Читать книгу Lone Star Twins - Cathy Thacker Gillen - Страница 8
Оглавление“I’m so sorry your father didn’t show up tonight,” Bitsy, Trace’s mother, told him two hours later as he and Poppy came off the dance floor. “I mean, I knew he’d ditch the ceremony,” the gregarious San Antonio society florist declared unhappily. “That’s just the kind of heartless man Calvin is. But I thought for certain he would make the reception.”
Not sure what to say, Poppy did her best not to react to the bitterness in her new mother-in-law’s voice.
Trace hugged his diminutive, platinum-haired mother. “It’s okay, Mom. It was short notice. I’ll catch up with Dad before I leave the States.”
Bitsy gave Poppy another warm hug. “Well, just so you know, dear, I’m so glad the two of you have finally come to your senses and made it official.”
Trace scowled. “Mom...”
Bitsy straightened the hem of her beaded jacket. “Oh, hush. The two of you have essentially been married—albeit long distance—for years now. Even though you won’t admit it, everyone knows you’re head-over-heels in love. Isn’t that why you finally decided to adopt a child together?”
Uh, not exactly, Poppy thought.
“What I don’t understand is why you’re not trying for a baby the old-fashioned way.”
Actually, they had been, although that was a secret, Poppy thought.
“Unless you’re worried the distance imposed on you by Trace’s stint in the military will make conception all but impossible,” Bitsy finished practically.
“Mom, I am not discussing this with you,” Trace said firmly.
Make that me, either, Poppy thought.
Bitsy peered up at him. “But you do admit you want a baby with Poppy—badly?”
And I want one with him. Badly, as it were, Poppy noted. But just because they each wanted a family, and were willing to have one together, did not mean they were “essentially married,” never mind head-over-heels in love.
Exhaling roughly, Trace rubbed at the muscles in the back of his neck, reminding Poppy that the only thing he hated more than having his life choices dissed or second-guessed, was to have someone assign emotions to him that he did not feel.
“Ah, it’s not just one. It’s twins, Mom,” he said.
“Oh.” Bitsy paused in the act of adjusting a diamond earring, as if not sure what to make of that. “Well, that’s wonderful,” she said finally. Spying her latest beau, Donald Olson—a commercial Realtor from San Angelo, who was now first in line at the open bar—she waved and started to glide off. “Just make sure the little darlings call me Bitsy, not anything grandmother-ish.” She smiled over her shoulder.
“Will do,” Poppy promised.
Trace bent to whisper in her ear. “Maybe if we head back to the dance floor, we won’t have to endure so many blasted questions and theories and...”
“Advice?” Poppy quipped as she slipped her hand into his. “Don’t forget, we’ve been getting plenty of that, too. Like ‘don’t let the sun go down on your anger.’ Or ‘make-up sex is the best.’”
Which was ironic, since she and Trace never, ever quarreled.
Trace whisked her into the crowd of swaying couples. Hand against her spine, he brought her as close as the full skirt of her wedding gown would allow. “My favorite is, ‘never miss a chance to hold her in your arms.’”
Poppy let her body sway to the beat of the music, relaxing now that the big ‘romantic’ moments were finished. Their first dance, the toasts, the cake-cutting and endless picture-taking.
All of which had prompted an extended trip down memory lane. “Remember our very first dance?” Poppy tipped her head up to his as one of their favorite songs, the hopelessly romantic ballad “Wherever You Will Go” began.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, before making a wickedly provocative tour down her body. “The senior prom? You quarreled with your date a few days before...”
Reveling in the cozy feel of his hand clasping hers, and the even more possessive look in his eyes, Poppy let out a quavering breath. “So he ended up taking someone else.”
Trace nodded, recollecting fondly, “And I stepped in, as your friend.”
She’d come very close to falling head-over-heels in love with him that night. But knowing how he felt about romance in general, and infatuation specifically, had come to her senses in time to preserve their growing friendship and keep things light and easy. To the point they hadn’t even shared a goodnight kiss, when he’d finally dropped her at her front door at dawn.
