Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (39 page)

He shrugged, the resulting movement of her hand on his shoulder almost feeling like a caress.

“Everybody’s thinking about Paul and Bette, and getting married, so it’s natural to come up with songs about love.” Just as it was natural to think about the way she fit into his arms, the way her hair tickled his cheek, the way her dress swung just wide enough to flirt with his legs.

“Like subliminal advertising?”

“That’s right.”

Silently, they danced. He altered their path to avoid another couple and their bodies momentarily brushed along their lengths. Immediately, he restored the distance between them, but he knew it was too late. He felt the curve of her breast and hip as if it had been imprinted on his skin, and his body tightened in response. Staring over Tris’s head he mentally repeated every lecture he’d given himself earlier.

Sure she’d paid attention to him at dinner and sure she’d danced with him. But he understood. He’d seen the way Grady had been turning the blaze of his charm on Melody. Nobody in the room could miss it. It had to hurt Tris.

A wave of protectiveness swept into him. That was nothing new. What bothered him was the undertow of possessiveness.

For a moment of intensified pain and pleasure, he strengthened his hand on her back, pulling her to him so her breasts pressed against his chest and her hips nestled near where he most needed them. With the song winding down, she moved deeper into his arms as if she belonged there, and for a heartbeat he accepted the feeling of having her body against his, tight and warm.

The band’s last note echoed into conversations around them.

“Michael?”

He looked into her uplifted face and he knew he’d kiss her if this went on any longer. He wouldn’t be stopped by the people around them, or even by the shock he’d feel on her lips.

“Maybe we should get some fresh air,” she said.

“Air?” He knew he should be able to figure out what she’d said, but suddenly breathing had become a complex maneuver. Thinking was out of the question.

“Michael, do you want to go out on the terrace for a little while?”

“The terrace?” The terrace? Some instinct for self-preservation kicked in and his mind started operating again. Alone, in the balmy dark of a summer evening with the sensation of holding her in his arms like this too new even to be called a memory—that would be suicide. He’d take his chances on the dance floor.

He dropped his arms from around her and backed away.

“No. No, I think we should stay inside. Or we might miss one of our dances.”

What was going on?

Tris stood in the darkened kitchen, drinking a glass of water and trying to figure it out.

She’d told herself over and over in the twenty-four hours since her talk with Paul that he’d gone crazy to think Michael had the kind of feelings for her that had nothing to do with buddies.
He’s seen enough reasons in his lifetime not to believe in love, don’t give him any more
. Love? Crazy. Obviously, crazy.

After all, look at the way Michael had reacted this afternoon when she’d simply brushed her fingers against his chest. Absently, she rubbed the tip of those fingers against the texture of her dress as if that would ease the remembered tingling in them. For just a moment, she’d thought she’d seen that, that
look
on Michael’s face. But she must have been mistaken because if it had been there, he wouldn’t have told her to stop. Would he?

It didn’t make sense.

But neither did she. She had decided, absolutely, that Paul was crazy and she was nuts, and that look on Michael’s face had been anything but desire. Absolutely, positively decided it . . . and then she’d heard herself suggesting they dance every slow dance together. No, not suggesting—finagling him into it. Granted she hadn’t expected there to be quite so many slow dances. Or for it to feel quite so right to be in Michael’s arms.

She gave her head a small shake and took a drink of water, as if to cool the direction of her thoughts. Be honest about this, Tris. At least with yourself.

She had felt something in Michael’s arms. Attraction. There, she’d said it—at least mentally. She was attracted to Michael Dickinson. Not as a friend is attracted to a friend, but as a woman is attracted to a man. Very attracted to a man.

And she’d thought now and again during the evening, during those long series of intoxicatingly slow dances, that maybe Paul wasn’t quite so crazy. That maybe Michael did want her. She’d sensed him reacting to her, physically anyway.

