Beckett's Convenient Bride (15 page)

“Turns out you were right on target,” he said. “Mooney has been under surveillance ever since discrepancies started showing up, mostly concerning missing evidence.”

“Missing evidence of what?”

“Dope and guns, taken in other busts. Supposedly kept under lock and key.”

He could practically see her processing the information. Oh, yeah—the lady was a lot smarter than she let on. He was onto her now.

She took a big gulp of coffee and wrinkled her nose. Not a sign of makeup, Carson marveled, watching her, and she was flat-out gorgeous. Naked freckles, shadowed eyes, messy hair and all.

“Kit, Kit,” he said softly. Rising, he stood over her, removed the cup from her hand and lifted her to her feet. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered.

She was barely breathing—but then, he was having trouble in that regard, too. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, but he clean forgot to breathe. She lifted her face as naturally as a sunflower sought out the sun, and he met her halfway. Her lips parted under his, the liquid dance of desire, lightly seasoned with coffee, escalating as his hands moved over her satin-clad body.

Digging her fingers under his belt, Kit tried to pull his shirttail free, as if desperately needing to touch bare skin. Needing…everything.

“You've got clothes to try on, woman,” he said gruffly, but neither of them seriously thought there'd be any trying-on in the near future.

At least, not of clothes.

By the time they ended up in bed, along with a shoebox and several bags, Kit had somehow managed to shed her dress. Getting Carson out of his stiff new jeans took more time. Took four hands and a lot of awkward, breathless maneuvers. The jeans weren't all that was stiff.

“You're downright habit-forming,” he murmured once they were both suitably naked. His mouth moved down her throat toward her breasts. “Either that or—” he laved
one nipple with his tongue, relishing her reaction “—or my immune system is seriously compromised.”

“You're accusing me of compromising you?” she teased.

“Oh, yea-ahhh…” This time they took time to savor each small step along the way. Bolder now, Kit insisted on exploring, and Carson lay back and allowed her to have her way with him. Actually encouraged it in so many words, his own passion enhanced, if that were possible, by her obvious delight.

“May I kiss you here?” she asked, toying with one of his nipples. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat while his lungs threatened to go on strike.

“What about here?” she asked moments later as she probed his navel, then traced the scattering of dark hair surrounding it.

Swallowing hard, he managed to nod. “Be my guest.”

Some time later, she moved south, having evidently gained courage from his reaction to her earlier ministrations.

This time, the instant her hand closed around him, he covered it with his own. “Wait—just—give me a minute,” he gasped.

And so she gave him a minute—maybe two before she reclaimed control. And then Carson returned the favor. It was hours before either of them thought about going shopping again.

A
fter explaining to Kit about the internal investigation, Carson checked in with the local sheriff again, leaving a number where he and Kit could be reached in the event it became necessary. She didn't question him. She did give him a look he found impossible to interpret.

After that they went shopping, as he'd just picked up the bare essentials on his earlier foray. Shopping was not something he'd ever enjoyed, unless it was shopping for fishing tackle. Shopping with a woman was in a totally different category.

It turned out to involve lots of laughter and a few minor skirmishes, but no real problems. He insisted on buying her a pair of plain navy jeans and a white camp shirt.

“Dull, dull, dull! May I at least pick out my own accessories?”

Feeling magnanimous—feeling, in fact, as if he'd just tossed back one too many glasses of vintage champagne,
he said, “Be my guest. I'll meet you here in what—ten minutes?” Here being the book section of the big discount store, where Kit had looked over the children's section and sighed, but hadn't said anything.

Thirty-five minutes later she was back, proudly showing off a pair of red sandals, some purple knee socks and wearing a pair of bead-and-feather earrings that dusted her shoulders. “I bought these on my own,” she announced, touching them proudly, “so don't say a word. I needed something to cheer me up.”

He only shook his head and grinned. This was Kit. His Kit, whether or not she knew it. He'd caught onto her by now. The more uncertain she felt on the inside, the more outrageous she acted on the outside. Methinks thou dost protest too much…hadn't somebody or other once said something like that?

Yeah, she had her defense mechanism, but then, so did he.

Once outside the store, they surveyed the lunch possibilities and decided on subs again. After the first few protests, Kit didn't mention paying him back. He knew she was only biding her time—knew, too, that at the moment, she had few options, at least until they could reestablish her credentials and cash her check.

They left the sub shop and set out across the rapidly filling parking lot toward his car. She said, “Okay, what next? Where do we go from here?”

He unlocked the doors and thought of how best to put it. What had been a disaster for her had turned out to be a windfall for him, but he didn't think she was ready to hear that, and so he asked her for a favor. “Kit, I need you to think seriously about coming home with me.”

When she started to protest, he held up a hand. They were still standing outside the car under a cloudless sky.
He should have bought her some sunglasses. “Now wait,” he said. “Just hear me out before you say anything.”

