by Linda Howard
I was so relieved I could barely stand it. I still had to find the perfect fabric, but finding fabric is much easier than finding the perfect ready-made gown. If I’d been prepared to settle for something that merely looked good I wouldn’t have been so worried, but I’m not the best in the world at “settling.” Sometimes I have to, but I don’t like it.
Over lunch we told Dad and Wyatt how Sally was saving the day. “She needs something to get her mind off Jazz, too,” Mom said.
Wyatt’s gaze met mine and I saw his expression. It isn’t that he doesn’t get Mom’s and my position on the matter, which is that Jazz deserved being hit with a car for what he did, because I’ve explained it to him; it’s that his cop instincts are outraged. He looks at Sally trying to ram Jazz with her car as attempted murder, even though Jazz jumped out of the way and wasn’t hurt, and he thinks Jazz should have reported the incident to the police and pressed charges against her. Sometimes I think his sense of right and wrong is a little warped by all those criminal justice classes he took in college.
He didn’t say anything, but I knew he wasn’t happy about Sally making my dress; I also knew he’d have plenty to say when we were alone, but he wasn’t going to start an argument in front of my parents, especially when it was about Mom’s best friend. The glint in his eyes, though, told me we’d be discussing it plenty when we were alone.
I didn’t mind. I was in an unassailable position. No matter what decision was made about any part of our wedding, it was All His Fault, because his deadline was what had precipitated the rush. I just love unassailable positions—so long as I’m the one occupying them.
He barely waited until I was buckled into the seat of the Avalanche before he attacked. “Can’t you find someone else to make your wedding dress?”
“There isn’t enough time,” I said sweetly.
He saw right away where that was going, and detoured. “She tried to kill her husband.”
I gave a wave of my hand. “I don’t see the connection between that and making my dress. And I’ve told you: she didn’t try to kill him, she just wanted to maim him a little.”
He shot me an unreadable glance. “Two days ago I watched a videotape of someone trying to hit you with a car. Don’t talk to me about ‘maiming a little.’ A car is deadly. She was going so fast she couldn’t stop before she hit the house. If Jazz hadn’t jumped out of the way, he’d have been pinned between the car and the house. Do I have to find scene photographs to show you the damage that can be done to the human body in situations like that?”
Damn it all to hell and back, I absolutely hate it when he makes a point that overrides my unassailable position.
He was right. Viewed from his vantage point as a cop, which meant he regularly saw things that would give me nightmares, he was right. Sally had acted with complete disregard for Jazz’s life and well-being. Not only that, I knew that if our positions were reversed and I’d watched someone try to kill Wyatt, I wouldn’t be the least forgiving about it.
“Shit.”
One of his level brows lifted. “Does that mean you agree?”
“It means I see your point.” I tried not to sound sulky. I don’t think I succeeded, because he hid a quick grin.
This was now a sticky wicket, because Sally had already agreed to make my dress; not only that, she was excited about it, because Sally loves my sisters and me almost as much as she loves her own kids. We’re like family. I couldn’t find someone else to make the dress now without really hurting her feelings. For that matter, in the short length of time I had, I probably couldn’t find anyone else to make the dress, period.
I wasn’t dumb enough to bang my head against the dashboard in frustration, but I felt like it.
Wyatt had caused this dilemma by using common sense. That’s cheating. So I threw it back in his lap. That’s only fair, right? “Okay, here’s the deal: I’m really, really short on time. The odds are I won’t be able to get the dress made by a professional, because they’ll all already be booked. It’s possible I can find what I want ready-made, but I didn’t find anything in the mall and I haven’t found anything online. If you insist, I’ll somehow find a way to back out of letting Sally make my dress, but, you’ll have to live with the consequences if I have to get married in whatever dress I can find at the last minute.”
I was deadly serious in my tone and expression, maybe because I was deadly serious. I wasn’t taking this lightly. I had a dream, a vision of how I wanted my wedding to him to be, and a big part of that dream was seeing the look in his eyes when I walked toward him wearing this killer gown. It was a moment something in me needed, something that had taken a big hit when I found out my ex was unfaithful. I didn’t go around whining about it all the time, but I hadn’t escaped my first marriage totally baggage-free; I had a couple of small carry-ons that had to be dealt with.
He gave me a quick, piercing look, gauging my sincerity. Really, I don’t know why he didn’t just take what I said at face value. Okay, so I do know. Probably it should bother me that the man I love doesn’t trust me, but it would bother me a whole lot more if he were fool enough that he did trust me. I’m not talking about cheating on him sexually or emotionally because that wasn’t going to happen, but in our own private little battle for relationship turf, all strategies were fair. He’d made that rule himself, with his damn-the-torpedoes, get-her-at-all-costs pursuit of me. Actually, he hadn’t even pursued me; he’d grabbed me and refused to let go.
Remembering that gave me a little flutter, both in my heart and farther down, and I squirmed a little.
He swore under his breath, jerking his gaze back to the street. “Damn it, stop squirming. You do that every time you think about sex.”
