by Tami Hoag
Miss Emma looked accusingly at her twin sister. “See there. I told you we should have stayed for the reception.” She turned back to Maggie. “Did anyone steal the bride? How about the groom? I’d’a paid money to be in on that. That Nick Leone is enough to give me a hot flash.”
Mrs. Claiborne snorted as she crossed the Aubusson carpet with the tumbler of bourbon. “You get a hot flash over anything in pants. I think you ought to get your hormones checked.”
Miss Emma dismissed the notion with a wave of her dainty hand. “Sister, at seventy-four we ought to thank the Almighty that we still have hormones.”
“Speak for yourself. I wore mine out twenty years ago.”
Deciding to take advantage of their friendly bickering, Maggie started backing toward the door. “I’m bushed, ladies. I believe I’ll go to my hic room.”
Immediately the hormone debate subsided. Working as a team, the ladies piloted Maggie to a blue damask wing chair and commanded her to sit. Mrs. Claiborne pressed the whiskey glass into her hand as Miss Emma pulled her sunglasses off.
“Lord have mercy, you look like a hung-over raccoon.”
Maggie scowled at Miss Emma’s choice of analogies.
“This undoubtedly has something to do with Rylan Quaid,” Mrs. Claiborne pronounced, crossing her arms over her meager bosom.
Squirming in her chair, Maggie contemplated lying to them, but one look at Mrs. Claiborne’s expression told her she’d never pull it off. She took a sip of the bourbon. Her throat burned, her eyes watered. Hoarsely she said, “He asked me to marry him.”
“Yahoo!” Miss Emma whooped, clapping her hands. “Snatch him up, sugar. He ain’t Tom Cruise, but he’s some big hunk of man. I’d take him in a minute.”
“You’d take the mailman if he lingered at the box long enough,” Mrs. Claiborne said disgustedly. “Emma, can’t you see this isn’t good news?”
Miss Emma made a face. She went to the narrow table along the paneled wall, poured herself a bourbon, and tossed it back. “She’s been moonin’ over Rylan Quaid for years. He finally asks her to marry him. How can that not be good news?”
“He doesn’t love me,” Maggie said, trying to ignore the sting of those words. “We’ve only been dating for eight weeks. We haven’t even—er—um—hic—” Her cheeks flushed hotly to a shade of pink that clashed with her dress. She hadn’t meant to bring that up. “That is to say…”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Emma said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “That is bad. A big strappin’ man like him. You don’t suppose he’s gay, do you?”
“I don’t suppose he’d be asking Mary Margaret to marry him if he was gay, Emma. He’d be asking that handsome rake of a horse trainer that works for him.”
“True.” Miss Emma plopped down on the needlepoint footstool at Maggie’s feet, her voluminous skirt spreading out around her. With a sympathetic look, she took Maggie’s free hand in hers. “Spill your guts, McSwain.”
Maggie resigned herself. Sooner or later the Darlington sisters were going to weasel the truth out of her. “Rylan thinks getting married would be the practical thing to do.”
“And he picked you to do it with.” Miss Emma winced. “Pardon the expression.”
Maggie shook her head, fresh anger lighting up her dark eyes as she recalled Ry’s offhand attitude. “He settled for me. It was one of those right-place-at-the-right-time things. I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me.”
“So, that’s the end of it,” Mrs. Claiborne said sadly.
Maggie handed Miss Emma her half-empty whiskey tumbler and stood up. She tossed the sisters a look burning with challenge. “The hell it is.”
When she caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror above her dresser, she grimaced and groaned aloud. “Sugar, you do look like a hung-over raccoon.”
Her bridesmaid’s dress hit the floor and stayed there in a crumpled heap. Clad only in her slip, she flopped down on the double-wedding-ring quilt that covered her four-poster bed and stared at the enormous stuffed brown bear that sat on a wicker stool beside her nightstand.