She crossed her arms and waited. Her left foot was starting to tap. “I'm listening.” Was this the same woman who had come apart in his arms again and again, only a few hours ago?

“Yeah, but with a closed mind, right? Kit—look, it's early yet. I mean, in days. For us, I mean.” Smooth, Beckett. Real smooth. “But you have to admit, things have been kind of crazy ever since we met.”

She nodded. “That much I'll grant you.”

Carson rubbed the back of his neck. As a busted-up cop with too many years of rough mileage on him, he was in no position to blurt out his feelings. They were too new. Truth was, they scared the hell out of him, and he'd never been called a coward. Been called a few other things, but never a coward. “Okay, here goes,” he said, eyes narrowed, fists on his hips. “I want you to come home with me as my fiancée. Wait—wait.” He held up a hand. “Don't say anything yet. We can get married as soon as you round up a dress—something fancy with a veil—maybe kind of old-fashioned. Margaret can show you where to shop and all. And then—”

“Margaret?
Your
Margaret?”

“She's not my Margaret—at least, not the way you mean it. Look, we were never in love. Never could have been, not in a million years, we know each other too well. But we were willing to go through with a wedding for my mom's sake. Because we both love her and it's the last thing we can do for her to bring her any joy. But then Margaret got this chance to join a New York decorating—”

“Wait! Just hold on—you're trying to tell me Margaret
dumped you and now you want me to marry you? Just like that?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Carson turned away and stared at a heavily detailed monster truck on display near the center of the parking lot. Man, talk about screwing up! He'd never got around to formally proposing to Margaret, but when he'd first broached the subject of a marriage for his mother's sake, he'd done it at Margaret's favorite French restaurant. He'd wanted every advantage he could scratch up. Not that it had done much good. In the first place, he didn't like food he could neither recognize nor pronounce. In the second place, he'd been without sleep for almost thirty-six hours.

To make up for that and a few more shortcomings, he'd bought her two dozen roses.

She'd started sneezing.

“Okay, so maybe this isn't the most romantic place for a proposal. I just wanted to let you know you had another option. Besides calling on the judge, I mean.”

She snorted. No other word for it. He didn't know if it was his proposal, which might have been somewhat lacking in finesse, or the mention of her grandfather. “You're talking about a marriage of convenience,” she stated.

“I am?”

“Well, what else would it be?”

“Legal, for one thing. As for the rest, I guess you could say it's negotiable.” He had a feeling he was headed down a dead-end road, but wasn't quite sure when he'd taken the wrong turn.

“Get in the car,” he said. “I can't stand too long in one position without my knee acting up.”

Man, you are a real prize. Why not play on her sympathy? It worked before—she took you in after nearly running you off the road.

To hell with that. “Okay, let's cut to the chase. I need you, and you need—”

“No, I don't.” Arms still crossed, foot still tapping. Eyes flashing danger signs that could be picked up by any spy satellite.

Oh, what the hell, man—if you're going to blow it, might as well blow the works. “Yeah, honey, you do. But not as much as I need you, and if you want to know the truth, it's not just because my mother happens to be hung up on weddings.” She swallowed hard. That was an encouraging sign, wasn't it? “So I thought maybe if we start out slow—play things by ear for a while—I mean, go through with the ceremony and all, but my house has two bedrooms. We can set you up in one with a bed and a desk. I'll get you a computer and whatever art supplies you need and you can—”

“Carson?”

“—back up your works, and maybe even write faster. I don't know how it works with the kind of writing you do, but cleaning up mistakes is bound to be faster, so—”

“Carson?”

“—so anyhow, I'll be at work mostly, and you can have the place all to yourself. It'd be nice if you dropped by to visit my mom every few days, but that's up to you.”

“Carson!”

Carson heard laughter and glanced around at a handful of shoppers loading parcels into a green pickup two slots over. He looked back at Kit and felt his face grow hot. “Yeah? Sorry—I guess we'd better continue this discussion somewhere else.”

“How about our room?”

Our room.
Our
room? He hadn't checked out yet,
knowing that if things didn't work out, he'd have to fall back on a hastily formed contingency plan.

Without another word they climbed into the Yukon and buckled up. Carson started the engine, drove approximately fifteen feet and stopped. He pulled on the emergency brake. “Listen, I may as well level with you. It's not fair, me asking you to go into this thing not knowing the score.”

She looked at him as if he were an interesting specimen of insect and she couldn't decide whether to step on him or let him live. Strong woman. She might look like a flake, he thought, not for the first time, but there was a core of tempered steel underneath that gaudy, irresistible facade.

“I'm listening,” she said.

Oh boy. Crunch time. “I, uh—I've never done this before, so I might screw up.”

“Never done what? Stop traffic in the middle of a parking lot on a busy Saturday afternoon?”

Behind him, a car horn blared out. “Wait a sec,” he growled and pulled over to one side, beside the gardening display.