“I do?” Maybe I did. But he was…squirmworthy.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, reminding me that we hadn’t made love since Wednesday night, and it was now Sunday. He’d relieved some of my tension the night before, but as good as he was with his hands and mouth it just wasn’t the same as his penis. Some things are made to go together, you know?
Wyatt, on the other hand, hadn’t had any relief unless he’d taken care of the matter while he showered. Considering the whiteness of his knuckles, I didn’t think he had.
“We were talking about Sally,” he said, his tone rough and tense.
I fought to bring my thoughts back on subject. “I’ve told you what I think.”
He took a couple of breaths. “Exactly what will be the consequences if you don’t get married in this dress you want so much?”
“I don’t know,” I said simply. “I just know it’ll hurt me.”
“Shit,” he muttered. He doesn’t mind driving me nuts, making me angry, or frustrating the hell out of me, but he’ll move heaven and earth to keep from hurting me. Every women should be loved like that. My heart swelled, or it felt as if it did. That’s a scary sensation, too, because if your heart really swelled it could probably tear some of the plumbing lines loose, or something.
He was silent for about two blocks and I began to tense, wondering what he was thinking. Wyatt’s too smart to let him think for long, or he’ll come up with—
“Get them back together,” he said.
My brain felt as if all the gray stuff was suddenly squeezed together. “What?” Damn it, damn it! Was he serious? I assumed he was talking about Sally and Jazz, but their own children couldn’t even get them in the same room together. I should have interrupted him at least a block back, jerked the steering wheel or something, or maybe clutched my head and fallen over, except then he’d have taken me to the ER again, and I’d had enough of that place.
“Sally and Jazz,” he said, confirming my fear that he was trying to completely derail me. “Get them back together. Make them sit down and talk this out. I figure if you can get Jazz to move past his wife trying to kill him, then I’ll have to admit I’m taking this too seriously.”
“Are you nuts?” I shrieked, rounding on him, which wasn’t a go
od idea because the sudden movement shifted my headache from a mere presence into an attention-getter. I did clutch my head, but I didn’t fall over.
“Be careful,” he said sharply.
“Don’t tell me to be careful after you throw something like that in my lap!” Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more outrageous or demanding, he pulled something like that. He’s a diabolical fiend.
“It’s roughly equivalent to what you threw in mine.” His eyes were glittering, sharp little green lights of mixed temper and satisfaction.
Oh. He’d noticed that, huh?
“You aren’t incapacitated with a concussion! Or by a concussion. Whatever.”
“You’re recovering fast,” he said with a notable lack of compassion. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you went back to work tomorrow.”
I had, in fact, been planning on just that. I scowled at him, which he took for an admission.
“I’m not a marriage counselor,” I said in frustration. “Even worse, I’m almost like one of their own children. They won’t listen to their kids, why do you think they’ll listen to me?”
“That’s your problem,” he said, again with a notable lack of compassion.
“You don’t think it’ll be your problem if I’m not happy at our wedding? Didn’t you hear me say I’m short on time? This will take time I don’t have!”
“Make time.”
He thought he was so smart. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay. I’ll take the time we would have spent making love, and that’s when I’ll talk to Sally and Jazz.”
He actually laughed out loud at that. Yeah, I know my track record for refusing him anything is really pretty sucky, but he laughed.
One cannot flounce when one has a concussion, even one that’s mild. I didn’t even want to get out of his truck by myself, because it’s a big truck and you have to climb down, and if I landed just a little too hard my head would be jarred and that was really no fun at all. So I had to wait for him to come around and lift me out of the truck, which he did with great pleasure because then he could let me slide all the way down his front, and I almost got caught on the parts that were jutting out, which made him smile with satisfaction.
This man was evil.
I said furiously, “If we ever have sex again, which right now is very much in doubt, we’re doing it the tantric way.”
He was grinning as he followed me up the steps to the front door. “I’m not chanting anything when we have sex.”
“Oh, it doesn’t involve chanting. I don’t think. It involves discipline.”
“I’m not letting you anywhere near a whip.”
I scoffed. “Not that kind of discipline. Self-discipline. Tantric sex lasts a long, long time.”
“Now that I can get behind,” he said, looking interested.
Smiling sweetly I said, “Oh, good, we’ll try that, then. You promise, don’t you?”
“You bet,” he said, his libido getting in the way of thinking clearly. That state of affairs wouldn’t last for long, though, so I hurried in for the kill.
“By the way—”
“Yeah?”
“It lasts a long, long time because the man doesn’t get to come.”
Chapter
Ten
Wyatt gave me an astonished look then burst out laughing, holding his sides as if the idea of tantric sex was the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard of in his life. He howled with laughter. Tears ran down his cheeks. He stopped laughing for a few seconds, then looked at my face and started all over again. He ended up collapsed on the sofa, still laughing.
I stood tapping my foot—very gently—for a while, my arms crossed. What the hell was so funny? I began to get annoyed. I like a joke as well as anyone, but first I have to know what it is. Then I began to get pissed, because I got the feeling he was laughing at me. I got this idea because he kept pointing at me, then breaking into fresh fits of mirth. Finally I was angry.
