Wild Irish_His Wild Bride

by LJ Garland

  “Oh!” she squeaked. “Really, you don’t have to carry me. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve lifted beer kegs heavier than you. Besides”—he tilted his head, gesturing toward the lot—“my car’s right over there.”

  He took off with long, easy strides, his strong arms holding her tight against his chest. She’d draped her arm around his neck and dug her fingers into his muscular shoulder to steady herself.

  “Well, thanks.” She peeked over his shoulder at the alleyway. Still empty, thank goodness. Whoever it was hadn’t realized she’d ducked out the back. “I’m Sophie.”

  “Dawson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dawson.” You did not just say that. Seriously, could you sound any lamer?

  “You, too.” He glanced at her, a slight smile tugging the corners of his chiseled lips. “And here we are.”

  Somehow, he unlocked the car and got the passenger door open without dropping her. Then he eased her onto the seat, taking care with her injured foot, then he tucked and tucked and tucked her dress in after her. When, at last, he got the door closed, he headed around to the driver’s side and slid inside.

  As he started the engine, he glanced at her. “That’s a lotta dress you’ve got there.”

  “Yeah? Well, a guy like you should consider getting a real car.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t like MINI Coopers?”

  “Oh, sure. If you like toy cars.” She slapped at the piles of tulle and satin poofed up around her. “Gah!”

  He backed out of the parking space. “Lady, you’d need a cargo van to contain that dress.”

  Okay, so he was right. But she certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

  He stopped and flipped his blinker where the lot emptied onto the road. Sophie looked out her window. The bridal shop laid that way—and the person who’d sent her the video. She scooched down in her seat, trying to get out of sight in case whoever it was looked this way. Netting and waves of white threatened to suffocate her. “Please turn left.”

  “Sure.” Dawson glanced at the feral cat, all hunched down and nervous in the seat next to him. He pulled out into traffic. “I think there’s a walk-in clinic around here somewhere.”

  “No!” She peered up at him, desperation swirling in her wide green eyes. Looking a bit disheveled—the bun at her nape having loosened further, and strands of auburn now framing her face—she presented the picture of a wild, frantic bride.

  “You should have your ankle looked at.”

  “It’s not that bad. Really.” She sat up then twisted to look out the back window, the angle giving him a perfect view of her ample breasts. “I can just wrap it. It’ll be fine.”

  “All right.” Unable to stop himself, he dropped his gaze to her lush creamy mounds. Oh man. That dress won’t hold her if she leans much farther. He looked at the road again and tapped his brakes to avoid tagging the bumper of a car exiting the road. Don’t have a damn accident, Dawson.

  While Sophie focused out the back window, he shifted in his seat in an attempt to relieve the growing pressure of his hard-on. When was the last time a woman affected him like this? He hadn’t even reacted anything like this when he first met the girl he’d fallen for his junior year in college. And she definitely didn’t smell this amazing. I don’t what perfume this woman is wearing, but it’s driving me nuts. He risked another glance at her. And all that red hair. Never thought much about redheads, but this one is definitely striking.

  He cleared his throat. “So, give me directions to your house.”

  She faced him. “What? Why?”

  “So I can take you home.”

  She blanched. “Um, no. That won’t work either.”

  “Why not? You do have a home or a hotel room or something, somewhere to go, right?”

  “I have a house.” She turned forward and stared out the windshield. “But I can’t go there.”

  “Okay.” Something was definitely off about her. Yeah, he’d just met her, but he’d never seen anyone so twitchy and evasive unless they were in trouble. And if that was true, Lord help him, he wanted to help her. He had no clue why, but something about her called to him. “Look, Sophie, I’m trying to help you, but you’ve got to help me, too. So, let’s start with you telling me where you need me to take you.”

  She leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  He pulled to a stop at a red light and took the opportunity to check out her left hand where it lay clutching a puffy pile of white. No ring. Not that it means anything. He shifted his focus to the traffic light. She’s wearing a wedding dress, Dawson. Which means there’s some guy she’s promised to say “I do” to, and that guy is most likely searching for her right now. I know I would be if she were mine.

  “What about your fiancé? Why don’t you give him a call?”

  She jolted. “What? I’m not….” Her gaze dipped to where her fingers strangled the skirt of her bridal gown. “Oh. No. I don’t have a fiancé.” She shrugged her creamy shoulders. “And even if I did, I couldn’t call him. I left my cell phone at the bridal shop.”

  Dawson flicked on the blinker.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, if this light ever changes”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—“I’m taking you back to get your phone. Just tell me which shop and—”

  “No, no, no. You can’t.”

  The light turned green, and the line of cars moved forward.

  She reached over and grasped his arm, the warmth of her hand on his skin setting off some definite bells and whistles. “Please don’t, Dawson.”

  Well, hell. Instead of making a U-turn, he turned onto the cross street then pulled into a parking lot. After shutting off the engine, he faced her. “All right, I know we just met and whatever’s going on in your life is none of my business, but I can tell something’s bothering you. You came flying out of that alley like your hair was on fire”—he gestured toward her dress—“in that. So, why not just come clean? Tell me the deal. I’ll see if I can help.”

