The Bride Wore Blue

by Cindy Gerard

  Her breath caught in a wispy little shiver.

  “Think of me, Stretch,” he breathed against her skin, then suppressed a groan when she arched into his hand. “Think of me and know you don’t have to be alone.”

  Six

  Maggie watched through the window as Blue taxied out of the bay toward open water. She touched trembling fingers to her mouth, felt the burn of his kiss lingering there, felt the heat of his final caress running like quicksilver through her blood.

  “I’ll be back,” he whispered in that moment before he snagged his duffel, called his dog and walked away.

  A devastating combination of desire and despair swamped her as she’d watched him go. She knew he’d keep his promise. He would be back. She was as sure of his return as she was sure that she wanted him gone…if for no other reason than that she needed some breathing room and a chance to get a handle on what was happening to her.

  It’s just sexual, she told herself staunchly. He was a beautiful man. But she was used to beautiful men. Just because this man had an unprecedented ability to flip response switches she hadn’t known she had, didn’t mean there was anything other than sex propelling his actions.

  She sighed deeply, damned herself for a fool and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Sex was not salvation. Sex was slavery. Sex was controlling and manipulative and disabling and never again would she mistake it for love.

  Never again would she let it be enough.

  She would not let herself get involved in a physical relationship with Blue. At least the logical side of her brain told her she wouldn’t. Just like the logical side of her brain kept reminding her that less than twenty-four hours had passed since he’d dropped out of the sky and back into her life. Given those circumstances, any sane woman wouldn’t be thinking about sex or salvation or anything in between.

  Logic, however, had little to offset the aching loneliness that enveloped her as she stood there watching the sunlight glint off the nose of the Cessna as it gained speed then took flight.

  Fool, fool, fool, she berated herself mentally. As inconceivable as it seemed, she’d let Blue get to her. He made her want to believe what he felt for her was more than physical, made her wish for something that couldn’t be. His incorrigible smile, his teasing wit, his total lack of pretense had all teamed forces against her resolve and weakened her resistance. She wanted—for the first time since the last of her innocence had been stolen—to believe in love. And she wanted to believe Blue could give it to her.

  More than disgusted with herself, she turned away from the window, determined to shake it off. Determined to ignore the overwhelming sense of loss that clutched at her heart and twisted. Feeling very tired suddenly and grappling with a frustration that was rivaled only by confusion, she stripped off her sweats and headed for the shower.

  “It’s time to regroup,” she lectured herself. “You came here to be alone. To forget. And to heal.”

  Until Blue had arrived so unexpectedly she’d come a long way in accomplishing her goals. Now that she was alone again, she could get on with the business at hand.

  After drying her hair, she slipped on a lightweight cotton knit sweater and chinos, refilled her coffee cup and walked down to the dock. A flotilla of pelicans glided like a great white fleet near the distant shore. Overhead, the sun burned bright on the crystal-bright surface of the bay. The clear glacial water mirrored the cotton white clouds drifting like dollops of whipped cream against the cerulean blue backdrop of a pure and endless sky.

  It was so beautiful here. So blessedly, yet so unyieldingly remote. She sipped her coffee, hoping that in addition to being isolated, it was far enough away from New York to keep Rolfe at bay. Paris hadn’t been. The first time she’d decided to make the break from him, even an ocean between them hadn’t been enough.

  She breathed deep of the storm-cleansed morning air, savoring the sunlight, embracing the silence. She wasn’t fooling herself. She knew that if she were ever to get on with her life, she would have to confront Rolfe. The prospect clenched her insides into alternating knots of nausea and dread. She would confront him. But she needed more time. More time to become strong enough to face him down, to stick to her convictions, to not be swayed by his pleading and his threats and his demand for gratitude.

  She’d felt a tentative growth in her strength of will until yesterday. Until Blue Hazzard had buzzed into her bay, rocked the rock she was standing on and sent her into this lapse of resolution. She still couldn’t believe his nerve. The man had just burst into her life after all these years, had the gall to kiss her—repeatedly—and ask her if she believed in love at first sight.

  She should be irritated as hell, not only with his insufferable persistence but with his interference in her life. Yet every time she thought of him, she got this warm, fuzzy feeling that made her think of safety, sweet seduction and sizzling sex. She fought a slow, reluctant smile as she pictured him again in her pink bathrobe.

  Unsuccessful at willing the memory away, she let out a deep sigh. The man was trouble.

  The man was also good to his word. She’d known he would be. Late the next afternoon, he was back. And she still didn’t know what she was going to do about him.

  J.D. knew exactly what he was going to do about Maggie.

  He was going to make her smile and make her laugh. Then he was going to make her his. Once he’d accomplished that, he was going to find out her most guarded secret. The one that put that cornered, harried look in her eyes and made his heart ache with both anger and despair. When he discovered what it was, he was going to fix it.

  “Would you listen to yourself, Hazzard?” he mumbled aloud as he taxied the Cessna into the bay and beached her on the sand. “You’ve developed a real Lancelot complex here.”

  He’d never been anyone’s white knight. He’d never wanted to be. He wanted to be Maggie’s.

