Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (16 page)

Now.

"So where shall we stay?"

"What?" His eyes met hers. Confusion showed for half a second, then only a blaze of instant fire. Like being struck by a bolt of lightning, one moment there was nothing, the next unadulterated sizzle.

She'd never been so happy to be singed.

As much as she'd tried not to, she'd wondered about the reluctance she'd detected in him. But that look, that one flash in his eyes, vaporized her doubts.

"Since you're not going to drive me home tonight, and taking the train would be such a reckless thing to do, what are we going to do for accommodations tonight?"

"I know just the place," he said.

She figured that now he'd explain how his apartment in Evanston would be a safe choice, since it wouldn't mean as long a drive in the "treacherous" slush.

"There's a great little hotel not far from here. You hardly notice it from the street, but inside, the lobby's all polished wood and plush furniture. The rooms look like a spread from some magazine on English country homes. The perfect place to wait out a slush storm."

Surprise opened her mouth to the first thing in her mind.

"How do you know about this place?" she asked

The glint in his eyes looked positively devilish in the eerie light.

"Not how you're thinking, you suspicious woman, you. I can tell you with a totally clear conscience that I have never waited out a storm, slush or otherwise, with a woman at that hotel. In fact, the only times I've been there have been with a man - Michael. It's where he stays when he's got business downtown."

"I wasn't asking for explanations. I didn't think -"

He cut off her protest with a kiss on her nose. "No, of course you didn't." He looped his arm more securely around her shoulders and guided her footsteps. "It's not far," he said, mentioning an address off Michigan Avenue.

"What if they don't have a vacancy?" she offered halfheartedly.

"Michael said they cater mostly to businessmen, so weekends should be pretty quiet."

"Oh."

They'd gone almost two blocks - in a direct route this time, she noticed with some satisfaction - when she stopped short. "Wait a minute. We can't go to a hotel, Paul. We don't have any luggage. It'll look like . . . like . . ."

Her voice wound down. It would look like exactly what it was - two adults deciding to spend an impromptu night together at a downtown hotel. He would surely tell her it didn't matter what anyone else thought. And deep down, she really
didn't
care what anyone else thought; being with Paul was right for her. Still . . . she cringed at the idea of going into a hotel without luggage. It seemed such a blatant announcement of something that should be private.

"All right."

"All right?" Just that easily, he was willing to let the opportunity to spend the night together go - willing to let
her
go?

"Yep. We'll go to Water Tower Place first."

"Water Tower Place? Why?"

"We have some shopping to do."

BETTE MENTALLY CHECKED
the contents of the shopping bags she'd accumulated, then looked at her watch. Nine minutes left before she was to meet Paul.

Unexpectedly, a bubble of laughter rose in her. Who would have guessed how much fun this would be, this rather sexy kind of scavenger hunt?

They'd started off together, buying tote bags after a long, intricate discussion of exactly which ones they should get. Paul had wanted to buy matching ones because, he said, it was a visual symbol to any astute bellboy that this was an established couple. She had opted for different ones because it might look less like just-bought goods. Paul had prevailed, and for a moment as the clerk rang up the purchase, she'd considered how odd it was for Mr. For the Moment Only to be the one to want them to appear as a couple.

There'd been no time to give the matter further thought. She had shopping to do.

They'd agreed to meet in forty-five minutes at the front entrance to Water Tower Place. She'd gone directly to a drugstore, tossing into the mesh basket a toothbrush and toothpaste, a disposable razor for her legs, deodorant and a small perfume vial, plus trial-size shampoo and moisturizer in case the hotel didn't provide them. Then, trying to tell herself not to blush like an idiot, she added a foil packet to her collection.

She'd spent most of her time in a department store, buying a change of clothing for the morning: jeans and a white oxford-cloth shirt, which weren't extravagant since she could always use spares. With her tweed suit jacket and flat pumps, she at least wouldn't look blatantly like a woman wearing her Friday night clothes on Saturday morning.

