His Wedding Date (The Second Chance Love Series, Book 2) (10 page)

"More than."

"Then we don't need to be here any longer, do we?"

No, they didn't.

"Hey," he said, squeezing her hand. "I am really sorry I dragged you into the middle of this mess. But I'm glad you came with me."

That put a smile on her face, and for a minute she didn't look so pale.

"You feel all right?"

"My head still hurts," she said.

He could see the beginnings of a nasty bruise on the side of her face, although she'd tried to hide it beneath some makeup. Her head had to be aching, too, but she'd come with him, anyway. And she looked incredible in the soft pink suit his mother had brought.

It surprised him sometimes to see her like this—all grown up. Sometimes, he still thought of her as a little girl.

"Let's go," he said, holding tight to her hand. They dodged friends and family as best they could while they crossed the crowded room, speaking only briefly to those who wouldn't be put off.

They were almost to the door when they were waylaid yet again, this time by a waiter with a tray of champagne.

The music died down. The crowd turned toward the left side of the room, where Rebecca's father held his glass high in the air, his booming voice reaching to the far corners of the room.

"Damn!" Brian said. Caught, they joined in the age-old custom of toasting the bride and groom.

Brian still felt as if half the eyes in the room were on him. Hating that feeling, he downed a glass of champagne, so ready for this to be over. As the toasting went on, he snagged another from a passing waiter. Halfway through the round of toasts, he realized his neck didn't hurt anymore. The pain in his shoulder had eased up, too.

Maybe the champagne toasts would be good for something, after all. He grabbed another glass and managed to smile at the happy couple.

Rebecca was a stunning bride, he decided, totally objectively. He'd always known she would be. With his best poker face on, he watched the groom give her a kiss, then took another sip of the champagne. Though he despised the taste, it was blurring the sight before him quite nicely.

By the time the toasting was over, his head was spinning.

Brian had borrowed his mother's car to drive them to the wedding. When the dancing started, he gave the keys to Shelly, and he didn't remember a lot after that.

* * *

Except dancing.

He remembered dancing—in this strange, surreal sort of world.

Except he wasn't at the reception.
They
weren't at the reception.

He wasn't sure where they were, and he didn't care, either. He had her in his arms, spinning her around the room and then pulling her back into his arms while a slow, sexy saxophone crooned in the background.

She loved jazz, and he loved having her this close.

The music changed. It slowed, and so did they. She swayed against him, barely, in time to the music.

She was here, where she belonged, with him.

He felt the blood pooling in his loins, felt it rushing there with every sway of her body against his. He caught her hips in his hands and settled her body intimately against his.

It felt so good, so right.

He nuzzled her cheek, teasing her, taunting her, until finally she gave him her mouth.

It had been so long since they'd been together. He'd been afraid that they would never be together again, and here they were. Her jacket had big pearl buttons, tricky ones. He undid them one by one, then eased the jacket off her shoulders and down, just a little, trapping her arms at her sides and freeing the sensuous curves of the tops of her breasts. He started tracing one of those curves with his mouth, and then couldn't help groaning aloud. Brian sank to his knees and buried his face in that heavenly soft hollow between her small, delicate breasts.

Her knees buckled, and he held her tight to keep her where she was so he could tease her breasts until she begged him to let her go.

But he didn't let her go far.

They sank down to the bed and rolled across it as they struggled with their clothes, laughing and kissing as they went.

He liked the music. He loved the sweet smell of her skin—he breathed in deeply and pulled it down into his lungs. He liked the way the song slowed to an erotic beat. He thrust gently against her in time to the music, thinking they needed to slow down, because he wanted to make this last.

If he could.

If that was possible.

It was just too good. He couldn't wait to sink deep inside of her.

Rebecca!

He whispered her name into her ear.

Brian wasn't sure quite sure, but he really thought she might have slapped him then.

* * *

It was all pretty much a blur the next morning as it unfolded ever so slowly in his mind.

First, he remembered the champagne. How the hell many glasses had he had?

He felt awful, and he was having trouble putting a coherent thought together. It felt as if his brain hadn't been used in years, and the dust and the cobwebs had taken it over. He couldn't seem to make his way through all the muck.

He remembered the wedding.

Damn, was it only yesterday? How long had he been out?

Brian rolled over in the bed, not even sure where he was until he saw the hotel's logo on the top of the little sign advertising the room-service specialties.

He was at the Clairmont.

He remembered deciding to keep the suite for the weekend. His parents lived next door to Rebecca's, where the wedding reception was, and he didn't care to be that close to the festivities.

Yes, he remembered the wedding, the reception, the champagne, the dream.

He saw it all, as well as he could, despite the haze in his brain and the way the room didn't turn quite as fast as his head did.

Damn, what a dream. He got hard just thinking about it. Hell of a way to spend a wedding night—dreaming about rolling around in bed with another man's bride.

Brian tried to get up, but laid back down as fast as he could. His head hurt. His neck hurt, too, and he couldn't quite separate reality from fantasy, the dream from the—

He remembered the pills then.

Brian tried, again, to get up. His head was going to split in two. The stiffness in his muscles had returned, worse than the day before, but no way he was popping another of those little pills.