“And you’re still doing it.”
The slow song ended. A faster up-tempo one began.
Trace offered a mock salute, brought her hand up over her head and twirled her around to the lively beat. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“That’s Captain Ma’am to you,” she teased as he tugged her back into his arms then spun her out again, dipping her backward.
“Outrank me, huh?” His low voice radiated the kind of easy joy she always felt when they were together.
Doing her best to rein in her reckless heart, she admitted, “In some things...” Although at this moment she couldn’t think what. Not when she was matching her steps to his in the energetic beat and wearing a wedding ring he’d slid onto her finger. Had he ever looked more devastatingly handsome, more inclined to just have fun?
Even though the rational side of her knew this was all a formality, undertaken for the best of reasons—the babies they were soon to adopt—she couldn’t help but be swept up in the moment as the song ended and another much slower, sultrier one began.
Clueless to the hopelessly conflicted nature of her thoughts, Trace pulled her in tight against him.
Their bodies swaying as if they were made for each other, he drawled, “Well, then, Captain Ma’am—” with the pad of his thumb, he traced the curve of her lower lip and looked deeply into her eyes “—I guess I’ll just have to do what you say...”
* * *
TRACE HAD BEEN kidding when he said he’d follow her orders. But hours later, when she first laid down the law, he realized by her hands-off expression that she hadn’t been.
He stared at her in disbelief. She’d been getting more distant as the night wore on. He’d attributed it to fatigue and the stress of allowing people to see only what they wanted to see.
“You want me to sleep in the guest room?” he repeated, sure he must have misunderstood what she meant. “On our wedding night?”
She headed through the upstairs hall of her cozy bungalow, the voluminous skirt of her white gown hiding the delectable shape of her hips and swishing lightly as she moved. Steadfastly avoiding his gaze and keeping her back to him all the while, she stood on tiptoe to reach the top shelf of the linen closet at the end of the short hall, trying but failing repeatedly to reach the stack of clean linens and pillows. “You have to understand.” She frowned, rocking back on her heels, her soft lips sliding out into a sexy pout. “I didn’t know you were coming home for the ceremony.”
What did that have to do with anything? When had it ever? One of the things he liked best about her was that she was so easygoing and—usually—up for just about anything.
Not tonight.
He frowned. His presence was supposed to be a happy surprise, not cause for complaint. “I don’t get it.”
She lifted a desultory hand and waved it in the direction of the master suite. “My bedroom’s a mess.”
He cast a look over his shoulder. That much was true. Not only did the elegant retreat look as if a tornado had gone through it, spilling everything from lacey undergarments to high heels in its wake, but there was a good deal of Christmas stuff, too. Gift catalogs. Lists. Even what appeared to be the makings for homemade holiday cards and ornaments.
Not about to be sidetracked, when he had missed her so damn much, he caught her around the waist. Anxious to make up for lost time now that they were finally alone, he trailed a string of kisses down her silky-soft neck. Lingered at the sensitive place behind her ear. Felt her quiver in response. Satisfaction roared through him.
“So we’ll throw a few pillows on the floor,” he teased, reaching for the zipper of her dress.
Stiffening, she wedged her elbows between them. “No.” She wiggled free. “Trace...”
Not about to push her into anything, he dropped his arms and stepped back. Looked down into her face. “What’s wrong?”
Her dark brown eyes took on a troubled sheen. She brushed past him into the mess that was her bedroom. “When we agreed to get married, we said this wouldn’t change anything.”
He followed lazily, making sure to give her the space she wanted. Lounging against the bureau, he surveyed the soft blush flooding her cheeks. The turmoil twisting her sweet lips. “You not wanting to make love with me is definitely a change.”
Hand on the bed, Poppy bent to remove her high heels. “Don’t you see?” She let her skirt fall back into place, but not before he’d gotten a tantalizing glimpse of her long legs.
