by Lori Wilde
Then he was gone, leaving so abruptly she didn’t have the presence of mind to call goodbye.
How could this happen to her? She was dizzy with desire, but it was Jonathan she planned to marry—wanted to marry.
“There you are, darling.”
Jonathan came up behind her, shocking her back to reality. How much had he seen? Was there any way she could explain Nick?
She opted for saying nothing. Didn’t all women conjure up imaginary romances with sexy hunks? It was only her libido kicking in, as well it might at the ripe old age of twenty-four.
She stood on tiptoe and planted a welcoming kiss squarely on Jonathan’s lips. He looked startled but didn’t kiss her back. Of course he wouldn’t, not in sight of his whole firm.
“I’m very eager to have all this behind us and get to our wedding night,” he said in an affectionate voice.
“We don’t have to wait...” she began.
A woman with a face stretched taut by plastic surgery, a super-short pink suit, and cherry-red lipstick was bearing down on them, and Stacy never learned what Jonathan’s reaction would be to her impulsive suggestion.
9
Stacy went to bed with Nick at night and woke up with him in the morning.
She’d always enjoyed an active fantasy life, but dreams about her island rescuer made her feel as guilty as if she’d really been unfaithful to Jonathan.
What could she do? She’d grown up daydreaming about a knight in silver armor who would carry her away on his great white stallion. Now, of course, she knew a medieval champion’s personal hygiene practically guaranteed body odor and bad breath, but dreams died hard.
She had cold feet; that was the problem. She was focused on Nick, someone she hardly knew, because she had a severe case of nerves.
Even in school, she did her most intense worrying when everything was going well. Straight As in a class? Time to agonize over the final exam that could—but never did—spoil her perfect record.
Jonathan was kind and giving and considerate. They belonged together, and she was going to marry him if she ever decided on a wedding dress.
Today was the day, and she had an entourage to make sure she wasn’t kidnapped or otherwise sidetracked in her quest for The Gown. With the wedding only six weeks away, her father had threatened to pick it out for her if she didn’t make up her mind.
When her easygoing sweetheart of a dad issued an ultimatum, even Aunt Lucille toed the line. She was little and tough with tight iron-gray curls and bright-blue eyes. She didn’t buckle easily. Dad was probably the only one who could subdue Lucille.
So here she was in Belinda’s Bridal Boutique with her mom, great-aunt, and Jonathan.
“I still say it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding,” Aunt Lucille grumbled when she was momentarily alone with Stacy in the mirrored dressing room.
Stacy slithered into a bead-accented chiffon-and-crepe gown and tried to figure out how to walk without tripping on the attached train.
“Now, I wouldn’t vote that hunky hard hat off my island,” the diminutive septuagenarian went on. “I knew he was good news when I saw his picture on the television.”
“Shh,” Stacy warned. “Jonathan will hear you, Aunt Lucille.”
Given that her aunt’s voice carried like a foghorn, he probably already had. It was no secret she thought Jonathan had the charm of a toad, but singing Nick’s praises was one more tactic to “save” Stacy from a terrible fate.
“Do you like this one?” Stacy asked her aunt before she started itemizing the things she liked about a man she’d only seen on TV. In her aunt’s opinion, Nick’s number one asset was that he wasn’t Jonathan.
“Too fussy.” Aunt Lucille passed judgment on the wedding gown.
Stacy agreed, but she hadn’t found anything as sweet and simple as the dress that had been ruined during the kidnapping.
“You’re right,” Stacy agreed, “but I have to wear something.”
“You don’t have to get married at all,” Aunt Lucille muttered.
“Of course I do,” Stacy teased. “What would you and Mom do with the thirty dozen pink heart-shaped cream cheese mints in the freezer?”
Aunt Lucille snorted.
“How are you doing, darling?” Jonathan called from outside the dressing room.
“I’ll be right out to show you,” Stacy said.
“He’ll like it,” her aunt glumly predicted. “It’s as pretentious as he is.”
“Now behave,” Stacy scolded in a good-humored way.
Her aunt’s animosity was no secret to Jonathan. He pretended to be amused and sometimes baited the older woman to get a reaction, but Stacy suspected he’d like to stuff her in a cage with her pet canaries.
“Your mother has a couple more picked out for you to try,” he said, projecting his voice to be sure he was heard behind the closed door.
It wasn’t a bad thing to have a fiancé interested in the details of their wedding, Stacy told herself. Once Jonathan slipped the wedding band on her finger, she would forget all about Nick. They’d have a good life together. She’d always thought so, and a few last-minute jitters didn’t change that.
She only wished— No, it wasn’t fair to compare two men as different as Jonathan and Nick. Jon—she was trying to get used to calling him that—was restrained by their agreement not to sleep together until after the wedding, so naturally she didn’t feel as close to him as she would later.
“Are you coming out, or do I have to come in?” Jonathan teased in a pseudo-macho voice.
“Coming.”
Aunt Lucille snorted again.