Her last stop was lingerie, for a change of underwear.

Now, with nine minutes left, she glanced across the aisle that separated the lingerie basics from the frivolous and saw a royal-blue froth of lace and sheerness. She knew she had to have it.

She was woman enough to know it would draw lights to her eyes, and practical enough never to have owned anything like it.

Stifling the habit of checking the price first, she found the right size and headed for the counter.

Oh, she'd been with men before. A couple. But she couldn't imagine having had the nerve to wear something like this for them.

This was a gown to wear for a man who could make her laugh, but never laughed at her. She felt a swelling in her heart as she accepted the bag with the gown. She'd wear this for Paul, and she'd have no shyness about it. He would see her vulnerability, and he would honor it.

With her final few minutes, she found a rest room and transferred the contents of her shopping bags to the tote.

As she hurried through the heavy glass doors, she caught sight of Paul immediately. Grinning, he held up his bag to show off its packed state. She thought his looked lumpier than hers, and there was definitely a sharp edge poking against the fabric. She felt it against her calf as it dangled from his hand when he wrapped her into a tight embrace and kissed her hungrily, right there on Michigan Avenue.

"C'mon, let's get a cab," he said huskily.

She'd have been lucky to achieve even husky if she tried to talk, so she settled for nodding. She didn't care that it was impractical to take a cab the few blocks to the hotel. It was faster, and it gave them an excuse to sit cuddled together in one corner and share another, long, lingering kiss.

He seduced her mouth, luring her upper lip between his, tempting her with forays of his tongue and teeth. Kissing her in a way that left her feeling a little vague all through the process of paying off the driver, checking in and finding their room.

If Paul had kissed her like that earlier, she might never have noticed that they didn't have luggage.

And then she wouldn't have had any excuse to funnel this shivery feeling of anticipation and trepidation into a show of great curiosity about what he'd bought.

They stood side by side just inside the door, before slowly moving in.

Thick carpeting and drapes shut out the city's noise, making the drumming of her blood louder in Bette's ears. Soft lights she knew wouldn't hide the flush heating her cheeks, a flush of awareness. Before them the room stood, plush and cozy. All it needed to complete the country-house look was a fireplace.

But no fire was needed to provide heat. Her imagination was taking care of that. From where she stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes traveled up the wide and generously pillowed expanse. Oh, Lord, the bed . . .

"So what do you have in your bag?" she asked in a brightly forced voice. She gave his tote's strap a tug, but he held tight.

"Uh-unh. Let's see yours, too." His voice sounded huskier than before.

"Okay. We'll take turns. But you go first."

He gave her a sideways glance, then rested his tote on the edge of the bed and unzipped it. "Okay, first item." Humor overlaid the deeper note in his voice. He produced a chrysanthemum stem with three perfect yellow blooms on it and held it out to her.

"Where in the world did you find flowers?"

"That wasn't so hard. The hard part was packing it."

She giggled a little, and inexplicably, her nervousness eased.

"I tried for roses, but there must have been a run on them. Some sort of romantic epidemic hitting the city."

"This is lovely. I love yellow chrysanthemums."

"I know. I remember the flowers by your front walk."

She couldn't say anything to that, so she leaned across the corner of the bed and kissed him lightly. She heard his quick intake of breath, and backed up hastily.

"Your turn," he ordered.

Opening the bag, she gave a quick laugh. "Nothing so frivolous as flowers."

"Jeans? Is this something kinky I should know about?"

Despite his teasing note, she felt her cheeks warming. "They're for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Ah, I see." He said that as if thinking of tomorrow somehow betrayed today - or tonight. "I suppose you're planning to be incognito when we leave in the morning."

"At least inconspicuous," she said more sharply than she'd intended.

He gave her an unreadable look, then reached into his bag. It was a clear nonverbal change of subject.

"Next, we have one bottle of white wine. Chilled to perfection, thanks to its recent sojourn in the Chicago night air."