  “You also sound like some love-struck puppy. No offense, Hersh,” he added as Hershey rolled soulful brown eyes his way from the shotgun seat.

  “You’re even talking to yourself. Love-struck it is,” he conceded, unable to muster up the will to be disgusted with himself as he shouldered open the cockpit door and climbed outside as eager as a kid on his first date.

  He’d had two days and two nights to think about his reactions to Maggie. Two days and two nights out of 365 days of each of the last fifteen years didn’t seem like much time in the overall scheme of things. And while his practical side warned him he was being far too hasty, his gut reaction was to go for broke.

  Bottom line, he’d fallen for her the first time he’d set eyes on her all those years ago. He’d been drifting in a foggy sort of limbo ever since, not even realizing she was the woman who had put his life on hold in the relationship department.

  “Full speed ahead,” he said with a grin as he scaled the rock slope, hiked through the woods and broke into her front yard.

  She was waiting for him on the deck. Her look was guarded. Her lips were set in a hard, tight line. Yet her eyes, those glorious pepper brown eyes, were lit with the softest glow, the prettiest spark as he walked toward her.

  He was seventeen all over again. He was Mickey Rooney meeting Judy Garland just before the finale that called for a huge, juicy kiss. His heart hammered, his palms sweat and his friend, Mr. Libido, was determined to embarrass him with a total lack of tact and inconceivably bad timing.

  He stopped and planted one foot on the bottom deck step. Leaning forward with his elbow propped on his knee, he worked on regaining control and hiding his physical reaction.

  He smiled innocently up at her. “Hey, Stretch. How’s it going?”

  True to form, she crossed her arms snugly beneath her breasts. Also true to form, she had big plans on being resistant as hell.

  It was enough to settle him down. “That glad to see me, huh?”

  She just blinked hard and looked out over the bay. He braved the steps to stand beside her.

  “I brought you some
thing.”

  When her gaze flashed to his, he extended the package he’d kept out of sight behind his back.

  With reluctant curiosity, she took it, opened it, then frowned. “Fish?”

  “Not only is she pretty, she’s astute. I love that in a woman.”

  Again, she looked down at the package of walleye fillets, then back at him. “You brought me fish.” It was more of a bewildered statement than a question.

  He gave her his most guileless grin. “Sorry. I couldn’t find any flowers.”

  A soft smile snuck up on her before she could squelch it. “What else would I expect from a man who thinks duct tape is an alloy.”

  “Ah, humor. I like that in a woman, too.” He liked even better the implication that she was expecting something. That was good. It meant she hadn’t altogether dismissed the idea of him coming back.

  “I figure if we were a little closer to civilization, I’d be taking you out to some glitzy restaurant about now. Since that can’t happen, I decided the next best thing was to bring dinner to you.”

  “I don’t recall being asked if I would want to go out to dinner with you.”

  She looked so cute sitting there, her back stiff, working so hard on being huffy. “Well, that’s a given,” he said, playing for another smile and almost winning one. “But, I made room for the possibility that if, by some stretch of the imagination, you were resistant to the idea, you’d at least have the sense not to turn down a free meal.”

  She held her ground. “I don’t suppose it would matter if I said I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Actually, that should work out just fine. I’m always hungry.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And if I said I don’t cook?”

  He grinned hugely. “I’d say I never expected you to. Besides, when it comes to frying fish, nobody does it better than me.”

  She let out a long-suffering sigh. “You have an uncanny way of habitually reaffirming a conclusion I’ve drawn about you.”

  “That I’m irresistible?” he suggested brightly.

  “That you could never be mistaken for being egoimpaired. Without exception, you are the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

  “Arrogant?” He tried hard to look wounded. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Aggressive, maybe.”

  She sniffed. “Try obnoxious.”

  “Persistent fits better, I think.”

  “Badgering fits perfectly.”

  He was enjoying this, and if she’d just loosen up and let herself admit it, he suspected she was enjoying it too. He winked at her and tried again. “Persuasive?”

  This time her mouth quirked. “Belligerent.”

  “Determined,” he countered, sensing her weakening. “I’m a determined man, Maggie mine.”

  She bristled right up again. “I am not your Maggie.”

  He’d gone a little too far with that one but decided to go for broke anyway. “Not yet, you’re not. But you will be,” he promised with a meaningful look. “Just as soon as you say the word.”

  That shut her up. It made him grin—something he seemed to continually feel the need to do since he’d found her again. Just like she obviously felt the need to back away from this conversation. That cornered look had crept over her face again.

  “So you don’t cook,” he said, changing tacks and giving her that out. “Not a problem. Watch and learn.”

  He snagged the fish from her hands, sauntered on by her and walked into the cabin.

  “By all means, make yourself at home.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he let the screen door bump shut behind him and assured her over his shoulder, “Oh, I plan to.”

  Her mumbled, “Now why does that not surprise me,” didn’t even slow his steps as he headed for the kitchen and started rummaging around in her cabinets for a frying pan.