Trace felt his body harden in response.
Poppy shook her head. “After everything we’ve just been through the past six hours—”
“Seven,” he corrected. That was way too long. Usually, after months apart, they were in bed within minutes of reconnecting, which was why they usually met up at a hotel first.
Poppy frowned. “Okay, seven hours,” she corrected with an exasperated scowl. “If we were to make love now after all of that...”
He saw where she was going. “The vows?”
She nodded in what abruptly seemed like regret. “And the toasts and the cake-cutting and the first dance.” She went around the room, snatching up discarded clothing and stuffed it into the hamper so the lacy unmentionables were out of view. Whirling to face him, she swallowed. “Can’t you see it would be too confusing?”
For her maybe. Not for him.
With effort, he ignored the ache in his groin. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said. As far as he was concerned, vows or not, absolutely nothing between them had changed. They were still free to do whatever and to be whomever they wanted.
She folded her arms beneath the inviting lushness of her breasts. “Right now, everything feels pretty traditional. And you’ve never wanted that. And...” She hesitated slightly before continuing even more stalwartly. “Neither have I.”
Once again their gazes collided.
As was their custom, neither wanted to be the first to look away.
He jerked off his bow tie and loosened the first couple of buttons on his shirt. “So what are you telling me?” he rasped. Feeling pretty damn stifled, he let his uniform jacket go by the wayside, too. “That now that it’s properly sanctioned, we’ll never hook up again?”
She blushed at the ridiculousness of that notion.
“Of course we will,” she said softly, her desire for him momentarily shining through. She paused to wet her lips; her defenses sliding stubbornly back into place. “Just not tonight. Not when we’re both so tired. And confused.”
Trace was confused, all right. He’d pulled every string it was possible to pull, and come an awfully long way, to get turned down cold. On their wedding night, no less!
Sweeping past him, she went back to trying to get the stack of linens off the top shelf. Stumbling slightly, she managed to grab hold of the bottom corner and pull them toward her.
He caught her in his arms as she caught the linens in hers.
Inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and skin.
Felt another tidal wave of desire ripple through him.
Damn if he didn’t want her all over again.
That was, assuming he had ever stopped.
Which, of course, he hadn’t.
“Thanks.” Arms full, she wiggled free, pivoted and rustled toward the only other bedroom on the top floor of her bungalow.
Currently a home office, it also housed a sofa bed for guests.
When he visited her in Laramie and bunked at her place, it was always opened up and the covers dutifully rumpled every morning. But only for show. In case someone in her family happened to drop by, unannounced.
Although he doubted anyone really believed they were, or had ever been, just good friends.
No, his place was in her very comfy queen-size bed. Like her, sans clothes.
But, apparently, not tonight.
* * *
POPPY KNEW SHE was disappointing Trace. But, really, she reckoned as she entered the guest room to make up the bed while he went downstairs to get his suitcase, she was doing them both a favor, giving them each a little breathing room.
The last thing she had ever wanted was for him to feel as trapped as his dad apparently had, whenever he was married, or to ever do anything that would spoil their relationship.
Come morning, he’d be thanking her for it.
Meantime, where was he?
Getting a bag couldn’t possibly take that long.
Nor could she hear any sounds of him moving around.
Perplexed, she called out. “Trace?”
No answer.
Grabbing the skirts of her wedding gown, she rustled down the stairs.
Trace was sprawled in the oversize club chair she’d brought into the house just for him. His long legs were stretched over the matching ottoman and his chest moved with deep, even breaths. It looked as if he had sat down, just for a second, and fallen fast asleep.
He was more handsome than ever, in repose.
Tenderness swept over her and she knew she couldn’t wake him. Instead she eased off his shoes and took a throw from the back of the sofa and spread it over him.
As expected, he didn’t stir.
She stood there another long moment, just drinking in the sight of him, realizing all over again just how much she missed him when he was away.