She had found the fuzzy toy in a shop in Williamsburg the week after she had first met her best friend’s brother. Big and burly with a comically disgruntled expression, it had reminded her of Rylan to such an extent that she’d blown a whole month’s spending money on it. In those days she had gone to sleep every night dreaming of the day she could have the real Ry in her room instead of Randy the bear, his furry facsimile.
“Be careful what you wish for, Mary Margaret, you just might get it,” she mumbled to herself.
She had wished for Rylan Quaid. The trouble was, over the years her romantic imagination had created a secret persona for Ry, one he revealed only to her. In her dreams he was a man of great tenderness, a man who adored her, who composed love ballads for her and read poetry to her. She had spent plenty of time with her imaginary Ry until the real article had finally gotten around to asking her out. And when he had, she had promptly discovered he wasn’t precisely the man of her dreams.
In most ways Ry was exactly what he appeared to be—a big, gruff farmer. He was rough around the edges, wouldn’t have known charm if it spit in his face. In other ways he was full of surprises. He was a wine connoisseur. He read classic literature. He had a dry, acerbic wit that could carve stone.
Maggie was still convinced there was a deeper, secret side to Rylan, but he hadn’t revealed it to her. He didn’t write poetry that she knew of, and he didn’t adore her. But she was in love with him. As hurt and angry as she was, she loved him.
She was too tired to fight the feeling off, too tired to keep from fantasizing that he was lying next to her on the bed, his big, calloused hands running over her fevered skin as he whispered promises of ecstasy to her. She closed her eyes and smiled as she imagined the wonderful, hot words he would murmur in her ear as their legs tangled and their bodies arched together.
A sigh ribboned out of her, mingled with the softest of moans as a knock sounded on her door. It probably was Mrs. Claiborne with supper and a lecture to eat it, Maggie thought.
Not even bothering to sit up, she called out, “Come in.”
Ry hesitated. Even though Miss Emma had practically come right out and said Maggie was waiting for him to put it an appearance, he felt uncomfortable going into her bedroom. He’d demonstrated the patience of a saint over the past weeks, but seeing Maggie in her own bedroom could push him over the edge. That was all he needed—another strike against him in her book.
Want of her was a living ache in his gut. He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life. He had hoped to hold off until she was married to him, thinking that once she was his, all legal and proper, maybe he would have enough control to keep from jumping on her like a raving madman.
Every time she came near him, he felt his control slip. Every time he kissed her, it went up in smoke as quickly as burning cellophane. Every time he touched her, images flashed through his head of burying himself in her, taking her hard and fast to relieve the ache in his gut and cool the fire in his blood.
That scenario didn’t appeal to the civilized part of him, and he was convinced it wouldn’t appeal to Maggie either. She would want soft words, silk sheets, and a suave lover, a man with the patience and tact to be gentle, to go slowly. To complicate matters further, Ry was well aware of his own size and strength. If he took Maggie the way his libido demanded every time he caught a whiff of her perfume, he would hurt her and she’d hate him and he’d never get her to the altar.
When he pushed her door open, his breath hardened like cement in his lungs. Maggie was stretched out across the bed in a white silk slip. Her eyes were closed. She stretched like a cat, the slip gliding over her lush curves with a whisper. One strap dropped over her shoulder as she turned onto her side, allowing the cup to gape away from the ripe fullness of her breast.
Ry groaned inwardly, muttering a string of words under his breath that were a combination of cursing and prayer for deliverance.
Trying unsuccessfully to tear his gaze from the erotic picture she presented and focus on the painting above her, he checked his desire ruthlessly.
“I take it you’re not still mad at me.”
Maggie’s eyes snapped open at the dryly drawled words. She gasped, sitting bolt upright on the bed, unaware that her slip climbed up her thighs as she did so. She grabbed a pillow and held it across her breasts. “Rylan! What are you doing here?”
“You invited me in,” he pointed out, unable to tear his gaze away from the top of her stocking and the tab of her frilly white garter belt that peeked out from where the hem of her slip had ridden up. His fingers itched to unsnap that tab and roll the nylon down her shapely leg.
“I wan’t expecting it to be you!” she said.