  “Okay.” Hand trembling, she reached up to smooth some strands away from her face. She inhaled deeply, as though gathering courage, and looked him square in the eye. “I’m a reporter for Deep Insights.”

  She stared at him for so long, he finally shrugged.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Deep Insights.” Her eyebrows drew together, creating a little vee between them. “It’s only the biggest tell-all online magazine.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  She blinked several times. “Have you been living under a rock? Everyone in Baltimore has heard of Deep Insights. Hard-hitting reports. Digging into stories people want to know about.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, and affected his best cowboy imitation. “I’m not from around these here parts, ma’am.”

  She glanced around, checking their surrounds as if any second a SWAT team would descend on them. “Where are you from?”

  “Most recently, Athens, Georgia. Finishing up my MBA at UGA. Before that, a quaint little town in Northern California called Cedar Valley.”

  She nodded, her light-pink lips forming an O. Dawson gulped as more adrenaline rushed south, his mind immediately conjuring what he might slide into that sexy circle.

  “You’re from the West Coast. That explains a lot.”

  “And you’re a reporter. Still doesn’t explain the wedding dress or anything else.”

  “A co-worker and I are doing a story on the perfect wedding—the mayhem of the myth, or something like that.” She flapped her slim hand in the air. “I haven’t settled on a title yet.”

  “So you were trying on dresses.”

  “Yes. And Hugh is covering the guy’s side, looking at rings, getting fitted for a tux, and whatever else men do before they say ‘I do.’”

  He plucked his cell phone from its holster on his belt. “You can call him,” he said
as he tapped the screen.

  “No. Not Hugh.”

  The hitch in her voice had him looking up. Fear had returned to her eyes. The sight of her anxiety punched him in the gut. “Doesn’t matter. It’s dead anyway.” As he put the cell away, he did a quick scan of her neck, shoulders, arms, and her amazing face, the lips he wanted to kiss. No visible trauma or bruises. But that didn’t mean anything. There were other ways to abuse someone—emotionally, mentally. “So, Sophie, I have to ask. Did Hugh…hurt you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s not like that. We really are just co-workers who occasionally co-write.”

  “Okay, then tell me which shop he went to and I’ll take you—”

  “No.”

  He sighed. Of course not. It seemed the longer he talked to her, the less he understood her. “What about your boss?”

  “Not right now. Not till I figure out if I can contact him or not.”

  “Friends?”

  She grimaced. “Same thing.”

  “Parents? Surely you can go to your mom and dad for”—he gestured toward her—“whatever’s going on with you.”

  “I wish.” She picked at a lace applique on her skirt. “Mom is in the UK. She works for the DOD and took a two-year stint over there. Dad went wherever when I was four.”

  That’s rough. “Siblings?”

  “Only child.” She smoothed some of the satin. “It’s just, I don’t know you.” She glanced at him and gave a small shrug of her shoulder. “And while it may sound crazy, you’re the only person I can be near at the moment.” She patted the white poufy fluff in the general area of her knee. “Wow. My ankle’s really throbbing. I need to get it wrapped, elevated, and iced. Will you help me, Dawson?”

  “Are you good with going to my place?”

  She looked out the windshield and then the passenger window before returning to him. “Yes.”

  He started the engine, and she set her slim fingers on his arm—the same electric tingles as before zinged along his skin. Turning, he met her eyes—deep, intelligent, and incredibly alluring. Hmm, do those flecks of gold catch fire when she’s angry…or when she’s turned on?

  Sophie gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Dawson.”

  I’m in so much trouble.

  Chapter Four

  Sophie lay on the couch, her head propped on one pillow, her foot elevated on another. At Dawson’s insistence, he’d wrapped her foot with a compression bandage he picked up at the corner mart after which he offered her ibuprofen and arranged a zippered storage bag with ice over her ankle. Yeah, she could definitely get used to being spoiled by Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy.

  “Anything else I can get you?” He towered over her, his gaze all serious and concerned. God those eyes. Blue like arctic ice. But instead of being cold, her insides heated and tingled. Long thick lashes the same color as his cropped ebony hair. What would it be like to run her fingers through those thick strands, especially the ones that curled just a bit along his nape?

  Crud, what did he just ask me? Guess. I got a fifty-fifty chance. “Um, no?”

  “So you’re good?”

  “As good as a girl can be, lying on a guy’s couch while wearing this white monstrosity.” She let the sarcasm roll off her tongue.

  He chuckled, the deep, rough sound resonating to her core. His chiseled lips curved up in a breath-stealing smile that left her…well, breathless. “I think you look amazing.”

  Amazing? Here she lay on a couch, all out of sorts, her bare foot atop a pillow, her unruly hair escaping the bun she’d put it in this morning. How awesome could she look? She waved him off. “Pft. Yeah, right.”

  “You really do.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “But, um, I can understand how it might not be considered casualwear. I may have some clothes I could lend you, if you want.”

  “Don’t tease a desperate woman with an injury.”

  He laughed again, and she found herself smiling, too.