He made it to the bathroom and picked up the pill bottle to check it out. He saw the warning label clearly now. Drowsiness. Dizziness. Do not operate motor vehicles. Okay, there it was:
alcohol may intensify the effect of this medication
. No shit.

He hadn't worried about taking the pills, because he hadn't intended to have anything to drink. But once they'd gotten caught by the toasting, he hadn't thought about those pills at all. No way he was going to stand in the middle of the curious, staring crowd without toasting the bride right along with everyone else.

Brian put down the pills and stared at himself in the mirror with bloodshot eyes. He couldn't tell if he looked as bad as he felt, because the image in the mirror was swaying alarmingly. He could tell he was naked, which he found a little unsettling, because he didn't remember taking his clothes off.

Still, he did seem to be in one piece, which was more than he should expect after what he'd done. Other than a stiff neck and shoulder and a pounding head, he was okay.

Somehow he managed to make it into the shower and turned it on full blast, cold as hell, trying to clear his head. He fumbled with the soap, dropping it on the shower floor. Bending over to pick it up was hell on his head and his shoulder, but he finally managed it.

Funny, he thought, smoothing the little bar of soap across his chest, he could almost smell the dream woman's scent on his skin.

He showered and then, still sore, decided to soak in the whirlpool tub until some of the stiffness in his muscles went away.

Then he walked out of the bedroom, through the living room of the suite and into the other bedroom, and found Shelly. She must have been asleep, because she practically jumped out of the big wingback chair in the corner when he walked in.

"Hi," he said, rubbing at his aching head.

"Hi." She looked puzzled, then not happy at all, and she wouldn't look at him as stood there in the middle of the room.

She was already showered and dressed. One of the shopping bags his mother had brought yesterday sat at her feet, stuffed full of things. She was much too pale, and her skin looked as clear as glass. It left her looking fragile as hell. The bruise on the side of her face didn't help, either. It had darkened overnight, and it was bigger than he expected it to be.

She finally turned to face him, and he thought she might have been crying in the not-too-distant past.

"Shel?" he said, and she quickly turned away to stare at the bedside clock.

How strange.

"Thanks for bringing me back to the hotel last night," he said cautiously.

She shot him a look of pure venom. He had a bad feeling about this.

"You did bring me back here, didn't you?"

"Yes," she said, as if she couldn't believe he was asking.

"I'm sorry. I must have been really out of it last night. It must have been the pills," he said.

"What?" she cried.

"The pills—the ones the doctor gave us—the muscle relaxers. My neck and my shoulders were killing me once we got to the reception, and I finally took a couple. I guess they don't mix well with champagne."

* * *

Pills?

Shelly stared at him, standing there in nothing but a towel, looking every bit as good as she remembered from the night before. She couldn't look away fast enough to stop the memories.

His body had been hot to the touch, and she'd snuggled into all that delicious warmth, run her hands over so much of that bare skin.

He'd held her tight in his arms, his hands and his mouth all over her, like a dream come true.

Then he'd called her Rebecca.

Because he'd taken some pills and then guzzled champagne? She'd had some, too, when everyone was toasting the bride and groom, but stopped at two glasses.

The toasts had finally ended, and they'd rushed out of there, happy to get away. She'd driven them back to the hotel and hadn't even felt so much as a little buzz until they'd gotten to their suite, and he'd wanted to dance. It seemed he wanted to dance with her, wanted more than that.

God, would the mistakes she made with this man ever end?

Apparently not.

"You took two muscle relaxers? On top of all that champagne?"

He nodded. "I guess they were stronger than I thought. I've never taken anything like that."

Shelly had. Once, in college, she'd fallen hard on some ice, and the next day, her back muscles had locked up tight. The pills had loosened up every muscle in her body until nothing hurt. The problem was, for a few hours, she'd felt like she was flying, and not in a good way.

Okay, that explained a lot.

Everything, she supposed.

What an idiot she was.

Her cheeks burned, and she wondered if he noticed, because he was watching her closely. It was so humiliating, thinking he'd wanted her, or maybe even just wanted to forget everything, but with her. It had crossed her mind, even as she'd let it all happen.

She'd found it so hard to believe that it was happening, that she wasn't just dreaming of him again. She had so many times before.

But it hadn't been a dream.

It had happened.

And the whole time, he'd thought she was Rebecca.

That should end her ridiculous feelings for him. At least one good thing could come out of what had happened.

She'd hardly slept all night, and she'd sat down just for a minute after packing and making her travel arrangements. She must have fallen asleep in the chair here while waiting for her shuttle to the airport.

That could have been disastrous, but the universe finally seemed willing to cut her a break. At least she didn't have to have the conversation with him that she'd been dreading.

Because he didn't remember!

Humiliating in a way, but welcome all the same, given the circumstances.

She'd thought he was a little drunk—which had puzzled her, because she hadn't seen him drink that much. But two muscle relaxers on top of champagne explained so much.

Shelly had to work hard to try not to cry, while Brian stared at her as if he knew she was hiding something from him and he intended to find out what it was.

"Shel, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, backing away a step for every one he took toward her.

"What happened last night?"

"You passed out," she lied with a totally clear conscience. "I left you in the bed to sleep it off."

"Did you take my clothes off, too?"

"No," she lied, a little. She'd helped. He'd helped, too. It hadn't been all her.