. "Aunt Geraldine must have gotten your thank-you letter, then. What did she say?"
Please say she said nothing about the honeymoon charade, she prayed. She held her breath, waiting for the verdict. It had been a week since she'd returned home, and a day and a half since Janie had returned from her real honeymoon.
It had been the longest week of her life.
"She said she was glad Richard and I had a good time," Janie said with a wink. She opened the packet she'd brought, slipped out a stack of glossy photos, and handed the bundle to Stacey. "Pictures. Of our Bahamas trip. I just picked them up on my way here."
"Thanks." Stacey shuffled through them, watching images of a smiling Janie and Richard slide through her fingers—on the beach, at their hotel, boating on the ocean, looking honeymoonish and carefree. That could have been you and Dylan. Envy stabbed through her. Better not to think about what might have been.
"That's all she said?" Stacey asked instead. "Nothing else?"
"Aunt Geraldine? There was more, but don't worry," Janie said, waving her fingers. "She doesn't know our secret." She sipped her mocha and then set onto the tabletop, stirring it with a sobered expression. "I'm sorry to put you in such a spot, Stace. I was desperate, you know that. Otherwise—"
"It's okay. Everything worked out, so, so—"
So, suddenly, she couldn't go on. To her horror, Stacey burst into tears. Shaking, she realized she couldn't quit crying, either, and bawled harder.
"Hon, hon—what's the matter?" Janie asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Stacey leaned into her, grateful for her tear-hiding sunglasses. Everyone at the café might hear her blubbering away, but at least people driving by in their cars with their windows rolled up wouldn't see her doing it. At the thought of the public spectacle she was making over herself, Stacey wailed harder. This was so unlike her.