Читать книгу Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve: The Paternity Promise / Stolen Kiss From a Prince / The Maid's Daughter - Джанис Мейнард, Merline Lovelace - Страница 12

Five

It was actually happening. It was for real. Grace had to fight the urge to pinch herself as Blake slid a band of channel-cut diamonds onto her ring finger. Dazed, she heard the judge’s prompt.

“With this ring…”

Her groom followed the cues in a deep, sure voice. “With this ring…”

“I thee wed.”

“I thee wed.”

The diamonds caught the light from the overhead lighting. Brilliant, multicolored sparks danced and dazzled. Grace couldn’t begin to guess how many carats banded her finger. Four? Five? And she couldn’t reciprocate with so much as a plain gold band.

“By the authority vested in me by the state of Texas,” Judge Honeywell intoned, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

He waited a beat before issuing another prompt. “Go ahead, Dalton. Kiss your bride.”

For the second time that afternoon, Blake slipped an arm around her waist. Grace’s pulse skittered. A shiver raced down her spine. Apprehension? Anticipation?

She knew which even before he bent toward her. Her whole body quivered in expectation. He was gentle this time, though. Too gentle! She ached to lean into him, but the deal they’d struck kept her rigid. Their marriage was first and foremost a business arrangement, a legal partnership with Molly as the focus. Grace might eventually accept Blake’s oh-so-casual offer of sex, but she’d damned well better keep a close watch on her heart.

With that resolve firm in her mind, she accepted the hearty congratulations of Judge Honeywell, another fierce hug from Julie and a kiss on the cheek from her new brother-in-law. At that point Alex produced an envelope from his inside suit coat pocket.

“Mother wanted to be here, but Molly’s cutting a tooth and was too fussy to fly. She sent this instead.”

Grace took the envelope with some trepidation. Inside was a folded sheet of notepaper embossed with Delilah’s raised monogram. Before unfolding the note, she looked a question at Blake. His small shrug told her this was as much a surprise to him as it was to her. Nervously, Grace skimmed the almost indecipherable scrawl.

I can’t say I’m happy with the way you decided to do this. We’ll discuss it when you get back from France. DI’s corporate jet will fly you to Marseille. Contact Madame LeBlanc when you arrive. Blake has her number. Julie, Alex and I will take care of Molly.

For a wild moment Grace thought she was being hustled out of the country so Delilah could hammer some sense into Blake. Then the last line sank in. Julie, Alex and Delilah would care for Molly. She and her groom, apparently, were jetting off to France.

Wordlessly, she handed the note to Blake. After a quick read, he speared a glance at this twin. “Were you in on this?”

“I figured something was up when Mother had me ferry the Gulfstream V down to San Antonio. Where’s she proposing it take you?”

“The south of France.”

That produced a quick grin. “You get no sympathy from me, Bubba. She sent Julie and me to Tuscany on our wedding night. Good thing we’re both pilots and know how to beat jet lag.” He winked at his wife before addressing Grace. “Hope you have a passport.”

“I do, but…”

But what? She’d decided in a scant few moments to turn her whole world upside down by accepting Blake’s proposition. What possible objection could she have to capping an unreal marriage with a fake honeymoon?

“But Blake probably didn’t bring his,” she finished helplessly.

“He didn’t,” Julie interjected, fishing in her purse. “I did, however. Delilah had me race over and pick it up from your executive assistant,” she explained as she slapped the passport into her brother-in-law’s palm. “I forgot I had it until this moment.”

He fingered the gold lettering for several moments, then shrugged. “Good thing you’re packed,” he said to Grace. “I can pick up whatever extras I need when we get to France.”

* * *

They said their goodbyes at the airport. Then Alex and Julie boarded the smaller Dalton International jet that had flown Blake to San Antonio and the newlyweds crossed the tarmac to the larger, twin-engine Gulfstream V.

The captain met them at planeside and tendered his sincere best wishes. “Congratulations, Mrs. Dalton.”

“I…uh… Thank you.”

Blake stepped in to cover his wife’s surprise at hearing herself addressed by her new title. “I understand you just got back from Tuscany, Joe. Sorry you had to make such a quick turnaround.”

“Not a problem. Alex and Julie were at the controls for most of the flight back, so the crew is rested and ready to go. We’ll top off our gas in New York and have you basking in the sun a mere seven hours after that.”

Blake made the swift mental calculation. Three hours to New York. Seven hours to cross the Atlantic. Another hour or more to contact Madame LeBlanc and travel to the villa DI maintained in Provence. Eight hours’ time difference.

He was used to transatlantic flights, but he suspected Grace would be dead by the time they arrived at their final destination. Just as well. She could use the next few days to rest and get used to the idea of marriage.

So could he, for that matter. He’d lined up all his arguments, pro and con, before he’d flown down to San Antonio. Then Grace had opened the door in those cutoffs and he’d damned near forgotten every one. Only now could he admit that the hunger she stirred had him twisted in as many knots as her refusal to trust him with the truth. Helluva foundation to build a marriage on, he conceded grimly as he put a hand to the small of her back to guide her up the stairs.