In need of a little comfort herself, she slipped into the kitchen and extracted the nearly empty peppermint ice cream container from the freezer. Taking that and a spoon, she headed back up the stairs, suddenly feeling near tears again.
What was with her these days? Poppy wondered as she moved into her bedroom and sat to finish what was left of the ice cream. Was it the prospect of adopting the twins that had her so emotionally overwrought? The knowledge that while she was getting part of what she wanted, she was still eons away from getting it all? Or just the fatigue?
Poppy had no answer as she let the minty, holiday flavor melt on her tongue and soothe her yet again. Finally she put the empty container aside. Then, taking a moment just to chill, she laid back against the pillows.
The next thing she knew sunlight was streaming in through the windows. It was just after nine in the morning. And—was that her doorbell ringing?
Poppy sat up with a start.
Thinking it must be some sort of emergency, she rushed down the stairs. Too late, Trace had already awakened and moved to open the door. Mitzy Martin stood on the other side of the threshold, work bag over her shoulder.
If Poppy’s childhood friend was surprised to see them still in their wedding finery, she managed not to show it. “Hey, sorry to intrude. But I really need to talk to both of you.”
Gallantly, Trace ushered the social worker inside.
The vivacious Mitzy pulled out a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard and pen. “The Stork Agency wants an amended home study done ASAP.”
Hence, Poppy thought, the surprise visit. One of several she’d endured during the past few years. “Why?”
“You’ve already interviewed us both extensively,” Trace pointed out.
Mitzy looked around, bypassing the chair with the throw still on it, and took a seat on the sofa. “You weren’t married then. Or planning to marry.”
Feeling a little self-conscious to be caught, still in her wedding gown, her hair askew, Poppy snuck a furtive glance Trace’s way. He looked as bedraggled as she did. His once-pristine military uniform was wrinkled, and from the look of his bloodshot eyes, it appeared he’d had a pretty rough night.
Clearing her throat, Poppy shook off the rest of the cobwebs. “But they asked us to do this!”
“Exactly my worry.” Mitzy sobered. “Is that the only reason you tied the knot last night?”
Poppy locked eyes with Trace, not sure how to answer that.
“Yes,” he said, blunt as ever.
“So if the Stork Agency hadn’t required it?” Mitzy took a clipboard full of papers, and pen from her bag.
Trace shrugged and took a seat in the same chair where he’d spent the night. “I wouldn’t be here today. I’d be back in the Middle East.”
Mitzy wrote on a preprinted form. “Is it your intention to be in this marriage for the long haul? Or just until the adoption is final?”
“Until the kids are grown,” Trace said firmly. He glanced at Poppy. “Or longer.”
Mitzy turned to Poppy. “And you?”
“When Trace and I decided to adopt children together, we agreed we would behave as a family from this point forward.”
“So there was no end date?” Mitzy challenged.
Aware her knees were suddenly a little shaky, Poppy perched on the wide arm of Trace’s chair. “No. Being a parent is a lifelong commitment.”
Mitzy looked at Trace. “Do you agree?”
He nodded. “For better or worse. Just like marriage.”
“Are you expecting the worst?”
Trace returned, “Are you?”
Ignoring his insolence, the social worker rose. “Are you going to live here?”
Poppy and Trace nodded in unison.
Mitzy continued to study them. “Mind if I take a quick look around the premises?”
“You’ve already done that,” Poppy protested. When the upstairs wasn’t such a total mess!
Gaze narrowed, Mitzy paused. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to look around?”
Yes, Poppy thought, knowing if the social worker went up there, she would quickly realize that neither bed had been slept in. “No,” she said out loud.
Her manner all business, Mitzy made her way through the dining area and into the kitchen, which, unlike the upstairs, was neat as a pin. From there, she peeked into the powder room then took the stairs. Poppy and Trace were right behind her.
She paused in front of Poppy’s bedroom, which was still a mess, the covers rumpled from where she’d slept.