  In the end, he’d had to play on her basic generosity to trick her into helping him with the meal. She contributed by making a salad while he fried the fish in a light coating of corn meal and cooked potatoes and carrots and onions in a separate pan

  By the time she’d set the table and they’d had several wonderfully accidental run-ins near the sink and stove in the cramped area, the delicious cooking aromas and his constant banter had begun to loosen her up a little. Her responses to his running commentary on everything from the weather to colorful stories about the locals and his business adventures had stretched out from stilted “uh-huhs” to the occasional “you’re making that up” or “you are so full of it, Hazzard.” She’d even smiled a couple of times without first thinking if she should let herself. He began to take heart.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked anxiously as she sat with her fork poised over her plate after swallowing a delicate mouthful of fish.

  “I think—” she paused to sigh with obvious pleasure “—that you could have a position as a chef at any number of haute cuisine establishments on the Left Bank.”

  He gave her a huge, proud smile. “That good, huh?”

  She nodded. “That good. Too good, in fact. It’ll take me a week to work off what I’m planning to eat tonight.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. From where I sit, it appears you could handle a few more pounds without ruining those fine lines.”

  “Well,” she said, getting adept at deflecting his teasing innuendos, “it may not make any difference, anyway. Since I’ve been out of circulation so long, and since I walked away from several contracts already in the works, I may not be in demand when I’m ready to work again. If I decide to work again,” she added with a thoughtful look across the table and out the window.

  J.D. wanted to zero in on her cryptic statement. He made himself hold back, purposely keeping the banter light. “From what I’ve seen of your career, it occurs to me that if you didn’t want to, you probably wouldn’t have to work again.”

  She nodded. “Not for financial reasons, that’s true. Retirement at my age seems a bit premature, though, don’t you think?”

  “No challenge in that,” he agreed. “So, if you decide not to go back to modeling, what would you like to do?”

  When she spoke, it was apparent that she had given the subject some serious thought. “I might try my hand on the other side of the camera.”

  He propped his forearm on the table and leaned back in the chair, considering. “Really? Well, they say that within every actor is a director waiting to burst out. Maybe the same holds true for models.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She became unnaturally silent then and stayed that way throughout the remainder of the meal, no matter how hard he played for a reaction.

  When it was over, he insisted: he washed, she dried. And in the homey intimacy of shared soap suds and softening daylight, he felt a slow and gentle relaxing of her guard again.

  One step at a time, Hazzard, he cautioned himself later as he held himself in check with a painfully brief goodbye kiss on her cheek, collected Hershey and flew off into the sunset.

  He had a plan, he kept assuring himself. And as soon as he figured out what it was, he was going to put it into action.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the plan developed kind of naturally. He kept showing up. She kept letting him. How could he not just fly with it?

  Not a day went by during the next two weeks that he didn’t “drop in” to bring her more fish, or to see how she was doing, or to try to make her laugh or roll those pretty eyes of hers or to simply look at him as if she was trying to figure out how far she could let herself trust him.

  He didn’t ply her for more information. He didn’t press for more intimacy. He talked and he laughed and he gave her time and room and his company. And he steered clear of any conversation about the poachers, and his niggling concern that her friend Abel Greene might still be involved.

  Instead, he concentrated on her. He let her get to know him, get to like him, and more importantly, get used to having him around. They went on long walks together; sometimes they even ra
n together. He fixed a leaky water pipe with his duct tape, they gave a disgruntled Hershey a bath in the lake and one afternoon he actually brought her flowers instead of fish, then helped her plant them in the flower bed in the front yard.

  Tonight, two weeks after he’d discovered her in the bay, he decided his slow and easy approach had been a wise choice of tactics. They sat side by side near the fire he’d made in the stone ring that he’d built for her by the shore. Hershey chased fireflies and made her grin as the moon rose high and full, reflecting its light like a shimmering yellow ribbon on the surface of the bay. It came to him as they shared the special night, that this was the first day she hadn’t reminded him it was getting late and suggested it was past time he headed for base.

  He took great stock in that omission. Even greater in the soft looks and considering glances she kept casting his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Hope rode high and strong inside him as he let the land and the water and the night infuse the moment with the magic that had brought him back year after year and had led him straight to her.

  The lake spoke its own special language at night. The sipping sounds of water lapped in an endless, gentle caress to mate with the welcome embrace of the shore. The occasional muted echo of a distant voice carried across the bay from a far-off cabin or campsite. Fallen leaves and dried pine needles rustled in the undergrowth as timid night creatures scurried across the forest floor. All were sounds inherent to the north, yet as elusive as the lake breeze that whispered around and between them, drawing them to a rich, new awareness of each other. The sensation was as unifying as it was unique. As was the color of the night.

  But for the starlight and moon glow, the night was filled with infinite shades of black, from the inky ripples on the water, to the jagged tree line etched along a cloudless horizon, to the shadows dancing on the shore. Even Maggie, her famous profile silhouetted against those definitive, deep hues, was a part of it. Never more than this night, he sensed her affinity with the quiet, peaceful perfection, uncluttered by population and city noise, uncomplicated by pressure and pretense.