Though he refused to recognize it for what it was, a surge of jealousy burned through his desire. His look was ferocious. “Just who were you expecting?”
“Mrs. Claiborne,” Maggie said, yanking up the strap of her slip. “I couldn’t possibly have known you were coming here.”
“That’s not what Miss Emma told me.” To save Maggie’s virtue and his own sanity, he snatched her robe off the post at the end of the bed and thrust it at her. “Put this on before you catch your death.”
Maggie grabbed the black kimono out of his hand. Standing up, she turned her back to him, rammed her arms into the sleeves, and belted it with an angry tug on the sash that almost forced the breath out of her. Nothing like adding insult to injury, she thought. Not only did he not love her, he didn’t even want to look at her. Damn the man.
“Ooooh, Miss Emma. That stinker. She sent you in here on purpose.”
“She said you were expecting me.”
“And you believed her? Everyone knows she tells the most outrageous fibs.” She sat back down on the bed, crossed her arms and legs, and huffed impatiently. “Why, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear she told you I was up here having erotic dreams about you when I’m so mad I could spit tacks.”
The sarcastic statement brought a telltale flush to the apples of her cheeks, but Ry didn’t notice. He had a plan to concentrate on.
“I came to apologize for this afternoon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “I guess I upset you a little bit.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Your talent for understatement is truly astonishing.”
“Well, I just thought we ought to clear the air.” He wandered to her dresser and idly examined the various articles that cluttered the top, all the while keeping one eye on her via the mirror. “To tell you the truth, Maggie, I don’t know what got into me today. I suppose with Katie getting married and all, I was carried away.”
“Carried away?” she murmured, her stomach fluttering with sudden nerves.
Ry picked up an eyelash curler and played with it absently. “Well, sure. My baby sister’s married now, I ought to be married too. You know, it’s sort of a reflex action. I reckon there are all sorts of deeper psychological ramifications, but—”
“Just what are you saying, Rylan?” Maggie asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Basically that I never should have proposed to you today.” He maintained a poker face while he watched Maggie’s reaction. She was utterly still on the bed, her face milk white.
“You shouldn’t have?” she asked weakly. Even worse than having him propose the way he had was having him say he shouldn’t have done it at all.
A flash of panic went through her like a lightning bolt. Dammit, she should have snatched him up when she’d had the chance, married him, and then gotten him to fall in love with her. Now they were back to square one.
“No,” he went on calmly, trying to pull the eyelash curler off his fingers. It crashed onto a mirrored tray. He righted a bottle of nail polish and picked up a tube of lipstick to fiddle with. “Of course, that was obvious from your reaction. You were right, we’re not ready to get married. I take my proposal back.”
“But I never—” She bit her tongue, ran a hand back through her hair, and tried to gather her scattering thoughts. She had never said they weren’t ready to get married, but she had said she wouldn’t marry him. So what was the difference? “Not ready” left the situation open at least. But who did he think he was, taking his proposal back? How could he retract a proposal she’d already thrown back in his face?
None of this was making any sense to her. The only thing that was clear was the anger building to the boiling point inside her once again. How dare he jerk her feelings around as if she were some kind of puppet!
Ry watched as twin spots of magenta appeared on her cheeks then spread out to the roots of her hair. Right on cue, he smiled to himself, here comes that infamous McSwain temper. He turned just in time to ward off the pillow she flung at him.
“You colossal jerk!” she shouted, launching herself off the bed as she heaved her pillow at him. With nothing else to throw at him within easy reach, she stamped her bare foot on the pine floor. “First you publicly insult me with a half-assed proposal, now you think you can take it back?”
Ry tried to look innocent. Inwardly he was praising the concept of reverse psychology. It was the perfect tool to use on women, since their minds tended to function in direct opposition to logic. His was a brilliant plan. If Maggie thought he didn’t want to get married, she was liable to all but drag him to the altar. He would lure her with indifference and cement the deal with the syndication money.
He was projecting a Thanksgiving wedding.