“Where will the babies sleep?” Mitzy asked, still making notes.
“In here.” Poppy pointed to the office-cum-guest room.
Wordlessly the social worker took in the perfectly made-up sofa bed, Poppy’s desk and computer.
“Obviously, everything’s happened so fast, we haven’t had a chance to set up a nursery,” Poppy said in a rush. “But I’ll get it done in the next couple of days.”
“Call me when you do. I’d like to add it to the report,” Mitzy told her. “Where are the two of you planning to sleep?”
Trace quirked his brow at Poppy as if he’d like to hear the answer to that, too.
Flushing, she pointed to her bedroom. “Exactly where you’d expect. In my—er, our room.” There wouldn’t be a whole lot of choice once the nursery was set up.
Mitzy turned back to Trace, her expression as poker-faced as his. “Does that square with your plans, too?”
“Unless she relegates me to the sofa,” he replied in a joking tone.
Poppy recognized an attempt to lighten the mood when she heard one.
Unfortunately, Mitzy chose to ignore it. “Is that likely to happen?”
“Well...” Trace exhaled slowly, his expression turning even more maddeningly inscrutable. “We are married, after all.”
“And?” Mitzy persisted.
Trace lifted his broad shoulders in an affable shrug. “Sometimes spouses disagree, and when that happens, one of them generally ends up on the sofa. Unless they are really ticked off and go to a hotel.”
Another joke.
That did not go over well.
“And you would know that because...?” the social worker prompted.
Abruptly, Trace lost all patience. “Come on, Mitzy. Everyone in Laramie County knows my mother’s been married eight times, my dad three. So I’ve seen my fair share of discord. And, for the record, I was kidding around about the sofa.”
“Except the sofa bed upstairs was made up,” Mitzy pointed out with a Cheshire smile.
“And no one slept in it,” Poppy noted. But wisely did not elaborate.
Mitzy looked pointedly at Poppy’s rumpled wedding gown and Trace’s uniform.
In an effort to smooth over any rough edges, Poppy shrugged lightly. “It was a long day and an even longer night. We were both exhausted by the end. Suffice it to say...” She paused, took a breath and turned to look Trace in the eye, giving him a wordless apology for her unprecedented cowardice. “Nothing went according to plan.”
He smiled. Apology accepted. Then he reached over and clasped her hand. Tightly.
A taut silence fell.
Mitzy frowned. “I’m just trying to get a feel for how real this union is going to be.”
Trace countered in a smooth voice, “As opposed to?”
“A sham marriage.” Mitzy walked down the stairs. “Which, I don’t have to tell either of you, would be a very bad thing to have to report on.”
How could things have gone so far south so fast? Poppy asked herself glumly as she and Trace followed. It hadn’t even been fifteen hours! Feeling as if it was her turn to defend them, she said hotly, “It’s not a sham. It might not be traditional by someone else’s standards, but it’s definitely going to be real enough according to ours.”
Mitzy took a seat in the big comfy chair, leaving the two of them to sit side-by-side on the sofa. “I gather since the original plan was marriage by proxy—until Trace showed up in person, anyway—that this was almost a mere formality.”
Before it turned oh, so real, Poppy thought.
“And now it’s not,” Trace said snidely.
Aware she was getting under his skin, Mitzy made another note. “So how long had you been thinking about getting married before you made the decision?” she asked.
Trace continued the battle like the true warrior he was. “Five minutes maybe.”
“I don’t mean when you actually proposed,” Mitzy said.
Figuring the truth, and nothing but the truth, was the way go to, at least as much as possible, anyway, Poppy put in, just as cavalierly, “Actually, it was my idea.”
Mitzy did a double-take. “You proposed to Trace?”
Proposal meant romantic. Hers hadn’t been. Poppy made a seesaw motion with her right hand. “Mmm. More like... I...presented the option.”
Trace draped his arm around her shoulders and shifted closer. “And I accepted.”