First, let me point out that if flouncing hurts, marching is out of the question. I had to settle for merely walking, but with attitude, over to glare down at him. “Would you stop?” I shouted, thinking seriously about pinching him. “What’s so funny?” Things were not going my way, and that is so not on my list of favorite things. Evidently I’d overlooked something, and Wyatt is an expert at finding loopholes—or completely ignoring what I tell him. In retrospect, making him worry about the flowers for the wedding didn’t seem mean at all.
“You,” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. He sat up and reached for me, but I hastily stepped back out of reach. I can’t fight if he’s touching me, because I get sidetracked. He fights dirty, using my weaknesses against me by going straight for my neck, like Dracula focusing on an open vein. Forget my breasts; touching them does nothing for me. But man oh man, my neck is a big-time erogenous zone, and Wyatt knows it.
“I’m so glad you find me amusing.” I wanted to pout, and I also wanted to kick him. You’ll notice I was having these violent thoughts, but I did not act on any of them. I’m not a violent person. Vindictive, maybe, but not violent. I’m also not stupid. If I ever get violent with someone, it isn’t going to be a muscular, athletic guy who’s ten inches taller than I am and about ninety pounds heavier, if not more. That’s if I have a choice.
His shoulders began shaking again. “It…it’s just the very idea—”
“That some men believe their partners’ pleasure is more important than their own?” I felt very indignant that he’d be laughing about this. I thought it was a great idea.
He shook his head. “N-no, not that.” He took a deep breath, his green eyes brilliant from mirth and moisture. “It’s just that—You came up with this idea as a way to pay me back because you thought I’d go nuts with frustration.”
“Oh? You mean it won’t bother you at all?” I couldn’t believe him. I know Wyatt, and “horny” is his middle name. Not literally, of course, though wouldn’t that be interesting on his birth certificate?
Lazily he got to his feet, hooking an arm around my waist before I could scoot even farther away. I was slower than usual, because I had to be careful, and he moved with the quick grace of the true athlete. He pulled me close, wrapping his other arm around me, too, and lifted me on my tiptoes so my hips fit right against his. He had a hard-on, of course—big surprise there. The tingles that started zipping through me were no surprise, either.
“It would bother me,” he drawled, “if it happened. Picture this: I’m on top of you. We’re naked. Your legs are around my waist. I’m kissing your neck. I’ve been fucking you for, let’s say, twenty minutes or so.”
Twenty minutes? Man, I need to turn on the air-conditioning, because the temperature in the condo was suddenly too high. My nipples were tingling now, because even though I don’t much like having them touched, they weren’t dead. Most of my parts were tingling. I took this to mean I was in trouble.
He bent his head down so his hot breath washed over my neck as he kissed the hollow below my ear. Somehow I was a little off balance, so I had to cling to his shoulders to stay upright—except that wasn’t really working, because I wasn’t exactly upright, but I just kept on clinging. “You wouldn’t be able to stop me from coming,” he murmured, kissing down the side of my neck. “You wouldn’t even think of it.”
Think of what? I wondered fuzzily, then jerked my wandering mind back on topic. See, this is what he does when we’re fighting, he distracts me with sex. I admit to sometimes deliberately starting an argument because I like the way he fights; I’m not stupid. The problem is that he uses the same tactics when I’m serious. He likes that I have such a difficult time resisting him, because he isn’t stupid, either. After we’ve been together a couple of years I figure the intensity will fade and we’ll have to find another way to settle our arguments, but until then the best way to fight fire was to set a backfire.
I stopped clinging with one hand, and sent it roaming over his shoulder and down his arm, to his ribs, down some more—slow
ly, slowly, trailing my fingers, pausing to rub, then finally going for the bull’s-eye. He shuddered as I stroked him through his jeans, his arms tightening around me.
“God almighty,” he said in a strained voice, stopping his assault on my neck as he concentrated on my assault on him. He hadn’t had any relief in a few days, and I figured he was more needy than I was, especially considering how generous he’d been with me the day before.
Yes, if I were fair-minded, I’d either give him the same relief or stop teasing him. Get real.
Probably our game of tease would have stopped being a game and we’d have ended up in bed—or on the couch—having the most careful, nonjostling sex we could manage, if his cell phone hadn’t rung. He had it set to a real, old-fashioned ring-ring sound, just like an ordinary phone, and in my dazed state I thought my home phone was ringing. I fully intended to ignore it, but instead of continuing with what he was doing he immediately released me and pulled the phone from his belt.
The worst thing about being involved with a cop is the hours. No, the worst thing would be if he’d been on the street and in constant danger, but Wyatt was a lieutenant, which meant he wasn’t involved in any dangerous stuff any longer—thank God—but it also meant he was on call just about all the time. Our city isn’t a hotbed of crime, but still he got called out, on average, three or four nights a week. Weekends were no exception.
“Bloodsworth,” he said in a slightly clipped accent, the result of his years spent playing football up North, his attention already completely focused on the situation being related to him. I started to move away from him and he caught my wrist, holding me in place. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t completely focused.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he finally said, and closed the flip-top on the phone.