At least she thought she’d sensed that. But maybe it had been wishful thinking, because he’d taken none of the openings she’d offered. Despite her subtle signs that she wouldn’t object to being held closer as they danced, he’d only tightened his arms that once, and then immediately backed off. He’d refused her not-so-subtle suggestion that they go out on the terrace as if it had been an invitation to streak the U.S. Senate.

She’d even tried one last time. When the party back at the house was breaking up and everyone heading home or to bed, she’d asked if he’d like to take a walk. Instead, he’d jumped on Aunt Nancy’s preparing to call a cab for a guest who needed a ride as if it were a lifeline, insisting on driving the man back to his hotel.

What if he knew what was on her mind and was trying to avoid having to tell her he wasn’t interested? She should have felt embarrassment at the notion, but her reaction was much darker and deeper than that.

But if he wasn’t interested, what had that look this afternoon been? And that expression on the library steps? And for that matter, the response she’d detected when their legs had touched under the table at the pizza restaurant?

Oh, hell. The whole thing probably existed only in her imagination, spurred on by Paul’s misguided desire to see everyone as in love as he was. Sure, that must be the answer. Just a bad case of wedding fever.

So why was she standing here in the dark waiting for Michael’s return?

A car came to a stop outside, then she heard the quiet replace the sound of the engine. A car door thunked closed. She set her glass on the counter and pushed away.

From the French doors between the kitchen and breakfast room she watched Michael’s moonlit shadow cross the lawn toward the room over the garage. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. She saw him shrug out of his suit jacket and hook it over the railing, then follow that quickly with what must have been his tie. Without looking back at the house, he pivoted away and headed for the deck.

After a quick glance around to confirm no one else remained downstairs, she stepped out of her shoes and unhooked her stockings, sliding them down her legs one at a time and leaving them with her shoes on a chair seat. Quietly she slipped out the door.

Moist and cool, the grass curled around her feet as each silent step carried her closer to the water. The light seemed brighter here, away from the shadows of the house and intensified by the calm water’s reflection. Propped up by his right shoulder, Michael leaned against the supporting post of the deck’s arbor, staring out across the silver and black lake.

All in all, a most casual pose. But Tris didn’t believe he was as relaxed as he looked. She hoped not, anyhow.

She thought she’d reached him without making a sound, but when she softly said his name from just behind him, he didn’t start or show surprise. She thought the line of his shoulders did tense some before he shifted a little toward her, but she could have imagined that.

“Tris.” Something about the way he said the single syllable set her heart racing. “I thought you’d be asleep by now. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

“You too.”

“I will. I thought I could do with some fresh air first.”

“Me too.”

Stalemate. He didn’t alter the posture that shut her out, and she wasn’t about to walk away as he seemed to hope.

“Michael.”

She took another step around him until his shoulder no longer formed a barrier between them, until she could see his face better. It told her nothing.

“Yes.”

She longed for daylight, floodlights, any light to let her see the secrets of his heart. What if Paul was wrong? What if she was wrong? What if . . .

“I . . .”
I, what? I wonder if you feel the change in our relationship the way I do? I wonder if you want it as much as I do? I wonder if you wonder how my lips on yours would feel?
“I enjoyed dancing with you tonight.”

His gaze met hers a beat longer, then flicked away, over her shoulder. “I enjoyed it, too.”

His voice was too impossibly flat. It couldn’t be that flat if he felt nothing; only if he were trying to suppress what he felt.

“Michael…”

She waited until he looked at her again. Her heart banged against her ribs with the deliberate, spaced reverberations of a bronze gong being sounded. She gently touched his cheek, finding the slight indentation of that high, wild dimple. Her throat suddenly felt dry and tight. Trying to swallow down the uncertainty, she slid her tongue across her lips, not aware of the movement until she saw his eyes follow it.