“Because of the agency requirement regarding the adoption of more than one child at one time,” Mitzy ascertained.
Poppy and Trace both nodded. She, reluctantly. He, as if to say, what’s the big deal here?
Was he more like his oft-married and divorced mother in this respect than she knew? Poppy wondered uncomfortably.
Mitzy turned the page on the preprinted questionnaire she was working through. “Do you have a prenup?”
“No,” Trace said.
“We trust each other,” Poppy agreed.
Mitzy looked up. “What about an actual marriage contract, verbal or written?”
“No,” they said firmly in unison.
Mitzy tapped her pen on the page. “Surely you have some sense of exactly how this is all going to work.”
Somehow, Trace managed not to sigh—even though Poppy could feel his exasperation mounting. “I’m in the military,” he stated bluntly. “I’ll be here whenever I can, as much as I can. The rest of the time Poppy will handle everything on the home front, like most military wives.”
Military wife. Poppy kind of liked the sound of that. All possessive and gruff-tender.
Mitzy’s expression softened ever so slightly, too. “Will you come home to see them every time you get leave?”
“I always do,” Trace said.
And Poppy knew that was true. Whenever he had time off, the two of them managed to steal time together. Even when it meant they rendezvoused in a third central location.
“So in that sense—” Mitzy smiled, still writing “—nothing will change.”
Trace and Poppy nodded again.
“So is this it?” Trace asked, looking impatient. And still jet-lagged.
Another long, thoughtful pause.
“Actually,” Mitzy said, riffling through the content on her clipboard, “I have several more pages—”
Pages! Poppy thought.
“—of questions to ask for the amended home study. But I can see it’s a bad time, the two of you being on your honeymoon and all. So what do you say we get together at another time, when you have the nursery done, and finish up then?”
“What else could you possibly need to know?” Poppy asked, only half joking, getting to her feet.
Mitzy slid everything in her work bag. “Well, for one thing, we need to revisit your individual family histories.”
“We did that before,” Poppy pointed out.
“Individually. Not together. Now that you are married we have to make sure there has been full disclosure between the two of you and that there are no underlying issues there, either.”
“Sounds like a test,” Trace grumbled.
That Cheshire smile again. “It is, in a way,” Mitzy said. “So, if there’s anything you haven’t told each other—and should—now is probably the time.”
* * *
TRACE WAS ABOUT to say there was nothing he and Poppy hadn’t told each other when he caught the fleeting glimpse of unhappiness in his new wife’s eyes and realized maybe there was. What it could be, though, he had no idea.
He waited until they had showed the social worker out before voicing his concern. He cupped Poppy by the shoulders and looked down at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
Poppy extricated herself deftly, swirled, lifted the skirt of her wedding dress in both hands and headed up the stairs. “Didn’t you see the way she was looking at us?” She was fuming.
He caught sight of the layers of petticoat beneath the satin skirt. And couldn’t help wondering what was beneath that.
Casually, he caught up with her in the short hall that ran the length of the second floor of the bungalow. “Like a social worker doing her job?”
Poppy stormed into the bedroom, still in her stocking feet. Reaching behind her for the zipper, she pouted. “She thinks our marriage is a sham.”
Trace stepped in to gallantly unhook the fastening at the nape of her gown. Once that was free, the zipper came down easily. “Why?” he countered huskily. “Because she obviously figured out you and I didn’t consummate our marriage last night?”
She shivered when his fingertips grazed her bare skin. “Please don’t say it that way.”
Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “Since when have we parsed words or dealt with something other than the truth?”
Poppy raked her teeth across the delectable plumpness of her lower lip. “Never.”
“So what’s the problem, then?”
She stared at the open collar of his shirt. “The fact we didn’t make love makes us—our whole union—look suspect.”
“Well, then,” Trace drawled, taking her in his arms and doing what he should have done the night before, would have done if she hadn’t been so skittish and he hadn’t been so damned jet-lagged. “There is only one way to fix that.”