Back to teasing. She was glad. Tonight she wanted to forget the differences between them. Tonight, at least this one night, was to explore this other thing between them.

"One blouse, to match the jeans," she responded, keeping her voice light. She caught an expression in his eyes she couldn't interpret, then it was gone and he was pulling out his next item.

Their respective piles of purchases grew on the bed. To her deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, new underwear and socks, he answered with a pair of wineglasses, a pillar candle, speakers for a music player, a box of chocolates and a fluffy bath sheet she could easily imagine would accommodate two. It was almost as if he'd read her mind back on that sidewalk when she'd imagined a winter's night with him.

"Geez, aren't you ever romantic, Bette?"

Even with his eyes glinting at her and his voice rough with the combination of laughter and desire, she found herself chafing at the comment. So she'd considered tomorrow morning. So she'd given some forethought to the practicalities of staying overnight in a hotel. So she wasn't the kind who thought only of the moment. So she wasn't what Paul, with his music and wine and flowers, considered romantic.

Unthinkingly, she reached into her nearly empty bag and yanked out the small foil package.

Even before Paul's eyes went to what was in her hand, then came back to meet hers, she knew what she held.

Everything else between them, the humor, the irritation and the tension, flowed away in a wash of awareness. The need that had brought them to this place surged through her, and, she knew from the sudden tautness of his stance, through him, also.

"On second thought, I withdraw that question."

She couldn't help but react to the low note in his voice.

Hers shook a little, but she got the words out. "I believe in being prepared."

She couldn't believe that with all the heat of desire flaring between them, amusement still lingered in his eyes.

Without a word, he reached into his bag and withdrew something, which he then held out for her inspection. Four packets just like hers.

"Four? Four!" And she understood now how he mixed the humor and the desire, because she simultaneously wanted the release of laughter and craved the tormenting pleasure of his hands.

"I believe in being prepared, too."

"For what, a harem?"

He made a sound deep in his throat, only half a chuckle. The other half was declaration and question, rolled into one. One corner of her mouth lifted, as she let her eyes answer the rest.

Tossing the packets haphazardly toward the nightstand behind him, he reached across the corner of the bed for her, pulling her to him.

They'd been so careful about touching, and now, in kiss after kiss, she knew why.

The lightning she'd imagined in his eyes earlier was in their bodies, jolting from one to the other at each point of contact, Intensifying each time their lips came together, drawing power when his mouth roamed across her throat, her shoulders, her abdomen. Releasing energy in a line of fire through her when his tongue plunged into her mouth with deep, instinctive significance. She arched beneath him, hardly knowing how they'd come to be on the bed instead of beside it.

Fingers fretted with buttons. His shirt was jerked off and tossed aside. Her blouse was opened and skimmed away by urgent hands. He cupped her breasts, his gentleness straining against ungentle desires. She felt the delicious rasp of lace and his hand against her flesh, and knew how right this was.

She wanted more. She wanted his mouth on her, as it had been that moonlit night in her garage. It was almost as if the weeks between had disappeared, and this was a simple, natural continuation of the desire they'd felt then. Or maybe it was an unending desire, always there, a lightning waiting only to be tapped.

Then his mouth was around her, open, wetting the lace and hardening her nipple to an exquisite ache, and she had no mind for thought, no room for remembered sensation because there was only now. This moment.

She stroked his shoulders, wanting to imprint the smooth, strong feel of them into her hands. He suckled, and she gasped with the pleasure. Then he added to it with fingers that stroked and circled her other breast.

Air came in gasps for both of them when he trailed his mouth lower, tracing the curve of her ribs, taking a nibbling bite at the side of her waist.

The tickling made her want to laugh, but she didn't have the breath for it.

She'd never realized laughter and lust could be so closely allied; they certainly never had been for her before. No, it took Paul to show her this, to show her that the lightness of laughter didn't have to be eclipsed by the dark passion pulling at them. Not when the laughter was such an integral part of what they had together, not when the passion was strong enough.