Stacy wanted to make a decision and be done with dress hunting. Jonathan was so busy at work they still hadn’t had a serious conversation about her keeping her job after they were married. Right now, that was her priority.
It was another Thursday at the worksite, and Stacy’s wedding was three weeks from Saturday. Nick knew he didn’t have one good reason to see her again, but darn if he could think about anything else.
Zack had him pushing a broom, cleaning up after the carpenters, and that was okay. He knew his place. For now.
Hell, he enjoyed puttering around with Marsh more than he did working in the construction business. In fact, he’d dropped in on the old man at the plant a couple of evenings and helped him do some after-hours inventing. They were working on a mechanism for a plastic horse that actually walked.
Stripped to the waist in a pair of old khaki shorts, he still felt the humidity wrap around him like a blanket of steam. He bent to scoop up some chunks of wood and yelped in surprise. He’d sliced his thumb on a shard of metal discarded among the scraps.
Cole told him often enough to wear gloves, but he couldn’t stand them in this heat. He examined the cut. It obviously needed a bandage to stop the bleeding.
He went to the trailer office, cranky and frustrated because he couldn’t think of one good reason to see Stacy. He could tell her there were still no leads on the kidnappers according to his old school buddy on the Elm Park police force, but no news wasn’t news that justified a trip to see her.
The trailer was deserted, so he found some paper towels to wrap around his thumb. The absence of his brothers gave him an idea. He scribbled a note, thought of putting a bloody thumbprint on the paper, and decided that was overkill.
I put a piece of wood through my thumb. Went for first aid. —Nick
Who better to administer first aid than a preschool teacher?
When he got to Stacy’s workplace, Nick pulled on the fairly fresh Red Wings T-shirt he kept in the car and stood watching her on the playground with the kids. How did she manage to chase after toddler terrorists and still look cool and fresh? He liked the short denim jumper she was wearing with a pink T-shirt. In fact, he liked everything about her except her wedding plans.
A few parents showed up to claim their kids, and Nick was content waiting unseen for the general exodus to finish. When m
ost of her charges had left, he went inside to see Stacy.
When she saw him, she pursed her lips in a downright hostile frown, but not before he saw an instant of pure happiness on her face.
“Nick, what are you doing here?”
“I came to throw myself on your mercy.”
“Bye-bye, Kitten. Don’t forget to bring pictures of food tomorrow,” she called out to the last departing child as she left with a curly-haired blond woman who was vaguely familiar.
“You can’t drop in here any time you like,” Stacy told him angrily. “That was Jonathan’s sister! I met him here when he came to pick up Kitten.”
“Kitten?”
“It’s her nickname, short for Kristina. What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area.”
Big lie. He’d fought his way across town through a million or so cars to see her.
“Like I believe that,” she protested.
“I needed someone to help me.”
Small lie. He couldn’t put a good bandage on his own thumb, could he? No need to mention anyone on the site could. He held it up for her sympathy.
“What is that?”
“Cut.”
“I only kiss boo-boos if you’re under five.”
“My bad luck. You must know first aid. I was hoping you’d take care of it for me. I promise I won’t cry if you hurt me.”
“You want me to do it here?” She looked around at a couple of co-workers shuffling chairs and straightening toys.
“I also wanted to talk to you about something.” This was the biggest whopper of all. He didn’t have a clue what he’d discuss with her.
“Oh, all right,” she said, running her hand through her blond hair in frustration. “I’d rather we talked at my place than here. You can follow me home when I’m done. It’s only a twenty-minute drive.”
“Thanks.”
He flashed the smile that had charmed a thousand coeds. She scowled and started stacking little chairs on the low tables.
On the way home, Stacy had never had a harder time keeping her mind on traffic. Nick was following her, and she didn’t want to be alone with him. No, that wasn’t true. She wanted it too much for her peace of mind.
When they got to her apartment, he parked in the Residents Only area. He’d be towed away if he stayed all night.
What was she thinking? He wasn’t going to stay all night! She was near panic because she might not be able to say no if he really tried.
He got out of his car and waited for her with one foot on the raised curb of the walkway. He was wearing khaki shorts, and even his knees were cute. They were maybe a little bony like most men’s were—well, not Jonathan’s. His were rounder and plumper. But she could see herself painting happy faces on Nick’s.
And where in blue blazes did that idea come from? Next, she’d have fantasies about finger painting on his butt!
“How did you cut yourself?” she asked, trying to normalize her thought processes.
“Cleaning up after the carpenters. My brothers hope I’ll get tired of no-brainer jobs and try to learn the business.”
“Will you?”
“Nope.”
She unlocked the rear entrance and held it open for him.
“Go on up,” she said, tossing him the keys. “I’m going to check my mailbox.”
She wanted a minute to regroup her defenses, and she didn’t need Nick checking out her backside as she went up the stairs. As it was, she felt as self-conscious as a nun at a stag party.
Stacy walked to the front lobby and realized she’d given Nick the box key along with the others. She pretended to unlock it to sort through a few bills and ads just to kill the amount of time it would take to really pick up her mail. Fortunately, there was no one in the lobby to see her charade.