  “Come on.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  She set her fingers in his palm, and he helped her to her feet, letting the bag of ice plop to the floor. Slipping his arm around her waist, he tucked her against, and, wow, did he smell good. Like evergreens and musk and man. Did all guys from Cedar Valley smell like him?

  In the bedroom, he parked her on the edge of the bed while he went to the dresser. To say the room was tidy would be an understatement. The green-and-white ombre comforter laid without a wrinkle on top of the king mattress, the pillows puffed and fluffed against the oak-and-wrought iron headboard, dark-green pillowcase mouths tucked under. Not a speck of dust on the dresser and bedside tables. And the floor consisted of a sea of pearl-gray carpet—not a single sock or pair of tighty-whities as far as she could see. Her gaze drifted to his butt as he bent to open a drawer, the tan slacks molding nicely muscular cheeks. Wonder if there are boxers or briefs under those pants.

  Stop it. Who’s to say he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

  She glanced around the room again. No pictures.

  Doesn’t mean a thing. He could have a billion of them on his phone. Besides, you can’t get involved with him. You’ve got some maniac sending you threatening videos.

  Dawson straightened, clothing in his hands. “I’m sure the shirt will swallow you, but the shorts have a drawstring, so maybe they’ll work.”

  He held out a heather-gray T-shirt and a pair of black jogging shorts. As she accepted them, her fingers brushed his, and she startled. The warmth of his skin rocketed into her, her skin tingling, her blood pounding out a sensual rhythm her body instinctively wanted to follow. The exact same sensation she’d experienced in the car when she’d touched him. Twice. Did he feel it, too?

  His eyes darkened as he stared down at her, his gaze dropping to her mouth. Maybe he did feel it. For a second, she imagined him gathering her in his arms and kissing her. Heat pooled low in her body, and her nipples tightened in response.

  But instead of moving toward her, he backed up a step. “I, uh, guess I’ll leave it to you, then.”

  “All right.”

  He turned to leave, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Oh, wait!” She popped to her feet and gasped. The twinge in her ankle had her angling to the side, her hand on the bed to catch herself as he reappeared in the doorway.

  “You okay?” He came in again.

  “Stupid ankle.” She lifted her head, and several wayward strands of hair wisped into her face. Irritated, she blew at the willful locks—like that ever worked. So she resorted to reaching up and tucking them behind her ear. “I need help getting all this poufy white stuff off.” She turned away from him. “Can you get the zipper?”

  “Sure.” He moved behind her, and the pressure of his fingertips at the middle of her back sent all kinds of heat dancing through her. His warm breath played across her shoulders as he slowly lowered the only device holding the dress to her body.

  As she pressed her hands to the bodice so the whole thing wouldn’t drop to the floor, Sophie took a deep breath for what seemed like the first time in days. Sweet, sweet air.

  He cleared his throat again. “There you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Oh, she could think of a few things but kept them to herself. “Thanks.”

  A moment later, the door clicked shut behind her.

  She couldn’t get out of the dress fast enough. In a flash, she changed into the borrowed clothes. She cinched the shorts, and, between that and the elastic waistband, they stayed in place. Taking a moment, she peered at herself in the mirror. The shirt was a little big. But she liked how the gray tee hung on her, the Georgia Bulldogs logo splashed across the front. I look like a coed.

  Yeah, a coed after a frat party. No bra and, good gosh, Sophie, look at your hair.

  Unable to do anything about the undergarment she’d left at the bridal shop, she focus on her hair. She tugged the stretchy band free then gathered her wild mane, and, inste
ad of a bun, she pulled it into a ponytail.

  Turning to leave, she spotted the mass of tulle and satin covering over half the bed, the veil tossed on the pillows. Okay, so that wouldn’t do. But where to put it all? She glanced around. Probably better to ask Dawson rather than snoop through his stuff.

  She exited the bedroom and limped down the hall.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” He came toward her and, before she could protest, he scooped her up into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

  “You should’ve called me,” he admonished. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

  Taking advantage of being so near, she inhaled his wonderful scent.

  He eyed her, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Are you sniffing me?”

  Busted. Mortification assaulted her, and her cheeks heated. “No.” She lifted her chin. “I’m just breathing, now that dress is no longer constricting me.” She made a show of taking a deep breath, which drew his gaze to her chest. “Hey, eyes up here, mister.”

  He looked at her, guilt clear in his expression. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate it. At all.”

  “Probably not.” He bent to set her on the couch, his face so close to hers, she could pick out the darker flecks of blue in his eyes. “If I had one.”

  No girlfriend? He’s free?

  He stared at her for the longest moment. The tension between them thickened the air around them. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Any second, he would lean forward and kiss her.

  Sophie, are you insane? He doesn’t deserve to be a target like Hugh. Change the subject quick! She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Can I borrow your phone? I thought I’d go ahead and call my boss. Word’s probably gotten back I’ve gone missing, and I don’t want him to worry.”

  He blinked, the moment broken. “Sure.” He straightened, took his phone from his belt, tapped the screen—she assumed to unlock it—then handed the device to her. “I’m going to change out of my work clothes. Then maybe you’ll tell me the rest of your story.”