He lifted his broad shoulders in a hesitant shrug as she continued to glare at him, magnificent in her anger. “I suppose if you had changed your mind, you could hold me to it. I mean, I did make the offer in front of witnesses. Have you changed your mind?”
“No!”
“Good—”
“Good? Good!” She cast a longing glance at his shins. If only she were wearing shoes! She grabbed the lipstick tube out of Rylan’s hand and shook it at him as if she could kill him with it. “Ooooh! When it comes to thick-skinned, dirt-for-brains men, you absolutely steal the prize, Rylan Quaid! Good? What do you mean, good? If you had one molecule of gentlemanliness in you, you’d know enough to pretend at least a little bit of disappointment when a lady turns down your proposal!”
Ry held his hands up in surrender. “Now don’t go getting all riled up again, Mary Margaret. All I meant was you and I have a good thing going. Why ruin it by getting married?”
“Ruin—?” She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “You have an extremely twisted view of marriage.”
“I haven’t seen many sterling examples.”
Immediately Maggie backed off from the fight. She knew all about Ry and Katie’s parents. Their mother had walked out on the family. Katie rarely spoke of the woman, but Maggie was well aware of the effect the desertion had had on her friend. Somehow she had never thought of it as having influenced Ry. He was so big and strong. Now she could see she’d been wrong. She could also see, in his simple answer, a tiny glimpse of that man she had dreamed lay under Ry’s abrasive exterior.
Growing up in an environment of hostility had tainted his view of marriage as much as having his mother abandon them had. No wonder he had approached the subject from the practical point of view. That would be the safest way—no emotional risk.
“Do you think getting married will ruin Katie and Nick’s relationship?” she asked.
“No. What they have is special,” he said quietly, turning once again to browse through her cosmetics. He knew his sister and her husband were in love—deeply, irrevocably in love. He also knew it was something that could never happen for him. He couldn’t inspire those kinds of feelings in a woman. The best he hoped for in a relationship was understanding, friendship, and fidelity. “What they have is rare.”
We could have it too, Ry, Maggie thought, her heart aching.
“So,” he said, accidentally squirting himself with cologne. He swore under his breath and put the atomizer down. “What do you say, Mary Margaret?
Can we go on being friends and forget I ever mentioned marriage?”
She nibbled her lush lower lip as she considered his question. Whether he realized it or not, what Ry was offering her was a prime second chance, a chance to make him fall in love with her, a chance to change his mind about marriage. She would have been lying to say she didn’t want that chance.
Sure, he was hardheaded and thick-skinned. Sure, he made her angry. No one could rile her the way Rylan could, that was part of what she loved about him.
She could cling to her pride and spite herself by refusing his offer of “just friends,” or she could seize the opportunity and make the most of it. Deliberation wasn’t necessary.
Determination filled her previously weary body with strength. She was through waiting for Rylan to make all the moves. She would do everything she could to capture his interest, to make him see her love was a prize to be cherished instead of settled for. And she was finished with resigning herself to nothing more than a hot good-night kiss. “Just friends” was going to last only as long as it took her to work her feminine wiles on him. The next time Rylan Quaid asked her to marry him, practicality would be the last thing on his mind.
She met his expectant gaze in the mirror, offering him a reluctant smile. Slowly she stepped closer to him and slid her arms around his waist. She rested her cheek against his broad, muscled back, breathing in his warm, masculine scent. Miss Emma was right, he was some hunk of man. And he was going to be all hers.
“I guess we can still be friends,” she said, deliberately ignoring the second half of his question.
Ry swallowed hard at the feeling of her breasts pressing softly into his back. There was a hint of strain in his voice when he spoke. “I’m glad you’re being so adult about this, Maggie. A lot of women wouldn’t be.”
“Well, sugar,” she said, slipping around to wedge herself between Ry and her dresser. She tilted her head just so and batted her lashes at him in a manner that was patently seductive. “I’m not a lot of women.”
But you’re a lot of woman, he thought, fighting back a groan as his palms started to sweat. Her robe had worked loose, and he now had an unobstructed view of her cleavage.