A Filipino steward in a white jacket met them at the hatch, his seamed face creased into a smile. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Blake. I sure wouldn’t have bet we’d be flying both you and Mr. Alex on honeymoons in almost the same month.”

“I wouldn’t have bet on it, either, Eualdo. This is my wife, Grace.”

He bowed over her hand with a dignity that matched his years. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Grace.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your seats.”

Blake had spent so many in-flight hours aboard the Gulfstream he’d long since come to regard it more as a necessity than a luxury. Grace’s gasp when she entered the cabin reminded him not everyone would view it that way.

The interior was normally configured with high-backed, lumbar-support seats and generous workstations in addition to the galley, head and sleeping quarters. For personal or pleasure trips like this, however, the workstations were moved together to form an elegant dining area and the seats repositioned into a comfortable sitting area.

“Good grief.” She gazed wide-eyed at the gleaming teak paneling and dove-gray leather. “I hope Dalton International isn’t paying for all this.”

“You’re married to DI’s chief financial officer,” Blake replied dryly. “You can trust me to maintain our personal expenses separate and distinct from corporate accounts.”

She flushed a little, either at the reminder that they’d just merged or at the unspoken reminder that she wouldn’t trust him with other, more important matters.

The pink in her cheeks deepened when they passed the open door to the sleeping quarters. A quick glance inside showed the twin beds had been repositioned into a queen-size sleeper complete with down pillows, satiny sheets and a duvet with DI’s logo embroidered in gold thread. Blake didn’t have the least doubt that Julie and Alex had put those sheets to good use every moment they weren’t in the cockpit.

Different couple, completely different circumstances. Blake and his bride wouldn’t share that wide bed. The reality of the situation didn’t block his thought of it, though. Swearing under his breath, Blake was hit with a sudden and all-too-vivid mental image of Grace stretched out with her arms raised languidly above her head, her breasts bare, her nipples turgid from his tongue and his teeth.

“I’ve got a bottle of Cristal on ice, Mr. Blake.”

He blinked away the searing image and focused on Eualdo’s weathered face.

“Shall I pour you and Ms. Grace a glass now or wait until after takeoff?”

A glance at his bride provided the answer. She had the slightly wild-eyed look of someone who was wondering just what kind of quicksand she’d stumbled into. She needed a drink or two to loosen her up. So did he. This looked to be a long flight.

* * *

It wound up lasting even longer than either Blake or the captain had anticipated. When they put down at a small commercial airstrip outside New York City to refuel, a thick, soupy fog rolled in off the Atlantic and delayed their departure for another two hours. The same front that produced the fog necessitated a more northerly route than originally planned.

By the time they gained enough altitude for Eualdo to serve dinner, Grace’s shoulders were drooping. The steward’s honey-crusted squab on a bed of wild rice and a bottle of perfectly chilled Riesling revived her enough for dessert. When darkness dropped like a stone outside the cabin windows, however, she dropped with it.

The first time her chin hit her chest, she jerked her head up and protested she was wide-awake. The second time, she gave up all attempt at pretense.

“I’m sorry.” She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. “I shouldn’t have piled wine on top of champagne. I’m feeling the kick.”

“Altitude probably has something to do with that.”

Blake’s calm reply gave no hint of his thoughts. He’d never seduced a tipsy female, but the idea was pretty damned tempting at the moment.

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you go to bed?”

Her glance zinged to the rear of the cabin, shot back. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Some.” He put the last of his willpower into another smile. “But Eualdo’s used to me working my way across the Atlantic.”

“On your wedding night?”

He had no trouble interpreting the question behind the question. “He’s been with Dalton International for more than a decade,” he said calmly. “You don’t need to worry about what he’ll think. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Her glance dropped to her hands. She played with the band of diamonds, and he added getting the ring resized to his mental list of tasks to be accomplished when they returned to Oklahoma City.

“Go to bed, Grace.”

Nodding, she unhooked her seat belt. Blake’s hooded gaze followed her progress. When she disappeared inside the stateroom, he downed the dregs of his Riesling and reclined his seat back.

* * *

Well, Grace thought as she crawled between the sheets fifteen minutes later, she could imagine worse wedding nights. The social studies teacher in her had read enough ancient history to shudder at some of the barbaric marriage rites and rituals practiced in previous times.

In contrast, this night epitomized the ultimate in comfort and luxury. She was being whisked across an ocean in a private jet. She’d found every amenity she’d needed in the surprisingly spacious bathroom. The cotton sheets were so smooth and soft they felt like whipped cream against her skin. Two million stars winked outside the curved windows built into the bulwark. The only thing she needed to perfect the scene was a groom.

With a vengeance, all those play-wedding scenes she and her cousin had enacted as girls came back to haunt her. Hope’s marriage had brought her nothing but heartache and fear. Grace’s…

Oh, hell! Disgusted by her twinge of poor-me self-pity, she rolled over and thumped the pillow. She’d made her bed. She’d damned well lie in it.