Nick was waiting in the open doorway of her apartment.
“Any mail?”
“Not today,” she fibbed.
“Good thing, since I have your key.”
He dangled her key ring, and she snatched it away, feeling as if she’d been caught with her hand somewhere naughty.
“I don’t have many first-aid supplies,” she warned, trying to pretend he was there because of a cut.
Whatever his real reason, she knew a lame excuse when she heard one.
“All women have bandages and stingy stuff.”
“You’ve researched that?”
“Intimately.”
He grinned broadly, but she refused to take the bait. Of course, Nick would have a lot of experience with women, but she didn’t want to know about it.
“Wash your hands at the kitchen sink. I’ll get my supplies.”
Actually, she did have a pretty good first aid kit, thanks to a course she took.
She heard water running and came back to find him drying his hands on a paper towel and grinning broadly.
“Can’t remember the last time someone told me to wash my hands.”
“You probably don’t know many preschool teachers. We have the habit of command. Sit at the table, and I’ll clean it.”
“Do you promise to kiss it better if you hurt me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
She loved his silliness and his seriousness—and the sensual way he looked at her. It was enough to pop the buttons off her jumper.
Thumbs were tricky digits. They didn’t lie flat, and his kept curling at the wrong angle. She really had no choice but to take his hand in hers and hold it still while she dabbed on an antiseptic.
His hands were work-roughened, but she loved his long, strong fingers and the warmth of his flesh on her palm. Touching him made it hard to remember the cut.
“If I hurt you, holler,” she said, grimly tackling the bandaging job.
“You won’t hurt me.” He spoke in a low, seductive voice that made her hand unsteady.
“It’s deep.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not really good at this.”
“You’re very good.”
“If the gauze is too tight, I’ll stop...”
“I never want you to stop holding my hand.”
Oh... She’d never known the sunbaked scent of a man could be so disturbing.
He leaned closer to see how she was doing, and his forehead brushed hers. She could feel the tickle of his breath and sense the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Images swam in her head. She could see him stretched out naked on her sunny yellow sheets, his hair tousled and his lips swollen from...
Doing that which she’d never do with Nick.
This was not right. This was all wrong. Nick had to go home so she could marry Jonathan.
She slapped on a final strip of adhesive tape and stood up to put distance between them.
“Ouch!”
“I warned you.” Her voice didn’t sound quite normal.
“It’s okay. You did fine. I’ll bring you all my first-aid business.”
“No, you won’t.” She tried to make her voice cold and decisive, but a little tremor betrayed her.
To her mixed dismay and delight, he leaned closer yet and brushed her lips with his.
“You shouldn’t...shouldn’t.”
“Just a thank-you kiss.”
“Please, Nick.” She was trying to convince herself more than him. “If you really want to thank me, you’ll leave.”
“Before something happens we’ll both regret?”
“Nothing is going to happen. You shouldn’t have come here. You probably don’t have anything important to say to me. You’re confusing me, and it’s not fair.”
“What isn’t fair? You getting married to a stuffed shirt like Mercer?”
She wanted to be angry, but his face looked vulnerable, as though his strongly chiseled features had been softened by regret. The summer sun had lightened his rusty-brown hair, but his eyes never seemed darker—or more compelling.
“You have no right to say that. We’re very compatible.”
“Compatible,” he scoff
ed and pursed his full, sensual lips.
“We had everything planned, our whole future, before I ever knew you.” She was pacing, her shoes thumping on the kitchen tiles.
“And now that you do know me?” He stood and blocked her nervous back-and-forth movement.
“Nothing has changed.”
Everything had changed, but she had to make Nick go before something really wrong happened. The terrible thing was, she was resisting her own impulses, not his.
“Cancel the wedding.” He made it sound like an order, which made it easier to sound indignant.
“You can’t say that to me!”
“As a friend, I can.”
“A friend doesn’t make a friend feel...”
He was so fast and so strong she didn’t have to blame herself for what happened. He pulled her close and engulfed her in his arms. Before she could think of protesting, his lips came down on hers.
She closed her eyes and saw a kaleidoscope of colors. Her ears were ringing, and her toes lost contact with the floor. She clung to Nick’s neck, and her mind went blank. Her breasts flattened against his muscular chest, and she could feel his arousal against her groin.
He cupped her bottom and held her tightly.
“I can’t think of anything but you,” he whispered close to her ear, echoing the words floating in her own mind.
“I wish I’d met you sooner,” she managed to say.
“It’s not too late.”
He scooped her in his arms and carried her into the sunny feminine bedroom with throw pillows and wall tapestries.
“Nick! You have to put me down.”
The seriousness of what was happening came down on her in an avalanche of guilt, but the last thing she really wanted was to have him stop.
He laid her on the bed and sat on the edge, leaning toward her to fumble with the buttons on her jumper.
“They don’t unbutton.”
“They’re decorative.”
He looked so puzzled she lost it and did the one thing that could break the spell.