“Tris, this isn’t…”

She didn’t want to hear what it wasn’t. She wanted to discover what it was. She shaped her palm to his face as she stretched up to bring her mouth to his. Almost chastely, her lips touched his. Warm and firm. Not perfectly molded; she reveled in this imperfection, testing it with feathering contact along his lips. She’d always recognized that his asymmetrical mouth was part of the charm of his little-boy grin. Now she discovered it contributed to another charm, one that had nothing to do with being a little boy.

A ragged breath whispered through his parted lips. And she knew that her guesses hadn’t been wishful thinking.

He
did
feel the change in their relationship. He did want it. He did wonder how her lips would feel on his. Really feel on his.

“Michael.”

She tipped her head and brought their mouths fully together. For that moment she reached to him, the muscles of her calves bunched as she stood on tiptoe to keep sliding her lips along his, while he stood straight and stiff. This was right, she knew it. She wanted to laugh with the rightness of it. And cry.

Michael. All these years. Michael. Her friend, her confidant. Reliable, familiar, understanding. And now exotic, strange, unknown. She marveled at it all, at the same time a voice deep inside her, as old as woman, whispered,
Of course . . . of course . . . This was how it was always meant to be, the voice seemed to say
.

And then she no longer reached alone. His hands cradled her face. His lips met hers fully, with heat and demand. He bent to her until her heels could have come back to the ground., if she’d been satisfied to only accept. But she wasn’t.

She curled her arms around his neck to bring him closer, then drove one hand into the thick hair that swallowed her questing fingers. It felt like coming home, only home was suddenly grander and more thrilling than she’d ever known. She felt the light demand of his tongue and parted her lips for him with a soft sound that seemed to spawn a groan from deep in his throat. The first touch of his tongue to hers tightened the need growing deep in her body.

He changed the angle of the kiss, deepening it, plunging his tongue into her mouth. Her hands tightened their hold on him as she arched under the weight of his desire. When he lifted his head she gasped for breath, though she hadn’t been aware of not breathing until that moment.

He muttered something dark sounding. She didn’t understand what or why, but the instinct to soothe him led her hand around to caress his cheek, touching that high dimple again before her fingers trailed down to the line of his jaw, then the length of his neck until encountering the stiffened collar of his shirt. With no thought, her fingers found the V of skin left bare by two open buttons and followed it to the barrier of another, unopened button. Nimbly she disposed of that button, another and started on another.

“Tris.”

His voice sounded hoarse, as if it grated his throat to speak. She found it fascinating. She bent to touch her lips to the base of the throat making that amazing sound, and felt the jolt go through him.

“Tris—”

Whatever protests he might have been about to make, he cut off himself by hauling her close and taking her mouth again. This time she didn’t wait for any demand from his tongue, but met it with her own, exploring, teasing, tempting.

She felt his fingers weaving through her hair to bring her closer. Then, as if satisfied that she wouldn’t pull away from him if he loosened his hold on her face, he cupped her cheek with one palm, then slowly glided it down the side of her throat, echoing the path her fingers had taken on him. Meeting the collar of her dress, his descent paused, and she thought she might go mad. She pressed a slight demand against his mouth and felt his response. His hand slid under the material, following its diagonal path until it met the hindrance of the snaps at the point of the neckline’s V. A small hindrance they proved as they popped open under his touch. His palm moved lower, its pressure and its warmth branding her through the silk of her camisole. He lifted his mouth from hers but only to press against the sensitive skin where her throat and shoulder met. She felt his fingers’ slight fumbling at the button at her waist as if the tickling of nerves that she felt inside had a mirror outside.

And then the dress opened. She felt the material swing loose, felt the night-cool breeze touch her skin through the silk that still covered her, and felt the heat and stillness of Michael against her. It was the tense stillness of waiting, a holding of breath in preparation.

She didn’t understand it, and she had no patience for it. She didn’t want to wait, she didn’t want to hold her breath. She wanted him. She curved her arm around his waist, finding an opening where his shirt had come untucked, and tunneling her hand under the material until she could feel the smooth hardness of his skin, until she could press him to her, until she could burrow closer to the heat of his body.