Now if only she could stop with the nasty urge to march back into the main cabin and reopen negotiations. As Blake had so bluntly suggested, the sex was certainly doable. More than doable. The mere thought of his hard, muscled body stretched out beside her, his hands on her breasts, his mouth hot against hers, made the muscles low in Grace’s belly tighten.

She clenched her legs, felt the swift pull between her thighs. Need, fierce and raw, curled through her. Her breath got shorter, faster.

This was stupid! Blake was sitting just a few yards away! Two steps to the stateroom door, one signal, silent or otherwise, and he’d join her.

Sex could be enough for now, she told herself savagely. She didn’t need the shared laughter, the private smiles, the silly jokes married couples added to their storehouse of memories.

And it wasn’t as though she’d arrived at this point unprepared. Teaching high school kids repeatedly reinforced basic truths, including the fact that each individual had to take responsibility for his or her protection during sex. Grace had seen too many bright, talented students’ lives derailed by their biological urges. She wasn’t into one-night stands and hadn’t had a serious relationship in longer than she cared to admit, but she’d remained prepared, just in case.

So why not ease out of bed and take those two steps to the door? Why not give the signal? She and Blake were married, for God’s sake!

She kicked off the sheet. Rolled onto a hip. Stopped. The problem was she wanted the shared smiles and silly jokes. Needed more than casual sex.

“Dammit!”

Disgusted, she flopped down and hammered the pillow again. She was a throwback. An anachronism. And thoroughly, completely frustrated.

* * *

She didn’t remember drifting off, but the wine and champagne must indeed have gotten to her. She went completely out and woke to a knock on the stateroom door and blinding sunlight pouring through the window she’d forgotten to shade. She squinted owlishly at her watch, saw it was the middle of the night Texas time, and had to stifle a groan when another knock sounded.

“It’s Eualdo, Ms. Grace. Mr. Blake said to let you know we’re ninety minutes out.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I’ll serve breakfast in the main cabin when you’re ready.”

She emerged from the stateroom a short time later, showered and dressed in a pair of white crops and a gauzy, off-one-shoulder top in a flowery print. A chunky white bracelet added a touch of panache. She figured she would need that touch to get through her first morning-after meeting with her groom.

Blake unbuckled his seat belt and rose when she approached. Except for the discarded tie and open shirt collar, he didn’t look like a man who’d sat up all night. Only when she got closer did she spot the gold bristles on his cheeks and chin.

“’Morning.”

“Good morning,” he answered with a smile. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I did.” God! Could this be any more awkward? “How about you?”

“All I need is a shower and shave and I’ll be good to go. Eualdo just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll join you for breakfast as soon as I get out of the shower.”

He started past her, then stopped. A rueful gleam lighting his eyes, he brushed a knuckle across her cheek.

“We’ll figure this out, Grace. We just need to give it time.”

* * *

Time, she repeated silently as the Gulfstream swooped low over a dazzling turquoise sea in preparation for landing. Despite her inner agitation, the sweeping view of the Mediterranean enchanted her.

So did the balmy tropical climate that greeted them. Grace had watched several movies and travel specials featuring the south of France. She’d also read a good number of books with the same setting, most recently a Dan Brown–type thriller that had the protagonists searching for a long-lost fragment of the Jesus’s cross at the popes’ sprawling palace in Avignon. None of the books or movies or travelogues prepared her for Provence’s cloudless skies and brilliant sunshine, however. She held up a hand to block the rays as she deplaned, breathing in the briny tang of the sea that surrounded the Marseille airport.

A driver was waiting at the small aircraft terminal with a sporty red convertible. After he’d stashed their bags in the trunk, he made a polite inquiry in French. Blake responded with a smile and a nod.

“Oui.”

“C’est bien. Bon voyage.”

Grace glanced at him curiously as he slid behind the wheel. “You speak French?”

“Not according to Cecile.”

Right. Cecile. The chef who owned the restaurant where Alex and Julie had hosted their rehearsal dinner. The gorgeous, long-legged chef who’d draped herself all over Blake. That display of Gallic exuberance hadn’t bothered Grace at the time. Much. It did now. With some effort, she squashed the memory and settled into the convertible.

Blake got behind the wheel. He’d changed into khakis and a fresh shirt and hooked a pair of aviator sunglasses on his shirt pocket.

“Just out of curiosity,” she commented as he slipped on the glasses, “where are we going?”

“Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. It’s a small town about an hour north of here.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “A nationwide transportation strike stranded Mother there during one of her antique-hunting trips about five years ago. She used the downtime to buy a crumbling villa and turn it into a vacation resort for top-performing DI employees and their families.”

Grace had to grin. That sounded just like her employer. Correction, her mother-in-law. Delilah Dalton possessed more energy and drive than any six people her age.

“The place was occupied most recently by DI’s top three welding teams and their families,” he added casually. “But Madame LeBlanc indicated we’ll have it to ourselves for the next two weeks.”

Not so casually, Grace’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. The combustible mix of lust and longing she’d had to battle last night had been bad enough. How the heck was she going to get through the next two weeks? Alone. With Blake. Under the hot Provencal sun and starry, starry nights.

Slowly she sank into her seat.