He shut off the engine, unsnapped his seat belt, turned to her and said, “Okay, here's the score. I think I might be in love with you. If that scares you, I promise never to mention it again, but—”

“Carson.”

“—but I just thought you ought to know going in what you're up against. I mean, I really like you, too. Like and respect—”

“Carson?”

“So we could start out as friends, maybe go on like that for a few days—that is, a few weeks. Or even longer—it's your call.” Not that he wouldn't be doing his
damndest every second of every day to make her change her mind.

“Carson!” she shouted.

“What!” he shouted back.

“Would you please just shut up and kiss me?”

T
hey decided on a morning wedding, as Kate Beckett tended to wilt early. Kit asked timidly if they could have it in the garden, and Kate clapped her hands in delight. The women collaborated on the guest list. Margaret hired the tables and handwrote the invitations. Carson's Aunt Becky took care of the minister, the music and the food. It was a rushed affair, but everyone who knew them understood. Those who didn't were simply not invited.

Kit's cousin Liza, who was expecting a baby any day, sat by with her feet elevated while she filled Kit in with details of the family she was about to become a part of. Kit spent most of her time in town, as Carson was working day and night, trying to catch up with a backlog of work down at headquarters. “You understand,” said Liza, “I can't vouch for any of this, but if only half of it is true, then PawPaw, who died recently, was about one part financial genius and three parts scalawag.” They laughed
quietly, and then Liza said, “Tell me something, cous—how much do you know about our Chandler ancestors?”

Kit shook her head. She was snapping beans into a bowl in her lap. None of the Becketts appeared in any big hurry, but none was allowed to sit idle, either, except for Liza, who was busy gestating. It was as if the entire family functioned as one big unit. She rather liked the feeling, although it took some getting used to.

“Well, let me tell you, our grandmother—no, she was our great-grandmother—she was a real pistol. They say she was almost as big as her husband, and could ride and shoot circles around any man on the ranch.”

“Shoot circles?”

“Figure of speech.” Liza laughed. “Hey, humor me, will you? Hormones gone haywire.”

“Come on inside, ladies, it's lemonade time,” someone called out.

And so it went. Kit had been absorbed into the family from the very first. Carson's mother, who was a dear and didn't seem as if she were suffering from anything more than slight confusion, insisted on showing her all the scrapbooks she'd filled…and then showing her again and again. She called her Emaline, and sometimes Abigail, but that was all right. Kit knew plenty of women with large families who had to call the roll before they hit on the right name.

Liza's husband, Lance, who was a pirate chaser, of all things, had called her Kit Carson and told her how, on some of the smaller islands along the coast, where only a few family names prevailed, wives were called by their own and their husband's given names, to avoid confusion.

They were about to go inside for lemonade when Carson arrived, walking silently up behind her on the lush
grass to slide his arms down around her shoulders. “Miss me?” he whispered in her ear.

“I've been hearing stories.”

“Uh-oh, I was afraid of that. Hi, Liza. Is the Buckett going to make it to the wedding?”

“He'll be in tonight. I told him he's not going to leave again until after my coming-out party, so if you want company on your honeymoon…”

“No thanks.”

Carson's father met them at the back door, holding his wife's hand. Kate brightened when she saw her son, and greeted him by saying, “I can't recall your name at the moment, but the Lady Baltimore cake is on the sideboard.” She frowned and her beloved Lancelot, third in a long line of Lancelots, led her back inside.

“Your folks will be in late tonight,” Carson told Kit. “They'll be staying with Aunt Becky and Uncle Coley.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and he laughed. “Hey, don't sweat it. Aunt Becky'll charm the socks off old Cast Iron, you just wait and see.”

“No thanks. I plan to be busy, starting at eleven tomorrow morning.” They'd scheduled the ceremony for eleven, with lunch in the garden to follow. After that, Carson and his bride would slip away to his cottage—more of a fishing retreat, really—on Kiawah Island.

“Ready to go home?” he asked her now.

Kit wanted to say she was already home, because she was. Carson's Aunt Becky had admired her earrings. His father had asked her if she followed baseball, and as it happened, she'd known the names of a few Braves players. He'd immediately declared her to be just the daughter he'd been waiting for.

Even Margaret had accepted her. “Lord, better you than me, honey. Have you seen that house of Car's?”
She'd laughed and added, “Well, of course you have, you two have been practically quarantined there ever since Car brought you home with him. Make him add a touch of color in the white paint, will you? Dead white is just so…you know. It lacks subtlety.”

Margaret didn't. Lack subtlety, that was. She made no bones about being relieved that she was now free to go as far as her own ambition and talent would take her. Kit, for one, would be there to cheer her on.

“Tomorrow,” Carson whispered as he led her away some half hour later, pausing to speak to friends, neighbors and family as they set up the chairs and tables and pruned his mother's flower garden. It was a promise, and Kit nodded, curling her hand into his warm, hard palm.

Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come.